“Thank you, thank you, thank you again!” Fawn exclaimed. By now, other patrons were staring at them, and the curator was noticeably embarrassed.
By the time he stammered out “You’re welcome,” Fawn and Ralston had already turned and headed for the elevator.
They stepped inside, and the doors snapped closed. Ralston turned to Fawn with a grin. “You played him as well as I’ve ever seen it done. Ancient Search? You could be an actress.”
Fawn just smiled. “No one got hurt, and we’ve got a lead to follow.”
CHAPTER 31
Back in the car, Fawn dialed the number from the card. There was no answer, so she left a brief message explaining who she was, how she had acquired his number, and the information they sought. Then she started the engine and headed for the Castillo de San Marcos National Monument.
The irony that they were going to view strange Spanish text on a wall inside the castillo was not lost on Fawn. The Castillo de San Marcos—known as Fort Marion under U.S. control—was the very place Osceola was imprisoned after his capture in 1838.
They made the short drive from the Lightner Museum to the castillo in minutes. The fort stood upon a sprawling expanse of grass next to the bay. Tourists were coming and going from the fort’s parking lot and from St. George Street, crossing the intersection in droves.
Fawn paid their admission, and they walked toward the drawbridge amidst other patrons. Behind them stood the ravelin—a defensive structure, which helped block the fort’s only entrance. Before them, the gray coquina wall loomed upward with cannons peaking out through embrasures along the gun deck on top. A tall flagpole that sailed the state flag of Florida hung lifelessly in the still air.
They traversed the bridge over the dry moat and into the sally port. There, inside the arched tunnel of dingy gray-and-white coquina, they found a helpdesk and discovered the guard room they sought was to the right of the entrance they had just passed. They turned to see an arched opening next to a large, grated door.
They passed through the opening and found themselves inside an oblong room that stretched to the left. On either side stood soldier barracks—flat, wooden racks braced low to the ground—each holding half-a-dozen crude, straw-filled, white mattresses, a replica of what the early Spanish soldiers had to endure. A thick wooden rail ran high over the racks to either side, probably used for hanging clothes.
At the far end of the room a rectangular window reached to the apex of the arched ceiling and allowed sunlight inside; underneath, a hearth. The gray-and-white walls showed centuries of age, pockmarked and peeling.
They continued across the back of the barracks room through a rectangular doorway. This led into a second oblong room, again stretching to the left, paralleling the barracks room. It was a guard room and appeared to be of the same dimensions, complete with the rectangular window reaching the ceiling. Unlike the barracks room, this room contained no hearth and no replicas of the crude beds, but it was filled with raised plaques full of historical details as to the purpose and use of the enclosure.
On the wall to their right were wooden slats in the shape of a football goal post. Above it was something most unusual: faded Spanish words etched into the discolored coquina wall. While some of the letters were visible, others inscribed in off-white areas of the wall were cloaked. A plaque on the low rail before the wall read:
Historians have puzzled over the fragments of words in the graffiti for decades. The shaping of the letters tells us it is 18th century Spanish, but the pieces of words we can still see make no sense. Can you figure it out?
“Okay,” Ralston started. “I know Spanish, but I’ll be darned if I know what this says.”
Fawn shook her head. “Got me. I can only make out some of the words. No wonder it’s a mystery.”
Fawn took out a notepad and meticulously wrote down the inscription, attempting to precisely imitate each squiggly line, each nuance of every letter—although some didn’t appear to be letters at all. Minutes later, they left.
When they reached the car, Fawn’s cell phone rang. It was the archaeologist that the Lightner Museum curator had recommended returning her call. He invited them over to his place to discuss the information Fawn had inquired about.
A short time later, they were knocking on the front door of a house across the bay on Anastasia Island, not far from the St. Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park. A nice looking man of average height and build with stubby brown hair answered. Fawn guessed he was in his late thirties. She would have never taken him for an archaeologist, although he did have inquisitive eyes.
“Ms. Cortez?” the man said with a smile, ushering them inside.
Fawn nodded. “Please call me Fawn, Dr. Lohan. I’m a freelance reporter.”
“And call me Curt.”
Ralston extended his hand, “Curt, I’m Ralston.” Curt shook his hand and gave the young man with dreadlocks a momentary stare as he passed.
The man’s name had sounded familiar, but Fawn was unable to place it until that very moment. Dr. Curt Lohan. “You were the man who entered the castillo gunpowder magazine when it was unsealed last year… when that man emerged. I remember it on the news, then seeing your interview on Spook Pursuit. Was it ever determined how the man got inside the sealed room?”
The archaeologist offered a momentary smile that Fawn found almost incriminating. “No. His identity remains a mystery.” He paused. “You really watch Spook Pursuit?” He motioned for them to take a seat on the couch. Ralston sat in the nearby recliner.
“Only that one episode because it was focused locally.”
Fawn looked around the living room. Other than the couch, recliner and end table, the area and adjoining dining room were sparsely furnished.
Curt must have read her mind. “I don’t reside here. It’s a friend’s house who recently passed away.” He changed the subject. “I understand from your voicemail you’re interested in the Spanish text on the guard room wall at the castillo.”
