by David Wood
Dane bit his lip. What four digit number might work? He thought of the headstone and tried 1705. No joy. He racked his brain for any dates that made sense: Samuel Adams death in 1803, Lexington and Concord in 1775. Neither worked.
He checked his watch. In a few hours, the streets would begin filling with people celebrating Independence Day. Time was almost up.
Independence Day! That was it. He chuckled and turned the fourth tumbler.
1776
This time, the door swung open and he reached inside and withdrew a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth, and unwrapped it to reveal a thin rectangle encased in a leather cover. The cover was, in itself, a work of art: the Liberty Tree, Faneuil Hall, and the Old North Church were stamped into its surface. An ornate band ringed the edges. He opened the cover and something slid out and fell to the ground. He tucked the cover into his backpack and picked up the fallen object: a small book bound in plain leather, the pages inside yellow and brittle with age. The inscription on the first page read:
The Journal of Samuel Adams.
Eager to see what was written inside, he moved into the shadow of an elm tree, flicked on his light, and held it in his teeth and carefully turned the pages. He saw nothing that resembled a clue. The pages were filled with Adams’ thoughts on freedom and liberty, but nothing that resembled a code, and certainly no hint of any secrets. He frowned. He had a sense that he was missing something obvious, but what? Invisible ink?
“Maddock!” Bones whispered.
Dane raised his head just in time for a bright, white light to blind him.
“It’s you. Step out here and keep your hands where I can see them.”
Shielding his eyes, Dane moved toward the sound of O’Meara’s voice. “I can explain.” In fact, he couldn’t explain. At least, not if he planned on lying, which he absolutely intended to do.
“Do I really need to tell you that grave robbing is a crime?” O’Meara lowered his light and Dane squeezed his eyelids closed and tried to shake away the bright spots that filled his vision.
“I wasn’t robbing a grave. I’m doing research.”
“I don’t have time for your lies. Give me Adams’ journal and I’ll let you go.”
“Did you say Adams’ journal?” Dane couldn’t believe it.
“Try playing games with me and I’ll shoot you for resisting arrest.” O’Meara took a step closer, still holding his revolver steady. “Give me the journal.”
“How did you know?” Sudden understanding struck him. “You’re a Son of the Republic.”
“Not as dumb as you look. I appreciate you being our bloodhound, but your usefulness is at an end. I’m not going to tell you again. Give me the journal.” He leveled his service revolver at Dane’s midsection.
Dane considered his options. Running was not a good idea. At this distance, O’Meara would have to be a lousy shot to miss, and he stood too far away for Dane to try wresting the weapon from his grasp.
“Fine.” Dan closed the book, sighed, and tossed it in a high arc.
As the book flew through the air, two things happened: someone cried out in the darkness and, as O’Meara turned toward the sound, a rock struck him on the forehead. He crumpled to the ground, clutching his head.
Dane took off, weaving through the maze of gravestones and crypts, following the sound of pounding feet that he knew to be Bones and Jillian. He caught up with them quickly, and they ran together until they reached the Benjamin Franklin statue far along the Freedom Trail. Fresh off the first stage of SEAL training, the run took no toll on Dane or Bones, but Jillian was gassed. She stood, hands on knees, gasping for breath.
“You think he’s coming after us?” Bones asked, looking out into the darkness.
“If he does, it won’t be on foot. He’d never catch up with us, assuming you didn’t give him a concussion. In any case, he has no reason to follow us now. I gave him the journal.”
“You did what?” Jillian panted. “We have to go back. You can’t let him have it.” She started to head back in the direction they had come, but Dane stopped her with four words.
“We don’t need it.”
Jillian froze and turned slowly around, stray locks of hair plastered to her glistening forehead. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll show you.”
They huddled in the shelter of the dense shrubbery by Old City Hall, and Dane took out the leather cover.
“There was nothing in the journal, but look at what it was wrapped in. I didn’t realize what I was looking at, but it struck me right about the time O’Meara asked for the journal.” He shone his light on the symbols around the edge of the leather rectangle. “Look familiar?”
