Riptide

Chapter 25

As they mounted the rise of land, Hatch glanced southward. The cofferdam had been completed, and Streeter's crew was now working on the massive pumps arrayed along the western shore, tuning them up after their recent ordeal and preparing them for use again the next day. Orthanc stood gray and indistinct, the illumination from the observation tower casting a greenish neon glow into the surrounding mists. Hatch could see the faint shadow of someone moving about inside.

They topped the crown of the island and descended toward the east, following a muddy path that wound its way through an especially dense area of old shafts. The excavation site itself was spread across a flat meadow lying behind a sharp bluff on the eastern shore. A portable storage shed was standing on a platform of concrete blocks at the far end of the meadow. In front of it, the heavy grass had been trampled flat, and a great checkerboard grid had been marked out in white string across an acre of ground. Several large tarps lay in a disorganized heap. Here and there, Hatch could see that some of the meter-square grids had already been opened, exposing rich, iron-stained earth that contrasted sharply with the wet grass. Bonterre and several diggers were crowded together on an earthen balk beside one of the squares, their slicker-clad backs glistening, while another excavator was cutting out the sod in an adjacent square. A few large orange markers had been posted beyond the gridsite. It's a perfect spot for a pirate encampment, Hatch thought. Hidden from both the sea and the mainland.

A hundred yards from the site, the ATV had been parked at a crazy angle on the rough ground, a large gray box trailer in tow. Several large pieces of equipment on three-wheeled carts were lined up behind. Rankin was kneeling beside one, preparing to winch it back into the trailer.

"Where'd these toys come from?" Hatch asked, nodding at the equipment.

Rankin grinned. "The Cerberus, man, where else? Tomographic detectors."

"Come again?"

The grin widened. "You know. Ground-penetrating sensors." He began pointing to the various carts. "You got your ground-penetrating radar. Good resolution of bodies and, say, mines up to a dozen feet or so, depending on the wavelength. Next to it is an infrared reflector, good in sand but with relatively low saturation. And there at the end is—"

"Okay, okay, I get the idea," Hatch laughed. "All for non-metallic stuff, right?"

"You got it. Never thought I'd get a chance to use any of it on this gig. As it was, Isobel nearly had all the fun to herself." Rankin pointed at the orange markers. "You can see, I found a few scraps here and there, but she'd already struck the mother lode."

Hatch waved good-bye and trotted ahead to catch St. John. As they walked down to the site, Bonterre detached herself from the group and came over, slipping a hand pick into her belt and wiping her muddy hands on her rear. Her hair was tied back and her face and tawny arms were again smeared with dirt.

"I found Dr. Hatch," said St. John unnecessarily, a sheepish grin on his face.

"Thank you, Christophe."

Hatch wondered at the sheepish grin. Surely St. John hadn't become the latest victim of Bonterre's charms? But nothing else, he realized, could possibly have pried the man away from his books to grub about in the mud and rain.

"Come," she said, grabbing Hatch's hand and pulling him toward the edge of the pit. "Move aside," she barked amiably at the workers, "the doctor is here. Clear up your loose."

"What's this?" Hatch asked in amazement, gazing down at a dirty brown skull rearing out of the dirt, along with what looked like two feet and a jumble of other ancient bones.

"Pirate grave," she said, triumphantly. "Jump in. But do not step on anything."

"So this is the patient." Hatch climbed down into the excavated square. He examined the skull for a moment with interest, then turned his attention to the other bones. "Or should I say, patients."

"Pardon?"

Hatch looked up. "Unless this pirate had two right feet, you've got two skeletons here."

"Two? That is vachement bien!" cried Bonterre, clapping her hands.

"Were they murdered?" Hatch asked.

"Monsieur le docteur, that is your department."

Hatch knelt and examined the bones more closely. A brass buckle lay on a nearby pelvis, and several brass buttons were scattered across what remained of a rib cage, along with an unraveling string of gold piping. He tapped the skull slightly, careful not to prize it from the surrounding matrix. It was turned to one side, mouth gaping open. There were no obvious pathologies: no musket ball holes, broken bones, cutlass marks, or other signs of violence. He couldn't really be sure what killed the pirate until the excavation was complete and the bones had been removed. On the other hand, it was clear that the original body had been buried in haste, even thrown into the grave: the arms lay askew, the head was turned and the legs bent. He wondered for a moment if the rest of the second skeleton lay beneath. Then his eyes were suddenly arrested by a golden gleam near one of the feet.

"What's this?" he asked. A compact mass of gold coins and a large, carved gemstone lay embedded in the earth near the lower tibia. Only a little of the soil had been brushed away, keeping the coins in situ.

A peal of laughter came from Bonterre. "I was wondering when you would see that. I believe the gentleman must have kept a pouch in his boot. Between Christophe and myself, we have identified them all. A gold mohur from India, two English guineas, a French louis d'or, and four Portuguese cruzados. All dating prior to 1694. The stone is an emerald, probably Inca from Peru, carved into the head of a jaguar. It must have given the pirate quite a blister!"

