Haunted

10

A mile south of the old railroad bridge, where cypress and mimosa trees draped moss over the river, Belton switched places so I could see the boat’s sonar screen. Carmelo, at the wheel, jabbed a finger and said, “Fish,” while I shaded my eyes.

Cartoonish fish icons, which always make me wince, appeared in pixelated yellow around a red rectangular object. The river bottom had varied in shades from white to gray in the shallows, but here, in this shaded oxbow where depth dropped to fourteen feet, it was black.

“Hard bottom,” I told Belton.

“I think it could be a sunken boat,” he said, meaning whatever was below us. “Or the remains of a dock. But wouldn’t that have rotted away years ago?”

“Floated away, more likely,” I said, then asked something I’d been wanting to ask. “You said you did a lot of research. Was this always called Telegraph River? I can’t find it on old maps.” I was thinking of Capt. Summerlin’s journal. In summer of 1864, he and friends had explored a north branch off the Caloosahatchee in the twenty-five-foot dory Sodbuster. Summerlin’s concern about spies had caused him to scribble out the tributary’s name. When the page was held up to a light, however, I could make out four letters-JOPO. Possibly JOPE, or even TOPE, because Summerlin’s old-time penmanship placed triangular stems on some letters. I was tempted to get the journal from my backpack and show Belton but wasn’t ready to risk that quite yet.

Belton replied, “That’s because the river’s not on maps before 1900. Not named, I mean. The telegraph service to… well, it’s a town north of here… wasn’t completed until the 1880s.”

“Arcadia?” I suggested.

“Yes… No… Wait, I can’t remember for certain. I used to have a good memory, but I lose things so quickly now.” He told Carmelo to swing the boat around so we could have another look at the bottom, annoyed with himself. He used a handkerchief to wipe his face. Soon the rectangular object reappeared, along with cartoonish fish icons. “A failing memory is bad enough,” he said, “but when your body falls apart, it’s downright humiliating-especially when I’m with a beautiful woman.” He looked at me to see how that was accepted.

I laughed. “Stop flirting and tell me why you think it’s a boat.”

He put his hand on my shoulder to study the sonar but removed it when he stood. “I’m going to trust you with something-but not right now. Okay?”

“A secret?”

He motioned me away from the console and spoke into my ear. “Just between us. Carmelo doesn’t know and I don’t trust him as much as you think. I’ve got to be careful.”

I said, “I think you’re still flirting. If you are, it’s a pretty good approach.”

He smiled, a man with bright blue eyes who had been muscular and good-looking in his day. “Let’s just say I hope it’s a boat. Wouldn’t that be fun? I wish to heavens I was a better diver-or not so damn old.” He sounded wistful.

Carmelo, riveted to the screen, repeated, “Lots of fish. You want the girl to fish, Mr. Matás?”

Three times he’d asked that question over the engine noise but this time seemed to think it was a fresh idea now that we were idling in water that was black as oil but clear when I looked straight down if the sunlight hit it just right.

“No, thanks,” I told Carmelo, then reconsidered. I had never met a simpleminded person who owned an expensive red Bass Cat skiff outfitted with dual electric trolling motors that could pull the boat along as fast as some gas engines. It crossed my mind that a captain didn’t have to be smart as long as he produced results. I didn’t want to believe that. If I was right, Carmelo was either acting or the boat did not belong to him. As a test, I asked, “What kind of fish are we talking about?”

“Big-assed.” Carmelo laughed. “See?” He pointed to the fish icons that stacked and rematerialized like targets in a video game.

Had our guide said big-assed or big bass? I gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Bass are fun on top of water plugs. Not that I’ve caught many. Is it best to anchor? Or do you use the trolling motors and cast into eddies?”

“Yes,” Carmelo replied.

Belton chuckled at that. “We’ll go ashore same place as yesterday.” He pointed. On the east bank, two jagged pilings, black as dinosaur teeth, showed where there had been a pier. Presumably, it had serviced the homestead I’d seen in photos. The pilings were only a few boat lengths upriver from the sunken object.

I remarked, “If a boat sunk at the dock, it could have drifted down. You might be right. But, Belton, this water’s not that deep. You don’t need tanks to find out, just a mask and fins. Doesn’t Carmelo free-dive?”

Carmelo, who had a tough-guy face to begin with, became positively fierce. “Nope. Ain’t gonna swim. Don’t tell me again.”

I said, “I wasn’t ordering you, it was a question. Are there gators around?” I hadn’t seen any, but there had to be a reason.

Belton, getting impatient, said to Carmelo, “I’ll take the wheel. Why don’t you untangle some of those ropes so we can tie up?”

Carmelo did, but I heard him mutter, “Girl… stick your hand in that water, you find out.”

