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Excerpt
Ghost Stories From
Beyond The Grave
by Emily Hill
Spirited Pirates ~
1863 ~ Civil War
In July 1863, fierce Civil War battles waged along the Carolina Coast. It was along this shore, in the 1700’s that pirates hid their plunder under the watchful eyes of the Gullah who had witnessed so much from the time of their capture, and enslavement, in the territory that had become the Confederate States of America. Union gunboats battered Confederate harbors; and rockets lit the night skies in brilliant whites and yellows. The Gullah waited desperately for salvation from their years of slavery, prayed fervently for a Union victory. All the while, General Gilmore’s 62nd Ohio regiment inched closer.
In the evenings, grandmothers sat on the porches of their shanties in the heavy shimmer of heat as the drumbeats of war drew closer. They rocked their small grandchildren, and waited. Humming lullabies in Creole and hymns in their Gullah tongue, they no doubt thought back over the history of their island enclave. One such grandmother was Genevieve Dove, a Gullah woman who had lived through eighty years of hurricanes and pestilence. Her grandmother had lived through eighty years of hurricanes and pirates.
Genevieve sat on the porch stealing worried looks into the tall saw grass rustling in the breeze, as her twelve year-old grand-daughter sat at her knee. The young girl flinched as every exploding cannon ball hit the Carolina shore. “Michael row ‘de boat ashore; hallelujah. . . Michael row ‘de boat ashore, hal-laaay luuu jah” Genevieve sang softly and waited, stroking the forehead of the child left to her keeping. A crescent moon illuminated the landscape, and the flares from the high-mast vessels that trolling not far from shore seemed to light the way to her humble dwelling. She knew it was just a matter of time.
It was eleven o’clock in the evening when two finely dressed Union officers slashed their way through the tall grass and palmettos to Genevieve’s shanty. She stared at them with bright eyes, shining with tears of joy. Praise be! Praise be! She repeated softly so that only her grand-daughter could hear her soothing contralto voice. The officers stared back at her, in disbelief upon the discovery of her shack, so well hidden, yet so close to shore.
Mrs. Dove stood up and crossed her arms over her rib cage. The wind stirred, rustling the Spanish moss that shrouded the oak trees standing sentry behind the old woman’s cabin.
“I’s no hag, and I do no spells,” she spoke with dignity and pride. “I’m’s a Christian woman.”
“Ma’am,” the Captain ventured forward as a wispy cloud floated across the face of the moon. “May I ask your name?” The First Lieutenant hung back.
“My name is Genevieve Dove. And this here’s my grand-daughter Lil’ Genevieve.”
“Well, how do you do, Mrs. Dove? My name is Captain Speck. You realize that there’s a battle drawing very near.” The senior officer nodded toward the First Lieutenant, “We are scouting for a landing position for our troops, me and Lieutenant Hill.”
“Yes, sir. We’ve been awaitin’ on you. Hmmm,” again Genevieve hummed softly, and reached down to stroke her grand-daughter’s head. The young girl continued to cling to her grandmother.
“Mrs. Dove, we need to evacuate you, and any others that are in this vicinity. The fighting’s going to get fierce along these shores within the next two days and for God knows how long.”
Mrs. Dove smiled, “God, he does know. Yess’um God, he does know,” Mrs. Dove acknowledged. “I know that you and your fine Lieutenant have time to sit down a spell to rest. We’ll talk about our takin’ leave in just a bit.”
Speck cast a look over his shoulder at Lieutenant Hill and nodded toward the old woman’s porch steps.
“Lil’ Genevieve, you run in now and bring me my bible,” instructed the Christian woman.
The Union officers and the old woman sat on the front stoop together and waited for the young girl to return from the dank interior of the driftwood dwelling. Captain Speck could hear a snake skittering through the sand to the right of the cabin. The young girl returned, handing a well-worn bible to her grandmother.
Speck watched as Mrs. Dove hummed a soft melody and opened the bible to the middle passages. He noticed her gnarled fingers as she ran down the list of family names.
