Spirits of the Pirate House

by Paul Ferrante

  “Let’s put it this way,” said Bortnicker. “We won’t be the only ones stealing a motorbike tonight.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Did you hear that?” said T.J. to Bortnicker as they lay on their beds resting. “Dad just got in.” He looked at his dive watch, purchased from Capt. Kenny’s. “A quarter to twelve on the button. Let’s give him about twenty minutes and take off.”

  “Good thing Mike scheduled the rental bike pickup for tomorrow,” said Bortnicker, pulling on his beat-up Reeboks, “or we’d be up the proverbial creek.”

  Minutes later there was a quiet tapping on their door. “It’s my cousin,” said T.J. “Let’s get after it.”

  They crept down the stairs to the first floor and followed the poolside terrace to the steps leading to the car park. The full moon shone brightly, a complete opposite to the stormy night of 24 hours ago. T.J. and Bortnicker gently lifted the kickstands to the hefty scooters as LouAnne rummaged in the storage box for the keys and three helmets. The teens then walked the bikes down to South Road and started pushing along the shoulder of the gently sloping macadam.

  “How far we going before we rev them up?” asked Bortnicker, who was already panting.

  “Let’s at least get around this next bend in the road and we’ll be okay,” answered T.J. “Cuz, you want to help Mr. Muscles with his bike?”

  “No problem,” she said, grabbing one side of Bortnicker’s handlebars.

  They cleared the bend; thankfully, no other cars had come by. The last thing they needed now was some friendly Bermudian to offer assistance—or worse—radio the police of a breakdown.

  “Okay,” said T.J. finally. “Let’s do it.”

  “Gentlemen, start your engines!” cracked Bortnicker, hopping on his bike and turning the key.

  “I think I’ll ride with you, Cuz,” said LouAnne, climbing onto the back of T.J.’s scooter and wrapping her arms around his waist. “I don’t trust Bortnicker one bit.”

  Feeling her warmth behind him, T.J. was never going to disagree. He turned the ignition key, and the throaty engine roared to life. After revving the motor a couple times he tentatively eased onto the road, Bortnicker following at a safe speed and distance behind him. “And away we go,” he said with a conviction that belied his terror over the thoughts of accidents or arrests. In fact, at this point, the prospect of being alone with a ghost gave him the least amount of fear. Maybe he was just becoming good at the whole paranormal thing.

  The two bikes glided along South Road in the moonlight, the ocean clearly discernible past the cliffs below. As they passed the Gibbs Hill Lighthouse, which cast its powerful beam in sweeping arcs that could be seen for miles, T.J. was sure he could pinpoint the area where the Steadfast lay amid the reefs. Some fifteen minutes later, they turned up a tribal road and began their ascent to Hibiscus House.

  Upon entering the winding approach road, the teens were struck with the massive size of the structure silhouetted against the moon. They felt small and insignificant, perhaps like the slaves who had suffered here centuries before. T.J. steered his bike around the house toward the service shed in the back, and Bortnicker followed suit. No sense in leaving them out front where a police car might happen by.

  Ronnie Goodwin must have had the same idea, because she was parked near the shed removing her helmet, her corkscrew curls exploding forth, as they pulled up.

  The boys switched off their bikes and dismounted, as did LouAnne. “Smooth ride,” she said with admiration. “You’re a natural.”

  “I was shaking the whole time,” T.J. confessed sheepishly.

  “Well, I wasn’t scared,” boasted Bortnicker. “In fact, I could see myself on a big old chopper someday.”

  All the kids chuckled at the image. “Hey, those are smashing bikes,” complimented Ronnie. “My dad’s here is just a little putt-putt.”

  “Mike and my dad went for the top-of-the-line,” said T.J. “They’re as big as a lot of motorcycles I’ve seen. I’ll be happy when they’re back all safe and—”

  The kids froze as the headlights of a large, dark automobile came around the back corner of the mansion, blinding them.

  “Busted,” was all LouAnne could say.

  Then the lights switched off, and the driver’s side door opened. Figuring he’d brazen it out, T.J. said, “I don’t know who you are, but we have just as much right to be here as you-”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure of that, Mr. J,” said Nigel Chapford, smiling thinly.

  “Chappy!” cried Bortnicker. “My man!”

