RAPPAHANNOCK GOLD
The Ghost Soldiers
Authors Notes
This new adventure begins in the spring of 1863 and as the first year of the war begins to heat up Major Zachary Tyler Hanscomb and local farmer Abel Jamison meet for the first time at the Jamison’s ford where Major Hanscomb and seven of his troops attempt to secretly ford the Rappahannock River with a supply wagon carrying important equipment bound for Richmond. Halfway across the river, the small detachment are ambushed and killed; Major Hanscomb is the only one to survive.
The story resumes more than one hundred and sixty years later as both the Jamison and Hanscomb families are reunited once again when the journals of Major Hanscomb and Able Jamison come to light and the mystery of what happened that fateful day begins to unfold … actually mysteries would be a more proper term.
It is just by chance that Napoleon Khoric has decided to pay a visit to his old friend James Tyler Hanscomb III, a bestselling author who has used many of Khoric’s past exploits as storylines for some of his popular novels.
Mystery One: During the remodeling of their old homestead the Hanscombs discovered the journal written by Major Hanscomb (known to them over the years as Grandpa Zach) who was killed only days before the end of the Civil War. To their shock he writes about the tragic event at Jamison Ford and describes a strange secret shipment they were carrying to Richmond that was lost in the Rappahannock River during the ambush. Exactly what was in that shipment the Major didn’t say. It isn’t until renovations on the Hanscomb homestead uncovers a map left behind by the Major which reveals where the actual contents of the secret shipment can be found, but still leaves no clue as to what it is. All assumptions lead everyone to believe it might be gold. It is still believed, however, there is a second journal that may answer that question … which may be buried with Grandpa Zach. The only problem is …
Mystery Two: no one knows where Grandpa Zach is buried. Khoric, with the help of longtime friend/FBI Special Agent Cassandra Ebberhardt soon begin what turns out to be a hair-raising search for his grave site.
The bad element in this story is one Roscoe Ruby. During a confrontation at a local tavern, Roscoe accidently shoots his father and is on the run from the law. His sister, Jeri Jo is also Levi Hanscomb’s fiancé. After overhearing about a possible buried treasure Roscoe and a close friend plot to find it first and claim it for themselves.
The Ghost Soldiers, Major Hanscomb and the seven who lost their lives during the ambush at Jamison Ford lurk in the background. One in particular, Mr. Purvy, makes friends with young Jeremiah Jamison, the autistic son of Mathew Jamison, who still lives on the farm where the ambush took place. It is their presence in this story that ties the mysteries together when Jeremiah finally reveals a secret he’s promised the Major he wouldn’t reveal until told to do so.
Preview
Spring 1863
“I guess we’re ready to cross, Mr. Jamison,” Major Hanscomb said, standing tall in his stirrups overseeing the process from the riverbank. “I want to thank you and your wife for your hospitality. Maybe someday we will meet again under more pleasant circumstances.”
“I look forward to that, Major.” Jamison reached up and shook the Major’s hand.
The first of the three men on horseback led the wagon into the river while the driver slapped the reins and shouted at the nervous horses. Three other soldiers brought up the rear guard. Major Hanscomb stayed behind to ensure the wagon was well on its way before attempting to cross himself. That’s when everything went terribly wrong.
The first three men were ten yards from the opposite bank when the first shots rang out. The lead sergeant was knocked from his horse with a gun shot through the chest. Caught in the current, his body began to float downstream as his blood swirled around his lifeless form. The two accompanying privates were shot from their startled horses and were dead before they hit the water. Several more shots came from the dense underbrush and from behind several large rocks along the opposite bank.
The doomed patrol had been caught in the open. The wagon driver lay dead on the seat with three bullet holes in this chest. The final three men never made it back to the bank. Within less than a minute six bodies were floating face down in the river towards the rapids downstream.
Major Hanscomb was shot in the shoulder and knocked from his horse, the reins still in his hands. Dazed and in considerable pain he managed to get back on his feet and lead his horse back up the path to where Abel Jamison had taken up a firing position behind a large oak tree. To their good fortune, the Yankee patrol was content to remain on their side of the river, unsure of the number of Confederate troops across from them. In the river, the horses broke loose from the wagon that had overturned in the current, spilling its content to the bottom of the river.
