by Will Hobbs
“Dolla Bill said that the ‘hairy white skookum-man’ who took his canoe ‘swam like a fish’!”
“He must have been able to swim like a fish—you know what it’s like around the Chibahdehl Rocks. Jeremiah Flagg went on to say in his note that in the event that the man survived, as the Makahs’ early report of footsteps on the beach in the vicinity of the Cape might have suggested, he wanted me to know something about the man, as much as the letter he was sending conveyed. He thought that, being a retired ship’s captain, I would especially want to see justice done.”
Nathan’s father unfolded the letter and handed it to him. “Now, read.”
Dear Jeremiah,
I regret that it has been so many years since I have written. I trust that you are thriving in Portland and that your address remains the same. I hope in the coming year to visit in Portland, as I am no longer sailing to the Sandwich Islands. I am now engaged in the transport of lumber from the thriving young towns of Puget Sound, in Washington Territory, to San Francisco.
At the moment I am on my second voyage north, direct from San Francisco to Port Townsend, on the Burnaby. The Burnaby will be docked at Port Townsend once we reach Puget Sound, for most of a week. During that time I intend to do some sightseeing of a highly unusual nature, which is the subject of my letter to you. I will be visiting the very tip of Washington Territory, in the vicinity of Cape Flattery, on a treasure-hunting expedition.
“Treasure!” Nathan exclaimed, looking up from the letter. “Of course! Captain Bim told me a legend of a Spanish treasure, but I never took it seriously enough! I never thought it had anything to do with all this!”
“It’s a Spanish treasure Kane’s after, for certain,” his father agreed. “Now read on.”
Permit me, Jeremiah, to begin at the beginning, three years previous. A dying priest aboard my ship at that time, a Spaniard, entrusted me—burdened me, as I’ve come to realize—with a tale passed down to him as an inheritance. The tale concerned his grandfather, the Spanish commander of a fort in the Strait of Juan de Fuca in the last decade of the previous century. According to the priest, his grandfather was in possession of a fortune in bullion when he was forced to abandon the fort in Neah Bay. Fearing he was about to be intercepted by the English, the Spaniard left the treasure behind. Realizing that he might be killed or captured by the English, he made an ingenious map in two parts, neither of which would function without the other.
The maps were hidden inside two small bone pieces carved by the local Indians. One of these pieces, according to the priest, the commander hid in the wild environs of Neah Bay, in a location he described to me rather exactly before he died.
The commander kept the other map. As we know, the English succeeded in chasing the Spanish from the Northwest. The commander eluded capture by the English but died in Spain before he could attempt a return, to enemy territory, to recover the fortune. The bone piece with his map is now in my possession, having been given me by the priest.
I hesitate to describe the exact location where the priest told me that the corresponding piece is hidden. As you well know, the privacy of the mails cannot be trusted. More so, I fear those details being discovered by a partner I have engaged in this enterprise, who is presently aboard the Burnaby and whom I have come to distrust.
Regrettably, I did not distrust this partner at the time I shared the priest’s secret with him. His name is Simon Peterson, or so he says—I have come to doubt his truthfulness almost completely.
I met this Peterson on the Barbary Coast, which, as you likely know, is a district along the docks in the port of San Francisco. It is a colorful place in the extreme, a crossroads of seafaring men the world over. It was there I befriended a man of unique talents, this Simon Peterson, an educated man, an adventurer, and a man of immense personal charm. The tales he related at the docks would seem beyond belief, if he weren’t so mild, convincing, and engaging in his manner of telling them.
Peterson’s physical prowess lends plausibility to the adventures he recounted from the remote jungles of the Amazon, where he claimed to have lived with headhunters, to the savannas of Africa, where he claimed to have wrestled with a lion and put a knife into its heart. He appears something of a lion himself: blond-haired, long-maned, with an immense beard.
