Pirate

Twenty-eight

Sam hoped they hadn’t been seen. As much as he’d been glad when the rain stopped, he found himself hoping for a sudden deluge, the better to limit visibility.

But the only water was that dripping off the trees and foliage. Within seconds, the car was upon them. He looked through the leaves just as a 1970s era, mud-covered yellow Jeep CJ5 came rumbling down the hill, still in neutral. Sam wasn’t about to move until he knew who was at the wheel — he wouldn’t put it past Avery’s men to hijack another car. As the Jeep neared them, the engine sputtered to life and the vehicle jerked forward.

Not one of Avery’s men.

Sam scrambled to his feet, slipping in the mud as he raced into the road waving his hands. “Help!” he shouted. “Over here!”

Remi raced to his side, waving and shouting herself, but the Jeep reached the bend in the road, brake lights coming on as it entered the turn. Too late, Sam thought, wondering if the driver had even heard or seen them. But then it stopped. And backed up the hill.

The driver, a tall, white-haired man with a goatee, his green eyes alight with curiosity, rolled down the window. “Need a ride?”

“We do,” Sam said.

Remi added, “If you don’t mind the mud?”

The man laughed. “Hardly a classic I’m driving here. A little dirt won’t hurt it any. But you might want to hurry. Rain’s coming back in.”

They walked around to the other side of the car, Remi opting to sit in the back. Sam opened the door for her, then climbed into the front seat. “Thanks. We really appreciate this.”

“No worries. My engine stalled when I had to slam on the brakes. Darn boa in the middle of the road. Good thing I was headed downhill.” He looked over at Sam, then back to the street. “Don’t see a lot of tourists way out here.”

“We didn’t start off that way. Forced by a couple of gunmen in Kingston.”

“Robbed you, did they? What part of Kingston were you in?”

“The Records Department. That’s where our car is.”

The man looked over at Sam. “Tourists aren’t usually kidnapped from public buildings.”

“It doesn’t matter now. They got what they wanted. And — well, we got away. That’s what counts.”

Remi reached over, putting her hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Exactly.”

“So,” Sam asked when the silence took over, “you live in Jamaica? Or just visiting.”

“Visiting. My friend owns a coffee plantation. I keep this old Jeep just to drive up to his place. Muddy roads get pretty deep during the rainy season.”

For the remainder of the trip, they discussed the complexities of coffee growing, and, from there, the best places to fish around the island.

When he pulled into the parking lot next to their rental car, Sam checked for Avery’s men, relaxing when it was clear they were nowhere in the vicinity. He and Remi thanked him again, asking if they could pay for his gas or trouble.

“No need. Coming down here anyway to get a new alternator. I am curious, though. What sort of information were they after?”

“Ship manifests,” Sam said. “From the seventeenth century. The one we were looking for was missing.”

“Well, good luck.” He put it in gear and started to drive off, then stopped suddenly, leaning out the window. “Not sure if it’ll help. But it just occurred to me. You might check at the Fort Charles Maritime Museum in Port Royal. Quite a collection of artifacts.”

“Appreciate the tip,” Sam said. They thanked him again, only realizing after he left that they hadn’t gotten his name.

Any trip to Port Royal would have to wait until morning. Right now, they needed a long shower, some warm food, and a good night’s rest. And even though Sam took enough evasive maneuvers to ensure they weren’t followed, he didn’t relax until they were safely in their room.

Good thing the hotel minibar had a nice bottle of Argentinian Merlot. Sam poured two glasses of wine, handing one to Remi as she sat. He held his up. “Here’s to narrow escapes and Good Samaritans.”

Remi touched her glass to his. “And to finding what we need tomorrow in Port Royal.”

Port Royal, a quiet fishing village once known as the wickedest city on earth, was originally colonized by the Spanish. Captured by the English in 1655, the heavily fortified town became one of the wealthiest trade centers in the world due to its notorious association with pirates and buccaneers. And it might have remained so had it not been obliterated by a massive earthquake in 1692, which sank more than half the town into the sea, its remains now underwater and buried by three centuries of silt and sand.

One of the few structures that remained standing was Fort Charles, which now housed the maritime museum. Sam and Remi paid their fee, then entered the brick fortress, the salt-tinged offshore wind whipping at them. Dozens of cast-iron cannons lined the arched battlements, at one time used to protect the city. The grounds were nearly deserted, and their footsteps echoed across the vast courtyard as they walked toward the old naval hospital that housed the museum.

Inside were display cases of pewter and dishes, showing items from everyday life, as well as fine jade carvings from China, giving evidence to the wealth that had graced Port Royal.

“Look at this, Sam.” Remi pointed to a photograph of a pocket watch, the time showing eleven forty-three, recovered from the water and supposedly stopped the moment the earthquake struck.

“Amazing find. Imagine what else is still down there.”

“If only we can get the Jamaican government to grant us permission to dive.”

“One thing at a time, Remi. Starting with finding someone who can help us.”

Help found them. Two women walked into the room from a side door, the taller stopping to greet them. “Good morning. Welcome to the Maritime Museum.”

“Good morning,” Remi said. “We were hoping you might help us with some research.”

The woman smiled.

“We were told you might have copies of old ship manifests. Particularly one from 1694 to 1696.”

“No. So sorry. Have you tried the Archives in Kingston?”

“Unfortunately, the book was damaged. Someone mentioned that you might have copies.”

“I don’t know of any. Again, I am so sorry.”

They thanked her as she left.

“Good try,” Sam said. “Maybe Selma’s dug up something by now.”

Empty words. They both knew it. Selma would’ve called if she’d found anything.

“Silver lining,” Sam said.

“Is there?”

“We can take that vacation now.”

She gave a sigh, then smiled, disappointment evident in her eyes. “Let’s go home.”

As they started out, the second woman walked up to them, her voice low but pleasant. “I couldn’t help overhearing that you were looking for old ship manifests?”

“We are,” Sam replied.

“The Archives Department in Kingston was going to make them all digital, but the budget ran out. Lucky for us, we actually scanned a few before the money disappeared. One of the directors hoped to make some reproductions for the museum. Unfortunately, it’s only the copies right after the big quake.”

Remi looked hopeful. “After the quake? What years?”

“Sixteen ninety-three to sixteen ninety-six.”

“Please,” Remi said. “We’d love to have a look.”