“The symbols from the key! So the journal itself was a red herring. Nice job, Maddock.” Bones gave Dane an enthusiastic fist bump. “Some of these are pretty worn out, though. Do you we’ll be able to translate them?’
“I’ve got a plan. Jillian, lend me your notebook and pencil.” He tore out a sheet of paper, laid it over the leather square, and began lightly rubbing the edge of the pencil lead over the paper. Soon, the symbols appeared.
“My partner knows his stuff.” Bones’ voice held a note of pride.
“Partner?” Dane raised an eyebrow and passed the sheet to Jillian for translation.
“You prefer amigo, maybe? Kemosabe? Soul sister?”
“Partner is fine.”
In two minutes, Jillian had a translation. “It’s sort of a poem.”
Beneath the twin beacons.
That kindled liberty.
Behind the Gates of Freedom.
The Father and his words.
“Um. Okay.” Bones scratched his head. “Is this, like, about God? You know, the Father?”
“I don’t think so.” Dane mulled it over. “Remember, the Sons of the Republic are looking for Washington’s Prophecy.”
“Yes!” Jillian’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Even in his lifetime, George Washington was known as the ‘Father of His Country.’ Adams would certainly have been familiar with that title, and would likely have used it.”
“You’re right. That should have been obvious. My bad.” Bones took the poem from Jillian and looked it over. “If I’m not mistaken, we’ve got the ‘twin beacons that kindled liberty’ right here in our backpacks. Now we need to figure out what the ‘beneath’ part means.”
Dane looked at Jillian and could tell they were thinking the same thing.
“I know exactly where we need to go.”
CHAPTER 15
Dane gazed up at the steeple of the Old North Church. Fitting that the search would end here at this 270 year-old house of worship where, in 1775, sexton Robert Newman hung two lanterns, thus warning the Charlestown patriots of the movements of British forces.
“One if by land, two if by sea,” he whispered.
“Talking to yourself?”
Dane jerked his head about, startled by Bones’ sudden appearance. “How did you manage to sneak up on me like that?” Dane prided himself on his acute hearing and vision, and sharp instincts. Seldom could someone do to him what Bones had just done.
“I’m your worst nightmare: a SEAL-trained Indian. You ought to see me up in the mountains. Of course, that’s impossible.”
“Do you see Jillian anywhere?”
“She should be here any minute. I kept an eye on her most of the way, but don’t let her know that. She looked so proud of herself, getting all sneaky.”
They had split up before making their way back up the Freedom Trail to the church, figuring they stood a better chance of eluding O’Meara that way. Dane hoped the police officer and Son of the Republic had gone to work on deciphering the journal, and would leave them in peace, at least long enough for them to find the Gates of Freedom and whatever lay beyond them. He caught a glimpse of a shadow moving toward them, and relaxed. Jillian had made it.
“Here she comes,” Bones whispered.
“I see her.”
“Maglites on thr
ee. One... two...”
On three, they spun and shone their lights in Jillian’s face.
“Fine, I suck at sneaking. Now turn those things off.”
“So, how do we get in?” Dane asked. “Bones, could you pick the lock?”
“Probably, but I’ll bet the door is alarmed. Let me take a quick look around.”
They circled the old church, Bones scrutinizing every window. Finally, when they reached the back, he stopped. “I don’t see alarms on any of these windows. I hate to do it, but I think our best bet is to pop out one of the small panes of glass,” he indicated the window just to the right of the back door, “and raise the sash.”
“Do it quietly.” Dane looked around, still expecting O’Meara to appear at any moment. He watched as Bones took out a handkerchief, wrapped it around his hand, and knocked out the pane above the window latch. The tinkling of shattering glass sounded like gunfire in the quiet night. Still using the handkerchief to cover his hands, Bones reached inside, opened the latch, and forced the window upward. It rose with a shrill squeak, and Dane stole a glance around the side of the building to see if anyone was on the street, but they were still alone. So far, so good.
