by Suzi Weinert
“Have you time to dash over to Publix for one of those cooked whole chickens and their deli mashed potatoes? I think I have a veggie.” She searched the freezer. “Yes, right here. Then I can have everything waiting for you both when you get home about 8:30.”
“Great plan, Mom. Want to come along to the grocery?” She nodded. “Then, off we go.”
* * * * * * *
On the drive home from the airport, Jennifer updated Becca on recent events. They discussed how Becca could fit in.
“Grammy’s a year older than when you saw her last. A year can make a difference at her age. I find her normal and lucid one minute but tired and confused the next.”
Becca laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m twenty-one and you could say the same about me.”
Jennifer smiled. “Okay, me, too. But maybe this is different. Even when she seems perky, remember she’s been through a lot recently—imprisoned in her home, the hospital, then the move. All this effort is a challenge for me, never mind her. And in a couple of weeks I’ll return to my familiar home while she’s entering the unknown.”
“Got it, Mom. So besides taking pictures to fire off to the family showing things they might want and making sure estate sale items aren’t hiding treasures inside or under, what else can I do?”
“The usual stuff like three meals a day, laundry, grocery shopping. We still must interview estate sale companies and movers and we’re working with the sheriff and insurance companies about stolen items. How long can you stay?”
“No job offer yet after graduating, so I’m at your service. I could share driving when you and Grammy head north or you two could fly and I drive the Mercedes back. Or we could all fly home and have a car transport company bring it. I’m here to be useful.”
“Thanks again, honey, for dropping everything to come. How’s your cute beau, Nathan?”
“He’s the same. And yes, he is cute, isn’t he?”
“We’ll see a lot of Grammy soon in McLean, but while here you’ll see her house again for the last time.” She turned onto another street. “Beginning to look familiar? We’re almost there.”
“Mom, what are those lights up ahead?”
Jennifer’s heart raced. Her foot pressed the car’s accelerator. Because Becca’s bag took forever to appear on the carousel, the Ft. Myers airport round-trip had taken almost two hours. Surely nothing more could happen to her mother in such a short time, right? Yet her concern showed on her face.
“Calm down, Mom. What are the chances…?”
They turned onto Grammy’s street, startled by emergency lights gyrating across two fire engines and an ambulance parked in front of her house.
“Oh, no!” Jennifer cried, screeching to a halt behind the fire trucks. They leaped from the car and dashed to the front door as two firemen exited. “You the daughter? They’ll talk to you inside,” one said.
They hurried in. Grammy sat in the kitchen with two uniformed firemen, one taking notes.
“What…what happened?”
“Oh, Jennifer, there you are. I…I must have dozed off while the food cooked. The vegetable pan burned dry and the smoke set off the fire alarm. The shrill noise woke me up, but a neighbor already heard the sound and called the firemen. Then these nice gentlemen came to take a look.”
The medic and lead fireman didn’t look amused. “I’d like to speak with you privately,” the medic told Jennifer as his crew prepared to leave.
“Becca, would you and Grammy visit together in the study for a few minutes? I’ll be right in.”
When they left the kitchen, Jennifer again noted the medic’s somber expression. “This woman’s your mother? She’s eighty-seven, right?” Jennifer nodded. “Do you realize an incident like this could have been fatal?” Jennifer nodded again. “You can see she needs assistance with cooking—and maybe more. Every day we face preventable fatalities, and prevention saves lives. If you care about her, take action to keep something like this from happening again.”
“You’re right. I’ve been here a week making arrangements to take her north to live by us. I was away only long enough to pick up my daughter at the airport. I’m so sorry you had to come tonight, but thank goodness you did. It won’t happen again.”
The fireman added sternly, “You understand this could have been a conflagration. It could have been fatal. Thanks to her working smoke alarm and quick action from a neighbor, we prevented worse smoke damage. We turned on the exhaust fan over the stove, opened kitchen windows and closed off doors to the rest of the house to contain the smoke odor. What’s left of the pan is in the sink. Your mother should not cook unsupervised again.”
