Crown of Serpents (29 page)

“No way!” Jake stared with a grin. “Are you shitting me?”

“Nope. All I had to do was ask about three large boulders that had supposedly been near the original Indian village and she showed me exactly where they were. Said the only reason she knew about them was that her real estate agent mentioned they were part of a central fire pit or gathering area of the old village. Apparently it was a landmark that had survived all these years. Go figure.”

Jake punched his uncle in the arm. “I can’t believe you found them.”

Joe rubbed his shoulder. “Sometimes a bit of honesty combined with the famous Tununda wit goes a long way.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “Let’s get moving.”

“Oh, and one more thing. She’s out of town until tomorrow afternoon. She said if we wanted to, we could park in her driveway if we needed to walk her property some more.”

“Too good to be true. Too good. I’ll take it!”

Making the run to the target area, Jake wanted to approach from the same direction that General Sullivan did in 1779 — from the foot or north end of Hemlock Lake down through the rolling hills to the head or south end of Conesus Lake — on present day Route 15 South. The traffic on the roads posed no problem, but the weather was another story. It had been in transition all day, the winds of change in November at full force.

Experiencing a warm front of 60-degrees earlier in the day, but marred by rain, high winds, and low cloud cover, a cold front had moved in. Temperatures were expected to drop by almost 30 degrees with possible snow showers. As they drove south, Jake glimpsed leaf covered green grass, and harvested farm fields of cut corn stalks. It wasn’t long before thick snowflakes blew in from the west to cut down on visibility. To his uncle, the weather was a hindrance. To Jake, it was a blessing. The worse the weather, the more people would stay indoors allowing those who ruled the night to exact their stealthy business. It was exactly what a 10th Mountaineer had hoped for.

As he approached the south end of Conesus Lake, he pulled off onto the right shoulder of Route 15 and consulted his maps. The Groveland Ambuscade map came out first, followed by the NYS Gazetteer of topo maps. Jake studied both and said they would be swinging a right onto Foots Corners Road, which would turn into Henderson Hill Road, and their descent down into the lake valley.

Yielding back onto the main road, they proceeded closer. A few minutes later they made the right turn and slowly drove past flat open farmland on both sides of the road — Foots Corners. Jake mentioned, “This was where the Continental Army encamped on September 12, 1779. They set up on this hill overlooking the lake.” Jake pointed to the far right side of Groveland map.

Joe glanced at the modern day topo map to read the name of the hill — Turkey Hill. “I’ll be damned.” Joe peered over to open meadows darkened by a dying sunset. “Like driving right into history.”

Jake pointed ahead. “And down there is Conesus Lake on the right. To the left are the inlet creeks and swamp they had to reconstruct a bridge across. Butler and Brant had destroyed the old one upon their retreat.”

“Sullivan picked a good strategic high ground by encamping up here,” Joe noted.

“And look, on the far side, there’s the steep hill Boyd climbed that same night and then reconned further west about seven miles to the Genesee River. The next day, as he headed back to the camp, he was ambushed just at the top of the hill.”

“That’s the route I came down from earlier today. The Geneseo side.”

Jake drove another mile and descended further into the valley, passing an open gravel pit on their left. At the end or bottom of Henderson Hill Road, Jake stopped at the junction of East Lake Road, looked in the rearview mirror to make sure no one was behind him, and turned on the overhead map light.

“We need to take a left,” he said. They entered the flats of the valley where the village of Kanaghsaws once stood. He pointed to the old ambush map tracing their route.

“It’s like we’re shadowing Thomas Boyd’s footsteps.” Joe remarked.

Jake nodded. He then opened the folder of documents and pulled out Boyd’s September 12, 1779 journal entry with the original parchment cipher fragment reattached to the corner. Following his index finger down, he stopped in the middle of the entry and read. “He was summoned to General Sullivan’s tent that night and given the order for the early morning reconnaissance mission. Sullivan said to Boyd as a Brother of the craft he knew he could be trusted and that he had proven his worth in courage, service, and duty.”