“We understand it’s undecipherable,” Fawn said. “I know Spanish. While some of the words were familiar, most weren’t.”
Curt spoke. “The Spanish language of the 1700s and 1800s is different than it is today. That’s why you wouldn’t recognize a majority of the words. Although it’s not that the Spanish words on the guard room wall can’t be translated.” Curt reached to the side for a small notepad on the end table. He flipped the cover, turning back several pages. “Ah, here it is.”
Where men become mountains
Second time in a row.
Remove the first joined in house.
Offspring raised to go.
The male will proceed to right
The female given turn.
A window opens deftly
A payment will be earned.
“See, we know what it says; however, it doesn’t make any sense. It’s some kind of poem, but no one has ever comprehended its exact meaning, if it even has one.”
“Has the date of inscription been determined?” Ralston asked.
“Between 1818 and 1821,” Curt responded. “Just prior to when the fort was turned over to the United States upon the purchase of Florida in 1821.”
The date aligns with the legend and Osceola’s story: 1820. Fawn shot Ralston a furtive glance. She suspected Curt caught it.
“Not to be nosey, but may I ask your interest?” Curt asked.
Fawn gave her pat answer. “We’re gathering background for an article. I want to do a piece on some of the lesser known history of St. Augustine.”
She continued, “May I please copy the translation?”
Curt tore the sheet from the notepad and handed it to Fawn. “I’ve got it on soft file.”
Fawn stared at the words, holding it for Ralston to see. “So no one knows what the poem means?”
Curt shook his head. “Without refer
ence to specific persons, places, or things, it’s all subject to interpretation. Obviously, some of the words are metaphors, such as ‘mountains.’ Others may be as well. Without any starting point, any understanding of the topic, it’s impossible to make definite claims as to the meaning. The real question is why? Why was a poem inscribed on the walls of the Castillo de San Marcos?”
****
Minutes later, as they were pulling out of the driveway, Ralston scoured the poem. He kept his eyes to the page as he spoke. “The timing works. 1820. That’s when the U.S. Ambassador would have been in St. Augustine. Other than that, about the only thing that sounds like it might tie to the treasure is the line ‘A window opens deftly, A payment will be earned.’ If our assumption is right about a second iron container from the ship—one that somehow made it to shore—the window could be the door. The payment would be the Zaile treasure for the purchase of Florida.”
Fawn and Ralston talked for the better part of the return trip to Amelia Island. They drew assumption after assumption, attempting to connect the legend, the text from the underside of the tortoise, and the information in Sarah Courtland’s letter to the poem.
At the foot of the Thomas Shave Bridge leading back to the island, Fawn had a strange desire to call Mike. She was not sure if it was an urge based on need or her fluttering hormones that compelled her, but she really wanted to hear his voice. It was late afternoon, dinnertime. Class would have ended, so she would not be disturbing him. She dialed Mike’s number.
Mike answered in exactly the manner she had hoped, sounding like the old Mike Roberson.
“Hey beautiful. What are you up to? Wait. Before you answer, let me apologize for yesterday. I wasn’t feeling well.”
Fawn smiled, nearly crying. She hadn’t heard him this playful since last week. “I miss you.”
“I’ll be home day after tomorrow, on Saturday. We’re going to make up for lost time. I really miss you, too.”
Fawn felt her face flush. She prayed she would be through with her period by then. Only then did she realize how much she had been suppressing the pain from Mike’s recently bizarre behavior. The phone conversation yesterday had hurt. Now, hearing his revitalized tone—not to mention his sincere apology—her resounding affection for the man returned. It was like their love had been swept away into the breeze then returned with a strong wind.
As they reached the island, Fawn was still chatting with Mike when she noticed an historic sign advertising the Amelia Island Lighthouse.
The text her father had obtained from the tortoise specifying one of the three keys was In light by Spanish, had confounded Fawn. Ralston’s guess that it referred to a lighthouse had sounded so promising, especially when Fawn later considered the subsequent lines: From lower starboard of first hole, three down. Then two right.
Given that many lighthouses were constructed from brick or building blocks, it seemed logical the text was a map of sorts—three down. Then two right. Easy to follow instructions if bricks or blocks were the guides to follow.
Thinking about it now jarred a question to mind. “Mike, what do you know about Florida lighthouses?”
”Only know about the one on Amelia Island,” Mike responded. “Doin’ a story?”
“Yes,” Fawn lied, again. It was getting to be a habit. With this troublesome thought, she almost missed Mike’s next words.
“I know the Amelia Island Lighthouse is the only territorial period lighthouse constructed in Florida.”
“As in built prior to statehood in 1845?” Fawn commented.
“That’s right,” Mike responded.
Fawn added. “I know. Seven years prior. It was built in 1838.”
“Well, constructed on Florida soil in 1838. It was originally built on the Georgia coast.”
“Huh?”
Ralston turned to give her a questioning gaze.
“The Amelia Island Lighthouse was originally built on Cumberland Island, Georgia, north of Amelia Island across Cumberland Sound. At the time, it was the southernmost lighthouse in the United States, because Spain controlled Florida. In 1838, when the U.S. owned Florida, it was disassembled brick by brick and moved to the higher ground on Amelia Island where the lighthouse was reconstructed precisely in the same manner as it had been taken apart. The new location on this elevated land allowed the beacon to reach farther out to sea, providing better visibility to ships.”
