“That happened off the shores here, didn't it?”
“Yes, just south of Diamond Shoals. That is where the weeping lady caught pneumonia being out on the shore for so long, and died there.”
“Who sees the Weeping Lady?”
“The Monitor sunk on December 31, 1862. It is at Christmastime that she is seen down by the lonely sea, weeping for her lover.”
“Have you seen her?”
Poblo hesitated. “No, but this December I am going to look out for her.”
“Interesting.” She decided to go ahead and ask this professed true believer in ghosts. “Are there legends where the living interact with the dead?”
“None I know of. We have, up and down the coast, ghosts who have gone down at sea. We have beautiful women who weep for them. We have pirates at Nags Head. Do you know Nags Head?”
“Interesting place name.”
“When it stormed, pirates put lanterns on horses’ necks so ships would see the light and come into shelter to ride out the storm. Pirates would jump them, take the ship and kill the officers and crew.”
“Wonder how they got horses to let them put lanterns on their necks?”
Without pausing for thought, Pablo said, “People up in Nags Head still see lights on the shore and hear the cries of the captives and the slain.”
“Do you know of any living human who has gone back in time – had an experiences at sea, or in another era – and told about it?”
“I am sure that I have heard of one such. Yes,” he scratched his head, “but I cannot remember right now. I must consult my computer.”
She scooted the chair back to the computer screen. “I'm trying to find documents of a man called Lawrence Curator.”
“Ah, we are back to Rod.”
“Lawrence Curator was on a ship that traveled the route of the Deering. But that ship went down at sea. I can't find any mention of it in these documents on the museum’s website.”
“Many local men were involved in the investigation, who, I am afraid, have gone unsung.”
In her mind, she saw Lawrence Curator. He was not a man who went unsung.
Poblo said, “Perhaps he was with the Navy?”
“He was, but aiding the Coast Guard.”
“Ah, we do not have all the personnel and records from the Coast Guard on our site.”
“But the Coast Guard would have a roster of its officers and ships in their archives, wouldn't they?”
“To be sure, and they might be on a website. Do Yahoo.”
She found the CG site and read aloud: “The United States Coast Guard is this nation's oldest and its premier maritime agency. The history of the Service is very complicated because it is the amalgamation of five Federal agencies. These agencies – the Revenue Cutter Service, the Lighthouse Service, the Steamboat Inspection Service, the Bureau of Navigation, and the Lifesaving Service – were originally independent, but had overlapping authorities and were shuffled around the government. They sometimes received new names, and they were all finally united under the umbrella of the Coast Guard. The multiple missions and responsibilities of the modern Service are directly tied to this diverse heritage and the magnificent achievements of all of these agencies.”
Poblo thought a minute, then said, “You see the problem of identifying any one person in such a tangled hierarchy.”
As she scrolled down, she saw a photograph, stared at it, and grunted, “Uh.”
“What?”
“It's the light station by Cape Hatteras Lighthouse.”
“How do you know?”
“The buildings are exactly like those that Lawrence and I …”
“Yes?”
“He has to be in the Coast Guard annals somewhere.”
“Yahoo him,” Poblo said.
She Yahooed Lawrence Curator. She said, “Lots of St. Lawrence Seaway stuff. Lots of museum curators listed. Let me try – Rod said that he was called after his middle name, which was the same as his great-grandfather's”
“I did not know that.”
“If I remember, it was Roderick.”
She typed rapidly: Commander Lawrence Roderick Curator, and then pressed Enter. A prompt on the screen asked, Do you mean Lawrence Rodrick Curator? She pressed the link.
The search engine found him. She clicked twice, and cried, “Got it, got it. He's here. It's an old newspaper item from Washington, D.C.”
“Will you read it aloud?” Poblo asked.
She read: “'Lieutenant Commander Lawrence Rodrick Curator. Lost at sea.'“ Her voice quavered slightly as she read the obituary. “'The commander of the USRC Zephyn went down with his crew when the wooden-hulled cutter sank near Cape Fear while he was on an assignment with the Department of the Navy. A widower, he was survived by his two children, Lawrence Rodrick Curator, Jr. and Margarette Curator Landry.'“
SheYahooed the name of the cutter, Zephyn, and got lucky.
