Spirits of the Pirate House

by Paul Ferrante

  But this ... this was scary.

  “Well, my full name’s Veronique,” she said with that soft Bermudian lilt, “but to everyone else I’m just Ronnie.” She extended her hand, and T.J. cut his eyes sideways to see if Bortnicker would take it. When he froze, T.J. stepped in and shook with her.

  “I’m T.J. Jackson,” he said politely, “and this strange person with me is my friend, Bortnicker. We’re here about a charter trip that The Adventure Channel’s arranged?”

  Ronnie fixed her gaze on Bortnicker, and a wry smile creased her full lips. “I’ve heard so much about you guys,” she said pleasantly, extending her hand again to Bortnicker, who managed to shake it while smiling crookedly. Of course. Mike had been here already; it was all a setup. T.J. smiled to himself. Well played, Weinstein, he thought.

  “Let me show you around the shop,” said Ronnie, moving from behind the counter gracefully. She was wearing a Bob Marley tee shirt knotted at her midriff and a pair of faded cutoffs. The girl wasn’t what T.J. would call voluptuous, but Ronnie Goodwin wasn’t too far off.

  They followed her around as she described the equipment and how Blue Lagoon conducted their rentals. From what T.J. could tell, she was quite knowledgeable. As if reading his mind, she said, “I’ve been working here for ten years now. Started tagging along with Dad when I was four or five.”

  Finally, Bortnicker spoke. “Get a lot of tourists here, I guess.”

  “That’s all we get, actually. The majority are friendly, but some are fairly demanding. We’re booked most days of the week, sometimes twice a day. My dad has an assistant who either serves as first mate on the bigger boat or takes people out on the Reef Seeker II if we’re double booked.”

  “How’s business?” asked Bortnicker, struggling to make conversation.

  “Oh, we do all right,” she said with a wink. “My dad’s owned the business since the late 90s, when he bought out the original owner, who was retiring. This was one of the first certified dive shops on the island. Dad spent a lot of years here, working his way up to first mate, and scraping together enough money to someday own his own place. Mr. Osgood gave Dad a pretty good deal because he’d been such a loyal employee.”

  “Well said, young lady!” applauded an athletic, dark skinned man who had slipped in the rear door. “You’re making me sound quite the hero.”

  Embarrassed, Ronnie skipped over and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh, Daddy, you know you’re the best Divemaster in Bermuda. You’re just too modest to admit it.”

  “Shh, child,” he whispered, giving her a quick hug. “I take it these are our American TV stars?”

  “Uh-huh. This one with the Paul McCartney eyes is T.J. And this man of few words is Bortnicker.”

  Jasper Goodwin shook hands with the pair as Bortnicker went a pinkish red. “Great to have you here, boys. Let’s have a seat and chat.” He pulled a few cane chairs over to a card table littered with brochures featuring different Bermuda attractions. Ronnie took a seat next to Bortnicker, raising his already high level of self-consciousness.

  When they were all settled, Jasper unrolled a detailed chart that said Sites of Bermuda Shipwrecks. “Right,” he began. “Now, look at this map, boys. As you probably noticed on your flight in, Bermuda is ringed with coral reefs. In fact, the first British colony started here in 1609 came about because a ship called the Sea Venture that was bound for Virginia hit the rocks here. Salvaging the contents of wrecked ships in our relatively shallow and clear waters became a major industry for the settlers and was later sanctioned by Governor Nathaniel Butler. Bermudian salvagers of one stripe or another would continue this practice even after World War II.”

  “So there are lots of wrecks around the island?” asked T.J.

  “Well,” said Goodwin, rubbing his grey-flecked black goatee, “look for yourself. This chart alone features 30 or so wrecks that have been identified. Overall, there have been reports of over 250 sunken vessels at various depths, ranging from the 1600s to the present. Oops—please excuse me for a moment.”

  The passengers from Reef Seeker I had by now gathered their gear and come inside, escorted by a whipcord-thin white man in a Blue Lagoon Dive Shop golf shirt and white cargo shorts. Jasper approached each and every client, inquired as to whether they’d enjoyed themselves—they most certainly had—and pointed out the various tee shirts, tank tops and hats bearing the Blue Lagoon logo that they might want to purchase as a keepsake of their underwater adventure. Ronnie hustled over to the cash register to run them up, and the white man handed out certificates to the clients to commemorate the dive. When they’d all been seen to, Jasper and his daughter rejoined the boys, who were still pouring over the chart.