“Mike,” Fawn could feel herself tense. “What year was it originally built on Cumberland Island?”
“Eighteen years before it was moved to Amelia Island. In 1820.”
It was all Fawn could do to remain focused for the remainder of the conversation. Ralston must have read her excited eyes, because he shifted anxiously in his seat, waiting for her to end the call.
“Ralston, we may have our lighthouse,” Fawn said when she finally hung up. “The one here was first built on Cumberland Island, Georgia, across the bay in 1820.” A look of revelation emerged in Fawn’s eyes. “Oh my God, remember what I told you from Sarah’s letter? When Osceola spoke to Richard Simpkins as he lay injured, Simpkins said something like, “Another key is that way…southern end of Crumblin. He meant Cumberland! The southern end of Cumberland Island, where the lighthouse was first erected!”
“In light by Spanish,” Ralston smiled. “By the Spanish…not in Spanish territory! And the closest lighthouse would have been one on Cumberland Island, Georgia!”
Fawn thought for a second. “Have you ever been to the Amelia Island Lighthouse?”
Ralston shook his head.
****
The Amelia Island Lighthouse sits among private homes at the northern end of the island, off Atlantic Boulevard, not far from Fort Clinch State Park. The neighborhood setting makes public access problematic. Mike had driven Fawn by it several months ago, and she recalled him saying tours were given infrequently—something like once or twice a month—since it stands on private, government-owned property.
Compared to the lofty St. Augustine Lighthouse to the south with its 219 steps towering 165 feet into the air, the Amelia Island Lighthouse stood a mere 64 feet. Its construction is stucco and brick and has both an interior and exterior wall. The white exterior wall is wide at the base and narrows at the top, making it conical shaped, capped by a black top. Conversely, the inside wall is a straight cylinder. Fifty-eight granite steps spiral upward, bordered by a wooden handrail. The steps are crowned with cast iron stairs.
The lighthouse is equipped with a four-foot-wide, Third Order Fresnel lens, originally lit by fourteen whale-oil and lard-oil lamps. Electricity reached the tower in the 1930s, providing modern automation. Today, the revolving light flashes every ten seconds. Visibility extends 19 nautical miles.
Fawn brought the car up the drive; the vehicle rebelling against the inclined road. Ahead, where the road dead-ended, was a nondescript, single-story block house. Behind, a ravine of thick bushes and trees led to Egan’s Creek. To the side lay an expanse of marsh. The house, with its flat-roofed appearance, contrasted sharply to the Amelia Island Lighthouse rising to the side in an adjacent clearing. Next to the lighthouse was a small building the size of a tool shed.
“Mike told me that access to the grounds is restricted other than during tours. We better remain in the car,” Fawn said as she coasted to a stop.
Before she knew it, Ralston had opened the door and was walking up the incline toward the lighthouse, leaving Fawn nonplussed. She dropped the passenger window and called for him, but he kept going. Aggravated, she left the car in a huff and raced to catch up.
“I just told you this is private property! We’re not allowed here.”
“I’m sorry. I just want a closer look. Only for a few minutes, I promise.”
“This is not a good idea, Ralston.” By now, though, they had reached the wide base of the white tower, and Ralston was touching the flat outer surfa
ce. There was a window and Ralston cupped his hands to peer inside.
“Brick walls inside, Fawn. What was it exactly the text underneath the tortoise shell said?”
Fawn had been carrying a small piece of paper with the inscription and pulled it from her pocket: Another in light by Spanish. From lower starboard of first hole, three down. Then two right.
Ralston stepped back and pointed to a higher window. “Look.” Then he moved around the side to the lighthouse door—which faced away from the road—and pointed to a window above, before returning to the ground level window where he had started. “First hole. First window. From the ground up, this would be the first hole.”
“Maybe,” Fawn said, looking about nervously. “C’mon. There’s nothing more we can do here.”
In fact, there was nothing more they could do. Period. The next scheduled tour might be weeks away. Even so, what then? Chisel into the bricks among a crowd of visitors?
CHAPTER 32
With the theft of the skull from her living room last night—and with no visible signs of forced entry—Fawn was uncomfortable sleeping in her house. After Ralston left, just before six o’clock, she packed up some things, including her father’s cigar box, and drove to Mike’s house at the southern end of the island. She planned to stay there for the remaining two nights until his return on Saturday.
By the time she arrived, a light rain was falling. Typical of Florida in September, the precipitation did not lower the temperature, but instead had the adverse effect. The rain quickly evaporated into the warm air, causing the humidity to soar. The simple act of walking from her car to Mike’s front door caused her to perspire, but she was consoled by the sound of the ocean a few blocks away.
All the events of the day were cycling through her head as she sat down at Mike’s kitchen table to eat delivered pizza. Discovering the head missing from her house that morning had been numbing. Yet, the thief had gained nothing, since the skull was not Osceola’s.
Three Keys to Murder Page 22
