The Deep Page 12

  “All that’s in there?” Gail said, indicating the papers on the table.

  “Most of it. Everybody kept diaries in those days, and Spanish bureaucrats were fanatics about keeping detailed records, usually for self-protection. Anyway, under normal circumstances Ubilla’s word would have been law. He was responsible for the fleet, and it was up to him to say who sailed with him and who didn’t. But evidently there was more to El Grifón than Daré was willing to tell. He went over Ubilla’s head, to the highest royal representative in Havana, and in jig time Ubilla was ordered to take El Grifón with him. So now there were eleven ships in the fleet.”

  Sanders broke in. “You said last night there were ten ships in the fleet, and they all sank off Florida.”

  “That’s what I thought. That’s what everybody thought.” Treece held up a sheet of paper. “This is Ubilla’s manifest. It lists ten ships and all their cargo. What must have happened is that Ubilla had made up his manifest, had done all his paper work, and he was impatient as hell to set sail. If he had gone by the book and presented his manifest for revision, to take into account the eleventh ship—one he didn’t want to bother with anyway—the bloody bureaucrats would have kept him in Havana for another month. They insisted on listing every farthing that went with a fleet, or at least every farthing they weren’t bribed to ignore—and that would have delayed the fleet’s departure until the middle of the hurricane season.”

  Gail said, “How did you find out about El Grifón?”

  Treece picked through the pile of documents and found a frayed, cracked, yellow piece of paper. He pushed it across the table to her. “Don’t bother to read it. It’s in Old Spanish, and the fellow couldn’t spell worth a damn. It’s a survivor’s account. About four lines from the bottom, there’s a word spelled o-n-c-e—the number eleven. I must have read that bastard a hundred times before, and I never picked it up. He says there were eleven ships in the fleet.” He riffled the stack of paper. “It was easy enough to check, or double-check once I had that clue. The King’s flunky kept a meticulous diary, and he mentioned El Grifón as leaving with Ubilla. Reading him kept me up half the night. He was a pompous bastard, and I had to wade through a pile of self-serving crap. When Ubilla got the order to take Daré with him, he apparently told Daré to join up with the fleet a few hours out, so as to avoid the bureaucrats knowing—they’d have forced him to wait till he could revise his manifest.” Treece coughed, stood up, and, without asking, poured three glasses half full of rum.

  “The fleet of ten, plus one, left Havana on Wednesday, July 24, 1715,” he said, sitting down. “It carried two thousand men and, officially, fourteen million dollars’ worth of treasure. The real value was likely something over thirty million. The weather stayed fine for five days. You’d think they’d be well out to sea by then, but those hogs only made seven knots, so they’d barely got to Florida, somewhere between where Sebastian and Vero Beach are today. They had no way of knowing it, but ever since they’d left Havana there had been a hurricane brewing down south, and it had been gaining on them every day.

  “It caught up with them on the sixth day out, a Monday night, and by two in the morning it was beating the bejesus out of them: forty-, fifty-foot seas, hundred-mile winds blowing out of the east and driving them west, toward the rocks. Ubilla gave one course correction after another, and most of the ships tried to follow him, but it was hopeless. Daré must have been the only one who consciously disobeyed. Maybe he didn’t trust Ubilla; maybe he was just a royal fine sailor. Either way, he kept El Grifón half a point farther to the northeast than the other ships, and, by Christ, he survived.”

  “He made it alone?” Sanders said.

  “No. He went back to Havana. He was still worried about pirates. That, or his ship might have been so beat up that he didn’t dare try the crossing without making repairs. And now,” Treece said with a mischievous smile, “the plot thickens. There is no record at all of what happened to Daré and El Grifón once he got back to Havana. For all practical purposes, he disappeared. So did his ship.”

  “He could have tried to make it alone,” Sanders said. “Later on.”

  “He could have. Or perhaps he laid low for a while, changed his ship’s name, and joined another fleet.”

  “Why would he do that?” Gail asked.

