Rork and the others arrived about then. They carried the cook up to the main deck, where the bosun asked if he should lash the miscreant to the foremast. I thought that an eminently sensible thing to do and announced that come dawn, I would adjudicate the matter of the cook’s insubordination.
***
In the final event, there was no verdict the next morning, for the defendant was gone. During the night he absconded, an act I surmised was abetted by young Absalom, who had a sympathetic streak in him. All hands denied collusion, except the young Bahamian, who stood mute. No doubt the prisoner played upon the lad’s common nationality as well, though the white cook looked down on darker-skinned peoples.
After reflection, I thought it just as well, for Blackstone had, through the catalyst of his inebriation, already received sufficient physical punishment and humiliation for his defiance during the previous week. I supposed he had run off through the wooded interior of the island to a more trafficked port on the eastern shore, there to ship out for parts unknown. I had no inclination to pursue.
And, as I’ve already explained, there was the not so little matter of the legality of my authority over Blackstone and the others in the original crew. Sans documentation of the legitimacy of my command, the cook could have eventually made a point in Her Majesty’s colonial court at Nassau that I was actually something of a pirate who had taken over the ship by fraud or guile in Key West, then sailed her through international waters—hence the pirate moniker—to the Bahamas with the ultimate result of one British subject, Dunbarton, dead, and another, Blackstone, maimed.
I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief the whole damned thing was over.
“Good riddance to a bad character,” muttered Rork. “An’ now, me boyos, let’s get the old girl fixed up right and proper-like, so we can get on with what we came to do—discharge the cargo at Nassau an’ then get on with findin’ young Saunders.”
Corny, amused by it all, cheerfully summed up the first leg of our voyage. “What a most interesting time you’ve provided, Peter. Much more exciting than just trying to catch a tarpon fish. I can’t wait till the fellows at the Smithsonian Institution hear of this adventure!”
***
Even with all the assistance and material furnished us, it had taken far longer than I anticipated to get Delilah in seaworthy shape again. To condense the explanation, the seams needed extra caulking in that summer heat, for the home-made pitch liquefied and drooled out; and the tree selected for the topmast replacement had to be specially chosen and worked by the Red Bays men, who seemed to know every pine tree in their area. So, a week after we started work, we hadn’t finished.
During this time, several events came to pass that were of salient interest to us. First, following our initial meeting on the thirteenth of July, Pastor Newton sent word by boat and jungle trail to the surrounding villages of northern Andros that we were searching for a lost boy seaman from the schooner Condor. This I considered to be a polite pro forma, for why would Condor put in at Andros, a poor island with no amenities for tourists? However, I was wrong. The good parson’s efforts yielded results.
On Tuesday, the seventeenth, he received word from a pastor at Morgan’s Bluff that a schooner called Condor had been at that place in mid-May. It was a memorable incident for the inhabitants, for the Americans aboard the schooner went ashore and asked about the location of Henry Morgan’s lost treasure, offering money for information. Condor stayed a few days, the islanders only too happy to provide paid guides for the rich Americans. After a predictably fruitless hunt, the schooner departed, heading east, probably for Nassau.
Pastor Newton said Morgan’s Bluff was a day’s sail along a shallow channel around the top of Andros Island. The village was named after the famous pirate, who supposedly buried some of his loot in the area. Outsiders coming in to look for Morgan’s treasure were not uncommon. In the two centuries since Morgan may have sailed by those waters, every possible site had been dug up, with no attending success. Only British and American tourists still believed in the legend, but as long as they brought currency, the locals were supportive of their dreams.
I determined to go there at once and follow up on the Condor’s visit. Nassau, and the discharge of our cargo, could wait. With detailed inquiries, perhaps some indication of the schooner’s fate could be gleaned from the villagers there. I needed to know more about the intent of Condor’s voyage through the Bahamian islands in order to predict where they would’ve gone and why.