“She won’t, I promise. Believe me, I see the situation here with my own eyes. Thank you for rescuing her, for your sound advice and for caring.”
The man sighed and glanced around the kitchen before starting to leave.
“And thank you for the important work you do for all of us.”
“Good night, ma’am,” he said in a tired voice as she closed the door behind him.
Just as the burglary had clanged a wake-up call for Grammy, this fire scare did a similar favor for Jennifer. Was this accident understandable given the recent stress and exhaustion, or did her mother need full assisted living now?
CHAPTER 31
Jennifer cooked another package of vegetables from the freezer, nuked the mashed potatoes, and soon all three ate dinner at the dining room table, avoiding the smoky kitchen. Becca chattered amiably about her flight and her joy to see her grandmother again in this wonderful old house they all loved.
“It’s nearly ten,” Jennifer yawned. “Don’t know about the rest of you but I’m ready for bed. Becca, would you lock up while I take Grammy upstairs? You know what bedroom you’re in?”
“Yes, and I’ll be up shortly. I may take a few downstairs pictures to start my project. Any particular wake-up time tomorrow?”
“No, but anyone up early could look through the remaining books in the study.”
Jennifer settled her mother before slipping into her own bed and locking eyes with the dragon perched on the bureau. If the know-everything aura he projected was real, what did he see in their future? Would she get her mother safely to McLean? Would she find the map’s treasure?
She picked up one of her dad’s books from the nightstand. For total escape from today’s trying events, she’d read more about Mosby capturing General Stoughton. Despite each book having the same basic take on these and surrounding events, each book had slightly different versions about who said what and when. After all, history hinged not only on facts, but on who assembled those facts and what they included or omitted. The morning meeting when John Birdsong described his Virginia ancestors bubbled through her mind.
The last thing she remembered was glancing at the dragon, who stared right back. Gradually her eyes drooped, the book slid from her fingers and she again fell into a trance, soon pierced by another vision.
In his isolated makeshift camp, Corporal Raiford Birdsong shivered in the cold as he stared up through the dark at the stars twinkling high in the black sky above the trees. He fought to recall the chain of events five weeks earlier, the actions bringing him here this night.
He had stood, he recalled, in the town of Fairfax Courthouse beside another soldier, Private Orwell Hanby, an endless talker.
“You writin’ again in your book, Birdsong? What ya write about when ya never say much?”
“About what I think.”
“So whatcha thinkin’ about there?” Hanby pointed to the journal.
“Mosby.”
“Ya know he enlisted in this here war as a private, just like me an’ you,” Hanby had said. “The men respect him but it ain’t outta fear. No, they like him, too. Now he’s rose to Cap’n, he expects tight discipline from us in battle, but that there’s one of our success secrets. We’re glad to do anything he orders outta regard for the Cap’n hisself, and,” Hanby cackled,
“a’ course, splittin’ the spoils after one of them successes don’t hurt none either.”
Birdsong had nodded, but he felt Hanby’s description fell short. Birdsong more than respected and admired Mosby, he worshipped the man—as he knew, did many of his fellow raiders.
Hanby spat tobacco on the ground. “An’ he got this spooky way o’ readin’ people. He can see a man’s soul, as if he looked inside him and knowed all about him. Take that Sgt. James Ames, ya know, our ‘Big Yank.’ When he come into our camp, wantin’ to leave the Union and join the South, we all saw him for a gull-derned spy. But Mosby heard him out and sized him up and brought him in. Turned out he saw true, because Ames is one of our best.”
As Mosby approached them, the two men jumped to attention. He said, “Hanby, go with Gifford to find us more horses. You know how to quiet those animals when they get skittish.”
“Yes, sir. My farm upbringin’, sir.”
Hanby saluted and left.
