by Gordon Ryan
Jack shucked his pack and stretched his back muscles.
Both men stood for a few moments, enjoying the vista provided by the lake, framed against the coastal range mountains. After setting up a lean-to shelter and clearing a place for the fire, Dan assembled his fly rod and took a small packet of flies from the backpack.
“Second fish cooks, Jack.”
Jack stood stone-faced. “Hope you cook better than last time, young Rawlings. I’m looking forward to a couple days of servitude from the next generation.”
“Better plan on serving your grandson—then you won’t be disappointed,” Dan challenged. “After all, you taught me everything you know.”
“No, son,” Jack replied, slowly dragging out his words as he tied a homemade “Jack Special” fly onto his leader. “I taught you all you know.” He grinned.
Later, Jack lay back and watched the stars begin to appear while Dan finished frying the trout and potatoes.
“Grub’s on,” Dan finally called.
Jack rattled his mess kit and stepped over to the campfire, waiting while Dan flipped a slightly blackened, filleted trout one more time in his frying pan.
“Years ago, I discovered how much better Rainbow trout can taste when prepared and served by someone else. Catching ’em is my contribution.”
“Better shake a leg, Jack. This one’s in danger of burning up if you give me any more lip.”
After full dark, utensils cleaned, and a peaceful quiet settled in around the lake, Jack sat watching as Dan lit the Coleman lantern then arranged the sleeping bags.
“How long have I been bringing you here, Dan?” Jack asked as the younger man moved about with evening chores before settling down.
“Over twenty years, I suppose. I think I was five or six the first time.”
“And before that—before you were born, in fact,” Jack said, reminiscing. “I took your sister fishing in the back streams of Alaska during my years up there. Brave lass she was, too. Kodiak bear upstream as we waded in the water, salmon swirling around our hip-waders lookin’ for a place to spawn. You should’ve seen that slip of a girl—couldn’t have been more than twelve—in her hip-waders. Looked like chest waders, all folded down to her size. Seems like only yesterday.” The older man reached with a stick to stir the fire, then said, “It’s been a good life. No complaints to speak of, except losing your grandmother too soon.”
Dan continued straightening up the campsite, thinking about his grandmother’s death and the struggle Jack had gone through to adjust to life without her. Dan had always been close to his grandfather, but when Susan died, it was as though they added another dimension to their relationship.
Dan put away the last scrap of food, out of smell and sight of any nocturnal animals, then pulled a sweater over his head and came to sit on a log near the fire. They sat for a time, enjoying the warmth and colors of the blaze.
“Jack, you told me some time back you were opposed to the secession, but what do you think is going to happen? What should I expect?”
The old man sat quietly for a few moments, drinking his coffee.
“That what you brought me up here for, son?”
“No. I just wanted to cook your meals, blow up your air mattress, and see to your every comfort,” Dan kidded. “Seriously, Granddad, when I was drilling with my guard unit a few weeks back, some of us were discussing the next election. One of the other officers—a ‘brigade boy,’ as you call ’em—challenged me that one day I might be called upon to decide if I was going to be an American or a Californian. If the previous election results are any indicator, it looks as though we might have to make that choice.”
“You think it could come to that?”
“Can’t tell yet, Granddad. But a lot of folks are pressing the issue. And some powerful organizations—financial and political—are behind the push.”
“And you?” Jack asked.
“You know how I feel about this valley, Jack. And I know what you told me after the primaries—about being an American.”
Jack nodded. “I guess you think you’ve heard all the family stories, don’t you?”
“Yep,” Dan said, looking at his grandfather through the flickering sparks rising up from the campfire into the darkness.
“The twins, Howard and Frank—I told you about them?”
“You’ve told me many stories about how Howard settled Rumsey Valley, but not much about his brother.”
“Well, maybe there’s something to be learned from what happened to them.” Jack reached for the coffeepot and refilled his tin cup before going on.
