Ian stepped up onto the porch and was immediately met by Ben who had come out into the early morning air. Kelly watched silently from behind the screen door, a cup of something steaming in her hands.
“He’s going to be okay, Ben. Doctor English doesn’t think any vitals were involved.” A great weight seemed to lift off the old man. He grew two inches and gripped Ian by the upper arms.
“Thank you, son. That dog’s everything to me. I’m not ready to say goodbye to an animal that’s not even three years old yet.”
Kelly came through the door, she’d heard what Ian had said.
“That’s wonderful news, Ian. Ben has just been telling me all about his other dogs. About Sydney and the German. All of it.”
Ian held the both of them with tired all-night eyes. Wondering who was going to dig up the corpse first. They led him inside and he sat down at the heavy desk. Put his head in his hands, trying to blot out the previous image of a shredded stranger lying where his eyes were sightlessly seeing. Kelly put a hand on his shoulder and he looked up. She handed him a cup of Ben’s caustic black coffee.
“Here,” she said. “This should help you feel better.”
“I doubt it,” he said while accepting it and Ben grinned with Kelly. Ian seeing their unexplained good cheer grinned with them like a nitwit at a nuclear scientist’s convention.
He placed the heavy ceramic cup on the desk and straightened himself in the chair.
“Doctor English wants to hear from you before eight this morning Ben, or he might get antsy about the shooting. His concern is only about your health. I don’t think he cares about anything else that isn’t his business. That’s kinda how we left it. So you two can work out any other details if you like, but he let me know it’s not important to him.”
Ben waved a hand and said he’d do it in a few hours. It was still early yet. The birds were still tuning up. And he and the wily dog doctor had dug more than their share of illegal clams at night when the moon was small and the warden was busy at the Blackburn Tavern. He knew how to keep his mouth shut. Don’t you worry about Doc.
“And don’t you worry about this lady of yours, Ian. She’s got a touch of the poacher in her, too.” Ben was almost beaming.
Ian had liked the sound of that: Lady of yours. He looked at Kelly somewhat embarrassed. She met him with a lazy, smoky smile, like a comfortable aging lover. It was then that Ben explained what they had done. Even about the job of cleaning the floor, the porch, everything but the lingering question about the accomplice.
“Look you two,” Ben began, “I’m not too worried about some asshole going to the cops complaining about a burglary going terribly wrong and his partner getting killed by a dog. First of all, it’s not very believable, and secondly, the guy’s a criminal. Police are not their type of people to contact when the career has hit a snag. They just don’t work that way.”
“How about if the guy comes back, Ben? Have you considered that?” Ian wasn’t particularly worried about the police either.
“Good thought, Ian, and yes, I’m concerned a great deal about that. A great big deal, I am.”
Kelly asked with a tomb-like stillness the two men had come to expect from her, “Have you got a gun, Ben?”
“Yes dear, an old .30-40 Krag bolt gun. Perfect shape except I don’t have any ammo for it. The stuff is hard to come by these days because the rifle is so outdated.”
Ian said, “I’ll ask George Roche, Ben. If he can’t find some amongst his wacky friends then there’s none to be had. In the meantime, I’ll be bunking in with you for a while.”
“The hell you will! I didn’t get this old with someone holding my hand.” Then the old man thought about it a moment. “But thanks for the concern, kid. I mean it, Ian.” And he did.
“Well, then how about you taking my father’s old S&W 1917 for a while? Maybe whack a few shorebirds for the Audubon people while you’re waiting for Owen to come home.”
“The Parkerized revolver that he gave you? The forty-five?”
Ben remembered the big revolver from the days when he and Ian’s father would shoot at old lobster floats in the cove below, and yes, even seagulls that wouldn’t leave. Any man with a firearm who lives by the ocean in a fairly quiet area who won’t admit to shooting at seagulls is probably lying. To Ben Thacher, George Roche, and Arthur Highfield it was part of the culture. Almost an obligation.
“Yes Ian, that sounds like a good idea. It’ll be comforting to have around. Make me think of your father, too. Capital idea.”