Treasure hunting? It sounded right for a pleasure excursion and explained the unusual book my friend DuPont had seen in Kingston’s cabin, but I had a growing sense of unease with what I was hearing. Kingston, a veteran sailor of the area, would’ve known the stories of treasure at Andros were all bunk. Was he a fraud or confidence man, bilking the Yankees with a romantic notion?
14
Of Buccaneers and Monsters
Morgan’s Bluff
Northern Andros Island
Islands of the Bahamas
Friday, 20 July 1888
Defying Rork’s superstition yet again, we left Red Bays on a Friday morning. Our departure waited until the dazzling Bahamian sun was high enough to send shafts of light directly down into the aqua and indigo waters, the better to illuminate the way ahead. Absalom stood high up at the foremast’s spreaders to peer down into the water.
This passage was far more intricate than the one across the Banks, and it required constant attention. Calling out the positions of brown coral heads and white sandbars from his bird’s-eye perch, Absalom led us, slowly short tacking—always an exhausting exercise for a schooner—against an easterly breeze through the maze of coral-studded shoals many miles long. I wouldn’t have tried this gauntlet of nature without him.
The night prior to our departure another item of news came in from the island’s gossip. No one had heard or seen Blackstone since his flight several nights earlier, and no one aboard Delilah had displayed much concern. But on the night of the nineteenth, Absalom reported that Blackstone had been seen in the woods, trudging east along a trail, trying to get to the more inhabited east side of Andros. He was said to look gaunt-faced and frightened and trailed by two Chickchannies.
Absalom looked pretty upset himself as he passed this along to all of us around the dinner table. Our resident ethnologist, Corny, was the only American who knew about Chickchannies. He enlightened the rest of us.
“Ah, yes, the Chickchannies of Andros. They’re mythical birdlike beasts who roam the interior of the island and prey upon humans who behave badly to other humans.” He thought them, “vaguely related to the legendary Irish leprechauns, since there had been Irish overseers in the days of slave plantations of the islands. The overseers used the myth to frighten and threaten the slaves.”
Absalom corrected him. “Oh, no, they’re not mythical, Mr. Corny. They’re real, and they go after good people too, not just people like Blackstone. Even Christians like me. That’s why so few of us walk about in the bush after dark. Blackstone is out there, among them. They have taken him into their midst.”
“Perhaps,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, “they might’ve recognized a kindred soul in him and will make him their king.”
The islander didn’t like my satire and huffed, “This is a bad sign. Just wait and see, Captain. Blackstone will come back to haunt us.”
That was greeted with guffaws by me and the others, but then I glanced at Rork. He wasn’t laughing. “Aye, boyo. I understand what ye’re sayin’, Absalom, me friend. I know there’s things out there that no man can explain. Seen it in me home county o’ Wexford, in the sainted island o’ Eire. Let’s just hope those Chickchannies hate that poxied cook as much as we do.”
Dan Horloft growled, “Primitive nonsense, Rork. You Irish are as full of that foolishness as these natives. Stop being silly.”
Absalom Bowlegs wasn’t mollified. “Yo
u don’t know, Mr. Horloft. We’re in waters where we may just see the Bosee-Amasee if we can’t get through the channel tomorrow and have to anchor for the night. ’Tis a half-man, half-fish, who will rise up and snatch a man off the deck.”
“Oh for goodness’ sake,” Dan retorted. “Absalom, that sounds like some African mumbo-jumbo.”
Corny held up a hand. “You’re correct, Dan. Obeah, the locals’ naturistical beliefs, which includes the Bosee-Amasee, does come from Africa. The slaves brought it over generations ago. The descendants of those slaves still use obeah in bush medicine among these islands. And Rork is also correct. There are some things science—even we at the Smithsonian, can’t explain.”
The discussion was becoming maudlin, and its effect upon Cynda apparent. She was frightened for her son and didn’t need to hear any more about African beasts, mythical or real, in the islands where her son might be waiting for rescue. We needed our spirits and courage lifted, so I made fun of such difficulties.
