Spirits of the Pirate House

by Paul Ferrante

  Finally, Chappy pulled into the lot where the group was met by a beaming Ronnie and her father, who helped lug their gear to the Reef Seeker I. High spirits shone throughout, and when Jasper quoted famed treasure hunter Mel Fisher’s immortal saying, “Today’s the day!” it set off a chain reaction of fist bumps and high fives. Goodwin and Skeeter quickly stowed the dive gear and soon they were slipping out of the cove and headed for open water.

  “Nervous?” said Ronnie, easing into a seat near Bortnicker, who was checking the band on his dive mask.

  “Yeah, and really psyched, too,” he said with his crooked smile. “What would you like me to find for you?”

  “Hmm. How about one of those ornate golden crosses inlaid with emeralds on a thick chain? I’d fancy wearing that to the posh receptions you all would be invited to.”

  “Consider it done.”

  On the other side of the deck, T.J. was a little more reserved with his cousin. “Something is down there, Cuz, can’t you feel it?” he said as she applied sunscreen to the back of his neck.

  “Yup, though it’s just hard for me to believe this wreck went untouched for centuries.”

  “Well, it just takes one powerful hurricane to stir up the bottom. I still can’t believe we found the ship’s bell.”

  “You think Mr. Goodwin’s exaggerating what’ll happen when this all goes public?”

  “Hard to tell. He knows this island better than us, that’s for sure. Tell you what, though, if we discover real treasure, it’ll be incredible. When I think of the stuff Capt. Kenny found on the Andrea Doria and other wrecks, and how hard he had to work for it, the years he put into it ... and then Bortnicker and I jump into the water on our first real dive and boom! I mean, what are the odds?”

  “Well, there is something known as beginners luck,” she smiled, spreading the cream around the tops of his shoulders.

  “I guess. But if we come up with gold or silver it’s a whole new ballgame.”

  “Well, whatever, it’ll make good TV.”

  “You got that right. Even if the haunted house turns out to be a dud, the first ten minutes of the show might be enough to make The Adventure Channel buy the series!”

  “And will fame and fortune change T.J. Jackson?” she chided in a dramatic voice.

  “Nah ... well, maybe a little bit,” he responded, allowing the faintest of smiles.

  * * * *

  “Dora, I have to speak with you,” said Nigel Chapford, settling onto a stool at the counter.

  The portly proprietor raised an eyebrow as she leaned on the chipped Formica, nearly nose to nose with the chauffer. “You look so serious, Dearie. Are you here to propose? And if so, what would the missus say?”

  The sternness never left Chappy’s face, despite her best efforts. “This is no laughing matter, Dora, not to me anyway. I have to ask you an important question: Do you have any knowledge of anyone bothering those American boys or Miss Ronnie?”

  “And why are you asking me this, might I inquire?”

  “Because last night in Hamilton, the kids were harassed—followed, actually—by three rather unfriendly looking men. They haven’t been too many places in this area, so I’m asking you seriously, again: Do you know of anyone who’d wish them ill?”

  Dora mopped her brow with a dishrag, then started polishing the countertop, breaking eye contact with Chapford.

  “Well, to be honest, they might be bringing this all on themselves. Don’t get me wrong—the boys are polite, though the one with the glasses tends to run his mouth a bit.”

  “To whom, may I ask?”

  “Well, ah, that first day they did have a bit of an encounter with Willie B.—”

  “I should have known!” cried an exasperated Chapford, throwing up his hands. “Probably the poorest example of all things Bermudian, though he fancies himself the champion of our island. Did he threaten those boys in some way?”

  “Not exactly,” she said cautiously, trying to avoid Chappy’s ire. “Let’s say he was just trying to discourage them from digging too deeply into some dark spaces.”

  “That’s all?”

  “And, uh, oh yes, I did notice him having speaks with Miss Ronnie yesterday afternoon outside the restaurant. What they discussed, I wasn’t privy to.”

  Chappy puffed up his cheeks and slowly blew out. “And where might I be able to find our friend Willie B. this time of day?”

  “How should I know? You give me too much credit, Nigel Chapford. I’m just trying to make a living here. Willie B. comes and goes. Where he lives, or stays, or whatever, is nobody’s business but his own.”

