by carl ashmore
‘Hello,’ Becky and Joe said in unison.
‘Is there any chance we could have a little chat, Reg?’ Uncle Percy asked. ‘In private …’
‘Sure,’ Reg replied. ‘Come round the snug. Doreen … giz a shout if you’re rushed off your feet.’
Doreen grunted something back at him before resuming her chewing. Reg pulled open the counter top and gestured for them to follow.
A moment later they were in a tiny room that smelled of pipe tobacco and stale food; half-drunken coffee mugs littered the floor and piles of unopened post threatened to topple from a dusty mantelpiece, above which hung a portrait of a middle-aged woman wearing a cream dress and holding a parasol. It was the portrait that caught Becky’s eye.
Reg noticed and moved to her left. ‘Believe it or not, that there’s one of the most valuable painting’s in the world.’
‘Really?’
‘Look at the artist’s signature.’
Becky’s lowered her gaze to a man’s name in the bottom right hand corner: ‘Vincent.’ Immediately, she recalled an art project she did for school the previous year. ‘Is… is that -?’
Reg smiled. ‘Vincent Van Gogh painted that for me in 1887. It was the first painting he ever sold. And to be honest, he only ever sold one other in his lifetime, so that’s what makes this one pretty darn rare. ‘Course, no one knows that. I tell most folks it were painted by Vincent Buggins, an old army mate of mine.’
‘It’s a lovely picture,’ Becky said.
Reg’s smile grew. ‘Aye, it is. Quite fitting, coz my Mabel were a lovely woman. In fact, there were none lovelier.’ He seemed to hesitate for a moment, before moving to a chest of drawers on the right hand wall. Pulling open a drawer, he withdrew a small gold ring with a glittering crimson stone set in its bezel.
‘Here, child …I’d like you to have this.’ His hands trembled as he passed the ring to Becky. ‘It’s very old and was my wife’s favourite, aside from her weddin’ ring, of course.’
Becky’s looked down and gasped. ‘I can’t - ’
‘No,’ Reg insisted. ‘She woulda wanted it. I really don’t know any women ‘cept Doreen out there and she wouldn’t give it the care it deserves. I hope you’ll do that for me … and my wife.’
‘I shall,’ Becky replied. ‘Thank you.’
‘Allow me.’ Reg took Becky’s finger and slipped it on.
‘That’s very kind of you, Reg,’ Uncle Percy said.
Reg gave a casual shrug. ‘It just sits in a drawer, Percy. As you know, every now and again the past should be allowed to breathe again. And that can only happen in the present.’
‘I understand.’
‘So why’ve you come to an old man’s pub?’
Uncle Percy’s face grew serious. ‘Can I assume you heard about our little adventure in the summer?’
‘Aye. I still have my ears to the ground. Why, just before you got here I had a visit from one of the old GITT crowd.’
‘Ah, we thought we heard a time machine,’ Uncle Percy said.
‘They still pop in from time to time to rob me of my Olde Noggin.’ Then Reg shook his head with disgust. ‘Emerson Drake, eh? I mean, I never trusted him, always thought he was a weasel myself, but I never thought him capable of all that.’
‘Well he is. And a whole lot more. And now it looks like he’s searching for another relic, which means we have to try and beat him to it. Now, this is speculation, but it appears the legend of Pandora’s Box might, to some extent, be true. It also appears that at some point in history it may well have fallen into the hands of one, Mister Edward Teach, who may well have used it as a treasure chest…’
Reg gave an audible groan. ‘Blackbeard!’
Uncle Percy nodded. ‘Indeed.’
‘What do you know about Blackbeard?’
‘As for the man, only what history books tell me. Supposedly born Edward Teach in 1680, he joined Benjamin Hornigold’s sloop as a pirate. He acquired his own ship, The Queen Anne’s Revenge in 1717 and was known from then on as Blackbeard. He was killed by Lieutenant Robert Maynard of the Royal Navy in the winter of 1718.’
‘Most of that is true,’ Reg replied. ‘‘Cept for the bit about Robert Maynard. He never killed Blackbeard. Not at the Ocracoke inlet on the 22nd November 1718, which is what you’ll have found in those history books of yours. Sure, the Royal Navy captured his crew, but they didn’t get Blackbeard, that’s just navy propaganda, just like the story of how Blackbeard’s severed head was impaled to the bowsprit of Maynard’s sloop as a warning to other pirates. It didn’t happen. Nah, Blackbeard escaped, with his head firmly attached to his neck. And I know that for a fact.’