“Birdsong, come with me. We’re going to hunt us a general.”
Hardly believing his luck that Mosby chose him to join the few soldiers picked for that special raid, Birdsong replayed the capture of Stoughton over and over in his mind. Moreover, Birdsong knew he himself showed Mosby the Stoughton cache of plunder that looked like a chest of pirate treasure.
After Mosby examined the valuables and directed Birdsong to load them into two nearby empty canvas bags, he’d added, “Now hide these bags in one of those Union carriages or wagons we confiscated and guard them with your life.”
“Yes, sir.” Birdsong had said, feeling deep honor at his leader’s trust to personally protect something this rare and valuable. Mosby’s uncanny judgment of human nature showed he trusted Birdsong. This realization increased the corporal’s respect for himself and for his leader.
An hour later as the column of horses, prisoners, wagons, carriages and stores captured by Mosby’s Raiders moved through the night from the town of Fairfax Courthouse toward Culpeper, Birdsong’s legs protectively encircled the canvas bags beneath his cradled rifle as his wagon bumped along the dirt road. They’d traveled ten miles when he looked up, surprised to see Mosby and Big Yank double back to his vehicle.
“Birdsong,” Mosby said, “our scouts say a large group of Union cavalry heads straight toward us from the northeast. If we must fight them and still escape with these horses, guns and prisoners, we may need to abandon the carriages and wagons of food. We can’t risk them retaking this treasure. Ames and I will bury it off the road in the woods. I want you to come back with him and some others later to find it and get it to General Lee. Go now and choose a horse because this wagon must stay.”
“Yes, sir. My horse, Blackie, is tied behind the wagon.”
“And a fine-looking animal he is.” Mosby turned to the driver. “Pull this wagon off the road, take this cart horse ahead with the others to trade in for one that’s saddled, because we’re leaving the wagon here.”
The driver jerked back the reins, rolled the vehicle to a stop, jumped down and saluted his commander. “Yes, sir.”
Astride Blackie, Birdsong had watched Mosby and Ames enter the woods along the side of the road, Mosby brandishing a shovel and Ames lugging the bulging canvas bags. Birdsong searched vainly in the dark for some landmark by which to remember this place so they’d be sure to find it later—any distinguishing feature along the road. And then he spotted one. Not twenty feet from the road was a huge tree hit by lightning, its split trunk and broken limbs tipped at odd angles that formed a crude “w.” Memorizing this, he hurried to mount his horse.
Five weeks later in early April, Mosby called for Whitehall, Elwood, Birdsong and four other raiders.
“Men, it’s time to move the two bags of Stoughton’s treasure. ‘Big Yank’ and I buried it in a shallow pit between two pine trees on our way from Fairfax Courthouse to Culpeper. I notched X’s in those trees with my knife and then shoved the blade to the hilt in the dirt over the bags. General Lee’s battle location changes daily, and battlefields are no place for these valuables, but there’s a safe house near Great Falls, which Lee knows well. They’ll hide the heirlooms until he can return them to their rightful owners. You men get those bags to that safe house.” He gave specific directions to their destination.
Honored at this important assignment, these soldiers saluted the man who’d earned their loyalty with his charismatic leadership, never mind the camaraderie borne of their daring teamwork.
That night as the seven rode toward the treasure, Lt. Elwood drew his horse alongside Birdsong’s. “You the one the men call ‘Poet’?” he asked conversationally.
“Some call me that.”
“Can you sample me why they do?”
Birdsong considered his reply. Shy about this side of his nature, he wrote poems privately, not liking to speak of them. Yet with little choice but to answer an officer, at last he spoke,
“Nobody closer than the father and son,
till the war began and the closeness was done.
The father loved home and chose the Gray,
but the son chose Blue to stop slave-eray.
Then raged a battle on a wooded hill,
a beautiful spot never meant for a kill
Where two soldiers met with pistols drawn,
not knowing who they’d come upon.
