Braddock's Gold

by Jay Heavner

Uncle Michael had quite a collection of books. Alan concluded he must have been a history buff, especially local history. There were many books on early American history. Some were Colonial. Some were on the Civil War, but most were on the French and Indian War. There was also a moderately used cheap-made Bible and several other books with religious themes. Alan had always liked history in school. Many events in American history had happened not far from his home in Hagerstown. Several decisive battles of the French and Indian War happened just northwest of there, near Pittsburgh. Gettysburg and bloody Antietam were just a stone throw away.

  George Washington had traveled through the area many times and had led his rebellious colonial troops against the British Redcoats along the eastern coast. The National Anthem was written on a ship in Baltimore harbor during the War of 1812, again against the bloody British. He could remember school field trips to Fort McKinley in Baltimore, Harpers Ferry, and Fort Frederick, near Hancock, Maryland. He would look at the books later, but now, he was tired and needed sleep. They would be there tomorrow.

  The next four days, Mike left early every morning and returned late in the afternoon, with the truck loaded with more bags of peat moss, vermiculite, and high-grade potting soil. Alan spent the days mixing the three equally and filling the many pots by hand. It was hard work. Soon the growing plants would need transplanting to larger containers. Alan filled the last on Friday afternoon.

  As usual, Mike was ready to leave. "I'll be back late tomorrow. Keep an eye on the old place and the operation. We don't want to disappoint The Voice. Anything you want special from the store?"

  "Yeah," Alan said. "How about getting some Chinese carry-out, chips, and a six-pack of Coke?"

  "Consider it done," Mike replied. "Did you find anything interesting in my uncle's library?"

  "Lots of history books, but I like history," Alan said. "We've been so busy. I hadn't got any reading done. I hope to do some while you are gone."

  "Well, enjoy the free time, but take a look at the old tractor and sidebar mower. See if it will fire up and work. We will need it to cut the field. And while you are looking around here, keep an eye out for a rifle. I think my uncle had one. I think he has it hidden somewhere around here."

  Alan said he would, and Mike was soon off down the farm lane toward the main road. He fixed himself a TV dinner, washed it down with Gatorade, and had a Fiji apple for dessert. An old gun around here Alan thought out loud. There could be a varmint or two around here that needs shooting. You never know.

  Alan walked out to the cliffs that were on the west side behind the house. Spring was beautiful up on the hill. He could see the town of Patterson Creek through the trees, and the stream the little village was named after. It sat where the smaller stream joined the larger Potomac. The low rumble of a distant train reached his ear. It passed by on the tracks far below near the river. Spring had been dry, and the local water-ways ran low and clear. Near the junction of the two streams, Alan could see that the larger one was only, he guessed, about a foot deep and one hundred feet wide. He wondered if in olden days people had forded the river there. The answer to that question would have to wait. The sun was going down, He was tired, and soon, he was in bed sleeping soundly.

  The next morning after breakfast, he checked on the grow house. It was okay. He went to the shed where the old green and yellow John Deere tractor sat. Alan checked the gas. It was full, and then he checked the oil. It was half a quart low and dirty. It needed changing. He would tell Mike, and he would get what they needed. A new oil filter would be wise too.

  Alan dusted off the seat. The key was in the ignition, and he tried it. To his surprise, the tractor coughed twice and started up. Will wonders never cease? That was something his mother had often said. He backed the tractor out of the shed and drove to the field in front of the house. He fiddled with the controls, and the cutter bar lowered to the ground. He pulled another lever, and the cutter blade moved back and forth rapidly. To see if he could master it, he drove out to the old sycamore tree and began to cut around it. He cut close to an acre of the grass that was a foot tall. Alan would mow the rest later when it needed it. He drove the tractor back to the barn and parked it inside. That was easy. About time I got a break.

  A shiny something sticking out from under a dusty tarp caught his eye. He pulled the tarp from the hidden object. He had found a bicycle, and it looked to be in pretty good shape, fat soft tires and all. Alas searched around and located a hand air pump. He pumped up the tires, and half expected them to go flat, but the air held, for now. He would check later to see if they remained full. This old farm had a lot of surprises. What else would he find?