‘How do you know?’ Uncle Percy asked.
‘Because I was there, at Ocracoke, and I saw the whole damn thing.’
‘Then what happened to him?’
Reg’s face darkened. ‘Well, that’s the thing, ain’t it? I don’t know. And if anyone does, then I ain’t heard of it. There are stories, sure … some say he drowned in a violent storm, some say a Great White tore him limb from limb, others say something terrible happened when he returned to Mary Island. None of it’s proven though. All I knows is that from 22nd November 1718, he was never seen or heard of again. He just disappeared from the seas…’
- Chapter 10 -
Israel Hands
A hush descended as everyone took time to consider this. Then Uncle Percy asked a question. ‘You mentioned a Mary Island?’
‘Aye,’ Reg replied. ‘Mary Island was Blackbeard’s base, his headquarters.’
Uncle Percy’s brow furrowed. ‘I know there are thousands of islands in the Caribbean, but I’ve not heard of that one.’
‘You wouldn’t have,’ Reg replied. ‘It doesn’t exist, at least not on any official charter or map. It’s the name Blackbeard gave it, named it after his fourteenth wife, Mary Ormond.’
‘Fourteenth?’ Becky gasped.
Reg grinned sourly. ‘He liked the ladies, did Teach. Anyway, Mary Island was where he stored his plunder, his treasure, in caves deep underground, piled so high it reached the heavens, so they say.’
Joe’s eyes glittered. ‘And it’s never been found?’
Reg gave a sharp shake of his head. ‘No one’s ever known where to look. As I said before, no one knew which island was Mary Island. However, if legend is to be believed there were two markers, each crafted by Israel Hands, Blackbeard’s sail master, showing the location of Mary Island. He was also supposed to have left instructions as to where on the island the treasure could be found, but if these markers exist, they’ve never been found either.’
‘Israel Hands?’ Uncle Percy said. ‘As in the character in Robert Louis Stevenson’s ‘Treasure Island’?’
‘The very same. But Hands was real enough, all right, and one of the few that Blackbeard trusted. Never met him myself, but from what I hear he was an interesting fella - tough, merciless, but also principled, educated, a musician, and an excellent painter. I’ve never looked into it myself ‘cause I’ve never had a mind to.’ Reg’s gaze shifted slowly to the portrait of his wife. ‘But if this Pandora’s Box is one of Blackbeard’s treasure chests, then you might want to see if those markers are real or not …’
*
To Becky’s surprise, the food at the Magpie Inn tasted every bit as good as Uncle Percy said it would, and by the time it came to leave, the top button on her jeans threatened to pop off. As she left the pub feeling twice as wide as she’d entered, she watched Joe who was hopping around like an excitable puppy.
‘This is brilliant!’ Joe said. ‘I mean, not one, but two treasure maps.’
‘Markers, Joe, not maps,’ Uncle Percy said.
‘Still, it’s great fun,’ Joe replied. ‘I’m thinking we go back in time, find Israel Hands and get Will to hit him until he tells us where the treasure is. We don’t even need the markers then.’
Uncle Percy shot Joe a disapproving look. You do know, Joe, that violence is invariably the w
orst way of solving a problem.’
‘But Will is really good at it.’
‘That’s the sort of thing Emerson Drake would do, surely you wouldn’t want us to embrace the same moral compass as him, would you?’
‘No,’ Joe replied truthfully. ‘So what are we going to do?’
‘I do agree we hit something,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘We hit the books...’
Bright sunlight poked through broken cloud as Becky settled herself onto the Silver Ghost’s backseat. Without thinking, she rolled Reg’s ring around on her finger and felt a sadness well inside. The ring had belonged to a well-loved woman, a wife, a daughter, perhaps even a mother, but it was a woman who no longer existed, a woman who could no longer enjoy the ring’s beauty as she could. And then a vision crept into her head, of Uncle Percy and Stephanie, of the pain that filled his eyes whenever he mentioned her.
Getting old sucks, she thought to herself as she heard Uncle Percy’s voice.
