Chapter Nine The Dig

To get away from the voters who’d turned him out of office, Clifton Burch and his wife moved away from the sprawl of Orlando and retired to the much quieter town of St. Augustine, on the Atlantic. He’d had the honor of serving as a circuit court judge for fourteen years and was highly regarded by his peers and the lawyers who appeared before him. In his final campaign, he’d been blindsided by an unknown right-winger who flooded the internet and television with attack ads claiming Judge Burch was “soft on crime.” He was not, and his record spoke for itself. But attack ads work brilliantly when they are dumbed down and frighten voters. His sudden and unplanned retirement was at first traumatic, but he soon realized he could stay just as busy pinch-hitting in cases all over the state. The Supreme Court was constantly searching for retired judges to referee hot cases where the locals were running for cover. Judge Burch, at seventy-six and fit as a fiddle, quickly became known in legal circles as the go-to guy who was organized, efficient, unbiased, and eager to resolve even the thorniest of disputes. He knew nothing about the case and had never heard of Dark Isle, Panther Cay, Tidal Breeze, or the Barrier Island Legal Defense Fund. He took a call from the clerk of the Florida Supreme Court at 9:30 a.m. on a Tuesday, April 21, and by noon had spoken to all of the lawyers and was plowing through the pleadings. He promised to read the depositions, review all discovery, and be up to speed by the weekend. In the past three years, he had handled two title disputes and knew the law well. It wasn’t that complicated. The trial was set for May 18 and there would be no delays.

Steven was delighted with the appointment of Judge Burch. He liked Lydia Salazar but she had been compromised, and he had no regrets in scheming to remove her. He called Gifford Knox in Charleston and thanked him again for getting injured. Gifford howled with laughter and vowed to sail down immediately to celebrate.

They had another discussion about the money for the expedition. Gifford committed $5,000 more, bringing his total to $15,000. Steven had passed the hat among the “greenies” and their nonprofits, and he had collected $25,000. Bruce Cable pledged $10,000.

Mercer added another $5,000 and was brooding about the possibility that her little “Lovely Project” might be turning into a money pit.

The idea had been Diane’s. Initially, the goal was to visit Dark Isle with a group of experts, find the cemetery that Lovely described, find the graves, dig up some bones, and test for DNA.

Tidal Breeze had chosen the scorched-earth defense that Lovely’s story was fiction, that she had never lived on the island. And, so far, the good guys had produced no hard evidence to the contrary. A DNA link to the Jackson ancestors would destroy the corporation’s claims and severely damage its credibility.

Diane had convinced Steven before Christmas, and, though he was concerned about the costs, he gave her the green light to proceed with caution. Being cautious was not in her DNA, but she gamely tried to show restraint. She found the African Burial Project in Baltimore and paid $100 for a membership. Its mission, as stated on its website, was to locate and preserve the burial grounds of enslaved Africans, and to memorialize their lives, struggles, and contributions. Most of its work was centered from the mid-Atlantic northward. In the former slave states, where, obviously, there were far more lost burial sites, there had so far been little interest in the work of the ABP. The nonprofit had no presence in the state of Florida.

That was about to change. Diane made three trips to Baltimore, a twelve-hour drive each way, and paid her own expenses. She charmed her way into a pleasant acquaintanceship with the executive director, a former law professor named Marlo Wagner. Marlo read Lovely’s book overnight and was immediately drawn to the story. ABP was on a tight budget, but it had contacts in the archaeological world. Marlo knew researchers who did nothing but look for old bones and burial grounds that were never supposed to be found.

At the same time, through the winter, Diane had made numerous trips to Florida State University in Tallahassee. Dr. Gilfoy, the chairman of its Department of Anthropology, explained, more than once, that there was no money in the budget for a “big dig” in a place like Dark Isle. He, his colleagues, and especially his students preferred digging in more exotic places like Egypt and China. However, Dr. Gilfoy and some retired archaeologists from around the state ran a small company on the side that might be interested. Diane gave him all the maps, photos, and history she had, and he eventually explained over lunch one day that such a project would require five to seven days on-site with a team of archaeologists and students. The cost would be in the neighborhood of $30,000. A nice contingency was needed because the team had no idea what it would face, especially in the aftermath of Hurricane Leo. There was a decent chance the cemetery, if it had ever existed, had been swept away by the storm.

While Steven worked his contacts in the conservation community, Diane pecked away with a dogged determination, trimming estimates and begging for discounts, and finally put together enough money and talent to make the project happen. One team of three archaeologists from an affiliate of the ABP, and another team of three from Dr. Gilfoy’s firm in Tallahassee, would spend several days on the island digging through the cemetery, if it could be found. Any skeletal remains would be DNA-tested at a genetic lab in Austin.

