Message of the Locust

By Richard Marcum and Reyburn Webb Myers

In Message of the Locust, Fred Roberts accidently stumbles onto an ongoing one-hundred-year hatred between a slave and a slave owner. While chasing an octopus during Freds first scuba dive, his fin gets trapped in some metal debris. He panics and is forced to remove his foot from the fin. In his struggle to retrieve his fin, he sees the metal was part of a ships nameplateThe Locust. His relief at freeing his foot is suddenly overcome by his curiosity surrounding the ship. Fred becomes young again and wants to know more than just the name of the ship. He wants to know its history and its purpose. He becomes addicted to the excitement of his quest.

But as Fred chases history, he begins to stir Pandoras box. He learns what two families have been searching for ever since the vessel went down with only one survivora very unique slave. As Fred's search for the ships past intensifies, the two families both contrive to lay claim to the unbeknownst treasure that lies within the wreck that has been hidden for so many generations.

As both adversarial families emerge, Fred finds himself and his family threatened. His chase for adventure turns into a fight for his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524529352

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Copyright © 2016 by Richard Marcum; Reyburn Webb Myers.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-5245-2936-9

                eBook           978-1-5245-2935-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/08/2016

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Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

DEDICATION

I am dedicating this paper back publication of Message of the Locust to my co-author and friend, Reyburn Webb Myers. She was an amazing person and a great mentor in helping me with this story, my first writing experience. We had to spend considerable time together as we wrote this book. I learned that she was an example of that old saying, still waters run deep. Never showy or loud, but far from meek and unchallenging. Reyburn had lived an active and exciting life. As you will read in her obituary below, she had an amazing spirit and adventuresome side to her psyche.—Rick Marcum

Reyburn Webb Myers

MYERS, REYBURN WEBB, A teacher for over 20 years at Highland Park High School, in Highland Park, TX died May 3, 2005, in Clearwater, Florida. She was 84. Mrs. Myers attended the University of Missouri where she majored in journalism and was a member of Kappa Tau Alpha national journalism honorary. Upon graduating in 1943, she joined the Red Cross and served in the South Pacific. After the war, she worked for the armed forces newspaper, Stars and Stripes. In 1950 she moved to Dallas where she worked in public relations and married Alan T. Myers. In 1969 she began teaching at Highland Park High School where she taught journalism, English and sponsored the school newspaper, The Bagpipe. After retiring in 1987, Mrs. Myers co-authored The Message of the Locust with Rick Marcum, The Sea Was My Last Chance with Colonel Donald Wills and My Three Lives with Lydia Banome. Survivors include her daughter, Allyn M. Giambalvo and two grandchildren, Carole and Joseph Giambalvo of Dunedin.

PROLOGUE

August 8, 1863

Five miles off the upper Keys of Florida

The first explosion had thrown the man up and across the deck, headfirst onto the base of the main mast. Stunned and numb, he lay there unaware of the noise about him. All action seemed to progress in slow motion as he fought to regain clarity. Unable to totally raise his eyelids, he struggled to his knees and became nauseated. With the nausea came awareness and reality. As his situation became clearer, he tried to maneuver on the slanting, rocking deck of the ship. He crawled among the timbers of the shattered deck ... the girl ... the girl. Sara, he yelled. Louder he called. Then came the second blast. This time the force tore out the aft section. Oh, goddamn, why did I send her to the cabin. I thought she’d be safe. Rapidly, the once sleek schooner began to sink. The angle of the deck changed ... she’s going down, he thought. He looked about desperately as other men scrambled off the vessel and into the dark water. Flames engulfed the stem. I’ve gotta get off ... now ...no … gotta read the letter before I jump. I ain’t never failed before. Not gonna fail now. I’ll get the message to France. The man pulled himself toward the light of the flames and, with sacrificing care, took the wax-sealed envelope from his pocket, ripped it open, and read the message. His heart felt squeezed. The most devastating blast of the night was now within him. It’s all been a lie ... I ain’t nothin’ special ... the girl was just a tool. We’ll see ole man ... I ain’t dead yet.

The water began to rise to his feet and legs, alerting him to the immediate danger. The fog in his mind had totally cleared with the anger that now controlled him. He saw, floating away from the small remnants of the dying ship, a cabin door that had blown free. Lunging from the tilting deck, he dove and then swam through the debris. He struggled and strained as he pulled himself up and onto the door. Lying face down and flat, he grasped the edges with his splinter-ridden hands. He then spread his legs and curled his feet around the sides in a gripping manner.

Feeling secure, he looked up to watch the burning ship which moaned and creaked as it sank deeper into the water. The flames hissed and sputtered as they touched the sea. His face felt the heat. The glow grew as the fire reflected on the ocean’s surface. Turning away because of the heat on his face, he thought of the girl once again. As his anxiety for the girl grew, he looked back to the ship and saw the nameplate, The Locust, aglow as the ship succumbed to the sea.

The ocean was still alive with the sounds of men, panic-stricken sounds of men floundering and screaming for help. The man saw other movement in the water, movement that occasionally bumped and moved his door of refuge. He grasped tighter with his hands and feet.

