Spirits of the Pirate House

by Paul Ferrante

  “Your dad left a note on the fridge,” said Bortnicker, juggling a container of milk and two boxes of ice cream that he’d snatched from the freezer. “He’ll be home for dinner. He’s thinking we’ll hit Pizza Palace.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “And he says a package came for you this morning from The Adventure Channel. Go grab it while I whip up some milkshakes. You got any chocolate sauce?”

  “In the pantry,” T.J. said, opening the FedEx envelope his father had left on the butcher block-topped kitchen island. He removed a thick folder with Junior Gonzo Ghost Chasers Pilot embossed on the black cover. Inside was a note which he read aloud:

  Dudes,

  Hope the end of the school year is going well for you. In this folder is a lot of background history on Bermuda and pirates who operated in that area. There isn’t much on William Tarver—we’re going to have to visit the historical society’s archives over there to get a better read on this guy.

  But dig this—they’ve had to close down his residence to the public because people are too scared to work there! So the government’s losing tourist money, which is why they called us. It’s common knowledge that after we visit a site their visitor rate goes way up. Of course, it would help if we actually find something!

  So, read up on all this stuff before we go. I’ve sent a copy to your cousin in PA. This is gonna be awesome!

  Catch you later,

  Mike

  “What do you think?” said T.J., reaching into the cupboard for some parfait glasses.

  “Way cool,” replied Bortnicker, scooping chocolate chip mint and rocky road ice cream into the blender. He added some milk and a squirt of chocolate sauce, popped on the top, and hit the toggle switch. “Looks like we’ve got homework while we study for our school finals.”

  “I’m not really that worried about our school tests,” said T.J., “except maybe math. But I want to go over there prepared. We don’t want to embarrass ourselves or make Mike look bad for volunteering us for this investigation. You know, last year in Gettysburg we just kinda went with it as stuff happened, but now it’s all going to be captured on film. I don’t want to look like an idiot.”

  “I don’t think your fair cousin would allow that to occur,” quipped Bortnicker, pouring the silky mixture into their glasses. “Tell me how it tastes.”

  T.J. took a gulp, creating an instant ice cream mustache. “Excellent, as always.”

  “Some Oreos would go great with this.”

  T.J. rummaged around in the pantry. “We’re out. How about Chips Ahoy?”

  “Just as good. Give me half the folder and let’s start reading.”

  Chapter Six

  As was usually the case, Pizza Palace was hopping this Saturday night. It wasn’t the fanciest eatery in Fairfield, but the food was hearty and the portions were large, the only requirements necessary for the boys. They slid into a red leatherette booth across the table from Mr. Jackson and eyed the people at the other tables, most of whom were families with squirming children.

  “So, what’ll it be tonight, guys?” said Tom Sr., opening the surprisingly voluminous menu.

  “We were feeling like pizza,” said Bortnicker. “The Seafood Supreme, in honor of Bermuda and all.”

  “You want a salad with that?”

  “Salad?” said T.J. with mock horror, “who needs salad?”

  “Yeah,” agreed Bortnicker, “it’s not like my mom’s here or something.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Tom Sr., raising his hands in surrender. “I was just trying. And a pitcher of Coke to go with that?”

  “Sounds good,” said Bortnicker, “and could I get a wedge of lemon in mine?”

  “Done.”

  A harried waitress came over, and Mr. Jackson put in the order for their large pie, well done. “And could you bring some breadsticks while we wait?” he added. “These two are about to start eating the napkins.”

  “No problem, sir.” She smiled, hurrying off.

  “Okay, guys,” said Tom Sr., “so tell me the basic info you learned in that big old packet they sent you. Let me see if there’s any stuff I didn’t know already.”

  “Well,” said Bortnicker, snatching a sesame breadstick the second the waitress put the basket on their table, “we only really got through the part about Bermuda itself. There’s still all the pirate history to go over.”

  “Fair enough. T.J.?”

