Letters in Time

by Reiss Susan

  Of when I last wrote, your father and I were in Virginia. The men of the unit we joined were trying to set up batteries at Mathias Point to threaten traffic on the Potomac River that runs up to Washington, D.C. It was an area that favored us. There were dense undergrowth and tall trees that would make it hard for the U.S. forces to see what armaments we had in place, if any.

  I guess the goal was to disrupt the movements of the federal government troops and supply lines in any way possible while the South organized itself.

  One morning, a stiff breeze snapped the flag as it hung from its pole. It was not the Stars and Stripes as we have known our flag to be. It was the flag of the Confederacy. The breeze brought us sounds of shelling in the distance. It wasn’t long before some pickets reported that one of the Yankee commanders was using the guns of his flagship to bombard Mathias Point. The men stationed to protect our encampment had run away in the face of the men who came ashore from the ships. It was not a large force, but deadly. They were seen clearing away the foliage from the land and building fortifications.

  The call went out from the officers that every man must rush forward to counter the incursion. It was confusing. Horses’ hooves thundered around us as men rode back and forth, yelling orders. Infantrymen ran between the tents and cooking fires, their bayonets flashing in the sunshine. We moved through a thick forest area. When we neared the shore, there was a grand vista of the Potomac River.

  It was easy to see why it was an important fortification. There were sweeping views both up and down the river and one could observe activities on the far shore.

  What we saw was chilling. In the middle of the river, a large ship was anchored. Someone said it was the flagship of a commander. Some of the men of its crew were gathering up their tools on our side of the river. Our boys opened fire and the crew ran to their boats and pulled hard on their oars to get to the safety of their ship. Seeing them on the run, our boys ran to the shoreline and kept firing.

  Your father and I watched the action from the rear line as we were expected to do. We were not part of this fight. It wasn’t long before the flagship’s guns were brought to bear and started firing back at us.

  Facing superior fire, our boys moved back, the zing of bullets chasing them. Then, they ran to avoid the shells. There was chaos for a time as the boys ran by us seeking safe shelter. Stay low and follow me, your father ordered. I did not see him leave. It was the first armed conflict I had ever observed. I was mesmerized by it. Then, I heard him call my name and it was enough to remove the fog from my brain.

  I started running to find him. I must have tripped on a tree root because I was face down in the dirt. I started to get up, but somebody pushed me down hard. I must tell you I was scared that it was one of the Union sailors.

  Then, I heard the man's voice near my ear. He called me by name. I was sure it was a friend, someone who knew me, someone who would help me. But he was sitting on my back. I couldn’t get up. I pondered that he wanted to keep me out of the line of fire from the federal guns.

  He said that he’d been looking for me and was glad he’d found me. I was relieved and stopped struggling to get up. The voice was one I had heard before, of that I was sure. I did not know who it was. I turned my head around as far as it would go to see the face of my friend and savior.

  I was shocked to discern the identity of the man sitting on my back. Of all the people I knew at home, I would not have thought he would help me. I was wrong. He was there, in the midst of the battle, trying to protect me. You know him as well.

  It was Joshua Collins.

  Yes, it was a surprise, but I can only tell you that I write of events as they happened and is the truth.

  Then, he leaned down close to my ear and yelled above the noise. He said that he had something for me. I saw the flash of the metal barrel of his gun.

  I am sorry to say that I am not certain of what happened next. It is a muddle. Know that it was not long before I was moving away from the fighting. The only thought in my mind was you. Oh, how I have longed to be back at Waterwood with you.

  Again, I apologize that I am still confused about what happened. Was I wounded? Did your father bring me home? The next thing I knew, I was here at my father's desk in the plantation office. I was sitting in his chair as I did when I was a boy.

  I want so much to run and find you, but I cannot leave. It is as if I am chained to this desk. But I am home and safe. I am sure that your father or mine shall appear at any moment to explain all. Dare I hope that you might come as well? I have settled down to wait.

  Until that day does come, you will be protected. Always remember that you have two things that can stand between you and ill fortune ~ my admiration and that which is secret, placed under the Lone Oak by your father and me for you. You must use it to keep yourself safe and independent until we are together again at Waterwood.

  Your loving servant forever,

  Daniel

  My hands shook, making Daniel’s letter flutter in the growing warmth of the new day. His revelations were almost too much for me to take in. Yes, I was being silly. A man alive in the 1860s was no longer walking the earth, but his letters, personalized as if written to me, had made him a vibrant part of my life.

  It was hard to think of him as dead. Seeing his grave marker in the cemetery would have helped make that fact a reality. I had looked for it. It was nowhere to be found. Now, I understood. If he had fallen in battle, his body would not have been transported back to Waterwood. Like so many others, he might be in a single or unmarked grave.

  It’s one thing to die at the hands of an enemy in war, but the real shock was that he died at the hand of someone he knew. Someone who claimed to be his friend.

