Prologue
Northwest Georgia, 1838
A young Cherokee warrior appeared from a patch of early morning fog, sprinting through the undergrowth of the forest. He recklessly ducked and weaved his way through the trees and brush. Twigs snapped and leaves crunched under his moccasins with every quick step. He was glad that he’d kept some of his old traditional clothing around. The soft breeches and cream-colored tunic were light and made movement considerably easier.
Despite his excellent conditioning, John Burse was out of breath and stopped to risk a moment of rest against a tall poplar. He squinted his deep-brown eyes as he searched the surroundings for a route that might help him escape. He sucked in the cool spring air in huge gasps; the scent of dry leaves and pine needles filled his nostrils.
Then, his fears were realized as he heard the sounds of the dogs drawing closer and voices mingling with the howls of the animals. Two hundred feet behind him, a group of a dozen or so men with three hunting dogs came into view through the hazy mist.
John had known the dangers of what he’d been asked to do during the secret meeting the night before. The tribal council had trusted him with a mission of utmost importance. Being caught not only meant certain death, but could also, ultimately, lead to the downfall of his Cherokee people.
With a new resolve, he tightened his tan leather satchel and took off again, glancing back occasionally as he made his way through the maze of tree trunks. The group was still far behind him but well within shooting distance. Just as that thought occurred, he heard a familiar popping sound followed by a musket ball smashing into a nearby tree; the shot narrowly missed him by a few feet. The close call made his pace quicken.
His slender legs burned from the exertion, and his lungs continued to gasp for more and more air. Hunting had kept him in good shape. Often, he and his father would chase down deer for miles after shooting them. Deer could manage to live a long time even with a critical wound from a gun or bow. But today he was the hunted, and the burden John carried made his journey that much more difficult.
Exhaustion was beginning to take its toll as he crested a small ridge; suddenly, he tumbled over the top and down into a small gulley, where he rolled to a stop at the edge of a large creek.
He’d been here many times. The expanse was about forty feet across and at the deepest point appeared to be only about six feet deep. He could see the soldiers and their dogs in the distance closing on him fast. The little river foamed and churned as it flowed around a small bend just downstream. The young Indian knew the area well, probably better than even the most seasoned of soldiers. With little hesitation, he decided what he had to do and jumped into the icy, rushing waters.
The hunting party stopped at the same spot where their quarry had entered the river. A tracker busily inspected the ground near the edge. Footprints stopped there with no sign of them leading anywhere else. The dogs were restless, confused as to what happened to the trail they had been following. To the animal mind, it was as if the Indian had simply disappeared.
“Clever feller,” a leather-skinned officer muttered before spitting out a slug of tobacco juice. He had a few marks of rank on his dark-blue United States Army uniform and was obviously the man in charge. His matching cavalry hat had a few dirt streaks on it, but the distinct golden tassel still stood out proudly. The week-old stubble on his face was a patchwork of gray and light brown. He scratched his neck while considering the next move.
“He’s gone into the water, boys,” he said to his men in a matter of fact manner. “Thompson, take three others and the dogs, and cross the creek. Check back two hundred feet upstream along the edge to see if there is any sign he came out. I’ll take the rest of the men downstream. If he’s in the water, he’s movin’ slow.”
Ten minutes later, the main group from the hunting party came to a waterfall. It was a seventy-foot drop to the bottom, where a shallow-looking pool churned with the falling liquid. A small hill on the left dropped sharply over the edge. There was no way the Indian went that direction. The sheer cliffs meant he had to go to the right. That way led down to the bottom gradually by means of a faint path. A cold spray shot up both sides of the falls all the way up to where the men were standing.
“Sir, if he went over, I doubt he survived,” a young soldier chimed in, half hoping their running was done for the day.
The keen leader didn’t buy it. This Indian had been far too smart to come so far and then just fall over a cliff. “He didn’t go over, Private. Men, get down there and search the area. Someone get into that pool and check every inch of the bottom. Check the ground surrounding it too. If he came out of there, I want to know where. We can’t let him get away.”
The soldiers took off immediately, heading down by way of the path to the right of the falls. Thompson’s men and the dogs had just finished their check of the other side of the creek and were standing across from the old officer.