Steven contacted Judge Burch and laid out the plan. Since Dark Isle was not officially owned by anyone, court approval was not crucial. However, Steven felt it was in the best interests of their case to inform all the lawyers.

Tidal Breeze, of course, objected to the idea. In a teleconference, Judge Burch abruptly informed Mayes Barrow, Pete Riddle, and Monty Martin that he found their objections frivolous and time-consuming and he had no patience with such tactics. Sufficiently burned, they got off the phone as soon as possible and reported to Wilson Larney. Steven and Diane got off the phone and high-fived. They liked this judge. He gave the green light and wanted a report as soon as one was ready.

The last obstacle was Lovely Jackson. Because she admired Bruce and felt comfortable in his store, Diane made the decision to arrange another meeting there. As always, Miss Naomi drove her. As always, she was adorned in a colorful robe and turban. Bruce served coffee and oatmeal cookies, her favorite. Bruce also stayed in the room, his office, because Diane and Steven thought they might need his help. They were proposing something that they had not yet discussed with their client.

Steven began with a summary of the lawsuit, or “court case” as he called it, for her benefit. The trial would begin in a few weeks, and after months of depositions and paperwork and such, it was now time for the big event. In his opinion, Tidal Breeze and the other “bad guys” had done a good job of casting doubt on Lovely’s claims of being the last rightful owner of the island. The best way to prove them wrong was to go to the island, find the cemetery, and hopefully find the remains of her ancestors. She had assured Diane many times that she knew exactly where they were buried.

To introduce Lovely to the miracle of DNA testing, Diane had, weeks earlier, told her the stories of two men who were wrongfully convicted and languished in prison for many years. They had little hope of being freed until their lawyers convinced a court to allow DNA testing of some hidden evidence. The tests proved the men were innocent, and the guilty man was identified. Lovely had been captivated by the story, so Diane told her another one. And another. Then she told her the story of Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings, one of his slaves, and the six children they produced—before, during, and after his presidency. For decades, white historians denied that President Jefferson had kept Ms. Hemings as his concubine, in spite of ample anecdotal evidence. DNA testing resolved the issue in 1998 when one of his descendants was genetically linked to one of hers.

Diane had explained that it might become necessary to use DNA testing in their effort to win the title dispute.

Steven was saying, “Our plan is to take a team onto the island and find the cemetery.”

Lovely seemed to know what was coming and was already shaking her head. She closed her eyes and said, “Can’t do that.”

No one said a word. No one knew what to say.

“Can’t do that,” she repeated and opened her eyes. “Nalla hexed the island when she got there. She painted the beach with the blood of Monk, the white man who raped her on the ship. The white man who made her pregnant and gave her a boy who was half-and-half. In Africa, in her home village, Nalla was a high priestess of African spirits and medicine, the village doctor. She was the same on Dark Isle, same as her daughter and granddaughter and all my grandmothers, all seven of them, all the way down to me. Nalla’s curse is still in the sand on the beach of Dark Isle. No white man has ever set foot on the beach and lived to talk about it.”

Bruce and Steven glanced at each other. They, of course, had heard the legend of the curse, but were too sophisticated to believe it. Now, though, hearing it described by Lovely, it seemed more plausible.

She said, “A lot of men have gone to the island, white men, and none have survived. The spirits are there and they tell me the stories. I hear Nalla’s voice and the voices of my grandmothers. I know the curse is there, in the sand. It is not wise to tempt the spirits.”

There was a long silence as the white folks in the room absorbed this. Miss Naomi sat next to Lovely, patting her arm and looking as bewildered as the others. Diane, never shy, finally broke the ice with “Does the curse apply to white women?”

A long pause as Lovely hummed and stared at the floor. “I don’t know. I’ll ask the spirits.”

Bruce had never gone near Dark Isle and was not tempted now. He glanced at Steven again, and it was obvious he was having the same thoughts.

Diane asked, “As a priestess, do you have the power to lift the curse?”

“I don’t know. It’s never been done. I’ll ask the spirits.” She looked at Miss Naomi and said, “I’d like to go home now.”

Two days passed with no word from Lovely. Diane called Miss Naomi twice but no one answered. She had a long chat with Marlo Wagner and explained the situation. At first Marlo made light of the old African curse, but grew more serious when she realized that Diane and the others were frightened by it. The legend of Dark Isle included many stories of white trespassers who had died mysteriously. Marlo also recalled something from a book she’d read about African mysticism: the curse went away with the death of the witch doctor, or mystic, or priestess. Or whatever they were called.

Diane assured her that Lovely was believable. Hearing and watching her had convinced them all. “We could almost feel a spirit in the room,” she explained.

There was a sudden search for black archaeologists. Marlo knew two who had helped the African Burial Project and she promised to call them immediately.

