Jake looked at the moderator and smiled. Then he turned to the crowd and quieted them with a movement of his hands.” Serena advised me to go easy on the butterflies. You all know her interest in animals. I think she spends as much time on animal rights as she does on her acting. Anyway, my company spent a lot of time and money trying to find a way to solve the butterfly problem. We’re real sorry about the Monarch butterflies having to find different trees to land on during their future migrations. We all know, however, that folks buying houses out on the island are not going to like to see all those bugs on their lawns every fall.” He paused. “These houses will sell to wealthy people, people like yourselves, winners who have fought to accomplish their success. The fact is that the courts in Maryland are on our side, that we have been told that we can cut down the trees used by the butterflies, that the courts say we can go ahead and build our houses. We made the decision that we want to develop the island to benefit the owners and the people of River Sunday, not the insects.” Jake’s words brought out more laughter mixed with applause.
“I have heard, from time to time, that my old friend Jefferson over there at his Third Baptist Church tells stories about the marsh where we are building the bridge. He likes to say we can’t put the bridge there because that area was a burying ground for African-Americans back in the early days of River Sunday. He says it was a slave graveyard.”
Jake stopped and looked around the crowd. Then he looked at the moderator.
“Is Jefferson here today?” The mayor shook his head. “No? Jefferson never did know a good business deal,” said Jake, smiling as the crowd laughed. “Well, it’s all very fine for him to worry about his mythical graveyard. What he doesn’t seem to understand is that there are black families as well as white families who want to live on the island in the new houses. I’d like to say to him, ‘It’s a new world, Jefferson.’”
The crowd applauded politely.
“The Terment family has always owned the farm where that marsh is located. I’m sure no one was buried there.” Jake continued. “I will say, however, that a few old wheat schooners, maybe a hundred or so years old, are deserted and rotting up along the Nanticoke River towards the bridge. Mercy, we all played on them enough when we were kids. Seemed to me somebody even set one of them on fire one time. Got the whole River Sunday Fire Department out. You remember that?” Jake looked at the mayor, who grinned nervously.
“Well, as luck would have it, we seem to have another one of those old hulks sunk right in the middle of our construction. I’m not against history but I sure wish one of my workers had not got so excited and called in the government.”
He laughed, “I’m having trouble finding out the worker’s name. Anybody know?” There was a chuckle though the audience. He laughed, “If he’d just applied a little bit more power to the hydraulics of that bulldozer blade, there wouldn’t have been any wreck left to study and this would never have been a problem.”
“Jake’s right. Hell, push the wreck back under and get on with it,” muttered the pharmacist to Frank.
Jake looked out over the crowd until his eyes found Frank. “Stand up, Frank. Folks, this is Doctor Frank Light. He’s an archaeologist, the best in the country. I borrowed him from his university up north. He’s here to identify the wreck, find out all about it so the Maryland authorities will be satisfied, and then, most important, get us back working on the bridge. Right, Frank?”
Frank nodded and sat down.
“I’m sure you’ll make him feel real welcome here in River Sunday.”
As the applause went around the room, Frank nervously scratched the back of his neck.
Jake looked behind him at the white screen. Spyder turned switches on the wall and the room was night black. Then he started the slide projector and a spurt of white light cut across the blackness. Greens and blues, not bright but pastels of these hues, flowed over the screen. A color map of Allingham Island and the River Sunday region appeared. Some people in the audience gasped at the giant picture.
“I just wanted to take a few minutes to remind all of you what we are planning. Yes, I agree with you people who are overwhelmed by this. This is a beautiful island,” said Jake. “We’re going to make it more beautiful.” Jake then proceeded to point out the features of the map. At the bottom of the map, to the south, was the town of River Sunday, with its large harbor. To the west, the left of the map, was Chesapeake Bay. To the north, was the expanse of the Wilderness Swamp, and to the east, the highway going north and south. Further east was the farmland of the eastern counties of the Eastern Shore.
