| *~ the Buried Pirate's Treasure of ` Haunted Shell Island ~* a swashbuckling tale of wild adventure upon the high seas of the Gulf of Mexico and Caribbean Sea !! *~V8~*+ written and illustrated by the World Famous Artist Sean Terrence Best !! *~V8~*+ |
| Date of first publication: Wednesday June 29 2011 ~* |
| *~ the Buried Pirate's Treasure of Haunted Shell Island ~* V8+ Chapter I the Mysterious Chest Chapter II the One~Eyed Marauder Chapter III the Old Buccaneer Chapter IV the Boat: Lunar Sea Chapter V Charlie Chains Chapter VI the Voyage to Haunted Shell Island Chapter VII the Castaways: Klyde and Priscilla Chapter VIII Shipwreck of the Sea~Hag Chapter IX the Incident in Bullshark Lagoon Chapter X the Hidden Treasure of Captain Bones Stoker |
Gulf of Mexico Florida Straights Dry Tortugas Bermuda Key West Caribbean Sea *~ the Buried Pirate's Treasure of ` Haunted Shell Island ~*V8+ Chapter I: *~the Mysterious Chest~* To this very day not all the hidden treasure of the dreaded pirate, Captain Bones Stoker, has been found. Indeed, the larger part of it is still lying there.....waiting. Buried beneath the sugar white sands of haunted Shell island. The story I'm about to tell you is true. It all started one nippy fall night in Bunker's Cove at the Lazy Grill'n'Grog owned by the Commodore. The Commodore was six feet four inches tall, weighed two hundred seventy~five pounds, had a fuzzy, bright red beard which draped over his chest like a rug, and a voice, when he chose it to be so, that resonated like cannon fire commanding the attention and respect of all those in earshot. Starting his maritime career at the tender age of sixteen as a deckhand on a commercial fishing boat, the Commodore had followed the sea for nigh on fifty years, covering the length and breadth of the gulf and a good measure of the Caribbean to boot. He was a cheerful host and brown as a nut from the long decades of sea, salt and sun. The Commodore wasn't really a commodore, he was a retired tug~boat captain who had invested his proverbial nest egg, his life~savings as it were, into a local, run~down dockside building which had been abandoned for some years. As it lay in a certain state of disrepair, both in physical appearance and reputation, it was just the sort of challenge a retired sea~going tug captain was looking for to occupy his waning years. Something "craggy to break his mind upon", as the Commodore used to say. This piece of old wharf real estate had a long, interesting and not entirely "unsordid" history. It was originally built as a warehouse to store cotton and timber to be shipped to Miami, Cuba and points south. Later, during the Civil War, it was a hide~out for deserters as well as a covert munitions dump used to smuggle powder kegs to the last of the Confederate hold~outs. During the roaring twenties the old 3 story wooden structure had been lavishly furnished with all the fashionable parlor decor of the day to serve as a "house of hospitality" for notorious mobsters from the big cities of the north, New York, Chicago and such the like. After the end of prohibition, it turned into a regular house of ill repute until in the late 60's and early 70's, when those who called themselves Hippies occupied it as what they affectionately referred to as a "flop~house". Then, with the advent of the 80's the old wharf~side building was given new life and many renovations by a husband and wife creative team. The husband fancied himself a Salvador Dali. He painted many bizarre works of art which he exhibited with pride and strangeness in the waterfront gallery. His wife swore (according to local lore, or gossip depending on your particular vocabulary) she was Harriet Beecher Stowe re~incarnate. Well, during one of their seances, which Mr. and Mrs. Dali Stowe were apt to have every Saturday night at midnight, a fire broke out (no one knows how, presumably a candle placed too close to window curtains touched off the blaze) and nearly gutted the old, wooden waterfront studio. They seemed to have lost their creative thunder after that, the husband and wife creative team, shortly thereafter abandoning their studio of fine and performing arts and disappearing without a trace. They left no forwarding address, only a deed and title for the property which they had signed over to the town historical society. Being steeped in local legend is the only thing that saved the old building from being condemned and subsequently torn down. It was awarded status as an historic landmark by popular vote and left unattended for a handful of tourists to marvel at as they followed their historic landmark map through the scenic routes of Old Town. Bunker's Cove was the focal point and town square of Old Town and this unique, wooden historic landmark was the exact center of Bunker's Cove. The old waterfront warehouse building which had lived so many lives over the last hundred years was purchased lock, stock and barrel by the Commodore as the perfect retirement project to keep him busy while he waited for "the end which was drawing ever near", as he used to say. He patched up the Old Town historic landmark, added the necessary implements to meet the rigorous standards of the health department and opened the wharf~side pub and eatery of