Mysteries of the Worm

by Robert Bloch

  So Captain Barnaby Jakes had no intention of attempting to intercept the Santa Maria and her sister ships. Not until he heard of the storm.

  A small sloop drifted up out of southern waters, and he rescued—and later slew—its two surviving crew-members. But not before he had their eyewitness accounts of the great tempest in which they saw the Santa Maria riding the waves alone, after one of her escort ships foundered and the other was sent careening off its course.

  The Santa Maria, crippled and alone, would have to put in at the nearest port now. And that would be the island of Santa Rita. If she could be caught in open waters—

  The Black Star bore south for Santa Rita.

  Isaiah Horner, writing in his Journal, spoke piously enough of “the duties of a subject of Hys Majestie” to harass the Papish Enemy and take legitimate spoils. But it was an expedition of piracy, impure and simple, and it might have succeeded, for they bore down on the Santa Maria just outside Santa Rita harbor.

  The only trouble was, another “subject of Hys Majestie” had found her first.

  Closing in on her, cutting across her bows as she wallowed towards the safety of the shore, was a vessel which both Captain Jakes and mate Isaiah Horner recognized immediately as the pride of one Ned Thatch, alias Edward Teach, alias Blackbeard. Because of a strict punctilio observed among the Brotherhood—and because Blackbeard’s ship was easily twice the size and carried three times the guns of the little Black Star—there was nothing to do but stand by and watch the battle.

  The Santa Maria had lost a mast in the storm, and its rudder did not function properly. Apparently most of its guns were out of commission, too, for while it fired defensive salvos as it lumbered along, there was not enough threat in its volleys to prevent Blackbeard from heading her off from the harbor entrance. The big galleon was forced to hug the shore and make for another opening along the coast of the island. Blackbeard followed, closing in without firing. That was ever his way—to hold his fire until almost alongside, and then let a direct volley rake the hull and then the decks.

  Not until the Santa Maria had almost gained the shelter of the cove at the far side of the island did this opportunity occur. Blackbeard closed in quickly, then stood about for a direct broadside. It came, with a roar. The great galleon rocked and shuddered. The gunners reloaded for a second salvo, even more shattering than the first. The Santa Maria riding low in the water, attempted to turn. A foremast toppled in a shroud of smoke. Now was the time to close in for the kill—grappling irons were ready, the boarding-pikes mustered. If enough shots had penetrated the vitals of the ship, it would sink within five or six hours; but a boarding-party could secure surrender and transfer the treasure long before then. Blackbeard, presumably, was ready to lead the attack; as was his usual custom, he’d be lighting the candles he’d twisted into his beard, and carrying the pots of brimstone he hurled before boarding the enemy’s deck. One more broadside, now—

  It came. And the Santa Maria rolled with the blast, then careened tipsily to one side.

  According to eyewitness Isaiah Horner, watching from the deck of the Black Star at a distance of less than a mile away, the shots were directed at the top-deck of the galleon. But it was as though the entire discharge of thirty ship’s cannons had simultaneously penetrated the vessel below the waterline, as if something had ripped the keel out of the Spanish ship.

  For with a roaring and a roiling, with a great tidal tremor, the Santa Maria sank like a plummet before his very eyes. The water shot up from the opened hatchways “lyke a verritable fountin”, and Blackbeard, instead of boarding, hastily sheered off to avoid being caught in the almost instantaneous vortex of a whirlpool set up by the downward plunge of the great galleon. Within the space of two minutes the Santa Maria was gone. It had sunk into the waters of Cut-Throat Cove.

  The journal did not end here. It told of how Blackbeard and Captain Barnaby Jakes made common ground in a salvage attempt, but were unable to send men down into the deep water to reach the vessel. There were several survivors whose accounts were reported and paraphrased—none of them could explain why the ship had so suddenly and inexplicably perished, except in terms of sailors’ superstitions. It had been a “black voyage” and there was a “curse” upon the ship; they should not have carried the treasures of a “heathen temple”. Isaiah Horner had small patience with these notions—neither did Blackbeard or Captain Jakes. Being somewhat short of rations, and even more short of temper after the loss of such a prize, they merely slit the throats of the Spanish seamen and sent them down to follow their fellows.

