“Fascinating,” she said.
Then he swayed over to a model ship, intricately carved. “It is of the Hamlet. It took the first porpoise in captivity to the New York Aquarium for display.”
“Bet the porpoise was pleased,” she said.
Poblo shrugged as only Latinos can shrug.
Her eyes caught the photograph of a ship pitching on the high seas, its poles bare. She stepped up to where it hung on the wall. Poblo was behind her. “Ah, one of the San Ciriaco shipwrecks.”
“Which one?”
“She is the Florence Randall.”
“Did all aboard die?”
“No, the master and his wife and all eight crewmen were saved.”
“His wife?”
“It was common for wives and children to travel on the tall ships.”
“It would seem so.”
“It kept the apprentices out of the captain's bed at night.”
“Poblo,” Doris said, her lips pursed.
Poblo giggled. “Historical facts, that is all.”
Ann looked at a framed newspaper account.
“That one is the Priscilla,” Poblo said. “She was bound for Rio when ...”
“Rio?” Ann said weakly. “When did this happen?”
“The Great Hurricane of '99.”
“1899?”
“Yes. Very dramatic.”
“Was she a schooner?”
“She was a barquentine. She lost all her sails before she run into the shallows. Poor Captain Springsteen lost his wife and son and two crew members when they were swept overboard. But – here is the amazing thing. The thing which is still talked about today. Despite the terrible winds and tides and the debris that crashed ashore like missiles, Surfman Rasmus Midgett of the Lifesaving Station was on patrol on his horse. The water came to the saddle, but he went to the dark beach and heard the cries of the shipwrecked men. He rescued them alone because to go to the station for help would mean that the lives would be forfeited. He saved seven men, and then he swam to the wreck and saved three who were too injured to jump into the sea. The last was Captain Springsteen.”
Remembering what it was like to be amongst those brave life savers, Ann turned her tear-filled eyes away from the wall and lowered her sunglasses to her face.
Poblo looked anxious and Doris murmured, “What times those were.”
Ann walked to the middle of the gallery and looked at the sea floor. “Tell me about the Carroll A. Deering.”
Poblo went to a wall, and thrust a forefinger at a black-and-white photo of a five-masted schooner under which was a model of the ship, again constructed with infinite detail. “What is it that you do not know?”
She looked at Poblo, then smiled knowingly at the model. “I know she is called The Ghost Ship of Diamond Shoals. I know she plowed into the shoal in 1921, and that her crew was never found.”
Poblo said, “It is not known what happened to them. And that is the mystery. If her crew was aboard when she dug into the shoal, all the bodies would wash ashore eventually. Even things that go into the sea in Ireland, wash ashore here. It is the natural drift of the currents.”
Ann studied the photograph of the Deering with her poles bare in a calm Atlantic ocean on a gray day. Could this photograph have been taken when the steamer passed close by only a few hours after they'd passed the lightship and Fredrickson called out to the master that they'd lost their anchors?
She asked, “Do you know when the photograph was taken?”
“A couple of days before she landed on Diamond Shoals.”
A ghost of a smile rippled through her. She said, “The crew wasn't with the ship when she crashed into the shoal.”
“That is one thought,” Poblo said.
Her eyes met his. “What if you knew it to be true?”
“I would like to know the unknowable, but I cannot.”
“I do.”
“How is that so?” he asked.
She'd already spoke too hastily and shrugged. “It came to me in a dream that they mutinied.”
“What dreams you have, pretty Ann.”
An intrusive, but unidentifiable noise announced the arrival of another person and all turned to the door of the gallery. Rod Curator stood in it.
His stare was obviously meant for her. It was a blue glare, meant to make her flinch, but she looked steadily into it. An emotional charge she couldn't define surged from her neck to her knees turning her muscles to marble. He blinked first and took a step forward. She could breathe again and noticed that his thick hair was wind-blown and his leather jacket open and that the boots he wore were sandy and in his left hand was a piece of pottery.
