The Ghost Ship

By Graeme Bourke

Joshua Devlin is a ten-year old boy living on the west coast of England in 1988. An adventurous lad who finds a cave and a boat. He takes the boat out of the cave where one of the oars breaks and he is swept out to sea. A day later he is picked up by an old sailing ship. This is no ordinary ship. He learns that he has somehow been swept back in time.
Trapped in time he learns the way of a sailor, the way of a buccaneer while fallling in love with the beautiful Maria, a young Spanish girl. She in turn loves him but both realise their love is but forlorn optimism as they belong to different classes.
They live in hope that one day Joshua will find a treasure and become rich, and thereby have some justification in asking for Maria's hand in marriage. Although Joshua knows that this world was not really his, he chooses to ignore the warnings in his own mind.
Eventually he is betrayed by his best friend, thus, changing his life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graeme Bourke
• Release date: Jan 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465927149

Graeme Bourke

In 1985 Graeme took up fly fishing in Tasmania and during this journey he kept a diary which was used to produce his first non-fiction book "Come Fly Fish With Me," which has now been published as an ebook. This book received wide acclaim from the fly fishing fraternity. He then completed a correspondence course on writing and began writing articles for sporting and travel magazines. In 2008 he published his second book on fishing "If Only The World Would Go Fishing." This book is no longer available having been sold out. His main ambition was to write fiction, so in 2010 he published "Hawkins' Grove" which has also been converted to an ebook. "Come fly fish with Me" and "Hawkin's Grove" are available in hard copy from "Window on the World" bookshop in Ulverstone, Tasmania. Mountain Pride, The Ghost Ship,The Gates of Hell and The House of Dreams are only available as ebooks. In June of 2014 Graeme uploaded the first book in his trilogy "The Orphan and the Shadow Walker: The feedback has been very positive. Sales from the second and third book have been encouraging. "An Ancient Warrior" is his most recent fiction novel. Graeme writes book reviews for a local newsletter and from the these he has compiled the best of these reviews so If you are looking for a book to read he guarantees you will find something here. He has just published a new book called "A Fortunate Destiny," a love story set in the early seventies around the trauma of the Vietnam War. "Tears in Thailand" has now been published. This is a true story telling of Graeme's journey in Thailand, his experiences and emotions as he enjoys the land of smiles. Read his excerpt on the blog, of his separation from his partner in Thailand because of the Corona virus. Copies also available at Window on the World book store in Ulverstone, Tasmania. Critics have praised his work and even compared it to be the equal to anything that is out there.

Book preview

THE GHOST SHIP

By

Graeme Bourke

* * *

Published By

Graeme Bourke on Smashwords

THE GHOST SHIP

Copyright 2010 Graeme Bourke

Discover other titles by Graeme Bourke at Smashwords.com

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 person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

A special thank you to the members of the Fellowship of Australian Writers, North West Tasmania Branch for their constructive criticism and assistance with the original manuscript; also, to Neil Carberry, friend and fellow fisherman, for designing the cover.

* * *

England 2008

It was his world, then it was not his world, and now it is his world again. Twenty years had gone by, twenty years of living aboard a sailing ship, of feeling the wind in his face and knowing the freedom of that wind. How was he going to adjust? In the beginning he had wanted to come back every day, but as time went by his hometown of Atherton became a distant memory and the call of the sea and the adventure it promised, tempted him more and more, until years later, the awful truth finally dawned on him.

Standing on the sandy, pebble-strewn shore on the west coast of England facing the sea, the howling wind, the rain, and his past, he drew his sword and held it up in front of him. I salute you my friends, for our paths will never cross again.

He wanted to say more, but what could he say? His journey to the great oceans and to far-away-lands was over; he had a new life to begin. He slipped the sword back into its scabbard and pulled the red-woollen cape tighter around him as the wind drove horizontal rain into his face, biting and stinging, cold rain that chilled the marrow. He shivered as he peered into the darkness at the longboat, side-on to the curling waves that crashed into boiling foam, ghostly white and eerie. There was nothing he could do about the boat as it would take a half a dozen good men to beach it properly and hide it among the rocks further up the shore. He could do naught in this weather. It would have to stay there. Maybe he could return later and hide it.

The six chests he had buried further up the beach, well above the high tide mark, for he knew this beach; he had played here as a boy. He peered once again back out into the darkness as the crash and the roar of the waves continued to sing their song, music that he would now have to turn his back on.

He clutched at the sweat-stained, salt-encrusted, and now, very wet tricorn hat as a gust of wind threatened to sweep it away. He turned and started walking back up the old familiar trail, recalling those memories from so long ago.

He had always loved the sea, the smell of salt and rotting seaweed, the sound of the waves, and the ever-changing colours of the ocean with its hues of greens, greys and blues, depending on the weather. There were so many contrasts, so many variables. From the verandah of the house, high above the cliffs one could see clear to the horizon on a good day. They had a telescope there, an old brass affair that stood on an adjustable tripod. It had belonged to his mother’s great, great, grandfather.