which he had fantasized for so many years while at the helm of his sea~going tug~boat. The Lazy Grill'n'Grog was everything the Commodore wanted it to be, and even though Old Town was a bit of an out~of~the~way location, with only that handful of tourist traffic every summer season, it was deemed a happy success by it's sole proprietor, Chadwick Staunton Belfen, a.k.a. the Commodore. As the Commodore was having his turn at fixing up the old waterfront building he noticed there was one part which was perfect just the way it was. On the first story, the grand room which he made into the main gathering hall, was a magnificent and brilliantly colored stained glass window. This large, vibrant, decorative glass measured a whole six feet in height and three feet in width. It looked out over the Old Town Bay and when it caught the angled beams of sunset reflected off the ripples and waves of the bay, it was absolutely majestic to behold! The husband and wife creative team, Mr. and Mrs. Dali Stowe, had commissioned the beautiful stained glass window from a fine artist, Talma the glass~worker, in Beverly Hills, California. They had a big celebration the day it was shipped in and the local installation crew were sweating bullets that day, I can tell you. When it had been successfully installed everyone in Bunker's Cove came out to see it and were all as pleased and proud of it as if they owned it themselves. The design was maritime romantic composed of two starfish, two sea~cows, two sea~gulls and two spinning dolphins leaping high out of the water! Yes, it was truly spectacular! When the light beams shone through those intricately intermingled rainbow colored segments of glass it seemed as though the creatures embodied therein shifted and moved....became animated and breathed the breath of life! The Old Town Bay where the fabulous stained glass could be seen even from the water was situated to the south of the Lazy Grill'n'Grog. The huge, cherry~wood bar with mirrors all down the front of it that the Commodore had installed faced circular windows crafted like the portholes on a ship which looked to the north over the parking lot; and everyone was dazzled as they passed by the incredible stained glass window because the entrance was on the south side. The waterfront side where patrons could come by way of the sea and dock right in front of the Lazy Grill'n'Grog had also a wide, wooden deck covered with chairs, tables and aqua~blue umbrellas. Boats seeking the entertainment and hospitality of the Lazy Grill'n'Grog pulled right up to a berth along the old seven~nine wharf which stretched like a crooked finger out into the clear, shimmering water of the Old Town Bay. The 16th century style wooden sign which hung over the door of the Lazy Grill'n'Grog had the letters of the name of the charming waterfront public house arranged in a circle around a painted carving of a schooner captain at the wheel. Just inside you were greeted with a genuine buxom beauty figure head staring straight at you from across the dining area. Hanging directly over the cash register of the bar, she was a genuine ornament from the prow of a clipper ship which sailed the Gulf during the 1850's. A hardwood dance floor taking up the eastern half of the main room and small bandstand in one corner rounded out the charming old waterfront pub and eatery, so that everyone, locals and tourists alike, grew fond of the Commodore and his Lazy Grill'n'Grog returning to patronize his dockside establishment time and time again. Most of the tables inside which lined the walls around the first floor of the Lazy Grill'n'Grog would seat two to four patrons, but the big, long pine table in the center of the western half of the room would easily accommodate a party of twenty! Directly overhead were an array of wrought iron chandeliers hanging from the ceiling by real ship's anchor chain. And of course the Commodore had the pilot's wheel of his old sea~going tug hanging on the east wall above the dance floor and the old tug's huge, bronze propeller mounted on a concrete base just outside the main entrance. Yes, the Lazy Grill'n'Grog was a nostalgic, modern~day, old~world maritime waterfront establishment if ever there was one. With every square inch of itself, including its gracious host and hearty clientele, the Lazy Grill'n'Grog spoke of the salty sea. Becoming known locally and familiarly as the 'Grog, the old, wooden waterfront building was indeed alive anew! The Commodore converted the second story into his living quarters. The third story, so full of antiques, packing boxes, cobwebs and who knows what all, he left as it was. He determined to plunder and sort through it all when he had time, but so far, he hadn't begun what would surely be the vastly time consuming task of cleaning up the cluttered, dank, dusty third story. There were eight of us regulars who frequented the Commodore's waterfront establishment at the old seven~nine wharf. We called ourselves the "Lazy 8", in honor of our host, and we did while away many's the hour listening to his salty yarns of the high seas of the gulf. And he had some sea~shanties to share too, because he had been called upon directly by the governor of the state of Florida to join a blockade armada