Given the conditions, the massive quarter horse could only move at a pace that a slow man might manage on foot, but eventually Washington arrived near the outside gate of the fort. He dismounted, secured the beast, and made his way closer without a lantern. A tree defoliated by the hurricanes which regularly buffeted the island provided a thick enough trunk to conceal him.
The lanterns adorning the area around the gate were visible through the torrent only as fuzzy splotches of light. He spotted a single guard standing in place, holding a lantern even more anemic than the fixed ones. For the next thirty minutes, Washington watched in silence. The only interruption he witnessed was another guard approaching from along the fortified walls, clearly finishing some sort of patrol. The new arrival took up the static position and the initial guard began trudging back in the direction from which the newcomer had come. Washington felt some compassion for the man, who even through the dark and rain gave the impression of hopelessness.
Were he actually planning an incursion into enemy territory, Washington would not have proceeded. He didn’t know if there were more guards. He didn’t have a full idea of what lay on the seaward side of the fort. But he strongly suspected he had seen all he needed to see, so after a moment, he began moving in the same direction as the departing guard. He remained forty yards away from the wall, feeling exposed.
Soon enough, the gate was out of sight. He stopped after another fifty yards, moving quickly toward the wall. One thing the British had done correctly was to keep the area surrounding the walls of the fort clear of significant vegetation aside from scrub no more than eighteen inches tall. Ironically, he would be less exposed right up against the fort itself than at any point approaching it.
He never reached the wall. A cough from behind him stopped him in his tracks after only a few steps. He whirled, taking less than a second to weigh the pros and cons of drawing his pistol. He decided against it.
He saw nothing. He felt exposed, wishing for a lantern but knowing he had made the right decision in proceeding without one. Minutes passed, and he allowed his eyes to adjust fully to the darkness. He thought he could make out a shape in the dark, not right in front of him but close enough for him to pick it up. Then again, it could be his mind playing tricks on him after staring at nothing for so long.
Then he heard the cough again, and he decided to press the issue. “Show yourself.”
Hearing no response, he persisted. “I am no enemy if that’s what you’re concerned about.”
After a heartbeat, a phlegmy explosion pierced the night, as if a cannon were fired several times under water. The shape in the dark appeared again, this time with more substance and moving toward him. He reached for his pistol. The man — for by now it was clear that the shape was human — came closer. Then he collapsed at Washington’s feet.
“Enemy or friend, none of that will be my concern for much longer.”
The voice was a low and raspy whisper, heaving with effort. A light appeared, and Washington saw a lantern on the ground with a set of gnarled fingers wrapped around the handle. The man must have kept it shielded until this moment. This man could not be part of the garrison, and Washington began to wonder if the light would attract the attention of the guards. He had been prepared for the possibility of being captured inside the fort, so he wouldn’t spend any time worrying about discovery fifty yards away.
“Who are you?” Washington heard his own voice as a hard challenge, but this unaccustomed situation had removed some of the filter he generally applied to his direct nature.
Another series of coughs preceded the answer, this one more distressed than the prior. “I shouldn’t tell you. It is supposed to be a secret. It’s been a secret for over three decades. But I am an old man, and I may not make it through the night. My name is Israel Hands.”
Washington waited.
“I see that name means nothing to you. That is no surprise, as my name has meant nothing to anyone since before you were born. But perhaps you have heard of the ship I commanded. It was called the Adventure.”
A bubble of recognition bounced in Washington’s brain, but it didn’t settle anywhere. “I am sorry, sir, but I’m not familiar with that vessel,”
Hands held up the lantern and squinted. “Ah yes, you are indeed a young man. No doubt you’ve heard of the sister ship of the Adventure. That was originally called La Concorde, but you would know it as the Queen Anne’s Revenge.”
Washington did know the ship, and his hand went to his pistol again. The next sound that came from Hands’ mouth was either a cough or a laugh. “Put away your pistol. I am no threat to anyone, least of all a man from Virginia.”
Washington’s eyes went wide, and his hand stayed put. “You know of me?”
This time, the laugh was more pronounced. “I do not. But I have an ear for accents, and I spent much time in Virginia. I was nearly hanged there.”
“From what you’ve said so far, that is not surprising.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge, young sir. When you hear the full story, you will…” Hands began coughing again, expelling red gobs large enough to be seen even by dull lantern light in the rain. He collapsed onto his side and drew his knees to his chest, his chest heaving with every cough.
Washington knew some people found him cold, but he was not without compassion. He dropped to his knees and put a hand on the man’s forehead. The heat radiated even before their flesh touched. Washington kept his hand there until the coughing subsided.
Hands didn’t move from a near-fetal position, but he spoke again. “I have come so close, but I have failed. Listen if you will about one of the greatest treasures known to God and man. I was pardoned over three decades ago when I was but a step from the gallows. Since then I have dedicated myself to finding the treasure. I’m sure you heard rumors about it and dismissed them as the fantasies of the weak-minded. I spent many years without a single clue, but I finally retraced our steps to this island. To be honest, I held out little hope.”
“The island has given me two things. The first is the location of the journal. Yesterday I tracked down Cyrus Vane, a sailor on the Revenge, one hell of a fighter and a scoundrel. With a tongue loosened by rum, he told me of the journal.”
Washington felt his pulse quicken. Hands had referenced the very thing which had piqued his own interest. Washington believed in God in the same way many rational men of his standing did: as a distant entity whose existence was certain but whose role in day to day life was largely irrelevant. For the first time in his life, he wondered if he had received a sign from God.
“What was the other thing the island gave you?”
Hands still had not moved, but his voice was clear enough. “The other thing the island gave me was smallpox. Sometimes I wonder if our Lord has a sense of humor.”
Another coughing fit began, and Washington stood quickly. Smallpox was not common in Virginia, and he had never been exposed. But he’d heard enough of its horrors to experience fear at seeing an infected man lying before him. In fact, it took most of his willpower not to back away.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“The secret can’t die with me. The treasure, it is so much more than I believed…”
What is in the journal? And what is the treasure?”
Hands raised a single finger and spoke in wracked breaths. “Cayman Brac… beneath the eagle…”
Another cough, wet and weak, and Hands breathed no more.
ONE
Dane Maddock had always wondered whether a single finger could support one hundred and ninety pounds of Navy SEAL. Clinging to the edge of a rock face fifty feet above the ground, he suspected he was about to find out.