Diane called Dr. Gilfoy at FSU and described the current wrinkle in their plans. He, too, scoffed at the idea of a curse, especially one put in place 260 years ago. He was not intimidated in the least and was still looking forward to the dig on the island.

Over coffee, Bruce told Steven that he had a new legal strategy.

“And since when did you start giving legal advice?” Steven asked.

“Oh, I advise on many subjects. Here’s the idea: Withdraw your lawsuit, give Tidal Breeze the green light, and let them invade the island. That’ll piss off Lovely and her spirits and they’ll take out a few surveyors and architects. Once Tidal Breeze starts losing people, then they’ll tuck tail and run. The island will be saved.”

“I’ve actually thought about that. But what if it’s all a crock? Do you really believe there’s an old African curse on the island?”

“No. But I ain’t going over there. You?”

“I’m a lawyer, not an archaeologist. I’ll stay behind. Diane, though, can’t wait to jump in the middle of it.”

“What if Lovely says no?”

“We’ll still go to trial. DNA is a long shot anyway. It’s hard to believe they could find some old bones after all these years, and especially after Leo.”

“What are your chances without DNA?”

“Fifty-fifty. Our biggest problem has not changed. Lovely admits she left the island sixty-five years ago.”

Miss Naomi called late at night. Diane was house-sitting Mercer’s cottage, something she was doing more and more. “Well, hello Miss Naomi.”

“Lovely wants to talk in the morning on her porch. Just the three of us.”

“I’ll be there. What time?”

“Ten. And if you bring some of those coconut cookies, that’d be nice.”

“Will do.”

The porch was so narrow their toes almost touched. They sipped coffee and nibbled on cookies and talked about the weather until Lovely said, “If I go, things will be okay.”

Diane waited for more, and when nothing came she said, “You want to go to the island?”

“That’s right. If I go I can release the curse. And they can’t find the cemetery without me.”

“So, let me get this straight. It’s okay for the team to go onto the island, all of them, including us white people? But only if you go too?”

“Yes. I must go.”

“And I can go too?”

“I want you to go. The spirits are with me and they know that good people are trying to help.”

“Okay. How soon can we go?”

“Wednesday of next week is a full moon. We go at midnight.”

“Midnight?”

“Yes.”

The large pontoon boat was used for sunset excursions, booze cruises, private parties, and sightseeing around Camino Island. Steven wrangled a one-week lease from its owner for $2,500, supposedly at a discount. The team arrived at the island’s main harbor late in the afternoon of April 22 and began loading gear and supplies onto the boat.

The team consisted of two men and a woman affiliated with the African Burial Project. All three were black, thanks to Marlo Wagner’s charm and salesmanship, and they were led by Dr. Sargent, chair of the Department of Anthropology at Howard University in Washington. The truth was that once word of the expedition spread through the network, Marlo was flooded with requests from volunteers. With good nature and a dose of humor, she explained that black gravediggers were preferred for reasons to be discussed later. The dig might be too dangerous for white folks. Most of the archaeologists, black and white, knew each other and many had worked together.

The white team was led by Dr. Gilfoy, who years earlier had studied with Dr. Sargent at Cornell. All six had doctoral degrees and worked in both the classroom and the field. Dr. Sargent had published two books on lost African burial grounds and was considered the leading expert.

After dark, Bruce Cable arrived with Claude the Cajun Caterer and a case of wine. Dinner was served under the pontoon’s canopy and the team dined on gumbo, jambalaya, and crawfish étouffée. The wine and beer flowed along with the stories. There were plenty of them, told by seasoned raconteurs who’d had amazing experiences digging in jungles, mountains, and deserts the world over. As the evening wore on, it slowly became apparent that Dr. Sargent had the best stories and the most experience with African burial sites, and, without seeming pushy or ambitious, he gradually took charge. There were plenty of egos around the table, but they were accustomed to teamwork in difficult places.

At 10:00 p.m., on schedule, Diane and Mercer arrived with Lovely Jackson, who had ditched the colorful robes and turbans and wore instead old jeans, boots, and a khaki shirt that was three sizes too big. The party belonged to her and she took her time meeting the team, all of whom were delighted to meet her.

Mercer had taken a one-week leave of absence from the classroom, something her dean wasn’t exactly thrilled about but he really had no choice. She had a big book contract, something the other professors could only dream of.

They gathered around a table and looked at large maps and aerials of Dark Isle, both before and after Hurricane Leo. Lovely had never seen the island from the air and it took her a while to get oriented. She pointed to a small cove where the boats were kept at a dock. It was on the eastern edge of the island, facing Santa Rosa, and had been obliterated by Leo. It was a short walk from the dock to the village. The cemetery was on the western edge of the island, on a ridge that was the highest point.

