Fountain of Hope: Dimensions

By Baylus C. Brooks

The history of St. Augustine, Florida may be wrong. Native Americans from one North Florida tribe are said to have lived for centuries due to the inexplicable power of a mysterious source of water. Some say this is not true. Early explorers went in search of this “Fountain of Youth” only to come back disappointed. Still, the Fountain did indeed exist.

Young Lt. Stephen Hathorne, shipwrecked in Spanish La Florida in 1808 will discover the secrets of this tribe if he can survive the trip. Indeed, he discovers that he and his own family are responsible for their very existence! Traveling through threads of time's sensitive fabric, Stephen and his new-found love will have to face many dangers: pirates, zealots, slavers, and a madman from the future before they can find peace in the past.

Four time periods of the beautiful and exotic Floridian town of St. Augustine are explored. Starring Ichetucknee Springs as the Fountain of Youth! Although a sci-fi romance, lovers of history will enjoy it, too!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387796519

Book preview

Fountain of Hope: Dimensions

Fountain of Hope: DIMENSIONS

By

Baylus C. Brooks

Poseidon Historical Publications

Gainesville, Florida

Fountain of Hope:

DIMENSIONS

Edition – Revised Electronic Edition © 2018

Copyright © 2018 by Baylus C. Brooks

All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers and/or authors.

While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibilities for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of information contained herein.

Published 2018 by Baylus C. Brooks

Printed by Lulu Publishing, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-387-79651-9

Acknowledgements

To Frank for instilling in me a love of Florida.

To the late Papa Vic and the Rose Creek Band of Muskogee Creek Native Americans

To the Florida State Park Service for their diligence in maintaining our historic treasures and to Itchetucknee State Park for the fun and inspiration!

To the historic towns of St. Augustine, Florida, Yorktown, Virginia and Salem, Massachusetts and to the lives their histories have individually (and mutually) claimed and flourished.

Italian Geographer Pietre Martire d’Anghiera to his Holiness the Pope, Leo X in 1513…

Among the islands of the north side of Hispaniola, there is about 325 leagues distant, as they say who have searched the same, in which is a continual spring of running water, of such marvelous virtue that the water thereof being drunk, perhaps with some diet, maketh old men young again… they have so spread this rumor for a truth through all the court, that not only all the people, but also many of them whom wisdom or fortune hath divided from the common sort, think it to be true.

Prologue

Yorktown, Virginia

October 17, 1781

A gently rolling autumn landscape embued with warm ambers and crimsons well represented coastal Virginia’s pastoral beauty.  One look across this stately countryside truly imparted the shoulder-straightening, stalwart feeling of pride inherent in the birthplace of a great nation.  Color stretched from horizon to horizon - majestic forests stretching all the way to the sea abounded in deciduous trees of exquisite flavors.  Maples, Alder, Birch and Ash provided inspiration for a multitude of artists lured here by their incomparable and distinguished beauty.  Colorful leaves rendered the scene in a myriad of cadmium hues, beautiful as anything imagined by Gilbert Stuart or Benjamin West and as peaceful as the syncopatic Algonquin melodies once heard over sacred soils of Creator.

Accompanying the panoramic scene was a bright red cardinal who had momentarily lost his way south - still lingering as if the cool breezes only jested at the impending difficulties of winter. He flittered anxiously amongst the thinning branches of a yellow maple, apparently troubled by plummeting temperature. 

The bird cried nervously as he danced from limb to limb.  His animated speech seemed nervous. It hinted at more than just cold or the impending storm on the horizon - some great unknown disaster about to befall all of bird-kind… or so his demeanor would indicate.  Could there be more than the coming of that storm or the cold that upsets him so?

In the distance, an unnatural scene came into view…

Over the reddening forests, rose a sight somewhat more disturbing – perhaps what made the bird so nervous. A blemish on the tranquility not wholly expected here, it blocked the almost surreal view. Smoke rolled high into the air, catching free-flowing breezes above the trees and spreading thinly across the landscape.  A cottony mushroom would form, beginning as though pushed outward by some force.  Heat, perhaps - a fire, but with an abruptness that marred the serenity. Other puffs of smoke had rolled off and spread out wide now across the landscape. The air had the faint odor of sulfer even at the cardinal’s great distance.

Any observer would, at first glance, be confused by those puffy white clouds that offended this natural Virginian calm.  When the loud boom soon followed it was obvious that something unnatural was at work here… something manmade.  Many more such bursts of smoke and sound followed, completely dominating the view.

