Copper Kettle

by Frederick Ramsay

  Jesse had spent several hours the night before sitting under the stars trying to figure out how to deal with the Lebrun mess. Time was ticking away and if he didn’t soon come up with an answer the mountain would explode. He understood the reasons for it; old hatreds are the kindling that light up violence. What bothered him was he had no allies. Even Abel would be more than happy to go over to the east side and start shooting. Why, of all the people he knew, had no one backed him up even a little bit?

  The trouble with most of the folks hereabouts was they had no idea what real war felt like, no idea what it was like to be shot at by someone dead-set on seeing you die, had no idea how painful the process could be. Jesse carried the memories of the trenches, the horror of corpses and blood strewn across No Man’s Land tangled in barbed wire, bleeding and crying for help, gut shot and soon to die because the chances of recovery from such a were slim at best; and realizing that when the day’s fighting ended, nothing had been accomplished. Oh, sometimes they’d move forward a hundred yards or so. Most days, it was just killing and being killed.

  What his relatives who’d spent the war in the relative safety of the Shenandoah Valley failed to understand was that settling a dispute with a gun accomplished little or nothing. It only led to more shooting and killing. Jesse knew that his war had been labeled “The War to End All Wars.” He hoped it was, but he wondered if that would be true. He did not understand diplomacy and had no idea what had transpired at the peace-treaty meetings after he, and the thousands of other soldiers, the survivors, finally shipped home, but he doubted the losers would be happy.

  What his kin thought of war, he imagined, would be something closer to a Sir Walter Scott story or maybe Tom Mix settling the West in the flickers. Battles won by the righteous, villains put down by a six-shooter. Jesse knew his kinfolk were neither heroic knights nor cowboys. They more closely resembled the legendary Hatfields and McCoys whose antics had made the news before the turn of the century. That largely fictionalized feud had molded the national consciousness about hill people in ways that might never change and would forever cast them as backward, stupid, and lazy. As much as he hated the label, Jesse had to accept the fact that his kin were hillbillies. He’d fought strangers more than once when it had been applied to him, and yet, here he was discovering that it might be true. How in hell would he ever shift them into doing the sensible thing? He pulled on his gloves and made ready to earn his pay as foreman of R.G. Anderson’s mill.

  The workers, sawyers, mechanics, loaders, and shifters drifted in, some a little worse for wear. Coffee wasn’t all that available even now, over a year after the war shortages. He set them to work reducing the stack of furniture logs to standard lengths and widths. When R.G. arrived he’d ask him for the specifications and then have the planks resawn and dressed into the stock sizes on order.

  Serena arrived at seven-thirty. Jesse waved to her. She smiled and pointed to the office door and then at the sun, now well up in the east. She was late? She disappeared inside. He considered following her in when the truck from Smith’s Ice House pulled through the gate. Jesse oversaw the loading of sawdust into the truck and then sent the driver in to settle up with Serena. Not much went to waste here.

  The air was filled with the singing of the big circular saws, the whine of the planer as it dressed rough-cut lumber into usable boards, and the scent of newly cut timber. Tractor engines roared, steam engines chuffed, and boards falling away from the finished cut slapped onto the carrier. Jesse was lost in the work.

  At noon, the whistle on one of the older steam engines sounded. The saws moaned to silence and the men gathered in groups with their lunch pails to eat and smoke. Jesse went into the office. R.G. waved him over.

  “Jesse, I need you to run over to the mercantile and pick up these items.” He handed Jesse a list of supplies: grease, oil, and metal rasps. “We will need to lubricate all the machinery and sharpen the saw blades over the weekend, right? I have to run into Roanoke this afternoon or I’d do it myself.”

  R.G. gathered a stack of papers on his desk into a pile and left. Jesse found himself alone with Serena. He thought he liked that.

  “Well, where do I start thanking you, Jesse Sutherlin?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You saved my brother’s life last night, I hear.”

  “More like I saved Anse and his drunk buddies theirs. If they had done Jake in, they’d be swinging from a rope their own selves pretty soon.”

  “Don’t be going all modest on me. You know it’s true. Thank you.”

  “Well—”

  “There’s more. By now most everybody over on the east side knows what you did. If you need to sit down with any of them…well, almost any…they’d be open to that.”

  “Can you set something like that up?”

  “I can try. You’d better get on your horse, sorry, Ford, if you want to get over to the mercantile and back ’fore lunch break is done.”

  “That’s too bad, because I had it in mind to sit a spell and eat my cornbread and bacon right here with you, Miss Barker.”

  “Tomorrow. Now, go.”

  Jesse smiled and left. If he really hurried, he might be able to drop in on the records clerk and find out a thing or two about The Oaks.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jesse wore his wrist watch, a novelty for the time and certainly the place. Some of the folks on the mountain owned pocket watches. A few even carried one on days other than Sunday when they were dressed in what passed for finery. He’d received the Elgin trench watch when he’d been elevated to the officer class. It had a stain on its leather strap that he imagined might have been blood. Because of that he believed it probably belonged to one or the other of his late predecessors. He never asked. He’d not worn it since coming home. He had no real need to track the time beyond what the sun told him as it processed from east to west, but now as foreman, time had become a much more important consideration. He gave it a quick glance as he pulled up to the mercantile. He parked the Ford and strode inside. Once there he dropped the list R.G. gave him on the counter. He said he’d be back in half an hour and left it in the hands of the clerk. The courthouse was two blocks further down the road.

