The Ironclad Covenant

by Christopher Cartwright

  Elise asked, “Do you want me to tell Virginia to come get you?”

  “No. We can make our own way back tomorrow when the diver makes his return trip. Unless we get into trouble, we should be able to come up on the shore of Isle Royale.”

  “All right. I’ll pass the message on to Virginia. You need anything else?”

  “Yeah. A warm bath and some good food.”

  “Afraid I can’t help you there.”

  “Good night, Elise.”

  Sam ended the call, dropped the antenna, went back into the cabin, and handed the satellite phone back to Yago. The heat from the fire spread quickly, warming every muscle of his body. The Ranger handed him and Tom each a bowl of warm stew.

  “Want sugar in your coffee?” Yago asked.

  “Sure. Two, please, for both of us,” Tom replied.

  Yago brought coffee. Sam thanked him and asked, “You said before that you grew up visiting these parts of the world over the summer months and your father was a Ranger before you, is that right?”

  “Yeah. But my dad was never a Ranger, just an outdoorsman who wanted to pass on some of his knowledge. I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. Dad spent time here during the twenties, extensively mapping out the region throughout the summer months – then, when the Great Depression hit in 1930, he returned to the land more permanently.”

  “Why?” Sam asked.

  “He needed to eat, and he needed some place to live. At the time, he could achieve both of those necessities without too much trouble out here. The gambling side of him, the side that saw his fortune destroyed by the Great Depression, also drove him out this way.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Back then, there was many a prospector who swore they would find their fortune in these mountains.”

  Sam smiled. “Any of them succeed?”

  “A few. Not many.” Yago smiled like it was a familiar story when it came to gold and the human race. “Truth was, it didn’t matter to my father. He could feed and house himself out here, which was better than most could say during those hard days. And then there was always hope, wasn’t there, that someday he’d get lucky and strike it rich with gold.”

  “Interesting.” Sam took a mouthful of the stew. It was warm and surprisingly full of taste. “I bet you and your father could tell a few interesting tales about the place.”

  “You wouldn’t believe some of the stories he used to tell.”

  Sam smiled at the loquacious old Ranger. “Like what?”

  “Once, my father said he was playing poker with some other vagrants. Mostly trappers, prospectors, or fur traders. A stranger asked to join the game. My dad says sure, but we’re playing for gold. The stranger smiled and put down a single gold coin. Says, what will you give me for this?”

  Sam and Tom listened with wide eyes at the anecdote, their interest piqued by the allure of a gold coin, but both remained silent.

  Yago stoked the fire. “So my father picks up the coin. On one side is the image of an old iron warship – you know the type that were used throughout the Mississippi River during the Civil War? And on the other side, the face of Jefferson Davis.”

  Sam grinned. “You’re talking about Confederate gold. What did your father do?”

  “He let him play of course.”

  “Did your father win?”

  “No. Lost everything he owned trying to get that damned coin. That loss just about killed him over the course of winter.” Yago shrugged. “But that’s the life of a gambler, isn’t it?”

  Sam nodded. He liked a challenge, and he took risks if he had to, but he never understood the addictive mindset of a high-rolling risk taker. “Did your father discover where the man found that coin?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve often wondered if the stranger’s story about where he’d found the coin was even true. I mean, it was more likely that the man had bought the coin and used it to entice gamblers to risk more than they could afford to lose in an attempt to win it.”

  “What was the guy’s story?”

  Yago smiled and shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  To Tom, Yago said, “What about you? Do you want to hear another wild and unbelievable tale from long ago?”

  “Sure. Why not?” Tom replied. “After all, traditionally people tell ghost stories around campfires, but Sam and I here, have nothing against trading those for stories of treasure. You’d be surprised what we’ve found over the years.”

  “All right,” Yago said, stretching backward on the wooden chair, putting his feet up, and getting comfortable. “The stranger tells my father that he flies a float plane on a regular trip from Moose Jaw across to Thunder Bay. Normally, he flies a mostly direct route, only a few months earlier a severe snow storm caused him to head much farther south taking him into North Dakota to refuel.”

  “Right,” Sam said. “Not really sure how a pilot could end up so far south from Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan.”

  As though he recognized Sam’s incredulity, Yago said, “You have to understand this was in the late 1920s or early 1930s. Aviation wasn’t the thing it is today. Pilots were true adventurers and bush pilots the greatest of them all.”

  Sam nodded, taking another bite of stew. “Go on.”

  “The pilot tells my father he took an alternative route a couple times before, having known a place where fuel could be purchased. Only this time, he takes a detour. He swears he spotted a pyramid the color of rust. He said his curiosity got the better of him, so he landed on a river nearby to investigate. It turned out, the pyramid was in fact an old warship, like on the coin, and inside there was a chest full of the gold coins. Of course, he couldn’t take them all. So, he pocketed a couple, made notes in his journal of the location, and continued on to Thunder Bay.”

  “So what came of the gold?” Sam asked, a wry smile forming on his lips.

  “Well. According to my dad, the pilot returned to the location on the map he plotted, but he never found the ship again.”

