by Otto Schafer
The jet engine droned a soft hum as Breanne slept, her head leaning against the oval window. To anyone watching, she would seem deep in a state of peaceful rest, but peace seldom visited her in her dreams. Today was no different.
The tan leather of the oversized passenger seat looked warm but felt cold on her bare legs. As she looked to the left, her mother smiled and said something. Not talking… singing. All around her, snow-covered cornfields. Blacktop. Tires screeching. Her mother screamed. Breanne felt her body go upside down. Glass rained over her. She screamed. A hand on her shoulder, shaking her.
“Baby girl. Bre. Wake up. It’s okay. It’s okay – you’re on a plane.”
Breanne gasped, “Daddy?” She sat up, orienting herself.
“Nightmare again?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
“Are you okay? You want to talk about it?”
“No, Dad. I’m fine, really.”
He gave her a skeptical look.
Shaking off the all too familiar nightmare, she stretched her arms and let out a long yawn.
“Bre, you can talk to me,” her father said, searching her eyes.
She turned away towards the window and peered onto the checkered fields of the Midwest.
At barely sixteen Breanne had graduated high school. Even with a year off after graduation to spend working in the field with her father, she was on course to earn her PhD before her twenty-third birthday. In one year, she would be reporting to Columbia University, his alma mater. Once there, she would begin studying for a career that would no doubt bring her a fulfilling future full of mystery, travel, and adventure. Her mother’s death had been difficult on them all, but for Breanne… there were just no words. Rather than the horrible tragedy extinguishing the drive within her, it fed it, manifesting in an insatiable determination to not only learn but master academia in the field of archeology. Breanne pushed herself beyond what was ordinary, perhaps even beyond what was healthy.
Despite her father abandoning the Mexico site, there was nowhere else she would rather be. Okay, well, not abandoning it, but opting to hand it off to peruse Oak Island. But Oak Island?! How did that even make sense? Well, regardless, she was happy to be with him, but she would have researched the crap out of this place if she had known. She’d tried to do some research at the airport, but the internet refused to cooperate. She hated not being in the know. “Well, since you won’t tell me why you’re dragging us to this Oak Island place instead of staying in Mexico, on a real site, will you at least tell me something about where we’re going?” she asked in an effort to change the subject from her nightmares.
He smiled. “I want to surprise you, and like I said, consider it payback for when I was on the phone with Jerry.”
“The plane won’t land for another hour… Please, Daddy,” she whined. Resorting to the whine always worked on Charles.
Her father’s shoulders bounced as he chuckled. “Yes, dear. Yes, of course. How could I say no to such a persuasive request?”
She smiled – she had him. Works every time.
“It’s quite the story, actually. Legend has it that in 1795 a young man in a small fishing boat noticed lights coming from the island and decided to investigate. Searching, he did not find the source of the lights, but instead found a clearing where he suspected the lights had originated. In the clearing, he discovered a depression under an old oak tree. He also noticed scarring on one of the old oak’s thick branches, directly above the depression. It was as if something had been lowered from the branch, possibly using a block-and-tackle rope system. Deducing he may have stumbled onto a pirate’s secret treasure stash, he left, returning the next day with two friends, pickaxes, and shovels. And so began the first dig in what would later become known as the legendary Money Pit.”
Breanne frowned skeptically. “Well, did they find anything?”
“Indeed,” he nodded.
“Well!” she said, shifting in her seat to face him fully.
Again, her father’s shoulders began to bounce as his barrel chest rumbled with laughter. “I think you might be the most impatient person I have ever met. Do you know that?” he asked between breaths as he took full enjoyment in her misery.
“And you must be the slowest storyteller I have ever met!” Breanne said, slapping her father on the shoulder in mock annoyance.
Her father threw a hand over his shoulder and winced, feigning injury. “My dear child, someone… Oh, who was it?” He paused again, pretending to consider.
Breanne rolled her eyes dramatically.
“Well, I forget who, but someone,” he continued, “once said, if history were only taught in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten.”
Breanne batted at the air. “I have a saying too. If my dad was the only guy on earth in charge of teaching history and chose to do it with stories… well, the world wouldn’t have many stories. Will you please just get on with it?” she begged.
“Alright, alright,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “Well, as the young men began to dig, they quickly realized they were onto something, as evident by the pick marks scarring the walls of the pit. At ten feet, they hit a layer of flagstone, sparking immediate excitement, followed by the discovery of a layer of wood logs directly below the stones. They knew they were about to discover something wonderful! After all, why in the hell would you put logs so deep in the ground if not to hide something? After much effort, the logs were removed, but to the disappointment of the men, they only discovered more dirt below.”
“That’s it?” Breanne interrupted.
“No, that’s not it.” He smiled. “They kept digging, and around twenty feet, they found that another layer of wooden logs was blocking their way. Finally, at around thirty feet, the men uncovered a third platform of logs. When the men found only dirt beneath the third platform of logs, they recognized they were not equipped to continue their quest. Now convinced more than ever that a pirate’s ill-gotten gains must lie somewhere below, the men vowed to one day return and continue the hunt when they were better prepared.”