She read from the screen: “'The ship of the First Class was launched from Newport News, Virginia on May 20, 1908. She was one of the last schooners built by the shipyard, and had an auxiliary steam-powered source. She was assigned to the Revenue Cutter Service Station at Diamond Shoals with her cruising grounds to encompass Cheasapeake to Cape Fear, and adjacent waters. Over the next decade Zephyn ranged the seas assisting ships and mariners in distress. An Act of Congress became law on 28 January 1915 joining the Lifesaving Service and the Revenue Cutter Service to form the United States Coast Guard. At the advent of World War I, in 1917, the Zephyn came under the aegis of the United States Navy as the Treasury Department relinquished control of its ships for the conflict. She ranged the middle Atlantic aiding military and shipping vessels in distress.”
Ann saw the name in the next sentence and read the lines without speaking, then looked up at Poblo. “It lists her valiant war service under her able skipper Lt. Commander Lawrence Curator. In 1920 she was attached to the Special Antisubmarine Force at Norfolk.'“
“She was a subchaser?”
“Doesn't say what her duties were.”
“I will ask Rod about this. He never told us much about his intrepid ancestor.”
“Rod seems to be a shy man,” she said and hoped not to be around when Poblo button-holed him with this newly-learned info.
Poblo shrugged. “Rod is a serious man. Too bad he loved a woman who did not love him.”
“What?” she asked, a sudden pressure building in her abdomen. “I got the impression …” She saw the quizzical look in Poblo's eyes and lifted her shoulders to shrug. “I guess you can grieve over a woman who didn't love you.”
“Who would want to?”
“Who would indeed?” She returned to the screen, and read: “'After completion of repairs on 5 May, Zephyn was to enjoy special status, the Navy Department specifying on 16 July 1921 that 'orders for movement of Zephyn will be issued from Washington and this vessel is not to be diverted to any other duty except by special permission from Operations.”
After a pause, she went on, “Then we go to February 6, 1921. 'The Zephyn was deployed from Washington by order of the Navy and the Commerce Department to investigate the shipwreck of the Carroll A. Deering, and what happened to her crew. The Deering grounded on Diamond Shoal on January 31, 1921, with no hands on deck. The Secretary of the Navy further ordered the Zephyn to investigate the disappearance of the S. S. Hewitt, a sulphur transport with a crew of forty-two and the captain, Hans Jacob Hansen. Her course and speed put her remarkably close to the Deering. She was last heard from on January 25. The commissioner of Navigation has stated: 'I've heard many tall yarns of the sea but in this case the facts are there. The Carroll A. Deering and the Hewitt met some strange fate beyond that of ordinary vessels come to grief.'“
Poblo said, “What you said this morning fits into this research, Miss Gavrion.”
“The mutineers dropped the Hewitt's anchor in some island cove and got away, leaving the steamer to the mercy of the sea.”
Poblo said, “
The sea has no mercy.”
“I wonder if Hans Jacob Hansen was in on the mutiny?”
“He would have to be, would he not?” Poblo asked.
“No. Like Captain Wormell, he could have been slain, or held captive, until the ship went down.”
“A mystery within a mystery.”
Ann took a deep breath and read from the screen: “'The Zephyn explored the route of the ill-fated Deering up from Barbados, past Cape Fear where the five-masted schooner took six days to make a twelve-hour voyage. A sudden storm caught the crew of the cutter off-guard and cold Atlantic waters engulfed the Zephyn. The last words from her commander were reported to be: “She's a tough sailor. We'll make out fine.”
We're tough sailors. We'll make out fine.
In the underlying silence, she heard the roar of the sea. She read through tears. “A memorial plaque of the Zephyn, USRC, hangs proudly within the halls of the Naval Academy alongside a photograph of her intrepid commander, Lt. Commander Lawrence Rodrick Curator.”
Poblo said softly, “I would love to meet this Lawrence of yours.”
