The men in the shipping company teased Boaz mercilessly about still being a bachelor at his age. They were always trying to fix him up with different women—most often terribly flawed women—knowing full well he had sworn them off after having his heart broken as a young man.
“No, thank you,” said Boaz. “I’ve had enough of thieving women.”
“Have you ever even met a gypsy, Bo?” asked Adam.
“Don’t need to. Heard about ’em. Read about ’em. Any fool can put two and two together and figure out they aren’t trustworthy. What man with half an ounce of sense would think some ol’ bohemian hag with a scarf tied ’round her head can look into a glass ball and tell you the future?”
Adam and Martin gave each other an amused look of surprise. Apparently, they’d struck a nerve with Boaz, so they knew it would be best to change the subject.
“Has anyone else here thought about the fact we’re stuck cleaning up a sloop called the Carolina Gypsy?” Elliot observed. “Wonder if it means somethin.”
“Yeah,” said Martin. “It means we’ll all need baths later.”
“Uh-oh. Look here, y’all,” said Joe.
Joe almost never spoke, so the fact that he was calling everyone’s attention to the cargo area was cause for concern.
“What is it?” said Boaz, approaching the stacked casks.
Joe pointed down. One of them had a hole near the bottom—the work of rats or mice.
“Oh, that’s not good,” said Boaz.
“This just keeps gettin better and better, don’t it?” Martin looked at Adam and raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t even say it,” said Adam.
* * *
SIX HOURS LATER THEY HAD unloaded all of the cargo and moved it into the warehouse, pumped out the bilge, mopped all the decking, stripped and taken out all of the hammocks and boiled them, and thoroughly fumigated and disinfected the whole ship with sulfur and vinegar. Now the wind would have to do its work, sending a fresh breeze through the vessel. As uncomfortable as the heat was in the hold, it was the best thing to ensure that everything dried out well and that mold wouldn’t have a hospitable environment in which to thrive.
Once they were all done, the men took bars of soap and some towels a little ways east of the dock, which at that time of day was up current, so they could soak in the creek and scrub the sweat and filth out of their hair and off of their bodies. While none of them ended up with any of the sick on them, the sheer foulness of the air clung to their skin and clothes. The salty ocean current that flowed through Taylor Creek might not have been ideal bathing water, but in this instance it was certainly preferable to a washtub and rag.
Martin, Elliot, and Joe all went home with an assurance from Emmanuel that they could come in late on Monday, since they’d put in the unexpected extra time Sunday evening. Adam and Boaz were relieved to be able to go upstairs to the living quarters and turn in early.
When Adam was able to finally collapse in his bed, he was so tired he couldn’t even sleep. He reached for his journal and pencil, propped his pillow against the wall behind his back, and thought about what he might want to write. He opened the book and began to flip through the first few pages. He came to the picture he had drawn of Ed Willis. It was one of the first sketches he had attempted to make after he got the journal back in late March. Ed had been a surprisingly talented artist, as Adam learned on their trip to Havana. Since Ed had been killed a few months earlier, it occurred to Adam that he might want to draw his friend, so he would always remember what he looked like. Since that time he had drawn at least a simple sketch of everyone in his closest circle of family and friends.
Adam wasn’t nearly as gifted an illustrator as Ed, but his drawings were certainly more than passable. Anyone who saw them would likely figure out who the subject had been.
When he came to the sketch he had made of his father, his heart ached. He thought about the circumstances of his apprenticeship and what Madame Endora had said: “The past is the key to the future.” It seemed that was certainly true in his case.
If he’d grown up with his father around, he probably never would’ve gotten into a fight with Francis Smythe. That would mean he never would’ve been forced into the apprenticeship with Emmanuel Rogers. And of course without that apprenticeship he would never have had any reason to go to Havana, so he’d have never learned the story of why his father hadn’t been around, nor would he have learned that Emmanuel was actually his grandfather. Now that all of those things had happened, he couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to grow up any other way.
He thought again about that letter, and he actually felt sad. He wished something would come of it, that whoever wrote it would just show up. Not knowing was weighing heavily on him, and if the person responsible did turn out to be someone from Eduardo’s family, he would rather just go ahead and put that behind him. On the other hand, it was possible that the letter wasn’t as threatening as the puzzling pieces made it seem, and so it could be from someone with good intentions. His grandfather had suggested the possibility that the letter had something to do with his father’s estate. Since he wasn’t dead yet when Adam left Havana, he had no way of knowing how everything would be resolved with the Velasquez family, but he knew his father had left some things for him.
Wouldn’t it be a nice surprise to see his father’s best friend, Thomas Drake, show up in Beaufort? Or even his grandmother, though that would be awkward, considering her past with Emmanuel. Adam didn’t even care about whatever he had inherited. He just thought it would be good to again connect with the people who knew his father best.
He hated the thought of never learning what that letter was about. And he certainly had no plans to return to Havana to find out.
Chapter Seven
MONDAY AND TUESDAY PASSED WITHOUT incident at Rogers’s Shipping Company. On Wednesday afternoon Dr. Taylor dropped by the warehouse to let Emmanuel know that his sick sailors seemed to be doing very well—a great relief to everyone. They all guessed that getting back to fresh food, clean beds, and restorative rest did the most to return them to good heath.
