“Look at that man over there, in the faded blue dungarees. I’ll bet he would know.”
“All right. You ask him, and then I can blame you later.”
The man was sitting on a bench, sifting through a number of fishing lures.
“Visitors, are you, and you want to know where to get a good meal? Well, I suppose that depends on your taste and your wallet. Where are you folks from?”
“We’re from Massachusetts. Both of our families have always lived on the coast,” said Marion.
“Mine, too,” he said.
“What do you think of the Pirate’s House restaurant?” asked Jack. “Maybe I ought to indulge my wife. She’s always saying that one of her ancestors was a pirate.”
“Well, join the club,” the man replied. “My grandfather used to say that we were descendants of Captain Bartholomew Roberts, one of the boldest buccaneers of his day. They called him the Crimson Pirate because he often wore red.”
“We really ought to introduce ourselves. I’m Marion Moore, and this is my husband, Jack.”
“Glad to meet you. I’m Bart Roberts. You were asking about the Pirate’s House. The food is fine. I eat there myself now and then, but sometimes some of the goings on there bother me a little.” He looked down at the lure he was tying on his line.
“You mean loud music, that sort of thing?”
“No. I didn’t mean that.”
“Well, then, what bothers you?”
“It’s other things. Things like . . . well, it’s hard to say.”
“Like what?” prodded Marion.
Roberts just looked down at the knot his weathered hands were tying and shook his head. “Don’t pay any attention to an old sea dog like myself. You folks will like it. The place has an interesting atmosphere.”
“Is your boat tied up near here?”
“That’s her right there. The Mary Anne. She’s named after my wife, although I’m a widower now. I take her out every morning at sunup, and we’re back here by late afternoon. Some days the catch is quite good. It certainly beats teaching at a university.”
“Where did you teach?” asked Jack.
“The University of Oklahoma.”
“And you just left it all?”
“Yep. It gave me the feeling of being landlocked. So I decided to come back home. My family has been in the commercial fishing business here for years.”
“Have you ever regretted your decision?”
“No. I have too many seagoing ancestors to want to spend my life in a classroom.”
“How about being our guest for dinner?” Jack asked.
“You folks don’t need me along.”
“It would be a real treat for us. You can tell us about Savannah, and you and Marion can swap pirate stories.”
“You’ve talked me into it. Let me go by my place and change.”
“That’s great. Marion and I will have a few oysters at a raw bar and then meet you in front of the Pirate’s House at seven o’clock.”
They were waiting in the parking lot when Bart Roberts drove up. The Pirate’s House is a rambling old frame building on East Broad Street, not far from the waterfront, and was once an inn for Savannah seamen. Its shutters are painted blue, a custom along the coast of South Carolina and Georgia. The color blue is believed to be a protection against evil spirits.
“Well, Marion, you and Bart are entering the old haunts of your ancestors,” joked Jack as the trio walked up the wooden steps of the porch.
“This part of the city was like the Barbary Coast in Africa,” said Bart, after they had ordered. “It was an area where men were drugged and shanghaied; and when they awoke, they found themselves on a vessel out at sea. Not far from this house, the Savannah River forms a half moon, and yet it’s still fairly deep. Ships that drew twelve feet of water could ride within ten yards of the bank. My grandfather said that pirates who came here were on the lookout for men and boys to kidnap. They would take them out through an underground passage to the river and load them, unconscious, into a small boat to take them to the ships lying in wait a few yards offshore.
“As time goes, it hasn’t been so long since Savannah swarmed with sailors night and day. They were of all nationalities. Many were pirates who swaggered along the streets sporting cutlasses, swords, or a brace of pistols. The LaFitte brothers made Savannah their headquarters for a while, and Jean LaFitte married a local girl named Mary Morton.”
“Tell me more about the underground passage,” said Marion.
“It’s here, just as it’s always been. But let’s eat our meal while it’s hot.”
They were almost through when Marion said to her husband, “Jack, where are all those loud, rough voices coming from?”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“It sounds as if some coarse, crude fellow is shouting.”
“Do you mean that party at the table over there? They’re just having a good time. Don’t let it upset you.”
“I’m not talking about them,” Marion said impatiently. “Jack, don’t you hear that man’s horrible, loud voice calling out?”
“No, I don’t.”
Bart laid his hand soothingly on Marion’s arm. “I’m not sure I hear what you do, but I do hear an undertone of voices at times.”
“Of course, anyone can hear that.”
“Marion, tell me what words you hear.”
“I’m not sure I can do that, but let’s all be quiet for a few minutes, and I’ll try.” For a little while they were silent, and then Marion’s face clouded. “I hear it again.”
“What do you hear?”
Her face turned white, and she shook her head. “Bart, do you know where the opening is to the underground tunnel?”
“Yes.”
“Jack, do you mind waiting here alone for the check? I want to see that passage.”
“Go ahead.”
Marion followed Bart out of their dining room into another and still another, until they came to a small storage area.
“It’s back here,” he said, pushing some furniture to one side. There, in front of them, was a hole in the floor. It was the mouth