  “For starters, Dad, Bermuda’s not an island, really. It’s a group of like 120 smaller pieces of land covering 20 or so square miles, and it’s kind of shaped like a fishhook.”

  “Yup, it sure is,” said the elder Jackson, fondly remembering Bermuda’s distinctive shape as seen from the air on his many visits.

  “What’s cool,” said Bortnicker, “is that what Bermuda really is, is the exposed tip of an extinct volcano with a layer of limestone over it. That’s what kinda creates the pink sand on its beaches that everyone raves about.”

  “And it really is pink,” said Tom Sr., munching a breadstick. “Wait till you see it. People come just to see the sand!”

  “Besides the beaches,” said T.J., pouring himself some soda, “it has a pretty fair climate because of where it’s located, 500 or so miles east of North Carolina, in the Gulf Stream. When we get there it should be in the low 80s.”

  “Heavenly,” sighed Bortnicker.

  “The temperature?” asked T.J.

  “No, that eggplant parmigiana platter the next table over. Check it out.”

  “Could you focus, please? Anyway, Dad, what the write-up didn’t explain is why the place is so expensive, like you’re always saying. What’s up with that?”

  “Well, after World War II the population of the place really started growing. Now it’s well over double what it was. So, the government’s put the brakes on people establishing residences there—”

  “It’s British, right?” asked Bortnicker.

  “Oh, yeah, though white Anglo Saxons are in the minority. They’re a lot more proper than we are here, though that’s seemed to break down a little in my most recent visits. Time was, you couldn’t walk around Hamilton, that’s the capital, wearing a tank top or skimpy shorts. You’d get looks or even maybe a comment. But now, with cruise ships crowding in and flights around the clock, the place is flooded with tourists in the warmer months, and a lot of them—especially us Americans, I’m afraid—think they’re just at the Jersey Shore or something and don’t respect Bermudian culture. You kids are going to make sure you behave, TV show or no.

  “Anyway, by the 80s, when your mom and I went on our honeymoon, Bermuda had ceased to export anything—”

  “Even Bermuda onions?” questioned Bortnicker.

  “Even Bermuda onions. What little produce that comes out of their small farms is bought up by the locals and the restaurants. Now, everything is shipped into Bermuda, a lot of it from the States. That’s why you’ll pay four bucks for a bag of chips, or why this seafood pie they just took out of the oven would run you double or triple what we’re paying at good old Pizza Palace.

  “What’s a shame is that, getting back to the 80s, Bermuda had something like 99% employment. Everybody had a job, so everybody was relatively happy. And most of those jobs, even today, revolve around the tourist trade. But that fell off in the 90s, and today you might even see some beggars around Hamilton or St. George’s, which was unheard of back then.

  “You see, what made Bermuda so great then, and even now to an extent, is that it’s not like some of these other islands you go to where they tell you that you shouldn’t venture outside the resort area for fear of drugs or violence. But if you keep up on world news, you’ll see that every once and awhile there’s some Bermuda crime—usually between gangs of locals—that the government tries to play down. Because tourism is everything in Bermuda, and that’s why I’m being brought into this golf club project. The people who go there are prepared to spend the big bucks, and what’s being offered has to be of the highest
standard.”

  The waitress set the smoking pie onto a pedestal in the middle of their table with a quick “Watch it, it’s hot!” and was off to take another order. The mozzarella was still bubbling over the bed of mussels, clams, and shrimp that gave the Seafood Supreme its distinct flavor.

  “So, what I‘m saying,” said Tom Sr., gently pulling apart the slices and distributing them to the drooling teens’ plates, “is that while I want you to enjoy the friendliness of the Bermudian people and all the island has to offer, you still can’t let your guard down completely. And you’ve got to keep an eye on LouAnne. She’s an attractive girl with a mind of her own. If anything happened to her, we’d all have to answer to Uncle Mike, and that wouldn’t be pretty.”

  The boys nodded as they chewed. Mike Darcy, who was now a park ranger at the Gettysburg National Battlefield Park, had been an all Big-10 linebacker at Michigan State in his younger days where he had come to be known as “Maddog Mike” and was still fearsome.