“In 1828, my great-great grandfather, Tomas Rumsey, was still living in Connecticut, where his family had been for nearly two centuries. He had a scrap with his father about marrying the Hawkins girl, so he took his new bride and moved down to South Carolina, where he eventually bought a small parcel of land and took up tobacco farming.
“In 1830 they had a baby girl, and then in ’33, they had the twins, Howard and Frank. When the boys were nineteen, they both got an appointment to West Point and graduated together in 1856. By 1860, they were both captains, with Howard stationed in Washington and Frank down in Tennessee. Well, you know what happened in ’61. The boys met at the homestead in Carolina to decide their futures. Their dad, Tomas, was in poor health by then, and they came home only in time to bury him. Immediately after the funeral, the two brothers argued bitterly. South Carolina troops had fired on Fort Sumter, and Carolina had pulled out of the Union. Frank ended up resigning his Army commission and taking a confederate commission with a South Carolina regiment.
“Howard stayed with the Union, went back to Washington, and was later assigned to Meade’s staff. General Meade assumed command of the army of the Potomac in ’63, two days before Gettysburg, and Howard went with him. He was in the bulwarks on Cemetery Ridge when Pickett’s boys, including a South Carolina regiment, came so gallantly across that field. It wasn’t Frank’s outfit, but Howard had no way of knowing if his brother was there or not. After it was all over, Howard wrote a poem about it. In it, he said the Southern troops were the bravest men he’d ever seen.”
Dan sat quietly, enthralled by this new story, potentially a significant addition to his novel. “Jack, I really thought I’d heard them all over the years. Why haven’t you ever told me about this?”
“Kind of a family secret, I guess. Usually the story just jumps forward to Howard Rumsey’s trek west. He was a colonel by the end of the war. The brothers got together once again for a brief time at the Carolina homestead after the rebels surrendered. Their mother had died during the war, and their older sister had married. Howard got home first, and when Frank came back from two years in a Yankee prison camp, he was minus one arm—lost at Chickamauga. As the family version of the story goes, they didn’t argue, but Howard agreed to leave the farm to Frank and left to come West. They never saw each other again.”
“But that’s not the whole story, is it, Jack?” Dan asked.
“Nope,” the old man replied, pausing to drink his coffee.
Dan sat quietly, smiling inwardly at Jack’s habit of dragging out things other people wanted to know. After several long moments, Jack smiled in return, and Dan knew his grandfather was wise to him.
“So, anyway, I found out some years back—from a distant cousin on Frank’s side of the family—that this family reunion in South Carolina wasn’t entirely peaceful. It makes sense that after the war there were hard feelings against the local boys who’d served with the Yankees. With the twins’ parents gone and their sister married off to some farmer from fifty miles away, it was just the boys on the farm. That lasted about three weeks. Then Frank told Howard he wasn’t welcome anymore and to get out.”
“Weren’t they both owners—the father’s will or something?”
“Don’t know. But Frank laid it out for his brother—‘don’t want you here.’”
“What convinced him to leave?”
Jack stood and stretched his
back, turning to look out over the lake and the sliver of moonlight reflecting off the water. Finally he turned back toward Dan.
“The hangings.”
“Hangings?” Dan got up from his log and came to stand alongside his grandfather. “Who was hanged?”
“Maybe a half-dozen returned Yankees from that part of South Carolina. It seems the local boys didn’t take kindly to them deserting their state during the war, and although the sheet-head boys were just starting up, the night riders went after who they called ‘the traitors’ before they did the freed slaves.”
“And so Frank warned Howard to leave before he—”
“That’s the way it was told to me. It sounds right, although Howard never told my granddaddy anything about it. Leastwise, nothing I ever heard about.”
Dan considered this new information, new thoughts about his family running through his head. “So, you’re telling me that if this California secession issue comes to a head—considering what just happened to McFarland—we’ll probably see more of the same.”
“Men do strange things when they get an idea stuck in their craw and think they’re heaven’s choice for being right. Those choices aren’t easy, and ‘family blood’ doesn’t always count.” Jack turned to look at Dan. “You decided where you’re going to stand, if it comes to it?”
