by Suzi Weinert
Jennifer drew a deep breath, glanced toward Becca and snapped the book shut. “Nope, don’t see our snake in here,” she said, slipping the volume into her purse.
“I don’t even want to look at the pictures to find it,” Becca moaned.
“Well, you survived that adventure just fine, Becca.” Jennifer picked up her purse. “Look, I’ll dash to the grocery, get dinner and we’ll have a quiet meal here. See you in half an hour.”
To distract her daughter from the garage confrontation, she asked Becca as she left, “Would you mind setting the table while I’m gone? Maybe something festive?”
As she drove to Publix, Jennifer shuddered, realizing how close Becca had come to being attacked by the deadly snake.
Her cellphone rang. “Oh, Jen,” Mary Ann’s voice came through the speaker, “I just had to let you know my good news.”
“Hi, neighbor. What’s happening?”
Mary Ann squealed. “Charlie asked me to marry him and I said ‘yes.’” She squealed again. “It’s so exciting and wonderful and improbable. I just had to let you know.”
“I hear how happy you sound and I have to agree, this is amazing news. But are you…are you really sure? Not just swept off your feet by a schoolgirl crush? I mean, marriage is a huge step.”
“Oh, yes. It’s the real thing, all right. Yet only a few months ago I’d never have dreamed it could or would happen to me. And there’s another side to it, Jen. Older women outnumber older men, and he’s a very eligible, attractive guy. If I don’t get him while I can, somebody else will snatch him.”
Uneasy at this sense of urgency, Jennifer hesitated. “Do you know much about him?”
“Well, I told you he’s from England so I haven’t met his friends or family. But he’s the one I’m marrying, not them.”
“Have you set a date?”
“Not yet, but I hope very soon. At my age, what’s the point in waiting around? Every moment of life is valuable now that we’re older and have less time left. I don’t want to miss a minute of sharing it with him.”
“Really good to hear you so happy, Mary Ann. Eager to meet him.”
“When do you return from Florida?”
“Not exactly sure. Probably two, maybe three weeks.”
“Is everything okay?”
Jennifer grimaced. She could take hours answering that question. Instead she said, “I’m bringing my mother back to McLean. She’ll rent the Donnegans’ house a few months until we find a senior residence she likes.”
“Sounds like a good plan. Let’s go out together as soon as you get back. I can’t believe you haven’t even met him.”
Jennifer turned into the grocery store’s parking lot. “It’s a date, then. Bye, Mary Ann.”
“Bye, Jen.”
Jennifer wondered why she didn’t share Mary Ann’s unbridled excitement. She certainly wanted her friend to find and enjoy happiness. Was it because she’d just learned her own mother endured some frightening scenes in her own life caused by a man she hardly knew?
CHAPTER 46
After finishing the dinner Jennifer brought home, Grammy sighed. “Are you two as tired as I am?”
Becca’s usual cheery face still looked somber. “I still don’t feel good after the snake. I’ll just crash here on the couch tonight to get my groove back.” Seeing concern on her mother’s face, she added defensively. “I’m not a freak, you know. Lots of people have Ophidiophobia. Fear of snakes. We studied phobias in psychology at college. If you have one, for you it’s real.”
Grammy patted her shoulder. “And a reasonable fear it is, especially after your childhood experience. Most of us don’t know bad snakes from good ones, so avoiding them all’s a safe solution.”
Jennifer changed the subject. “I’m exhausted, too. Let’s turn in early.” Like Becca, she wanted to push aside the day’s urgencies and shelter her mind.
“Night, Becca.” They said, going upstairs.
Jennifer climbed into bed, turned out the light, lay in the dark and thought about her father. In her early life and teens when she lived at home, he played an important daily role in her life. But once she left for Virginia Tech and after graduation, launched a life on her own, he and her mother faded to fringe players—people she loved but understood from a child’s view rather than as adult friends. A parent’s job is arming his child with the tools to live a life independent from them. Wasn’t that exactly what she and Jason tried to do with their brood? Wasn’t it natural, then, that finding her own parents less primary in her life only meant her folks had done their job correctly?