The archaeologists had platted every square foot of the island, or as much as could be seen from the air. The density of the forests and the damage from Leo made it impossible to see any remains from the settlement. They pointed here and there on various maps, quizzed Lovely, scratched their heads, and slowly put together a plan.

At eleven o’clock, Ronnie, the boat captain, started the engines. Bruce and Steven helped shove the pontoon away from the pier, then said their goodbyes. Bruce called out, “If we don’t see you again we will not attempt a rescue.” Everyone laughed.

Inching across the still water under a full moon, the mood quieted as Santa Rosa faded behind them and Dark Isle loomed ahead. Twenty minutes after leaving the harbor, Ronnie throttled down, then killed the engines. “We’re in five feet of water here. This is okay?”

“Okay,” replied Diane.

A small dinghy was starboard and Ronnie unhooked it from the pontoon. Diane stepped into it first and found her balance. Mercer went second. “Watch your step,” she said to Lovely as Ronnie held her arm and guided her down. The dinghy rocked and Lovely tilted before Diane caught her and eased her onto the bench. Ronnie handed Diane three large canvas bags and said, “The surf will take you in but there is a paddle if you need it.”

The dinghy drifted away from the pontoon. Diane clicked on a flashlight and scanned the beach, which was thirty yards away. The shoreline and the entire island were pitch-black. She turned around and swept the light behind her to see the pontoon, as if making sure it and the team were still there. They were all leaning on the railing, watching, mesmerized. The moon came from behind a cloud and lit up the shore. Mercer took the paddle, a tool with which she had zero experience, and managed to splash some water. It wasn’t clear if her efforts were productive, but the dinghy seemed to be inching closer to land.

Lovely sat in the front, staring ahead, silent, unflinching as the boat rocked gently forward. As a child she had played in the water but never spent time on boats. That was work for the men: fishing, shrimping, trading with the merchants in The Docks and around the canneries. She had learned to swim and wasn’t afraid of the water, but that was so long ago. She thought of Nalla and her violent, horrifying arrival on this beach. Shipwrecked, naked, hungry, traumatized by the passage and then the storm. Nalla was never far from her thoughts.

Diane’s stomach was flipping, and she could not remember being so frightened, but at the same time the adrenaline was pumping. She was exactly where she wanted to be and she trusted Lovely to protect her. Mercer put the paddle away and tried to enjoy the moment.

The bottom of the dinghy scraped the sand. The waves quietly broke onto the beach. Lovely began undoing the laces on her boots, then removed them and rolled up her jeans to her knees. Her first words in a long time were “You stay here until I call. No lights.” Carefully, she worked one leg over the side, then slid into the ocean. The water was barely above her ankles. She took a canvas bag and gazed up and down the beach. Slowly, she began walking forward and was soon on wet sand.

The clouds were moving. When the moon peeked through, Diane and Mercer could see her clearly. When it disappeared they could barely see her outline.

Lovely walked halfway to the dunes, stopped, and found her spot. From the bag she removed a small tiki torch and shoved its handle six inches into the sand. When it was sturdy enough, she got another one and placed it ten feet from the first. She removed a lighter. The cotton wicks had been soaked in torch fuel and lit easily. The two lights glowed bright in the darkness.

Standing between the torches, Lovely raised both hands in front of her, then spread her arms to her sides. She spoke, barely audible even to herself, and called forth Nalla’s spirit. Once Nalla was in place, Lovely called forth Candace, Sabra, Marya, Adora, Charity, and Essie, all of her maternal grandmothers. Then she called her own mother, Ruth. When their spirits were joined she prayed for Nalla to lift the curse.

From the dinghy, Diane and Mercer watched in muted fascination. They had been skeptical, to say the least, but at that moment whatever they were looking at was undoubtedly real.

From the pontoon, the team gawked at the distant torches and Lovely standing between them. As seasoned archaeologists they had been around the world and seen many things, but they would never again witness a scene like this one.

The distant rumble of thunder jolted them back to reality.

Finally, Lovely returned to the dinghy and told Diane to call the pontoon. The island was safe.

Ronnie revved the engine just enough to gain momentum, then shut it off and lifted it. The pontoon glided to a stop in the sand near the dinghy. No one seemed eager to get off.

Dr. Sargent quipped, “I think you white boys should go first.”

Dr. Gilfoy replied, “We’ll follow you.”

Diane said, “We walk to Lovely one at a time, between the torches, and she will say a prayer. Then you are clear.”

“Are you sure?” asked Gilfoy.

“No, but we’re doing what Lovely says. Follow me.”

A lightning storm erupted over Cumberland Island to the north. The thunder was louder but still far away.

