“I never got the chance. Dr. Babbs wouldn’t give me a moment alone.”
“Then do it tomorrow. Schedule your interview with the two cops and we’re free to have fun tomorrow night-if they’ll talk.”
I said, “Nope. I’ll do it now. I can be at the house in forty minutes and be done before sunset-if no one’s around. The interviews I can do by phone. Belton wants me to stop by tonight anyway. I like him; a nice old guy in his way, but he’s holding something back.” I got up and began collecting things. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”
No… Birdy had something else in mind but took her time getting to it. “I didn’t plan on checking out of the motel until Monday morning.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Well, what I’m thinking is, the cops said that Saturday and Sunday before Halloween are the two busiest nights of the year at the Cadence house. Teenagers go there to park and dare each other to jump the fence.”
I had my carry-on bag open on the bed but stopped what I was doing. “You’re saying I should be there with my camera tonight because it’s Saturday?”
“No, I’m saying we could hide inside and get video-or scare the hell out of them. Live video would make Bunny’s attorney very happy.” She laughed, picturing how much fun it would be.
I didn’t mind altering my plans with Belton, but there was an obvious problem. “You have to be at work at six in the morning and I planned on going to church. We wouldn’t get back here until late tonight.”
“I’m talking about tomorrow after I get off. Sunday will be just as busy and I work four to midnight on Mondays. We can stay as late as we need to and sleep in.”
Her eagerness was the tip-off. Suddenly, I knew what this was about. I said, “Brit’s attending brushfire school in Port Charlotte. That’s where you’re going tonight, isn’t it? It’s more than an hour away and you’re not coming back. Tomorrow night is a trade-off so I won’t be mad.”
The expression on Birdy’s face was partly genuine, partly mock surprise. “Psychic, that’s what you are. You and Lucia should compare notes.”
I said, “No, I had coffee with Joey before you got up this morning. By sunrise, I’d learned more than I wanted about how to set a woods on fire-controlled burns, state regulations-all sorts of things. That man’s as talkative as you when he’s full of caffeine. Well… actually, he’s shy and that’s how he covers it. Talking. Some people do.”
Birdy went to the window, a wicked smirk on her face. “Before sunrise, huh? So tell me, Hannah, how’d you sleep last night?”
13
15 October, 1864 (aboard Sodbuster) [LOCATION AND FIRST FOUR LINES BLOTTED]:… the Spaniard is a member of the Craft & what them 3 gerillas did to his wife and t’other woman now bind us by Sacred Obligation. The use of a cable & a tongue cutting might be due we will see. Glass rising and damn cold. Good NE wind for long reaches, a Lords blessing…
17 October, 1864 [no location]: Unknown raiders has sent them three Yankees to hell & now has the 4” guns from Labelle altho it aint much of a fort being only tents & a sutlers shed. But no help to a woman who kant talk for screaming prayers to a God who aint traveled this far inland. Sheepherders madness, the Spaniard calls it. This being a sickness that afflicts women in lonely country. But the Spaniard knows good as us that a bullet is his woman’s only cure. They was 5 Yankees she says now. Not 3.
On this windy Saturday before Halloween, the Cadence house looked forlorn and restless when I arrived at a little after six. It was not as busy as predicted, but I’d seen two big-tired trucks, one loaded with teenagers, on the access road when I turned in.
I was glad they were gone. The sky had descended on gray streaming clouds, but there was still plenty of light for photos. That gave me time, so I allowed myself to reread my recent discoveries in the journal.
I don’t know why I felt compelled to do so. My great-uncle’s callousness was as upsetting as the tragedy that had befallen a woman who was nameless and faceless to me. She hadn’t lived here in the old house, but I had walked the ruins of her property and life earlier that morning. I felt sure it was the homestead a mile downriver.
The “Spaniard”-a Brazilian timber grower-had been a master brick mason, as the cistern proved.
Sheepherder’s madness, he had said of his wife. The man sounded slightly mad himself, although I could force myself to understand. My well-educated friend Birdy had remarked on the difficulties that women faced when isolated by wilderness. But neither of us had projected the danger of living in a spot that might attract roaming bands of soldiers who were far removed from home and their own conscience. Little food, no salt, but time enough to get drunk-someone had stood by that cistern and emptied bottles of strong ale from Massachusetts.
A woman who could only scream prayers, not speak, had endured more than I wanted to think about but couldn’t help imagining.
Five men. Not three, she had said.
Brutes. The word was not strong enough.
Predators-it ignored the pile-on savagery of pack behavior.
Inhuman…
The word worked, but wasn’t quite right. Sadly, it described the behavior of more than the woman’s attackers. Captain Summerlin could be included after the threats he had penned. Hang the men with a cable, cut out their tongues. I could only project from his cryptic wording. To then reference a Sacred Obligation had the taint of blasphemy. But who was I to say what was conscionable and what was not during such a war? A man of my own blood had lived it. He had seen and done things his own way.
20th October, 1864 (Ft. Thompson, Labelle): The Federals sent Gen. Woodbury from Key West with a fresh troop in new uniform & kit to Ft. Myers & shoot our cattle where they stand. Goddamnt let them come. No one expected these sorts & it has turnt the stomach of even them that backs the North. For the price of a bushel of salt we expect the pleasure of settling this matter. Says Bro. Gatrelclass="underline" lure the enemy so close it’s up to God to decide who lives or dies. I says Amen. 4” canon loaded with nails & pig shit will make quite a party for them who wants to dance. For them who runs, the fat pine is strung at every fence row. The Gerillas has been loosed & hells flames is ready…
Gerillas. Captain Summerlin had meant guerrillas, of course, a man who had seen much of the world but seldom the inside of a schoolhouse. There was no confusion, however, regarding his remarks about fat pine and hells flames.
I knew exactly what he meant. My mother’s old house is built of heart-of-pine-fat pine, or lighter wood, as it is known. Lumber so crystalized with turpentine, you can’t drive a nail through it even after a hundred years of curing. But a single match can cause a wall-or a fencerow-to explode into flames.
The knowledge produced in me an irrational shame for events that had occurred generations ago. Why hadn’t Capt. Summerlin blotted out his threats? Even with his coded mix of apostrophes and numbers, they were readable to someone willing to invest the effort. I had proven that. The man had protected himself in earlier entries but now laid the truth bare.
Why?
The question led to a truth I felt, not thought: this entry was Capt. Summerlin’s declaration of war. He had finally chosen a side, yet his convictions were neither blue nor gray. Revenge was the motivator but his true allegiance was to Florida. Vanquishing invaders was his goal. He and friends had baited a trap with salt-bushels of salt, of all things!-and those who entered were to be fired upon by cannon. For those who escaped, there was no escape. I had helped Belton Matás pace the distance from the cistern to a fencerow. Fifty long strides, for a man sprinting for his life. No evidence of fire remained, but I suspected it had once been a barrier of flames.