by Jay Heavner
"Hey, you ready to go?" Alan heard Mike holler from the inside of the house.
"Yeah, times a-wastin'. Let's get crackin'," Alan replied.
Five minutes later, they were hard at work, and Alan was right. It was a hot one that day. The days went quickly and routinely. The plants now were as tall as Alan. In about two weeks, they would touch the ceiling of the old trailer. At that time, they'd be topped to encourage the side branches to fill out, and create a greater harvest. The light at the end of the tunnel grew brighter. Alan found some detailed local maps in Uncle Michael's library. He decided a possible escape plan may be necessary. Be prepared, just like the Boy Scouts said.
He located a detailed service map on the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal National Park. The Park paralleled the Potomac from Cumberland, Md. to Washington, D.C. If he made it to the canal, he could ride the bike to Hagerstown and Momma. One Saturday at sunrise while Mike was away, Alan rode the old bike down the hill and over the creek to the small town of Patterson Creek. He took the road to where it dead-ended at the twin railroad tracks that followed the Potomac. He stashed the bike in tall weeds, mainly tall ironweed with its purple flowers on top, goldenrod also in bloom, and a little poison ivy, and walked down the tractor lane to the cornfield by the river. There, Alan looked at the spot that had been an old ford. It would be difficult but doable if he had to if the waters didn't get higher from summer rainfall.
He went back and got his bike out of the tall weeds. There was a truck path along the railroad. If the highway map was accurate, about five miles downstream, the railroad crossed the river and would be soon within a stone's throw of the old towpath, now used by hikers and walkers in the C and O Canal National Park. It was only about three miles to the bridge, and the deck also had room for a narrow roadway for the railroad maintenance trucks. Alan waited for a southbound coal train to cross the bridge. He listened for another train coming, but he only heard the sound of birds and the wind. Alan quickly and carefully rode over the bridge.
In approximately one-half mile, the railroad crossed over the canal. This detail was missing on the map. Alan looked down the towpath and realized his escape plan was doable. Satisfied, Alan turned around and headed back and took his time. The only time he'd been away from the old house, except for the time Alan went to town for groceries, was when Mike was sick. He enjoyed being away for a while. By now, he was back in the sleepy little village. A few kids played in the yards. Several women were putting out wash on the clotheslines, and lawns were getting cut. He passed the barn on the road to the stream. Alan saw several pigs lying in their muddy wallows and some black cows. The wind was blowing the farm smells toward him. They were pretty intense — nothing like the smell of animals and manure. Several young boys and their fathers were fishing in the creek. Alan stopped and watched a boy land a large fish, a small-mouthed bass. That would make some good eating.
Alan rode to the hill, there he dismounted and walked the bike up the steep hill. He rode the bike to the gate that blocked the road to the old farmhouse. Alan used his new key to open the gate and went in. He locked the gate behind him and rode the last stretch to the house. After putting the bike away, he checked on the marijuana. The pots were getting a little dry, but that was the plan. A little dryness would help kill pathogens that could harm the crop, and it would extend the water supply from the well. The well had no problems so far. A dry well would be a disaster. Mike voiced concerned about this possibility, and the men were using the water at the house carefully.
Alan fixed a bowl of vegetable beef soup and threw in a handful of oyster crackers. It had been a strenuous day. He ate heartily and washed it down with some orange Gatorade. He finished washing his dishes when he heard Mike drive up. Alan walked to the front and opened the screen door. A fly came into the house. Mike was out of the truck and heading for the house. And he was drunk, very drunk. He stumbled toward Alan.
"How you doin'?" Mike slurred.
"Okay, Mike, Okay. Mike, you're drunk."
Mike smiled silly from ear to ear, "Yup."
Alan decided right then, and there something must be done. But Mike was in no condition for a serious talking to now. Alan knew this from dealing with his own Dad.
Mike staggered past Alan and into the house. There he fell over the cheap expandable coffee table in the living room. It broke with a loud crash. Mike lay on the broken item. Slowly he got up. "I'm okay, I'm okay," he said. Alan grabbed Mike by the arm to steady him. He helped him to his room.
"Mike, we need to talk tomorrow," Alan said.
"Okay," was all he replied before he collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.
Alan was pretty disgusted, but he would save his lecture for Mike until he was sober tomorrow. He went out to the living room and looked at the two broken halves of the table. Alan used this as a prop in his lecture to Mike. Alan moved the pieces to the side of the room. On one side of the louvers, he noted a piece of electrical tape. When the table was together, he hadn't seen this. Strange. He pulled off the tape and saw the shiny edge of what looked like a coin. He pulled the hidden item out of a hidden slot. It was a coin, an old coin.
Where had he seen this before? Like a flash, it came to him. This coin looked like a picture of a guinea coin in the book about Braddock's Gold. He checked in the book. It was. It was a coin like Braddock had carried in his lost payroll. Why, that sly old fox. Uncle Michael had a piece of Braddock's Gold. It did exist, but where was the rest? Where had he gotten this, and when? What else had Uncle Michael hidden here besides the gun and this coin? The irony of it, Alan thought. I would never have found this if old drunk Mike hadn't fallen over the coffee table. Alan put the coin in his front left pants pocket. He would keep it here for safekeeping. It had been an exciting day. He had learned much, but many new questions had arrived that needed answering, but now he was tired. Tomorrow was another day, and the answers could wait until then. Alan took a quick shower and checked on Mike. He was snoring loudly. Alan shut the bedroom door and went to his room. Soon he was asleep and dreaming of riches and gold - Braddock's Gold.
