“No more than me,” Harkins winks. “Never got caught, did we, Dev? Never caught up to us for one damn thing.” They both snicker.
“Boys will be boys,” Devlin nods, looking out windows at the front of the bridge. “Lots of boys were doing what they could to survive back then. Not sure anyone really wanted to catch us, you know? Same as they didn’t really want to catch them James boys up in Missouri.”
The captain smirks at the comment. “Yeah, sometimes a little revenge is expected. Let the boys have their justice.”
They chat for a while about the old days. It’s been at least five years since their paths last crossed. In almost no time they settle into the relaxed conversation of two men who have been friends since childhood.
“That bag that you brought on board …,” Clayton inquires. “That what I think it is?”
Devlin doesn’t answer.
“I can’t believe you kept that! Kind of stupid, don’t you think? Proof that you might have had something to do with that carpetbagger’s disappearance.”
“Oh, who cared about him? You certainly didn’t.”
“No, but I never expected you to kill him. I just wanted to rough the bastard up a little. Kick his ass down the road.”
“So we got a little rougher than usual. Not like anyone ever missed him.”
Clayton laughs.
“And now look at you.” Devlin shakes his head. “All respectable and working for the damn U.S. government. Who’d have thought it?”
“Yeah. I know. Funny, isn’t it? Them givin’ money to an old rebel like me? I’m glad to take the work though. I charge them through the nose for these trips, and they don’t even bat an eye.”
“You’re a lucky man, Clayton. Lucky indeed.”
Capt. Clayton Harkin nods. “That I am, Dev. Guess I don’t mind sharing a little of that luck with an old friend. That’s why you’re getting a free ride.”
“I do appreciate it. I really do.”
Harkins takes a deep breath, unsure how to approach a subject that’s been lingering between them. “So, old friend, what are you dragging me into here? Not sure I still like being an accessory to your schemes. It tends to get dangerous for me, as I do recall.”
“Not dangerous to you, Clay. I’ll see to that. You’re just providing a little transportation.”
“It’s going to have to be a one-way trip. After you’ve finished … well … whatever you plan to do up there, I’m not sure I want to be around you.”
“I’ll find my own way home. You don’t have to worry about that.”
Captain Harkins takes a compass reading then throws a loop of twine over the wheel. It will keep them on a steady course while he turns his attention elsewhere for a moment.
“Fair enough then. What can I do to help you? Besides this little ride?”
“You’ve spent time in Boston. Tell me what I need to know when I get there.”
Clayton nods. “I can tell you a bit.” He pulls out a small map that shows Boston Harbor.
“Well, here’s what I can tell you. We’ll land about here.”
He points to the Lewis Wharf area.
“Now look up here. North of Boston there’s a peninsula known as Charlestown. You’ve got the harbor on the east, the Mystic River on the north, and a navy yard sitting right between the two. Reason I’m telling you this is that there’s all sorts of people coming and going in that neighborhood. Ships arriving. Sailors drinking and fighting. The police up there have plenty to keep their eye on. If you look like a reasonable man who’s not there to cause trouble, they’re not going to pay much attention to you.”
The captain scratches an address on a piece of paper.
“A friend of mine runs a little place there, called The Rose Point Pub. His name is Johnson Aubrey. You want to buy and sell something, his pub is a good place to go. All sorts of business is conducted there. Looks like a hellhole, but you’ll see rich and poor alike inside the door.”
Devlin nods and takes the piece of paper.
“Hold on, let me give you another name too.” He takes the paper back and thinks for a moment. “I feel strange passing this name along. I’ve made him some promises. It’s not a good thing if people know who he is.”
“So why is he so special?” Devlin asks.
“He’s a cop. Not a bad one. Just hit some hard times a while ago. He understands business, and it’s never a bad thing to have a friend on the police force.”
“No,” says Devlin. “Never a bad thing at all.”
Clayton writes down just the officer’s last name. Hudson.