As shots rang out and both men fell,
their eyes locked hard in silent hell,
The father saw he’d shot his son
and the boy, his dad. The deed was done.
I love you, Son, and I say farewell.”
“I love you, Dad,” and there he fell.
Their blood drained out to stain the ground
and mix together where they were found.
The mother went not to the railroad track,
no train would bring their bodies back.
Her tears joined those of women past,
with loved ones dead from war’s cruel cast.
Where dying for the winners is an awful cost,
but dying for the losers is a total loss.”
Elwood felt a sudden catch in his throat, for he and his own father supported opposite causes in this anguished, wasteful War Between the States. He hid this emotion with a cough. “The…the men call you Poet for good reason. Ever tried putting those words in a tune? You’d have you a strong song.”
“No, sir, but I thank you for the mentioning.”
Then another sound reached Elwood’s ears. He cocked his head. “You hear that?”
Birdsong looked and listened in the dark. “Horses. Galloping hard. Maybe ten of ‘em?”
As ranking officer, Elwood took charge, “Ride out two each in different directions.” He pointed. “You north, you east, you and me south. Birdsong, you ride west alone since there’s seven of us. They can’t catch us all. Whoever breaks free, find the treasure and get it to the safe house.”
They spurred their horses and peeled away at a gallop, but the Union troops also split directions, following tight on the heels of each pair. In the darkness, only Birdsong eluded his pursuers by hunkering down in a chance clump of thicketed evergreens dense enough to hide him and his horse.
Half an hour later, from the east he watched Union troops leading two raiders back, on their horses, hands tied behind them. Later, from the south, he saw Elwood riding with tied hands, the second raider’s body thrown face down across his horse. And from the north came Whitehall and a second Raider, both captives.
Birdsong felt a stab of fear. Only he could complete the task.
Now his memory had brought him full circle, to why he sat in his makeshift bivouac behind shielding evergreens, staring at the twinkling stars above him and shivering in the cold.
Gradually, his anxiety about the difficult task that lay ahead for him changed to resolve.
* * * * *
Birdsong slept as best he could in the thicket of firs during the day, but when darkness fell, he mounted his horse. Should he return
to Mosby to report what happened? Should he get more men to share this job or should he recover the treasure himself and attempt taking it to the safe house?
He had food and a canteen for himself and some oats for his horse, but he needed to find a stream and a grassy spot for the animal to graze. Staying alert for these necessities—while riding undetected and ready to blend invisibly into roadside cover at any sign of human presence—made the nighttime journey exceedingly tense. He did not make good time.
This normal one-night trip at a gallop would take him several nights, but not at his current pace and then, only if he could water Blackie. In the original plan, the seven men would divide the treasure’s weight seven ways. Could he carry the two heavy, bulky bags alone through potentially hostile Union territory? Battle lines changed daily, dictating which side controlled an area at any given time.
If he took two nights to cover the distance to the treasure, how many would it take to Great Falls? He might need to walk his horse with the extra weight aboard. Three? Four? More? Assuming he even found the treasure’s burying place, could he transport it that distance traveling at night without allowing it to fall into hated Union hands?
At the edge of a farmer’s field, he found a rusty trough with enough rainwater to temporarily slake Blackie’s thirst and his own. Much later, he came upon a creek, where he watered his horse properly and filled his canteen. By dawn’s light, he thought the terrain looked familiar and calculated his bearings. He might find the treasure tonight.
Once again, he slept by day and rose at dark. He began looking for the landmark split tree, grateful for a clear night and light from the moon. At about 3:00am, he thought he saw it, dismounted and walked into the woods to confirm. A lightning- struck tree, all right, but split differently than the “w” etched in his mind. Guessing the place he sought near at hand because both trees were probably struck during the same storm, he brushed Blackie’s flank with his boot heel and peered into the woods as his well-trained horse moved forward.