  Chapter 36

  Later in the day, Alan checked on the bike tires, and sure enough, they continued to hold air. He took the bike out of the shed and rode it down the farm lane to the state secondary road and back to the farmhouse. It was in pretty good shape for the shape it was in. He used it to get the paper that continued to show up in the box next to the gate at the end of the farm lane.

  When Mike got back that evening, he showed him the tractor and the bike. Mike was impressed. "Very good," he said, "I can see you've been busy. No grass is gonna grow under your feet. You are always moving."

  They ate the Chinese food and chips for supper, washing it down with Coke. Mike hadn't forgotten. Alan thanked him and told him about the dirty oil in the tractor. Mike said he would get that next weekend when out. "Did you find anything else interesting, or were you too busy?" Mike asked.

  Alan said he had been too busy, but wanted to look over the books in the library after supper. Mike had already started drinking. He mixed the bourbon with the Coke liberally and before long, was in his usual condition in the evening, drunk. "I'm heading to bed early, Alan," Mike said. "I have not been feeling well."

  Alan told him he needed to slow-up on his drinking. Mike told him it wasn't that. He believed he was coming down with something. The next week Mike felt like he was only running at half power. Alan did most of the work that week. He finished up mixing the potting medium, filled all the plastic pots, and placed them in the double-wide trailer that was the size of a full-size house.

  That week Alan looked further into the many books of Mike's uncle. Most of them were about the French and Indian War in the local area. Two caught his interest, 'Guns at the Forks' and 'Braddock at the Monongahela.' Both were about General Braddock, his campaign against the French and Indians, and his defeat in the wilderness near present-day Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He remembered in grade school how his class had gone on a field trip to Fort Frederick near Hancock, Maryland. The teacher had told them how General Braddock's army had traveled through on its way to battle. After its defeat, Fort Frederick was built to defend against invasion from the French and Indians coming from the West.

  By Friday, Mike was sick as a dog. Friday night Mike stayed at the old house. He told Alan, "Tomorrow, I want you to take my truck to town and get groceries. I feel terrible. It has to be the flu bug. I've got a fever, and I feel like I got hit by a bus, a big one."

  The next morning, Mike gave Alan the truck keys and a list of groceries to get. He also gave him some rough directions to the grocery store and then went back to bed. Alan hopped into Mike's truck and headed down the farm lane. As he stopped at the gate, an idea came to him. He would go to a hardware store and duplicate the truck keys and the gate key. Those two items could be convenient in the future. He drove down the road across the creek and soon was in the small, sleepy town of Patterson Creek. He could see a Volunteer Fire Department building, an old school, but no stores of any kind. Soon he was on the winding Old Furnace Road. He passed the Brethren Church across the road from the old iron furnace that gave the area and road its name. Unsure of which way to go at the T bone intersection, he pulled into the parking lot for Linda's Old Furnace Restaurant.

  He asked a patron leaving the restaurant the way to Cumberland, and the man pointed the way. Alan thanked him. He stopped at the road for traf
fic to clear. There he saw the black and white West Virginia Historical Marker. It was nearly three feet by three feet. It was about Fort Sellers. Alan said to himself that that name was familiar. Quickly it came to him. He had seen that name in a book on West Virginia Indian forts in Uncle Michael's library. But if he remembered right, Fort Sellers had been somewhere around the town of Patterson Creek. He made a mental note to check on it later. Alan pulled out on Route 28 and headed for Cumberland.

  The road twisted and turned a lot with only one long straight stretch suitable for passing before he reached Wiley Ford. He took a left there and headed for Ridgeley. The road was narrow with a mountain on one side and nothing on the other. There was no shoulder on either side, and only an inadequate stretched wire guard rail on the steep side that dropped off rapidly and precariously.

  In Ridgeley, he slowed for an obvious speed trap. He continued at twenty-five miles an hour, rounded a bend, went under a railroad bridge, took another right, then a left. Another historical plaque stood on the left side of the road. It read, "On this site, stood Fort Ohio, a blockhouse and trading post built by the Ohio Company of which George Washington was a partner. Fort Ohio served Colonial and British troops and frontiersmen in the mid-1770s. After Fort Cumberland, located across the river on the hill above Will's Creek, was constructed, Fort Ohio slowly fell into disuse and was abandoned after the conclusion of the French and Indian War."