Allingham Island was directly north of River Sunday. The Nanticoke River ran in from the Chesapeake Bay to the east of the island. It passed a headland called Stokes Point where tourists visited the remains of an old War of 1812 fortification. The Nanticoke cut off most of the island from the mainland, continued north almost parallel with the highway and finally went inland. A few miles north of River Sunday a road went west from the highway to Allingham Island. This road crossed the Nanticoke at the old bridge. At the top of the island a waterway called North Creek cut from the Bay through the Wilderness to meet the Nanticoke and finished cutting off the mainland from the island.
Jake pointed to where he was building the new bridge, alongside the old one. The colorful glare from the screen illuminated the faces in the front tables, the ghostly pale faces uplifted to Jake. “You know,” said Jake, looking out over the crowd, “River Sunday is named for all the churches we have here. Well, I got to thinking one day when I was flying across the country. I got to thinking that maybe the Lord had brought me home to construct this new bridge, to build these new houses out on Allingham.”
Frank smiled at Jake’s use of the divine, but it went over well with the crowd. When the enthusiastic applause quieted, Jake again pointed to the screen. “On the west side of Allingham Island you can see this little rectangle we put on the map. That’s Peachblossom Manor, my family’s old home, with its view out to the Chesapeake Bay. I expect to keep Peachblossom in the family, with a few hundred acres as a homefarm. Terment Company owns all the land on both sides of the bridge site except for a small section on the north owned by my neighbor, Birdey Pond. The new bridge, as you can see, is being built on the south side of the old bridge. We’ll build our first houses on the south of the island where it faces the Nanticoke. We have selected the name of Terment Town. That’s to honor my father who always dreamed of building these houses.”
Jake let the applause build, then motioned for it to stop. “We’re going to have a reception, a chance for you to see the bridge under construction. I want to invite you to the site day after tomorrow. Come up in the early afternoon for a look-see and some refreshment courtesy of Terment Company.” He waited a moment while the crowd quieted. Then he said, “We have a special surprise. Serena is flying in from her movie set to say hello to you fine folks.”
“We’re with you, Jake,” a voice shouted from the darkness, and more applause burst out as Jake returned to his seat.
Frank retrieved his suitcase and joined Jake and Spyder. Jake was shaking hands with people leaving the room. In a few moments Frank walked out of the room beside Jake. A tawny cat with black spots on its face was sleeping on the red and white lobby rug.
“That’s the cat that was swimming up at the bridge,” said Spyder.
Jake looked at Spyder and said absently, “I never saw a cat swim before.”
Spyder nodded and walked toward the cat, his grin unabated. He kicked the animal with his highly polished alligator shoe. The cat landed on its feet and crawled underneath a lobby sofa, where it watched, alert, hissing deeply, almost growling.
“Spyder knows I don’t like cats, Frank. They bring bad luck,” said Jake.
Outside in the oppressive sunlight, they stepped down off the wide porch in front of the hotel, where the dark green rocking chairs overlooked the harbor and the tourist filled Strand Street. Strangely, in the heat, he heard a distant band play
ing the lively melody of a winter song, “Oh, Christmas Tree.” When he asked, Jake informed him that the music was the state song “Maryland, My Maryland.”
“When I was a kid,” he said, “first thing they taught you in school was the words to that song. It was one of the first songs written for the South.”
Coming toward them were ten or more people dressed as giant butterflies, the orange and black wings bobbing to the music, costumes weaving down the street, contrasting with the orderly colonial restoration storefronts. The costumes intrigued Frank, especially the colors. His eyes roved over their construction, the eight foot height of the wings, The costumes allowed the person inside to show his or her head about halfway up the furry black body of the apparatus, while the wings stretched fully extended about four feet to each side.
When he saw the butterflies, Jake stopped, his face suddenly stern. He waited with Spyder at his side and Frank behind as one of the butterflies stopped directly in front of them. A tall white haired woman was inside the costume.
“Hello, Birdey,” said Jake.
