by John
“You mean you were there all the time? Well, thanks a lot for not rescuing me sooner!”
“Sorry, Dolf. It was as much as I could do not to get taken myself. He forced the lock of the bathroom – I guess he was looking for me too – and I had to hide in a cupboard with the towels. Seems he wasn’t bright enough to look any further. After he’d put you in the dungeon, he hung around for ages. I think he was waiting for someone, because he kept looking at the door. Then I saw him go inside.”
“He was too busy menacing me,” I said, unable to help shuddering a bit as I remembered the goon doing his looming act and threatening to break my arms.
“What did he want to know?” asked Henry quickly.
“What I knew about pirates,” I answered. “He told me if we didn’t stop asking questions we’d be in trouble.”
“Great!” said Henry. “I was hoping it would rattle their cages a bit.”
“Actually, it was me that got the rattling,” I said.
“Sorry about that, Dolf. Did anything else happen?”
“Someone else was there. They talked for a bit, but I couldn’t hear anything much. Just something about some captain and more diggers… ”
Henry frowned. “Diggers? Why would they want diggers?”
“Er… maybe they really are looking for treasure,” I said.
Henry stared off into the distance. “You could be right, Dolf,” he said at last. “And I wonder who this ‘captain’ is – our old friend Captain Trueblood, perhaps?”
“The goon said something about his boss. He sounded afraid.”
“Well, whoever it was I didn’t see him come… or go,” said Henry. “I did see your goon heading off, though. I really wanted to go after him, but I could hear you yelling and I thought I’d better get you out first.”
Somewhat mollified by Henry’s concern, I wondered aloud how they had found us.
“That’s why I think Captain Trueblood is involved in all of this,” said Henry. “I don’t think he wanted us hanging around, trying to find out what really happened to the Stevenses. He suggested we stay on the Spinnaker on purpose – so he could arrange for our kidnap to make sure we stay far away from his boat!”
“I could have starved to death down there!” I said. “Please tell me we’re going home now?” Even as I said it I knew it wasn’t going to happen, but after such a traumatic experience all I could think about was the safety of St Grimbold’s.
“We can’t leave now,” Henry told me. “We’re getting closer to the truth. We’ve got to keep digging. For Charlie’s sake.”
My stomach grumbled. “Can we at least have a decent breakfast first?”
Henry nodded. “Soon. But can we quickly have a look around the museum, while we’re here? We might find some information that could help. Then I promise we’ll have a slap-up breakfast.”
I knew Henry was right, so I put on a brave face. “OK. But it’d better be interesting.”
“It will be. I promise.”
IN THE MUSEUM
For once Henry was right. The Museum of Pirates and Piracy was actually a pretty cool place. For starters we were met at the door by a big bloke dressed as a pirate, who managed to weave just about every cliché you can think of about the subject into his spiel, and kept calling us ‘shipmates’. But the best thing about the place was that, when we finally escaped from the piratical guide and went inside, we found that the museum was set up to look as much like the era in which the pirates had lived as possible. We walked along a replica of the Nassau docks accompanied by sounds of waves, creaking timbers and drunken seamen yelling oaths at each other. But the best thing was the main part of the museum, which was set up as a full-size replica of a pirate galleon.
We wandered from deck to deck, looking in at cases of pirate weaponry – plenty of flintlock pistols, long knives, cutlasses and belaying pins (Henry explained that these were wooden pegs used to fasten down the rigging, but also used as weapons), some of which had apparently belonged to real pirates.
Then we came to one of the largest and most spectacular 3D models I’d seen, showing a pirate captain leading his bunch of fiercelooking seadogs up and over the side of a defenceless trading vessel.
I couldn’t help staring at the captain. He was well over six feet tall, built like a brick wall and hung about with weapons. Apart from the big curved cutlass he was holding in one meaty hand, he also had four pistols stuck into the cross-belts that stretched over his large chest. But by far the scariest thing about him was the twists of rope that he had wound into his long black hair. In the diorama they actually glowed as if they were lit. The glow reflected in the figure’s black eyes, which seemed to move in his head and follow us. A recording of thunderous explosions and cries and shouts accompanied the scene – it was all a bit too real, if you ask me!
Even though I knew the figure was just a dummy I couldn’t repress a shudder. This was definitely not someone you’d want to meet on a dark night. But it was more than that. A strange feeling came over me – as if I somehow knew this character, or had met him already. Perhaps I’d seen him in one of Henry’s books?
“Wow! Blackbeard – aka Edward Teach!” Henry said excitedly, coming up alongside me. “One of the greatest pirates who ever lived.”
“Pretty nasty-looking bloke if you ask me,” I said.
“You’re right about that,” answered Henry. “He was believed to have killed at least fifty people, and he sank more ships than any other pirate around at the time. Of course, all he was really interested in was getting rich.”
“What are those things in his hair?” I asked.
“Those are tapers,” said Henry. “You know, the things they lit to fire their cannons. Blackbeard twisted them into his hair and set them burning before he went into battle. Imagine it,” he went on, warming to his subject, “there he was: six feet tall, great big beard, foul temper, with those burning eyes and burning tapers, and all those pistols… No wonder even his crew believed he was in league with the Devil.”