“You’re kidding me! They just gave up?”
“Bre, I know you have been on digs with me, but honestly, have you ever tried digging down to thirty feet with nothing but a shovel? I know I haven’t.”
“Well, no, but they couldn’t have just given up.”
“It took the men nine years to return, but when they did, they did so with a partner and financial backing. They began digging again, and this time they were better equipped and able to dig much deeper. As the men pressed on, they continued to encounter the strange wood platforms around every ten feet. In addition, the men discovered bizarre layers of material at various depths, such as coconut fiber, some sort of putty, and charcoal. Finally, at a depth of almost ninety feet, they found a remarkable stone with markings unlike anything they had ever seen sitting on top of yet another wood platform. Legend has it that the stone inscription, translated years later, read, ‘Forty feet below, two million pounds of gold.’”
Breanne’s eyes widened.
“The men were excited, wanting so badly to continue, feeling they must be within reach of the treasure, but the sun had begun to set, plunging the pit into complete darkness. The escalated risk of working in the pit after dark was just too dangerous, so they decided to abandon the dig for the evening. They would get a fresh start the next morning at sunup and claim the prize they had worked so hard to retrieve. But the following morning they returned to the pit to find it had flooded, filling all but the first thirty feet with water.”
“Oh, no!” Breanne said.
“Oh, yes, and after several desperate attempts, the men realized that no matter how hard they tried, they could not remove the water fast enough, and the pit continued to fill. Ultimately, the men admitted defeat and were forced to abandon the dig.”
“That’s awful! All that work and for nothing,” she said, throwing herself back in her seat in disappointment.
�
�For these men, I’m afraid it was, but that was to be only the beginning of the story. Over the next couple hundred years, many more attempts to reach the bottom of the pit took place, but all ended in disappointment. In addition to the Money Pit, treasure seekers expanded their search of the island, making many discoveries, which all seemed to lead to more questions and ever-changing theories, but never to the treasure itself. Excavations continued from the mid-1800s all the way through to the present day, but all were unsuccessful. In total, six lives were lost over the years.”
Breanne leaned forward again. “Six lives? That’s horrible.”
Her father nodded. “The biggest obstacle thwarting treasure seekers’ attempts to get to the bottom of the mystery was water. Every time they exceeded ninety feet, water flooded the pit at an estimated rate of one thousand gallons a minute – too fast for a pump to keep up with. An attempt to dig a second shaft adjacent to the original pit also failed, ending in collapse.”
Breanne shook her head in disbelief. “How crazy is it people are willing to spend so much money and even die for a rumored treasure based on hearsay from three hundred years ago! All with no facts to support such an investment.”
Charles nodded, smiling. “You’re my daughter alright. You see things through the logic of a scientist. But humans are curious beings by nature, and thus have a primitive need to discover – to understand. Now, while the island has been stubborn about yielding its secrets over the years, it has slowly given up tiny nibbles, just enough to keep treasure-hungry hunters foraging for another bite.”
Breanne laughed. “Like what kind of tiny nibbles?”
“Now, this is all legend, and I don’t put much weight in legend. Allegedly, in the mid-1800s treasure hunters discovered coconut fiber under the rocky sands of a beach located on the north side of Oak Island, in an area known as Smith’s Cove. Further investigation led to the discovery of five separate tunnels that all connected to one main tunnel leading away from the beach west towards the Money Pit. Later, theorists speculated that the man-made tunnels were filled with stone, covered in coconut fiber, and hidden beneath the sands of Smith’s Cove. It was likely that these small tunnels fed water from the ocean all the way to the Money Pit, connecting at a depth of around ninety feet—”
“A trap!” Breanne exclaimed, putting it together before he could finish explaining. “That’s why they couldn’t get past ninety feet – why they couldn’t bail the water fast enough. It was designed to flood!”
“Precisely! The tunnel flood system was the perfect booby trap for would-be treasure hunters. The discoveries at Smith’s Cove led to theories that more flood tunnels may exist.”
Breanne’s interest was growing as she allowed herself to be drawn into the mystery.
“Other examples included interesting material allegedly pulled from impossible depths on the end of drill bits or sample plugs. These strange items included gold chain links, pieces of parchment with some kind of writing on it, mysterious metal pieces, and pieces of wood. Then there were the stones with strange markings arranged in all sorts of shapes, from a giant cross to strange triangles, positioned in various locations all over the island. No one knew for sure what any of the markings or arrangements meant, but everyone had theories.”
A moment of stillness passed between them as her mind raced; the only sound was the even drone of the plane’s engines. Something wasn’t adding up. She opened her mouth to ask the nagging question, but her father continued before she could articulate it.
“Finally, there’s the swamp.”
“Swamp?” she asked with a shrug.
“Yes, the swamp. Similar to Smith’s Cove, it’s just out of place and oddly shaped – like a perfect triangle. It sits in a low spot, nearly splitting the island in two. It’s only around eight feet deep, but all attempts to drain it have been unsuccessful. Treasure hunters have always theorized the swamp to be a large part of the mystery. People have said it symbolizes a woman’s womb or that it hides the Holy Grail, Templar treasures, Freemason connections, possibly a pirate ship. One theory even claimed the swamp to be the secret hiding place for Shakespeare’s lost works.”