Ben then rose from the love seat he had been sitting on and walked over to the screen door and gazed down into the rapidly brightening cove below. He was alone down there for a moment.
Ian watched Kelly by the mantle and was still staggered by her stunning natural aura. Some woman were pretty or even glamorous, she was otherworldly.
The old lobsterman gathered his audience onto the wicker love seat and then sat opposite them at the desk in the leather chair. He considered the pair sitting side by side and smiled. Then he started the speech that he had thought would be conducted via an aging letter in a dusty safe deposit box.
“Kelly, you’re a part of this now whether you like it or not. This was originally meant only for Ian’s consumption, but with the happenings of the last few hours and an old man’s instincts about things romantic, I’d say you’re in this up to your lovely brown eyes, too.”
Kelly smiled and looked at Ian. He didn’t have any answers for her. They both looked back at Ben.
The old lobsterman sat back in the comfortable seat and the leather creaked in the morning stillness. A long exhalation and a drumming of his fingers on the desktop. Then he shook his head and began.
“The other night a bank in Gloucester was broken into. You must have seen it on TV. They called me immediately. Maritime Trust. My bank, and has been for years.”
Ian said that he had watched the coverage. Kelly knew nothing of it. Ben quickly filled her in.
“The idiots only managed to open seven safe deposit boxes, but as with all things seven, they had some luck. One of the boxes was mine.” Ben let that sink in.
“Now that wouldn’t be such a big deal if all I had in there was some cash or insurance information, stuff like that. But no, Ben Thacher, the genius, has to store in his metal shoebox, not his last will and testament, but a lengthy letter of explanation and bequeathing to one Ian Highfield, of something very special.”
Ian cocked his head and gave Ben an almost pained expression as if speaking of the old man’s death was strictly forbidden.
“Yes, Ian, yes. I’ve got no one else, and to me you’re a son. A little frustrating at times, but a son none the less.” He grinned and winked at Kelly.
“My attorney, Darryl Fuller, over in Rockport, keeps a copy of my will and in it the instructions that would have you take possession of this house and all of the surrounding land around Goose Cove that I own. It also informs you of the presence of my safe deposit box and the right for you to open and keep all of its contents. And to do so in complete privacy. Just like the original owner.
“You’d also get any animals I might still have in my keep. That’s the most important thing to me, Ian. My animals. Owen in this case.
“You two,” Ben pointed to Kelly and Ian with a steady hand, “are going to learn things this morning that are unbelievable, but still pale in relation to the value I place on that big gray bastard snoozing over there in West Gloucester. That dog saved my life. The first one, Sydney, began it. Call me a silly old fool. It’s okay, I probably am, and I can live with that.”
Kelly said, “You don’t have to explain, Ben. The heart is a better indicator of a man anyway. Brains can get in the way.”
Ian followed. “You mean that in your safe deposit box there was information not included in your legitimate will?”
Ben said, “You’ve got a sentimental, clever one, Kelly. You’re a lucky girl.” She patted Ian’s hand and tried not to giggle.
“That’s exactly what I mean. Those two men who broke in here last night must have read what was meant for you, and came here with the intent of stealing it for themselves. The best part is they’re several years too late for the real payoff.”
Both Kelly and Ian sat with confusion on their faces. Ben stood up and walked over to his nautical chart of Cape Ann that was prominently hung over the huge stone hearth. He gazed at it for a long moment with his hands gripped behind his back, and then asked Ian as he was turning towards him, if he’d ever heard about the pirate ship Willow that had been driven aground on Cape Cod in the late sixteen hundreds.
“Sure, Ben. A guy named Gary Mugford had done a ton of research on the thing and had finally located the wreck off Truro on Cape Cod about twenty years ago. He’s been working on it and other wrecks ever since. Even wrote a book on his find, as I recall.”
Kelly added. “I’ve been to his pirate museum in Provincetown. It was the same year I traveled to Key West and visited Mel Fisher’s museum. Interesting stuff if you like boats, I guess.”
“Or if you like gold, my dear.”
