British Gold
Charity’s feet scuffed the library floor, her shoulders drooping under the weight of the day. Each step echoed her exhaustion. “Such a long day,” she murmured, the memory of relentless lectures and demanding students still fresh. Her dark curls, usually pulled back to frame a face of determination, hinted at a deep connection to her roots.
She sank heavily into the seat opposite Jack Cates. Jack’s tall, lean frame hinted at a rugged charm. His deep-set eyes, often shielded by gold-rimmed glasses, darted around, always curious. He shot her a fleeting glance before the map before him recaptured his attention, the glasses catching a hint of the room’s dim light.
“Finished, Rit?” He finally looked up from the ancient document. Since their college days, he’d affectionately called her ‘Rit’, a nickname she’d never managed to shake off. She’d often find herself captivated, watching him dive deep into his work like a sailor navigating uncharted waters. His unwavering concentration drew her in, but at times, a shadow of sadness and secrecy clouded his eyes, leaving her puzzled.
“Don’t you see how drained I am?” Charity’s voice quivered with frustration. She massaged her temples, her eyes begging him for understanding. Jack’s usual absorption in his work stung more today. A warm blush crept up her cheeks, her lip caught between her teeth in a bid to mask her hurt. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Forgive me, Jack. Those students were relentless.”
“I get it, love. That’s why I’d never brave a classroom. This library, with its silent allure and the thrill of maps, is where I belong.” The library whispered tales of bygone eras, with pages rustling softly and wooden shelves groaning under the weight of wisdom. The aroma of aged books mingled with the gentle light, creating an enchanting atmosphere. While both were Cambridge archaeology graduates, their paths diverged: Charity delved into African archaeology, and Jack into the world of maps.
“You’re missing out on the joys of teaching,” Charity teased.
“Looking at you now, all I see is weariness, not joy,” he retorted. Charity’s lips curled into a smile as she headed for the coffeemaker. Their playful banter was a familiar tune. While she admired his dedication, watching him hunch over maps for hours, deciphering their secrets, was a sight to behold. Rumours floated about Jack’s family and their antique dealings during their college days. She rarely gave them thought, but occasionally, a guarded expression would cross his face, hinting at untold stories.
“Jack?” Her voice broke his concentration momentarily. “What do you think of those newly found South African stone spheres?”
His fingers danced over the pages, his eyes locked in concentration, oblivious to her presence. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she ventured deeper into the library’s maze. Memories of their college days, filled with heated debates about history, flooded her mind. Charity was always enchanted by the library’s shadowed corners and whispered tales. An old professor’s voice echoed in her memory, hinting that the library stood atop ancient trade routes, guarding long-forgotten secrets.
As she brushed past the shelf displaying the newly found Inuit tablets, a worn spine beckoned her. She reached for it, her fingertips grazing its edge, but it remained just out of grasp. With a determined leap, she snatched the elusive book.
But as she clutched the book, a pen slipped from her pocket, disappearing into a previously unseen crevice. Bending down, her fingers brushed against an oddly loose marble tile. With a cautious nudge, it revealed a hidden cavity. Nestled within lay a dust-covered box.
With curiosity burning, she retrieved the box and, wielding her pen knife, coaxed the lid open. Inside, a pristine diary lay waiting. Its age was indeterminate, but the aura of ancient tales clung to it. Her fingers quivered, tracing the timeworn script, the whispers of ages past humming beneath her touch.
She carefully turned the first page, losing herself in a forgotten narrative that could reshape the world’s understanding of the African slave trade era. Each word, heavy with significance, seeped into her soul. This wasn’t merely a chronicle of events; it was a heart-wrenching odyssey. The diary unveiled the tangled web of alliances and betrayals between the British and African tribes, stories buried by time. It bore witness to the anguish, sacrifices, and indomitable spirit of the African people during that dark epoch.
The pages rustled under her fingers, revealing a tale that had been buried in the shadows of a dusty diary. Whispers of betrayal, clandestine alliances, and shadowy missions danced before her eyes. Her heart raced as a revelation, both shocking and confounding, leapt from the page. Breathless, she sprinted to Jack, pulling him close. “Look!” she urged. His seasoned eyes and keen instincts might decipher the enigma better than hers.
Jack’s gaze was far away, lost in a sea of thoughts. Charity caught the distant look but assumed the revelations had simply overwhelmed him. Time seemed to stretch as he delved into the diary, and then, from between its pages, a folded piece of paper slipped free. With gentle fingers, he teased it open. Before them lay a map.
Jack’s eyes sparkled with recognition. “Rit, see this.” He passed the map, and her breath caught. It depicted Port Harcourt, her Nigerian homeland. She could almost hear the vibrant chatter of street vendors, smell the tantalizing aroma of local dishes, and see the bustling streets alive with both history and the present. This familiar city, with its heartbeat echoing in her memories, now whispered of ancient secrets. The weight of the tale pressed on her, almost too fantastical to grasp.