  “Sorry, gentlemen, business and all that,” said Jasper.

  “No problem,” said T.J. “Seems like they had a great dive.”

  “Oh, yes. Today we had optimum conditions—water temperature 80 degrees and around 100 feet visibility. So, we checked out some marine life and then dove on the wreck of the Constellation, an American schooner that sank in 1943. Perfect for recreational divers.”

  “I’ll go wash down the boat,” called the white man, who had finished lugging the air tank inside for refilling.

  “Brilliant, Skeeter. I’ll join you in a bit.” Jasper traced a calloused finger along the South Shore, which was sprinkled with ship icons and names. “All right, boys. What I’m pointing to here is the Gibbs Hill Lighthouse, the oldest cast-iron lighthouse in the world, located in Southampton Parish. I believe you’re staying nearby at the Jobson’s Cove Apartments?”

  “Right,” said T.J.

  “Okay, well you must realize that the lighthouse didn’t go up until the mid-1800s, not that shipwrecks didn’t occur way after that and even today. But back in the 1700s it was quite difficult to see at night, even in clear weather under a bright moon.

  “A few months ago I took a small party out to a wreck called the Mary Celeste—”

  “I saw that ship on Deep Sea Detectives!” broke in Bortnicker.

  “I thought you said he was quiet,” Jasper said playfully to his daughter.

  “Well, TV people can be rather dramatic, Daddy,” she replied, rubbing Bortnicker’s shoulder supportively.

  “I suppose. Anyway, I got everyone in the water and then decided to have a dip myself, maybe catch a lobster or spear a hogfish for dinner. And the most extraordinary thing occurred.”

  The boys inched closer on their seats like they used to with Capt. Kenny.

  “I was swimming along, hugging the bottom, when I topped a rise and then looked down. Now, we had a couple hurricanes blow through during the fall, and it must’ve disrupted the landscape down there dramatically, because I came upon the remains of the timbers of a very old ship.”

  “Cool!” said T.J. “And no one had ever seen it before?”

  “Apparently not. It was like Neptune had pulled back a curtain for me or something.

  “Of course, it’s not like you see in cartoons or whatever—an intact ship sitting upright on the ocean bottom. As I said, I found the outline of the ship’s ribs and some ballast stones. There were even a few coral-encrusted cannon lying about.”

  “Any treasure?” said T.J.

  Jasper Goodwin gave a hearty laugh. “No, boys, no pieces of eight, or emeralds winking at me from the ocean floor. The ship—which appears to be what we call a Bermuda Sloop—lies in less than 30 feet of water, so I would imagine most of whatever it held was salvaged years ago. That doesn’t mean there’s nothing left there, however.”

  “Why do they call it a Bermuda Sloop?” asked Bortnicker.

  “Well, basically because the design was conceived on the island, a fore-and-aft rigged vessel with anywhere from one to three sails. It was sleek and highly maneuverable, which was essential to pirates who wanted to surprise the more unwieldy treasure galleons you see in those fanciful Johnny Depp movies—”

  “I think he’s cute, actually,” Ronnie whispered in Bortnicker’s ear, h
er warm breath making his eyes widen.

  “—and then escape quickly around the reefs and small islands both here and throughout the Caribbean. Later the vessels were used in the merchant trade, but the sturdy construction of Bermudian cedar was highly rot-resistant, and the low density of the wood made the ships lighter, faster, and more durable. What little wood I found was cedar.”

  “But how could you possibly connect it to William Tarver?” asked T.J.

  “Good question. Well, it was no secret that Sir William had made his fortune through privateering, though he remains a somewhat shadowy figure in Bermudian history. If your investigation team is going to truly prepare for this enterprise, I can’t stress enough the importance of a trip to our Maritime Museum to speak with a Bermuda historian. But there’s long been a rumor that somehow, Tarver’s ship—a Bermuda Sloop called the Steadfast, sank off the southern coast of the island. How and why is equally mysterious, and so far any information that might be known by the historical authorities has not been freely shared.

