A CRY FROM THE DEEP

by Unknown

  The eighth day of exploring the wreck site started with a cloudless morning, an unusual day in Ireland from all accounts. While Mark set the anchor at a spot where the water wasn’t too deep, the others milled about the deck preparing to dive.

  Distracted by the splendor of the seascape around her, Catherine had temporarily forgotten the unsavory side of excavating. But as the engine revved up, her eyes gravitated to the mailbox operation. From its mount on the transom of the Golden Eye, Jerry and Alfredo had dropped a ninety degree elbow-shaped metal tube over the props, where it now deflected the wash from the boat downwards. The pressure of the water blew away the bottom sediment covering the artifacts. Although this type of prop wash was an excellent way of unearthing archaeological treasures buried in deep sand, it had its drawbacks. Overzealous treasure hunters in the past—Hennesey among them—had been careless and had blown mammoth holes in the sea bottom. In fact, Hennesey had been one diver who’d been successfully prosecuted for causing extensive damage to sea grass. Unfortunately for conservationists, the case was later dismissed.

  Perhaps mindful of his previous law suit, Hennesey kept the engine speed low. It was also to his advantage as the prop wash removed the overburden delicately from the wreck site without losing or damaging the relics. The materials could then be air lifted on board to be sifted and analyzed later.

  As soon as the prop wash operation subsided, the divers—Hennesey, Raul, Catherine and Daniel—jumped into the still murky waters. It was a race to the bottom to see what the controversial procedure had exposed.

  She and Daniel had been down close to an hour exploring the area north of the Spanish galleon’s hull. So far, there’d been no discoveries. Catherine snapped several photos of the divers working away with metal detectors and hand diggers. Witnessing the life down there—the fish in all their glorious shapes and colors, the vibrant vegetation, and the natural rock sculptures in the sand—she almost cried out with joy. Once again, the underwater world became a sanctuary, a place where she could forget her personal problems.

  They were about to call it a day when Hennesey gave a sign he’d found something. He held out a rock, embedded with blackened silver pieces of eight. After they’d all had a look, he put it into the collection crate.

  Thinking that was it for the day, they started their ascent, but soon stopped when Alfredo waved them over to see what he’d unearthed. He was near the British barque. In his hand was a tarnished bronze cap that had fallen off a capstan. Daniel shone a flashlight on top of the drum. When Catherine focused her lens on the bronze cap, she was startled by the words engraved on it. Alice O’Meary, Sunderland, England, 1874. A name with an A and an L, the letters they’d initially found. The British wreck now had a name.

  ~~~

  Their masks off, Catherine, Daniel, and Alfredo treaded water about fifty meters from the Golden Eye while they waited for Olaf to pick them up. He’d gone first to get Hennesey who’d been swept toward shore by an unexpected current.

  They’d been discussing the lucky discovery of the capstan, when Daniel said to Catherine, “I guess you were meant to be there when we found it, huh?”

  Alfredo scrunched his face. “Is this some private joke?”

  “I wish it was,” was all Catherine could say.

  Daniel winked and said, “She’s being haunted by ghosts.”

  “That’s not funny,” said Catherine.

  Alfredo blanched. “What ghosts?”

  Daniel tried to keep from laughing. “I was only kidding.”

  His response infuriated her. She wished he wasn’t so flippant.

  When they got back on board, Alfredo acted jittery around her. From his behavior, Catherine suspected he was superstitious. She knew there were divers who got spooked working the wrecks. Trespassing these underwater graveyards meant they could come across a skeleton or some other evidence of human remains. In that case, some feared disturbing the spirits. Any mention of ghosts could make future dives impossible for those who thought there was something supernatural going on.

  She avoided Alfredo’s odd glances as they watched Hennesey and Jerry sift the sand and silt through a mesh screen. They were all on the lookout for a glimpse of Spanish gold. There were shells, the odd screw, and a sailor’s brass button, but no gold.

  Hennesey picked up the button. “This looks like it might’ve come from the British barque.”

  Taking the fastener from Hennesey, Daniel said, “It’s likely, although with the anchor on it, it’s pretty common. It could’ve come from any number of ships that went down along this coast.” He looked at it more closely. “It looks like it’s been gold plated to resist corrosion. I think they started that procedure back in the 1820s.”

  Daniel kept flipping the button in his hand. Catherine found it curious that he was giving it so much attention. It took awhile before he passed it around, but his eyes kept darting to whatever hand was holding it.

  When the button got to her, her hand heated up, like it was being warmed by a hot pad inside a ski mitt. Then she had a flash—a movie on an invisible screen showing a young man buttoning up his black jacket. It looked like a sailor’s pea jacket. Following that, a three-masted barque rolled and tossed violently on the sea. Was that the Alice O’Meary? Swaying from the waves she felt, she lost her balance and grabbed the outside wall of the wheelhouse for support. But as quickly as the moving images had appeared, they vanished. Nauseous, she quickly passed the button back to Hennesey.

  Daniel must’ve seen her reaction, as he came quickly to her side. “Maybe you better sit down.”

  “No. I’m fine.” Richard would’ve called it another hallucination.

  “You’re white. You look as if something startled you.”

  Still stunned, she sat down on a bench and forced herself to breathe deeply and slowly. After awhile, her queasiness subsided. She looked back at Hennesey. He was still holding the button.

  Grumbling, Hennesey said, “There’s nothing here that would even pay for gas to the dive site. We’ll try again tomorrow. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the galleon’s bones were picked clean by someone before us.”

  Her stomach churned, but it wasn’t from seasickness, the waters were calm. She watched the others go below. She was glad Daniel had remained at her side. She turned to him and said, “When I held the button, I witnessed the Alice O’Meary going through a squall.”

  Daniel frowned. She wished he’d say something. Instead, he squeezed her hand. She didn’t resist his grasp.

