The Last Treasure (16 page)

I demanded to know his name, but he did not acknowledge me. I told him I shall have no choice but to give him one of my own choosing, that I cannot bear to call him “You” as he is so fond of calling me. He tells me to do as I wish, that he couldn't care less, and though I feel disgust toward him, I do not blame him for the charade, any more than I suspect you might, Papa. We can none of us be who we are just now.

January 8, 1813

Today I saw spring.

The lavender bursts of redbud trees, the milky perfection of bloodroots clinging to wooded hills, the limy white of dogwood blossoms. Then I opened my eyes and saw only the bleakness of winter's bite on this barren slip of sand. Colorless and gray, cold and damp. The view from my imagination is far superior to the one that looms beyond this window. In my dreams, rare as they are now, I have visions of jasmine blooms, so sharp and clear I can practically smell their sweet petals on my skin when I wake. If you knew the horrors I carry in my memories of the night we were captured, Papa, you would understand my desire to rinse them with fantasy. I know that tale is one you and my husband will be
eager to hear, and one I must confess, if only to rid myself of even a piece of its torturous grip. But I fear I am not yet strong enough to revisit it.

Soon.

January 9, 1813

The boat arrived again and I made another mark in my book, sure there will be a pattern to these deliveries that I can measure. You know how I cannot bear a lack of routine, Papa. Any more than I can bear silence. Without my beloved boy, my home has been drained of life and laughter, emptied as a pitcher poured dry. If my captors mean to make me suffer, they need not deny me food or shelter. Instead starve me of conversation, of the sound of voices, if they truly mean to break my spirit. My contention grew so today that when my captor arrived, I told him I would trade my bowl of mush for ten words. Ten simple words of his choosing, be they ugly or kind, I cared not. I only wished to hear a voice other than my own.

He considered me harshly for a long moment, again leading me to believe he might not speak English, but then he scooped up my bowl and said, More for me, then.

You owe me six more, I yelled as he left, knowing I wouldn't receive my due.

Still my victory, tiny as it was, was immeasurable.

January 10, 1813

I grow bolder. Who can blame me?

Tonight I offered him the same bargain of ten words—but I was careful to take up my bowl before he could reply. As I did, I noticed it wasn't the same cornmeal mud he'd been delivering to me for the past six days but a curious stew, bearing chunks of what I thought had to be crabmeat. Surely I was having visions?

I could feel his eyes on me as I stared at my allowance. Did I dare risk losing something that smelled so sweet?

Father, you know me better than that.

Thirty, I said. A feast like this is worth far more than a bowl of mush.

When he lunged to take it from me, I drew back. The words first, I said. Then you get the bowl.

Anything I want? he asked.

Three, gone. I nodded.

He said, How do you know I haven't poisoned it?

Eight more. I don't, I said. Perhaps I only hope you have. The sooner I leave this prison, the better. I raised my chin and said, Nineteen more please.

Aren't you afraid of me?

No more so than I am of this stew. Fourteen.

His black eyes narrowed. I've nothing else to say to you.

Haven't you? Then this stew must not taste nearly as good as it smells. Perhaps I was wrong to think it merited such high praise.

Stains of fury bloomed above the crescent of his beard. It's the best you'll ever find. Better than you deserve, you ungrateful snit. I'll not sully your fancy tongue again!

When he snatched it from my hands, I did not try to hold on to it, though I did contain the victorious smile on my face until he'd marched from the room.

Thirteen extra.

I'm still your clever girl, Papa.

January 11, 1813

My boldness has taken its toll. Two days with meager conversation but without food and I am quite weak indeed. I arrived here already so diminished, Papa. I do not wish to worry you, but I am newly concerned for my health.

Tonight when my captor entered, I found myself too weak to rise for his delivery or proposition him for precious words.

No more games, he said. Eat.

When he set down my bowl this time, I did not argue.

January 12, 1813

My strength returns and with it, my ire.

It has been a fitful day for me. Clouds have sealed off the sun, blanketing the world in gray, and I've felt the fiercest agitation at my predicament. When my captor arrived tonight, my frustration could not be contained. I demanded again to know his name, and when he would not relinquish it, I finally cast my choice. Be grateful you did not have to hear it, Papa, for the woman of honor and grace you know so well has taken leave of this cell. My captor certainly appeared shocked at my selection—I drew a laugh from him. A laugh! Can you imagine it? After days of his skulking around me, practically growling, the sound of mirth rose from his throat and filled this dark and miserable room. I might have hated him more had the sound not been so remarkably pleasant that I too felt my tight lips betray me a moment and dance upwards before I had the good sense to force them down.

Too late, perhaps. On his way out, he said to me over his shoulder:

Simon. But I've been called all that too, miss.

January 13, 1813

I have been in this room for ten days now. I do not understand why I am kept in a room at all! Even if I escaped the confines of this house, I would have no means of flight from this island.

Today my mind drowns in thoughts of you and Joseph. All the many questions you must have, so much anguish and unknown. When our ship didn't arrive as scheduled, when the sea yielded no hope, how long did you have to wait before you received word of my capture? Have you comfort in knowing I am still alive, or does worry for my continued safety drown any relief?

I wonder too how the toll of this war continues to ravage my husband's heart and soul. I beg for news of the world outside this prison, but receive none. I wonder too if you and Joseph have continued to correspond. I like to think you have. Or is it too painful to see each other? Does it only make my absence more acute? When we lost Aaron, Joseph and I struggled for months to hold each other's gaze for any length of time. It was as if all we could see in each other's eyes was our sweet boy.

I look through my room's windows and think instead on your words, the ones you delivered to me in the interminable days after Mama's death: Every dawn is a finger without a print.

Surely my captivity will end soon, and then we can put this nightmare behind us.

January 14, 1813

Tonight I asked for fifty words.

I stopped counting at two hundred and four.