by Kathy Reichs
“What is Half-Moon Battery?” Hi asked. “That’s where she said she was being held.”
No one knew.
My heart sank. Bonny had still faced execution. And given her notoriety in the Carolinas, her chances might’ve actually been worse.
“This is exciting!” Shelton wasn’t feeling my empathy. “We may rewrite the history books!”
I considered the new facts in Bonny’s letter. “Bonny was transferred to Half-Moon Battery at Charles Town. Subsequently, her father’s petition for release failed.”
“Scheduled to be hanged,” Shelton added. “They were really gonna do it.”
“Last correspondence,” Hi said. “Read to Bonny. March 1721.”
This letter was longer, stretching five pages. When we’d finished, everyone spoke at once.
“She’s talking about the treasure map!” Shelton squealed.
“Escape attempt?” Hi began to pace. “Wow!”
“We were right,” Ben said. “It’s all about the docks!”
“Hold on!” I raised two palms. “Organize. What do we know?”
Shelton pointed to the second page. “Mary wrote, ‘the sketch is safe, as is the subject.’ She must be talking about the treasure map. And the treasure! What else?”
“Could be,” I allowed. “Or she could be talking about someone’s portrait.”
Shelton looked at me as though I’d lost my mind.
“I’m only saying it’s not certain,” I said. “I tend to agree with you.”
“‘Keep faith and wits about ye.’” Hi read aloud. “‘Even the darkest holes may be breached, the stoutest locks tickled.’” He slapped a thigh. “Tell me she’s not hinting at escape!”
“Again, I agree. But we should avoid unfounded assumptions.”
Ben tapped the second-to-last page. “Read mentions a place called Merchant’s Wharf, and describes it as ‘thy favorite landing.’”
“We know Bonny used the East Bay docks,” I said. “Merchant’s Wharf must’ve been one of them.”
“I still can’t believe she’d tie up in the center of town,” Shelton chortled. “That’s beast!”
When Ben cleared his throat, we all went quiet.
“Bonny wrote she was being held at Half-Moon Battery. Then, in this last letter, Read said the dungeon was close to ‘both favored wharf and recent earthen works, a happy chance of fortune.’”
“And?” Shelton didn’t get it.
“‘Recent earthen works,’” Ben repeated.
“That could be a reference to where they buried the treasure,” I said.
“Of course!” Hi’s face was flushed with excitement. “Mary is telling Anne that her prison cell is close to the treasure tunnel!”
Clickity click! “Maybe they used the tunnel to bust Bonny out?”
“Son of a gun.” Shelton stared, thunderstruck. “Tory, you’re a genius.”
“These letters confirm everything!” Hi broke out a dance move—the Cabbage Patch. “Bonny’s treasure is buried beneath East Bay Street, somewhere near the old docks!”
“And we should look for the tunnels near that dungeon, Half-Moon Battery.” Shelton joined Hi by doing the Soulja Boy.
“We did it!” Hi crowed. “We figured out where Anne Bonny buried her treasure! Holy shnikies!”
“Just a second!” Ben’s voice halted the dance party. “Those are huge assumptions you’re making.”
“Ben’s right,” I said. “We don’t even know what Half-Moon Battery is. But first things first—we need to authenticate these letters.”
“Thank you,” Ben said. “Let’s not embarrass ourselves again.”
“How?” Shelton asked. “You got a rare document expert on speed dial?”
“The treasure map.” Hi unrolled our stolen booty. “Let’s compare the handwriting in these letters to the verses on the map.”
“Good idea.” I placed a page on either side of the map, one penned by Bonny, the other by Read.
Mary’s block-letter style was clearly not a match.
But Anne Bonny’s bold, curling script, sweeping the page in aggressive, slashing strokes …
“The writing looks an awful lot alike,” Shelton said.
“Yep,” Hi agreed.
Ben nodded.
“We may be onto something,” I said. “But we need to be absolutely sure.”
“How?” Shelton asked.
