Spirits of the Pirate House

by Paul Ferrante

  “Just a bell?” exploded Jasper good naturedly. “And I suppose Buckingham Palace is just a house?”

  “You know what I mean, Jasper,” she answered quietly. “The discovery itself is remarkable, I’ll give you that. I just don’t know what this will lead to. Maybe that bell was never meant to be uncovered.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Mum, you can’t mean that,” said Ronnie. “Think of what this will mean to our business! Dad will have to beat back the customers!”

  “I suppose,” she said with a half-smile. “Still, I think our lives were rather fulfilling to begin with. I hope things stay positive.”

  “Of course they will, my dear,” said Jasper, taking her hand.

  “So, one more dive on Thursday?” said Mike, draining his plastic champagne cup.

  “I’d like to give it a go,” said Jasper. “Boys? LouAnne?”

  “We’re in,” said T.J.

  “In that case,” said Jasper, solemnly rising from his seat, “I must propose a toast. First, to the three cooks who produced this marvelous feast—”

  “Hear, hear!” sang out a slightly tipsy Mike Weinstein, as the others gave Claudette, Ronnie, and Bortnicker a round of applause.

  “...and more importantly, a toast to what may prove to be one of the most significant historic finds in Bermudian history!”

  With that, the congregation broke into cheers and the teens high-fived each other with bone-jarring smacks.

  * * * *

  “Now did you hear that, Hogfish?” whispered Willie B. “I knew something was going on with those kids. The question is, how did Jasper Goodwin get involved, and what did they find?”

  Hogfish, an overweight black man with a bowling ball head and a lazy eye that gave him the appearance of the creature he was named after, replied quietly, “I don’t know for sure, but if you figure this is about Black Bill Tarver, my guess is that there’s gold or silver involved.”

  “Like a pirate treasure?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Hmm,” hissed Willie B., his dreadlocked head now glistening with sweat. “It’s time I did a little detective work, see what I can find out.”

  “Who are you going to talk to? Nigel Chapford? He’s their driver, right?”

  “No, no,” said Willie B. with a devilish smile. “I can get even closer than that. Let’s get out of here.” With that, the two men slithered out of their hiding place in the tropical undergrowth and made it to the road where they caught a late bus to Hamilton.

  * * * *

  “So, how was dinner, folks?” said Chappy as the Americans piled into the minivan.

  “Great,” said Mike as he waved to Tom Sr., who pulled onto the road ahead of them on the scooter. “We ate like kings. Jasper found us some spiny lobsters and his wife made—what was it?”

  “Cassava pie and candied sweet potatoes,” reported Bortnicker proudly.

  “My goodness, Bermuda classics all. Well, Claudette Goodwin is rather famous around here for her cooking. And how was your day of diving?”

  Silence fell over the vehicle, leaving only the sound of the Beatles’ “Here, There, and Everywhere” from the Revolver album. The Americans looked at each other with concern.

  “Have I said something wrong?” asked Chappy.

  “No, no,” replied Mike. “It’s just that ... okay, Chappy, we’ll level with you, but you’ve gotta keep this quiet—”

  “You have my word, Mr. Weinstein.”

  “That’s good enough for me, so I’ll just cut to the chase. The boys found the bell to Tarver’s pirate ship.”

  Exuding calm, their driver smoothly pulled over to the side of the road and put on his flashers. “You’re quite serious?”

  “No doubt, Chappy,” said T.J. “We could read the letters and everything.”

  Chapford let out a low whistle. “The Steadfast. Remarkable. They’ve been searching for it for years. All I can say is congratulations. And when do you intend to make this discovery public?”

  “Not 'til the show’s done filming,” said Bortnicker. “Mr. Goodwin thinks it’ll turn into a circus if we tell the press at this point.”

  “He’s quite right, Mr. B.,” said Chappy, easing the car back onto the road. “So, what next? This is becoming quite the adventure.”

  “Mr. Goodwin wants us to do another dive on Thursday when he’s got the whole day clear,” said T.J. “I say that since we’ve got a free day tomorrow we really hit those archives at the National Trust Museum. I feel like we’re missing a key bit of information somewhere.”