Adam and the others were also relieved that none of them who had cleaned up the sloop had fallen ill, at least not yet anyway. It seemed more and more likely that some of the food on board the vessel must have been spoiled, causing the sickness.
After a long day of coopering, Adam went to the Topsail Tavern to have supper. Even though he’d not been sick, he hadn’t had much of a desire to eat ever since his encounter with Madame Endora on Saturday night. And spending hours on the company’s filthy sloop on Sunday hadn’t helped to stoke his appetite. Since things started getting more or less back to normal, and since the month of September was getting closer and closer to ending, Adam felt like he might be just about out of the woods on the different concerns that had caused him anxiety.
He enjoyed the mile-long walk to the tavern and was especially happy as he approached the two-story white clapboard-covered building and heard music drifting outside—nice-sounding music in fact, much better than the amateurish jigs that were once again dominating the establishment’s evening atmosphere. Valentine had more than one bad experience with his musicians over the last few years, so he’d been gun shy about committing to hired performers.
“Evening,” said Valentine, looking up from the latest Gazette, which would have arrived earlier in the day, since it was Wednesday. “Hadn’t seen you around the last couple days. Your mama’s been worried about you. What you been up to?”
“Well, a lot,” said Adam, pulling out his favorite bar stool and taking a seat. “After church on Sunday, the Gypsy got back from Nassau. We had to get the cargo unloaded and give the sloop a thorough cleaning. We’ve had lots of work to do sorting through the merchandise since then. This is the first break I’ve had.”
“If you want a drink, you can help yourself,” said Valentine. “It might be a while before Jackson can get to you.”
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br /> It always amused Adam that under no circumstances would Valentine pour him a drink. It was the principle of the thing, he reckoned. Valentine owned the place, and in spite of him having been like a surrogate grandfather to Adam when he was growing up and working in the tavern, he likely felt like it would be beneath him to serve him.
Adam helped himself to go around the bar, grab a glass, and pull a pint of cider. “Where’s Mama?”
Without looking up from his paper, Valentine motioned towards the back of the tavern. “She’s resting in my parlor. Hasn’t been feeling well, so I told her to go lay down.”
Adam was concerned. “Why is she in your house? Why not her room upstairs?”
This time Valentine did look up. “Have you forgotten how hot it gets up there?” He looked back down at the paper and moved his finger, trying to find his place. “Said she had a headache. A hot room ain’t no good for getting rid of that.”
“Ah.” Adam nodded. “I see. Well, anything interesting in the news?”
“Not too much, no,” said Valentine, “unless you consider construction updates on Governor Tryon’s palace as interesting news.” He looked up from his paper, clearly disgusted, and said, “You know that pompous ass is bringing in workers from Philadelphia to build the damned thing! Says North Carolinians wouldn’t know how to build so fine a palace.”
Adam chuckled. “Yeah, I had heard something about that. From you I think.”
Just then Jackson came over to the bar and leaned against it. “I just heard something y’all will want to know.”
“What’s that?” said Adam, turning on his bar stool to face the young server. Ruddy-complected Jackson Willis, who at nineteen was the same age and almost the same height as Adam, was only a busboy at the Topsail when Adam still lived and worked there. After Adam left for his apprenticeship with Emmanuel, Valentine needed someone else to wait tables, so he promoted Jackson to do the job.
“Those people over there at that table,” said Jackson, turning his head just slightly towards the eastern end of the tavern, “were just talking about folks seeing a ghost near the graveyard last night.”
Valentine rolled his eyes. “Well, I reckon that makes about the fourteenth ridiculous thing I’ve heard in here today.”
Adam turned in that direction to try and figure out what table Jackson was talking about.
“Don’t look at them now!” Jackson exclaimed.
“Do what?” said Adam. “A ghost?” He squinted his eyes and twisted up his mouth in disbelief at Jackson’s assertion. “Come on now. I thought you were going to say something good—something halfway interesting, anyway.”
“What do you mean, good? I can’t say whether it’s good or bad, but I’ll tell you this…” Jackson spun his head to glance at the table and quickly turned his attention back to Adam and Valentine. “Those men are real shaken up about it.”
Valentine scowled at Jackson. “I declare, boy! You’ll say near ’bout anything to keep from doing your job like a normal man. Are you really over there talking to those men about some ghost they claim to have seen? They’re probably laughing at you behind your back for being so gullible!”
Jackson’s eyebrows drew close together. He was apparently wounded by what Valentine had said but not shocked by it. “They’re not laughing or anything. You go over there… Just go over there real quiet like so they don’t know you’re listening in, and you can hear what they’re saying yourself.”
“What are we supposed to do?” asked Adam. “Pretend to take an order at the next table? Or maybe clean the windows? I’m not going to stand over there to try to hear those men talk a bunch of nonsense about seeing some ghost. You don’t actually believe in that mess, do you?”
Jackson shrugged. “I don’t know, but those men sure act like they’ve seen something.”