When a particularly loud boom sounded, the cardinal startled. It flew away immediately to escape the loud clamor. Regaining his senses, he flew quickly to the south and soon disappeared amongst the blue skies south of the storm.

The sounds of battle, horrific as they were, seemed peculiar somehow – as though the sounds of the cannon didn’t match the appearance of the puffs of smoke. A physicist might inform how the sound of cannonfire is always delayed from the visual effects of the smoke and destruction – speed of sound versus light. Thus, the battle below didn’t seem real - like a play of sorts without speech, without sound. Then the shocking reality of it all comes through suddenly, almost without warning, sounding through the afternoon calm with abrupt ferocity. 

From this distance, it was hard to imagine what took place beyond.  Men moved like ants of various colors, smoke occasionally obscuring their movements.  Now and then, one would touch a large, elongated black machine of death and suddenly, another mushroom would form, followed by another loud boom.  The irregularly clad men were more easily seen through the smoke, upon the wide open field of view, orders spouted by another in blue with sword in hand.  They were obviously concerned with those inside the makeshift fortress walls that lay east of them, against the sea beyond.  Little figures in red appeared over the ramparts from time to time, using smaller hand-held machines similar to the larger ones with little puffs of smoke to indicate similar use. It was surreal, from afar; they seemed like living figurines, painted lead miniatures in a board game.

Braving the dangers below and moving more closely, faces became more distinct. Features could now be discerned upon those faces, expressions that spoke of determination, despair, lonliness and devotion, mud and gunpowder grime. 

There was no mistake at this distance. They were quite angry with one another.  Cannon smoke often hid their faces, out of which spewed loud noises, occasionally obscured by the booms of cannon and report of muskets. Hunger tore at their empty bellies and a feeling of dread must have haunted their every thought. Although they may not have known the significance of this particular day – at this particular moment - they knew that they were fighting for their lives.  That’s largely what mattered to them. Not the whys and whens of historical meaning, but the sheer desperation of the moment. 

To their credit, the blue colonial figures stood their ground, determined that King George would hear their collective thoughts. The redcoated British soldiers were backed against the water with no retreat – no ship to carry them away.

There was a cause, albeit blurred by the smoke and painful struggle.  It was the cause that so many Americans had bled for already - the cause of freedom.  A distant dream had coalesced with blood into this cause and it was now becoming a reality.  It had been five years since July 4, 1776. Five long years for a people who had almost given up - almost. Indeed, perseverence best characterized this rabble that dreamed of one day calling themselves independent.  Few of this time truly understood what that strange word really meant.

Independence had finally come here upon this normally-quaint seaside Virginia town.  Curtains were nearly drawn on the final act of this very long saga. Sacrifices of great men like Washington, Jefferson, Adams and Franklin, not to mention the dear blood of their brothers would very soon be justified. Is history not written by the living, those who remain telling the tales? Not by the poigniantly honorable efforts of the fallen Heros.

The story of the American Revolution has been well known through the centuries and needs neither elaboration nor comment. However, certain details of this particularly fateful day may have slipped casual notice.  As historians are fond of telling it, the French friend of the American, Marquis de Lafayette had been driven from Richmond by Lord Cornwallis’ forces, before the English had ordered the establishment of a defensive position on the Chesapeake Bay.  General George Washington decided to lure the British to forts along the Hudson by sending a decoy of 2,500 troops to defend the area.  His plan was to draw off the British and attack Yorktown. 

He ordered men like Colonel James Beckett Hathorne, among others to bring their troops totaling 7,000 men from New York to Williamsburg, Virginia.  With this force, Washington planned a siege that he hoped would result in Cornwallis’ capture and an end to the Revolution.  Thus, bring an end to the long war and the realization of their dream.  With Cornwallis’ back to an empty sea, it seemed as if the plan was successful.

Focusing closer on the field of battle, a tall man, with dark brown hair tied back in ponytail and black, tricorn hat came into view. Colonel James B. Hathorne represented the intellectual side of the rough, American frontier – although his ragged appearance at Yorktown belied his education. Now lying upon the wet, matted dirt, at the edge of a freshly-dug trench, musket held tightly in his hands, Col. Hathorne appeared no different than any common farmer beside him. He was freshly graduated in law and had recently passed the Massachussett’s bar - hardly typical of Washington’s troops. But, not all that uncommon for an officer. In fact, most of the officers in Washington’s army had similar stories of self-sacrifice and personal commitment to this threadbare cause of independence. 

James’ father, Joseph Hathorne had seen to it that all of his children whether they worked on the family farm or joined the mariners of family fame had received the proper education to suit them best in life. Thus, with a college education from Harvard, James Hathorne was headed for his career in the courts when the call went out for more soldiers in 1779.  Like many Americans, weary of King George’s oppressive taxes, Col. Hathorne took command immediately of a local detachment. 

