Spirits of the Pirate House

by Paul Ferrante

  “Charmed. And aren’t you the pretty one, Miss Darcy.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” said LouAnne, blushing. “Is it all right if I film our conversation? For the television show?”

  “By all means, my dear. Now, what do you want to know?” she said primly as LouAnne hefted the camcorder and pressed RECORD.

  “To begin,” said T.J. nervously, “what exactly is the Bermuda National Trust?”

  “It’s a charity, actually, established in 1970 to preserve our natural, architectural, and historic treasures, and to encourage the public’s appreciation of them. The purpose of our programs and activities is to ensure that Bermuda’s unique heritage remains protected for future generations.

  “To that end, we oversee some 70 properties throughout the country that include a number of different historic houses, islands, gardens, cemeteries, nature reserves, and the like.

  “The Trust also runs three museums displaying a collection of artifacts owned and made by Bermudians, as well as an education program that focuses on the island’s history and what it means to our future.”

  “And Hibiscus House is one of those properties?” asked Bortnicker.

  “One of our finest,” she answered proudly. “Sir William Tarver played a prominent role in Bermuda history of the 1700s, and his home is a testament to his influence.”

  “Except that nobody wants to work there,” said Bortnicker pointedly.

  “There have been ... issues,” Mrs. Tilbury said, a bit of a squint in her eye.

  “Do you think the house is haunted?” asked T.J. gently.

  “Good heavens, no,” she answered smartly.

  Bortnicker and T.J. looked at each other with concern. “Well,” ventured T.J., “then what are we doing here, Mrs. Tilbury?”

  The woman seemed taken aback by the question, though it was a fair one. She gathered herself and leaned forward on her desk. “Please don’t be offended,” she said tactfully, “but this whole enterprise was most certainly not my idea. The fact of the matter is that we have a committee that makes such decisions. As you can see, I was outvoted.” She didn’t seem too happy about it.

  “But, wouldn’t you want someone to come in here and hopefully determine that the site is fine?” asked Weinstein.

  Mrs. Tilbury turned to Mike and fixed him with a disapproving look. “I have seen your television program, Mr. Weinstein,” she began, her voice becoming edgy. “A lot of idiotic raving and playacting, if you ask me. And that includes the ridiculous contraptions you pass off as paranormal investigation equipment. You will be allowed access to the house, but you will not turn the investigation of a National Trust site into a circus. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, very,” answered Mike.

  “May I ask you a question, Mrs. Tilbury?” said T.J., attempting to change the tone of the interview. He gave his most charming smile, and she actually attempted one in return.

  “Surely, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Sir William Tarver, according to our research, was a pirate—”

  “A privateer, Mr. Jackson,” she corrected. “You are aware of the difference?”

  “A pirate was out for himself,” said Bortnicker, “while a privateer was under contract, usually by a government or a governor of some kind.”

  “Well done, Mr. Bortnicker. Sir William had begun as a full-fledged pirate, capturing ships of any flag and keeping the plunder for himself and his crew. But then, the governor of Bermuda convinced him that he could still make money—and save his neck, as they were hanging pirates in England—by attacking Spanish merchant ships in the name of England by way of Bermuda.”

  “And he made enough money to finance that huge house and plantation just from working for the governor?”

  Mrs. Tilbury paused for just a second, which T.J. thought was strange, before replying, “It would appear.” She looked up at the mahogany encased grandfather clock in the corner, a signal that their interview was nearly over. “Of course, he also served as a military advisor to the governor, as many forts and other defensive installations were being built at the time.”

  “Are there any in particular he had a hand in designing?”

  “Yes. Fort St. Catherine here in St. George’s Parish, and Fort Hamilton in Pembroke Parish.”

  Bortnicker scribbled the names in his notebook.

  “You’ve been rather quiet through all this, Miss Darcy,” said the woman.

  “Busy filming, I guess,” said LouAnne. “But I did have one question.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Well, it’s customary on the show to speak to employees or visitors of the site in question who have experienced paranormal occurrences, or what they believed to be such. Will we have that opportunity?”