They walked a few steps along the beach and stopped near Lovely. Diane stepped forward, between the torches, and faced Lovely, who placed her left hand on her shoulder, closed her eyes, and mumbled something. Diane had no idea what she said, and she felt no different when the prayer was over. Mercer followed and went through the same ritual.

Methodically, and with no concern about the thunderstorm, Lovely blessed the six archaeologists, one at a time. Then she explained that the island was now safe for them, and they could get on with their work.

The first order of business was the unloading of the pontoon. Ronnie was still on it when Gilfoy asked Lovely, “Can he come onto the island?”

“Keep him on the boat.”

“Will do.”

The campsite was near the torches, a hundred feet or so from the surf, and far enough away not to worry about high tide. Dr. Gilfoy and Dr. Sargent agreed that it was best to camp on the beach and away from the dangers of the bush. Gilfoy had barely survived a cobra bite in India when he was thirty, and he preferred to avoid another encounter with a poisonous snake. Sargent knew that some of the deserted islands in the Low Country were crawling with eastern diamondbacks. He had seen some impressive ones stuffed and mounted.

One team began setting up the tents while the other scampered on and off the pontoon hauling supplies. When it was unloaded, Ronnie offered a quick farewell and good luck and said to call him when they needed something. He watched the storm as he hurried away.

The team had debated using the pontoon to shuttle back and forth each day. Staying in a nice hotel on Camino Island and eating in restaurants would be the easier route, but archaeologists preferred traveling when they had to carry their own toilet paper. They lived for the thrill of surviving a storm. They liked to sleep on the ground when on a dig, and cook over a fire. Each of the six could tell long stories of the great digs of their careers, hardworking expeditions that kept them away from the modern world.

Diane and Mercer shared a large canopied tent, the girls’ tent, with Lovely and Dr. Pennington, a researcher at Howard University and a veteran of several African burial digs. It had four cots with inflatable mattresses. At two-thirty they settled into bed and turned off the lights. There were soft whispers from the other two tents as everyone tried to get comfortable. Things were still and quiet until lightning cracked nearby and thunder followed. Then the rain began.

At times it was heavy and unrelenting and it didn’t stop until dawn, when they staggered out, red-eyed and sleep-deprived, to inspect the damage and see about coffee. Of course everything was soaked, but the campsite was intact. The storage tent was made of heavier canvas and a stronger frame, and it was unfazed. A pot of coffee was soon brewing on a Coleman burner. The morning was cloudy and brisk. The forecast was no rain and a high of near eighty, perfect weather for a dig, but the clouds were hanging around. They interrupted cell phone service, which was unstable at best in clear weather. Internet service was also unstable.

Three “scouts” left to look around while the others fixed breakfast and inventoried gear. Lovely managed to sleep through the noise until eight o’clock. When she emerged from the tent she thanked Diane for a cup of coffee and informed the rest that she’d had a thought during the night. They were searching for the cemetery, not the village, and, as she now recalled, the cemetery was closer to the harbor on the other side of the island. They pulled out maps again and studied them. The scouts returned with grim looks and a report that they were in for some heavy lifting. “Pack the chain saws,” one said.

Over instant oatmeal and bananas, they decided to use the boat after all. They radioed Ronnie and called him back to the island. He arrived an hour later and said the latest forecast was for overcast skies but no more rain. They loaded food and gear onto the pontoon and Ronnie circled it to the bay side where the mainland was less than a mile away. Dr. Gilfoy pointed and said, “This is where the state wants to build the bridge if Panther Cay is approved.”

At eleven-thirty, the team packed itself with plenty of gear—three folding shovels, trowels, chisels, two chain saws, two machetes, goggles, tarps, a first aid kit, a handgun, cameras, sandwiches, and water—and marched off into the woods in search of a trail Lovely was certain they could find. They could not.

Diane and Mercer stayed on the pontoon with Lovely, under a canopy, and began killing time. Ronnie strung up three hammocks and invited them to relax. There had been much discussion about Lovely’s stamina and the amount of “trail work” she could handle. She was in decent shape for an eighty-year-old but certainly not fit enough to fight her way through a jungle. The initial goal was to find the cemetery without her, and, when found, see if she could get there and help in the search for graves.

Mercer stretched out in a hammock, opened a paperback, and promptly fell asleep. Diane put in her earbuds and took a nap. Lovely sat in a chair on the deck, in the shade, and stared at the water, lost in her history.

The team returned intact five hours later. They had found no sign of anything that remotely resembled a trail, and had quickly realized that a trail was something they would have to create. That was the bad news. The good news was that the three white men were still alive. Lovely’s banishment of the curse was holding.

They had seen three rattlesnakes and killed two of them. So far, no sign of panthers or bobcats. At times the insects were as thick as a fog. The mosquitoes were huge but no match for their repellent. The aftermath of Leo was worse than expected. Thousands of trees had been snapped off and blown into huge drifts, like stacked cordwood. The island was a mile wide and they had fought their way through maybe one-third of it. They had seen nothing that had been made by humans.