Present day.
Levi Hanscomb and Jeri Jo Ruby were alone in the attic of the old Hanscomb homestead on a stormy spring night.
The rusty lock was broken so Jeri Jo carefully lifted the lid. Levi knelt next to her and shined his light into the old trunk. At first all they could see was some old clothes and a few framed photos. Levi removed one. At first he didn’t recognize the old couple that sat posed in front of a fireplace; the lady was sitting in an overstuffed upholstered chair while the old man stood next to her. Then he recognized it … the fireplace. It was the one downstairs in the living room.
“My God. This is my great grandfather and grandmother.” Levi admitted in surprise.
“Jeri Jo stared at the photo. “I wonder why your father keeps all this stuff up here. If it were me, I’d have this photo reframed and on a shelf where everyone could see it.”
“I don’t know,” Levi held the photo in his hands gently, continuing to stare at the people. “You know, I think I’ve seen this picture before, I just don’t know where.”
Jeri Jo began to dig deeper into the trunk, lifting out some of the old clothes and some cheap paste jewelry. “Wow, check this out.”
“Hey, we shouldn’t mess with this stuff,” Levi suddenly felt a nervous pang. “I’m sure Dad’s kept this up here for a reason.”
“Yeah, and maybe this will tell us what that reason is.” Jeri Jo was holding an old leather bound book in her hand. It was an old journal. She opened it to the first page. “Who’s Zachary Tyler Hanscomb?”
******
I met Cassie at her favorite restaurant in downtown D.C. and ushered her to a seat along a vine covered wall.
“I read about the trial and your testimony, but I half expected you’d be on your way back to Montana by now.”
“No, not this time,” I sighed.
“You don’t sound so happy, Napoleon.” The waiter came and we ordered drinks.
“Do you remember me telling you about my friend James Tyler Hanscomb, the writer?”
“Yeah. You once helped him write some of his books, using some of your escapades for the storylines. I started reading those books not long after that. He’s a great writer.”
“Well, we’ve teamed up again. I’m taking some time off to get my head straight and indulge in some much needed R&R. We’re working on something completely different this time … a historical novel based on Jimmy’s great, great, great grandfather, Confederate Lieutenant Colonel Zachary Tyler Hanscomb. He was killed in the Civil War.”
“What brought this on?” Cassie asked curiously.
“It was Jimmy’s idea. I was ready for a vacation, and with you living so close, it made it even more appealing.”
“Okay, so what’s this mystery you two are trying to solve?”
I went on to explain how Jimmy wanted to locate Grandpa Zach’s grave and that his next book would be based on the life of the Hanscomb family after the Civil War.
“So, they have no idea where he was buried?”
“No. They know the approximate area where he was killed but nothing else.”
“Can I assume they know about your ‘gift’ and that’s why they think you might have a better chance of finding his grave site?”
“Yeah, something like that … it was my idea, but we really haven’t discussed it much yet.”
“Well, considering your track record, if anyone can find it you can.”
“I’d have a better chance if you were with me.”
“ME!”
******
As he often did during the late afternoon just before it was time to do his evening chores, Jeremiah Jamison had gone down to the river with his metal detector to search for buried treasures, as he put it, mostly Civil War artifacts for his collection. He hadn’t had much luck and was about to head upstream to the house when he saw a man walking along the river’s edge in his direction.
“Hello, Mr. Purvy,” he waved.
“Good afternoon, Jeremiah. Good to see you again. Out looking for more treasure I see.”
“Yup. I had some spare time so I decided to try my luck down here. I haven’t found much so far though.” Jeremiah opened his canvas bag that hung over his shoulder and let Purvy look inside.
“Yeah, that’s pretty slim pickins alright. Weren’t much fightin’ goin’ on down here. Most of the shootin’ was up around the ford by your place. That’s where I got the hole in my jacket.” Purvy stuck his finger through the hole next to his left lapel almost directly over his heart.