  Mrs. Tilbury took a measured breath, probably berating herself internally for giving the girl an opening.

  “Miss Darcy, it is against everything I believe in to base an investigation on hearsay or the fanciful claims of those who might desire their so-called fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “But,” pressed LouAnne, “the house has remained closed to the public for going on six months because you can’t find anyone to work there, isn’t that correct?” True to her nature, she wasn’t backing down one inch. Tilbury glared at her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, here is what’s going to happen. You will conduct your investigation of Hibiscus House on our agreed date, with the option for a second visit. I am completely confident that your visit, or visits, will reveal that this building is no more than an interesting historical site that will forever entice visitors based on its sheer beauty ... and nothing more.”

  “But can we still have access to the historical archives?” said Bortnicker.

  “That is what was agreed upon,” she answered through slightly clenched teeth.

  T.J., who noticed a vein that had been pulsing on the side of Mrs. Tilbury’s forehead, went into his finest suave mode, rising to shake her hand. “Mrs. Tilbury,” he said sincerely, “we thank you so much for your time and expertise, and promise that we will produce a show that you will be proud of, one that will help promote your beautiful island.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Jackson,” she said, taking his hand while the others rose. “I’m sure that under your guidance, Hibiscus House will be accorded the respect it deserves. Good day.”

  They walked out of the office and through the building. Once outside, Mike said, “So, what do you think, dudes?”

  “She’s lying,” said Bortnicker.

  “No doubt,” agreed LouAnne. “If she could snap her finger and make us disappear, we’d be history.”

  “Sir William Tarver had a secret,” said T.J. “And it’s gonna be up to us to find out what it is, which will explain why he’s hanging around all of a sudden. And I think it all starts tomorrow on our wreck dive.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Bortnicker. “We’re supposed to be going snorkeling at this Treasure Beach this afternoon. Is it okay if we pick up Ronnie on the way?”

  T.J. and his cousin looked at each other. “Sure, why not,” said LouAnne casually. “The more the merrier.”

  “Besides, she’ll know where to find the cool stuff she mentioned,” added T.J.

  “You dudes won’t mind taking the bus there?” asked Mike as Chappy pulled up in front of the museum. “This really isn’t on the itinerary for Chappy.”

  “No big deal,” said T.J. “We’re just bringing our dive bag with our masks and snorkels and stuff. Dad got us all weekly bus passes, so we might as well use them.”

  They got into the minivan. “How did it go, my friends?” said Chappy nonchalantly.

  “Not good,” said Bortnicker. “Mrs. Tilbury was okay and all, but I don’t think she wants us poking around Hibiscus House.”

  “And she won’t let us talk to anyone who’s quit working there,” said T.J. “I don’t know what that means exactly.”“It means you have a mystery to solve,” said Chappy matter-of-factly. He slid a
/>   CD into the player. “What say to a little Magical Mystery Tour?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was hot at the bus stop. The boys, at Ronnie’s suggestion, had worn a floppy tee shirt over their baggy bathing suits because it was possible to get sunburn on your back if you were snorkeling on the water’s surface for an extended period. Besides, it was bad form in Bermuda to go shirtless in public, even if you were on your way to the beach.

  LouAnne had thrown a flowered cover-up over her one piece that matched her red Phillies baseball cap. “Gotta get used to these new flip-flops,” she muttered. “Not too many beaches in Gettysburg, if you know what I mean.”

  “What, no bikini?” said Bortnicker mischievously, eyeing the outline of her bathing suit under her cover-up.

  “Tell you what, Bortnicker,” she shot back, “I’ll buy a bikini here if you wear a Speedo.”

  They looked over at T.J. “I’m staying out of this,” he laughed.

  Soon a pink bus labeled “Dockyard” came by. The teens hefted their dive equipment bags and towels and climbed aboard, showing their passes to the bus driver, a young black man in a crisp uniform. “Afternoon, folks,” he smiled. “Looks like a snorkeling expedition here.”

  “You know it,” said Bortnicker.