“All right, let me understand this clearly. In addition to tropical storms, disruptive crew, and a leaking vessel, now I have to think about ancient buccaneers and mythical monsters?’
Put that way, even Absalom laughed, and the tension was relieved, if only for the moment. But I registered that Rork laughed in a perfunctory manner, more to support me than out of true mirth. He was worried.
I always pay attention when Rork is worried.
***
The anchorage at Morgan’s Bluff is over a sandy bottom in three fathoms on the eastern side of a small bay indented into the northeastern end of Andros Island. Protected by a thin peninsula on the east side, the bay is wide open to the north, a perilous place to be when the winter northwesters came through. The peninsula contained the “bluff,” more of a knoll to northern eyes. The village was tiny, perhaps fifty people in huts, and clustered under coconut palms on the southeast corner along a white sandy beach. A more substantial community named Nichols lay two miles away, down the island’s east coast.
The sun had fallen into its lower altitudes when we made our final tack at Goulding Cay. Delilah broad reached south through the deep water behind the menacing reefs that sprawled between Andros Island and the Tongue of the Ocean, a bottomless deep to the east. Soon we were at the village of Morgan’s Bluff.
After letting go the anchor and securing the ship, I exhaled all the strains of the intricate passage we’d just completed. Cynda, who had taken on the duties of cook with far more success than her predecessor, served our dinner up on the main deck. It was one of those magical settings that make the tropics famous, a glorious scene that would do credit to a romantic novelist like my friend Pierre Loti.
The thundering surf from the windward beaches, scents of warm moist earth and cooking fires, and a vast panorama of coco palms silhouetted by skyward brush strokes of rose and pale blue to the west, all served to relax everyone aboard Delilah. We were safe for the night, with a pleasant meal and trusted companions. The change in temperaments was immediate.
After dinner I took the first anchor watch, while Absalom went ashore in the dinghy to nose around for information and Dan and Corny washed the dishes. Cynda, Rork, and I sat on the afterdeck, saying nothing, just appreciating the sedative vista of awakening stars in the sky where a pitiless sun had broiled a few hours before.
We were about half an hour into the reverie when I heard the splash of oars and Ab calling out from the dark, “Captain! He’s coming!”
He surged alongside, tied off the painter, and fairly leaped up to the deck.
“Captain Wake, I just saw Blackstone, in the woods south of the village. I was coming back from visiting a friend when I saw the cook. He came out of the forest onto the road and I know he saw me. I ran as fast as I could to get to the dinghy and row to the ship.” Then, eyes wide with fear, he added, “He was heading to the beach here. And he’s got something with him!”
Absalom, the sailor who had calmly guided us through a labyrinth of deadly reefs hours earlier, the young man who professed a strong Christian faith, was beside himself in panic.
“What does he have with him?” I asked.
“A ghost. A white ghost. It was big and looked like a man.”
Hearing the commotion, the rest of the crew gathered around. Corny inquired in a professorial tone, “Did it have the body of a beast, Ab? Or was it all human?”
“A human, I think. All in white robes. But the hands . . . I think maybe they weren’t hands. I think they were claws.”
Rork stepped up. “Like a Chickchannie?”
Ab nodded vigorously. Corny rubbed his chin. Dan harrumphed, echoing my sentiments. Cynda, who heretofore had remained silent in discussions on legendary island creatures, proposed, “Maybe it’s one of those native monsters, and they are guarding the treasure of the buccaneers.”
Whereupon Rork, my dearest friend in the world, who at times can be exasperating with his superstitious Gaelic gullibility, wagged his head thoughtfully. “Exactly me own thoughts, Cynda,” he intoned. “Aye, mark me words an’ best beware. There’re things, ancient things, happenin’ here we don’t understand . . .”
