Crown of Serpents

by Michael Karpovage

  Jake stopped and turned to the executive director. “Now here is the real interesting part that has Freemason historians mystified to this day. It was upon Boyd’s capture after he was ambushed that he communicated the secret signal of distress to his captor, Chief Brant — knowing him to be a fellow Mason. It is a highly secretive hand gesture given from one Mason to another when you think you’re going to lose your life and you need help. You see, Brant had already proved to be a worthy, quote-unquote Brother, in Boyd’s eyes because he had helped two other rebel Masons escape execution after the surrender of American forces after the Battle of the Cedars in 1776. Anyway, Brant took Boyd’s signal to heart. He felt obligated to save Boyd’s life and assured him he would have safe passage to Montreal for a prisoner exchange. But that’s where the official history became muddled.”

  “How so?” asked Hibbard. Her eyes alight and engaged in Jake’s tale of Freemasonry on the battlefield.

  “Well, Brant had to take temporary leave before he could help Boyd after his capture. Boyd ended up in the care of Butler,” said Jake, thoroughly enjoying his presentation. “Butler took that opportunity to interrogate Boyd himself — he called it an examination in the letter. He gained the intelligence on Sullivan’s army, and then deliberately handed him over to the Indians so they could exact their revenge. He claims the Indians took Boyd by force in this letter, but I’ve read other witness accounts that his act was deliberate. If this were so, then Butler would be in direct defiance of the sworn obligations of a Freemason to never deprive a fellow brother of his life or property.”

  Jake rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Hibbard made a humming sound. He walked over to the window, looked out, and continued speaking. “But it was also known that Butler never did play by the rules and saw only one loyalty, and that was to the British monarchy. He had supposedly justified his actions by saying that any Masonic obligations were overruled by the duty of an army officer to serve his King, and must not be invoked to protect rebels. His letter clearly states he was unaware of the arrangement Brant had made, that it was his duty to interrogate, and furthermore was not in control of the Indians afterward.” He turned and faced Hibbard again. “But I think it’s a farce.” He pointed to the letter.

  “What? The letter?”

  “No, no. Not the letter itself, but Butler’s content, his explanation to Brant within the letter.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve personally read a contradictory letter by Colonel Butler to his superior at Fort Niagara on that same September 14th and it was anything but this explanation. He claimed that Boyd was escorted under protective guard and sent forward to Fort Niagara, but while passing through the Genesee Valley an old Indian rushed out and tomahawked him. Obviously a bold-faced lie.”

  The director leaned forward, a puzzled look on her face.

  “You see, given the history of confrontation between Butler and Brant, I think the letter we have here might have been a ploy on Butler’s part to claim innocence in the whole execution and at the same time stick Brant as being responsible for another atrocious act to tarnish his record. He then slaps him in the face by presenting the sword of the one he was supposed to protect.”

  “Oh, I see now,” said Hibbard. “It was personal. Very interesting.”

  “Very interesting indeed as almost a year later in Pennsylvania, Boyd’s sword was taken off a wounded elderly Seneca Indian. How it ended up in this other Indian’s hands and not Brant’s we’ll never know.”

  Hibbard nodded thoughtfully. “Which means we could possibly conclude that the Seneca runner who was given this letter and the sword intended for Brant never fulfilled his delivery for Butler. And thus this letter sleeps in a box with Boyd’s other possessions.”

  “Right,” said Jake. He pointed his index finger in the air. “And like you said earlier, this runner hides this box away here at Niagara, for whatever reason, then simply dies that same winter from starvation or disease like so many others did.”

  “And the rest of Boyd’s story dies too.”

  Jake pursed his lips. “A sad ending because the way he died was one of the most atrocious acts of murder against an American Patriot in this country’s history.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ll spare you the gory details, but basically he was tortured to death for hours in every way thinkable.”

  “I see,” said Hibbard, with a frown. She then glanced at her watch. “Oh dear Major, your time is running short and we still have his campaign journal.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to ramble like that. This is a truly remarkable discovery. You could write an entire book based on this letter alone.”

