CHAPTER 6
Inside the Church
Besides a small flintlock pistol and a few tarnished silver coins, Abigail discovered a square object wrapped in stiff, dirty linen cloth and tied around the length and width with a disintegrating red silk cord. Abigail’s fingers tingled even though most of the feeling had returned. She carefully untied the cord, but the linen cloth was devoid of moisture and started to crumble when she touched it. She brushed the cloth debris to the side of the box and saw something square wrapped tightly in dark, thick leather hide. She’d read that curing leather by soaking it in cottonseed oil would not only make the hide pliable, it would prevent air from drying it out. The top layer of leather cracked as she unfolded it. Whoever put the package in the box had wanted to make sure the contents would be preserved for a long time because two more skins also provided protection. Between each skin layer was another piece of fabric that seemed also to have been soaked in oil. Even though they were dry, these layers didn’t crumble and fall apart as the top fabric cover had.
Abigail carefully peeled the skins back and found three oil-stained pieces of brown parchment paper folded around a book with a leather cover. She picked up the book and examined both sides before attempting to open it. She held her breath as she carefully turned to the first page. Breathing a sigh of relief when it didn’t crumble she exclaimed, “Thank God!”
She gently skimmed through the pages centering on words, paragraphs, and scenes, as if she was reading from a novel. Abigail was delighted when she realized it was a diary. Her mind began playing out the startling illuminations set forth by her wicked relative of a life filled with adventure, piracy, love, and, eventually, respectability.
It began:
I never larned to read or write. Dear Charlotte, my Charlotte, teach me. I be forty and five years now.
Abigail placed the diary on her lap, leaned back, and closed her eyes for a moment. She groaned as she shrugged her shoulders and stretched her neck to get the kinks out. She recalled the letter that had led her to the box. It was addressed to “My Dear, Sweet Charlotte” and signed with the salutation, “Your loving aunt, Anne.”
The past several hours had drained her energy. She was desperate to lay her head down and sleep, but forced herself to keep her eyes open. She shook her head to clear it and decided she couldn’t stop now. She sat up, pushed her shoulders back, and began reading from the first page. The writing contained an abundance of misspelled words, but Abigail found the meaning to be easy to translate.
I was sixteen years when I married first. I needed to get away from Charles Town, away from my father as he did not approve of me and my ways. I was good with a sword and could shoot good as anyone, any man. Along came James Bonney, a handsome lad who confided in me that he was a pirate. I was stricken with him, and we married and sailed for New Providence.
Abigail quickly scanned through the pages looking for any mention of earlier years, but the few she found recounted only past events as part of Anne’s present story. It looked as if, from cover to cover, most of the diary told the story of Anne’s life for seven years—from age sixteen through twenty-two—and very few details from age twenty-three forward. There was a short excerpt she found while scanning.
I love Rackham, he is good to me, and I become with child. Jack gets us passage on a ship. We go to Cuba to have our child. He leaves me. He is looking for a ship. I have girl and spend time sitting on beach waiting for his return. One day I see a ship and Jack is there. We cannot take child to Jamaica. We find a good family and I promise to come back one day. I never did.
Abigail was shocked. She put down the diary and wondered how a mother could leave a child to an uncertain future—a future that she would never be part of. Then she wondered how many other children had been fathered by Rackham.
Abigail turned to a single page at the end of the diary where she found scant mention of Anne’s husband, family, and their friends. She found only a few mentions of how Anne had learned to love her husband in later years. The last pages expressed the grief and the sadness Anne felt when she lost her husband and son to the war. Abigail stopped scanning, turned back to the first page, and began reading Anne Bonney’s own words of her life. An hour and a half later, she closed the book, put it down on the pew beside her, leaned back, and closed her eyes. Less than a minute later, she was dreaming she was in Port Royal, Jamaica:
Anne runs from the house. Blood streams from her nose and mouth. She hears her husband scream, “Come back, ye harlot! I goin to kill you!”
She stumbles on the uneven rock roadway while looking back to see if he follows. She thinks she hurt him badly. “Not bad enough,” she mutters. She wishes she’d killed him. Anne quickly throws the bloodied knife she carries in her right hand into the heavily wooded jungle bordering the roadway that leads into the seaside town of Port Royal. She turns back to look toward the house and screams, “You beat me for the last time, John Bonney. I fought back today, and I cut you good. I hate you!” She slows her run to a quick walk as she nears the town.
There are many people in the square buying food and other goods from the merchants whose carts line the street. Several men look at her and laugh when they see her bloodstained blouse and face. Anne knows they think her husband beat her. It’s expected of a husband to beat his woman. Anne sneers at them. She uses the sleeve of her blouse to wipe away most of the blood on her face. Anne looks around the crowded thoroughfare seeking a place to hide. She ducks into a narrow alleyway that allows her to see the traffic on the road she took to town. She sees a water trough a few feet away and moves cautiously toward it while ripping away part of the sleeve of her blouse to use as wash cloth. Anne dips the rag into the water and is wiping away the dried blood from her face when suddenly she hears footsteps close by. She looks up hoping it isn’t her husband, and it isn’t. She thinks it’s the most magnificent man she’s ever seen, and he is standing two feet away looking at her with a smile on his face. He’s wearing a bright red waistcoat, a three-corner hat with a long red plume feather, and brown high leather boots that look to be new. She knows he is not an aristocrat since he has two pistols tucked into his waistband, along with a sword and a boucan knife. She thinks he must be a pirate.
