John Locke - Now & Then
“Did you?”
“Did I go? Yes, Jimbo drove me.”
“Did it help?”
“No. I mean, I can’t cure people, but he said I took away his pain. I hear that a lot, and do what I can, but it doesn’t last. I told him I’d sit with him again tonight, for an hour.”
I didn’t believe for a minute she had healing powers, but I couldn’t dispute the fact that something was going on. I’d seen what happened to the old people in the church yard. And there was no question that my mood elevated when I was around her. The room we were in was only five feet tall and I’d been stooping long enough to know my back should be stiff, and yet I felt not the slightest pain. I decided Libby must have something about her that altered people’s perception of pain when they were physically near her. I didn’t want to feel any pain later on, so I sat on the floor.
“Why can’t you go public?” I said. “If this gift is real, you could help millions of people.”
“I have empathy for everyone in pain. But if word got out about me, my life would be a mess. I mean, would you want half the world coming to your door and the other half trying to perform experiments on you?”
She had a point, but who doesn’t? As far as I was concerned, this thing was wrapped up. Normally I would have climbed back down the ladder by now and gone home. A shot of bourbon might have been in order. But here I sat. I knew why, I just didn’t want to admit it. See, I don’t believe in healers, and yet I knew the only reason I kept sitting there was because I felt so damned good sitting there. I had no aches or pains and my mind was soaring. I felt better than I had since I was a kid, running over the grass in my bare feet, a light breeze on my forehead, lots of friends…
“I bet you could get laid anytime you want,” I said, in my semi-dream state.
“Excuse me?”
Beth and Libby were staring at me.
“What I meant to say was how long do you intend to stay here?”
She looked at Beth and shrugged. “I promised I’d do a year. But I can’t very well pop out on the exact anniversary, can I? So I’ll probably hang out a few more months.”
I gestured toward the clutter that surrounded her. “Find anything interesting in those old church records?”
“Oh, yes indeed.”
“Such as?”
“Well, for one thing, there was a midwife who gave birth in 1711 to a little girl named Libby Vail.”
“Spelled the same way?”
“Uh huh.”
“Now there’s a coincidence! Who were the parents?”
“Henry and Johanna Ames.”
“Oh, too bad. I suppose Libby Vail must have been a popular name back in those days.”
She looked at me and smiled. “Right.”
“I mean, even today there’s probably, what, five thousand Libby Vails walking around?”
“Try four.”
“Four?”
She fidgeted with her necklace again and said, “I did an internet search. There are exactly four of us in the whole United States.”
The thin gold chain around Libby’s neck looked new. The pendant attached to it was an old circular piece of metal with what appeared to be ancient etching.
“Tell me about the necklace,” I said.
“I found it when digging in the crawlspace my first day here. I went right to it, was drawn to it the minute we turned the corner. It’s quite old, but there’s no connection to Jack Hawley. Unless he loved playing rugby!”
She removed the necklace and handed it to me. On one side someone had scratched the words, “I Love.” On the other: “Rugby.”
“How old is this?”
“It’s old, at least two hundred years. But it couldn’t date to Jack Hawley’s time. I know, because I researched the sport and no one called it Rugby before 1750.”
“Whatever happened to Hawley?”
“He was captured and hanged on March 25, 1711.”
“You’re positive?”
“One hundred percent.”
I thought about how I had faked my death a couple of times, and said, “How can you be so sure?”
“Two sailors joined Hawley’s crew when they were on shore leave in Charleston, South Carolina. They turned Jack in to the authorities after watching him command the ship for an entire month.”
“How do you know he didn’t bury his treasure in Charleston?”
“Because, according to the traitors, he never left the ship in Charleston. They captured him in St. Alban’s, trying to buy produce for a voyage to Jamaica.”
“Any witnesses at the trial?”
“His best friends, George and Marie Stout, were forced to testify. Under protest, they identified Jack and admitted he used to paddle up the Little River and dock at their place. Their kids said Jack spent a lot of time there.”
“And you searched that area?”
“Every square inch. I thought I had it made when I discovered an old well on the actual tract that belonged to the Stouts. But I got nothing in the way of a vibe.”
We sat silently for a few minutes. Then I said, “How do you plan to explain your disappearance?”
