The Cast Net

by Mille West

  The girls turned and, seeing the swarm, ran from the barn, Janie screaming, “Granddaddy, Cooper, come quick. Hurry!”

  Mills swatted in vain at the yellow jackets that continued to swarm around her and sting her unmercifully, each sting like the blow of a hammer. She felt her legs give out under her; the intense heat of the afternoon sun and the pain in her limbs was too much to bear.

  Then Cooper was there and he swiftly gathered her in his arms and ran away from the barn. Mills could barely speak and she was unable to lift her arms around his neck.

  “Mills, I’m sorry, but the yellow jackets are inside your blouse,” Cooper said anxiously.

  He ripped her shirt open and began to pull them off her skin; several were removed from inside her bra. Mills tried to move, but couldn’t, and the intense light of the afternoon sun went black.

  The yellow jackets were still stinging her, or so she thought, as she sat up straight and found herself on an examination table. Confused and frightened, she started to swat at the insects again, but strong hands took hold of her own. Cooper’s arms went around her and she listened to his soothing voice telling her to calm down.

  “Shhh now, you’re at Williston’s clinic. You gave me a terrible fright,” Cooper said.

  “Are Janie and Lizzie all right?” were her first words.

  “Neither girl was stung,” Cooper told her. “Only you.”

  Williston came to the examination table. “Mills, are you allergic to insect stings?” she inquired.

  “No, ma’am, not in the past,” she replied, “but I’ve never been stung that many times either.”

  “Are you having trouble breathing?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Your blood pressure is fine.” She then addressed Cooper. “I think we’d better watch her for a couple of hours here at the clinic, and you should keep an eye on her tonight.”

  Williston paused as she handed Mills some medication and a cup of water. “This is Benadryl to reduce swelling and Ativan for anxiety.”

  After she took the medicine, Williston told Mills to lie back on the examination table. Cooper put ice on her stings.

  Tears began to flow from her eyes. “Did you get all the stingers out?” Mills asked.

  “Yellow jackets don’t have the barb stinger of honeybees; they have a smooth stinger, so they usually don’t leave their stingers behind.”

  She was in pain, and Cooper put a wet cloth on her forehead and then wiped the tears that were falling down her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry I opened your blouse, but I had to get the yellow jackets out of your clothes.”

  “You saved me from being stung even more,” she replied. “Oh, it hurts so much.”

  He patted her hand.

  “Mills, I’m afraid you’re going to feel these stings for a while. I’ve never seen anyone have a worse spell of misfortune than you. I hope you’re finished with bad luck,” Williston said. She turned to Cooper, “Fainting is a symptom of an allergic reaction to insect bites, but her blood pressure is normal and she’s having no problems with her breathing. I want you to watch her carefully; allergic reactions can sometimes take hours to appear. Here’s a list of symptoms to watch for, and I’ll be at home tonight if you need me.”

  When Mills woke up next, she was in Cooper’s bed and the ceiling fan above the bed rotated slowly. The pain in her limbs had not lessened and she felt weak as she tried to sit up.

  “Take it easy now,” Cooper’s calming voice came from the corner of the room. He was reading by lamplight and then rose from his chair and came to the side of the bed. Sitting down beside her, he put his arm around her. “How’s the patient feeling?” He leaned back so that he could look into her eyes.

  “Like death warmed over.”

  “That bad. I hope you can eat some dinner,” he said, leaving the room. Cooper brought her a bowl of chicken soup on a tray and told her that Marian had made it for her before she left for the day. “Everyone is worried about you, and I’m sorry about what happened this afternoon.”

  After she took a spoonful of the soup, she asked, “Do you think I’m not suited to be out here in the country?”

  “The misfortunes you’ve encountered could happen to anyone; please don’t think like that.”

  He rose from her bedside and phoned Williston and Charles to let them know that Mills was awake and was having supper. They were grateful for the news and asked to be updated in the morning.

  Cooper removed her supper tray when she finished the soup and said, “I think you know how I got to know Williston. When I was twelve, I fell out of a tree and broke my arm. She looked after me in the emergency room and that night when I got home, I was in pain. My mother got into bed beside me and started to tell me stories of the Low Country. Of course, I thought I was too grown up to hear those tales, and I scoffed at them at first, but only at first. Julia was adamant that I would enjoy them if I just listened, and she was right. She recounted tales of mystery, pirates, and ghosts—Charleston is famous for its abundance of ghosts. I became absorbed in her tales and fell asleep in her arms. Would you like to hear a few of her stories?”

  “Yes, I would. Cooper, would you put your arm around me?”

