“Why indeed. Well, here the story gets wild. You have to keep an open mind.”
“I’m open.” Boy, was I! Ben had no idea. Little by little I had been alienated from my earlier beliefs and concepts about how the world worked. I still wanted natural, rational explanations for the strange things that happened around me, but was coming to accept that usually none would be forthcoming. At least none that could be shared with the outside world. “And I heard that wild is great for selling books.”
“It’s good for me, yes. Others around here may not like it.”
That didn’t sound good.
“Lay it on me anyway.”
And he did. Ben began unpacking his mental suitcase of carefully researched information, laying out facts and inferred conclusions in a clear and attractive order. As a writer, I could appreciate his technique. As the holder of the creepy box I was less than thrilled with what he was saying. I could hear my grandmother saying, no matter how you slice it, it’s still just bologna. But I couldn’t dismiss it as nonsense, as much as I would have liked to, because of how the box had arrived.
“Rumor has it that the Calmare attacked the Spanish ship, Concepcion. Halfbeard did it for the cargo, but also because of race hate. He was very anti-Catholic.” When I stared at him, he added, “Remember that the Reformation rocked Europe back on its religious heels, and the ongoing holy hatred followed the sailors into the New World and lingered there long after treaties were signed by the inbred kings and popes back in the old one. Halfbeard would have believed that killing Catholic Spaniards was practically his duty.”
I nodded.
“The document trail is scanty but fairly clear in spite of the missing pieces. Halfbeard began following the Concepcion outside Hispaniola. Other ships saw him but kept back. He had a bad reputation. He’d been resting up in Tortuga de Mar when he saw her sail past and recalled the crew. A cabin boy was left behind and that’s how we know where he was. Concepcion wasn’t a large ship, but she was headed for Spain, which meant she had gold, and she was an enemy so he decided to attack her as soon as she was away from possible aid.”
“What did he get for his troubles?”
“There is no surviving manifest of what the Concepcion carried, but there were rumors in Mexico of a cursed treasure.”
I felt my eyes get big.
“A cursed treasure?”
“Yes. Mind you, according to legend a lot of treasures were cursed and that never stopped anyone from attacking ships. Maybe it kept the slaves from stealing things. Anyhow, Halfbeard didn’t know about the curse and probably wouldn’t have cared if he did. As I said, he was unimaginative. Showing both cunning and patience, he waited until the Spanish ship reached Florida and then continued sailing into the Atlantic. He was following his prey at a distance, hanging well back and doing nothing aggressive that would alarm them and make them put into port.
“It seemed to work. The Concepcion did not put into port, which was unusual but convenient. She did not show any alarm or even awareness at being followed, but that may be because Halfbeard was clever and used some old tricks like dragging mattresses or anchors behind the Calmare to slow his ship down and make it look like she was just a small, heavily laden merchant vessel. He might well have kept the swivel guns shrouded as well. Still, I think the crew of the Concepcion may not have reacted to his presence for another reason.”
“What reason?”
Ben shrugged. This didn’t mean that he didn’t know, just that he wasn’t ready to lay his theory out for inspection. That meant it was something alarming and he probably wanted to talk me into letting him have the run of my records before I got upset.
The thought of all the letters and journals in my attic had Ben smacking his lips, but I was adamant about looking through things in my own time before turning anything over. This stubbornness made Harris Ladd happy. Ben was, after all, still an outsider and a writer, and therefore did not need to be privy to family secrets.
“This part of the story is especially sketchy. There are just a few notes made by a doctor who treated some sailors from the Calmare about a week later. I would really like to get some confirmation here.”
“It’s okay. I want to hear it.”
“All right. Here is what I think happened. The crew of the Concepcion surrendered immediately when Halfbeard hoisted the Jolly Roger. Not a single shot was fired. One can’t help but wonder if this was because they feared their cargo and wanted to be rid of it. Certainly they were very sick with something they called Lepra de Mono. Roughly translated it is monkey leprosy. I think it was these combined woes of the treasure and illness which distracted them and made them happy to give over their prize without a fight.”
