68 Knots (31 page)

Logan and Marietta puffed and coughed their way up through the hole and sat down.

“This treasure had better be worth it,” Marietta said. She looked around. “Now what?”

They scanned the walls with their lights.

“There,” Crystal said. She pointed to a narrow, vertical gap that twisted up into the far wall.

“I was, like, afraid you were going to say that,” Logan groaned.

Crystal slipped nimbly into the crack and wriggled slowly upward. The crack was too small for her arms to move much, so she had to inch forward on one side.

“I'm not sure I'll fit in there,” Marietta said. “Some of us have big chests, you know.”

Crystal's chuckle echoed down from above. “Some of us are flexible enough to go where we need to,” she called back. “Lying around in the sun isn't exactly good exercise.”

Logan wisely chose to keep quiet. He squirmed upward through the crack after Crystal, trying not to worry about the close pressure of the solid rock. He jiggled and panted his way
forward, his back arching as he followed the corkscrew turn of the cramped shaft. He wished that he had entered on his other side, so he could bend more naturally as the crack spiraled upward. It was too narrow for him to change positions, and the arch was getting uncomfortable.

He wriggled forward a bit with his arms outstretched, his belly squished tight on all sides. A small spur of rock was pulling his shorts down, making him feel even more awkward. He could barely move his chest enough to get air into his lungs. Sweat slithered down his face, and he began to breathe more rapidly.

“I can't make it,” he called out, but he couldn't get enough air to make himself heard. “I'm coming back down.” He hoped that Marietta wasn't too close behind him.

He pushed with his hands, but his body didn't budge. The rock squeezed against him; he could see in his mind hundreds of feet of cold granite above him, below him, around him, thick and solid and unmoving. He tried to find a better angle with his hands, but he flailed against nothing but soft dust and uncaring air. He pushed again. Nothing.

“Marietta,” he wheezed, “pull my feet.” His sneakers dangled in open air behind him. He kicked. He couldn't gain an inch downward. He thrashed with his hands, unable to breathe. His flashlight smashed against the rock and went black. He pushed his shoulders against the granite, but it would not let him go. Suffocating. Hot. He could feel blood dripping down his hands.

From below, Marietta's voice drifted up. “Hurry up, lard-butt,” she said. “You're slowing us all down.”

“Pull!” Logan tried to call out. Barely a whisper. “Feet!”

The rock seemed to tighten. Logan couldn't get enough air. Crying, he pounded the dust with his hands, his head
squished against his upper arm. He kicked his feet against the uncaring air. He peed, the warm liquid adding to his panic.

And then from below, he felt Marietta's hands grab his ankles and pull. Granite gouged the doughy skin of his stomach. She pulled some more. Logan got his shoulders free and pushed himself downward. He landed with a dull thud on the floor of the little dry room. He gulped air and curled up into a pudgy ball against the wall, turning so Marietta wouldn't see him cry.

“Jeez, you didn't have to piss yourself,” Marietta said. “There's no way I'm climbing up that tunnel now that you peed in it.”

Crystal climbed on alone, unaware of the two she had left behind.

“There's another big room up ahead,” she called out, “and I think I hear something.”

A few minutes later, all three teams—minus Logan and Marietta—had arrived in the same chamber. Beams from five flashlights arced around the cave, crossed their faces, and settled in the center of the chamber. In the middle, under yellow stalactites, were two large wooden chests.

“Well, here we are,” BillFi said, catching his breath. “Here we are. Could be a fortune. Could be nothing. Could be either one. Here we are.”

“Who goes first?” Dawn asked.

“I think BillFi should,” Arthur said. His low voice echoed in the small chamber. “He's the one who led us to Bonnie. We owe this discovery to him.”

BillFi pushed his glasses up and nodded. “I accept,” he said with a grin. “I'll do it. I accept.” One box looked quite a bit older than the other, stained dark and soft with time. He bent down and peered at the older box, his face just inches from its cracked surface. “Here goes.”

