The Forgotten Sea

by Beverley Harper

  ‘Still is, as far as I can see.’

  ‘You disapprove?’

  She considered her answer. ‘Don’t know,’ she admitted candidly. ‘I’d have to know more about it.’

  The busy barman finally asked what they would like to drink. ‘How about a bottle of champagne?’ Connor suggested. ‘We can have it brought to the table. This place is getting a bit crowded.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  The barman snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared immediately to show them to their table. Holly was aware that several women were watching Connor with open admiration. If he noticed, he didn’t react. As soon as they were seated he took her tape recorder from his pocket and passed it across the table. ‘Mustn’t forget this.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Holly dropped it into her handbag.

  ‘What, no taping this evening?’

  ‘Not unless you have more on William.’

  ‘I have his journal.’ He passed over a plastic bag bearing the logo of a Grand Baie supermarket. ‘That should answer most of your questions.’

  Holly jiggled the bag. It wasn’t very heavy. ‘Must be pretty small.’

  ‘Not a man of words, our William.’ Deftly changing the subject, Connor told her about the family who were renting him a room.

  Watching his face in the flickering candlelight, Holly was aware of two things. One, there was a sensitivity to it, a degree of uncertainty she had not previously noticed. Two, his quiet voice and easy manner had somehow awakened her own femininity – not a bad trick considering her recent betrayal and subsequent re-evaluation of the opposite sex.

  Connor had ordered a sixty-eight vintage Dom Pérignon. When their champagne arrived he checked the label, felt the bottle with the back of his hand, nodded that the temperature was right and indicated that it may be opened. ‘Here’s to the mysteries of life,’ he said, raising his glass.

  Holly felt him watching her over the rim of his tall-stemmed glass. She wondered what he was thinking. His words took her by surprise. ‘Do you always dress to hide yourself?’

  Certainly Holly hadn’t taken any trouble with her appearance. Just pulled on the first blouse that came to hand – a loosely fitting blue cotton number which fell to her thighs – over white linen trousers. No make-up, barring lip gloss. She’d combed her hair with her fingers. ‘I beg your pardon!’ The comment was too personal.

  He looked boyishly uncomfortable. ‘Oops!’

  ‘Please explain.’ She set her glass down carefully, but found herself grinning at the words which had become part of Australian diction thanks to the would-be politician Pauline Hanson.

  He ran a hand over his chin, a half smile, half grimace on his face. ‘It’s a gift of mine. Dive in, say what’s on my mind, live to regret it. Did I offend you?’

  She simply looked at him.

  ‘Okay. Every time I see you, you look as though you’re wearing clothes two sizes too big. Kind of makes me wonder what you think you’re hiding. And . . .’ he held up a hand when she opened her mouth, ‘. . . and fetching as it is, current fashion aside, it makes you look as if you need a bloody good hug.’

  Holly’s mouth formed a perfect ‘O’.

  ‘How am I doing?’ The boyish questioning look was strangely appealing.

  She swallowed hard. How had he done that? Subconsciously, Holly was frantically searching for a response to steer him away from her own personal demons. He’d just swept aside her armour and put his finger right on the button. She was unnerved by it. The only refuge was to use her profession as an excuse. ‘I’m working. I like comfort. I’m not here to win any fashion award.’

  The smile faded. There was something akin to regret in his dark eyes. ‘Have it your way.’

  Holly sought the safety of a subject change. ‘How long do you intend to look for William’s treasure?’

  ‘A month, tops.’

  ‘And then? What if you don’t find it?’

  ‘Go home, write another cheque, forget about it.’

  ‘Write another . . . but I thought . . .’ He was doing it again. He had her off balance. ‘You said –’

  ‘No. You assumed.’

  Holly ducked her head. When she looked back he was grinning.

  ‘Like I said on the phone: Jones one, Maguire one.’

  ‘That’s very magnanimous.’ An edge had crept into her voice.

  ‘What can I say? I’m nice like that.’

  She owed him an apology. ‘I’m sorry.’ It was hard to say.

  ‘You’re forgiven. More champagne?’

