by Zugg, Victor
Fred nodded. “What kind of book?”
“Historical,” Mason said. “I plan to showcase a number of plantations, talk about how they got started.”
“Well, to answer your question, no it didn’t start out in my family,” Fred said. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. He glanced back as the front door opened.
A young woman, middle twenties, dressed in jean shorts, a white button-down shirt, and barefooted, stood in the open doorway. Her hair was pitch black, cut short.
The image of Karen leaped into Mason’s mind. The resemblance was uncanny.
“Are you going to stand in the sun all day?” the woman asked. Her attention turned to Mason.
“This is my granddaughter, Emily,” Fred said. “We’re just talking.”
“Well why don’t you come around to the porch,” she said. “Get out of the sun. I’ll bring you two some tea.” She stared at Mason.
“This is Steve Johnson,” Fred said. “He’s a writer; writing a book on plantations in the area. I agreed to answer some of his questions.”
Fred turned to Mason. “Want some iced tea?”
“Sure,” Mason said. He looked at Emily. “Thank you. You look a lot like someone I used to know.”
Emily smiled, gazed at Mason for several moments, and then went back inside. The door closed behind her.
Mason followed Fred around the side along a red brick walk to the back of the house and up on the porch. The view of the river was spectacular, same as before, although the property was much more manicured now. The river itself had barely changed. Crop fields stretched off on both sides of the green grass between the house and the river.
Fred took a seat in a metal porch chair and motioned for Mason to do the same. “What was that you asked me?”
Emily popped out the back door and sat two glasses of iced tea on a metal table. The outside of the glasses were covered with condensation. She smiled at Mason.
Mason smiled back.
“I’ll be inside,” she said, as she shut the door behind her.
“In your family from the very beginning?”
“Yes and no,” Fred said. “Jeremy and Lisa Jackson bought it in 1720. I always thought Lisa was a rather modern name for the early eighteenth century.”
“I agree,” Mason said.
Fred continued. “Anyhow, Jeremy died two years later, probably from one of those swamp diseases. According to a rumor handed down generation to generation, he worked in the field right along with the slaves, mostly rice. But I don’t see how that would be likely. It just wasn’t done back then.”
Mason nodded. “Probably not. So they had slaves.”
Fred smiled and snorted. “That was another rumor handed down. Supposedly, the Jackson’s freed all the slaves and worked out some kind of deal for them to continue working the land. But that’s not likely either.”
“So how did the property get into the Mason name?”
“Jeremy and Lisa never had children,” Fred said. “But there was an aunt or a sister, friend or something, not sure of the relation, also living in the house. She gave birth to one son. Named him Stephen.” He looked long at Mason. “Like you.”
Mason stared off in the distance for several moments as he took in a deep breath and exhaled. He finally turned back to Fred. “And her name was Mason?”
“Yeah, Karen Mason,” Fred said. “Another rather modern name for that time.”
“So Lisa willed the house to Stephen Mason,” Mason said.
“And the rest is history.”
“What about Karen’s husband?” Mason asked.
“That was never real clear,” Fred said. “She obviously had a man in her life, but the details didn’t make it through time.”
Mason nodded. “How many children do you have?”
“Three sons, four grandchildren, three boys and Emily. Emily has lived here with me ever since my wife died a few years ago.”
“And this is still a working farm?”
“It is,” Fred said. “Much reduced from what it was once, only three hundred acres under cultivation. One of my sons manages the farming part; the others went off to school. One’s a doctor, the other’s an attorney.”
“Sounds like a nice family,” Mason said.
“I’m a very lucky man,” Fred said.
They both stared at the river without saying anything for a full minute. Finally Fred turned to Mason.
“There’s a painting you might like to see,” Fred said. “It’s pretty much the only thing that has survived the destruction during the wars.”
“I’d love to see it,” Mason said.
Fred stood. “Follow me.”
Mason followed him through the house to the front sitting room.
Fred pointed to a painting hanging over the brick fireplace. “That’s Lisa and Karen.”
Mason gazed at the painting. It was a little dark and dingy but the likenesses of Lisa and Karen were unmistakable. Mason’s heart beat so hard he was sure Fred could hear it. His eyes moistened. He cleared his throat. “Two lovely women.”
“Strong women,” Fred said. “Had to be back then.”
“I don’t doubt you for a second,” Mason said, as he continued to gaze at the painting. His eyes fixated on the boy standing in front of Karen, about ten years old with thick dark hair. “The boy?”
“That was Stephen, the first male Mason in the line. He would be my great, great grandfather. Not sure how many extra greats come in front of that.”
The two of them stared at the painting.
Mason could see that both Karen and Lisa had aged some, mostly from hard work he was sure, but they were both still beautiful.
“I’m sorry,” Fred said, “I don’t have any documents that far back. Either lost in the fires or just disintegrated with the heat and humidity around here.”
“That’s okay,” Mason said. “I believe I have the information I wanted.” He checked the new stainless dive watch on his wrist. “I’ve probably taken up enough of your time.”
