by JL Bryan
“We did chase the bloody girl away for the night,” I said. “We have a little footage of it.”
Jeremy nodded. I tried not to breathe a visible sigh of relief when he finally turned back and climbed into his car. I didn't have any real accomplishments to report, but fortunately he had to get to work. It was a Friday. Jacob would be coming out this evening, thankfully, and that ought to shed some light on the ghosts and what they wanted.
I sincerely hoped it would, anyway, because I still felt very much in the dark.
Once again, the rest of the family rose early to tend the animals. Stacey and I slipped away as quickly as we could, back to the faded peach-and-pink comforts of the Old Walnut Inn overlooking what had once been one of the nation's busiest highways. We didn't see any traffic at all.
I slept for a couple of hours before my phone woke me up. I didn't recognize the number.
“Is this Detective Jordan?” a man's voice asked over the phone. He spoke with a low, hushed tone, as if calling to plan a murder.
“Well, I'm a detective,” I said. “Private detectives don't usually go by—”
“It sounds like Detective Gordon,” he snickered. “You know, from Batman.”
“Okay. Who is this?”
“Apologies, m'lady,” he said, and my skin crawled just a little. “I am Virgil Rathmew. A certain librarian informed me that you wanted to get in touch with me.”
“Oh, yeah, good.” I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Stacey scowled at me briefly from her bed, clearly annoyed I'd left the ringer at full volume on my phone while we slept, then she crammed pillows onto either side of her head.
“Might I ask the cause of your interest in our humble yet all-important role in the Revolution?” he asked. “Are you, perchance, investigating a crime that requires an expertise in that era?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “We're just doing general research on a local family's history, that's all.”
“I wonder why an out-of-town investigator would be called for that,” Virgil said. “Rather than a prominent local historian and author.”
“Uh, okay.” I rubbed my eyes. “Sorry, I just woke up, and I'm not clear where this conversation is going right now—”
“I would say it's going poorly,” Virgil said. “I am otherwise engaged until this afternoon, when I will be making the rounds at the Brier Creek battlefield. If you wish to join my lecture tour, it begins at one p.m. sharp at the Brannen's Bridge historical marker.”
“Lecture tour?” I asked.
“Lecture tour, yes,” he confirmed.
“I'm interested in learning whether there's any history related to Hessians in this area. Maybe associated with that battle.”
The other end of the line was silent for a moment. “You want to know about the horseman on the Neville farm?”
“Well...yeah,” I said. “Do you know anything about it?”
“I know they're attempting to exploit the old story for commercial gain,” Virgil said. “I know the family who live there now are out-of-towners, virtually carpetbaggers from the city with no apparent respect for their own heritage.”
“Why do you say that?”
“If they had any respect, they would not turn their family's tragedies into tourist fodder.”
“So you've been to their attractions?” I asked.
“Attractions? You mean the corn maze and the 'haunted' cemetery? I've seen the signs and the Telephone article about it. That's all I needed to know. Some people disgust me. I doubt they even bothered to learn the real story.”
“What is the real story?” I asked, daring to hope that he actually knew something.
“I must hang up now,” he said. “My oven's beeping.”
“Okay, then,” I said, feeling a little concerned he might decide not to help me since he disliked my clients so much. “One p.m. at the battlefield?”
“Metal detector optional,” he added, just before hanging up.
“Can't wait,” I told him, though the guy didn't sound particularly friendly and I wasn't exactly looking forward to seeing him.
“Is it over?” Stacey croaked as I hung up the phone. She cautiously eased one pillow away from her ear, as if testing the air for noise.
“I know it was difficult for you, lying there and doing nothing at all with your eyes closed,” I said. “On the upside, we now have an appointment with Virgil Rathmew, expert air conditioner repairman and part-time Revolutionary War expert.”
“You were talking to that history buff guy?” Stacey asked, making me wince. “Can we go back to sleep now?”