  Hibbard extracted a small leather bound booklet out of the box and set it in front of Jake as he sat back down in his chair. She retrieved the letter and replaced it back in the box.

  “Like I said, I had not read much of the entries but Boyd’s writing was most terrible.” She smiled as she watched Jake open the cover.

  He read a little, turned to a random page inside, read some more, saw a few illustrations on a page with a torn corner, then flipped to the last page, noted some odd lettering and that the page had a similar ripped corner as the previous one. He looked over to Hibbard.

  “Apparently this is one of several journals from Boyd,” explained Jake. “This indicates it was the last in a series. The entries here start on September first. The final entry was dated Sunday, September twelfth, the day before his capture. I wonder what happened to the other journals?”

  “Interesting.”

  “There’s a lot here and I noticed several small illustrations and strange lettering too. How much time do I have left?” Jake asked.

  “Only about ten minutes, I’m afraid. I cannot go over the limit. My next guest is a very wealthy collector. He demands promptness.”

  “Okay, I’m just going to photograph each page then read the contents later. Could you assist me by holding the pages down flat while I photograph them? I don’t want to damage anything.”

  “Certainly.”

  After snapping pictures of the cover and every single page thereafter, Jake checked his watch. “Okay, I’m finished. I believe we have one more item, correct?”

  Ms. Hibbard returned the booklet to the box and pulled out an oval patch of skin with brown hair attached to it. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s rather unsettling. This is apparently Thomas Boyd’s scalp. At least that’s what the indications are on the underside.”

  “Ma’am, there is no need to go any further,” Jake said, looking directly into her eyes. “I thought about this on my ride up here and I will not, on matter of principle, try to place a value on his scalp. It is a body part, his remains, and it must be buried in his grave or at least an effort must be made to track down his ancestors and return it to his family. I recommend you take this out of the items to be sold and do the right thing. He was an American soldier and for me, for the institution I represent, to purchase this and put it on display, would not reflect good judgment.”

  “Major, I understand where you are coming from,” she replied in an almost relieved voice. “I too didn’t quite know what to do.”

  “If you do the right thing I’m sure you will get more value out of it than money can buy. You could even garner major publicity for your actions and for your association. I know for a fact that Boyd’s remains are buried up in Rochester at Mt. Hope Cemetery along with his sergeant, Michael Parker, and their Oneida Indian guide Honyost Thaosagwat. There is even a Masonic monument up there dedicated to the ambush of his scouts. I would suggest contacting the Grand Lodge of Free and Accepted Masons of the State of New York should you need any help.”

  “Thank you Major. Thank you. I think I’ll do just that.” She placed the scalp back in the box. “By the way, how do you know so much about the Freemasons?”

  “The foundation of this great country was built on Masonic principles, therefore one takes an interest.”

  “Indeed. Well, I am sorry but i
t looks like your time is about done, so please excuse me, I need to lock everything back up. You are free to walk around and explore the rest of the fort if you’d like. Please keep the gloves. Oh, and I took care of your admission fee too.”

  “Thank you,” said Jake. He peeled the white handling gloves off and placed them in a pocket. “I want to digest those journal entries first and then report back to MHI. We’ll get you our assessment as soon as possible. Oh, do you have wireless Internet access here at the fort?”

  “In fact, we do. We won a grant recently and installed the system to attract more visitors. The main hub is in the museum shop along the riverside wall. But you can get an excellent connection anywhere in the fort.”

  “Great. Thank you for your time and it was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “And the same to you Major Tununda. Goodbye.”

  Jake grabbed his beret, shouldered his tote, and opened the door to let himself out. Instead, he found himself staring into a pair of sinister-looking dark eyes.

  Standing directly in his path was an older man about his same height, definitely an Indian, definitely not happy. Wiry gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, a square strong jaw, pockmarked face with hollow cheeks. He reminded Jake of someone beset with sickness. He was broad shouldered and had the lean frame of a boxer. He was dressed in a stylish black suit with a starched white shirt open at the collar. His neck revealed a silver serpent on a necklace.