‘Barbie, we’re on our way back to Bowen Hall.’ He spoke into an unseen microphone. ‘Would you please compile an optomediaphibic folio of Blackbeard’s sail master, Israel Hands, and join us in Bowen Hall library. Oh, and please make sure a stout German lady doesn’t see you, or neither of us will survive the day. Thank you, my dear.’
Becky leaned forward ‘What’s an optomediathingy?’
‘An optomediaphibic folio,’ Uncle Percy corrected her. ‘It’s a little application I’ve inserted into Barbie’s control panel. I’ve not tried it out yet. Between you and me, I’m quite excited to see how it looks.’
‘So what is it?’
‘Oh, you’ll have to see for yourself. We’ll be there in ten minutes.’
Joe’s eyes gleamed. ‘We’d be there even quicker if you pressed the ultra-booster.’
Uncle Percy gave a playful grin. ‘Joe, you really are quite the scoundrel.’ He paused. ‘But then, so am I…’
A seconds later, they were travelling so fast Becky nearly threw up her lunch.
*
Soon, Becky and Joe were watching a nervous Uncle Percy tap softly on Bowen Hall library door; his gaze flicked left and right as if on lookout for an unseen enemy. ‘Come on, Barbie, open up …’ he pleaded under his breath.
‘Are you really that scared of Maria?’ Becky asked.
‘Yes,’ Uncle Percy replied without a hint of shame.
A key turned on the other side of the door. Swiftly, Uncle Percy heaved the door open and disappeared inside. ‘Come on …quick!’ he ushered Becky and Joe inside, before quickly locking the door behind them.
Bowen Hall Library looked precisely how Becky remembered it: coated in a light dust and musty, with soaring shelves that bowed under the weight of thousands of books and parchments. The circular table in the centre of the room, however, was barely visible beneath the tall stacks of computer printouts and dozens of leather bound volumes which covered its surface.
‘Nice to have you back, sir,’ Barbie said.
‘No sign of Maria then?’ Uncle Percy asked anxiously.
‘No, sir. Barbie has checked her Alto-radar on a recurrent basis. Madame Maria has remained in the kitchens for the last forty six minutes, preparing what Barbie believes is a Shepherd’s Pie.’
Uncle Percy looked visibly relieved. ‘Excellent. She really would take a tin opener to both our heads if she found you in here. Anyway, did you manage to compile the folio?’
‘Yes, sir. Barbie has now uploaded, categorized, and cross-referenced all available information and constructed the optomediaphibic presentation as requested.’
‘Then, as they say in the theatre, break a leg, Barbie.’
Barbie paused. ‘Sir would like Barbie to break her leg? Very well.’ She raised her tiny metal fist high, and was about to bring it crashing down on to her leg, when Uncle Percy held out his hand to stop her.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just an expression. I’m sorry. I mean on with the show …’
Barbie tilted her head and looked confused.
Uncle Percy sighed. ‘Just start the presentation.’
At once, a slight click sounded and Barbie’s skull-cap flipped open. Then a thick shaft of brilliant shimmering light burst from her head, filling the ceiling.
Becky gasped loudly as the light swirled in front of them, before forming clear, distinct, three dimensional images. A young boy, dressed in tattered rags sat beneath a willow tree, drawing the most detailed picture of a ship …the same boy (older now) standing proudly on the bridge of a Royal Navy frigate waving at a small crowd as it set to sea.
Becky looked gobsmacked.
The story moved forward as the boy became a man, the naval officer became a pirate, and suddenly a fully grown Israel Hands was standing beside a hulking man, with raven-black hair that seemed to cover every inch of his face.
‘Israel …’ Blackbeard growled in a deep, rasping voice. ‘My trusted friend. I make you sail master of my flagship: The Queen Anne’s Revenge…’
The image of a colossal forty-gun pirate ship filled the library.
Joe gave a delirious whoop and clapped enthusiastically; Becky’s mouth nearly hit the floor; even Uncle Percy looked quite pleased with himself.
