Chapter 14

Salvage

Prospero had looked a pathetic figure as we left him on the island. In spite of his behaviour, I could not help but feel sorry for him. Timor must have been feeling the same “We’d better make sure he’s rescued before he digs up every nest in sight,” he said, twiddling the radio dial to an emergency frequency. He alerted the Bermuda coastguard but told them there was no need to rush. That was fine, they said. They knew Prospero well and promised to pick him up “within a day or two.”

“What will happen to him?” I asked.

“Nothing,” said Timor. “He gets away, we take him back. It happens quite a lot. There’s always someone around to listen to his sweet talk; someone to fall for his spell. He’s mischief from head to foot is Prospero but he’s not evil. What we saw back there was the curse. It consumed him.”

“It almost consumed me too,” I said, recalling my feelings of greed.

The raft had drifted nearly 500 miles to a group of tiny uninhabited islands about 200 miles south of Jamaica. It took us four days and countless hearty meals to retrace our passage to Grand Cayman where Timor insisted he had unfinished business. Whatever it was it left plenty of time to explain the story to mum and dad.

Dad had been angry at first when he had heard about my map. He said I should have told him and said that it had been wrong to keep so many things secret. But when he had calmed down he admitted that he would not have believed many of my experiences. Even now he sounded sceptical about the skull used as a drinking cup. Mostly he seemed irritated because he had never seen the treasure.

“You might see it still,” said Timor. “I have the exact co-ordinates of the place where I tipped it overboard and if I’m not mistaken the water is not too deep there, no more than 20 fathoms.”

We had suffered on the raft but maybe we had grown up a bit too. Back in George Town mum and dad did the shopping we needed and re-equipped the Endeavour with a life raft and new emergency equipment. Uncle Bob spent a night in hospital before they gave him the all clear. The next day he was looking much better, although he could remember little of the events after his plunge in to the sea.

Meanwhile Timor was in earnest talks with a Caymanian salvage captain as we loaded the boat.

Dad told us that Prospero had kept him handcuffed to the wheel night and day after the storm, allowing mum out briefly to help with sail changes. They had sailed to Little Cayman where Prospero discovered that the storage bin was empty.

“You should have seen him,” said mum, “He flew into such a rage. Even the monkey went into hiding. First he accused Rory of hiding it, then when he realised how absurd that was he began to blame Timor. ‘How did he do it?’ he kept on saying. We put to sea again and Prospero said he would search every island in the Caribbean, if he had to, until he found you. Then we had the radio contact telling us that the Endeavour’s Eperb was signalling. I didn’t even know we had lost it. Anyway they gave us the co-ordinates. Frankly I expected that we’d only find the yellow canister so it was such a massive relief, I can tell you, to see you all safe. I thought we’d never see you again.” She burst into tears and hugged me and Vince. She would have hugged the others too but he was the closest.

There were still a few things to do but we wanted to be out of Grand Cayman as quickly as possible. Pat had bought the local newspaper which had a headline: “Human bones mystery on north coast,”

The story read: “Police investigating a report of vandalism at a north coast beach home discovered three human skeletons in a shallow sandy grave nearby. Forensic experts say that two of the bodies are more than 100 years old but another is thought to be more recent..

The bodies were found with a cutlass and pistol, leading to speculation that they could have been 18th century buccaneers. The younger skeleton was found wearing a ring made from a doubloon. Police believe there could be a pirate connection to all three deaths.

“We’re keeping an open mind at the moment. But the damage to the patio is so extensive we believe it must have been done by a pneumatic drill. We are pursuing this line of enquiry,” said Detective Inspector Vernon Bodden of Cayman Police.

Timor came bounding down the quay. “You must go,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time before they check out the plant hire firms and builders. I have something to do that will keep me here a day or two. Where shall we meet up?”

Bob looked uncertain. “To be honest,” he said, “I haven’t thought too deeply about the next stage but I think we will head down the east coast of South America and round Cape Horn rather than head through the Panama Canal. It would be good to see Rio and Buenos Airies. Why don’t we wait for you at St Martin? By my reckoning it would take us about eight to ten days good sailing to get there. But how will you get there?”

“Oh, I’ll find a way,” said Timor, “I’ll see you in two weeks at the outside.”

We were away with our sails set in less than 30 minutes. It took most of the day to explain the rest of the story to my parents. Mum and dad were astonished.
“Do you mean,” said dad, “That this character Prospero was simply waiting for a boat like ours to come along?” he said.