As with many, friends and family fought by each other’s side in this war. A medium heighth blonde man stood next to Hathorne in that muddy trench, the truest friend that a man could have in this harsh affair.  George Thurman, secretary to Colonel Hathorne, had come with him… indeed had enlisted with him that solitary gray day in Danvers, Massachusetts. Thurman was not uniformed, but wore his usual blue linen shirt, leather vest, and buckskin breeches, all draped under a dark wool cloak with oilskin raincoat, splattered with the same gray mud. He also wore a similar dark tricorn hat, dripping from the steady drizzle.

After defending New York from attack together, they and others were called to the focal point of American Independence at that time, where the Continental Congress had first met and where the nation’s first stirrings of revolution had been heard in the House of Burgesses of Williamsburg, Virginia. 

In September, they had finally arrived at the shores of Yorktown, joined with French forces under Rochambeau.  Admiral de Grasse had the Bay blockaded and had driven off the British fleet.  Washington, now confident with 16,000 troops strong, decided to siege the town.

Devotion showed in these men. Patriotism and perseverance had been honed over the previous years of war.  They were veterans - old hands at it, now.  So, the noise and smoke, cold and rain were familiar acquaintances to Hathorne and Thurman.  And the muddy trench where they now lay before the walls of Yorktown just another stage setting in the long play.

Cornwallis couldn’t hold out.  He was slowly starving - slowly failing. His planned midnight evacuation was interrupted by a sudden and fierce storm, leaving the remainder of his forces in harm’s way.  They faught valiantly with what they had left, but the battle was nearly at an end.

George Thurman turned his forlorn bluish eyes over to gaze curiously at Hathorne’s face. There was an anxious regard in those eyes that somehow seemed inappropriate for the event – disjoint, apart from the intensity of battle. Something out of place troubled the man. His gloom was unusual for a man engaged in this task – a man of this time.

It would happen soon now, thought George as he gazed with melancholy sadness at his friend.  A despair that played close to his heart registered across his fair face - great sadness in his blue eyes.  His expression was odd on the eve of such an impending victory, a kind of hopeless lingering upon his fair sadness that no one else could have shared… nor anyone could have known.

Why did I come, he asked himself? So selfish and so lost.

Unbeknownst to others and like Shakespeare’s Hamlet, this play would ultimately become a tragedy - a Hessian’s lead round a prop in that play - a deadly prop with harsh consequences.  Amid the din of the battle, those consequences seemed quite unlike the increasingly distant and silent cannonfire - dreamlike, nightmarish in the cold mud. 

A puff of thick acrid gunsmoke assaulted George’s nostrils like fire. His momentary displeasure complicated the ethereal sensation that dominated the next few seconds for the gods had their solemn eye upon the man beside him. The doors of Valhalla parted amidst the clouds and Odin called to his fated warrior. 

It was history.

And George must release him to those vigorous winds, even though he could stop it… but dared not. 

At the appearance of the Hessian’s helmet over the fortress wall and the sudden flash of the dreaded and distant gunpowder, George’s eyes squinted tightly shut – he made it hurt. His hands trembled but he held tightly to his worn musket. Across the field, he could sense the flight of the lead ball, heated furiously by friction, thrown red-hot from the barrel of that Hessian musket. His own ribs would have parted to welcome it, but it wasn’t meant for him – he knew.  His mind had replayed this scene thousands of times, yet never had he fully prepared.

If only it were me… oh, why did I come?

Contact…

James Hathorne jolted - suddenly flinched amid a cacophony of cannon fire that drowned out his yelp of pain.  Eyes squinted tightly shut in agony as he staggered backward with the momentum, boots splashing in the cold mud. George opened his eyes in time to see James’ face grow suddenly pale. Muscles gave in and James slumped and slid down the sloping muddy back walls of the trench. His eyes and mouth popped open – blood appeared in his mouth. He struggled with the sensation until George’s face appeared above him.

Where the courage came from, George could not fathom.  Breaking suddenly free of his fears, George was by James’ side in an instant.  Responsibility answered in his heavy heart.

James… I’m here.

For almost three weeks, two friends had made it through this far with barely a scratch.  Now, for a blind shot fired over a wall - at no one in particular, James lay bloody and dying on what would be the last day of the siege. 

Odin and History would jointly make their rightful claim. 

Another of their claims would be answered in only two more days. Cornwallis was to surrender to Washington after calling a truce within the next couple of hours. History was a persistant and fickle foe. Ironically, George’s friend would not live to see this glorious day, dying within hours of the final truce. 