“The Devil? What, as in ‘the Devil’… horns and tail and all that?”
“Exactly,” said Henry. “Blackbeard escaped capture so often it seemed like more than luck. It’s said that when he did finally meet his death he had five bullet wounds and twenty sword cuts on him. In the end, someone slit his throat from behind and then cut off his head.”
“Nasty,” I said, staring up at the towering figure of Blackbeard. I was glad he was behind glass.
“What’s more,” said Henry, “after he died his crew reported seeing a sailor on board the ship that no one had ever seen or spoken to. They reckoned it was the Devil himself who’d come to claim old Blackbeard’s soul.”
“All I can say is I’m glad we don’t have to meet him,” I said.
“Sometimes I wonder about you, Dolf,” said Henry. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do. Meet Blackbeard – that would be something!”
“Something I’d rather not think about, if you don’t mind,” I said grumpily. But Henry wasn’t listening. He had moved away to another glass cabinet.
“Look at this, Dolf. It’s Blackbeard’s treasure map.”
I went and stood by Henry’s side. Somehow I still felt as though the figure in the diorama was watching me, making the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, but I dutifully looked at the display. Inside the case was a very old-looking parchment, all stained and ragged around the edges. It showed an island with a very obvious X in the middle, marked in red.
“Come off it!” I said. “You’d think they could manage something better than this. It’s got to be a fake.”
“Of course,” said Henry. “But listen to what it says.” He read from the dusty card attached to the window of the case. “A treasure map believed to belong to the dread pirate Edward Teach, also known as Blackbeard, marking the last resting place of his treasure. Many have sought this but none lived to tell the tale. Source: Unknown.”
“They must have had fun making t
hat up,” I said. “Shouldn’t ‘dread’ be ‘dead’, anyway?”
“Maybe,” replied Henry thoughtfully. “But there’s something odd about this.”
“What now?” I said.
“Well, everyone knows Blackbeard died in 1718, when the British Navy caught up with him. But look at the card, Dolf. The death date has been scratched out – and recently, by the look of it.”
“So – someone was playing a joke,” I said.
“This is a museum,” said Henry, as if the very idea of someone joking in such a place was impossible to contemplate.
I was about to say something about it not mattering that much but thought better of it. Facts really matter to Henry, at least – for him it’s almost an obsession.
We left soon after, Henry still muttering darkly about ‘important dates’. He called George the cheerful Rasta to drive us back to our hotel. Henry was unusually quiet on the drive through the busy streets.
“So did we learn anything useful?” I asked at length, still thinking about my extremely delayed breakfast.
“Well, there are at least a dozen stories of pirate treasure hoards buried around the Caribbean,” answered Henry, seeming to forget all about his former mood at the chance to spout more facts and demonstrate that he had picked up a lot more information than I had in our time in the museum.
He reeled off a long list of names that included people with monikers like Black Bart, Ned Lowe, William Kidd and Black Sam Bellamy. (There seemed to be a lot of pirates called ‘Black’ this and that. Why did you never hear of ‘Yellow Tom’ or ‘Blue Jake’, I wondered to myself?)
“All of them have well-known stories,” added Henry. “Of course there’s no evidence they ever existed.” He looked a bit glum at this. “But a lot of people have gone looking for them.”
“Including Charlie’s dad,” I said.
“Yes. Including Charlie’s dad,” Henry answered seriously.
He was silent for a minute then said, “Just suppose he found something – a clue to some treasure or other. That would give someone a good reason for kidnapping him.”
“Kidnapping? Could that really be what happened?”
“It makes sense,” Henry answered. “People have disappeared for a lot less serious reasons. Just like you nearly did,” he added, with a grin.
“If it really did happen like that, shouldn’t we tell the police or something?” I suggested, thinking that maybe we should tell them what had happened to me.
“Maybe,” said Henry. “But we need to find out more before we do that. Right now if we went in with a story about pirate treasure no one would believe us anyway. Not even here.”
“Er… So how can we find out more?” I asked.
“We need someone with local knowledge,” said Henry. He turned to George, who had, of course, heard all of this, but who, with the kind of discretion shared by employees of Hunter and Co., had said nothing.
“If we wanted to talk to someone who knows everything about this place and what goes on, who would it be?” asked Henry.
“I think I know just the man for you, young sir,” said George. “He’s a bit rough around the edges, if you know what I mean, but basically harmless.”
I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of someone who was ‘basically’ harmless, but Henry was obviously delighted.
“Sounds perfect,” he said. “Can you set up a meeting for us – tonight, if possible?”
George promised to do his best and having dropped us at our hotel headed off again into the midday sun.
Back in the hotel room Henry flopped down on his bed and laced his hands behind his head.
“Only one thing bothers me right now, Dolf,” he said. “Why was that display in the museum changed? Unless… ” He paused with that expression that indicated ‘thinking’ I knew so well on his face.
“Unless what?” I said.
“The man who snatched you had a key to the museum storeroom, which means he probably works there. And if he has some connection with the place, that’s probably why the card got changed.”