“Leave that to me!” Hi beamed. “I know just the man for the job.”
“HOW’D YOU FIND this place?” I asked.
Before us, eight stone columns flanked the entrance to a massive stone building. The roof was at least forty feet above our heads.
“And who’s responsible for this behemoth?” Shelton’s head was craned back as he spoke. “It’s ginormous.”
“Methodists.” Hi scrolled on his iPhone. “Pre–Civil War. The website says, ‘The Karpeles Manuscript Museum is housed in a grand and bold Greek Revival structure of the Corinthian order, styled after the Temple of Jupiter in Rome.’”
“Okay,” Ben said. “That fits.”
The colossal edifice was definitely shooting for the Greek-temple look.
“Are we set?” I asked. “This guy will help us?”
Hi nodded. “He’s a document whiz. My mother had him trace our family tree.”
“Remember, no one utters the phrase ‘treasure map.’ We’re only showing him the two lines we photocopied.”
The main doors led into a cavernous chamber resembling a courtroom. White columns lined walls edged with decorative friezes. Corner windows stretched from floor to ceiling. Rows of pews marched from the entrance to an open central area, where glass display cases surrounded a long wooden table. Beyond, against the rear wall, a low wooden divider encircled a stone pulpit.
The room was outsized and majestic, reflecting its past as a congregational hall. It made me feel very, very small.
“Mr. Stolowitski?” a prim voice called. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Dr. Short. Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice.”
A compact man, Short wore tweed pants and a blue wool sweater. Tiny round glasses rested halfway down his nose. Snaggletoothed, with thinning brown hair, the guy was no beauty.
Short’s lips twitched in what might’ve been a half smile. “To be honest, Hiram, I’m not sure I did agree. But, here you are.”
“Yes, well,” Hi stammered, “I’m sure you’ll find this interesting. Thanks again. Sir.”
“These are your friends?” Short dipped his shoulders in a slight bow. “Dr. Nigel Short. Assistant director, museum historian, and resident forensic document examiner.”
“Tory Brennan.”
“Shelton Devers.”
“Ben.”
“Shall we get to it?” Short gestured with perfectly manicured fingers. “Place the documents on the table, then please stand aside. I’ll be with you in a moment.” Turning on a heel, he strode in the opposite direction and disappeared through a doorway.
“He’s prickly, but everyone swears he’s the best,” Hi whispered. “Trust me.”
I laid out Bonny’s two-page letter, then a photocopy of a pair of lines from the treasure map:
Down, down from Lady Peregrine’s roost,
Begin thy winding to the dark chamber’s sluice.
“Anyone have a clue what ‘the dark chamber’s sluice’ might be?” Hi asked.
“One thing at a time,” I said. “Here comes your guy.”
Short was wearing white linen gloves and carrying a small bundle. Noting the photocopy, he frowned.
“What’s this? A reproduction? You said the articles were originals.”
“We don’t have the second document,” Hi lied. “We had to print it off the net.”
Short peered over the rim of his spectacles.
“I don’t work with copies.” Curt. “Fine points can be missed. I won’t be able to authenticate.”
“We only need to establish the letter’s auth
enticity,” Hi said. “Not the copy. We brought that solely as a handwriting sample.”
We were pretty confident the map was real. After all, we’d stolen it from the Charleston Museum ourselves.
Short’s eyes narrowed. I worried he suspected deception.
Careful. This guy is sharp.
“Very well.” Short slipped a jeweler’s loupe from his bundle. “I may require more details in a moment. For now, please have a seat in the gallery. I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve reached a conclusion.”
We scurried to the pews as Short began poring over Bonny’s letter, nose inches from the parchment. For a full twenty minutes he ignored us completely.
A case of the yawns circulated. My mind was drifting when Short’s voice snapped me back to attention.
“Please return to the table.” Short scrutinized us, fingers steepled. “Where did you get this letter?”
“A pawnshop,” I replied. On this point, why not be honest?