  “Well, move to the back and find a seat. This bus will fill up like a sardine can by the time we reach the Royal Dockyard.”

  The boys sat together and piled their bags on the seat next to LouAnne, who sat across the aisle. Sure enough, with every stop along the South Road beaches, more people, mostly tourists, came aboard, most of them happily exhausted from riding the ocean waves. Before long the boys had given up their seats to an elderly couple and stood, gripping the handles on the corners of every seatback.

  “Mike didn’t want to come, huh?” asked Bortnicker.

  “Nah,” said T.J., swaying slightly as the bus negotiated a curve, “he’s trying out the underwater camera in the hotel pool, and then it’s off to Hamilton for a little free time with that girl he met.”

  “Not bad.”

  “The perks of being a TV star, man.”

  “Do you guys know where this beach is?” asked LouAnne from her window seat.

  “Ronnie says it’s near this bridge when you’re almost at the Dockyard. It’s like a cove, so we won’t get the waves like at the beaches along the coast here.”

  They passed through Somerset and stopped just past Dora’s Corners, where Ronnie Goodwin stood talking to an older woman. She helped the lady aboard, then made her way to the trio of Americans in the back. And though she was wearing a tie-dyed long tee-shirt on top, it was clear that Ronnie Goodwin had no such inhibitions about wearing a bikini. Bortnicker cut his eyes sideways at T.J., a smirk on his face, then noticed LouAnne frowning at him.

  “Hi, guys!” said Ronnie, squeezing in beside the boys in the now jammed vehicle. A couple more people came in behind her, so that she was practically glued to Bortnicker. “Sorry,” she said. “We’re pretty packed in, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah,” said Bortnicker, who didn’t seem to mind at all.

  LouAnne just shook her head.

  “We’ll be at Treasure Beach in ten minutes, max,” she assured. “Then it’s just a minute’s walk from the bus stop.” True to her word, they arrived shortly thereafter.

  There was actually a little picnic area under some palm trees that sat on a bluff overlooking the small beach. The waves barely rippled, and the shallow water gleamed green. The group staked out a picnic table just short of the protective rock jetty and took in the scenery.

  “Gorgeous,” said LouAnne, peeling off her cover-up. “Hope I put enough sunscreen on.”

  A second later Ronnie had shucked her tee shirt and was sticking a toe in the water. “Like a bath,” she reported. “So, are we snorkeling?”

  The boys, doing their best to avoid staring at her curves, began rooting through their dive bags and laid their equipment on a beach towel. Ronnie, who’d brought her own mask, snorkel and flippers from Blue Lagoon, was set. In a matter of seconds she and Bortnicker, hand in hand, were negotiating the jetty down to the spit of sand that constituted Treasure Beach. Which left T.J. and LouAnne, who was settling in on a picnic bench with a paperback and a bottled water.

  “Cuz, I, uh, brought an extra set of stuff for you,” offered T.J. “Courtesy of Capt. Kenny.”

  She looked at him over her sunglasses. “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Just do this much for me,” he said. “We’ll walk in up to our knees, and you can float there to see what it’s like. I’ll stand right next to you, I promise.”

  “T.J., I—”

  “I’ll take care of you,” he said with sincerity so deep that she couldn’t say no.

  “Okay, I’ll give it a shot,” she said nervously. “But if I don’t like it—”

  “We’ll come right out, and you can go back to your book. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she sighed.

  They sat at the water’s edge and put on their flippers. T.J. helped his cousin adjust her mask and attach the snorkel by means of a rubber ring. He taught her how to spit on the inside of the glass, smear it around, and then rinse before putting the mask on. “Then you just take nice, easy breaths and float along, gently kicking your flippers. That’s all there is to it,” he said confidently.

  “Let me try,” she said. “Stand right here next to me, okay?”

  “Yup.”

  She first knelt down in the sand, then slowly got horizontal and actually floated next to him, her arms at her side. Suddenly she popped up and tore off her mask.

  “What’s the matter?” T.J. cried in alarm.

  “A fish! I saw a little itty-bitty fish, and it was ... gold and black! Swimming right below me!”