  It was impossible to land at Santa Rita—the Spanish garrison would undoubtedly be sending out vessels of its own against the intruders—so Blackbeard and the Black Star went their separate ways.

  Isaiah Horner’s journal ended abruptly, a few pages later. He’d put in at Kingston, Jamaica, and was thinking of giving up “the life of a mariner.”

  “And that’s just what he did,” Don told me, as I laid the manuscript down on top of the oiled pouch in which it had been preserved. “I guess he turned to robbery on land. Anyway, when I tried to trace down what had become of him, I found out that an Isaiah Horner was hanged for purse-snatching in the Government Docks in 1712.”

  “Then you checked on all this?” I asked.

  “Of course I did. I told you I hadn’t come down here on a wild goose chase. Found out everything I could. About the Santa Maria, the storm, the sinking. It’s in the records.”

  “What about the treasure?”

  “There isn’t much. But it stands to reason that it existed. They never sent a galleon back to Spain with an escort unless it was loaded. Besides, this story of Horner’s impressed me a lot more because it spoke about an altar and temple trappings instead of the usual guff—you know, gold bullion, chests of jewels, stuff like that. There wasn’t any such thing, anyway, except during the early days when the Spaniards went after the Aztecs and the Inca tribes.”

  “But if it’s in the records, then why didn’t others try salvaging the ship?”

  “They did. Trouble is, it’s in fairly deep water—I’d say somewhere between two hundred and three hundred feet. And up until a dozen years ago, it was impossible to dive that far safely, or to do any work at such a depth. Now we have the technique and the equipment. And we have the details we need. Five hundred yards offshore, just east of the Cove entrance.”

  “How would you lift up an altar, or a heavy chest?”

  “We’d have to go back for a big rig. What I want to do now is locate the wreck. That’s a job in itself—you have any idea what happens to a boat that has been under water for almost two hundred and fifty years? Just finding its topmasts above the silt is hard enough to do.” Don shrugged. “But that’s no concern of yours. What I want is a little help from you in handling the local authorities. Explain what we’re here for, that we’re a research expedition, interested in salvaging historical relics. You don’t need to mention the gold.”

  “I see.”

  Don eyed me. “Well, why should you? It isn’t their property, is it? The laws of salvage—”

  “According to the laws of salvage, you’d need a government permit to start work; not from here but from the mainland.”

  “All right, so I didn’t make arrangements. Why can’t you go to the mayor or whatever the head man calls himself and just get his okay? You can handle him. And I’m willing to spend a few bucks.”

  “How much?”

  “How much do you think it will take?”

  “Well, a hundred dollars is a fortune down here.”

  “That’s pretty reasonable.” He nodded. “I’ll go another couple of hundred for you, if you can sew it up. What we want is permission to dive over at the Cove, without any interference from the natives. Nobody should be allowed to hang around. Get it?”

  “Got it!”

  “How long do you think it’ll take to line up the deal?”

  “I can probably see José Robales this morni
ng. He’s the mayor of Santa Rita; the inland villages have jefes of their own, but they don’t count. I should have word for you before the day is over.”

  “Make it in writing.”

  “Will do.” I held out my hand. “He’ll expect payment in advance.”

  “Right.” Don reached into his jacket, pulled out his wallet. He extracted three one-hundred-dollar bills quite casually.

  I was equally casual, an hour later, when I flipped one of the bills to José Robales in his little office near the waterfront. He signed the permit with a flourish.

  “Remember,” he told me, “I take your word for it that these people will not create problems here. You are to observe them as my representative and see that the crew keeps away from the village at the Cove.”

  “I understand. I’ll keep an eye on them, I promise.”

  “That is good. Then there will be no trouble, no?”

  “There will be no trouble, no,” I echoed.

  But I was wrong . . .