The old man and Jeremiah had met a couple of months ago, and each time they’d met since he’d told Jeremiah stories of the Civil War, like those he’d read about in books. Purvy had been amazed at Jeremiah’s knowledge of the war, but was concerned as to the boy’s obvious mental handicap. He’d been given orders by the Major to watch over young Jeremiah. The Almighty, it seems, had plans for him.
After a short period the two friends said goodbye. When Jeremiah got back to the barn his father Matt was looking for him.
“Hi Dad. Sorry I’m late. I had a talk with Mr. Purvy again.”
Matt had talked with Jeremiah about Mr. Purvy before. He’d often heard him talking to someone while going through his collection hidden in the barn; kind of like an imaginary friend. In many ways Jeremiah was still a young child. Physically he was a growing boy of fifteen. Mentally he was still age eight or ten, but in many aspects he had the intelligence of a genius as some autistics do. He was an avid reader and could read an average novel in two days and repeat it almost word for word.
And then there was his secret. It was during a late Saturday afternoon about a month ago. Matt had observed Jeremiah coming back from the river carrying a burlap sack over his shoulder. Whatever it contained was heavy and Jeremiah was struggling to carry it. He watched him walk into the barn and minutes later came back out without it. They met on the way to the house.
“What was in the bag I saw you carry into the barn?” Matt had asked curiously.
“It’s a secret.” Jeremiah acted a little surprised at knowing his father had seen him carrying the sack into the barn.
“A secret … what kind of a secret?”
“The kind I cannot tell you about, Dad,” Jeremiah grinned. “I promised Mr. Purvy I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
******
Khoric had hoped to get his chance to read Grandpa Zach’s journal alone and had left everyone at the farmhouse and had gone down to the river to collect his thoughts:
I wanted to keep an open mind and let the spirits tell me what I needed to know. Grandpa Zach’s gravesite had to be out there somewhere and I needed to find him before Jimmy could put pen to paper and tell his story. I took a seat on a small wooden bench Jimmy had built and just let the quiet peacefulness fill my sole.
I’d been there almost a half an hour; my legs stretched out in front of me, my arms folded across my chest, half asleep, when I sensed someone walking up behind me. When I turned I saw Levi standing behind me.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you, Napoleon,” he apologized.
“No, that’s alright. I just thought I’d come down here and clear my head. I can’t believe how peaceful it is down here.”
“Yeah, it is that. Dad and I have spent a lot of time on this river.”
“I’m hoping to get out there myself when we have time.”
“You having any thoughts about the journal?”
“To be truthful … I’m a little concerned.”
“How so?”
“That journal contains a man’s deepest thoughts, some written before he went off to battle, and quite possibly, to hear you tell it, even more was written after the battle was fought. Most of the time journals such as this one were written to reduce the stress of life … or in this case, battle fatigue. Writing is like talking to a close friend, admitting to how one feels about things. Often thoughts of dying are described in ways only the author can admit to. I’m afraid we’re going to find out things about your Grandpa Zach that maybe you don’t want to know.”
Levi stared out over the water without responding and then: “Let me ask you a question … Do you believe in ghosts?”
******
Cassie and I were on our search for Grandpa Zach and had made it as far as the village of Manteo, along the eastern shore of the James River. We had just gotten out of our SUV near a cemetery we had spotted. I had just asked Cassie a question which she had failed to answer. When I looked up to see why I saw an old man standing near the entrance of the cemetery. He was dressed in faded denim bib overalls with a shotgun cradled in his arms.
“What’re yo’all doin’ here?” he demanded to know.
“We’re doing some investigating,” Cassie told him before I got a chance to answer.
“Investigatin’ what?” The man started walking in our direction. The look on his face was cause for concern.
“We’re looking for the grave of a distant relative who was killed during the Civil War.” Cassie looked tense; her hand went slowly to where her Glock would’ve been clipped to her belt. “Hanscomb was his last name.”