  “Me too,” agreed LouAnne. “We’ve got to tie the ship to the house, or vice versa. Hopefully, that nasty Mrs. Tilbury won’t give us a hard time.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Bortnicker, “T.J.’s managed to charm her already. It’ll be a breeze.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said T.J. “Chappy, could you pick us up around 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning?”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Oh,” said Mike, “and we’ll be going to Harbour Night in Hamilton as well.”

  “Quite a full day,” said Chappy, “and you’ll probably have time to squeeze in a swim in the afternoon.”

  “Any suggestions for dinner?” said Bortnicker, as food was never far from his mind.

  “Hmm ... well, if you fancy some Italian fare, La Trattoria is reasonably priced, and the food is good. I’d give that a go.”

  “Great!” said T.J. “That’s the same place my dad’s been raving about.”

  A short time later they pulled into the car park of Jobson’s Cove Apartments, and the exhausted ghost hunters lugged their equipment upstairs, said goodnight, and retired to their rooms.

  But as bone weary as they were, neither of the boys could fall asleep immediately, as the day’s events kept playing in their heads like a movie marathon. Finally, Bortnicker broke the silence in the darkness. “Didja like the food?” he asked.

  “Are you kidding? I couldn’t stop eating it. You’re learning a whole new bunch of recipes.”

  “Yeah. Ronnie’s mom is really nice. A lot like Aunt Terri in Gettysburg.”

  “Ronnie isn’t so bad herself,” said T.J., fishing for a response.

  “You think she’s out of my league?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Don’t underestimate yourself.”

  “C’mon, Big Mon. You know that if she went to Bridgefield High the guys would be all over her.”

  “So?”

  “So, why’s she paying so much attention to me?”

  “Must be your cooking.”

  “Seriously.”

  “I don’t know, man. Girls are just funny. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

  “I guess. Well, my plan is just to enjoy it as long as it lasts.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  “And don’t think we all didn’t notice you and your lovely cousin steal away for a romantic promenade on the beach.”

  “Bortnicker, please.”

  “It’s okay, Big Mon,” he said. “If you can’t be romantic in Bermuda, you might as well pack it in.”

  “Uh-huh,” T.J. replied, thinking that maybe he wasn’t giving his nerdy friend anywhere near enough credit.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “If you guys don’t mind, I’m going to take the scooter into Hamilton this morning and try to find some backup batteries for the video cameras,” said Mike to the boys as they wolfed down their morning cereal. “In the past we’ve had situations where an entity has drained the batteries as it tried to manifest itself, and I don’t want to be caught short if it happens here.”

  “Good idea,” said T.J. “Now, where will you be while we’re searching the house?”

  “I’m going to set up a command center in the foyer area near the front door. From there I’ll be able to monitor the DVRs we’ll position in the various rooms and stay in contact with you guys via walkie-talkies.”

  “How many nights did they say they were giving us?” asked Bortnicker, wiping milk off hi
s lips.

  “We have two filming ops if we need it. Judging by what’s happened so far, it seems like a given. You dudes finding that bell make the whole project a lot more interesting. I can’t wait to see what you’ll bring up on the second dive tomorrow.”

  “Me neither,” said Bortnicker. “Some gold ingots and silver bars would be nice. Maybe the government will give us a cut, like they do in Florida.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” said T.J., rinsing his cereal bowl in the sink. “These people seem pretty possessive about their belongings.” He paused a second. “Hey, Mike, I don’t mind that you’re not coming with us to the museum this morning, but do you think they’ll give us a hard time about checking out the archives without you there?”

  “They shouldn’t. It’s all in the agreement they signed with The Adventure Channel. We’re supposed to have total access, no matter what that grump Tilbury says. If it gets dicey, you have my cell number. Call me and I’ll contact the proper higher-ups. I’ll see you back here this afternoon.”

  “I betcha he has a date,” mused Bortnicker as Mike started up the scooter down below.

