I got Gina seated in the hotel dining room and walked over to pipe Rork’s Bar. There were a few customers, but no sign of Man Mountain and his busted pool stick.
I joined Gina at the table and let my curiosity get the best of me, “Doris Brayboy has been a lot of help. She loaned her car for us to drive to Lumberton tomorrow. It’s parked right out back. You two didn’t seem to hit it off.”
Gina’s mouth snapped to a tight, straight line, “She’s overbearing, but tricky about it. I knew her the moment I met her.”
“How can you know someone you’ve never laid eyes on before?”
“I just do, that’s all. I didn’t want her coming on to my… my boss.”
“That’s something you don’t have to worry about.”
“Oh, yeah? Why not?”
“She and I have too much in common to be compatible.”
“You shu-wa do. You got me standing between you.”
I needed a change of subject bad, “You wouldn’t believe the old fella I met today. I got the wire on life in Robeson County. He spoke a language from the Old South, but he used words that weren’t even English.” I thought about what I’d said, “Well if they were English words, they were so old, nobody else uses them anymore.”
“That sounds like you.”
“Seriously, I grew up with the darkies talkin something like that, but I needed a translator today. The old man was more intelligent than most, but how could he ever communicate that to anyone who didn’t speak his dialect?”
There, I’d managed to corral into words the sense of gloom I’d had festering in the back of my mind all afternoon, ‘How in the world could anyone, or any people do anything if they couldn’t make themselves understood’? The question made the edges of my brain curl up. I lit a Lucky, flagged the waiter and ordered a double Jack and a Gin Fizz for the lady.
Gina had the prime rib and I ordered the house special, black water catfish with real collard greens, or lawn trimmings as Gina observed.
I tried to get her to try a bite of catfish, but, uh-uh. “I didn’t want to be too nosy with Carson Revels, but he seems to be the local keeper of the Lumbee story.”
“What does that mean”, she asked honestly?
“I don’t really know. Prob’ly more than I’ll ever know. He’s a special person in these here parts.”
“These here parts? Did you ride in on Wagon Train?”
She was feeling frisky. I told her where Revels lived and how he had shot down the ‘Spear of the Crucifixion’ theory by pointing one finger and quoting from John The Baptist. That made her laugh.
“The news is gonna be a liver shot to Sal. He bet his Rosary and Scapular on the relic being authentic.”
“Woody, I got the impression part of that story came from Grandma Collins’ imagination.”
“You’re right. No wonder I keep you around. You’re absolutely right; we’re still doing it.”
“Doing what?”
“We’re still adding layers to the myth to suit our own purposes, before forgetting we did. Stories will die a natural death unless they’re pumped up. Like the folks of Robeson County have been doing for the last fifty-four years, and much longer, I reckon.”
She stared at me with shaded eyes and nodded slowly.
“Gina, nothing indicates that your great grandfather showed up here in 1899 with a trunkful of gold bullion. Everything does show that he was a kind and generous man, maybe even wealthy compared to his neighbors, but not rich, rich. Given his importance in the community, I just don’t know how something like that could be kept a secret. Frankly, from what I’ve learned, I don’t know how he would have avoided having it taken from him in those days. But, he might have squirreled it away cause we’re on the trail of something. Take the ‘Holy Lance’ out of the mix and everything’s falling into place.”
“That’s confusing, Woody.”
“That’s keeping an open mind, sweetie.”
We ate quietly for a while, and then I told her there had been no Indian killed in Lumberton in 1907, by hanging or otherwise. What there had been were rumors and secrets started and kept by folks on both sides of the swamp for self-serving reasons or just plain old distrust.
“Your own great grandpa saved the life of a Lumbee boy in 1907. The kid had been beaten to a pulp and put through a mock lynching, all for having the nerve to fall in love with a white girl. Dr. DeCamp stuck money in his pocket and put him on a northbound train to where there were others from his tribe. Fifty-four years later, there’s indication that the girl he had fallen for was, as they say, ‘passing’ for a white girl. It’s not real clear if she even knew it.”