  ~~~

  When Hennesey pulled into Donegal Bay, Catherine noticed two men standing by his berth in the marina. Instead of greeting them, he went out of his way to avoid them. He walked to the bow and helped his deck hands tie up the boat. Upon seeing Hennesey’s avoidance, she wondered who they were.

  The two men on the dock couldn’t wait any longer. They walked along the starboard side of the boat toward the bow and the taller one of the two called out to the captain over the gunwale, “Kurt Hennesey?” He was immaculately dressed in crisp tan pants and a plaid shirt. His tanned face looked like it would crack if he smiled.

  Hennesey folded his arms. “You have business with me?”

  The tall man handed Hennesey a business card. “I’m Peter Marshall with the Ministry of Culture and this is Ronnie McTavish from the Irish Coast Guard. We have a warrant to search your vessel.” Ronnie stood with his legs apart, ready to board.

  “For what reason?”

  “We got a call from a couple of fishermen who said the Golden Eye had been anchored for days near the Slieve League Cliffs. We traced your boat; you have quite the reputation.”

  Hennesey smirked. “Are you trying to flatter me?”

  “It wasn’t what we had in mind.”

  “I’m not doing anything wrong here. I’m working with National Geographic. I have a marine archaeologist on board in hopes of finding a site worth salvaging.”

  “Where is he right now?”

  Hennesey sc
anned the deck. “He’s probably still below.” Noticing Catherine standing nearby, he said, “This is Catherine Fitzgerald, she’s the photographer with the magazine.”

  Catherine nodded. She hoped that whatever story Hennesey was planning to tell, he wasn’t expecting her to corroborate any of his lies.

  Marshall glanced in her direction but didn’t seem impressed. He turned his eyes back to Hennesey. “I’d like to see your license to dive and excavate.”

  Hennesey grumbled something inaudible and went to the bridge. He returned moments later with Olaf and a document, which he thrust at the officer. “It’s all in order.”

  Marshall took a few moments to examine the paper. He then showed it to McTavish, who read it quickly. “Have you found anything?” he asked, handing the license back.

  “A few coins, screws and seashells. You want to see those, too?”

  “No, that’s not unusual in these parts but you’ll have to report them nonetheless. No other treasure?”

  “No.”

  Catherine interjected, “We did find a capstan today.”

  Marshall’s eyebrows arched. “I’d like to see it.”