James Hathorne was more than a friend - more than even James could ever have known. 

All these years… I should’ve told him… I wanted to…

George held his friend of more than twelve years in his arms, not willing to admit that he was dying.  And, die he was supposed to do. 

On this day. 

At this moment… 3:38 pm precisely.

A simple and insignificant moment in the life of that frail creature we call destiny.

He can’t die like this... not without knowing... no, not without knowing… oh, please…

Together, they had faced so much.  Rough plowing the Hathorne farm in Salem Village, Massachusetts, the myriad trips through early colonial American road dangers - the cutthroats, thieves and Indians to their present task of aiding General George Washington in his final attempt to establish independence in this fledgling slapdash union of thirteen allied colonies.  It had been a long road for both of them and they had been more than friends for so long. 

James’ fading eyes could barely sense his friend’s presence.  Yet, urgency characterized his face as he pulled George close to him. The words formed with air choked through blood-filled lungs - just whispers. George had to strain to hear them, George! Look after my son.... take care... of Stephen...  for me.

Tears filled George’s eyes.  Struggling with his new-found rules of temporal morality, he mentally flirted with disastrous consequences.

Damn the gods to hell!

George had always known that this day would come.  But, he had this... childish desire to avoid the inevitable - to cheat fate.  He wanted so badly to take James away from this place and save him, however imprudent it might be.  Too often, in all his many extraordinary years had he attempted to tamper with things he knew he should have left alone, paying high prices for those bad decisions.  The lesson was hard, but it must be remembered. 

A disembodied voice seemed to whisper… This must happen!

The wound and blood told George that Odin’s call was almost upon him.  The musket ball had torn open his friend’s abdomen, bounced around in his ribs and left his vital organs in ruin – nothing could be done.  But, George knew that.  In James’ light, vacant eyes, George sensed the moment drawing near. Cold rain heralded its approach, a shivering natural apparition, foretelling the arrival of the steamy-nostriled stedes of the gods.

Odin’s impatience!

George wiped the frigid water from James’ eyes, desperate to share this finality with him.  Suddenly, he had a thought – a threadbare sense of hope.

What’s to stop this now?  What would be the point to keeping it a secret?  I owe him that much at least.  I must act quickly!

From out of his breast pocket, George anxiously removed a silver pocket watch.  James could not lift his head, so George held it before him so that James could see it clearly.  The watch was very ornate - curly filigree all over the sides and back.  George was smiling tenderly now as he showed James the watch.

James, what I have to tell you is going to be difficult for you to understand… but this will help.

George could barely speak - his words gasping through the pain and freezing rain… It's a secret that I've kept from you for all these many years. And for that, I beg your forgiveness.  I’ve wanted to tell you… it’s just always been too dangerous… until now… but it's something that you should know before death claims you my friend.

A fresh tear appeared in George’s eye.  He knew that he hadn’t the time to waste and quickly drew his face to the purpose.

Quickly, George flipped open the cover on the elaborately decorated silver watch and turned the glass on the face.  From inside, it began to glow faintly like it was full of fireflies – it even hummed faintly with the sound of their many wings.

Here… he said prepared to hand James the watch. 

A quick moment of broader responsibility and fear crossed his raised eyebrows. George looked about them to see who might be watching.  All around them in the trench were other American soldiers firing over the mound of dirt at any British or Hessian soldier who might stick his head a little too high.  One of them briefly trampled through the mud and offered his help at the sight of the fallen Colonel.  George waved him off, telling him that it was useless, hiding the watch under his cloak as the man leaned over.  George kept the watch hidden until the man had gone. 

Pulling it back out, he quickly pulled James up to see his face, then placed the watch in James’ right hand and closed his fingers around it tightly. A faint blue glow emanated from inside that hand as thousands of electromagnetic impulses joined with James’ neurons. They interlinked neural circuitry in James’ hand and traveled to his mind…

Suddenly, James’ eyes spread wide open and became clearer! A look of utter astonishment flashed across James’ face. He jolted slightly.  His eyes flitted about, as though a thousand things at once were running past him – desperate to see them all. James’ chest heaved. His breath quickening… Several long seconds passed, and then it stopped and he eased back into the mud and the present reality.

Amazed, his tear-filled eyes refocused on George. 

James remarked upon George as though it were for the first time, or a stranger from some utterly incredible place.  A trembling, wet hand rose slowly to George’s face, touching it, as though recalling his features for the first time. He smiled broadly and almost laughed in joy, but only choked. The look of utter astonishment slowly faded, ebbing with James’ life - and his complete understanding. 