For the next ten minutes, and using all manner of information sources - Barbie recounted every known fact about Israel Hands: how he’d lost his leg to a cannon ball on a raid in Charleston; how he had fathered a son he’d never met. Then, surprisingly, the presentation shifted two hundred years, to an article from The Chicago Daily News, dated 15th February 1929 which read:
BLACKBEARD PAINTING BRINGS IN THE BOOTY …
Yesterday, in the prestigious Grand Ballroom of the world famous Palmer House Hotel, Chicago was at the centre of a second history making incident. Thankfully, on this occasion, the only bang that mattered came from a gavel. In a Charity auction of Pirate Memorabilia, hosted by the world-famous auctioneers, Christie’s, a painting of the notorious buccaneer Blackbeard, by his second in command, Israel Hands, was sold for an unprecedented one million dollars to an unknown buyer. Art experts are really quite baffled at why this painting garnered such astounding interest. Timothy Cheeseman, chief auctioneer for Christies said ….
The article was accompanied by an image of Blackbeard sitting on an enormous golden throne. Then, abruptly, the images dissolved as, with a soft click, Barbie’s skull-cap flipped shut.
‘What – was - that?’ Joe gasped, staring wide-eyed at Uncle Percy.
‘It did look rather good,’ Uncle Percy said proudly, ‘even if I do say so myself. An optomediaphibic folio is an audio-visual montage drawn from every online digital media resource - every museum, library, art gallery, film archive - across the world, including, would you believe it, something called YouTube …’ He winked at Becky. ‘See, who says I’m not with it?’
‘You are with it,’ Becky said, stunned by what she had just seen. ‘You’re most definitely with it.’
Uncle Percy smiled. ‘You just wait until I install the optohistophibic folio application, but that’s for another day.’
‘What was all that about an auction?’ Joe asked, intrigued. ‘A million dollars for one of Israel Hand’s paintings. Reg didn’t mention that.’
‘I can only assume he didn’t know,’ Uncle Percy replied. ‘Fascinating stuff, eh? I mean, that was nineteen twenties America. A million dollars then was like seven million now.’
‘But who would pay that kind of money?’ Becky asked.
‘I have no idea,’ Uncle Percy said, thinking carefully. ‘I can only assume that we will….’
‘What?’ Becky fired back.
Uncle Percy drummed his fingers against his jaw. ‘Frankly, I doubt it’s a serious art collector. No, it seems to me that someone wants it for a reason, other than its artistic merit.’
‘Like what?’ Becky asked.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps, we should ask ourselves whether there may be another reason that an Israel Hands painting might be worth a million dollars?’
A light flickered in Joe’s eyes. ‘It’s one of the markers,’ he panted.
‘It could be, Joe,’ Uncle Percy replied.
‘So let’s get to nineteen twenties Chicago and buy it,’ Joe insisted.
Uncle Percy threw him a look of concern. ‘Im not sure it’s quite as straightforward as that.’
‘Why not?’ Joe replied.
Uncle Percy hesitated. ‘There are a few things we must consider first.’
Becky snorted. ‘Yeah, like where are we going to get a million dollars from?’
Uncle Percy didn’t flinch. ‘Oh, it’s not the money. I can get the money.’
‘Then what is it?’ Becky asked.
A distinctly solemn look appeared on Uncle Percy’s face. ‘Well, in order for the bidding to rise to a million, it’s clear there must be at least two very interested parties. And if we are, indeed, one of the bidders, then who is the other?’
- Chapter 11 -
Maria’s Flashback
Dinner was a particularly fraught affair. Joe had let it slip to Maria they were travelling to nineteen twenties Chicago in the morning and she had exploded like a grenade. ‘Chicago?’ Her eyes bore into Uncle Percy. ‘Verrückter! Crazy man! Is your brain fallen out?’
‘I do hope not,’ Uncle Percy smiled feebly, avoiding Maria’s glare by nudging peas around his plate. ‘I really don’t know what your problem is, Maria. Chicago is a marvellous city and we’re only going to an auction. I’ll pick you something up if you’d like? How would you like a nice vase?’
‘A vase?’ The words oozed out of Maria’s mouth like burning oil, brimming with menace.
Jacob cringed as Maria’s face ballooned red and she screamed, ‘A VASE?’
‘It was only a suggestion,’ Uncle Percy mumbled.
‘I have no need for a vase! And this Chicago is not a marvellous city. It is a sewer. Gangsters …. Liquor …. Tommy Guns … You forget, this was my time. I remember the newsreels. Even in Berlin, we knew all about Chicago.’