“We’re going to need Ghost Runner. Probably better if Ned and I run up to Marathon and get her. We can continue to work this end on the trip.”
Mac couldn’t fault her logic, and was relieved she was going to solve the Ned problem. Somewhere north of age eighty, he had proven himself capable when they’d found the gold, but sooner or later he would be going on his last adventure, and Mac didn’t want to be a party to that.
“That works, if you’re good with it.” He knew it was the wrong thing to say before the last word left his lips. Mel, growing up here, could run a boat better than most captains before she was legally allowed to drive—not that age had stopped her then, either.
Mel shot him a look. “Did he give you a deadline?” Mel asked.
“No, I told him this would take some time.” Mac replied. He knew her failure to account for Trufante’s well-being was just her pragmatic lawyer-brain talking. With at least a partial decision made, they headed back to the kitchen to tell the others.
Sloan couldn’t believe this had fallen in his lap. When Travis had said they needed a boat, he raised his hand, like a teacher’s pet sitting in the front row of his first-grade class, and immediately volunteered the Surfari. Travis had doubted the boat’s ability as a salvage vessel at first, but after rattling off the specs for the engine, the tailgate transom, and the other custom features he had aboard, including dive gear for two, Travis had relented. His only problem now was what to do about his girlfriend.
Sloan stepped aside and dialed Eleanor, who quickly accepted his offer of a quick trip to see her mother, and told him she would get right back to him with plane flights. With that problem solved, he looked forward to some quality time with Pamela. From his experience there was nothing like a crisis to bring people together. Sloan steeled himself to be compassionate about Trufante. The ice had definitely started to melt, but he suspected an ulterior motive. At least after this he would know if he had her or not.
He and Mac went through a checklist of what they needed. As well-equipped as the boat was, it fell well short of many of the items Travis deemed essential. Finally, Ned broke the standoff.
“If it were me making decisions around here, I’d listen to the old guy. Mel and I are going to drive up to Marathon. We’ll catch a ride out to the island and bring the trawler down. You guys go scout out the site. You’ve got enough supplies and fuel to dive it and determine if it’s still there. By the time you have that part figured out, Mel and I will be on our way down.” Ned stood proudly. “The enemy of perfect is done, now get going.”
Sloan watched the others, curious as to how the dynamics between the strong personalities would work. For the first time since Sloan had met him, Travis was speechless, and with his girlfriend staring him down, the answer was obvious.
Sloan didn’t wait for the words to be spoken. “Meet you aboard in thirty minutes.” He turned to leave, but Pamela stopped him.
“Thank you for helping.”
Twenty-Six
While Mel and Ned were getting ready to leave for Marathon, Mac picked up the pages of Van Doren’s journal. The handwriting, though hard to read, was inviting, like that of an old friend’s—one who had helped him in the past.
He stood with Pamela on the porch until Mel and Ned were out of site. Then, turning, he went back to the kitchen, poured the last of the coffee from the pot into a mug, and sat at the table. Covered in books and notepads, he cleared enough room to lay out the pages from the file folder the Rabbi had given Mel, and started to read.
The journal continued with the pages he had found the other night. The first entry started after Van Doren and his crew had led Lafitte’s two ships into their makeshift boom, wrecking them in the Dry Tortugas. Mac recalled the story of how Van Doren, trying to legitimize himself and his crew, were en-route to the Pacific. Their holds were full of treasure from two salvage jobs, and their future looked bright—if they could escape the unsettled political waters of the Caribbean.
Mac had wondered when he found the diving bell heavy with gold why Van Doren and company had never recovered it; they certainly knew where it was. As rain tapped on the metal roof, he picked up the first page and started to look for an answer.
I’d had the feeling that we were being stalked since seeing the sail earlier in the afternoon. That along with my recollection that we had spotted no other ships for the two weeks we had been careened, left only one possible answer.