Still, she wondered about the artifacts her dad had saved in the quilted box. What made them important enough to him to keep and store in the safe? How had each item drawn him strongly enough to salt it away, yet tell no one?
Reaching for another Mosby book by her bed, she held it, feeling closer to her father than she had in years. This Civil War mystique seduced so many. But what had pulled him into its vortex? Too late to ask him now.
She noticed the dragon watching her. “I’ll bet you know the answers,” she told him as she turned off the light and snuggled beneath the covers. Closing her eyes in the dark, she gradually let go of all worldly connections. Her weary body finally surrendered to sleep, but her mind drifted into another vivid scene…
The two notched pine trees. The landmarks fit Mosby’s description. But before unearthing the treasure, Corporal Birdsong wanted assurance he couldn’t be seen from the road in daytime. Satisfied, he dug out the two bags and experimented with different ways of roping them onto his horse.
Bulky and heavy, they’d made awkward cargo. Removing the bags from his saddle, he mounded dried leaves over them and set out into the woods to find a glen with grass and a creek for Blackie. His journey’s success depended upon his mount’s survival.
Despite excitement at completing the first important step in his assignment, he slept as best he could during the day and traveled north two more nights with his burden. But as he reached Old Dominion Road, two Union soldiers came unexpectedly around a bend in the road from the opposite direction, one on a limping mount. Despite the dark night, he hadn’t had time to take cover.
His raincoat covered his uniform and the tops of the bags. Who did they think he was? What did they want from him? They hailed him as their horses met on the road. “I’m Lt. Wilson. My sergeant’s horse pulled up lame and I need yours.” He eyed Blackie, appraising the large, superior animal. The soldiers pulled out their pistols, aiming at Birdsong. “Dismount,” the lieutenant ordered.
Birdsong couldn’t allow this, but with a gun muzzle already pointed at him he couldn’t shoot his way out. Then two things happened instantaneously. Birdsong threw his canteen into the air, both Union soldiers reflexively shot at it while Birdsong dug his spurs into Blackie’s flanks. The animal careened away at a gallop, taking the soldiers by such surprise they needed a few moments to process what had happened and begin chase. Needing this head start, Birdsong headed Blackie toward the nearest woods, aware the lieutenant would follow. Because his large horse had longer strides than the lieutenant’s, Blackie outran him at the start, but Birdsong knew his cargo’s weight would quickly diminish that lead. Thus, he hadn’t the speed or mobility to escape on horseback.
Using guerilla tactics, Birdsong dodged and feinted after plunging into the woods. Riding headlong in a forest at night risked trauma from low hanging branches and impediments in the path, but he crouched low in the saddle, head down, trusting Blackie to find a way through the trees, up hills and across streams. He felt himself tiring and knew Blackie’s stamina ebbed from racing full-tilt with a heavy load.
In the darkness, he pulled one last trick. He reined in so sharply, Blackie rose on his hind legs. In one swift motion, Birdsong pulled the slipknot releasing both bags, slid from his horse and whacked his mount on the rump.
“Go, Blackie.” Hearing the command and relieved of the weight, the energized animal sped away with new zeal,
the lieutenant racing after in close pursuit.
When the galloping hoofbeats distanced into silence, normal night sounds returned to the place where Birdsong fell. His heart pounded with exertion, fear of capture and frustration at his unfulfilled task. He fumbled in complete darkness to find and gather the bags then cover them with leaves. He sat beside them.
Lost, with no food or water and without his beloved horse—so critical to this mission’s success—he lay miserably on the cold ground, fighting physical and mental exhaustion. He covered himself with leaves, hoping for some warmth in the frosty spring night. Despite his desire to remain alert, he drifted into heavy sleep.
