A GIFT FROM A PRINCESS
A sailing and adventure for all ages
by
Hugh Fraser
Copyright Hugh Fraser 2011
Smashwords Edition,
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For those who dream of adventure.
Many thanks to my wife Brenda, for putting up with me during the hundreds of hours this book took to write.
Chapter__1 An abandoned ship, and a glimpse from the past.
Chapter__2 A strange dream or a visitor from the past
Chapter__3 A swim, and a strange experience.
Chapter__4 Another strange dream and a treasure found.
Chapter__5 A secret revealed
Chapter__6 A scary dream and a wonderful discovery.
Chapter__7 A decision and a sad parting
Chapter__8 Roger surfs the internet.
Chapter__9 A nasty evil man.
Chapter_10 Tina and her past.
Chapter_11 Tina and her past.
Chapter_12 Tina’s family visit the Crew Headquarters
Chapter_13 Voyager arrives in Panama.
Chapter_14 Roger arrived in Panama.
Chapter_15 A stranger in his bed!
Chapter_16 A stranger in his bed!
Chapter_17‘The Crew meet and learn about Nazi gold
Chapter_18 Roger flies to New Zealand.
Chapter_19 Voyager goes through the Panama Canal.
Chapter_20 The coin expert.
Chapter_21 Voyager and a new destination.
Chapter_22 Roger and Cathy leave New Zealand as a couple.
Chapter_23 Voyager arrived at the remote island.
Chapter_24 Murder on the beach.
Chapter_25 Eoin goes for a long walk.
Chapter_26‘The Crew’ become the legal owners of the Princess.
Chapter_27 The search for Captain Fassenach’s gold.
Chapter_28 Cathy learns about the strange book.
Chapter_29 Tina solves the puzzle.
Chapter_30 The dock-ship,
Chapter_31 On board the Princes.
Chapter_32 Black yacht sighted in international waters.
Chapter_33 Unwelcome and dangerous guests.
Chapter_34 Rescue from the air.
Chapter_35 The ghosts of the past reap their revenge.
Chapter_36 The hunt for gold ingots.
Chapter_37 The Princess receives visitors.
Chapter_38 Steve and Dick are bored.
Chapter_39 The visit.
Chapter_40 Roger meets Sandy,
Chapter_41 Roger meets Sandy,
Chapter_42 Roger discovers that Sandy is not all that he seems
Chapter_43 Time to explore the island.
Chapter_44 A new island, but uncertainty grips Tina.
Chapter_45 The hunt begins.
Chapter_46 A party on the beach.
Chapter_47 Tina in command!
Chapter_48 The tartan rug?
Chapter_49 Aladdin’s cave.
Chapter_50 The madman’s hide out.
Chapter_51 The progress report.
Chapter_52 Lost in the dark.
Chapter_53 A dark experience
Chapter_54 A dark experience.
Chapter_55 The loss of a friend.
Chapter_56 A faint light ahead.
Chapter_57 In search of Fassenach.
Chapter_58 War ship.
Chapter_59 Deliverance.
Chapter_60 A rat in the bilge.
Chapter_61 Fassenach’s papers.
Chapter_62 A burial as sea.
Chapter_63 Roger returned to the princess
Chapter_64 Afloat again.
Chapter_65 The launching.
Chapter_66 The final dream and a night alone with the Princess.
For those interested in boats.
CHAPTER 1.
An abandoned ship, a wish, and a glimpse from the past.
Roger stood under the tropical sun looking up at the once great ship that lay neglected and abandoned before him. He could tell by the sad state of her hull that the warm Pacific waters had flooded and ebbed through her for decades. He knew she would never sail again, or lift her bows to the blue ocean waves and cleave the seas. The ravages of time had won. She would remain in this; her lonely grave forever. In time her essence would dissolve, rot away and finally become one with the black mud, that had already surrounded her and long since oozed into her very heart.
He looked up at her lofty masts. They stood erect, as if unaware of the inevitable. He thought their silhouette against the afternoon sky, stood as an echo of her once majestic past. Perhaps they alone could ignore the broken or missing timbers, whose absence grotesquely altered her once imposing lines. He cast his eyes over her tar-impregnated shrouds and ratlines that were somehow still intact. He looked up at the rigging, it reached up to her lopsided yardarm. Perhaps inviting the daring to climb and reset her long lost sails. He leaned his head back as his eyes continued upwards to her topmasts and then onward to the lofty heights. He saw an empty flagstaff on the fore mast; it stuck out at an odd angle, spoiling the once perfect symmetry.
Below on the aft deck her big wooden wheel stood twisted and lopsided, perhaps locked hard to starboard in that last brave, desperate effort to save her.
He sadly thought that her wheel would never spin again and no helmsman would ever grip its spokes or feel the living ship through his calloused hands. No sailor will stand again on her heeling deck, feel the subtle shift in wind direction, or hear her rigging stretch and her timbers creak as the wind draws at her many sails.
Her last captain, who was he? How could he have left her to this sad fate in this lonely, isolated island? He looked towards her bow and saw a long bowsprit deeply embedded in the mangrove swamp.
What a shame, how sad he felt to see this once dignified ship, abandoned and beyond all hope of salvation. He ventured closer wishing he had seen her in her heyday. What a sight she must have been, what a spectacle and what excitement. He thought about her launching, he imagined the men who built her standing proudly, cheering as she slipped into the water for the first time. He smiled at the thought. Who broke the champagne bottle over her bows, and said, ‘I name this ship?’ He wondered what her name was, but knew it was long gone and perhaps forgotten forever.
“What happened to you mighty ship,” Roger whispered. “What adventures have you seen and what clues to your past share your lonely grave?”
