Bones flipped the blade over and Maddock leaned forward. There, gleaming dully in the light, was the word JUSTICE.
“This is Joan of Arc’s sword!”
“I didn’t know she had a special sword,” Bones said.
“It depends on which legend you stumble across. Most agree that she found the sword buried behind the altar of a church called St. Catherine’s. It was covered in rust, but she claimed that it cleaned easily, almost miraculously. And when she cleaned it, she saw the five crosses on the blade. She called the sword ‘Justice’ and one of her followers had the name engraved upon it.”
“It looks like it’s never been used.” Bones drew the blade the rest of the way out of the scabbard and held it up for inspection.
“It probably wasn’t. She was a leader, a strategist, and a symbol, but not really a fighter. She didn’t engage in combat…” Maddock broke off as something fell out of the scabbard and fluttered to the ground. A folded piece of paper.
Carefully, he picked it up and unfolded it.
“What is it?” Bones asked.
“A letter…from Blackbeard.”
EIGHTEEN
The cold has added its burden to my grievous wound and I’ll not see the morrow. This room which has served me in life will provide my tomb. A man could do far worse.
The two swords should have finished me, but somehow I surfaced from the fall. When I finally washed ashore, word of my death had already spread. Truth be told I felt more dead than alive. Hiding in my cave to await my recovery seemed the wise course. I learned of the legend of the cave years ago and, upon finding it, knew it could serve as an occasional retreat from the forces intent on my capture. It served one additional purpose which I will describe presently.
My expected recovery has been the opposite. The pus and blood in my neck is now a demon intent on snatching my soul. I will be free of it before the next sunrise. Or so I speculate, as I have not seen a sunrise in over a week. So be it.
I only hope I can finish this entry before I meet my final end, an end which I can only guess targets the inferno. Think not that in my final moments I am attempting to make amends. It is far too late for that. Still, there is no purpose in taking my knowledge to the grave.
It was but a year ago that I captured La Concorde near the Isle of Saint Vincent. Such a large guineaman was a prize indeed and I determined at once to rename it Queen Anne’s Revenge and re-purpose it as my flagship. I discovered its real value later.
The ship had originally departed from France before taking on the cargo of slaves in Africa. The captain bore the markings of the ancient order and it is for that reason I know the treasure I found in his cabin to be genuine. Indeed, the very sight of it pierced my heart as it once pierced sacred flesh, and righteous fear froze my blood. I had only to touch it to realize it was an object which commanded great reverence. The fates were guarding me that day, protecting my find from the wild eyes of my men until I secured it.
I came to believe it a gift to me, a source of power and good fortune. Now that the failures have compounded, I consider that it was the opposite. In any case, I have told not a soul about it, nor even mentioned it in this journal until now.
The object is contained in a quite ordinary wooden box. Strange that such an item should rest in such a simple vessel, but our Lord came to us as a simple man, so mayhap it is fitting. Perhaps it deserves a better resting place, but it will rest with me in my chosen place. Providence brought this treasure to me and perhaps, some day, that same providence will bring this journal, or this treasure, to a worthier man. Or maybe it will remain a mystery for eternity. I will not be there to see it.
Maddock didn’t say a word when he finished reading the final pages of the journal. Bones, looking over his shoulder, wasn’t so reticent.
“I was right. Blackbeard survived the fight. Even I wasn’t going to buy that he swam around a ship three times without a head. This totally rocks.”
Dizzy with the thrill of discovery, Maddock absently turned the page over and was surprised to see a single line of text.
This treasure I will take to my grave. G Washington
The word “grave” was written in larger letters than the rest of the sentence, and underlined.
“Son of a…” Bones said. “Washington did get here first. He took the treasure. Or treasures, I guess I should say, because I don’t see a wooden box anywhere.”
“That’s all right,” a voice said from behind them. “I know where to look. Now, hands in the air.”
Maddock’s first instinct was to fight, but he knew the situation was hopeless. There was nowhere to take cover and to go for his weapon would be suicide. Slowly he turned to face Edmonia Jennings Wright. Flanked by two of her men, they all held weapons trained on Maddock and Bones.
Maddock glanced at his friend and the two of them slowly raised their hands above their heads.
“You, Bonebrake,” Wright snapped. “Put the sword and the paper back into the scabbard and toss it over to me. I don’t need to tell you what will happen if I even think you’re about to try something.”
Glowering, Bones complied with her instructions, pitching the aged weapon in a slow arc, softball style, to the old woman. Had there been fewer weapons trained on them, Maddock might have been tempted to draw his weapon and start firing while all eyes were on the sword, but Wright was too wily for that. Her gun never lowered and her eyes never left the two SEALS as she snatched the sword with her free hand.
“Very good. Ransom,” she said to one of her men, “disarm them.”
“How did you find us?” Bones asked as Wright’s man relieved him and Maddock of their pistols and knives.
Wright chuckled. “The two of you have done a remarkable job of confounding my plans. I fear your success has caused you to underestimate me and my resources.” She fell silent, her thin-lipped smile indicating that was the only answer she was going to provide.
“If you know where the treasure is, why are you here at all?” Bones continued. “Were you after the sword? Is it the real treasure?”
“I thought you were smarter than that,” Wright said. “Not a great deal smarter, mind you. Think about it. The mention of our Lord, piercing sacred flesh, contained in a simple wooden box. The esteem with which Blackbeard and Washington both held it.”
Maddock understood. “You’re after the Crown of Thorns.”
“Very good. I’d heard you were the intelligent one, relatively speaking.”
“Yeah, but I’m the good-looking one,” Bones said.
“What could the Sons of the Republic possibly want with a religious artifact? You’re a political group.” Maddock was buying time. Sterling was hiding in one of the vaults, and he hoped she was waiting for Wright and her men to lower their guards.
Wright clucked in disapproval. “You have no imagination. The truth is, someone else wants it — a powerful ally. He believes the discovery of the crown, proof that the Gospel is true, will lend authority to proper-thinking men and women in government, will undermine the Godless, and will enthrall the populace. It will smooth the path for the advancement of our agenda and expand our ally’s already formidable power.”
“And the politicians who aren’t swayed by the crown?” Maddock asked. “You’ll buy them off with Blackbeard’s treasure, I suppose.”
Wright shrugged. “Different incentives for different people.”
“So, is this over?” Bones asked. “You say you know where the treasure is, you’ve got the sword, so you’re good to go. All we wanted was to bring this to an end so you’d leave us and Maddock’s girlfriend alone.”