  He nodded, and slid into the bed beside her. “Do you remember the name of the sailboat that we went out on when Vivien was here?”

  “Yes, the Theodosia.”

  “The namesake of Jeff’s sailboat disappeared at sea while sailing from Georgetown to New York. She was the daughter of Aaron Burr and you probably remember that while he served as Thomas Jefferson’s vice president, he killed Alexander Hamilton in a duel.”

  “Yes, I do remember that from my high school American history class.”

  “After several years of exile in France, Burr returned to New York, and Theodosia set out to see him. She was married to the governor of South Carolina, Joseph Alston.”

  “Alston Station is named after him.”

  “That’s right. Theodosia was in poor health and the trip by sea should have taken four or five days, but the War of 1812 was under way, and British war ships were patrolling the Atlantic seaboard. The voyage began just before the new year of 1813, and when she set sail from Winyah Bay, she would never be seen again.”

  “What happened to the ship?”

  “Desperate for news of Theodosia, Joseph Alston sent letters to Aaron Burr when the ship that transported her became overdue. Weeks passed, and there was no word on the ship, the Patriot, or her crew. Speculation that the Patriot was attacked by pirates was widespread.”

  “You mean they didn’t know? The ship just vanished?” Mills asked.

  “Well, there was one clue. Some years later, a Dr. Pool from Elizabeth City, North Carolina, came into possession of a portrait of a woman that was supposedly found on the Outer Banks. He received the portrait as payment for medical services from the aged widow of a ship wrecker. These scavengers, the ship wreckers, were known to lure ships aground off the Outer Banks of North Carolina and then kill the passengers and crew, looting the boat of its goods. According to the widow, the Patriot had been found adrift, and the wreckers boarded her to find t
he ship evacuated. Her husband removed the painting from the ship and gave it to his wife. The doctor tried, in vain, to authenticate the portrait, which became known as the Nag’s Head Portrait, as being Theodosia, but too much time had transpired since her disappearance. Most of the people who knew Theodosia had passed away. Her fate remains a mystery to this day.”

  They were quiet for a moment and then Mills asked, “What happened to Joseph Alston?”

  “The poor man died within a few years of her disappearance; he was just in his late thirties.”

  “What do you think happened to her?”

  “Severe weather can come up on the ocean without warning, and it’s possible that the Patriot encountered a catastrophic storm. I know that all too well.” He paused and then continued, “I wonder if I’ll ever know Elise’s fate? I think I know how Joseph Alston felt.”

  The room was silent until Mills asked, “What do you mean you know about ocean storms all too well?”

  He seemed deep in thought and then said, “The day of the accident that took the lives of my brother and father . . .” His face darkened in the dimly lit room, and he stopped speaking. “Mills, I don’t think I can talk about it. Forgive me.”

  “It’s all right.”

  After being silent for a few moments, he asked, “Would you like to hear the story of the Edisto Eight?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  He started his second story and Mills rested her head against his chest.

  High winds and rain awakened her during the night, but she nestled close to Cooper and wrapped her arm around him. When she woke in the morning, Cooper was no longer with her, and the aroma of fresh bread and bacon was in the air. The bedroom was dark and the rainfall continued.

  Freshening up in the bathroom, she was shocked by the severity of the stings. There were red marks all over her legs. She was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. How did I get these on?

  Mills entered the kitchen and Cooper’s back was to her. She said softly, “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

  He turned and looked into her eyes. “You’re welcome. How are you feeling this morning?”

  “The pain is not as bad as it was yesterday. How did I get to Williston’s clinic?”

  “You fainted, and I held you while Charles drove my Suburban.”

  “Oh, Cooper.”

  “Come and sit down. Your breakfast is ready.”

  He placed a plate of biscuits, eggs, and bacon in front of her, and she noticed multiple sting marks on Cooper’s arms. “You didn’t say anything about being stung,” she said.

  “I was too worried about you,” he said as he joined her at the table. “It’s going to rain all day. A few weeks ago, you expressed an interest in reading the letters that are upstairs in the attic. Would you like to do that today?”

  “Yes. Will you read them with me?”

  “After I clean up the breakfast dishes.”

  The rain was pounding on the metal roof and an occasional thunderclap rumbled nearby. Even with the lights turned on in the attic, they still needed flashlights to see inside the trunk. The flashlight beam illuminated the contents, and Cooper removed a stack of leather-bound letters, several books, and an ornately carved wooden box. “I haven’t thought about these things in years. This is a jewelry box that belonged to my great-great-grandmother, Rachel Camp. Let’s take everything downstairs into better light.”