AFTER EXPLORING the bricks and boards and fences of a homesteader’s vanished dream, I did it-stuck my hand in the river. I am too comfortable outdoors to be spooked by the power of suggestion, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. First, I stirred the water with a stick. It was black as a winter night, clear as gel.

I looked around. No alligators… no snakes. Bull sharks liked to swim up rivers, but they had those cartoon fish to eat if they were after food. Same with piranhas, if some deranged person had smuggled them in-Theo came to mind. I pushed my sleeve up and made some false attempts, then decided If someone’s watching, they’ll think you’ve lost your mind. Just do it.

I did. Plunged my arm deep, but just for a moment. Then checked the path leading to the fallen homestead. I had left Belton there with Carmelo, Carmelo knee-deep in muck searching for bottles in a cistern that did indeed resemble a crypt. Most of the cistern’s roof had fallen in, the whitewash had faded. But a graceful brick arch remained to disprove any thoughts of sloppy work or ignorance.

A competent bricklayer had left his mark on this lonely place.

That meshed with something I’d read in the journal. The entry had motivated me to return to the boat and refresh my memory as well as to test the water. But I couldn’t open my backpack until I was alone, so I had roamed the property enjoying a polite interval of time. Holding Belton’s elbow, I had steadied him while we paced the distance from the chimney to the first fencerow. From the way the earth undulated, he guessed this quarter-acre patch had once been a garden. I asked, “What about salt pans?” Threw it out there in a breezy way to see how this amateur expert reacted.

All he said was, “Salt was hard to come by in those days. But you can’t make salt from a freshwater river.”

Was he right? That was something else I wanted to check privately. My biologist friend and sometimes lover had several types of salinity meters in his lab. But my lips would serve almost as well, as would the knowledge that saltwater is heavier than fresh so it sinks to the bottom.

Again, Capt. Summerlin’s journal had fired my curiosity.

As I moved around the boat, I heard Carmelo yell out a complaint or celebrate a discovery, his voice garbled by distance. Closer, somewhere inland, I heard branches cracking-the clumsy weight of an armadillo or feral hog, I assumed. I pushed my sleeves higher, leaned off the boat, and breached the surface with both hands. Water was cool, a slick, weightless feel, then I tasted it-fresh, but a hint of brine. That was encouraging.

I decided to find out if it was saltier on the bottom.

With my help, Carmelo had tied the boat’s bow to a tree after dropping a stern anchor. I hauled the anchor, sloshed the flukes clean, then opened my backpack in the hopes of finding something useful. Along with the journal, I had things I carry on my own boat in case I break down. There were extra clothes, bug spray, a sewing kit, flares and sunscreen, but nothing that could be used to collect water from the river’s deepest spot.

Finally I chose an empty Coors bottle from the Igloo and used fishing line to clove-hitch it to the yoke of the anchor. I wanted the bottle to sink fast. Air pressure, I hoped, would prevent it from filling until it got to the bottom.

When the bottle was secure, I pushed the boat away from the tree and waited for the line to pull taut. The drop-off was many yards astern. Too far to heave a ten-pound anchor. I realized I’d have to balance myself on the transom and use the engine as a knee brace to add distance when I tossed the thing. That was risky. So, before I went to work, I placed my phone on the console, along with my backpack and the journal, which I’d removed from its watertight bag-and couldn’t help reading a few passages before getting my hands wet.

It was a wise precaution. My first throw, I stepped on the anchor line. The next try, I checked my feet, got a good pendulum motion going, then heaved the anchor hard. Too hard. The engine, instead of supporting my weight, gave way, spinning to the left, and I went overboard. It is possible I hollered “Damn!” just before I hit the water.

But no harm done. I was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved blouse, and Nikes, not boat shoes, because I knew we’d be hiking. Fishing guides are used to soggy clothing. I’d also brought a towel. So I was smiling at my clumsiness when I surfaced. I combed hair out of my face and decided to enjoy the situation. It had been hot in the stillness of the homestead’s wreckage and the water was cool. So I sculled toward the middle of the river, seeing mimosa trees, dragonflies, the reflection of a passing egret from a duck’s perspective. Several hard green fruit that resembled apples, too, afloat like golf balls, and a flotilla of seedpods, long and brown. They parted at my approach. I continued on, only my eyes and nose, periscope-like, breaching the surface.

Thankfully, my ears weren’t submerged-which is why the sound of breaking branches caught my attention again. I listened briefly, gauging the size and weight, and decided I’d been wrong about the armadillo or some other small animal. Something big was pushing its way through the brush… not fast, but definitely headed my way.

I swung my legs around and sculled toward the boat, all senses alert. If it was a feral hog, normally no problem. I had once been confronted by a big boar in attack mode, however, and some memories are forever fresh. My real fear was that a large gator had gone inland for some sun and was now plowing its way back to the river for an afternoon meal.

