The Old Cape Teapot Read online

  The first thing I did was find the bathroom, which was adequate, if you discounted the rust stained tub-combo-shower. Its walls and corners were dotted with mold and a few token pieces of hair decorated the rest of the faded linoleum floor. It was obvious that two guys lived in the old house; the toilet seat was up, but it was clean. I appreciated that Brian had made a real effort to make the house nice for me.

  The bedroom was down the hall on the left. My bed was opposite Brian’s. The room was stuffy and hot. I wanted to unpack but left everything in the suitcase because there was no place to put my things. Undaunted, I changed into fresh clothes.

  Thirsty, I looked for a drink of water in the kitchen. Closed plastic containers of food floated in the double sinks. I assumed it was for preventing ants from getting into the sweet staples. Poking my finger into the off–colored water I asked, “Does this really work?”

  “Yeah, the old guy who lives next door told us about it. Ready to go?”

  “Yup.” I replied, grabbing a fresh bottle of water from my suitcase; the tap water didn’t seem very inviting.

  ***

  Mrs. Jones, a native of Antigua, worked in the Peace Corps office and fed the volunteers once a week, becoming the designated mom for most of them. As I entered her small, stucco-walled, pink-colored home, she greeted me with a lilting Caribbean voice, “Welcome! It’s so good to meet Brian’s mom! What a nice boy he is. And so polite.” I felt proud to hear her words. She disappeared into the tiny kitchen before I could reply.

  Brian left my side for a moment to talk to a few of the Peace Corps people in the sitting room then returned with Nick for an introduction.

  “Mrs. C, it’s great to meet you,” Nick said. The next statement out of his mouth went right to the point. “Is it true you discovered old pirate treasure?”

  He caught me off guard but I enjoyed his frankness. “Yes, it is. I assume Brian told you all about it?”

  “No, not all the details; I’ve only been here a few days.” He pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up onto his nose then leaned closer to me. “Of course, when he said you found it on your property, I didn’t believe him, then he showed me pictures of you on the internet and some of the jewelry that was found in the chest.”

  Mrs. Jones interrupted his questions with a shout out, “Time to eat, my friends.”

  A large table held a smorgasbord of native food. The red, yellow, and orange dishes were all colorfully laid out on top of a piece of material under clear plastic that depicted birds of paradise flying through a jungle. I assessed the chicken, beans, rice, and pasta in front of me. Positive that they were seasoned with hot spices, and not being fond of spicy food, I took only small samples of everything, just to make sure I wouldn’t be eating anything that I didn’t like. My plate was half empty.

  “Not very hungry?” the hostess asked as she watched me pick at the food.

  I tried to be gracious. “No, not really.” I was hungry, but held back on saying anything else for fear I would be obligated to eat more. As I nibbled, I discovered I was right in assuming the food was peppery. I quickly reached for a cool drink of soda to calm the heat in my mouth. With my plate in hand, I then sought refuge from the stuffy house outside on the breezy veranda.

  The temperature had dropped to a pleasant 74-degrees and young voices drifted through the tropical night air, along with sounds of a football game from the States blaring from a large screen TV. As I settled into a plastic lounge chair Nick came over and sat down next to me. He wore black pants with a beige polo shirt. His glasses were definitely too big for his face.

  Nick continued with more questions. “How did you happen to find the treasure?”

  I smiled, always eager to tell my once-in-a-lifetime story. “After we moved from Ohio to an old 1880 house on Cape Cod, I wanted to dig a garden behind the barn. By accident, I dug up a buried root cellar and at its bottom was evidence that pointed to a famous Cape Cod legend.”

  “You mean Sam Bellamy and Maria Hallett?” Nick asked.

  I nodded.

  “Is that one of the pieces you found?” He pointed to my good luck charm dangling from my neck.

  “Yes, but not in the cellar. I found this later, in the woods.” I held my locket in the glow of a streetlight that illuminated the front of the house so he could see it better.