His ancestor was an old salt, having sailed the seas, made his fortune, and then settled here on the west coast of England. He brought a small parcel of land, some three hundred acres overlooking the sea, built a fine two-storey house, and lived out his life in sight of his greatest love.

Having sailed the seas himself, he now understood that love, because he had experienced those same thrills, and now felt that same lingering loss that his ancestor must have felt.

He climbed the winding path to the top of the hill with his head bowed and back stooped. Climbing steadily, he negotiated the narrow pathway in the dark, mindful of the protruding rocks and gnarled roots that had been exposed by timeless eons of wind and rain. He thought of his mother. How had she fared over the years? He now felt guilty at not trying to return earlier.

His mother was a small woman, as fragile as a butterfly, and just as beautiful. She reminded him of a tiny yellow buttercup. He recalled her long blond hair blowing in the wind, her smile, and her sparkling-blue eyes that had echoed her love for him. She was softly spoken and gentle of touch. How had she felt when he had not returned that day? She had no husband to comfort her. He had been a soldier and went off to war when Joshua was only a baby and never came back. So, she had no kin, other than her aging father, who by now must have surely passed away.

We were happy, we had the house and his mother had a steady income from several rental properties that she owned. How she came by them, he didn’t know. It wasn’t important to him back then, so he never asked. She was an artist, a painter of scenery, and she sold her paintings to Chung Win, the Chinaman, who had a store in the village fronting onto the beach. Tourists used to come and buy her paintings. It was extra money that was sorely needed, as the rental incomes only covered the basic costs of running the house, food, rates, and taxes. Any luxuries, like Christmas presents and extra clothes were funded from his mother’s paintings. He wondered if she was still painting.

How was he going to explain this to her? How would she react to him, her son, back from the dead? He suddenly feared this path that he now had to follow because it was unknown to him, just as it had been unknown to him on that fateful day when he was swept away from his mother, from this land, and all that he knew.

He was half smiling to himself, thinking of what he would say to his mother when they met. As he approached the crest of the ridge he stopped suddenly, realising that something had changed, the outline of the land was not as before, the smile now gone from his face. Water dripped off the brim of his hat as he searched left, and then right. Had he taken the wrong path? Had he landed on the wrong beach? No, he knew this land like the back of his hand. This was the right beach and the right path. He took a couple more steps and was on solid flat ground. He knelt down and stretched out his hand and felt the damp-rough surface. This was a road, a bitumen road! What in the hell was a sealed road doing running through their property?

Standing up, he tried to see through the rain where the house should be. He could see nothing in the dismal gloom of the night. But it was far different on his right. Street lights led down the hill into the village, and a smattering of houses shed their dim-yellow radiance along the street. Had progress reached the small village of Atherton? Had his mother sold the land? Surely not, it had been in the family for generations.

Their house should be on his left, the lights clearly visible even on a night like this, but there was nothing, only an inky blackness. A sudden chill went through him. What if the house was gone? No, it could not be, he thought to himself as he quickly walked along the road. It must be there - it had to be there.

From out of the murkiness a shape began to form, it was the house. He quickened his pace and soon saw the twin gables, the outline of the two-storey house and the verandah. Thunder drummed through the night, a blue flash of forked lightning blazed the sky and he could instantly see all the details of the house quite clearly. It was boarded up, and in a sad state of disrepair, with grass, blackberries, and weeds blocking the driveway that led to the front of the house. He forced his way through the waist-high blackberry bushes cursing the spiked thorns as they pricked at his legs through his trousers. Tramping the unforgiving vines beneath his knee-length boots, he finally managed to reach the stone steps that rose to the welcome shelter of the verandah.

Shaking the water from his cape and hat, he pulled the long-bladed knife from its sheath which was attached to a broad-leather belt at his waist and slipped it behind one of the boards that was nailed across the door. With a sharp jerk, he levered at one side of the first board. It came away with a creaking rasp. It didn’t take him long to remove all of the boards. He tried the handle and found it locked. He drove the knife in between the jamb and the door, and then levered the latch, while at the same time hitting the door with his shoulder. It fell open, quite easily.

The rolling boom of successive thunder claps echoed through the charcoal sky above the house. More lightning flashes lit up the interior through the open doorway. It was empty. The house had been stripped of its warmth and character. This was a cold, unwelcome place and its very nature, its homeliness, had been destroyed and its soul scattered to the wind. He could not help but feel a pang of guilt deep within himself. If he had been here; if he had somehow managed to return it would not be an empty shell. It would have been a house of joy and happiness as it was back then. Where was his mother? Had she suffered so much that she could turn her back on this, their home and leave it to the elements? He shivered, partly from the cold and partly from the fact that it had dawned on him that he may have to face this new world on his own, a thought that frightened him.

