“That’s okay.”
Treece took a hammer and chisel from the counter, sat down at the table, and set the black lump in front of him. The hammer looked like a toy in his huge, scarred hand; his thumbnail was as big as the face of the hammer head. But he used the tools as gently and deftly as a gem-cutter. He probed the lump, chipping here and there, found a hairline crack near the center, and lined the chisel blade on the crack. He banged the chisel once, and the lump fell apart in two pieces. Examining the two halves, he smiled. “It’s a nice one. Can’t quite read the date, but otherwise, it’s a dandy.”
“What is it?” said Sanders.
“The bones of a piece of eight, ancestor of the bloody dollar.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look.” Treece held the two halves of the lump to the light. In the black mass, Sanders saw the faint imprint of a cross, a castle, and a rampant lion. “That was once a silver coin. When it hit the briny, it began to oxidize.
Then it became silver sulfide. That’s all that’s left, a shadow. Silver does that, unless there’s a heap of it, or it lies up against iron. Then it’s preserved pretty well.”
“You mean a Spanish piece of eight?” said Gail. “It can’t be.”
“It is that, girl. Eight silver reals, as common as a shilling in those days.”
Gail said, “It was worth a dollar?”
“No. What I meant was that it’s from the piece of eight that the dollar sign came. Look here.”
Treece spread the dust from the black lump and drew in it with his finger. “Spanish accountants used to register pieces of eight like this: a P next to an 8. That got to be a burden, so they shortened it like this.” He drew an 8 and a P together, rubbed out a few lines, and was left with: …
“How old is it?” asked Gail.
“I don’t know. I couldn’t read the date. A couple of hundred years, anyway.”
“It can’t be!”
Treece laughed. “Do tell,” he said tolerantly. “Where did you find it?”
Gail said, “We found it on Goliath.”
“Not possible.” Treece paused, then said quietly, “Goliath went bubbles in 1943. She was carrying no Spanish coins.”
“Well, that’s where we found it. David did. In the rocks.”
“Ah well,” Treece said. “You do find them now and again. Sometimes they even kick up in the surf.”
“Could there be more?” Gail asked.
“Aye.” Treece smiled. “And beneath that could be Atlantis. You found one coin—not even a coin, a skeleton of one. Imagine: Suppose there was an earthquake right now that broke off this bloody cliff and plunged us into the sea. And suppose three hundred years from now some divers come across the wreckage, and the first thing they find is a penny that spilled out of my pocket. Now, they’d be fools to conclude that they’d come upon the treasure hoard of some Bermuda panjandrum.”
Sanders said, “But there could be more.”
“Possible, aye, I won’t deny it. There’s more mysteries hidden by the sea than you or I can fathom, and once in a while she unravels one, in her own time. But usually she just teases you, gives you trinkets to keep you interested. Then she spits in your eye.”
“I read somewhere about a kid who was walking in the sand and scuffed up a fifty-thousand-dollar gold chain.”
Treece nodded. “It happens. But if you wait around for it to happen to you, you’ll go mad.”
“Should we look for more coins tomorrow?” Gail asked.
“No. You wouldn’t recognize them if they fell on yonr foot. Don’t go picldng up every Christ lump of black rock you see.”
Treece led the Sanderses out the back door and around to the front of the house. The dog followed, sniffing and wagging her tail.
“How will we get in touch with you?” Sanders said.
“As you did today. A long ride it may be, but it keeps visitors infrequent and sincere. In an emergency, you could ring my cousin Kevin.”
“Not Kevin’s Lunch. We stopped for directions.”
A hint of displeasure must have shown on Sanders’ face, for Treece laughed and said, “How much did they cost you?”
“Ten dollars.”
“He is some kind of mercenary bastard, Kevin is. He’s all right, but if there’s a way to suck money from dirt, he’ll find it.”
Gail said, “He seemed very… protective of you.”
“He is. Most folks here are. It’s a tradition.”
“To protect you?”
“To shield whichever one of us Treeces is keeping the light. When the bloody bastards dumped us here as slaves in the eighteenth century, they put a sheriff and a band of thugs in charge of keeping us in line. But we didn’t take well to slavery, and after a bit we scalped the sheriff and threw him and his lot to the fish. Then they jolly well let us be.
We set our own order. A Treece was elected chief, for two reasons: We were always bigger than anybody else, and there were more Treeces around than anybody else, so we always had ample blood kin to help put down any dust-ups. It’s been this way for over a century.”
“You’re the chief now?” Gail said.
“In a way. The job doesn’t amount to much. I arbitrate disputes, and I deal with the Bermudians whenever we have something to deal with them about, which is blessedly seldom. And I keep the light, which is the only part of the job that pays. But it’s not a bad job, especially in the years before you take it. It’s like being the bloody Prince of Wales. When my father was alive, the Islanders paid for my education in England. There’s a feeling that the chief should be educated. I don’t know why: a degree isn’t much help in thumping a rascal or returning a fellow’s stolen goat.”
“There is crime here, then,” said Gail. “We were warned not to stay after dark.”
“Not to speak of, at least not among St. David’s people. But the warning has merit: Off-islanders are fair game.”
“And when you retire,” Gail said, “your son takes over?”
“He would,” Treece said evenly, “if I had a son.”
The flatness of Treece’s tone embarrassed Gail. Sanders noticed her discomfort, and he said, “We’ll leave the ampule with you?”
“I would,” Treece said. “Nobody’d be fool enough to come in here after it, and it’s for sure no dizzy bugger’s going to knock me down and try to rifle my pockets.” He moved to the gate. “Be sure you want to do this. You’re on holiday. There’s no reason for you to muck about with this if you’d rather not.”
“What could happen?” Gail asked.
“I imagine nothing. But you’re never sure what people will do when they smell money. Especially some of the black bastards around here.”
Treece noticed that Gail started at the words “black bastards” and he said, “Racist.
Prejudiced bugger. Fascist. No. I have no prejudice. But I do have my biases. And my reasons. The blacks on Bermuda have ample to complain about, and they do ample complaining. But they’ve got a way to go before they earn my respect.”
“But you can’t—”
“Come on,” Sanders said, cutting her off. “Let’s not turn this into a symposium on ethnic attitudes.” He said to Treece, “See you tomorrow.”
“Good.” Treece opened the gate for them and shut it after them. As soon as the gate was closed, the dog reared up on her hind legs, put her front paws on the fence, and began snarling and barking.
Treece laughed. “You’re tourists again.”
They walked their motorbikes down the hill toward the road in front of the lighthouse.
“We should be sure we want to do this,” Gail said.
“I’m sure. What an opportunity to do something. I’m sick of reading about what other people have done or writing about other people’s good times. You can’t live your whole life vicariously. It’s like masturbating from cradle to grave. Anyway, all we’ve agreed to do is dive tomorrow, which we want to do anyway, and see what’s there. If we find anything-then we can worry about what to do next. But I’m not walking away from this before we know more.”