by C. S. Poe
I just smiled. It didn’t bother me. If I were her age—hell, I think she was ninety—I’d probably be telling kids to get off my lawn too.
She carefully set aside some old photographs she’d been pawing through and looked up at Jun again. “Are you Aubrey’s boyfriend?”
Jun didn’t answer immediately and instead glanced at me.
“Or do you prefer a different title, like partner or significant other? My brother, Herman, God rest his dumbass soul, was with his beloved Samuel Shell Jr. for fifty-three years and always referred to him as his best friend. I said, Herman, you shit, you ain’t fooling nobody. They even got gay married in California, but Herman never called Samuel anything but his friend. To each his own, I guess. So which do you prefer?” She eyed Jun.
“Uh… boyfriend is fine, ma’am,” Jun replied.
“Now. What do you want, Aubrey?” Louise asked after finishing with Jun.
I leaned over her desk, eyeing the photos with mild interest. “I was looking for a bit of information on Captain Edward Rogers.”
“What kind of information?” she asked.
“You know, it’s always pertaining to Smith,” I said with a wicked grin. “I’m interested in their relationship.”
Louise threaded her gnarly fingers together and stared hard.
“Not that kind of relationship,” I corrected. “I know neither of them were—their professional relationship, Louise. That’s what I want.”
“Paperwork on Rogers is mostly limited to court records,” she finally replied. “He retired to St. Augustine and never lived in Key West.”
“Court records?” I asked. “What years?”
Louise scratched the tip of her nose as she thought. “Throughout the 1850s and ’60s. You need exact dates?”
“It’s preferable.”
Louise didn’t make to move from her seat. “Rogers worked with Smith three times.”
“That’s pretty bad luck, don’t you think? Getting stranded and needing wreckers so many times for an experienced captain.”
“Not every captain was as competent as Smith.”
“True.” I tapped her desktop absently. “Did Rogers ever appear in the court records as having dealt with wreckers other than Smith?”
“No.”
Crap. Not sure what I was fishing for, but—
“Except when he reported piracy.”
“When was this?”
Louise’s face pinched up. “In 1867.”
The same year as the diary Cassidy had stolen.
“What did the records say?” I asked, leaning down to be eye level with Louise.
She gave me a critical expression. “Neither Rogers nor piracy have anything to do with Smith, Aubrey.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been learning more about Rogers and his time in Key West. I’m interested,” I answered, which, hey, not total bullshit.
Louise looked away and studied her antique wristwatch for a good minute. “He originally claimed to have had a run-in with the Red Lady.”
“The supposed ship of One-Eyed Jack,” I stated.
Louise sniffed. “That would be correct,” she said woodenly. “But he retracted the claim and let it drop.”
“Did he report any stolen goods when meeting the Red Lady?”
“He said he was boarded, pirates began to loot, but then quickly abandoned his vessel. Rogers never said what, if anything, was actually stolen.”
“Why do you think he’d have recanted on the story?”
“Oh, heaven knows,” Louise exclaimed. “A resurgence in piracy wouldn’t have been good, especially so soon after the Civil War. If Rogers had some sort of run-in, and I stress the ‘if,’ I suspect Key West would have dealt with it on their own. They were the only southern port under Union occupation during the war, and if the Navy came back down to deal with another wave of pirates—you know folks hold grudges for a long time. I doubt many would have wanted an influx of the US government again so soon.”
“So they’d have scrubbed it from the record,” I concluded.
Louise nodded.
I wracked my brain, trying to come up with enough plausible leads and players in history that one of them would have to cross Jack at some point throughout the years of his activity. But I had to simultaneously not let Louise know exactly what I was fishing for. What a pain in the ass.
“Louise? Who was the judge superior in wrecking court at the times Rogers would have been going?”
She didn’t answer right away.
Ah-ha! I’d stumped her!
“Judge William Marvin, I believe.”
Damn, she was good.
“Let me go get the ledgers.”
“Do you need help?” I asked.
Louise slowly rose from her chair, her back hunched from age, but she was still pretty spry on her feet. “Your Mr. Jun can help,” she said, waving a hand for him to follow.
I waited until Jun had gone inside the climate-controlled room with Louise before grabbing scrap paper and a pen from her desk. I needed a timeline to work with, so I wrote down the gist of everything I knew.
1850—1871 Smith was a wrecking captain. Worked with Rogers three times during his career.
1853 Smith built his house in town.
1861—1865 Civil War.
1861 Smith has accident at sea and loses his eye. Same year One-Eyed Jack is mentioned in records.
1867 Captain Rogers claims to have been attacked by the Red Lady and then recants. His diary claims to have seen Jack enter a sea shanty and come out as Smith.
1871 Jack supposedly finds the long-lost Spanish treasure of the Santa Teresa before mysteriously vanishing from all records. Smith’s death is reported in the same year.
I sat on my knees, rested an elbow on the desk, and ran a hand through my hair as I stared at the dates and events. Rogers popped up in Smith and Jack’s life more than I realized. Had it surpassed what could be considered coincidental? If Jack had really attacked Rogers’s ship, why would a pirate basically say lol jk, and vamoose?