Suddenly from behind, he could hear the sound of someone swimming close. Looking back and down toward his right foot, he saw in the moonlight the head of someone seeking the safety of his door. Gripping tighter, he raised his right foot up, then, timing perfectly, he kicked the swimmer’s jaw with a crunching blow. The force of the kick gave him pain in his foot and propelled the door forward and away from the intruder. Momentarily the sea was empty. Suddenly the swimmer surfaced, gasping and coughing, but still attempting to reach the door. The swimmer suddenly stopped; his body surged forward, rising up and out of the water. His scream had a deep vomitous sound. The wave shook the door as its rider gripped even tighter and waited the resurfacing of the swimmer. It never came. He lay on his door, gritting his teeth, clinging tightly as the screams diminished. In what seemed like forever, the voices, one by one, ceased until the only sound was the slosh of the waves lapping against his floating door.

He lay there praying silently in the still hell of the night. God, let me see daylight one more time. After a time the darkness began to fade and give way to a glow on the horizon. A chill came to the man’s shoulders, hands, and feet, a chill that accompanies all mornings on the ocean’s surface. Gradually the growing light revealed bits and pieces of the night’s carnage floating in the water. The sea, calm and peaceful, stretched to the horizon. The man relaxed his hands and feet. He looked to the right and behind, then to the left and then finally forward. There was no sign of life. Only me? he asked himself out loud.

The girl ... poor thing ... I was a fool. Pondering, he wondered who, what and how all the hell of the night began. I know why ... it makes no difference for the rest. He had no idea in which direction there might be land. He was frightened, but letting his body go limp, he rested. I will live, ole man, he thought. I’ll live on my hate for you. Your message will live, and one day The Locust will rise again.

CHAPTER ONE

Labor Day Weekend, 1982

Highway AlA through the Florida Keys stretched out straight, flat, and dull before Fred’s sun-strained eyes. This was the day he has been waiting for. He had endured all that the children and Margaret had wanted to do. He could enjoy this day with no feelings of guilt. His anticipation mounted, making the trip from Miami to Key Largo seem that much further. Today, he could find a little excitement on his first ocean dive. Fred envied people like Jacques Cousteau… living a life where every day is a new adventure, life totally unlike his. But today was his, and no one was going to take it from him.

He was brought sharply back to reality by loud screams from his daughters in the back seat.

Mom, Mom. Marshall’s staring at us again.

I’m not bothering you.

In the front seat of the station wagon an exasperated Margaret Roberts turned to her husband.

Can’t you do something with them? I’ve had it up to here. She held her hand horizontally well above her head.

Fred looked into the mirror to bring his three restless children into view and used his best Kermit-the-Frog voice. All right, boys and girls, we’re almost there. Let’s see who can find Coral Reef Park first.

The car became quiet as all eyes searched for the entrance sign.

There it is, Marshall yelled, pointing behind them. You just missed it, Dad. Marshall leaned to gloat over his two sisters. I saw it first; what do I get for seeing it first? Marshall thrust his face close to the two little girls. Ha ha ha, he leered.

Oh wonderful. We’ll just turn around and drive in by those lovely ‘art deco’ trailer houses, Margaret said sarcastically. Fred, I can see this isn’t going to be much fun for the kids and me.

Madame Margareete, if you don’t mind, we’ve been to ‘Circus World’, ‘Monkey Jungle’, ‘Parrot World,’ and remember ol’ Dad having his picture taken riding the fifteen-foot parrot? We’ve stopped at every side-of the-road rip-off joint between Orlando and Miami. Indulge ‘moi’ just this once on our fantastic voyage. Fred spoke with the arrogance of a French maitre d’.

You must admit, it’s certainly unlike any state park entrance I’ve ever seen. I know … this must be … ‘Gypsy World’ … I’ve always wanted to go, Margaret retorted.

C’mon, darlin’, Fred’s voice had a certain pleading quality. Everything is real laid back down here. That’s supposed to be part of the charm.

My little Kermie, Margaret was now using her Miss Piggy voice, I could think of another word besides ‘charm.’

As they turned off the main highway, bumping down the caliche road, Fred again looked into the mirror to view the children. Adopting a Kermit-the-Frog voice he asked, Boys and girls isn’t Mom a bowl full of cherries?

The girls giggled, but Marshall turned to them and in authoritative tone warned, Hush, it’s not funny. Mom’s gonna get mad.

Fred and Margaret looked at each other and laughed.

Marshall, a slender lad with Margaret’s curly hair and brown eyes, never failed to defend his mother.

As they rolled up to the entrance, a fat hispanic woman in a state park shirt slid open the window of the ramshackle pay booth. The cheap radio inside crackled with mariachi music followed by a stream of staccato Spanish.

Two adults and three children, Fred said helpfully.

The dark eyes and broad face did not change expression.

That ees two dollah per car.

Fred handed up the two dollars and pulled into a broad central area filled with a confusion of cars with boat trailers, waiting for access to the launching ramp. The parking area was also jammed, but maneuvering between more trailers and carelessly parked cars, Fred managed to find a parking place for their station wagon.