James Beckett Hathorne’s smile lingered – the greatest smile of contentment that any man had ever seen.  Then, his long, thin face slowly fell limp upon that smile and George allowed himself one final embrace - a final moment to say goodbye to his commanding officer, his friend and so much more that he was never able to share until now. 

Goodbye… James… George buried his wet eyes in James’ shoulder.

Another cannon fired with a boom, throwing smoke into the wet winds. The Siege of Yorktown was almost at an end – only two more hours. A tall, uniformed man appeared beside them a few moments later to offer his condolences during an inspection of the west trench. General George Washington grasped Thurman’s shoulder in compassion.  His tall form halting for a moment before continuing on down the trench.  Washington’s eyes echoed George’s own feelings.  He too had seen far too much death.  George knew that his efforts over the past few years were about to reach fruition in only an hour or so. The shooting was even now subsiding about them. The General’s desire to end the horror would soon be realized.  George was glad for him at least.

James had also finally discovered that his efforts had not been in vain.  The smile on his friend’s face had been enough to tell George that, thankfully. It worked! His friend’s efforts were not in vain.

George found enough comfort in that fact, enough comfort to afford the decision to end all decisions - for a lifetime.  He picked up the watch from out of James’ hand, turned the glass once more, closed it as the glow faded and held it to his heart where dwelt a sadness and, yet a joy that would complete his life. 

This was his last journey of recklessness.  He took one more look at the silver watch and thought of young Stephen Hathorne. He thought, also of the many dangers the watch posed for him if he kept using it.  They would detect the matrix and come for it as they had attempted before. A simple fluctuation in the continuum pinpointed his location and gave him away then, as certainly it must if he ever activated it again. 

But, George had an idea.  He could hide it.  He now knew how.  He now knew where.  He couldn’t take the chance that they would discover the secret. After all, it was a political secret - a potential military one of extraordinary magnitude!  The most fleeting kind of all secrets. Stubbornly, George would protect this secret as long as he could.

It would be several days before he could return to Salem.  And then, he would be free to lose himself in a time when this peaceful, natural land had never known of the violence of the European – certainly, a long time from now. 

Soon, history will be free of this troublesome meddler.

Despite his recent loss, he had to smile at that.  Over a decade he spent here.  It was worth every second but he had to leave things alone to develop naturally.  History depended on it.  His very life and the lives of his family depended on it!

Seeds in Time

St. Augustine, Florida, USA, WUC

February 27, 2072

Streetlights from the seaside city had a charismatic effect against the older buildings with their red-tiled roofs. This place was famous in all of America and the city’s stewards maintained the historic buildings with great care.  Here was a meeting place in time - a congenial blend of centuries.  Winter was almost past, yet leaving the cool evening air crisp and distinct.  Lights virtually sparkled in this remarkably eloquent atmosphere as nighttime overtook the old east coast city of St. Augustine in the ancient Spanish land, now American state, of La Florida.

Breezes were a bit cool, though unseasonably mild tonight.  The waters of Matanzas Bay were lapping gently against the seawall in the moonlit stillness, making that characteristic gentle sloshing sound against the immovable concrete retainer wall. 

An altogether different thrumping sound emerged from water against the hollow hulls of boats docked just south of the famous Bridge of Lions, connecting the mainland to Anastasia Island. The total effect was serene, peaceful. Alas, tranquility best characterized America’s favorite and Oldest City any day of the year.

It was special for being the oldest, continuously occupied city in the whole of the United States - and certainly a great tourist attraction still to this day. The old coquina fort, silhouetted against the night sky stood motionless against the ravages of time - thanks mostly to conservation efforts.  It stood out meagerly now, however against the backdrop of a bustling modern city and its tall structures, overshadowing, yet not quite hiding, the historical remains of past centuries. 

Still, tonight, it commanded attention. Clearly, electronic voice-like sounds indicated some kind of program at the fort - an historical reenactment, most likely. A cannon boom would most likely soon follow. Occasionally, those speaker-enhanced voices punctuated the nocturnal tranquility. Lights from the torches within the fort could clearly be seen from atop the Bridge of Lions.  Moonlight cast shadows across the bay, of lions atop the pillars, to rails running the length of the bridge. 

A lone figure stood dark against the night behind those rails.  Wearing a black overcoat and a fedora, the man could have been at home in one of those old two-dimensional movies, like Casablanca.  In a resort town of the late 21st century, he appeared peculiar at best.

