by Jo Ann Yhard
“Fred?”
“It’s gone,” he croaked.
Grace poked her head in next. “Fred, are you okay?” She stepped in beside Mai.
“No,” Fred said. He closed his eyes, picturing his dad standing in front of him. Shorts. Tucked-in shirt. No place to hide anything. “The giant stole my box.”
“He must have had it when we saw him at the restaurant!” Grace said. “If he’d just stolen it, why would he come looking for you?”
“It won’t open, remember?” Fred said. He pictured the giant’s puffy shirt—lots of room to hide his box. He stood up, his head clearing as his mind worked out what he needed to do. “He’d be looking for a way to get it open. And it’s got a keyhole. Maybe he thinks I have the key.”
“Isn’t he missing the obvious?” Grace said to Mai.
“Umm,” Mai murmured. She didn’t say anything else, instead picking up a towel and folding it. She placed it neatly on the pile of clothes.
“What’s obvious?” Fred asked.
“Your dad,” Grace said. “He was just here. Do you think maybe…?”
“He didn’t take it with him. He had no place to hide it.”
Grace gave him one of her “You-are-so-stunned” looks. “He could have put it somewhere else, couldn’t he?”
“No. I already searched in here.”
“Maybe you missed it?” Mai said. She swept her arm at the mess. “If we clean up, we might find—”
“No point,” Grace said. “Why would he hide it in here? He’d figure Fred would search everywhere. He’d put it somewhere else. That’s what I’d do, anyway.” She poked at the pile, causing an avalanche of clothes and dishes. A tin mug rolled across the floor. “But you still don’t know exactly what’s in this box thing, do you? How can you be sure it’s even valuable?”
Fred checked outside the tent to make sure there were no eavesdroppers. Then he reached inside his waistband, pulling out a zip-lock bag with a bundle of yellowed, folded pieces of paper inside. “Because it’s all in here,” he said. Opening the bag and gently unfolding the aged parchments and his translated notes, he smoothed the pages carefully against his shirt.
“What’s that?” Mai asked, leaning close.
“A letter. Well, sort of a journal, really. From my ancestor, Claude Gagnon. He was the sole survivor of the treasure ship, Le Chameau.”
Grace sucked in a breath. “Treasure ship?”
“Yeah, and it’s real,” Fred said. “I mean it was real. I Googled it. It was wrecked off Louisbourg during a storm in 1725. They said there were no survivors—over
three hundred lives lost. And there was tons of treasure on board.”
“Wow, Freddo, you might really be on to something this time,” Grace said. Her eyes gleamed and she slapped him on the shoulder. “A real treasure ship.”
“Yes, and I’ve got to get my box back before Lester finds a way to open it!”
“Maybe there’s something in the letter that can help?” Mai said.
“Not in the pages I found.” Fred tapped the paper lightly. “Which are all in French, by the way. I had to use a French-English dictionary to translate it. It took forever!”
“Why didn’t you just ask your mother?” Grace asked, looking puzzled. “She’s bilingual, isn’t she?”
Fred pressed his lips together. “She had more important things on her mind.”
Grace’s cheeks flushed. “Oh, right.”
“Anyway,” Fred said. “The pages tell all about that night, the night of the shipwreck…and everything afterward.”
Mai and Grace looked at him expectantly. He had them.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” Mai said. “What happened?”
Fred motioned for them to follow him as he side-stepped around them and out into the sunlight. He scanned the nearby faces. All were strangers. The coast was clear—for now.
Voices carried across the quay. Tall ships drifted in the harbour. Waves lapped the shoreline. Once again he had that sensation, as if he’d been transported back to the 1700s. It felt weird, like he was zigzagging between the present and the past.
“C’mon,” Grace said. “Let’s hear about this treasure.”
