The Devil Colony (13 page)

She glanced up. “It looks to be a Freemason symbol, but I’ve never seen such a rendition like this. One with a star and moon. Have you?”

Gray remained silent as Dr. Heisman examined the symbol. The curator gave a slow shake of his head. “Franklin was a Freemason himself. He wouldn’t disparage his own order. This must be something else entirely.”

Monk leaned over to see the symbol. Though his partner’s face remained stoic, Gray picked out the pinching of his nostrils as if he’d just smelled something foul. Like Gray, Monk recognized the mark of the Guild leadership. He met Gray’s gaze, the question plain in his eyes:
How could such a symbol be found in a letter from Benjamin Franklin to a French scientist?

That was the very question Gray wanted answered.

Monk voiced another mystery. “So how come ol’ Ben was asking a Frenchman to help in this search? Surely there was someone closer at hand to lead such an expedition into the wilds of Kentucky.”

Seichan offered one explanation. “Perhaps he didn’t entirely trust those around him. This shadowy enemy he mentions . . . they could have infiltrated the government’s inner circles.”

“Maybe so,” Heisman said. “But France was our ally against the British during the Revolutionary War, and Franklin spent a lot of time in Paris. More important, French colonists had developed close allegiances with Native American tribes during the French and Indian Wars, during which Canadian colonists fought alongside the region’s natives against British forces. If Franklin needed someone to investigate a matter sensitive to the Indians of the time, it would not be strange to reach out to a Frenchman.”

“The letter seems to confirm this,” Sharyn said. She translated another few lines.
“ ‘Archard, as confidant and bosom friend to the deceased Chief Canasatego—whose death by poison I still soundly believe was the dread work of our same Enemy—I could think of no one more fit to head such a vital exploration. This mission must not fail.’ ”

Despite the words in the letter, Gray suspected the true answer to Monk’s question lay in a combination of both theories. From the ominous tone, Franklin was wary and reaching out to a friend he knew he could trust, someone with close ties to the region’s tribes.

“So who’s this Canasatego guy?” Monk asked, suppressing a yawn with a fist, but from the sharp glint in his friend’s eyes, Gray could see that the yawn was clearly feigned.

Gray understood Monk’s interest. The letter suggested that Franklin’s shadowy enemies had murdered this Indian chief—and if the symbol on the page was more than coincidence, possibly it was the same enemy against whom Sigma had been battling for years. It seemed impossible, but why else would the Guild have secured and hidden this specific letter, one bearing their mark?

Heisman took a deep breath and some of the officious coldness fell away. “Chief Canasatego,” he said with the warmth of someone remembering a close friend. “He’s a historical figure few people know about, but one who played a vital role in America’s formation. Some consider him a lost Founding Father.”

Sharyn explained a bit proudly: “Dr. Heisman has done extensive research on the Iroquois chief. One of his dissertations was vital in getting Congress to pass a resolution concerning the role Native Americans played in the country’s founding.”

Heisman tried to wave away her praise, but his cheeks grew rosy and he stood a bit straighter. “He’s a fascinating figure. He was the greatest and most influential Native American of his time. If he hadn’t been struck down so young, there is no telling how different this nation might look, especially regarding its relationship with Native Americans.”

Gray leaned back in his chair. “And he was murdered like the letter said?”

Heisman nodded and finally took a seat at the table. “He was poisoned. Historians disagree about who killed him. Some say it was spies of the British government. Others claim it was his own people.”

“Seems like ol’ Ben had his own theory,” Monk added.

Heisman eyed the letter with a hungry look. “It is intriguing.”

Gray suspected there would be no further trouble convincing the curator to assist them with their research. The irritated sleepiness in his manner had drained away, leaving behind only avid interest.

“So why was this Iroquois chief so important?” Monk asked.