Puffs of smoke, lightly visible in the moonlight, came wistfully away from his olive, goateed features as he turned back to a lonely walk down the bridge toward the island - looking very businesslike with a briefcase in his right hand.  His tall, thin form stood out like a dark spire against the night sky atop the bridge.  Cold briny breezes pulled lightly at the smoke and carried it past him toward the Anastasia Island and the Atlantic Ocean beyond it.  His dark eyes focused on the horizon touching that ocean. They squinted with determination.

The man exited the bridge and made his way left down a side street, heading along the shore of the island.  Walking briskly and carefully down the street, he approached a marina containing a series of docks where many ocean-going vessels were berthed, quietly undulating in the gentle waves.  Eyeing a figure seated upon a short broad pole near dock 22A, he headed in that direction.

The old seaman was getting rather impatient. He scratched his head beneath the old Greek Fisherman’s cap and fidgeted. The older man’s leathery skin was wrinkled from years of exposure to the sun more so than from his age - probably about his mid-50’s.  Baggy tan pants, an old t-shirt, and light blue windbreaker betrayed his ignorance of modern fashion. Black hair turning silver and dark complexion indicated a possible Hispanic heritage, perhaps diluted through generations.

The dark man approached him and smiled, a slanted, practiced, and calculated crack in his thin face.  He neared the older man who yet made no sign of his presence.  He allowed his shoes to scrape gravel and alert the seaman to his presence - the startled seaman looked up, revealing a reddish, flushed face – no doubt an alcoholic. As he spoke, the years of self-abuse became even more evident in the harsh depth of his speech.

Well, it’s about time… where the hell you been?

Don’t worry my friend, the voice was icy… yet melodic… Time is on our side.

Yeah… well… we’d better get going. I don’t like the idea of unscheduled trips out… especially at night. The Coast Guard could impound my boat, thinking I’m running drugs or something.  And I can’t afford to lose the money. 

He got up from the pole slowly, arthritically and turned toward his boat.  The old seaman thought about his last words for a second or so and turned around suddenly - accusingly. That’s not what we’re doing out here is it?  I won’t have anything to do with drugs!

The icy voice of the thin, dark-complected man quietly pierced the night breeze and the waves lapping against the boat. I assure you… I’m not interested in drugs… not narcotics, at any rate.  A light chortle rested in his throat. 

The old seaman didn’t like this guy, dressed all in black leather.

He thought, Why black… in Florida? Not that he was the fashion authority of Anastasia Island…

This thin dark stranger looked frail, feminine for a guy, yet acted strangely confident – almost too much – a bit insane?  Weird.  Still, his money was real enough. That must be it – money. Who can figure out the rich?

After the dark man’s spell of amusement, his tone grew darker. You’ll be paid and you’ll be quiet… that’s all you need understand.

I…

Right?

What else could he say? Yeah… yeah… ok. The promised payment was a lot more than anyone else paid to go fishing in the gulfstream.  Half a million dollars had already been wired to his account, with a promise of the rest after completion of this one night trip. Inflation did not exactly account for the amount. Why the hell would anybody pay a million dollars to come out here for one night?  And why night, thought the old seaman? Again… gotta be the rich… who can explain the rich?

The seaman needed money. His gambling habits of late were pushing his finances heavily into the red.  He owed syndicate guys and couldn’t afford to be late with their payment.  This job was more than enough to pay off his debts to them and get them off his back. Lucky for him, too. He guessed that it was no accident that he found someone at that casino willing to give him a loan on such short notice.  It scared the willies out of him.  This was the very last time that I get caught with my pants down. No more gambling from now on. I’m going straight after tonight. Just so I never have to put up with skinny weirdoes like this guy in black. Pondering the dark man’s apparent femininity, he thought, I hope he isn’t a homo looking for a thrill. No rod and tackle… so, not fishin’…

The captain stuck the key in and turned it. The boat’s lights flickered on, revealing a forced smile on the rich guy, cracking a thin olive magician-like face. That’s what I thought.  Get the boat moving… I have work to do.

The old seaman just grunted and turned to the wheel.  A light rumble issued from the motors of the charter boat.  Lines were cast and soon, the odd pair were cruising out of the bay and heading for the open sea.

The moon hung large and looming over the water as clouds moved in from the west.  They began to cover the moon in silence - slowly, until the entire face of the full moon was hidden from view.

Several minutes passed without a word in the charter boat.  These two men had little in common, thus little to say to each other.  After pondering the gloominess of that night sky, the old seaman finally spoke.

Could come up a storm tonight… he grunted, grudgingly hoping for a change of mind from the freak.