Minutes later, they were inside the church. Bones closed the window, expressing regret that, if he’d only had the proper tools, he could have removed the glass without shattering it.
“How many burglaries did you commit when you were a kid?” Jillian asked.
“More than seven, less than a thousand. That’s all you need to know.”
“So, where do we begin our search?” Dane asked Jillian. “Downstairs, I assume.”
“Most people don’t realize there’s a crypt beneath Old North Church. Thirty-seven tombs and over a thousand bodies. I think it will be down there.”
She led the way into the basement. They descended a winding, narrow staircase, their footsteps echoing loudly off the wooden steps. At the bottom, a door on the left opened into the crypt.
Here, the walls were rough brick, some tombs sealed with doors of wood or slate, others covered in plaster. Above them were gray slate nameplates memorializing those entombed beneath the historical church.
“What are we looking for?” Bones whispered.
“Anything that catches your eye. The crossed circle, something related to the Sons of Liberty. Go with your gut.”
As they moved through the crypt, the weight of history seemed to settle on Dane. His eyes passed across name after name, the dates driving home the significance of this place. The longer they searched, however, the less hopeful he felt.
“It has to be here,” Jillian whispered.
“Keep looking.” His voice rang hollow. The dark, twisting passageway ended up ahead, and nothing looked promising.
Bones held his light up to the nameplate above the last tomb. “Here lies Culper Ring. That’s a weird name. No birth and death dates.” He turned back to face Dane and Jillian. “Guess we’ve hit a dead end.”
“I don’t think so.” Dane brushed past Bones and began a careful examination of the tomb and the surrounding wall.
“What do you mean?” Jillian’s hopeful voice held a measure of doubt, as if reluctant to believe they hadn’t failed.
“It’s not a person’s name. The Culper Ring was one of George Washington’s spy rings during the war.”
“You’re sure it’s not just a coincidence?” Bones asked.
“Nope, but I’ve got a feeling.” He lowered the beam of his light to the floor and his heart leapt. “Now I’m sure.”
On either side of the tomb, shallow indentations in the shape of the lantern bases were carved in the stone. Metal bands formed the lines of the cross.
“That’s got to be where the lanterns go!” Bones exclaimed.
Dane and Jillian removed the lanterns from their backpacks and carefully set them in place.
“Any day now,” Bones muttered.
The tomb remained sealed.
Dane tried switching the lanterns, then turning them as if they were keys, but met with no success. He removed one and touched the recessed area in the floor. The metal bands seemed out of place. The crossed circle could have been carved into the stone, so why the metal? He ran a finger across the smooth, cold surface of one strip.
Cold!
Inspiration struck in a flash. Could it be?
“Maybe the lanterns need to be lit!”
“If they do, we’re screwed,” Bones said. “I doubt there’s still oil in these babies after two hundred years.”
Dane cursed and pounded his fist into his open palm. Could they escape unseen, find a store open and selling lamp oil on Independence Day, and sneak back down here without getting caught or once again running afoul of the Sons of the Republic? Would their quest be thwarted by something so mundane?
“Actually, we’re good to go.” Jillian pulled a small can out of her pack and handed it to Dane. “I know it’s dumb, but I thought it would be cool to explore the Gates of Freedom using Paul Revere’s lanterns, so I replaced the wicks and brought a little lamp oil.” “You might have saved the day.” In short order, he had filled the lanterns. Jillian offered him a disposable lighter, but Bones objected.
“Put that crap away.” He produced a Zippo and handed it to Dane. “Only the best.”
“I’ve never seen you smoke.”
“I don’t. I just think Zippos are cool. You can’t deny it came in handy.”
“True. Now, let’s see if I’m right.” Dane set the lanterns back in place, lit the first, then held his breath and lit the second. He was out of ideas. If this didn’t work...