As he made his way across the gallery, he nodded to Poblo, and said, “Good morning,” to Doris. He gave the pottery bowl to Pablo. “Look at this.” With an index finger he indicated the bottom of the bowl. “S. S. Dangerfield. Nicked but in good shape.”
Ann tried to look interested in the pottery and not the man who held it.
“Lovely,” Poblo said, taking the pottery and turning it over. He handed it to Ann. “We have several artifacts from the S. S. Dangerfield. They escape the sands on the ocean floor and come to us.”
“Just don't get any ideas about raising her,” Rod said.
“No, no, she is a wonderful reef for the fishes.”
“So was the Monitor before some museum directors decided they wanted the turret for their museum.”
The hoarseness in Rod’s voice made Ann edgy. She handed the bowl to Poblo and turned toward the Deering artifacts.
Poblo said, “Rod, you are in time to join our discussion of the Carroll A. Deering. Let us go to her timbers and boom.”
A particular sadness filled her heart when she beheld the dark timber fragments, the chain, and the pole of the ship that carried her to an incredible adventure. The four of them gathered around the pieces, looking down as if they stared into a bier. Soon she felt piercing eyes on her profile, and slowly turned her head toward Rod. She flinched and tried to breathe past her heart.
Rod asked, “What else would you like to know, Miss Gavrion?”
She pushed her glasses back onto the top of her head. “What happened after the authorities declared her a total loss?”
“She was dynamited.”
“Why, for heaven's sake?”
“You weren't there?”
Poblo frowned. Doris put a hand over her mouth to hide a grin.
So this was how Rod was going to approach the history of the Deering: with a sneer while trying to make her look foolish.
Keeping her voice calm, she asked, “Why was she dynamited?”
“She was a threat to navigation.”
“Couldn't she have been moved?”
“Her keel was too deeply imbedded.”
“She could have served as a beacon to other ships not to have happen to them what had happened to her.”
“Sands shift,” he said shortly. “One day she would have been shaken loose. You've seen the shipwreck that was just uncovered down at the shore. Eventually, she'll be under several feet of sand.”
“Did they salvage anything on the Deering?”
Rod glanced at Poblo. “You have the list, don't you?”
Poblo said, “Yes, I can get you a copy.”
Rod said, “The ship's bell and flags were given to Carroll A. Deering, the man the ship was named for. Wreckers removed what else they could from her, including food, and a cat.”
Cat. Light-headedness came upon her, and she rubbed her forehead.
“Something wrong, Miss Gavrion?”
She opened her mouth. It was a beat or two before she said, “It had six toes.”
Rod's eyes shifted. “Who doesn't know that?” He said to Poblo. “Even you knew that, didn't you Poblo.”
“Yes I did. It's polydactylous bloodline roams the village today, it is said.”
Rod said. “Miss Gavrion, the Carroll A. Deering was, if not the most investigated shipwreck in histor
y, then it's damned close. Six government agencies including the FBI, the Navy, the State and Commerce Departments and the Coast Guard, plowed through the documents to discover what happened to her. Many books have been written, many theories put forth, including your own.”
Both Doris and Poblo cocked their heads as if waiting to hear her theory.
Her long fingers pressed against her collar bone. “What else did they salvage?”
“Everything they could,” Rod said, and paced while he spoke like an instructor in front of a class. “The stuff was auctioned off.” He turned toward the ship's model. “The schooner itself was even auctioned for twenty-five dollars. The owner knew he couldn't get her off the shoal, but the idiot wanted to be known as the owner of The Ghost Ship.”
“What about the captain's Bible?” she asked.
When Rod raised his eyebrows, she felt a small victory. Apparently, the finding of a Bible was not common knowledge like the cat.