He fumbled with the latches on the front of the chest and lifted them slowly. They moved with complaint, and flakes of rust spattered his hands. He opened the lid and aimed his light inside. He held up something small that glinted with a dull shine. It was a dagger, short and menacing, its steel handle forming a skull that seemed to be screaming in agony. The skull's eyes were rubies that flickered dark red in the glare of the flashlights.

“Shit!” Crystal said, taking the knife from BillFi. “This is one serious blade.”

Arthur whistled low. “Wow!” he said.

“Think of the history behind that,” Dawn said. “Think of the stories it could tell.”

“Screw that,” Crystal said. “Think of the money it could bring!”

BillFi reached into the trunk and pulled out another item.

“Here's a silver baby's rattle,” he said. “A baby rattle. It's engraved. ‘Elizabeth.' That's what it says. ‘Elizabeth.'” He passed it to Arthur.

“He
stole
a little girl's rattle?” Dawn asked. “That's awful!”

BillFi opened a small wooden box, peeked inside, and passed it to Dawn. “And here's a bunch of teeth,” he said. “A bunch of teeth, all with gold fillings.”

BillFi held up the remainder of the items in the chest: a gold wedding band, a locket with a mildewed photograph inside it, a child's pewter drinking cup.

“We can't take these things!” Dawn said. “This is horrible! Blackgoat forced people to give him things that . . . that
mattered
!”

BillFi dug through the moldy shreds of wood that cushioned the contents, and he pulled out an urn, heavy and about two feet tall. It glinted deep yellow in the flashlight beams.

“Gold?” Crystal asked.

“Brass,” Arthur said. “BillFi, what is that on the front?”

BillFi examined the urn. It was empty. On the front was an engraved coat of arms, intricate and finely wrought. BillFi brushed off two centuries' worth of dirt and grime.

“It's Blackgoat's, all right,” he said. “It's his. It has his family name carved across the bottom. And on this coat-of-arms
thing are a lantern, a pineapple, a tree, and a fish. At least I think it's a fish.”

“Do you think Blackgoat was royalty?” Crystal asked. “He had a fucking coat of arms?”

“Maybe,” Arthur said. “But it's odd. Most coats of arms have swords, or armor, or some other war image on them. Part of the point was to let others know that you were strong and willing to fight. But this has nothing like that. These are symbols of food, growing things, showing the way. Not exactly ferocious images.”

“The pineapple is an almost universal symbol of hospitality,” Dawn said. “It's a very welcoming, generous sort of thing—exactly the opposite of a sword, which tells people to stay away from you.”

Arthur shook his head. “So somehow Blackgoat started out in a prosperous and decent family, but ended up a blood-thirsty pirate. I wonder what happened.”

BillFi sat up tall next to the chest. “Look,” he said. He lifted a book, dark and mildewed. “Look at this. It looks like a Bible. Wish Joy were here. She'd like this. She'd like this a lot.”

“I wonder what a guy like Blackgoat was doing with a Bible,” Crystal said.

BillFi opened the book. “
The Holy Bible
,” he read. He turned the page. “Someone wrote on it. ‘Presented to Billy Blackgoat on this the Eve of his Christening, September 1782. May God watch over your soul.'”

A small piece of hemp rope, thin and crumbling, jutted from between the pages. BillFi opened the book to the pages it marked.

“Some parts are underlined,” he said. He read slowly and carefully.

I called to the Lord, out of my distress, and he answered me; out of the belly of She'ol I cried, and thou didst hear my voice. For thou didst cast me into the deep, into the heart of the seas, and the flood was round about me; all thy waves and thy billows passed over me. Then I said, “I am cast out from thy presence; how shall I again look upon thy holy temple?” The waters closed in over me, the deep was round about me; weeds were wrapped about my head at the roots of the mountains. I went down to the land whose bars closed upon me for ever; yet thou didst bring up my life from the Pit, O Lord my God. When my soul fainted within me, I remembered the Lord; and my prayer came to thee, into thy holy temple. Those who pay regard to vain idols forsake their true loyalty. But I with the voice of thanksgiving will sacrifice to thee; what I have vowed I will pay. Deliverance belongs to the Lord!