  The trouble came almost ten days later, when Don finally located the ship.

  He’d moved to the area outside the Cove immediately, of course, and anchored in fifty fathoms, five hundred yards out. Roberto and Juan Perez—another crew-member—assisted him in the actual diving operations, while the other three attended to arrangements topside. They put down a heavy shot-line, with handholds, and it hit bottom at two hundred and sixty feet. Nobody got down that far until the third day; it takes time to get accustomed to such depths. And even when they managed to reach the ocean floor, that didn’t locate the vessel for them. As Don explained, the ship itself would be covered with silt and almost undetectable. The shifting of the sands, the alteration of the shoreline itself through the long years; these factors added to the problem. It would take time and patience.

  I came out every day; I beached a rowboat on the shore of the Cove and it wasn’t a long pull. I sat there and watched the operations. After they hit bottom, Don did most of the diving himself. Every second dive, he’d haul anchor and try a new location. By the time a week had passed they’d explored an area several hundred yards in circumference without finding a thing. But Don wasn’t discouraged yet—just tired.

  Dena was bored.

  I’d sit with her on the deck of the yacht while Don was diving, and listen to her complain. She didn’t care if Roberto and the others overheard her; actually, they were much too busy up forward to pay any attention to us.

  “Pleasure trip!” she murmured. “He hauls me way off here to the middle of nowhere, and for what? To sit on my fanny out in the hot sun all day long while he’s down there playing footsie with the fishes. Then at night he’s tired, wants to turn in right away—not that there’s anything else to do for excitement over on that crummy island of yours. A big nothing, that’s all it is.”

  “Then why did you come along in the first place?”

  Dena shrugged.

  “Did he promise you a share of the treasure?”

  In a way.” She scowled at me. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “You in love with him?”

  “That isn’t any of your business, either.”

  “All right. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be. I can take care of myself.”

  “So I notice.”

  “You notice a lot, don’t you?”

  “It’s my business. I’m a writer, remember?”

  “I’ll bet you are.” She lit a cigarette. “What would a writer want in a nowhere like this place?”

  “Now you’re getting personal,” I told her. “But I am a writer. I’ve got books and stuff up at the house to prove it. Want to see them?”

  “I’ve seen books already, thanks. Also etchings.”

  “That isn’t what I had in mind.”

  “Don’t kid me. I haven’t met a man since I was fifteen who had anything else in mind. They always want to show me something. When I came aboard Don’s boat back in Barbados, he was going to show me the portable bar.”

  “Then why did you accept his invitation, if you knew the way it would turn out?”

  “Maybe I wanted it to turn out that way.”

  “Then you are in love with him.”

  “Shut up!” She turned away, tossing her cigarette over the side. It arced down and hissed into the waves. “All right, what’s the sense of putting on an act? When I was eighteen I was singing with a band. I had a contract with G.A.C. and a chance to do a TV show, just a summer replacement deal on sustaining, but they told me it could build into something big if I got a few breaks. That was seven years ago, and I’m still waiting for the breaks. I haven’t been with G.A.C. for a long time, and I haven’t done any television, either. Six months ago I got a chance to play a night-spot in San Juan. It wasn’t a very good one, but the one in Port-au-Prince was worse, and the one in Trinidad was just plain lousy. I ended up in Barbados without a job, and without a dime. Then Don Hanson came along with his boat. I didn’t care what kind of a guy he was or what kind of a boat he had. I wanted out. So, as the sun sinks into the west, we say farewell to beautiful Barbados. End of story.”

  “You don’t really like him, do you?”

  “I hate his guts. He’s the kind of a guy who’s always had plenty of money and is still greedy for more. He’s the kind of a guy who always had plenty of muscles, but still has to use them to show off—and to push other people around. As far as he’s concerned, I’m not even a person; just another convenience he wanted to take along on the trip, like his portable bar.”