“But what was it? Golden idols? Water from the Fountain of Youth? What?”
Ben shook his head.
“I don’t think so. The treasure, whatever it was, was divided among the crew of the Calmare and they sailed north. The Concepcion was not found until decades later when she washed up on a beach in South America. At least, we believe it was the Concepcion. There was no one onboard—no bodies at any rate. But there was still food and drink in barrels and rotting clothing. When the crew left, if they left, they didn’t take their possessions or provisions with them. Wood-eating shipworms had been at work without hindrance for many years and the anchor was gone as well as the prow of the ship. It was kind of like the Mary Celeste, if you know that story.”
I remembered the story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The Mary Celeste had been abandoned by her crew mid-meal and none of them were ever found. Most everyone assumed that they had been killed.
“You think Halfbeard murdered the crew when he robbed them? But wouldn’t that be unusual since they surrendered? And why wouldn’t he keep the ship, even if just to sell later?” My brain leapt to a lurid conclusion, not awaiting Ben’s answer. “Because of the curse? Maybe his men wouldn’t stay onboard to sail her?”
“Maybe. Or they were afraid of the disease that infected them. Maybe his men refused to sail a pestilent ship. Or he simply didn’t have the crew to spare since he had to leave Tortuga de Mar so hastily. Obviously he didn’t hole her or set her afire, which would have been standard practice if he wanted a ship to disappear.”
“But you think Halfbeard killed the crew, even if he didn’t touch the ship?” I insisted.
This bothered me though I knew it was silly to feel shame at what some distant ancestor had done.
“Maybe they were already dead by then. It’s possible. It sounds as though this so called monkey plague was a brisk one.” Ben cleared his throat and began using what I think of as his storyteller’s voice. “Bad weather attended them as they sailed north and half the crew deserted or were put into hospitals when they put in at Charleston. I can’t find any record of what was wrong with them. The doctor was baffled. It could have been scurvy coupled with something else. Or … who knows? The doctor certainly didn’t. He had never heard of monkey leprosy.”
“How long did it take to get to Charleston from Florida?”
“Only days. As I said, whatever disease was onboard the Concepcion, it was highly contagious. And here is the odd part, the sailors were all listed as indigents and ended up in pauper’s graves, their corpses smothered with quicklime. This was a method for dealing with plague victims and also criminals, though there was no mention of the doctor knowing that these men were pirates. I think he did this as a health measure. And it worked because none of the nurses or servants who cleaned the hospital got sick.”
I thought about this.
“Halfbeard wouldn’t have paid for his crew’s medical care or to have them buried? But why, when he had money?” This wasn’t as silly as it sounded. Captains usually looked after loyal crew. It made it easier to find willing sailors if the captain was fair.
“He sailed before the men died. Whatever the treasure was, it wasn’t standard gold or silver or jewels—or at least the sick didn’t bring anything of value with them when t
hey came on land. I think maybe they refused to bring anything. Maybe they thought they could beat the curse and get better if they got away from the ship and did not keep the treasure.”
“But they died anyway.”
“And the storm never ceased while the Calmare was in port.”
I thought about this. Under my blouse my arms were chilled and the hairs were standing on end.
“They talked about the bad weather in Charleston?” Weather bad enough to mention and write down was bad weather indeed.
“Yes. It was an odd storm that covered only half the town. Like I said, I’m speculating here, but we know for sure that the fast-moving storm followed them up the coast and into Charleston. And then it moved on. It’s noted in every port city where they stopped—stopped, but did not disembark. The storm definitely seemed to come and go with the Calmare.”
“That’s … creepy.”
“Finally they made it to our islands and the storm ended. Just cut off.”
