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.
Chapter 26
At dawn the next morning, the senior crew gathered in the pilothouse of the Griffin. The atmosphere was far different than the subdued, demoralized atmosphere Hatch remembered after Ken Fields accident. Today there was electricity in the air, a kind of pregnant expectation. At one end of the table, Bonterre was talking to Streeter about transporting the excavation findings to the storage facility, while the team leader listened silently. At the other end, a remarkably disheveled and unkempt-looking Wopner was whispering animatedly to St. John, punctuating his sentences with wild hand gestures. As usual, Neidelman was not to be seen, remaining in his private quarters until all had assembled. Hatch helped himself to a cup of hot coffee and a massive, greasy donut, then settled into a chair next to Rankin.
The door to the cabin opened and Neidelman emerged. As he came up the steps, Hatch could tell instantly that the Captain's mood matched that of the rest of the pilothouse. He motioned Hatch to the door of the cabin.
"I want you to have this, Malin," he said in a low tone, pressing something heavy into Hatch's hand. With surprise, Hatch recognized the massive gold doubloon Bonterre had uncovered the day before. He looked at the Captain, mutely questioning.
"It's not much," Neidelman said with a slight smile. "The smallest fraction of your eventual share. But it's the first fruit of our labors. I wanted you to have it as a token of our thanks. For making such a difficult choice."
Hatch mumbled his thanks as he slipped the coin into his pocket, feeling unaccountably awkward as he walked back up the steps and took a seat at the table. Somehow, he felt an aversion to taking the doubloon off the island, as if it would be bad luck to do so before the rest of the treasure had been found. Am I growing superstitious, too? he wondered half-seriously, making a mental note to lock the coin up in the medical hut.