Valentine folded the paper in front of him and slapped it down on the counter. “I tell you what. I’m not going to go over there and pretend to be listening. I’m going to march right over there and ask those men what they’ve been saying to you about a ghost. See if they’ll say that same thing to my face.”
Jackson nodded. “Fine. Go ahead. But can I wait over here?”
Valentine impatiently shook his head and threw up his arms in exasperation. “Suit yourself!”
Jackson waited at the bar near where Adam was sitting, avoiding looking in the direction of that particular table.
Adam could see Valentine standing there, hand on his hip, animatedly talking to the men at the table. The men certainly did look stunned and serious. One of them was waving his hands around like he was trying to demonstrate something he’d seen. The look on Valentine’s face indicated his surprise.
After a couple of moments, Valentine returned to his place behind the bar, head hanging down.
“I just do not know what this old world’s coming to,” he said.
“What is it?” Adam asked, amused.
“What did they say?” asked Jackson.
“When you’ve got four grown men sitting at a table telling me they seen a ghost. Well, I just don’t even know what to make of that. They’re claiming there’s right many folks that lives over near the graveyard saw this apparition, to just go ask around.”
“Didn’t you say something the other night about how bad things would start happening here in town?” asked Jackson, his eyes as big as saucers.
Adam wrinkled his brow. “I may have mentioned something like that.” He took a sip of his cider. “But I don’t recall you being here when I mentioned it.”
“Oh, your mama told me,” said Jackson, waving his hand dismissively. “It was all she could talk about the other night after you left.”
Adam raised an eyebrow and looked over at Valentine. “That true?”
Valentine shrugged and tipped his head. “Guess so. Which reminds me.” He reached under the counter and pulled out something to hand to Adam. He glared at Jackson as if to remind him to get back to work.
Jackson disappeared to go take care of some patrons.
“Here, your mama wanted me to give you this.”
Adam looked at a small velvet pouch in his hand. He opened the drawstring on it and looked inside. There was a stone, iridescent black. Adam had never seen anything quite like it and had no idea what it was.
“What is this?” he asked.
Valentine sighed. “I don’t know. Your mama went out to see those gypsies on Sunday. She talked to that fortune-teller woman and told her you were her son.”
“She what?” Adam couldn’t believe his mother did all of that.
“She said she asked that old gypsy woman to have pity on you—said you were hardheaded but that you were a good boy. Asked if she could buy some kind of protection for you.”
Adam sighed and turned the stone over to examine it. “I can’t believe she did this.”
“Oh, that’s not all,” said Valentine. “She said she also paid that gypsy woman to do some kind of protective spell over you. She evidently told your mama that she could hold on to this charm for you, but it would bring you more luck if you held on to it.”
Shaking his head, Adam tucked the pouch into his pocket. “I don’t know how it is that she’s so superstitious.” He took a sip of cider. “I mean, you’re not, and from what I’ve heard, my grandfather wasn’t, and her mama died when she was so young, so where’d she get it from?”
“Must run in the blood,” said Valentine. “You know your grandmama was quarter Indian or something like that, and I reckon those folks has always been superstitious.”
Jackson returned as quickly as he’d disappeared. “Well, so what about it?”
“What about what?”
“The bad things that gypsy woman said would happen in town. I’d say dead people roaming around the graveyard would fit that description.”
“Do you really think the dead are coming up out of their graves in the burying ground?” asked Adam. He took anothe
r sip of his cider while he waited for Jackson to answer.
“I don’t know, but it’s possible.”
“Actually, it’s not possible,” said Adam.
“How do you know?” asked Jackson, seemingly testing Adam.
“By virtue of the fact that they’re dead. The dead can’t do anything. They’re dead—just a bunch of old rotting corpses in that graveyard. Their spirits have gone on either to Heaven or Hell anyway.”
“You’re saying a spirit can’t come back to earth and haunt people then? So where do all the ghost stories come from then? You think people are just making ’em up?”
“Listen, folks might think they’ve seen a ghost, but they haven’t. Your eyes can play tricks on you, you know.”
“The eyes of one man playing tricks maybe, but what about eight eyes—I mean the eyes of four men?”
Suddenly Valentine stood and gave a little slap to the counter. “Listen here, you chatterbox! You think you might have some customers over there waiting on you to take their orders or bring them some food or drinks? Or have you finished your shift for the night already?” He thrust his index finger forward, pointing into the dining area. “Go! Do your job!”
Jackson’s eyes grew wide and he immediately turned and went to check on the patrons.
Adam inhaled deeply and then sighed. His head dropped down and he stared into his drink. “Is it my imagination, or are things going a little bit crazy around here?”
Valentine pinched up his face. “What? What’s crazy? Those four idiots over there who think they seen a ghost?”
“Well, you said yourself you’ve heard a whole bunch of crazy things today.”
Valentine nodded. “Mm-hm. It’s true. I have, but you know how people talk. One person starts saying one thing, then another jumps in to top that, pretty soon you got a whole town full of people who seem to be losin their minds. And a lot of this mess has come from that gypsy woman. She’s been giving right many bad fortunes, and folks are all worked up about it. Now folks are thinkin there’s a devil behind every bush.”
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