by Alex Archer
McIntosh looked up from his plate. "Days?"
"Or weeks." Hallinger used his knife and fork industriously, throwing himself into the meal, as well. Annja had noted the color in his face, as well as his energy.
"Why weeks?" McIntosh asked. "I thought this was a simple research job."
"Because there are a lot of logs to go through," Annja replied.
"We don't even know if the information we're looking for is here," Hallinger added.
"Aren't those logs alphabetized?" McIntosh asked.
"Some of them are, Agent McIntosh," Ganesvoort said. "However, I must apologize. My collection has merely been a hobby, a sweet passion, not something I felt I had to pursue every day. I've only cataloged about two-thirds of the journals and logs that I've bought over the years. I've read and am familiar with far less of them."
"Isn't someone in charge of cataloging things like that?" McIntosh asked.
"Like what?" Annja asked.
McIntosh shrugged. "Historical things."
"Who's to say what a historical thing is?" Hallinger asked.
McIntosh thought about that for a moment. "I don't know."
"Nor does anyone else."
"But there are historical preservation societies. I worked a murder case that involved a group like that in Atlanta."
"Those societies," Ganesvoort said, "are just as self-serving as my own interests. They choose houses or other landmarks for preservation because they want something to champion. I enjoyed reading ships' logs and imagining what a maritime life might have been like back in those days. When I sit down with one of those old books, it's like I'm taking that voyage myself. The story, the men, the problems, they all come alive around me. Even in the unskilled writings of the captains, first mates and officers of the watch."
"I'm that way about open and unsolved cases," McIntosh said.
Ganesvoort nodded. "I see. In its own way, an open case is very much a historical document, dealing with murders that happened years ago."
Annja hadn't thought about a police investigation like that.
"Right," McIntosh said. "When you start looking through an unsolved case, you have to put your mind back in the time that the murder took place. Figure out what the people were doing, what they were thinking."
"And what their world was like on a day-to-day basis," Annja said.
"Yeah."
"That's what an archaeologist does," Annja said. "We take artifacts – things left behind by others – "
"Clues and evidence, as well as hunches based on case data that lead to profiling, to use your terminology," Hallinger said.
" – and we attempt to reconstruct the world those people lived in. What they struggled for and what they dreamed of," Annja finished. "In the end, though, we know we've only been able to deliver our best guess. Eventually, someone will come along to challenge or refute what you said. Like when Michael Crichton postulated in Jurassic Park that dinosaurs were fleet and warm-blooded like fowl rather than ponderous and slow-moving like lizards. That turned the science community on its collective ear, even though the conjecture had been out there for a long time. Crichton made the theory popular and put it into the public eye. Laymen started asking questions, and scientists – wanting funding and attention – acted on it."
"History," Hallinger said, "in the end is subjective. People never know what to throw away or what to keep. These days, we try to keep most everything. But even recent things, things that touch our daily lives, get recycled as junk. Did you ever read comic books or collect baseball cards when you were a kid?"
"I did," McIntosh admitted. "I still have the baseball cards, but I sold the comics when I started getting into girls. Comics and girls don't mix."
"Depends on the girl," Annja said. "I still read comics these days and graphic novels, too. Picture storytelling has been around since the first cave painting."
McIntosh smiled. "I would never have guessed that you read comics."
"There's a lot," Annja said, "that you don't know about me."
For a moment, McIntosh held her gaze, then he nodded and dropped his eyes.
Annja forced her attention back to her own plate.
****
Four days later, they got a break.
Hallinger sprinted into the room where Annja was working. McIntosh had taken to looking through the English ships' logs for the name Yohance. He was a quick reader, but bored easily. Still, it kept him quiet most of the time.
"I found him!" the professor exclaimed as he burst into the room carrying a large ship's log.
After days of looking at them, Annja knew that ships' logs came in different sizes and degrees of craftsmanship. Some of them had been made by abbeys or by printing shops. But just as many had been handmade.
The people who had kept them were just as varied as the logs. Educated and uneducated men assembled their thoughts on the pages as best as they were able. Ships' captains, first mates, quartermasters, officers of the watch, common sailors and even cabin boys – those who had become somewhat literate – had all left their marks.
Despite the pressure to solve the riddle of the Spider Stone, Annja had found herself entranced on more than one occasion. Understanding Ganesvoort's hobby of choice was easy. Whole worlds opened up in those pages.
"You found Yohance?" Annja whispered the name, afraid to say it too loudly.
"Yes." Hallinger marched into the room like a commanding general. "The time frame is right. It says here that the slaves were brought aboard in July of 1755." He plopped the log down in front of Annja.
"'Yohance' is a common name," she said, striving to keep her hopes in check and to play the devil's advocate.
"I know, but it appears that our Yohance's arrival on the ship garnered attention from the captain and ship's crew. Actually caused a bit of a furor."
"What kind of furor?" Annja asked.
"Several of the ship's crew thought the boy was cursed. Or marked by the gods. Most of the sailors at that time were very superstitious. There was even some discussion of heaving the boy overboard at one point."
