“Bring the spade, Sampson,” James called, and made his way after Jessie, who was already on her hands and knees, digging into the sand with her hands, Anthony beside her, flinging small handfuls of sand over his shoulder. A blue crab scurried away from the flying grains. Terns and sanderlings began to wheel downward, coming closer, scenting food. Sea gulls were bolder, some running nearly to Jessie’s digging hands, then scurrying back when Anthony yelled in excitement, his fingers striking a root of the tree.
“Papa!”
“Be careful, Anthony,” Jessie said, pulling his hands away. “We don’t want to kill the tree. Just dig gently around the roots. That’s right.”
But they didn’t find anything. Fifteen minutes later, all were standing in a circle around that stunted live oak, which stood alone now, like a castle surrounded by a moat.
Jessie was shaking her head. “I couldn’t have dug any deeper than this. Where is it?”
James closed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. “It’s been ten years, Jessie. You’ve told me many times how the landscape can shift drastically in just one day. Ten years is a very long time, and there have been violent storms.”
“This is depressing,” Maggie said, standing there with her brilliant red hair glistening in the sunlight, her skirts billowing in the salty wind. “Jessie, one of your streamers is stuck beneath your collar. That’s right, just pull it out and let it blow free. Much better.”
Anthony sighed deeply. “I’d hoped we’d find a treasure, Jessie. Do you have any idea where Blackbeard could have hidden it even without the diaries?”
“No, I’m sorry, Anthony, but I haven’t a clue.”
“My first treasure and I won’t find it,” he said, shook his head, dropped to the sand, and began taking off his shoes and socks.
It was Sampson who said, “I say, Jessie, this tree looks like it should preside in a witch’s forest. It’s gnarly and all twisted about, and just look at that odd bulge. I didn’t know trees could bulge out like that. It looks like an old man with a goiter.”
; She frowned, stepped forward, and ran her hands over the fat bulge in the tree. “I’ve heard stories,” she began, and now her eyes began to sparkle, “about how the water swept up by storms could nearly rip trees up by their roots. Just suppose something was buried at the base of those roots. Why then, the bundle might just get swept up into the tree and be stuck there. Then it just might continue to be pushed upward as the tree grew.”
“You mean,” James said, “that this unlikely lump here is really the oilskin bundle? It grew up into the tree itself?”
“Why not?” Jessie said. “Oh dear, we must sacrifice the tree. It is excessively ugly.”
“I’ll get an ax,” Anthony yelled, running back to the wagon, Spears on his heels.
A white ibis, its red legs and red face as vivid as a sunset, stood some twenty feet away and watched as they chopped down the tree.
“Oh dear,” Jessie said. “I feel guilty about this.”
The tree broke into two parts. Anthony, looking like an urchin, squealed, “Look, Papa, it’s hollow!”
James grinned down at her. “It’s your diaries, your treasure. See if your theory is right, Jessie.”
Gingerly, Jessie slipped her hand up into the tree. She felt scaly bumps, sharp jabs, spongy stuff she’d rather not think about, and then she felt cloth. Oilcloth. She could only stare up at James. “I don’t really believe it,” she said finally. “I’m tugging, but it’s not coming loose.”
James managed to pull the rotting bundle from the tree. He held it like a precious gift in his palms. The oilcloth fell away. Inside were five books, not in the best of shape, but not utterly destroyed either.
“Oh goodness,” Anthony said.
“Jessie,” James said. “These are Blackbeard’s diaries?”
“Yes. These two he wrote himself. These two Blackbeard’s grandson, Samuel Teach, wrote. He was Mr. Tom’s father. And this one that looks so old it will crumble in your hands, Valentine wrote.”
“But that doesn’t make sense, Jessie,” the Duchess said, swiping a thick tress of hair from her face. “If the grandson had his grandfather’s diary, then why wouldn’t he have dug up the treasure? And what about Blackbeard’s son? Why didn’t he get the treasure?”
“Probably,” Marcus said, “because the son and grandson weren’t smart enough to catch Blackbeard’s clues.”
Badger said, “I’ll wager that the son and grandson both probably got themselves hanged before they could search for the treasure. They both sound like wastrels.”
Jessie said, “Don’t forget Red Eye Crimson and Mr. Tom, Blackbeard’s great-grandson.”
It was difficult but Anthony managed to remain somewhat still while James drove the wagon back to the Warfield house. They all trooped into the small parlor while Jessie sat down on the threadbare carpet, the oilskin bundled up in front of her on the floor. Badger brought in tea Old Bess had prepared.