“Find anything, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir. Not a thing, Colonel.”
“How far did you check upstream?” The lead officer looked toward the direction from where the water was coming.
“Three hundred feet, sir, just to be safe.” Thompson’s voice was firm.
The Colonel frowned then turned his head and spit the other direction. His eyes narrowed, scanning the forest undergrowth. “Good man, Lieutenant. Get back over here, and head down there with the others. He must have gone that direction. Not sure if he jumped, but if he did, we should find him shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
The remaining men and the dogs scampered back through the icy water and made their way down the little path. The old officer peered around the surrounding woods but could find no sign of the Indian. Deliberately, he turned and stalked down the trail to join his soldiers at the bottom.
Crouching in the dark, the Indian waited anxiously. The soldiers chasing him had surely not seen where he had gone. He must have just barely slipped from sight before they arrived at the river. He had moved carefully as he made his way from the water at the lip of the cliffs to the left of the falls. It had been a risky maneuver to lower himself down to an almost unnoticeable rock ledge that led behind the mist to a small cave.
From his hiding place, he could barely hear the orders of the officer and the confusion of the men below. It was difficult to understand what was being said over the rush of falling water, but there was obvious frustration among the group. Leaning back against the rocks, he took the chance to catch his breath. His only option was to wait and make his way out of the rocks when they were gone. Slowly, he stretched out his legs on the cold, moist stone and tried to relax, a difficult task given the circumstances. He hoped they didn’t notice the hidden ledge on the cliff. Unless one already knew it was there, the narrow path was almost invisible.
An hour or so had passed, and the soldiers had found nothing. The officer in charge had been barking out orders for the last five minutes and was clearly unhappy about the Indian’s odd disappearance. From behind the mist and falling water, he could make out that the blurry shapes of the soldiers were taking off farther downstream. Apparently, they thought he had jumped over the falls and continued on in the river. Again, he laid his head back on the satchel and let himself fall into an exhausted sleep, confident that the immediate threat was gone.
The young brave suddenly snapped awake. He must have been asleep for many hours. Twilight had settled into the forest, and soon it would be dark. He figured night was probably a safer time to travel. Dogs could sense him, but men would have a much shorter field of vision. Before dozing off, he had considered what to do with his precious cargo. His mission was to keep it safe from the hands of the army. The United States government was to never learn of its whereabouts or contents. Today, he had nearly failed. If he were to leave his hiding place and try to make it west, he could be caught and lose everything that generations of his people had fought to protect.
Then he considered the place where he was sitting. Only members of the tribe knew about this little nook behind the waterfall. Indeed, who would even consider climbing out on the slippery ledge? Sitting quietly, he considered the options and risks.
Closing his eyes, he prayed a quiet prayer to the Great Spirit. There was really only one choice. His orders had been to take the satchel west and do whatever it took to keep it from the United States Army. Now, he was disobeying the council, unsure if it was right to do so.
He carefully laid the leather bag in the deepest recesses of the cave and untied the straps. His people had known what the United States government wanted. For over a decade, the Cherokee had worked to earn the trust of the government. They’d adopted their way of life, even worn clothes like the white man. But the Cherokee chiefs had always known that, eventually, greed would take over the hearts of the white men. They wanted gold and would do anything to get it. John stared at the beautiful, yellow metal. It seemed somewhat dull in the darkness.
With great care, he removed two gold bars and placed them in a small stack against the wall. It was difficult to see in the hollow rock, but, just to be safe, he scattered a few loose stones over the bricks to conceal them.
Climbing from his refuge, he looked back inside to make certain the stash was not visible to the casual eye. Acceptable for now, he thought. Hopefully, his people would only be gone for a year or two and then could return to their ancient lands—only then could he retrieve the gold. For the moment, though, it would be safe.
He tightly gripped the, now, much lighter satchel. The burden of the gold bars had been cumbersome, but what still lay within his leather pouch was far more weighty.
With that thought, he carefully shuffled out onto the cliff ledge and made his way back up to the top of the waterfall, backtracking toward his village. If he hurried, he might just make it back in time to blend in with the last migration caravan.