Annja turned the log so she could better see it. The writing was French, put there in a fine, strong hand by Captain Henri LaForge of Cornucopia.
"Where's Yohance's name?" McIntosh leaned over Annja's shoulder, squinting at the cursive writing.
Annja was conscious of him there, of the heat from his body and the scent of his cologne. But the possibility of discovery took precedence over whatever feelings his proximity stirred up.
"Here." Annja placed her finger on the first mention of Yohance's name.
"I see the name," McIntosh growled, "but I can't read the rest of it."
"That's because it's in French."
McIntosh shot her a look of impatience. "Maybe you could translate."
Before Annja could begin reading, Ganesvoort entered the room. Lights danced in his eyes. "You found him?" their host asked.
Smiling, Hallinger looked up at him. "I did."
Ganesvoort clapped the professor on the back. "So it is true?"
"At least this much of the story. It remains to be seen if the treasure is real."
"My little hobby has turned out to be worth something after all."
"It has," Hallinger said.
Ganesvoort flopped in one of the nearby comfortable chairs. "Thank God. I was beginning to feel that this one had slipped by us."
"Well," McIntosh said, "it didn't."
"The chances of such a thing being mentioned are so small," Ganesvoort stated. "Twenty-four million slaves passed through this island. God knows how many ships and ships' captains. With this kind of luck, we could go to Monaco and become fabulously wealthy."
"I thought you already were," McIntosh said.
"I am. But you know what I mean." Ganesvoort turned his attention to Annja. "Does the listing show where Yohance was from? Usually you don't get much information."
"This is more than a listing." Annja held the book up for him to
see. "There appear to be a number of entries."
Ganesvoort leaned forward like an enthusiastic child awaiting a favorite bedtime story. "Come on, then. Let's have the story."
Annja sipped from her bottle of water and began to read aloud, translating the French to English effortlessly.
Chapter 19
July 14, 1755
Henri LaForge, Captain of Cornucopia
Afternoon
Prevailing Winds, Easterly
Weather, Good
Our arrival in Ile de Goree was met with relief by my crew. After the tropical storm that very nearly laid waste to us in the Atlantic, we were all very happy to be alive.
We've spent the last six days partaking of the island's delights. I myself spent some time with my good friend Andrew Wiley, captain of Bess, which he named after his beautiful bride. We talked and ate, told of our troubles and our travels. Then we went to the auction block and both bought slaves to fill our holds.
Everything proceeded without incident until we arrived back at the ship with our goods.
"Goods?" McIntosh interrupted. "He's referring to the slaves?"
"Yes," Annja answered.
"They were considered nothing more than cargo," Ganesvoort added. "I don't think anyone truly realizes how inhumanly these people were treated, despite everything that's been written."
Annja continued reading.
I feel very confident of the lot I bargained for. They were newly arrived to Ile de Goree. I learned that they were taken by fellow tribesmen, which is all to the good, I think. Although I've been involved in a number of engagements with pirates and am accustomed to living my life through quick wits, a musket and a good length of steel, I don't think I'd like to tempt the fates by leading expeditions into the interior to gather slaves.
Most of the men are in good shape. They should give several years of labor wherever they end up, once they are gentled. A few of them are belligerent and think they are cunning. I'll have that beaten or starved out of them by voyage's end.
The women are young and healthy, and no few of them are comely enough for what they are. They will make good domestics and breeding stock.
A few of them are already with child. If they survive the voyage, they will fetch an extra penny on the auction block. Wiley said he's heard of some captains who keep the more comely looking women aboard ship and let the men have at them, ensuring a pregnancy and more money when they sell them by adding calving and proving they're fertile.
There was a strange incident which has got my crew talking, though. There is a young boy, perhaps ten or twelve, about the same age as my Georges, who has caused consternation. His name is Yohance, I have discovered, and he is rumored to be a medicine man or something like that. Since my crew tends to be more superstitious than God-fearing, they put great stock in stories of curses and the other black arts that seem so prevalent among this species.
This situation will bear closer scrutiny because several of the other slaves we have on board treat this boy with a deference that I can't for the life of me understand. He's not even attained a man's growth.
"Obviously several of Yohance's fellow tribesmen were bought at the same time," Ganesvoort said.
"Yes," Hallinger said. "That fits with what we were able to find out from Franklin Dickerson's journal back in Georgia."
Annja took another sip of water and continued with the next entry.
July 17, 1755
We are at present three days' journey out of Ile de Goree. Thus far, the wind has proved capricious at best. We've not been able to hold a strong heading and have had to shift constantly.
Several of the crew have reported rumors that we have been cursed for taking the boy Yohance from his homeland.
I have not yet ascertained who started this rumor, but I intend to have none of it. Rumors fester like boils aboard ship, without a proper way of dealing with them. Once I find out who is behind it, I will have the skin off that man's back.
"With that in the log," Hallinger said, "Captain LaForge was evidently putting his crew on notice. But it didn't do any good."