  There, he asked for the Registrar’s Office and was directed down a flight of stairs to the basement. He found the clerk who could help him with a title search in a dimly lit space that reeked of old and moldy paper. He explained what he needed. The clerk nodded and disappeared into the depths of the room that by now he now realized stretched the length of the building and consisted of rows of shelves which held file boxes with paper labels affixed to their ends. Jesse waited as the minutes ticked away. He checked his watch. Maybe it would be okay if he was late getting back. R.G. had to run errands in Roanoke, Serena said. So, most likely he would not be back at the mill for hours.

  “Hello? How’s it going in there?” he said.

  Silence. He checked his watch again. Finally the clerk returned with a piece of foolscap and slid it across the counter.

  “That’ll be four bits,” he said and kept his hand on the paper effectively covering the information written on it.

  “Fifty cents for what took you…” Jesse consulted his watch again. “Twenty minutes? That’s a dollar and a half an hour. Nobody around here pays that much.”

  “It’s a flat fee, Bub, whether I find what you’re after for in five minutes or five days. Fifty cents, if you want to see what’s written on this paper.”

  Jesse dug around in his pockets and counted out four dimes, a nickel, and five pennies. It didn’t leave him much, three more quarters, a dime, three pennies, and something he recognized as a Baltimore streetcar token. He slid the fifty cents across the counter and the clerk released the paper. Jesse picked it up. The man had a mighty fine hand, a nice attempt at copperplate, if Jesse remembered it correctly. He squinted hard at the words. Most of them he could make out wit
h moving the paper back and forth. What entailed meant wasn’t clear nor did the notation declaring that an endowment had been established to assure the taxes were paid in perpetuity. Those words made him stop. This paper was a poser, for sure.

  “Excuse me, what does all this mean?”

  The clerk retrieved the paper, read it, and handed it back. “As near as I can make it out, son, the owner of this property wanted to be sure that, if he was away for a spell, the taxes would still be paid. That endowment fund he set in place in 1868. It’s possible he went off to fight Indians or French Mexicans or maybe went to shoot elephants in Africa, or run cattle in Texas. Whatever, he wanted to make sure he didn’t lose the land through tax default. Who can tell? In this here case, that fund has been doing that for…” He scratched his head. “…going on fifty-two years. Now ain’t that something.”

  “It is. And the name of the owner was this man whose name you wrote down here?” Jesse planted a finger on the name.

  “Yep, only I can tell you right off that that man is by now dead and gone and it doesn’t appear he has an heir. If he did, one hasn’t come forward to claim the land.”

  “How can that be? If you all knew he was dead, why wouldn’t you notify next of kin or post it like they do in the newspaper?”

  “Like I said, that endowment keeps paying the taxes so there was never any reason for the County to notify anybody. I expect he has an heir out there somewhere and the person, if he knew it, would be in here like a shot, but nobody has come. Now, if the taxes were in arrears, well, there’s be a notice posted and such and maybe he’d have found out. Nobody likes to lose a piece of land to the tax man, do they?”

  “No, I reckon not.” Jesse folded the paper in two and shoved it in the pocket that had a button closure. He didn’t want to lose it, for sure. He’d show it to Serena and she’d know right off what to do. He thanked the man and climbed back up to street level and the sunlight.

  A black Essex sedan had pulled in and parked beside his Ford. The door had some words painted on them. He made two trips into the store and brought out bundles which he stowed on the backseat. Jesse looked more closely at the car next to his. He made out a name and a word he didn’t recognize. He turned to retrieve the third and last of his bundles. He tried to sound out the word in his head, hoping it would be one he’d heard somewhere and he’d know what the door signaled. When he returned, the driver of the sedan stood next to his car studying a map.

  “You lost, Mister?”

  “Lost? No, well, maybe. I am Samuel Schwartz, haberdasher and tailor.”

  “How do, Mister Schwartz. Do you have a store here in Floyd?”

  “In a way, you’re looking at it. I am a sort of, how you say, pedler. You know but instead of a pack, I have this very nice car filled with some things I am selling here and there. I am looking for a place to rent. A storefront and place where I can settle.”

  “Peddler. Okay, well this town has haberdasheries. The big one is Gottlieb’s. Wait, it ain’t Gottlieb anymore on account of the war. Old Gottlieb changed the name to Lord and Lovett. Gottlieb sounded German, you know.”

  “Do I know? You think being Schwartz won me so many customers?”

  “No, I suppose not. So you want to set up in a big city? I expect you’d do real well in New York.”

  “You know New York?”

  “No, never been there. I got all the way up to Washington D.C. on my way to France, and I seen Paree, but they say that it is real busy up there in New York City.”

  “Busy, sure, and do you have any idea how many tailors and haberdashers there are on the Lower East Side of that city alone? No? Well, I will tell you. If I didn’t know better already, I would swear that Moses took a turn for the west in the desert and took the children out of Egypt to New York City.”

