The Runaway's Gold (25 page)

Reverend Sill cocked his head. “The strong grow to defy it—the weak to give in.”

“And the weak?” I asked, glancing down. “Do they ever get a second chance?”

He nodded slowly. “Aye, lad. I searched for you that night because I believe they do.”

“How did you and Malcolm get all the way to this side of the island?”

“Hoot!” he said, grasping the stones on the crumbled wall in front of him. “We sailed, of course!”

I raised me eyebrows. “Didn't you tell me, sir, on our walk from Skeld, that you would never again—”

“Aye, but this was a bit of an exception,” he interrupted. Then cleared his throat. “After Mary explained how you had thrown Sheriff Nicolson off the
Ernestine Brennan
's trail, George Marwick himself made the arrangements. The wind being perfect, Captain Canfield had us to Skeld Voe by day's end.”

“And the pistol?”

“Never go anywhere without it. Why, it was you who carried it all the way from Skeld.”

“So that's what was in the kishie.” I laughed. “And here I thought I was carrying a load of stones!”

THE SACK FROM INSIDE THE BROCH WALL WAS coated with a lichen-colored mold that came off easily on me fingertips as I unfastened the buckle securing the outer flap. Inside, me fingers touched what seemed to be a jumble of odd-shaped objects—and then, suddenly, something flat and round.

It was cold to the touch and sparkled in the lantern light. “It's a coin,” I cried, laying it on the wall. “But is it a ducat?”

Reverend Sill grabbed the coin in his crooked fingers and held it to the light. It was beautifully struck: a knight on the front, sword over his shoulder, and a bundle of arrows clutched in his hand. “Aye,” he said, his wrinkled face stretched into a satisfied smile. “From 1780. Shetland hasn't seen the likes of these in many, many years.”

He held it out to me. “See these words on the outer edge? Latin, it is.
PAR.CRES.HOL.CONCORDIA.RES.
‘Through concord wee things grow—Holland.' In other words, ‘Union is strength.'”

I pulled out more and stacked them neatly together. And then a hammer and chisel. “Tools he used to make the carving in the stone?”

“Go on, lad!” Reverend Sill said, brushing them aside. “We haven't much time. Pull out the rest of the coins so we can make a full count.”

I glanced at the stack before me. “Five in all, I'd say.”

“Can't be. There are many more than that.”

I felt around inside the sack again. “Only this,” I said, pulling out one remaining coin and placing it on the wall. It was nearly three times the size of the ducats but surprisingly lighter and struck with the word
MASATHVSETS
. I held it to the light. In the center was the exact replica of the tree chiseled into the broch and scratched into the wall in Lerwick Prison! On the back, the year 1652. “The tree on the treeless island of Shetland!”

“Bah!” Reverend Sill said. He grabbed it from me, and gave it a sniff. “Silver is all. An American piece. Worthless!” Then he hurled it into the dark reaches of the broch. “There must be other sacks! Crawl back in the wall, lad, and have a good look around.”

He handed me the lantern. I scrambled into the slippery, moss-coated space I had already uncovered, groveling on me hands and knees.

“Nothing,” I called.

“Nonsense! Look again!”

I crawled out. “What makes you so sure?”

“Hoot, lad! It was the talk of the island at the time. The captain of the ship, a Dutchman, was caught but a day after the wreck. It was he who confessed that they set sail from Rotterdam with a trunk filled with ducats. When the English officers returned to Bressay Isle where the ship had come aground, the trunk was empty!”

I thought of Bressay Isle, across the sound from Lerwick Harbor, clear on the other side of Shetland from where we stood. “But that's many days' journey from here,” I said, brushing the dirt and lichen from me breeks.

“Aye, by land.”

“And the American—he was on the run for months?”

Reverend Sill nodded, looking longingly at the five gold coins neatly stacked on the wall.

I rubbed me chin. “I've been on the run meself these last three days. I couldn't have made it with a sack loaded with ducats.”

At first Reverend Sill said nothing, and then he erupted into a low, guttural moan, clapping his hand to his brow. “Of course! How could I have been such a fool?”

I nodded to the five coins. “But he did bring these.”

“Aye, lad. More gold than any man in this parish has seen in a lifetime.”

I looked at him, puzzled. The old man turned to the scattald below us. “A dream is all,” he muttered, his voice steeped in anguish. “Satan luring me, senseless, with treasure. I thought—had we found the missing ducats—the people of the parish would finally have the capital to end, for good, this ruthless oppression.”

“To free us from
Marwick
?” I asked.

“Aye, lad.” He dropped his head in his hands. “To start our own fishery—set our own prices. I was foolish to hope . . .”

For a moment I didn't understand. And then I thought of
why John yearned to leave for America. To live in a place free of the hand of Marwick. If we were able to start our own fishery, that place would be here in Shetland!

“Forgive me.” His voice quavered. And then he cleared his throat. “It will not surprise you, lad, that Sheriff Nicolson has offered a reward for your capture. And should you be discovered, with a charge of prison-breaking added to your list of offenses, I have no doubt it will be the Transportation you will face.”

“How is it, sir,” I asked softly, “that a lad can make but one bad turn—just one—and by doing so leave the rest of his life in shambles?”

“Life,” he sighed, “is but a trail of decisions. When you're a lad you do as you're told. It's only when you're a man that you choose for yourself between dark and light.”

He pulled a rolled piece of parchment from his pocket. “Captain Canfield will be waiting for you tomorrow night.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's all here,” he said, handing it over the wall. “Now, tell me, lad, have you considered what you will be doing with your good fortune?”