  Nick leaned closer to inspect the diamonds that surrounded the delicately engraved blue-green flowers on the tiny orb of ivory.

  His eyes widened. “It must have been really cool to find all that treasure!”

  “Oh yes. No one had ever thought to look in Brewster, where we live, because the Whydah had wrecked near Marconi Beach in Wellfleet.”

  “Would you like a beer?” Nick asked me as he stood up.

  “No thanks, my soft drink is just fine.”

  He returned with a cold bottle of Wadadli, an island beer. “Then what happened?”

  Leaning back in the chair I let out a big yawn. “An article appeared in the local paper about how we’d found the cellar, then two guys broke into our house looking for more treasure.”

  The effects of travelling and not much sleep were taking their toll on me. My words began to slur together. “If someone had told me that I’d become involved with Black Sam Bellamy and the mysterious Maria Hallett, I would’ve said they were crazy.”

  Nick’s face beamed.

  I ran my fingers through my hair and massaged my head, trying to get rid of the headache that was starting to surface.

  Brian came out of the house and cut Nick’s questions off with, “Mom, are you feeling ok?”

  “I’m fine…just talking about my pirate treasure adventures.” I crumpled up a napkin across my half eaten food, hopefully hiding what I didn’t eat. “Are we leaving soon? I’m pretty tired.”

  Brian leaned back to stretch his back out. “Yeah, we should get going.”

  Nick stood to leave also. He said his goodbyes and then informed us that he was going to stay at another volunteer’s house for a few nights, to give us some privacy. “Maybe we can talk later?”

  “Sure,” I smiled.

  The air felt cool in the open Jeep. I closed my eyes for the ride home to Brian’s. When my head finally rested on a pillow, sirens sounded and flashing lights circled the dark bedroom. Loud voices were arguing outside on the road.

  “Brian, are we safe?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry. The police will take care of it.”

  I closed my eyes again and repeated Hail Mary’s over and over until I fell asleep.

  ***

  1722

  ANTIGUA

  The sun began to set in the west as John Julian, overseer of the Smith Sugar Plantation, walked home from the fields. He could still feel the heat on his neck. The benefits of his stature on the island of Antigua were many; one of them was enjoying the evening meal with his lovely wife, Elizabeth.

  His wood-sided house with its thatched roof stood apart from the other slave houses on a narrow piece of flat land. The Smith’s mansion had a stone edifice that looked down upon the crowded complex of shanties. Julian’s path home took him through the workers’ community and each person cordially greeted the man who controlled them. Julian looked around at the men, women, and children and appreciated that the fate of slaves on a Smith’s plantation was far better than most after the British Royal African Company had captured them. He noticed a new boy, who’d recently lost his mother. She had been raped by one of the soldiers in charge of the new captives. Ashamed, she took her life by jumping into the crushing depths below Devil’s Bridge. The orphan obediently moved to the side of the overseer’s path. Julian patted his head and hoped the family that took him in was treating him well.

  Thanking the heavens again for his position on the island, Julian walked on. He was well aware of the British Royal African Company’s reputation for seizing human goods from tribal villages along the Gold Coast of Africa. Upon arriving on Antigua or Barbuda, the captives were separated for work by gender, age
, and ability regardless of family ties. They were then traded and sold among the British colonies, their destinies decided by white merchants looking for profit. Some slaves were shipped to the new colonies in America, others forced to labor on the sugar plantations that dominated the Caribbean. These poor souls had a bleak future or no future at all. Julian took pride in the fact that even though his skin was the same color as theirs, he was a free man and not indentured to anyone but himself.

  Enjoying his casual pace home, he hoped that any day now word would come concerning the matter of a very important business transaction. Julian hoped that the letter he sent to Thomas Davis would have already found its way to Cape Cod and into the hands of his former cohort. All the recent overseers had been talking of the Smith family and the possibility that they were selling their fields. Julian began thinking of his future as a landowner and it included Davis’s help. His plan was a long shot, but his gut instinct told him it was a sure shot.