  “It simply disappeared?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, the man’s story was pretty far-fetched. Apparently, the pilot was just that kind of guy where there would be only a hint of truth to whatever he had to say, yet people always seemed to believe him.”

  Tom nodded, nursing his coffee. “I know a guy exactly like that.”

  “Talking about legends,” Sam said. “Do you mind if I ask you about an old one in these parts?”

  “Sure. I suppose you want to know about the Meskwaki Gold Spring?”

  “No, thanks. Although I’ve heard it’s beautiful this time of year.” Sam smiled. It must have been a common question in this part of the world. “Actually, I’m looking for information about a mildly famous pilot in the area who went missing in the late 1920s.”

  The ranger narrowed his gray, bushy eyebrows. “Ah, so that’s it. You’d be looking for Jack Holman’s plane then, would you?”

  “That’s it. A friend mentioned Holman’s floatplane was never found.” Sam smiled warmly and glanced at Tom. “We were thinking of trying our luck locating the wreckage. Figured if it hasn’t been spotted from the air, there’s a good chance she’s resting on the bottom of a lake somewhere.”

  “And you were hoping I could tell you which lake Holman’s wreckage is lying in?”

  “No. I was just trying to get an idea of what lakes have been explored and if there’s anywhere you think a plane like Holman’s could remain lost all this time.”

  “Lot of places to lose a floatplane in these parts of the world. Forgetting the lakes, there are plenty of deep ravines, dense forests surrounded by steep unmanageable terrain, where a crashed aircraft might disappear forever.”

  Sam felt like he’d been kicked in the guts. “I hadn’t thought of that. I just figured plane crash has to leave a scar on the earth where it strikes. Someone must have noticed that scar in the past ninety odd years since Holman went missing.”

  Yago’s brown eye
s turned sharp, and his affable manner suddenly abrupt. “What’s your interest in Holman’s plane, anyway?”

  Sam thought about lying, but something in the man’s face told him that would be a bad idea. Instead, he simply told the truth. “A friend of mine’s father has been kidnapped. His captors didn’t ask for money. Instead, they wanted me to locate a journal they believed Jack Holman was carrying on board his aircraft when he disappeared.”

  Yago met his gaze, put down his cup of coffee. “And why would they think you might locate something that’s been lost all this time?”

  “I work in ocean salvaging and, among other tasks, I’ve headed up a few successful treasure hunts over the years.”

  “And what do these… kidnappers want with Holman’s aircraft?”

  Sam shook his head. “Just the flight records or a journal. Apparently, Holman spotted something unique from the air. Whatever it was, a lot of people have died so that it could be located again.”

  “What are you going to do if you find the aircraft and the journal?”

  “Give it to the kidnappers.”

  “You don’t want to notify the FBI?” Yago raised an eyebrow. “Kidnapping’s a federal offense.”

  “Sure. But these people say they have connections throughout the New York Police Department and the FBI. If we cheat them, they said they’ll know and will kill my friend’s father.”

  “What makes you think they can be trusted to return your friend’s father if you do as they ask?”

  “Hope.”

  “Seems like a lost cause.”

  “Many things are. But you have to try, don’t you?”

  Yago’s face was set hard and his body tense, before finally expelling a deep breath of air. A thin-lipped smile finally rose as though the man had somehow looked into Sam’s face and accepted the truth. “All right. I’ll tell you where Jack Holman and his float plane now rests for eternity. Not that it will do you much good.”

  Sam asked, “Why’s that?”

  Yago sighed. “Because he’s at the bottom of Dog Lake, beneath three hundred and fifty feet of icy water.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Sam asked, “How can you be so certain Holman’s last flight ended up in Dog Lake?”

  “Look, always chasing his fortune, Jack Holman was a gambler and a risk taker. He was also involved with a lot of bad people. A jack of all trades, he was someone who could get a lot done in a time when tough guys ruled the area.”

  “Was he involved in bootlegging?”

  “Not directly. He was employed by a local organized crime gang from Chicago. They moved alcohol amongst other contraband, from Moose Jaw in Saskatchewan into the Great Lakes, where a number of ships shifted it to the cities farther downstream.”

  “What did Jack Holman do?”

  “He flew up ahead, above, or behind the rum-runners and had an intricate coding system to notify when and where prohibition agents were setting up a blockade.”

  “So how do you know he ended up crashing in Dog Lake, Ontario?”

  Yago smiled. “Oh, I never said he crashed, did I?”

  “Really?” Sam studied his face. “How interesting. Go on. What do you know?”

  “In late 1930 Holman landed on Dog Lake. A boat came to meet him. It was owned by the people he worked for. A young man was at the tiller. A man Holman called Stanford.”

  Sam felt his heart start to hammer in his throat at the mention of the name. He forced himself to remain silent in case Yago would close up like a clam.

  Yago closed his eyes. “Holman and Stanford spoke for a few minutes. When they were done, Stanford shot Holman from behind – right between his ears. Poor Holman never knew what hit him. He fell overboard and disappeared into the icy waters. Stanford then took an axe to one of the floatplane’s pontoons. It quickly filled with water, causing the aircraft to tip over on its side. From there it took less than ten minutes to sink.”