  “Well, we shouldn’t need him all the time anyway,” said T.J. “And we won’t see my dad till tonight, so we’re kinda on our own.” They checked their look in the mirror—Bortnicker especially seemed to be doing more of that lately—and met up with LouAnne on the balcony. As usual, she was radiant in her black JGGC tee shirt and matching ponytail scrunchy. “Man, did I ever sleep last night,” she declared. “Even the tree frogs didn’t bother me. Good thing we took today off from running.”

  “No doubt,” agreed T.J., whose arms were still sore from digging out that bell the previous day.

  They strolled downstairs just as Chappy was pulling in. “And how is the team today?” he asked, holding a door open for LouAnne.

  “Relaxed and ready for some research!” said LouAnne pertly.

  “Got any music for us today, Chappy?” asked Bortnicker as he buckled up.

  “Why don’t you choose, Mr. B?” he replied, handing Bortnicker a travel case of CD’s.

  “Hmm,” the boy said, shuffling through the pile. “I think we’ll go with Abbey Road.” As “Come Together” came on the kids chatted about their upcoming night on the town in Hamilton.

  “So, Chappy,” said T.J., “this Harbour Night thing is supposed to be pretty cool, right?”

  “Oh yes. They hold it every Wednesday because, by then, the weekly cruise ships are docked on Front Street. All the shops stay open later, and there are all kinds of vendors on the sidewalk selling everything from snacks to jewelry. And they have face painting and whatnot for the little ones. It’s more or less a huge street festival. My favorite, however, would be the Gombay Dancers.”

  “What’s that?” asked Bortnicker.

  “Well,” said the driver, “Gombay is a kind of traditional folk music that mixes British, West African, and other cultures. The dancers, usually male, wear masquerade costumes with bright colors and tall, crazy hats that give the effect of tropical birds.”

  “What kind of instruments do they use?” asked Bortnicker.

  “The drumbeat is key,” answered Chappy. “They employ both the snare and kettle drum; occasionally a fife is added.”

  “Sounds like us last year,” quipped T.J.

  “How so?”

  “Chappy,” volunteered LouAnne, “you should’ve seen these guys last summer in Gettysburg. Since T.J. and Bortnicker played the kettle drum in their school orchestra, my dad recruited them as drummer boys for his Civil War reenactment unit. They were playing the snare drum during the battle reenactment!”

  “Well,” he answered, “having seen a few Civil War movies, I can tell you that Gombay is a bit more energetic and can get pretty wild, depending upon how much the performers and spectators are into it.”

  “So what you’re saying,” said Beatle Bortnicker, “is that not even our Ringo would be a suitable Gombay.”

  “Something like that.”

  LouAnne turned to her cousin, a sneaky smile on her face. “Hey, T.J., you been noticing how Bortnicker’s inner Beatle never seems to come out around Ronnie?”

  “Yeah,” said the boy. “I wonder why that is?”

  “Ah, she wouldn’t get it,” he explained embarrassedly. “Besides, it’s kind of our thing.”

  The cousins let his words settle for a few seconds and then burst into laughter.

  “You guys are brutal,” acknowledged Bortnicker with his trademark crooked smile.

  “So,” said Chappy, coming to his rescue, “what time do you anticipate being finished at the museum?”

  “I’d give us a couple hours,” estimated T.J. “Maybe a little more if we want to grab a quick lunch afterwards.”

  Despite their earlier bravado with Mike, the junior ghost hunters approached the museum with an air of trepidation. LouAnne had brought the camcorder in case anything turned up during their research.

  “Here we go,” said T.J., opening the front door for his colleagues.

  A young man was at the front desk today, smartly dressed in a blue sport jacket and tie. “May I help you?” he inquired politely.

  “Ah, we’re here from The Adventure Channel show to look in the archives,” said T.J., trying to be as suave as possible. “Mrs. Tilbury said it would be no problem?”

  “Yes, of course, the Junior Gonzo Ghost Chasers,” the clerk said with what T.J. interpreted as a hint of derision. “Our archives room is down the hall opposite Mrs. Tilbury’s office. I hope you don’t need to see her because she’s out sick today.”