Ben reached for a loose stone in the fireplace and lifted it out. It was the size of a small loaf of bread and it fit perfectly in place without mortar. He set it down on the floor and then reached into the hole that it left and brought out two half-round ingots of nearly pure gold. He handed one to each of them. They weighed several pounds. They had strange markings on them and they glowed.
“Breathtaking, aren’t they?” he asked.
While Ian and Kelly were examining the pieces with dumbfounded expressions on their faces, Ben then lifted out a crucifix about six-inches long and set with many small emeralds. He handed it to Ian and asked him if he’d ever seen anything like it.
“Only in museums, Ben. Nowhere else. The work is exquisite.”
Ian handed Kelly the cross and begged Ben with a child’s astonished face, where he had obtained such things.
“It all came from the cove down below us. Sydney and I discovered the wreck of the Willow’s sister ship, the Swallowtail, back in the summer of forty-three. It still gives me goosebumps to remember that day. I’d gone after a propeller that had been knocked off my boat. When I got to the surface, the dog seemed interested in a shiny spot on the prop. A single gold coin was lodged in the shaft hole. I went back down and paid more attention. And even without a mask I could see the bottom covered in Spanish gold.”
Kelly looked behind her into the kitchen towards the entrance to the Tiffany Room. “The ballast stones,” she said quietly and nodded her head knowingly.
Ben noticed and agreed. “Right you are, Kelly. Laurel and I managed to find lots of other interesting things, too. But mostly we found gold. Obscene piles of it stacked on the stone bottom down there and filling the many crevices with the stuff.”
Ian stood up and walked over to the windows. He didn’t turn around. Ben already knew the question.
“A hurricane, Ian. The same one that caught the Willow off Cape Cod, on September third, sixteen seventy-seven. The two ships were traveling together and heading for Nova Scotia to probably stash their booty. I found out about this back when Gary Mugford was first trying to raise money for his salvage of the Willow on the cape.
“It was nineteen eighty-one and Laurel and me had driven down there to listen to his talk. After he spun a tale of intrigue for what seemed like a lifetime, I managed to corner him, and, playing Mickey-the-dunce, came to learn about the pirate William Redfist’s other ship, the Swallowtail. Everyone interested in such things has heard about the fabled pirate ship Willow, and her wreck on Cape Cod, but the sister ship Swallowtail was a surprise to me. One hell of a surprise, because I knew she was in my cove.”
Ian asked, “How did you know for certain that your wreck was the Swallowtail?”
“I’m getting to that, just let me organize this story in my mind, will you? Never thought I’d be explaining it to you personally and now that I am, the sequences have to flow right. Storytelling’s like art, Ian. You gotta get in the flow, find a comfortable rhythm. It’s a tale that’s been in me for a long time, so shut the hell up and let me continue.”
Ian smiled painfully and dropped his head. Kelly grinned with her whole face.
Ben continued. “Redfist was an Englishman who was fulfilling a graveside promise to his wife and resorting to raiding ships after she passed away in Plymouth, England. Legend has it that Redfist was so despondent after losing her to an English naval surgeon’s drunken efforts to amputate her leg, that he vowed revenge on the entire British Navy, and any other unfortunate vessel that crossed his bow. For as with most men, the lust for easy pickings was soon the motivating force in his life. Not the more noble, though misguided, effort to seek retribution.
“Mugford told me that Redfist left Plymouth with the two stolen vessels and about seventy misfit crewman. They got lucky early in the eastern Caribbean and soon had several more ships and many more men in their flotilla. But it only lasted for about eighteen months.
“Redfist, contented with his huge success had decided to split up with several of his leaders and take the original two ships with him up to Nova Scotia and rest for the winter with his vast wealth. The word was out, and he was well aware that the British would be looking for him in the warmer waters to the south. He’d probably take special joyous pleasure hiding in an English stronghold while they trolled for him two thousand miles away.
“So up the coast he comes with his two ships in the late summer. Redfist always sailed on the Swallowtail because she was faster, and more importantly, because she was the gold ship. The Willow carried primarily silver. At that period in history, the two metals were vastly different in their values. Similar to today. Earlier in time, the difference between silver and gold value was minimal. Both metals were rare. Then the Spanish discovered the rich Potosi’ silver mine in what is now Bolivia and several other Mexican mines, then flooded the world with cheap silver. It eventually drove the value of gold up considerably.