The first time I laid eyes on him, he had just accepted a bet, the bets of many men, that he could swim through the cold, seething waters of San Francisco Bay to Alcatraz Island. No one thought it possible, as drownings are a virtual certainty in those waters if a sailor so much as falls from a ship.
This Peterson stripped to the waist, kicked off his shoes, and dove into the bay. As you have already guessed, he survived his perilous swim and collected all bets. I was taken by Peterson’s triumph and by his mild manner upon being accorded the cheers and congratulations of hundreds at the dock. Thereafter I found his tales from the four corners of the earth entirely believable. Many of these tales were conveyed solely to me; we had become fast friends. Peterson’s preoccupation was treasure. He spoke of his searches in the West Indies for sunken galleons laden with gold, and of fabulous treasures that others had already found there.
At that time, I must say, I did not myself actually believe the account the priest had told me. It was merely a wonderful story and one which I felt compelled to share with my new friend. It was his belief in the priest’s story that began to convince me that it might have some truth behind it, and might indeed, as Peterson believed, lead us directly to a fortune in gold.
We declared ourselves partners. I showed him the bone piece I carry on my person; I showed him the map inside. I told him that the second map, according to the priest, was hid “in the wild environs of Neah Bay, in a place the local Indians would not go.” As I was about to tell him the exact nature and location of the place, I held myself back, feeling a twinge of fear, though at the time I had no reason to doubt his faithfulness. When Peterson pressed me, I explained, only half in jest, that if he knew everything, he would have no use for me. “Of course,” he agreed good-naturedly.
The day before we sailed, I happened to be walking the streets of Chinatown. A crowd was watching a performer. From its fringes I discovered that the performer was none other than Peterson. The entertainment: killing a live chicken by staring at it. I swear he did this. As you may well imagine, he collected bets from all around.
I withdrew before he noticed me, though I cannot be sure of it. The man’s powers of concentration while appearing to be looking elsewhere are nothing less than extreme. At any rate, I began to wonder if I had compromised my safety by entering into a partnership with a man of dubious if not sinister character, with nothing less than a fortune in bullion at stake to bring out the worst in his nature.
As inconsequential as the scene in the street may sound, it began to engender a fear in my own heart that has grown by the hour from that moment. Despite my best efforts at disguising my sudden and utter lack of confidence in him, Peterson sensed my anxiety with uncanny quickness.
Try as I might, I couldn’t think of a reason I might put forward for disincluding him in the voyage. Not one that Peterson would believe. On the morning we were to sail, he was late. I gave orders to prevent him from boarding if he arrived at the last moment. To my immense relief, we sailed without him, or so I believed. He appeared when we were several hours out of port, explaining that he had slept aboard the ship.
It is my intention to have no more to do with Peterson after we reach Port Townsend. It would be folly to allow him to accompany me to Neah Bay. If we were to discover a treasure, I have little doubt I would be dead moments later. When I see Peterson about the ship, I have the sense that he knows exactly what I am thinking; namely, that I am planning on parting ways with him when we dock.
I have begun to carry a pistol on my person. I believe that he has learned of my orders that would have banned him from boarding. I have deduced that Peterson is considering murdering me at sea. If I will not provide him with t
he details I withheld from him, what does he need me for? If he were to murder me for the map I am carrying, he might well be able to find the location of the second map by proceeding to the Indian village at Neah Bay, ascertaining locations that tradition forbids the Indians from visiting, and searching them. I was a fool to have ever told him so much!
It is possible, Jeremiah, that I am mistaken about Peterson, in which case I will write again from Port Townsend to reassure you.
If I come to harm, it is my hope that you will be able to have this man brought to justice.
With great trepidation, your brother Alexander
Nathan gave the letter back to his father. “Kane really did murder Captain Flagg and throw him overboard!”
“It would certainly seem so. Captain Flagg’s suspicions seem to have been well-founded.”
“With the storm and then the fog, the crew couldn’t make it around Tatoosh and into the Strait without their captain.”
“It would appear not.”
