Slave Graves

by Thomas Hollyday

The noise of car doors, slamming one after another, woke Frank. The sun was a large red ball just above tree line. There was still enough dew in the air to keep the temperature bearable. He sat up on the pallet of canvas he had arranged on the bed of the truck. Before he went to sleep last night the old memories of his fellow soldiers had come back in bursts of emotion. He had seen again the young faces of the men he called Philadelphia, and Texas and Alaska. Always over the years when he was overtired and worried about his work, the thoughts of these men came again. He had known them as closely as one knows brothers. With them he had been in a special fraternity, one formed against the loneliness and fear of the Vietnamese nights. They had been his strength in that tough time and the thought of them came when he needed it to comfort him and to give him energy.

  He crawled out by the hoist and climbed down through the open tailgate. His skin still itched from caked earth and several mosquito bites. He stood beside the truck, the mist wet against his skin, his eyes opening more and more. From where he was, he could see without being seen. A convoy of Terment Company station wagons had entered the yard. The green cars were stopped, their hoods pointing in all directions as if in a sudden sweeping attack. Men in green jackets, holding rifles and side arms were searching the small yard, kicking at the tall grass. Spyder was there too, his bent posture even more ignoble compared to the others who held their heads and shoulders erect like trained soldiers. Even so, Spyder was in command. He ordered one man to stand beside the decrepit gate. As the man moved into position, his legs became buried in the honeysuckle, his body twisting to maintain his balance against the vines.

  As if waiting until this sweep for danger had been completed, Jake finally appeared. He walked, no longer with his golf club, looking carefully around him. The path he was following to the site would lead him directly by Frank’s truck. Frank walked around his truck, reached into the cab, found his work shorts and stepped into them.

  Jake called, “Frank, where are you?”

  “Over here, Jake. By the truck.”

  Jake walked through the boxwoods to where the truck was parked. Jake for his part was dressed as usual in stylish white pants and shoes with a silk shirt. In his right hand he carried a cellular telephone.

  “Billy, the chief of police, reported to me about the vandalism out here. We can’t have that. I brought out a guard to help watch the site. We can’t take any chances. There’s too much equipment here. There’s the safety of you and Maggie.”

  “The chief told Maggie it was animals.”

  “I haven’t got much time,” Jake said. “My directors are meeting in New York. This bridge is behind schedule.” He looked intently at Frank. “Still nothing definite?”

  “We found some new skeletons, Jake. Come on, I’ll show you.” The morning sun was filling the excavation pits in the site with various brown shades, and the darkest shadows were disappearing as they walked up to the area. A few small birds had been picking insects from the earth and they flew up with some shrill cries.

  “Watch your step in this muck, Jake. You’re going to mess up those white shoes.”

  “I’ll be all right. I’ve been walking in this stuff all my life,” he answered. He stepped carefully and his shoes remained clean. Frank walked directly to test pit Q, the surface water rippling slightly under his bare feet.

  “Let me start up the pump and we can take a look.” Frank worked on the machine. It started on the fourth pull, a cloud of white oil smoke drifting across the site in the still air.The water began to surge from the hose. Frank left the nozzle slightly in the air so that he could monitor the outflow. A titmouse flew up from the brush where the water hit in spurts, shaking the branches.

  They spoke in higher voices over the noise of the pump. “There, that’s taking out most of the water. I’ll keep it running while I show you.” Frank stepped down into the pit which was more than four feet on each side and at least four feet deep. He knelt in the wet soil. “Strange,” he said. “There are more of them. Look at this, Jake.”

  Jake stood close to the edge of the pit, standing over Frank, his face intent, “Those look like skulls, Frank.”

  Frank nodded. “It must be the water that is opening up this pit.” Frank pointed out the new skulls. He continued, as though he were thinking out loud, oblivious to Jake’s being there. “They seem to be the skulls of adult men, burned to death. They are Caucasian, we think. It’s very hard to tell. We try to see the width of nose bones, projection of teeth.” Then Frank remembered Jake was there. He looked up at Jake. “The mystery is why they are here, why so many, why the fire. Our best guess is that they were crew members, somehow trapped here. One of them is a big fellow. See his hand on his cutlass?”

  Frank stood up and sat on the edge of the pit. “Jake, we think that the ship was an early Eighteenth Century wreck. We know that because of the type of construction we found in the part that the bulldozer pulled up. Yesterday we compared the timbers here with those of several hulks down the river and there is no doubt in our minds that this wreck is much earlier than the hulks.”