  Was there a possible connection between events of his time and what was happening today? The sages say that history repeats itself. Could that be true in this small corner of the world here on the Eastern Shore?

  I reread that portion of Daniel’s letter where he recounted the attack by Joshua. Here was a written statement that Joshua Collins, who lived in the 19th century, had committed murder. His descendent, known as Josh, was suspected of another murder. It seemed that the Collins family had a stain of a bad seed that survived the generations.

  I scanned the letter again for the mention of what Emma’s father had done to protect her. It read: two things that can stand between you and ill fortune ~ my admiration and that which is secret, placed under the Lone Oak by your father and me.

  Whatever they had buried under the Lone Oak was meant to keep her safe. I could only imagine it was money or valuables. Why would they bury it? Why wouldn’t her father have given it into the hands of someone he trusted? Were the times too unsettled? Were loyalties in question?

  Stephani would be here soon to drive me to my Pain & Torture session. Afterward, I’d ride with her to the library and do some more research in the Maryland Room. I went inside and quickly typed out a copy of Daniel’s letter. All of his letters were valuable to me, but this one most of all.

  As I dragged myself upstairs to dress, Daniel’s words thundered in my mind:

  Until we are together again at Waterwood.

  Daniel had written those words to me—to Emma—only moments ago. This wasn’t like finding a letter written decades ago stashed in a drawer of a desk. He’d written to Emma trying to make sense of things. He didn't know what happened after Joshua had attacked him. He didn’t know anything until he was sitting at his father’s desk. My desk.

  He believed that he was wounded and sent home. I didn’t understand the why’s and how’s of metaphysics, but I knew the strength of a tie forged from love. I felt it every day with Uncle Jack. I knew the power of the desire to live, survive even a most horrendous event.

  Daniel’s love for Emma and Waterwood was strong. Stronger than any action Joshua could have taken against him. That’s when I came to a chilling understanding:

  Daniel didn’t know he was dead.

  Chapter Thirty-Thre
e

  “If, when writing letters, we would keep before our minds the question, ‘How would this look one year or ten years hence?’ we would save ourselves from writing a great many foolish things.”

  How to Write Letters

  by Professor J. Willis Westlake, 1883

  Somehow, I set aside that realization. I couldn’t deal with it quickly before my ride arrived. I needed the comfort of bright sunlight and a peaceful time to figure out how to proceed. As I made my way to the bottom of the stairs, I vowed not to let my mind wander down the dark corridors of What If.

  Stories abounded about what ghosts did when they realized they were dead. Horrible tales of anger, retribution, retaliation directed at people who were still alive and well. How many were true, if any? I didn't know. I didn't care. I had come to Uncle Jack's Cottage for peace and healing. So far, Daniel, or should I say Daniel's ghost, had behaved, had added a surprising dimension to my new life here. I didn't need that spirit to go into a rage.

  What to do? What to do? I wondered, as I waited for my ride. Then a thought hit me and I grabbed my phone. I'd see if TJ could pick me up at the library, then we could go back to the cemetery. Stephani arrived right on time. I quietly wished she had a more accessible vehicle. While the Jeep was cute, it proved harder for me to climb into than TJ’s truck. It took some maneuvering and some muscle from Stephani, but I was finally ready to go.

  At my P.T. appointment, it seemed that the exercises were getting easier. Was I getting stronger? It wasn’t worth double-thinking the question. I was glad I wasn't craving a fistful of painkillers when I was done.

  Later at the library, I settled at one of the tables to resume my research. Stephani, as usual, was eager to help. I craved the freedom to wander the stacks and poke around in the file drawers where unbound local historical information was cataloged. It would be fun to thumb through the files, open one at random, and page through its contents, hoping to find a gem. I found just such a gem in one of Stephani’s miscellaneous files about the Civil War. Someone had typed out a short paragraph about money using an old typewriter with worn keys.

  It was all about money.

  Evidently, as tensions grew between the different political factions on the Eastern Shore, the wealthier families worried about their deposits in the local banks. The valuation of currency was fluctuating. Also, there was the question of access to safe deposit boxes that held other valuables in the bank vaults. The author of this short historical piece raised the question I had: Where did families hide their valuables if they removed them from the banks?

  Could it be true? Did Emma’s father bury a chest of treasures under the Lone Oak?

  I didn’t have to speculate in the silent, dusty corridors of history. I only had to raise that question with Daniel as soon as I got back to the Cottage.

  “Did you find anything interesting?” asked Stephani as her eyes eagerly searched the papers spread out in front of me.

  I calmly moved my right hand to cover the page about buried treasure. I didn’t want to share any information yet. “Oh, there are so many interesting things in your research files. I could get lost in them for hours. These files alone would be a great inspiration for a novel.”

  I noticed Stephani’s eyes were racing over the labels on the file folders. Quickly, I shuffled the papers into an organized stack.