  He opened the door to his home and saw Elizabeth by the table rolling out the flatbreads. “Elizabeth, it’s good to be home.”

  She smiled and her honey bronze face glowed in his presence. “How’s your day?”

  Taking his seat on a bench by the table, he leaned back against the wall. “As good as expected. Any letters?”

  “No, I’m sorry, not today.” She stopped her work, came closer to him, and sat on his lap. They held each other in silence. She kissed him lightly on his forehead and then returned to her work at the table. “Something will come soon, I feel it.”

  He rose to relieve himself out back and whispered, “My hopes are high.”

  4

  Present Day

  ANTIGUA

  THE NEXT MORNING I awoke to the gentle whisper of palm trees rustling in the breeze. Brian was still sleeping. Long mesh netting encircled his bed. The netting around my bed was nicely tied to each side of the bedposts. I looked down on top of my chest to see a spotted green lizard staring back at me. “Brian!” I kept my head still, making eye contact with the creepy lizard. Then a little louder I repeated, “Brian! Wake up!”

  He rolled over and looked at me through half open eyes. “What’s the matter?”

  “This thing’s on top of me.”

  “What?” He squinted for a better view.

  “Do something!” As I grew more impatient for Brian to rescue me, I decided that I was going to be my own rescuer. I quickly flipped the sheets up and away from my body. The tiny lizard flew into the air. I jumped out of bed just in time to see the creepy crawly thing skitter across the floor and through an opening in the wall. My sleepy son watched the whole thing from his bed. I got angry and yelled, “You never told me to tuck my netting in!”

  He rubbed his face. “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “Is there anything else I’m supposed to know?”

  He didn’t answer as he adjusted the sheet across his chest and went back to sleep.

  After showering, I got dressed and tried to dry my hair. Within minutes, I’d blown all the fuses in the house with my hair dryer. My annoyance with Brian concerning the lizard episode quickly subsided. I felt bad and should’ve asked about the power capabilities. Of course, he should’ve told me about the netting. I figured we were even now.

  While Brian got the house running again, I went for a walk on the beach. In a few minutes, he was at my side, helping me collect conch shells for the kids. “Sorry about overloading the electrical system.”

  “No problem. It happens.” He picked up a beautiful multicolored conch. “Molly and Casey are really going to like these shells.”

  It didn’t take long before we were on our way into town. As I tied the straps to a new straw hat under my chin, I found it extremely practical as we began our sunny and windy trip for nine miles into St. John’s. Brian’s use of a funky hat back at the airport became perfectly clear to me.

  Huge ditches flanked us on either side of the road. I glanced over to Brian and noticed a large cut with black and blue marks on his exposed thigh, just under the hem of his shorts.

  “What happened to your leg?”

  “I was riding my bike to work last week and someone ran me off the road. It’s no big deal.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry. Some people here don’t like us, it’s typical…and I’m also a white American.”

  “It’s like prejudice in reverse.” I felt a twinge of fear for my son.

  “I’m careful and always watching my back,” he said, trying to reassure me of his safety.

  It didn’t work.

  He added, “…and Mom, my landlady has arranged dinner for us tonight at her outdoor café. It’s at the end of the sandy road near our house. Right on the beach.”

  “That’s nice,” I said, slightly apprehensive for another neighborly dinner of my least favorite: spicy food.

  Brian sped up a little. “I want to show you Indian Town Point before we get into St. John’s.”

  We drove past a vacation complex where Brian had crewed on a sailboat last month, and then we came upon a remote section of coastline. It was flat, empty, and barren, ending in a sheer cliff straight down to water. “This is called Devil’s Bridge,” he said.

  The bridge arched over the water to another mass of stony terrain, which shot upwards out of the sea, creating a rocky precipice. Its natural arch overlooked not a sandy coastline but a swirling mass of wave and foam that crashed against the sharp limestone ledges. We got out of the jeep and stood near the edge, choosing not to walk closer onto the bridge for fear that a trip of the shoe or loss of balance on the stones would throw us into the frothing mass of powerful waves.