“You know my commission as a captain in the guard makes me a federal officer.”
Jack nodded slowly. “That’s the shame of it, isn’t it? So were the twins.”
“And Kenny Bailey was in the brigade, before he was killed,” Dan added, surprised that his thoughts had turned to his brother-in-law.
“Never did like that kid,” Jack said, “but it’s a shame he had to die that way. I told you, son—don’t underestimate these brigade boys. They’ve gotten a smell of their personal brand of freedom now, and they aren’t gonna turn loose easily.”
Dan was quiet for a few moments, staring into the fire. “People always seem to think that the lessons of history aren’t relevant to our time. But time and again, we repeat the process, don’t we?”
“It’s human nature. Man has got to stretch his wings, and we foolishly think that the people back then just got it wrong and we can do it right. We never learn.” Jack yawned, picking up his sleeping bag and shaking it out. “Well, young’un, this mountaineer’s gonna get some shut-eye.”
Dan sat quietly for a long while after Jack had curled up in his sleeping bag. The younger man studied the dying fire, breathing in the fresh aroma of the forest and enjoying the setting and a sky brilliant with stars. He turned to look as Jack shifted in his bed and listened as his grandfather’s breathing became deeper and more rhythmic.
Considering that he might actually have to choose between his American citizenship and the affection he had for his California heritage—particularly the tie he felt to his forebears and Rumsey Valley—he experienced a sudden foreboding and was surprised that tears welled up in his eyes. It occurred to him that the twins likely struggled with similar emotions as they were forced to choose opposite sides in the great American conflict of their day.
He looked again at the still figure, wrapped up in his bedroll, and thought of the mentor his grandfather had been to him as he was growing into manhood. “I love this valley, Jack,” he murmured softly to the night sky, “and all you’ve made of it.”
For eighty years the old man had been plowing fields, planting trees, hauling irrigation pipe, knocking almonds, and hunting and fishing in these mountains. Jack’s father and mother, grandparents, and Colonel Howard Rumsey, his great-granddad Civil War veteran and original valley settler, were buried not ten miles from where Jack now slept. And Ellen, Jack’s beloved wife of sixty-two years. And soon, Dan knew, Jack would join them. But the voices weren’t lost. They have been genetically and emotionally embedded in me, Dan thought. And if humanly possible, they’ll remain safe in my care.
* * *
It seemed as if he had just laid his head on his makeshift pillow when a sound startled Dan awake. The light was barely sufficient to see, but the rustling in the bushes and the stomping on the ground grew louder, bringing Dan to full consciousness. He sat up in his sleeping bag and looked around just as three men in various components of military field uniform emerged from the forest and entered the clearing. Dan quickly rose, shedding his sleeping bag. He glanced quickly at Jack’s bag, but his grandfather was not there.
“Morning,” Dan said as he sat on a log, rapidly pulling on and lacing up his boots. “Early maneuvers?”
“Who are you?” one of the men asked. All three were young, and Dan didn’t recognize any of them.
“Dan Rawlings,” he replied.
“I said ‘who are you?’ not ‘what’s your name.’ And what’re you doing here?”
“Camping,” Dan said.
The man who had been asking the questions grinned at his companions and laughed. “Don’t know much, does he?” Then he turned back to face Dan. “We’re on military exercises up on this here mountain, so’s you better just pack your gear and get off our territory before you get hurt.”
“I see,” Dan said, stalling and wishing he’d carried a weapon with him. “Is this a restricted area?”
“It is now,” the kid said. “So git.”
To Dan’s left, Jack suddenly emerged from the tree line and then held his ground about ten yards from the group. The trio of younger men quickly looked back and forth from Dan to Jack.
A quick burst of profanity was followed by, “Who are you, old man?”
“Jack.”
“Oh, another talker, eh? Well, join your buddy here and get your camp gear off our mountain.”
“Think we’ll fish a few days first,” Jack replied. “I kinda like it here.”
