Camino Ghosts

At any rate, there were plenty of people from “up north” who missed their favorite newspapers. Years earlier he began handling the Sunday editions of the Times, Post, Enquirer, Tribune, Baltimore Sun, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and Boston Globe. Along with the newspapers, he sold legendary hot buttered biscuits from a restaurant around the corner, on Sundays only, and by 9:30 the café upstairs and the reading area downstairs were packed with Yankees reading news from home. It had become a ritual of sorts and many of the regulars never missed a Sunday morning at the bookstore. Though women were certainly welcome — Bruce had long since learned that most books were bought by women — the Sunday morning crowd was all male, and the politics and sports talk often became rowdy. Smoking was allowed on the outdoor terrace and a layer of rich cigar smoke usually hung over Main Street.

Mercer and Thomas arrived late in the morning, now legally married, remarkably clear-eyed and dressed for their trip. Bruce invited them into his downstairs office, his First Editions Room, where he displayed some of his finest rare books. He poured coffee and they chatted about the night before. The newlyweds were ready to go, though, with a long adventure ahead of them.

Mercer smiled and said, “You mentioned the greatest story of all time.”

“Yes I did. I’ll be brief. It’s a true story but can also be fictionalized. You’ve heard of Dark Isle, just north of here.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“It’s deserted, right?” Thomas asked.

“Probably, yes, but there is some doubt. It’s one of two smaller barrier islands between Florida and Georgia and it has never been developed. It’s about three miles long and a mile wide, with pristine beaches.”

Mercer was nodding and said, “Oh yeah, now I remember. Tessa talked about it years ago. Isn’t it supposed to be haunted or something?”

“Or something. Centuries ago, sometime around 1750, it became a haven for runaway slaves from Georgia, which, then ruled by the British, allowed slavery. Florida was under the Spanish flag and though slavery was not against the law, runaways were granted sanctuary. There was a long-running feud between the two countries about what to do with the slaves who escaped to Florida. Georgia wanted them back. The Spanish wanted to protect them just to irritate the British and their American colonies. Around 1760, a slave ship returning from West Africa was preparing to land in Savannah when a fierce storm from the north, what we call a nor’easter today, spun it around, shoved it south, and badly disabled it. It was a ship from Virginia called Venus, and it had around four hundred slaves on board, packed like sardines. Well, it left Africa with four hundred, but not all made it. Many died at sea. The conditions on board were unimaginable, to say the least. Anyway, the Venus finally went down about a mile out to sea near Cumberland Island. Since the slaves were chained and shackled, almost all of them drowned. A few clung to the wreckage and washed ashore in the storm on Dark Island, as it became known. Or Dark Isle. It was unnamed in 1760. They were taken in by the runaways from Georgia, and together they built a little community. Two hundred years went by, everybody died or moved away, and now it’s deserted.”

Bruce took a sip of coffee and waited for a response.

Mercer said, “Nice, but I don’t write history.”

Thomas asked, “Where’s the hook? Any sign of a plot?”

Bruce smiled and picked up a plain, thin book the size of a trade paperback. He showed them the title: The Dark History of Dark Isle. By Lovely Jackson.

Neither reached to take the book, which didn’t bother Bruce. He said, “This is a self-published book that sold maybe thirty copies. It was written by the last living heir to Dark Isle, or that’s her claim anyway. Lovely Jackson lives here on Camino, down near the old canneries in a neighborhood called The Docks.”

“I know where it is,” Mercer said.

“She claims she was born on Dark Isle in 1940 and left there with her mother when she was fifteen years old.”

“How do you know her?” Mercer asked.

“She first came in a few years back with a bag full of these books and wanted to do a big signing. As you’ve heard me complain, the self-published crowd can drive a bookseller crazy. Very pushy, very demanding. I try to avoid them but I really liked Lovely and her story is fascinating. I was quite taken with her. We had a signing. I leaned on our friends, most of whom will do almost anything for a free glass of wine, and we had a nice party. Lovely was forever grateful.”

“I’m still waiting for a plot,” Thomas said, rather dryly.