I sculled faster. The temptation was to stretch out and swim hard. In high school-not a pleasant period in my life-my happiest moments were playing clarinet in the band and being on the varsity swim team. Breaststroke was my specialty, but I can flat-out fly doing freestyle, too. Trouble was, if I swam, whatever was approaching might enter the water unseen. I found the prospect unsettling. Better to know what was coming and deal with it.

And that’s exactly what I had to do. Now bushes were moving along the path that led to the old homestead, the heavy snap of branches still clumsy but moving faster and with purpose. Finally I understood: the splash of me hitting the water had traveled through the trees. Something had heard me and was on its way to investigate. I might make it to the boat first, but whatever it was would be right there waiting.

To hell with caution. I swam-long, strong strokes-my clothes a dragging weight, my shoes useless as fins. Then my hands were on the boat’s transom, but my foot somehow snagged the anchor line. I fell back in. Bubbles boiled around my eyes. I was terrified of what might grab me from beneath-the water so black and clear. I resurfaced with a yelp and lunged for the boat again. This time I made it, floundered up over the transom and skidded like a wounded seal.

I was winded but immediately looked up-and there was Belton Matás. He was grinning but had a concerned look on his face. “You should have told me you were going in for a swim. Isn’t there something called the buddy system?” He removed his glasses and squinted. “Are you all right?”

There was no recovering my poise. That had vanished when fear took control. “Oh, Belton, some expert I am. I fell in. Then I thought you were a… I don’t know what I thought. My lord, I almost never scream like that.” I sat up and pulled my blouse away from my chest-still prim and proper despite everything else.

The man said, “I didn’t hear a scream-I assumed you were having fun. In fact, I was going to ask… Well, never mind.”

“Fun?”

“Yes, you made a sort of laughing sound. That’s what I heard anyway.”

“Well… good… Ask me what?”

“Just an idea I had because you were already in the water. And swim beautifully. Are you hurt?”

I got up and took a peek downward to confirm my wheat-colored blouse wasn’t see-through. I still had my shoes, too. “I’m used to bruises from falling over my feet. I was enjoying myself until I heard you coming through the bushes… And after what Carmelo said about the water-”

“Carmelo? He can’t swim, doubt if he even showers. Watch your balance…” Belton stepped aboard and reached for the console to steady himself. I realized he would see the journal sticking out from beneath the towel.

He did but said, “Do you want this?” meaning the towel, which he handed me, his eyes lingering momentarily on the leather-bound volume. It could have been one of those awkward moments but wasn’t. The gentleman from Richmond, Virginia, behaved like a gentleman.

I said, “What did you want to ask me?”

“Well, at the time it seemed like a good idea. Wait…” He signaled for my attention with an index finger. Turned, opened a forward hatch, then faced me, holding a mesh dive bag that looked new. Inside were a mask and snorkel, still in plastic, and cheap adjustable swim fins. “I bought these yesterday-no idea Carmelo is scared of the water. Then, when I saw what a good swimmer you are, well…” A humorous shrug.

I said, “You want me to see what’s down there, don’t you?”

“No. Well, unless you really want to.”

I had to think about it. Normally, I would have been eager. From the journal entries I’d read that morning, I knew that Ben Summerlin might have traveled this very river. If true, there was a chance he had scuttled his dory somewhere along its length. Which meant there was a remote possibility that Belton had found my great-great-uncle’s boat-astronomical odds, but why not take a look?

My bout of wild panic, that’s why. But I was feeling better, more sheepish than suffering any real fear of the river. Something else: I had an ulterior motive. The beer bottle… it was still clove-hitched to the anchor. To explain honestly, I would have to admit concealing information from a man who had been open and kind to me. Better to nab the bottle while underwater and broach the subject of the journal later.

Using the towel, I scrubbed at my hair. “I’d like to see what’s down there myself-if you’re willing to watch for alligators. And if the mask fits. I can check without going in.”

I didn’t expect the look of gratitude on the man’s face. “I’ll get Carmelo. It’ll be safer with a younger set of eyes. You are a valuable young lady, Hannah.”

He placed the mask and snorkel within reach and moved quickly, for a man his age, up the path toward the homestead.

WHILE I WAITED, I tested the mask, but only after retrieving the beer bottle and touching a finger to the water, then my lips.

Very salty.

My concerns vanished. Suddenly, the exact wording of an entry Capt. Summerlin had made in the summer of 1864 was important enough to sneak another look. I listened for noise, then opened both the journal and my notebook, hurrying so I could cross-reference a few entries before Belton and Carmelo returned.

