Treasures

Twenty-seven Liberty Head copper pennies - carefully counted and placed in one of Winnie’s Mason jars topped with a zinc screw-top lid.

With twenty-seven pennies, Scott was perhaps the wealthiest man on Cambridge Street. Well, maybe not the wealthiest, but more riches than his friend, George, possessed in any back pocket.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be. Grandfather’s often repeated phrase echoed in Scott’s ears as his eyes drifted from the Mason jar to the middle of his bed where the latest penny dreadful, Pirates of the Dark Seas, had been tossed. Eyes returned to the jar. Twenty-seven Liberty Head coppers - closely counted and housed in one of Winnie’s fruit jars capped with a screw-top lid. Twenty-seven cents. A fortune.

Correction.

A treasure.

Indeed, riches such as this demanded a secret hiding place. Thus, at age 10, Scotty Lancer’s fascination with maps began.

Bench. Cobblestone walk. Birdbath. Maple tree. Winnie’s garden. Scott’s bedroom window lent a fine view of the familiar features of the Garrett backyard. A sharpened pencil meticulously drew each landmark on stationary pilfered from his grandfather's desk. Its letterhead, with a finely embossed capital G, confirmed the map’s authenticity. The Pirates of the Dark Seas agreed.

Disembarking from the back stoop brigantine, Scott set foot upon his Beacon Hill deserted island. The decision on where to bury the Mason jar booty came easy.

Five paces down the cobblestone path. Turn left.

Three paces to the birdbath. Turn right.

Six paces to the bench. Turn right.

Ten paces straight to Winnie’s garden.

X marks the spot.

The trowel borrowed from the potting shed made quick work of uprooting a few carrots in the garden’s far corner. With the treasure safely stowed at the bottom of a well-dug hole, carrots replaced and dirt shoveled, Swashbuckler Scott returned to his ship. Pirating was momentarily suspended for the sails of multiplication tables loomed on the horizon.

However, the treasure map soon fell under a young plunderer’s harsh scrutiny. The path should be more difficult. The location was too obvious. Any respectable pirate of the dark seas never buried treasure under carrots. It’s the first place someone would look! A redrawn map and freshly dug holes moved Winnie’s fruit jar to a new hiding place - between two tomato plants.

Over the next week, the Mason jar treasure chest relocated several times. It kept company with green beans, squash, and potatoes to name just a few. Drawn paces, turns and landmarks increased as Scott’s love for maps grew.

Galloping down the backstairs leading to the kitchen, Scott anticipated the warm honey biscuits he shared with Winnie every Sunday morning before church. Unfortunately, on this particular day of rest, twenty-seven Liberty Head copper pennies in a dirty Mason jar topped with a zinc screw-top lid greeted him.

“Yesterday, ScottyGarrett, I went next door and accused Mrs. MacFarland’s dog fer diggin’ up me garden.” Winnie held the unburied treasure inches from Scott’s nose. “But in truth, the Good Lord above has takin’ me brain ‘cause I should’ve known it be the work of pirates.”

The following day, Scott, Winnie and a large soup bone, purchased with Liberty Head coppers, offered Mrs. MacFarland’s dog the deepest of apologies.

*******

The Sacramento Land Office clock ticked off the seconds as the Mason jar memory weighed down the corners of Scott’s mouth. He’d been so mad at Winnie for insisting his pennies buy the soup bone he didn’t speak to her for a week. Now, to have those silent seven days back and talk to his dear friend again...

“That’s a right nice map you’ve drawn there.” The voice of Jelly’s Doppelgänger intruding from behind brought Scott back to the present. “Ever thought of pursuing the profession of a surveyor?”

“Ah, no.” Scott observed his work, admitting he’d enjoyed the last few hours of connecting mental dots with maps, measurements and names. “A pirate, perhaps, but never a surveyor.” The lengthening shafts of sun filtering through the office window signaled late afternoon. Time to pack up and meet Westcott back at the Ebner. Papers were gathered, stacked and returned to the leather portfolio.

“A pirate, you say.” The little man’s suspicious eyes took on a slight twinkle - possibly from a childhood remembrance of his own. “Ever sail the Seven Seas?”

“Only once.” Scott scooped up the engraved, silver-cased pencil and held it in his hand. “I discovered a priceless treasure in Australia and the exploratory research hasn’t stopped since.”

