Elizabeth responded with a faint smile, “Mona is in the kitchen now, Grandpa….” He never ate breakfast. What had come over him? His mood was so foul during the night that she actually became frightened when she considered what he might do. He seemed to have undergone some strangely cleansing emotional upheaval. He even looked younger at this moment than he had in several years.
Ira apparently noticed the cloth scraps again as he stepped from the foyer to the parlor. “Beth, you don’t have to clean all of this up if you don’t want to. You can sew your quilt in here. I don’t mind. The thought of it reminds me of your grandmother.” There was no sadness in this. There were no tears. He was smiling. She dropped what she was holding into her basket and stepped forward to hug him abruptly with a hearty kiss on the cheek. He reached up and grasped her wrists while looking straight in her eyes. Now there were tears, but the smile remained. “Elizabeth, I want you to be happy. I know you are growing up. A quilt for your hope chest is just the thing you should be making. It speaks of a future promise. The very term ‘hope chest’ suggests what your life should be about right now. Rather than the fear and rumor of war.”
She said, “Thank you, Grandpa. I love you too. I would like to work in here. I’ll keep the mess under control. Now you go see what Mona is doing in the kitchen.” With that she gave him another peck on the cheek and turned back to her work.
The smell of bacon and fresh bread reached him with a faint blissful sweetness. He found Mona turning the bacon in a large iron pan over the kitchen hearth. Two marvelous loaves of sweet bread were cooling on the massive oak table next to a crock of churned butter and a small dish of honey. Coffee was steaming over the fire ready to pour, and he felt nearly weak-kneed as these wonderful aromas confronted him. This didn’t compare with the sweet smile Mona greeted him with. Ira returned the smile with awkward timidity. Mona straightened up to survey him from head to foot as he stood staring at her from the doorway. Something was different about him. She knew it instantly. She loved this man. She would no longer hesitate to show him that love. Life was too short for that. The events of the past several days proved that if nothing else could. She had decided this morning on the front stairs. He treated her contemptuously, but she didn’t care. She would love him through all of his turmoil. She and his late wife, Mary, were more like sisters than just friends. Mona’s deep profound love for Ira grew after Mary’s loss. She felt no guilt in this.
Ira needed her as much as Elizabeth did after Mary was killed. She hadn’t intended to feel this way about her friend’s widower. Mona repressed her feelings for years because it seemed wrong to love him. Ira was so changed by the events of that terrible night long ago. The old Ira was suddenly gone as if he had also been killed. He continued to preach. He continued to care for his granddaughter and his friends, but he developed a dark dangerous hardness that allowed him to say and do horrible things while apparently feeling justified. Mona told herself that she couldn’t possibly love a man like that, but the more time she spent with him, the more she knew this was hopeless. She did love him. It was as simple as that. Years passed. Elizabeth was now fully grown.
Mona broke the silence. “Come on in here. You look starved, Ira. Have you slept at all?” Ira didn’t answer, but he did come into the kitchen and sit down at the table. She quickly sat a china plate in front of him and filled it with bacon, scrambled eggs, and sliced fresh bread. The coffee was poured, and she sat down across the table to face him. He prayed quietly before launching into the food as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. She smiled broadly as he cleaned the plate in minutes. Mona picked up the plate and moved it to the sideboard before sitting back down and reaching across the table to grasp both of Ira’s hands in hers. He looked up into her smiling eyes and couldn’t keep tears from forming in his own.
Mona asked, “What is it? What has happened? You seem like a different person than the angry man I passed on the front steps this morning.” He remained silent, but continued to gaze steadily into her eyes. He saw something there that he didn’t notice before. She really did care about him. Could it be that this friend of many years actually loved him? The relief he felt deep in his soul this morning caused everything to seem brighter and more positive. He couldn’t help himself now. He told Mona about the secret place. He told her about the money. He didn’t fully explain where it was hidden, but she could guess. She didn’t care about money anyway. In her world, the greatest treasure she knew other than Jesus Christ was the family in this house right now. Ira told Mona about the relief he finally felt after coming to the end of himself and fully, finally, surrendering everything to Jesus. She was crying now too.