“A pawnshop?” Short looked offended. “Are you having fun with me?”
“No, sir. The letter was in a box of pirate junk at a store in North Charleston.”
“This correspondence is signed by Anne Bonny.” Short’s eyes gleamed. “Do you know who she was?”
Nods.
“I believe the document to be authentic,” Short said. “If so, this is an extraordinary find! To think where this letter has been, how it made its way to you.”
My stomach did a backflip. If the letters were genuine, the clues might be too!
“Bonny writes that she’s imprisoned in a Charles Town dungeon,” Short went on. “That fact has never been proven before. Remarkable!”
“We know,” Ben said.
“Why were you rooting through pirate paraphernalia in a North Charleston pawn—” Short changed gears. “These lines you photocopied. What are they from?”
“Something we found online.” Back to lying. “Her diary, I think.”
“You are certain Anne Bonny wrote this?”
“The, uh, website said so.”
“Because if that verse was written by Anne Bonny, then the letter is almost assuredly genuine.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“The penmanship.” Short adopted a lecturing tone. “A person’s handwriting is as unique as his or her fingerprints. Experts such as I can compare features on different samples to match or exclude a suspected author, even if that author tries to disguise his or her hand.”
“So Bonny wrote both?” Hi asked.
“Let me clarify,” Short said. “These items were penned by the same hand. The letter is signed, ‘Anne Bonny.’ You’ve assured me the verse was written by Ms. Bonny as well.”
“The letter’s not a fake?” Ben’s shock was obvious.
“If it’s fake, it’s a masterpiece. The paper, ink, and style are all appropriate for the era. Without scientific testing, I can’t be one hundred percent certain, but I’m reasonably confident the letter is authentic.”
“Can you explain how you determined that the handwriting matches?” I asked.
“Very well.” Short pointed to the letter’s first page. “Antiquated cursive, typical of the early seventeenth century. That is clear right off. I compared individual letters—and connections of letters—to those in the copy. There were notable similarities.”
“Do you need the exact same words?” Hi asked.
“That’s helpful, but not required. Examining single letters, letter groupings, or even mere capitalization works almost as easily.”
“Here.” Short scribbled on a notepad, then handed it to me. “Write this sentence.”
I did. Read the words aloud. “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.”
“That inane little sentence uses every letter in the English alphabet,” he explained. “It’s the perfect control.”
“Control?”
“For comparison. For example, if the police can persuade a suspect to write those words, I can compare them to, say, a ransom note, or a shopping list. If the same person wrote both, I’ll know.”
“That’s what I did today.” He turned to the documents. “First, I examined vowels such as o, a, and e.” Checked whether the loops are open or closed. See how the letter o has a minor swirl at the top in both writing samples?”
“Yes,” I said. “Neat.”
“Next, I compared characters like f, b, and l, which extend upward. Conversely, letters such as p and q extend downward.”
“Sounds difficult,” Hi said.
Short looked pleased. “Sometimes other features are more informative, such as whether the author points or rounds off letters like s, n, or m. I also gauge the slant of the writing.”
“And the letter and poem match?” I wanted to be perfectly clear on this point.
“Absolutely,” Short said. “Look at the capital L, both here in Lady, and here, with Last. The author uses a rare formulation.”
“You mean the large circle at the apex?”
“Precisely. And, even more oddly, the author combines t and h when grouped together, as with the word the. To me, that might as well be DNA.”
“Hey Tor.” Hi was holding my writing sample. “You’ve got the same quirk.”
“Huh?”
Short laid my sentence beside Bonny’s poem and letter. “Well, Miss. How about that.”
Hi was right. I’d never noticed before, but I combined th into a single character, almost like a Chinese symbol.
“That’s a strange idiosyncrasy to share.” Short looked at me oddly. “Normally, I’d consider such a peculiarity a fairly strong identifier.”
“That’s why I never write anything longhand,” I joked. “Too hard.”
