Crown of Serpents

by Michael Karpovage

  What Jake had found was more than just another romantic Indian legend. During his master degree studies on the Sullivan campaign, several of the existing soldier’s journals alluded to a pair of American scouts discovering something much more valuable in that cliff ambush.

  Gold.

  British Paymaster gold.

  Apparently, it was the bankroll funding for the entire British and Indian wilderness campaign and it never made it out of Catherine’s Town in time. In fact, there was so much of it that General John Sullivan himself allegedly had his officers fill an entire cannon full. It was stated in one soldier’s journal that Sullivan then deliberately plugged and sunk the cannon in the lake. The big mystery however, after all of these years, was why? Why sink the gold? And where exactly was the cannon sunk? These two questions had persisted in Jake’s mind for years upon years.

  And now a lost journal of one of those Continental scouts appears out of the blue, Jake thought to himself. Maybe it would shed some more light on what truly happened. He was always up for a good adventure. And this was definitely a good one in the making.

  Little did he know, however, that some history was best left hidden in the past.

  7

  Old Fort Niagara. Youngstown, N.Y.

  JAKE PARKED HIS truck in the main lot outside of Old Fort Niagara. Excitement had ruled the day already and he hoped this new assignment would be the icing on the cake. He took a deep breath. The Sullivan-Clinton campaign, and more specifically the fate of Thomas Boyd and his scouts, were his areas of expertise. The thought of reading Boyd’s lost journal caused his arm wound to tingle again. He scratched the sensation then reached for his cell phone. He fired off a quick text message to Dr. Ashland announcing he was on site and entering the assessment. He stowed the phone in his tote briefcase which contained his laptop computer and digital camera. He then exited his SUV.

  Standing tall in his full dress uniform, he grabbed his black beret and cocked it at an angle on his head. Pinned on the left chest of his dress coat was a rainbow of colored service ribbons and medals showing military campaigns in which he had participated, specialized skills achieved, and awards for bravery. They included a Silver Star, and a Purple Heart with an Oak Leaf Cluster for two wounds sustained in combat. High on his right shoulder sleeve was the Ranger tab denoting advanced intelligence and warfare training. Below that hung his past unit patch of the 10th Mountain Division. On his left shoulder sleeve was his current unit patch of the MHI and pinned on top of each shoulder was the single gold oak leaf insignia of his officer ranking of Major. But on his collar was a tiny unofficial pin that went unnoticed to most. It bore the letter G surrounded by the symbols of a builder’s square and measuring compasses. Jake looked impressively crisp, official, and definitely had an aura of confidence around him.

  Next to the parking lot, in the partially renovated administrative offices, he met the elderly executive director of the Old Fort Niagara Association — Marge Hibbard. After a formal greeting, she informed him they would be viewing the Boyd items in a private room at the original castle fortress across the main parade ground so that he could experience the full flavor of the fort complex. What a sell, Jake thought. He played along, mentioning he hadn’t visited the fort since his youth. She was pleased at his interest and guided him ahead toward the main South Redoubt gatehouse entrance.

  As they strolled past spiked-top log perimeter fencing, Jake looked up at the fortified gatehouse structure. It was designed with classical Roman arched doorways in its formidable stone wall. Several narrow windows doubling as musket ports lined the face of the wall. A low profile log roof capped the open-air top floor. Several tourists hung over the top ledge snapping pictures.

  Under the British coat of arms and past the ticket taker’s counter, where Hibbard nodded to the attendant, the two emerged upon a faded grass parade ground. At the end of the main gravel walkway in the far north end of the fort, sat the dominating French Castle. Proceeding toward the castle Jake asked Hibbard about her organization’s mission and the severity of their funding situation.

  In short prepared statements, she explained that the Old Fort Niagara Association was responsible for preserving, restoring, and maintaining the site and its structures, which comprised about ten acres of land at the mouth of the Niagara River. Included in the site were the main castle fortification and six 18th-century buildings, the outer walls, cannons and fencing, archaeological remains, and even an old cemetery. Hibbard explained that even though it was a registered state historic site, they did not receive any taxpayer funding whatsoever. All of monies necessary to operate the site fell under the association’s umbrella with about ninety percent of their revenue coming from admission ticket sales.

  As they walked past an old cannon and stack of cannon balls marking the main pathway intersection in the middle of the drill-yard, Hibbard’s expression turned sour. She told him of the association’s funds being completely wiped out by an embezzlement scandal two years ago by the former director. He had cleaned them out of millions of dollars through an elaborate scheme. She said he was now in jail serving a long sentence, but that the money had disappeared.

  “What a dirty, rotten—,” said Jake, shaking his head, deliberately not finishing his sentence.

  “Tell me about it, we had to lay off half our staff because of him,” Hibbard replied. “It had taken us four years to come up with the funding for the new museum and visitors’ center and now that whole capital expansion is on hold. And our main collection cannot even be displayed. It’s all under lock and key because of lack of security funding.”

  They walked past two young male re-enactors dressed in 18th century British red coats and white britches, each cradling muskets. A group of tourists had gathered around as the soldiers explained the various attributes of their uniform.