  “There are reasons. But a caution: What I’ve been telling you is fact, close as I can get it. From here on, it’s pure speculation.” He took a drink. “We know that Daré was carrying goodies worth a hell of a lot more than his manifest said, else he never would have been foisted off on Ubilla. It’s a good bet that only a couple people knew what Daré had on board—Daré himself and the King’s man in Cuba. Suppose Daré went back to Havana and reported to the officials that the fleet was lost. Then suppose he went to the King’s man and made a deal. Say, in return for a portion of Daré’s goodies, whatever they were, the King’s man would report that Grifón had gone down with the fleet. Daré would then disguise the ship and sail away again, scot-free. He could keep what was on board, because everyone thought it had all been lost.”

  Sanders said, “That’s an awful lot of ‘supposes.’ ”

  “Aye,” Treece conceded. “I told you, I don’t know anything yet. The only decent evidence we have is time. For instance, the date on the coin fits. Most of the other evidence is negative: no one ever heard of Daré or El Grifón again; no other ships were reported sunk around here in those years. And I can’t find a likely candidate for ownership of the E.F. pieces, which means they were part of a secret cargo—or at least an unregistered one.”

  “But Bermuda’s only one island,” Sanders said. “Grifón could have gone down anywhere. Florida, the Bahamas . . .”

  “Possible, but not probable. In the deep, maybe, but that was rare. We know Daré was a bloody good sailor. He’d not mess with Florida in bad season again. And the Bahamas channel was abandoned long before then as too dangerous. If he went down—and I’ll grant you, it’s an ‘if’—he went down here.”

  “Why would he even come here?”

  “As you’ll learn if you take the trouble,” Treece said, “he had no choice. The route to the New World was southerly, down the coast of Spain, across to the Azores, then over the ocean on the easterly trades. The route home was northerly, up the coast of the States, then a turn to the east. It was mostly eyesight navigation. They didn’t have proper instruments for determining longitude, so they used Bermuda as a signpost to tell them when to turn east. The weather didn’t have to be too bad for them not to be able to see Bermuda until they were on it. Christ, man, there are more than three hundred wrecks on this island. They didn’t all happen by coincidence.”

  “What are the chances of getting it up?” Gail asked. “I mean, if it is El Grifón.”

  “Getting the ship up? Not the faintest prayer. There’s nothing left of her. It’s getting what was on her that’s possible.”

  “But nobody knows what that was.”

  “True, but we’re a step beyond daydreams now. There is something down there.” Treece looked happy, excited. “By rights, you found her. Whatever she is, you were the first to find her. You didn’t know it, and you still wouldn’t if I hadn’t told you, but that doesn’t alter the facts. What I’m telling you is, I don’t want you to go away from here and then get all hot later on if I find something. What’s there—a lot or a little—is half yours.”

  Sanders was grateful, and he started to say so, but Gail cut him off.

  “You should know one thing,” she said. “I’m going to the government about the drugs.”

  “Oh Christ!” Treece smacked his hand on the table. “Don’t be stupid. The government won’t do a goddamn thing.”

  Sanders was surprised at Treece’s sudden vehemence, confused as to whether Treece’s anger came from annoyance at the change of subject, the break of mood, or from genuine contempt for the government. Treece was glaring at Gail, and Sanders wished he knew how to help her.

  B
ut she seemed to need no help. She looked back at Treece and said evenly, “Mr. Treece, I’m sorry if I annoy you. But we’re not Bermudians; we’re tourists, guests of your government. I don’t know what you have against them, but I do know that we—David and I, anyway—have got to tell them about the drugs.”

  “Girl, I can get those drugs, and I mean to. I don’t want Cloche to get ’em any more than you do. I’ve no love for that filth. I’ve seen what it can do.”

  Gail’s expression did not change.

  Treece stood up. “Tell ’em, then! Learn your own fool lesson.”

  Sanders felt that Treece was ordering them to leave. “What will you do?” he said.