As he slowly squelched over the soft, muddy beach, he saw the red crabs rushing away before him, scurrying for cover and then disappearing into their damp, dark, burrows. The sharp shells, buried in the soft mud, pressed into his bare feet. But he was unaware of the discomfort. As he slowly moved closer, he looked up at her gun ports. Some were gaping black holes, like missing teeth and some hung suspended, as if the gentlest puff of wind would send them to the mud below. In one gaping portal a rusting cannon protruded. It hung on he thought, in a last ditch, futile effort to ignore gravity
He felt a deep sadness for the great ship and thought she was holding herself together in a forsaken hope of rescue and salvation.
Roger spoke to the ship. His soft Highland voice washed over her and the words he spoke came from his heart.
“If I were rich,” he said, “I would save you. I would employ an army of shipwrights and we would replace your missing planks. We would renew your rigging and make new white sails to fill your masts. Then we would leave this muddy place and together sail away into the wide blue yonder. We would sail to the far corners of the world and into a thousand red sunsets.” He dropped his voice to a whisper as he realised that it would take a vast fortune to repair this ship. Far, far beyond his meagre means. No, he knew she was beyond all hope of salvation and must remain in her muddy grave forever. He slowly stepped closer until she towered over him, shielding him from the hot sun. It was cool in her shadow and he felt a shiver pass through his body. He reached out to her and gently laid his hand on her aged timbers. Suddenly, he felt as if her deep sadness was penetrating his skin. It seemed to race up his arm in tingling waves and flow into his very soul. He shuddered and tore his hand away, shocked at the feelings he felt, or thought he felt. He wiped a tear from his eye and breathed out a silent sigh.
“This is crazy,” he whispered; as he shook his head, “I am just a sentimental fool.”
He glanced up and saw the rusting cannon hanging above his head. He shivered again, but this time at the danger. He slowly moved along her hull towards her bows. Pausing now and again to peer through the gaping, shellfish encrusted ribs and into her dim, dank interior. Most of the hull planks, from high water to the mud below, were missing. The odd remaining timbers stood riddled, with finger size perforations. They hung dripping with their hearts eaten out. The Teredo worm had dined well.
He looked closer at her massive ribs and stringers and saw they were made of stouter stuff. Their oaken beams looked solid and intact. He peered up through the dark, damp interior and saw her beams with rotting floorboards hanging down. He heard an eerie, plopping sound. The slow drip-drip of water. It echoed through her hull, like the sounds from the dank depths of a lime stone cave.
He thought about squeezing between her frames and exploring within, but a feeling of reverence, or he did not know what, prevented him. Perhaps it was out of respect for the old lady, or concern for his safety that stopped him.
Slowly, he moved around the hull. Every step he took, his feet sunk into the soft mud and he had to fight to drag them free. It was almost, as if the clinging mud wanted him to stay and comfort the old ship forever.
He completed his circumnavigation of her and stood again in the shade. Now at last, he felt the shellfish pressing into his bare feet and he thought about all the unseen nestles that must lie hidden and invisible in the clinging mud. Waiting their chance to cut, or stab his defenceless feet. He moved a little further out, a few steps away from her and stood still for a time frozen in thought.
What happened to her crew he wondered, were they rescued from this remote and deserted island? He looked towards the dark jungle and imagined their bones lying among the roots of the tall swamp trees. He returned his gaze to the old sailing ship and wondered if they abandoned her at sea and left her to her fate. Maybe she found this narrow inlet unaided by sailors. Perhaps storms drove her deeper and deeper into this muddy swamp, leaving her alone and invisible from the sea, to rot into oblivion.
Roger stirred and shivered in the sudden coolness. Then slowly, he retraced his steps back to the waters edge. To his waiting inflatable dinghy. He sat down on the ‘Avon's’ soft pontoon and washed the black muddy ooze from his feet and legs, gratefully noting the unbroken skin.
He sat still for a while longer, feeling her presence and dreaming of her past. He wished that somehow he could save her.
Suddenly a shadow passed over him and he noticed the sun was setting. He looked at his watch and realised he had been on this beach for three hours. How could that be, he thought, as he looked at his watch again and then glanced at the sun for confirmation. Time had indeed marched on; he had to go.
As he stepped into his dinghy, he saw his plastic bucket, and remembered he had wandered up this long inlet with the intention of gathering shellfish to make his favourite meal, ‘Paella”. But the bucket lay empty, the task long forgotten. He started his 'Seagull' outboard and slowly motored the two miles down the twisted delta like channel, back to Ceilidh, back to his small yacht. When he arrived at his floating home, the western sky had turned into a muddy red and as the last of the suns rays disappeared over the horizon, he climbed aboard. Inside the small saloon, he turned on a lamp and lit the gas under the kettle. Then he sat down to flip through one of his sailing books, hoping to identify the long abandoned ship.
First, he thought she might be a Sloop of War, then a Frigate, or maybe a Corvette. But they all had three masts, he wondered if one of the old lady’s masts had fallen down. On the other hand, she might be a Brig, or perhaps a Schooner. He realised identifying the ship was not going to be easy. The few pictures in his book bore little resemblance to his newly discovered ship and he knew his lack of knowledge was vast.
He cooked his meal in quiet contemplation; his mind deeply puzzled by his strange feelings. He had sailed single handed for over eight years and until today, had never felt lonely. He enjoyed his own company and knew he was wary of forming attachments. He liked going where he wanted to go, doing what he wanted to do. But today that was not enough. He wanted to discuss the ship with someone; he wanted to share this great discovery.