Intelligent readers of this account will agree that the issue had progressed beyond credence by this point. I determined to end such harebrained ideas right then and there, before it got worse.
“Very well, I’ve heard enough of this. Everyone get hold of yourselves, right now. We’ll arm those men standing anchor watch tonight with a cutlass and belaying pin—” I dared not give them one of my firearms, lest they’d shoot some innocent person while in the grip of imagined terror. “—with orders to sound the ship’s bell should they see anyone approaching in the dark. Then we’ll all muster aft and repel whoever, or whatever, comes alongside. And may I remind all hands that this is a Christian ship visiting a crown colony of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, not some barge of terrified paganistic fools in the middle of the Congo River.”
I meant to chastise them out of their trepidation, but they merely bobbed their heads in acknowledgment of orders. Except for Dan, I could see that they were still worried, which I deemed simply stupid. A week in the islands and my crew was already going native, falling under the sway of crazy local beliefs.
Little did I know then just how far we would all eventually descend into the mysteries of ancient Africa
15
Curious Intelligence
Morgan’s Bluff
Andros Island
Islands of the Bahamas
Saturday, 21 July 1888
The night yielded no attack by beast, human, or spirit, and the next morning saw me ashore at the district office in Nichols. I was there to press inquiries about Condor to the officialdom of the island. Rork and Absalom accompanied me on the walk, while Dan and Cynda stayed aboard, lounging under the deck awnings. Corny roamed the village of Morgan’s Bluff. Ostensibly he was noting the cultural structure, as he did at Red Bays, but I suspected there may have been a bit of treasure hunting involved too. In spite of his scientific brain, he was a quixotic fellow at heart.
At Nichol’s government house, a ramshackle cottage that had seen far better days, we learned that the man in charge of northern Andros Island was in that day, a rare good fortune. Sitting on the verandah were a dozen residents waiting for the district commissioner, none of whom looked very happy at seeing my arrival, since they knew that we would be taken care of first, a consequence of my skin’s color. They weren’t wrong on that either, for as soon as we took our place to wait outside, we were soon ushered within. Absalom insisted on remaining outside with his fellow islanders.
It turned out the commissioner and magistrate, a former sea captain named Ceruti, knew of our presence at Andros, and also of the altercation with the cook. With Ceruti was a Mr. Bode, a narrow-eyed sponge broker from Golden Cay and friend of the commissioner. Both were dressed informally. Ceruti greeted us cordially
and offered Rork and me chairs arranged around a table covered with paperwork, where Bode was already seated.
My intention was to inquire as to the onward destination of the Condor, but Ceruti wasted no time in opening the conversation himself.
“Captain Wake, I have some criminal complaints against you—five to be exact—filed by the cook, one Connerly Blackstone, of the schooner Delilah.”
Hmm. As has been described, this development was not totally unexpected by me, though it did unfold faster than anticipated. I judged it a good time to assume the mantel of captain’s authority.
“And what do these complaints consist of?”
Ceruti picked up a lengthy document of three pages and regarded me carefully.
“Mr. Blackstone charges first, that you are guilty of theft, for being illegally in command of said schooner Delilah, which sails under the registry and protection of Her Majesty, our gracious Queen Victoria, and that you have no waiver of succession from the previous master and no authority from the vessel’s owners in England.
“Secondly, he charges you with gross professional negligence in navigation and seamanship for placing said vessel in peril at the reef south of Bimini. Thirdly, he charges you with manslaughter for the death of the mate, a Mr. Dunbarton, whom you placed in mortal jeopardy at that same location and who succumbed from that jeopardy.
“Fourthly, he charges you with criminal aggravated assault upon his person, as a result of which he is crippled for life and unable to practice his profession of . . . chef.
“And lastly, he charges you with false imprisonment by lashing him to the mast of the said vessel in a humiliating and painful manner.”
Ceruti raised an eyebrow and looked over at me. “Any comments, sir?”
Honor Bound Page 11