"So this is it at last," breathed Hatch. "The first of Edward Ockham's treasure."

"Yes," she replied more soberly. "Now it is fact."

As Hatch stared at the compact mass of gold—in itself a small numismatic fortune—a strange tingling began at the base of his spine. What had always seemed theoretical, even academic, was suddenly real. "Does the Captain know about this?" he asked.

"Not yet. Come, there is more to see."

But Hatch could not take his eyes off the fresh, thick gleam of metal. What is it, he thought, that makes the sight so compelling? There was something almost atavistic in the human response to gold.

Shaking the thought from his head, he climbed out of the excavated square. "Now you must see the pirate camp itself!" Bonterre said, slipping her arm into his elbow. "For it is stranger yet."

Hatch followed her toward another section of the dig, a few dozen yards off. It didn't look like much: the grass and topsoil had been cleared from an area perhaps a hundred yards square, leaving a brown, hardpacked dirt floor. He could see several blackened areas of charcoal, where fires had evidently been lit, and numerous circular depressions dug into the soil in no regular order. Countless tiny plastic flags had been stuck in the ground, each containing a number written in black marker.

"Those round areas were probably tent depressions," Bonterre said. "Where the workers who built the Water Pit lived. But look at all the artifacts that were left behind! Each flag marks a discovery, and we have been at work less than two days." She led Hatch to the far side of the storage shed, where a large tarp had been laid. She peeled it back, and Hatch looked down in astonishment. Dozens of artifacts had been laid out in neat rows, each numbered and tagged.

"Two flintlock pistols," she said, pointing. "Three daggers, two boarding axes, a cutlass, and a blunderbuss. A cask of grapeshot, several bags of musket balls, and a boarding ax. A dozen pieces of eight, several items of silver dinner plate, a backstaff and a dozen ten-inch ship spikes."

She looked up. "Never have I found so much, so quickly. And then there's this." She picked up a gold coin and handed it to Hatch. "I do not care how rich you are, you do not lose a doubloon like this."

Hatch hefted the coin. It was a massive Spanish doubloon, cold and wonderfully heavy. The gold gleamed as brilliantly as if the coin had been minted a week ago, the heavy Cross of Jerusalem stamped off-center, embracing the lion and castle that symbolized Leon and Castile. The inscription PHILIPPVS+IV+DEI+GRAT ran around the rim. The gold warmed in his palm as his heart quickened despite himself.

"Now here is another mystery," said Bonterre. "In the seventeenth century, sailors never buried people with their clothes on. Because on board ship, tu sais, clothes were extremely valuable. But if you did bury them clothed, you would at least search them, non? That packet of gold in the boot was worth a fortune to anyone, even a pirate. And then, why did they leave all these other things behind? Pistols, cutlasses, cannon, spikes—these were the heart's blood of a pirate. And a backstaff, the very means of finding your way home? None would leave such things behind willingly."

At that moment St. John appeared. "Some more bones are appearing, Isobel," he said, touching her elbow lightly.

"More? In a different grid? Christophe, how exciting!"

Hatch followed them back to the site. The workers had cleared the second grid down to bone, and were now feverishly working on a third. As Hatch looked down at the new excavation, his excitement gave way to unease. Three more skulls were exposed in the second grid, along with a careless riot of other bones. Turning, he watched the workers in the third grid brush the damp dirt away with bristled brushes. He saw the cranium of one skull appear; and then another. They continued to work, the virgin soil yielding up brown: a long bone, then the talus and calcaneus of a heel, pointing skyward as if the corpse had been placed in the earth facedown.

"Teeth gripping the ground soil," Hatch murmured.

"What?" St. John started.

"Nothing. A line from the Iliad."

No one buried their dead facedown, at least not respectfully. A mass grave, Hatch thought. The bodies thrown in willy-nilly. It reminded him of something he had once been called to examine in Central America, peasant victims of a military death squad.

Even Bonterre had fallen silent, her high spirits fading fast. "What could have happened here?" she asked, looking around.

"I don't know," Hatch said, a strange, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"There do not appear to be signs of violence on the bones."

"Violence sometimes leaves only subtle traces," Hatch replied. "Or they might have died of disease or starvation. A forensic examination would help." He looked back over the grisly sight. Masses of brown bones were now coming to light, the skeletons stacked three deep in places, sprawled across each other, their tattered bits of rotten leather darkening in the light rain.

"Could you do such an examination?" Bonterre asked.

Hatch stood at the edge of the grave, not answering for a moment. It was nearing the close of day and the light was fading. In the rain, mist, and growing twilight, against the mournful sound of the distant surf, everything seemed to turn gray and lifeless, as if the vitality itself was being sucked out of the landscape.

"Yes," he said after a moment.

There was another long silence.

"What could have happened here?" Bonterre repeated to herself, in a whisper.