Gina’s eyes started to glaze as she nodded between bites of prime rib.
I heard my own mama’s voice in my head, ‘The truth, like medicine, is best delivered in small doses’. “So, sweetie, did you do any good searching the newspaper archives?”
“I found absolutely nothing in Miss Brayboy’s Robesonian,” she spit the words out. “But, remember that 1898 New York Times article Grandma has about her father getting wounded in Cuba and being transported back to a Naval Hospital in Tampa?” She was re-energized.
Now, I was nodding, “Sure, she showed us the morning after the burglary.”
“Yes. Well, I had an idea. Since there was nothing of value in the Swamp Tribune, I set to work to find that article from the Times.”
“Any luck?”
“More than luck, Woody. I think. I did find that article, but I found another Times article from a couple of weeks later, July 24th, 1898. A hurricane off the coast of Florida grounded my great grandfather’s ship. They saved almost everybody. But they didn’t know about recovering the cargo because the ship was full of water and slowly sliding into the ocean - or something like that. I’ve got a copy up in my room to show you.”
She must have seen the expression on my face as I tried to paint a mental picture of the ocean devouring a grounded, crippled ship, “Woody, stop looking like that. I’m telling you what I read. The cargo included,” and she looked around the room before whispering, “two thousand pounds of gold bullion taken from the Spanish…” When she paused, her eyes were cornflower blue saucers. What a gal!
“You’re shittin me. Sorry, sugar, I mean that’s unbelievable.”
“I know, I know. Just last week, either you or Sal was saying,” here she tried to make her voice bass, “Where in the hell would a guy get a million dollars worth of gold?”.
We sat there staring at each other, shaking our heads. I did a little mental math and spoke, “At the current price of gold, that much would be worth about one and one eighth million.”
“You’re shittin me,” said the young lady with the big blues eyes. That made us both laugh.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this on the phone this afternoon?”
“Oh, you sounded dead tired. I figured a nap was what you needed.”
“Hon, what say we skip dessert? I’d like to go read that article.”
Back at Gina’s room, she pointed to the dresser; and there it was.
***
New York Times. July 24, 1898.
Dr. Wesley Alford DeCamp, sometime assistant surgeon at Lebanon Hospital, New York City, rescued from foundering ship off coast of Florida. The USS Roumanian, a transport ship, reportedly ran aground, breeched and is slipping ever deeper into the waters off Ten Thousand Island on the west coast of Florida. She set sail from Guantanamo Bay Cuba on 20 July and lay over at the U.S. Naval Station, Key West, Florida for 36 hours owing to threat of a hurricane. She got underway for her destination, Tampa, Florida, on a clear morning, but by evening she was grounded by gale force winds and high seas. The crewmembers and all but one of the thirty-two wounded servicemen she carried were rescued. Experts say retrieval of cargo, including a reported 2000 pounds of seized Spanish gold bullion, is uncertain. “There’s little chance of safe recovery until the hull comes to rest. Unfortunately, she may well be too deep at that point”, stated Lt. Ralph Jeffries
by telephone from the Key West Naval Station.
***
‘You gotta be shittin me.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
(Thursday, June 22, 1961. Pembroke, North Carolina.)
The next morning, we hit the dining room before eight. Gina was eating half a grapefruit. She watched me slather butter on my grits then pour my grits on top of my three fried eggs and bacon. I poured gravy on my biscuit and Karo syrup on the stack of wheats and dug in.
“You won’t need a side order of heart attack, Woody. It’s built right in.”
“This is the first time we’ve had breakfast together,” and I winked. She blushed and called the waiter over for more coffee even though her cup looked plenty full to me. After a good night’s sleep I was excited about what the day held in store.
We walked out on the back porch of the hotel and hit the wet blanket hanging in the air, but it was still cool enough to be comfortable. We started down the steps and I spotted it. I had parked the borrowed Chevy to the left of the only streetlight in the parking lot. The wooden handle of an icepick protruded from the left rear tire.
“Hon, why don’t you go on back in and have another cup a’ joe.”
“Why?”
