by Don P. Bick
and pounded on it until my hands were red and my palms were raw, but it would not break open. And it was late in the day so I finally had to give up and leave. Carefully I covered the door back up with soot, ashes and debris until I was satisfied that it looked completely undisturbed. As I left I swirled ashes around to hide my footsteps and all presence of me having been there as well. I didn’t worry too much about this, actually. In the time since the fire it was obvious many people had been in the ruins looking for whatever they could find. Who knows, maybe someone found something valuable! Other than the dime I never have found anything, until maybe now.
Before I left the property, I went down to the river and washed my shoes and pant legs as best I could of the black coating I had picked up from the ashes. I didn’t want to get into any more trouble than necessary at the state home for having extra dirty clothes. They would then feel obligated to ask questions I didn’t want to answer. The people working at the facility didn’t know I hitchhiked over here on occasion and spent the day at the old estate, and as far as I knew there were few there that even knew the place existed, let alone that I had inherited it.
It took a little while to catch a ride back from the country, but eventually I did. All the way I kept thinking about the tool shed out behind the three-story building that was used as a state home for children without parents. I assumed there would be something in there that would help me break the lock on the old metal door I had found.
It was summer so school was out for three months, but we all had chores to do around the home. The next morning I did mine as fast as I could and then hurried out to the tool shed, all the while thinking of getting back to the estate as soon as possible.
I took a round-about route to the small building. First, I walked a ways out into the woods and then worked my way back up through the thick strand of pines, until I was right behind the wooden structure. Then I ducked out of sight just below a small window. I have no doubt in my mind that if I asked to borrow some tools there would be an untold number of questions and finally denial. I didn’t want anyone to know what I was up to.
I slid the window up without any difficulty. That alone seemed like a miracle. I was expecting to have to expose myself and go around to the front to gain entrance. I doubt the door was ever locked. I squirmed through the opening and stood in the dim room waiting for my eyes to adjust.
There was a hammer hanging on the right wall and a chisel lying on the workbench. I also found a hacksaw hanging on the left side wall. I took these three tools and placed them into a tool bag I found on the floor near the bench, and tossed everything out the open window in the back of the shed. I hurriedly made my way back through the opening and closed the window. Then I rushed into the woods, crouching behind a tree after a few yards. I looked back to see if anyone had noticed me. I didn’t see anybody, the home and grounds were completely quiet. There wasn’t anyone outside. I ran through the trees to the road a short distance from the front of the home and stuck out my thumb. It wasn’t long before an old farmer in a beat-up pickup truck came along and gave me a ride. He was going within a quarter mile of the property and from there it would only take me a few minutes to get to the old estate on foot. I was feeling lucky!
Thirty minutes later I was standing at the burned out ruin of the old house looking down into the basement area. I was relieved that it remained undisturbed. I picked up the pipe I had used the day before and carefully climbed down the bank and into the remnants of the destroyed cellar.
It only took moments to uncover the door and expose the padlock. First, I used the hammer to beat on the lock, but to no avail. Although looking weak and rusted with age it firmly held. I had hoped to spare myself what I believed would be a long time sawing through the age old iron, but to my amazement the sawing went much quicker than I expected. After I had cut though about half of the diameter I took the hammer and chisel and hit it a couple of times. On the second strike the metal finally broke in two.
After removing the lock, I pulled up on the door and it wouldn’t budge. Perhaps the metal had changed shape due to the heat from the fire or maybe it was just rusted shut with age. Whatever the reason, I proceeded to pound on it with the hammer hoping to break it loose. The noise seemed to fill the air so loudly I became concerned that someone might hear and come see what was going on. One time I even climbed up the slope to have a look, but then realized I didn’t need to worry. The house had been built on a small rise and was quite a ways from the highway, which wasn’t traveled that much anyway. And there wasn’t another house in the surrounding area for some distance back in those days.
I went back to beating on the metal some more and soon felt a slight give in the door, so I hooked the claw of the hammer under the edge and began to pry. At first nothing happened, and then all of a sudden the door swung up. Along with it came the hammer which hit me right in the middle of the forehead. It hurt like awful for a few minutes and I was sure there would be a big knot protruding from the spot in short order, which I was right about. I remember being questioned about that black and blue lump when I got back to the home. I said I ran into a tree. But it didn’t take long for me to forget about the pain and return to the now opened door. Inside there was a large box.
The box was heavy and it was a real struggle getting it up out of its long resting place. It wasn’t so heavy I couldn’t lift it but it was nearly the same size as the hole it had been placed in. There was little room to get a good grip on it and leverage it out. The hole had been lined with bricks on the sides and bottom. And the entire inside had been mortared to protect the metal box from water damage. Of course, the house had kept it sheltered over the years and it had only been in the recent past that rain water had begun to seep into the area around the box. Still, although very rusty, the box was sturdily made and hadn’t rusted through.
What in the world had I found? Obviously it had been buried there for many years, decades even. And there must be something valuable inside or why go to all the trouble? I wondered if my father had been aware of it, but quickly discounted that idea because if he had known about it he would have dug it up himself when he returned from the war. So I concluded that it had to have come from a relative in the distant past.
And when I got the box open, which was also a bit of a chore, I nearly fainted. The box was filled with gold coins, brand new 20 dollar gold pieces. Later I learned they were called ‘Double Eagles’. I was absolutely flabbergasted! I was instantly rich and it took long moments for that to sink in. Just one of those coins would last me for a long time and there was a whole box of them! My life’s salvation had arisen from out of the ashes of this tragic fire!
I couldn’t take the box back to the home with me and there was no way I wanted to put it back in the same hole. So I half dragged, half carried, the heavy coins over near my fort by the river, all the while being careful and looking around to make sure no one was watching me. I filled my two pants pockets with the shiny new gold, and then buried the box partially under a rock wall where I could easily find it again. I used the hammer claws and chisel to work my way down through the packed earth. I made sure it was deep enough so as not to be found by accident by anyone trespassing on the property. After scattering some pine needles over the area and erasing all traces of my presence I hurried out to the road and hitched a ride back to the home.
Aside from being asked about the large knot on my head, the evening passed uneventfully. I had placed the tools I had taken back inside the shed upon my return and then spent the rest of my time before bed preparing for the morning.
I was up long before first light. I pulled the knapsack I had put together the night before from beneath the bed and stole out into the night. I didn’t even look back. I was on the early morning bus to New York before the home began to cook breakfast for its residents. I didn’t figure they would look too hard for me. I was nearly 17 and it wasn’t as though there were computers, like now, to keep track of everyone.
Once in New York
I lived miserly for a few years and invested much of the money I received from selling the gold. Each year I would drive down to my property and dig up the box, returning with more of the valuable coins. I invested heavily in real estate on Manhattan and it didn’t take too many years before I was very wealthy, so much so that eventually I didn’t need any further coins from the box, so stopped going to the estate.
Even though all of those memories were a long time ago, I remembered them as though they had just recently happened. I looked down into what was once the basement of my old plantation house for the last time. Over the years it had half filled with dirt and ash from the old burned up structure. There was little left to show there had once been a fire here long ago, only a few large pieces of charred wood remained.
I am too tired and old to walk over to where that box is still buried. But as I gaze in that direction I can picture the remaining 233 20 dollar gold pieces just sitting there, still just as shiny as the day I first found them. I wonder if some lucky person might stumble across them while clearing the land for a house, or planting a garden there some day. I hope so.