He plunked down in the vacant cannon slot in the seawall. Grace and Mai sat on the ground, cross-legged in front of him. Mai tucked her skirt around her knees, a lock of her hair coming loose and falling across her face. She glanced up at him and their eyes locked. His fingers twitched as he had the sudden urge to reach down and tuck her hair back in place.
“Ahem!” Grace muttered.
Pulling his eyes from Mai’s, Fred examined the papers. He knew the story so well. He fingered the aged parchment.
He’d spent so many hours with the words, translating them, reliving them. Maybe that’s why he felt so connected to this place. The words were part of him now.
“There had been a full moon,” Fred began. “The calmest night of the voyage. We had no idea what lay in wait for us. Le diable. The devil.”
Chapter 17
“The devil?” Mai said softly, she and Grace leaning forward in unison.
Fred nodded. Feeling a breeze graze the back of his neck, his eyes were instinctively drawn to the sea. One of the tall ships eased by, members of its crew hanging from the rigging. The wind filled and billowed the untied sails with a series of loud snaps. Barked orders had the hands scurrying. The ship swayed in the white-capped waves.
Was it like that on Le Chameau? Fred imagined he could feel the deck tilt beneath his feet as he returned to his tale. He glanced down at the papers to find his spot. He continued with the story, in Claude’s own words.
I had snuck up on deck as I often did late at night, my only opportunity to breathe in the fresh air and walk about freely. Monsieur Fornac was there, as usual, clutching his satchel to his chest. The man never slept.
From Claude’s description in other pages he’d read, Fred could picture the round, bald man with the big mustache, always with a sheen of sweat on his forehead and darting, panicked eyes as clearly as if he was standing beside him. He continued:
I had been ordered to remain out of sight, to not draw attention to myself. I was not supposed to be there, you see, a lad of ten travelling on his own. But it was suffocating below decks, and the rocking waves caused my insides to churn. If I’d not had some respite, I would have gone mad.
“My boy, you should come work for me in Québec,” Monsieur Fornac offered. “I can tell you are a trustworthy lad, and my instincts also tell me you have no fear of hard work.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied. “But I journey to my father.” Monsieur Fornac knew this, as the conversation was not our first on the matter.
“Ah, yes, of course,” Monsieur Fornac said. He stared off to the sea. “I have no family of my own, you know. It would be welcome to have an honest sort in my confidence.” His voice was gruff.
We both strolled along the deck. I listened with rapt attention as Monsieur Fornac described the settlement of Québec and what I could expect there. Visions of a vibrant and exciting life at my father’s side filled my head. He had an important and powerful post there.
I noticed the walking had become more difficult and I found myself struggling to maintain an even footing. Monsieur Fornac stumbled and grasped his satchel tighter. I reached out to steady him as he slid to the railing.
Monsieur Fornac peered nervously at the water. “We’re in for some weather, it seems.” He laughed. But there was an edge to it. Not a brave laugh. More like the kind of laugh one uses to make oneself brave.
It was now well after midnight. We lost the moon and the sea began to froth. “I can feel it,” I said, lifting my face. “The wind, it is different.”
“Yes, it comes from the north. The sea has mischief on her mind,” Monsieur Fornac agreed. “I believe she means to have
fun with us tonight. We should return below.”
“Not yet,” I said. Bad weather or not, the air was still sweet, a welcome change from the stale stench of slightly rotten food and sweat that waited below.
“Take great care,” Monsieur Fornac warned. “I have travelled this voyage many times. This is not a night for stargazing.” His hand swept an arc at the now starless sky. “Indeed, it is a night for nothing but hope to get through it.”
Monsieur Fornac paused as he was about to leave the deck, casting a sorrowful look in my direction, as if convinced it was the last time he would ever lay eyes on me. One last shake of his head and he was gone.
The ship pitched and rolled. Icy ocean water slapped my face. I braced against the rolling deck, clinging to the ropes. Fear had not yet found me. Quite the opposite. I was exhilarated. I was a fool.