I shrugged, suddenly unable to look at him for fear me eyes would start to tear. “Malcolm's wife.” I bit me lip to keep me composure. “She and her bairns have no one to provide for them. Netty is her name. She lives in Lerwick with a Mrs. Jameson, I think he said.”

The reverend glanced at me soberly. “Aye. Mr. MacPherson
has spoken to me of his concern for her well-being, and I have promised to look in on her and their offspring. Shall I take her a ducat, then?”

I nodded as he placed one in his pocket. Then I turned, fist clenched in the direction of our croft. “And one to Mr. Peterson. I—our family—owe him that.”

I thought about Catherine and Victoria. Of Gutcher and Aunt Alice, and our dwindling supplies. Of how Daa had for years hoarded that pouch of coins as we struggled to survive. “George Marwick was
kind
enough to tell me we'd be evicted by week's end if he didn't get the contents of Daa's pouch to cover our debts,” I continued, grasping another ducat and handing it across the stones. “Will this cover it?”

“Yes. I should think so,” the old man said, hesitating a moment before placing the coins in his pocket. Then he stared at the two remaining ducats on the wall. “Your heart is generous, Christopher Robertson. But remember—you, too, face hard times. Perhaps harder than those you leave behind.”

I glanced at the coins and tried to smile. “Imagine. A crofter with coins. It's more than I've ever dreamed of.”

“Aye, lad. A gift unimaginable in our lifetime. Enough to start a life anew. Use them with discretion. In times such as these, a crofter with even one coin will raise suspicion.”

“'Course,” I scoffed, stuffing them into me pocket, remembering what Keeper Mann had said about me in Charles Canfield's clothing. “They'll think me a thief. And what of the ducats I've placed in your care? Will they not raise suspicion?”

“Not if I credit the generosity of a lord of my acquaintance from Inverness,” he said with a wink. “Your new life will be well away from Shetland. There'll be no way to trace their origin.”

And then, suddenly, I understood. “I can't go, Reverend, if it means not coming back!”

“Don't be daft, lad! Young George Marwick went to great lengths to make these arrangements. If you stay, you'll find yourself back at Fort Charlotte by week's end.”

“But once you pay Mr. Peterson and Marwick the rent for the Robertson croft, there'll be nothing to hold against me!”

The old man scoffed. “Charges were pressed, and you confessed to the crime. And never underestimate the power of humiliation to fuel the quest for revenge. You and your brother, along with Mr. MacPherson, aided the escape of four other men from Lerwick Prison, and in doing so challenged the Crown's authority in the islands. You can't think that the sheriff and his court will ever look upon you favorably, can you?”

Me throat tightened, the dull ache of dread building in me gut. I thought of Catherine and Victoria without John and me to help with the chores. And of traveling to a land I'd hardly imagined. But most of all, I thought of Mary Canfield.

“This is me home,” I pleaded. “Please . . . there must be another way!”

Reverend Sill stared at me a moment and then glanced in the direction of the sea. “Perhaps there is something. Unlikely, but a dim hope nevertheless.”

“What? Anything!”

“Should you find the American . . .”

“Surely he's not alive,” I said. “He was captured more than sixty years ago.”

“Perhaps. Sam Livingston was his name. We were once acquainted.”

“You've met?”

“Aye. I was but a young lad at the time, with only a flicker of ambition of ever reaching the pulpit. When word about the American and the missing ducats spread across the island, there wasn't a man, woman, or bairn in Shetland who wasn't searching for him—the Crown, you see, having offered a grand reward for his capture. He was from New York—one of those rebellious American colonies, completely disloyal to our king. And he championed the cause of the Colonists—one at the time I not only abhorred but considered aligned with Satan himself.” He hesitated for a moment, then looked down. “Alas, my hatred blinded me to his immense bravery before it was too late.”

“They took him to the Tower of London. Hung him for treason.”

The old man winced. “That was what we expected. Nevertheless, I've not met anyone who could confirm it. They say only one American has ever been held at the Tower, and it wasn't Livingston.”

But no sooner had the words left his lips than he pulled his hand quickly back and waved it before him. “Bah! It's no use.
Had he survived the ordeal, he would have returned for the ducats long ago.”

“And if he didn't come back for them?”

The old man sighed. “Then, I suspect, should he live, Sam Livingston is back in New York. And the coins are in a deep pit of earth on Bressay.”

“And you think, should I find this American, he would tell me where they are buried?” I asked, me heart pounding in me chest.

“To this I have no answer,” he said. “It is something, I am afraid, you must seek and discover for yourself.”

“But surely, finding the gold won't make Sheriff Nicolson forget me.”

“Oh, but it might. For is it not Satan's treasure that lures the Lord's people from reason?”

He stared at me for a moment, then reached slowly into his kishie and placed another large hunk of bread and wedge of cheese on the wall. “Alas, I've lingered too long.”

“You believe there's a chance?” I asked, me eyes finding his, searching for even a glimmer of encouragement. “That he still lives?”

“Chance?” Reverend Sill coughed, gripping his stauf tightly. “Over Divine Providence we have no power.”

“I'll find him!”

Reverend Sill steadied himself on his stauf and slowly started down the hill. “Godspeed, lad,” he called over his shoulder. “May we one day meet again.”

“Wait!” I cried, scrambling to the top of the crumbled wall, the dim glimmer of his lantern disappearing in the night. “How did you know him, this Sam Livingston?”

“Och, lad,” the old man's voice trailed in the darkness, “it was I who turned him in.”

Good-bye

crouched inside Culswick Broch, the sun peeking over the horizon, and slowly unfurled the rolled parchment in me lap. Me hands trembled as I touched the stiff, cream-colored paper. The elegant black letters penned precisely and deliberately, as if written with the steadiest of hands.