  He saw Jake’s smile, and said, “I can see you’re not convinced yet, but that’s what a lot of archaeology is, piecing little clues together until we have a pattern. We look for something that points to one direction or conclusion and that’s what we finally accept as the story of the site.”

  “Frank,” said Jake, glancing for a moment at the giant hand and then almost interrupting Frank’s last words, “Here’s what I really want to know. Do you think you can finish up with whatever it in that you need to do so we can get started by early tomorrow morning?”

  Jake smiled, his drawl heavy, “I’ve told my bulldozer people to be ready to start.”

  “Jake, I can’t say that for sure,” said Frank, holding his eyeglasses, speaking in a serious tone. “You are really pushing me.”

  “Hello,” called Maggie.

  “We’ve found more bones,” answered Frank.

  She started across the field, wearing the same shorts and tee shirt as before.

  “You are the dirtiest scientists I ever saw,” said Jake, grinning. “I’ve got to leave,” he said. “Keep in mind I expect to start my equipment in the morning.”

  “I was telling you that I’m not sure I can be finished by then,” said Frank.

  Jake put his arm on Frank’s bare shoulder. “Frank, I want this job finished by tonight.”

  “Jake you see what we are finding here. These men died. We have to find out why.”

  “Why? Nobody in River Sunday gives a damn about some old skeletons except the Pastor. Most people in River Sunday who even think about history and the past prefer to think about beautiful colonial manor houses like Peachblossom, beautiful types of things, not some damn graves.”

  “I’m not so sure about what interests people in River Sunday. To do this job right, Jake, to do my job, we have to analyze these bones, find out what we can.”

  “Look here, Frank.” Jake suddenly became angry. “You are not here to delay a construction site for the next year while you fiddle around with some bones you happened to find near the wreck.”

  Jake stared at Maggie. “I thought you were a woman with some common sense. If you want to research these bones, you are going to hold up a multimillion dollar project and a lot of local people’s jobs.”

  Maggie started to speak, then stopped. She turned off the pump. The site was suddenly silent. She ignored Jake and said, “I need this pump, Frank over at my test pit.”

  Frank started to help her, but Jake restrained him. “You stay here. I haven’t finished with you.” They watched for a moment as she pulled it towards her area, the pump skids bumping on the few ruts that were dry in the sun, leaving a mark of its runners on the soil.

  “Let me give you an example, Frank,” Jake said, his hand still on Frank’s shoulder, his voice smoothed again to a pleasant drawl. “A while back I wanted to watch the ducks and geese forming up on the Bay, rafting up. I wanted to se
e whether they were starting to fly over the North Creek because that’s where I have a hunting blind. The old fashioned windows in the mansion house are too hard to see from so I wanted to open up the front side of the house. People in River Sunday heard about my renovation plans. I got telegrams up at my office in New York. They wanted me to keep the house in its original condition and design so the tourists could come and see the historic architecture. Guess what, Frank? I went ahead and changed the windows. People who did not like what I was doing realized the cost of trying to beat me in court. No one wanted to put up the money to take me on. Money wins. That’s the way it will be here at the bridge.

  “I have faith in you, Frank. You’re supposed to be a professional. When I heard about you I said there’s a man who is alert to what’s happening in the world. Youngest chairman of archeology in the whole country. You don’t get that kind of job without being a team player. I said to Spyder, get this man. He will help us to keep the folks in line.”

  Frank persisted, tried to reason with Jake. As he spoke he watched Jake’s face get red with anger. “If we find something in here, it not only belongs to the people of River Sunday but it also belongs to the scholarship of the world. There are many historians who’ll be very interested in what we have found here.”

  “Look, Frank, you are supposed to help me.”

  “So what happens? Do you fire me? If I don’t finish up by tomorrow morning, what happens next?” Frank was trying to joke. Jake just looked angry.

  “Frank, I won’t have to fire you. There just won’t be any place left for you to dig. You folks can’t dig through concrete.”

  Jake’s manner had become dictatorial as though he were ordering entry level employees, not professionals. “This afternoon, I got visitors coming to the site. I want them to see progress, I want them to see you finishing up. These folks got a stake in the building of the bridge.” Jake suddenly smiled, a consoling smile. “I’m sure you’ll help us, Frank. Your boss as much as guaranteed me that you would do what had to be done.”

  He walked back towards his car. As he did he pressed buttons on his telephone and began to talk into it. He nodded to Spyder like a man who thinks he has just solved a big problem. Maggie walked over to where Frank was working and the two of them watched Jake leave.

  “You can see what’s going on, Frank,”

  “It’s a set up,” he said.

  “Working for the State doesn’t give me any great choices either.”