  There was movement from beyond the doorway. Two larger Indians stepped in behind their apparent leader. These were presumably a security detail the way they carried themselves. Jake made firm eye contact with each of them. One, an ugly brute, even had traditional facial tattoos under each eye — streaks of blue — as Iroquois warriors would wear during battle to intimidate their enemy.

  Jake settled back on the man blocking his way. “Excuse me,” he stated in a casual voice, leaning to one side to pass by. He watched as the man’s eyes finished sweeping Jake’s nametag, ribbons, and insignia. The man refused to budge.

  In a scratchy voice, the man asked, “Is Marge Hibbard in here?”

  Jake raised an eyebrow. “Yes, she is. I was just leaving. Excuse me.” He moved close and the man finally gave way to let him by. They bumped shoulders. Upon contact, the two bodyguards made a threatening motion forward. Jake ignored them both, turned and walked down the hall.

  One of the guards closed up on Jake’s heels. “Don’t ever touch the merchandise again,” he threatened from behind. “Ever.”

  Jake spun around. It was the tattoo-eyed thug. “Ooh, I’m shaking in my shoes.” The man’s facial expression turned to instant rage. He looked like a snarling pit bull ready to bite.

  But then from around the corner they heard Ms. Hibbard greeting the new guest. “Ah, you must be Mr. Alex Nero. Right on time.”

  “Get back to your master, Clown Face,” Jake spat. “You’re out of your league.” He turned his back on the bodyguard and simply walked away. He could hear the man panting behind him.

  8

  Outside the main castle.

  ADJACENT TO THE MAIN CASTLE, Jake had taken a seat on a stone bench inside a circular memorial overlooking both the lake and the expanse of the parade ground. He opened his laptop computer, plugged in his digital camera, and downloaded all of the images. After just thirty seconds the transfer of files was complete. He now had each item from Boyd’s Box digitally catalogued for his review. He would be selecting the best images to send, with his initial report, in an email to Dr. Ashland, but first he couldn’t wait to delve into Boyd’s journal entries. He double tapped his finger touchpad and opened the first page of the journal. Zooming in on the image to get clearer readability, he scrolled down.

  Wensday, Sept. 1st – Reach’d French Catherine’s Town or Cheoquock at about 7 o’clock in the evining after considerable difficulty traveling thro a much horrid thick mirey swamp. During reconnoyter found fires burning and every other appeerence of the Enimies having just depart’d moments before. This town consists of 30 houses and a number of fruit trees and corn fields.

  Jake knew that Catherine’s Town would be present day Watkins Glen, situated at the south end of Seneca Lake. Sullivan’s campaign would swing up the east side in the days to come. To get a bigger picture he decided to log onto the Internet and visit one of his bookmarked research web pages on the campaign. He found the map section taken from other officer’s journals and picked Colonel Dearborn’s campaign map for the Continental Army. It was deemed by far the best sketching of the route the main army had made between Seneca and Cayuga Lakes. Jake kept the window open showing the map next to Boyd’s journal entry.

  Colonel Dearborn campaign map, 1779.

  Thursday, Sept. 2d – General Poor’s orders, early morning sent to indeavor to overtake some of the Indians and Rangers who left this place last evining. Accompinied by my Most Trust’d Sergeant Sean McTavish at the vanguard of our riflemen. Travill’d a mile up ridge on east side of Seneca Lake and ambush’d Indian spy at top of cliff. McTavish snuck on him and tomahawk’d the old Savage, now his nineteenth scalp taken. Observ’d 10 Savages and the Colonel of the Rangers – Butler, escaping in canoes at bottom of cliff. Shot at them with no effect. Could not pursue. Much plunder found in small gun powder keg on Indian’s horse. Contents reveal’d King George III gold Guineas. Belong’d to Regimental Commander Colonel John Butler’s Paymaster, bas’d on accompanying paperwork. Was meant to fund the Tory and Indian allies operating from Catherine’s Town. Upon further examination we find five more boxes of British coinage hidden in the woods on a broken wagon. Monies ranging from shillings to Guineas. We informed General Sullivan, our Worshipful Master of the Lodge, but not before secretly securing our own keg. Good fortunes this day. We shall see what the disrespectful Miss Cornelia Becker thinks of my endowmint now when I return home. The General order’d the rest of the pay to be filled and plugged inside one of our disabl’d cannons for easy transport. To our dismay the horse pulling the cannon became spook’d and both cannon and animal roll’d off the cliff into the lake below, sinking the great fortune deep. No matter, the General had us mark the spot so we could somehow retrieve it upon the return march back.