Seventeen years had passed since Mary’s death. Mona stepped in without hesitation or complaint to supervise the care and upbringing of the orphaned baby, Elizabeth. Neither Ira nor Ezekiel could have raised the precious girl on their own. The need was obvious, and Mona had filled it. Ira long believed this was done simply from Mona’s sense of duty to Mary. Maybe it was only that at first. The years had passed. The girl grew to be the beautiful young lady of today. Mona was there through it all. She maintained her own home. Propriety demanded that, but she was always there for Beth. It finally dawned on Ira that she was there for him also. This magnificent woman had gracefully helped with every challenge his family faced during the darkest time of his life so far. It was now undeniable. The gratitude he felt began to change into something far more powerful. He involuntarily squeezed her hands lightly as these thoughts coursed through his mind. Mona felt this and her smile deepened.
CHAPTER 23
Crispin lay in miserable dejected silence. The storeroom was pitch-black save the sliver of light leaking in through the tiny gap along the top edge of the partition wall separating this room from the next. The other room must have a high window up at ground level which allowed daylight to enter. There was no heat in this dank empty place, but he hardly noticed the cold in his frustrated fury. He did his best earlier to write an acceptable report on paper supplied to him by the impudent young lieutenant who served as Willoughby’s adjutant.
The lieutenant actually opened and read the document in Crispin’s presence. He handed the paper back to the captain and asked, “Are you quite certain this is what you want to say, sir? You do realize this document will be used as evidence in your trial?” Crispin nearly screamed his response as he demanded the man take the report and get out. He stepped forward threateningly only to be brought up short by the lowered bayonets of the two armed guards standing in the store room at either side of the lieutenant. The smile that briefly flickered across the lieutenant’s face was clear in its malevolence.
The adjutant clicked his heels together in an absurd show of mock respect and said, “As you wish, sir!” He picked up the oil lantern and stepped briskly out of the room. The door slammed shut behind the three armed men. Crispin heard the bolt shoot home and the padlock click into place. He had been in this damp, cold darkness ever since. He was given a single horse blanket, a jar of water, and a wooden bucket for his personal use. The storeroom had been cleared of other supplies to fulfill its current purpose. There was nothing else in the room but empty dark space.
Crispin wrapped himself in the blanket and slept fitfully before pride, anger, and fear brought him back to miserable consciousness. Of course, his mission was a failure. He refused to accept the idea that this was somehow his fault at first. He didn’t care what Willoughby thought of him. How could the major possibly know what happened that day at Fletcher’s Mill, or in the days since? He wasn’t there. What did he mean when he said he didn’t like officers like Crispin? Crispin was from a fine family. He was connected in parliament. Sir Thomas Willoughby … who was he? How did he earn a knighthood? What had he ever done? Crispin had never heard of him. He would see the man broken for this!
Crispin lay coiled in the old horse blanket for hour after hour seething and scheming as he rationalized his involvement in all that occurred since he left Charlotte over a week
ago. The passage of time began to seem almost meaningless. He feigned sleep when the bolt slid back and the door opened to emit the amazingly bright glare of another oil lantern. Two armed guards entered the room with another man who brought in a battered metal pot and fresh jar of water. The pot contained some unrecognizable smoked meat and two pieces of hardtack. The guards waited silently as the man took the personal bucket out, emptied it, and brought it back. The man paused briefly to see that the prisoner was still breathing before he nodded at the two guards. The three men left again, taking the lantern with them. The room once again plunged into deep darkness. Crispin was ravenously hungry. He found the pot with the food and devoured its contents swiftly. He drank some of the water from the jar, then returned to the foul-smelling blanket in the corner of his prison.