Anne looks up into his big blue eyes and then peers around him to see if her husband has followed.
“Why do you stare at me, sir?”
“You look to be in distress. May I help?” he says while reaching out with is right hand to take Anne’s into his and help her up.
“I hate men, so do not touch me or I will bloody you as I did my husband.”
“Pardon me, but you look as if you need help, and I, in good faith, cannot leave a lady in distress without offering aid,” he says. “My name is Jack Rackham.”
“I hear of you … you sailed with the pirate, Vane, on the Ranger. And, he was hung yesterday. How come you not hung?”
“Governor Rogers pardoned me and my mates. He took our spoils and the ship.”
“My husband, John Bonney—he lied to me, told me he be a pirate and captain of a ship. I marry him and come with him from Providence town and find out he is not a pirate, but a stinking rat who sold out his mates by selling information to the governor. I near kill him today. He never beat me again. I swear.”
Rackham offers his hand again. “Come with me to the inn, and I will get you cleaned up.
Anne smiles. She feels good about this man. He has a gentle smile and a confident swagger. She feels he will protect her. “I will come, but know if my husband comes, there will be trouble.” Anne reaches up and takes Jack’s hand. “You know the law here? Women are chattel, and have no rights. The man is always right even if he be dead wrong. Not fair.”
Rackham smiles. “I will take care of the scoundrel who beats women, the law be damned! I offer you my protection as a gentleman.”
Anne laughs.
As they walk
to the inn, Anne notices that the people they encounter move out of their way, and their faces show a fearful respect for this Jack Rackham.
A man dressed in seafaring clothes pops out of the alley and stands in front of them. “Me and my mates be ready to follow ye, Calico Jack. Just give the word.”
“The time is nearing. Stay close,” Jack whispers loud enough for the man to hear.
The man smiles and says, “I be close by.” And he turns back and disappears into the alley.
“You be known as Calico Jack? Why?” Anne says.
“I like fancy duds. Vane gave me the name.”
Suddenly, Abigail opened her eyes to find that tears had cut paths through the dirt caked on her face as she voraciously read the revelations contained in the diary. The hollow silence of the empty church was broken by the echo of her sobs. She realized she had uncovered the secret that had mystified her since she was seven years old. She stared at the ornate pictures of the apostles and Jesus on the ceiling of the church for a moment and smiled. She turned her head and watched as two towering marble statues on either side of the altar seemed to dance in the moving shadows created by rays of sunlight coming through the church’s stained-glass windows. Still feeling the tingling sensations in her fingers, she picked up the dimming flashlight and raised her left hand to have a look at it. Even though she’d brought a trowel to dig with, both hands carried the abrasions of her impatience. The scraping and digging in the hard earth had destroyed her salon manicure, and a mixture of blood and dirt had dried under her fingernails.
Abigail realized that the entry in the diary “spent theres and were ready to take ours” referred to the division of the spoils taken from another ship when the pirate captain, Calico Jack, and his men left Anne and another woman named Mary on a remote islet when they went off to spend their shares of the loot.
Abigail turned to the last fragile page, which contained the final entry, dated March 20, 1778.
I often wonder if any found our salt-away. I and Mary are the only person who knows where and half hids shows the way. Mary been in hell waiting for me these past fifty odd years and I will soon be meeting her.
And Old Ned ye will have yure hands full.
Abigail smiled at the reference to Old Ned, the colloquial nickname used in the old South for the devil. And she puzzled over the words half hids. She sat up, suddenly awake. She thought that, if Anne and Mary were the only ones who knew where the treasure was buried, then the secret must have died with them.
Early-morning sunlight filtered through the church’s stained-glass windows and glistened off snow-like dust particles suspended in the musty air. Still immersed in the voice from the diary, Abigail yawned and laid her head back for a moment.
Over two hundred and thirty years had passed since Washington’s generals planned a campaign in the same church where Abigail had spent the night reading a journal whose pages were frayed and brown from centuries of age. Old coins, a map gouged onto a piece of dry leather, a flintlock pistol, and the remaining contents of the strongbox lay scattered across the oak pew where she sat.
“Abigail Chance? Abigail! What are you doin’ here?” A man’s voice echoed from the back of the church.
Startled, she searched her mind quickly for an answer “I … uh … oh, it’s you, Reverend Kincaid.
“Yes!”
“Speak of the devil,” Abigail muttered.
“Pardon me, I didn’t hear you.”
Abigail closed the diary and shuffled the gun, coins, and scattered papers together. She covertly slid them with the journal into the box thinking, He mustn’t know. Did I cover the holes? Yes, yes, I did. She sat, keeping her back to Kincaid as she sneaked the pickax and her keys into the inside pocket of her jacket.