“Kane probably has Captain Flagg’s sla hal piece. And he’s looking for the other one,” Nathan said. “He’s been paying the Makahs to bring in every piece they can put their hands on.”
“Now we know why. And we know that if Fuca’s Pillar is indeed ‘the place the Indians wouldn’t go,’ as it would seem to be from George’s legend, then it appears that the Spanish priest’s treasure has no basis in fact. Kane would have found it by now. Unless there’s another place…”
Nathan’s mind was racing. “A place the Indians wouldn’t go…in the wild environs of Neah Bay…” In an instant of revelation, the ghost canoe came to mind, and the bone game pieces in the small cedar box. It would have made perfect sense for the Spaniard to hide the second map in an old Makah burial!
“What is it?” his father asked.
Nathan realized that if he told his father, his father might try to prevent Kane from finding the treasure before Kane could slip away. His father might not wait for the territorial marshal. For most of his life, he’d been the law aboard his ship. Even though his father knew how dangerous a man Kane was, he would act out of loyalty to a fellow ship’s captain, even a dead one.
“I was wondering…,” Nathan replied, “does the territorial marshal have this letter?”
“He has the original. He says, to remove Kane from Neah Bay now would be to set him free, since no evidence, despite the strength of this letter, links him sufficiently to the death of Captain Flagg, the loss of the Burnaby and its men—or the theft of Captain Bim’s life savings, once the marshal becomes aware of that additional crime. The marshal intends to wait.”
“Who knows in Neah Bay? The Indian agent?”
“No one. The knowledge would only endanger their lives. You’re the one most at risk, Nathan. You know everything now. Remember what Captain Flagg said in his letter. Kane can read people, sense their fear.”
“I won’t let on, not in the least.”
His father looked hard at him. “I’m counting on it. Remember, this man has already killed for this treasure, whether it be real or not. He’ll kill again without the slightest hesitation.”
“He already knows that I know about the knife that connects him to the burglary…. Would he kill me for that?”
“That would compromise his foothold at Neah Bay while he’s searching for the treasure. He must assume that others, including your mother and me, know about the knife as well. With the knife now beyond recovery in the sea, you are merely an annoyance to be watched closely.”
“Thank goodness!”
“Your knowledge of this letter, however, is another matter. Don’t give him the slightest indication of what you know, or further provocation of any sort, Nathan. It would mean your life.”
“I know.”
His father waved from the top of the cliff as Nathan got into the canoe with Lighthouse George and Young Carver. Lighthouse George handed him a paddle and said, “Are the salmon running yet?”
“Not yet,” Nathan replied, still preoccupied with the conversation he had been having with his father. “But it’s July now, and people say the salmon will run anytime.”
“Klo-she,” George said.
It was then that Nathan noticed George’s eyes. They seemed to have returned to the present moment. Was it possible?
“Do you remember me?” Nathan asked.
Lighthouse George smiled. “Sure, Tenas Mac. You’re a good puller with the paddle. We catch lotsa fish, you and me.”
Nathan looked to Young Carver, who said only, “Up in the lighthouse, he saw the whales.”
George said, “Young Carver told me what happened on the whale hunt—what you did. I thank you.”
“You would have been the first to harpoon the whale, George. If it weren’t for Dolla Bill.”
The Makah shook his head. “Trouble is George, not Dolla Bill. The whale remembers. Won’t come back to your house if you dishonored him.”
“We can always go fishing!”
“Salmon, Tenas Mac. Let’s catch us some salmon.”
18
No Pay, No Say
Lighthouse George wasted no time returning to his beloved country, the sea. “S’pose go fishing?” George said with a smile when Nathan answered the soft, familiar knock at the cottage door early the next morning. “I think Swimmer is back. I saw him in my dream.”