The cave was silent for a long moment.

“Noah,” Crystal said. “The Great Flood.”

Dawn shook her head. “It isn't Noah. It's the story of Jonah. That's the prayer he offered when he was inside the belly of the fish that swallowed him. After Jonah prayed, God had the fish put Jonah on dry land, and he was able to warn the people of Nineveh to change their ways and avoid the destruction God planned for them. They did, and their lives were spared. But Jonah was rejected as a liar, because the destruction he predicted never happened. He was a hero, but everyone thought he was a liar.”

BillFi nodded. “It seems to have been Blackgoat's favorite passage.”

Crystal frowned. “I wonder why he—”

“This might tell us,” BillFi interrupted. “I think I found his diary.” He lifted a thick leather-bound book from the chest. The crew was silent as he opened the cover. Powdery mold filtered up through the flashlight beams. BillFi squinted his eyes close to the elaborate handwriting on the pages.

“What's it say?” Crystal asked.

“The name seems to be Reginald Branigan,” BillFi said. “It isn't Blackgoat's. It belongs to Reginald Branigan. It was written—or at least started—in 1799. The first page gives information about the ship Branigan was on. It was called the
Wormwood
.”

“What the hell is
wormwood
?” Crystal asked, her blue eyes bright in the flashlight beams.

“It's a plant that gives off this really strong, bitter, dark green oil,” Dawn explained. “The oil was used to make absinthe, a liquor that people drank even though it was toxic. It's now illegal almost everywhere in the world.
Wormwood
can also refer to a terrible, unpleasant, or mortifying experience.”

“So the guy's a monster,” BillFi said. “Who else would name his boat
Wormwood
? The guy's a monster.”

“Or a lover of beauty,” Dawn answered. “
Wormwood
has very pretty yellow or white flowers.”

BillFi turned some pages. “It's mostly just information about where the
Wormwood
sailed and what cargo it carried. It seems to be an actual cargo ship—not a pirate ship at all. It does mention Blackgoat, but he doesn't seem to be the captain. This Branigan guy talks a lot about a Captain Carr. Seems to have been a decent sort of guy. Captain Carr.”

“What does it say about Blackgoat?” Arthur asked.

BillFi flipped through the book and stopped at a page near the end. “Here's something. It says at the top, ‘The Tragic Story of William Blackgoat.' That's what it says at the top. ‘The Tragic Story of William Blackgoat.'”

“Well, read it,” Crystal said.

BillFi began:

Aug. 17th, 1809. It has been full fourteen months since I wrote in this booke, but yea I never forgot about it. It just seemed there was more to do than I could get done. Had no time to make the usual notations. But as this is my last entry, I've a mind to record my recollections of Captain William Blackgoat before I depart this weary worlde.

Never have I seen a more tortured soul. The man seemed obsessed with getting riche, any way he could, and it tore him apart that he never made it.

It started when he was a mere first mate on the Wormwood. He had this idea that he had to be the captain else nobody would respect him. And then, if he became captain, that he had to be the best captain in the North Atlantic. It was all or nothing, for him. He had to be the greatest, or his whole life would be for nought.

Well, after a few years of shipping work—a few years of doing mighty well, too—we all was taking good shares of the cargo we was hauling for merchants in London and New York—and the merchants were right glad for our services, too—well,
after a few years, Mister Blackgoat started getting right anxious. Said he should have been captain by now, and that once he was captain, he'd make sure those bloody merchants paid us right. Didn't know what he was talking about. All us on board thought our pay was right fair. Still, you could see that Mister Blackgoat was getting eager to take charge of the ship and negotiate a bigger cut.