I tried. With the motel room's curtains blocking the light from outside, Stacey was snoring softly within five minutes, but of course she hadn't seen all that I'd seen. Closing my eyes conjured fresh memories of the pale gray shades of the dead shuffling toward me, the man with the dirty wig and rotten face grabbing me, his sparse teeth and black gums visible through his tattered lips in a permanent death-grin, his nose decayed like a leper's—
Enough. I opened my eyes and took deep breaths, willing each part of my body to relax. I turned over on my side. As soon as the disturbing visions of Jeremy's dead relatives began to recede, they were replaced by Anton Clay, smiling at me while he burned all those I cared about. I dreamed of waking up in Michael's apartment, the whole place charred black, Michael and his sister both turned to ash and bone in their beds. Anton Clay's face smiled at me from a mirror, until I smashed it with a burned chunk of Michael's bedpost.
This job brings far too many nightmares. My next job is going to be something happy, like working at Disney World. Bright lights, toddler music all day, and thousands of screaming kids couldn't cause as many bad dreams as being attacked by the undead, am I right?
Hm. Maybe I'll stay where I am.
I slept fitfully, with unpleasant dreams, until my alarm awoke me at noon. I had to meet up with the renowned local history buff in one hour. The alarm had zero effect on Stacey, so I jostled her awake.
“Come on, Blondie,” I said. “It's time for our educational battlefield tour.”
“Huh?” Stacey half-opened one eye. “Thought you were doing that by yourself. I have to...watch hours of...” She yawned.
“After talking to that guy on the phone, I'm not going by myself.”
“How bad can he be?”
“He calls me 'Detective Jordan.'”
“So?” Stacey waved me off and closed her eyes.
“He also called me 'm'lady.'”
Stacey opened her eyes again. “You're kidding.”
“Not one bit.”
“Ugh.” Stacey sighed and shoved herself up to a sitting position, then stretched her arms. “And there's nobody else we can talk to?”
“The librarian said he's the guy who knows the most. Now get your boots on and accompany me to the park, m'lady,” I said.
“Okay, I'm coming. Just don't call me that again.”
“Call you what, m'lady?”
Stacey threw a pillow at my head. At least she was up and moving now.
About an hour later, we arrived at the bridge over Brier Creek, a muddy, swampy waterway wide enough for canoes and rafts, though probably not any boats larger than that. Cypresses grew thick along the banks, the trees and branches leaning inward to capture the sunlight over the creek.
The historical site consisted of a couple of markers and a picnic-table pavilion shaded by a rusty tin roof, which had accumulated layers of graffiti over the years. There were no other amenities. We pulled off the paved road and parked on a sandy dirt road alongside the little park area.
We looked at the two historical markers, both which were just signs mounted on posts, nothing fancy. The larger sign featured an engraved map of the battlefield site and a wall of text describing in long detail the battle that had occurred here in March of 1779. Essentially, it had been a case of Americans getting cornered and slaughtered by the British.
“Hey, listen to the story of this war hero.” Stacey pointed at the seco
nd, smaller sign, topped with one of those Masonic compass and square symbols and the name GENERAL SAMUEL ELBERT. “After most of his men were killed, this General Elbert guy avoided death by making the sign of a Mason to a British officer, who was also a Mason and spared his life.”
“Okay,” I said. “What else?”
“That's it,” Stacey snickered. “That's the whole story. And now this sign commemorates that amazing act of valor.”
“We never stop to appreciate the sacrifices of those who use their social connections to save themselves,” I said. “It really makes you think.”
“General Elbert was a hero of the Revolution,” a voice said. “However you may choose to decry him.”
Uh-oh. It sounded like we'd stepped on some history-buff toes—not the most diplomatic way to begin our lecture tour.