“There. You don’t needs his full name. Just keep an eye out for Patrolman Hudson. He walks a beat in the area around Boston’s Chinatown and the south end of the Common. You get in trouble, maybe he can help. He knows the city. You need to do some kind of special business, he’ll know where to go. Just be sure to give him a fair percentage.”
“Chinatown, hmm? You know if he makes some of his money off the smoke?”
Clayton shakes his head. “Can’t say, Devlin. I’ve said more than I should have already.”
Devlin nods. “Not a problem. This is a good start. I do appreciate it.”
Papers and maps are tucked away. Devlin offers the captain a hand-rolled smoke, and the two of them puff their cigarettes in silence. No matter how successful Devlin’s trip is, it may be a long time before they see each other again.
Chapter 11
The Bottom of the Trough
Crooked sticks of light shine through unevenly spaced boards. The old barn never gets the attention it needs. The filtered light illuminates floating specks of dust stirred loose by restless animals. They’re usually out to pasture by midday, but Wayne has forgotten to set them loose.
Amanda returns home—the barn very much serves as her home now—and she looks up through holes in the ceiling to see the underside of flattened tin cans. Temporary patches that ended up lasting years.
Sensing haste and tension within her, the animals fuss and retreat, save one eternally friendly cow. It’s Jessie again who steps forward in greeting. Amanda slows and quickly strokes the cow’s chunky white face and kisses its nose. Then she hurries on, clenched fists holding her skirts above her knees. The bunched cloth also serves as a makeshift sack containing her booty from the shipwreck.
The scent of horses invades her nostrils as she begins to climb. The old ladder to the loft has always bothered her, so trying to navigate it one-handed is nerve-wracking. The age of the wood is unknown. Left by a previous owner, it has nails tacked over nails with wire and tape holding together the split ends of the rungs. It’s a losing battle against entropy, but still it holds.
Amanda doesn’t weigh much. The wood survives. Once she’s up in the loft, she feels safer. The ladder would not be so supportive of Wayne.
On hands and knees she searches for a place to hide her treasure. With half a smile, she passes hands under loose hay, mindful of sharp nails. Finding the right spot, she slides the silver toward the back. Then places the box in front of it, sprinkling loose hay over both. The compass and the folded dollar bills stay with her, tucked into an apron pocket.
Earlier, on her way back from the beach, Amanda had stood at the edge of the woods and watched Wayne leave for town. He called to her once, facing toward the barn. Then he left.
If typical patterns hold, he will be gone for several hours. So she has some time to herself. Satisfied that the box can be hidden here, she slides it back out from its hiding place and settles onto the floor of the loft. Hastily pushing some hay into a ball behind her, she leans back, the box resting between her knees in a sea of light-blue cotton. Its lacquered maple and ebony glisten in the soft light.
What is this thing?
It’s not a shipping container. That much she knows. It’s too small and fancy and hard to open. A quick shake tells her it doesn’t contain shoes or foul tobacco.
She flips it over and over. Maybe it’s a jewelry box. That’s the most
likely thing. And that could make this a wonderful treasure indeed. Yet, doubts linger. It’s not like any jewelry box she’s seen.
Amanda suddenly laughs out loud at herself. “How many jewelry boxes has a gutter flower like me actually seen in my life?” she says. “Two? Three? And how many of those were fine ones?”
A woman with no jewels to her name has scant experience judging what a nice jewelry box should look like.
Flipping and spinning it, she examines the cube but can find no hinges and no clasp. There’s only the barest hint of a seam. She pries at the thin line with little luck. Finally she stops, setting the box on her knees, regarding it with amused bewilderment.
“What is this thing!?” This time she says it aloud.
The inlays on the surface create a swirling pattern. It looks vaguely oriental, but with other influences too. Maybe Greek. All the inlays seem to swirl around a central point, a raised diamond of wood set in the top of the box.
After staring at the swirls for several minutes, she senses that the design might actually be a hint. They accent and highlight the diamond shape, which is slightly darker. Perhaps that central wooden shape is the opening clasp she seeks, yet she can’t slide her fingernails under it.