  “I remember years ago an incredible display of relics on the top floor of that fortress,” said Jake, pointing. “Is it no longer up there?”

  Hibbard’s jaw tightened. “It’s completely empty now. The public was stealing our pieces. It was despicable. Priceless silverware, even a Brown Bess British musket like that soldier is holding.” She motioned to the weapon as the re-enactor explained to a tourist the significance of the royal blue regimental lacing on the front of his coat. “An original Brown Bess was valued at over sixty thousand dollars. We only use replicas now. The originals are in a vault. We didn’t have the proper security measures or the personnel to monitor the displays. Let alone pay for it all.”

  “I’m sorry,” replied Jake.

  Hibbard nodded. Leading him on, she elaborated that with her successful financial background in fundraising she was appointed by the association’s board and given emergency authority to save the site by any means possible. She was authorized to sell current relics in their museum and even freshly unearthed items of value. She was not happy about giving up any of the fort’s property, but as she said, she wasn’t hired to make friends. Instead, her role was to save the fort.

  Her biggest loss to date was the selling of the enormous oversized American flag that flew over the fort during the War of 1812. The association had purchased the flag from a private collector a few years back for over nine hundred thousand dollars. Although she sold it off for a profit, she took no pride in the act. She had no choice.

  Just in front of the French Castle, Hibbard stopped and showed Jake the rectangular excavation dig site where the SUNY Buffalo archaeology team had unearthed the Boyd Box, as she dubbed it. She explained that this was the foundation of an old soldier’s barracks used by Seneca Indian warriors during the brutal winter of 1779-1780. The box was hidden in the stone wall behind a large boulder. Obviously forgotten. Perhaps the original owner had died, she speculated, as many did that winter.

  Upon discovery she personally took possession of the box and conducted a quick overview of the contents determining she could fetch a considerable amount of money on the market. She admitted that she had not had time to
read the journal contents in its entirety. Unsure of the true value of the items, she decided to send out an exclusive RFA to determine its worth.

  She told Jake that the Military History Institute’s appointment was the first one of only two that day with six major organizations competing in all. She divulged to him that the parties included two Ivy-League universities and three wealthy personal collectors. She had chosen MHI because her late husband had served with Director Paul Jacobson during the Korean War. She then asked him to follow her into the main castle. Jake took off his beret upon entering.

  She explained the castle’s history as they entered. The castle, the oldest building in the eastern interior of North America, was the lone permanent structure of the original strategic promontory at the outlet of the river into Lake Ontario. Built in 1726 by the French to resemble a large trading post — to calm the hostile Iroquois fears — the stone structure was in fact an imposing citadel capable of resisting enemy assault. She said it sat three floors tall with an attic level that provided defensive positions for muskets and light cannons through its machicolated or overhanging dormers. Hibbard led Jake into the main vestibule and up a set of worn wooden stairs to the second floor.

  On the second floor Hibbard paused. “In 1759 the fort was taken over by the British after the French and Indian War and used during the fur trade. It was held throughout the Revolutionary War and used as a base for the British and their Iroquois Indian allies to raid the New York and Pennsylvania frontier until America took it over in 1796. The British then recaptured it during the War of 1812, during the fort’s last armed conflict. In 1815, it was ceded back to the U.S.”

  Jake nodded. Impressed.

  Hibbard turned left down the narrow main corridor. He followed. At the far end she unlocked a tall oak door to a room once acting as the original commandant’s office.

  Leading him into the room, no bigger than a modern day jail cell, she shut the door behind them then proceeded to the window. Sliding back an iron bolt, she hauled open the heavy wooden shutters allowing the late afternoon light to flow in. A heightened view of Lake Ontario’s shimmering blue waters lay below, the brownish sediment of Niagara River emptying at its mouth. To her right was another locked door leading to the commandant’s bedroom, one of the few rooms on display for the public. Jake heard hushed tourist voices on the other side through cracks in that door.

  Hibbard had Jake take a seat at an old wooden table in the center of the room. The table held a box of white linen handling gloves. Grabbing a pair for herself, she unlocked a floor-to-ceiling cabinet off to the side, entered it, and reappeared with a corroded leather box in her gloved hands. It was slightly larger than a shoebox.

  “Major. Here’s what you came for,” she announced in a business-like tone as she set the box on her side of the table. She looked directly at Jake and handed him a pair of gloves. “Please adhere to normal handling procedures. Here are your gloves. You may take digital photos, no flashes. You may take notes by pencil only. Do you need a pencil and notepad?”

  “Actually — I apologize. I have the notepad but forgot a pencil. Do you have an extra one?

  She pulled a sharpened number 2 pencil from some hidden back pocket and handed it to him. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. She was serious now, Jake observed. Not a relaxed bone in her body, but then again, considering the financial distress she was under, he couldn’t blame her. He rested his beret on the table, extracted a notepad and a credit card sized digital camera from his tote, put on his gloves, and looked up at the director.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Hibbard took a seat, lifted the top of the box and set it aside. “These items, the best I could conclude from my research, belonged to Lieutenant Thomas Boyd of General John Sullivan’s Continental Army during the campaign in the summer of 1779. There are six items in the box — just the way it was found. I’ll take them out one at a time. We have just one hour scheduled for you to conduct your review. Feel free to ask questions at any time. I’ll start with his knife.”

