Pirates as desperate and ruthless as Wheland not only preyed upon the innocent, but they gave no thought to raiding and slaughtering each other, provided they could get away with it. So if another pirate vessel laden with plantation loot was in the area, Wheland most certainly would have gone after it, unless he feared he might be overpowered. In this regard, Wheland and his pirate crew were no different from the drug dealers of today. When drug dealers stop off in Virginia during their travels from New York to Miami, it is not uncommon for one drug dealer to buy handguns or heroin from another, and then pull out a pistol and open fire. The point is, whoever wins not only gets the booty, but also the money or contraband that was the intended payment. Extra bonuses include cash and drugs from the victim's pockets, his gold chains, diamond-encrusted watch, rings, and means of transportation.
Drug dealers, like modern highway pirates, are simply land pirates. If you can imagine, for a moment, a band of drug dealers spinning back in time to the eighteenth century and waking up on a gunboat off the coast of Tangier Island, then you can pretty much envision what an encounter with another ship would have been like back then. You can be assured that an ensuing battle between seafaring drug dealers would be no different from Wheland's attacking another pirate vessel in days of old. Let's even go so far as to cast Wheland himself in the role of a time-traveling drug pirate. The story would go something like this:
On a crisp October night, Joseph Wheland set off in his black Mercedes with its spoiler, purple-tinted glass, gold mag hubcaps, fleece seat covers, souped-up sound system, and dangling air fresheners. Smoking a cigarette and nicely buzzed from pot, he left New York and headed down to Richmond with several other vehicles and armed crew serving as his convoy. Wheland was known on the street as Wheelin' Bone, because he was always in his car, didn't play hoops or lift weights, and was bone-thin and physically unimpressive. But his appearance did not diminish the terror he struck in the hearts of his victims and other land pirates when they learned that Wheelin' Bone was in the neighborhood.
Arriving in Richmond in the early morning hours, Wheelin' Bone and his mates parked along a trash-cluttered street in the federal housing project Gilpin Court, and proceeded to an apartment that was the lair of a local drug dealer other land pirates called Smack.
When Smack looked out the window and spied Wheelin' Bone dressed in a long black coat, black Nikes, and a black warm-up suit that had skulls and bones all over it, Smack got a little uneasy.
"Shit, I don't know, " he said to several of his lieutenants. "Man, he look bad. Look like he might be packing an Uzi under that black coat a his, 'cause I can see the barrel poking out. "
"You sure that ain't a buttonhole?"
"I say we don't take no chances. "
"Shit no, we ain't taking no chances, " Smack agreed. "I say we shoot 'em through the door. "
Pistol slides snapped throughout the lair, and then the inexplicable happened. Wheelin' Bone and his crew were about to knock on the door when suddenly they vanished with a strange crackle of static and a flash of intense white light. This frightened Smack and his pirates, and they responded with a salvo of gunfire that ripped up the door and shattered lamps and beer bottles. They fired until magazines were empty. When the smoke cleared, they peered out in astonishment at the dark, empty street.
Wheelin' Bone and his crew spun through the Third Dimension, passing through the Wrinkle in Time, and landed softly on a gunboat called Rover, which was loaded with eighteenth-century antiques, jewelry, and sacks of gold dust and silver coins.
"Where the fuck are we?" Wheelin' Bone asked as he stared out at the peaceful waters of the Chesapeake Bay and the distant shadowy shape of Tangier Island. "Man, I ain't never seen a boat this old. It don't even have a motor or a flashlight. "
"Shit, look at these guns!" one of his mates exclaimed, as he inspected a huge cannon. "I sure would like to shoot one of these at a police car!"
Wheelin' Bone and his crew laughed at the image, and set about to figure out how to safely handle cannons, make homemade grenades, and sail. As days and weeks passed, they were indiscriminate in seizing other ships and celebrated with drunken nights of Madeira wine and rum, because they had quickly run out of pot and crack cocaine and could find no one who had ever heard of either. Wheelin' Bone and his men became expert at attacking other pirate ships and setting them on fire after they had been pillaged and their crews shot, hacked to pieces, and dumped overboard to be eaten by crabs.
