We also rescued a captive, Luke Swetland, taken prisoner by the Savages near Nanticoke in the Wyoming Valley in the summer last. He was most overjoy’d at making our acquaintance.
Jake remembered many references in other soldier’s campaign journals he had studied about this man being repatriated. Luke Swetland had slipped away from his Indian captors the night before and made it back to Kendaia hoping to meet the approaching Army. When he was found in a house by the lead American scouts, he was beaten and almost shot because of a case of mistaken identity. Both he and the scouts were dressed in the same wilderness attire consisting of deer skin. Swetland thought the scouts were British Tories come to take him prisoner again and the two scouts who found him thought he was an Indian spy waiting to ambush them. It had all worked out for the best when other scouts approached later who were from the Wyoming Valley, recognized who Swetland really was, and could vouch for him.
Brought to this town he was given to an old witch who kept him as her adopt’d son. He said she curs’d him from leaving. His starv’d body prov’d that. He show’d us her village’s sacred secret in a nearby ravine, a ten minute walk east. Much to explore here. We see a sight never encounter’d before. A pure White-furred Deer. Swetland warns that evils await those who kill a white deer. McTavish shoots at and misses the trophy much to Swetland’s relief. Swetland says much about Butler and Brant and dispisition of the Enimy’s men.
Cool, thought Jake. A historical report of the white deer back then too. The passage caused him to stare off toward the waters of Lake Ontario. He pictured how it would be to approach the Indian village as an American scout, rescue the captive, to see the ancient homeland untouched in its true wilderness setting, and to see the famous white deer for the first time.
After finishing the page, he loaded the next image, noticing it was one of those oddly torn pages. He zoomed in and started with the wording at the top.
Kendaia plunder illustrat’d below, along with directions to Swetland’s Indian cave, so we may re-visit and further examine one day in hopes of finding more fortune.
“Swetland’s Indian cave? What the—,” Jake whispered. The place in the ravine, the witch’s sacred secret? The first illustration catching his eye was a small circle with a dotted border around it. He zoomed in even closer, blinked, stared again, and then almost dropped his laptop. It was an exact match of the deer and snake symbol on Blaylock’s stolen broach at the marsh well this morning.
“What in the hell is going on here?” he asked himself.
A tiny caption below the drawing read:
Silver and wampum neck clasp given to us from Swetland. He found it in the cave. Old squaw made him wear it to protect the cave.
Jake’s heart raced. A silver broach? Swetland found his in a cave? Wore it to protect the cave?
Jake’s eyes shifted to the next illustration. It showed a crude drawing of a long cylinder or tube with an end cap.
The caption below it read:
Hickory map case, ancient map of Swetland’s witch cave passages, quill, and ink inside.
Jake’s eyes narrowed. “A cave map too? Unreal!” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a young boy glancing at him as he and his father strolled by. Jake winked at the kid who smiled back. He looked around to see if anyone else noticed him talking to himself. No one was around. The fort seemed to be emptying out. He looked back at his screen.
Could Swetland’s cave be the same as the one this morning? He swung his head over to Dearborn’s map. Kendaia was on the lakeshore. Boyd’s entry said Swetland’s cave was in a ravine, after a ten-minute walk. Blaylock’s marsh cave, he knew, was way further inland, separated by about five miles — definitely not one and the same cave. But were they linked, was the greater question.
With a slight shake to his hand, he scrolled the page image down to the fragmented lettering at the bottom — the apparent directions to the cave. Upon first glance it looked to be some sort of cryptic code.
Obviously the repetitive characters and their special relationships indicated words arranged in some form of a secret message, but other than that it could have been Arabic for all Jake knew. What in the world was this Lieutenant Boyd hiding, he asked himself.
The words trailed off where the corner of the page had been torn away. It looked deliberate. Then he noticed, in extremely small script, a note written vertically along the gutter of the book. He zoomed in with the magnifier tool and slowly read,
Missing half of cipher is deposit’d in Butler’s payroll keg.
