He asked about his men. Joseph told a lie that would become part of the legend of Dark Isle, one that he had contemplated for a long time. It was outrageous, sensational, yet utterly believable, and it spread like the gospel truth up and down the coast, all the way to Savannah and Charleston. The lie hung over the island for a century, and long after Joseph was dead those who ventured to within five miles of his island knew and believed the legend.
He told the captain he and his people were descendants of cannibals from the jungles of Africa. His men were being prepared for a feast.
He, though, would be spared. Joseph tossed him overboard and gave him the smaller boat, with one paddle. They watched with great amusement as the captain flipped it twice as he scrambled to get in. When he finally managed to keep it upright, he took the paddle and rowed furiously in the general direction of Camino Island.
The ship was taken to the bay and stripped of all supplies. There were medicines, smoked meats, barrels of rum, log books, and a small arsenal of guns and ammo. The five former slaves from the ship had worked in the shipyards and harbors and knew how to sail. They quickly taught the others everything they knew. They had wives and children back in Savannah and they wanted to rescue them. Joseph was not convinced.
A month after Steven Mahon started the battle over the ownership of Dark Isle, the state of Florida filed its answer in chancery court. It was nothing unusual or creative, just the standard textbook denials from the Attorney General’s office. The state denied that Lovely Jackson was entitled to ownership because she had not adversely possessed the property for the past seven years. Overall, the response was tepid and predictable.
A week later, some heavier artillery entered the fray. Tidal Breeze, through its $1,000-an-hour lawyers in downtown Miami, politely asked Judge Salazar to allow it to intervene as an interested party, then went on for ten nasty pages setting forth all the reasons Lovely Jackson should not be awarded title to the property. In great detail, and obviously the work of some serious lawyers and paralegals, the response laid out the history of the island as gleaned from official records, of which there were so few. No records of births or deaths. No census data. No property tax assessments and no tax collections. No records of electrical or telephone service. Camino County had never built a school on the island and there was no evidence of any child from there attending an existing school. No health department records. No voters registered from Dark Isle. It was as if no one had ever lived there.
As for Lovely’s claim, Tidal Breeze made much of the fact that she admitted in her memoir that she had left the island in 1955, as a fifteen-year-old girl, and that she was the last living descendant. Thus, the island had been deserted for almost seventy years. This was not at all unusual in Florida, the response added helpfully in one of its many superfluous asides, because, according to official records (attached thereto), there were at least eight hundred deserted or uninhabited islands in Florida. And, every single one was considered the property of the state.
Tidal Breeze went even further by questioning whether Lovely had been born on the island, as she claimed, or even lived there at all. There was simply no proof of any of it.
Taken as a whole, the response was a masterful denial of the legend of Dark Isle. Where, in 2020, was the proof? Other than Lovely, where were the witnesses? Where were the records? Where was the evidence of ownership?
Steven Mahon read the response twice and each time felt worse. Tidal Breeze was obviously committed to the long game and would spend any amount to gain title. He did not look forward to the inevitable discussion with his client. Lovely would not take kindly to being called a liar and having her entire ancestry challenged.
He emailed a copy of the response to Mercer.
Like her students, Mercer preferred classes later in the day, certainly nothing before 10:00 a.m., and such a schedule allowed her to write in the mornings. Thomas was a night owl and they seldom crawled out of bed before 8:00. She brewed coffee, took a mug to her little workroom, and shut the door. Thomas read the morning paper online, went for a jog, and made sure she got off in time for class. Both enjoyed early solitude. They had the rest of the day to catch up with the gossip.
Mercer was writing every morning for at least an hour. With Lovely’s memoir as her guide, she was reliving Nalla’s story and often had trouble thinking of anything else.