Just keep going... said the dark man, sitting in the back with his briefcase cautiously on his lap.  And there he stayed for the remainder of their outward journey.  Occasionally, he would check a small padd in his left hand.  But, otherwise, he remained silent for the entire trip.

The odd pair left the mainland lights of St. Augustine over the horizon as they slowly rumbled out to sea. About 15 minutes after leaving sight of the marina, the dark man said, This will do, and motioned for the seaman to stop the boat. 

But, we ain’t at the Gulf Stream yet… not a fisherman, heh?

Stop the boat.

Reaching out to the controls, the seaman quieted the motor and the boat slowed to a crawl - the wake caught up to them, gently nudging them until they stopped and drifted. 

Only after the boat rested, the dark man opened the briefcase and pulled out small, flat round containers.  He began laying them out carefully beside him on the back seat of the boat.

Immediately, the seaman scowled… I knew it… damn it all… I knew it!

You will remain quiet said the dark man distractedly.  Otherwise, he ignored him.

The old man looked indignant at his passenger.  He didn’t like the guy from the start. Aside from the uncomfortable feeling that Mr. Black Leather was going to make a pass at him or something out on this midnight cruise, the queer was a jerk, too. The old man had never cared for the equal rights law passed in his youth and he’d have had nothing to do with this freak if it weren’t for the money he needed so badly. 

But, out here, we got no witnesses, he thought.  The guy’s probably a criminal anyway, besides being a homo! Not being overly scrupulous, he decided quickly to take the easy way out.

You little wormy faggot… there’s nothing that says I can’t just take the money and push you overboard!  What d’ya say to that?

A sudden muffled popping sound and a bloody face was his startling and unexpected reply. The old man’s limp body fell heavily and without a shiver onto the starboard railing, overhanging the water below, blood dripping into the sea.

Shrugging only slightly, the dark man put down his pistol on the seat beside the vials.  He picked them up and began opening them, promptly pouring their contents into the water over the back of the boat. 

As the greenish lumpy liquid blended with the seawater a wide grin spread across the thin, dark face.  Another chuckle erupted as he watched the liquid roll and twist, slowly descending downward to the bottom of the sea. 

Find a good home, my darlings…

Then, just as promptly, he replaced the vials in the briefcase and shut it. Standing, he looked pensively at the seaman’s body hunched over the side of the boat.  Again, he smiled.  That’s just too easy, said the dark man as he walked toward and gripped the seaman’s foot with one hand, allowing his body to slip easily into the open water.

Too easy, said the dark man.  He straightened his fedora and proceeded to start the motors, taking the boat back into the harbor, seemingly quite perturbed at having to drive it himself.

It would have been easier if he had cooperated. The nerve of some people! He smiled.

Pulling up to the side of a pier, he tied the wheel with a cord from his case and jumped clear, leaving the boat to wander out to sea again. Obviously coming prepared, he watched as the boat cleared Anastasia Island for the open sea. 

Standing on the pier, briefcase in hand, satisfied and smiling, he said in overt ceremony with a slight wave of the hand, Adieu!  Then, pulling the small padd from his coat pocket and setting the briefcase down on the pier, he began speaking into it.

Resume, he said to the tiny computer.  The rectangular lit screen showed an online link to a bank in Paris, the Banque Al Saoudi.  A large sum of money was being redirected from the local account in SunFirst Federal of one James Garcia back into its original account, GIB Conglomerates.  The pad chimed, Confirmed… transfer complete.  Do you wish to make any further transactions?  The computer’s voice was clear and distinct, with a decidedly English flavor.

"No… Close link to SunFirst… open Special Personal Accounts and delete Loan records for… James Garcia.  Erase all files regarding James Garcia.  Purge and restructure."

Do you wish to make backups first?

No… Complete erasure.

Erasure complete.

Also, erase this transaction from backup file.

Please confirm… He touched the screen. Thank you… transaction erased.

The man placed the padd back into his coat pocket. Looking into the sky, he shivered and pulled his coat on a bit closer, folding the long black flaps tighter. He lifted his collar and tied off the belt to close the flaps snuggly. Then, he took out an unopen pack of cigarettes, thumped it upon his thigh to pack the tobacco, and opened the fresh pack. He pulled out a cigarette.  Holding it under his nose, he took in the aroma of the tobacco with great pleasure. Ah… so delightfully decadent he said to himself as he stuck it between his lips.  Flickering light illuminated his dark face and black eyes again as he lit the cigarette.  He held the now-illegal object of his vice between his middle and fourth finger. Blowing out a puff of smoke, he lowered his head and grinned. 

That was fun! 

Then, he put the pack of cigarettes back in his pocket, picked up his briefcase and continued walking back to town.