“What makes you think that?” I asked
“Because it means someone there knows something the rest of the world doesn’t. If Edward Teach didn’t die when everyone thinks he did, anything’s possible. Maybe that map in there isn’t a forgery. Maybe it really does show where he buried his treasure!”
I wasn’t sure if I followed this line of reasoning exactly, but it certainly made a weird kind of sense. And if Henry was right it could throw a whole new light on the mysterious disappearance of Charlie Stevens’ parents.
IRON JAKE
Later, having spent a couple of hours relaxing by the hotel swimming pool, followed by a pretty fantastic supper at one of the restaurants along the quay, George returned to take us to meet our local ‘mostly harmless’ informant.
“To be honest,” he said, as we threaded our way through the evening traffic towards the docks, “I’m not sure what his real name is, but everyone calls him ‘Iron Jake’. He’s lived around here for most of his life and knows everybody. Nothing happens in Bridgetown without him hearing about it.”
“Iron Jake,” echoed Henry. “Sounds like a colourful type.”
“Oh, he’s colourful all right,” said George. “But don’t let the act fool you. He remembers everything he hears and knows far more than he lets on. If anyone can help you it’s Jake.”
Personally I was not happy. The name ‘Iron Jake’ had conjured up all kinds of images in my head – most of them involving us being beaten up and thrown back into that unpleasant dungeon. Henry, however, was obviously delighted and kept leaning forward in his seat to stare out of the windows at the passing throngs of Barbadians, all of whom looked as if they were intent upon enjoying themselves as much and as noisily as possible. We passed chickens in crates, vendors selling hot spicy fish and coconut juice – and everywhere tourists trying to find a bargain in the colourful shops that seemed to line every street.
We soon reached the docks, where a forest of masts rose above the water and formed a bristling display against the sky, which was striped every colour from deep red to murky blue. George pulled up in front of a ramshackle-looking cabin, stuffed in between a lobster bar and a shop selling scuba gear. It was a bit quieter here – most people looking for fun along the shoreline gathered around the marina, where dozens of cafes and restaurants spilled their tables out onto the pavement and where the Spinnaker was moored.
The cabin looked deserted. No light shone out of its windows and the veranda, which sloped drunkenly to one side, was a pool of darkness. But as we left the car a patch of that darkness resolved itself into a figure that must have been sitting in a battered old chair the whole time.
“Evening, Jake,” said George. “This is Mr Hunter and Mr Pringle, the ones I told you about.”
“Bit young for treasure-hunters, ain’t they?” said the man on the veranda. His voice was gruff and his accent so thick I had a hard time following it.
“We may be young, but we’re serious,” answered Henry, advancing towards Iron Jake with his hand outstretched.
The man ignored him and as he rose from his chair and emerged slowly into the flickering light of a streetlamp I saw why.
Iron Jake had only one hand, the other being replaced by a metal fist – the reason, I assumed, why he was called Iron Jake, though it couldn’t really be made of iron as that would have weighed a ton. His face was weathered and lined and his hair grey and grizzled. He could have been any age from forty to a hundred. From the way that he moved I deduced that he probably had only one leg as well. As if both these distinguishing features were not enough, he also wore a patch over his right eye. The other eye was very blue and very bright and I could see that it was summing us up pretty quickly.
Seriously, I thought, could you get any more clichéd than this?
“I’d ask ye to join me in a tot o’ rum,” growled Iron Jake, “but I can see you’re not of an age for it yet.”
&nb
sp; “We’re good, thank you, Mr Jake,” said Henry.
“Just Jake will do,” answered our host. “Sit ye down, boys.”
George returned discreetly to the car, which I was glad to see was near enough to be able to keep an eye on us without listening in. We sat side by side on an extremely battered lounger, and Iron Jake produced a flask of strong sweet-smelling liquid (rum, I guessed) and took a lengthy swig. Then he lowered himself carefully into his own chair and turned his bright blue eye on us.
“So what can I do for ye, boys?”
Henry outlined the reasons for us being in the Caribbean. When he got to the bit about the Stevenses disappearance, and what Charlie had seen, Jake held up his hand.
“Wait now,” he said. “Did you say the name o’ these missin’ folks was Stevens? Tall fella with red hair, was he, Mr Stevens?”
“Yes,” said Henry.
“Aye. I remembers ’em,” said Jake thoughtfully. “Came ’ere askin’ fer help lookin’ for treasure. Weren’t too pleased when I told ’im to shove off.”
“You must be the person Charlie remembers his dad having an argument with before they left on the Spinnaker,” said Henry.
“Aye, that’d be me all right,” said Jake. “Tis a small world, they say.”
He took another nip from his flask and leaned forward, his good eye glinting.
“So this youngster says he saw a black ship with holes in it, flying the Jolly Roger?”
Henry nodded. “He said he could see strange-looking people on the deck as well, but Captain Trueblood… ”
Iron Jake snorted. “Cap’n, is it? Trueblood ain’t no Cap’n. Just a jumped-up landlubber.” (I did think of putting a list of the odd words used by our informant in here, but I think you’ll get the picture.)
“He seemed really concerned about Mr and Mrs Stevens.”