  Frank said slowly, “It’s not what I decide to do here. It’s what Jake decides to do.”

  She put her arm around him. “It’s tough to face up to reality.”

  The Pastor arrived at that moment, his black car covered with dust in the sunlight, jouncing as it maneuvered the ruts.

  “I’m going to buy the Pastor a new set of shock absorbers. I bet he has the original set on that Cadillac, judging from the way it bounces,” grinned Frank.

  “Glad you still got your sense of humor, Frank,” Maggie said. “Getting depressed won’t get you anywhere.”

  The Pastor walked up to them, holding two large paper bags with food. “Here. Coffee inside. Hot.” Frank reached for the bags and put them on the ground. He pulled out the coffee thermos and cups and poured coffee for all of them .

  “Jake was just here,” said Maggie, “Giving us the word.”

  “He went by me, the other way, going into River Sunday. Didn’t even notice me. He was talking on his cell phone.”

  “We have until tomorrow morning. Then he’s going to start up the bulldozers again.”

  “That’s about what he’s been saying all along,” said the Pastor. “Jake knew we wouldn’t have enough time.”

  Maggie said, “The project’s not hopeless. We can take out of here anything we find. Our records and our photographs can still be studied.”

  “You’re right. Let’s find what we can . We’ve still got a day,” said Frank, moving towards his dig. “Besides, I might still be able to reason with Jake.”

  Maggie and the Pastor smiled at Frank’s remark. “I’ll work as long as I can,” said the Pastor.

  “We’ve found more bones, Pastor,” said Frank over his shoulder.

  The Pastor hardly looked at the new find. “I don’t have to see anymore. These people were murdered.”

  No one spoke. The mention of the word “murder” gave the project a definition, a stature. The Pastor had labeled these skeletons in a stark and horrible way. If he was right, this was a crime scene, a place with all the proof of a hideous crime. They touched the bones carefully, even more aware of the pain that these humans must have endured.

  “Murder might be too strong a term to use,” said Frank.

  The Pastor ignored him and went on, “I’ve been telling my church members about these horrors we are finding up here. Trouble is the church has only a few members. Not enough of us to make any difference. Over the years, many of our church families have left River Sunday, gone to Baltimore and Philadelphia to find work. None of those people are aware of all this.”

  “What about the nature people, the human butterflies? What will they think of these discoveries?” asked Maggie.

  “Their only interest in this dig is that it holds up Jake’s building that bridge,” the Pastor said in a disgusted tone. “Besides, she’s not tough enough to beat him.”

  “Why don’t you got to the press?” Maggie suggested to the Pastor. “I’ve seen the power the press has on public opinion of these excavations.”

  “The press will back Jake,” said the Pastor. “People want jobs.”

  Then he said, “There might be another way to stop him.” The Pastor remained silent after that.

  “No skywriters today.” a voice boomed behind them. It was Soldado.

  “It’s started,” he said.

  Frank looked at him. “What has started?”

  “Jake brought in his soldiers. He’s got them green coats posted on all the streets of River Sunday. They got guns too.”

  “There’s no war here.”

  “You still think it can be all talk,” shrugged Soldado as he looked at the array of skulls below him in area Q. “Jake Terment killed these people,” he said. Frank and the others looked at him and saw how serious his face was.

  “No, Soldado,” said Frank. “These skeletons are very old, from long before Jake was born.”

  “His family, they have a hand in it. It’s the same as if it was him that did it. Skulls tell their story. Maybe the skulls, they tell you something. This is proof.”

  “Jake is the landlord, not the murderer,” said Frank. He immediately regretted using the word, “murderer,” fearing he might encourage Soldado to start more violence. “It’s all part of archaeology, doing a dig, working with the land owners, Soldado.”

  “That’s the problem I got with you, professor,” Soldado replied. “You can’t decide what to do. When you can’t decide, you can’t beat the bastard. You’re the kind of guy wants to get along with everybody, rather than be on the right side.”

  Frank stepped into the bone scatter of area Q. He began to brush soil off the bones that were in front of him. Then he said, “I can’t do anything about what you think, Soldado.”

  Frank was silent for a few moments. The others watched him. Then he looked up from his work and said, “I’m going to continue working. Maggie, if you will, you could continue in your test pit. Pastor, perhaps you can help me here for a while. Soldado, if you want to help, there’s a lot of sifting to be done over at the soil pile by the bow of the wreck. I’ll get you started and show you what to look for.”

  Soldado smiled. “I just tell you what is true. They is always good guys and bad guys no matter how much a man wish different.”

  Chapter 10