scattered in a storm. One galleon, commanded by a Captain Diego Ramirez, was driven upon the coast of Bermuda. Unlike innumerable other seamen who have met their end in this old death-trap of sailing vessels, and whose ships litter the bottom of the sea, Ramirez managed to avoid the worst of Bermuda’s treacherous surge-swept reefs. After three weeks, his men had managed to repair the ship and they sailed away. Before he left, however, he erected a large cross, made from the wonderfully resistant local cedar wood. Supposedly, on it was carved directions for locating drinking water, and the cross lasted so long that this area is still remembered as Spanish Point.”
The reticent skipper suddenly intervened. “Wasn’t water,” he said enigmatically.
My brother frowned. “What’s that, my good man?”
Captain Smith shook his head. “Those directions. They weren’t to water. They were to the gold that they had to leave behind.”
My brother tried to hide his grin. “If the Spanish had to leave treasure behind, why did they never return to claim it?”
“Mayhaps they did. Mayhaps Guv’nor Moore drove them away,” the man replied peevishly.
My brother looked as if he were about to challenge the point, when his attention was distracted by another matter. He stopped for a moment and gazed out at our track upon the sea. He leaned back and called up to Mr. Smith. “Where to, skipper?”
“Ah, I’m sorry Captain Henry. I forgot to tell ye. We’ve got to make a Two Rock Passage. I previously made an arrangement to pick up a gentleman at the Hamilton docks who wishes to go to St. George’s.”
My brother frowned at this piece of information. “Need I remind you, Mr. Smith, that we are not going to St. George’s? We’re headed to the Fort.”
“Aye, Captain. But to get to St. George’s from the Fort, all a man needs do is nip around the end of the isle. And Bob’s your uncle.”
“And what of the time that this side-trip will cost us? I don’t suppose that you were planning to give us a partial refund on our fare.”
The man did not appear enthused by this suggestion. “What did you have in mind, Captain?”
“Perhaps your passenger and I should split the fare?”
Smith made a long face. “If that, I would have only taken you.”
“My point exactly, Mr. Smith, my point exactly,” Henry replied.
The skipper shook his head grudgingly. “I’ll tell you what, Captain. We’ll take a third from the fare for each of you.”
My brother stared at him for a moment, before finally signaling his agreement. Henry then turned his attention back to me. “If you sail between Ireland Island and Spanish Point, as we are doing, you will enter the gap of the fishhook, or what is known as the Great Sound. And tucked into a little corner of the Sound is the harbor belonging to the new capital town of Hamilton. Before we reach there, however, if you turn your gaze over those small islands dotting the Sound, you can see, high on that hill, a white conical structure known as Gibbs Hill Lighthouse. It stands on one of the tallest points of the island, and it is the world’s first cast iron lighthouse, built back in 1846.”
My brother’s narration trailed off as we sailed into Hamilton Harbor proper. Like the area surrounding Dockyard, the waters were thick with ships. However, rather than the Royal Navy vessels that I had witnessed there, we were now surrounded by a plethora of civilian ships of all shapes and sizes. A full-sailed merchant-man was being guided by a tiny pilot boat, presumably to avoid Bermuda’s hazardous reefs. Of the ships at anchor, many of the appellations were impossible to make out, but I clearly counted the brig Hotspur , its home port listed as Sydney, Australia. There was one old-fashioned, heavy-bowed broad-beamed craft that I judged to be about five hundred tons, and I suspected that she had once been employed in
The reticent skipper suddenly intervened. “Wasn’t water,” he said enigmatically.
My brother frowned. “What’s that, my good man?”
Captain Smith shook his head. “Those directions. They weren’t to water. They were to the gold that they had to leave behind.”
My brother tried to hide his grin. “If the Spanish had to leave treasure behind, why did they never return to claim it?”
“Mayhaps they did. Mayhaps Guv’nor Moore drove them away,” the man replied peevishly.
My brother looked as if he were about to challenge the point, when his attention was distracted by another matter. He stopped for a moment and gazed out at our track upon the sea. He leaned back and called up to Mr. Smith. “Where to, skipper?”
“Ah, I’m sorry Captain Henry. I forgot to tell ye. We’ve got to make a Two Rock Passage. I previously made an arrangement to pick up a gentleman at the Hamilton docks who wishes to go to St. George’s.”
My brother frowned at this piece of information. “Need I remind you, Mr. Smith, that we are not going to St. George’s? We’re headed to the Fort.”
“Aye, Captain. But to get to St. George’s from the Fort, all a man needs do is nip around the end of the isle. And Bob’s your uncle.”
“And what of the time that this side-trip will cost us? I don’t suppose that you were planning to give us a partial refund on our fare.”
The man did not appear enthused by this suggestion. “What did you have in mind, Captain?”
“Perhaps your passenger and I should split the fare?”
Smith made a long face. “If that, I would have only taken you.”
“My point exactly, Mr. Smith, my point exactly,” Henry replied.
The skipper shook his head grudgingly. “I’ll tell you what, Captain. We’ll take a third from the fare for each of you.”
My brother stared at him for a moment, before finally signaling his agreement. Henry then turned his attention back to me. “If you sail between Ireland Island and Spanish Point, as we are doing, you will enter the gap of the fishhook, or what is known as the Great Sound. And tucked into a little corner of the Sound is the harbor belonging to the new capital town of Hamilton. Before we reach there, however, if you turn your gaze over those small islands dotting the Sound, you can see, high on that hill, a white conical structure known as Gibbs Hill Lighthouse. It stands on one of the tallest points of the island, and it is the world’s first cast iron lighthouse, built back in 1846.”
My brother’s narration trailed off as we sailed into Hamilton Harbor proper. Like the area surrounding Dockyard, the waters were thick with ships. However, rather than the Royal Navy vessels that I had witnessed there, we were now surrounded by a plethora of civilian ships of all shapes and sizes. A full-sailed merchant-man was being guided by a tiny pilot boat, presumably to avoid Bermuda’s hazardous reefs. Of the ships at anchor, many of the appellations were impossible to make out, but I clearly counted the brig Hotspur , its home port listed as Sydney, Australia. There was one old-fashioned, heavy-bowed broad-beamed craft that I judged to be about five hundred tons, and I suspected that she had once been employed in
Similar Books