  Hennesey glowered, and it wasn’t at the agents. He said to Olaf, “Would you mind getting the capstan for these gentlemen?” While Olaf went into the wheelhouse, Hennesey said to Marshall with a self-satisfied smile, “I’ve already called the nautical archaeologist at the National Museum, but you’re welcome to have a look at it.”

  The agents traded looks. “What kind of vessel was it?”

  “Our archaeologist,” Hennesey said, emphasizing the word archaeologist, “seems to think it might be a nineteenth century British barque, but we’ll have to check that out with Lloyds of London or whoever else can help us in identifying the ship.”

  When Olaf returned with the capstan, Marshall took a few photos with his cell phone. To Hennesey, he said, “I expect you’ll keep us posted regarding any other finds?”

  Hennesey grinned. “You’ll be the first to know.” He glanced at the officer’s business card. “Yep. Email address here, phone numbers.”

  Marshall’s cheek twitched. “Good.”

  “Look, nice of you fellows to come around but I’ve got some maintenance to do. If you’re coming on board, come on board.”

  Marshall eyed Hennesey for a few moments, as if he was checking whether the captain was being a smartass or not, then said, “Like I said, keep us posted.”

  Hennesey waved the card in the air. “I’ve got it.”

  After the agents had walked off to the parking lot, Hennesey exploded. “Sometimes I don’t know why the hell I do it. They all want to know the history but first they want you to fill out a myriad of forms in triplicate. And while you’re doing that, whatever is down there gets more degraded so what the hell do they think they’re protecting? You’d think the business of preserving artifacts would be first in their minds. Jesus Christ, we risk our lives every goddamn day and they yell bloody murder if we find something. Something they didn’t even know existed! Fuck them! Fuck their precious history!” He didn’t stop ranting until the agents got into their cars and drove away.

  Joy came up from below and marched over to Hennesey. “I could hear your bloody yellin’ in the galley.”

  “Don’t start,” he said, his eyes still blazing.

  Joy exhaled sharply. “Watch your damn blood pressure. You know what the doctor said.”

  “Fuck the doctor!” He stormed off and disappeared down the galley steps.

  Joy said to Catherine, “Sometimes, I want to punch ‘im. Wake him up a little.” Shaking her head, she added, “I keep telling ‘im he should quit. It’s not like it used to be. He should’ve given up this game a long time ago.”

  Catherine studied Joy’s face. She was obviously intelligent and yet she’d chosen to devote herself to Hennesey and his quest. How much did she know? She had used the word game to describe what he did. It was a game all right. A game of skirting the law.

  Catherine took a chance and asked, “Do you ever think that what he’s doing is wrong?” Catherine was aware she sounded like a preacher, and was immediately sorry she asked.

  “Yeah, sometimes.” Joy squinted in the light of the setting sun. “But the way I figure it, the man has a point. Like he says, if he didn’t find these ancient things, there wouldn’t be the fuss. Museums crave what he finds, then scream at him.” She harrumphed. “He’s good at what he does, so what’s the point of arguing?”