“No one does anymore.” Short tsked in disapproval. “Cursive is a dying art. But. That aside.” His voice grew serious. “This letter is a historic treasure. We need to validate it scientifically, then discuss preservation.”
“And we will,” I hedged. “But for now, we’ll hang on to it.”
Short scowled. “Young lady, I have no intention of interfering with your ownership of this document. You can sell it for whatever you like. But we need to assure its safety until—”
“Dr. Short, you misunderstand. I don’t plan to hawk the letter on eBay. But we need it for the time being. Sorry.”
“Very well.” Cold. “Please wait.”
Lips tight, Short disappeared through the same doorway as before.
“Why are you pissing him off?” Hi whispered.
“We have to keep the letter. It might help us locate the treasure.”
Short returned with a notebook-sized metal case.
“At least use this container for transport.” Without asking for permission, he inserted the letter. “Take extreme care when handling these pages. They are irreplaceable.”
“Understood. Thank you.”
“You can thank me by returning the letter undamaged.”
“We will,” Hi promised.
“Then be off. I have work.”
Needing no urging, we headed for the exit.
Sudden thought. I hit the brakes. Turned.
“One last thing, Dr. Short.”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever heard of something called Half-Moon Battery?”
Short hesitated. “Why?”
“I’m curious about the original Charles Town dungeons.”
Short seemed to debate with himself. Then, “In 1771, the Exchange Building was constructed on the site of an older fortification known as Half-Moon Battery. A decade later, during the Revolution, the British converted the cellars into the Provost Dungeon. Seems Charleston’s darkest cells have always occupied the same space.”
“Thanks!”
Short watched us hustle from the chamber.
“Did you hear?” I practically skipped. “The Provost Dungeon was built on the ruins of Half-Moon Battery. Bonny’s original cell may still exist!”
“That’s the right area
,” Shelton said. “The Exchange Building is on lower East Bay Street.”
“Why do we care about the dungeon?” Ben asked. “Aren’t we looking for some kind of tunnel?”
“Mary Read’s letter,” I reminded him. “Read said the ‘recent earthen works’ were close to Bonny’s cell. ‘Earthen works’ must refer to the tunnels depicted on the treasure map. I think the pirates used those tunnels to break Bonny out of Half-Moon Battery.”
“If they broke her out,” Shelton said. “We don’t know for sure that Bonny was rescued. She could’ve been hanged.”
“She must’ve escaped! Otherwise, there’d be a record of her execution.”
Data bytes coalesced in my brain. “We just learned that Half-Moon Battery—the place Bonny was held—was located close to the East Bay docks,” I said. “That confirms we’re looking in the right place!”
“Stop.” Hi literally quit walking. “Let’s spell it out.”
We circled up on a street corner, one of our habits.
“Fact one,” I said. “Anne Bonny drew a treasure map, which hints that her fortune was buried in downtown Charles Town, somewhere close to the East Bay docks.”
“Some huge leaps there,” Ben said, “but go on.”
“Fact two,” Shelton said. “We found letters between Anne Bonny and Mary Read stating that Bonny was transferred to Half-Moon Battery, a Charles Town dungeon.”
Hi picked up the thread. “Fact three: Read’s letter hints at a possible breakout attempt. Fact four: the letter also suggests that the treasure tunnels lie close to Bonny’s dungeon at Half-Moon Battery.”
“Fact five,” Shelton added. “The dungeon was close to the docks.”
“Which leads to my deduction,” I said. “Because the treasure tunnels were close to Bonny’s prison cell, they might’ve factored into her rescue.”
We all paused to digest.
“Flash forward fifty years,” Hi said suddenly. “The Exchange Building is constructed over the remains of Half-Moon Battery. Its cellars are later converted into the new Provost Dungeon.”
“Okay,” Ben said. “Let’s assume the map’s treasure tunnels are somewhere near where the Provost Dungeon is today. What next?”
“We get inside,” I said. “Poke around.”