He answered, “The Bible was given to Captain Wormell's daughter, Lula.” He paced again, looking at Poblo and Doris, but not her, as he spoke. “If you don't know it, Lula, too, was involved in the investigation of her father's disappearance. She believed the tale told by a local fisherman. He said he found a bottle on the beach with a message that said something like, 'Deering captured by oil burning boat. Handcuffed crew. No chance of escape. Notify Deering owners.'“
She turned her palm up. “Oil burning boat? What oil burning boat?”
He glanced at her. “That doesn't fit into your theory, does it?”
“I – I never heard of it before now.”
His words sharpened. “Never read it on the internet, where the history of the Deering can be found?”
She looked at the photo of the ship. “No, I never read anything about the Deering on the internet.” She looked at the dark timbers. “What happened about the bottle?”
He said, “The FBI proved the note in the bottle was a fake. The fisherman left town in disgrace.”
“Go on,” she said softly.
Pacing again, he said, “After she was dynamited, her timbers washed ashore. Many homes along Highway 12 are constructed of them. She was a big ship.”
“Yes.”
“My home is constructed of her timbers.”
A cold wave passed through her, and she crossed her arms. “What is it like – to live within them?”
Rod lowered his head. Ann looked at Doris, who seemed fidgety. Finally he said, “It's comfortable, Miss Gavrion. My great-grandfather's presence is a comfort.”
“Was he ever on the Deering?”
“Despite your story, there are no records to say one way or the other.”
She thought that there must be records somewhere. The Coast Guard surely kept records.
Rod said, “The bow and other parts of the Deering washed onto Ocracoke's shore. Fitting, don't you think?”
“Fitting?”
“Ocracoke's estuaries hid the pirate Blackbeard after he raided ships at just about the place you think the rumrunners abandoned the Deering.”
Poblo spoke up enthusiastically, “Oh, Miss Gavrion, that is what you think. Piracy and rumrunners. It is a logical conclusion, is it not, Rod?”
Tension flowed from him. “There are those who think the Deering fell prey to pirates, or rumrunners. In Miss Gavrion's version, the ship was carrying rum and the Danes aboard mutinied. They met up with another ship and they off-loaded the rum onto it, and abandoned her and my grandfather to crash upon Diamond Shoals. That is the story she is writing.”
Doris's mouth fell open. Poblo stifled a giggle.
Rod had gone too far. Furious, she wanted to blast him, repudiate his scorn, but that would only make matters worse.
Poblo cleared his throat. Ann thought he looked wily. He asked, “What was the name of the ship that they off-loaded the rum onto?”
Suddenly sluggish, from the battle with Rod and last night's gin, she answered, “I don't know.”
Rod pounced, “C'mon, Miss Gavrion. In your story, you were there – if only in your own imagination. Tell us.”
She let her voice drift as she remembered. “The stern was covered with what looked like a tarp, but it had slipped a little and the letter H showed.”
“H,” Rod said. “The S.S. Hewitt. A steamer was seen by the lightship going in the direction of the Carroll A. Deering after her bogus captain called out for the lightship master to contact the Deering's owners. The lightship master said the steamer's name was covered, but they thought it could be the Hewitt. Those are known historical details, Miss Gavrion.”
She could hardly think for the ache in her head. “Glad to hear it.”
Poblo said, “But, Rod, you said she was there.”
“She's doing a fictional first-person account of a historic sea mystery.”
“No, I'm not.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“In this museum?”
“Yes.”
“Must one be writing a fictional first-person account to be here?”
“Don't play word games.”
“I have no desire to play anything. I'm looking for – something I may never find.”
“You're rooting around to find something that directly blames the Danes and bolsters your theory.”
Ann noticed Poblo and Doris backing toward the door as if to leave the two combatants to joust in private.
“Yes, I'd like to find historical proof of the events.”
“Hurricane Ione washed the dynamited wreckage of the Deering off Ocracoke and onto the beach just below where we are now. That was in the fifties. The man who owns a Texaco station gathered some pieces and erected a little roadside museum where he displayed the capstan. He took a picture with himself alongside it.”