“We’ll keep on, Jake,” she informed him in a shrill voice. “We have another wildlife expert coming in, this time from Africa. We’ll stop you from building that bridge.”
“Suit yourself,” he replied and moved around her. The woman remained, slowly moving her wings. Jake walked down the street until he reached a green station wagon with the words Terment Company in white letters on the doors.
“You can get your car later, Frank. I want to show you the construction.”
“Those butterflies,” Frank said, “remind me of the monks in Vietnam. The same orange colors.”
Jake smiled, “This is a chance for some people to get their causes in my face. Don’t you pay any attention to it.”
They were in the car moving up the street. Frank looked out at the harbor. Jake motioned towards the pile of rocks and the great yacht. “Later I’ll take you out to my boat for a drink.”
“Sounds nice,” said Frank.
“I had my captain anchor her near the monument.”
“That’s what you call the pile of stones?”
“It’s a memorial to June 7, 1864.”
“What happened then?”
“The Maryland State Convention voted to free the local slaves.”
“Something else I guess you all learned when you were kids,” Frank joked. “Who built it?”
“My family,” said Jake. Frank realized how serious Jake had become by the tone of his words.
“I’m afraid I’ve never heard about it before,” said Frank.
Jake’s face showed a slight disappointment. “I’m surprised. It’s famous. The slave memorial. Brings a lot of tourists to River Sunday.”
“Nature, slaves, war, and religion. A real southern story,” Frank could not help grinning. Jake did not hear. He continued looking at the monument with pride. Then, as though suddenly awoken from a dream, Jake turned his head to stare ahead of the car.
“Spyder,” he said, “Let’s move it. I want to get the doctor started.”
Chapter 2
Water mirages and waves of heat danced on the blacktop as they drove towards the site. Then the road narrowed leaving less room for an oncoming car to pass. Adding to the danger were treacherous roadside ditches with edges steep enough to turn an entrapped car or tractor on its side. Frank saw water in the ditches, the water half hidden with high grass, but deep and dark.
Frank observed Spyder from where he sat in the back seat. The older man was across from him at an angle. His continuous grin bothered Frank, bringing back memories of constantly smiling Vietnamese during the war, men who appeared friendly yet who turned out in many cases to be his enemy. Spyder was subservient to Jake and acted like a perfect butler, yet his clothes were fashionable, tailored with the same cut as Jake’s expensive suit. There was also the repetition of Jake’s promise during the speech, that the bridge would be built on time, a comment that Jake had seemed to direct to Spyder.
“One call and I can get some of your company men down here,” Spyder reminded Jake. Frank surmised that they feared potential trouble from the white haired bird woman, that she was still in their thoughts.
“No,” Jake answered Spyder. “Not yet anyway. We won’t get along with local people if we bring in outsiders. Besides, we don’t want to do anything that might draw more attention to her butterflies. Bringing in our people might just get her more support.”
“What are ‘company men?’” asked Frank.
“Sometimes we need special guards for our construction equipment,” explained Jake. “Company men are the security forces that we bring to sites.” After that, neither Spyder nor Jake said any more about the woman he had called Birdey.
Spyder began to slow the car. He started to turn left at a small white gate nestled in a huge honeysuckle hedge. Jake raised his hand. “No, go straight. We’ll give our expert a little tour over the bridge before we go to the site.”
Spyder drove ahead and within a few moments they were close to the river and the bridge. “Here we are at the Nanticoke River, Frank,” said Jake, excitement in his voice, shifting slightly forward to see better out of the front window. Frank looked ahead also and saw with a little nervousness that the old bridge was constructed as a single lane, only wide enough for one car, built obviously for the old days of horses and carriages. He had a sudden vision of an overloaded farm truck coming fast from the opposite direction, tomato boxes toppling from its sides, and of Spyder driving the three of them into the truck without a change in his grin.
The car halted as the light turned red.
“You can see why this bridge has to be replaced,” said Jake.
