The Jug Rock Cipher - Chapter Seven: The Courier’s Last Ride

 

Silas Vickery’s Journal – November 3, 1864

Somewhere along Dover Hill Road

The storm had broken by morning, but the fog remained—low and clinging, wrapping the horse’s legs like swamp gas. I could feel the sickness in my chest now, creeping deeper with each mile. The fever had caught me somewhere near Hindostan, same as the others. I prayed it would hold off long enough to reach the final point.

There was no more escort. No more comrades.

Just me, the wagon, and the box—heavy as sin, tucked beneath the false floorboards and bound with chains. I hadn’t looked inside, only followed orders. But even sealed, I swear I could feel it humming.

A weight not just of gold, but of history.

And maybe something older.

I made the turn off the main road and followed the old trail toward the limestone ridge. That’s where Captain Jernigan had said it would be safe. “Bury it where the hill flattens out and the oak splits in two,” he told me. “Make your mark, then burn the map.”

But I didn’t burn the map.

I copied it.

And I left the cipher instead.

Because I saw the man in black again—just once—riding behind me near the bluffs. He didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink. Just watched. And disappeared. We were not alone out here.

I reached the clearing by nightfall.

The tree stood just as Jernigan said—a wide old oak with a trunk split in the center like it had been struck by God Himself. I unhitched the horse and pulled the box from beneath the wagon floor. The ground was soft and wet from the storm, making it easy to dig.

But I didn’t bury it.

I bound it—ropes soaked in pitch, wrapped tight, sealed with wax and cloth, and wedged it deep into the hollow of the oak. I carved the mark, then covered it with moss and leaves.

And then I wrote this.

If you’re reading it, the others have failed.

Or worse—succeeded.

Whatever’s inside that box isn’t just payroll. It isn’t just stolen gold.

It’s something they should never have taken.

I was told it came from a man in Savannah who’d spent time with French mystics. That it was once part of a cathedral vault. That it was carried west to avoid Union seizure.

But I don’t believe it anymore.

I believe it was carried to this place, not away from it.

This land remembers.

And some treasures—God help me—should stay lost.

If you find the final mark at Dover Hill…

Do not open the box.

Bury it again.

And walk away.

—S. Vickery