  They made short work of the pie, stopping only to order a second pitcher of Coke. As he settled the bill, Tom Sr. asked, “So, are you guys too full for ice cream?”

  “I think not,” said Bortnicker confidently.

  “Aw, Dad, you just want a good reason to show off your baby,” quipped T.J.

  Tom Sr. couldn’t help but smile. A trip to the local Dairy Queen on Post Road was the perfect occasion to drive his 1993 Jaguar XJS Coupe through town. The car, which T.J. jokingly called “The Midlife Crisis Mobile,” had been picked up by Tom Sr. fairly cheaply and lovingly restored to concourse-level condition. Its oyster metallic paint gleamed in the twilight as Bortnicker wedged himself into the ridiculously cramped back seat while T.J. flicked on the surround sound stereo Tom Sr. had installed. The three bachelors cruised around, in no particular hurry to reach the DQ, and took in the sights of their quaint little town.

  “How are we going to get around in Bermuda?” asked Bortnicker, trying to maneuver into a position where his leg wouldn’t fall asleep.

  “That might present a problem,” said Tom Sr. “Because the island’s population is so large, and the roads are only two-lane, each family on the island is only allowed one car.” He chuckled. “What’s funny is, when Jaguar was marketing this very car, they shipped an XJS to Bermuda to shoot the photos for the sales brochure. But you won’t see and Jags there—just compacts or minivan taxis. And the price of gas there? Astronomical, because—”

  “They have to import everything!” called Bortnicker from the back seat.

  “Exactly. So, most families have a moped or two to go with the car, or they take public buses. But the moped thing’s another problem. See, tourists can rent them anywhere on the island, but you have to have a driver’s license, which means you guys are out of luck. But even though only adults can rent them, there are accidents galore because in Bermuda, you drive on the left side of the road, which throws Americans off. Then, there are rain showers that come out of nowhere and make the pavement slick, and let’s not forget the idiots who have too many beers and think they’re Evel Knievel.”

  “So what you’re saying,” said T.J. glumly, “is that we’ll be taking the bus a lot.”

  “Well, not necessarily. I’m sure The Adventure Channel has hired some transportation for you guys to get you from place to place. I’ll probably rent a moped myself, and I’m sure Weinstein will, too. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  They pulled up to the DQ and T.J. could see the pride on his dad’s face as patrons in line pointed to the XJS. “Okay,” he said, “time for some Blizzards. But remember, no ice cream in the car. Find a bench out front.”

  “Preferably one with a good view of the Jag?” said Bortnicker, extricating himself from the back seat.

  “Of course.” Tom Sr. locked the car with his remote and looked wistfully around at the place he used to come every Saturday with his wife and little boy. It brought a smile to his face. “Just think, guys,” he said finally, “two weeks from today you’ll be in paradise.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Ahoy, me hearties,” said LouAnne through the speaker phone in Bortnicker’s bedroom.

  “What’s that playing in the background? Meet the Beatles?”

  “You’ve got it,” said Bortnicker as “It Won’t Be Long” bounced off the walls of his cluttered enclave. “Hey, bet you don’t know what the British version was called.” He raised an eyebrow, awaiting her response as he stared at the iconic album cover photo of the foursome that was taken in half shadow.

  “Bet I do. It’s With the Beatles.”

  “She strikes again,” said T.J. “Bortnicker, why don’t you just give up trying to stump her?”

  “I have not yet begun to fight,” he said dramatically.

  “Whatever,” said LouAnne dismissively. “So, one week to go before you guys head over. Have you done all your studying?”

  “Yeah,” said T.J. “But what kinda surprises me is, here we are going after this pirate guy and all, but Bermuda wasn’t exactly a big time pirate hangout.”

  Bortnicker agreed. “Compared to the Spanish Main, you’re right. The reefs and the small islands with their coves provided protection for pirate ships, but as a whole, Bermuda was what you’d call out of the way.