“Mrs. Dove,” the Captain interrupted the woman’s thoughts. “We will have to be leaving soon, so we can give you passage to safety before the battle begins. Is there anyone else around here we should know about?”
The old woman hugged her bible and looked over at her grand-daughter.
“The only ones that are aroun’ here are the Spirit Pirates. Uh hmmm. Them’s the only other inhabitants on ‘dis side of the inlet.”
The Captain stole a wide-eyed look at his First Lieutenant. And now it was his turn, “Hmmm. The ‘Spirit Pirates’ you say?”
Mrs. Dove nodded her head and placed her palm on the parchment page that listed her mother, her grandmother, and her great-grandmothers. It was then that she began her story:
The year was 1716. Four pirates swung at the end of the hangman’s noose at White Point. That was the end of their story. But Genevieve’s great-great grandmother, Saba, had hid away the previous night in the saw grass just a few feet further inland and watched, in silence, at what had transpired before the four met their Maker.
The pirates, a rowdy lot, hooted and hollered as they drug their treasure chest along the sand not more than one hundred yards from Saba’s slave quarters. Saba, hearing their approach, blew out the meager candle in her hutch and peered into the darkness watching as five buccaneers stumbled up the beach. They took turns with a bottle of spirits and a push of the chest filled with treasure. They were giddy with delight, and rum, they were. The leader of the misfits was a gravelly-voiced character whose frilly white shirt, clean and new, marked his rank.
“Put ‘er thar, Mates!” He commanded, pointing a finger into the mangrove while his fist remained around the neck of the bottle of rum.
“Mates!” mocked one of the lot and the others roared.
“Cap’n Doone is what they’s call me, and I see no different that you should depart from that respect, you whiney, drunk bastard. You’ll die here on this spot for your disrespectin’ frivolity.” He cracked the handle of his derringer across the back of the derelict’s ear. The disrespecting drunk yelped his displeasure at being cold cocked.
Saba shrank back from her window, her fingers reaching out in the darkness for the hatchet used to decapitate chickens. Locating her hatchet, Saba hugged it to her chest, her heart pounding. If only her baby girl would stay peacefully asleep through this marauding.
Once again the five men took up the trunk and slid . . . and lifted . . . and stumbled. . . making their way past the tangle of mangrove roots and into the Spanish moss covered oaks. Trickles of blood marked a trail from where they had come as the whelp massaged his wound.
The pirates shambled into the shadows of the oak stand, toward the edge of the nearby swamp. Spanish moss swayed in the light breeze obscuring Saba’s view of the sinister proceedings. She slipped out of her cabin and crept along the exterior wall, hoping for a better view of the nefarious activity.
Saba focused on remembering which two oaks marked the location of the pirate’s negotiations as she kept up her spying from outside the shanty. Holding her tiny daughter to her breast she pleaded, “Quiet, baby, quiet, or it will be the end of us.”
The pirates were digging a hole for the treasure chest, that much was obvious, even if Captain Doone had not cried out his order, “I want a hole six feet deep – and no less – you lazy bastards!”
The pitch of shovels could be heard into the night until, “Lower it carefully! Carefully! It’s a long ways down, Mates!”
Suddenly something was amiss at the dig site. A scuffle. Rowdy voices rising and falling. A command. . . and more arguing. Things were getting out of hand. Suddenly the pop! of gunfire ricocheted deep into the grove. Owls fluttered from their roosts. The wind stirred, but the disrespectful derelict did not. His body dropped heavily onto the closed lid of the chest like a dead weight dropping through the gallows door. Clunk! Boots and all. After furious rearranging of sand, he was a thing of the past.
“There ye be, Bastard! You want more than your fair share? Take it all with you. . .to a cold grave!” And with that, Captain Doone threw back his head and offered, as a prayer for the dying, a burst of laughter.