Angry, she picks at it until she feels slight movement. Frowning, she presses it down. Once it’s depressed, she discovers she can slide the diamond toward the box’s front. With a light click, the full top, perhaps a quarter inch thick, pops up. She’s then able to swing the top open. The compartment below is also just a quarter-inch thick.
This most definitely isn’t like any box she’s seen before. What kind of a lid only unveils the top quarter inch of the container? The lid itself looks like a solid piece of wood, but she notices a small panel within the lid itself. Sliding that to the right, she sees a tiny bit of water leak out. There’s a musty smell, and she finds a small amount of green slime on her fingers. She also sees some writing. Two notes are scrawled right on the wood itself.
The top note is written in beautiful flowing cursive. “This box has seven compartments and 27 moves. You’ve found the first one, but not all are obvious. Good luck. –V.M.”
The second note, written beneath the first, is scrawled in a hurried hand. It reads: “June 17. We are near Georges Bank and taking on water. Terrible storm. May God forgive all of us. This box contains my last will and testament. If found, please ….” But the water has soaked the bottom part of the message, and the ink has washed away. That’s all she can read.
Amanda feels a strong chill. It starts near her temples and travels down through her shoulders and stomach. Even her feet feel cold. She closes the lid for a moment, staring toward the barn door. The lines of illuminated dust still hover below.
She feels scared for some reason. What has she found? What obligation does she now have to the previous owner of this box? This seems so personal, more personal even than seeing that dead sailor on the beach. In her hand she holds someone’s last moments. A last message. The pain of that poor sailor seems to live on inside the box along with the writing.
May God forgive us all, he wrote. For what? For dying? Or did he seek forgiveness for the way he and the others on that boat lived?
What does a person think about when they know they’re going to die? She wonders. Perhaps V.M., whoever he was, sought forgiveness for some specific sin. Or for foolishness. Or maybe for missed opportunities and wrong choices.
She doesn’t know, but she can imagine.
Closing her eyes, she tries to picture herself standing on the deck of a sinking ship. Breathing her last. Accepting the unacceptable. She tries to imagine her final thoughts and realizes they would indeed carry with them much regret.
Her fingers rest on the top of the lid, and they trace the smooth seams of the inlaid wood. The sensation against her fingers brings her back to the present. She notices for the first time that there’s a piece missing. One of the inlaid sections of ebony is gone. No surprise, given what the box has been through.
Opening the lid again, she rereads the top paragraph. Seven compartments and 27 moves. This box isn’t at all what she had suspected. It’s not for jewelry. It may have started its life as some kind of toy, but that toy has been turned into a lifeboat that carries with it a sailor’s thoughts and souvenirs. She finds this charming in a way, not only because it’s something she’s never seen before, but because, in the last moments of some sailor’s life, he found a new purpose for a toy box and it became a legacy that he could leave behind. A time capsule.
So, what else is tucked inside?
27 moves. Pushing the diamond down must be the first move. So what else counts as a move? Is lifting the panel within the lid considered the second move, or is that still part of the first? And is that tiny slot big enough to be considered one of the seven compartments?
Amanda finds herself wishing for an instruction sheet so she can rush ahead, finding all the compartments and exploring every item that might be tucked inside.
Her hands trace the next layer of wood. It’s rougher than the polished exterior and lacks the same fancy inlays. The wood feels oily, and she realizes it’s teak, a wood she’s familiar with from the decks and railings of ships back in Boston. The outside edge surrounding the teak looks like the same maple used in the exterior of the box. For five minutes she conducts a maddening search for a way into the next level. Feeling along the edges, she looks for a bump, a hole, a pin, anything. But there’s no hint of how access is achieved. Frustrated, she turns it over, searching the bottom for an alternative entry point.
Thwarted at every turn, she considers finding a knife to pry up the teak. But that would damage the box. It’s far too remarkable a thing to injure it. Besides, she’s too stubborn to give up so easily.