He ate his sparse meal, trying in vain to put his unusual thoughts behind him. Later he climbed into his lonely bed, tired and confused, his head filled with questions. As he lay in the dark, his thoughts returned to the ship. He decided he would go ashore in the morning and look at her again. He knew it would be high tide and thought he might be able to swim into her, and perhaps take a few photos. He smiled at the thought and closed his eyes. Sleep eagerly claimed him.
****
CHAPTER 2.
A strange dream, - or a visitor from the past
As Roger slept, the spirit of the once great ship appeared to invade his mind.
“You sir,” a voice in his dream shouted. Roger looked up and saw a man with a black bushy beard. The stranger was dressed in a blue frock coat, purple breaches, cream coloured stockings, and black shoes with large silver buckles. A strange three-cornered hat sat on his head.
“I am looking for the master shipwright,” the stranger said in a voice with perhaps a hint of a French accent. Roger turned his head and an old man came into view. He had a ruddy, round face and thin receding white hair. He wore a grey apron with a big pocket in the front. He was beckoning with both hands, inviting them to join him. The man in the blue coat turned and walked towards the beckoning figure. Roger followed, as if floating, as if not really there. They stood together before a trestle table and looked down at a plan drawing of the deck of a sailing ship. Another plan replaced the first. This one showed a massively built part of a ship, with great interlocking timbers forming a box or cubicle.
“Are you sure it will be secure?” the man in the blue coat asked; his voice now seemed to have a much stronger accent.
“Aye Captain, I am that,” the other replied. His voice unmistakably Scottish, Glasgow or perhaps Clyde-side.
“The crew will never ken it exists,” the white haired man continued, his regional accent moving northeast. “Nor will the mate, if you dinna tell him,” he added as he looked directly at Roger and winked. “I have concealed the entrance in your cabin below the desk, no one will ever find it, of that I can promise you. We moved the powder magazine forward to below, the mizzenmast and reinforced the bulkheads, so it blends in with the other new work. When looked at from below,” he added, “it’s almost impossible to see the alterations.”
“You will show me now,” the Captain demanded in a strong voice. A voice accustomed to obedience. They turned and walked away. Roger, in his dream, followed them through the bustling shipbuilding yard, past parked wagons, and horse drawn carts loaded high with timber.
Suddenly the sound of a hammer striking metal rang out from an open doorway. He turned towards the sound and saw a big, bald headed blacksmith staring back at him. The blacksmith began to grow. Larger and larger he became, until the giant towered over and looked down on him. Cruel hatred spread over the smith’s huge ugly face and Roger cringed. The giant reached his hand into the fire of his belching, volcanic forge and withdrew a long metal sword. Sparks erupted from the glowing tip as he hefted it in his hand. Roger felt the metals radiant heat burning his skin and tried desperately to back away, but he was unable to move. An unyielding softness pressed against his back. He was defenceless and trapped. Just before the glowing sword made contact, the blacksmith’s ugly face twisted into a horrid scowl. He swung the weapon around in the air leaving a trail of dancing sparks. Then he plunged it into a barrel of cold water. Instantly the giant disappeared into a cloud of hissing, swirling steam.
When the steam cleared, Roger found he was among boats. Boats big and small and in all states of disrepair. He became aware of the faint ghosts of men carrying planks of wood or tools. As he watched, they came and went, as if floating on the wind, like ragged whispers of almost transparent mist.
He saw again the two men. They were huddled together talking in low whispered voices. Their words drifted towards him, but as he reached out to hear them, they floated past in a murmur and tumbled away on the gentle breeze. Suddenly he was flying high above the walking men. He saw a wide river before him with an armada of old sailing ships riding at anchor. The river meandered away to his right. And like a silver ribbon fluttered away towards the distant sea. Then Roger saw young people on sailboards. Then a flotilla of small inflatable dinghies and yellow canoes came towards him from the old ships. Their occupants, wearing bright yellow lifejackets, were smiling and waving. Then suddenly a beautiful ship rose up to fill his vision. He looked in awe. She was magnificent. Three tall masts grew from her deck and a long sprit stretched out from her bows. A row of gun ports ran along her entire length and below them, he saw rickety scaffolding swarming with the misty memory of ancient workmen. The scaffolding down her side looked as if it was supporting the great ship just above the black mud.
He caught the glint of shiny yellow, flashing in the sunlight and screwed up his eyes, as if blinded by the intensity of the light. Then the ship was gone and he was once again down by the men. They passed by a sawpit and he heard the rasp of a four-man saw, hewing away at a massive timber. The smell of the new wood filled the air and the slumbering man sniffed deeply to savour the aroma. The scent evolved, changed, and then became the smell of molten tar. Roger screwed up his nose and turned his head away. The chip-chip sound of a hundred adzes floated out from another building, and in another long shed, he saw men winding a big handle as they spun long lines of cordage that stretched away into the distance.
At last, they arrived at the ship and she towered high above them. The men paused for a moment and he saw them look up at a golden scroll that adorned her bows. Then they began the climb up through the scaffolding towards her deck. Roger followed effortlessly, his feet as light as a feather. At the top, he looked around and saw the ship was complete. She was perfection. He looked up at the jungle of standing and running rigging, and saw her yardarms were square and her white canvas sails gleamed in the sunlight. Her highly polished, bright work shone, and reflected the clear blue sky. She was neat and tidy. Ship shape in the true meaning of the word. He followed the men as they moved along her length until he found himself on the ships aft deck. A big wooden wheel appeared and the men stood behind it. The Captain gripped the spokes and as he looked up, his strange hat fell to the deck.