“When I’m ready to rejoin society I’ll have someone drive me halfway across the country and drop me off in the woods near a city. I’ll wander into town and say I’ve been kidnapped, blindfolded, and moved around so much I don’t know where I’ve been all this time. They’ll ask loads of questions, and I’ll get a few things mixed up, but if I didn’t, it wouldn’t make sense, right?”
“The deputy said you were kidnapped.”
“Figuratively, not literally. When the descendants came and talked to me I thought they were crazy, but I promised to think about it. That night, alone in my dorm room, I started whispering my name while thinking about Hawley. And something happened. I know this will sound crazy to you, but I felt him speak my name. Over the next few months it happened several times.”
“You’re right, it does sound crazy.”
“Told you.”
“Any history of insanity in your family?”
“None that I’ve found, and believe me, I’ve looked!”
“So it started as a treasure hunt, and now you’re helping people. If you want the big bucks, why not do a reality show on TV and make millions?”
“As I said, I don’t want my life to be a circus. Plus, I’m deep into my research, and things I’ve dismissed before are starting to make sense to me.”
“Like what?”
She seemed to glow, caught up in the moment. “I think I’m onto something even more valuable than money.”
“What’s that?”
“The secret of my heritage.”
“Meaning?”
“We’re all a product of our heritage, Mr. Creed.”
“And why is that so important?”
She smiled. “Well, I’m descended from a famous pirate.”
“Jack Hawley.”
“Yes, Gentleman Jack, as he liked to be called. And about three hundred years ago—”
It was my turn to hold up a hand. “I know the story.”
Libby’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, no you don’t.”
“I do.”
“Sorry, but you don’t.”
“Maybe not every detail,” I conceded, “but I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on it.”
“Trust me,” she said. “You have no idea.”
“I think I do,” I said, stubbornly.
She flashed a mischievous grin. “Do you?” she said. A little giggle escaped from her throat. “Do you?” she said, louder, and as she said it her giggle grew until it burst through the tiny room and echoed off the walls.
Part Two
THEN
Chapter 1
THE YEAR OF Our Lord, 1710…
The ship was huge.
With three masts, twenty-eight guns, and a crew of fifty-seven men, it carried a cargo of sugar cane, medicine, wild pigs, and Jamaican Rum. Though it pushed more than three hundred tons, it fairly flew through the water. And such water it was! Pure and clean with a light green hue, and when the bow slapped down, sending a light spray over the deck, it stung the eye and tasted warm and salty on the lips.
The ship was surrounded on all sides by sparkling emerald seas, far as the eye could see. Astern, a dozen porpoises frolicked in the wake, performing wild acrobatic jumps and gyrations to the amusement of the twenty-two hardened crewmen currently off duty. While sailors around the world considered it good luck to share their rations with the sleek sea creatures, it was a rare event to do so, since rations were typically meager and meant to last. But for this particular crew, these were bountiful times. With the ship’s hold freshly restocked the day before, the men could finally afford to toss the last of their weevil-infested biscuits overboard.
Amid-ships, a solitary man stood alone on the upper deck bridge. Lean and tall he was, with long black hair and piercing blue eyes that sparkled when he laughed or had a story to tell. But there were no stories to be told today, for he was determined to ride this strong Westerly wind as far as it would take them. He heard a fluttering sound, looked up at the sails, and frowned. Then he barked an order to the nervous helmsman.
The Quarter-Master, a stocky red-haired Welshman named Pim, tugged at his enormous fiery red muttonchops with both hands, as was his habit when annoyed. It was well known among the ship’s crew that the angrier Pim became, the harder he pulled. He’d been tugging his beard with growing frequency this quarter hour, and was in fact a mere tug away from physically assaulting his fellow crewmate. The Captain’s sharp word had probably saved the helmsman from a severe beating. Pim gave a nod of acknowledgment to the Captain before turning his attention to the tireless sailors who had been working the sails two hours nonstop, attempting to fill every inch of silk with wind. Up to now, they’d made great progress despite their semi-drunk helmsman’s poor showing.
But the man’s errant steering threatened to undermine morale.