  Once in the study, Cooper placed the jewelry box on his desk. There was a fragile latch on the box, and he lifted the lid to reveal the contents. There were a few yellowed letters, a music composition, and a daguerreotype portrait of a couple. Underneath the letters was a strand of pearls with a golden pendant, adorned with a sapphire. There were other mementoes of the past, including a small hand-carved doll with delicate facial features.

  Cooper studied each piece and looking at Mills, he said, “I’d like for you to have the jewelry box and its contents. The pearls will match the ring that Piet gave you.”

  “I think they’re beautiful, but shouldn’t they stay in your family?”

  “Elise always thought of these items as relics of the past. I would like for you to have them. They should be enjoyed—not sitting in the attic inside a jewelry box. Come here.”

  She walked to him and he turned her around, fastening the pearls. He lifted her hair, allowing the necklace to fall gently around her neck and then turned her to face him. “There. They’re lovely on you.”

  “I feel honored to have your ancestor’s treasures.”

  The phone rang and Cooper spoke with the individual on the line about the previous day’s yellow jacket attack. “Ian would like to speak to you,” he said, handing her the phone.

  When she said hello, Ian said in a concerned voice, “Mills, please be more cautious out there on Cooper’s property. This is your third or fourth mishap, and if Cooper is not more careful with you, I’m going to offer you a job at Heath Brothers and you can move into town.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Heath, but it could have happened to anybody. It just happened to be me.”

  Ian said, “You’re like family, and we need to take better care of you.”

  When Cooper finished his conversation with Ian, he said to Mills, “Ian is angry with me. He’s right. I should be taking more care to make certain the buildings are safe. Lizzie and Janie could have been hurt.”

  Mills went to the couch and viewed the items inside the jewelry box. A careful study of the daguerreotype revealed a handsome couple, the man with thick, dark hair, and his wife with raven-colored hair and the bright eyes of Jeff Radcliffe. Inscribed on the back of the portrait were their names, “Rachel and Grey Camp, 1870.”

  She placed the portrait back into the jewelry box and unfastened the leather strap that secured the letters. The letters were stacked in chronological order by date. Despite their age, they were in decent condition, and she carefully opened the first in the sequence.

  28 August, 1864

  Dear Mrs. Camp,

  I am writing to you with a heavy heart. Last evening, I was summoned to the door by a young Negro, George Camp, who pleaded for help for his master, your son, Grey Camp. There was a downpour of rain and when I looked into the eyes of the young man who was on a horse’s back, I knew that he could travel no further.

    Our Dr. Butler has spent hours with him and is worried about his injuries. Two minié balls were removed from his chest and a third from his right leg. I am sorry to tell you that the doctor has told me that it is likely the leg cannot be saved. There is little medicine and pain killer, but we will do all that we can for your son.

  Sara Cooper

  The next letter was dated mid-September.

  18 September, 1864

  Dear Mrs. Camp:

  My news about your son is hopeful, but guarded. Dr. Butler has saved your son’s leg and while he is still weak, he is showing gradual signs of improvement. Grey has been disturbed by dreams of his father, who I understand was recently separated from your son in fighting to defend the Weldon Railroad. I have told him that these nightmares
are a result of his fever, but he says that I do not understand about his dreams.

    For the first time in months, we have fresh game to eat. George hunted our fields and has harvested a young buck. We are thankful to have food in the house. George’s devotion to Grey is inspirational to me.

  Sara Cooper

  Mills read two more letters that discussed Grey Camp’s gradual health improvements until she came to one from mid-October:

  . . . I cannot help but eavesdrop on the conversations your son has with my four daughters. He recites Byron, Keats, Shelley, and Shakespeare’s sonnets. I have not heard such poetry in years, but then, I have not been in the company of a young man like Grey since my own youth.

    This morning, I went into the pantry room where Grey sleeps and George was reading to him from the Bible. He is completely literate, and I have discovered he writes as well as I do. I asked him how this could be since it was illegal to teach slaves how to read, and he responded that Master Grey had taught him how to read and write and was proud of it . . .

  One week later, a letter addressed the disheartening news that Grey’s father had been killed while protecting a widow’s farmhouse, a mere fifteen miles away. She had taken in wounded Confederate and Federal soldiers alike, but a group of northern deserters had attempted to rob her—Grey’s father was murdered while he defended her.

  As Mills read the last portion of the letter, a strange sensation surged through her body. Sara Cooper had written: “Grey’s dreams concerning the death of his father are strangely similar to the actual events surrounding his death. In his delirium, Grey foresaw the injustice that would befall his father.” Mills drew a deep breath and thought of Cooper’s psychic ability—he had foreseen the deaths of his own father and brother. She realized that his capability derived from deep within his ancestral roots.