Roger floated along and came to rest at the other side of the wheel. As he looked on, he became aware of a reflection in the shiny brass compass binnacle; it was the reflection of a woman. Her features cruelly distorted in the curved surface. He looked around, but found he was alone. When he looked back, the men were walking away along the port side deck. He followed them down a narrow, steep stairway to the deck below. The white haired shipwright was talking and this time the dreamer heard his words.
“We have squeezed in the extra twelve guns you requested.” He said, “She now carries fifty cannon.” Their heads turned and they paused to examine one of the black cannon, and then walked on along the long row of guns, their heads bowed in the confined space. At last, they reached a closed door.
Roger read the word CAPTAIN, printed in large golden letters. The door silently closed behind him. The cabin was not big and the ceiling low with great exposed beams. The walls, panelled in light golden wood gave the room lightness. The floor of bare polished planking was dark and smooth. A brass cannon shared the meagre space with a built in bunk bed, a bookshelf, stacked with leather bound volumes, and a few cupboards. A chair sat behind the large desk that dominated the cabin.
“Vite mon ami, you must hurry” the Captain said over the noise of a hundred hammers that suddenly returned and echoed through the cabin. The shipwright knelt down, and fumbled with some hidden fastenings.
“That’s it Captain, we can lift the hatch now, if you’ll give me a wee hand.” The big desk lifted silently, pivoting on its front legs and a black space opened up below. The captain now held a lantern; its light spilled into, and illuminated the void.
“It will stand cannon fire”? He asked.
“Aye; it will that, sir, all but a direct hit at close quarters; nothing can withstand that.”
“It is water tight?” the French captain continued.
“It will out last this ship sir; we have used the very best of wood, eighteen inches thick, all the beams interlock and are embedded in pitch.”
“What about this lid, the hatch?” The shipwright pointed to a pile of stout planks lying at the bottom of the small hold and he explained to the captain, how they fit together.
“How many know about this?”
“Only three of us sir, we built it in a closed shed bit by bit, then we dismantled it and carried the planks and beams aboard at night. The men who did the work think it was part of the gunpowder magazine.”
“What about the plans, the drawings you showed me?”
“I have them safe for you captain, and there are no copies.”
“Very good I am satisfied,” the captain said, nodding his head, “you may close it up”.
The cabin door banged noisily, and as the echo faded, Roger saw he was alone. He shivered, as coldness began to seep into his body. Then a feeling of dread crept out of the darkness. The curious dreams had suddenly become unsettling.
A moment later, the sound of pounding feet ran into his dream. The boom, of cannon thundered through him. And the smell of acrid black powder smoke burnt his throat. The timbers under his feet shuddered as a distant scream fed his fear. Then suddenly it went deathly quiet, and in the profound silence, he became aware of a faint, pleasant fragrance. It stimulated his every sense and in its aroma, he felt safe, and happy. Then out of the silence, he heard the faint sounds made by children at play.
****
CHAPTER 3.
A swim, an encounter with danger and a strange experience.
Roger awoke and momentary thought about his strange dreams, but his memory of them was already lost. He rose from his bed strangely eager and perhaps a little impatient to explore the great ship. He quickly packed his wet suit, torch and camera into his rucksack and then stood for a moment looking around the peaceful lagoon. The day was perfect, not a breath of wind dared ruffle the almost transparent turquoise waters of the lagoon. Out at sea the calmness stretched to the horizon. The only movement he saw was the gentle undulating swell. It broke, turned white and betrayed the presence of the outer coral reef.
He smiled as he climbed into his thirty-year-old ‘Avon,’ and a minute later was heading back up the almost hidden channel. The noise from his outboard, drifted over the mangroves, to the tall jungle buttress trees beyond. He felt a momentary tinge of guilt for daring to destroy the early morning tranquillity.
It was high water when he arrived at the ship, as he knew it would be. He shut off the motor fifty meters from the shore; the stillness and tranquillity returned.
He gazed at the ship, and with just a little imagination, he could see her riding at anchor on a still quiet sea. He took several photographs and then slowly paddled his Avon to her stern. He tied the painter to one of the exposed ribs, donned his wet suit and slipped silently into the warm water.
Carefully, he eased his way into the interior, taking care not to snag his wet suit on the sharp growth. As he swam into the semi darkness, he thought he must be in the bilge. The very bottom of the ship. Dripping, rotting floorboards, hung down between the big beam timbers, forcing him to duck every half meter or so. He looked up and saw another set of cross beams; the floorboards on them looked intact. He removed his rucksack, retrieved his torch and crept forward. Within a few meters, a tangle of broken timbers and a massive bulkhead blocked his way. He dared not try to pass, or climb over the black slimy surface. He looked up at the flickering rays of daylight that trickled down through tiny holes in the deck far above. He turned off his torch and looked with wonder as the pinpricks of light twinkled like stars and danced on the muddy bilge water his feet had stirred up. Roger turned on his light again and examined the hull through the wreckage. He saw, what he took to be the remains of a mast step.
“So you were a three master after all,” he whispered. Slowly he made his way aft again, towards the patch of daylight that shone through the gap in her stern. When he reached the opening, he laid his hand on a timber frame and squeezed between the ribs, then slipped back out into the warm sunshine. Once again, he felt her sadness seeping into him, but he quickly jerked his hand away, shunning and ignoring the strange presence. He climbed into the Avon and paddled around her hull, until he found another way in. This time when he entered he could move unrestricted. Light seeped in from above and reflected in the water, illuminating the interior with a strange eerie twilight. In the beam from his torch, he saw a cannon propped against the starboard hull. Its muzzle aiming upwards through the broken between deck.
As he looked up into the unknown, curiosity got the better of him. He decided to take a chance and climb up out of the wet bilge to the deck above.