Abigail glanced down at the floor at the mound of rust particles she had scraped from the edges of the box as she forced it open. She cleared her throat as she covertly scraped her left foot across the floor to scatter them. “I said, I wanted to be alone … to pray,” she lied. She rested her right arm on top the pew and stroked the wood with her hand hoping it would distract Kincaid and block the box from his view. With a sincere look on her face, she turned to meet the questioning gaze of the Reverend Kincaid. And with a sarcastic tone in her voice she said, “I’m sure you’ll remember. My mother and I sat in this pew with our family name on it every Sunday.” As she spoke, with her left hand, she closed the lid on the box “Every Sunday … for many years.”
Abigail rose up and let out a moan. Her legs were stiff. With her body aching and her joints throbbing to her heartbeat, she thought, He’s always meddled in my mother’s business.
Even with her almost-six-foot willowy frame, Kincaid towered above her. He’s got that holier-than-thou accusing look on his face—as if I’ve stolen something. She shook her head, and her bright auburn hair flowed loose against her back. She felt his eyes searching her for answers. Is he thinking about the treasure I know he’s been looking for all these years? Thoughts crossed Abigail’s mind, and she believed that there was a reason her mother hadn’t left Kincaid any money. Then she remembered the trust for the poor children to be administered by Mr. Purdy. She smiled knowing that Kincaid couldn’t get his hands on the money.
Abigail met his gaze with an indignant look on her face as she heeded the warning her mother had written in the letter Mr. Purdy had given her yesterday.
Her stomach grumbled. Abigail realized she hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. “I’m going now,” she said. “Sorry for the inconvenience.” She picked up the box, tucked it securely under her right arm, and exited the pew. She watched the reverend’s eyes focus on the box.
“What’s that you’re holding under your arm, Abigail?”
I’m not going to answer, she thought as she walked past him with no intention of stopping. As she reached the front door, she recognized she has nothing to hide. She turned toward him with an offended look on her face.
Kincaid’s eyes darted to the mud and grass stains on the knees of Abigail’s jeans.
“Just some personal … things … from my mother. Nothing that is of any concern of yours.”
“I need to talk to you about—”
“Thank you, but not now!” she said as she pushed open the door and walked out into the early-morning sun.
“Oh, my God!” she murmured as her walk turned to a sprint and the realization hit her. “I’m really related to Anne Bonney, the infamous pirate!” She checked behind her to see if Kincaid was following her. So far he was not. A sudden new energy surged through her body. It turned the kinks, knots, and cramps fluid. She felt … free! The cool air felt good as it brushed her face. Three hundred years? I wonder if anyone found Anne and Mary’s hiding place.
Twenty minutes later, breathless, and sweating from the long run, she set the box down on the porch, and reached into her parka. She was fumbling to find her key when the door abruptly swung open.
“Where have you been? Oh, my God, Abigail, you’re so … dirty!” Roni scolded. “I’ve been worried. After the incident last night with the reverend, I was about to call the sheriff!”
“Roni … please, let … me catch … my breath.” Abigail leaned forward in a crouch with her hands on her knees, puffing.
“What’s that?” Roni said, pointing at the muddy strongbox.
Abigail’s lungs throbbed from the cold air. She took in a deep breath, picked up the box, tucked it back under her arm, and turned to take another look back to see if she had been followed.
“Please, Roni, make some tea. I have to … go!” She hurried past her sister-in-law toward the small bathroom tucked under the mansion’s imposing staircase. “I’ll tell you everything. And you’re not going to believe what I found!”
CHAPTER 7
On an Islet in the Caribbean
June 11, 1702
Standing at the top of the
hillside path near the entrance of the cave that had been her home, Anne Bonney deeply inhaled the sweet air from a light breeze. She reached up and tied her long mane of blonde hair back into a colonial tail. Then she fixed a bandana around the top of her head. She was dressed as a seafaring man with leggings, boots, a scabbard hanging at her side, and a pistol tucked into her waistband.
In the breaking sunlight, she looked out across the endless span of sky to where the wind lived in the purple-gray mountains of clouds laden with rain that were sinking to the surface of the aqua-blue waters of the Caribbean.
All of a sudden, through a haze hanging over the jungle hillside path, she watched the figure of a woman materialize, coming toward her, running and yelling something beyond her hearing.
From far below, the resounding boom of cannon fire shook the early-morning stillness.
“Anne! Anne! They be here to get us. Hurry, or Calico will have his way!”
“I be ready, Mary. I see the ship. They ashore now, and I reckon Calico will soon be on his way up,” Anne replied. “Quickly tend yourself. They have had their fill of rum, spent their shares, and be lookin’ to take ours.”
Watching for the figure of Calico Jack to emerge from the foliage, Anne thanked God that her shipmates had not shown up a few days ago when she and Mary had decided to make sure their salt-away was safely hidden.
After taking turns rowing their small dinghy for several hours in the hot Caribbean sun, the two women had climbed in the moonless dark night, struggling up the steep mountain on a precipitous path. Reaching a flat area near the top where the foliage has thinned out, they dropped the two heavy bags filled with gold and jewels, and waited for strength to return to their exhausted bodies.
Golden Legacy Page 5