He awoke suddenly in pre-dawn’s pale light. Had he dozed despite his resolve to stay awake? Not moving, he listened intently, sifting natural woodland sounds from those of humans or their pursuit. He stared up through tree branches at the wonder of the wakening dawn above him as pastel colors painted the clouds with shades of pink across the sky’s blue backdrop. His poet’s soul struggled with the jarring coexistence of nature’s magnificent wonders vis-a-vis the stupefying horror of war.
Listening intently, he heard no sound suggesting danger. He stretched and peered around. As the morning light increased, he saw for the first time where he’d landed—near the stone foundation wall of an unfinished building.
No sign of Blackie. This created a major problem—not only had he lost his transportation but also his rifle and the saddlebag with his remaining food. His pistols remained holstered to his body, but their short range didn’t match a rifle’s reach, needed to bring down game if he were to survive in the woods.
He whistled once, not risking a second attempt in case enemy ears caught the sound. If Blackie were within earshot, he’d come. If heard by an enemy soldier, one whistle might invite misinterpretation, but two whistles left no doubt. So he fell silent, surveying his immediate surroundings.
He saw a workbench, presumably where this house builder organized his plans and materials for construction. But no tools. In these uncertain times, hammers and nails became scarce, like every other commodity. What careful workmen would leave behind anything worth stealing? Quietly, he moved away from the foundation walls.
Beside the ashes of an old fire, a pale, limp rag drooped from a six-foot-tall pole firmly stuck in the ground and, beneath it, stood a bucket and two empty wooden vegetable crates. He examined the bucket. Reasonably clean, it would hold water if he found a stream. He studied the pole’s cloth—plain weathered cotton. Was this a surrender scene? Had Union troops come upon this workman and captured him, his food and supplies? Did that explain the absence of tools?
Birdsong didn’t know which army dominated this area at the moment. The Union soldier chasing him last night forced him into enough evasive maneuvers to disorient him. The sun’s direction would offer clues later this morning, and he’d scout the area on foot for more, avoiding enemies while cautiously seeking friends. He’d return quickest to the Confederate cause by eluding capture. Lucky prisoners of war might be exchanged, but the unlucky were hanged or sent to a formidable Union prison.
Not only his own fate but that of his cargo depended upon correct decisions now.
He needed to eat to survive and fight, never mind find another horse to complete his mission. Only then could he get Mosby’s treasure bags to their destination. Yet even that seemed problematic, since Union soldiers roaming everywhere had turned even harsher toward Virginians. He recognized the serious risk attempting to ride through more populated areas and towns with the conspicuous bags only partially hidden by his rain poncho. He decided to hide the treasure and go himself to the safe house to get help for this last phase.
Confirming where he’d stashed the bags last night, he wouldn’t move them until he devised a better hiding place. He picked up the wooden crates and walked around the foundation, destined to become a cellar for the house built above it. The builder had already tamped dirt tight against the rectangle on three and a half sides. If Birdsong hid the bags against the outer foundation’s stones and covered them, he’d complete the foundation’s earthen support. With that phase of building completed, no one would undo finished work, thus leaving the treasure safe until he and other trusted Rebs rescued it.
He pulled the cloth from the pole, tore off a fourth of it and spread the piece open on the worktable before stuffing the remaining cloth inside his coat. Removing a rectangular pencil stub from his pocket, he whittled at the point with his knife before scratching an experimental mark on a corner of the cloth.
He could make this work.
Unlike many Confederate soldiers, Birdsong read and wrote well. His mother, a teacher, had educated her children at home since they lived too far from a school.
He licked the end of the pencil and wrote, “These items were looted from Virginia families by Union Gen. Stoughton, but recaptured at Fairfax Courthouse on March 9, l863. Capt. J. S. Mosby orders you to deliver them to Gen. Robert E. Lee for return to their rightful owners.”
He re-read what he’d written, folded the cloth and placed it inside one of the bags holding the golden goblets, silver trays, precious jewelry and other valuables. He put Mosby’s knife, initialed JSM, on top of the second bag. Then he maneuvered a bag inside each wooden crate and pushed them flush against the earth-free base outside the uncovered foundation wall.