“Not only that,” I said, “but he appears to have some instinct, like a sixth sense. He knew that a storm would bring us to him. He seems to possess powers we can’t explain. Remember your leg and the way it healed. Was that Prospero’s doing?

“And there’s something else.” I hadn’t mentioned this thought to anyone before, “It was as if he knew about my map. I’ve been thinking long and hard about this for some time. There’s something that happened to me in Whitby that I have never spoken about because there was nothing to say really. But since I came here I’ve wondered.”

Everyone was in the cockpit urging me to explain myself. I hesitated because even now, after so much had happened, the notion seemed absurd. I told them about the time I left the museum and about the Macaw in the aviary. “Could that same bird have been Dr Faustus?” I asked.

“I don’t see how,” said Bob.

“But it was looking at my map. I know it was,” I said. “Did Faustus tell Prospero about the map? Was Faustus some kind of spy? Did he lure us to Prospero somehow?

“Keep taking the tablets,” said Pat and the rest of them chuckled.

I knew I should have kept my thoughts to myself.

“I believe you Mo,” said Vince. “I think Faustus must be a magical bird.”

Just as he spoke there was a cry of “Pieces of eight” and Faustus landed on the deck. Everyone looked shocked, like the house guests in a murder mystery who have just been told that the butler did it. “Stay back,” said Bob, which, when you think about it, was a very odd thing to say to a parrot.

“Bugger off,” said Faustus which didn’t seem at all odd.

It was mum who broke the tension, producing a bunch of grapes from the galley. Faustus flew on to her shoulder and took a grape in his beak. He stayed with us the rest of the voyage to St Martin. When we sailed in to the harbour there was Timor, waiting. He looked just the same in his buckskin trousers, moccasins and denim shirt with the distinctive white top knot hanging down his back, highlighted against his dark muscular skin. Not only had he salvaged the treasure, but he had donated it as a gift to an art foundation that had promised to create a museum and display it in the Peruvian citadel of Ollantaytambo, in the Urumbamba Valley, the last last stronghold of the Inca nation.

“So Atahualpa’s gold goes back to its rightful owners,” said Timor. “The whole treasure will be catalogued, studied and displayed in all its glory and anyone who wants to see it will have to come to Peru. Proceeds from the exhibition will be distributed to the poor in Peru so that Atahualpa’s gold does some good for a change. I think we can be assured that his curse has finally been laid to rest.

“There’s something else,” said Timor, reaching into his pocket. “The new trustees of the treasure wanted to thank you children and agreed to let you have these trinkets in honour of your work.” It was the artefacts we had “pocketed” for ourselves on the beach in Grand Cayman. Timor had found them in Prospero’s cabin. Mine was the bird, Pat’s the puma, and Vince’s the doubloon. For Badger, there was a beautiful golden turtle, selected from the treasure chest.

“I don’t want this,” I said to Timor, “I don’t like what this gold did to us.”

“But don’t you see,” said Timor, “That was the curse. Now it has been lifted, the dark power of these amulets has gone.”

He put the bird amulet, tied to a leather thong, over my head. I felt the same strange tingling sensation I had felt before. Not only that, I had a vivid vision of Prospero’s grinning face before my eyes. “It’s still there Timor,” I said and, ripping the thong from my head, I reached back and flung it over the side of the boat.

An amazing thing happened. Before the amulet touched the water, Faustus had flown off his perch and grabbed the thong in his beak. We watched him for a time, flying out to sea and then he had gone. Pat turned to Timor. “I’d like my puma to be displayed with the other treasures. Maybe it could mention my name,” he said. “So would I,” said Badger.

“What about you Vince?” said Timor.

“Faustus has the right words for that idea,” said Vince, “Bugger off.”

Vince kept his doubloon but decided to make it part of the ship and nailed it on to the mast. “Just like Ahab did on the Piquod,” said Timor.

There were so many mysteries about Timor. Remembering the pictures and the things in his cabin it was if he had been around forever and yet he seemed ageless. I suppose that was it. He was ageless.

“How old are you Timor?” I asked him.

“How old do you want me to be Miss Mo?” he said.

“And who are you, really?”

“I’m just a man. Just flesh and blood like you Miss Mo. I guess you could say I’m a man of the world because there is so much that’s wrong in this world that I want to put right. That means there is so much to do.”

“You can’t do everything,” I said.

“But you can do something,” he said. “You can; we all can, and that means living right. A great man once told me this. He said: ‘Be the change you want to see.’ Well that’s how I try to live my life. Maybe you could do the same.

“I like that Timor,” I said.

The weather was set fair in the seven-day forecast so we decided to leave the next morning. Bob was glad to have Timor along with us now. They seemed to have become firm friends since leaving the turtle island.