According to the story handed down over four generations, none of the slaves went near the site of the buried treasure. But they knew where the booty lay – between the two oak trees. And this is what the grateful Genevieve imparted to the Union officers who were about to deliver her and her grand-daughter from the shackles of slavery.
“There?” Captain Hill asked to clarify Genevieve’s proffered location of the cache.
“Yes sir. My peoples don’ want nothing to do with ill-gotten gains. But for a differen’ kind of individual, whether brave or foolhardy, there be buried treasure that’n laid there for more’n a hundred years. . .lots more’n hundred.”
Speck looked at Hill, speculating whether or not to include his junior officer in a treasure hunt. No, better to go it alone, he decided, his greed foreshadowing his wisdom.
“Lieutenant Hill, take this good woman and her grand-daughter to their freedom. I’ll meet you back on the ship after I scout and bring any others I find to safety.”
In spite of sensing the worst of his Captain’s traits, Lieutenant Hill had no choice but to gather up the old woman and her charge and shepherd them to safety. Standing in the moonlight at the edge of the tall saw grass, he held his arm out to the woman as she sighed and looked at her cabin for the last time. Surely with mixed emotions she slipped in behind the Lieutenant as he led the way back from whence he had come – through the saw grass that provided the perfect cover for spying; as it had for Saba and the generations that followed her.
As she trudged down the path toward the water, with her granddaughter trailing behind her, the wind whispered to Genevieve. Acting on its message she turned and looked toward her cabin. The Captain was rummaging around the front steps, dragging a broken-handled shovel across the sand – toward the stand of oak trees. Genevieve stepped quickly and tugged at Lieutenant Hill’s coat, causing him to turn around and cast an eye back toward the scene.
Putting her finger to her lips she shuttled Lil’ Genevieve into the tall grass, and signaled the Lieutenant to follow her – which he did. They were not fifty yards from the shanty with Genevieve on one side of the path peering out toward her former home; and Lieutenant Hill just a few feet behind her.
The wind picked up slightly, causing the clouds to cross in front of the moon, like ghostly gossamers. The fragrance of sea salt and palmettos wafted across the expanse of beach. Spanish moss, hanging from the haunted oak stand, swayed in unison back and forth, back and forth, heralding the long-awaited drama.
Genevieve tightened her fingers on the shoulder of Lil’ Genevieve, a warning not to make a sound. A night owl, not receiving the warning, hooted into the night. Its cry echoed, pitching deeper into the oak stand, ricocheting off the rotting wood. Crabs skittered across the sand moving out of the way as fast as possible.
The only living soul not aware of the change in the temperament of The Realm was the hapless Captain Speck whose original good deeds were about to be laid asunder.
Lieutenant Hill wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve; the smell of sulfur was causing his discomfort. The onlookers took in shallow breaths.
Captain Speck paced between the two looming oak trees that were being brushed by the fingers of Spanish moss. The breeze picked up, causing sand swirls and fleas to sting his exposed skin. The captain turned up his collar and looked furtively over his shoulder. Nothing. . . Nothing. . .no one. It seemed like murmurs were floating out of the grove toward his pricked ears.
Whispers of warning.
The treasure, he reminded himself. The buried treasure. If the old woman’s story were true, he would be the first to gaze upon the bounty of jewels and silver in over one hundred years. Surely, he could imagine the dazzling cache waiting for him.
Suddenly, a clap of thunder, nearly bursting his ear drums, ripped through the woods. The thunder reverberated through the oak stands, spreading out to the dark corners of the foreboding expanse. The rustle of palm leaves could be heard in the distance. Splash! Alligators lumbered into the swamp water – belly-flopping – one after another. The swamp banks writhed with the reptiles, excited by the possibility of fresh meat. A second lightning bolt lit up the sky.