“Well, if you have more questions, you know where to find me,” Fred said.
Fred walked with Mason out the front door. The two of them stood next to Mason’s Prius. Fred stuck out his hand. “I’m glad you stopped by Mister Johnson.”
They shook.
“You have no idea how much I feel the same,” Mason said. “It was very nice to meet you Mister Mason.”
Fred lifted his chin and smiled.
Mason got in his car and drove off with a final wave out his window. He drove through the still open gate and stopped at the state road. He looked both ways. There was no traffic in either direction, but Mason didn’t pull out. He sat there staring out of his windshield. He knew what he had to do; he just didn’t know how to do it.
He finally pulled out on the highway and headed back toward Charleston.
◆◆◆
Mason pulled into the parking lot of a small restaurant on the north side of the old part of Charleston. He ordered a large salad for lunch and took out his iPhone. By the time his salad arrived, he had found two good room rental prospects in Mount Pleasant across the Cooper River east of Charleston. Both were available for viewing that afternoon.
As he munched on the salad, he continued to search the Internet. There were several items he wanted to get, but the actual ordering would have to wait until he had an address for receiving shipments.
After lunch he drove directly to the first rental, a two-story house in a residential community. The neighborhood was rather distressed and obviously unregulated by an association. That didn’t really matter to him. It turned out to be a room and bath on the top floor with a separate entrance. The woman Mason spoke with had a lease agreement for the entire house and was hoping to offset part of her rent. There would be no rental agreement for him since technically, subleases were not allowed. That wasn’t what turned him off about the place. It was her four rambunctious kids. One in particular seemed especially de
vious, so he decided rather quickly to move on.
The next prospect was a small furnished cottage in back of the main house in a quiet neighborhood. It included a designated place to park, one bedroom, bath, kitchen, and a small living room. It even came with a television. The owner was an elderly woman living alone. They clicked immediately. Mason paid her six months in advance. The best thing about the place was that it was only two miles from the Mount Pleasant Regional Airport.
He spent the rest of the afternoon picking up a few things he would need for the cottage. A nearby Walmart provided almost everything: a few linens, eating utensils, a bowl, a plate, a mug, a pot, and a few items of food including slow-cook oatmeal and fresh fruit which he liked for breakfast. He didn’t know how long he would be in the area, so he didn’t go overboard with his purchases. He wished he had kept such items from his condo in Miami, but he had no way of knowing then that he would need them so soon. He considered getting a cheap laptop computer, but decided the phone would suffice.
On his way back to the cottage, he stopped by Whole Foods Market for takeout. It was expensive, but he liked the variety. Some of it was even wholesome. He spent the first evening settling into his new home, temporary as it may be. He even watched some television before turning in.
CHAPTER 29
The next morning he ordered a rucksack to replace the one he lost during the battle with the pirate Edward Low. Online he found one in a premium vintage canvas designed without zippers. He also ordered a couple of knives, both fixed blades with premium steel and a full tang. One was a four-inch spear-point, good for finer work and slicing. The other was much longer, more of a machete with some weight. Both came with fine leather sheaths. In addition, he ordered the components he would need for a small survival kit including fire starting implements, fishing line and hooks, mil spec cordage, and everything else he could think of that might be useful in a survival situation. To that he added a mini water filter, stainless water bottles, foldable camp shovel, and a medium-sized first aid bag, complete with several suture kits. He also ordered a cleaning kit to go along with the new Glock 19 and ten boxes of 9mm ammunition he bought in Miami before he resigned from law enforcement.
He placed a call to a doctor friend back in Miami, explained he would be roughing it in the wilderness for a while, and talked him into a prescription for a wide spectrum, long shelf life antibiotic.
Doing the research for what he wanted and placing the orders took most of the day with a brief stop for lunch from the fridge. By early evening he’d had enough of staring at the tiny screen. He ate dinner and turned in early.
He awoke before the sun. He tried to sleep longer but to no avail. So he lay there thinking in the dark. His intent was obvious. He had traveled through time twice, so it was apparent that such travel was possible. He didn’t know how it worked; he just knew that it did. If it could be done twice, logic dictated it could be done a third. That was his intent, to at least try to return to eighteenth century Charles Town, to Karen, and their son. He owed it to them to at least try. He had an idea about how to go about it, but had no idea if it would work. Still, if he was able to accomplish the impossible he further intended to be much more prepared than the first time. Hence the accumulation of stuff. In addition to what he had already ordered, he would need a few items of period clothing.
After lying in bed an extra full hour, he finally rose, padded to the kitchen, and made a bowl of his usual porridge and a cup of coffee. As he munched and sipped at the small kitchen table, he made notes on a pad of paper.
Reenactments in the Charleston area were a common occurrence. There had to be someone around capable of making such garments. He checked the Internet on his phone and found two potential shops. He wrote down their contact info.
He turned his attention to the specific items to be ordered. He figured two suits, one a little more formal than the other, but both would include a coat, waist coat, breeches, stockings, a cravat, and a three-point hat. He noted the particulars on the paper.