  Because he’s a crook, Catherine wanted to say. She kept that thought to herself and watched the sun disappear on the horizon.

  ~~~

  That night, Catherine dreamt again of the woman in the white dress. As before, the female spirit roamed the storm-battered ship searching for someone. In sopping black boots, she slid haphazardly, grabbing on to anything to keep her balance. The boards creaked as wave after wave crashed over the vessel. When a wave several storeys high came down on the deck, the young woman slipped and was thrown across the ship into some loose barrels. She yelled, “James, dear God.” But he couldn’t hear her in the din of the tempest. He was standing on the bridge and she yelled his name again, “James, James.” Then the mast crashed down, making a terrible knocking sound. She screamed. The knocking continued.

  A man’s voice bellowed, “Catherine, are you all right?”

  It sounded like Adam. He was somewhere out in the water. She was vaguely aware he wasn’t supposed to be there. It took her a few moments to wake up and realize someone was banging on her door. She realized then she’d been having another nightmare.

  “Yes,” she answered loudly without getting out of bed. “I’m sorry, Adam. I had a bad dream.”

  “Okay, then. As long as you’re all right.” She could hear his footsteps retreating down the hall.

  Her hair was damp and pasted down. Her skin glistened with sweat, as if she’d been sitting in a steam room. Bleary eyed, she stared at the amber light fixture on the ceiling. “James,” she whispered. It was the name she’d shouted in her nightmare and yet she didn’t know anyone named James. And why had she dreamt about the young woman again? The one who looked like her. She stared at her bare ring finger and then at the night table. The Celtic band was still by the lamp where she’d left it.

  The early morning light wasn’t enough to shake her dream. The man in it was young. She hadn’t dreamt of him before. Who could it be? Then she recalled the brass button. Could it have belonged to a man named James? Had she called on his spirit when the button was in her hand? At the time, an old ship caught in a storm had flashed in her mind, as well as a young man in a sailor’s jacket. Was he James, and was he related to the young woman? As she thought some more, she recalled that the man in her dream was the spitting image of Daniel.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The morning brought rain and with it, the winds. It was too hazardous to go out on the boat, so the dives were cancelled. As before, Hennesey told everyone to keep their cell phones on in case the weather calmed down enough for them to go out in the afternoon.

  Catherine stayed at Sea Breeze and went online to the Guildhall Library website. She searched the list of nineteenth century ships insured by Lloyds of London, but found no mention of the Alice O’Meary. She ended up writing the director of the library for any information he could provide on the vessel.

  Next, she checked a website entitled The Shipwrecks Index of Ireland, an online resource similar to a book she’d seen in Hennesey’s wheelhouse. There was no mention of the British barque but she did find a record of it on the National Historic Ships website. Her heart sped when she read the year it was built and the name of the ship builder: Sunderland, England. That was the name engraved on the capstan they’d found. She also learned that the ship had been piloted by Captain David Bryce and that the 398 ton barque with its iron hull was used for trading. It carried general cargo, including tea, and on occasion, a small group of passengers.

  She was transfixed by what she read next. Acc
ording to the posted story, in 1878, the Alice O’Meary was on its way to Liverpool to pick up some immigrants for passage to America when a storm came up. It was noted that the British barque had broken up somewhere off the coast of Ireland leaving no survivors. According to records, the ship was never seen again.

  Until now. Was that the storm she dreamt about? The one that had sunk the Alice O’Meary? She shuddered as she thought she’d somehow entered the past. But how could that be?

  It was then she remembered a movie she viewed with her mother. It was called I’ll Never Forget You. It was about a scientist, who went back in time to the eighteenth century after reading a diary. There, he fell in love with a woman who hadn’t been mentioned in the journal. When he returned to the future, he met a woman who looked exactly like the one he’d fallen in love with hundreds of years before. It was a story that had captured her young imagination, much as it had her mother’s. It left them both with the notion that the couple in love had travelled through time together. Their love hadn’t been forgotten.

  Back then, it was only a story. But now—having encountered the ghosts—Catherine wondered if it was possible to travel through time. Maybe no one mentioned it for fear they’d be locked up in a home for the insane.

  Catherine re-read the record of the Alice O’Meary’s demise. The young woman’s spirit had led her to the ship’s grave site, and then later, to Martin’s headstone. They were connected but how?

  On a hunch, she entered ‘Martin O’Donnell Ireland’ in the Google search bar. With genealogy being so popular, it was possible he could show up in someone’s family tree. She found a considerable number of O’Donnells, even one from the same era, but none that had married Elizabeth Mary or had ended up in St. Catherine’s cemetery.

  She did however find a reference to a book about a young woman called Margaret O’Donnell. According to one reviewer, the book told the tale of Margaret’s doomed marriage. After leaving Killybegs in 1878 to marry a sailor at sea, she and her groom had drowned when a storm capsized their ship. Afterwards, the villagers, a superstitious bunch, spent the next two generations blaming one another for the tragedy. Something about a curse. At first, Catherine found the storyline curious, but then it struck her that she’d seen the year 1878 cited on the National Historic Ships website with respect to the Alice O’Meary. That was the year it had gone down in the storm. Was this the same ship then that had carried Margaret O’Donnell? Was Margaret a relative of Martin’s?