“This is crazy,” he said to himself, as he grabbed hold of the cannon with both hands, stepped onto the pinion mounts and clambered up the old gun. At the top, he crawled out onto a beam, then carefully stood up in the confined space. He balanced with his back bent, looking around. The beam felt solid, and when he took a step, the remains of the rotten deck planks crumbled under his foot. He saw a light towards her bows, turned towards it and stepped onto the next beam; it too felt solid. Slowly, with growing confidence, he continued from beam to beam towards a shaft of daylight, which partly illuminated a vertical ladder.
Suddenly, with just a dozen beams to go, a soft board slipped under his weight, and he lost balance. Just then, his hands slapped onto the beam above and he grasped it in desperation. A moment later, he had regained his balance. For no apparent reason, he now felt safe and confident. Even the wood under foot felt more solid. He continued towards the shaft of light, one-step at a time, one beam at a time. He was smiling, he felt happy, the danger forgotten.
He stopped, to look up at the underside of the floorboards on the deck above; they appeared solid. He knocked them with his knuckles. The sound was that of dense solid timber. Soon he arrived at the vertical ladder and saw that it led up through an opening to the deck above. He carefully ascended, testing each wooden rung in turn. Half expecting it to collapse under his weight. But they too, were solid. He reached the deck above and thought the floorboards looked sound. He picked up a stout piece of timber and gave the boards around him several solid knocks to test their integrity. The dull sound radiated out and quickly spread through the old ship, then raced, back bringing with it the fleeting memory of his forgotten dream. He stood for a moment in silence, trying to regain the faint, translucent memory. But once again, the vision eluded him. He shrugged and returned his mind to the present. He slowly walked along a narrow companionway then paused to examine an open panel door that hung on tarnished bronze hinges. He looked beyond, into a small empty cabin and saw twin bunks and a table. The room looked in perfect condition, as if the occupants had only just left. He moved on and a moment later, a stairway appeared out of the gloom. He put his weight on the first step, then the second and upwards climbed. He arrived at a gun deck and stood still looking at the row of cannon that ran forward and aft. Suddenly a strong feeling of ‘deja-vu’, gripped him. This deck looked so familiar. He had seen one just like it before, but could not remember where. He turned off his torch and moved aft, the way he felt he had walked before. The low ceiling, as in the deck below, forced him to stoop, limiting his forward vision.
Near the far end, he paused to examine one of the many cannon that sat ready to defend, with its rusty barrel pointing out towards the still jungle. He bent down and peered out into the morning brightness, and along the narrow strip of beach to the swamp beyond.
When he stood to continue on his way, something seemed to catch hold of his arm, a second later he felt a gust of warm wind as it blew in his face. He stopped in surprise and looked around but saw nothing, just an empty shadowy deck. He slowly turned back and looked down into a dark crevasse. An area of the floor was missing. He leaned forward, looked down and peered into the darkness, but only saw blackness. He retrieved his torch, lay on the deck and carefully examined the void. This must be the site of the missing mast he thought. He rolled onto his back and shone his torch up. The deck above was broken, as if pealed back by a giant’s hand, and then thrown back down, leaving unstable and jagged timbers. He sat up and shone his light all around, but could see no way to cross over the void, so he turned around and walked forward.
He wandered on, happily exploring, photographing and searching. Then he found a stairway that led up to her fore deck. He ascended and carefully strolled around in the open air. The presence of messy, smelly guano and round piles of rotting vegetation, told him that sea birds once nested here. The only serious structural damage he found was the area of smashed deck where he thought her third mast must have come crashing down. He was at first, at a loss to understand the amount of damage to the top part of the hull and parts of the aft deck. Some timbers seemed charred, while others were smashed to near pulp. Then he realised that the ship had been in a battle, and judging by the damage, she had lost the fight.
Parts of the top deck had started to rot and he saw many small holes. He examined the area where the missing mast once stood. The wood was not burnt it was just scorched, as if exposed to immense heat. Eventually, when he felt he had seen all that there was to see, he tore himself away and headed back down the delta to his own small boat. On the way, he tried to come to terms with the strange feelings he had been experiencing. He eventually forced them away and decided that he had been too long on the island. It was time to move on. He was a little disappointed that the ship had contained no treasure or any small interesting artefacts. In fact, she was remarkably bare. He assumed that over the years, many people had found her and anything of any use or value had long since been looted, or stolen. But he had his photographs as a memento. She would not die now, but live forever in his electronic, digitised images. That afternoon back on his yacht, he decided it was time to move on, so he deflated his dinghy and stowed it away below decks. Then he prepared his yacht for sea. That evening he sat and downloaded his photographs onto his computer’s hard drive, discarding and editing as he went. He placed one image as his desktop background. It showed the ship as if afloat. He smiled at the image as he turned off his computer and was still smiling, half an hour later, when he climbed into bed.
****
CHAPTER 4.
Another strange dream, a change of plan, and a treasure found.
That night as he slept the visitor came again. Almost as soon as he closed his eyes, it was there in his mind. Not a strange dream this time, but a desperate presence, pleading and begging him to stay. His dream of the night before, flashed through his mind, followed by the sound of cannon fire. The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder tainted the air and tore at his throat. He heard men shouting, while others screamed, he heard the clash of cutlass on cutlass. Then through the noise of battle, he became aware of a faint voice calling out to him, not by name; but he knew its owner was searching for him.
“What do you want?’ he cried out in his sleep. The noise of fighting faded and a profound silence invaded the black empty space, left by the departed dream. Roger turned over in his bed and drifted away, back to his awaiting dream.
He heard the faint voice again; it was female, muffled and distorted, as if spoken from behind a heavy closed door.