Years passed and the American Revolution ended, but Wheelin' Bone became only more powerful and lustful. He terrorized the bay and the shores of Maryland and Virginia, and became even more feared than Blackbeard was in his day, although there is no record that Wheelin' Bone ever had a beard or set it on fire. His modus operandi, which he no doubt learned from stories about Blackbeard that were passed down from pirate to pirate, was to blast his cannons at the broadside of an unsuspecting vessel, which was followed by the hurling of Blackbeard-style grenades that were case-bottles filled with powder, small shot, slugs, pieces of lead, and iron- rather much like modern pipe bombs, except the grenades were ignited by a small, quick match that the pirates lit before quickly tossing the massively destructive devices into enemy ships. Wheelin' Bone and his mates would then board the disabled ship, step over the dead and finish off the wounded, and raid to their hearts' content.
Wheland or Wheelin' Bone (whatever you prefer to call him) faded from historical documentation toward the end of the eighteenth century, and by 1806, piracy had pretty much come to an end in the bay, although those otherwise peaceful waters and neighboring shores became vicious and volatile again six short years later during the War of 1812. Indeed, the Chesapeake and the nearby Patuxent River to this day remain a focal point of military activity, thus explaining the inconvenient restricted areas I mentioned in an earlier essay that make it so difficult to fly to Tangier Island.
One can only imagine the number of ghostly, broken hulls of ships and chests of loot that have littered the bay floor since John Smith settled Jamestown. Antiquities Law clearly states that found pirate treasure belongs to the location, which in the case of the Tory Treasure is Virginia. Of course, if the treasure can be traced back to the vessels from which the loot was originally seized, then the vessel's point of departure is highly likely to unfairly claim the treasure, and there will be a long, drawn-out battle in court. I strongly suspect that Wheland's remarkable stash will be claimed by North Carolina. But all of this is moot if individuals can find the treasure first and quickly pass it off to dealers at a very high price. I am stating the obvious to mention that no one is more capable of rapidly locating and seizing the Tory Treasure than the descendants of pirates who now live on Tangier Island and know the ways of the bay better than any other human beings.
It is my contention that the treasure belongs to the watermen, and we should allow them to have it. Tangier's economy is depressed. There are strict limits on the number of blue crabs they can trap, and the crab population has been shrinking for years. I am asking everyone, including the governor, to stay away from that crab pot marked by a yellow buoy that is approximately 10. 1 miles off Tangier's western shore. Let decency prevail and greed vanish as you consider that most of us don't suffer the hard, often unrewarding lives of the watermen. Since their ancestors suffered so much when Joseph Wheland set up his winter headquarters on their island long ago, it would be only fair and right for today's Tangiermen to profit from that evil pirate's ruthlessness. It may very well be a perfect example of poetic justice.
Anne Bonny and Wheland never met the punishment they deserved. Even Blackbeard didn't get what was coming to him. Hacking him to death and impaling his severed head on a gunwale was light punishment compared to the way some pirates were dealt with in other parts of the world. Before piracy was first romanticized in modern times and then mundanely reduced to armed robbery, it was taken with grave seriousness in past centuries. All you need to do is flip through the pages of the two-volume 1825 edition of T
he Terrific Register: or Record of Crimes, Judgments, Providences and Calamities, and you will be shocked and sickened to see what I mean.
By way of example, I offer what was the typical fate of Russian pirates on the Volga, which in centuries past was so infested with pirates that merchants stopped transporting any cargo of value down the river unless the ships were accompanied by an armed convoy. These
Russian pirates, who were not nearly as cold-blooded as Bonny, Wheland, or Blackbeard, were taken alive and no doubt became quite unsettled as they observed soldiers building a float and erecting gallows on it that were equipped with huge iron hooks.
The captured pirates were stripped naked and hung by their ribs on these hooks, and the float was sent slowly drifting down the river, allowing one and all to view the ghastly sight and hear moans of pain. If anyone in the bordering villages and towns the floating gallows passed showed a whisper of pity by offering the wretches water or liquor or a merciful death by gunfire, the punishment for being a Good Samaritan was to suffer the same slow, tormenting death as the pirates. This threat was sufficiently severe to prevent the public from intervening, and in fact, when one pirate managed to escape from his hook and, nude and trembling from pain and blood loss, came upon a simple shepherd, the shepherd's unsympathetic response was to beat the pirate's brains out with a stone.