  “Most of the treasure ships in pirate times were going from South America back to Europe. They’d only stop in Bermuda if it was an emergency. And if they did, there wasn’t much to steal there. Once the British established Bermuda as a colony in the 1600s they pretty much had it to themselves, although Spanish explorers had actually discovered the place.”

  “Which brings us to how Sir William Tarver fits in,” broke in T.J. “There were two main privateers on the island in the early 1700s. One guy was Henry Jennings, who attacked Spanish strongholds where they were storing salvaged treasure from sunken Spanish galleons. The other was Tarver, whose background is really sketchy.

  “Anyway, the governor of Bermuda, who was no dummy, figured that if he allowed Jennings and Tarver a pardon, they would establish legitimate businesses on the island and, as a bonus, provide a little protection against anyone who might attack.

  “Jennings decided to turn to supplying colonial pirates outside of Bermuda with salt or tobacco. His men, using a few smaller boats called Bermuda sloops, would also harvest sea turtles or salvage treasure from sunken ships and then distribute their goods throughout the Caribbean.”

  “Yes,” said LouAnne, “I read all that, but all I could get about Tarver was that he established a tobacco plantation on the island in what’s now known as Southampton Parish.”

  “Which is why we’re going to have to visit their historical society after we get there. Try to get a read on his murky past,” said T.J.

  “I see him as one of those swashbuckling types, a real ladies’ man,” LouAnne observed dreamily.

  “You’ve been watching too many Johnny Depp movies,” said Bortnicker. “Most of these guys were disease-riddled lowlifes with no teeth.”

  “Maybe,” countered LouAnne, “but he must’ve been doing something right because he was pals with the governor and lived past the age of 40, and pretty comfortably, by all accounts.”

  “So, why is he haunting this Hibiscus House?” said T.J.

  “Well,” said Bortnicker, “if you owned a mansion on a tropical island would you want to leave? Ever?”

  “But that’s the thing,” said LouAnne. “It seems the encounters have really only kicked into gear during the past seven months or so. Something must have triggered it. Remember the deal with Major Hilliard?”

  “Yeah,” said T.J., “what brought him back was when the grounds crew at the Battlefield Park unearthed his bones while they were digging a storm drain near the Emmitsburg Road.”

  “Exactly. So my guess is he’s got a reason for coming back, just like Hilliard. And it’s going to be up to us to find him and figure out what the story is.”

  “And we’ve got two weeks at the most to do it,” stated T.J. seriou
sly.

  “And it’s gonna be on TV,” added Bortnicker.

  “Yikes,” said LouAnne. “Hey, by the way, what are you guys bringing over there?”

  “Well,” said T.J., “we’ve got all our basic dive gear, supplied by our guy Capt. Kenny. All we have to pick up there is our tanks. And then, enough shirts, shorts, and footwear for a couple weeks.”

  “Don’t forget your track shoes,” admonished LouAnne. “We’ve got to fit some running in—”

  “Including a 5k race.”

  “Uh-huh. Are you ready for it?”

  T.J. winked at Bortnicker and said, “Well, I just got done with baseball here, so it’ll take me a few morning runs to get back into cross country mode.”

  “You mean, like last year when you came down to Pennsylvania and almost died on our first run?”

  “Busted!” laughed Bortnicker.

  “Very funny,” said T.J., as his face grew hot with embarrassment. “Don’t worry, I’ll be prepared. And, oh, don’t forget a change of nice clothes. Mike Weinstein said we might have to go out in public a couple times, and being underdressed in Bermuda is a real no-no.”

  “No problem,” said LouAnne, “I’ve got a couple cute sundresses I’m packing.”

  “I’ll bet she does,” whispered Bortnicker, and T.J. punched him in the shoulder. “And don’t forget your bathing suit!” he added impishly.

  “Bortnicker, really. How could you go to Bermuda and not bring a suit?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Okay, guys,” she said finally. “I’ve gotta go. Are you as nervous about this as I am?”