“Save me”, the voice said, “please save me”, the voice was insistent and said the words over and over again.
“Who are you?” Roger cried out into the darkness, as he tried to drag his body awake. He heard a reply to his question; it was louder, and very near. He turned and twisted in his bed, trying to block out the invading presence.
“You know me,” the strange voice said. “You spoke to me; you feel for me, you can help me. Please, please, I have little time left.” The dreamer, with a new resolve, fought to block out the pleading voice and slowly it ebbed away into the distance, leaving him at peace. He settled, and then slept on through the night.
He awoke at first light, accompanied by a feeling of sadness. It lingered in his cabin like a bad smell. Tainted the air and pressed down on him. Then distant fragments of his dream momentarily returned to taunt him, but he failed to make the connection. He shook off the feeling and set about making his boat ready for sea.
Within an hour, with a good breakfast inside him he was ready to go. He programmed his GPS, with the waypoint for the next island and slowly made his way out across the lagoon, towards the gap in the coral reef.
As he neared the open channel that led inland towards the old ship, he found he was turning the wheel and a few moments later, he entered the mouth of the jungle waterway.
“What am I doing?” he said aloud, as he shook his head, but continued into the swamp, powerless to resist the unknown forces drawing him. He reduced the engine revs’, until he only just has steerageway and allowed the floodtide to draw him up deep into the swamp. He kept a watchful eye on his depth sounder, but he worried needlessly, the depth never dropped below two point five meters. He arrived, accepting his fate, his earlier feeling of sadness long forgotten. As he gazed at the ship, he wondered if he really had intended leaving.
An hour later, he was once again wondering her decks and exploring her every nook and cranny, searching for her secrets. At last, he found a treasure. A priceless solitary relic from her past. He held the cracked and chipped plate in his hand and read the gold lettering that ran around the rim. The symbol of the scroll, that adorned the base, looked familiar and he wondered where he had seen it before. He was not in the least surprised by her name. He thought it was apt. Just what he might have named her.
“Hello Princess,” he said, and instantly felt her nearness. This time he did not resist, but allowed her tentative presence to glide within and around him. A strange happiness washed over him and he experienced a wonderful feeling of wellbeing. He stood still, for a while clutching his treasure and bathing in the new experience. At last, he moved and continued to explore. He felt he had never been so happy.
As he wandered her decks, he thought again about saving her and the more he looked, the more convinced he became that she was salvageable. He began to see beyond her rotting timbers and the damaged deck. Instead, he saw only her sound frames and stringers. He came to believe, that apart from the broken deck and the missing planking below the water line, she was definitely salvageable.
He wondered if a maritime museum would save her. Then he thought about other saved ships. Brunell’s, SS Great Britain, she was recovered from a beach in the Falkland Islands and towed half way around the world. All the way back to Bristol in the British Isles. To the very dry dock, of her birth. But, he knew that ship had fame, she was the first of her kind. He wondered if the Princess was famous, but her name rang no bells, it was unknown to him. Her captain never made her famous by winning great battles, or by discovering new lands. She had not sailed with Darwin’s Beagle, on the voyages of discovery, or transported pilgrims to new lands. Well, he thought, maybe she was famous. Just because he, had never heard of her did not mean she was not famous. He decided he would visit an Internet café, type in Maritime Museums and send them all her picture. Suddenly he felt better. He had made a decision and happily explored on. The rest of the day drifted past and before he realised, it was evening. Where, has the day gone, he asked himself, as he rowed his dinghy back to his floating home. He climbed aboard Ceilidh and stood in the cockpit, looking at the Princess. As he watched, the night seeped out from the mangroves and gently draped her in a dark translucent blanket of gossamer. When she was lost to the darkness, he went below.
That evening he sat at his computer and composed a letter to the Maritime Museums. Then he downloaded and edited the pictures he had taken that day, sorted out a set showing the Princess at her best and saved them in a new file labelled, ‘museum.’
He sat for a while looking at the plate he found and again examined the familiar scroll on its base. But could not remember where he had seen it. Before going to bed, he wrapped the plate in a soft towel and stowed it safely away.
****
CHAPTER 5
A secret revealed.
That night, he dreamt vivid dreams again, real dreams. He saw himself, standing behind a big wooden ships wheel, her wheel. There was a stiff breeze blowing and her sails were taut. Young men and women stood on deck and up on the yardarms. He saw his brother, he stood holding onto a shroud nodding as if in approval. He saw people he once knew, they were the people he met on his travels, fellow sailors. He saw everyone was happy. He felt happy. He heard a dog bark, reached down and scratched his boyhood’s collie’s ear. Her tail wagged as she looked up into his eyes.
He felt a presence by his side, then, the sweet fragrance of a woman’s scent wafted into his dream. Somewhere out in the distance, he heard the laughter of children and the goo-goo sounds made by a baby. The dream began to fade and he fought in vain to retain it, but it escaped. He saw instead the bearded French Captain. His repetitive dream replayed, speeded up, as if in fast forward. Then it slowed down and he found himself in the Captain’s cabin and saw again the void below the big desk, suddenly the desk crashed down.
Roger awoke, and sat up in the darkness listening, wondering what woke him. It was silent and he heard not a sound. Then suddenly he knew.
“The Captain’s cabin,” he whispered, “I haven’t found the Captain’s cabin.” He settled down and decided that in the morning, he would search for that room. He lay in the darkness trying to remember the layout of old ships. The Captain’s cabin, he decided must be aft, in the stern, beyond the broken deck. He closed his eyes and returned to sleep, a deep restful, dreamless sleep.