Time dragged on. Hours passed with the only punctuation supplied by the occasional brief return of light when his food and water were replaced. Crispin began to feel like an animal in a cage. He disgustedly realized that caged animals had an advantage that he did not share. They could at least see out. He could tell that a day ended when the light failed to come in through the gap at the top of the wall. He knew when a new day started when the light returned. He refused to acknowledge the presence of his guards when they came in. The silence was maddening. Crispin’s rage grew, but there was no way to express it. He finally lost track of the passage of days and nights. He began to realize how utterly hopeless his circumstances were. He was responsible for the Fletcher’s Mill incident and its aftermath. Those men trusted him and he failed them. He failed his family, his king, and himself.
The depression deepened as Crispin slowly faced his responsibility. He caused the deaths of those good men. He was certain they were better men than himself. Wasn’t that what Major Willoughby thought? He should know. He was a professional soldier. Crispin was nothing more than the lying coward Willoughby thought him to be. He suddenly remembered the moment in that other storeroom when his pride and rage got the best of him. He murdered that young boy! He had crushed the life out of his victim’s throat with his booted foot with total contempt while the boy struggled to survive. The realization of the filth polluting his dark soul overwhelmed Crispin in that moment. He lay weeping on the stone floor with the filthy blanket wrapped around his head.
Something heard somewhere earlier began to gnaw at him then. It was something about Fletcher’s Mill. That old man, Ira Fletcher, was said to be incredibly rich. Fletcher didn’t have noble blood, though. How would he have obtained wealth? He was said to be a personal friend of the estranged royal governor. That’s one of the things Major Willoughby was so angry about. Somehow he, Crispin, managed to impugn the honorable name Fletcher. The major wasn’t there though. Willoughby hadn’t seen what happened. He just assumed that he knew the truth. Well, Crispin had heard even stranger things about Ira Fletcher and his precious mill.
That fool boy in the mill almost let it slip that night when he told Crispin and Sergeant Smythe about the rebel contraband stored under the mill in a secret cave. Crispin slowly came to realize that all of the rumors he heard about treasure hidden under Fletcher’s Mill could be true…. They must be true! Why else would that old black man have dared try to interfere with him? Why would the villagers openly rise in revolt against him and his armed party of dragoons? Why would the place be violently protected by Reverend Fletcher himself and that large group of hidden militiamen? The more he thought about it, the more it made sense to Crispin. Ira Fletcher could afford to buy and pay for his own armed force … that was it … that must be it! Those men weren’t just members of the “Provisional Militia of the sovereign State of South Carolina” as Fletcher arrogantly described them that day! They were Fletcher’s own men! He was sure of it. He continued to mull these thoughts over hour after hour until he finally lapsed into a fitful sleep.
Crispin woke hours later still in abject despair. Sitting up, he removed the blanket from his head and neck. There was dim light leaking into the room from above the wall. He looked down at the blanket as if he were seeing it for the first time. Crispin suddenly knew what he must do. He wouldn’t wait to be tried by people like Willoughby. Looking up at the dim rafters of the ceiling, he decided to throw the end of the blanket over and knot it so that the timber would support his weight. He could stand on the overturned bucket to make a noose out of the trailing corner. He stopped sobbing as he considered how to end his own misery in the most cowardly way of all.
Crispin was sitting there considering this option when he heard footsteps and voices from the outside hallway. He didn’t try to feign sleep this time as the lock was removed and the bolt was withdrawn. The door opened, and he stared in curiosity as the adjutant entered the room with the same two guards. They were half dragging the still tied, gagged, and blindfolded form of a battered and filthy, but fully uniformed, Continental Army major. The major involuntarily fell to his knees on the floor as the bonds were cut from his wrists and the blindfold and gag were removed. He sat there staring around the room and blinking at Crispin sitting in his own filth in the corner.
The lieutenant smiled broadly. “Well, Captain Crispin, you have company now! I hope you two will enjoy the time here together as we decide what to do with you.” The same man who had been bringing food and water to Crispin entered with another horse blanket and another water jar. It was clear without any explanation that both of the prisoners would be expected to use the same necessary bucket. The man left the storeroom as quickly and quietly as he appeared. The young officer and guards were also gone in seconds and the room was plunged back into darkness.