Scouting the area for a stick to gouge enough surrounding dirt into clods to pack over the treasure, he came upon a weathered man-made pole poking from the ground behind a bush. Wiggling it away from the soil and roots surrounding it took considerable effort but worth it when he discovered a long-buried shovel with rusted blade still attached. He dug it into the earth, grunting satisfaction that it remained a serviceable tool.
Convinced fate smiled on his plan, he shoveled dirt over the bags until the soil reached the top of the foundation, at equal height with the rest of the earth packed against its other sides. He tamped down this new earth, compacting it to prevent erosion and to match the other foundation walls. He stood back, pleased at the uniform look of this construction.
Now he needed landmarks to find the cache again himself or direct others to do so. Grabbing the bucket, he strolled off to find water, clues to his whereabouts and landmarks for a map.
As he strolled, he noticed the wooded area with the house foundation opened quickly into farm fields. He knew farms in this area numbered hundreds, even thousands of acres. Very soon, he found a stream, cupped his hands and drank greedily. Feeling new energy, he hid the empty bucket behind a bush to explore the creek a mile in both directions, discovering a stone wall paralleling a road. He walked along the road, ready to dart into the growth on either side if he encountered anyone. At last, he returned to the house foundation by a different route and then retraced his path to the nearby stream. He knelt, absorbed in filling the bucket, when the sudden sound of rustling leaves and snapping twigs electrified him into action. He drew his pistol, assumed a defensive crouch from which he could shoot in any direction, and spun toward the sound, aiming as he did.
CHAPTER 47
Jennifer’s eyes snapped open the following morning. She sat up, instantly awake and wary. Her dream vision’s elasticity enabled her to watch what happened to another person while simultaneously feeling as if she also lived inside that person. Incongruous, yet so real was this fantasy that she shared the danger he felt.
Moreover, these visions weren’t exactly dreams, which often came in disjointed snatches. No, this felt more like a movie playing across the screen of her mind. She knew she had an active imagination, but she’d never had this experience before. Or was it more than imagination?
It took a minute to reorient herself. These vivid, imaginary sequences might seem real, but the movers arriving this morning were real.
Her clock read 7:30. She dressed quickly and hurried downstairs to start breakfast. Today began her second week in Naples.
Grammy and Becca drifted downstairs soon after, and by the time they
finished eating, they heard the distinctive whine of a large truck motor in front of the house. The doorbell announced the crew chief and his men.
After introductions, Jennifer walked the crew through the house, explaining the desire to load through only one door. “We’ve had an invasion threat and ask that you and your men let no strangers inside without consulting us. None.”
The crew chief’s expression showed he thought he’d already heard everything except this. He shrugged. “Okay, ma’am, we got it. We’ll start packing now and load later. We should have your household on the way to your new house by evening. We’ll start upstairs and stack the packed boxes and wardrobes here in the living room. Then we’ll load them all at once.”
Grammy finished her coffee. “Becca, dear, would you please move the car? The van’s in front of the house, so maybe park it down the street a bit… out of the way?”
Noticing Becca looked hesitant at risking another garage snake experience, Grammy added, “Maybe you could pick up some chocolate donuts for us and for the movers. Your Mom forgot them last night when she went to the grocery.”
Becca brightened. “Glad to, Gram. And this way they’ll be fresh.” She smacked her lips in anticipation and grabbed a broom.
“Why are you taking that with you to the garage?”
Becca gave a mirthless laugh. “In case of any surprises.”
Grammy chuckled. “Fine, dear. But don’t linger too long. We need to reach the beauty shop by ten this morning.”
The packers knew their jobs. At 9:30, Jennifer mobilized Grammy for their appointment. Becca returned with the car, a chocolate crumb on her chin. She smiled sheepishly when Jennifer pointed it out.