He hadn’t needed to worry. The lanterns blazed brightly and, with a hollow clack, the doorway to the arched tomb slid sideways into the wall.
“Yes!” Bones raised his arms in exultation. “You are the man!”
Stale, damp air wafted forth, causing the lanterns to flicker. Dane shone his Maglite through the opening, revealing a downward sloping tunnel. The Liberty Tree was engraved in the stone floor beneath the words, “The Gates of Freedom.”
Here was the passage they had sought-- the hidden entrance to the secret headquarters of the Sons of Liberty.
“Let’s move, Maddock. Think we should take the lanterns with us?”
“I do. Maybe we can find something to wedge the door open, though. We don’t want to be trapped inside.
Bones pried a few of the loose bricks out of the wall and set them in place.
“All right.” Dane handed one lantern to Bones and hefted the other. “Let’s see where she leads.” Heart racing, he took a step inside.
A sense of exhilaration surged through him at the knowledge that he followed a path no one alive had taken. He felt the same heady sensation that came over him whenever he dove on a sunken ship, or into an underwater cave, but more intense.
Behind them the door began to slide back into place until, with a loud thump, it ground to a halt halfway across.
“I wonder if it’s still under warranty?” Bones mused. “I guess we didn’t need to wedge it open after all.”
Dane led the way down into the darkness. Bones’ and Jillian’s footsteps echoed, one heavy, one light, as they followed. Constructed of the same brick as the crypt, the tunnel peaked in an arch about six feet high—just enough clearance for Dane to pass without ducking. Bones wasn’t so fortunate, and he complained vociferously as they descended.
“Shut up, Bones. You’re ruining the mood,” Jillian scolded.
The tunnel curved to the left and then, straight ahead, ended at a set of double doors.
“Oh my God, we’ve found it.” Jillian’s voice trembled. She quickened her pace, hurrying past Dane.
“Stop!” Dane called, taking her by the arm and pulling her back.
“What’s up?” Bones poked his head over Danes shoulder.
“Look.” Dane raised his lantern high. Here, the sloping passage leveled out, and the walls and ceiling were perfectly square. Up above, a single, gray slab hun
g with no visible means of support. “I don’t like the looks of this.”
“A booby trap?” Bones sounded doubtful. “I think you’ve seen too many movies, Maddock.”
“Why else would they square off just this part of the passageway, when everything else, even the doorway, is arched? And check that out.”
He pointed to the floor, where the coppery scales and onyx eye of giant, segmented rattlesnake gleamed in the lamplight.
“Creepy.” Bones shifted his weight from foot to foot, evidently discomfited by the sight. “Why use a chopped up snake? Some weird cult?”
“No, it’s from Benjamin Franklin’s Join or Die cartoon. It symbolized the need for the colonies to be united against the British.”
“You think those are the steps?” Bones asked.
“The opposite, I believe. Do you remember your American history?”
“Don’t Tread on Me.” Jillian squeezed Dane’s arm. “I think you’re right.”
“Fifty-fifty chance, then.” Bones ran his fingers through his hair. “Is it really worth it? I mean, I want to see this through, but do we want to take the chance of getting squashed just to see this headquarters, or whatever is back there?”
“I’m going.” Before they could stop her, Jillian stepped over the snake’s rattle and onto the slate floor. She froze, looking up, but the ceiling held fast. “Come on, chickens,” she called, carefully making her way to the other side.
Dane and Bones followed along. Bones’ feet were so large, and some of the places they could safely step were so small, that Dane worried they wouldn’t make it across without a misstep, but Bones proved to be more than agile enough to safely navigate the passageway.
“It wasn’t any worse than the obstacle courses we’ve run through in training.” Bones saw the relief in Dane’s eyes. “Quit worrying about me and open these doors.”
Carved in the face of the two doors, the Liberty Tree spread its branches before them. Dane reached out and twisted the handles, and was pleased to find they turned easily. He pushed the doors open and damp air, heavy with the smell of mold, assaulted his nostrils.