I'm sure the shepherd was quick to loudly boast throughout the village about the unkind thing he had just done, otherwise the story would never have made it into historical records. This is not to say that I believe in vigilantism or torturing prisoners on death row. Nor should you assume I approve of the way the Russians dealt with piracy. But my point is that Bonny, Black-beard, and Wheland, and their bloodthirsty sea dogs were just lucky they weren't caught in Russia.
It is quite likely that a piece of iron from one of Wheland's grenades has led to the discovery of at least one of his sunken ships, and one can only imagine the mysteries and treasures that have rested for centuries at the bottom of the bay in the area of the yellow buoy I previously mentioned. I realize that some maritime historians will insist that there is no evidence of a Tory Treasure, but I must remind my readers and Governor Crimm that Wheland "Wheelin' Bone" did not leave a list of all the ships and plantations he raided, and we can't be certain what ships sank, including his own, and what was on them.
Be careful out there!
Twenty-nine
Possum didn't notice the essay when it was first posted on the website because Smoke and the road dogs had returned to the RV not even an hour before, and dread had seized Possum by the back of the neck.
"I just wish you was here with me, " Possum was praying to Hoss. "I know I ain't always done the right thing, but I'm trying to now. You be sure you tell Little Joe, Mr. Cartwright-and maybe Adam, if he ain't left the show yet. Okay? If you hear me, Hoss, please round up a posse and meet me at the race. I'm real scared-the most scared I ever been in my life. I don't know, but I got a bad feeling something ain't gonna happen the way Trooper Truth thinks it will.
"And I can't stand giving up Popeye. She's the only thing warm and alive I can trust, Hoss. Think how you'd like it if you had to give away your horse or was worried a bunch of outlaws was going to ambush you when you wasn't expecting it and shoot your horse! I know Popeye don't belong to me and it ain't fair for her to be locked up in this RV. I know I gotta do the right thing. But I need some help, Hoss. "
"Now listen up, little buddy, " Hoss said as he sat high on his beloved horse. "Outlaws are outlaws, whether they're horse thieves or truck thieves, and you do gotta do the right thing. Me and Pa and Little Joe ain't sore at you, and you gotta believe that. We're mighty sore at Smoke and his pack of gun-toting outlaws, though. Each and every one of them ought to be hung from a long rope. Now you do exactly what Trooper Truth told you, and don't be scared 'cause we're pulling for ya. "
Hoss faded from Possum's mind and Possum dried his tears on the Jolly Goodwrench flag and sat up, noticing the Trooper Truth website glowing on the computer screen. He went over to his crate and clicked on the newest essay and read it with great interest, not certain but guessing what Trooper Truth had in mind. Taking a deep breath and telling Popeye to stay and be a good girl, Possum dashed out of his room and banged on Smoke's door.
"Smoke!" Possum yelled. "Smoke, get up and look at this! You won't believe it!"
Smoke was sitting cross-legged on his bed as he filled a hypodermic syringe with a poisonous mixture of solvents and rat poison that he had stolen from the hardware section of Wal-Mart when he had taken the road dogs out to find NASCAR colors.
"What the fuck do you want?" Smoke shouted at Possum. Smoke was high on beer, crack cocaine, and meanness after robbing another convenience store and discovering there was only eighty-two dollars in the cash drawer. "You seen Cat? Where the hell is Cat?" Smoke shouted again as he stuck the orange plastic cap back on the tip of the hypodermic needle.
Possum cracked open the door and peered through the space, his heart hammering.
"Smoke, I don't mean to bother you none, but there's something on the Trooper Truth web you got to see!" Possum said in a small, intimidated voice. "It's got to do with a whole lot of treasure and we can get it if we think quick. What you doing with that needle?"
Smoke jumped up from the bed, his bare chest covered with tattoos and beaded with sweat. His eyes were glassy, and the only thing worse than Smoke was Smoke when he was high and needed to sleep it off.
