Havana Storm Page 13

  Dirk slowed, forcing Summer to reel in the magnetometer.

  “A Spanish shipwreck,” he said. “Supposedly sank in this cove in 1525.”

  The man nodded. “Samuel show you.”

  Without another word, the Jamaican pulled up his anchor and started the motor on his skiff. He chugged offshore, veering slightly east before cutting the motor and tossing out his anchor. Dirk pulled up alongside and followed suit.

  “It here,” Samuel said. “Forty feet water.”

  “Kind of you to show us,” Dirk said before introducing themselves. “This cove apparently has good fishing all the way around,” he added, eyeing Samuel’s speargun and catch.

  Samuel smiled. “All Jamaica good fishing.”

  The water was still shallow enough to make out the bottom, and Dirk could see the rising green shape of a coral reef a few yards to the side. The winds began kicking up as a squall crept in from the northwest, turning the surface gray.

  Samuel stood in his boat and motioned to Summer. “Pretty lady come with me. I show you wreck.”

  “Please do,” she said. She pulled on her mask and fins and slipped into the water first.

  Samuel jumped in and dove straight to the bottom. Summer caught up and followed him as he swam a short distance, then pointed to the seafloor. At first, all she saw was a crusty bottom. A subtle mound then took shape, which stretched into the nearby coral mass. Summer fanned away the soft sand, exposing a pair of smooth, rounded rocks. With a tinge of excitement, she recognized them as river rock, often used for ballast in early sailing ships. The large mound in front of her was ballast from a ship that had sunk a long time ago.

  Her ears began to pound, telling her it was time to surface. She glanced at Samuel, who was calmly digging in the sand, then kicked to the surface. It was a few short strokes to the Boston Whaler, and she grabbed its anchor line as the boat jostled in the growing seas.

  “Any luck?” Dirk asked, poking his head over the side.

  “It’s a wreck, all right. Plenty big and all covered up. He put us right on top of its ballast mound.”

  “Sounds just what we’re looking for.”

  Samuel surfaced a second later. “Is this the wreck you want?”

  “I think so. What do you know about it?”

  Samuel shook his head. “Not much. It’s called the Green Stone Wreck. People say green stones in its cargo washed up on the beach for many years a long time ago. That is all I know.”

  He tossed Dirk a small stone he had dug from the bottom. It was smooth and dark green and had a radiant luster. Dirk looked at it for a moment before sticking it in his pocket and helping Summer aboard. Samuel climbed onto his boat just as the first sprinkles from the squall began to pepper them.

  “Thanks, Samuel. This looks like the wreck we’re searching for. We’ll find out tomorrow when the weather clears and we can take a better look.”

  Samuel flashed a toothy smile. “I bring tanks tomorrow. We work together. You pay me one hundred dollars.”

  Dirk nodded. “You have a deal. But only if you throw in one of your snappers for dinner.”

  Samuel picked out the largest fish from his stock and tossed it onto the deck of the Whaler.

  “See you in the morning.” He winked at Summer and motored off through the rainstorm.

  Dirk turned toward shore and sped to the dock, bouncing hard over the rising swells. The rains struck heavy, dousing the siblings.

  “The wreck site looks pretty old,” Summer shouted. “You think Samuel gave us the Oso Malo?”

  “I know he did.” Dirk fished the green stone from his pocket and tossed it to his sister.

  “That’s green obsidian,” he said. “It was probably mined in Mexico. Dr. Madero showed me an Aztec spearhead made from the stuff. He said it was a highly valued commodity to the Aztecs. Seems likely the Spaniards would have exported some of the stuff during their early days of conquest.”

  Summer examined the stone and nodded. “If it had any value, they probably would have loaded it aboard a galleon.”

  They tied up the boat and walked back to their cottage, wearing confident grins despite the pelting deluge.

  27

  I think Samuel likes you,” Dirk teased as they walked toward the pier the next morning.

  “Well, he’s a good swimmer,” Summer said. “And he does have nice teeth.”