during the Cuban missile crisis, which resulted in him actually meeting Fidel Castro in person during a Marlin fishing tournament made popular by Ernest Hemingway. The Commodore had an autographed edition of "the Old Man and the Sea", and quite a story of how he ended up with such a cherished tome that was. Drug traffickers had once shanghaied the Commodore in the Florida Keys and forced him at gunpoint to transport a hundred bales of illegal contraband from their sinking scow all the way to Jamaica, only to end up paying him a handsome monetary reward for his services when they unloaded their smuggled cargo on a rainy summer night in the shallows of Montego Bay. Well on this particular evening, the night our story began ( 'T was a chilly, damp, breezy November evening as the lightening storms and heavy rains of an autumn cold~front had just passed through earlier that day; popularized as "the Witch of November" by a certain lamenting, maritime ballad) the regular crowd of the eight of us had gathered round to listen to another series of the Commodore's swashbuckling tales of the wild and untamed high seas of the Gulf of Mexico, when there was a sudden and quite unexpected rapping upon the high, heavy oaken door of the 'Grog. I say unexpected, not because business was what you'd call slow at our favorite dockside public house, but because, at this time of year, tourist season had been over for some two and a half months. The old shark shaped knocker upon the front door of the aged establishment was being hammered against it's rapper and the loudness of the thumping silenced the Commodore and the rest of us. We all sat motionless at the large banquet table in the middle of the big first floor room of the old wooden building staring at the door which was being pounded upon by who knows what from the outside. The Commodore, seeing that the rest of us were looking to him for protection, mustered his gruff sea~faring countenance and rising with a grunt of his wooden chair upon the wooden floor, marched to the door of the 'Grog to open it and stand face to face with whatever banged so furiously upon it from the other side. We noticed that the Commodore had one of his burly, hairy hands balled into a fist as he opened the front door with the other. To our and the Commodore's amazement, there was no one there when he snatched the door open with a fury of determination to end the commotion. I say there was no one there, but I do not mean to intimate to you that there was no thing there, for there was. Upon the threshold of the 'Grog sat a heavy looking wooden chest. It was about four feet in length, two in width and two in height. It had a cushioned seat on top covered with upholstery of an intricate arabesque pattern with a flying seagull emblazoned in the center and an elaborately carved set of brass handles shaped like mermaids on either end. "Well shiver me timbers", bellowed the Commodore, " someone has left their chest upon me doorstep!" "Let's bring it inside!", shouted Emily, the youngest and prettiest member of our Lazy 8. "Avast, ye swabs, give ye old Commodore a hand and we'll do just as she says!" The male members, five of us there were, the hearty swabs of our Lazy 8, obeyed with seamanship like quickness the command of our Commodore. Cort and I grasped a great brass mermaid handle on one end of the mysterious chest, Jim and Derrick the handle on the other end, and our short but stout fellow Hillary stepped to the back side of the chest to help us maintain our balance as we lugged the cumbersome load into the main gathering hall of the 'Grog. Emily and her comely looking cousin from the plain states, Elsbeth (pronounced Elzbet), peered on with utter dismay in their shining green eyes (green eyes seemed to run in Emily's family) and this feminine attention spurred our efforts into a pinnacle of activity until we had perfectly positioned our massive cedar chest into the very center of our now once again quiet room. We all stared at the mysterious chest with a combination of curiosity and delight. Of the nine of us, the Lazy 8 and the Commodore, no one had a single utterance to speak for a space of several minutes and finally, with the geniality of a gracious host, the Commodore asked, "What shall we do now, me hearties?" "We open it, of course!", exclaimed Emily. "Open it how?," Jim quibbed. "Just grab the lid and pull it up." she retorted. "What if it's a booby trap?", Cort warned. "Well" says I "if it is, nobody gets out alive!" "Stop it, Sean!" Elsbeth chimed in. "I'm only kidding, Elsbeth." "Yeah" Derrick sneered, "it could be some vector born virus disease like Anthrax lurking inside waiting for us to open the lid so it can contaminate us all and we die gruesome deaths clutching our swollen throats in agony while our eyes bulge out of our heads!" "It's an angry demon spirit inside, that's what it is, " Cort stated matter of factly, " We're all going to be possessed. We'll all be afflicted with boils and sores and we'll run naked through the streets until we get thrown into the Barnacle Bay Insane Asylum." "Stop it, you guys!" shrieked Elsbeth,"this isn't funny!" "We're only joking around Elsbeth, having some fun with this weird business." I said again, in a useless attempt to