  “That doesn’t mean they won’t cooperate with your group. In fact, it must have been the National Heritage Trust that contacted The Adventure Channel in the first place. And I suppose that someone mentioned my claim to your people as well, because here you are.”

  “Your claim?” asked Bortnicker.

  “Oh, yes, let me explain. To be brief, our government enacted in the 1960s a series of strict laws to restrict the removal of any artifacts—including those classified as treasure—from wrecks in our local waters. If someone such as myself discovers a wreck and they want to dig on it, they must, for a nominal fee, file an exclusivity claim with the island’s Curator of Wrecks. Then, they must turn over all that is found to the government.”

  “So there must be a lot of guys out there with salvage permits,” said T.J.

  “Actually, no. Most discoveries go unreported, because the finder wouldn’t want to turn over those wonderful doubloons and silver bars, would he? So they are dived upon illegally, and whatever is found gets sold through back channels.”

  “So, why did you apply for a permit, then?”

  Goodwin sighed as his daughter shook her head slowly in disappointment. “I figured that most of what was of any value was long gone—”

  “And you’re disgustingly honest!” cut in Ronnie, before Jasper silenced her with a stern look.

  “I’m looking at this from a purely historical perspective. That’s why I welcomed the opportunity to have you boys join me here.”

  “But we’re not exactly crack archaeologists,” said Bortnicker. “Besides, our schedule will give us only a couple diving days, max.”

  “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get. If we can find just one artifact that is linked to Sir William or the Steadfast, it would be incredible.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, a monogrammed piece of silver or china. Or, of course, the ship’s bell. I was able to make out the inscription of the year on one of the cannon, and it fits the period, so we are, as you Yanks like to say, ‘in the ballpark’.”

  “So, when do we dive?” asked T.J. eagerly.

  “Well, I have scheduled us for Tuesday and Thursday of this week. Let’s start with that and see how much time you’ve got to give it. You’ve brought your certification credentials, I hope?”

  The boys immediately fished the PADI cards Capt. Kenny had awarded them from their wallets and flashed them proudly.

  “Splendid. So many of our clients are new to the sport and most just want to poke about the reefs and look at tropical fish, so it’s refreshing to meet people your age with an interest in history—”

  “And in a great man,” said Ronnie with a definitive air.

  “You think so?” asked T.J., happy to at last hear from someone who was willing to even discuss Sir William Tarver.

  “I know so. Okay, he was a pirate. So were a lot of other men of the time. What’s important is that he helped build Bermuda and was willing to protect her from attack.”

  “I’d tone that down a bit, young lady,” said her father gently. “There’s a lot about him we still don’t know.”

  “But that’s why the guys are here!” she said strongly. “To bring light to our country’s past.” She turned in her seat and looked Bortnicker square in the eye. “If there’s any way I can help you learn more about Bermuda on this trip, just say the word.”

  Bortnicker, clearly in a state of panic, had barely opened his mouth to speak when she said, “What about tomorrow? I’ll take you guys on a tour of our first capital, St. George’s. Is it okay, Daddy?”

  “Well,” he said, “I’m sure The Adventure Channel wants the biggest bang for their buck, as they say. But I’ll need you until noon in the shop. I’ve got a charter in the morning.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” said T.J. smoothly. “We’re picking up my cousin around that time at the airport. We can get her unpacked at the hotel and be here by around two, if that works.”

  At that moment Chappy came through the shop’s front door, smiling as always. “I see you’ve met my friends,” he said to Jasper, shaking his hand.

  “Indeed, Chappy. In fact, Veronique has volunteered to be their tour guide on a trip to St. George’s tomorrow.”

  “Marvelous. Well, boys, have you completed your business here?”

  They looked to Jasper, who nodded. “We’re all set for our first dive, bright and early on Tuesday.”

  “Fine. Ah, boys, I just got a call from T.J.’s dad. He and Mike are throwing some steaks on the grill back at the hotel and your presence is requested.”

  T.J. looked at his watch and was amazed. “Five o’clock already? Let’s get moving!”