  “Nice teeth? That’s what you look for in a man?”

  “Some things are nonnegotiable. Bad teeth is one of them.”

  “Haven’t you heard of corrective dentistry?”

  “I suppose you’re right. Bad teeth are probably easier to fix than a bad personality.”

  They hopped in the boat and motored into the cove. The rainstorm had long since passed, leaving a nearly flat sea. True to his word, Samuel was waiting at the wreck site with a small stock of air tanks. Dirk pulled alongside and tied up to his boat as Summer gazed over the side. She could see clear to the bottom, easily spotting Samuel’s anchor wedged in the sand.

  “Good morning,” the Jamaican said. “You enjoy the fish?”

  “Yes, though my brother overcooked it. I see you brought plenty of air.”

  “You ready to dive?”

  “Yes, we are,” she answered. “I’m happy to see you’ve brought us better weather.”

  “My pleasure.” Samuel grinned. “So, what you look for? Gold or silver?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you but there’s no treasure, at least as far as we know. We’re looking for a carved round stone.”

  Samuel’s broad mouth turned down. “Okeydokey. I help you find that, too.”

  They dove to the bottom, where Dirk and Summer surveyed the ballast mound. Using a reeled tape measure, they computed its width and length to the point where it was swallowed by a large coral outcropping. Dirk motioned toward the surface.

  “I wasn’t counting on a hungry swath of coral,” he said after climbing into the boat.

  Summer floated in the water alongside Samuel. “According to St. Julien’s data, the Oso Malo was seventy feet long. We’ve got at least half that length clear of the coral.”

  “I guess thirty-five feet is better than nothing.” Dirk yanked the starter pulley to a gas-powered water pump that he’d rented the day before after canvasing a half-dozen dive shops in Montego Bay. He threw an intake hose into the sea and passed a second nozzle and hose over to Summer. “You ready to dig?”

  “Give me a second to hit the bottom.” She inserted her regulator and submerged. Dirk gave her time to position herself at one end of the ballast mound, then turned on the valve that cycled seawater through the pump.

  A blast of water sprayed out the nozzle in Summer’s hand, which she used to jet away the loose sand covering the ballast mound. Samuel watched as she began clearing a foot-wide path along the top of it, revealing a pile of smooth river rock.

  Blasting away the overburden was slow and physically taxing, so the three took turns manning the waterjet, working in thirty-minute shifts.

  Summer documented the excavation with a new underwater camera that Dirk bought her and recorded notes in a journal. It took the better part of the morning to reach the coral abutment, where they exposed a portion of the ship’s timbers.

  After lunch, they scoured a second trench a few feet to the side. Dirk had nearly completed a third trench on the opposite side when the jet stopped spraying. He surfaced to find the pump motor silent.

  “Did you shut it off?” he asked Summer, who sat next to Samuel by the pump.

  “No, it ran out of gas.” She sloshed a near-empty fuel can. “We’ve barely enough left to get back to shore.”

  Dirk pulled himself aboard, stripped off his dive gear, and allowed himself a moment’s rest. “I think that pretty much ends it anyway. I had nearly finished the third test trench. With the three, th
e odds were good we would have exposed the stone if it was there. I’m afraid that if it’s still on the wreck, it’s embedded somewhere in the coral.”

  Summer frowned. “If it’s in the coral, we’ll never find it.”

  “You still have many interesting artifacts,” Samuel said. He pointed to a towel spread on the boat’s floorboards. It was covered with objects exposed by the test trenches, mostly pieces of broken porcelain and corroded nails and fittings. Several chunks of green obsidian also glistened in the sun.

  “At least nothing suggests the wreck is anything other than the Oso Malo,” Summer said. “This should make for a nice exhibit at the National Museum of Historical Archaeology in Port Royal.”

  “We find stone tomorrow,” Samuel said.

  “No, Dirk’s right.” Summer shook her head. “The stone should have been visible on top of the ballast mound. It’s just not there—or lost to the coral. I’m afraid we must leave Jamaica tomorrow anyway.”