Unless… after the many times Smith had come to Rogers’s aid, they were friends? And when Smith/Jack realized who he was attempting to pilfer, he decided against it?
I hit my forehead against the desk. I was basing this on zero historical evidence. However, it did raise an interesting thought: Did Rogers have anything to say on Smith/Jack’s mysterious death? Would he have made a notation in his 1871 diary? St. Augustine was over a seven-hour drive, so no way I could go see for myself—but the staff was only a phone call away….
“Oh look, he’s gone and fallen asleep on my desk,” Louise chastised from nearby.
I raised my head. “I’m awake.” I stood, folded my note, and tucked it into my back pocket. “Any luck?”
As she seated herself, Louise motioned to Jun, who was carrying an old ledger. He’d been given special gloves to wear while handling the book. “Set it down right here,” she told Jun as she made space on her desk. Jun did as requested before handing Louise the cotton gloves, which she in turn put on.
I moved around the desk to lean over the book. “Was there ever anything odd about the court records between Rogers and Smith?”
“What do you mean, odd?” Louise asked as she carefully turned each page one at a time.
“I don’t know. Did Smith ever charge Rogers less than his other wrecks?”
Louise stopped on one page and pointed at the tight, cursive script of the time. “The first court date between the two was in 1855. Smith was awarded 30 percent value of the ship and cargo.”
“Quite lucrative,” I murmured. “Was there any dispute?”
“No. Rogers went with it. But he was new to being a captain,” Louise said before turning the pages. “The next date wasn’t until 1857. It looks like Smith was awarded….” She paused and leaned closer to read. “Only 9 percent.”
“That’s odd,” I said.
“Why?” Jun finally piped up.
I glanced at him, and
he appeared extremely interested. “The average reward for saving wrecked vessels and cargo was 25 percent. It could dip as low as 3 or as high as 50, but Smith was pretty consistent with a good payout. Judge Marvin had a great deal of respect for Smith, and he was the one who ultimately decided the percentage, based on several factors, of course. I find it strange that Smith received so little.”
“Was there ever an incentive for judges to award higher payouts?” Jun questioned.
“Everyone had incentive back then,” Louise muttered.
I made a face and motioned Jun to stay quiet. There were judges not on the straight and narrow, just like wreckers, but Marvin and Smith were not to be spoken of that way, lest Louise take away my archive privileges.
“No dispute from either party on the percentage,” Louise stated.
“Were Rogers and Smith friends?” I asked as she skimmed the pages for the final court date. “I mean, after they met on the first wreck. Perhaps Smith was doing Rogers a favor.”
“It’s possible,” Louise said. “It wouldn’t be the first time that Smith proved himself a gentleman. Ah. Final date was 1861. Same as the second, 9 percent and no dispute.”
There was something fishy between Smith and Rogers. And if I discovered what, the truth of One-Eyed Jack would undoubtedly be uncovered.
Chapter Eleven
“OUT WITH it,” Jun finally said once we were in the car again.
His voice broke through my little bubble of thought, and I looked up. “What?”
“You look like you’ve got some great mystery solved and you’re ready to declare results.”
“I’ve nothing to declare except my genius,” I replied coyly. “You know that’s not actually verified to have been uttered by Oscar Wilde.”
Jun looked away from the road and at me a few times. “Smartass.”
I laughed. “My ass is many things.”
“What was that at the library? Your brain was firing on all cylinders.”
I lifted up in the seat to remove the note from my back pocket. “Something is suspicious about Smith and Rogers.”
“How do you mean?”
“Smith was never awarded so little for his wrecking work,” I replied. “But twice in a row he nearly aided Rogers for free.”
“Maybe they were friends like you suggested,” Jun said.
“Maybe.”
“You don’t sound certain.”
“Smith’s personal diary wasn’t terribly well-kept, but the few mentions of Rogers over the years—it was never anything that stood out to me. Like two ships passing in the night, pardon the nautical phrase.”
Jun’s thumb was tapping the wheel absently. “Do you believe they were involved in something illegal together?”
“No.”
“Do you believe Rogers was a pirate?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
Jun cleared his throat. “Then I’ve another idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Lovers.” He looked at me briefly. “It would certainly explain the lack of notations in Smith’s diary, while, when in wrecking court, his discounted aid speaks to some sort of personal relationship.”
“Smith was married,” I stated. “But—ah! I feel like the two years of research I’ve done is as stable as a house of cards!”
Jun put a hand on my knee. “That’s not true. As a historian, you’ve come at these revelations with an acceptable amount of reservation but haven’t dismissed the evidence until you’ve thoroughly researched it. And if your conclusions change, Aubrey—they change.”
“Such is life,” I added.
He moved his hand back to the steering wheel. “That’s right.”
“I’m very hesitant to suggest Smith had a male lover, though I don’t doubt that it’s entirely possible. It requires… a phone call.”
“Next time Smith rings, are you going to ask him?”