  “Then why don’t you—”

  “What? Ditch him and come with you to your island paradise? Don’t give me that, chum. You’ve got nothing to offer. But nothing.” The blue eyes were level. “I didn’t ask you for your sad story, but I’ll bet I already know it. There was a girl in it, wasn’t there? And another guy, who took her away, while you sat mooning around. I’ve met your kind before—the sensitive intellectual type, isn’t it? Which is just another way of saying you don’t have any guts. I told you I hated Don’s guts, but at least he has some. Enough to go out after what he wants. He’d never ask me to pull a sneak on another man; he’d fight him for me. Would you fight Don? Not in a million years!”

  I sighed. “You’re right,” I said. “And very honest.”

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” she told me. “If I was really honest, I’d admit I’m not worth fighting for. Not any more.”

  “Suppose I think differently. Suppose I’m willing to fight?”

  You couldn’t win.” She sighed again, and lighted another cigarette. “Guys like you can never win. This is a money-and-muscle world. Them as has, gits. Even if the prize is only a beat-up blonde with a bad case of the whim-whams. Oh, let’s forget it, shall we?”

  I was going to tell her that I wouldn’t forget it, that I preferred an angel who admitted truthfully to a little tarnish, and that maybe both of us were a bit too cynical and defeatist for our own good.

  But I never got the opportunity.

  Because suddenly there was a commotion up forward, and a babble of excited Spanish. Don was coming up—he was clinging to the shot-line twenty feet down, spending five minutes in stage decompression before being hauled aboard. His body was perfectly visible in the clear water; the weird fins, the goggles, the cylinder-assembly and regulator on his back all part of an eerie ensemble.

  We waited patiently until he tugged three times, giving the signal for hauling up the line. Roberto and Juan hoisted him to the deck. He stood there, shivering slightly, while they unstrapped his equipment. Then he took off his goggles and grinned.

  “I’ve found it,” he said.

  “No—are you sure?”

  “Positive.” He nodded, reaching for a towel. “And it’s better than we could have hoped for. Went down on its side, right into a big rock crevice that protected the top deck from silting. Part of the deck itself is still clear, and I could see what’s left of the masts and forward cabin. We ought to be a
ble to clear a path inside almost immediately—just chop a hole in the hull.” He turned to Roberto. “But don’t take my word for it! Here, I want you to go down and take a look for yourself, right now. And then Juan. The sooner all three of us have had a look at her and compared notes the better. Got your stuff?”

  Roberto nodded, then hurried below. By the time Don had towelled himself back to warmth, taken a shot of brandy and accepted a cigarette, Roberto was already lowering himself over the side.

  We watched him disappear along the shot-line, going down into the water.

  Dena was excited. “What’s it look like?” she asked. “Can you really see anything down there?”

  Don lifted his head impatiently. “Of course you can,” he told her. “It gets quite dark about halfway, but once you actually hit the bottom there’s a lot of reflected sunlight; it seems to penetrate the dark, transparent area above. The light is bluish, but you can make out objects quite easily. I recognized the boat at once, even though it doesn’t look much like a galleon any more.”

  “Everything’s covered with slime, eh?” I asked.

  “Slime? Whatever gave you that idea?” Don stared at me. “Trouble with you writers—you get everything out of books. Make a few dives yourself and you’d find out differently. There’s no slime. The wood is just about eaten away and the metal structure is just a skeleton. Lots of little marine animals covering it. And fish everywhere—millions of ’em. You know, I may even have guessed wrong about the hull; maybe there’s only the iron hasps and what I thought was wood was just a solid mass of fish. They like to swarm where there’s some protection. Roberto should be able to tell us more when he comes back.”

  “It takes a long time to make a dive, doesn’t it?”

  “Going down is easy, if you’re carrying a shot like he is. But coming back is slow work. You have to make at least three stops for decompression, to avoid the bends.” There was a water-proof watch strapped to Don’s wrist. He parted the golden fuzz and glanced at it. “I’d say he’s due up again in about fifteen minutes. Should just be at the first stage of decompression now, about fifty feet under.” He went over to the rail where the rest of the crew was gathered. “See anything yet?” he asked.