Gray had noticed the marks before but hadn’t placed any significance on them. “What about them?”
“Well, I consulted an ancient-language expert. The writing is an odd form of Hebrew, just like Archard mentioned. The curve of letters beneath the Seal spelled out the word Manasseh, which is the name of one of the ten lost tribes of Israel.”
Gray’s attention sharpened. Hours earlier, Painter had passed on information speculating that these ancient people, the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev, could possibly be descendants of a lost tribe of Israel. Painter had also referenced the Book of Mormon, whose scripture contended that an exiled tribe of Israelites had come to early America—specifically the clan of Manasseh.
Heisman continued: “In fact, the Founding Fathers seemed a bit obsessed with the lost tribes of Israel. When the committee to draft the original Great Seal first got together, Benjamin Franklin expressed a wish for the design to include a scene out of the Book of Exodus, when the Israelites went into exile. Thomas Jefferson suggested a depiction of the children of Israel in the wilderness.”
Gray studied the sketch of the Seal. Had the Founding Fathers known about this lost tribe reaching these shores? Did they somehow learn that the “pale Indians” described by the Iroquois were in fact exiled Israelites?
It seemed that way. They must have been trying to incorporate that knowledge into the Great Seal, to memorialize the tribe.
Heisman’s next words suggested that Gray was right. “What I find odd is that the tribes of Israel were all represented by different pairs of symbols. In the case of the Manasseh clan, it was an olive branch and a bundle of arrows.” Heisman glanced up to Gray. “Why would the Founding Fathers plant the symbols of the Manasseh tribe in the Great Seal?”
Gray suspected that he knew the answer to this question, but he had a more immediate concern. He waved Heisman onward. “That’s all well and good, but let’s continue to the place where Fortescue reached Iceland . . .”
Heisman looked disappointed, but he slid the draft of the Great Seal aside. “All right. Like I said, it took Archard about a month to reach Iceland, but eventually he grew confident that he’d found the right island, as marked on the map. But once there, he had no luck in finding anything. After twenty-two days of searching, he began to despair. Then his luck changed. One of his searchers dropped an apple while investigating a rather lengthy cavern system. It fell down a chute no one had noted. A lamp lowered down that hole revealed a glint of gold near the bottom.”
“They found the spot,” Seichan said.
“He goes into great length describing the deep cavern. How stone boxes held hundreds of gold plates inscribed with the same proto-Hebrew writing. He also found solid gold jars filled with the oft-mentioned silvery dry elixir. He was quite excited and drew many pictures.”
From the tick in the curator’s voice, it was clear that he was also excited. Heisman slid one of the pages over to Gray and Seichan. The curator tapped the picture in the center. “Those are the golden containers for the elixir.”
Gray stiffened at the sight. The drawing showed tall urns topped by various sculpted heads: that of a jackal, a hawk, a baboon, and a hooded man.
“Those look like Egyptian canopic jars,” he said.
“Yes. Archard thought so, too. Or at least he recognized that they were of Egyptian origin. He postulated that perhaps the pale Indians were in fact refugees from the Holy Lands, some secret sect of magi who had roots in both the Jewish faith and Egyptian traditions. But such speculations came to an abrupt end. After this point in the journal, his writing becomes very sloppy and hurried; it’s clear that he was in a state of panic.”
“Why?”
At a cue from her boss, Sharyn began to read. “ ‘I have heard word that a ship approaches Iceland. That the Enemy has discovered our investigation and closes upon us. They must never find this cache of lost treasures. My men and I will do our best to lure them away, to keep them from this island. Pray that I am successful. We will strike for the coast, to the cold mainland, and draw them after us. I will take a small sampling of the treasure in the hopes that I can still reach the shores of America. But I leave this journal as a testament, in case I fail.’ ”
Heisman crossed his arms. “That’s how the journal ends, with Archard fleeing his enemy. But I think we can piece together what happened after that.”
“The Laki eruption,” Gray said.
“The site of that volcano is not far from the coastline. Archard must have made it some distance, but then catastrophe struck.”
Gray had witnessed such an event himself. He pictured the explosion, followed by the violent volcanic eruption.
Heisman sighed. “After that, we know from Jefferson’s letter that our Frenchman went into deep seclusion, regretting the actions he had taken, actions that led to the death of more than six million people.”
“Until he was summoned twenty years later by Jefferson to undertake a new mission. To join Lewis and Clark on their sojourn west.” Gray let the pieces fall together in his head. “According to the date on the map you showed us earlier, Jefferson concluded the Louisiana Purchase in 1803. That very year, Jefferson commissioned his friend Captain Meriwether Lewis to put together a team to explore those former French territories and the lands west of there.”
Gray’s head buzzed with the certainty of his assessment. “Fortescue went with them. He was sent to find that spot on the Indian map, to find what Fortescue himself believed was the heart of the new colony, that lost city.”
Seichan kept pace with him. “And he must have found it. He vanished out of history, and Lewis was murdered.”
Gray turned to Heisman. “Do you have a map that marks the trail that Lewis and Clark took?”
“Of course. Just one moment.” He and his assistant combed through their stacks and quickly found the right book. “Here it is.”
Gray stared down at the page. He ran a finger along the trail, starting at Camp Wood in St. Charles, Missouri, and ending at Fort Clatsop on the coast of the Pacific Ocean.
“Somewhere along this route—or close to it—has to be the location of the lost Fourteenth Colony.”
But where?
His phone rang again. He’d left his cell on the tabletop; a glance at it showed Sigma’s emergency number.
Seichan saw it, too.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, and headed again to the door. Seichan dogged his heels and joined him in the hall.