"Pop-eye, " Smoke said with a cruel laugh as he pretended to inject Popeye with the syringe.
"Forget the fucking dog for a minute, " Possum said, faking the bad act he had gotten fairly good at.
"Don't you fucking tell me to fucking forget anything, you little retard, " Smoke said, pointing the needle at Possum as if he might just inject him instead of Popeye. "See, this is how Smoke makes assholes pay for their sins. Right when that bitch Hammer and her fuckhead sidekick Brazil come rushing up to the pit to save the stupid dog, I whip out this syringe and inject Popeye with rat poison right in front of them. While they're busy trying to save the dog, which will instantly go into convulsions and be in terrible pain, we shoot them in the head and run for the helicopter. "
The scenario was unspeakably horrible, but Possum played up to his name and had no reaction. In fact, he looked half asleep and inattentive to everything except the opportunity to seize the Tory Treasure before anyone else got it first.
"Or if one of them fishermen gets the treasure 'fore we show up after the race, " Possum said, "then we just wait for them back on the island and blow their brains out and dump their bodies in the bay and take the prize for ourselves. And Cat will already be there with everything set up, which is why he ain't here now, and we even got our own trooper working for us, too. Man, everything's phat, Smoke, " Possum bragged.
Regina felt everything was fat, too, but not in a good way, as she made her way down to the breakfast table later that morning. She had suffered another terrible night of tire dreams and was at last facing the truth: Andy's interpretation was right. Life was passing her by. She was disgustingly fat and had a rotten personality. For the first time in her life, Regina's conscience stirred and she felt a twinge of shame and regret.
"Good morning, " Pony said as Regina sullenly pulled out a chair and plopped down in it.
"Are you telling me it is or wishing it or just saying words that are meaningless?" Regina muttered, eyeing the steaming food Pony was setting on the table.
"Seems like a good morning to me, " Pony replied cheerfully. "I'm on my way to being a free man, Miss Reginia! Only thing is"-he served scrambled eggs and link sausage on a plate shining with the gold Commonwealth of Virginia seal-"turns out I been in prison three years longer than I was s'posed to be 'cause of that Mr. Trader. Seems he did some messing with certain officials 'cause he didn't want me let out. "
Regina stared at her food and realized with surprise that she wasn't hungry. She couldn't remember the last time she hadn't b
een hungry, unless it was when she had been sped to the hospital after eating Trader's poisoned Toll House cookies. But her loss of appetite then had been transient and medically based and couldn't be related to her present condition.
"You aren't eating, Miss Reginia, " Pony worried, standing across the table from her in his stiff white jacket, a linen napkin draped over an arm.
"You shouldn't have been in prison, anyway, " Regina surprised herself by kindly saying. "I've never seen you do anything wrong and have never been afraid of you. "
"Why, thank you, Miss Reginia. " Pony smiled but was puzzled. He was unaccustomed to Regina's having any opinion about his welfare or even noticing that he might have a life of his own. "I 'preciate that, and I think I can help you with Trip. What it's looking like is, he only respond to one- or two-word commands. If you start trying to conversate with him, he gets confused and don't listen. "
Regina perked up a bit.
"How 'bout I write up a list of commands and maybe you can help out with him at the race tonight?" Pony suggested. "I been reading some of the papers the trainer left, and that little fella is quite the traveler. All you gotta do is put a diaper on him and you can stick him right in the limo or helichopper. My wife's down in the laundry room this very minute fixing a fancy blanket with the Comm'wealth of Virginia seal on it that he can wear under his harness. "
Regina's mood continued to improve, as if anger and depression had been a stationary front all of her life and suddenly the oppressive, solid layer of unhappiness was moving away. She thought of Andy and his lecturing her about showing compassion, and she rehearsed an empathic line or two in her head as Pony continued to tell her about Trip's being housebroken and how to put on his tennis shoes and that he liked to snuggle when he wasn't working.
"I'm glad Papa's straightening out your prison mess, " Regina repeated what she had rehearsed several times in her mind. "But I hope you'll still work for us, Pony, even if you don't have to anymore. "
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