*******

For a less crowded dining room than the one at the popular Ebner, the business partners returned to the Arden Hotel for their evening meal. In a far corner, two tables were pushed together which allowed lists and maps to scatter among napkins, silverware, plates of roast beef and glasses of Westcott wine.

“Is this what they call in the business world a working man’s dinner?” Seth held half a roast beef sandwich in one hand and a paper in the other.

“Indeed.” Scott washed down a bite of his own double-decker with vino. Snagging his map from under a sliced loaf of bread, he placed it in front of Westcott - avoiding drops of mustard on the tablecloth. “Here. Take a look at this.” Wine refilled glasses.

“I forgot to ask - any fruitful discussions this afternoon?”

Seth intently studied Scott’s drawing. “Nope. King George spewed manure and I refused to listen. Looked up words in a dictionary to pass the time.” Westcott dug in his vest pocket and handed over his own list for review.

Scott’s eyes scanned down the unfolded paper.

Arrogant.

Bumptious.

Conceited.

Dictatorial.

Egotistical.

Forceful.

Gloating.

Highfalutin.

Insolent.

Jackass.

Kingly.

Lofty.

Manipulative.

Narcissistic.

Overbearing.

An eyebrow raised while a silver-cased pencil was retrieved to write down a few

additions.

Pontifical.

Repugnant.

Supercilious.

“A work in progress.” Scott returned the list to its author. “Q will take some serious thought.”

Seth’s grin approved the added George descriptives as his nod confirmed the time needed for the elusive letter. “Goes without saying.” With the list refolded and tucked away, Westcott’s attention returned to Scott’s afternoon of research. “Best explain all of this to me before we uncork another bottle.”

Standing, Scott pushed aside plates and methodically laid out the different documents which corresponded to the map. “Let’s start with the two foreclosures outside of Mokelumne - along the river. According to the surveys, the owners are - I mean, were - John Bastille and Robert Mayer.” Scott scanned the San Joaquin District census and found both men listed. “Lower grape production but sustainable income while improving more acreage.”

Seth placed the map beside the census. It was his turn to trace a southern route from the Mokelumne River to Stockton. “The expense to transport the grapes for processing ate away at their profit.”

“And the exuberant fee El Pinal charges for said processing eventually took its toll.” Finding his chair, Scott sat back. “I believe those two foreclosures are the first of many easy targets.” Another afternoon document surfaced from the pile. “This is a list of vineyard owners. The numbers beside their names correspond with the location coordinates on the map.” Scott paused to give Seth time to view the papers and make connections. “All have similar situations as Bastille and Mayer - lower grape harvests according to the census, and the expense of travel to El Pinal. I’m convinced a list very much like the one you're holding resides in George West’s desk drawer. Hell. It’s probably laid out on Leland Stanford's dining room table right now. Easy targets.” Scott leaned forward. “I don't need to tell you it's time to break this monopoly planning before it gets a foothold.”

“No, sir, you do not.” Seth let out a sigh laced with frustration. “However, Westcott Winery is a minnow in the stream. We’re at capacity now.”

“Minnow, yes. Tadpole no. Major expansion and modernization -”

“Hinged on large sums of money and questions of availability -”

“Answered by investors.”

Seth crossed his arms and stretched out his legs. “Kinsey would be willing to take such a gamble?”

A sly smile dimpled Scott’s cheeks. “Let me tell you about a poker game I had with the young lady soon after she arrived at Lancer.”

The second bottle was uncorked as Scott spoke of losing to card shark Furlong which resulted in the brothers escorting her to Philadelphia. Swimming in the salt lakes of Utah and dragging Johnny to the opera in Denver were included with the retelling of the adventure. Kinsey’s Statements of Convenience and her introduction to Scott’s consequences received an honorable mention. Amusement took a backseat when describing Fletcher Garrett and his hospitality at the end of their journey.

Seth shook his head. “That little lady has been through quite a lot.”

Scott stared at the wine in his glass. More than you know. And then he saw clearly what wasn’t really in front of him - the Pinkerton envelope with the Melbourne postmark tucked under the blotter on Murdoch’s desk.

“Something wrong?” Seth’s tone announced concern.

“Not at all.” A forced smile cloaked the passing thought. Scott pointed to Westcott's pocket containing the dictionary list. “Querulous.”