  “In the flesh, as it were,” he chuckled.

  “What are you doing here?” marveled LouAnne.

  “Well, Mike called with the bad news at midday, and like you, I was disappointed. However, after getting to know you young people, I had a feeling you weren’t going to take Mrs. Tilbury’s ‘no’ for an answer, and I figured you might need some ‘backup’ as they say on those American police programs.

  “But before we venture inside, I have some information I have to get off my chest, so bear with me.

  “First, you boys and Miss Ronnie here have had the misfortune of meeting a man known on the island as Willie B. Well, he was found on the morning of your investigation at the foot of the grand staircase inside, quite dead.”

  “What!” gasped Ronnie.

  “Was it an accident,” said T.J. warily, “or was he pushed?”

  “That has yet to be determined.”

  “Wow,” said T.J. “And did Mrs. Tilbury know about this?”

  “Oh yes,” Chappy answered coolly, “so it’s a wonder you even got inside that one time. But I’m afraid that’s not all.

  “I was recently put in touch with the latest of a succession of Hibiscus House tour guides who was forced to quit her job out of fear. Apparently, she was threatened by the good Captain—”

  “Because she was black,” said Bortnicker. “Er, African. Like Willie B. and Ronnie, right?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “But that’s not the worst of it, Mr. Chapford,” snarled Ronnie through clenched teeth. “I had the pleasure this morning of being told that I am actually one of his descendants!”

  “My word.”

  “Well, Chappy,” concluded T.J., “you’re with us now. Care to do a little ghost hunting?”

  “Not before I share this last tidbit. On a hunch based on your findings from last night, I discretely placed a call this morning to a friend who’s the caretaker at St. Anne’s Church Cemetery. He took a quick peek into Captain Tarver’s crypt at my behest and found his coffin vacant.”

  “Wow, Chappy,” said Bortnicker, “you’re a pretty good ghost chaser yourself.”

  “Hardly. Just a curious old man. So lead on, Mr. J. Let’s see what this is all about.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “How should we get in?” said T.J. “This place must be locked up tight. I hope we won’t have to break a window.”

  “Mike said last night that the alarm had been disabled because of our investigation,” said LouAnne. “Hopefully they haven’t turned it back on yet.”

  “We’ll know soon enough when we get inside,” said T.J. “But the question remains: where?”

  It was at this moment that something odd occurred. Bortnicker started snapping his head around, back and forth, like he was being bothered by a mosquito. He then looked at Chappy, who stonefacedly nodded. “Follow me,” said the boy. He led them onto the rear gallery where a corner window was open a crack.

  Ronnie managed a “How did you—” before Bortnicker shushed her.

  T.J., who was equally perplexed, shrugged his shoulders, said, “Quietly now,” and gently lifted the sash. One by one they climbed over the waist-high sill into the pantry. When no alarm sounded they breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Okay,” said T.J. “Bortnicker, you and I will carry the flashlights. LouAnne, why don’t you man the EVP recorder. And Ronnie, you were the only one who managed to draw him out last time, so do you
r thing.”

  “From here? The pantry?”

  “No,” said Bortnicker with that odd tone in his voice again. “Follow me.” He led them down the hallway to William Tarver’s massive library. When they were all inside he said, “Chappy, please close the door.” With an acknowledging nod, the driver complied.

  Almost immediately, the temperature in the room began to drop, and the tobacco smell became apparent. The Americans turned to their friend. “William Tarver!” cried Ronnie. “Are you here? If so, show yourself and stop the drama!”

  From a corner of the room a low, rumbling chuckle sounded. Bortnicker and T.J. swung their flashlights toward the sound, but there was nobody there. It got colder. LouAnne started to shiver involuntarily.

  “We’re waiting, Sir William!” called Ronnie, “and we’ll wait all night if we have to, if you insist on playing games!”

  The boys’ flashlights winked out simultaneously.

  “Uh-oh,” said T.J.

  “I do not appreciate being addressed this way in my house,” came the voice from another corner. This time as they turned toward it the source was discernible. In the pale moonlight that streamed through a backing window, the figure of Sir William Tarver, sitting at his opulent desk, was eerily clear.

  “Well, it’s about time,” said Ronnie, stepping forward bravely.