She put her head in her hands and heard Pablo’s footsteps walking away.
Nearly two hours later, she logged off and left the museum. No one was around to bid her goodbye.
CHAPTER SIX
--
Hardly feeling bold, but hoping she looked it, Ann strolled down the hall toward the barroom of The Pub. It was a bit early for the end-of-day cocktail crowd, but from her third-floor window she'd seen Spence pull into the parking lot and Poblo walk over from the museum. Rod wasn't there, and she didn't expect him to be.
Patting the pocket where the scrimshaw knife was nestled, she strolled through the door. The men at the bar welcomed her, and Mr. MacGregor immediately went for the gin bottle. Poblo moved a stool so she could wedge herself between him and Spence. She sat and laid the scrimshaw knife on the bar.
Spence was immediately enthralled. He picked it up. “It's real. I can feel it.”
Poblo watched Spence's fingers caress the knife. “I, too, thought it felt real, but we can conduct some tests right here.”
“We can?” she said.
“Elementary ones only.”
Spence said, “You know, I read somewhere that there's no real scientific tests to see if a piece of scrimshaw is as old as it's claimed to be.”
MacGregor brought her cocktail, and then placed frosty beer bottles on cardboard coasters in front of Spence and Poblo.
Poblo asked, “Hey, Mr. Mac, do you possess a pin, or a needle?”
MacGregor said, “Laddie, I don't sew, I make drinks.”
Spence laughed. Poblo seemed perplexed. He said, “I thought perhaps you might have a pin to hold two clothes together.”
“I have a toothpick to hold two olives together.”
Ann asked, “What do you need a pin for? I can run upstairs.”
Poblo picked up his cigarette lighter, flicked it, and answered, “I will heat the pin to red hot and then put it alongside the scrimshaw. If it melts, it's plastic. Real ivory is tight and dense.” He held his fist in a tight wad. “It is a poor conductor of heat.”
Spence grinned at Ann. “You sure you want to go upstairs and put your little souvenir to the test?”
“Watch me.”
When she came back downstairs – after retrieving the pin and checking her makeup – Rod sat on her bar stool, bent over her scrimshaw with a magnifying glass. He'd deliberately usurped her place at the bar. Spence winked and patted the stool on the other side of him. She marched to the stool and sat, making as much noise as she could. Rod had to have heard.
Spence said, “I read in Sea History not too long ago that a piece of scrimshaw sold for forty-thousand-big-ones.”
Poblo said, “Forty-thousand-dollars?”
“Yep.”
“That is a lot of money.”
“It was real scrimshaw. Eighteenth-century.”
Rod raised his head slightly and muttered to no one in particular, “Well, this isn't plastic, but I doubt it's eighteenth-century. The engraved lines cut across the ivory cracks, but the engraving is deeper than the natural cracks. If this was a couple of centuries old, it would be weathered more.”
Poblo said, “Yes, it would be smooth if it was old.”
Rod handed the magnifier to MacGregor. “The workmanship isn't bad.”
“So it is genuine?” Poblo asked.
“Hell, I'm no expert,” Rod said, his back to her, speaking to Pablo. One would think the piece belonged to him. Rod went on, “Besides any expert can be fooled – even collectors, and dealers and appraisers have been fooled.” He leaned back, and looked at her from behind Spence's head. “Some people even think they can fool us lowly biologists.”
The moment turned awkward, something she was getting used to when Rod Curator came around. It seemed now that the men at the bar had tossed the conversational gambit her way. “Well,” she said, pushing her hand past Spence to grab the scrimshaw knife off the bar. “I know it's real.”
Poblo said, “Well, you were there.”
Rod snorted and stared at her. “You won't quit, will you?”
She met his stare. “No”
Poblo said, “We did some very fine research today. We learned about your great-grandfather, Lawrence Rodrick Curator. The article said that he was with the subchasers.”
Rod glared at Poblo. “Leave my great-grandfather out of this conversation.”
Nobody said a word. Only the television droned the news in the background.