The breeze stilled just as large raindrops began to fall, pelting off the man’s Fedora and coat.  Pale smoke floated under the brim and behind him as he walked, holding steady in the pre-storm stillness. Again, he laughed - the sound fading as he walked, drowned out by the swelling deluge.  The dark, distant figure vanished quickly in the heavy night rain. 

Hurricane

Off the Coast of La Florida

Spanish Colonies of North America

July 25, 1808

It came in great sheets - walls of shattered seas from any of a thousand directions. Water and sky twisted togeth­er, belching a great roar from within.  Sight and sound blended into the absence of color - without form, causing rippling waves of crashing sound to accompany the constant bellowing of the gods.

All that the eye could see had turned from lovely blues and azure into various shades of gray.  Time didn't seem to pass - nor to exist.   It was the beginning and the end, Alpha and Omega all rolled together, twisted, mangled and splattered across the seascape.  Water and sky became indistinguishable.

Distressed seas spat at him.  They slapped him. 

The top of the mast swung surprisingly quick as the ship rolled and pitched against the torn sea.  Loose shrouds lashed about. Stripped and torn, the sail’s canvas made a burring sound with each windy assault.   

In his heart and soul, he knew he must endure it.  For now, he was an officer in the young United States’ Navy - only the bravest of men, stalwart and stout, facing all of life’s terrors with composure and honor.  And today was no different for any officer in that service, matching their strength of will against the sea.  And like any other officer might do, he had made his own decision to literally throw caution to the winds and save the mainmast. 

If only the tossing and turning and wind and rain would let him finish what he'd climbed up here for. If only the blood would return to his face - if only his food would stay in his stomach... and his eyes would stop burning!

The young farmer’s son imagined himself a seasoned veteran, a tough old seadog that knew the ropes – pushing him to accomplish what he wasn’t quite sure he could accomplish.  It seemed to help, anyway.  It was like a battle that had to be won… At any cost, he told himself. 

Water… huge slices of water, as big as mountains, threatened to cut off his triumph.  The view was blurring, waving and wobbling, and then the wind came again.  It was so intense, that, for a moment, he didn’t know if his vision was real or imagined.  Salty spray stung his eyes, thrashing the only sense he still had left.  With the loss of vision, the immovable powers of the Earth again threatened this poor man's equilibrium.  Nausea overcame him.

Young Stephen Hathorne then spewed his stomach's contents into that indom­itable wind. Breathing deeply, he allowed his long thin form to lie still for only a few seconds - precious seconds.  

Crashing sound and gray replaced his heroic vision - relief washing over his thin, pale face.  For a moment, he just hugged the boom close to where it met the mast, draped over it like a piece of torn laundry, dripping wet from the pail. A slight pang of regret entered through his defenses as he thought about that precious meal lost in the storm. 

Food on United States Naval vessels was generally better than any merchant, but it all tasted the same after a month or two at sea... Taste, most assuredly, was the wrong word for it.  Despite its usual assault on the palate, it was still a necessity not to be taken lightly out here.

Thinking of the food inevitably led to thoughts of mealworms in the biscuits... Oh, God...

More nausea threatened him. 

That’s enough... think about the task at hand, you fool, he told himself.   Let us hope that my constitution is stronger than salt pork and hardtack! he spat out when he regained his speech. 

He knew not why he spoke to these winds and water that blasted him. It was a necessity of man; he assumed - a great need to personify whatever threats you might face, to reduce them to equality.  Perhaps it was an effort to dominate the evil within that threat - to gain control over it. Whatever it might be the great cacophony that surrounded him, and penetrated him, drowned out all sound; thus, the words fell silent even upon his own ears.

This first official voyage as Lieutenant was leaving an indelible impression upon the young Hathorne, who hoped that his breakfast hadn't splattered on any of his senior officers below - most of them, higher grade Lieutenants than himself.

Hathornes, since even before the 18th century, had been captains and owners of great, sea-worthy vessels trading in the Mediterranean, India, China, Java, the Baltic and many other exotic and most profitable locales.  Although Stephen Hathorne was raised on a farm, he was not far from his father’s yarns and from Salem, itself, a bristling seaport with many legendary figures of sail populating its shops and docks. 

Young Stephen Hathorne felt it his duty, not simply as a navy officer but, also as a member of the Hathorne family to continue an honorable, solemn tradition of being at sea. He felt the sea brine also in his very blood.

One thing Hathorne knew for sure was that he had to quit daydreaming and get moving. This ship can’t take much of this.  What he heard next echoed his last thought as if it were a premonition.