“It looks like the remains of a pouch, probably someone’s moneybag,” said Maggie, calming down.
“Hardened leather, petrified almost,” said Frank. “There’s some of the dust still caught in the mouth of the pouch.”
“Maybe there’s more gold inside the pouch,” said the Pastor.
“If there is, it is not much.” Frank felt the pouch. “Not enough weight for there to be much. What do you think, Maggie?”
“You’re right. There’s not much gold.” They both knew that the real importance of this pouch was in helping date the wreck. If the use of this were as someone’s money pouch, that would date the ship at an earlier century. There was a time when people did not have currency and they used gold dust to buy things. The trick would be to tell how this pouch was used.
“Gold or not, let’s get this conglomerate off the hoist before something breaks.” Frank climbed back into the truck. He shifted the transmission and eased out the clutch. The truck crawled forward in low range, the object swinging slightly in the air. The Pastor walked on one side of the artifact and Maggie walked on the other, both of them with their hands on the large cluster. They tried to keep it from moving too much and straining or breaking the strap. They walked along in the tracks of the truck wheels as the old military vehicle ground towards the boxwood and high grass at the edge of the site.
Frank finally stopped the truck. “We need blocks under the conglomerate to keep it off the ground.” The Pastor found two short pieces of construction wood nearby and set them on the ground for the artifact to rest on.
“You got your blocks,” he said.
Frank then eased the winch and the object dropped slowly towards the wood. When it was on top of the timbers, they removed the cable and put the strap back in the truck. The three stood around the artifact.
“We should try to find some time to chip some of that hardened clay off the thing. It may show something then. If not, we’ll have to wait into we can get it into a chemical bath.”
“Let it sit for a while,” said Frank. “The wet soil can dry on its surface. I think in this case it will be easier to inspect if we can take the muck off in chunks.” He sat on the ground in front of the artifact.
“You folks have to work right hard in this archaeology business,” said the Pastor, joining him on the ground.
Frank smiled at Maggie.” It’s a lot better than some things I have had to do in my life,” he said.
“Yeah, I guess so,” said the Pastor.
“You in Nam too, Pastor?”
The Pastor nodded, “Army Chaplain.”
A butterfly flew softly in front of them and for a moment rested on the conglomerate. “Tell me about them,” said Frank, pointing at the orange and black insect.
“The Monarch butterfly migrates directly through a spot on Allingham Island,” answered the Pastor. “I guess they been doing this for centuries. Jake Terment’s father never bothered them, but Jake himself used to kill them. I remember when he was a little boy that he’d see how many he could kill. In their migration, big clouds of them landed on a few old trees near the big house. Jake would go out there and swat as many as he could all day long. Then he would bring buckets of the dead butterflies into the house to show his father. I never saw the old man kill one of them himself.”
“Matter-of-fact,” the Pastor went on, “Not long before he died, Mister Terment began to get pretty close to the environmental folks around here. People like Mrs. Pond. They used to have meetings up there in the big room at Peachblossom Manor. The whole group of them took field trips out in the Wilderness Swamp.”
“Jake was away making money during this time, building up the Terment Company in different areas of the United States, building skyscrapers, developments, planned cities. He made his money by finding slums he could buy up cheap, then evicting the residents, taking down the houses. He was always big on bulldozers. Then he’d resell the land as prime industrial property.”
“I thought there were laws against that,” said Maggie.
The Pastor smiled. “I guess laws presuppose the will to enforce them. You don’t see much law being enforced in places where they want the land for the big companies.” He continued, “The old man retired from his real estate business and all his other business. He never did much outside of River Sunday and some small projects here on the Eastern Shore. Jake’s father, Mister Terment, he was a big man in a small town. Funny thing though. Jake’s father was tough and most of the time, pretty smart. His son was wasn’t so much smart as he was tough and lucky. Jake would do anything to anyone long as he made money. Always was that way.
“That’s why most of us were surprised when we found he had come back and was intending to put all this money into the island. We always figured he would concentrate on big projects far away from here.” The Pastor winked at Frank and Maggie. “There is a rumor Jake was short on money and the bankers up in New York made him come down here and do this project, put up his own property, so to speak. What I hear from the servants who work up at Peachblossom, they overheard his phone calls to New York. He didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want anything to do with working on this bridge. Makes sense. I always thought once he got out of this place, he wasn’t ever coming back here. Those New York bankers, they’re pretty smart.
“Jake almost didn’t have any property to put up. Way things were going with all his father’s interest in wildlife, folks thought that Mrs. Pond and the birdwatchers were going to get the old Peachblossom farm and any of the old man’s properties on the island. People assumed the Terment land was going to be preserved for a park, for animals, and especially for the butterflies.
“It didn’t turn out that way. Right after his daddy’s funeral, Jake and his lawyer produced a will that stated Jake owned the property as the only heir. Of course Mrs. Pond and all her people went to court but they could get nowhere. She did not have a will that said any different. It was her word against Jake’s word. All that she could do was argue that the old man promised her and the others the land for the animals. That did not cut any water with the judge.”