  Ronnie walked the boys to the door. “We’ll have a great time tomorrow,” she assured them. “Lots to see, and it isn’t a terribly big place.” Again she rubbed her hand on Bortnicker’s upper arm, and T.J. knew it was all his friend could do to keep from melting. “See you then!” She turned on her heel and followed her father through the shop and out the back to help secure the boats for the night.

  “Spirited one, that,” observed Chappy as they climbed into the minivan.

  “She’s ... beautiful,” managed Bortnicker, in a dreamy daze.

  “That, too,” agreed Chappy. “By the way, Mr. B, I stopped off at home and brought you a little music. What say you to a little Abbey Road?”

  Bortnicker turned to T.J., his crooked grin never wider. “My day just keeps getting better,” he said as “Come Together” began to play.

  Chapter Eleven

  “You sure you don’t want to join us, Chappy?” said Tom Sr., holding aloft a sizzling steak on his cooking fork. “We’ve got plenty.”

  “No, no, thanks, anyway,” the driver said with a wave of his hand. “The missus will be upset with me if I come in late. I think she’s fixing up one of her special cod dishes, and I don’t want to miss that. You men enjoy your steaks. I’ll be ‘round at eleven tomorrow morning to get you to the airport.” He climbed into the minivan, flashed them a thumbs-up, and was off.

  “Couple more minutes, guys,” said Tom Sr. “We had a minor setback when the charcoal wouldn’t light—must be the humidity in the air. Mike had to motor over to the market to pick up some more.”

  “Let’s see the bikes, Mike!” said T.J.

  “Okay, follow me,” Mike replied, heading for the covered scooter park near the back of the hotel. “Ta-da!” he said, pointing to a fairly new pair of black G-Max 150cc bikes, both of which had seats built for two riders. For mopeds they looked pretty sporty, despite the baskets that were attached to the back.

  “How do you start it?” asked Bortnicker.

  “Allow me to demonstrate,” Mike answered, hopping on the nearest one. The boys watched intently as he fired up the machine, revving the motor with his right hand grip until the machine purred. “So, who wants the first ride?” He pointed to a metal chest Virginia’s husband had provided upon which HELMETS was stenciled in br
ight yellow paint. T.J. removed three of them and tossed one each to Mike and Bortnicker.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” said Bortnicker, easing onto the black vinyl seat behind Weinstein.

  “Hold onto the sides of the seat bottom and keep your feet on the passenger pedals,” Mike warned, and they cautiously inched out of the parking area and down the paved path to South Road.

  T.J. leaned against the limestone wall of the pool enclosure as he waited for their return. The sun was still bright, though it had begun its slow descent. The first tree frogs had begun to chirp, a sound that brought back bits of memories from his early childhood visit. He thought of his mother, and how happy this place had made her, and he smiled. Even this far from the ocean, he could hear the waves pounding the beach of Astwood Park. The smoky smell of steak and charcoal filled the air. And yes, those palm trees were swaying overhead. “I still can’t believe I’m here,” he said aloud.

  Mike and Bortnicker pulled into the lot and abruptly stopped in front of him. T.J. snapped on his helmet as Bortnicker climbed off. “Hold on tight—he drives like a madman!” Bortnicker warned, and T.J. laughed. He climbed onto the seat, tapped Mike on the shoulder, and held on for dear life.

  Out on South Road the traffic was light, but steady. As Mike zoomed along, T.J. could understand how a rain shower or a patch of oil could wreak havoc on scooters. They went around a bend, and T.J. could spy the ocean and a bit of the shoreline. Mike then ducked the vehicle into a scenic vista area and U-turned for home.

  “Dude, these bikes are cool!” Mike cried aloud as he shut the motor off. “I’m gonna buy me one when I get back to the States!” With the success of Gonzo Ghost Chasers, he could afford a fleet of them.

  “Soup’s on!” sang out Tom Sr., who was loading the steaks and tinfoil-covered baked potatoes onto a large tray.

  “Let’s eat in my room so we can hear about your day,” Mike said. “Then we can go over the equipment.” Tom Sr. went to his refrigerator and grabbed sodas for the boys as they helped Weinstein set their Spartan dinner table. He popped open beers for himself and Tom Sr., and the famished foursome dug in.