Awkward silence prevailed for what seemed like hours. Neither of the two prisoners wished to be the first to speak. It took quite some time for their eyes to adjust to the near blackness well enough to see each other. Crispin’s curiosity finally got the best of him. He toughened his voice as much as possible as he rose to his feet and asked, “Who are you, sir?” He didn’t really understand why he referred to the other man with the honorific “sir.” Crispin remembered that he was contemplating suicide only minutes before this strange visitor was added to his prison cell. Perhaps visitor wasn’t the correct term. The other man didn’t respond at first. He was seated in the far corner vigorously trying to rub life back into his swollen and chafed wrists. Crispin became irritated and tried again with, “Did you hear me, sir? I asked who are you?”
The tattered continental officer finally spoke in a frightened voice, “My name is Major Theodore Throckmorton. I’m the deputy quartermaster of the Southern Continental Army.” Throckmorton hadn’t realized that Crispin was a British officer.
Crispin no longer wore a uniform coat, and his clothing now bore no resemblance to a uniform. Crispin was surprised more by the content of the information than the overly frank way it was delivered. He paused before saying, “My name is Captain Reginald Crispin. I too am, or was, a deputy quartermaster … of His Majesty’s Southern Royal Army.”
Throckmorton sat in shocked silence for some time before he finally mustered the courage to ask, “What on earth are you doing in this place?”
Crispin wasn’t offended or surprised by the question. The terror and trauma of the last several days had unnerved him. He was beginning to believe he couldn’t be shocked by anything he might experience in the future. He knew he had enemies in the army. His survival in a future court martial was not as assured as Major Willoughby believed it to be. He was glad to have someone, anyone, to talk with now. Crispin soon found himself telling this enemy officer about everything he had been through over the preceding week. Throckmorton listened in silence. He was amazed how much he had in common with this young British captain.
Throckmorton and Crispin both felt severely misused by their superiors and their subordinates. They had both faced their enemies with frighteningly disastrous results. Their personal economic interests made their duty positions potentially lucrative if they were willing to compromise what others would call integrity or charac
ter. Throckmorton and Crispin began to understand that they had a powerfully compelling mutual interest. This turn in the conversation brought them to open discussion of fabulous treasure rumored to be hidden inside or under Fletcher’s Mill.
CHAPTER 24
They were moving very slowly, but they somehow managed another fifteen miles well before nightfall on the second day after leaving the Phillips farm. Billy was exasperated with the pace and so was Sergeant Strickland. Sergeant Duncan was more pragmatic about it. The doctor was concerned about his patients and started asking Billy to halt the march before night made his work too difficult in the moving wagon. He lost another patient and it was clearly weighing heavily on him. They desperately needed to avoid possible ambush on the trail during the march, but moving at night was out of the question.
Billy was acutely aware that they were in country crisscrossed with hostile bands of Tory militia, British regulars, and groups of rebel partisans. Few if any of the armed militia groups wore uniforms. It was impossible to tell which side of the conflict strangers might support. He knew none of the wounded men would survive a pitched battle in these circumstances. They thankfully encountered no one on the trail all day. Billy believed getting the wounded men and the supply wagons to safety quickly was the best way to protect them. Doctor Bolt would have to do the best he could for them while they were moving. He could perform any intense treatments by lantern light when they finally did come to a stop as night fell.
The map Billy received from General Morgan indicated they were less than five miles from Fletcher’s Mill if Spate was correct about the town they just went around being Fish Dam. Nearing completion of his mission was somehow making Billy’s anxiety increase rather than easing it. The map showed that they would have to cross the Broad River before they reached their destination. He didn’t want to attempt a river crossing at night. He hadn’t yet thought through crossing the river. He sent John Red and two other scouts forward to search for boats of any kind along the riverbank, but they hadn’t returned.
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