They paddled around Koitlah Point toward the Chibahdehl Rocks, to find out if George was right about the salmon entering the Strait. In the shallow waters between the rocks and shore, George’s keen eyes studied the waving kelp below the canoe until finally he said, “Tyee.” Nathan squinted. At last he saw the flash of the large sleek fish weaving through the kelp, and understood why George had called them “chief.” These were the biggest of all the salmon, the kings.
“How will you ever be able to use your fish harpoon?” Nathan wondered. “They’re all spread out.”
In reply, Lighthouse George took out his knife and smiled.
With a series of dives, while Nathan handled the canoe above, George opened a lane through the kelp bed. Then they anchored the canoe with heavy stones across the end of the lane. Within minutes, the king salmon were using the path, the easiest way through the kelp, and passing directly under their canoe. George brought up a thirty- or forty-pound king with his first try, and clubbed it smartly with his fish club. “This one special,” he said, and marked it by passing a short piece of line through its mouth and gills.
Soon it was Nathan’s turn to wield the harpoon and then haul the heavy kings over the side of the canoe.
As they were touching the beach at Neah Bay, with the canoe full of salmon, George held up that first salmon he had caught. It didn’t take long for hundreds of people to appear on the beach. The first salmon signaled a welcome ceremony and festivities. There would be singing and dancing that night, and a feast of roasted salmon, George explained.
Rebecca was there on the beach, excited as everyone about the salmon. She waited patiently until the commotion died down, and then drew George away and spoke to him softly in Makah. She was obviously troubled about something she thought only George should hear. Nathan thought at first it might be his mother that Rebecca was talking about, but when he followed George to the gate of the village graveyard, he found out it was Kane. Kane was on his hands and knees, in broad daylight, pulling objects out of one of the little spirit houses built over the graves.
Nathan saw that Kane had pulled out plates, teacups, saucers, and a toy rocking chair. He was reaching inside the miniature door for something else. What in the world was he doing? Nathan looked quickly to Lighthouse George. The Makah was outraged.
George waved with his arm and called, “Get away, you! Pelton tillicum!”
Nathan guessed that Kane didn’t know enough Chinook to realize that Lighthouse George had just called him a crazy person. But Kane knew well enough that he’d been chastised in no uncertain terms. “I’m putting everything back,” he called to George.
&
nbsp; George waited for Kane at the gate of the little cemetery. As the new trader approached, he said innocently, “Did I do something wrong? I was just so interested in the charming little houses. I didn’t take anything. I wasn’t sneaking around at night, as you can see.”
Lighthouse George had no patience for Kane’s explanation. “Wrong,” he said. “Very wrong.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” It wasn’t really an apology, Nathan realized. He could feel Kane’s eyes on him.
Lighthouse George wasn’t satisfied. “You show no respect for the dead.”
Nathan had never seen George angry before.
“No harm was intended, I assure you.” Suddenly the man’s blue eyes flickered, and his tone became aggressive. “You shouldn’t put those cute little houses on the graves, really. Visitors and newcomers will get the wrong idea.”
Nathan was furious that Kane was acting as if the Makahs had entrapped him in some way. He was nothing but a scheming murderer! “What were you looking for?” Nathan blurted, and wished just as quickly he’d held his tongue.
Kane looked right at him, and then at Lighthouse George. Kane’s disguises were stripped, or he had cast them aside. There was nothing showing in his blue eyes now but anger and hatred and contempt. “Get out of my way,” he snarled, and pushed his way through the gate.
“Stay away from that one,” George said as they watched him go.
“I will,” Nathan agreed. This time he told himself he meant it.
It was Dolla Bill who suffered the brunt of Kane’s wrath. Late in the day, Nathan went to see what finishing touches Young Carver had added to the canoe. Even from a distance he could see that the canoe maker had pegged the prow piece to the body of the canoe. Defying gravity, the prow continued the graceful lift of the canoe and carried it, tapering, far forward of the hull. As Nathan got closer, he heard a man moaning from inside. It was Dolla Bill in his blue jacket with brass buttons. He’d been severely beaten.