The following is excerpted from In the Shadow of Gold—which Kirkus calls a “high-stakes, well-paced adventure saga.”
Chapter 1
June, 2020
The sound of small glacial stones hitting the undercarriage of the speeding red Jeep Rubicon ended when the road became paved, marking the beginning of the Arvin property. Minutes later, Jonas Arvin reached under the dash and pressed a button, and the tall, wrought-iron gates opened, splitting the name Cherry Side Arboretum and revealing the tree-lined driveway that meandered up the hill. Jonas’s cell phone vibrated, and the Jeep’s GPS screen lit up: Klinger is on. Jonas hit the talk button. “On property. Three minutes.”
The Jeep wove its way upwards, the rows of cherry trees flashing by on one side with mature pin oak, red maple, white birch, and fir trees flanking the other. A Black worker dressed in a gray Cherry Side uniform waved to Jonas as he steered a gang reel mower across the grass, and Jonas waved back. Soon an American flag came into view, then the state flag of Michigan just below it as Jonas neared the top of the mountain and his Cherry Side home. After parking out front, Jonas hurried up the steps to the three-story log mansion. The maid, Maggie, opened the front door.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Arvin,” she said. “Your call is waiting in the office.”
“Thank you, Maggie.” Jonas bounded up the floating log stairs two at a time and entered a huge room with a twelve-foot-square drop-down screen that showed a man in a suit standing with his arms folded, smiling. On the opposite wall, behind the desk, hung a huge oil painting of Robert E. Lee riding his horse, Traveller.
Jonas threw his Kalamazoo Giants baseball cap onto a leather sofa, leaned against the front of his desk facing the screen, and took a deep breath. “Okay, Klinger, what do you have?”
“We can schedule this another time, if you’re busy,” Klinger said.
Jonas had been at the park coaching his Little League team, and he’d left practice early in order to take this call.
“No,” Jonas said. “Tell me what you have.”
“You directed me to try to find the original source of the Arvin fortune. I must admit the trail, if there is one, is very cold. As best we can tell, your wealth was created in the mid-to-late 1880s, but the seed capital was probably amassed closer to the time of the Civil War. One of the great mysteries of that war that has remained unsolved all these years is what happened to the Confederate treasure after the war was over. Granted, it’s a long shot. Shall I continue to investigate?”
Jonas glanced at a large, framed daguerreotype of Abe Lincoln in his early days as a local politician back in Springfield. The image was unlike most other Lincoln portraits in that it featured Abe’s face sans beard.
“Absolutely” Jonas said. “What else do you have?”
“Nothing much. Do you want a brief financial of last month’s performance?”
“Sure, fire away. Make it quick.”
“Domestic holdings are thriving. The depreciation of the yuan due to trade policies is causing us problems. Europe and the Middle East are fine. Net, net, we held our own last month with our net assets still holding at $3.25 billion, plus or minus.”
“Always add the ‘plus or minus,’ huh? You’re the best at CYA I know of.”
“You call it CYA,” Klinger said. “I call it a moving target.”
“Well, you’re doing a good job. You’ve filled your father’s shoes very well.”
Jonas’s dad had told him about how it used to be. Nip and tuck. When Klinger’s father had finally convinced Jonas’s grandfather to sell his old Rust Belt stocks and buy tech, that was when the fortune had really started to grow.
“Thank you, sir,” Klinger said as Jonas’s wife, Francie, came into the room. She sidled next to Jonas, putting her arm around him and facing the screen.
“Hi, Klinger,” she said.
“Hello, Mrs. Arvin. You’re looking particularly well today.”
“Still full of it, I see,” she said. Then, turning to Jonas, she added, “You promised me lunch at the club.”
“I can take a hint,” Klinger said. “I’m outta here.” He pressed a button and the screen went blank.
Francie yelled for Maggie, their maid, to bring her purse. A moment later, Maggie was there with a powder blue Hermes bag. Francie took the bag and waited for Jonas, who stood staring at the image of Lincoln again.