Ronnie cast off and they puttered around the bay and back to the ocean side. He unloaded them and said goodbye. Cold beers were passed around by everyone but Lovely. A fire was made in a pit and the team rested. Exhausted, they decided to dine on sandwiches and go to bed early.

The panthers waited until their island was pitch-black again. As if choreographed, one eased into place fifty yards up the beach to the north, and his partner took a position to the south. The first one began with a low, rumbling growl that grew louder and sounded as if it was preparing for an attack.

Seconds passed before it was answered down the beach. Then a full-throated scream pierced the night and shocked the sleeping campers. When it was answered to the south, Diane jumped out of her skin and almost shrieked herself. Back and forth the panthers went, screeching at each other as flashlights came on inside the tents.

Even when an archaeologist is afraid, he or she will hide it. The six sat up on their cots and listened, obviously startled. Diane pulled the sheets over her head. Mercer was barely breathing. Dr. Pennington waited for the next scream. Lovely, though, calmly put her feet on the canvas floor and smiled.

More panther catcalls at full volume. Back and forth they went.

“What is it?” Diane asked, peeking from under the sheets.

“Two panthers,” Lovely said. “Male and female. You never heard a panther?”

“No, oddly enough, I haven’t.”

“Heard ’em all the time when I was a kid.”

“What are they doing?”

Dr. Pennington said, “It’s what they’re about to do. It’s mating season, right, Lovely?”

“I think so. It’s springtime. We had ’em around back then. You don’t mess with a panther, especially this time of the year.”

“Are we messing with them now? They don’t seem too happy.”

Lovely said, “This is their island. No, they don’t like us being here.”

It was almost 2:00 a.m. All three tents were zipped tight and no one was venturing out. Minutes passed as they waited anxiously for more noise, or, worse still, an attack of some variety. But the panthers went away.

Sleep was difficult but they managed nonetheless. They had not slept the night before and their first foray into the bush had drained them. They soon drifted away and were dead to the world when a panther eased to within two feet of Dr. Gilfoy’s cot and growled through the canvas. Another was just outside the door of the girls’ tent and howled on cue. Another was scratching the door of the supply tent.

And so it went. The panthers checked on their visitors several times throughout the night, curious about their tents and attracted to the smells of food.

When the sun appeared on the horizon, Dr. Sargent and Dr. Gilfoy were sitting on the sand at the edge of the surf, sipping coffee from the first pot and talking softly. They were concerned that the project was a waste of time. They had not found anything that gave them hope. Nothing in the piles of debris or in the depths of the forest that indicated humans had ever been there. There were the usual beer cans and plastic bottles washed up on the beach, but nothing else. No pieces of glass or paper, plank, cut board, shred of fabric, smoothed stone—none of the clues they usually found in search of a lost civilization.

After half a day in the woods, they were not encouraged. However, that was nothing new for them. Their project was planned for seven days, and budgeted for that long, and they never backed away from a challenge. All of them had read Lovely’s book and believed her story. The proof that had not been swept away by the storm was buried somewhere on the island, and they were determined to find it.

They needed bones.

Over breakfast they looked at more maps and aerials, all prepared before Leo and thus terribly outdated. The decision was made to wave off the pontoon for the day and hack through the woods from the ocean side. They loaded their gear in backpacks and left the campsite just after nine o’clock. Diane and Mercer tidied up the place and relaxed under a canopy with Lovely. Cell service and internet connections were still unstable.

Diane put down her paperback and asked, “How often do you think of Nalla?”

Lovely smiled and said, “All the time. We always believed that she and the others came ashore right along here. Two hundred and sixty years ago.” She gazed at the ocean as if looking for a ship. “A slave girl, pregnant with a white man’s child. Captured and taken in chains, shipped across the ocean like an animal. I guess she got lucky with the storm, don’t you think?”

“I would never call it luck.”

“Oh, I think they were all lucky to find this place. They were not slaves here. They fought and killed the white men who came after them, and they protected each other.”

“Now the white men are back,” Mercer said.

“Indeed they are. This time they’re using money and lawyers and courts to take this island, not guns. But we’ll win, won’t we, Diane?”

“I believe so.”

Lovely reached for her cane. “Let’s walk on the beach while the sun is behind those clouds.”

The sand was firmer at the edge of the water and they took off their boots. Lovely used the cane with her right hand and held on to Mercer’s arm with her left.

But the walking was too strenuous and they turned around. Back at the campsite, they heard the distant whine of a chain saw.