Heisman reached to the photocopied letter and flipped to the crude representation of the bald eagle with outstretched wings. He tapped the claw that held the bundled arrows. “That’s why.” He glanced around the table. “Do any of you know why the Great Seal of the United States has the eagle gripping a sheaf of arrows?”

Gray shrugged and shifted the page closer. “The olive branch in one claw represents peace, and the arrows in the other represent war.”

A wry grin—his first of the night—rose on the curator’s face. “That’s a common misconception. But there’s a story behind that bundle of thirteen arrows, one that rises from a story of Chief Canasatego.”

Gray let the curator speak, sensing he’d get more by letting the man ramble on.

“Canasatego was a leader of the Onondaga nation, one of six Indian nations that eventually joined together to form the Iroquois Confederacy. That unique union of tribes was already centuries old, formed during the 1500s—long before the founding of America. After generations of bloody warfare, peace among the tribes was finally achieved when the disparate nations agreed to band together for their common good. They formed a uniquely democratic and egalitarian government, with representatives from each tribe having a voice. It was government like no other at the time, with laws and its own constitution.”

“Sounds darned familiar,” Monk added.

“Indeed. Chief Canasatego met with the early colonists in 1744 and presented the Iroquois Confederacy as an example for them to follow, encouraging them to join together for the common good.”

Heisman stared around the room. “Benjamin Franklin was in attendance at that meeting and spread the word among those who would eventually frame our own Constitution. In fact, one of the delegates to the Constitutional Convention—John Rutledge of South Carolina—even read sections of Iroquoian law to his fellow framers, reading directly from one of their tribal treaties, which started with the words, ‘We, the people, to form a union, to establish peace, equity, and order—’ ”

“Wait.” Monk sat straighter. “That’s almost word for word like the preamble of the U.S. Constitution. Are you saying we patterned our founding documents upon some old Indian laws?”

“Not just me, but also the Congress of the United States. Resolution 331, passed in October of 1988, recognizes the influence that the Iroquois Constitution had upon our own constitution and upon our Bill of Rights. While there is some dispute as to the degree of influence, the facts can’t be denied. Our Founding Fathers even immortalized that debt in our national seal.”

“How so?” Gray asked.

Heisman again tapped the eagle drawing. “At that gathering in 1744, Chief Canasatego approached Benjamin Franklin and gave him a gift: a single feathered arrow. When Franklin expressed confusion, Canasatego took back the arrow and broke it across his knee and let the pieces drop to the floor. Next he presented Franklin with a sheaf of thirteen arrows tied together in leather. Canasatego attempted to break the bundle across his knee like before, but joined as one, they would not break. He presented that bundle to Franklin, the message plain to all. To survive and be strong, the thirteen colonies needed to join together; only then would the new nation be unbreakable. The eagle in the Great Seal holds that same bundle of thirteen arrows in his claw as a permanent—if somewhat secret—homage to the wise words of Chief Canasatego.”

As Heisman had been relating this story, Gray kept studying the drawing on the page, nagged by something that seemed amiss. The sketch was plainly crude, with cryptic notations along the sides and bottom, but as he stared closer, he realized what had been troubling him about this early rendition of the Great Seal.

“There are
fourteen
arrows on this drawing,” he said.

Heisman leaned over. “What?”

Gray pointed. “Count. There are fourteen arrows clutched by the eagle in this drawing. Not thirteen.”

The others stood and gathered closer around.

“He’s right,” Sharyn said.

“Surely this drawing is just a draft,” Heisman said. “An approximate representation of what was intended.”

Seichan crossed her arms. “Or maybe it’s not. Didn’t Franklin’s letter mention something about a
fourteenth
colony? What was he talking about?”

A thought formed as Gray stared at the eagle. “The letter also hints at some secret meeting between Thomas Jefferson and the Iroquois nation’s leaders.” He stared over at Heisman. “Could Jefferson and Franklin have been contemplating the formation of a new colony, a fourteenth one, one made up of Native Americans?”

