Not possible. July4th is the busiest weekend of theyear. Gotta go. And please remember that I can’ttake calls during work hours.
But you’re always working!
I am my parents’ daughter.??
Three
National parks are the best idea we ever had. Absolutely American, absolutely democratic, they reflect us at our best rather than our worst.
—Wallace Stegner, author
In the Jesup Memorial Library’s small meeting room, Scout did her best to stay focused while Ranger Rivers laid out the story, describing the sabotage, the shipwreck, and the elusive treasure as if he’d been the one to knock that brick loose in the whale oil house. Frankie, bursting with his own theories, chimed in whenever he could, which was often.
Scout didn’t mind their “overtalking” one little bit. She was struggling to keep her mind on the mystery and not on Wabanaki Dana. He was seated across from her, calm as the ocean before a storm, his arms crossed, his eyes intent on whomever was speaking, which gave her the opportunity to study him unobserved because she wasn’t talking. He had, without a doubt, the most interesting face she’d ever seen.
Those eyes. Dark as the bottom of Frenchman Bay and just as unreadable. Once or twice, they flicked to her, lingering for a moment with a glint of what might’ve been amusement—like he’d caught her staring and found it quietly entertaining. If thatwasn’t enough, when he let the slightest smile tug at his mouth, deep dimples appeared, sharp enough to stop her heart mid-beat.
He was more than a little intimidating, yet completely comfortable in his own skin.
Scout found herself wondering what it would feel like to carry that kind of confidence. To walk through life without worrying if you’d said the wrong thing or if someone had noticed the scuff on your boots. So opposite of how she’d been raised. Scout could hear her mother’s voice in her head:“Posture, sweetheart. Smile.”
When Frankie and Tim finally exhausted themselves of details, Wabanaki Dana posed only one question. “What was the name of the ship?”
Tim and Frankie looked at each other, puzzled. Then they looked to Scout.
“The USSNorth Atlantic,” she said. It was clear as day in the headline of the newspaper clipping. How had they missed it?
Naki’s gaze shifted to her.
“1852.”
“October 12, to be exact,” Naki said.
And bless it, he sure was. Scout’s eyes went wide as Naki filled in the missing details about the ship. He didn’t just know the basics; he knew everything about that ship, a head count of who died, and every bit of cargo that went down with it. “Among other things, in its cargo was a payment of federal funds, in gold, to be delivered to the Penobscot Nation. But it was never recovered from the wreck.”
“Why?” Frankie said. “What was the gold for?”
“In 1818,” Naki said, his voice steady, measured, “the federal government made a treaty with the Penobscot Nation, a so-called reimbursement for lands they had acquired. The payments were not ... consistent.” He stated it as fact—no bitterness, no resentment, just history laid bare.
Scout studied him, but his expression gave nothing away. What was he really thinking?
“I came to you, Naki,” Tim said, “because I knew you’d be able to help us untangle these clues.”
Naki’s eyebrows lifted. “And help you find the gold?”
Tim shrugged. “Honestly, I doubt there’s any to be found. This story is a very old one. First things first—let’s just start with the shipwreck and the lighthouse keeper.”
“Why gold?” Frankie asked. “Why wouldn’t they just use cash?”
Naki leaned back and crossed his arms against his chest. “Gold was a primary form of monetary transaction for significant payments, particularly in dealings between the federal government and Native nations. Paper currency wasn’t widely trusted or adopted until later in the century. And, of course, gold had become more readily available.”
Frankie scrunched up his face. “How’s that?”
Naki tipped his head slightly. “What did you learn in school about the 1800s?”
Scratching his forehead, Frankie thought for a moment. “Oh. Right! The Civil War.”
“Gold Rush,” Scout said softly.