He walked over to a photograph on the gallery wall showing the man leaning on the capstan. “This is the historical proof we had then.” He waved his hand toward the timbers and the chain. “This is all we have now.” His glassy blue eyes never wavered when he said, “This is all the historical proof we need from our dead.”
“Fine for you,” she said. “But not for me.”
He balled his fists. “You leave my great-grandfather to his rest.”
“It was he who came to me. He wanted to learn the truth.”
“Go home, Miss Gavrion. Please. Don't make me do something – don't force me to put a stop to this ghost nonsense.”
That aroused her from her funk. To his retreating back, she yelled, “I'm not talking ghosts. I'm talking about a real man.”
Doris and Poblo had almost reached the gallery door when they stopped dead, and then turned around. Rod rushed past them.
Followed by Ann.
Poblo looked at Doris. Her eyes were wide, but he rubbed his hands and laughed. “Nothing like a good ghost story, eh?”
She said, “There are too many ghosts and ghost stories on these islands already.”
“We, too, must learn more about this Lawrence, who is Rod's ancestor.”
“I'm with Rod. Leave his great-grandfather to his rest.”
“Ah, but Miss Gavrion will not do that.”
CHAPTER FOUR
--
Down at the shore, standing close to the propped up bow of the shipwreck, Ann let the tears fall.
She begged, Lawrence, please. You got me into this. Where are you now that I desperately need you?
A young couple caught her eye. They meandered up the beach, and waved as they walked by. The girl had dark hair and a lithe body in blue jeans and a light waterproof jacket. The boy was muscular and wore Dockers, jeans and a sweatshirt. They laughed and tagged one another, he whirled away from her, she gave chase, he let her catch him, she gave him a shove, he reached for her and pulled her to him, kissing her lightly, pulling apart, both laughing.
They reminded Ann of her and Boyd. Boyd on Sea Island. The games they'd played – tag, and Frisbee with Boyd's dog Lobo, and beach volleyball on the white innocent sands.
The white innocent sands.
She looked at the Atlantic sand, and then kicked at it – at the thirsting, reprehensible sands that caught ships and heard souls cry as they sank into the sea.
Stop this idiocy.
She raised her chin and clutched her cape. Boyd on Sea Island. And in sophisticated Atlanta. I must go home. But the briny smell that had sunk into her skin like truth serum made her realize, Who am I kidding? What I want is here? And with that, she knew Boyd was gone, really and truly gone – no longer a dagger in her memory.
She looked up the beach and longed to see the old Lifesaving Station.
Oh Lawrence, don't you see. You've got to come back.
“Am I interrupting something?”
The voice was Spence's. She didn't want him here. She didn't turn around, instead looking up at the gulls flapping and diving against a backdrop of charcoal clouds. “Not really,” she said.
“I was just checking the wreck here.”
She glanced at him. “Of course.”
“Poblo's on my case.” He looked at the ship's bow. “He's got a point. It is a good specimen. We don't get many anymore.”
Feeling warmth radiating on her left side, she said, “Is it safer for ships to be on the sea now than it was a hundred years ago?”
“A hundred percent. Ships all have sophisticated devices that keep them from crashing into sand bars – unless some damn fool on a pleasure craft gets drunk.”
Two gulls landed on the black hulk at her feet, casting mismatched shadows on the wreck and the sand. She reminisced, “It seems like a romantic time, with the tall ships gliding through the troughs, bound for exotic places, the crew fighting the seas and winning.”
“Or losing.”
She laughed. “And then sailing into port to cut loose and get drunk.”
“I like the cut loose and get drunk part.”
Large as life, she saw Lawrence sitting next to Captain Wormell in the little bar on Avenida Beira-Mar. “You ever been to the port in Rio?”
“No? Have you?”
“Yes. Twice. Not too long ago, when the waterfront was being turned into a tourist trap, and then very, very long ago when it was a tawdry but luscious port of call. I wonder if the Callejon de Gato is still there?”
THE GHOST SHIP Page 9