calm Elsbeth before she did herself a serious mischief. "I don't care, it's getting dark outside, we don't know who or what left this enigmatic thing on the doorstep and for all we know, there is a bomb inside!", Elsbeth said almost in tears. Of the entire troupe of us, Elsbeth was the most highly educated. She always used big fancy words. Yet in spite of her high~mindedness, Elsbeth was also easily the most delicate of constitution. We all felt sorry for her for reasons which shall be explained later, so at this point, the Commodore stepped in (as he always did in such matters) to lend a guiding hand and bring order out of the growing chaos. "Let's all just settle down a wee bit and think this thing through. Whoever was beatin' on the door so loud wanted to make sure we found this mysterious chest which they so kindly left upon our stoop. Now, perhaps its somebody playin' a prank, or maybe someone in need of help. So, we should at least open the chest to see what's inside, prank or no, so that we can be sure that if it is someone who needs our help, we do in fact find out such so as to lend them the helping hand the may truly need. Now then, since I'm the master of this house, the duty falls upon me to take the responsibility of opening the chest, so if everyone'll kindly stand back a few paces, just for cautions sake Elsbeth, no need for alarm or concern, I shall indeed do the honors of opening this here mysterious chest." Emily stepped up to the chest and laid her hand upon the ornately designed fabric on the seat atop the massive chest and said,"Wait. This looks like what folks used to call a Hope Chest. Someone's whole life could be inside here. Their highest aspirations, their worst fears. If we open this chest, this Hope Chest, we could be invading the privacy of another human being. A privacy which they probably never intended for complete strangers to go probing through. Should we really open it?" "Emily," said I, in a quiet voice of agreement," has a valid point. Perhaps we should reconsider about opening the chest, as tempting as it is to unravel this mystery." "But," said Cort, eyeing the mysterious chest with narrow, gleaming concentration,"if they didn't want us to open the chest, would they really have left it here for us to do with as we please?" "Cort is speaking what I'm thinking.", said Hillary as he too concentrated on the curious object before us in the center of the large social room of the 'Grog. "I say we open it," the Commodore offered,"and we can put it to a vote, but honestly, Cort and Hillary are surely right. Whoever left this mysterious chest here wouldn't have left it if they didn't want us to see inside." "I think that's true also," said Emily, backing away from the curiosity peaking chest,"but I just want us to all realize what we could be about to see. It's a sort of Pandora's Box. Once we've opened it and seen what's inside, we can't close it back and "unsee" it." Everyone knew Emily was right. She always was in such cases. We all stood in silence, staring at the mysterious chest in the center of our cozy room. The only sound was the howling north wind blowing autumn chill into Bunker's Cove on a dark and unusual night in mid~November. With reverence we paused as we considered with great levity the act we were about to commit in opening the mysterious chest which had been anonymously left for us at the front step of our beloved 'Grog. With a sigh of resignation, the mighty Commodore stepped forward, placed his burly, hairy right hand upon the lid of the mysterious Hope Chest and gave a lift. The lid didn't budge. He tugged at it again, this time with greater force, still, the heavy lid of the mysterious cedar chest with the lovely seat~top didn't give a fraction of an inch. Out of the shadows, Jayna, the eighth and heretofore unmentioned member of our Lazy 8, stepped forward and held out something in the palm of her hand. It was a small, soft looking leather pouch tied closed with a short measure of monofilament fishing line. "It must have been left with the chest." said Jayna. "I noticed it lying on the threshold as I was closing the door. It's got something hard inside it. Could be a key." Jayna was almost as pretty as Emily. At nearly six feet, she was tall and lanky for a young woman of twenty~two; she could have been a model shaking her stuff in designer fashions on the runways of Paris, Milan, Tokyo and New York. Extremely quiet most of the time, it was indeed rare for Jayna to speak as much as a single word. She had pale skin; you could see right through to her blue and purple blood veins. Her white~blond hair and light colored eyebrows gave her an angelic appearance, but sometimes, when she was partially obscured in shadow, you couldn't tell if she were a real living girl or a vampire. She had the appearance of a corpse at moments like this, otherwise, she would have matched the healthy, debutante prettiness of five foot three, one hundred fifteen pound, brown haired, green eyed Emily to the very last degree. Yet even though Emily was nominally prettier, Jayna did have one distinct advantage over the rest of us........her sixth sense! She had what some call ESP, Extra Sensory Perception; Jayna was psychic! |
to be continued...................