9 June, 1864 (aboard Sodbuster): The Blues is camped at Ft. Myers & Labelle which aint much of a fort but they do have a supply shed & a brace of 4” canon that can shoot acrosst bank to bank. What they aint got is a shoal draft dory, nor a knowledge of the creek that branches north of Labelle & [NEXT FIVE LINES BLOTTED].

Hmm… the entry referenced the right boat and possibly the right river, but it was not the passage I was after. I continued reading.

12 July, 1864 (Old Tampa): Deserters & runaways of the roughest sort have slipped into Florida like filth from a honey bucket. The railroad yard smelt like shit too & aint no place for a ships master but it is wear sutlers deal Yankee silver for cattle. The Frenchman I was to met did not show & I fear it aint true he owns a locomotive nor even the boiler what sunk in the [NAME BLOTTED]. I got more faith in the Cubans I will meet come morn if this weather breaks…

Wrong entry again. But I read it all because my great-uncle’s sudden interest in trains and boilers seemed key to a bigger story. The same was true of an entry made in the spring of that year.

1 September, 1864 (Key West, Hawks Channel): Loaded aboard is 36 mixed longhorn @ $6 silver per head but not one hogshead of beef or mullet cause of this situation. The victuallers in Habana will be sore disappointed but the beef will turn a pretty profit & guarantee the money required. On the Sunday before Christmas we are promised to deliver 100 silver dollars which aint easy considering the cost of what follows in expenses…

Ben Summerlin had a plan. His plan included a train or a boiler, or both, and a river that fed into the Caloosahatchee from the north. He had sailed to Cuba to finance the project.

That made sense. To make salt for thousands of people, a boiler the size of a train’s might be required. But where was the reference that tied things together? Finally I found it by backtracking, a fragment from an illegible entry made earlier in 1864 I had failed to note in my time line.

27 May (Punta Rassa):… and what I tolt Gatrell & brothers they [NEXT FOUR LINES SMEARED]… that the bridge aint to far. A salt spring is there neath the surface owned by a Spaniard who is expert at [SMEARED OR BLOTTED] a master of trowel & square so this man is likely [ILLEGIBLE].

There! My subconscious had put it together, but here was written proof. The Spaniard was the Brazilian who had planted timber before selling the property to Charles Cadence. Proof that a master bricklayer had lived at this spot was the cistern I had seen only minutes ago. And I had just tasted the salt spring… neath the surface with my lips.

Additional proof: remains of a railroad bridge were only a mile from where I sat. I wasn’t certain the bridge had existed in the 1860s, but it might have. That was good enough for me. Ben Summerlin had guarded this river’s name, but, even if he hadn’t, the name had changed since Civil War days.

It all fit.

I felt sure of it. And, because I was convinced, I knew something else: whatever had sunk here wasn’t my great-uncle’s lost dory. Journal entries from late 1864 weren’t as badly damaged, so I knew from skipping ahead that he’d scuttled the dory while being chased by Union soldiers. Maybe the soldiers had discovered him making salt. Or maybe he had used salt as a ruse to spring a trap. The journal had yet to reveal the whole story, but Ben Summerlin was no fool. He wouldn’t have fled upriver-there was no escape in the cypress swamps and palmettos to the north. And he wouldn’t have scuttled his boat so close to another man’s dock.

Whatever the sonar unit had found on the bottom was too near the old homestead to be my great-uncle’s boat. In a way, I was disappointed. On the other hand, Sodbuster was somewhere on this river, still waiting to be found.

“We’re coming, Hannah dear!”

Belton’s voice reached me from the undergrowth. I closed the journal and slipped both books into my bag. I felt a twinge of guilt for being sneaky but then decided when the timing was right I would lay out the whole story, journal, notes, and all, for Belton to see. Who better to help than a retired Civil War expert with time on his hands and who was trustworthy?

But not Carmelo. There was something wrong about the man that had nothing to do with his weak intellect-or his simpleton act. I would have to feel out Belton’s loyalty before I moved ahead.

When the two men appeared on the bank, I had the mask pressed to my face, but it fell away-no suction to hold it in place.

“How’s it fit?”

I said, “It’ll be okay, I think.”

That was a kindness. If a mask doesn’t cling to your face, it will leak. I knew it but was unconcerned. Only two or three shallow dives would be needed for me to find out what was on the bottom. So I wouldn’t bother with the cheap strap-on fins either. But I would use the snorkel.

No… No, I wouldn’t. The tube leaked, which I discovered while breaststroking toward the deepest part of the river, an oxbow shaded by mimosas. So I swam back and tossed the thing into the boat. Unfortunately, Carmelo was busy netting seedpods, for some reason, and the snorkel hit him squarely in the forehead.

Belton laughed.

Carmelo did not. His tough-guy face turned fierce. “You gonna get burnt, girl,” he said as if he wanted only me to hear. “You’ll see.”