I had personally told the story of our escape, and the grounding of Lafitte’s ships, to the Governor of Havana in order to garner his favor. There was no doubt that the Spanish had sent a ship to the site. Lafitte’s men, in an attempt to avoid prison, must have told the Spaniards of the wealth we carried—and they only knew a fraction of it. Once again, our best defense was the treasure aboard and their reluctance to sink us because of it.
An unknown ship approaching at night was not a good sign. Our lights had all been extinguished, but their lookouts should have easily seen us beforehand—just as we had seen them. If the captain of the other ship was experienced, he could see our shadow, but the shoals were in our favor. Knowing and fearing the waters, the captain was hove to as well. It was a low speed game of cat and mouse. Tiring of it, and thinking about what tomorrow might bring, I decided to change course and see if they followed.
I had gathered the crew and studied their concerned faces, accentuated even more by the shadows cast by the moon. It was decided that we would try and lose them in the night, then come back and recover the treasure.
Mason ordered the course change and we all watched the shadow of the other ship to see what she would do. With our new course leading toward the deep water of the Florida Straits, we had no fear of the shoals around the Tortugas, yet we were faced with another decision. If we put out all sail, we would reflect any light that hit us and be visible for many more miles than we were now. If not, we would wallow along, not putting any real distance between the ships. We decided that stealth was our best weapon, and a few hours later, we were proven right when it appeared that we had the seas to ourselves.
Daylight couldn’t come soon enough.
The hours passed slowly until finally the first hint of light appeared in the sky. We eagerly looked around and saw only water. With no idea where the ship had gone and if it had even been interested in us, we turned back toward the Tortugas. Our diversion had cost us several hours, but by late afternoon, the flat islands appeared as thin lines on the horizon came into view. As we approached, I could see the wrecks of one of Lafitte’s two boats, and a third mast standing straight and proud behind them.
It was as I had feared. The Spanish were trying to recover the treasure.
Mac set the pages down and sifted through the notes on the table, finally finding a summary in Mel’s handwriting that refreshed his memory. She had laid out in a timeline how Van Doren, with the help of another Sephardim, Emanuel, had discovered Moses Henriques’s cache in a cenote in Cozumel. Emanuel had then betrayed Van Doren and blown up their ship, The Panther. This led Van Doren to enlist Lafitte and his resources. They had struck a deal and, in exchange for a ship, provisions, and two escort vessels, Van Doren was to give just over half of the salvage of The Panther to the notorious pirate.
Van Doren had been sure that Lafitte’s captains were unaware that he had brought aboard Henriques’s cache, but when the salvage of The Panther slowed to a trickle, Lafitte’s men tried to take Van Doren’s ship. The ensuing chase led to the dive bell and gold being sacrificed in the Dry Tortugas.
Returning his attention to the journal, Mac sat back and resumed where he had left off. Having read the earlier part of the journal, Mac estimated that there was much more aboard Van Doren’s ship than Lafitte’s men, or the Spanish, knew about. What he had forgotten was that the “partners” had split the salvaged goods from The Panther and that five-eighths of it, Lafitte’s share, was still in the Tortugas.
By now, the crew had seen the ship and were all gathered around
. It was clear to all of us, that if we wanted the gold and the treasure on Lafitte’s ship, which was rightfully ours, we would have to fight for it.
The faces of the the original eight plus the dozen freedmen who still remained were illuminated by a single lantern hung from the mast. I felt a brotherhood with them, but there didn’t seem to be any answers between them. With nothing to be gained until morning, I set the watch and went below with Shayla.
Keeping the crew happy was only part of the problem. I didn’t have that much experience with women, but knew when I was defeated. If I wanted to stay with Shayla, this had to end. Since our escape through the interior of Florida after the American Navy had taken down Gasparilla, several years and a ton of gold later, we were still labeled pirates. We’d been rich and poor and in the former case no better off, as there were no ports where we could trade legitimately or spend our riches. My hope was the Pacific would give us a fresh start.