  “Holy shit!” Jake blurted out loud once he realized the discovery. The Painted Rocks Indian story and Sullivan’s gold cannon legend really happened. What he now had in his hands, in digital form at least, was evidence of what really took place — a historical description that could bring validity to the unsubstantiated claims.

  He read it again.

  And again.

  A whirlwind of questions whipped through his mind. So Sullivan confiscated John Butler’s gold but then lost it by accident from a horse gone bonkers. But did Sullivan ever recover the gold on his return journey home as Boyd alluded? How could he if it sank deep as Boyd described? And what was this secret mark at the location where it sank? Was Butler’s interrogation of Boyd really all about troop strengths or was it in fact really about who had King George’s gold? So many questions. Jake shook his head clear and went on with the next excerpt.

  Friday, Sept. 3d – March’d at 7 o’clock to-day. Passed fine beautiful land. Incamp’d about 4 o’clock near a small Indian settlement, fires left burning in their houses. Our right flank discover’d another Indian spy, who ran off and disappeer’d.

  Saturday, Sept. 4th – March’d at 9 o’clock this day. More pleasant level land. Our light troops are ahead of main army about 3 miles such. Caught two fine Enimy horses.

  Sunday, Sept. 5th – Much strange excitiment here on this very fine day and more fortunes gained for Brother McTavish and myself. Came upon old Indian town call’d Kendaia or Apple Town. The finest Indian village yet with about 20 well-finish’d houses. Much apple and peach orchards within a half mile of Seneca Lake situat’d on a level ground with a brook running thro it. Some apple trees look ancient in growth. We count’d over 100 trees.

  “Kendaia,” said Jake, remembering the little hamlet he drove through th
is morning after leaving Rae Hart’s Trooper station. He then looked back at Dearborn’s map drawing.

  About three quarters of the way up Seneca Lake he found the clearly labeled Village of Kendaia. Dearborn had even illustrated several small buildings and a series of dots in rows, possibly indicating the orchards. He went back to Boyd’s entry.

  We find 3 Indian Chief’s vaults in their burying grounds. One of these was some great man and was bury’d in this manner; his body was laid on the dirt in a shroud or cloth vail. Then a large box made of hewn bords made very neat about 4 feet high was built around the body. The box was paint’d of very curious deer symbols in a variety of coulours. In each end of the box was a small hole where the friends of the Chief could look upon it when they pleas’d. Around this box was built a large shed of bark so as to prevent the weather from damaging it. We later burn’d these vaults to the ground. We burn’d it all down, the orchards, the cornfields, the village. This was for Wyoming.

  Jake’s stomach knotted. The burnings were a clear indication of the severity of the destruction and what the Americans did to his people long ago. It’s why they named George Washington Town Destroyer for giving the orders to completely ravage the Iroquois homeland. But then again, his Indian ancestors had brought this on themselves from their rampant scalping, dismembering, and burning of American men, women, and babies. Jake was torn.

  Reading of the wholesale destruction, especially the burning of the chiefs’ graves, struck him as a tough judgment call. What went through Boyd’s mind when he lit the fires? Did he have any remorse? Or was he a cold-hearted, revenge-minded SOB like I’ve been in combat?

  As history would have it, Boyd ended up paying for his actions, experiencing the most heinous death of all of the American troops. Boyd’s torturous death was even worse than what Jake saw the Taliban regime and terrorist group al-Qaeda do to their victims in Afghanistan and Iraq — at least they were quick with a beheading. Boyd was tortured for hours upon hours and kept conscious to experience the full pain inflicted. Jake read on.