  So this was where Fort Ohio was, and Fort Cumberland too. He remembered those names from the books he'd looked into at the old farmhouse. He pulled the truck back on the road and passed over the bridge across the Potomac River, separating West Virginia from Maryland. Back in the 1700s, there was no West Virginia, only Virginia. The separation came at the time of the American Civil War. He could thank his sixth-grade teacher for that fact. As he waited for the light under the crosstown bridge that carried Interstate 68 to turn green, he saw a small log building in a little park by the road.

  A small plaque said, "George Washington's Headquarters during his stay at Fort Cumberland 17-- something or the other." Alan could not make that out. The numbers were obscured by something, probably pigeon poop. And then it continued, "moved to this location from the hill to the northwest, present site of the Cumberland Presbyterian Church."

  The light turned green, and Alan drove the truck forward. He took a left at the intersection and drove up the hill. Alan parked in front of the Allegany County Library, got out of the truck, and walked across the street. There he saw a life-size statue of George Washington and numerous plaques about the various historical items that had happened here. Walking down the street, he saw where a local group of historians had put granite markers in the pavement to show the location of old Fort Cumberland. He also saw a statue of British General Braddock. The plaque read, "From this spot, General Edward Braddock led his ill-fated army westward through the wilderness in spring of 1755 and was soundly defeated in the Battle of the Monongahela east of present-day Pittsburgh, Pa. Their defeat left this area open to the ravaging attacks of the French and Indians. Many settlers were killed or carried off by the marauding savages."

  Alan realized he needed to get going. He walked back to Mike's truck, drove it around the square where the courthouse sets, took a right down the road with the markers in it, and stopped at the foot of the hill at the sign. When it was clear, Alan pulled out and continued over Wills Creek. He saw the Western Maryland Railroad Depot used mainly by tourists today for the train rides up the mountain with the old coal-fired engine that billowed black smoke and cinders along the tracks. Here also a sign said that the National Parks System had a museum on the C & O Canal. He pulled off Baltimore Street onto a side street. Luck was with him. He spied a hardware store and found a spot to park. Alan dropped the required coins in a meter and walked back to the store.

  There, a clerk was happy to cut the keys Alan needed. Alan paid the fee, put the keys in his pocket, and walked out of the store. He was getting hungry and had seen a hot dog stand across the street from where he had parked. The sign read, "Coney Island, established in 1918. When Johnnie went marching off to war, we were here." There was a silhouette of a WW I doughboy on the sign. Alan went into the store, was warmly greeted by a man he took to be the owner, and shown a seat in a booth with high sides. A waitress took his order, two hot dogs with the special house topping she had recommended, a large order of French fries, and a root beer. As he sat waiting, he noticed two men, one white and one black, sitting in the booth across from him. The old hatred from prison reared up in Alan. Why did they have to let him in here?

  From their conversation, he could tell they were both men of the cloth. The White man's man was Tom and the Black man he called Padre. It was hard to hear in the busy restaurant. The waitress brought Alan his food, and it was good. He'd been eating his own cooking for so long; anything different would and did taste good. The men's conversation continued with Alan still only catching pieces. Padres said something about vandalism at the church, but it was hard to hear with the background noise of the customers and the TV blasting news. The White man spoke in a quiet voice, and Alan only caught two words that sounded like "Braddock's Gold," but that was about all. They finished their meal and left. Alan did not get a good look at either of them. He finished eating and went to pay at the cash register.

  The man asked, "How was your meal?"

  Alan said, "Great. First time I've been here. I hope it's not the last."

  The owner was pleased. "Glad you liked it. Come again."

  Alan asked who were those two men who just left, the salt and pepper pair.

  The owner said the Black guy was a priest for the Catholic Church near Fort Ashby over on Route 28, and the White man ran a water bottling business in Short Gap. He said it was a real shame about the trouble they had at the Catholic Church. The vandals had messed up the church because of the Black priest. He said he had thought people were over that kind of stuff. It belonged in the old days and not today. Alan agreed with him to his face, but deep inside, he burned. The man looked similar to the one that had beat him up so badly in prison, but then Alan chucked to himself, don’t they all look alike?