  “What I told you I’d do, and not a damn thing more. I’ll register the Spanish ship.”

  “What’ll you call it?”

  “Spanish ship. That’s all the bastards need to know.”

  They had lunch sent to their room. While they waited for the food to arrive, Gail studied the Bermuda telephone directory. The listings for the various departments and agencies of the government took up nearly a whole column. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for,” she said. “There’s nothing like a bureau of narcotics control.”

  “Narcotics is probably handled by the police,” said Sanders, “which is just where you don’t want to go.” He paused. “I can’t figure it: What the hell do you think Treece has against the government?”

  “I don’t know. But something. Maybe it’s what the bell captain said—St. David’s Islanders don’t think of themselves as Bermudians.”

  “It seems more than that. He was mad.”

  “What about customs?”

  “What?”

  “The customs department.”

  “Nobody’s trying to smuggle them in.”

  “No, but Cloche wants to smuggle them out.” She asked the hotel operator to connect her to the customs bureau. When a voice answered, she said, “I’d like to make an appointment to speak to someone, please.”

  The voice said, “May I ask what this is in reference to?”

  “It’s . . .” Gail chastised herself for not having a ready answer. “It’s about . . . smuggling.”

  “I see. Something is being smuggled?”

  “Yes. Well, not exactly. Not yet. But it will be.”

  The voice became skeptical. “Exactly what? And when?”

  “I’d rather not say over the telephone. Is there someone I can see?”

  “May I ask who’s calling, please?”

  “Yes.” Gail was about to say her name, when she remembered what Treece had said about Cloche: He has friends in many strange places. Quickly, she tried to determine whether the voice on the other end of the line belonged to a black woman. “I’d . . . rather not say.”

  Now the voice was impatient. “Yes, madam. May I ask, are you a Bermuda resident?”

  “No.”

  “Then I suggest you contact the Department of Tourism.” There was a click as the phone was hung up.

  “That was a big success,” Gail said, running her finger down the list of government agencies. “I should have asked Treece who to go to.”

  “I don’t think he’d have told you,” Sanders said.

  She called two other agencies, but because she declined to give specifics over the telephone, at the end of each call she was again referred to the Department of Tourism. Finally, she called the Department of Tourism and asked to speak to the director.

  “May I ask what this is in reference to?” said the woman who answered the phone.

  “Yes. My husband and I are here on our honeymoon, and we have had an unfortunate experience. We’d like to discuss it with the director.”

  “Does it have to do with money?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Money. Have you run short of funds?”

  “Of course not. Why?”

  “Oh. Good. I’m sorry, but I’ve been instructed to ask. We do get those calls.”

  “No. It’s not that at all.”

  “One moment, please.” The woman put her on hold for a moment, then came back on the line and said, “Would four o’clock be all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “May I have your name, please?”

  “We’ll let you know when we get there. Thank you.” Gail hung up.

  They rode their motorbikes along South Road toward Hamilton. The rush hour had not yet begun, but, even so, the traffic leaving Hamilton was much heavier than the traffic going into town. Businessmen, dressed in knee socks, shorts, short-sleeved shirts, and neckties, sat sedately on their 125-cc. motorcycles, briefcases strapped behind them. Women, finishing the day’s shopping, carried their children in wire baskets on the rear fenders of their motorbikes. Wicker baskets hung down both sides of the rear wheel, full of groceries.

  The Department of Tourism shared offices with the Bermuda News Bureau on the second floor of a pink building on Front Street, overlooking Hamilton Harbour. A cruise liner was moored at the Front Street dock, and the milling tourists choked the traffic to a standstill. The Sanderses parked their motorbikes between two cars on the left side of the street, locked the front wheels, and waited for a break in the traffic to let them cross the street.

  “I wonder . . . ,” Gail said.

  “What?”

  “I’m ashamed to say it. But it’s true. What if this man turns out to be black?”

  “I know. I thought of that, too.”

