The Last Treasure (18 page)

January 23, 1813

Another day and again, no delivery of supplies. The storm has reached us, twisting the surf and pelting the shore. Streaks of lightning break across the sky for hours. Thunder too, shaking the ground almost as much as I do when I fall into one of my coughing fits. I think Simon is scared too, but I am not sure of what. And perhaps that scares me most of all.

Twice I was certain I saw my sweet Aaron tumbling in the shallow surf, the way he did the first time Joseph and I brought him to the water's edge. I wept uncontrollably, just grateful Simon wasn't near. The mind can be so terribly cruel. Does it mean to hearten me with these visions—or drive me further into despair?

January 24, 1813

Visions of my capture return to me often now, relentless in their clarity. I wish to purge them, Papa. I can no longer carry them alone.

I should never forget the noise of that night, the screams of my fellow passengers, the shattering of our ship as she was swept into flames. But it was the crack of her steadfast bones as she surrendered to the sea, wood and flesh drowning as one, that I will never erase from my memory.

I can still see the flash of light on the horizon, blinking like a star just above the black swells of the sea.

If it occurred to any of us on deck that the glare might be false, that it might not be a lighthouse beacon at all but a hobbled horse forced to march up and down the beach with a lantern around its poor neck, no one dared to say. Our ship battered, our bodies drenched and shivering—when death is so close you swear you can feel its breath warming your icy cheek, hope is far too precious to squander. When we were faced with
drowning, the threat of trickery by pirates may have seemed an enviable alternative to most of us.

No, not until our ship foundered on the shoals and we saw the first advancing Bankers' boat charging toward us through the pelting rain did we want to believe anything but that we'd been spared the wrath of the storm. By then, there was no time for escape. Some of us scurried below—where we should have remained in the first place, according to our weathered captain—but I refused to hide. If there has been one blessing from losing my child, it is that I have no fear of death or dying—it is the threat of survival that scares me most of all. And though I know it will break your heart, dear Papa, to read this, in that black and sopping night, I may have prayed for the pirates to end my interminable mourning for my son.

But in the frantic minutes of their plunder, I was spared. Simon plucked me from the melee and dragged me into one of their boats. After I'd been shoved to my seat, there was a terrible roar, and I looked up to see the
Patriot
burst into fire, the reach of the furious flames nearly engulfing our tiny boat as we were steered away.

It is the pieces of what happened next that I fight my memory to retrieve. There was darkness, and unbearable noise: deafening howls and grunts that belong to animals but came from the mouths of men. The fetid smell of old clothes and dirty hair, the choking stink of smoke, the char of things meant to burn and those
unholy. I am not sure I will ever rinse those horrific tastes from my throat so long as I live. Nor will I ever be truly warm again. The air that bit at our skin as we crawled toward shore was deeper than cold. I will not lie—many times in that tiny, rocking boat, I considered how easy it would have been to tilt my body toward the edge and allow the water's churn to send me over the side. It would have been only moments before the frigid water had silenced my heart. But the same bitter chill that would have ended my suffering kept my muscles frozen, and I could barely blink, let alone rise.

And so I watched the land grow closer and closer, seeing with sickening clarity that the flash of light we had minutes earlier believed salvation was the deceitful flicker of a lantern, no more remarkable than any of the dozens that were now blazing across the sand to mark our arrival.

In the next instant, something damp and rough covered my eyes—hands?—but then came the squeeze at the back of my head, the knot of my blindfold being tightened, and fear bloomed fresh and deep. The boat lurched, hard enough to send me crashing into whoever—whatever—sat beside me on the thwart, and I could hear the scratch of the boat's bottom being dragged over the sand and slid back into the sea. Two men whispered, their voices raspy. I twisted my head, trying to glean their words, but all I could hear was my heart thundering.

I do not know for how long we crossed the water, or in what direction our tiny, miserable vessel charged. I may have lost consciousness—I know for certain it was not anything as peaceful as sleep—but what my eyes could not see, my mind observed keenly. The creak of the rowlocks as they turned with each stroke, the slap of the oar paddles breaking through the whitecaps.

Then a slowing, and a change in the wind. The smell of low tide, the salty, metallic flavor of mud and clay filled my throat, and I knew we'd returned to shore.

When I felt the weight of hands on my head, I recoiled so fiercely that I nearly capsized and a pair of panicked voices collided. A quick tug and the canvas around my eyes loosened, then fell away. I squinted against the shock of daylight and saw first what I still see now through my room's only window. Simon, and a crooked shack atop the rise.

Now you know everything, Papa. That I have waited, that I have held hope. That no matter what, I love you always.

