Free Artifacts by Mary Anna Evans Page A

was all one island. Shortly after he bought it, the great hurricane of 1856 carried away most of the island, along with a few hundred planters and their families and slaves. There was a resort there at the time.”
    “I’ve heard the story.”
    The adrenaline was getting to Faye. She uncrossed her legs so he wouldn’t see her dangling foot tremble. “Most people haven’t,” she said. “If a bunch of rich Astors and Vanderbilts and Roosevelts had been swept off Cape Cod, it would be in the history books.”
    “There was a war coming on in 1856, and the victors do write the history books.” His eyes were hazel and their sharp glance gave Faye the impression that he was cataloging every detail of her face, down to the last pore and final eyelash.
    “Yeah, but if somebody had bothered to write about what happened on Last Isle,” she rattled on, “my great-grandmother might never have lost her land.”
    “So tell me what happened on Last Isle.”
    He was interested in her story. A second adrenaline rush threatened to give her the/shakes.
    “My great-great-grandfather owned Last Isle and he was an investor in the Turkey Foot Hotel—”
    “Quaint name,” Cyril interrupted. “I never knew the name of the hotel itself. I’ve always heard it referred to as the ‘Last Isle Disaster.’”
    “Well, that’s what Grandma called it. It doesn’t sound like the name of a luxury hotel, but tastes change. I’ve heard of places with names like Tater Island, Hot Coffee, Bowlegs Point, Cow Ford, even Hogtown. Anyway, Grandma said that when my great-great-grandfather died, the property passed to his daughter, my great-grandmother.”
    Then came the big question. “Do you have the deed?”
    The deed. Such a pesky detail. “No deed has ever surfaced. And no, I don’t have a birth certificate for his heir, my great-grandmother, Courtney Stanton Wells. I don’t think she ever had one, since she was born during the War and her parents were never married. Oh, I forgot to mention that part.” Faye studied the brown backs of her hands. “Courtney’s mother was a slave. My great-great-grandfather owned my great-great-grandmother. If I dwelled on that too much, I’d spend the rest of my life on an analyst’s couch.”
    “Well,” Cyril said. “That answers some questions I’ve been too delicate to ask. The years during and after Reconstruction would have been tough for a biracial woman. Are you sure your great-grandmother ever held a legal title?”
    “For years, no one questioned the validity of her claim to the remnants of Last Isle, probably because nobody else wanted them. I’ve found records showing that she paid taxes up until 1933, when some white men decided they wanted her land and a kangaroo court let them take it away.”
    “I don’t suppose you even have a survey of the land your ancestors owned.”
    Faye restrained herself from calling him stupid. “No. Besides, it would be worthless. You’ve been out there. Every twenty years, a hurricane washes away some of what’s left of Last Isle and resurfaces the rest. That’s how they took her land. The adjacent landowners each laid claim to a few pieces of Last Isle and the jury wouldn’t accept the word of a woman whose mother was a slave. She knew which land was hers; everybody in the courtroom knew it. She just couldn’t prove it.”
    “This dispute is older than I am. Why are you coming to me now?”
    Faye marshaled her wits. This man could help her. She just had to explain to him, in a way that made sense, why it was in his best interests to do so.
    “Don’t you see? Some of my land has been absorbed into the wildlife refuge. Let them keep it. It’s not fair, but at least they’re preserving it. Help me get Seagreen Island back. You—and your constituents—oppose the resort being built there. Get me my land back, and no tacky tourists will ever tear up the place. Your voters will be happy, and God knows that will make you happy.”
    “You make an