For an hour, they pored over the document and its accompanying map, dissecting every line and mark. The room buzzed with the thrill of revelation, of secrets long entombed now seeing the light. Charity’s mind reeled. Buried beneath Port Harcourt’s waves lay a British chest of gold. This gleaming treasure, untouched by time, mirrored the buried tales of the slave trade era, yearning to be told.
Then she jolted upright, her eyes darting to the clock. “Bleeding potions! How did it get so late? Jack, dive deeper into this while I grab a bite from the corner deli. My stomach’s protesting!”
With a determined nod, he immersed himself once more into the diary’s depths.
As she stepped in, his eyes sparkled, a mischievous grin stretching across his face, the mysterious box now on his desk. In the dim corner, a man, draped in dark overalls and a matching cap, was engrossed in an encyclopaedia. She let the bags of food thud softly onto the table. “Find anything else?” Her voice was light, but her eyes were searching. She passed Jack a portion of the food, catching a brief shadow of emotion on his face—a fleeting mystery that tugged at her heart.
“The diary,” he began, his voice filled with reverence, “belonged to Admiral Lord Spencer Brighton of the Royal Navy.” He ripped open his food packet, pausing momentarily at the sight of jollof rice. A playful grimace crossed his face, but he dug in anyway.
“I’ve never come across his name in the usual slave trade histories,” she mused.
His eyes, alight with passion, met hers. “Neither have I. Yet this diary, penned in the 1740s, feels so … real. It’s unbelievable, isn’t it, Charity?”
“The diary is our undeniable proof,” Charity whispered, her gaze intense. As the man from the corner rose, returning his book to its place, he nodded at Jack, signalling his departure. Charity’s eyes narrowed slightly, catching the lingering gaze Jack held on the man. Was there a trace of doubt in Jack’s eyes? Or was she reading too much into it? Lost in their discovery, hours slipped away unnoticed. By the time they looked up, the clock had struck 9. Gathering their things, Charity clutched the diary—her find. They promised to reconvene the next day, eager to delve deeper.
Each step she took toward home weighed heavier, consumed by the revelations of the day.
In Lord Brighton’s records, the British first touched Nigerian shores in June 1743, pursued by the relentless Kerajo. In the vast expanse of the open ocean, the Kerajo ambushed them, leading to a fiery clash. Many British ships, their holds gleaming with gold, were lost to the waves. But fate was on their side; they found refuge on the West African coast, narrowly escaping the Kerajo’s wrath as they fled inland.
Venturing inland, they encountered a community like none Lord Brighton had ever witnessed before: a vibrant society deeply connected to the sea. He had commented that it was the first time he had seen a community of black people in their native land. Their generosity knew no bounds; they embraced the foreigners, sharing not just their land but also the bounties of their harvest. After a fortnight, the British left, their arms filled with gifts of nourishment.
Back in London, Lord Brighton recounted his perilous voyage and the unique kinship formed in West Africa. The authorities, their greed ignited by tales of gold, commanded him to seal his lips. For fifteen long years, countless expeditions scoured the seas, chasing the allure of the sunken treasure. Yet it remained a mystery, whispered only in legends—until now.
Turning the familiar corner to her block, an unexpected weight pressed against her neck. The world around her dimmed, plunging her into a suffocating black void.
Blinking awake, she found herself in her living room, gazing into Jack’s anxious eyes. As she touched the cold cloth to her cheek, she tried to sit up, but a nauseating feeling gripped her briefly. As it faded, a relieved smile touched her lips.
She murmured, “What happened?” Jack’s hand brushed her forehead, gauging her warmth. “I was attacked as I entered the building,” she whispered.
His voice tensed. “I found you on the road.” She gave him a puzzled glance. “Something about the diary bothered me. I had to share it with you immediately.”
Gratitude gleamed in her eyes. “You saved me.” She playfully tugged at his cheek. “Did you see my attacker?”
His brow furrowed. “I didn’t catch a glimpse. But this isn’t random. Why would someone target you?”
Horror flashed across her face. In a panic, she bolted up, rifling through her bag. Contents spilled everywhere, but the diary — it was nowhere in sight. A cry, both anguished and furious, escaped her lips as she crumpled to the floor.
Jack settled beside her on the floor, understanding evident in his gaze. With a gentle touch, he lifted her chin, offering a reassuring smile.
Despair laced her voice. “Everything’s gone, Jack.”
He shook his head. “Not everything.” Rising, he fetched printouts from his duffel bag, handing them to her. As her eyes lit up, she embraced him tightly. Unbeknownst to her, he had scanned the diary and map. Their fingers intertwined, an electric connection hinting at unspoken feelings.