A sound like thunder erupted and a great shudder rippled through the ship as it came to a sudden stop. Cargo toppled from the deck over the side. But then, just as quickly, we were free of whatever had taken hold of us and were tossed about the waves once more.
Shouts and cries were snatched by the wind. All but one.
“The ship is taking on water!”
Monsieur Fornac reappeared at my side, his bulging satchel tight in his grasp.
“My boy, she’s doomed. We must abandon ship, before she is dashed on the rocks,” he cried.
“Jump into the sea? We will surely drown!”
“No, boy. See there? A boat has been ripped from the ship’s moorings. But it will be lost to us if we do not act now.”
Sure enough, a small boat bobbed in the waves next to the ship.
“What of the others?” I cried. Strangely, we were still alone on this section of the deck, although shouts came from all around us. “And my things…”
“There are other boats,” Monsieur Fornac said. “And what worry of things, when our lives are at stake! Come now, before it is too late.” He proceeded to climb over the side, tipping dangerously. He grasped my arm, and I was pulled with him.
Over the side.
We tumbled into the churning water. Nothing prepared me for the frigid iciness. Pain pierced my skin as if I was being attacked with swords. Waves crashed over my head and I was under water.
The small boat crashed into me, and I latched onto the side before it was again ripped away. I dragged myself on board, shivering and gasping for breath. It was empty.
Where was Monsieur Fornac?
Through the rain, I could see the outline of the flailing ship. Another thunderous roar bellowed through the storm as it was tossed once more upon the rocks. The mast listed wildly as the ship appeared to stagger backward, like a drunkard, its sails dipping dangerously into the waves.
Monsieur Fornac was right, the ship was doomed.
“Claude, my boy,” a raspy voice called. I scanned the rough water. A pale face. An outstretched hand.
I grasped Monsieur Fornac’s hand and pulled. I pitched forward, almost falling into the water. He was too heavy. “Use your other hand!” I cried. “I cannot pull you in.”
“My satchel,” he replied. “I cannot lift it from my side.”
“Let it go!”
“I cannot. It holds my fortune. I will be destitute.”
“You will be dead!” His hand slipped slightly from mine. “I cannot hold you. You must give me your other hand!”
“I’ve enjoyed our talks. You are a fine young man and your father is lucky to have you as a son.” Monsieur Fornac squeezed my hand, then pulled his from my grasp.
“No,” I cried. “What are you doing?” I lurched forward, almost capsizing.
His gaze held mine as his other arm sank beneath the water. Groaning with effort, his head thrown back, he heaved the satchel with both hands up from its watery hold. I fell back, out of the way. It crashed to the deck, splitting open, its secret contents finally exposed.
Jewels of all colours poured out at my feet, a carpet of riches.
“A king’s ransom,” I breathed. I looked up with a smile for Monsieur Fornac. But all that greeted me was an empty ocean.
“Monsieur Fornac?” I called
It was the sea that answered, tossing a momentous wave upon me. And my world turned upside down.
Chapter 18
“So, Monsieur Fornac…he died?” Mai whispered.
Fred blinked at the sound of her voice, the spell broken. “Yeah.”
“The jewels,” Grace said. “Is that what you think is in that box?”
Fred nodded. “Claude talks of how the big wave washed most of the jewels overboard, but lots remained wedged in the boat. That’s a whole other story. He—”
“Lost?” Grace cried. “Really?” She leapt to the top of the wall, pointing out to the sea. “Then they’re still out there?”
Fred shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Why are you wasting your time on a few that might be in a tiny box if there’s a whole pile of jewels out there just waiting to be found? We could get a boat and diving gear and—”
Fred shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not? How hard can it be? We’re fossil hunters, after all.”
“I read up on Le Chameau and the treasure. There were tons of people looking for it. It had been carrying the money for a whole year of France’s expenses for their settlement in Quebec, so it was big! Way bigger than a sack full of jewels. But they searched and searched and couldn’t find it.”
“So those jewels weren’t the real treasure?” Mai said.
