Treasure of the Dead

Chapter 8

Maddock, Bones and Willis sat at a table with Fabi in the home of one of her relatives, an uncle who was out of town on business. The residence was a nice one, not a shack, and featured modern amenities including electricity, running water and contemporary furniture.

Maddock considered the documents from Abbe’s cigar box which they had organized on the table, by date where possible, by similar paper type, and by language. All were old and appeared to have been cobbled together from different sources, perhaps torn from journals or logs of some kind.

“I think we’re going to need Fabi to do the lion’s share of the translation here, but I’m passable at reading French, so I’ll take a shot at some of these.” He indicated a stack of yellowed papers written in flowery longhand.

“I can deal with some Español,” Bones said, reaching for a document written in Spanish.

Willis, who appeared bored by this process, agreed to take down a few notes when something meaningful was translated. “Let’s just get this done. I signed up for treasure hunting, not paperwork.”

The group worked for a time in silence, poring over the various documents. After a while Maddock summed up what they were thinking.

“It’s difficult to see how these are connected, but from what I can tell so far, they reference different places on the island.” He turned to Fabi. “You make anything of it yet?”

She furrowed her brow and slowly lifted one of the papers from the table. “Listen to this. It's an entry torn from a priest's journal, 1715.” She squinted as she translated aloud in English:

The service of four sailors was required to hold the tormented sailor down. Possessed of inhuman strength, he could not be said to be of right mind, speaking as he was in odd tongues of living dead men and evil spirits unleashed into our dominion. In his cell in the old French fort, he had summoned extraordinary patience and will to carve strange things into the stone walls, symbols beyond our understanding should they contain meaning at all. My primary intention was to exorcise the spirits from his body responsible for his lunacy, but between my ministrations he exhibited moments of lucidity during which I could not help but take note of his fantastic tale.

The sailor recounted having been on a barrack that was part of a Spanish Crown treasure fleet of monumental value. Untimely storms separated the fleet, sank it and drove his ship far off course. They lost a mizzen mast and then a main and sailed blindly until they ended up on a reef somewhere off the shores of Hispaniola. He insists the storm was a punishment from God for the Spaniards’ greed and for stealing from the native savages. Despite this punishment, he claims God also sent demons to punish any who survived the storm, and that these demons now guard the treasure fiercely and without prejudice.

Despite being in the throes of madness and the fantastical elements of his tale notwithstanding, I am compelled to think that the treasure of which this sailor speaks is as true as the word of God.

Fabi looked up from the faded page, eyes wide.

Willis underlined something he wrote on his notepad with a flourish. “‘Priest says treasure is the real deal.’ Just in case we forget what that said.” He nodded to the document.

“Thanks, Willis.” Maddock rolled his eyes. “Let’s try to put this all together into something meaningful. Besides the passage Fabi just read, we know there are other entries that make mention of different points around the island. We also know for a fact that at least some of these entries are dated after that passage. That tells me that maybe this priest was going around the island, conducting his own hunt for a treasure he believed to be real.”

“So we need to figure out what some of those places are.” Bones eyed the mess of papers on the table dubiously.

Maddock went on. “Right, but we already have at least one solid clue from the page we just heard: he mentions an ‘old French fort’ where the sailor was kept prisoner.”

“If it was old then, in 1715,” Willis said, “it must be awful old now.”

Maddock looked to Fabi. “Any old forts on this island?”

She nodded. “Many. But I have an idea where to start. Look at this.”

She turned one of the papers around so the others could see. “The priest has written Saint Louis de Sud in the margin. I know there’s an old fort there. I think we should check it out.”

“Is it far?” Bones asked.

“It’s not exactly close. On the plus side, it’s on the Haiti side of the island of Hispaniola, which today, I’m sure you’re aware, is shared with the country of Dominican Republic.”

“But back in 1715 it was all known as Hispaniola,” Maddock clarified.

Fabi nodded. “That’s correct. Having to search on the Dominican side of the island would involve added complications.”

“Then let’s cross our fingers that this priest was on this side of the island.” Willis actually crossed his fingers and held them up, but Fabi’s face was downcast.

“What’s wrong?” Willis asked. He looked at his fingers. “This some kind of taboo gesture in Haiti or something?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s just that I haven’t had the best luck with priests lately.”