The Dan River was some two hundred yards wide as it passed Glory's End. The Dan is a substantial, muscular river. From the looks of all the snags and debris along the banks, it was capable of rising up from time to time. Across the river were rocky bluffs but no houses or other signs of habitation. I walked upstream for half a mile until I came abreast of the Confederacy-era railroad bridge abutments. There was a notch visible in the trees across the river, and out in the river itself I could see swelling whirlpools where I assumed the crossing pillars had been. On my side the abutment was still intact, fifty, sixty feet high with two rust stripes running down the face from some long-decayed truss pins. The defensive fortifications were crumbling badly.
I climbed the bank awkwardly amid a small avalanche of weeds, rocks, and gravel and reminded myself to bring a walking stick the next time. The shepherds passed me easily, scrambling up through the bushes, tails wagging. They loved to go out and just run. At the top I stood on the stone floor of the bridge abutment and surveyed my new kingdom. To the northwest, upstream, there was a low ridge, which Mr. Oatley had told me marked the western edge of the property, from the river all the way in to the road. To the southeast I could see the big house on its hill, surrounded by large trees whose heads were already filling in green with the new leaves. The rest of the property was hidden behind that hill. Three crows protested my sudden appearance.
I looked around for the shepherds and saw them nosing through the grove of cedars that marked the burial ground. I walked along the overgrown right-of-way, down the embankment, and then up the knoll. It was a peaceful place, overlooking the big river and the sleeping plantation. Glory's End. I could almost picture it-a platoon hurriedly drafted from the starving remnants of the gray armies, fleeing from Richmond as Grant tightened the vise, riding nervously behind a bottle-nosed steam engine. Coming into the watering station at dusk, feeling more secure now that they were across the river and safe from marauding Union cavalry, twenty-nine of them stepping down from the cars and their precious cargo to stack arms and go for a smoke or a water break of their own behind the trees.
Then the sound of hoofbeats in the nearby trees, a moment of terror as they scrambled for their guns only to stand down with a whistle of relief when the engine's headlight revealed graycoats on gaunt horses riding into the station. Even better-more protection. The engineer leaning out from the engine to greet the riders as they fanned out along the tracks, nodding to the soldiers who were restacking their rifles, and then the horrifying surprise as the riders pulled huge horse pistols and began firing, starting with the engineer, each rider calmly shooting down the man in front of him and then the one next to him, the scene dissolving into booming gouts of flame, plunging and rearing horses, and sulfurous puffs of gunsmoke until the train guard and the three-man crew were all on the ground and the last echoes of gunfire died out across the dark river.
Now all that remained was these rough stones, the weedy gravel, and the rusting bones of the water tank. It wasn't like some of the big Civil War battlefields I'd visited, like Antietam, where a walk at sundown would raise the hairs on the back of your neck as you contemplated the thousands upon thousands who had died there. This did not seem to be a haunted place, but rather more of a sad footnote to that tragic war, now sleeping comfortably in the morning sunlight. The shepherds were resting against the largest stone, which actually looked like a real tombstone. I bent down to read the badly weathered inscription.
Thomas Harper, 1845-1865
Gone to Glory for No Good Reason
Got that right, I thought. Glory's End indeed. As I stood up I caught a flash of light in the distance up on that ridge that marked the western boundary. It was a bright flash, as if a beam of sunlight had bounced off a mirror. Or some binoculars?
The top of the ridge was heavily forested, and I hadn't brought my own binoculars. I need glasses to read comfortably, but my distance vision is just fine. The shepherds, attuned to my sudden alertness, saw me staring and got up to look around. I walked deeper into the cedar grove to the highest point on the knoll, where there was a treeless clearing caused by an exposed rock ledge.
I stood behind a tree, however, just in case I'd caught a glimpse of a rifle scope instead of plain old binoculars. I was, of course, thinking of Billie Ray Breen, even as my brain was saying, No way. Then I caught a brief glimpse of a horseman up there in the trees, moving away from me and disappearing down the backside of that ridge. At that distance I couldn't make out whether the rider was male or female. The figure was wearing a dark slouch hat and what looked like one of those long western duster coats.
Okay, I said to myself. Definitely not Breen. Not on horseback. A neighbor, perhaps? I knew who lived across the road but not who lived on either side of the plantation. One more project for the to-do list. That was the whole point of my new home: projects, something to look forward to each day beyond yet another dreary court case. I craved an endless to-do list that could lead to tangible accomplishment. Restoration of the house. Bringing the farm back to life. Doing something about this forgotten graveyard. Meeting new and interesting neighbors. Maybe even learning how to ride a horse.
The shepherds were looking at me expectantly. "Okay, guys," I told them. "Let's go meet the pretty lady and get this show on the road."
Carol and I broke for lunch after two hours of inspecting the main house and its immediate surroundings. She drove me to a large, purple-painted Victorian-era house out on the main road. It had been the home of the man for whom the local town was named, and a couple from Chapel Hill had restored it and opened a restaurant. The place was full, and I soon found out why-the food was excellent.
"I didn't expect this out here in the country," I told her.
She laughed. "It's become quite well known," she said. "There's also a community college on the other side of town, and they have an excellent subscription concert program. We locals call it the Chapel Hill effect."
"Don't tell me suburban growth is pushing its way all the way out here, too," I said, noting the very mixed crowd of diners.
"Well, you're here," she pointed out.
Touche, I thought. So I am. My head was buzzing with all the details of our house inspection, and I was glad she'd brought a voice recorder along because I could not possibly have kept up with her.
"How can I find out who my adjacent neighbors are?" I asked.
"Courthouse," she replied. "Mr. Oatley can help you with that. You've already met the Lees across the road. The places on either side of you are even bigger than Glory's End. They won't necessarily have anyone living there, though. The really big tracts in this county are owned by just a few local families."
"Who 'never' sell."
"Generally, that's true. Everyone was really surprised when Glory's End came on the market."
"Who's everyone?" I asked.
"It's a really small town, Mr. Richter."
"How'd you get here?" I asked.
"I grew up here, went away to college and then out into the world for a while. Didn't care much for it and came back."
"Married?"
"Briefly," she said, looking away. I sensed she'd just as soon not pursue that subject.
"So what's next in our project planning?"
"Just that," she said. "Planning. I build a proposed restoration plan, you review and approve it, we set a budget, and then I act as the general contractor and start a bidding process. There's a sequence to these projects."