Breanne blurted out a chortle of laughter. “Shakespeare’s lost works! Daddy, that’s ridiculous!”
“Indeed. But ridiculous or not, this island has captivated many treasure hunters to the point of losing not only their life’s savings, but their own lives to the quest.”
Breanne raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Okay, fine, but my father, the great Dr. Charles Moore, world-renowned archeologist, the best in his field, would not for one minute believe that there was anything more than fabricated legend and clever hoax associated with a story like this. So please, tell me, Dr. Moore, why are you buying into this? What do you really know that you’re not saying?”
He smirked. “You know, sometimes your cleverness scares me. Not only do you detect there must be something more, but then you try and flatter me. And you’re right, associating myself with a wild treasure hunt on the scale of Captain Kidd’s treasure or the Lost Dutchman Mine is a good way to ruin my reputation as a credible archeologist. In fact, I would be smart to have run the other way. Most everything that had supposedly been found has either disappeared over the years or become nothing more than a combination of legend and hearsay.”
“So why? Why risk your reputation? Why waste our season on something you couldn’t possibly be interested in?” There was no more laughter in her voice, only concern.
He hesitated and drew in a long breath. She was serious, and he knew it. “You’re right, Bre. I’ve never had any interest in having an association with this island, and for good reason. Up until a year ago, there was no proof of physical evidence – if it ever really existed in the first place.”
“Until a year ago?” she asked, the words not escaping her sharp ears. “Then what? What is it?” she begged.
He leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “I am not going to tell you.”
“Daddy!” she said, pulling away.
“Don’t Daddy me. I think a little adventure will be good for you before you head off to college. A little treasure hunting will be good for the soul.”
He laughed as she crossed her arms and frowned.
“Alright, here is your one clue. I am specifically interested in discoveries Jerry’s team made in the swamp over the last year.”
“The swamp?”
“The swamp.”
She stared at him in stunned disbelief. The man who taught her respect for the craft, respect for the process, respect for the skill required. Those words had come from her father, a man who had never had anything nice to say about the reckless methods of treasure hunters, their careless tactics, or their lack of process. A little treasure hunting – she wanted to check him for a fever.
He had continued to hold her in suspense as the plane descended into Halifax. He had said nothing more as they transitioned to the helicopter. In fact, it wasn’t until the helicopter finally touched down on Oak Island and she stood staring out over the swamp that he finally divulged the reason he had brought her here. It was the reason he himself had agreed to come in the first place. It was the bones.
5
Subdue the Enemy
Present day
Petersburg, Illinois
Garrett pulled the bottom of his shirt up to his brow and wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes. Turning his face to the late-morning sky, he squinted into the sun appraisingly. They had been at it for three hours now, and the sun was stretching higher into the sky with each passing minute, turning the breezeless hole into a hotbox of static air.
It was way too warm for this time of year, wasn’t it? Gosh, it had to be. Garrett swallowed, feeling grit in his teeth. It was all up in his nose too. His stomach growled as he scanned the small canvas of green leading to the back door of Eugene’s old Victorian house, perched atop a steep, wildflower-covered bluff overlooking a rustic cobblestone street. Usually you would get a breeze up on t
he bluffs, but if there was one, he sure couldn’t feel it today.
It was already nearing noon, but only now were Garrett and his pals Pete and Lenny beginning to get under the roots of the old gnarly stump. Feeling the time trickle away, they attacked with spade and shovel, removing scoop after scoop of dirt. Hard-packed and full of rocks, the ground around the old stump had proven a challenge. The stump’s roots stretched down deep into the earth, as if in search of the center. Even after a long life perched high on the bluff witness to the birth of Petersburg, providing shade to the old Victorian for nearly a century – even now, in death, the old stump stubbornly refused to give up its decades-old purchase.
Eugene, an accountant by trade, had agreed to pay the boys ninety-nine dollars and ninety-six cents for the project, each boy receiving thirty-three dollars and thirty-two cents along with one additional penny to throw into the pond upon completion of the project. This put Eugene at a total project cost of ninety-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents – one cent under budget, leaving Eugene one penny to throw into the pond along with the three boys.
The back door sprung open as a slight middle-aged man, clean-shaven, with just a horseshoe of manicured hair rimming his bald head, appeared, a wide grin on his face. “Once we get this stubborn oak octopus to let go of the earth, the rest of this project will be a breeze! We’ll turn this wooden grave into a goldfish pond in a flash!” Eugene declared, crossing the yard with purpose. He began circling the hole, his hand on the rim of his khaki slacks, which rode too high on his hips. “Then we’ll have the best part.” A wry smile broke across his face.
“What’s that, Eugene?” Garrett asked with a grunt, his gloved hands prying back the shovel handle.
Lenny leaned into Garrett’s ear. “Um, getting paid and getting the hell out of here.”
Garrett cleared his throat loudly, frowned, and shot him a look.