July 19, 1755
The situation has worsened. Today Colbert, a gunnery mate, fell upon Yohance and demanded that he lift whatever curse is suspected of being placed on the ship. We've been two more days with the fickle wind, and a storm is brewing in the west, showing signs of giving chase to us. The men are mortally afraid of going through such a blow again.
In response to the attack on Yohance, two of the slaves rose up and pulled Colbert down, beating him unmercifully. Jacques de Mornay, my first mate, had to shoot one of the slaves before order was returned to the hold.
The slave died. There was no saving him. I ordered the body thrown overboard to the ever-present sharks. I also informed Colbert that I was taking the price of the slave out of his wages. However, I fear dissension is rapidly spreading through my crew.
Annja studied the next entry and was surprised. "This is written in Latin." She looked up at Hallinger.
The professor agreed. "I looked back through the ship's log. Whenever Captain LaForge wished to remain circumspect in his musings, he used Latin."
"He was a highly educated man," Ganesvoort said. "How did he end up doing something as dangerous and hard as being a ship's captain?"
"From the earlier entries I read," Hallinger said, "LaForge was born to a wealthy family. His father was a highly successful merchant, and his mother was linked to nobility. But Henri LaForge chose not to be the merchant his father wanted him to be. He went to sea instead, taking over one of his father's ships so that he could see more of the world that he'd read about."
Annja understood that choice. She'd felt the same way while growing up in the orphanage. Her one touchstone throughout her youth had been her martial-arts classes. Sister Mary Annabelle, eighty years old and irrepressible, had taken part in the tai chi classes where Annja had started out.
Before and after classes, Annja had talked to the instructors whenever she could. Many of them had been from Japan or Korea. Those conversations had whet the appetite to travel that staying cooped up in the orphanage under the supervision of nuns and reading histories had already inspired.
"Do you read Latin?" McIntosh asked.
"Yes," Annja replied, and she continued with the narrative.
July 22, 1755
My first mate has had some experience with slaves in the wild, and he understands some of their language. He learned from some of the other slaves that Yohance is a medicine man among his people, and that he is believed to have great power.
What concerns me is that I think Jacques, who normally has a good head about him, might believe some of these stories that we might be under some curse from an African god. I reminded him that we are both men of strong faith, and that none of the magic practiced in those dark lands will ever be proof against God.
I worry that he might be succumbing to the same fears that plague the other crew members. We met in my cabin and shared a bottle of good port that I normally keep for the end of a successful voyage, but I don't think either of us felt entirely satisfied when we parted.
July 24, 1755
The storm overran us last night. We caught only the outer fringes of it, but it was enough to thoroughly unnerve my crew.
Cariou and I were hard-pressed to keep control of the situation. The storm hit just after dusk, during the dark hours of early evening while we were sitting down to dine.
The ship reacted violently in the blow. Several yardarms snapped off, which are being replaced today, though the storm conditions persist and I fear we're mired within the storm, always bumping into the violence of it. It feels as though we are caught in some grand trap and are doomed.
To make matters worse, the slaves began wailing and calling on their deities to save them. Their moans and fearful cries further took the strength from my men. Cariou and I had to arm ourselves and threaten to shoot any man that abandoned his post.
Even then I feared t
hat someone would.
In the worst of the gale, the boy, Yohance, somehow quieted the slaves. I think that he knew we would kill one of them to make an example for the others if they did not quiet. Instead, he sang some song, something that I never discovered the nature of. After a time, the storm eased and we were once more in control of our course instead of being tossed about like a child's toy.
However, the crew now treat Yohance differently. We've still got a long voyage ahead of us, so I have to take steps to end this. He is not some magical being as the slaves would have us believe. I refuse to entertain that notion even for a moment.
"That sounds as if he's having his doubts," McIntosh commented dryly.
"If a man gets out on the sea long enough," Ganesvoort stated quietly, "he can convince himself of nearly anything."
"The stuff you've read about the Spider Stone," McIntosh said, "doesn't mention anything about this, does it?"
"It does mention a curse." Annja sipped her water again.
"A curse?" Uncertainty darted in McIntosh's eyes. "Neither of you mentioned anything about a curse."
"I thought you wouldn't believe in something like a curse," Hallinger said.
Maybe you're beginning to have a few doubts yourself, Annja thought. "Still believe archaeologists lead laidback lives?" She wasn't able to resist taunting. Just a little.
"Curses don't exist," McIntosh replied.
But Annja knew the mood had altered as she read the entries. There are still any number of things out in the world that we can't explain, she thought.
"Do you carry a lucky charm, Special Agent McIntosh?" Hallinger asked.
McIntosh looked self-conscious. "A pocket angel. A lot of the guys I know carry one. Or something like it."
"Because you believe it will help protect you?"
"As a precaution. When my dad was on the job, he carried one, too. It's like crossing your fingers. Doesn't really mean anything."
"Actually," Annja said, "crossing your fingers is a throwback to England's belief in witches. Crossing your fingers would ward off witches. Basically making the sign of the cross with your fingers. If you encountered a witch, making the sign of the cross would send her on her way."
