I stroll through Virginia’s past following the route of a Kikotan Indian trail the colonials called Queen’s Way.
I pause at the corner of King, linger by the old brick church, a British cannonball lodged in its wall. The church, fenced in black spears of wrought iron, is located between the county courthouse and the newly restored Red Crown Tavern.
I am drawn to the weathered tombstones, the obelisks towering above the fence flanked by tiny flags and the cluster of granite stumps, a few bearing born and died dates from the eighteenth century.
I read on the plaque, bolted to the cruciform chapel beneath a stained glass window, that General Washington worshiped here while in pursuit of Redcoats from Chesapeake Bay to Yorktown.
I spot an ancient tree, its fork having grown around the handle of a spade discarded in haste perhaps by a midnight robber of graves frightened by the hollow clop of hooves on the cobbled street, fleeing to his stolen horse tied to the tavern post.
I see him gallop into darkness, pull a flask from the saddle bag, swallow a belly full of cheap brandy, throw the flask into the bramble paralleling the Kikotan trail, loosen the reins on his charger, bounce blindly past a row of dilapidated shanties, sing out to any who will listen, “Take pity this night on black George Bunker.”
Overriding the chorus of crickets, the haunting whispers of willow shadows, and the muted slap of Sunset Creek washing the nearby shore, I hear the clop clop of his pursuer.
Black George glances back in terror, his vision blurred by brandy, makes out a headless horseman swinging his severed head on a stake, the evil on his bearded face illuminated by the glow of candles that ring the brim of his hat like miniature torches, left hand thrusting a long sword.
“O take pity,” sounds the cry. “Tis the pirate Blackbeard hisself closing this night on ol’ black George,” hooves throbbing in his head, brandied bile in his throat.
He tumbles from his horse, body paralyzed in pain, his back cut deep by the slaver’s lash, looks up at the phantom head, its beard tied in braids with ribbons, crooked teeth flashing flames.
He watches the pirate dismount, eyes a brace of pistols below the scarlet sash, remains immobile as bent legs straddle his torn body. He waits for the sword to nail him to the road.
“Stand up you rogue,” growls the voice behind the beard. “Jump to your saddle, back to the graveyard we go. This night by Satan’s command you dig, unearth the treasured coins buried these many years, since that diabolical Spirit of the Sea wrecked Blackbeard’s sloop on the banks of the Chesapeake.”
In tandem they ride with the wind, retracing the trail to the church. There black George takes his spade and digs by the flickering light of Blackbeard’s hat, shoveling his way half way to Hell until at last he reaches the rotted lid of a wooden chest.
The pirate waves his suspended head, a demonic grin on his hairy face, as George Bunker shoves and heaves, strains his shoulders, and grapples to lift the chest from its grave, dripping molten wax of an underworld spell.
With an impatient jerk, George Bunker tears away the rusted lock, pries open the heavy lid. He feels Blackbeard’s grasp on his neck.
“Leave it be,” the pirate says, “the coins are cursed. They'll bring you nothing but misfortune.”
The black man shrugs, his wasted life a misfortune, gropes inside the chest. He sifts the yellow coins through his fingers, singing all the while, “George Bunker free this night to buy his soul from Hell.”
When he turns, the candlelight and the damnable benefactor are gone. Retreating hoof beats are dissolving in the clammy night.
I observe George Bunker rub his sodden head, fill the saddle bag with treasure, leave the spade in the fork of a tree, pull from his pocket a runaway poster ripped from the auction block, smile at his black face, and ride off to claim his freedom with satanic gold.
End