Confirming his speculation, Jake realized the page had indeed been deliberately torn off to hide the rest of the cipher. He nodded. This was Boyd’s security measure so no one would find it. With a sparkle in his eyes that he had made a major discovery, he moved on to the next image.
From September sixth through the eleventh, Boyd had made brief, one-sentence entries on the next page. Based on his inscriptions, the campaign was in continuous march, his scout detachment being heavily relied upon, loot plentiful and theft among troops common. In one instance, Boyd described a famous Indian killer in his detachment, a Virginian named Tim Murphy. He put a ball in the back of an officer in Butler’s Rangers just outside present day Canandaigua. After looting the victim Murphy traded with Boyd the officer’s corset, compass, and gold match case.
Boyd’s writings overwhelmingly reflected exhaustion. They were marching over ten miles per day through the wilderness and shadowed by Indians who took potshots at them. Jake knew from his own studies that the army would now be in the area just south of present-day Rochester, marching toward the Genesee River Valley and crisscrossing between some of the smaller western Finger Lakes. The troops were at the end of their supply chain and facing severe shortages.
He uploaded Boyd’s last journal entry, the other page with a similarly torn corner and cryptic message.
Sunday, Sept. 12th – Much thunder and rain last night. Army left most provisions at Honneyayeu garrison to march with only what will be necessary to reach Little Beard’s Town or Chenesee Castle (25 miles) and back again. McTavish and me kept our fortunes close to our person. March’d at 9 o’clock in morning at the vanguard once again almost 2 miles ahead of main army. Mostly rain’d today. Pass’d thro many hills. Travell’d 11 miles and incamp’d a mile north of abandon’d Indian village call’d Kanaghsaws. The troops destroy’d the town of 25 houses and large corn fields. Our camp situat’d atop the flat hill overlooking the swampy inlet and head of a small lake. Much fatigue’d and thirsty.
Most exciting news this night brings. General Sullivan summon’d me to his tent and reward’d me personally with command of a special early morning mission to reconnoyter ahead to our final objective. Says as a Brother of the Craft he knows I can be trust’d and that I’ve provin my worth in courage, service, and duty. Order’d to pick 4 of my best riflemen. No contact with the Enimy should be made. This could be my step upwards for promotion to full Capt’n. I intend to do the job with utmost success. Must gather my men and provisions.
Jake noticed Boyd’s handwriting had become much harder to read — an indication he was in a rush before his mission.
Writing again before reconnoyter. Upon refilling our water pouches at the parallel streams near the village, McTavish and me slipp’d away to have our fortunes bury’d for it prov’d too heavy a burden. We will come back for it on our return journey after reaching objective. Plunder in our keg is inventory’d as such: Butler’s 200 Guineas and bear claw necklace taken from his Indian spy; location of Sullivan’s sunken cannon of gold near Catherine’s Town; Swetland’s silver broach, cipher directions to his cave and case containing his cave map; 3 silver rings, 7 pipes, 5 knives, 2 wampum belts; a British Ranger Officer’s corset, compass and gold match case.
“Holy crap,” Jake uttered. The page finished with the following message along with more cryptic lettering torn at the bottom right corner:
Craft cipher indicates directions to bury’d keg. For purposes of secrecy
the other half of cipher is deposit’d in my Most Trust’d Craft Brother’s Most Trust’d Trade Tool.
“What the—”
That was the last of Boyd’s entries. He would die the very next day. Jake looked up and exhaled. His heart raced with excitement as to the importance of the find. Buried treasure, sunken cannons, secret ciphers, silver broaches, caves, and a map? He didn’t know where to begin or how it all fit together. But he certainly recognized a once in a lifetime opportunity at his fingertips. An adventure he wished, an adventure he was granted. With Director Jacobson’s expertise and Dr. Ashland’s assistance the team at MHI could piece together the puzzles and get started on a new investigation. This is what his new job was all about and he was jacked up to jump in.
