By J.R. Lindermuth
Read by Shawn Robertson
He said, “You don’t believe Blackbeard buried any treasure? Well, he did. Yes sir, he truly did. And I’m the only one knows where it is.”
Ignoring Tommy, I gazed off at the blue-gray horizon watching the wheeling, screaming gulls, listening to the waves lap against the jetty, a contrapuntal echo of Tommy’s lazy drawl. I should have known better. Blackbeard and his treasure are subjects to avoid with old-timers here on the Banks; they all have their stories, each an imaginative embroidery on a subject of which no man can know the truth and each insists he does—appropriate magical mysteries with which to while away the hours on cold, wet winter days before a fireplace, fortified with whiskey, lethargy and time. But not on hot summer afternoons devoted to fishing.
“It’s true,” Tommy insisted, and I felt his gaze stabbing at my back, demanding attention.
I did my best to ignore him, lighting my pipe and keeping my eyes fixed on the horizon. It didn’t work.
“Everybody has his story. Some says he buried it over on Ocracoke, others that he hid it down on Sapelo, or up at Elizabeth City. Some even say he carried it way up the coast to New Hampshire. Fools! None of ‘em knows.”
Irritated, I faced him. The fish weren’t biting anyway. “And you do?”
“Eh-yeh.” He gave a dry little laugh, heh-heh. “I knows.”