“People around here are probably afraid they’re going to get killed on it,” said Frank.
Jake wasn’t amused. “No, nothing like that. It’s safe enough. I was thinking more of the inconvenience. We need a wide fast bridge with no stoplights, a bridge people can cross quickly. People who spend big money for houses want convenience.”
On the right a three story house sat well back from the road across a long lawn, its estate grounds decorated with small hedged gardens and multiple bird feeders attached to trees and hanging on wires or set on poles. Large trees obscured the house, but Frank could see some ancient roof lines, brick sections and multi-paned windows.
Jake grimaced when he saw Frank looking at the house. “That’s where that butterfly lady lives.”
“Birdey?”
“Birdey Pond. You could see what an old bitch she is. She hounded my father before me, too, always looking out for the butterflies as if they were more important than people.”
“I like butterflies,” ventured Frank.
The two men looked at him instantly and sternly. “I’m counting on you to understand these things, Frank. Don’t let me down,” said Jake, with a quick smile.
The light finally changed. At the same time a second stoplight on the other side of the bridge went to red to stop traffic if there had been any coming from the island side. Then the car was on the bridge, its tires bouncing through the broken macadam surface to the iron grate supports. The bridge joined a jetty or point of land with a similar surge of hard ground from the island side. Each point went into the river about forty feet. The bridge had been built out on these points. Its span crossed open water for several hundred yards.
“That’s the island?” asked Frank, pointing to land extending beyond a row of trees on the other side of the bridge.
“Yes,” said Jake, slowly, his words affectionate in tone. “That’s the beginning of Allingham Island. I ‘ll show my house up there sometime.”
The car bottomed with a jolt as it hit a pothole.
Jake grabbed the dashboard. “Town won’t maintain the bridge anymore,” he said. “The structure was quite an engineering feat when my family built it a hundred years ago.” He shook his head.
Across the bridge, Frank could see large areas of cleared land. On this land t
he access road had been almost completed. Two small cranes and several dump trucks were parked. A green steel barge with great streaks of brown rust and the word TERMENT on its side in large white letters was anchored to Frank’s left, beside the bridge. On its deck were various large engines and generators, concrete mixers, pumps and hoses.
Also on the barge and rising up over the river, like a great sword, was a third construction crane, a very large green unit with a massive pile driver attachment. The system of pulleys on the equipment raised and dropped the tremendous weight of the hammer to drive the pilings deep into the river bed. Beneath the crane, in the water at the side of the barge, was an unfinished cofferdam, steel pilings arranged in a circle to keep out the river water.
“We build the bridge piers on these cofferdams,” said Jake. “Pile drivers sink the cofferdams and then we pump out the water and fill them with concrete. You come back next spring you’ll see great new white piers going high into the air, looking real nice against the green of the trees along the river. “
He paused. “Unfortunately, everything is on hold while we wait for your research to be finished.” Jake bounced in his seat as the car continued on the rough road. They were passing through the old draw machinery section with its rusted ironwork.
“For years now,” Jake explained, “Every time a yacht with a tall mast comes up this river, its skipper has stop and to go all the way into River Sunday to get a man to raise the bridge. Even then no one is sure whether she’s going to go up or not.”
Frank noticed how the concrete railings of the old bridge were cracked from age. Looking down at the road, he saw in places that the river water below the bridge showed through surface holes in the road. He wondered if the car he was in would be the first car to break through the road and fall into the water. Jake talked on, unconcerned.
“When the town found out my company was going to develop the island and build a new bridge, the county commissioners in the River Sunday Courthouse stopped the allocation of funds to keep the old bridge fixed. They just let it rust. Of course, I don’t complain because it’s just my tenant farmers going up to their farms on the island. Safe enough for them. They run a few trucks and cars across the old bridge every day.” He chuckled. “Some of them go drinking in River Sunday at night and I might even hear from Billy about a car smacking into the railing one night or another. “
Slave Graves (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 1) Page 2