Yanking his cell phone from the tote, he called Ashland but received an out of office recording. He left a message for him to check his email as soon as he got in. Jake turned to his laptop, clicked some icons and drafted the email. He attached one digital image each of the horn, buckle, Butler’s letter, and the journal page of September the twelfth. He also explained what he told Ms. Hibbard about his thoughts on the scalp. He then hit the send button.
Just over his screen, at the entrance to the castle, Jake heard the main door swing open. He glanced up as that Alex Nero fellow strode out in a determined gait, his two Indian bodyguards shadowing him. The bodyguard who had issued the warning to Jake not to touch his boss held something in his hands that he couldn’t quite see. He watched him until he came into view then caught sight of the item.
Jake blinked. His eyes grew wide.
The Boyd Box.
Another flurry of questions ran through his mind as he continued observing the men exit toward the front of the fort. He slammed his laptop shut, stowed his gadgets in his tote, and quickly walked back into the main castle. Double-stepping up to the second floor, he found Ms. Hibbard in the hallway. She smiled gleefully.
“What happened to Boyd’s Box?” questioned Jake. “Is everything okay? I saw your last guest walking out with it.”
“Oh everything is just fine,” she said, her teeth gleaming. “He has the box because, well, he owns it now. And I’m sorry, he insisted on purchasing the scalp too. He made the association an offer we couldn’t refuse. He is a man of enormous wealth. He immediately wired the funds into our account. We have all of the financial assistance we need to get us out of our hole and then more to cover us for years to come. He is a wonderful man that Alex Nero.” She clapped in delight.
“But what about the RFA? Don’t all parties get a fair chance to bid on the items? I thought that’s how it worked. Six parties view the items, assess them, and bid on the purchase? Not a first come, first serve basis.”
The smile left her face. “Mr. Nero made an offer. I acted in the best interests of keeping this fort alive. I terminated the RFA process. It is my right.”
“But…”
Hibbard cut him off. “Mr. Nero is our saving grace. Now, if you will excuse me.” She turned and proceeded down the stairs.
Jake stood dumbfounded. He felt as if he had just gotten his foot on the playing field at the Super Bowl only to have his legs cut out from underneath him. The profound sense of loss was immediate and deep. In fact, this was the second strike today, he thought. He was too late in rescuing the trapped victim and now a major historical discovery was squandered before his eyes. Murphy certainly threw his track off now! He shuffled over to a window and rested his hands on the ledge, drooping his head and letting out a sigh. He peered out across the drill yard and soon watched Hibbard walk back to South Redoubt to disappear under the gatehouse.
After a minute of stunned silence he held his head high knowing what needed to be done. Exiting the castle he quickly headed back across the empty grounds only to find one of Nero’s suits turning the corner from the gatehouse and walking directly toward him. Jake instinctively knew something was up. This guy’s pace advertised he meant business.
When they met in the middle of the drill yard, near the old cannon, Jake noticed it was same tattoo-eyed pit bull bodyguard from earlier. As he approached Jake he asked in a gruff voice if he was the Major.
“No, I just dress in Army uniforms for shits and giggles,” replied Jake, sidestepping the ruffian without losing his stride.
“Hold up there, buddy.”
Jake increased his pace.
“I got a message from Mr. Nero.” A large hand then clutched Jake’s left shoulder to spin him around.
The instant the bodyguard’s hand grabbed him Jake clamped down on it with his right hand, and bent his assailant’s wrist outward in one quick motion. The man tried to pull away but Jake moved like a cat and had already cranked the thug’s arm behind his back. Now standing behind him with his left hand squeezing the man’s opposite shoulder for support, Jake jammed the man’s arm up the middle of his back to the point of breakage. The man cursed in agony and dropped to his knees in front of the cannon.
“No one touches me, punk,” Jake seethed in his ear. “And I’m in a real pissy mood today so what’s your message?”
“Ease off! Ease off! You’re gonna break my goddamn arm.”
Jake loosened the arm slightly but repeated his question.
“Mr. Nero wants to talk to you. He’s in the parking lot. He just needs a minute of your time, okay? You win.”