“So there have been bad feelings ever since,” said Frank.
“You got that right. Every chance she gets, Mrs. Pond and her people take on Jake and his people. Jake just wears them down. He has the law on his side every time. He is great for showing up with the police. That’s the way he always does. You watch him how he operates. Just quietly stands there with a whole lot of his police friends like Billy beside him.”
There was a loud popping sound. The artifact split open at that moment and pieces of the conglomerate split like the pieces of eggshell breaking loose when a bird is hatched. It broke in half lengthwise and parts lay on the ground. Revealed was a rusty metallic tube about nine feet in length and about eight inches high with ridges around its circumference at different lengths of the tube.
“It’s a cannon tube,” said Maggie. “The sun must have heated what’s left of the old metal, expanded it to break up the aggregate.”
“It’s a very early cannon,” said Frank, hastening to look.
“Probably Eighteenth Century,” said Maggie.
“How can you tell?” asked the Pastor, enjoying the excitement of the two archeologists as they peered at the old weapon.
“You look at the raised areas on the tube, Pastor.” Frank leaned over the gun, sighting along its barrel. “This was how the gunner would aim it. The design of these old guns changed over the centuries. Cannon historians can tell from the ridges around the barrel about when and where the gun was made. Sometimes there’s a maker’s mark but I don’t see one on this gun. Even if we knew when it was made, that still does not tell us all we want to know. Sometimes they were recycled in later ships, captured and used, or simply bought from gun warehouses in London to outfit merchant ships.”
“It’s iron,” said Maggie. “Strange it hasn’t rusted more. These were not the best cannons. The best were bronze. Iron tubes were used on merchant s
hips, where they would be fired only occasionally and not for war as would be the case on a military ship.”
“However, even iron cannons are usually salvaged,” said Frank, thoughtfully.
“Why?” asked the Pastor.
“Anything valuable in shallow water is likely to be salvaged. Think like the people who were here when this ship was wrecked. Why would they leave something valuable?”
He continued. “There’s something else. A schooner carrying wheat to Baltimore doesn’t need a cannon.”
She nodded. “This might rule out Terment’s idea of the wreck being a wheat schooner.” She touched the metal. “If this was an old wreck, why wasn’t the cannon brought up?”
“Sometimes these old wrecks were left alone because of disease. People were terrified of plague,” suggested Frank. “One good guess might be that this ship was burned because of plague on board. Ships were burned in those days to control disease.”
Maggie looked at him. “Plague. Yes. That might explain people’s fear. Their leaving the cannon. Maybe the reason the ship was covered over with earth too.”
“I must admit, this is a little more than I thought I would find at this construction site,” Frank said.
The Pastor chuckled.
“What?” asked Frank.
“I was just thinking how this old cannon, we fix it up, might give them Confederate boys a run for their money one of these Heritage Days coming,” he smiled.
Chapter 5
Jake arrived at about nine o’clock, carrying a golf club.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing with the club at the broken conglomerate.
“That is what is left of an Eighteenth century iron cannon, a pretty good sized one,” explained Frank.
“I guess you’re going to tell me it was from the shipwreck.”
“It was in the wreck location. I can’t be sure it was part of the ship but it’s likely. Maggie and I are surprised to find a quality artifact like that. We don’t understand why this was not salvaged before.”
Jake looked at the cannon for a few minutes and then turned to Frank.
“You make too much out of this, Frank,” Jake said. “If you were a native, you’d realize that gun was probably used as somebody’s anchor mooring. Sailors on the Chesapeake used everything they could for ballast and for anchors. Maybe it was ballast on the ship that was in here. Lots of old iron and lead got carried around in the boats to keep them from capsizing. I can’t tell you how many times the farmers around here turn up pieces of iron in their fields.”
“Did you ever hear of anyone turning up a cannon this size with their John Deere?” asked Maggie. Jake didn’t answer her.
“You’re probably right, Jake,” said Frank, amicably. He could see the image of Mellow waving her finger, advising him not to aggravate Jake on the first day.
“It concerns me, though,” said Frank, knowing that Maggie and the Pastor were still checking him out, studying even the subtle voice intonations in his talk with Jake. “We may never know why this gun tube was near the shipwreck. That’s what is intriguing, and at the same time maddening, about these archaeological surveys. Even with all the precision our work entails there is still uncertainty and mysteries remain.”
“Well, let me know when you find something useful.”
“We might have something for you by tomorrow night,” said Frank.
“Can’t you get it done by tonight?” Jake looked at Frank, tapping the golf club. There was a lack of the warmth towards Frank that he had shown the day before. “You’re still working for me, Frank. That the way you see it?”
“I have never seen it any different,” said Frank, surprised by Jake’s sudden serious tone. He scratched his neck for a moment, knowing he was getting himself in trouble.
If he didn’t say the right thing he’d lose respect from not only Jake but Maggie and the Pastor.
Jake continued, “Anytime you need to remember why you are here working in the middle of my marsh, near my bulldozer, on my project, you just take a good look at that crane out there on the Nanticoke. There’s a lot of money tied up in a machine that isn’t doing me any good right now.”