Jake perused further down the passage. “Here, this is what we want.” He read the passage verbatim. “Upon refilling our water pouches at the parallel streams near the village, McTavish and me slipped away to have our fortunes buried for it proved too heavy a burden for the mission. We will come back for it on our return journey after reaching objective point.” Jake switched off the light, gunned the engine, and turned left.

Jake continued. “For them to bury their loot was not uncommon at this stage in the campaign. Most soldiers, from what I’ve read in other journals, mentioned they were heavily weighed down. And these were scouts who had to travel light.”

“And since Boyd and McTavish basically had a pot of gold, they surely wouldn’t leave it behind at the main camp for others to plunder,” said Joe.

“There, on the left,” announced Jake. “The sign for the first creek.” He read it out loud. “North McMillan Creek.”

The SUV passed over the creek culvert. Joe pointed left to the woman’s house just beyond a row of pine trees lining the main road. “Pull up behind her house back by the barn. We’ll be better concealed from the main road.”

Jake turned into the vacant driveway and parked at the rear. Even though the SUV was concealed from the main road it sat under a spotlight shining down from the roof.

Grabbing the September 12 journal excerpt, he read down to the keg inventory for one last reminder of what they were going after. “Plunder in keg is inventoried as: Butler’s 200 Guineas and a bear claw necklace taken from the spy; location of sunken cannon near Catherine’s Town; Swetland’s silver broach, cipher directions to his cave and case containing his cave map drawing; 3 silver rings, 7 pipes, 5 knives, 2 wampum belts from Savages; a British Ranger Officer’s corset, compass and gold match case.”

“I just hope it’s all there,” said Joe, exiting the vehicle.

Jake placed the paper back in the folder and left the packet on Joe’s seat. He too exited the vehicle and proceeded around to the rear, where Joe already had the back hatch open and equipment duffel bags unzipped.

South end of Conesus Lake.

“Mr. Nero, he’s stopped about a half mile away in the vicinity of the old Indian village,” said Rousseau, over his headset. “Off East Lake Road. I think this is it. He may be heading out on foot now. How do we proceed?”

“Where are you now? Can he see you?” asked Nero, on the other end of the cell phone connection.

“Negative. We are blacked out. Parked at a gravel pit. We cannot be seen from the main road.”

“Good. Keep Kay with the Hummer there. I want you and Jasper to approach his location on foot. See if he’s there. If so, let him conduct his business. He’ll do our dirty work for us. He should be trying to dig something up in the area. But when he gets back you’re going to ambush him.”

“My pleasure,” Rousseau said, his lip turned up.

“Confiscate whatever he digs up,” ordered Nero. “It should be a small wooden keg loaded with Revolutionary War loot. I want everything that’s in it but make sure you get three items in particular — a small fragment of paper with a code on it, a wooden cylindrical case with a map drawing inside, and a silver broach with an engraving of a deer on it. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” Rousseau replied, nodding his head. “Then what do you want me to do with him?”

“The business deal will be concluded. Terminate the subject. Make it hurt. And don’t forget to take the locator off his truck. Search it for anything of value too. Leave the body in the truck. Then burn it.”

“Yes sir.” Rousseau smiled.

“Report back to me when you’ve accomplished the mission.” The phone connection ended.

22

Former site of Kanaghsaws.

“D
O WE REALLY need these weapons and the radios?” asked Joe, pulling on his gloves. “The boulders aren’t but a hundred yards away. Just back at the base of that ridge.” He pointed, but the ridge had already faded into darkness.

“Somalia 1993. Rangers,” answered Jake. He clipped a two-way Motorola radio onto his belt. “Was supposed to be an easy daytime raid to grab some prisoners. The Rangers decided to go in light. They got complacent with using their proper equipment. They left behind their night vision gear, extra ammo, and extra water.” He pulled on his head cover. “Little did they know they would be engaged in one of the deadliest urban battles since Nam. It didn’t end until the 10th rescued them the next morning. We go in prepared no matter how inconvenient or how short the mission may be.”