  “Alright then, Dora, but let me tell you this. If he should happen by, please relay the message that I want to speak with him.” He took out a business card and placed it on the counter. “And if anything comes up you think I should know about, call me on my cell. And I mean that seriously.”

  “Dear, dear,” said Dora trying to lighten the moment, “what will Mrs. Chapford say if she learns a foxy lady like myself is making calls to you at all hours?”

  “You’ll notice I’m not laughing, Dora. I’m quite concerned, actually, that something regrettable is about to happen to these youngsters, and they deserve better. I hope to hear from you.” With that he rose and walked out, the screen door smacking shut behind him.

  Dora watched him all the way to his car and stood there many minutes after he’d left. Where was Willie B. anyway? He hadn’t come by for lunch or a beer with his crony, that disgusting Hogfish, as was his routine. She sighed, shook her head, and went back to her stove, but not before she’d tacked Chappy’s business card to the kitchen corkboard.

  * * * *

  “Okay, we’re right over it!” sang out Jasper Goodwin. “Drop anchor, Skeeter.”

  “Aye, aye,” came the response, as the first mate pressed the release button that lowered the anchor to the seabed.

  The Reef Seeker I became a beehive of activity. Jasper and Ronnie helped the boys suit up and went through an equipment check as Mike and LouAnne prepared the underwater camera and dingy. Skeeter kept scanning the horizon for any intruders whose prying eyes might give their secret expedition away.

  “I suppose you boys will want the metal detectors straight away?” said Jasper, adjusting a strap on T.J.’s oxygen tank.

  “Might as well,” said Bortnicker. “Why waste time just swimming around?”

  “All right. I’ll just have a look around the area surrounding the main wreck site, see if any debris was scattered about as the ship broke apart. You know, sometimes these wrecks were dragged around before finally coming to rest, though in water this shallow I rather doubt it. Just signal me if you find anything significant, like last time.”

  “No problem,” said Bortnicker, his confidence growing by the minute. He turned to his friend. “You ready, Big Mon?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  They exchanged fist bumps with Ronnie and LouAnne and stepped off into the turquoise ocean.

  It didn’t take T.J. long to reacquaint himself with the wreck site. The piles of ballast and timbers that remained served as landmarks, as did the now partially-filled hole where the ship’s bell had been buried. As Bortnicker glided toward the bow, T.J. concentrated on the stern, slowly waving the wand, trying not to be distracted by the rainbow of tropical fish that swirled around him. He would thoroughly cover a small area maybe four feet square, then move on. Precious minutes passed, with nary a blip. He was about to leave his third square when he got a hit. A loud one. He stood on the sandy bottom, located Bortnicker, and waved him over. His friend, kicking hard, was there in an instant. After pointing to a spot at his feet, the boys dropped to their knees and started digging, their excitement causing them to burn oxygen at an incredible rate.

  Finally, T.J.’s hand found something hard and metal. Was it the handle to a box? Or the hand guard to a pirate cutlass? The two carefully excavated around the object, pushing the dug sand behind them. When T.J. pried it from the seabed a
nd held it between them, LouAnne, who was intently following the whole procedure, muttered, “Oh my God. No way.”

  Lying between the kneeling divers was a finely preserved pair of wrist shackles. The two looked at each other. Maybe this doesn’t mean anything reasoned T.J. Pirates were always taking prisoners from captured ships, sometimes offering them a chance to join their conquerors in a life of crime. He wanded the spot again, then widened his arc.

  Hit. Hit. Hit.

  Bortnicker was getting similar results. They began the task of clearing away the sand, only to find more of the same. Wrist and ankle shackles were everywhere. They’d found their treasure, but a cruel joke had been played on them.

  The Steadfast was a slave ship.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Why are you coming back before the guys?” asked Ronnie as she and Mike helped LouAnne back onto the Reef Seeker I.

  “Ran out of film,” she lied, knowing the boys had called Jasper over and were uncovering even more slave artifacts as they spoke. “Mike, could I speak to you below deck?”