  Perhaps he would pay the padre and his church a visit some night for fun. Alan paid the cashier, walked out the door, and to the truck down the street. He drove the short distance through the streets of downtown Cumberland to the grocery store. There, he found the items that were on Mike's list plus a few more. He also purchased a prepaid cell phone and an extra phone card. Alan did not know when he could get away from the farm again. He would tell Mike the phone was for calling his mother. Mike knew the rule about never using the phone The Voice had given for personal business. Alan paid for the groceries with the money Mike had given him. He used some of the money

  The Voice had provided for him to pay for the phone and an extra prepaid minutes card. Soon he was back in the truck heading for the old farm high on the ridge above Patterson Creek. It was an interesting day. Several opportunities had opened up for him today, and several questions on local history had aroused a curiosity in him that needed answers. When he got back to the old house, he found Mike still sleeping. He probably has the flu. The rest will do him good. Alan threw a TV dinner in the microwave, and it was soon done. He sat it next to the books he had gotten from the library in the old house. Alan had questions that needed answers. Perhaps he would even find something interesting. His curiosity was in overdrive.

  Chapter 37

  Alan had risen early as usual. He sat on the old porch, drinking a cup of coffee. Looking at the sky, he remembered an old rhyme of his mother, "Red in the morning, sailors take warning. Red in the night, sailors delight." He found this more accurate than the weatherman. It was a bright red sky, and that meant a strong possibility of thunderstorms this time of year.

  Overall, the summer had been dry. The pot plants had been growing rapidly. Alan had checked on them this morning. No mice damage again. That stray cat had been busy. Before she came, the
mice had been eating the tender plants. He and Mike were sitting on the porch when the skinny feline had first appeared. Mike had wanted Alan to shoot her, but he had pointed out the cat might be useful with the mouse problem, and so she was. Mike had agreed to that point. Though he bought the cat food, Mike never fed her or paid any attention to the cat. Alan had often wondered to himself if Mike would get rid of him and the cat when they were no longer needed. He still remembered the crack Mike had made about having to shoot him, and it bothered him.

  "That cat's a female," Mike had said when he first saw the feline.

  "And just how do you know that?" inquired Alan.

  "All calico cats are female," he replied, "or at least all I've ever seen."

  He was right. The poor cat had probably been dumped off by some heartless person, but she now had at home here. Mike never allowed her in the house.

  Alan had found the old gun that Mike had said was probably there. It had been up in the attic hidden under some insulation, along with a nearly full box of shells. The small rifle was a Remington 223. Alan and Mike had set up some tin cans out about 200 feet and shot at them. The gun was sited in well and very accurate. Mike had commented on Alan's precise shooting. "You're a natural.

  Alan claimed beginner's luck, but after killing some night visitors, raccoons, and possums, with one shot each, they knew he could handle a gun skillfully. "You keep the vermin cleaned outa here," Mike had said. "You're a good shot."

  "I'll do that," Alan had responded. He wondered to himself if that included both two and four-legged vermin.

  Mike was still drinking heavily in the evening. Often in the morning, he was late getting up. "That stuff will ruin you," Alan had told him, but Mike had always shrugged it off.

  Alan had been doing much reading in Uncle Michael's library. He noted how books on General Braddock's march, the old forts of this area, and the legend of Braddock's Gold kept turning up. Several books suggested that the British payroll in gold had been hidden and then lost. Various locations in four states were suggested. Uncle Michael had even kept a book of his personal notes on this. Could this legend of lost gold be true? Not likely, he thought, but old Uncle Michael seemed to have taken it seriously. He had some obscure writings on this matter in his collection. More reading would have to wait. He could hear Mike up and about looking for coffee in the kitchen. Another day of work was ahead. And it was going to be a hot one. The huge automatic fans that helped cool the trailer in the summer had already started. The large hoods directed the hot air through louvers toward the house. No one in the air would ever see the distinctive green of marijuana. Many precautions had been taken to see this place remained a secret.