I pointed to the car, “I gotta change a tire.”
She stared for a moment, and then I saw the light bulb go on. “What the heck is that?”
“Just some boys I was talking with in the bar yesterday. Always with the practical jokes.”
“No, you go ahead, Woody. I’ll help you.”
“Those tires have seen better days, anyway. I might just get a new set put on the car later. I don’t think fifty bucks is too much for all the help Miss Brayboy has been.”
Gina walked directly to the car and sat in the passenger seat until, sweating my ass off, I finally slid in behind the wheel.
I put the jack under the left quarter, loosened the lugs then lifted the tire off the ground. Pulling the icepick released hot air with a whistling sound. I got a chuckle thinking about the genius, Man Mountain, and his partner in crime. How long did they stand there wondering why the tire wouldn’t go flat after they stuck the pick in it?
Gina regained her enthusiasm as we left Pembroke and barreled down the long flat road to Lumberton. The asphalt stretched out straight ahead and disappeared on the horizon. Gina’s head was on a swivel, like a kid at Coney Island. The whopping expanses of green farm country even seemed alien to me, I’d been away from similar scenery along the Mississippi for so long. She flicked on the radio and turned the dial until she eased in on Johnny Cash singing about a ring of fire.
I stopped once in Lumberton to ask for directions. We soon found ourselves on Rennart Road, the location of the Oxendine Cemetery and adjacent school property, the old DeCamp homestead. Not wanting to drive back and forth all day, I wheeled in to a small unpainted clapboard filling station and pulled up in front.
A middle-aged man sat on a metal lawn chair in the shade. He sported a beak of a nose and was deeply tanned, maybe sunburned. He touched the side of his greasy brimless felt hat in a salute. He nodded constantly as I asked directions to the Oxendine Cemetery.
“It’s nary a good piece up yonder by Saddletree, pass dem woodses on da big road.” He had pointed with his left hand and held it in the air until I said thank you. Then he touched his cap again and smiled.
We continued north on Rennart Road. The dark, tangled woods soon turned to farmland off to the right side of the road, but the fields on the left were a mess. The neglected expanse of shoulder high vegetation stretched back to the distant black horizontal band of swamp forest. I was about to comment to Gina that we’d found the place.
“Look, Woody,” she scooted ahead on the seat to lean on the dash. “There’s the old building.”
Alone and sad in the overgrown field, the building stood up to its knees in brambles. The place was so covered in Kudzu vines, it was hard to tell it was brick from a distance. I could see its empty eye sockets on both floors where the windows had either been stolen or blown out in a hurricane.
Another quarter mile and I turned the Chevy left over the small bridge that crossed the flood abatement ditch. This one was made of rocks instead of concrete but a steel corrugated culvert still ran through it. The end of the culvert was beat to hell, now how did that happen? I drove slowly approaching the hulk and was glad to see that this corner of the property wasn’t quite so overgrown; at least there were fewer blackberry briars.
Gina remained perched on the forward edge of the seat, “My great grandfather’s house…”
“Well, his shop,” I offered. But she hadn’t been talking to me. She was off in a different world.
We stepped out into the patchy weeds and briars and looked up at the two-story brick shell. Gina had on a pair of white canvas shoes and I wished I’d worn boondockers. Over time, there had been some sort of traffic around the building. Either man or beast kept the growth down except for the vines shooting up and hugging the walls.
It was obvious what a lifetime of beatings the old place had taken from the weather. The building faced north, and most of the bricks on the front were melting around their edges. Red brick-dust-mud, dried and two inches deep, mixed with the weeds and reached out a good foot and a half from the structure.
I told Gina to wait a minute while I walked ten feet into the surrounding tangle to pipe the roof. Most of the old galvanized tin roof remained attached, but a lot of the rusty sheets were now rolled back and curled like potato chips. On the far end, a ‘Spitieri Spear’ still pointed its rusty finger at the sky; on the near end, nothing.
A front opening for double doors, or one very big one, held neither. A wooden eight by eight inch header sat across the top of its cavernous brick yawn. Gina held my hand as we stepped up the low concrete ramp and through the doorless entryway. So much dirt had accumulated on the concrete floor, weeds and stunted honeysuckle vines grew along the walls.