  Holly found it difficult to work out her emotions. Angry that he was making fun of her, embarrassed she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion and surprised that, despite this, she was actually enjoying his company. He was making her see a funny side that, she knew, she could never have found on her own. ‘I mean it.’ This time it was easy to say. ‘I really am sorry.’

  ‘You speak your mind. Nothing wrong with that.’

  Quinn may have been right. Connor Maguire was a nice man. ‘May I ask you a personal question?’

  ‘You’re the journalist.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘Just when I was beginning to like you.’

  ‘That Chinese girl you were with at lunch yesterday. Who is she?’

  With no change of expression, Connor said, ‘Gretchen von Brandenstein.’

  Holly burst out laughing.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I saw her again this afternoon. She was with someone I know slightly.’

  ‘And you have a nose for news.’

  ‘Actually, I hate my nose. No, it’s just that there’s something about her . . .’

  Connor went serious suddenly. ‘Stay away from her, Holly. She’s a powerful lady. Her name is Madame Liang Song. She’s about as friendly as a cornered honey badger.’ When Holly looked surprised, he added, ‘I mean it. Don’t try sniffing around her. She’ll eat you alive.’

  Little did he realise that his words were only making Holly more interested.

  ‘I’m going to Rodrigues next week,’ Connor said suddenly. ‘You can come if you like.’

  ‘Flying?’ Holly asked.

  ‘Probably, although Raoul has offered to take me in his boat.’

  ‘That would be fun.’

  ‘Takes too long.’

  ‘Is Raoul an old friend of yours?’

  ‘Not exactly. More of a business colleague.’

  He was not going to say more so she didn’t push it. ‘Why Rodrigues?’

  ‘William lived there for a while. It’s all in the journal. I just want to look at it.’

  ‘How did he get there? He was supposed to be stranded here. Rodrigues is . . . what . . . six hundred kilometres north-east.’

  ‘Came up with another boat. You’ll see when you read it.’

  Holly shook her head in amazement.

  ‘What?’ he quizzed. ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘It’s not that. I was just thinking how different life was back then. You want something, you go for it. Rodrigues? No problem. Grab some leaky old craft and set sail – it’s up that way somewhere. What a life! No regulations, no form filling, no bureaucracy. Just do it. Scary but free.’ She shook her head again. ‘I’m not sure if they were mad in those days or we are now.’ She hesitated. ‘That’s not a bad angle actually. Kind of ties William in with your lifestyle.’

  ‘What?’ Connor appeared genuinely puzzled.

  ‘You do the same thing. Get a grip on life and yank with all your might.’

  ‘And sometimes it collapses all round me.’

  ‘Life’s like that,’ Holly said flatly.

  He cocked an eyebrow at her but made no comment.

  Holly quickly steered the conversation away from life and its little idiosyncrasies. ‘This story is taking on a different shape from the one I had in mind originally.’

  ‘William, you mean?’

  ‘Sounds like there’s some good meat in the journal.’

  ‘If it’s co
lour you want pull whatever you need from it. Quinn likes that sort of thing.’

  ‘You’ve met him a couple of times, I believe.’

  Inner amusement showed briefly in his eyes. ‘A couple. He’s quite a character.’

  ‘You’ve featured more than once in Out of Focus. Becoming quite a regular.’

  He took the comment seriously. ‘I know what you think of me. That I’m nothing more than a bored, wealthy adventurer.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I say? It’s true I get up to some unusual pranks. The media seem to like me. But it’s all for a good cause.’

  ‘Quinn said something like that too.’

  ‘Life should be exciting. There’s nothing illegal about having a bit of fun.’

  ‘Fun,’ she repeated, remembering Quinn’s advice. She had no idea how wistful she sounded.

  ‘Don’t you have fun, Holly?’

  They had opted for the set menu. Two steaming bowls of shark fin soup arrived. Holly was glad of the diversion and the question remained unanswered.

  Perhaps sensing her discomfort, Connor kept the conversation reasonably impersonal throughout their meal. Holly learned surprisingly little about Connor Maguire. He was exceptionally good at saying nothing. Even direct questions such as, ‘What do you do in your free time?’ were deflected.