In these fleeting moments, the bond between them was palpable. A longing to kiss him welled up, but fear of his reaction held her back. Their connection, always present, now held a weight it had never before.
In the days that followed, they immersed themselves in Port Harcourt’s history, pooling resources and strategizing against potential hurdles. Late-night discussions filled with fervor led them through the book’s contents and their action plan. Drifting to sleep, Charity’s thoughts centered on their secret treasure hunt, a risky chance at reaping the rewards of their hard work. But as excitement grew, the allure of wealth threatened to eclipse the profound historical value of their find.
In the lead-up to their expedition, excitement bubbled beneath their skin. Night after night, maps and plans littered their workspace, every corner and contour studied. By the third week, the mysterious waters of Port Harcourt, Nigeria, awaited them. Port Harcourt’s busy streets, alive with market shouts and vendor calls, seemed worlds away from the whispering coastlines hiding ancient tales. A week since that fateful talk at Charity’s, they dove into preparations—charting the terrain, stocking up on essentials, and rallying a team. Behind closed doors, they slipped coins into eager palms, ensuring their treasure hunt remained undisturbed.
Jack flexed his arms, the sound of stretching fabric punctuating his question, “Ready, Rit?”
Charity’s grin sparkled brighter than the sun on the water. “Always.” With a wink to the crew, she plunged into the embrace of the sea, Jack a ripple behind her. For hours, their figures danced underwater among ghostly ship remnants and curious fish, yet the chests remained elusive. As hope began to wane and they considered calling it a day, the silhouette of a chest peeked out from the shadow of two looming rocks. She shot a frantic wave to Jack, and the water around them came alive with their renewed vigor.
Not far from their initial discovery, concealed beneath thick underwater vines and age-old ropes from Brighton’s time, the other chests lay hidden. With quick precision, they attached harnesses to each treasure, signalling to the crew above. As the treasures broke the water’s surface, the icy fingers of the deep couldn’t stifle Charity’s heart racing at the sight of those timeworn chests, their glory muted yet undiminished by the marine embrace.
Emerging victorious from the water, Charity and Jack were barely able to savor their triumph when an urgent wail pierced the jubilant atmosphere. Charity’s heart raced, not from the find but from the profound weight of their discovery. More than just gold, they unearthed silent stories yearning to be told. Panic gripped the crew as flashing police lights encircled them. An imposing figure, the mission’s lead inspector, stepped forward. But, instead of an expected rebuke, he extended a hand, gripping Charity’s in a firm handshake, leaving Jack dumbstruck.
“Congratulations on a job well done, Miss Oni,” he remarked.
Jack’s eyes widened, disbelief clouding his features as he gazed at the woman he believed he’d known so intimately. Noticing his stunned expression, a humorless chuckle escaped her lips. Her voice wavered, memories of their intimate moments flooding her senses. Yet, an inner instinct nudged her, hinting that this was the Jack hiding behind the facade. “Caught off guard, Jack?”
“Charity, how? When? Why?” He struggled to form his questions.
“Oh, Jack! You believed you could play your game with me. My observant neighbour caught you in the act that night. That glimpse made me sceptical; digging deeper, I unearthed your past. Once an antique dealer and now a globe-trotting fugitive. I stumbled upon this in Nigeria and didn’t hesitate to alert the authorities. Our combined wit devised this trap. Dare to guess my reward?”
His eyes blazed with anger. “Your facade as Jack Cates ends here. Meet Jeremy Dillon, the infamous antique dealer,” she revealed. A resentful hiss escaped his lips as an officer swiftly snapped handcuffs around his wrists. With a sly grin, she mused, “Perhaps you imagined you’d discard me after seizing the gold, auctioning it to eager hands. But look, I’ve outwitted you.”
Tears threatened in Charity’s eyes. Each of Jack’s unveiled deceits felt like a blade tearing at the intricate fabric of their shared past. “All those moments, Jack, I believed in us,” her voice trembled. With every revealed truth, the weight on her heart grew heavier. Moments of laughter, whispered secrets, and their bond were now overshadowed by his treachery. However, through the emotional chaos, one thing remained clear: she stood on the side of justice.
Jack’s intense gaze bore into her for a moment before Charity questioned, “Why rescue me that night, Jack? Why not snatch the diary and vanish?”
Pausing, Jack seemed to weigh his words, then confessed, “Saving you was imperative. My … associates demanded the genuine map. They wagered you’d see me as a guardian, trust deepening if I played the hero. It was all to make you pliant.”
Officers guided Jack into one vehicle while Charity joined the inspector in another. After compensating her team, the chests found their place in a police truck. The horizon swallowed the sun, painting the sky in twilight hues as the vehicles roared to life. A grin spread on Charity’s face, savoring the fresh five million dollars in her bank—two million for unmasking Jeremy and another three as a token for reviving lost history.