  “I feel like I’m getting to be a racial paranoid. Every time I see a black face, I’m convinced Cloche has sent someone to get me.”

  The receptionist was a pretty, young black woman. As they approached her desk, Gail said, “I’m the one who called before.” She looked at a clock on the wall: it was 4:10. “I’m sorry we’re a little late. The traffic was terrible.”

  “May I have your name . . . now?” said the receptionist.

  “Of course. Sanders. Mr. and Mrs. Sanders.”

  “The director is unavailable. There’s a convention of travel agents at the Princess, and he’s in meetings all day. I made an appointment for you with his assistant.” She rose and said, “Follow me, please.” She went to an office in the rear of the room and spoke through the open door. “Mr. and Mrs. Sanders.” She showed the Sanderses through the door and said, “Mr. Hall.”

  The man stood to shake hands. He was white, about forty, tan, and lean. “Mason Hall,” he said. “Please come in.”

  Sanders shut the door behind him, and he and Gail sat in chairs facing the desk.

  Hall smiled and said, “What’s the problem?” His accent was East Coast American.

  Sanders said, “What do you know about a shipwreck off Orange Grove—Goliath?”

  Hall thought for a moment. “Goliath. Mid-forties, right? British ship, I think.”

  They told Hall their story, eliminating both the clinical details of the assault on Gail and Treece’s suspicions about the existence of a Spanish ship. As they were finishing, Gail looked at David and said, “Treece was against our coming to the government.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Hall said. “He’s had some run-ins with the government.”

  “What kind?” Sanders asked.

  “Nothing serious. And it’s all pretty long ago. Anyway, I’m glad you did come. Even if nothing else happens, you’ve had more than your share of unpleasantness. I’m sorry, and I know the director would want me to extend his apologies, too.”

  “Mr. Hall,” Sanders said, “that’s very nice. But we didn’t come here for apologies.”

  “No, of course.”

  “What can you do?”

  “I’ll talk to the director this evening. I’m sure he’ll want to confer with the Minister, when he returns.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Jamaica . . . a regional conference. But he’ll be back in a few days. Meanwhile, we’ll check with the police and see if they know anything about this fellow Cloche.”

  “The police?” Sanders said. “I told yo
u, Cloche said he has friends in the police. I know he does.”

  “We’ll do it all very quietly. I’ll call you as soon as we know anything.” Hall stood up. “I do want to thank you for coming by. How long will you be here?”

  “Why?”

  “Because if it will make you more comfortable, I’ll be happy to have a policeman assigned to you.”

  “No,” Sanders said. “Thanks. We’ll be all right.”

  They shook hands, and the Sanderses left Hall’s office.

  Outside, they walked along Front Street. The sidewalk was crowded with window shoppers from the Sea Venture, who peered at the Irish linen and Scottish cashmere and French perfume in the window of Trimingham’s, and calculated the savings on the duty-free liquor advertised in the spirit shops.

  “Do you think he believed us?” Gail said.

  “I think so, but I think if we wait for him to do anything, we’ll die of old age.”

  A few doors ahead, Sanders saw the Pan American ticket office. When they were abreast of the door, he touched Gail’s arm and pointed.

  She stopped and looked at the foot-high blue letters “Pan Am” painted on the window. “We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t,” she said. “I don’t know if I could live with the pressure at home; the threat, the not knowing, always wondering: What if . . . ?”

  David gazed at the lettering for a few seconds more, then said, “Let’s go see Treece.”

  “I’ll not say ‘I told you so,’ ” Treece said. “Bloody fools have to be scorched before they’ll admit there’s a fire.”

  Sanders said, “Did you register the Spanish ship?”

  “Aye. You didn’t tell the noble Mr. Hall about it, did you?”

  “No.”

  “He was pretty . . . reserved . . . about you,” said Gail.

  “Reserved?” Treece laughed. “That’s not the word for it. Paper-pushers can’t figure me out. All they understand is bullshit and politics, which amount to the same thing.”

  “You think they’ll do anything?”