“Jake, we’re doing the job. Everything is being done as quickly and in as organized a manner as possible,” said Frank. He continued, thoughtfully, more authority now in his voice. “There is a way you can help to speed up the process.”
“How?”
“Keep Spyder off the site.” This was a demand from Frank, no longer casual. “Everything that he wrecks by accident is something that we have to do over, something that will hold us up in finding out any answers here.”
“Sure,” Jake laughed, swinging his club at a clump of crabgrass. “You hear that, Spyder? You keep your hands in your pockets.”
Spyder grinned, walking behind them.
Frank showed Maggie’s site diagram to Jake, pointing out with care each theoretical section of the wreck and carefully explaining what they hoped to find. Jake asked questions from time to time and appeared interested.
“Jake, most of what we need to find out seems to be located within a few feet of the surface soil of the marsh. We think we know why this wreck is so close to the surface.”
Maggie looked up from her work as Frank spoke. She nodded in agreement as he explained the site condition to Jake.
“As we see it, the ship was in shallow water, maybe low tide. For some reason, she caught on fire and burned almost to the keel. The tide came in and put out the fire leaving the ship a charred hulk. The tidewater probably covered the wreck at high tide. Over the following months and years the cove silted in from runoff as the fields were tilled. There was also an underground stream feeding the cove which is still active and is the cause of the wetness. The stream added to the silt. There might have been some fill carried in by workers, maybe to try to level out the area. We know some pilings were set into the bank at some time. The backwater in here dried out. It became a marsh. So for quite a few years this shipwreck was pretty well buried. Now, with recent climate changes in the Chesapeake, the river has started to rise. There are more storms, more flood tides. The river is washing out the silting more quickly. I think if we had come along a few more years from now, all our work would be done for us. This shipwreck might be showing right on the surface with all its secrets.”
“The shorelines are changing all the time along these river systems. You must have known this, being a native,” asserted Maggie, looking at Jake. “I expect you or your father must have worried about losing part of the marsh as the bank has been washing away.”
Jake became visibly restless. “What difference does all this research make?” he said.
“To tell you the truth, Jake,” answered Frank, “It doesn’t make any difference if the wreck is not worth the research. However, if the wreck is an important one, everything that happens in this marsh will be studied.”
“I’m working here on a test pit that covers where we think the captain’s cabin was,” said Maggie. “Artifacts buried in the earth from the ruins of his cabin will tell us about the ship and that helps to put the story of the shipwreck together.”
“You find a few soggy bags of wheat and we can all cover this thing up,” chuckled Jake.
“If it’s wheat from a few decades ago like you suggest, yes, we can cover it all up. I agree with you, I don’t think the wreck of a wheat schooner of maybe a hundred years age is worth very much in maritime research,” smiled Frank.
“There’s no way you’re going to find a few grains of wheat in all this muck,” said Jake, winking at Spyder.
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Jake. This is a strange site. We already noticed preservation of materials that should be in much worse shape.”
“How far down do you have to go?” asked Jake.
“As I said, it’s a shallow site. We don’t have to dig very far, just until we find what we call sterile soil, the soil before humans came along, the soil left by the glaciers.”
&n
bsp; “Sterile soil has to belong to a period before the wreck,” said Maggie.
“Right. We double check that strata and make sure there’s no evidence of human activity, that it wasn’t disturbed and then we stop going down further. That’s the soil we call sterile.”
“So how far down is that?” persisted Jake.
“Well, judging from the silting, and from the height of the piece of ship’s bow we have already found, the keel and the other parts of the wreck that still exist are probably only four to five feet below the surface, maybe less.”
“What I’m getting at is that there’s not a lot of dirt to dig into,” said Jake. “Way I see it you folks should be able to finish up soon.”
“That’s right, Jake. That’s why I wanted you to see all this. It’s possible to get enough done by end of tomorrow. At least we’ll know a lot more by then.”
“I’d still like it sooner if you can.”
“We’ll certainly consider the costs that you are running up with the construction halt. I understand that.”
“Hey, leave that alone,” yelled Maggie.
Spyder was poking a board at the remains of the conglomerate that fell off the cannon. Frank looked at Jake. Jake smiled.
“Come on, Spyder. You’re not wanted around here,” said Jake. “What is that stuff anyway, Frank?”
“We call it conglomerate. We value it because there may be other things imbedded in that hard cluster. Sometimes there are all kinds of pieces of the wreck that joined together like glue with the water and pressure. Tools, early eating utensils, pieces of chain, all kinds of interesting things.”
Jake let his eyes move over the piece of conglomerate. He stood carefully, his shoes close but not touching the artifact, his patent leather away from stains by the black swamp liquid still dripping from the cluster. Spyder had returned to the station wagon and now honked the horn. Jake turned away and, without another word, walked quickly over to his car.
Spyder held a cellular telephone out the car window, and called “New York wants you.” Jake took it beside the car and began listening, his face unsmiling. Then he got into the car, still listening, and Spyder drove out the lane.
Slave Graves (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 1) Page 7