by Eva Gates
“No pushing or shoving, everyone,” Bertie said. “As Charlene is the expert on historical documents, we’ll let her handle the book.”
Bertie unlocked the cabinet. Charlene slipped white gloves on and slowly, carefully got Mrs. Crawbingham’s diary and laid it out.
Charles leapt onto the table. Charlene shrieked. I scooped him up and tapped his little nose. “Not for you.” I put him outside and shut the door against his protests.
Charlene turned the pages slowly and carefully. My heart pounded with excitement.
August 5, 1859: Wind is high.
We let out a collective sigh of disappointment. I felt my entire body deflate.
“I was hoping for something more meaningful,” Bertie said.
“It was a windy day?” Holly said. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Butch said, “that it was a windy day.”
“Try the other date,” Bertie said, and Charlene turned the pages.
Sept 3, 1860. Rain is heavy at 2:08.
“It’s raining?” Watson said. “I have to confess I was expecting something more dramatic than that.”
“I hoped …” Bertie said.
“I guess we’ll never know,” Connor said. “Some secrets are meant to be hidden after all.”
“The wind is high,” Charlene said.
I rolled the words around in my mouth. And then I had it. No!” I said. “Not the wind. But wind. Wind is high: w is h.”
“Yes!” Charlene shouted. “That’s got to be it.”
“Be what?” Butch said.
I grabbed a piece of paper out of the printer next to the desk. I wrote so quickly my hands shook.
w = h
x = i
y = j
“It is a substitution code!” Charlene shouted. “And we have it. Give me a piece of paper, Lucy.” I handed her one.
We both started writing as fast as we could.
“Oh my gosh,” Connor said as proper English words and sentences began to form on the page. “It actually works.”
Some of the words were incomplete, missing vowels or double consonants, words ran together, or were broken in random places. But essentially, this is what we wrote:
My beloved Aunt Petal’s youngest son died when he was swept away in a flash flood. A year later she was widowed when a sudden storm brought down a tree on the plantation where we lived and killed her husband. She became obsessed after that day with recording the weather. Even after war broke out and we escaped and headed north, she continued her strange habit.
We started at a tap on the door. It opened, and Ronald’s curly gray head popped around the corner. Charles took advantage of the opportunity to sneak between his legs. “What on earth is going on? What are all you people doing here? It’s past opening time. Are we opening today, Bertie?”
“We’ve found the key,” Bertie said.
“The key to the code? Really? That’s great.”
“Really. Go ahead and open. Will you mind the desk, please? I’ll let you know what we’ve found as soon as I can.”
Once again I grabbed Charles and shoved him at Ronald. “And can you feed this ravenous beast, please?”
Ronald took the cat. “Sure.” His head withdrew. “Never a dull day at the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library,” he muttered as he descended the stairs.
I continued translating.
She insists that her beautiful journal was given to her by her mistress as a gift. I do not know if that is true, but such is possible as her owners were kind people who taught her to read and write. And so she taught me.
A slave family,” Butch said.
“Sounds like it,” Bertie said.
“Crawbingham,” Charlene said. “I found a record of a plantation family in Louisiana with that name. Sometimes slaves took the surnames of their owners.”
Suddenly, the words stopped making sense, and Charlene and I were writing lines of gibberish.
“What does that mean?” Watson asked, as he studded a row of jumbled letters.
“The substitution has changed,” Charlene said. “Let’s try the other date.”
Sept 3, 1860. Rain is heavy at 2:08.
“R equals h,” I said. “That seems to work.”
“Let’s just hope he didn’t change the code again,” Charlene said. “We have no other clues.”
We set to the translation once more.
Aunt Petal went to her reward last night. I hope she finds peace and is reunited with those she loved. I know she would not mind her journal being put to good use. And so I will use it to help my children find their inheritance. If such becomes necessary.
I have hidden the land grant in a field near where they are building the new lighthouse. I sense danger approaching. The old man is on his deathbed, and his son is getting desperate. The fire in my boat shed was not an accident. I was lucky to get out unharmed.
“Oh my gosh,” Charlene said. “Someone’s trying to kill him.”
“A one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old attempted murder case,” Watson said. “Bring it on!”
I may have hidden it too well. My sons will need to be able to find it if I am not here to show them. Aunt Petal’s journal will be their guide along with a map my daughter drew for me as part of her schoolwork.
I will place a box containing Aunt Petal’s journal at map point 2.
We scrambled for the map.
Connor pressed his finger to the number two. “This has got to be the lighthouse. The map’s not entirely accurate, but this place looks about right, and most importantly it’s where we found the diary.”
They are starting work on the new lighthouse. I will go there tomorrow, on Sunday when the workers will not be around, and bury the box to keep it safe until I need it. Or until it is safe to reveal its location to my sons.
From point 2, walk 30 years to the east.
“Thirty years?” Butch said.
“He must mean thirty yards,” I said. “We’re translating as fast as we can, and a lot of letters are missing or words run together.”
“Which would be part of the reason we couldn’t decipher the code earlier,” Connor said.
And there I have buried the hopes of the future of my family.
We looked at each other. Then the stampede for the door began.