  ‘Same as anyone. Relax. How about you?’

  He had a knack of turning the conversation away from himself. At times, Holly felt that he was interviewing her. Over coffee and liqueurs, she said so, pointing out that if she were to write a piece about him it might be helpful if he didn’t turn all his answers into questions.

  ‘Boardroom tactics. I’ll try not to. Won’t be easy, though,’ he added. ‘People interest me. By the way, you still haven’t said if you’ll come to Rodrigues.’

  ‘Yes. Yes I will. If I’m covering your search for William Maguire’s treasure then I’m sorry to say you’re stuck with me until I get the story.’

  ‘Good. I’ll make the arrangements.’

  I wonder, she thought after they had said goodnight and she made her way back to her room. Is he interested in people? Or is he just dodging the questions?

  The journal of William Maguire was not much more than a ledger of seized booty, but it also included random snippets of his pirate years, a halfhearted apology for past activities and a scathing attack on his cousin Kavanagh. Couched in flowery terms and full of clichés, the faded brown writing remained surprisingly legible. Considering his unusual and interesting life, it was disappointingly short, with long gaps, sometimes years, between entries. There was a formal introduction, obviously written at a later date, inside the front cover:

  Grand Port, Île de France, 25th November in the Year of Our Lord 1746

  My name is William Makepeace Maguire, born in County Cork on the twelfth day of June in the Year of Our Lord 1679 the third son of George and Kathleen Maguire. My eldest brother, Gilchrist, so named after our paternal Grandfather, fell sole heir to the Maguire Estates. George, second son, secured a royal commission in the Irish Dragoon Guards. Thus it fell as my destiny to serve the Church but this expectation was not to be. I went to sea on the square-rigged trader, Isabella, only to be taken prisoner by Spanish corsairs off the straits of Bab-el-Maneb. In time, my endeavours earned sufficient respect to be released with my own vessel – the Serpent. The notes hereafter are my personal account of incidences and adventures as they occurred in subsequent years.

  There followed a meticulous account of numerous successful engagements off the West African coast and vessels looted on the way south, round the Cape of Good Hope to the Sea of Zanj. The list of riches seemed endless – golden guineas and pieces of eight, Spanish silver ducats, personal jewellery confiscated from luckless passengers, pearls, amber and jade, Ming Dynasty china, Kang Hsi porcelain decorated with enamel and gold, Delft porcelain and pottery – and each had been carefully identified: where it came from, the ship’s name and the year it had been seized. Holly noted that against some items, William Maguire had added an asterisk. Was this to indicate booty he kept for himself? If so, and assuming the treasure remained intact, it would be worth tens of millions of dollars today.

  According to the dates against the inventory in the journal, William’s life as a pirate stretched over a period of nearly forty years, from 1703 until 1739. And what a life it must have been, full of danger and excitement. Such a pity he didn’t see fit to keep a more detailed account of his experiences. The few glimpses were tantalising, to say the least, but impossible to put together a full understanding of how things were back then. Reading the diary, Holly felt she’d been given limited access to a window into the past.

  After reading through the cold, hard facts – pages and pages of riches captured – she settled down to learn more of the man. William began his account with an explanation of exactly where the Sea of Zanj lay and a generalisation about some of its characteristics.

  Sinbad knew this sea. Bahr-el-Zanj, the sea of the blacks, the Sea of Zanj extends from the shores of Africa to 80 degrees longitude and is contained between the Equator and the Tropic of Capricorn. Within its warm waters lie many island groups – the Mascarenes, Madagascar, the Seychelles, Comoros, Aldabra Islands, Amirante, Galega to name but a few. A sea of treacherous currents and reefs, trade winds and cyclones but a sea of remarkable beauty and a bounty of marine creatures. It is a sea of magic and legends, of strange land creatures and even stranger people. It is the forgotten sea.