After dinner that evening I took Badger to one side in the galley. “What did you say to Timor that time on the beach?” I said.

That’s a secret between me and Timor,” said Badger.

“Kiss and tell?” I said.

“I asked him if the curse would kill us. He said that was up to us. Only greed could kill us, he said.”

“You were the only one of us, who didn’t become consumed by greed.”

“That was probably down to Timor,” he said.

“No Badger that was you. You’re one of the good guys,” I said and kissed him on the lips. “Friends?”

“Always,” he said.

“Next stop Rio,” said Bob, as Timor, Pat and me hoisted the mainsail. Caliban was sitting on the upturned canoe, watching us heave on the rope.

“And after that it’s Never Land and the styrene mines,” said Vince. “Hey Timor maybe you’ll tell us about the man who was swallowed by the whale.” Timor glanced at him and a knowing smile crossed his face.

“Maybe,” he said. I looked at Timor and wondered to myself. It was Timor inside the whale. I knew. He fixed me with his eyes and for a fleeting moment our minds were joined in the inky depths of the ocean. Somewhere in those depths was the secret of Timor’s life.

“I saw a whale once in the southern ocean,” said Bob.

“Really?” said Timor. “You must tell me about it….” The rest of us scattered.

We ate well that day and the next, even with a stiffening breeze. At long last I felt I was getting my sea legs. We had been flying the Genoa and Bob thought we should get it down and put up the Yankee.

Rummaging in the forepeak , I reached with Pat for the sail bag. Vince was standing behind us in hatchway. There was a pile of rope over the top of what looked like the bag but I could see something pinkish between two or three of the strands of rope. I parted the strands and there was a hand. I froze, then screamed. It looked hideous. It was missing a finger and it moved, fast like a snake to grip my arm before I could pull away. Suddenly through the rope there appeared a familiar face grinning from cheek to cheek.

“Good morning to you Miss Bonny, my pretty little vixen” said Prospero as large as life. “Prospero heard youse was heading for Rio. He just happens to have some good business in Rio. No hard feelings now hey missy, hey boys. We’re just old pirates together, hey? Say Vince, how many beans make five?”

“Two and three,” grinned Vince.

Bob was shouting down the gangway. “Hey boys you’ll never guess whose back? It’s Faustus.”

“Hey dad,” said Pat, “You’ll never guess who’s back down here.”

“Your mother?”

It was the first time I had heard Bob mention his estranged wife all these long months. Even now there was a hint of bitterness in his jokey question which seemed misplaced in the middle of the ocean. It jolted me back to Netherfield and the Collingwood estate. Could we never break free of the past?

“No dad, give over,” said Pat. “It’s Prospero.”

Timor did not seem so surprised to see his brother. “Well it looks like you’re with us again for a while,” he said. “I don’t know how you escaped from the coastguards but now you’re here you may as well make yourself useful; that or you can walk the plank. But no more funny business. Promise?”

“I promise, promise, promise, just as much as I’m standing here. It’s just great to see you all. Isn’t it great to see old Prospero? Isn’t it great Faustus? What do you say?”

The Macaw seemed to be thinking for a second.

“Yo ho ho,” said Faustus, “Yo ho ho.”

The End

End Notes:

This is a story and like most stories so much of it is just a story. Yet many things in this story are true. A ship really did run aground on Bermuda and Shakespeare used the story for his play, The Tempest. The story of the lost colony is true, at least up to the point that the people went missing. The killing of Atuhallpa and the ransom of gold is all documented fact. So is the story of the Essex and the story of Blackbeard. His skull is said to have been turned into a drinking bowl but its whereabouts are uncertain. Some years ago when I visited Grand Cayman I was told that when builders were excavating the foundations for a big new hotel they came across two skeletons buried in the sand and one had a rusting cutlass lodged in its ribs. All the locations mentioned in the island really exist. So does the ducking stool on Bermuda. There really is a place called Hell on Grand Cayman. It has a small post office from where you can send a card if you are that way inclined. I read of the story of the lost whaler in the museum at Whitby where you can still see the fossils and the Hand of Glory. Curiously, when I returned to the museum a few years later, the small exhibit that mentioned the whale that swallowed the deckhand had disappeared and the curator could not recall it. But I do. Here’s something else: I once sailed on a steel yacht, welded together by a fireman in Yorkshire. It ended up wrecked on the Cape Verde islands. I saw whales in the southern ocean some years ago but you don’t want to hear about that. As for Timor and Prospero: I know them well.