It was a despicable thing to do.
Sharply aware of the document rolled and tucked into the sleeve of my jacket, I still had the nerve to take this sweet woman’s hand in mine. It was a genuine act of compassion, even if my motives were muddied and my methods questionable. Nevertheless, as Mrs. Michaels and I talked and dipped forks into moist slabs of red velvet cake, self-loathing settled in my stomach.
I was wrong. Not an easy pill to swallow.
“Thanks for the great meal,” I told Mrs. Michaels as I left the house in Neely’s Bend. “We’ll talk soon. At least we know that man’s behind bars.”
She gave a grudging nod, her eyes still teary. “There’s some comfort in that.”
“Your kids are the greatest.”
“Ain’t no question. Thanks for comin’ out, Mr. Black.”
I knew I would never reveal the secrets contained in the Michaels home, not against her wishes. The truth of Lewis’s death would remain undisturbed.
Yet I still had my own heritage to consider. My mother.
Had Dianne Lewis Black lost her life for the sake of these things?
With this as my justification, I had removed the final document from the protective sheath and discreetly concealed it.
The letter was signed by Meriwether Lewis.
My ancestor? I needed to know before anyone else died.
I headed back toward I-24 and eased into a gas station. With the car idling, I unfurled the two-centuries-old parchment and gripped it with the edges of my shirt to protect against fingerprint oils and corrosives.
Although the words had an archaic feel, I could hear among them the faint echo of hidden gold and untold conspiracies. I couldn’t resist reading.
Mother,
It is with much distress I write, as it is not certain or even of strong likelihood that I shall survive this night’s indications of intrigue. I believe even now there are agents expediting a course of violence aimed to hinder, or with all finality, dispose of my being.
Hesitance and a measure of alarm have accompanied my good servant Mr. Pernier and me throughout the day, and we are now encamped at Grinder’s Stand within a short distance of the Natchez Trace.
Two of my packhorses were said to have bolted during last evening’s immense thunderstorm display, burdened down as they were with my collection of documents and valuables. This circumstance has dissuaded our pestiferous escort Agent Neelly from maintaining our company as instead he rides in pursuit of the missing animals; it is my belief that Neelly has intended to pilfer the documents from the journey’s outset, for the service and protection of the one who appointed him. With courses of treason apparent on the part of these individuals, and with such concerns bearing upon my every thought, I have done as I saw fit.
I wish therefore to divulge matters pertaining to my execution of certain duties personal and political in nature. The dangers presiding are certain and imminent, and I must force upon you this notion: Spare your soul, and turn your eyes from greed.
At my own hands, a large procurement of gold has failed to arrive safely in the good graces of the aforementioned traitor, finding instead a circuitous route to a grave of earth and stone. It has been joined there with by specific receipts and letters attesting to his path of personal indulgence.
Alone in my knowledge of this, I find it necessary to demand a forthright and full confession from the one whose conspiracies have become odorous to all in proximity. I have it in my power here to record that all is in order, should that day present itself. Together in their earthen grave, Spanish gold and documentation forge a verdict both irrepressible and just.
As for my own person, I have relinquished all further hope. It is too late to introduce a remedy, and I bid adieu to my family and to you also, whom I hold in highest regard. This letter shall be sealed and assigned delivery by the hand of my good Mr. Pernier, for he has agreed to pay you a visit and will be attended by a riding crop from my own collection. You have in previous encounters laid eyes upon this whip and may find its newly embroidered patterns of some aesthetic value.
Take heed, I have penned one other letter of disclosure but foremost wish to procure your attendance to this matter. Should news of my demise reach your ears, you will need the whip to discern the bearings of gold and grave.
I am with every sentiment of love and respect,
Your Son,
Meriwether Lewis
I digested the letter with a sense that fate was spying over my shoulder. My mother must’ve been familiar with these words. Had she obtained the “other letter of disclosure”? How else would she have known to mouth a warning so specific?
Spare your soul, and turn your eyes from greed …
You will need the whip to discern the bearings of gold …
Greed. There it was, driving its slaves forward, cracking the whip. How did the Bible put it? “The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil.”
If my mother was indeed connected by blood to Meriwether Lewis, Darrell and Parker’s search would’ve led to Portland. Darrell, being a parolee, was confined to the state of Tennessee—except by official request, which he would’ve wanted to avoid—so Parker became the solution to that obstacle.
Parker poked around. Asked questions about me. Probably used threats to pressure my incarcerated father for answers. He then crossed swords with my old ICV ties and found himself in a reluctant alliance, sealed by promises of gold and documents that could fuel anarchist fires.
Yes, it was all conjecture. A theory. But it fit.
Darrell Michaels had become a puppet. Resentful and ravaged again by his meth addiction, he hid the papers from the others to pursue the treasure alone. And who should he find standing last in the line of Lewis males?
Yours truly. And right under his nose in Music City.
He must’ve believed it was a sign.
I can see Darrell that crucial Thursday morning, cookin’ and tweakin’, preparing to face me with his demands for the whip. Perhaps he believed God had led him to this point and the treasure would soon be his. Maybe his intentions were noble; maybe he had his mom and siblings in mind.
He overlooked the competition and paid the price for it.
At least as he lay dying, he had the decency to try to warn me.