We galloped down the stairs and through the library. It was shortly after nine, so not many people were around. What patrons there were came out from the stacks and fell into step behind us. One woman was sitting in the wingback chair with Charles on her lap. She leapt to her feet and clutched the cat to her chest. Ronald stared at us, open-mouthed. Then he also ran after us.
“I have a severe sense of déjà vu,” I said to Connor.
“Never a dull day, as I believe someone recently said,” he replied.
As we emerged from the library, Louise Jane’s rusty van pulled to a stop in the parking lot, and she leapt out. She fell in beside me. “So you broke the code, did you? Looks like I arrived in the nick of time.”
“How did you find out?” I asked.
She tapped the side of her nose. “I have my sources, Lucy.”
I assumed someone had called to tell her about the mad dash out of the police station and the town offices parking lot. Louise Jane’s network of contacts and informers rivaled that of the FBI.
George’s crew was hard at work this morning. Jackhammers rattled, men called to one another, dust flew. George and his son were standing off to one side, consulting an iPad.
“Zack!” I yelled. “We need you. Get men and all the shovels you can find.”
“What the heck’s going on?” George demanded.
“We’ve cracked the code,” Bertie said.
“You mean it really is buried treasure?” George asked.
His men dropped their tools; library patrons whispered among themselves. The word treasure spread. Charles meowed.
“Treasure of a sort,” Charlene said, “but not gold or jewels.”
“It’s buried thir
ty yards east of where you found the first box,” Connor said.
The workers stared at George. They stared at one another. Then they ran for picks and shovels. Zack calculated the distance and led the way, holding his iPad in front of him as we fanned out behind. Police officers, library patrons, librarians, the mayor of Nags Head, construction workers, assorted interested persons, and one big cat trotted after Zack.
“Makes me think of the story of the Pied Piper,” Connor said. “I hope none of us will never be seen again.”
I squeezed his hand.
The land around the lighthouse is flat and low lying, and the ground is soft. No trees, bushes, or rock formations create landmarks. Thirty yards brought us just short of the boardwalk winding through the marsh to the calm waters of Roanoke Sound. A handful of birdwatchers and hikers were out this morning. They gave the strange group questioning looks but carried on about their business. The backhoe trundled after us, and it was maneuvered into position.
“Are you sure it’s safe to use that?” Bertie asked George. “We don’t want to damage anything.”
“It’ll loosen the surface,” he said, “and then we can dig by hand.”
“We might have to cover a fair bit of ground,” Connor said. “Whoever buried whatever this is wouldn’t have had the benefit of GPS technology like Zack here does. He could have been off by a few degrees.”
“You do realize,” I whispered to Bertie, “that we’ve left the library unattended.”
“Do you want to go back and watch the desk?” she asked me.
I recoiled. “No!”
“Nor, I think, does anyone else.”
A flock of ducks lifted off from the marsh. Charles tilted his head to watch them go. No doubt he was seeing treasure of another sort. “Don’t put Charles down,” I called to the woman holding him.
“Has anyone considered,” Charlene said, “that the letter writer came back and dug up whatever he’d buried without bothering to get the box with the diary first?”
“I don’t want to even think that,” Louise Jane said.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Ronald said.
The backhoe broke the surface of the earth, and the men moved in. Connor threw his jacket onto the ground, rolled up his sleeves, and grabbed a shovel. Sam Watson did the same. Butch didn’t bother to loosen his sleeves.
“It shouldn’t be far down,” Bertie said. “The box with the diary was buried quite deep because it was put in a hole that had already been dug.”
“Can’t you dig any faster?” Holly Rankin said to Butch. “Give me that.”
“Get your own shovel,” he said.
She did so.
They only worked for a few minutes before Connor yelled, “I’ve hit something.” He threw down his shovel and dropped to his knees.
Everyone gathered around and leaned in. The hole he’d dug wasn’t more than two feet deep. At the bottom, metal gleamed in the light of the sun.
“Lucy?” Connor said. “Why don’t you do the honors?”
I glanced at Bertie. She gave me a nod. I crouched down. Connor and I brushed dirt away to reveal a tin box. I reached in and lifted it up. It was slightly smaller than the one we’d found at the base of the lighthouse but made of the same material and around the same age.
Once again, I carried a box up the steps to the library, followed by an eager pack of onlookers.
“Take it into my office, Lucy,” Bertie said. She turned to face the crowd, planted her feet apart, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Sorry to bother you, everyone—please return to your business.”
“Time is money,” George bellowed. “If my men aren’t back outside ASAP, I’ll dock your pay. And that includes you, Zackary.”
“Which presumes you actually pay me,” Zack mumbled. But he left quickly enough, followed by the rest of the work crew.
“That goes for you two as well,” Watson said to Butch and Holly.
“I was hoping to see what all the fuss is about,” Holly said.
“I’m sure you’ll hear about it soon enough,” Watson said.
“Mrs. Cartwright,” Ronald said, “I can help you find that book you were asking about.”
Eventually only Sam Watson, Connor, Charlene, and I went with Bertie into her office.