Captain Speck looked down and watched as a heavy droplet spread into the fabric of his coat sleeve. Rain. A heavy tropical rain brought in by increasing winds. Howling winds. The Captain looked to the sky just as a third blinding flash of lightning backlit the mangrove. Hundreds of pairs of yellow eyes stared back at him and blinked – owls watching his every move. The third bolt of lightning gave the Captain just enough light to look down at his coat sleeve more closely. He examined the drop of rain. Curious, he thought. Leaning the broken shovel against his leg he swiped his finger across the drop of . . . blood. Again he looked around, shrinking his neck down into his coat collar. The brackish smell of the swamp was wafting from the mire.
As the winds picked up, Speck heard the whistle through the branches of the old oaks. A soft, low whistle – a calling. The wind was stirring something, and the oak trees began to groan under the strain of forces quite often misunderstood by mortals. Another drop of blood fell, this one trickling down the back of the captain’s hand.
Ridiculous! For God’s sake! It had to be a rain drop. Sniff. Blood. He licked. For a man who had been in a fist fight or two, the taste was unmistakable. Blood. His stomach turned. His nostrils burned from the smell of rot, and sulfur. The winds mocked him, blowing his hat from his head. The officer’s felt trilby tumbled deep into the oak grove and into the fingertips of the Spanish moss which beckoned him. The captain had no wish to venture further into the mangroves, the tangle of underbrush, or the nests of snakes.
My hat! As the wind howled and hollered, and his locks blew into his eyes he made the fateful dash into the oak grove.
His eyes burned from the effects of sulfur and blowing sand. Captain Speck pulled out his handkerchief. He wiped his eyes and blinked, trying to focus on the apparitions that swirled in the distance. He refused to believe the vision that took shape not six feet away from where he stood. Halt! His heart pounded. He swayed.
Another drop of blood fell; this one hit the back of his neck and rolled slowly down his spine sending shivers of dread through his bones.
And another bolt of lightning lit the heavens. Thunder, sounding like the crack of a bull whip deafened him, thus stealing one of his five senses. But he could still see, except for the tears caused by the vapors rising from the floor of the swamp. He tried desperately to focus on the near-distance. The shadow of a man stood before him. The vision was dressed in the garments of a Buccaneer. Impossible! Captain Speck craned his neck. Could it be?
Dear God! The man’s head was connected to his neck, but lying over on his shoulder, as though his neck had been broken. His eyes had long since rotted, leaving black sockets that seemed able to locate Speck just fine. Sickening! Stench! He’s smirking at me! For the love of all that is holy, he is smirking! The bastard is reading my thoughts! Speck silently pleaded with the buccaneer, Leave me alone!
As the old pirate held onto his head and doubled over with laughter. Surely this cannot be happening! Ah, but, it was happening.
One more bolt of lightning struck and, in an instant, the grove was fully engulfed in flame – and blinding smoke. Which way? Which way?
The captain scampered. Scurrying like a rat, as fast as he could, as The Vision pointed this way – and then that way. And further into the swamp tangle he danced with the Specter swirling just in front of him no matter which way he turned.
The winds were whipping the flames, encircling the captain. Don’t panic! And the Specter continued to point the way – the wrong way – as the hapless captain ran deeper into the pyre that had been created just for him.
Embers from above fell from the expansive oak branches, landing in his hair. Frantically the captain brushed them away, singeing the palms of his hands. He blinked as the blisters formed and ashes blew into his eyes. Speck rubbed his eyes completely blinding himself. He wiped his runny nose with the back of his ember-laden sleeve, burning his face.
Which way! Which way? At that moment Captain Speck fell to his hands and knees and scurried on all fours away from the increasing heat. It’s getting hotter! I’m going in the wrong direction! A branch, all ablaze, fell across his path and he yowled in pain as he reached out in an attempt to find his way – grabbing the limb instead. He crawled over the sand, as the fire stalked him, the stench of burning skin added to the stink of the decaying oak stand.
The captain, with snot running from his nostrils, squinted into the flames and began to scream. The buried treasure being the furthest thing from his mind. ###
Hill ~ Copyright 2010. All rights reserved.
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