  “Sure, LouAnne,” he answered somewhat warily. “Is there a problem with the equipment?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said cryptically. “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

  “Lead the way.”

  As they left a puzzled Ronnie behind, the boys, whose bottom time was nearly up, surveyed the excavation site with a clearly deflated Jasper Goodwin. Iron restraints of all types littered the area; T.J., doing some quick math, estimated that the Steadfast could hold anywhere from 50 to 100 slaves, depending on how tightly they’d been packed into the hold. And he also now had little doubt as to how William Tarver had managed to maintain one of the largest plantations on the island of Bermuda.

  But as disappointed as T.J. and Jasper looked, they had nothing on Bortnicker, who appeared on the verge of tears. He had promised Ronnie gold and emeralds. How would she react to this stark reality? Jasper Goodwin shook his head sadly, checked his dive watch, and gave the boys the signal to surface. They kicked toward the sunlight, T.J. gripping an object whose last occupant had been torn from his or her homeland and forcibly transported to the island paradise called Bermuda.

  As they broke the surface they were greeted by Ronnie, leaning over the gunwale, clapping with anticipation. “So, what fine baubles have you uncovered for me, Bort—”

  T.J. issued their blunt reply, gently hoisting over his net bag containing the wristlets, which clanked on the deck at her feet. Ronnie, whose milk chocolate skin seemed to shimmer most days, went a kind of gray as she brought her hands to her mouth in recognition. Before Jasper could even get “I’m sorry, honey” out she was running below decks, sobbing as she shouldered past the emerging Mike Weinstein and LouAnne, whose own faces seemed set in stone.

  Skeeter pulled the divers aboard and helped remove their gear. Minutes later they were seated around the small deck table, sipping bottled water and staring at the artifact before them.

  “Bummer, dudes,” said Mike, breaking the silence.

  “Maybe we should’ve quit after the bell,” muttered T.J., his shoulders sagging.

  “Nonsense,” offered Jasper, keeping the famous British “stiff upper lip”. “I think you’ll all agree that had we not gone back, we’d have all wondered as to what was really down there. I’m just sorry that our findings were so disturbing.”

  “So I guess he was a slave owner, then,” said Bortnicker. “The famous pirate patriot of Bermuda. Yeah, right.”

  “Which might explain why there wasn’t much in the archives,” furthered LouAnne. “Tilbury or whoever removed any evidence that incriminated Tarver so his image as the romantic swashbuckler wouldn’t be tarnished.”

  “Was slavery big here, Mr. Goodwin?” asked T.J. “I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it—”

  “No, no, T.J., it’s quite all right. The slavery period is somewhat downplayed in our nation’s history. In fact, upon your visit to the Maritime Museum a few days ago you’d have had to look hard to find it.

  “The first slaves were brought to Bermuda in the 1600s, and this practice was accepted until slavery was outlawed in the early 1800s. Slaves initially worked under seven years of bond, to ‘repay’ the administrators for the cost of their transport. But as the size of the black population increased, those in power actually attempted to reduce its number by changing the term of indenture to 99 years. So, by Tarver’s time his slaves were his property for life.”

  “Did any try to escape?” said Bortnicker, running his finger along the bumpy black iron.

  “Oh yes, quite a few ran off and tried to hide in the caves along the coast. There were even some plots to overthrow the white masters, most of which failed, or so we are told, because of conspirators who lost their nerve tipping off the authorities.

  “Today about 60% of Bermudians are described as being of African descent, though many have European blood mixed in.”

  “The question is,” said T.J., “where does William Tarver fit in the big picture?”

  “I guess the only way to find out is to ask him,” said Weinstein matter of factly. “Which is why our investigation tomorrow night just took on a whole new meaning.”

  “I suppose,” said Bortnicker. “Mr. Goodwin, I feel so bad for Ronnie. This really affected her. How come?”

  “Well,” said Goodwin gently, “Veronique is a very proud girl, both of her African heritage and of her country. However, she’s always had a hard time coming to grips with the dark side, so to speak, of our island’s history. She wanted so to believe in the romantic image of William Tarver, the adventurous buccaneer turned gentleman planter. What we’ve uncovered would indicate quite the opposite. I’d suppose she’s disillusioned, and if you’ll excuse me, I’m hoping that by this time she’s cried herself out and that I’ll be able to soothe her somewhat.” He slowly rose from his deck chair. “Skeeter, there’s no need for a second dive today,” he said tiredly. “Raise the anchor and let’s head for home.”