“Lesson learned, Major. Go to channel three,” sighed Joe.

“Roger Big Bear. Get your earpiece in too. Make sure that your microphone is clipped on your collar. You need any help?”

“No, I got it,” Joe struggled with wire around his large belly.

“Good. Is your radio on vibration ring?”

“Yep, good to go. I’m all set. All loaded up. Freakin’ cold out here.”

“Keep your focus on the mission,” Jake directed. “Got your shotgun loaded?”

“Yeppers. Deer slugs. On safety too, Major.”

“Okay, let’s do this thing,” commanded Jake.

His uncle gave him a nod. Jake then shut the rear hatch of his SUV and led the way back behind the barn. Three horses inside snorted as they passed by. Slung on a 3-point harness across his chest was his black matte Colt M4 semi-automatic assault rifle mounted with a powerful Generation Five 4x14 night vision scope. He had kept it at Joe’s house when visiting where he would often go out for target practice on the wide-open reservation. Jake’s M4 had a shorter 11” barrel on a rail interface system with an expandable polymer stock — a true close quarters killing tool. Twenty eight rounds of .223 caliber Hordany plastic tip bullets were loaded in the magazine, with one round now in the chamber. Another three spare magazines were hidden in his pants’ pockets. Over his shoulder, rested a speared edge shovel on top of an empty backpack. He wore, as Joe did, a one-piece, close-fitting, dark Goretex coverall suit to protect against the elements. Around his waist, a web belt held his flashlight, multi-purpose tool, and his two-way radio. An earpiece and microphone clipped at his collar led down to the radio. Covering his head and face, except for the eyes, he wore a black balaclava — the bottom tucked under his collar.

“You’re one scary SOB, Jake,” quipped his uncle.

Jake waved his hand forward. “After you Big Bear. Show me them boulders.”

Joe led on. Slowly. Even though the terrain was flat and grassy, his large body was weighed down with a metal detector and a Remington 870 pump action shotgun mounted with a Tasco 2x15 scope. Every so often he sent a flashlight beam of light ahead to keep his bearings. Behind him Jake panned his eyes back and forth.

“Use the flashlight as little as possible,” ordered Jake, as he almost stepped on his uncle’s heels.

Joe walked along the wooden fencing that enclosed the horse pasture. Several barrels and hay bales obstructed their path. About seventy yards back they ducked underneath another line of fencing and entered the equestrian exercise area. Joe’s large frame and the extra weight caused him to nearly topple over after the barrel of his shotgun caught on a fence beam. Another twenty-five yards of bypassing several jumping stations and they arrived at the rear of the property. It backed up to a tree-filled ridge, which bisected the parallel running creeks.

Joe stopped. He pointed down at three boulders. “And here we are,” he whispered.

Jake shot a quick blast of flashlight to illuminate three knee-high, moss-covered rocks aligned south, east, and west. He noted that the arrangement was consistent with the way a Mason’s Lodge was laid out inside. Clever of Boyd and McTavish, he thought. Between the three rocks was a grassy circular area five feet in diameter. The light beam went out. “Get that metal detector sweeping and I’ll pull perimeter security.”

“Yep,” acknowledged Joe. He rested his shotgun against a boulder. He pulled his detector’s headphones from a pocket and placed them over his head and ears. After attaching the cord to the handle of the device, he powered it on and started sweeping.

Jake busily scanned through his night vision riflescope. Several times, a car would pass at the main road sending a quick green streak across his black and green field of vision. He detected movement behind him up the wooded slope — a rabbit. Back near the farmhouse, all looked quiet. He couldn’t see well due to the spotlight illuminating the rear parking area. The white light burned like the sun inside his scope.

The barn, to the right, was another matter. The three horses generated a large heat signature. They could plainly be seen through a side window. They were agitated, knowing intruders had trod on their turf.