“Now who’s being the smartass?” I asked, watching Jun smile. “The St. Augustine museum. I know they have a number of diaries belonging to Rogers. I’m curious about their contents, but especially 1871, when Smith died. Grief knows no bounds, after all.”
“You think Rogers would have made a notation if they were involved?”
“Yes. Have you ever seen Theodore Roosevelt’s diary from 1884?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“His mother and wife passed on the same day,” I explained. “Within a few hours of each other. All he wrote was ‘The light has gone out of my life.’”
“That’s terrible,” Jun said quietly.
I fiddled with my phone. “Well… the point is, he didn’t even need to mention names. If Rogers and Smith had—something—perhaps there is an entry of similar despair.”
And even though both men had been gone from this world for a long, long time, part of me hoped that wouldn’t be the case. Despite a relationship being a clue to help unravel the story of One-Eyed Jack and who might have killed Cassidy, I didn’t want the truth to be a secret love affair. Not because it meddled with the history, but because the endings of men like me—back then—were so often fraught with tragedy.
I SLEPT the rest of the drive back to Stock Island, which turned out to be too long, and I was groggy as fuck. I dialed a number on my cell before yawning and stretching my arms overhead as Jun and I walked across the station parking lot for the second time that day. I put the phone back to my ear just as someone answered.
“Museum of St. Augustine Nautical History, this is Amy.”
“Hello, I’d like to speak with your manager, if they’re around.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Aubrey Grant, property manager of Smith Family Historical Home down in Key West.”
“One moment.”
Crappy hold music began to play.
I stopped outside the front door beside Jun. “If St. Augustine wasn’t a seven-hour drive, I’d want to go see these diaries myself,” I said before someone picked up. “Hello?”
“Mr. Grant? My name is Lucrecia Kennedy. How may I help you?”
“Pleasure, ma’am,” I said. “I first wanted to share some good news with you.”
“Is that so?”
“Local police down here have recovered a diary belonging to Edward R. Rogers, reported stolen from your museum about a year ago. Dated 1867.”
“Oh good lord, are you serious?” she exclaimed. “This is incredible! When will we get it back?”
“I’m sure a Detective Tillman will be in touch with you soon regarding getting it to you.”
“This is such good news! Thank you for the call,” Lucrecia said. “We were beginning to fear it’d never be returned.” She sighed, sounding relieved. “Was there something else I can help you with?”
“Actually, yes. As you’re probably aware, I research and maintain reports on Captain Thomas J. Smith. I have records on my end that indicate he’d worked with Captain Rogers a few times throughout his career of delivering goods to Key West.”
Lucrecia hummed in response. “Indeed.”
“It was recently brought to my attention that the two men might have been better friends than I originally thought, and I’m hoping you are able to provide insight from Rogers’s side.”
“Oh. I see. Well, I’ll help you in any way I can, but I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t do property management and historical research. So you may need to be specific in what you’d like me to look for among our artifacts.”
“I’m interested specifically in Rogers’s personal diaries. He first met Smith in 1855 and knew him until Smith’s death in 1871.”
“You want me to go through over fifteen years of—”
“No, no,” I said, cutting her off. “Just 1871 specifically. Smith died sometime around July, give or take a few months in either direction. If you could look for any mention of Smith, a man named Jack, or anything that sounds like grieving.”
Lucrecia let out a breath. “Okay. It may take me a little bit. W
hen do you need this information?”
“ASAP?” I tried, wincing.
“ASAP,” she repeated. “All right. We’re pretty busy here right now, but I appreciate what’s been done to recover our stolen artifact, so I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Will that work?”
“That’s perfect,” I answered. I thanked Lucrecia before hanging up.
We walked into the station after that. A uniformed officer led us back to Tillman’s desk. I took a seat across from the detective, who was simultaneously on the phone and typing at his computer. He glanced at me and motioned to the small diary settled inside a plastic evidence bag. I’d borrowed a pair of cloth gloves from Louise on our way out of the library, and I pulled them on before gently removing the booklet.
Careful with the leather clasp, I slowly opened the diary and began to skim each entry in search of the one where Rogers realized Jack and Smith were the same man. Most of the entries were of no great importance. Rogers talked about the weather a lot, but I guess a man who spent so much time at sea would likely find a great interest in it. He mentioned his mother now and then, as well as a sister, but he seemed to be a bachelor, which admittedly added fuel to the lovers’ fire.
Somewhere in mid-April I’d realized Tillman had gotten off the phone, and he and Jun were speaking, but that’s when I read two words that made my heart race.
Red Lady.
On April 23rd, Rogers recounted his run-in with the vessel, Red Lady, a pirate ship he described as the likes of which I’ve never seen before. She was beautiful and marvelous, and cut through the choppy waters with every intent of making widows out of my crew’s wives. I’d hardly been a babe out of my mother’s arms when Porter sent pirates to the gallows. And then, like a ghost in the night, here appears the captain I’ve heard whispers of for the last six years. I was deathly afraid.
And yet, just as quickly did the Red Lady appear at our side and her men board us, did her captain call them back. I admit that I saw him! Jack. One-Eyed, the locals say. Huge. Frightening. But I cannot speak as to why he let us live.
