Powder Monkey of Cape Fear

"Powder Monkey of Cape Fear" won second place in the Lower Cape Fear Historical Society Annual Short Story Contest in 2005. You can find this story and others in the collection, "Encounter in a Small Cafe" by Jon Batson.

Episode 3

“Slip away? Did he take the treasure?”

“No time. Bonnet was making preparations to leave for Bath with some of his crew, Blackbeard was trying to look nonchalant while making preparations to sail off, cheating Bonnet out of a great deal of plunder. It was a window of opportunity for a random small-fry to get misplaced. Bonnet would think he was with Blackbeard and visa-versa.”

“Where’d he go?”

“He slipped overboard, between the devil and the deep blue sea, so to speak, and onto the mainland. The area got rather hot for pirates after that and he did what many sailors did.”

“What was that?”

“He picked up an oar and began to walk inland, determined to keep the water to his back and to walk until someone asked, ‘What’s that you got there?’ – then he would choose that place to live. In his case it wasn’t too far before he met his Sarah, settled down, and started a family. He never went back for the treasure.”

My jaw went slack and my eyes were like pie-pans. I could see Grampa was amused by my surprise.

“Who got the treasure?” I demanded.

“Stede Bonnet sailed to the Virgin Islands having changed his name to Edwards and renaming his sloop the Royal James. He returned to Cape Fear in September of 1718 where he met his end. His crew was hanged in November 1718 and Captain Bonnet followed on December 10.”

“All but Thomas Donny…”

“Yes, all but Powder Monkey Thomas Donny. He changed his name to Donnally, married Sarah Ann Baker; and raised a family in the Smokey Mountains.”

“So what became of the treasure?” I screeched.

“The map’s still among his personals,” Grampa said calmly, pulling out another pipe from the circular holder on the side table.

Blood rushed to my face, then drained from my head; leaving me dizzy. I steadied myself on the counter. The possibilities overwhelmed me.

“Where?”

“In the bedroom…” He pointed with his pipe into the darkened room.

I turned, moving too quickly for the small house, reaching the bedroom sooner than I anticipated. My foot hit something hard and I fell forward onto the hardwood floor.

“…soon as you go in. Young people today, always in a rush.” Grampa got up, walked to the fridge. “You want a beer now?”

I rolled over, trying to see where I’d tripped up, as it were. It was a suitcase, not what I expected at all, a brown leather suitcase with metal snaps. It was worn and old, but not three hundred years old.

“This doesn’t look like a pirate chest.”

“What do you think a pirate chest looks like? Ever seen one?”

I sat up and turned the suitcase around. ‘TAD’ it said on the engraved plate.

“T.A.D. – what’s that?”

“Theodore Andrew Donnallson, my father. That’s what he handed it to me in. The parcel has changed hands a few times. During the Revolution, Able Christian Donnelly put it in a courier sack and buried it under the church. In the Great War, the churchyard was expanded to bury returning soldiers, so Thomas Wilfred Donnellton moved the courier sack into a tobacco box and put it in the attic. The family name changed through a mistake in voter registration during Prohibition and he just let it go like that. My father put it in that suitcase and now I give it to you.”

My palms were sweating and I was short of breath. I looked up imploring.

“What do I do?”

“If I were you, I’d put it in a nylon knapsack and give it to your son.”

I stared at the suitcase, not daring to imagine its contents. Could this be a map of Treasure Island, with pirates and swag and doubloons and all?

“Shouldn’t we go get it?” I sat on the floor barely touching the suitcase, not yet daring to reach for the metal snaps.

“Thomas didn’t. Nor did his son, or his, nor any of the Donnys, Donnellys, Donnelltons, or Donnallsons since. I’ve gotten along just fine without it. Why spoil a good thing?”

I couldn’t believe my ears! Here was a possible fortune within his grasp and this old man did nothing. I looked at him in wonder, motionless.

“You’re gonna hatch that thing if you sit on it like that!”

“I just, I never, I mean, I don’t know... I never had a treasure map before.”

“Might not be a map, might be directions in old 1700’s English, all with extra “e’s” on the end and so on. Might be just a diary, I don’t know. I never really opened it up.”

“What! Never opened it! How could you know this story and never open it up? I’ve known about it for less than an hour and it’s burning a hole through me!”

“I guess I just never considered it important enough to go and see,” said Grampa calmly. “Your father never cared for family legends, so I thought I’d let you be the keeper of the family secret. But if you’re not up to it…” he leaned forward.

“No! I mean, I’m fine. I’ll keep it. I’m OK. It’s good.” I tried to sound convincing but I had a death grip on the suitcase.

“Have it your way.” Grampa lit up the pipe. “But I’ve found that the best security is the knowledge that no matter what happens, you can handle it. The only one you can really count on is you. You can trust in your family and hope your friends will be there, but you can only speak for yourself.

“Maybe there’s treasure, maybe not. Maybe someone’s already turned the ground and some modern-day Ben Gunn has spent it. Or it might be sittin’ there waiting for the next Thomas Wilfred in line.”

I sat transfixed as the possibilities were handed to me one at a time.

“If it’s a thousand dollars, you’ll spend it in a couple of months and the family treasure will be a memory. If it’s a hundred thousand it’ll get noticed and there’ll be a line of people insisting it’s really theirs and another line wanting their slice. Or have you forgotten the IRS?”

The furrowed eyebrows danced up and down, as if delivering a message of their own.

“or…” he puffed the pipe and the swirl of white smoke enveloped his head. “you could put it in a vault of its own, in the ground, in the attic, in a safety-deposit box, and one of these fine days you can hand it off to your son, or if he doesn’t want it…” Grampa cast a glance at the stern picture of my father on the wall beside him, “than to your grandson.”

My jaw closed and I gulped hard.

“Imagine, handing that to your grandson and saying, ‘You know what’s in here, boy? Pirate treasure!’ Can you imagine the look on his face?”

“That would be something!” I had to admit.

“Yup! That’s be worth… well, it’d be worth a chest full of gold.”

“Yes, it would.” I agreed.

I put the suitcase aside. There would be time to move the contents to another container and place it in a safe place. Grampa looked at me with contented eyes and a warm smile. He had chosen well, he’d passed on the family legacy and the Donnalson secret had a new protector.

“Now,” said Grampa, “how about that beer?”


The End

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