Dudes with elephant guns and funny hats.” He waved a hand. “It’s a myth.”
“Fine. Prove it. Help me research. Show me how foolish I’m being.”
Groans. Head shakes. The idea wasn’t a crowd pleaser.
“You’ve got better things to do?” I wheedled.
“I don’t,” Hi admitted. “I’m in.”
Ben rolled his eyes.
“Damn it, Hi.” Shelton sighed. “Now we’re all doomed.”
“Hey, pirates are awesome.” Hi shrugged. “I don’t mind reading up on them. I thirst for knowledge.”
“There’s an old Sewee legend about Bonny’s treasure,” Ben said.
“ All Sewee legends are old,” Hi quipped.
Ben crooked two fingers, daring him to say more. Hi wisely refused the bait.
“Supposedly,” Ben continued, “Bonny stashed her loot around the time my ancestors were forced into the Catawba tribe. I’ve only heard a little of the story.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Tell us.”
“I don’t know it by heart. Something about the devil and red fire. I could ask my great uncle.”
“Please do,” I said. “You never know what might help.”
“I can do you one better,” Shelton said. “I read there’s a map.”
“A treasure map!” Hi rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re talking. This’ll be easier than a trip to the ATM.”
“So where is it?” I asked.
Two googles later, we had the answer.
CHAPTER 12
F oregoing our usual route, Ben motored Sewee up the east side of the peninsula to the docks beside the South Carolina Aquarium. Charleston University reserves a slip there for the use of LIRI’s staff. It was empty, so we helped ourselves.
No, we didn’t have permission. But it was late afternoon, crazy hot, and docking there made for a much shorter walk. It’s not like CU had an armada of boats. The time saved was worth the slight risk.
We walked through the garden district, one of Charleston’s most picturesque neighborhoods. The street-corner parks were a riot of camellias, azaleas, and crepe myrtles. Ancient magnolias shaded the sidewalks, tempering the worst of the day’s heat.
On Charlotte Street we passed the famous Joseph Aiken Mansion, a nineteenth-century carriage house converted to an upscale tourist hotel. At Marion Square we took a right and reached our destination in a few short blocks.
“There,” I said. “The ugly one.”
Founded in 1773, the Charleston Museum was America’s first. Located on Meeting Street, it anchors the northern end of Museum Mile, a historic district of parks, churches, museums, notable homes, the old market, and City Hall.
“Not much to look at,” Ben commented at the museum’s front entrance.
Ben was right. The two-story edifice is not Charleston’s finest architectural moment. Bland, late-seventies drab, where dull brick meets plain brown paint. The place looks more public high school than historic landmark.
“The exhibits are pretty good,” Shelton said. “I went with my mom. Lots of natural history displays and Lowcountry stuff.”
“Check that out.” Hi pointed.
Just before the doors, an enormous iron tube gleamed in the sunlight. Thirty feet long and coal-black, the cylinder was covered in huge metal rivets. Two hatches protruded from its top. A thick wooden shaft jutted from its front end with a metal ball affixed to its tip.
A red-faced man in an aloha shirt motioned his wife into position beside the monstrosity and began snapping pictures. We approached after they’d completed their Kodak moment.
“What is that?” I asked.
“A replica of the H. L. Hunley .” Of course Shelton would know. “A Confederate submarine from the Civil War.”
“Men got inside that thing? Underwater? In the 1860s?” Hi shivered. “No thanks, pal. I’ll pass.”
“Good call, since the sub didn’t work out,” Ben said. “They found the real Hunley in 1995.”
“Where?”
“At the bottom of the harbor. Crew still inside.”
“But Hunley got her target.” Shelton read the sign next to the replica. “First
“Fine. Prove it. Help me research. Show me how foolish I’m being.”
Groans. Head shakes. The idea wasn’t a crowd pleaser.
“You’ve got better things to do?” I wheedled.
“I don’t,” Hi admitted. “I’m in.”
Ben rolled his eyes.
“Damn it, Hi.” Shelton sighed. “Now we’re all doomed.”
“Hey, pirates are awesome.” Hi shrugged. “I don’t mind reading up on them. I thirst for knowledge.”
“There’s an old Sewee legend about Bonny’s treasure,” Ben said.
“ All Sewee legends are old,” Hi quipped.
Ben crooked two fingers, daring him to say more. Hi wisely refused the bait.
“Supposedly,” Ben continued, “Bonny stashed her loot around the time my ancestors were forced into the Catawba tribe. I’ve only heard a little of the story.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Tell us.”
“I don’t know it by heart. Something about the devil and red fire. I could ask my great uncle.”
“Please do,” I said. “You never know what might help.”
“I can do you one better,” Shelton said. “I read there’s a map.”
“A treasure map!” Hi rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re talking. This’ll be easier than a trip to the ATM.”
“So where is it?” I asked.
Two googles later, we had the answer.
CHAPTER 12
F oregoing our usual route, Ben motored Sewee up the east side of the peninsula to the docks beside the South Carolina Aquarium. Charleston University reserves a slip there for the use of LIRI’s staff. It was empty, so we helped ourselves.
No, we didn’t have permission. But it was late afternoon, crazy hot, and docking there made for a much shorter walk. It’s not like CU had an armada of boats. The time saved was worth the slight risk.
We walked through the garden district, one of Charleston’s most picturesque neighborhoods. The street-corner parks were a riot of camellias, azaleas, and crepe myrtles. Ancient magnolias shaded the sidewalks, tempering the worst of the day’s heat.
On Charlotte Street we passed the famous Joseph Aiken Mansion, a nineteenth-century carriage house converted to an upscale tourist hotel. At Marion Square we took a right and reached our destination in a few short blocks.
“There,” I said. “The ugly one.”
Founded in 1773, the Charleston Museum was America’s first. Located on Meeting Street, it anchors the northern end of Museum Mile, a historic district of parks, churches, museums, notable homes, the old market, and City Hall.
“Not much to look at,” Ben commented at the museum’s front entrance.
Ben was right. The two-story edifice is not Charleston’s finest architectural moment. Bland, late-seventies drab, where dull brick meets plain brown paint. The place looks more public high school than historic landmark.
“The exhibits are pretty good,” Shelton said. “I went with my mom. Lots of natural history displays and Lowcountry stuff.”
“Check that out.” Hi pointed.
Just before the doors, an enormous iron tube gleamed in the sunlight. Thirty feet long and coal-black, the cylinder was covered in huge metal rivets. Two hatches protruded from its top. A thick wooden shaft jutted from its front end with a metal ball affixed to its tip.
A red-faced man in an aloha shirt motioned his wife into position beside the monstrosity and began snapping pictures. We approached after they’d completed their Kodak moment.
“What is that?” I asked.
“A replica of the H. L. Hunley .” Of course Shelton would know. “A Confederate submarine from the Civil War.”
“Men got inside that thing? Underwater? In the 1860s?” Hi shivered. “No thanks, pal. I’ll pass.”
“Good call, since the sub didn’t work out,” Ben said. “They found the real Hunley in 1995.”
“Where?”
“At the bottom of the harbor. Crew still inside.”
“But Hunley got her target.” Shelton read the sign next to the replica. “First
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