“Nope. No one even knew about Fornac’s jewels. The treasure from Le Chameau was lost for over two hundred years until it was finally discovered in the 1960s. And even then, it took them months of tracing the debris on the ocean floor to find it.” Fred didn’t add that he’d already been thinking about what may be at the bottom of the sea…and every possible way to get it.
“But—”
Fred held up his hand. One thing he had heard over and over from his father was how hard treasure hunting was. “Grace, the water is freezing cold, and really deep with wicked currents. Wrecks get scattered for miles, and—”
“Okay, okay,” Grace griped. “I get it.” She plunked down on the wall, legs dangling.
KAABOOOMM!!!
Fred ducked.
“It’s just the cannon,” Mai said.
Geez, why am I so jumpy? The cannon goes off a gazillion times a day. I should be used to it. “Must be all the psychos around here,” Fred said. “Between that nutty soldier Gerard and wacko pirate guy, it’s crazytown. And they’re all after me.”
“Paranoid much?” Grace said.
He scowled back at her.
“All right you two, cool it,” Mai said. She stood, brushing grass from her dress. “So. Fill us in on the rest. How did the jewels get from the boat to underground at the fortress?”
“As entertaining as the history lesson is, can we skip Claude’s life story for now?” asked Grace.
Fred’s fingers clutched the parchment pages. Grace was right, they didn’t have time for it. “I guess it doesn’t matter much, does it? And none of it means anything if I don’t get the box back.” His guts clenched at the thought.
A strong gust of wind whipped around them, almost snatching his treasured papers from his hand.
“The weather’s weird today, isn’t it?” Mai said. “Hope it’s not Le Chameau weather.”
The waves were even choppier now, the peaks like snow-frosted mountains. Dark clouds were again gathering on the horizon. Fred shrugged, trying to brush off a growing feeling of dread.
“Well, we can’t do anything without the box,” he said. “We’ve got to find Lester’s campsite.”
Neither Grace nor Mai looked thrilled at the prospect.
“You don’t have to come with me,” he
said.
“Yeah, like that’s going to happen,” Grace said with a grimace. “We stick together and that’s that.”
Mai nodded.
“But we should wait for Jeeter,” Grace added. “He likely won’t be gone much longer.”
Fred shook his head. “Wasted enough time already. He’ll find us.” The longer he stays away the better, he added silently. Fred carefully refolded the parchments, returned them to the waterproof zip-lock, and tucked them back into his waistband. He patted them protectively as he gazed up toward the King’s Bastion. The hill was dotted with campsites. “Let’s go,” he said.
As they crossed the quay, dirt and rocks were being tossed around by the now steady wind. A baseball hat rolled by, chased by a balding tourist. Grace and Mai held down their skirts.
The restaurant was packed, with a line of people outside waiting for seats. His mother was taking orders as they walked by. She glanced up, saw them and waved. Fred waved back. She looked tired. This is the last day you’ll have to work! he promised silently.
They continued walking. The street ended.
“I’m not crawling back into those weeds!” Grace said, pointing to the swaying, white-topped field of plants.
“Me neither,” Mai said. She struggled to smooth her long hair. “Give me a sec, I’ve got to braid this before I lose an eye! I wish I had my backpack. I need an elastic.”
“Do mine, too?” Grace said, tugging on her long ponytail.
Their voices faded as Fred surveyed the hillside. There were dozens and dozens of campsites. They all looked the same. The people were thick as ants on an anthill. How would they ever find Lester? If he was even still here. No! He was here. He had to be.
A wave of helplessness washed over him. His head felt like it was stuck in a helmet two sizes too small, his forehead pulsing. He wanted to scream and hit something. Instead, he closed his eyes and held a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Think!
Okay, they didn’t have to check every site. There probably wouldn’t be any kids or really old people with Lester. That had to eliminate more than half the sites right off the bat. He’d never seen so many white heads in one place before.