I exhaled. Caught up in the story, it was easy to imagine a battle of supernatural forces. Of course, it was more likely that the tropical storm just blew itself out. I needed to stop scaring myself. People back then looked first to supernatural explanations, but that didn’t mean I had to.
“And Halfbeard somehow met Abercrombie’s daughter and convinced her to marry him?” I sounded incredulous.
Ben nodded.
“This is where I am lacking documentation.” Another barnacle came loose and shot across the floor. Kelvin ignored it but Barney galloped after it. I took it away at once, picking it up in a tea towel so I wouldn’t have to touch it. I really needed to get some new tennis balls. I’d call Mrs. Sibley and see if she could add that to Tuesday’s delivery.
“I wish I had a portrait of the man. His affect was said to be striking. And this was just five years before Blackbeard made his way into villainy’s hall of fame. I don’t know why history liked him better. Maybe it was the flaming hair. The man had a knack for drama.”
“There is no portrait? Before or after his accident?” I asked and Ben grimaced.
“Not unless you have one in the house. Anyhow, he married two weeks later and then he turned the Calmare over to Darby and what was left of the crew. Two men opted to remain in Maine on the mainland. The rest accepted the offer of partnership in the Calmare. Maybe they thought they were safe because the storm had stopped. Or because Halfbeard had whatever part of the treasure they thought was cursed.”
“So they waved goodbye to Little Goose and sailed south, and sank almost as soon as they were.…” I stopped.
“Out of the islands’ protection. Yes. Makes a good story, doesn’t it? I just need some kind of proof that Halfbeard was actually Nicholas Wendover. Don’t want people accusing me of slander without any basis in truth even if I am writing fiction. And there is no getting around the fact that this guy is a blot on the old family escutcheon.”
He didn’t mean me. The town folk tended to be touchy though. Especially when the stories were true. I didn’t think they would like this tale regardless of his proofs.
“The family is nothing but blots.”
Ben grinned.
“That’s true, but this guy actually went out and earned his bad reputation.”
“I’ll look again for letters or a journal.” Ben was always wanting me to look for stuff. I understood. Our library was a treasure trove of information and local scandal. “There are still piles of books I need to go through. Maybe he kept a captain’s log. If something’s there I’ll find it,” I promised, feeling vaguely enthused. I love doing research and maybe this would give me something for my blog.
“I doubt—” But whatever he was skeptical about wasn’t mentioned. The box popped open, almost as if it were spring-loaded, and we stared down at what I thought were a pair of gold coins and some brown sticks.
“Jesus wept,” Ben breathed. He started to reach for the coins but stopped himself. “Do you know what these are?”
“Gold doubloons,” I guessed.
“Close. These are what are commonly called pieces of eight. Minted in Mexico and not Seville. Regular kind were worth about eight shillings or say four hundred and fifty bucks each.”
“These aren’t regular?”
“No. Pieces of eight were made of silver. There have been only a few of these gold coins ever found and they have a rather sinister nickname.”
“What?”
“Pieces of hate.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“See those spear things?” He pointed but did not touch. I didn’t know if this was to avoid getting oil on them—pristine coins are worth more to collectors than ones that have been touched—or if he simply didn’t want to touch the shiny bits of ill will. “They should have been pillars, and on the other side, the lion has been replaced by a snake. The man who minted them was supposedly some kind of descendant of an Incan wizard. He sent the coins to the capitol as a kind of death threat. He also hated King Phillip V, who was actually French. You have to remember that the French pirates had been throwing their weight around down there almost as much as the Spanish navy were and were just as hated. Anyway, supposedly those who received the coins sickened and died. Of course, everyone sickened and died back then. Disease was rampant. He didn’t last long in his career. They were still burning witches back then and the superstitious bastards barbecued him after the standard tortures.”
I shuddered, feeling ill, and wondered that Ben could sound so glib when he spoke of such awful things.
“But they look so clean. And look at the box. The hinges aren’t rusted. It can’t be that old.”
“Gold doesn’t tarnish,” Ben said slowly, but he began to frown.