The scariest thing about a diamondback was not the venomous fangs, but the rattle itself. The rattle meant only one thing—the diamondback saw or heard you before you saw it. The rattle meant the snake was upset, frightened, ready to protect itself. If you were lucky and saw the snake soon after hearing the rattle, you could move away, give it plenty of room. But when you heard the rattle but couldn’t find the snake, well, that was the scariest part.

After hearing two rattles but no sightings, the team was on edge. They took a water break and rested on the trunk of a fallen oak, listening for snakes. Dr. Gilfoy took a drink, wiped his mouth with a sleeve, and saw something in a pile of rotted timbers thirty feet away. It had the glint of metal. Holding a shovel, he walked to the pile and moved some debris. Carefully, he picked up a two-foot section of cut board partially rotted and covered with mud.

“It’s a hinge!” he announced with excitement. The other five quickly gathered around to inspect it. They had found the first sign of civilization.

“A three-inch butt hinge for a door,” one said.

“Antique cast iron,” said another.

“Could it be a cabinet hinge?”

“No, not at three inches. It’s too big.”

“Steeple finial. Definitely a door hinge.”

“How old?”

“A hundred years.”

“Yeah, early nineteen hundreds.”

They passed it around so everyone could touch and feel it. A rare diamond would not have been more precious.

Dr. Sargent said, “Well, we now know that a hundred years ago there was a dwelling close by and it was advanced enough to have butt hinges on its doors.” He pointed and said, “If you look at the tree line there you’ll see that the terrain rises. Lovely said the cemetery was on the highest part of the island. If the houses were around here, might the cemetery be up there?”

“I like it,” Dr. Pennington said.

“Let’s give it a try.”

For an hour they hacked and cut a trail to the top of a slight elevation and stopped at a small clearing choked with weeds and thick scrub brush. Lovely had said there were no trees in the cemetery. The gap in the woods might possibly be the site. They cut and cleared for another hour, found nothing, and stopped for lunch.

Dr. Sargent walked behind a thick tree to relieve himself. In a grove of saplings he noticed a row of indentations, all covered with grass, each about two feet from the next. Lovely had said there were no headstones to mark the graves because there were no stones or rocks on the island. Each grave had a small wooden cross with no name on it.

Sargent said, “I think these might be graves.”

The dig was on.

With ample sunlight left, they decided to call it a day and return to camp. The last thing they needed to worry about was getting lost in the dark. They left their chain saws, shovels, and other tools under a tree with a bright blue tarp over it. They kept the machetes and handgun to deal with the diamondbacks. Dr. Gilfoy had a small can of orange paint and sprayed trees along their return route. Now that they knew the way, the walk took thirty minutes.

They were worried about Lovely making the trek, but she insisted on being at the gravesite if bones were found. They were under her strict instruction not to remove anything from the graves without her being present. Otherwise, the spirits would be upset.

After a round of beers, they dined on canned beef stew and cheese crackers, then moved their chairs closer to the campfire. It was not yet 8:00 p.m. and too early for bed, though they desperately needed sleep. They had joked all day about the panthers disrupting their night. Surely they would leave them alone tonight.

Dr. Gilfoy asked the African American archaeologists about other slave burial projects they had worked on, and this led to several stories. Dr. Sargent had been involved in perhaps the most famous discovery. In 1991, in Lower Manhattan, a contractor was doing site work in preparation for the construction of a new federal courthouse and discovered the graves of several dozen slaves, all in wooden caskets. Controversy erupted on all fronts and construction was delayed. Archaeologists descended upon the site and more graves were found. In all, historians estimated that between 15,000 and 20,000 African Americans were buried there, not in a mass grave but in individual coffins. Some were freed blacks but most were slaves. Half were children, evidence of the high mortality rate. A total of 419 caskets were relocated, with names, and a monument was erected in memory of their lives. The federal courthouse was built elsewhere.

Lovely told the story of her father’s death and burial. It was in her book and all of those around the fire had read about it. Jeremiah died in 1948. His body was placed in a casket built by his brother, a carpenter. She would never forget watching it lowered into the grave.

Like all the others, it faced east, toward the ocean, toward home in Africa.

“We’ll find it tomorrow,” Sargent promised.

The night was still and peaceful, uninterrupted by storms or wild animals. They were up at sunrise and eager for a long, productive day with their shovels. Breakfast, again, was oatmeal and fruit, with plenty of strong coffee. The plan was for Lovely to leave early with them and supervise the opening of the graves. If she needed rest, half the team would accompany her, Diane, and Mercer back to camp.

In the woods, she was stunned and saddened by the destruction. She mumbled over and over, “I can’t believe this.”

They stopped at the pile of timber and debris. Dr. Gilfoy showed her the hinge and the piece of the door it came from. “Could the village have been around here?”