  “No, that’s okay,” T.J. said, inwardly pleased that the old woman wouldn’t be hovering over them.

  “Fine, then. Mrs. Rayburn, our archivist, will be happy to assist you.” He smiled faintly and went back to doing busywork in his ledger.

  “Hope it’s not another old battle axe,” LouAnne whispered as they entered the door marked ARCHIVES—NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT PERMISSION.

  “Well, hello there!” called a matronly black woman who was on a rickety ladder replacing a book.

  Bortnicker immediately ran over and steadied the ladder, which seemed to be wobbling under the woman’s weight.

  “You’re so kind!” she called down, somewhat relieved at the boy’s assistance. “I’m Violet Rayburn, National Trust Archivist. You must be those ghost chasers!”

  “That’s us,” said T.J.

  The woman gingerly eased her way down, the ladder creaking with every step. Introductions were made all around, and the teens were pleased to have been greeted warmly. “Mrs. Tilbury told me to expect you. I take it you’ll want to see our materials dealing with Sir William Tarver?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said LouAnne respectfully.

  “Well, have a seat at that small table over there and I’ll get the files. You’ll find a box of white cotton gloves on the table. Please put them on so as to not damage the papers. Some of them are quite fragile. Would you like a cup of tea? I was about to put on a kettle in the back room.”

  “No, thanks,” said T.J., flashing his most ingratiating smile. “We just appreciate you helping us.”

  “It’s a pleasure to assist our friends from the States,” she said. “And TV personalities at that! I’ll be right back.” She hustled off, leaving the kids to seat themselves and pull on the cotton gloves.

  “Must be really old stuff,” said Bortnicker. “At least this lady is nice. Remember the woman in Charleston who helped us out last year?”

  “Yeah,” said T.J. “What was her name? Thibodeaux, that was it. From the Museum of the Confederacy. We got some really good background stuff on Major Hilliard that helped us figure out his situation.”

  “All right, here she comes,” said LouAnne hopefully. Mrs. Rayburn approached the table a little hesitantly and put a large archival box down. As Bortnicker went to open it, T.J. could sense a look of distress on her face. He removed the cover, then looked up quizzically, his long bangs drooping over his
glasses. “That’s it?” he said with a mixture of disappointment and surprise.

  The only contents of the rather substantial box were a couple of dusty ledgers. T.J. wondered why they would be stored in such a roomy container. Mrs. Rayburn seemed just as confused. “Well, ah, it appears that, ah—”

  “Something’s been removed?” said LouAnne impatiently.

  “It would appear so, yes,” she said quietly, perspiration forming on her forehead.

  “Well,” said T.J., “let’s at least go through what’s here. Can we have you photocopy things, Mrs. Rayburn?”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Jackson, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll, ah, leave you three alone to work. Call me if you need me.” She disappeared into the stacks, and the teens looked at each other blankly.

  “Something stinks here,” said Bortnicker.

  “No duh,” said LouAnne, “but did you notice that even Rayburn was surprised?”

  “And embarrassed,” added T.J. “Well, we might as well look through what’s here.”

  There wasn’t much. The most notable document was the deed for the acreage upon which Hibiscus House and the surrounding plantation were created. Dated 1722, it looked very official, with a lot of whereases and heretofores in flowing calligraphy. The fragile parchment was signed by the governor and featured a wax seal with his official crest.

  There was also a commendation, again with the governor’s seal, recognizing Sir William Tarver for his assistance in the construction of Fort St. Catherine. Rounding out the file were some period newspaper articles that mentioned Tarver, usually for such mundane things as his hosting of a gala ball at Hibiscus House or his participation in boundary dispute hearings and such. Nothing pertaining to piracy, the Steadfast, or his death could be found.

  “I don’t know if there’s anything here that’s even worth copying,” said T.J. dejectedly. “All this stuff reflects is that the guy was a wealthy, respected citizen of the island.”

  “That’s why it’s still in the file,” said Bortnicker. “What a waste of time.”