And Louise Jane, of course. Somehow Louise Jane is always able to place herself exactly where she wants to be. At that, she’s even better than Charles, who’d tried to slip in unnoticed. I’d been too fast for him, and he was left in the hallway, whining plaintively.
I put the box on Bertie’s desk. She gave me a nod and I opened it.
No treasure lay within. No gold or jewels or Spanish doubloons. Just two pieces of yellow paper.
Charlene handed me white cotton gloves. I put them on and took out the pages and laid them on the desk. The top one was in the same handwriting as the coded letter that had led us such a merry dance but—thank heavens—it was not in code.
I began to read.
It is not my intention to write here the story of our family and how we came to be in Roanoke. Another day, perhaps. The war is over and the Freedmen’s Colony where we made our home has been broken. We have been betrayed. Many have left. I have decided to stay. I have been granted a piece of land by Mr. Ethan Monaghan and intend to claim it when the time comes. I have hidden the land grant in fear that his son Zebadiah will try to kill me rather than see me get a share of his inheritance. I know he will try to overturn his father’s wishes. He has many rich and powerful friends. Mr. Monaghan lies on his deathbed, and he cannot help me now. Once Mr. Monaghan is dead, I will produce my document for the court.
Signed Thaddeus Washington
We were silent for a long time. The faint sounds of people moving about and chatting in the library came through the walls. Charles had given up hope and gone in search of more friendly company.
“Wow,” Bertie said.
“That’s incredible,” Connor said.
“Thaddeus Washington was an ancestor of Neil Washington, who lives in Nags Head,” I said. “Neil’s wife, Janelle, told me that. She also told me the family had been part of the Freedmen’s Colony. She’ll want to see this.”
“What does the other letter say?” Watson asked.
I opened it. It was dated April 22, 1871.
“Work on the lighthouse started on June 13 of that year,” Louise Jane said.
Before I began to read, I glanced at the signature at the bottom of the page: Ethan Monaghan.
I gave the paper to Connor. “You’re the mayor, and I think you’re about to have a very hot political potato on your hands.”
Connor read. “It seems that Thaddeus Washington saved the life of Ethan Monaghan’s daughter when she fell off a boat into the sea. In gratitude Mr. Monaghan has left a section of land to Thaddeus and his heirs.”
“What land? Does it say?” Watson asked.
“I recognize the coordinates. I should, I’ve been reading enough about them lately. It’s that patch of land along the shore to the north of the Monaghan house. Not a particularly large tract, but enough for Thaddeus to build a home for his family and some outbuildings from which he could run his business. It doesn’t say what that business was.”
“He was a boat builder, Janelle told me.” I said.
“You’re saying this document proves that the heirs of Thaddeus Washington own some of the land Rick Monaghan wants to build his golf resort on?” Watson said. “That is a political hot potato, Connor. Is this paper valid, do you think?”
“I’ve no idea,” Connor said. “That will be for the courts to sort out. The paper is signed and dated, so it should have some validity.”
Louise Jane turned to me. “I hope you’re prepared to admit that I was right all along.”
“Right about what?”
“The spirits did communicate with us. Like I told you they would.”
“We found an old letter. Not phantasmal scribblings on the walls or disembodied hands leading us on
.”
“Regardless of the method, the result was the same. Messages sent from worlds beyond our own.”
“Nonsense,” I said.
“The spirits work in mysterious ways. Have you considered that if Curtis hadn’t stolen the code page, we might never have turned it over and thus found the key?”
“I think we would have figured that out eventually, LJ,” Charlene said. “We didn’t need any help. We only needed the real document.”
“Which is neither here nor there,” Bertie said, “as we have it now. Take this into custody, Sam. I do not want this piece of paper in my library one minute longer. Not if it’s likely to be fought over.”
“Not before I take a picture,” I said.
“Be sure you get both sides, Lucy,” Louise Jane said. “Just in case.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
At that moment Sam Watson’s phone beeped with an incoming text. He glanced at it and then gave us a grin.
“Curtis’s lawyer has arrived. It seems Mr. Gardner wants to talk to me. Diane Uppiton has also lawyered up. I suspect I have an interesting day ahead of me. I’ll take this box with me and put it someplace safe.”
“I’ll call Janelle Washington,” I said, “and let her know it might be of some interest to them.”
“I’ll talk to Rick Monaghan,” Connor said. “You’ll probably be able to hear him yelling from here.”
“You can tell people we found some interesting personal letters from the immediate postwar era,” Bertie said, “but please provide no details. It’s up to the families concerned if they want to take this further.”
“Understood,” I said. “The Washingtons don’t have much money. I can’t see that they’ll be able to mount a court challenge against Monaghan and his company.”
“Bankers are a proud people and respectful of our history,” Louise Jane said. “All of our history, including the bad parts. I think the community will come down awful strong on the side of Thaddeus’s heirs.”
“That remains to be seen,” Bertie said. “Let’s get back to work everyone.”
I walked Connor to the door, conscious of the library patrons watching us.
He gave me his private grin. “Life with you, Lucy Richardson, is never boring.”
“Sometimes,” I said, “I wish it could be just a little bit less exciting.”