  As the engines started, Bortnicker went forward and laid out on some towels, trying to relax and wondering if his grand adventure with Ronnie Goodwin had been dashed upon the reefs of Bermuda. LouAnne, remaining at the table with her cousin, put a reassuring hand on his.

  “It’s gonna be all right, Cuz,” she said evenly.

  “Tell that to Ronnie. Or Bortnicker, for that matter.”

  “Listen, T.J.,” said Mike earnestly. “We came here to conduct an investigation. Well, sometimes when you investigate stuff you find out things are not so pretty. Last year in Gettysburg you guys were willing to go all in to get to the bottom of Hilliard’s story. And you did, which is why I had the confidence to get you on this case. Can I still count on you, or do you want to call it a day and fly home?”

  T.J. looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not going anywhere, Mike. Not now. In fact, I really want to meet this guy Tarver.”

  “Me, too,” said LouAnne.

  “How about Bortnicker?” asked Mike, gesturing to the reclining teen up front who stared at the sky.

  “He’ll be okay. We can’t do this without him, and he knows it.”

  “Okay, then,” said Weinstein, clapping T.J. mildly on the shoulder. “I’m gonna help Skeeter steer the boat. Hope Jasper’s getting somewhere with his daughter.” He left them at the table, LouAnne never removing her hand from atop her cousin’s, the both of them contemplating what lay ahead.

  * * * *

  “Good God,” said Chappy as the minivan traversed South Road. “Sir William Tarver, a slaver. I’m disappointed, but not stunned. One always wondered how he maintained the workforce needed to keep such an estate in operation.”

  “Well, to say the least, it was a letdown for everybody,” offered LouAnne.

  “Especially Ronnie Goodwin,” added T.J.

  “The poor girl,” said the driver, slowly shaking his head. “Ah well. I would assume, then, that this new information, like the bell, is also classified?”

  “F
or now, yes,” said Mike, relaying the expedition group’s decision that had been reached upon their return to Blue Lagoon. (Ronnie had failed to emerge, however, preferring to wait until her guests had all left. Her father, though embarrassed, opted not to press the issue in light of her fragile state).

  “My lips are sealed,” promised Chappy. “But listen, I might have just the pick-me-up you all need. Why don’t you come to the seafood buffet at the Elbow Beach Resort tonight as my personal guests? My band is performing, and I would be pleased if you could attend.”

  “That sounds great,” said Mike. “I’ll call Kim and tell Tom as well. Maybe that nice Ms. Cosgrove will feel a second date’s in order. What do you think, T.J.?”

  “Sounds good to me. How about you, Bortnicker?”

  “I dunno,” he mumbled.

  “Oh, Bortnicker,” admonished LouAnne, “don’t be a stick in the mud. When we get back to the hotel, get your courage up and invite Ronnie to join us. I betcha she comes around and says yes.”

  “Really? After all that stuff today?”

  “Women’s intuition. I’ll wager a lobster dinner on it.”

  The boy, who’d been in a funk since their dive, suddenly brightened. “Yeah,” he said with renewed optimism. “Let’s go out and have a good time. Chappy’s rockin’ out tonight!”

  * * * *

  “Wow,” remarked Tom Sr., his forehead creased with concern. “Pretty heavy stuff, guys. The guy was a slave master. Does that change your investigation at all?”

  “Not in the least,” assured T.J. as he buttoned up his Hawaiian shirt. “In fact, it just gets me more psyched to try to make contact with the ghost, if there is one. How’s the golf club deal going?”

  “Fine. We’re almost to the point where I can hand it off to the contractors and take off. Too bad, because by playing every day I’ve actually taken a couple strokes off my game!”

  “Uh-huh. And what about Lindsay?”

  Tom Sr. reddened a bit. “Well, we’re certainly becoming more comfortable around each other. We might even keep this going after I leave. By the way, she’ll be joining us tonight.”