“Do you think the Civil War is the key to this whole thing?” Jonas asked.
“Key to what?” Francie said.
Something about the picture held Jonas’s attention. The young man in the photo, dressed as would a young attorney, had governed the United States when the country was nearly split in half and embroiled in a war that would ultimately claim more than 600,000 young men, almost fifty percent more than died in World War II. That man, if he would have lived to tell about it, might have known something about the treasure.
“Come on Jonas,” Francie said, walking out the door. “I’m hungry.”
Chapter 2
April 1861
A wave swept over the bow of the brigantine-rigged steamer Yorktown as she began a turn that would take her past Fort Monroe through Hampton Roads, up the James, and on to Richmond. The steamer, now running perpendicular to the north wind and waves, rolled back and forth as her side wheels alternately struggled for purchase in the turbulent sea.
Crewman Yancey Arvindale clutched the port rail, trying to keep his eyes on the horizon while wishing he were dead. Another wave broke over the forecastle and sprayed Yancey, further adding to his misery. For the past three days, he had been seasick, and the change in rhythm of the ship from a following sea to a cross-wind roll caused him to wretch again. He hadn’t eaten since their departure from New York City, and the only thing that came up was yellow bile, some of which stained his white blouse. Of the several hundred people on the ship, maybe a few had been sick the first day of the voyage, but at this point he was the only one still on deck and in need of a bucket.
The ship’s captain walked by and stopped. He stared at his son. “Sit in the center of the ship, son, and always look forward,” he said.
Yancey wretched again.
“I don’t have a sailor on board who hasn’t gone through this. You’ll be just fine.”
“This is my third round trip,” Yancey said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m never going to be a sailor. I don’t want to be.”
“Nonsense, son. We’re a family of sailors. It’s in our blood. You’ll get the hang of it.” The captain walked back toward his helm. Even though the ship was rolling, his steps were even, as though he had been born on the deck of a ship in a stormy sea.
Yancey eyed him with contempt, but his anger was short lived, as his nausea returned and he dry wretched again. His legs felt weak, so he sat down, leaning against the forward mast, always keeping his eyes on the horizon. He thought about his three brothers, who had graduated from the United States Naval Academy. Each had displayed their father’s passion for the sea. They loved it. Why was he the exception? It didn’t help that he was five years younger than his next oldest brother. Yancey had always wondered if he might have been a mistake. He also knew his father had always wanted a daughter, and he felt both parents treated him with less respect and trust than his siblings. Until his brothers went to the Academy, their father gave them allowances for doing various odd jobs, but never Yancey, even though he did the same jobs. In the back of his mind, Yancey desperately wanted to prove himself, but it was clear he wasn’t going to do so as a sailor.
As the ship churned on and became alee of Fort Monroe, she found better waters, and the ride smoothed. Passengers came out of their cabins and peered over to starboard at the huge fort. Only two weeks prior, Virginia had seceded from the Union, and most on board wondered if the fort would revert to Virginia or stay occupied by the North. Yancey thought about what would happen if there was a war between the North and South. His classmates were always talking about what it would be like, endlessly boasting of how they would slay the enemy and become heroes. Yancey wondered how he himself would perform under fire. Would he be calm and shoot straight, or would he get up and run? He hoped he never had to find out.
The water flattened as the ship sailed past Hampton Roads and turned to the northwest. Yancey tried to stand. He felt weak, and his stomach felt like it had been used as a punching bag. Holding onto the mast, he felt a welcome, cool land breeze on his face that reminded him his clothes were wet from perspiration and salt spray. He began to shiver as he thought about what he would do when they docked in Richmond. He felt a gnawing emptiness in his stomach, but he couldn’t bear to think of eating. He knew it would take at least another day for his body to overcome the seasickness.
It was late afternoon when the Yorktown shuddered as the captain reversed one wheel and accelerated the other, causing the big ship to spin around to face downriver as she neared her Rocketts mooring. Then both wheels went into neutral, the momentum of the ship subsided, and she softly kissed her berth on the dock. Yancey suspected none of the passengers appreciated the precision control the captain had just displayed. It was a talent few captains had, and one he knew his brothers were capable of developing. But not him. He just wanted off.