  “My, my, aren’t you the spirited one,” said Tarver in a sarcastic tone. “And I see you’ve brought along another one. What’s your name, boy?” he said to Chappy.

  “I am not a boy, sir, I am a man,” replied Chappy with only the slightest hint of fear. “Nigel Chapford, at your service.”

  “Indeed. Well, Nigel, so nice you could join us. Actually, I am pleased you all have returned. It appears we have some unfinished business to attend to.”

  “You bet we do, you monster!” screamed Ronnie. Before anyone could grab her she’d scooped up an inkwell from the front of Tarver’s desk and hurled it at his face. Her aim was true, but the clay pot passed right through him and smashed against the teak straight-backed chair in which he sat.

  “Oh dear,” he said mockingly, “I rather liked that piece. The governor himself gave that to me as a gift.”

  Ronnie stood there, chest heaving, until T.J. put a comforting hand on her shoulder and eased her backward to where Bortnicker gently embraced her as she sobbed quietly.

  “Sir William,” said T.J. calmly, “we’ve returned as you requested, at great danger to ourselves. We’re anxious to hear your story because, as you suggested, we found your crypt empty. Would you like to tell us what happened?”

  “Finally, a person with a civil tongue,” snapped the Captain. “Very well, I’ll tell you the tale.” He shot a look at Ronnie. “And I’d appreciate not being interrupted.” He stood and pushed his chair back, and it was plain that he was at least a bit transparent, as T.J. could make out the outline of a moonlit palm tree through the window behind him.

  “I grew up in Bristol, England—no, let me amend that. I was born there and grew up at sea. My parents had abandoned me at a young age, and I survived on the streets much the same way a rat does, on guile and tenacity. Of course, I had no formal schooling—the back alleys and taverns of Bristol were my classroom. As soon as I was able, I lied about my age and signed on as a cabin boy on an East India Company trade ship bound for the West Indies.

  “Having never been away from what I called home, the seafaring life was a dramatic, often brutal, change. I was given every disgusting menial task the crew could think of, but I did the work with great relish, for I saw myself, as ridiculous as it may have been at the time, as a commander of my own vessel one day.

  “Gradually I adjusted to life at sea and was accepted as a trusted member of the crew, both by our captain—who ran a tight ship—and my shipmates. And, I was allowed to see parts of the world I never dreamed existed.

  “Our merchant ship was grand, and we were able to cram the holds with spices, silks, and other treasures from the East that would bring untold wealth to the East India Company’s coffers. Then one day we spied a sloop on the horizon, flying what we believed to be a British flag. We were relieved in that there were ongoing problems with other nations such as the Spanish, French, and Dutch. But when the sloop drew near, it took down the Union Jack and ran up the Jolly Roger—specifically, a black flag with a white skull and crossed swords underneath. It was a privateer, commanded by none other than Calico Jack Rackham, whom I consider the greatest of all captains.

  “Calico Jack’s ship, the Treasure, came alongside us smooth as you please and before you knew it, we were boarded and captured. Any of our crew who resisted was shot on the spot and fed to the sharks. Those who did not express a desire to join Calico Jack’s crew were put in a longboat with some water and bread and sent on their way, probably never to be seen again, as we were in the middle of nowhere. I was one of the few who opted to join the Treasure’s crew. And what a fortuitous decision it was!”

  Tarver was pacing now, punctuating his sentences with sharp hand gestures as he warmed to his story. His eyes seemed to glow like cobalt, and none of the ghost hunters dared move a muscle so as not to distract him.

  “We sailed the Caribbean, taking whatever we pleased, from whomever we pleased. I was quickly accepted as a crew member and was instructed in the use of the flintlock and cutlass by my mates. In no time I was even participating in hand-to-hand battles as we captured ship after ship, and Calico Jack himself lauded me for my bravery under fire. And when we came to port in such places as Port Royal, I drank and caroused with all the gusto of a much older man. Ah, those were the great times!”

  He paused, wistfully looked out the window, and continued: “Although our ship was entirely democratic, with every man receiving an equal share of the spoils, of which there were many, something came along to ruin it.