Jake dropped the arm and gave him a shove. “You really shouldn’t touch the merchandise,” he snickered. “You haven’t earned the right.” He then jogged off towards the gatehouse.
The kneeling bodyguard took a moment to gather his composure then realized his target had disappeared into the tunnel up ahead. He jumped up to catch him.
Jake’s battlefield tactics kicked in. Before approaching hostile territory, a thorough reconnaissance always proved beneficial. When he first entered under the South Redoubt gatehouse with Hibbard he remembered thinking from a military standpoint it offered a heightened view outside of the fort’s walls — a perfect sharpshooter’s position. Now it would act as a simple observatory to what this Nero fellow might be up to in the parking lot. Next to the ticket taker’s window was a steep stairwell leading to the upper levels. He scrambled up the steps and reached the guardroom, checked a musket port to see the trailing bodyguard running his way from the parade ground, then bounded up the next set of stairs to the roofed look-out platform.
Just beyond the outer walls and earthworks, in the parking lot, a long black limousine caught Jake’s eagle eyes. Nero’s other bodyguard stood outside the vehicle glancing back and forth. That man then approached Jake’s parked SUV, stood behind it, bent down for a moment out of sight, stood up then wrote something down on a piece of paper. It looked like the guy was taking his plate number, Jake thought. The bodyguard then approached an open window in the rear of the limo and spoke to a gray-haired man Jake recognized as Nero. They both turned and noticed their counterpart exiting the fort. Clown Face shrugged his shoulders and threw his hands in the air then walked up to the limo. The other guy jumped into the limo and drove it forward, blocking Jake’s SUV in.
Not one to be toyed with, Jake bounded down the gatehouse stairs and double-timed it to Nero’s vehicle. The tattoo-eyed bodyguard stood at the rear, glaring at him as he approached. The driver remained behind the wheel. Jake walked up to the closed rear window and with his fist rapped loudly on the glass.
The power window dropped halfway and Nero peered out.
Jake spoke first. “Mr. Nero I presume? Your little puppet here said you had a message for me. Make it quick, and move your ride because I’ve got a tight schedule to keep.”
“A tad ticked off are we Major?” replied Nero in a raspy voice.
“Flash enough cash and the little old ladies just drop their panties for you,” stated Jake, slinging his laptop tote behind his back while folding his arms across his chest.
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” replied Nero with a bit of a grin. His eyes darted behind Jake as his lead enforcer walk
ed up stretching out his arm and shoulder.
Jake glanced back and smirked. The thug’s face turned red.
“So, as you know I now own the Boyd Box.”
Jake remained quiet, not sure what this character wanted from him.
Nero cleared his throat. “I just want to talk to you.”
“So talk,” Jake fired back.
“The director informed me you were the only other person beside herself that viewed the contents of the journal. I understand you even took pictures of every single page.”
“That is correct,” Jake answered. “Part of my governmental duties.”
“Well, this concerns me greatly,” said Nero, his voice harsher. “I would now like to sincerely ask you to immediately delete those pictures you have of my property. It’s a simple matter of copyright infringement.”
Jake laughed. “Copyright infringement? You’re joking, right? Listen, I don’t know who the hell you are, but …”
“Excuse me, Major. You listen very closely,” Nero snapped back, pointing a finger at him. “My sincerity was a one-time offer. Do not play hardball with me.”
Jake noticed Clown Face inching closer. The driver also exited the limo.
“Hand over your camera now and we’ll be on our way. No questions asked,” ordered Nero in a deep tone.
“Go screw yourself. You’re not touching government property. And tell your driver to move this hunk of shit out of the way. My business is finished here.”
Nero flicked his head. The thug behind Jake grunted to catch his attention. Clown Face opened his coat to reveal the handle of a black pistol in his waistband. The driver, having already walked around the back of the vehicle, also showed off his weapon.
Jake’s blood boiled as he sized up the situation. An escape plan started to develop but quickly fizzled as Nero displayed a Glock 9 mm and pointed it at Jake’s chest.
Crown of Serpents Page 8