As soon as the first of two gangplanks were lowered, a tall man followed by four irregularly uniformed soldiers boarded the ship. The officious-looking leader, wearing a stovepipe hat, walked to the center of the forward deck with two of the soldiers. The other two blocked anybody from disembarking. The man with the stovepipe hat asked the captain of the ship to come forward. Yancey’s father, appearing to know what was transpiring, walked up and stood beside him. The ship’s halyard thumped against the mast in an irregular beat.
The leader unrolled a sheet of paper, donned a pair of spectacles, and read aloud. “Under the authority of the Commonwealth of Virginia, this ship is being confiscated and no longer belongs to the Old Dominion Shipping Company. All passengers shall take their belongings and disembark. The ship’s crew is no longer required and shall disembark after all the passengers have left. Captain Arvindale, please report to me.”
Yancey was elated. No more trips to New York. No more long days of seasickness. Maybe now that Virginia had seceded, his father would forget about sending him to the Naval Academy. He watched his father and the tall speaker shake hands and pat each other on the back. He wondered why Virginia would confiscate the Yorktown. She was not a fighting ship. What possible value would she be?
The lady passengers used their parasols to shield the late-afternoon sun from their faces as they walked the wide gangplank onto the dock. The men, most of whom had had business in New York, lit up cigars while disembarking. Yancey had always wondered why the men wanted a cigar whenever their ship arrived at their destination port. The passengers were followed by porters who handled baggage, including large trunks loaded with purchases from the big city. From his position near the mast, Yancey could see the gangplank sag from the excessive weight. One muscular negro man was carrying a particularly large steamer trunk on his back when he tripped on a tread board, nearly causing the trunk to slide into the muddy water. Another crew member and Yancey, partially recovered from his nausea, rushed to help the big man. The crew member got to the gangplank just behind Yancey and pushed him aside, causing Yancey to grasp the ropes to keep from falling in. “Let a man handle this,” the crew member said in a low voice. “You go back and hide under your father’s shadow.”
Yancey felt his face turn red, his anger rising like lava inside a volcano pushing hard on a thin mantle—one that had broken many times before. Regaining his balance, Yancey rushed at the crew member and rammed his shoulder into the man’s back with as much force as he could muster. The crewman lost his grip on the trunk, which started to slide off the gangplank. As the crewman tried to grab it, he and the trunk fell into the water near the dock. The trunk’s lid came open on impact, spilling its contents into the river. A broad brimmed hat floated on the water’s surface with its ostrich feather like a sail. A white body corset wafted nearby like two large snowballs bobbing in the light breeze.
The collision with the crewman had left Yancey prone on the gangplank. As the big porter looked on in shock, Yancey got up, ignoring the crewman in the water who was cursing and shaking his fist, and walked off the ramp onto the pier, where he picked his way through the throng of onlookers.
His home was on Grace Street. By the time he was halfway there, his temper had settled, and the reality of what he had done started to sink in. Yancey hoped the incident would be forgotten in the turmoil caused by the seizure of the Yorktown. The previous year, when he had turned seventeen, his father had stopped spanking him. His punishments thereafter included being locked in his room or confined to the yard. This time, however, might be different. He had never caused much damage before. The worst thing he’d done was to punch a classmate, causing his eye to swell shut. Yancey had never seen an eye swell over before, and he thought he might have permanently ruined the boy’s sight. The school principal, who was a friend of his father’s, sent him home. When Yancey’s father confronted him, he told the truth. He told him the boy had made fun of him and explained he was further embarrassed because the whole incident took place in front of a girl he was fond of. Three whacks. That was all. After the punishment, Yancey thought it over and decided it had been worth it, and he would probably do it again. But down deep, Yancey knew his temper would get him into trouble someday, and he vowed to control it, although he had made the same vow before.
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