Ted Bell - Hawke

“It’s a delicate matter,” Congreve said, tamping tobacco into the pipe’s bowl. “I’m probably one of the few people left alive who even know of this file’s existence.”

“Well, sir, if you’d rather I not—”

“No, no. Sit, please. I need your help here, Ross. But I must ask for your absolute assurances that this matter will not be discussed outside this room. And that includes the owner of this vessel. Am I clear?”

“Certainly. You have my word,” Sutherland said, puzzled. He simply couldn’t imagine any secrets between Hawke and his lifelong friend Congreve. “I will not discuss anything you share with me with anyone.”

Congreve looked at the man carefully. He was one of the best of the Yard’s new generation, that much was certain. And the young fellow had enormous respect for Hawke, his squadron commander in the Navy and the man who literally saved his life during the Desert Storm affair. Still, it was a risky business.

“Well, good,” Congreve said finally, and opened the file. “You see, Ross, I suspect that the contents in this file and the map in that box are connected in some way.”

“A three-hundred-year-old map and a thirty-year-old murder case? Connected?”

“Yes, I rather think they are.”

He pushed the file across the table toward Sutherland.

“You’re free to read it in its entirety after we’re done here. You will see that the murders took place aboard a yacht moored in these very waters.”

“And the victims?”

“The mother and father of Alexander Hawke.”

“Good Lord,” Ross said, taking a deep breath. “Any witnesses?”

“Just one. A seven-year-old boy. Alex Hawke himself.”

Well after midnight, Congreve and Sutherland were still in the ship’s library.

Three meals had been brought in, served, and removed. The desk and two tables were piled with books, folios, maps, and satellite photographs of the region. Ross had ordered the sat photos printed on the bridge that morning and delivered down to the library.

Ross had also scanned the pirate’s crude drawing of the island into his computer, enhanced it, and had it blown up. It was now taped to the wall above Hawke’s desk. The sat photos, too, were taped to the wall, surrounding the computer’s version of the pirate’s drawing.

He had been on his feet for hours, poring over the photos with a magnifying glass, comparing them to the three-hundred-year-old drawing. So far, he’d seen nothing in the Exuma chain of islands that remotely resembled the island in the drawing. He was exhausted, but determined not to give up until he’d cracked it, a trait that had stood him in good stead at New Scotland Yard.

Congreve, meanwhile, had pulled up a chair next to the gas fire that was lit in the small fireplace. The cold front he’d seen on the satellite that morning had moved down through the Bahamas to the Exumas. The fresh salty breeze now flowing through the open portholes was actually chilly. Most refreshing, he thought. A welcome respite from the brutal heat he’d experienced since his arrival.

He was puffing contentedly on his old brier pipe, working his way through the voluminous notes relating to the search for the treasure. He was also combing a small stack of ancient and crumbling leather-bound ship’s logs and histories of the Caribbean. Occasionally, he would emit an “a-ha” or a “well, well, well,” but, to Sutherland’s frustration, he never elaborated on the source of these exclamations.

“Do you fancy some tea, Ross?” he asked as the ship’s clock on the mantelpiece struck one.

“Yes, please.”

Congreve pressed the button on the remote that summoned the steward and said “A-ha,” for perhaps the tenth time since supper. Ross sighed, put down the glass, and collapsed in the chair opposite Congreve.

“A-ha what exactly?” he asked.

“I am referring to this Spanish corsair that Blackhawke mentioned in his final message to his wife. This Andrйs Manso de Herreras’ specifically,” Congreve said. “I was beginning to doubt his existence, but here he is all right. He’s mentioned by name in this ship’s log. Penned by a contemporary of de Herreras. A Captain Manolo Caracol who was then sailing for the Spanish crown.”

“A-ha,” Ross said, peering excitedly at the ancient book written in a fine Spanish hand. “Well, that’s quite good progress, isn’t it, Chief? And what does it say exactly?”

“Well, according to Manolo Caracol’s log, this fellow de Herreras wreaked a good deal of havoc in these waters. He was a Spanish privateer, born in Seville, who lurked about in the Windward Passage. His specialty was intercepting his colleagues, those headed for Spain loaded to the gunwales with gold. He’d relieve them of their cargo, slit a lot of throats, set them afire, and send them to the bottom.”

“Testy bloke,” Ross allowed, feeling some excitement for the first time that evening. “Suddenly, Captain Blackhawke’s letter appears to be more than the rum-sodden ramblings of a condemned man. The thing actually smacks of authenticity now, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes. Hmm. Let me quote this chap Caracol:

“On the seventh of September of this year of our Lord, 1705, the villainous Manso de Herreras sailed from Havana Bay, embarking on a voyage to the Isle of Brittania. I witnessed this myself. My bosun and I stood on our foredeck and watched his departure in wonder. The sun struck gold on his stern. It was a sign. His barque, the Santa Clara, was so full of gold, she was nearly foundering at the harbor mouth.”

Congreve paused and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe.

“Is that it?” Ross asked. “Read on, read on!”

“Yes, of course,” Congreve replied. “I was just thinking that if de Herreras was bound for England, why then would he—at any rate Caracol continues:

“My bosun, Angeles Ortiz, said de Herreras was bound for London Town, where he planned to deposit the vast quantities of his ill-gotten gold in the Bank of England. Still, we were glad of seeing his stern lights and all our ship’s officers raised a tumbler at table that night in hopes that we’d seen the last of him.”

“But,” said Sutherland, “according to Blackhawke’s document here, Manso de Herreras never made it to England. He was done unto as he had done unto others apparently.”

“Precisely.”

“And Blackhawke’s letter to his wife indicates he captured the de Herreras flagship and buried the plunder on something called Dog’s Island.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Congreve said, rubbing his chin. “I was just thinking that, in his letter, Blackhawke claims to have encountered de Herreras’s Santa Clara off the island of Hispaniola, am I right?”

“Yes,” Sutherland said, sipping the tea the steward had brought in. “That’s right. And if the Spaniard was bound from Havana for England, fully loaded, his fastest route would be to head straight for the Straits of Florida. Or take the safer route through the Windward Passage. So, what was he doing down off Hispaniola?”

“According to the letter, it was September,” Congreve said, taking a sip of tea.

“Hurricane season.”

“Hmm. The Spanish ship could easily have been blown off course and ended up down there. And Blackhawke only encountered him by sheer luck.”

“And,” Sutherland said, “once Blackhawke had claimed this prize, he would be carrying an enormous amount of booty around with him. One would think he’d want to get it ashore and buried as quickly as possible.”

“Exactly my thinking, Sutherland,” Congreve said, rising from his chair and going to one of the maps taped above the desktop. He stood there with his back to Sutherland, small puffs of white smoke rising above his head like Indian smoke signals. He seemed to stand there for hours, puffing away, hmm-ing and a-ha-ing till Ross could stand it no longer.