“Anyway, Redfist makes sure he’s on the better ship with the more valuable cargo and finds himself running before a hurricane that’s hot on his stern. They take a beating just before they sight Cape Cod and by then it’s too late. The Willow can’t stay off the weather shore and the Swallowtail barely misses the cape’s tip and struggles north and west to Cape Ann. She clears what we now call Halibut Point and is trapped in Ipswich Bay. Victim to the sandbars and having her masts and rigging torn loose in a roll when the waves finally touch bottom and break like unholy hell.”
Ben pointed to the chart above the fireplace.
“Look at Ipswich Bay, you two, and tell me what you see. Tell me what strikes you interesting, or better yet, what looks dangerous if you’re a sailing ship and you’re caught in a hellacious northeast blow.”
Kelly saw it immediately. Ian hadn’t been active on sailboats to any large degree in twenty-five years, but even he picked up on the obvious. Kelly watched him when he walked over and got closer to the chart.
“It’s a trap. A giant maw to catch any boat driven into it from the northeast, with no place to escape.” He became more serious and he looked at Ben who was happy that his newfound son was finally showing some promise.
Ian continued. “And at the bottom of the trap is the mouth of the Annisquam River. Add a hurricane-sized storm surge of say, fifteen to twenty feet and huge waves. Sure, I can see it happening easily. That causeway down there has been built-up over the years. Three hundred years ago to wash a crippled sailing vessel over the top would have been simple. I can even picture the counter-clockwise eddies forming around Babson Point where the yacht club is now, guiding the hull towards the Mouse Hole and the quay, even Lobster Cove, instead of straight down the river’s course. Then the smashed hull is left in protected Goose Cove, undisturbed when the water finally recedes. The population is sparse at that time along the shore, and if the hurricane happened at night, nobody would have seen a thing anyway.”
Ian placed his hands on his head while studying the nautical chart. “Absolutely fantastic, Ben. Unbelievable!”
Kelly said, while smiling at Ian, “May I ask you, Ben, how it was that you knew the ship’s identity?” She was radiating charm the way they teach the perfect ones. Ben had no chance and Kelly glowed all the more, shook her head and made her braids dance in the early light. She continued to jerk the puppet strings and the old man loved it.
“Good question, my dear,” Ben said.
He bowed slightly towards her. Ian rolled his eyes.
“For the first dozen years I had no idea what ship I had found. Then in the spring of fifty-five, Laurel snagged a small cannon with a grappling hook at night from the float down below. She was just playing out there on an early season warm night. One of my favorite females, Chewby, was with her, barking like hell. Later that summer when the water warmed up enough that we could dive, she found the other one.”
Ben pointed to the two andirons in his fireplace.
“Ian, did you ever look at these things up close before?”
Ian bent over and ran his hands along the rough metal poles that served as andirons in the big fireplace.
“They’re falconets. I’ll be damned. They’re both crude swivel cannons. No, Ben, I never noticed. You’ve got so much odd nautical stuff around this place after a while I don’t see anything.”
“Well if you had, you might have also seen the name of the ship cast into the brass and the manufacturer’s name and date of investing.”
Kelly had joined them now. She was kneeling next to Ian when she read the raised print. “Swallowtail. It’s still very clearly visible.”
Ben continued. “When I heard Mugford mention that name as the sister ship to his Willow, it all came together. Everyone knows about the pirate ship Willow, but only the three of us know about what’s in the cove. Before, Laurel knew of course, and Marty Silverman.”
“And the burglar. The one who survived. He knows, too.”
It was Kelly who spoke. Ian could see the part of her that was made of flint when she said it. Nobody knew what to say after that, so Ben changed the subject and started to tell Ian and Kelly about the role Marty Silverman had played in the whole affair when Kelly asked what he had done with the treasure over the years. He was explaining how Marty had performed his service.
“That’s right, Marty was my fence. I like that word, fence. Makes the entire operation sound semi-sexy. Like we were outlaws. But I guess maybe we were.”
