15

Curious Intelligence

Morgan’s Bluff

Andros Island

Islands of the Bahamas

Saturday, 21 July 1888

The night yielded no attack by beast, human, or spirit, and the next morning saw me ashore at the district office in Nichols. I was there to press inquiries about Condor to the officialdom of the island. Rork and Absalom accompanied me on the walk, while Dan and Cynda stayed aboard, lounging under the deck awnings. Corny roamed the village of Morgan’s Bluff. Ostensibly he was noting the cultural structure, as he did at Red Bays, but I suspected there may have been a bit of treasure hunting involved too. In spite of his scientific brain, he was a quixotic fellow at heart.

At Nichol’s government house, a ramshackle cottage that had seen far better days, we learned that the man in charge of northern Andros Island was in that day, a rare good fortune. Sitting on the verandah were a dozen residents waiting for the district commissioner, none of whom looked very happy at seeing my arrival, since they knew that we would be taken care of first, a consequence of my skin’s color. They weren’t wrong on that either, for as soon as we took our place to wait outside, we were soon ushered within. Absalom insisted on remaining outside with his fellow islanders.

It turned out the commissioner and magistrate, a former sea captain named Ceruti, knew of our presence at Andros, and also of the altercation with the cook. With Ceruti was a Mr. Bode, a narrow-eyed sponge broker from Golden Cay and friend of the commissioner. Both were dressed informally. Ceruti greeted us cordially and offered Rork and me chairs arranged around a table covered with paperwork, where Bode was already seated.

My intention was to inquire as to the onward destination of the Condor, but Ceruti wasted no time in opening the conversation himself.

“Captain Wake, I have some criminal complaints against you—five to be exact—filed by the cook, one Connerly Blackstone, of the schooner Delilah.”

Hmm. As has been described, this development was not totally unexpected by me, though it did unfold faster than anticipated. I judged it a good time to assume the mantel of captain’s authority.

“And what do these complaints consist of?”

Ceruti picked up a lengthy document of three pages and regarded me carefully.

“Mr. Blackstone charges first, that you are guilty of theft, for being illegally in command of said schooner Delilah, which sails under the registry and protection of Her Majesty, our gracious Queen Victoria, and that you have no waiver of succession from the previous master and no authority from the vessel’s owners in England.

“Secondly, he charges you with gross professional negligence in navigation and seamanship for placing said vessel in peril at the reef south of Bimini. Thirdly, he charges you with manslaughter for the death of the mate, a Mr. Dunbarton, whom you placed in mortal jeopardy at that same location and who succumbed from that jeopardy.

“Fourthly, he charges you with criminal aggravated assault upon his person, as a result of which he is crippled for life and unable to practice his profession of . . . chef.

“And lastly, he charges you with false imprisonment by lashing him to the mast of the said vessel in a humiliating and painful manner.”

Ceruti raised an eyebrow and looked over at me. “Any comments, sir?”

The trade winds outside were picking up for the day, making the palm fronds swish and the surf line rumble, but inside that room it was deathly quiet as I spoke.

“Commissioner, those are the rantings of an incompetent seaman masquerading as a cook, who was more fond of drink than work and who constantly shirked his duty and degraded the efficiency of the crew by derogatory rumor mongering. When he provoked the altercation between us, I controlled my temper and mitigated my efforts at self-defense, allowing him to escape his just rewards with only the most superficial mementos of the occasion. I’m beginning to reevaluate that decision.”

Ceruti nodded noncommittally. “Yes, well, you understand, Captain Wake, that I must take such charges seriously.”

“I do, sir.”

“And investigate them thoroughly.”

“I do, sir.”

He cleared his throat, then spoke slowly. “And I am sure you will appreciate that an investigation of this magnitude will consume . . . more than the usual amount of time . . . in order for me to ascertain whether the matter should be judged here, or remanded to the Queen’s Court in Nassau.”

There was something in his tone that told me to stay silent. I nodded respectfully.

“Therefore,” he continued, “I must advise you that for the aforementioned reasons this case may linger in litigation for some while. Even after you have departed this port.”

Ceruti laid the document down and gazed at us. Rork’s boot nudged mine under the table, but I already understood the point of the statement. The commissioner, a former ship’s master, agreed with my view of the issue, but had to follow form for appearance’s sake. In the meantime, we were being allowed to leave—or escape, to use a more accurate term.

“I strongly disagree with Blackstone’s version and intend to lodge a civil suit for defamation of my character should he persist, sir. In the interim, I and my crew stand ready to assist you in any manner.”

“Very good, Captain Wake.”

“Sir, if I may? I have some questions about a schooner that passed through here in May—Condor is her name The boy seaman on her is the son of the lady aboard Delilah. Condor and her people are missing and presumed dead. We are searching for them, for the lady is convinced her son is alive. Do you have any information about that schooner, sir?”

He rubbed his chin while thinking. “Condor, you say? Yes, I remember hearing of her. Nothing of a specific nature. Only that she was here at Andros, anchored where you are, and something of a yacht, I believe. No cargo, only passengers. I wasn’t here at the time, but upon my return I was told that her passengers secured the services of local men to act as guides on an exploration for Morgan’s treasure. The inevitable happened and they left for Nassau empty-handed.”

“Nassau? What about the captain, crew, or passengers? Any news of them, sir?”

“No. They didn’t have any reason to come to this office’s attention, Captain Wake. Most of our visitors don’t.”

A not so veiled reference to me.

He went on. “And I fear that your continued presence at this place will only make your situation, and my official position, more uncomfortable, if you understand my meaning.”

Rork’s boot again. He was getting on my nerves with the boot nudging. I replied to Ceruti, “Understood very well, sir. There doesn’t appear to be a reason to delay our departure then. We are anxious to find young Luke, so we’ll be under way tomorrow for Nassau, if the wind serves.”

