I startled at the name. “You’ve heard of Jeremiah?” Mrs. Morrissey asked, delighted.
“Actually, he’s associated with the story I came to talk to you about,” I said, intrigued against my better instincts. I leaned closer, careful not to make contact.
“That’s why having his items is such a coup for the museum,” she replied. “He’s such a colorful character, I think this might put him on the map of memorable historical bad guys. Maybe even get Hollywood’s attention.” She pointed to a large oil painting on the far wall. “We’ve even got his portrait.”
I followed her gaze. The man in the portrait had been painted in his best suit, a style nearly a hundred and fifty years old. He had an arrogant tilt to his jaw, thin, merciless lips, and cold gray eyes.
“We think we may have an item that was associated with him,” I said. “Can you tell me more?”
“Jeremiah Abernathy was a corrupt judge who ran a whiskey and gambling empire in Charleston’s wild days,” Mrs. Morrissey said. “Rumor has it, he was the illegitimate son of one of the rice planters and a Creole slave, but if that’s true, Abernathy never claimed his Creole heritage. He was known – and feared – for his ruthlessness. He hanged a lot of pirates, some of whom might have been business competitors.”
I peered into the case. A gold coin lay in the spotlight. Next to it was a worn ebony cane with an elaborate silver handle and a lead tip, much like the one Sorren had lent me from Alard.
“Jeremiah Abernathy didn’t like people who refused to pay their debts. He had the protection of powerful people in the city, and he operated with impunity by his own rules, which were enforced by his private squad of strong-arm men,” Mrs. Morrissey said with more relish than I thought a woman of her standing really should be according an old-time criminal.
“When someone tried to cheat him, Abernathy would have them brought before him in his private ‘court’,” she recounted. “Usually, if stories are to be believed, the offender had already been worked over by Abernathy’s men, so the real question was, would they die easy or die hard?”
My eyes widened, more at her choice of words than at the concept. Mrs. Morrissey went on enthusiastically. “Abernathy would take his cane and thump it hard on the floor three times to convene his ‘court’. He would make his accusation, and allow the panicked victim to plead and bargain for his life.” She raised her eyebrows.
“Very few men who were brought to Abernathy had any leverage to bargain for mercy. By the time they got low enough to renege on a debt to him, they had already squandered their fortunes,” she added. “He would thump that cane of his again to indicate that he was about to give out his sentence.”
Her voice had dropped, and I found myself leaning in, hanging on every word. “And?”
Mrs. Morrissey grinned. “He would take his coin, which he claimed the King of Spain gave him, and he would toss it three times. Heads, the victim died. Tails, the victim lived. Best two out of three determined the poor wretch’s fate.”
I stepped back from the case. My imagination could supply what it must have been like to kneel before Abernathy’s court, life hanging in the balance as the coin flipped and landed. I didn’t need my gift kicking in to confirm those images. “What happened to him?” I asked, sounding a little breathless.
“Times changed, and some of Abernathy’s protectors fell from power. The government began to look into some of Abernathy’s business deals. It all ended in a blaze of gunfire when federal agents raided Abernathy’s stronghold. One wing of his mansion exploded with all the illegal whiskey. Abernathy burned alive, thumping his cane, and swearing that he would return to get vengeance on those who crossed him.”
I shivered. “That’s some story,” I said, looking askance at the glass case. I was growing more uncomfortable by the moment the longer we stayed in the exhibit room, and my intuition was telling me to get out now. I made a show of glancing at my watch. “Oops – we’d better get up to the stacks before I need to go back to the shop.”
“Well, at least you got a taste of the exhibit. Be sure to tell your friends.” Mrs. Morrissey touched the panels at the door. The music box fell silent and the spotlights went dark, but I couldn’t keep from glancing over my shoulder to make sure nothing was following us.
On the mansion’s fourth floor was a huge ballroom that once hosted fetes that attracted a who’s-who for South Carolina and the entire Southeast. Now, the ballroom was home to the ‘stacks’, rows of dark wooden bookshelves that housed the majority of the Archive’s books. Between the shelves were large library tables for reading, along with computer terminals for online research. “Now, dear, what is it you wanted to know?” she asked.
“There’s a rumor that Jeremiah Abernathy hired pirates to bring something back for him from Barbados aboard a ship called the Cristobal,” I said. “The Cristobal sank off the Carolina coast.” I gave her my most innocent, winning smile. “I’m trying to find out what might be known about that incident.”
“Ohh,” Mrs. Morrissey said, her eyes shining. “What do you have of his?”
A demon, I thought. “We might have a letter related to the Cristobal situation, but we’re not sure yet whether it’s genuine.” I hated to lie, but I was certain she really didn’t want to know the truth.
“Let’s see,” she said. She hummed as she selected large, cloth-bound books off the shelves and set them on one of the big reading tables. “Computer searches are easier on my back,” she said. “But some of these old books haven’t been digitized yet.”
She looked up. “You also mentioned the Navy yard. Was it something related to Abernathy?”
I shrugged, palms up. “I’m not entirely sure. Did Abernathy have any connection to that area?”
“If you want, Cassidy dear, go ahead and get the computer working on loading the ‘real estate’ records page on the Archive site,” she said, with a wave of her hand toward the terminal I got to work as Mrs. Morrissey began to flip through the huge old books. A glimpse told me they were maps and surveys of the greater Charleston area, and from the yellowed paper, I was guessing the most recent volumes were from the 1800s.
“All right,” she said finally, dusting her hands together. “Let’s see what’s in the records.” She motioned for me to join her at the reading table.
“This is a reprint of some of the earliest maps of the area, and they show who laid claim to which pieces of property,” she said. “That land where the old Navy yard is has seen more than its share of trouble over the years. The location made it a good sheltered port, and the pirates were quick to take advantage of it, all the way back to old John Rouge – Red-eye John.”
I leaned over, scanning the page. A black-and-white sketch of a hanging caught my eye. “I gather something went wrong?”
“Eventually, the deal he had with authorities fell apart, and in 1715, the Royal Navy attacked Red-eye John’s haven, killings most of the pirates and burning their homes, saloons, brothels, and ships. Red-eye John was captured and hanged.” She gave an impish grin. “The stories said he cast a curse on the city, and that his spirit called out to Blackbeard for revenge. Blackbeard laid siege to Charleston a few years later.”
I peered at the book and the map. “Does anyone know where, exactly, Red-eye was hanged?”
Mrs. Morrissey pointed to a spot on the map. “Right about here, according to legend.” It was within the bounds of the old Navy yard, but I’d have to look more closely to see if it matched any of the old buildings we’d scouted. I laid a pencil with its point next to the spot on the map and took a photo with my phone for Teag to examine later.