The spokesman for the trio stepped forward and pointed at Jack. “If I was you, I’d pack my gear and get out of here, old man. There’s no place to hide,” he said, reaching to his web belt and drawing a large knife from its sheath, “and this here K-Bar’ll pick your bones clean. You got the picture, Gramps?”
“Oh, I got the picture, sonny,” Jack said, stepping toward the campsite and nodding, a friendly smile on his face.
Dan slowly moved toward his grandfather, trying to place himself between Jack and the trio of what he could now see were unarmed men. The only weapons visible were the knives they each carried on his belt. One wore a military-style, web belt pistol holster, absent a weapon.
Angered by Jack’s refusal to comply, the spokesman moved menacingly toward Jack. “We ain’t foolin’ with ya, you dumb old man. I’m telling ya to git out, unless you want an new opening in your throat,” he said, waving the blade back and forth.
“Sonny,” Jack said calmly, slowly reaching beneath his down-filled vest and producing a silver-colored Smith & Wesson .357 magnum, “this here toy pistol will put a hole in your chest big enough for my fist to enter, and then,” he paused, spitting on the ground, “it will come out your back from a hole bigger than your mouth. And that’s a big hole.”
The kid stood dead in his tracks, staring at the pistol and then looking up at the broad smile on Jack’s face. For several moments, there was silence as all five men gauged the situation.
“I’ve a mind to take that pistol and shove it down your throat, Grandpa,” the kid said, his bluster returning in front of his companions.
“Well, sonny,” Jack said, spitting once again, “give it a try. I’m eighty-two years old and quite ready to die. Now you look to me to be about twenty-two or so, even if you are acting fourteen—you ready to die, too?”
Suddenly a voice rang out. “Johnson! Put away that knife,” it bellowed through the trees.
Dan turned quickly to spot two men in military dress coming through the clearing toward the group.
Dan recognized one of them instantly as a lieutenant from his National Guard unit—the one who had informed Dan of the brigade’s exercise and who had extended an invitation to Dan to join the militia unit.
>
“Captain Rawlings, I apologize for these men and their actions. We’ve got a group of new recruits up here, and discipline,” he said, glancing angrily at the young kid who had threatened Jack and Dan, “is sorely lacking. I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you or your grandfather.”
“We’re fine, Lieutenant Hodgekiss. Thanks for your help,” Dan replied.
The lieutenant turned to Jack. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Rumsey,” he said. Hodgekiss looked toward his recruit and pointed his arm at Jack. “This man and his family settled this valley, you stupid boy. It’s people like him we’re bound to defend, not attack. When the time comes, he’ll be the staunchest Californian among us. Now get back to the HQ tent and put yourself on report for inappropriate behavior.”
“Yes, sir,” the younger man mumbled, and all three quickly vanished into the woods.
“Again, Captain Rawlings, Mr. Rumsey, my sincere apologies. You can see, sir, why the brigade could use a few more good officers like yourself to train these boys right. A good day to you both. I’ll place the lake off-limits for the weekend, and you should have no further trouble.”
When Hodgekiss and his companion were gone, Jack replaced the pistol in his belt beneath his vest.
“Jack, where the heck did you go? I thought they’d taken you while I was sleeping.”
“A man’s gotta answer the call of nature, son.” He smiled.
“With a .357 magnum?”
“Never can tell what varmints you might encounter up in these mountains.”
“True enough,” Dan said, shaking his head and laughing at his grandfather, his adrenaline beginning to subside. “Better stir the fire if we’re going to have any breakfast.”
“You do that. As for me, I hear another Rainbow calling my name.”
Chapter 15
Wells Fargo Bank, Natomas Branch
Sacramento, California
September, 2011
The Natomas Branch of the Wells Fargo Bank, located in the northwestern part of Sacramento, was more likely than most banks to be robbed. In addition to being close to the intersection of two major Interstate highways, it was situated on its own pad, in front of a busy strip mall. Nearby stood a large Safeway grocery store, a drop-in health clinic, and about a dozen smaller establishments. The parking lot was full, and the sidewalks were bustling with shoppers when two white vans slowly drove through the area.