“An excellent decision, Captain Wake. But I think it won’t. This easterly wind usually holds for a few days.”

“Then as soon as it does, sir.”

Bode was quiet until this point, when he mused aloud, “Amazing, is it not, Commissioner? The few yachting parties who visit us don’t typically excite this much attention around here. They come, they go, and nobody cares—except this one aboard Condor. It surely has received some rather . . . diverse . . . interest lately.”

Ceruti shot him a severe look, which raised my curiosity. Had someone else inquired about Condor? I turned to the commissioner’s friend. “Mr. Bode, you have me at a disadvantage, sir. What interest are you speaking of?”

Ceruti pursed his lips as Bode answered. “Oh, some French fellow was here a week ago, asking the same questions. Came over on the mail boat from Nassau. It’s well after the tourist season at Nassau, so naturally I thought he was an investor, here about Chamberlain’s planned sisal plantation. That’s beginning to attract some notice. Then I worried that he was a new sponge concern’s envoy, but it turned out I was wrong on both accounts. He wasn’t here for trade purposes at all, but to ask about some silly tourists chasing down hidden gold a couple of months ago. The commissioner wasn’t here at the time, but I was, so the Frenchman came to me.”

The commissioner’s tone was dismissive. “Bode, really, we don’t need this sort of thing.”

His friend wasn’t daunted. “Oh, don’t worry, Number One. This tourist stuff isn’t going to affect the sisal enterprise and you know it. Chamberlain will still bring his money here.”

“Who?” I asked, totally confused now.

Ceruti answered. “Joseph Chamberlain, of Her Majesty’s foreign office, a diplomacy fellow back home in England. He is setting up a large sisal plantation here, which everyone over the age of three knows about. The island could use the investment. It will bring employment, since the sponging has been off lately. But we do not need foreign inquiries into unexplained disappearances of tourists. Bad image for us. I worry that investors might be deterred.”

I returned my attention to Bode. “What did the Frenchman ask?”

“He mainly wanted to know if there were any Russians on Condor. Kept asking about that in various ways. Russians? At Andros Island? Can you imagine? Well, there weren’t any that we knew about. Just a typical mongrel crew from around the various islands and a Yankee captain. Plus, some New York City swells, out for a lark. Pretty innocent, actually.”

Innocent? I wondered. “Where was the Frenchman from, sir? Why was he asking about Russians?”

“I don’t know where he was from. France, I suppose. Passed himself off as a potential charterer, checking out the schooner—what type of skipper, crew, clientele, that sort of thing. But mainly he was interested in the Russian thing. Seemed quite odd. Not your usual charter client at all. Left the next day on the mail boat.”

Odd, indeed. Was the ‘O’ in the letter to Kingston from Nassau referring to the Frenchman? Or did ‘O’ refer to this Russian connection? Or perhaps W, the sender of the letter, was the Frenchman?

“What was his name? His description?”

“Let me see . . . It was one of those long French names that they garble while saying. You know how they are. No, I cannot recall it. But wait! I do remember his first name—it was Pierre. Maybe forty years old, moneyed, smooth talker. Fluent in English. Trim moustache and thin goatee, long hair. Debonair sort of Frenchman. I think he mentioned something about Paris, now that I think of it.”

“And he headed back to Nassau? When was this?”

He grinned, knowing he was intriguing me and aggravating Ceruti. “About the time you arrived at Red Bays. Curious, ain’t it?”

Ceruti wasn’t done, though. He stood, the signal for us to exit, and issued his parting shot. “Much ado about nothing. We have no information about your missing ship and crew, sir. I wish you fair weather for your voyage. And by the way, what is your regular profession, Mr. Wake? You don’t seem the typical schooner master.”

He knew. I could tell by his eyes, which had grown colder. Blackstone probably told him. “I’m a U.S. naval officer, on leave.”

Ceruti spoke deliberately, savoring each word. “Really? Well, I do hope you aren’t receiving any remuneration for your services as master of Delilah. We don’t allow foreign naval officers to operate on a private or a governmental basis within the colony without Crown permission. Especially when out of uniform. Gives a bad impression, you know. Makes government people nervous.”

Touché. He was calling me a spy.

“I’m certainly not doing this for pay, sir. I am on holiday, helping the lady find her son. I am not operating in my professional capacity.”

“I see,” said the commissioner.

Rork coughed and moved his chair back, preparing to stand.

I stood first and said, “Thank you for the conversation, gentlemen. We won’t be a bother to you anymore.”

***

Absalom joined us for the walk back to Morgan’s Bluff. As Rork and I discussed the intelligence we’d just obtained, the islander, clearly disturbed, asked, “Captain, excuse me, sir. Did the cook make a charge on you?”

“Yes, he did, Absalom. Several, in fact.”

“I knew it. I should have left him tied up that night, but I let him go. He promised he would just go home to Abaco. I believed him. I am sorry, sir.”

“I understand, Absalom. Don’t worry about it. We can handle the likes of him.”

Rork cut in. “Aye, lad. Not to worry ’bout that devil. At least he’s the devil we know. There’s other things stewin’ now.” He shook his head pensively. “Methinks we’re into somethin’ far worse with that boy on board Condor. Froggie Frenchmen involved? Rooskies? I don’t fathom that a bit. Oy, an’ now me blasted foot’s actin’ up, sir—an’ you know what that means.”

I did, indeed. Rork’s superstitions weren’t limited to bizarre fables from local tales. His right foot was a weather vane for impending strife. And as idiotic as it sounds to our modern nineteenth-century minds, whenever my friend’s foot acted up, we unfailingly would soon find ourselves immersed in trouble. Perilous trouble. It had happened on four continents.

I hate it when Rork says his foot hurts.