  “Or” I added, “The information would be a great jumping-off point for a nonfiction book.” I gently pulled more folders toward me. I felt like I was playing a shell game. “There are some wonderful drawings of ladies fashions in these folders.”

  After I showed her a few, I rested my hands on the files. “You have all the information and answers any writer might need for a book.” I gently leaned against the back of my chair. “I don’t know, Stephani. I'm in a real quandary about what story I want to tell. What story the kids would enjoy."

  Stephani lit up as she glanced down the aisle and mused, “I remember being mesmerized by stories my grandmother used to tell.”

  “Oh, tell me.”

  "No, they were nothing special. Just family stories. I'm sure you can come up with something much better than hers." Her bright expression had closed down tight. She wasn’t going to share anything with me.

  Disappointed, I gently pushed myself away from the table when I saw TJ making his way through the bank of computers toward me. "It's time for me to go. Thanks again for driving me around. I appreciate it."

  Stephani watched while I collected my things. “I don’t mind carrying you around.”

  I had to smile at her use of a favorite local phrase, carrying you around.

  Stephani continued. “I’m happy to do it. If you need any more research help, you know you can call on me. I’m learning more every day about what is here in the Maryland Room. You have my telephone number. Just call me and let me know what you need and I’ll look it up.”

  TJ walked in, but his eyes were following Stephani as she went into a back room. “What were you talking about with her?”

  “And hello to you, too,” I said with a little sarcasm.

  He drew his eyes back to me and laughed. “Okay, hello. How was P.T.? How was your research time? Have I focused my attention on you now?”

  I playfully punched him in the arm and said, “Yes, I think it’s time for us to get going.”

  I handed my things to him. “Come on, I have plans for you.” He followed me as I moved right along. I was feeling pretty good.

  "You don't have to make a mad dash to the truck," he warned.

  “I know,” I whispered as we made our way through the library. “I’m not pushing myself. I’m just feeling stronger. I’m hesitant to say it out loud, but I feel like I’ve turned the corner.”

  We walked through the automatic doors into the small, landscaped courtyard of the library. The sun shone brightly without the scorching heat of summer.

  TJ walked closer to me and lowered his voice. “Did you hear? Craig caught up with Josh and has him in custody.”

  "That's a relief." And it was. I hadn't realized how worried I was about running into Josh again, especially on my patio. "Could you put my papers in the truck, then take a short walk with me?"

  “Part of your research?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve made a discovery.”

  After he stashed the papers, we crossed the street and followed the brick walkway to the front of the county courthouse. I found a bench and sank down on it.

  “Okay, before you lecture me, that was too far to walk, I’m happy to rest here awhile.”

  “Why did you want to come to the courthouse?” TJ asked as he sat down next to me.

  “I wanted to see where it happened. This is where Union soldiers marched on the Eastern Shore. The story was in one of the library books we took out on your card.”

  “Tell me more,” TJ said.

  It was a pleasure to talk with a history buff as avid as I was. “The soldiers came from Baltimore to arrest a circuit court judge suspected of being a Southern sympathizer. He had directed a grand jury to investigate some arrests made during the 1861 election and issue indictments. They pulled the judge right off the bench while he was conducting a trial. When he resisted, they pistol-whipped him and hauled him off to Fort McHenry on a charge of treason, punishable by death.”

  TJ took off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, and reset the hat. "And I thought today's political maneuverings were getting outrageous."

  "Remember, the nation was being torn apart by civil war. It didn't help that the federal troops stayed here to keep the peace, which only outraged both Southern and Northern sympathizers." I thought for a moment. "Maybe that was the event that forced Benjamin to choose sides."

  “You might be right,” said TJ.

  "And to think that it happened right here," I said, taking in the graceful red brick courthouse, surrounded by a plaza landscaped with old gnarly trees and flowering shrubs, outlined by a tall black wrought iron fence. It was hard to imag
ine such violence in such a peaceful place.

  TJ chuckled. “There is a lot of history here on the Shore, much more than we can tackle today. Ready?”

  I nodded and we made our way back to his truck. Fortunately, it was all downhill.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “I made a coffin for our little baby Elizabeth. She died awhile before day this morning and was 20 days old. I carried her to Oxford and put her in the ground alongside our other infants, now 5, 3 girls and two boys all buried in a row next to the garden fence.” December 12, 1857

  The Willis Family Journals 1847-1951

  Edited and Annotated by James Dawson

  As we made our way out of Easton, I said, “It’s such a beautiful day. Do you think we could take the long way home?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Do you want to drive around or do you have a specific destination in mind?”

  “Well, I’d like to…” I looked at him and realized something was different about him. “What have you done to yourself?”

  He glanced around. “What you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Did you… you got a haircut!”

  He glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled. “You noticed! I clean up pretty good for a farmer, don’t you think?”