  Sam asked, “How do you know all this?”

  Yago opened his eyes. “Because Jack Holman was my father.”

  “Your father?” Sam asked, incredulous. “How old are you?”

  “I’m ninety-three.”

  Sam nodded. It was possible, albeit unlikely. Sam decided not to challenge him. He was either telling the truth and the aircraft would be at Dog Lake, or he was lying. “How did you find out what happened?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to be on that flight, but I was. When my father spotted Stanford approach, he told me to get into the cargo bay in the tail and stay down. I continued to hide after he was shot, until the floatplane finally tipped over and started to sink. By then, Stanford was already motoring away on his small boat.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “I was six years old, but that day I became a man.” Yago swallowed hard at the memory. “I swam through the icy waters to the shore, where I was picked up by some local fishermen. They lit a fire and saved my life.”

  “Did you ever tell anyone about Stanford?”

  “Who could I tell? I never saw Stanford, and to this day I don’t know whether Stanford was his first or last name. But I’ll tell you what, it brings a smile to my old eyes to know that people are still trying to locate what’s on that aircraft.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that means Stanford never lived to see it.” Yago grinned, wildly. “And I’ll make you a deal.”

  Sam sighed. “Go on.”

  “I’ll tell you exactly where Jack Holman’s wreck is, but I want you to promise me something.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “My story about the stranger who turned up with the Confederate gold coin wasn’t entirely true. He wasn’t a stranger. He was Jack Holman, my father, and a terrible gambler.”

  “Your father found Jefferson Davis’s hidden Confederate Treasury?”

  “My father thought so. He was in the process of organizing an expedition to retrieve the entire fortune when he was murdered.”

  “This is why everyone’s dying all of a sudden. It’s not about the Meskwaki Gold Spring. Someone knows about the Confederate gold.” Sam stopped, his eyes fixed on Yago. “You must know that Stanford’s dead. He must’ve been dead for years.”

  “Of course, I do. I’m an old man now, so unless he’s a couple decades over a hundred, he’s long gone.”

  “So then, what do you want us to do?”

  “If you find my father’s journal, I understand you have four days to return it to the kidnappers in exchange for your friend’s father.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Good. Then that means you have three days to locate the Confederate gold and remove it before you hand over the journal. I just hope you’re as good a treasure hunter as you say you are.”

  Sam grinned. “So do I.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The next day Sam and Tom hiked down to the river, retrieved their dive gear, and followed the diver back through the Meskwaki Gold Spring without any problem. Virginia met them near the shore of Isle Royale. Sam removed his fins and handed them to her, before climbing the boarding ladder onto the aft deck of the Annabelle May.

  Virginia waited until he removed the heavy closed-circuit rebreather system from his back before she asked, “Did you find it?”

  “The Meskwaki Gold Spring?” Sam said.

  “Yeah. Did it lead you to Holman’s wreck?”

  “As a matter of fact, it did.”

  Her eyes widened. “That’s great! Where?”

  “I’ll explain on the way, but right now, we need to get moving.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Duluth. There’s a floatplane waiting for us to rent.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Duluth – Sky Harbor

  Sam waited in the Aviation Flight School office for a rental manager to meet him. Next to him, Virginia waited impatiently. Tom had already stepped outside to enjoy the picturesque landscape of the unique amphibious air base, which accommodated both land and sea p
lane traffic. From where Sam was sitting, he could see the backdrop of Duluth city and the splendor of Lake Superior.

  Something on the TV caught his attention.

  A woman who appeared too young to be a candidate, and much too attractive, was giving a speech about her vision of Minnesota under her Senatorial leadership. She had an easy-to-watch kind of face, with an amiable smile and confident voice. She spoke intelligently and eloquently, while trying to hide the remnants of an Irish accent.

  Sam listened to her speak for a while, before turning to Virginia, who was seated in the chair beside him. “Hey, for a politician, she seems all right. Much too young a candidate to be accepted by the more conservative members of the electorate – even in Minnesota that’s voted Democrat every election since 1976 – but hey, she might get in one day. I hope she wins.”

  Virginia also watching the TV, turned to face him. “She already has.”

  “Has what?”

  Virginia smiled. “Won the position of Senator for Minnesota.”

  “Senator Perry’s been dead less than three days,” Sam said. “How did she get the job so quickly?”

  “Gubernatorial Appointment.”

  “Of course,” Sam said, his eyes filled with a vacant expression.

  Virginia sighed. “Didn’t you learn anything at that expensive private school of yours?”

  “I learned how to dive on the weekends, sail in the afternoons, and fly floatplanes in the summer. What more could I have wanted to learn?”

  “How about how your country’s electoral system works?”

  Sam shrugged. “I think you’ve got me pegged for someone else. While I take my voting responsibilities seriously, I have zero interest in running for government.”

  “Obviously not and it’s a good thing, too.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means if you’d paid more attention during social studies at school, you would have learned that for thirty-six states, vacancies to the U.S. Senate during a sitting member’s term, through resignation, expulsion, or death, are replaced by Gubernatorial Appointment. The remaining fourteen states require a special election to be called.”