The first aerial map of The Barracks and Barracks Farm Road was taken in 1920 by a private concern, not a government survey map.
“No Ivy Farms back then, no indoor arena at The Barracks. The brick house is there. Look how open things were. Then, just twenty years later.” Trudy laid out an aerial map of that. “Still pretty clean.”
“The country club is here on the right, across Garth Road,” said Harry. “Well, it was always there, but not as a country club, but now you can see the golf course. Wow, this is something.” She pulled the earlier map over this one again. “Even though it’s clean, you can’t see any remains of buildings or outlines on the fields.”
“They’d been cultivated for too long, I think.” Trudy returned those maps, moved up a drawer. “Now look at this. Nineteen eighty.”
“Well, I guess people need to live and they want to live grandly, but this is so sad. We’ve lost so much of our history. I mean, even the lovely old houses were torn down. Remember Rustling Oaks?” Harry inquired.
“I remember all of Berta Jones’s properties and those of her children. Everyone dead now, and most of the land chopped up. The sorrowful thing about the people that inherited most of the old estates is that they couldn’t run them. They cherished the country, but they didn’t know how to make money. Their forebears generated the money. My father always said, ‘The first generation makes the money. The second tries to keep it, and the third loses it.’ Simplistic, but there’s a lot of truth to it.”
“Yes.” Harry studied the 1980 aerial photo. “I suppose that’s a form of revitalization.”
“It is, but Ginger decried the loss of historical places. Then again, the new people had some money, but not enough. To run a place like the old Jones property or even The Barracks before it became what it is now takes a fortune and labor costs rose, always do. The price of everything shot up. The wars intervened, World War One and Two.”
“Don’t forget the big one before that.” Harry’s mouth turned up slightly, a wry smile.
“Oh, Ginger could be quite wicked about the Yankees coming down after 1865. He used to say, ‘Before we condemn, we have to remember that carpetbaggers saved Keswick.’ ” Trudy cited a gorgeous part of Albemarle County that had held fast to the large estates better than the western part of the county.
“Trudy, I think those now living in Keswick would have a fit if they heard the Yankees getting credit.” Harry burst out laughing, as did Trudy.
Trudy put the aerial photos away, opened another drawer. “Here’s an interesting view.”
Harry laid the aerial map on the desk, peering intently at it. “I don’t remember this.”
“Camp Security, York, Pennsylvania. It was under threat of development and a wonderful woman, Carol Tanzola, fought hard to save it. Took her twelve years with the help of others who understood her reasons for preservation.”
“I’ve never been to York,” Harry confessed. “I know a little bit about Hanover.”
“You would. All those horses. Oh, Harry, you must go. Old York, the square, the homes on those old colonial streets. It’s beautiful, and the York Historical Society is quite good. Ginger was impressed, and I know I am bragging, but he just fell in love with Carol. Quite a beauty, I might add, and he did what he could to help, would hector historians at the University of Pennsylvania, Penn State, Villanova, oh, so many schools.”
“What was his interest? I mean, what motivated him?”
“Apart from Carol?” She winked. “Like The Barracks, it was another prisoner-of-war camp. In fact, when the four-thousand-plus wound up at The Barracks, many had to move, a thousand or so, went up to York. But at that time, you see, the campaign in South Carolina was moving up into Virginia. What a dramatic and frightening time.”
“Trudy, you could teach classes.” Harry put her arm around her shoulders.
“Ginger loved it so. You can’t spend all those decades with a man without eventually learning something.”
“And he learned from you.”
A peal of laughter shook Trudy for a moment. “What he learned was, after you shave, wash the whiskers down the bowl! Harry, it took me the first year of our marriage to get that through his head.”
“With Fair, it was dropping his clothes on the floor as he took them off.”
“My mother said you had to housebreak a man, and, boy, was she right.” Trudy laughed again, then her eyes misted over. “I’d do it all over again. Every second. Every minute. I had the best husband ever.”
Harry hugged her again. “I think you did. You were a matched pair.”
—
As she drove home with Tucker’s head on her thigh, tears silently spilled over Harry’s cheeks. A good marriage teaches everyone around the couple. Trudy could say that Ginger fell in love with the York lady, and she meant that he was enthusiastic about the woman, had a crush, and Trudy trusted him. Loved him and wanted him to have those experiences. And Ginger, in turn, supported her interests, embraced her friends even if he didn’t always like a few.
A wave of rage supplanted the sorrow. How dare someone kill Ginger McConnell? She focused on the road.
“Tucker.”
The sweet dog raised her head. “Yes, Mom.”
“I am going to find who killed Ginger, so help me God! And why was he fascinated with prisoner-of-war camps at the end of his life, camps connected by the prisoners themselves? Was there some kind of illicit trade between Virginia and Pennsylvania?” She thought about that, and decided no.
Although it would be possible to haul the best-quality Virginia moonshine up there, people in the Keystone State were perfectly capable of making hard liquor. They evidenced a real knack for beer, with all those German immigrants. What could tie those two together, and why was Ginger gathering photographs, old maps, reading and rereading battle reports that he already knew so well? She remembered once that he mentioned to her, if you truly wanted to know about a period of history, any period of history, get your hands on diaries and letters. Well, he had read those all his life.
She spoke aloud again to Tucker. “Buddybud, I don’t know why, but all this has to do with The Barracks.”
April 22, 1781
Ewing Garth rode a Welsh cob, a sturdy horse, to the bridge being rebuilt over Ivy Creek. Spring brought the workers. He had driven over to the camp on a number of occasions during the winter, each time counting all the new barracks he could see. Others were being put up over the hill, hard by those two thousand acres owned by Peter Ashcombe.
Intelligent man that he was, Garth realized more men meant more supplies needed. He could supply in volume hemp, corn, oats, straw and hay, and tobacco. The question was not establishing price, it was getting one’s money from the Continental Congress, and it was moving the supplies themselves. Fortunately, he wasn’t cash poor, because his holdings down in New Bern, North Carolina, and those on Chincoteague Island provided that. Commerce on waterways, or the ocean, gave a man quite an advantage, that is, until a British ship decided to capture your ship and claim all the supplies as booty. So far, Ewing Garth had been lucky on that count. He spotted Captain John Schuyler on the rise above the bridge.
“Ah, Captain. I see progress is being made. The road is much improved.”
Tipping his hat to Garth, Captain Schuyler smiled. “With spring, Sir, we should speed along with raising and widening the bridge itself. My only fear is that melting snows will raise the creek too high, too soon.”