Several miles away, the search party had set up camp for the night. Sitting alone in his tent with a candle burning, the old officer was busy rereading a correspondence. The letter had been written on parchment and bore the seal of The president of the United States. A younger officer, probably no older than nineteen, stepped into the tent and cleared his throat, awaiting recognition. His uniform looked remarkably clean considering the circumstances.
“Permission to speak with you, sir?” The young man seemed a bit uneasy about interrupting his commander and stood rigid, awaiting confirmation of his request.
The colonel finished up what he was reading as if no one was even there then folded up the letter and put his reading glasses down on a small box next to his cot.
“At ease, Charles,” the officer finally replied. He directed the soldier to a small stool in the corner of the tent. “What is it, Son?”
“Well, sir, we have been tracking this Indian for three days. I’m not complaining, sir. Don’t get me wrong. I will follow orders no matter what. I’m just curious: What is so special about this one Indian? There must be dozens that escape the relocation caravans every day, all over the South. Why bother with chasing down this one?”
The old man smiled and looked down at the letter he had been reading, clenching it a little tighter. He was not annoyed by the question. In fact, he would have probably been asking the same thing thirty years ago if the positions were reversed. It did seem odd. And Charles’s point was valid. He decided to tell the lieutenant just enough to ease his mind without spilling the beans altogether.
“Charles, this is no ordinary Indian. And our group is no ordinary military platoon. You have been chosen to be part of an elite government operation. This entire unit of soldiers was not assigned by random chance. We took the best of the best from the United States Army and were careful to make sure not a single one of you had any family because of the dangerous nature of our missions. You’re an orphan, aren’t you, Charles?”
“Yes, sir.” Confusion filled his face.
“Every single man in this group has a similar background and did unusually well during their military training. Each one of you shoots better, runs faster, and has been found to be far more intelligent than the rest of your peers.”
Charles was still listening. With the kind words from the hard man, pride certainly showed in his youthful grin, but he was still uncertain where the explanation was going.
“This unit has been put together by the highest office in the land. It was ordered directly by the president himself. We are to protect the national security of the United States at all costs. That boy holds something that is considered a threat to the safety of our government and this country’s future.”
The colonel let the words sink in with the young man.
“I cannot give you all the details, Charles. It has been deemed ‘for my eyes only.’ However, I will tell you one thing since I believe it necessary to keep up your morale and to ensure we handle this situation quickly.”
The young man leaned forward, his anticipation rising.
“The Indians have been fighting us for a long time now. Their little wars against the United States have been desperately futile. We have greater numbers and much better weapons. They seem to get sick easily and are primitive in many ways when it comes to battle tactics. Up until now, their uprisings have been trampled, for the most part. And now the Cherokee and what’s left of the Creek Nation are being moved west.
“Nearly all our campaigns against them have been successful because their efforts are scattered and largely independent. However, if the Indians could find a way to unite all the tribes, they might just have enough to cause problems for us. That is one of the reasons we are separatin’ the tribes. We must not let them consort with one another. A united Indian nation could drag out fighting for a decade. To make matters worse, there is something in existence that could unite all of the tribes. And with this thing, they could possibly lure a union with the Spanish, British, or even the French.”
“And this Indian we are chasing is carrying something that could do all of that?” The young officer was still unsure.
A nod of the head was his only reply.
“What is it?”
The older man paused. He had probably already told the kid too much as it was. But one more little bit of information would only help intensify their search.
“Gold,” he said simply.
It was difficult for the young man to comprehend for a moment. He leaned back, obviously disappointed with the answer.
“That’s it?”
“It is.”
“Please forgive me, sir, but I seriously doubt that one Indian can carry enough gold to unite all the tribes as well as bring in reinforcements from England, Spain, or France.”
“It isn’t the gold he has with him, Charles, though he surely has a sample. No, what he has is the knowledge of where the rest of it is. That is what we are after.”
“A map?” The young man’s interest was piqued again.
“Exactly.”
Chapter 1
Atlanta
Frank Borringer stared hard at the ancient script. It just didn’t make sense. If what his associate had told him was true about where this item had come from, the implications would be enormous. He leaned back in his chair, removing the reading glasses from his face. With the other hand, he wiped his eyes and pinched his nose. Inside his brown tweed blazer, his body perspired from the mental exertion. His fingers struggled against the constriction of the light-blue bow tie around his neck.