I turned to see a man in a khaki shirt, red neckerchief, wraparound sunglasses and an Indiana Jones sort of fedora. He grasped a metal detector in gloved hands. He was shorter than me, a squat, wide man who must have weighed at least three hundred soft pounds. I guessed this to be our new friend Virgil, because his voice matched what I'd heard on the phone, but I couldn't confirm it right away because he didn't stop talking.
“Elbert served on the Georgia Council of Safety and led the Patriot cause in our state,” the man lectured me. “He led more than one invasion of Florida, and later fought alongside George Washington at Yorktown. Subsequently he became governor of Georgia. So sneer as you please, madam, but you're sneering at a great American who fought for our freedom to stand here by this creek today as free Americans.”
“Virgil Rathmew?” I asked. By this point, I'd heard enough of his voice that I was sure he was the same guy I'd spoken with on the phone earlier.
“I am.” He kept his grip firm on his metal detector, not offering to shake hands. “You must be Detective Jordan.”
“That's me. And this is Assistant Stacey. Thanks for meeting us here. Are we too late for the lecture tour?”
“Technically, yes, but as nobody else has arrived, we can begin on a delayed schedule,” Virgil said.
“I guess it's our lucky day,” I said. “Did you have anything to tell us about the Hessians, or maybe the Neville farm—”
“Enough.” Virgil held up a hand as though I'd been yapping on and on for hours. “Please hold all questions until after the tour.”
“What exactly are we touring?” Stacey looked around at the swampy stream, the two historical markers, and the concrete bridge above us where a car passed occasionally. She brought out a microphone. “Mind if I record you?”
Virgil activated his metal detector and began to walk.
“Imagine, if you will, that it is the month of March, 1779,” Virgil said. “The colonies are at war for their independence. The British and their Loyalist suck-ups just lost a major battle at Kettle Creek, outside Augusta, and have begun a slow retreat to Savannah. Brigadier General John Ashe leads a force of Patriots, thirteen hundred strong, in pursuit of the retreating British. They camp here against the water, near the intersection of Brier Creek with the Savannah River—swampy, wet ground. The Patriots are working to rebuild a destroyed bridge here. They don't expect the British to sneak across the river farther north, at Paris' Mill, in order to turn around and attack them.”
I thought the story was getting interesting, but then Virgil just had to back up, telling us the names and random biographical facts of all the British and American officers involved, and also the general disposition of both sides of the war up and down the whole continent. He walked back and forth at the creek bank, gesturing wildly as if there were anything to see. I listened for anything that could possibly relate to our case, while Stacey's eyes started to glaze over.
It was kind of impressive, though, just how much Virgil could rattle off from memory. He knew precisely how many muskets, horses, and cannons had been available on each side.
“The British surprise attack arrived on the morning of March third,” Virgil said. “The Patriot force barely had time to assemble before the British drove them back into the swamps. Most of the Americans were ill-prepared and simply ran—including their supposed leader, General Ashe. Only about two hundred of them stayed to fight, and most died. Do you know who stood and fought that day? Do you? It was those men under the command of Samuel Elbert, whose memory you were so roundly dismissing when first I sauntered over here.”
“I solemnly apologize to the memory of Mr. Elbert,” I said, trying to sound solemn. “It sounds like a terrible event.”
“Blood and the screams of the dying filled the swamps,” Virgil said. “They say Americans were tied to trees and tortured to death by the British. Yet the Battle of Brier Creek is today nearly forgotten, while the Kettle Creek Battlefield has enormous fancy monuments, a forty-acre park, and plans for a full-use recreation area. Meanwhile this spot, just as sacred, just as infused with the blood of patriotic early Americans, is nothing more than a place for passing motorists to toss their Burger King bags out the window as they cross the bridge. Nobody wants to remember the defeats, only the victories. But those who died here deserve our respect, particularly those who stood and fought despite overwhelming odds.”