Chapter 38
Alan woke the next morning feeling refreshed. He had new hope. If this endeavor with The Voice didn't work out, he had an option. Perhaps Alan wouldn't need Mike or The Voice if he could find Braddock's Gold. He knew he, just like the man in the red shirt on Star Trek, was expendable if necessary. Uncle Michael had been hot on its trail and, now Alan had evidence it was real. One book identified the man on the coin as British King Charles II. The coin had three ounces of gold in it. Another book had suggested the gold payroll was in Spanish doubloons, pieces of eight, but why would an English King want or need to use Spanish coins when he could mint his own? That didn't make any sense to Alan, but stranger things had happened.
He fixed the last of the eggs and bacon for breakfast. He used the last of the salsa too. Mike had not been to the store as usual. Alan had checked the truck for the weekly supplies. There was none, which was probably a good thing. Alan hated to think what a man in Mike's drunken condition might have done at the grocery store. His mere presence could have created a bad situation. They did not need to bring attention to themselves.
Alan walked out of the house and headed to the old double-wide to check on the illegal crop. The mouse population was practically nil since the cat had arrived. The grass was getting high and needed mowing. From out to the green jungle, a black racer snake zipped across the path. Alan was startled and jumped. The snake disappeared into the weeds. "Better cut the grass today," Alan mumbled out loud to himself. As an afterthought, he added, "And the big field in front of the house."
The snake was another reason the mice had been disappearing. Alan did not like snakes, but tolerated them for their benefits, though he had killed several rattlers while he resided at the old house. He recovered his composure and walked the rest of the way to the grow house. Inside he checked on the moisture level in the pots. They were getting dry. He checked the fertilizer injection buck
et. It needed more, which he added along with a little fungicide. Next, he turned the automatic watering back on, and the liquid with the blue color from the fertilizer started trickling out of the spaghetti-like drip irrigation lines. Mike had told him they were developed in Israel to save precious water in that dry land.
The plants were growing tall, and harvest time was nearing. It wasn't time to make an error. The temperature in the building seemed right in spite of the heat from the grow lights. All was well. Alan left and headed for the house. He walked carefully and looked for the snake, but he was gone. Alan went around the corner and saw Mike sitting on the porch. His hair was uncombed, and he was smoking a cigarette. He looked pretty rough. Alan thought his Mother would have described his look as being like something the cat drug in. Mike looked up at Alan and then dropped his eyes. Alan continued to the porch. "How are you this morning?"
"Not so good," Mike replied. "I feel like I got hit by a Greyhound Bus. What happened to the coffee table?"
"Mike, you were drunk, drunk as a skunk, last night when you came in," Alan said. "You had no business driving in that condition. And you fell over the coffee table and broke it in two. I had to pick you up and carry you to bed. You were wasted. Your drinking has gotten out of hand. What would have happened if you got in a wreck or got picked up on a DWI? What would I have done if you didn't show up? Call The Voice and try to explain the situation? That would have gone over like a lead balloon."
With the mention of The Voice, Mike stiffened, and a startled look occupied his face. Alan could see he had his attention. Alan continued, "I'm not saying you need to go cold turkey. My dad did, and he got the DT's. It was not a pretty picture. Mike, you got to cut down on your drinkin'. You're endangering this whole operation. From what you have told me about this Voice guy, I wouldn't want to be around when he gets bad news."
Mike sat there with that same shocked look on his face. His eyes caught Alan's. "You're right. My drinkin' is out of hand. And no way do you ever want to disappoint The Voice. It just ain't healthy."
Over the next week, Mike still drank, but only in the evening, and never to excess. Alan breathed a sigh of relief. They made do with what groceries they had at the house. Some of the meals would be kind of funky, but they would get by. Alan cut the grass by the house and in the field with the tractor. He noted the strange pattern in the field around where the old sycamore tree had been. It seemed like a square about 100 feet on each side. He wondered what could have made that pattern. It was a mystery.
The following Saturday with Mike away, Alan searched the old house throughout. What else had Uncle Michael hidden? He checked the attic and found nothing. He had the same results with the search of the tractor shed. He looked the house over carefully, but again found nothing new.
Alan got a tall glass of iced tea from the refrigerator. It was unsweetened. He never liked the super sweet tea that was a standard for the area. He sat in the chair at the desk by the bookcase that held the collection of Uncle Michael. Just where would the old guy hide important information Alan asked himself, just where? Alan sat for a minute, looking at the books. An anomaly caught his alert eyes. The seemingly symmetric bookcase was just so slightly different at the bottom right hand. Alan looked closely.