January 25, 1813

I will be brief today. These coughing spells exhaust me and I fear losing control of my pen when one comes on. Still no news. I have lately seen worry on Simon's face—and I cannot be certain which of us he worries for most. He tells me he will send word with the boat
captain to bring back a doctor when he comes with the next delivery and the news helps me sleep a bit. Or maybe it is just the whiskey he gives me. Did it come with the last delivery?

He tells me when I am feeling better, we should take another walk down to the beach, even longer than before. He tells me I am lovely. He tells me I am kind. I feel the slightest bloom of hope, of pleasure, and I allow myself to savor it. I believe you and Joseph would not begrudge me this reprieve, that there is no crime or disloyalty in it.

I send this wish to whoever needs it most: Please hurry.

January 26, 1813

There is no ransom. There is no doctor coming. There will be no boat ever again.

There is no rescue but that of God's will and his delivery of me to my son, and one day, to you and Joseph, Papa. I understand all of this now and I am at peace.

Simon understands this too and I feel sorry for him. He has a child he will never see again. A woman he might have loved deeply. Like me, he was delivered to this island falsely. We are both castaways now, abandoned to end our days at a forgotten lighthouse that once offered rescue. We have only each other.

There is just enough cornmeal left for a small pair of cakes, both of which Simon insists I eat, though we both know my countenance is too far from repair.

Should he ever escape this island, I have asked him to deliver his painting of me to you, Papa. He promises me he will. Along with it he promises to bring this brief record of my life here, so that you may know I was cared for, and that I left this world without fear. I cannot bear to think on the horrors you and Joseph have imagined for my fate. May this record provide you with some comfort, and most of all, the proof that I must surely be gone, for otherwise we would be together, Papa. No earthly binds could keep us apart.

I think Simon will be sad to lose me. Perhaps it was my imagination, or wicked tricks of my feverish brain, but today I swore I saw moisture in his eyes, Papa.

I am just glad one of us still has tears to shed.

•   •   •

“T
his can't be all of it.”

Liv isn't even aware that she's blurted this out loud, or that her fingers have lunged for the journal, until Sam puts a hand over hers to slow her advance.

“Liv.” His voice is gentle but firm.

She blinks up at him as if he's yanked her out of a deep sleep, but his intervention isn't needed. Beth has already moved the book out of reach and closed it. She plucks off her white gloves, finger by finger. “Incredible, isn't it?”

Is that the word? Surely there must be another, Liv thinks. All the years she's spent on this search, the piles of theories she's built up.
Incredible
seems hardly grand enough a word. Yet it's not only awe she feels—something else she can't quite land on. Uncertainty. Tiny but strong. A hangnail of doubt that she can already feel herself begin to tug on. She wants to read the entire book again. She's missed something. But Beth picks up the journal and holds it possessively against her chest, the plastic slipcover catching the ceiling fluorescents.

Liv looks at Sam, hoping he will request more time—surely he can't be satisfied with just one read?—but he's standing now too, and his expression is even, comfortable. Content.

Ripples of panic flutter through her, driving her to her feet. “There were a few passages I wanted to look over again,” she says. “I still have a few questions—”

Beth cuts her off with a tired laugh. “We all do, believe me,” she says, coming around the table. She gives the book a fond pat. “But I'm afraid I have to get this to our curator. I've scheduled a press conference for tomorrow morning.” Beth glances warmly at Sam. “We can't wait any longer.” She returns the book to the safe behind her desk. Liv watches the journal disappear, feeling another swell of regret; then she reminds herself that Beth didn't even have to share this with them, that just a peek was beyond generous. Still a small rustle of suspicion stirs behind her gratitude. “Are you all right?” Beth asks her. “You look positively pale.”

“She's in shock,” Sam says. “I know I am. I never gave any credence to the Bankers theory.”

“Neither did I,” says Beth. “But there's no disputing this
proof. I got goose bumps the first time I read it. Absolute chills. I'm sure you did too, Liv.”

No, Liv thinks to herself. She didn't. How is that possible? That she would be reading Theodosia's words, the answers she'd been searching for, and not feel the prickles of their weight?

“It's strange,” Liv whispers, not even sure she means to be heard.

“What's strange?” There's an edge of impatience in Sam's voice. When she glances over at him, he's frowning.

She'd been so sure he'd be the first to point it out.

“The windows,” she says.

“What windows?”

“The windows in the journal. In one entry, Theo refers to her room having a single window, and in others, several windows. You didn't pick up on that?”

Sam smiles but it's a small smile, a placating smile. “Liv, I only read it once.”

“So did I,” she says, not sure what his point is. “It's a glaring inconsistency, Sam. Really, it's huge.” She shifts her gaze to Beth, sure she will agree, but Beth simply shrugs.