Early next morning, with a coil of rope and an assortment of tools stowed in his rucksack, he eagerly rowed towards the Princess. He was excited; this time part of his dream had stayed with him into the morning light. A bit disjointed perhaps, but strangely real.
“Good morning Princess,” he said, when he climbed aboard, as if addressing a loved one. He smiled as he made his way along the gun deck past the row of cannon, to the broken deck. He crept forward the last few steps and looked down into the darkness. Then he tied his rope to the nearest cannon and threw the coil across the gap. With great care, he crawled along the edge of the hull, on the thin part of the devil that remained, the devil, being the name given to the last, or outermost deck plank and the deep blue sea. When he crawled as far as he dared, he reached down with his foot until he found a secure place to put his faith, finally committed, he let go and reached over the gap. Just as his hand grasped the far deck, his foothold gave way. He felt himself fall, then stop. He balanced on one foot, the fingers of his right hand barely gripping a deck plank above his head. He glanced down and saw he stood on the unstable cannon.
As he looked the muzzle end dropped toward the sea. The cannon pivoted, the fulcrum timber cracked and the cannon let go. The breach end he was standing on momentarily lifted, pitching him upwards, then the cannon was gone. Roger threw his arm over the deck and his other hand found a solid grip as the cannon noisily crashed down and splashed into the mud below.
He hung on, his legs gently swaying back and fore over the void. Then somehow, his foot found another step, he clambered up onto the deck and lay down exhausted, fully aware of his close encounter with serious injury or perhaps death.
As he stretched out on the deck, he slowly recovered from his fright. Then he laughed out-loud, scrambled to his knees and a moment later, he was standing looking down into the dark grave that for the second time had tried to claim him. He secured his rope and continued on his way. Shaken but not discouraged, he was safe.
At the end of the gun deck, he stopped at the door of the Captain’s cabin and read the gold lettering, which announced the ultimate authority that once resided within. Slowly, even respectfully he entered and stood before the desk. First, he looked at the tarnished bronze cannon that sat next to a closed port, then the day bunk set back into one wall. He glanced at the empty bookshelves, wishing they still contained books. Then at a washstand, that sat among the shards of a broken pitcher. A row of lockers on the far wall, with their open doors revealing their emptiness.
He looked down at the desk, as he recalled his dream.
Under the desk, a faint voice said in his head. He looked, but found nothing; but “it must be here,” he whispered, "I saw it, or I think I did.” He knelt down and closed his eyes. Then in his mind, he saw the image of the white haired old man. He held a broad bladed screwdriver and was unscrewing something from the floor, near the desk legs.
Roger ran his hand over the dust and saw the faint outline of bronze screw heads, embedded in the floor.
The screws turned easily and when he withdrew them, he tried to lift the desk, but it would not move. He searched, outside the cabin and eventually found a length of stout pole. Using the leaver, the desk broke free and pivoted on concealed hinges. Slowly, ever so slowly, the big desk rose, complete with a section of flooring, it passed the point of balance, then toppled over, to hit the floor with a loud thump that echoed through the empty ship. But there was no hidden hold beneath, just solid wood. He thought the dream was wrong, he felt let down, cheated somehow. But it was only a dream, he told himself, only a dream.
He sat down, wondering why part of the floor lifted with the desk. He looked down at the revealed planks and saw something strange, something out of place. He ran his hand over the newly exposed wood and discovered a brass ring embedded near the end of a plank. Quickly he examined the rest of the planks and found they all had a ring. Years of dust and dirt had hidden them. With rising excitement he realised they must be for lifting the planks, and more to the point, they must cover the hidden hold. He saw the ringed beams were a snug fit. There was not even room for a thin knife blade between them. He prised a ring out of its recess and tried lifting; but the plank was jammed solid. He pondered the problem for a few minutes and then decided on a course of action. He went to the gap in the deck and cut off the surplus rope. Back in the cabin he doubled the rope over and secured it to the rings at each end of the first plank, leaving enough slack to lift the centre of the rope a metre from the floor. Then he pushed the pole under the loop and laid its end on the toppled desk. He knew the pole was long enough to allow him a great deal of leverage. He placed it on his shoulder and with his back straight and legs bent, he heaved with all his strength. Bang, the dry pole snapped in the middle and fell to the floor. He sat down, wondering what to do next.
Suddenly he felt very hungry and tired. He realised that, yet again, he had forgotten to take anything to eat or drink with him, so he decided to go back to Ceilidh for an early lunch.
****
CHAPTER 6
A scary dream and a wonderful discovery.
Back aboard his own small sailboat, he rummaged in his galley store cupboard, hoping to find something interesting for lunch. Food was getting boring, he thought as he examined a long discarded and rusty tin of chicken curry He replaced the rusty tin and a few moments later found his last tin of cheese. As he spread it on his homemade oatcakes, he decided he would gather a bucket of shellfish at low tide and make ‘Paella’ for his meal tonight. He poured boiling water over the instant coffee in his mug and went out with his snack lunch. He stretched out on the cockpit seat, leaned back and thought about the Captain’s cabin, wondering how to proceed. The planks were a tight fit and he realised they would have to be lifted both ends at once. Then he wondered if he had missed another hidden fastening.
The day was warm and the sky blue and his mind began to wander.
He remembered climbing to the top of a high hill in Western Samoa, where the mortal remains of Robert Louis Stevenson lay. He remembered standing alone, by the white tomb of the man who wrote the books his mother loved, the books she read to him when he was a child. The books that now sat on the shelf above his bed. In his mind, he saw the requiem, and recited the words quietly; the words he knew by heart.
Under the wide and starry sky.
Dig the grave, and let me lie.
Glad did I live, and gladly die,
and I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me;
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
and the hunter home from the hill.