Shayla slept soundly beside me while I tossed and turned through the night. When the first light showed through a gap in the curtain covering our single porthole, I still had no answers. Leaving Shayla to sleep, I crawled out of our bunk, and went up to the deck. It was quiet there as well with only the watch. After checking if there had been any problems overnight, I relieved the men and climbed the mast.
The breeze brushed against my face, but did nothing to clear my head. I’d made a promise to the crew that we would retrieve the gold, and another to Shayla. I stood on the spar, gazing into the rising sun, when I saw something move on the horizon. Bringing the spyglass we had bought in Havana to my eye, I scanned the open seas.
Two ships appeared before me. I called an alert to the deck and climbed down. As I ran to the helm, I saw Rhames coming out of the companionway. He reached out and I handed him the glass to let him make his own judgment.
I scanned the horizon to determine our options and saw sails being raised on the ship anchored over the bell. A red pennant was hoisted, and though I didn’t know their signals, I could guess well enough that we were in trouble.
It was Rhames, usually the main proponent in favor of a fight, who pointed out that we were badly outmanned and outgunned. I pointed to the third ship, now moving past the channel and into deeper water. It became clear in that moment that the Spanish had played us. They could have taken us in the cove where we had careened the ship, but we had taken the time and effort to fortify our position. If they were able to defeat us there, it would have cost them. Instead, they had been patient, knowing we would come for the treasure.
A few minutes later, the crew was back on deck, waiting for Mason to call out orders. It hadn’t been an easy decision, but they all knew that we were rich men with what we already carried in our holds. Staying to fight a battle we had little chance of winning made little sense. They had all seen the urgency of our situation and knew the only prudent thing was to get out while we still had our ship and treasure.
A loud boom came from one of the ships and a cannon ball dropped into the water a hundred feet from our stern. They were getting their range now and a minute later, another dropped about the same distance back. That was a good sign. They had made their adjustments and not been able to hit us. Balls were flying regularly and the lookouts called that they were continuing to fall short.
My feet felt the vibration of the sea as it passed below us. The work we had done was paying off and even in the light breeze we were moving faster than we had before careening, under better conditions. The other boats stopped firing and we all watched as they faded from view.
The story ended there, but Mac knew it was only a chapter in the tale. He had learned three things from the journal. One, that aside from the diving bell weighted with gold, there was more treasure in the Tortugas. Mac was sure the Spanish had recovered the easy pickings, but after finding the diving bell, Mac was familiar with the waters where Van Doren and his navigator, Mason, had led Lafitte’s ships. The Spanish, with their lack of divers, equipment, or experience would not have been able to salvage the treasure in the deeper water. Like many others lost on the reefs of the Caribbean, and especially since there were pirates who shunned records involved, the wrecks had disappeared from history.
The second thing Mac surmised was that the wrecks of Lafitte’s escort ships were fair game. Ned’s showing so much interest in the journal told Mac that the wrecks and their resting place were previously unknown.
Mac could feel the nervous tension in the pit of his stomach. He knew the cause, and fought it for a brief second. But, as the thought of treasure had captivated Mel and Ned, Mac knew it had a grip on him as well. Trufante’s circumstances and his own aside, now that he knew about the treasure, there was no running from it.
Mac set the pages down and looked outside. Once again, the rain had stopped, but unlike the previous storms, the brightening sky showed faint rays of the sun pushing through. This was typical Keys weather, and within an hour, the island would once again be a steamy, tropical mess. The improvement made him feel better about the upcoming trip.
Through the window, Mac could see the top of Pamela’s head. Sitting on one of the wooden rocking chairs—required Key West porch fixtures—she was bent over. He got up to see what she was doing and glimpsed a cat sitting at her feet. Just as he was about to head out the door to tell her what he had discovered, then head down to find Sloan at the marina, she got up and followed the cat down the walkway, out the gate, and onto the street.