She looks closer, prodding, scraping, and pressing. Okay … if the top held a hint of sorts, maybe there’s something here that she’s missing. Eventually she feels a slight give to the whole teak piece when she presses directly down on the top. She sets it on the floor of the loft and presses hard. The top sinks slightly and clicks. The release must be spring-loaded. When she lets up, the teak section pops up, and she can now grasp its sides. Spinning it counterclockwise, she literally unscrews the full board with a turn and a half.
The new compartment is also very shallow. Finding a piece of paper tucked inside, she unfolds it slowly. The seawater hasn’t penetrated this far inside, but the paper shows slight stains from the teak oil. Pressing the paper flat on the floor, Amanda notices it’s the same handwriting that scrawled the good-bye note. This time the text looks neater and less panicked. She guesses it was written sometime before the day the ship sank.
She has trouble making out the words in the dim light and decides to bring the whole box outside, where it’s easier to see. She sets all the pieces into her lap. Gathering her skirt around them, she descends the ladder, resourcefully holding the folds of her skirts in her teeth so she can use two hands on the rungs.
Outside, she sits on the edge of the farm’s watering trough. In the sunlight she can see that the note is actually a short poem.
Emma’s Lament
- Written at sea, June 15, 1892
You left your soul out of its box
Accessible to the rain
Breathlessly you waited, Emma
For some sweet savior to come
And take from you
The silence called your life
There’s more text below this, but the teak oil has stained it, making it difficult to read. Amanda scans the words twice, not sure what to make of it. She knows nothing of poetry but suspects these stanzas don’t fit any classic genre. It’s written from the heart, not with a sense of classical style. It’s more of a mournful thought scrawled late at night, scratched onto the back of what looks like an unused envelope. It’s more emotion than story, arriving in moody rhythm, sans coherent phrasing. She pictures such words like angry animals clawing at the back of a sailor’s mind. Maybe those words came when
he was on night watch. Or maybe he was alone in his bunk.
She sees it as a poem to lost love. Maybe a death. But there’s another thought here too. She traces a finger over the words.
“You left your soul out of its box,” she reads aloud, “accessible to the rain.”
Who thinks in images like that? The picture in her head both intrigues and disturbs her. Perhaps the woman, this Emma, was someone who felt too much, who longed too much, or even someone who might have been too passive in the face of … well … what? The author of this poem probably saw all of that in her.
Blinking, she refolds the paper. She doesn’t really understand that sort of woman. One thing people have always told Amanda is that she’s infinitely practical. Ever-resourceful. She certainly isn’t the type who would worry about her soul—whether it’s kept in the rain or someplace warm and dry. Amanda’s soul seems fine and strong, thank you. Emma, whoever she was, must have been the type of fragile flower who never could have survived in the gutters.
Instead of worrying about Emma, Amanda finds a certain fascination with the sensitive perception shown in the poem. The subject of the poem, if she was real, must have left quite an impression on the poet. What he must have felt about her, and the way he chose to express it, weigh heavy with the mark of her presence. Yet those words say just as much about him.
Anger had crept into his words. He sensed a certain irresponsibility and weakness in her actions.
Amanda shivers. She is indeed intruding into the life of this man whom she knows only by his initials. V.M.
Up the road, a wisp of dust catches her eye. More than just a horse. A wagon must be heading this way. The dust cloud turns into the long path leading to the farm, and she realizes it’s Wayne. He’s returning much earlier than she’d anticipated.
She stuffs the paper into a pocket and quickly places the teak section of the box back in place, struggling to twist it the correct way. Finally it pops down. She then secures the sliding panel onto the top and closes the whole thing, wooden diamond sliding over and popping back into place. Amanda’s eyes dart around. Where can she hide it? No time to run back to the barn. It’s too large to slip under her clothes. Her eyes fall to the tall horse trough. The cloudy drink could hide it, yet she already values this silly box too much to plunge into the water.
Wreck of the Gossamer Page 7