Marshall and the girls were out the door the minute the car stopped. Margaret followed hesitantly, appearing not too impressed with what she saw.

Marshall, come back here, she called as he raced off to get away from his pestering sisters.

What are we gonna do first, Mom? Marshall wanted to know as he rejoined them.

Quickly Fred answered, I thought you and Mom and the girls would enjoy the glass-bottomed boat ride. You’ll see all kinds of fish ... maybe even sharks.

He turned to his wife, Margaret, I really think you’ll enjoy seeing all the coral. His tone was persuasive.

And I guess there’s no talking you out of this folly. Margaret sighed as though a parent disappointed with her child.

No, there isn’t, Fred answered firmly. Margaret, ever since I was certified, I’ve wanted to dive here in the Keys, Fred explained. My god, we live in Florida and I haven’t had a chance to dive in the ocean yet.

I thought you’d wait for a place where there was more for the kids and me to do.

Yeah, like your parents’ house and diving in their swimming pool?

That’s not what I meant.

Margaret, we discussed this earlier, please try to have the best time you can.

OK, Fred, there seems nothing I can do to stop you.

Mom, I want to go with Dad. Marshall was ready for adventure after the long ride.

Marshall, they won’t let you. You’re too young. Why don’t you come help me with the girls? You can show them all the different fish and stuff, Margaret coaxed.

The children were ready for any kind of adventure so Margaret reluctantly made her way with Fred to the ticket booth for the glassbottomed boats. At the end of a long ramp a boat was taking on passengers. Fred bought four tickets. There were still several places to be filled. Marshall and the girls rushed out to get in the boat, but Margaret lingered with Fred.

Freddie, please be careful. You haven’t been diving that much, and the ocean just isn’t Crystal River. There can be sharks and horrible stinging things out there.

He was touched that her face showed genuine concern and her dark eyes were troubled.

Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine, Margaret. The guides are experienced. They won’t put me in where it’s dangerous. Please quit worrying.

The last seats in the boat had finally been sold and the boarding process had begun. Margaret hurried to join the children. She looked back several times and waved. She was obviously worried and upset. Fred felt his spirits rise as he approached the diving charter booth. He had been wanting to dive in the ocean for a long time. Life at the bank was not very exciting. Brought up in West Texas, Fred remembered some of the excitement of his younger days with quail hunting, raising sheep, and gazing into long distances in wide, open land. Now he was often restless, and he sometimes felt shut in.

Tall, blond, heavyset with broad shoulders, he naturally had played football. While in college, he played against the University of Miami. There he had his first look at the ocean and his first look at Margaret. He had fallen in love with both.

I’d like to get on a dive boat. Fred addressed a hippie type in a dirty tank top and frayed cutoff jeans.

Sorry, Bud, but we’re all booked up. But wait, I think there’s another guy who wanted to go out. Maybe we can find someone to take you guys. He turned his head toward the concession stand and called, Jake, c’mere.

A lanky, sunburned figure in swim trunks got up from a dilapidated deck chair and shuffled toward the booth, followed by a large black dog which looked mostly labrador with the exception of the feet and ears. One front paw was white and the ears large enough to be wings. The dog followed his master, watching his every move and not making a sound.

I got two guys who want to go out, Jake. Could you take ’em? You can use the 19-footer. Make sure you have plenty of gas this time.

Fred eyed the salt-stiffened, sun-streaked hair, the earring in one ear, the week’s growth of beard and wondered if this laid-back creature could even find the reef let alone the best diving spots. God, I hope I don’t have to depend on this guy, Fred thought.

Sure, I’ll take ’em out. Jake seemed to feel himself the master of any occasion.

The hippie motioned to a tall, pleasant looking man who carried an elaborate looking camera and case. As the man approached, the hippie broke the good news.

Mr. Parsons, we’ve found you a buddy, so Jake here is gonna take you guys out. He turned to Fred. This is Mr. Parsons. He’s from Seattle. I didn’t get your name.

Fred shook hands with Parsons. I’m Fred Roberts.

Hoyt Parsons.

You’ve come a long way to dive here. All I had to do was drive from Orlando.

I didn’t come down here just to dive. I had a business meeting in Miami. Since underwater photography is my hobby, I thought I’d take some shots off the Keys. In Miami everything closed down for Labor Day anyway.

They chatted amiably while they got their rented equipment fitted, checked the pressure on their tanks, and as they talked, made their way behind Jake and his dog out a long pier to the 19-footer, rocking between the other boats.

Equipped with an outboard motor and a wheel, the boat provided the basic necessities such as a windshield and decking, but it was definitely plain vanilla.

While Jake began loading the gear, the dog jumped aboard and moved to the bow of the boat. He sat there as if he had a ticket, clearly indicating that this was his seat.

Neat dog, what’s his name? Fred asked trying to make conversation.

Cuda. And you won’t think he’s so damn neat if you try to pet him or anything like that, came Jake’s curt reply.

Oh, Fred answered feeling quite the fool.

Jake got Fred and Parsons settled aboard, started the motor and then cast off. The dog never moved.

With a newly opened can of beer in one hand and the other on the wheel, Jake guided his boat among the profusion of craft and into the inlet