  Dirk fished out his wallet from a dive bag and gave Samuel two hundred dollars, thanking him for his help.

  “You two crazy,” he said with a smile. “If you must leave, then Samuel buy you drink first.”

  “At the moment, I’d like nothing better,” Dirk said.

  They pulled up anchors on their respective boats and motored to the stone pier. Under Samuel’s direction, they piled into the Volkswagen and headed toward Montego Bay. They had driven but a short distance when he had them pull up to a small building. A faded sign on the roof proclaimed it the Green Stone Bar & Museum.

  “Green Stone,” Summer said. “That’s what you called the wreck.”

  “Yes. Maybe they have your stone. I know they have cold beer,” Samuel said with a grin. “I live in the next village over.”

  The bar was empty, save for a black dachshund sleeping in the corner. To Dirk’s and Summer’s surprise, the interior was filled with nautical artifacts. Rusting anchors, cannonballs, and porcelain dishes adorned the walls, while a dusty fishing net covered the ceiling. A high wooden shelf sagged under dozens of pieces of green obsidian identical to those they had found on the wreck site.

  “These artifacts must be from the Oso Malo,” Dirk said, examining a pewter plate stamped with a three-towered castle beneath a crown—a Castilian mark.

  The sound of clinking bottles emanated from a back room, and an old man emerged with a case of beer. His hair and beard were dusted white, but he moved spryly in a loud aloha shirt.

  “Afraid I didn’t hear you come in,” he said. “What can I get you kids to drink?”

  “Two Red Stripes, and a daiquiri for the lady,” Samuel said, smiling at Summer.

  “Works for me,” she said.

  They moved to the bar as the man mixed Summer’s drink and passed chilled bottles of Red Stripe beer to Dirk and Samuel. They smiled when the old man opened a third beer for himself.

  Taking a sip of the Jamaican brew, Dirk motioned toward a barnacle-encrusted sword mounted over the bar. “We were on the wreck of the Oso Malo today, but it looks like you beat us to it.”

  The bartender’s eyes lit up. “I haven’t heard her called by that name in years. She was always known locally as the Green Stone wreck, or the Emerald Wreck, although, of course, there were no emeralds on her.”

  “What do you know of the green stones she was carrying?” Summer asked.

  “Simply green obsidian. It’s a pretty rock, but there’s nothing inherently valuable about it. Of course, the sixteenth-century Spaniards may have felt differently. It was apparently prized in Mexico, so they loaded up a ship with the stuff. Unfortunately for us,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “they sent the gold and silver in another direction.”

  “We understand,” Dirk said, “the ship was sailing from Veracruz to Cádiz when it ran afoul of a hurricane.”

  “That’s right. She blew aground just off White Bay. Despite being so close to shore, most of the crew drowned. Only four men made it ashore alive, later finding refuge at a Spanish settlement called Melilla.”

  “Did the Spaniards salvage the wreck?” Dirk asked.

  “Not as far as anyone knows. It took three years before the survivors even made it back to Spain. By then, the ship was all but forgotten, since she wasn’t carrying gold or silver. She lay there undisturbed for almost four hundred years until discovered by an American archeologist around the turn of the century.”

  “An American?” Summer asked.

  “Ellsworth Boyd was his name. He had excavated a number of early Taíno Indian sites on the island. He was conducting an excavation in the area when the locals told him about the stones fishermen pulled up in their nets. He came to the bay and hired Jamaican free divers to pull up what they could.” He waved a hand toward the rock-laden shelves. “Lots of green obsidian.”

  “Do you know what became of the other artifacts they recovered?”

  “You’re looking at most of them. Boyd shipped a few items to the Yale Peabody Museum in New Haven but the bulk remained here. This stuff would have probably gone, too, but Boyd died shortly after the excavation. Some of his associates, my great-uncle included, decided to establish a museum here in his honor. It became a bit neglected over the years, but after inheriting ownership, I’ve done what I can to keep it going.”

  Dirk revealed their interest in the ship. “Do you have any recollection of a large semicircular stone with Mesoamerican inscriptions that may have come off the wreck?”