  “Shortly after I came aboard, Calico Jack found a woman, Anne Bonny, who as it turned out was every bit the pirate he was. She became, more or less, his wife, and joined us in our exploits. Now, some of the men were uneasy with that; it is a well-known fact that a woman on board a ship is bad luck. But since she earned her keep, they looked the other way. And I surely didn’t mind, because she always was kind to me, as well as being easy on the eyes.” He chuckled then shook his head.

  “But things became complicated when we captured a Dutch merchant bound for the West Indies. As was the custom, we invited, so to speak, those who did not want to be set adrift to cast their lot with us. Among them was one Mary Read, a woman with a buccaneer’s heart as well; but she was in disguise at the time, affecting the dress and mannerisms of a man! She was able to keep this secret for a time, but she came to be close friends with Anne Bonny, which seemed to rankle Calico Jack. This dissention filtered down through the ranks, and by the time we docked in Bermuda to repair a hole in the keel, there was a faction of us who felt disaster was just over the horizon.

  “So, I made a bold decision. I gathered together a group of ten good men who pledged to follow me through the gates of hell, and deserted Calico Jack’s ship at St. George’s. We purchased our own sloop and began a new career, with me the elected captain, which had always been my dream.

  “My crew, though small, became a scourge of the seas, venturing as far south as the coast of Africa and the Dry Tortugas, taking ships and raiding Spanish settlements. My ship, the Steadfast, was sleek and quick; the big, bulky merchant traders were clearly overmatched by our cunning and ruthlessness in battle. In the pursuit of riches my men and I took more lives than I’d care to count.

  “But after a few years, I began to realize that an age was coming to an end. Even old Calico Jack, the greatest of them all, was captured and hanged for his deeds. I knew it was time to begin a new existence. So, on a trip to Bermuda I approached the governor and offered my assistance as a protector and defense advisor, to which he was all too happy to agree. In fact, he was so taken with the idea of a buccaneer defending his interests that he introduced me to h
is niece, who later became Mrs. Tarver, and whose father was a wealthy landowner in Southhampton Parish. As a dowry we were given this very house and the surrounding acres, which I determined would be the perfect size for a tobacco plantation. And this is how I became a gentleman farmer, while running the occasional privateering errand and designing fortifications for the island.” He paused, then frowned.

  “Alas, a plantation needs workers to make it profitable, and so I was forced to follow the custom of importing slaves from the West Coast of Africa to fill the need.”

  “Forced?” managed Bortnicker, his words creating vapor in the freezing room.

  A steely look from Tarver silenced him. “If my business venture was to succeed, I needed manpower. Apparently you do not understand that there is a certain order in this world. But how could you? A callow youth who’s probably never had a blister on his hands...” He sat back down. Clearly this effort was exhausting him, and T.J. wondered how much longer Tarver would be able to manifest himself.

  “And so, the Steadfast made a few runs to the African coast, and we brought back as many workers as we could, who by the way were sold to us by other, conquering African tribes who desired our money.

  “Things went well for a time; the plantation was successful, and Mrs. Tarver and I were relatively happy. The governor, in gratitude, bestowed my title, and all the trappings of nobility that came with it. Unfortunately, as was the case with old Calico Jack, a woman would prove to be my undoing.”

  At the mention of this, Ronnie stopped her sniffling and listened intently.

  “We had a field worker named Maruba, a true beauty who was sturdy yet alluring. As Mrs. Tarver was, unfortunately, unable to bear a child, which strained our relationship, I turned to Maruba for comfort, and in the process she conceived my child. Of course, that ended it for me and my wife. We would continue to live in the same house as strangers, but even so, I was pressured to return Maruba to the fields.

  “Upon hearing of the pregnancy, the workers, whom I had always treated fairly and to whom I had rarely raised my hand in anger, revolted. One stormy night they came for me, overpowering my overseer and house staff, and dragged me outside by torchlight. I doubt if my wife had the power, or the desire, to stop them. I was paraded to the back of the property to a secluded area and brought to a formidable cedar tree. Along the way, the rabble-rousers of the group spoke of commandeering the Steadfast, which lay at anchor off the beach close by, and making a run for it to Africa. Of course, there were no sailors among them. If they did take the ship, they probably dashed it on the reefs. The last thing I remember as I danced at the end of a rope was their angry faces, glowering at me with an unfathomable contempt.”