The place had been gutted. Six by six support posts stood at attention in memory of the missing second deck. Wooden stairs to nowhere sat partially dismantled at the side of the empty room. The inner walls were gone except for some broken plaster and lath still stuck behind the staircase. Pillars of sunlight drilled through the roof holes and connected with the cluttered concrete floor. The shafts of light sparkled and looked ghostly solid with swirling dust trapped in them. ‘It’s enough to make you jubous’, I thought.
Gina saw the charred evidence of several campfires and soggy articles of rotted clothing strewn about, “Woody, this place is plain snaky looking.”
I pulled her by the hand over to a clear spot on the concrete, “Wait here a minute. I’m gonna take a peek through that back door.” She pulled the corners of her mouth down and nodded. I smiled at that; sometimes I just couldn’t help it. That raised her eyebrows in a question, but I told her I’d be right back.
I picked my way across the littered floor to what I realized was an inner brick wall with its own gaping door opening. No way to tell whether a door had ever hung there. I patted the comforting butt of the .45 hanging under my arm and stepped through into a much smaller room, maybe one-fifth the size of the main shop. There were no windows, no openings at all to the outside. Light poured in the door I came through, but the corners would’ve been pitch black if the second floor had been in place.
Thinking I’d come back later with the flashlight I’d seen in the trunk of the Chevy, I turned to go tell Gina what I’d found. The floor squeaked. I dragged my toe through decades’ worth of dirt. Sumbitch, the floor to the little room wasn’t concrete; it was made of eight-inch wide lumber.
I returned to Gina. “Well, hon, it ain’t no prettier and just as empty back there. That might’ve been an add-on; it’s got a wood floor.” She crossed her arms defensively, and I said, “Seems like you liked this place better from a distance.”
“It’s a little creepy, Woody.”
“I know. Ain’t it great?” She was already headed for the d
aylight. I said, “Hey, let’s take a break and go on over and look at the cemetery. That’s where the map coordinates were sending us.”
Back in the Chevy, Gina leaned against the door, arms folded again, and stared at me with a blank expression.
“What’s the matter, honey bunch?”
“Woody, we’re going from this spook house to a graveyard and you ask what’s the matter?”
“C’mon now, you’re not gonna welch on our deal, are you?”
“What deal? Travel to a land with no oxygen, get bit by an alligator, then dig up a grave?”
“Where’d you see an alligator?”
“Woody, seriously. It’s been fun, but when you get to the graveyard, it’s the end.”
“So I’ve heard. We’ll find out soon.” A quarter mile up the big road, I turned left onto another rock mini-bridge.
“Oh, you know what I mean, unless you really do plan to dig up a grave!”
“That sounds like a lot of work.”
The manicured acreage, cradling every type of headstone and monument, ran off to a distant grove of old cedars. I turned right off the sandy entrance lane onto the mowed grass by a four-foot tall brick cube. A big brass plaque attached to the highway side.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
(Thursday, June 22, 1961. Saddletree, North Carolina.)
We stood in front of the cemetery sign as Gina read out loud, “Oxendine Cemetery. Oh that’s right, ‘Miss Aren’t I Great’ said my great great grandparents are buried here.” She made an exaggerated inhaling sound, “Holy smokes, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Depends…”
“What if my great grandfather didn’t bury his parents here? What if he buried gold instead? Then, where are his parents?”
The idea had occurred to me, briefly, “I doubt it. Funerals are too public, and do you know how much two thousand pounds of gold weighs?”
She almost started to mull it over then put both hands on her hips and squinched up her eyes, deciding I wasn’t worth bothering with.
She turned her attention back to the brass sign, “Look, Woody, a Bible quote, ‘And He will thoroughly purge his floor, and gather His wheat into the garner. Matthew 3:12’.” She pronounced the word, floor, as flo-wa.
The Case Of The Lumbee Millions (Woody Stone, Private Investigator, Series) Page 14