Twenty-Seven
The cat was telling her something; she was sure of it. Brushing its head incessantly against her leg, she finally reached down and picked it up. The orange and white tabby had no collar, which was not unusual. The tourist brochures said to come for the fishing, and the Key deer were certainly an attraction. What most didn’t know until they arrived was that there were several species of nuisance animals more abundant than snapper on the reef: rats, chickens, and feral cats all freely roamed the streets and alleys of the Keys, leaving the residents with noisy streets, messy yards, and infested crawlspaces and attics.
Looking into the orange eyes, Pamela saw Tru. She wasn’t sure what or how, because there was no resemblance, but he was there. When the cat jumped down to the painted deck, it turned back to her and stared again, telling her to follow. Mel and Ned had gone to Marathon and Mac was inside reading something. “What harm could there be?” she asked herself, as she got up and started to follow.
Turning onto Angelica, the cat checked back every block as if to make sure she was still there, further convincing her that this was some kind of destiny. Last night she had sent a prayer to the universe, and now it had responded.
Pamela was not religious, but had a steadfast belief that everything was connected. And this cat appeared to be channeling Tru. When the cemetery came into view she wasn’t sure what to think, only knowing that she was right; she was meant to follow the feline. Located near the center of the island close to its highest elevation—which was a surprising eighteen feet above sea level—like everywhere else on the iconic island, the cemetery offered tourist maps highlighting its classic Keys history. Pamela wasn’t interested in the bicycle-riding tourists and locals, dodging puddles, using the narrow streets as transit routes, or gawking at the quotable tombstones.
This cat had a plan. Pamela was more sure of it with every step. After passing through the gate, it turned left at the fork and strutted toward a plot with the name “Cristobal” etched in a slab of granite. The cat passed through an open cast-iron gate, but Pamela stopped short when she spotted a man sitting by the side of the mausoleum. The cat paid him no mind. It walked up to the closed door of the tomb and started to mew. Pamela distinctly heard a response, and she wondered if she had misread the cat.
Moving her attention to the man, she decided he must be a fisherman from his white rubber boots. He sat on a milk crate placed several feet in front of the wall. Hunched over, he appeared to be talking to someone. At first she thought he was crazy … until she heard a f
amiliar voice respond. Though his voice was raspy, there was no doubt she had found Tru.
She didn’t dare move and distract the man, but from her spot behind an adjacent tomb, she determined that Trufante was being held inside the chamber. The door was closed and most likely locked. Her only way to rescue him appeared to be through the white-booted man.
Studying him, she decided he was praying. Not in a church-like way, or to any god that she knew. He remained sitting by the side wall, focused on what looked like a crudely drawn circle; half on the wall, the other half the sidewalk. Inside the circle was a white candle and a takeout coffee cup.
She held her breath when he turned. As if he knew she was there, his black-rimmed eyes found her, and even before he spoke, she knew she was in trouble.
“It looks as if my prayers have finally been answered,” he said, then turned back to the shrine and whispered what sounded like a “thank you” to his gods.
Mac returned to the table, looking for the rest of the journal, but found no other papers with Van Doren’s distinctive handwriting. He checked his watch and glanced out the window again. No sign of Pamela. Thirty minutes had passed quickly, and with Sloan expecting him at the marina, the last thing he needed was Pamela disappearing on him. Cursing under his breath, he grabbed the pistol, stuck it into the waistband of his cargo shorts, and headed out the door.
Early January had a funny feel to it, with its deflated expectations and tired Christmas decorations; new laws and resolutions that would become next year’s failures. The streets were empty after the nightly festivities. Between the late-night partying and the morning rain, the normally quiet streets were close to deserted. Realizing Pamela had about a five-minute head start, he decided one of Ned’s beach cruisers would be his best chance to catch her.
Even without the traffic that would ensnare the city by nightfall, driving around Key West was slower than using a bike or scooter. Neither rooster or pedestrian cared about stepping into oncoming traffic without looking, making driving risky and slow. Add in the one-way streets, some so narrow that there was barely a lane for traffic between the rows of parked cars, there was clearly a need for better options. Mac crossed the path to the detached garage in a few steps, opened the door, and took out one of the three bicycles.
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