  “What?”

  “I am making a joke. Now look at you. You, I think, need a hat. I will give you a nice price. How about a derby? I have things to sell here. I am a pedler, yes?”

  “Well, that’s mighty nice of you, but I don’t need a hat. Wore all the hats I care to in the Army, thank you.”

  “So, what is in your hair?”

  Jesse tilted his head and brushed his hair. Sawdust cascaded to the street.

  “What is that?”

  “I work at the sawmill. That would be sawdust.”

  “So, you do need a hat. A derby won’t work so good there. I have a nice trilby here, two dollars.”

  “Sorry. I don’t have two bucks and if I did, I wouldn’t spend it on a hat.”

  “At least you should try it.” Sam brushed the brim with his sleeve and perched the hat on Jesse’s head. “Ah! Your sweetheart will love your for it.”

  “Not for me, not for two dollars, and I ain’t got a sweetheart.”

  “No? Such a pity.”

  “I can tell you that one place that could keep a haberdasher busy is Picketsville. You could drive up there and see for yourself. You just pick up the Valley Turnpike just west of here and follow it north past Natural Bridge. It’s a public road and I reckon if you hop to, you could be there by suppertime.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jesse made it back to the mill before R.G. He had his hand on the cardboard box that held half a dozen cans of lubricant and some files used to sharpen the saw blades when a large shadow blocked out the sun. Sheriff Dalton P. Franklin was a big man. Not big or physically imposing as a Greek god or even the heavyweight boxing champion, Jack Dempsey, but big as in too many flapjacks for breakfast. He wore khaki trousers which had a dark olive stripe along the outside seam. His jacket to which his six-pointed star badge was pinned was also khaki and the brass buttons looked like they might pop at any minute. By the looks of it, his jacket had not been washed or cleaned as often as the trousers and they did not quite match. His tie was the same shade of green as the pants stripe and a Sam Browne belt and a campaign hat completed the outfit. He stood with the light at his back, hands on hips, legs spread. The expression on his face was lost with the sun at his back, but if his reputation held, it would be red and arranged to appear somewhere between smug and downright disagreeable.

  Jesse started to say something about how imposing that stance was, but at the same time how it made him particularly vulnerable if you were acquainted with the ins and outs of bare-knuckle fighting. Before he could, the sheriff cut in.

  “You’re Jesse Sutherlin.”

  “Yes sir, I am that very feller. Excuse me while I unload this pile of merchandise.”

  “It’ll keep. I have some questions for you. How you answer them will determine where you will spend the next hours, days, or years. You got that, Rube?”

  Jesse dropped the package back on the seat of the Ford and leaned back against its door.

  “Shoot.”

  “I understand it was you that found a body up in the mountains. Some sport named Solomon McAdoo. Is that right?”

  “No sir, it ain’t.”

  “No? I have a witness says it was you.”

  “Whoever that witness is he has got it wrong.”

  “Really. My notes here says it were a relative of yours name of Hansel.”

  “Hansel? You mean like Hansel and Gretel? Sorry I don’t know any Hansel.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “It says here he’s a cousin of yours. ’Course that don’t mean anything up in the mountains, do it? You all are so intermarried it’s a wonder you ain’t got three eyes and pointy heads. Or maybe drinking moonshine for breakfast has pickled your brains.”

  “Really? We like to think of it as very strong mouthwash right up there with that Listerine gargle they sell at the pharmacy store. It’s something I would recommend you might give a try. Okay. So, my cousin, Anse, that’s with no H at the front and no L at the end, told you or your deputy that he saw me discover a body and you’re won
dering…what? Do you want to know where’s it at? Did I kill someone? You need to understand, Anse ain’t wrapped too tight and has a fierce hate for me. Can’t say why that is so, but he does. I didn’t discover a body, Sheriff. My brother can testify that he brought me the news about Solomon’s killing right here at this mill.”

  Serena rounded the corner and stood at Jesse’s side. The sound of voices outside had puzzled Serena, she said afterwards and she came to see who was making a ruckus behind the office, stayed to see to it that Jesse didn’t end up in jail for assaulting an officer of the law.

  “I was here when that happened. Jesse’s telling the truth, Sheriff.”

  “Yeah? And just who the hell are you, Missy?”

  “My name is Serena Barker. I work here for Mister R.G. Anderson. I can tell you straight off, Jesse was sitting in the office when his brother told him the news.”

  “Of course you can because I reckon you’re a ‘cousin,’ too?”

  “Nope. Not even close. Not yet, anyway.” Serena stared at Jesse and pointed at him and then to his head, her eyebrows halfway up her forehead. Jesse smiled and tipped his new hat.

  “Bought it off a Jewish man in town. He wanted two dollars but I got him down to eighty-eight cents. Didn’t even want it at first, but he was convincing.”

  “Eighty-eight cents? What kind of a number is that?”

  “It’s all I had left in my pocket after I paid two bits for the title search.”

  “Well, it does look smart, Jesse Sutherlin. I’ll say that. You searched the title of The Oaks?”