“But they look so new. Can they be real? Maybe they are reproductions. Are they dated?”
“The earliest coins have no date.” Ben exhaled. “I don’t know. I wonder what those brown—oh.”
“What?”
“Don’t get upset. But those brown things are bones.”
I stared at them. They were bones. Finger bones. Very small finger bones.
“Oh God! Not.…”
“No! No, of course not. They are probably monkey bones. They would have put the paw in as a … sort of talisman. Like a lucky rabbit’s foot.”
“Monkey leprosy,” I muttered. “For heavensake, close the box and don’t touch anything. I can’t believe it’s real.” Except a part of me did believe it. “But if it is, well, we can’t risk contagion until it’s checked out.”
Ben closed the box. He looked pale. I guess the whole thing was getting very real for him.
“Tess, monkey leprosy probably had nothing to do with monkeys or leprosy. They weren’t medical geniuses back then. They just fixed blame on whatever was handy.”
“I know. But let’s be safe, okay? You have open wounds on your hands. In fact, you’d better wash them and get some antibiotic ointment on them. They could get infected.”
The tea kettle finally began shrieking. I was glad of an excuse to turn away from the box.
“Shouldn’t the bones have rotted?” I asked. “I mean we are talking about something at least two hundred and fifty, maybe three hundred years old. If it’s what you think it is.”
“Or older, so you would think so. Tess?”
“Yes.” I busied myself with making the tea.
“I know it’s a lot to ask, but would it be okay if I took these artifacts to a friend at the maritime museum? He’s discreet and Michael knows a lot more than I do about—everything. He will be able to date things so we can know what we’re dealing with. I am probably just leaping to conclusions because I’m caught up in research and want this box to belong to Nicholas Wendover. But this could be anything. I mean, is it likely that a pirate would throw out gold coins?”
If he was leaping to conclusions then I was diving right behind him. But unlike Ben, I could easily imagine someone being willing to part with gold if it would save their
life.
Still, was this something I should let out of my sight? It seemed to have been rather directed at me. And this box and its horrid contents were probably worth a lot of money.
I looked at Ben. It is sometimes difficult to know a person when there are lots of distractions around them, like an exotic career or lots of money. But I had gotten pretty good at spotting the villains no matter what they camouflaged themselves with and I didn’t think Ben was one of them.
“Fine by me. At least for a little while.” And I meant that. I wanted the horrid box out of the house and off the island while I sorted out what to do. “You’ll warn your friend about the bones and the sickness and everything?”
“Of course.” Suddenly he abandoned his gloom and broke into a grin. “By God, Tess! If this isn’t a hoax…. We’ll be making history. I’ll get a bestseller out of it for sure. And you’ll be rich. Who knows what those coins are worth! The last one was sold at auction back in the fifties and it went for forty thousand.”
I nodded, trying to be enthused. It was difficult though. The storm that had brought the box up on the beach had not been normal and the light around it—probably some kind of Saint Elmo’s fire—had felt unnatural. The story behind the box was also pretty awful and involved supernatural agencies. Assuming the box and my ancestor pirate were related to one another, and I had a bad feeling that they were. How else would an Incan magician’s pieces of hate get to Maine?
Something began to nibble on the back of my brain.
“Ben, when did you say the boat sank?”
“The Calmare? During the night on either September ninth or early on the tenth.”
“Do you know what day it is?” I asked, my flesh going goose-bumpy again.
“Um—I guess….” Ben was a writer and didn’t keep close track of the days or even months. He knew it was Tuesday or Friday if he heard the ferry. It was winter if there was snow.
“September tenth. What year did it sink?”
“Well … 1712. Wow. That is just uncanny.” I knew he was only thinking about how good the coincidence would be for his book. He wasn’t appreciating how sinister the timing was and I didn’t want to say what I was thinking out loud.
Pieces of Hate (A Wendover House Mystery Book 4) Page 2
