The squire let out a string of curses that I had never heard from his kindly personage before, enough that my ears burned red. The man shoved the lantern into my hands and suddenly was on his knees amidst the blood and carnage, digging through the remains of the sea chest at the foot of the bed. He flung aside everything he touched, and when he did not find what he was searching for, he flew about the room, looking in every drawer and under every piece of furniture, as I watched in dismay, unsure how to help but also unwilling to search amongst the gore myself.
The squire suddenly let out a cry as never heard from a man, sinking to his knees amongst the wreckage, his head in his hands, pulling his powdered wig from his head as if to see better. “Jamie,” he moaned. “We are ruined, my boy. They’ve gone and taken it, and we are lost!”
“Taken what?” I asked, for while many of the antiquities below seemed unaccounted for, none of them had been of significant enough value that such a man as the squire would despair so mightily. And George certainly had not had much of value in his chest that I was aware of.
“The map,” he said, his voice rough and grinding in his throat. “Old Locke’s map.”
I felt the lump inside my vest that I had entirely forgotten about in my panicked flight and present return to the slaughter. Its weight was heavier now with the memory of George Conley in it. I removed it from my shirt, holding it up for the squire to see. “Would this be the document in question?”
The squire lifted his head, and I have never seen a man look more astonished than he at that moment, as though the blessed Mother had appeared in front of his very eyes. He snatched it from my hands with such ferocity that the oilskin left a sting on my palms. He undid the bindings to reveal a parchment within, yellowed with time and salt air. Still on his knees, his hands shaking, he turned to look at me. “Jamie,” he breathed. “Where did you get this?”
“George, he gave it to me,” I said, suddenly wondering if perhaps I had done something I ought not to. “Before I left. He told me to take it and give it to you, like he had said he would.”
Squire Harrington leaped to his feet with the agility of a man half his age, throwing his arms around me and spinning us in a mad circle while he shouted with joy. “We’re saved! Oh, Jamie, we’re saved!” he said, releasing me and doing a few steps of a jig. “You are brilliant, and you shall have all that you deserve!”
“Sir, I don’t understand,” I said, desperate to have some answers from him as his feet tapped on the wooden planks in a merry dance. “What is this?”
Squire Harrington stopped dancing and held up the document for me to see. “Do you remember I told you about Captain Locke?”
I nodded, still not understanding what I was meant to know.
The squire pointed to the corner of the parchment. Inscribed were 2 letters. C and L. “Charles Locke,” he said. “He captured several frigates full of gold and treasures headed for the European mainland. But when he died, he had not a single coin on him. For many years, it was said that he buried his treasure on an island and planned to return one day to find it, and he created a map that showed the location of the treasure.” The squire waved the document again. “This is that map!”
I still had so many questions, but the squire seemed beyond paying attention to me now, studying the chart with great intent. “We shall have to rent a ship and a crew, of course, of a trustworthy nature, but that should not be too hard. Long have I dreamed of a life at sea, though it would have been much better in my younger years. Oh, Jamie, what excitement we shall have!” And he did another dancing step before sobering amongst the remnants of what had once been George Conley. “Come, we must away to the docks.”
Chapter Three
Wealertedthepoliceabout the break-in without mentioning the map or the black spot, which was nowhere to be found, and I assumed the fiends had taken it with them. The constables and coroner came to examine the scene of the crime. They all seemed to agree that it was a burglary gone wrong, and George had been unfortunate enough to encounter them as they raided the shop. Neither the squire nor I were inclined to correct this assumption. George’s remains were taken away, and the squire and I packed a few items of clothing and things of significance. Most important to me, I grabbed the compass from under the floorboard in my room that had mercifully gone unnoticed, despite the rest of the room having been completely ransacked.
The squire paid several men to clean up the shop and the living quarters, and to box up all the antiquities that were salvageable. He told them we would be traveling for a long while, and that the key to the shop was to be turned over to his solicitor once the wreckage had been dealt with. And then we left.
We took the squire’s carriage and horse, which had luckily both escaped the plundering, to the nearest seaport town of Highcastle. This, the squire informed me, was where he had found George those few months ago, full of drink and empty of pocket. George had recognized him, and after much conversation and libations, George had confessed to Squire Harrington that he had Captain Locke’s map. “I ain’ naught but a sea rat, wif no strength in me old bones. Yeh give ol’ Georgie a place tah stay fer the winter an’ a bottle-a rum when ‘e has a thirst, an’ he’ll give you the map. ‘T’weren’ no good ta meh anyway, I’d be dead ‘afore the anchor was weighed.”
We found an inn close to the docks where we stayed, the squire selling his horse and carriage for the funds to stay in a modest but clean room and to have meals brought up from the tavern twice a day.
The squire was gone for much of our time there while I sat and studied the map behind the locked door. The island was not overly large. There was a river that ran through it, and some labeled rock caverns upon its western bank. There was a bay to the south that was listed as being the ideal location for landing a ship. And in the upper northeast corner of the island, a bright red X had been made, toward the very edge of the line that delineated island from ocean. There were some instructions written to the side of it, a little smeared, as if someone had touched them with damp fingers, but I was able to make them out.
Bend in the river, bearing to a point of N.N.E.
Old Hawk points the way to the N.W.
The ridge to the north
Seek within, 162 paces.
These instructions were maddeningly vague, but I suspected they would make more sense upon reaching the island in question, whose coordinates were laid out in another corner of the map.
With the remaining funds he had, Squire Harrington met with another of his old friends, one Kearns by name, striking some sort of bargain I was not privy to, and within a week, he had secured us a ship, getting her by the most admirable management for the merest trifle. Squire Harrington met with the captain of the ship and was delighted by him, inviting him to the inn to talk with us.
I sat at the table in the corner of the tavern, near a roaring fire, drinking some terrible concoction that might have been ale. The weather was warming now, and the tables were filled with all manner of men, many of whom were new to Highcastle, seeking jobs on ships now that seasonal travel was not hampered. The squire had just finished tucking into a large bowl of rabbit stew when the captain walked in, and the squire rose from his seat to wave him over.
The captain was a tall man, taller than the squire by a good several inches and much taller than myself. He carried himself with confidence, his chin lifted high, his back straight. He was currently dressed in a fine linen shirt, waistcoat, and dark trousers, red silk cravat at his throat, with shiny black boots on his feet, and a silk scarf with some of the finest embroidery I had ever seen wrapped around his waist. His hair was short and dark, his eyes the color of melted chocolate drops, and a fine bristle of hair covered his strong jaw. He was probably of late twenties in age, and I might have pegged him for a dandy rather than a seafarer if not for the single ring of gold he wore in his right ear. He smiled, ignoring the few curious or appreciative looks from the inn patrons he received as he strode across the room to us, holding out his hand for the squire to shake. “Good to see you again, Squire.” His voice was deep and flowed elegantly. Then his eyes turned to me, and I am rather ashamed to admit that my breath caught in my throat. “And you must be young Mister Davis.”
He held out his hand, and I took it with my own that trembled slightly, for I had never seen a man such as this. His smile was as bright as the midday sun, and his fingers around mine were warm and firm. “Yes, sir,” I managed to squeak out, and the man laughed heartily and gave my hand a solid shake.
“Miles Ambrose, Captain, at your service,” he said, spreading his arms to the side and giving a slight bow, like an actor after a performance.
“Captain Ambrose crews the MORAY, which we have engaged for our expedition,” Squire Harrington said. “And he has a fine vestment of crew members as well.”