  “Why do they call it Devil’s Bridge?”

  “Legend has it that the devil lives here among the rocks. They also say the African people who were brought here, centuries ago, would hurl themselves off the bridge rather than live a life of torture and torment as slaves.”

  “How terrible.” I shook my head in disbelief.

  Brian leaned closer to one of the edges. “People still come here to commit suicide. Some young guy died here last week; it was in the paper. They think he was from the States.”

  I stepped back from the violent scene.

  Brian whispered, “They couldn’t identify the body. All they found were some limbs and a pile of shredded clothes.”

  “It’s so sad and frightening. Let’s go.” We walked back to the Jeep arm in arm.

  ***

  After we drove across town, we parked at the Peace Corps office and then took a short stroll for a quick tour of the city.

  As we walked, Brian looked over to me. “Mom, do you have to wear that necklace?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m uneasy with you wearing it around here. It looks really expensive. I don’t want to give anyone any ideas…we have to be careful.”

  “You think I should take it off?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay. I trust your opinion.” I unhooked it and placed it inside my purse.

  Vendors lined the edges of streets and stood under the stone archways that connected sections of buildings together. Bought souvenirs weren’t for me; I would rather take home the big conch shells that covered the coastline for remembrances. Some people from behind the tables spoke to us as we passed by; I smiled even though I couldn’t understand the local dialect.

  Brian cautioned me. “Just look straight ahead and ignore whatever the vendors say to you. Don’t acknowledge them.”

  “Why?” I asked trying to keep pace with Brian’s long strides.

  “They’re actually cursing at you because you didn’t buy anything from them.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No, do you want to know what that guy just said to you?”

  “Not really.”

  The wide toothy smile of an elderly man hawking everything from deodorant to socks to postcards followed us as we passed him. I looked straight ahead and was grateful that Brian told me to keep the n
ecklace out of sight.

  As we rounded the corner of a large stucco building, a small freestanding lime-green eatery atop a cement block foundation came into view. It looked bold among the white and pastel painted houses on the small street. A sign was scrawled with scripted letters: Julian’s. It was decorated with painted pineapples, bananas, palm trees, and huge white waves that encircled its rectangular opening. The wooden building had grass on both sides and a high, open counter facing the street from which customers could order sandwiches and drinks. A small basket of napkins rested on the counter. From behind it, the tall, middle-aged proprietor was smiling and greeted us with, “Hello, Brian!”

  “Hi, John. How are you?”

  “Fine. Who is this lovely young lady with you today?”

  “My mom.”

  His black face lit up with a broad smile. “Well, I can see where Brian gets his good looks.” After a quick swipe of the counter with a cloth, he asked, “What might be your pleasure today?”

  The cheerful proprietor’s name and the sign above his head made me stop dead in my tracks. I couldn’t believe my eyes as the legend of Sam Bellamy and the Antiguan, John Julian, flooded my thoughts. Julian was one of only two survivors of the Whydah pirate ship. Legend has him possibly returning to Antigua.

  “I’ll have the turkey on rye with a coke,” Brian ordered, oblivious to my stunned stare.

  I couldn’t think about what to order; something far more exciting than turkey was on my mind. I elbowed Brian. Out of the corner of my mouth, I quietly asked, “Did he say his name was John? What’s his last name?”

  Brian reached for his sandwich and casually asked, “Hey, John, is your last name Julian, like on the sign?”

  “Oh yes, I was named after my long ago grandfather.” He stood tall and proudly added, “I am the seventh generation descended from the first John Julian.”

  I swallowed hard. With a timid voice, I ordered, “I’ll take the turkey on wheat…with a bottle of water.” Stepping back from the counter I took hold of Brian’s arm. “Haven’t you ever noticed his name?”