She swung her bar stool around, stood, and then went to stand behind Rod. She waited, hearing the anchorman's voice for a few seconds, until Rod twisted his stool to look at her.
She said, “I couldn't find a photograph of Lawrence Curator on the web today. Does one exist?” She felt Spence's elbow in her side.
Rod smirked, “Does one exist on the internet? How would I know?”
“I'd like to see a photograph of him.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I think you know.”
“Don't push me, Miss Gavrion.”
“I want to see a photograph of Lawrence Curator. Surely, you have one.” His hard eyes were meant to intimidate, but she didn't flinch. “Are you afraid to show me his photograph?”
Rod came off the bar stool, his fists balled. “Afraid? Why should I be afraid, Miss Magazine Editor.”
She glared at Spence, and then back at Rod. “What does my profession have to do with anything?”
“Imagination.”
“I don't write fiction. I don't make up stories.”
“What do you do?”
“I'm a senior editor. I choose what goes in the magazine – its content.”
“But you put forth story ideas, don't you?”
“Sometimes.”
He walked away from the bar, and she followed.
Without looking at her, he said, “You plan on taking this absurd story back to Atlanta with you?”
“No. It's personal.”
His face, in profile, glinted with sweat. “Come with me.” She fell in step with him. He asked, “How did you get so obsessed with someone who died ninety years ago?”
“It wasn't my idea,” she said.
“I forgot. It was the ghost's.”
She swallowed, then asked, “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No. Nor reincarnation, nor in vampires, werewolves and ghost ships.” He stopped suddenly and whirled. “If I show you what you want to see, will you leave here?”
“Eventually,” she said, her eyes meeting his.
A strange smile distorted his classic features. “I may regret this, but all right. I'll show you his photograph.”
He turned and strode through the lobby and out the door, her on his heels. “Will you show me now?”
“Yes, dammit, now,” he said, and rushed down the steps. “Let's get this over with.”
She ran after him. “I'll follow in my car.”
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“No need,” he said. At his Jeep, he ordered, “Get in.”
--
They rode in silence up Eagle Pass Road, although she felt the silence folding over her with the dying light of day.
He turned onto a lane and stopped on the tabby driveway of a small wooden cabin. It was tucked in the middle of moss-hung live oaks and red cedars – spooky remnants of an old maritime forest. He turned the key of the Jeep, faced her, and challenged, “Describe my great-grandfather.”
For his attitude, she felt like telling him to go to hell, but she said, “The first thing you notice is his beard. It's a rich shade of brown and shaved close to his jaws, which were wide and square, like yours.”
“Go on.” His words came like lightning strikes.
“Lawrence’s moustache doesn't twirl up at the ends and you can see his wide mouth. His eyes are dark brown.” She remembered the expressions they could create. “He had a way of smiling that crinkled his eyes and he had dimples that rose up cheeks.”
“Was he tall or short?”
“Tall. Over six feet, because I'm five-seven and he was several inches taller than me. He was muscular, but not fat. He had an officer's bearing.”
With eyes narrowed, he glanced at her. “So far, that describes a lot of men. They either have blue eyes or brown eyes. They are short or tall, fat or skinny.”
“Did your great-grandfather have a beard?”
“Yes he did.”
“But not a long one?”
“No, from pictures, not a long one. What about his head hair?”
“I never saw it. He always wore a hat.”
“You didn't know that he was bald on top?”
“No, I wouldn't have thought …”
“What kind of hat did he wear?”
“When I first met him he wore a mariner's bucket-type hat, and then a uniform hat, and what he called his fore-and-aft chapeau.” She grinned at remembering. “At the time I thought he looked like Admiral Lord Nelson.”
When he didn't say anything, she looked out the Jeep's windshield, feeling discomfited.
“I have a photograph of him in full dress uniform,” Rod said. “I know that chapeau. But I'm not convinced, Miss Gavrion. Your description is too vague. It could fit any photos of that era. They're all black-and-white. Everybody looks like they have dark hair and dark eyes. As far as the pictures show, my great-grandfather could have had a red beard.”
THE GHOST SHIP Page 11