He took the books off the bottom shelf. Unlike the others, this shelf was not nailed down. The wood case had been routed out to receive this shelf and only this shelf. It was in snug and tight, but with a little pull, it came out. Hidden inside was a cigar box. Alan lifted it out and opened it. Inside he found clippings from newspapers and photocopied articles. All were about Braddock's Gold. Some were about where people believed it was.
Various opinions were covered on possible burial sites in four states around the old farm, but most seemed to center on West Virginia and Pennsylvania. Uncle Michael had written some notes in the margins. He seemed to believe the treasure or a part of it was buried somewhere right here in Mineral County. It was where the search was leading Alan too. He pulled the rest of the papers from the box. There taped to the bottom was a coin, a gold coin. It was in a sleeve. There was writing on the paper. It was the handwriting Alan could now recognize as belonging to Uncle Michael. And it said "Braddock's Gold, 1994." It was for real. Uncle Michael had somehow found some of it.
He sat all this on the desk. Alan reached back down into the hiding place. He pulled out a brown shipping envelope with what seemed to contain a book. He reached in and pulled out a small hardback. He recognized the publisher. It was a vanity printing. The author had paid to have it printed. Alan opened the front cover and read the handwriting on the inside page. It read, "Michael, good luck with your hunt for Braddock's Gold. It's there, and it will be found". Ira Ronald Lyon. 1994
He turned the page to the title page. It read, "The Quest for Braddock's Gold." The subtitle read, "It WILL be found in our lifetime," by I. R. Lyon. Alan quickly skimmed through the slim book. It contained the story of Braddock's March into Pennsylvania, the battle he and his army lost to the French and Indians, the retreat, and the loss of the payroll in gold coin. Lyon told of various tales about what had become of the treasure that he believed had a value of somewhere between a half-million to one million dollars today. Mr. Lyon gave the pros and cons of where he thought the gold was. But he also stated he believed beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the gold was buried on the sites of the old French and Indian War forts in Mineral County, West Virginia.
Unfortunately, the locations of many of the West Virginia forts were lost. George Washington could not locate Fort Cox in the late 1700s when he traveled through the area, and he had visited it many times before it fell into disrepair. Lyon stated he could not and would not give up his source(s). On the last page of the book, he placed his home address in Fort Ashby, WV, his telephone number, and invited anyone that wanted to share information on Braddock's Gold to contact him. Alan sat the book down and thought. Then he picked out another book from the shelf, one by William H. Ansel, Jr., called "Frontier Forts of the Potomac and Its Tributaries." Alan thumbed the pages to Fort Sellers. He read these details, "A small fort located near the mouth of Patterson Creek about the same size as Fort Ashby." He remembered from the brochure in Uncle Michael's collection on Ashby's Fort and Museum that its dimensions were ninety feet by ninety feet. A satisfied smile came to his face. Alan knew he knew where Fort Sellers was.
He walked out to the new cut field to the odd square pattern. He had found Fort Sellers. It was upon this defensible hill, not down below, as the book believed. Washington had directed it built up here. He had remembered this location from his surveying trip with Lord Fairfax when he was sixteen. Somewhere buried around here was a lot of gold, and he wanted it. A plan was coming together.
He walked backed to the house and picked the book back up. He turned to the last pages. On the inside back cover was handwritten the name, 'Tom Kenney', Sons of American Revolution, and a phone number. Alan knew he might need this. He wrote this on a small piece of paper and slipped it in his pocket. He remembered also seeing this name in one of Uncle Michael's books written in the margin.
Alan decided he would call Mr. Lyon. He dialed the phone number. The phone rang twice, and a male voice answered, "Hello?"
"Is this Mr. Lyon," Alan asked.
"Yes, it is. Can I help you?" the male voice asked.
"Yes, sir, you can. I have your book on Braddock's Gold, and I'd like to ask you some questions," Alan responded. "I saw your invitation to call and talk."
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you, young man," the male voice said. 'I'm Ronald Lyon. You're looking for my father, Ira Lyon. He died two weeks ago. He had lung cancer from years of smoking."
Alan expressed his sympathy for the man's passing to his son. Ronald told him the hunt for Braddock's Gold had been father's passion, not his. The extent of his knowledge was from what he had read in the father's book, and he could be of no more help to him. Alan thanked him for his time and help. He hung up. He returned the bo
ok and cigar box to the hiding place, and then put the other books back as they had been. He would sleep on all this new information, but he had a pretty good idea of what he needed to do already. Soon Mike would be back. Alan hoped he would be sober. He was and had groceries. The evening went quickly, and Alan slept well that night. In another location, a person known as The Voice wondered about the goings-on in an old farmhouse above the sleepy little town of Patterson Creek. And he did not like to be disappointed.
Chapter 39
It was Monday morning. Tom tried to find a fishing partner, but none were available. The Padre declined saying he was off taking care of personal business in the Pittsburgh area. His sons were busy with their business and wanted Tom to help. He said no. The boss could do what he wanted, and Tom wanted to go fishing. So off he went. He drove down the Old Furnace Road to the town of Patterson Creek and through the quiet dell to where the road dead-ended at the railroad tracks. Tom parked it out of the way, got his fishing pole and his tackle box, walked over the railroad tracks, and down the tractor lane to the cornfield that occupied the bottom line by the river.