“Is there any connection to the Neville farm?” I asked. It was possible that ghosts left by such a battle could have wandered through the swampy woods to the farm, which wasn't terribly far away. As the crow flies, they would have arrived at the swampy cemetery first, before reaching the corn maze and then the house. It was possible the gray shadowy things in the woods, including dusty skull-faced Mr. Wigglesworth from the eighteenth century, were actually related to the battle and not to Jeremy's family.
“If you're working for the family, surely you know all about their ancestry,” Virgil said.
“I know about some of them,” I said. “There was a guy named Hiram Neville, right?”
“And what do you know of him?”
“Not much. He would've been in his early forties during the Revolution, though.”
“I cannot say I'm surprised that people who would turn their own heritage into a cheap tourist mill would have so little knowledge of the very heritage they are exploiting,” Virgil said.
“So, what are you saying, exactly?” Stacey asked, easing the microphone closer to his face. “There was a connection?”
“Hiram's son Albert fought in the state militia,” Virgil said. “He died at age nineteen, fighting on the Patriot side at the siege of Augusta in 1780. You can look it up. But you're more interested in his daughter, of course.”
“I am?” I asked.
“Mildred Neville,” he said. “Died sometime during the Revolution. Murdered by a highwayman, said to be a former Hessian mercenary who'd fought for the English before deserting. He moved on to a career of petty robbery, preying on merchants and farmers as they traveled the isolated country roads.”
“You're right,” I said. “I'm very interested. How did she die?”
“It would have been a flintlock pistol or a sword. Possibly a dagger. It was unlikely to be fast and painless, in other words.”
I nodded, thinking of my brief vision of the bloody girl in the wagon.
“Was she killed in a robbery?” I asked.
“That is the usual circumstance for death by highwayman,” Virgil said.
“How do you know this story? I couldn't find anything at the library or courthouse.”
“An oral history, which I took myself from one Dorcas Harding Baker, aged eighty-three at the time. She passed on, oh, many years ago now. She'd heard the details herself from her own grandmother. The Hessian highwayman who terrorized the roads between Savannah and Augusta in the old days, until he was finally captured and executed. Not arrested or tried, from what I understand, but very much executed.”
“Do you have this in writing?”
“In my own hand,” Virgil said. “My penmanship is exquisite, too. Mother always said so.”
“Would you mind making a copy of it
for me?”
“I could provide that, as well as copies of my annotated county histories,” Virgil said. “Volume I spans the 1700-1800 era. Will a three-ring binder format suffice for you?”
“Sure, thanks,” I said. “So do you know anything else about the horseman?”
“Captured and killed, as I previously mentioned. Stabbed and shot multiple times, then quite possibly dabbed with pitch and set on fire.”
“Ugh,” Stacey said. “What a story to hear from Grandma.”
“Do you have his name? Any idea where he came from? Do you know his regiment or anything?”
“I don't recall any additional details about the man,” Virgil said. “It was the girl's death that proved the flashpoint. Word was sent out, and they finally hunted him down. Hiram got his chance to avenge his daughter's death, hands-on. They say the ghost rides up and down the old, forgotten roads late at night, and that was the alleged point of the story. Mrs. Baker claimed to have seen it herself one night as she walked home through the woods from a church revival. She said it was a dark shadow of a man on a horse—just a shadow, black, no features. That's how she described it to me. Said it chased her all the way back to church, and she hid there until morning. She mostly talked about that ghost, to tell you the truth. The rest was primarily the set-up for the ghost story.”
“I would definitely like a copy of that transcript,” I said again, just to be clear. “And any other information you have about the Neville family from that era.”
“I may have more. My basement is a treasure trove of local history. I may open it to the public one day—after my county history book is published. I don't want anyone stealing my ideas.”
“We don't plan to write any competing county histories,” I said. “I promise.”
He stood quietly for a moment, as if appraising us through his midnight-blue sunglasses, then shook his head.
“I'll fish around in there and see what else I can find,” he said. “Letting outsiders in is just too big of a risk.”