  Hibbard reached into the box and carefully lifted out a wooden handle rusted blade typical of the Revolutionary War period. She placed it on the table in front of Jake pointing out Boyd’s name carved on the handle. He photographed it at several different angles, handled it carefully, and took copious notes.

  He repeated this procedure with Boyd’s black powder horn and a brass belt buckle — both engraved with his initials. The buckle contained the raised symbol of the letter G surrounded by a compass and square to form a perfectly symmetrical triangle. The symbol for the Freemasons. Jake touched it lightly with his index finger.

  Next came a handwritten letter on parchment paper pertaining to Boyd’s sword. The letter read:

  Buffaloe Creek 14th September 1779

  Brother Brant,

  I write to you in response to your displeasure of the fate of the late Rebel Scout Lieutenant Thomas Boyd. I was unaware that he had given you the Universal Hail Sign of Distress of a Worthy Brother in Need upon capture with his Sergeant, a one Michael Parker. I had not been informed that you had accepted the Sign and the Word, promising his Safekeeping. He did not present the Sign, nor the Word to me, knowing me full well also to be a fellow Traveling Man of the Craft. Boyd was a brave leader of his Scouts. There is no doubt. He fought us hard during the Ambuscade, even after being wounded in his side. Had I known of your intentions that he was under your Personal Protection, I would not have interrogated him, but in my interpretation at the time, he was the Enemy and thus my duty and my responsibility to the King that I examine the Rebel for intelligence. You should know Boyd refused to divulge any information of General Sullivan’s army under thrice repeated threat of death. But the non-Mason Parker gave me everything I needed. Had you not departed on unrelated matters, you might have saved Boyd’s life after I was done with him, for I could not control the Anger possessed within Little Beard and his clan of Seneca under your command. They sought revenge for the destruction the Rebel Army had laid upon their villages and crops. Little Beard inflicted torture practices I have never witnessed before. I could not stop them. Such a young man at the age of twenty-three, Boyd was truly a brave soul, even during the pure agony leading up to his death. He never begged for mercy once and died with his dignity intact much to the displeasure of Little Beard. Parker was summarily dispatched with similar techniques. In honor of your initial Obligation to help a Worthy Brother in Need, I’ve directed the bearer of this letter, a runner from Little Beard’s clan, to present to you the sword of the Lieutenant Thomas Boyd, confiscated by my sergeant before your warriors stripped the man. Keep it well. I shall meet you in Niagara.

  Fraternally,

  John Butler

  Jake blinked several times. He stammered for words. “Unbelievable! A letter to Joseph Brant from Colonel John Butler. And completely shrouded in Masonic mystery.”

  “I’m sorry Major. I don’t understand what the letter pertains to.”

  “Butler and Brant were famous figures,” answered Jake. “Or infamous, I should say. The Americans despised them and placed a bounty on their heads. Their actions during several massacres in the Wyoming and Cherry Valley led to Washington’s decision to destroy the Iroquois homeland. What you have here is an amazing artifact of history. This letter alone will fetch a pretty penny.”

  Ms. Hibbard’s demeanor changed at the mention of money. “Is that right? Go on.”

  Jake took several minutes to explain to her the magnitude of the correspondence. Colonel John Butler was the leader of Butler’s Rangers, a British detachment based out of Fort Niagara. Chief Joseph Brant was a Mohawk Indian who led a contingent of Seneca, Cayuga, Onondaga, and Mohawk Indians. The Rangers and the Indians were undeniably the fiercest combination of guerilla warriors in the Revolutionary War. Brant had persuaded many Iroquois to ally with the British instead of staying neutral. And because of this stance many Iroquois looked down on Brant and labeled
him a monster for getting them involved in the war and thus destroying their Confederacy. He and Butler were co-commanders in the western New York and Pennsylvania wilderness and often did not get along. Although they distrusted each other and vied for power, they did work for a common cause — to kill rebels.

  During their reign of terror, their soldiers murdered many American settlers and burned countless villages in a brutal land grabbing campaign to oust the Patriots, yet they blamed each other for the atrocious acts of the troops under their command. Jake interpreted the letter, rife with Freemasonry terminology, to be sort of a gotcha moment or I told you so for Brant harboring rebels against the King’s will, even if they were Brother Masons. It added to the mystery surrounding Thomas Boyd’s last hours of his life.

  Rising from his seat, Jake began to pace, arms folded behind his back. He went on to explain that Chief Brant was raised and educated in British Tory schools. He was the epitome of the noble warrior and had even visited the King of England in 1776. It was there he was initiated into the ancient fraternity called the Freemasons and had the distinction of having his Masonic apron given to him from the hand of King George III himself. The reasoning behind the letter, Jake thought, revolved around the notion that Masons always helped out their Brothers, even when on opposite sides of war, or of different ethnicities or political persuasions. The Brit John Butler was a Freemason, as were the Patriots Thomas Boyd, his General John Sullivan, and even their superior George Washington.