The Captain glared at his tipsy crewmember, and cocked his head as if to convey a final warning. The Helmsman, sober enough to catch his meaning, immediately apologized to the Quarter-Master and sailors. It was a sincere apology and a wise decision on his part, considering the harsh penalties for drunkenness while under sail. In normal circumstances, when transporting cargo to port, a drunken helmsman would at the very least be treated to five lashes across the bare back with a rope dipped in tar. Had the infraction occurred under battle conditions, he would surely suffer death by keelhaul.
But neither Captain nor crew were in a mood to punish anyone today. As the steering adjustment took effect, both the Captain and Pim checked the sail before catching each others’ eye. The Captain winked, and Pim pumped his fist in the air and shouted to his sailors, “Keep ‘er sheets full, lads! As big and full as the jugs of St. Alban’s.”
Roberts, the sharp-eyed lookout, shouted down from the crow’s nest. “Aye, and which jugs would ye be referrin’ to, Mr. Pim? Them that’s filled with grog or them that’s filled with milk?”
The crew members laughed lustily. Those who glanced in the Captain’s direction noticed a smile on his handsome face, and to a man, their spirits soared. This crew had worked on many ships, for many masters, but none had worked for a man like this. A frown from him was enough to shake their confidence, but his smile was like gold in their pockets. This was a Captain who owned the hearts and minds of his crew, having earned his status the same way all pirate ship captains wielded absolute authority over their vessels: by unanimous vote of the crew. True, he had proven himself a legendary strategist, loyal friend, and fierce fighter. But there was something more, some indefinable, mysterious quality that was difficult to pin down. The men couldn’t explain it, but they felt more powerful in his presence. Less surly, more content. Crazy as it sounded when speaking of it to each other, they agreed that they could somehow feel his presence when he was within a mile’s distance. More importantly, from the moment he’d stepped on board, their fortunes increased. Winds were stronger, storms fewer, and waters more peaceful and calm than ever before. There had been fewer injuries and illness, and the wounds that did occur healed faster. Even the food seemed to taste better when the Captain was on board.
The Captain had joined them two years ago. Now, after several campaigns at sea, he and his ship, The Fortress, had become well-known throughout the Caribbean. No, more than that: they had achieved celebrity status.
The porpoises abruptly ended their show and darted ahead, providing escort for a league or so before finally peeling off in search of some alternate aquatic activity.
When The Fortress was under full sail, with a strong wind, she could cover a hundred miles in a day. But they wouldn’t require a full day to reach Shark’s Bay. At this speed, they’d have the Captain dropped off there by mid afternoon. As always, he’d change into commoner’s clothes, lower an open boat into the water, and row it over the shoals, up the Little River to the edge of St. Alban’s Settlement to scope out the lay of the land. The Fortress would head back out to sea three miles, make a wide loop, and then double back to St. Alban’s, to the deep water of North Port, off Sinner’s Row, where she would finally anchor in sixty feet of water a quarter mile out and wait for word from the Captain that it was safe to go ashore.
Roberts spied a flock of seabirds, and the atmosphere above and below decks crackled with anticipation.
They continued heading due west, toward Shark Bay. Though they sailed under the red, white and blue flag of the British East India Company, this was a pirate ship with a pirate crew.
It was Jack Hawley’s ship, Jack Hawley’s crew.
Chapter 2
THE STEADY BREEZE on St. Alban’s Beach could not penetrate the gnarled trees and dense thickets three hundred yards inland where Abby Winter shared a wooden shanty house with her mother and stepfather. It was early afternoon on a cloudless day and the July heat was stifling. Abby and her mother had emptied the chamber pots that morning, but hadn’t had time to properly clean them.
“Please don’t do this,” Abby said. “It’s humiliating!”
“It’s been decided, child, so let it be.”
They weren’t talking about chamber pots.
“It’s posted for tomorrow,” Abby said, “but posting doesn’t make it mandatory. You’re allowed to change your mind on matters such as these. People do it all the time without consequence.”
“I could change my mind, but I will not. As I say, it’s been decided.”
Abby’s mother, Hester, handed her one of the tarnished chamber pots. Abby accepted it and winced as the odor hit her nostrils. Her mother said, “Let’s get these done before he thinks we’re conjuring a demon.”
Abby gasped. Her eyes made a quick sweep of the trees that ringed their shanty. She briefly wondered if her mother had gone daft. It was bad enough she’d agreed to the public posting, and now she was making witchery comments! Abby scolded her mother with a severe whisper. “You cannot have said that!”