He made his way through to the kitchen, his leather boots sounding loud on the wooden floor even above the noise of the storm outside. Some of the shelving had collapsed and there were a couple of broken chairs in the corner, enough to start a fire, he thought to himself. Gathering up the scraps of timber, he inched his way carefully through the darkness to the sitting room. The odour of mould was strong. The carpet muffled the sounds of his boots, it was quieter here. He almost tripped on a ragged edge, but managed to keep his footing as he reached the old stone fireplace and knelt down.

Removing the flintlock pistol from the belt around his waist he wiped the water from the pan with his hand and retrieved some dry powder from the pouch beneath his cape. He primed the pistol and tipped the rest of the powder into a tiny heap beneath the dry timber. He then pulled the trigger on the pistol and the flash ignited the black powder. Bright orange flames leapt up the chimney and the warm gentle caress of the fire reached his body. Removing the dagger and sword from his belt he felt hunger pains churning in the pit of his stomach, but the search for food would have to wait until tomorrow. His body had become warmer and the drowsiness began to consume him. How long since he had slept properly? How long since he had eaten? Two, maybe three days, he lowered himself onto the evil smelling carpet, stretched out, and promptly went to sleep.

* * *

For two weeks in the spring of 1988 a ferocious storm lashed the west coast of England and the town of Atherton with gale-force winds and torrential rain, but by the third weekend the storm had passed, the sea and sky had calmed. It was then, on the Saturday afternoon that ten-year-old Joshua Devlin ventured down to the beach as he often did. It was his favorite place. Here he angled for fish, swam in the cool water in the summer, and played his games. He had made himself a wooden sword and a dagger which allowed him to enter the world of the buccaneer. He would fight off evil pirates, steal their treasure, and guard his beach and ill-gotten gains against all intruders.

It didn’t help that his grandfather filled his head with tales of pirates and stories of swashbuckling adventures that could be had on the high seas. Joshua’s mother had frowned at his grandfather and chastised him for telling Joshua useless stories that she considered would do nothing to aid his education. His grandfather disagreed.

With the usual warnings from his mother about keeping away from the cliffs, Joshua ran the through the heath to the place where the pathway began to wind its way down to the beach. He trod carefully as some sections of the path had been washed away in the storm. It had revealed more twisted roots, slippery rocks, and loose gravel. When he was about halfway down the trail, he noticed that part of the bank had slipped away. A large black boulder the size of a car that had once sat on the edge of the cliff had moved, and there seemed to be an opening behind it.

Joshua’s curiosity had been aroused as he stepped off the path and made his way across the sloping hillside to where the boulder sat, somewhat precariously on the side of the cliff. He looked down at the beach far below and the gentle waves that curled up onto the sand. If he fell here it would be the end of him.

The entrance was just big enough for him to crawl into, but he was wary and he threw a rock into the opening. It landed with a thud. It had stopped immediately indicating that there was no sudden drop, no hole for him to fall into. Gingerly, and with some excitement, he stepped inside and found the ground beneath his feet solid. He noticed that it sloped away gently into a black abyss. Here he could stand up and there was still more room, an adult could easily venture here. Dare he go further? He looked back at the opening and the sunlight that glared outside. Just a little way wouldn’t hurt he conceded to himself. He shuffled his feet forward making sure that the ground didn’t fall away, his right hand trailed along the stone wall to give him balance, and maybe, some reassurance.

As he shuffled his way further into the cave, he felt the caress of a cold breeze on his face. He shivered, as he was only wearing thin trousers and shirt. There had to be another entrance somewhere, otherwise there would be no movement of air. It was then that his right foot felt nothing. There was no solid ground beneath him. Frightened, he stepped back. If only he had a torch. He wanted to go on, to search the cave, but caution prevailed. He would have to come back another day and bring a torch, some rope, and wear some warm clothing. Reluctantly, he turned and walked back up to the entrance. His heart was beating faster, most likely from the fear that had suddenly grabbed him when his foot had felt nothing beneath it. But there was something else. He knew what it was; it was the scent of a trail, the scent of adventure to be had.

Joshua made his way back to the path and down to the beach where he peered back up at the cliff where the huge boulder sat. Where was the other entrance, he wondered as he looked around? The beach was about a hundred yards long with gently sloping sand that mingled with the waves. At either end where the steep, sooty-black and distorted wind-swept cliffs. With the thought of adventure stirring in his mind he searched the base of the nearest cliff but found nothing that looked like a cave opening. Had he imagined the breeze in the cave? No, it was definitely there. He had felt it on his face. The exploration of the cave would have to wait until next week.