“A Devil Colony,” Monk said, using the other name Franklin employed in the letter. “As in
red devils
.”

Gray nodded. “Maybe that extra arrow in this early drawing represents the colony that never was.”

Heisman’s eyes glazed a bit as he pondered that possibility. “If so, this may be the single most important historical letter unearthed in decades. But why is there no corroborating evidence?”

Gray put himself in the shoes of Franklin and Jefferson. “Because their efforts failed, and something frightened them badly enough to wipe out all record of the matter, leaving behind only a few clues.”

“But if you’re right, what were they hiding?”

Gray shook his head. “Any answers—or at least clues to the truth—may lie in further correspondence between Franklin and Fortescue. We need to start searching—”

The jangle of Gray’s cell phone cut him off. It was loud in the quiet space. He slipped the phone from his coat pocket and checked the caller ID. He sighed softly.

“I have to take this.” He stood and turned away.

As he answered the call, the frantic voice of his mother trembled out, distraught and full of fear. “Gray, I . . . I need your help!” A loud crash sounded in the background, followed by a bullish bellow.

Then the line went dead.

Chapter 10

May 30, 10:01
P.M.
High Uintas Wilderness
Utah

Major Ashley Ryan was guarding the gateway to hell.

Fifty yards from his command post, the site of the day’s explosion continued to rumble, belching out jets of boiling water and gobbets of bubbling mud. Steam turned the chasm into a burning, sulfurous sauna. In just half a day, the circumference of the blast zone had doubled in size, eroding into the neighboring mountainside. At sunset, a large slab of the neighboring cliff had broken away, like a glacier calving an iceberg. The boulder had crashed into the widening pit. Then as night fell, clouds hid the moon and stars, leaving the valley as dark as any cave.

Now a worrisome, ruddy glow shone from the heart of the pit.

Whatever was happening in there wasn’t over.

Because of the danger and instability of the site, the National Guard had cleared all nonessential personnel from the chasm, cordoning off the valley for a full three miles, with men patrolling on foot and a pair of military helicopters circling overhead. Ryan kept a small squad posted on the valley floor. The soldiers all had a background in firefighting and were turned out in yellow Nomex flame-retardant suits, equipped with helmets and rebreathing masks should the air get any worse down here.

Ryan faced the newcomer as he climbed into similar gear. “You think you can tell us what’s going on here?” he asked.

The geologist—who had brusquely introduced himself as Ronald Chin—straightened, cradling a helmet under one arm. “That’s why I’m here.”

Ryan eyed the scientist skeptically. The man had arrived fifteen minutes ago by helicopter, flown in from Washington, D.C. While Ryan had little respect for government bureaucrats who stuck their noses where they didn’t belong, he sensed there was more to this geologist. From the no-nonsense way the man carried himself, along with his shaved head, Ryan suspected the geologist had a military background. After reaching the chasm floor, the government scientist had taken in his surroundings with a single hard-edged glance and began donning firefighting gear even before Ryan could insist that he suit up.

“I should go in alone,” Chin warned, and collected a metal work case from the ground.

“Not a chance. While you’re here, you’re my responsibility.” Ryan had been ordered to give the geologist his full cooperation, but this was still his operation. He waved one of his men over. “Private Bellamy and I will escort you to the site and back.”

Chin nodded, accepting without argument, earning a tad more respect from Ryan.

“Then let’s get this over with.” Ryan led the way, thumbing on the LED flashlight mounted on his shoulder. The others followed his example, like a team about to explore an unknown cavern.

As they ventured into the dark woods, the air grew hotter with each step, stinging with sulfur. All three men quickly donned their helmets and masks. Still, the heat fought them like a physical wall. Steam condensed on their faceplates and clouded the view ahead. The canned air tasted metallic in his mouth, or maybe it was from his own fear. Stepping clear of the forest’s edge, Ryan drew them all to a stop. He hadn’t realized the deteriorating state of the blast zone.