  The bartender gazed at the ceiling. “No, I can’t say that rings a bell. But you might want to take a gander at Boyd’s journal of the excavation.”

  Summer’s eyes widened. “He left a record of his work on the Oso Malo?”

  The bartender nodded. “Yes, it’s quite detailed.”

  He stepped into the back room and emerged a minute later with a thin leather-bound book caked with dust. “Been sitting on the shelf awhile,” he said, “but you’re welcome to borrow it.”

  Summer cracked the cover and read aloud the handwritten title page: “‘A record of the excavation of a Spanish shipwreck in White’s Bay, Jamaica, November 1897–January 1898, by Dr. Ellsworth Boyd.’”

  She flipped through the pages, finding detailed entries and elegant hand-drawn images from each day of the excavation.

  She gasped. “This is fabulous. If he found the stone, he surely would have recorded it in this journal.”

  Samuel leaned over Summer’s shoulder to view the journal. “This your lucky day.”

  Dirk drained his beer and slapped the empty bottle on the bar. “Let’s order some dinner and see what the good doctor has to tell us.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t serve food here,” the bartender said, “but there’s a good seafood joint down the road called Mabel’s. Their grilled snapper is a winner. You can take the journal with you.”

  “Thank you,” Summer said. “That’s very kind of you, Mr . . . uh . . .”

  “My name’s Clive, but most people call me Pops,” he said with a wink. “Keep the book for as long as you like. I ain’t going anywhere.”

  Samuel paid for the drinks, and the trio stepped outside into the fading glow of the late-afternoon sun.

  “Join us for dinner, Samuel?” Dirk asked.

  “No, must get home before the wife gets angry.” He shook Dirk’s hand, then gave Summer a hug. “Good-bye, my friends. I hope you find what you are searching for.”

  “Need a lift?” Summer asked as he started to stride away.

  “No thanks. I walk from here. Good-bye.”

  Dirk and Summer waved as they climbed into their car.

  “To Mabel’s?” Dirk asked.

  Summer nodded, clutching Boyd’s journal tightly in her hands. “Let’s hope the grilled snapper there is served on a stone platter.”

  28

  Slightly larger than a walk-in closet, Mabel
’s Café was an open-air diner shaded by a high thatched roof. An early dinner crowd of locals had already infiltrated the place, forcing Dirk and Summer to scramble to find an empty table facing the ocean. A brassy waitress with braided hair brought them a couple of Red Stripes and they both ordered the house snapper. While they waited, Summer opened the journal and began devouring its contents.

  “Boyd writes that he was searching for the remains of an early Spanish settlement on the Martha Brae River when he was told of the Green Stone Wreck. With the help of some local fishermen, he located the site. He says a large portion of the hull was visible from the surface, which he attributes to the force of a hurricane that struck the island a few months earlier and uncovered the wreck.”

  “He’s probably right,” Dirk said. “Little of the wreck would have survived in these warm waters if exposed to the elements for four hundred years.”

  “Boyd didn’t have the resources to hire hard-hat divers, so he relied on local free divers to excavate the site. Working through the winter, they retrieved and cataloged over a thousand artifacts.”

  Summer turned the page to find a drawing of the wreck as Boyd found it. The entire keel and crossmember supports were visible, as were several sections of the hull.

  Dirk eyed rows of ballast rock and noted a small coral outcropping near the stern. “Looks nothing like that today. At that point, the coral was just encroaching the site.”

  “A lot can change in a hundred years,” Summer said.

  The waitress arrived with their plates of grilled snapper, accompanied by a side of boiled okra and festival, a cylindrical blob of fried dough. Summer dug in with a fork in one hand while continuing to scan the journal.

  The succeeding pages described the daily results of the excavation, with occasional drawings of the more interesting artifacts. Aside from the ship’s heavy iron fittings, including anchors, chains, and a pair of small cannon, the bulk of the raised artifacts were chunks or carved pieces of the Mexican green obsidian.