No Good Deed 16

It seemed a most unlikely treasure map. Indeed, I felt that it perhaps held no value at all – save to the earlier incarnation of Anson Northrup. I clapped the book shut, it made a satisfying sound, but the dust which shot out of the binding brought on another fit of sneezing. When I had recovered myself, I looked down at the book still in my hand. Something was hidden in the spine, between the glued leaves and the binding. I pulled it out, with the aid of the point of my knife. It was yellowed rag-paper with a most indistinct watermark. Most likely this betokened much handling rather than any great antiquity. Unfolding it was a delicate matter, the creases caused by the folds so sharply deep as to have almost perished the paper.

It appeared to be some kind of official Warrant. It read as follows:

“From the Office of the Governor of the State of South Carolina.

It is requested that all Federal and State authorities render any and all assistance to the bearer on request without cavil or protest”

It was adorned with a complicated design at the foot of the page. This I assumed to be the State Seal or some such. Next to it was a signature with the name and title written more legibly beneath: James Henry Hammond, Gov. South Carolina.

I wondered who John Mudsill was, and why Northrup had been charged with delivering this paper in such a bizarre manner.

Even carefully folded, the paper would not have survived a further concealment in its former place; therefore I placed it in the middle of the book and replaced the oilskin. I retied the string but took no pains whatever over the wax seal. Anyone who might expect someone to deliver a sealed package intact, seemed to me a rare gull indeed.

Pausing only to remove the waistcoat, I resolved to repair to the saloon bar, in hope of some diversion. Of a sudden, I felt the cabin to be smaller yet and wished to be among company, in more spacious accommodations.

On deck, I noted that the Grand Turk was making its most dilatory way between two large sandbanks. I stopped to look at the flock of birds on the bank to the port side. An almost impenetrable accent coated the voice in my ear, as I stood at the rail. On bidding him repeat his words several times I gathered that I was looking at “ a gulp of double crested Cormorant, fine river birds as ever were.” The man was dressed in the outre style of the Southern Gentleman of leisure, with a waistcoat – or vest – as offensive to the eye as the one I had lately discarded. In the manner which I still found shocking he thrust out a hand and barked his name;

'Beauregard Duchamp, late of New Orleans, pleased tuh make yuh 'quaintance.'

I sighed and shook his hand, fervently hoping that he was not obsessed with ornithology, a fault which I found difficult to forgive in any man.