On that lonely hilltop, the words had brought tears to his eyes. He had spent some time in silent contemplation, before playing a lament on his pipes. The haunting sound drifted out over the hills and mountains, the last home of his hero and fellow countryman. He then thought about the croft in Scotland, and about his brother, the only friend he had ever known, who now lay in the ground next to his father. He thought about his mother, who shared that same cold grave. He remembered her warmth and the secret they shared. He thought again about the strange feelings of loneliness he had been experiencing. Then he remembered his ex-wife and his loneliness seemed less important. He thought about the Princess and his eyes closed as he drifted away to sleep.
“You sir.” A now familiar voice called out, and his dream played out almost as before, but this time when they entered the Captain’s cabin the dreamer was somehow more aware. He saw a block- and-tackle gently swinging from the rafters and heard the clear voice of the shipwright; he was telling the French captain to lift the centre plank first. Suddenly, the boom of cannon fire, thundered through his dream and again the acrid smoke polluted the air. Muskets cracked and he heard men screaming, as if in agony. Another ship loomed into sight and drew close. His world shook and trembled. He heard a thundering crash, as more guns fired. A black ship was coming alongside, her cannons roared again.
Suddenly a loud crash echoed through the ship, followed instantly by a violent shudder as the two ships came together. A voice called out. The sound became a shout. Then a mighty roar, as hundreds of voices joined in.
He saw the captain lying on the fore deck and saw a red, creeping carpet of blood radiating from his lifeless body. It grew bigger and bigger, creeping relentlessly towards him, covering the deck, covering him, smothering him. Then it grew dark and he felt, icy cold frost seeping into his bones. Suddenly it grew deathly quiet, as if time had stopped. In the eerie silence, he heard a sob. Then the anguished shout of a woman in pain. She was calling out his name. The forlorn, heartbroken, voice cried, “Roger” and he felt her hot tears on his face.
Suddenly there was a flash of blinding light, followed a fraction of a second later, by a vast explosion that ripped through the air. The blast sent him flying and he tumbled and turned in space. Rigging fell from the sky and tangled ropes, looped and ensnared him. He saw burning timbers and the ragged ghosts of disjointed men swirling and tumbling. He reached up in a futile attempt to fend off the debris, but it was still falling. Down and down it came, covering and suffocating. Then he collapsed under the weight of a mountain of smouldering wreckage. Through the darkness, he felt his legs burn.
He awoke and sat up in a daze. The shards of broken coffee mug and plate lay around him. His legs glowed red, from the spilt coffee. He had fallen asleep and dreamed a dream, a dream so real, that he was compelled to look around for the black ship; he was convinced it would be alongside his small yacht with the black eyes of her deadly cannon looking down at him. He struggled to his feet, and tried to recall something important, something vital. He went below, and applied a cold wet cloth to his scalded legs. As he stood by the sink, he remembered his nightmare. He closed his eyes and concentrated, the fleeting memory he was seeking was close, almost in his grasp. Slowly, the mist in his mind cleared, and he remembered. He focused on his dream, and then replayed it in his mind. He saw the block and tackle hanging from a dark beam, and heard the old shipwright saying, “Lift the centre plank first”.
He smiled as he went out to clear up the spilt coffee and the broken mug. Then he went below, dug in his spare rigging locker. But nothing he had was big enough. He went out on deck looking for inspiration and saw his main sail boom and the mainsheet block and tackle. The blocks and ropes controlling the boom might be strong enough; in fact, he was sure they were.
Within half an hour, he had removed the equipment.
He returned to the Princess, filled with excitement. In the Captain’s cabin, he carefully examined the beams above the planks, and saw what looked like a knot. It was a filled in hole in the beam. He saw another, and then another. He pressed one with his thumbnail and found it was soft. He realised that someone had filled in the holes with cork. He prised them out with his knife. Then lashed on the tackle then knelt down and attach the hook to the centre plank. As he lifted the brass ring, he realised the rings on this plank worked a securing bolt, a bit like a door lock. He took hold of the rope and heaved, lifting his body clear of the floor. The plank moved then suddenly it was free. He swung the tapered key-plank clear, and looked down into the gap. But whatever was in the small hold lay hidden under a tight fitting canvas.
With rising excitement, he removed the rest of the planks. He saw that battens, jammed into deep greasy grooves held the canvas in place. He thought the dried up grease was tallow. He prised one batten loose with his screwdriver, then the others. Finally, the stiff cloth was free, and he dragged it clear to expose whatever had lain hidden for so long.
What he saw below, illuminated in the light from his torch, far surpassed any idea, or hope he had. If someone had been standing by his side and asked what he saw, he knew what he would reply. He would say ‘wondrous things.’ As to its value, he thought it must be priceless. Never before had he seen such an extraordinary object. The jewel-encrusted gold object sparkled, gleamed, and glistened. It seemed to scatter his torch light, into a thousand rays of wonderful, twinkling, coloured light, that danced on the cabin walls and ceiling. He smiled and felt a wonderful warmth wash over and through him.
Eventually, he tore his eyes away and looked at the wooden boxes that filled the remaining space. The small chests, with a brass handle on each end, were jammed tightly around the throne. That’s what it is, he thought, a throne, a backless throne, a royal seat. What else could it be? Perhaps it belonged to an Egyptian Pharaoh, or a mighty King or Queen, or an ancient ruler of a far away land. He lay down on the floor, reached in and lifted out one of the heavy boxes. The bowed top, opened with a squeak on dry bronze hinges. Inside he saw rich, purple velvet. Gently he folded back the material, and gazed at what lay below. “Oh Princess!” he whispered. “You are saved.”