It was a long week for Joshua as he procured some rope, batteries for the torch, and set aside some warm clothes. He said nothing to his mother or his grandfather about the cave, for he knew that they would both declare it out of bounds with regard to his safety. He also found some chalk. He would mark the walls of the cave just in case he became lost.

When Saturday came, he tried not show his restlessness, he tried to remain calm and pretend that this was just another Saturday. Finally, when he was released from his bonds, he made his way down to his cache that was hidden away from the house in some bushes. He also took with him his small shoulder pack with his fishing gear. From there he ran through the heather, obstacles such as logs and rocks were easily avoided or bounded over with the agility that only a ten-year-old boy could manage.

It didn’t take Joshua long to reach the entrance to the cave. He marked the rock at the entrance with his chalk, with an arrow pointing in the direction he had come from. His plan was to continue marking the wall with arrows as he went, just in case there were other tunnels branching off.

Stepping into the looming darkness he switched on the torch and shone it down onto the floor. Steps! That was why he felt nothing beneath his foot before. These were man made. Someone had cut a stairway into the stone leading down into the bowels of the earth. He had brought the rope with him to use if it became too steep, but with the steps he would not need to use it. Still, he would keep it coiled on his shoulder.

Joshua could feel the chill of the breeze coming up from darkness, he put on his parka that he had tied around his waist and zipped it up and slung the rope back over his shoulder. Who had cut these steps into the stone, smugglers maybe, or pirates hiding their treasure? All sorts of scenarios flashed through his mind as he took a tentative step forward and proceeded down the stairs.

Joshua was wearing his thick, rubber-soled boots that had plenty of traction but he still needed to be careful as the steps were slippery and wet. He chalked another arrow on the smooth stone wall. It was so quiet, not a sound entered the cave. Something flashed past, frightening him. He never saw what it was. From the torchlight he just saw the hint of an eerie shadow and the fluttering of wings. Was it a bird nesting in the stone walls? Or a bat perhaps, as they lived in caves he had read somewhere? Down, down he went, deeper and deeper. The breeze in his face was still there, it was stronger now. He heard a noise, he stopped and listened. He knew that sound, it was the sound of the sea. Had he reached sea level? It was possible as he had been heading down toward the beach.

The yellow beam of the torchlight crept out in front of him revealing that the steps had stopped. In its place was level section of rock and gravel and the cave had opened out into a huge cavern. He also noticed some light coming from the far end of the cavern. He turned the torch off and as his eyes adjusted, he could see the path continuing on around a sheer wall, the light and sound was coming from that direction.

The path beside the wall on his left was narrow, only about two feet across, and on his right over a drop off, he could see the water about ten feet below. It was swirling and surging onto a gravelly beach. He made his way gingerly along the path and as he rounded the corner, he immediately saw the low half-moon shaped opening through the rock which led out into the ocean. Some more steps brought him down to a flat area where a tiny dinghy was tied up to a timber frame. A pair of oars sat in the boat. He noticed a small amount of water in the boat, but it was still floating and had probably been there for some time as it had very little of the light-blue paint left on it. Algae and weed clung to the bottom of the boat.

Joshua stepped into the boat. It felt solid and safe. Then he undid the rope, slipped the oars into the rollicks and began rowing towards the tunnel leading out to the sea. There was just enough room for the boat to slip under the rocks. He proceeded around the slight bend and felt the rise and fall of the waves. Maybe he should go back, he thought to himself as he stopped rowing. From where he was, he could see the sea, calm and inviting. What could go wrong he thought? I will just row out into the sea, turn around and come back into the cave. The oars bit into the clear green water and the boat burst out into the sunshine below the cliffs.

Once out into the ocean he rowed along the edge of cliffs. He saw the undulating waves wash over the terraces of ribbed rock and the gentle sway of the seaweed just beneath the surface of the water. He wanted to go further, but he dared not, so he turned the boat around and that was when it happened. As he drove the right-hand oar in deeper to spin the boat around it gave a crack and split in two. He was left with one oar which was next to useless as he knew the current here swept along the bay and then swung out to sea. The beach wasn’t far away. Maybe he could reach it if he swam, for he was a strong swimmer. Stripping off some of his clothes and his boots he dived into the water feeling immediately the coldness of the sea. He struck out for the shore but found the current was too strong and he was making no headway at all. He turned and swam with the current and soon caught up to the boat and climbed back in, dried himself as well as he could, and then put his clothes back on.

Now he was scared. Where would the current take him? Out to sea most likely, his only chance was to attract the attention of a fishing boat. But as he peered out across the blue horizon, he saw absolutely nothing. Surely someone must be out today. He would not panic. Someone would come looking for him when he failed to return home, but would they think to look out to sea? By now he had drifted out far enough to see their house above the cliffs. He put his hand across the top of his eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun. He could see no one at the house or on the balcony where the telescope stood. Someone must see him drifting on the ocean as it was a perfectly clear day. He sat down in the boat and a tear