  “Pretty cool, huh?” he laughed with relief.

  “Yeah.”

  “Take my hand,” he said, seizing the moment. “We’ll swim together. I won’t let go. I promise.”

  She readjusted her mask, nodded her head, and tentatively offered her hand. They waded in a bit farther and then they were floating, kicking as one, gazing down at the plethora of fish, rocks, and coral that inhabited the cove’s waters. T.J. felt a joy that was hard to describe—he didn’t know if it was from the pride he had in knowing his cousin trusted him with her life, or of sharing in her wonder as a whole new world opened up to her. Soon they were skimming along where the water was ten feet deep or more, but neither seemed to care. It was perfect.

  After what seemed like hours they turned back toward shore, but they hadn’t gone far when LouAnne stopped abruptly and pointed below. T.J. followed her finger to the bottom where a small octagonal bottle lay. It was of a purple hue and looked to be quite old. He gave her a signal to stay put, then jackknifed downward and plucked the bottle from the seabed in a graceful swoop. T.J. kicked hard for the surface, cleared his snorkel with a sharp toot, then took his cousin’s hand again to resume their trip to shore.

  When they reached the shallows, T.J. and LouAnne sat, masks tipped back on their heads, examining their find. “Looks like 1800s, maybe earlier,” he said. “And the glass stopper’s still in it! Incredible!”

  “I think it’s handmade,” said LouAnne. “See how uneven it is? Wow.”

  “What are you gonna put in it?” asked T.J.

  “You want me to have it?”

  “Of course. Why’d you think I dove down for it?” He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling in the sunlight.

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Know what I’m gonna call this? My wish bottle. Whenever I wish, I’m gonna say it into the bottle and then put in the stopper to keep my wish safe.”

  Suddenly T.J. was overcome; by what, he didn’t quite know. “Sounds good to me,” he managed, trying to play it off. “I hope you’ll at least wash it out first.”

  “Of course, silly!” she said. “Let’s go find Bortnicker and Ronnie and show them our treasure!”

  As it turned out,
Bortnicker and his diving mate had found their own collection of odds and ends on the sandy bottom, including some nearly complete china tea cups and most of a dinner plate.

  “Where does all this stuff come from?” asked T.J.

  “Who knows?” said Ronnie. “There are shipwrecks all over the place around here, T.J. The different currents just drag this stuff around, and it ends up here. Makes you feel quite the explorer, doesn’t it? But I must say, LouAnne, that bottle you brought up is quite a find.”

  “T.J. got it for me, actually,” she replied, beaming at her cousin.

  “How’d you like snorkeling, LouAnne?” asked Bortnicker. “Was it cool?”

  “Better than that,” she replied, holding the purple bottle to the sunlight.

  “Enough to make you learn SCUBA?”

  “Let’s not get carried away.”

  “Well, what now?” asked T.J. “We were in the water over an hour.”

  “Guys, I have an idea,” said Ronnie. “Why don’t we towel off, pack up and take the next bus the rest of the way to the Royal Dockyard? There are lots of cool shops and such, and we could catch a late lunch at this pub called The Frog and Onion. Sound good?”

  “We’re on it!” piped Bortnicker enthusiastically. “To the Royal Dockyard we go!”

  The boys put on some dry tee shirts they’d brought, and the foursome made their way back to the bus stop, where another pink vehicle came along shortly. Fortunately for them, this bus wasn’t as packed as the last one. Bortnicker and Ronnie sat together, as did the cousins.

  “So, why is this place called the Royal Dockyard?” asked Bortnicker.

  “Well,” said Ronnie, “after England was defeated in your War for Independence, they needed an Atlantic naval outpost, so this was built in the early 1800s. They shipped in convicts from England to help build it. It continued to serve the Royal Navy until after World War II. Then it wasn’t used for a while, but in the 1990s the government started revitalizing it and making it acceptable for docking cruise ships.

  “The main fort has become the Bermuda Maritime Museum, which we can check out if you like, but there are some other attractions as well. We can nip in to a few if you don’t mind a bit of walking.”