“I don’t know,” she said, bewildered. “Everything is so destroyed, so different.” She thought a moment as she looked around. “Maybe. Yes, our homes could’ve been here. The cemetery should be that way.” She pointed in the right direction.

When the trail began its slight ascent, Lovely struggled to keep her balance. She leaned on Mercer and her cane and made every step count. Three of the archaeologists walked ahead of her, guarding the trail and looking for snakes. The other three walked patiently behind.

Lovely had made a list of her ancestors who were buried on the island. There were seventy-three in all, though some were buried in different places. A great-uncle had split with the family over a romance and moved away from the village. He and his people had their own little cemetery. As a child, she had known of other small burial grounds around the island. Two hundred years earlier the dead were buried in shallow graves with no caskets.

They stopped where they had worked the day before, in the clearing where the weeds and vines and saplings had been cut away. “We found some graves here,” Dr. Sargent said. “Does anything look familiar?”

She was shaking her head and wiping her cheeks.

“We have to start somewhere, Lovely.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Nothing is the same.”

They removed the blue tarp and gathered their shovels and tools. The tarp was strung up to provide shade from the sun and Lovely took her place under it. She was overwhelmed and emotional and they left her alone.

The row of low spots in the earth seemed like the best place to start digging. Within half an hour they found bones, too small for an adult, and not intact. The skull was crushed and the feet were missing. They were less than two feet from the surface and there was no sign of a casket. Lovely backed everyone away and knelt beside the grave. Without touching the bones she held her hands over them, closed her eyes, and mumbled a prayer. She looked at the other indentations and said, “I remember now. The graves of the children, buried long before my time. Back when they didn’t use caskets.” She stood, looked around, and pointed. “Not long after Nalla died, a fever came to the island, killing most of the children. They buried them here, in a row, in shallow graves because they were in a hurry.” She pointed again and continued, “My people are over there, in that corner of the cemetery.”

Over there was a thicket packed with thorns and vines and certainly hiding snakes. The team put down their shovels and used their machetes, swing blades, and chain saws. For two hours they hacked at saplings and small oaks and dense brush and hauled it away to another corner, where, hopefully, they wouldn’t have to touch it again. When the ground was cleared and scraped they studied the dirt and discussed the lay of the land. In one place there was a slight unevenness that, upon closer examination and expert study, looked somewhat out of place. The shovels went to work. The sandy soil was soft and easy to dig, not necessarily a good thing. If they found human remains, they would most likely be a mess. Moisture led to a more rapid deterioration of a human body and decimated traces of DNA.

Three feet down a shovel hit something solid. It was wood. Four of them dug earnestly, but carefully, and soon found a corner to what they knew was a coffin. It was an old box for sure, and its top was rotted and its sides had caved in. When they had scraped away as much dirt as possible, they began to find bones resting haphazardly.

Leo’s storm surge on Camino Island was measured by experts at twenty-seven feet. Since Dark Isle had no inhabitants, the surge and winds were not measured there. The slight ridge where they were working was about twenty feet above sea level, and they had assumed that the entire island was under water during the storm. Judging from the mounds of rotting trees, it was not difficult to believe that a massive surge had swept through.

Poking through the skeletal remains, the archaeologists agreed that the floodwaters had inundated the casket.

Lovely hovered over the bones, chanted a prayer that was thoroughly indecipherable to the rest, and returned to the shade under the tarp. By noon, they were exhausted and hungry and decided to return to the camp. Lovely needed a nap.

The second and third graves were excavated. The caskets were rotted, the bones scattered about inside, and nothing of value or interest had been buried with the bodies. Lovely blessed them, then backed away as the team picked through the bones, scraping gently, examining fragments, searching for clues, filming and photographing everything. When the sun began to fade, they covered their work with more blue tarps and trekked back to camp.

The cemetery was an archaeologist’s dream. There was no shortage of graves with old caskets filled with skeletal remains, and it was tempting to lose sight of their mission—to link a bone or two to Lovely’s DNA. After three days of nonstop digging they realized it could go on for weeks.

Lovely was ready to leave. Everyone wanted a shower and a hot meal. When they finally agreed that they had enough clues, Dr. Sargent called for Ronnie and his pontoon.

Six days later, Steven took the call from the DNA testing lab in Austin. Of the eight samples—five bones and three teeth—taken from four different caskets, six contained insufficient tissues to compare to Lovely’s blood sample. The bones and teeth had been kept in conditions that were less than desirable and subjected to too much moisture and heat. Even though they had been resting approximately forty inches under the surface for decades, perhaps centuries, they had degraded. For the remaining two bones, both taken from jaws, there was sufficient tissue for a comparison.

The disheartening truth was that they did not match Lovely. If her ancestors were indeed buried on Dark Isle, there was no biological proof to offer in court.