He wondered how long he’d been in there. It was easy to lose track of time when your brain was in overdrive from extensive research on a particularly interesting project.
The library was dark save for a few lamps spilling tiny pools of light here and there. He usually visited after hours, though he doubted this near-anachronism of a place was in demand these days. With the advent of the Internet, it was possible to do nearly all of one’s research from home. Still, Frank enjoyed the feel of a library: surrounded by books, works from thousands of years, and all in a material, concrete presence. With a computer, sure, the information was there, but there was no feeling.
He’d let himself get distracted by the thoughts and shook his head in frustration. Frank had been a professor of world and ancient history at Kennesaw State University for fifteen years now. During that time, he had been blessed with the opportunity to travel to many different countries as a special guest of numerous IAA excavations.
The IAA, or International Archaeology Agency, traveled the globe in search of ancient artifacts, most of which modern historians didn‘t believe existed. Fortunately for him, the IAA headquarters was near his home in Atlanta. The proximity, and his expertise on so many ancient cultures and languages, often guaranteed him as the first choice for many of the agency’s research expeditions.
Over the last decade he had been to the Far East, Europe several times, Central and South America, and the most fascinating of all to him, the Middle East. In recent years, he had turned his attention from foreign countries to his own. Growing up in Northwest Georgia, he had a special interest in the history of the country now called the United States. Frank began concentrating most of his efforts on the history of the Native Americans, where they came from, how they got there, and what they left behind.
Sitting there at a work table in the Kennesaw State library, he stared at something that both puzzled him and aroused the childlike wonder inside of him.
Forcing himself back to task, he propped the spectacles back onto his nose and started reading again. “The chambers shall light your way.”
Borringer sat alone at the table, staring at a small, circular stone etched with a script from a time long forgotten, and a place far from the Southern United States. The engraved disc arrived a week ago. Frank had promised the friend who’d sent it that he would analyze the piece as soon as there was a moment to spare. Until yesterday, he had yet to open the box in which it had been delivered. Frustrated with himself now for not looking at this miraculous piece sooner, a chill went up his spine at the implications of both its existence and message as he turned it over carefully, inspecting the smooth surface with the greatest of attention.
Mesmerized, he could hardly believe what he was reading. Impossible. Could the four chambers really exist? He’d thought them to be a legend from ancient tribes, something they talked about, much like the stories of a fountain of youth or El Dorado. But just like with those famous legends, the Golden Chambers had so far never been found. Yet here was a piece of evidence that suggested they were out there, somewhere.
Thinking back, he remembered the first time that he had heard of the four mystical rooms. One of his good friends had told him a story about Native gold in Northern Georgia.
There were several stories, actually. As kids, he had even witnessed some things that made him believe there might be a huge repository of the precious metal somewhere nearby. But nothing was ever found— simply rumors, stories. Notions of an ancient Native treasure had been abandoned long ago.
The stone was shaped like an inch-thick coin, about the diameter of the average human palm. On one side of it was an odd picture of what appeared to be two birds. The opposite face contained some kind of writing in a very odd script. At first glance, the inscriptions had been confusing. There were marks that looked like hieroglyphs, but there were others that appeared to be ancient Hebrew. Still more of the engraved characters appeared to be cuneiform.
It had been an astounding epiphany when he realized that what he was looking at were four ancient languages combined into a singular code. Once he had come to that conclusion, the translation of the phrases had been much easier. But how had these ancient languages come to be on something so obviously Native American? These writings should only be found in ancient parts of the Middle East, and certainly not together on one piece.
Perhaps even more unsettling was the riddle the words spelled out.
He pored over the two sheets of paper on which he’d written the translations. One was a letter to his friend who’d sent the artifact. The other was to a colleague from the IAA.
Glancing down at his watch, Frank realized how late it was getting. He placed a call from his cell phone to his wife at home so she wouldn’t be worried and started packing up his things. After storing sheets of paper, pens, and other items into his laptop case, he returned to his computer. Better to print the stuff off, make some copies, and come back to it tomorrow. The thrill of discovery made him want to stay and work further, but he knew there would already be hell to pay at home for his tardiness.
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