  Having got that off his chest, William was then content to allow his inventory to do the talking for him. The next entry was to do with the unexpected arrival of one Captain Mackra and a fleet fitted out by the British East India Company with express orders to rid the Sea of Zanj of all pirate activity. William had been caught unawares and nearly lost his life. The event was sufficiently worrying to force a run down the west coast of Madagascar into open water, and back to the relative safety of Île de France. After a brief, though not very complimentary introduction of Captain Mackra, William wrote:

  28th July 1720, off St Augustin’s Bay

  Three days sailing from the Comoro Islands. Have not sighted Mackra’s sails for nearly sixteen hours. God, in his great Providence, has given us fair winds. All leaks are caulked and our jury rigging holds up well. The Engagement has left five dead and fourteen wounded with two not expected to reach port. A musket ball wound to my own head troubles me little, though it might so easily have been a different story. Mackra is a devil. How did he find me?

  That was it. No description of the battle or any damage William might have inflicted on Captain Mackra. No mention of other ships or, indeed, whether Captain Mackra had been alone or in the company of his fleet. Presumably, the journey was without incident for nothing more was recorded until William reached his base near the small French way station at Grand Port and trouble reared its head in the form of his cousin, Kavanagh Maguire. In William’s own words:

  Much to my surprise a somewhat dilapidated British man-o’-war rode at anchor in Warwyck Bay. I feared we were discovered but they showed no hostility and despatched a cutter in our direction. The captain proved to be none other than my young Cousin Kavanagh who greeted me well enough and offered refreshment aboard his ship, the Dancing Queen. She was a vessel of thirty-four guns but most had been thrown overboard during a storm. The main mast lay in splinters and the ship was in great need of repair.

  The journal went on to state how they joined forces, first restoring the less badly damaged Serpent then working on the Dancing Queen. William’s own men helped replace the broken mast and the two ships’ companies enjoyed several months on shore, living on the beach and mixing freely with the local marrons, happily impregnating every maiden who would – and in some cases, wouldn’t – prove willing. William was quite graphic in his descriptions of the women. He also made the point that the small French garrison turned a blind eye as long as the pirates kept to themselves. Of Captain Mackra they saw no further sign and the Serpent, along with the
Dancing Queen, was soon back in business. William and Kavanagh made a formidable team judging by the ledger but, at some point, William began to suspect his cousin’s motives. The next entry, with no preamble, read:

  Last night, well after the company had disbursed or fallen into drunken stupor, I selected three of my most trusted men, rowed out to the Serpent and, making seven trips in all, transferred our share of the Treasures still held on board to a safe if temporary haven on shore. When Kavanagh makes his move, as surely he must, it will be to discover that the spoils so ardently coveted have been considerably depleted. From tonight, one of us will stand watch.

  And a postscript: It is a sad and sorry day indeed when a man cannot trust his own kith and kin.

  The telephone rang suddenly, startling Holly. She answered impatiently, keen to get back to the journal.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘Justin. No, I wasn’t asleep.’

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t make dinner. Something came up.’

  ‘That’s all right. I was tied up myself.’

  ‘Another time perhaps?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Fancy a nightcap?’

  ‘Thanks but no thanks, Justin. Early start in the morning.’ That was true enough. She’d arranged a visit to the Historical and Naval Museum in Mahébourg with Connor.

  He sounded disappointed. ‘Okay. See you around then.’

  ‘Goodni –’

  He broke the connection before she finished the word.

  She returned to the journal. The next entry confirmed Kavanagh’s treachery:

  The swiftness of Kavanagh’s attack almost caught us by surprise. Not satisfied with seizing the Serpent and all that he thought she held, my dear Cousin sought our eternal silence. Twas Thomas Capstick who raised the alarm as the scoundrels made their way up the beach towards us. The four of us fled inland, towards the mountains, leaving our precious stash to the mercy of any who might undertake a search. Young Capstick took a musket ball in the neck and died instantly. We could do nought for the poor devil as we were fleeing for our very lives. Kavanagh and his cut-throats pursued us for two days and two nights until we were near dead with the exhaustion. He was like a man possessed in his eagerness to conceal this vile treachery.