As he spooned more porridge into his mouth and munched, he stared down at his bare feet. Shoes. He would need period shoes. No, not shoes, boots. Like the high top variety he ordered from Francois but never picked up. He made a note to research custom boot makers. He already knew there were several in the United States. He was sure that an extra fee could make his order a priority.
Next he thought of the shoulder holster he wore during his time in Charles Town. He would need another. But this time it would be a custom job without any elastic. Just leather. He made a note.
By the time he finished eating and scribbling, the page was full of notes and drawings. One of those drawings was a small, single-engine airplane. That’s what his current license allowed. Riding on an airplane into a cloud—that’s how it worked the first time, maybe it would work again. He thought back to the airliner and all the people who had perished during the ditching. This time there would only be one person at risk.
Mason studied the page of notes. Even if he were never able to find a way back, most of the items on his list would come in handy no matter where he ended up.
Dressed and with the dishes washed, he took a seat to wait the few extra minutes until nine o’clock. He had found two potential custom boot makers on the Internet, one in Maine and one in Wisconsin. There were others, but they seemed to specialize in lace-up or cowboy type boots.
On the dot he phoned the one in Maine and spoke to a nice young lady. She passed him on to the production manager. Mason described what he wanted and explained it would be for reenactments, so it had to look the part.
The manager explained that he had fielded several such calls over the years, but except in a couple of cases, most people couldn’t afford what it would cost. He would have to pull someone off the line for several days to cut and hand stitch much of the leather.
Mason said he wanted a quality boot that would hold up over time, and he was willing to pay whatever was necessary. He also wanted a rush on the job.
The manager said that the instructions for measuring his feet were on the website and that Mason should print out the forms, follow the instructions precisely, and send them in to the company. The manager would consider the job and let Mason know the cost after he received the forms.
Mason got a similar story from the boot maker in Wisconsin. The only difference was that he got an estimated quote immediately from the second company. A custom pair of boots like Mason wanted would cost a minimum of two thousand dollars.
Mason made a note to stop by the nearest Office Depot so they could print the forms on full size paper. Apparently, drawing a line around his feet on the form was part of the process.
Since it appeared the boots would take the longest, the office store was his first stop that morning. He filled out the necessary forms, including the diagrams of his feet, right there in the store and had them overnight the packages to both companies. He wasn’t sure if he would pick the maker based on price, or just order both pair of boots and decide which he liked better.
His next stop was what sounded like the more experienced of the clothiers capable of making period garments. This particular shop actually specialized in historical garments of all kinds and often received orders from around the country.
Mason explained what he had in mind to the owner, a middle-aged gentleman. A little gruff, but he seemed to know his stuff. Mason always told himself he would take superior abilities with a lousy bedside manner over the less experienced but nice any day of the week. It applied to doctors and apparently it applied to tailors.
The owner took Mason’s measurements, suggested several fabrics, colors, and ornamentation, and said he could have it all done within two weeks. The owner also suggested a heavier overcoat since it did get cold in South Carolina. Mason agreed. He also asked for a pair of full-length pants and an over-shirt in buckskin. The owner said he could do it. He asked for a rush on the job, but the owner was insistent on the two weeks. It might even take thr
ee.
Mason finally relented and paid the man half up front. The price was exorbitant, but the owner promised first rate work and a tailored fit.
By mid-afternoon his head throbbed. Skipping lunch was probably a contributing factor. He picked up some takeout from an Italian place, returned to the cottage where he ate and relaxed for the rest of the day. By early evening he had thought of some other stuff he needed to order, including a couple of heavy-duty waterproof bags. He ordered the items from Amazon. He sat back and contemplated all that he had accomplished in just one day. He realized he was going about this like it was a sure thing. It was far from anything of the sort. The chances of him making it back to Karen were so miniscule it barely registered on the scale of possibilities. Still, he had to try.
The next morning, with all the ordering done, it was time to think about the elephant in the room. A means to the end. An airplane.
Mason sat reclined on the small sofa, feet up on the table, and a mug of coffee on his lap. He visualized his flying lessons four years earlier, the classroom, and his time in an actual airplane. He learned to fly and soloed in a Cessna 172. He also had time in a friend’s Cessna TTx, basically an improved Columbia 400. He had more hours in the former, but he really liked the latter. Plus the TTx had more range, greater speed, and a higher ceiling. The higher ceiling—twenty-five thousand feet—might come into play.
He pulled out his phone and searched a few sites. It quickly became apparent that he couldn’t afford to buy one, even one used. Most of the used Cessna TTx 400’s were priced well over three hundred thousand, some were four and five. The sale of his condo had netted him a couple of a hundred thousand, plus he had another two hundred thousand stashed away in a retirement account, and another eighty thousand in readily available funds. But he couldn’t afford to spend all of it on an airplane. There wouldn’t be enough left to buy fuel. And what if this entire endeavor was a bust? That left one option. He’d have to rent an airplane. He didn’t like the idea of ditching someone else’s plane, even if it was insured, but there was really no other way.
