Free Crown of Serpents by Michael Karpovage Page A

Pennsylvania frontier until America took it over in 1796. The British then recaptured it during the War of 1812, during the fort’s last armed conflict. In 1815, it was ceded back to the U.S.”
    Jake nodded. Impressed.
    Hibbard turned left down the narrow main corridor. He followed. At the far end she unlocked a tall oak door to a room once acting as the original commandant’s office.
    Leading him into the room, no bigger than a modern day jail cell, she shut the door behind them then proceeded to the window. Sliding back an iron bolt, she hauled open the heavy wooden shutters allowing the late afternoon light to flow in. A heightened view of Lake Ontario’s shimmering blue waters lay below, the brownish sediment of Niagara River emptying at its mouth. To her right was another locked door leading to the commandant’s bedroom, one of the few rooms on display for the public. Jake heard hushed tourist voices on the other side through cracks in that door.
    Hibbard had Jake take a seat at an old wooden table in the center of the room. The table held a box of white linen handling gloves. Grabbing a pair for herself, she unlocked a floor-to-ceiling cabinet off to the side, entered it, and reappeared with a corroded leather box in her gloved hands. It was slightly larger than a shoebox.
    “Major. Here’s what you came for,” she announced in a business-like tone as she set the box on her side of the table. She looked directly at Jake and handed him a pair of gloves. “Please adhere to normal handling procedures. Here are your gloves. You may take digital photos, no flashes. You may take notes by pencil only. Do you need a pencil and notepad?”
    “Actually — I apologize. I have the notepad but forgot a pencil. Do you have an extra one?
    She pulled a sharpened number 2 pencil from some hidden back pocket and handed it to him. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. She was serious now, Jake observed. Not a relaxed bone in her body, but then again, considering the financial distress she was under, he couldn’t blame her. He rested his beret on the table, extracted a notepad and a credit card sized digital camera from his tote, put on his gloves, and looked up at the director.
    “Are you ready?” she asked.
    “Yes ma’am.”
    Hibbard took a seat, lifted the top of the box and set it aside. “These items, the best I could conclude from my research, belonged to Lieutenant Thomas Boyd of General John Sullivan’s Continental Army during the campaign in the summer of 1779. There are six items in the box — just the way it was found. I’ll take them out one at a time. We have just one hour scheduled for you to conduct your review. Feel free to ask questions at any time. I’ll start with his knife.”
    Hibbard reached into the box and carefully lifted out a wooden handle rusted blade typical of the Revolutionary War period. She placed it on the table in front of Jake pointing out Boyd’s name carved on the handle. He photographed it at several different angles, handled it carefully, and took copious notes.
    He repeated this procedure with Boyd’s black powder horn and a brass belt buckle — both engraved with his initials. The buckle contained the raised symbol of the letter G surrounded by a compass and square to form a perfectly symmetrical triangle. The symbol for the Freemasons. Jake touched it lightly with his index finger.
    Next came a handwritten letter on parchment paper pertaining to Boyd’s sword. The letter read:
    Buffaloe Creek 14th September 1779
    Brother Brant,
    I write to you in response to your displeasure of the fate of the late Rebel Scout Lieutenant Thomas Boyd. I was unaware that he had given you the Universal Hail Sign of Distress of a Worthy Brother in Need upon capture with his Sergeant, a one Michael Parker. I had not been informed that you had accepted the Sign and the Word, promising his Safekeeping. He did not present the Sign, nor the Word to me, knowing me full well also to be a fellow