“Ain’t no Hanscomb buried in this here cemetery. I should know. I can tell you the names of all the people buried here.”
“And who might you be, sir,” I asked, as I walked up and stood next to Cassie. I didn’t like this man and I could tell he sure as hell didn’t like us. However, this was no place for a confrontation. A dead body or bodies would go unnoticed for quite some time if it came to that.
The man didn’t answer and since he’d confirmed what we wanted to know we apologized and prepared to leave.
Cassie, however, had one more word to say. “If this place means so much to you, why don’t you and some of the others who live around here, clean this place up. This is so disrespectful of the dead. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
I was shocked by Cassie’s punishing words and thusly, surprised to see the old man lower his shotgun and turn and walk back without another word. When he reached the entryway he stopped and propped his gun up against the stone wall that surrounded the cemetery. Bending over he pulled an old wrought iron gate we hadn’t noticed out of the weeds and made an attempt to clean it off before standing it up against the wall. He stood and looked at it for a few minutes, then retrieved his shotgun and walked away.
I turned to Cassie. “Looks like you hit a nerve.”
“Yeah … looks like,” she admitted, a bit shaken. “Did I really just say all those things … to a man with a loaded shotgun pointed at me?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s exactly what you did.” I took a deep breath to compose myself.
“Is that why you were standing behind me?”
“Yup.”
“Well,” Cassie took a deep breath and started towards the entryway, “do me a favor and don’t ever let me do that again.”
“I won’t.”
******
“We found it inside the pantry wall where the old shelves used to be,” JB Pruitt explained as he took what looked like an old hand-drawn map out of a plastic zip-lock bag and spread it gently across the kitchen table.
“You want some coffee?” Elly asked as they gathered around the table.
“I could use something a bit stronger, maybe some of that good bourbon you have stashed away, Jimmy.”
“Sit down while I get some glasses,” Elly chortled. “Jimmy, you get the bourbon. I’m sticking with my wine.”
The map measured about twelve by sixteen inches and was severely aged and brown around the edges. There was a hole in the middle where the crease had worn through. The ink used to draw the map had faded to brown but was still legible.
“Okay, let’s cut all the suspense, JB. Do you have any idea what this map is showing?”
“JB took a deep swig of his bourbon before responding. “I don’t have a clue, other than it looks like a river … mostly likely the Rap, would be my guess, but other than that, who knows, it could be anyplace.”
Jimmy turned the map so he could take a closer look at it. After a couple of minutes he spoke. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” Elly exclaimed as he walked out of the kitchen. “Let me see that,” she said to JB. As she was looking over the map Jimmy came back with another map … a topographical map of the local area.
“I think I know what this map is showing us.” Jimmy unfolded the topo map and ran his finger across it until he found the spot he was looking for. “Yeah, take a look at this.” He was pointing to a section of the Rappannock River. “This is Jamison Ford. Now look at the map … notice anything?”
“Looks like a close match. It even shows the rapids just to the south.”
“Right! So if you follow the hand-drawn map to the point where this circle is, it’s about … what … maybe a half mile farther south?”
“This could only mean one thing,” Pruitt conjectured. “Assuming your Grandpa Zach drew this map, it must have something to do with the ambush, and even more likely it has something to do with that shipment they were carrying to Richmond.”
“So, you’re assuming it must’ve been something worth coming back for and then hiding farther downriver.” Jimmy looked at the topo map once more. A half mile down would still put it on Jamison land.”
“Makes sense,” Elly conceded, “but what’s he hiding? That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question.”
Levi thinks it’s gold,” JB mused. “I kind of think he might be right. What about you Jimmy?”
Jimmy just cocked his head and shrugged his shoulders, then winked at Elly.
“Take a look at that,” Jimmy pointed to an image drawn on the map. “What’s that look like?”
JB adjusted his glasses. “Looks like a tree … maybe?”
“Yeah, it’s a tree,” Elly agreed, “with these letters written under it.” She looked closer. Appears to be Z-T-H, although it’s pretty hard to read.”
“Zachary Tyler Hanscomb!” Jimmy and JB exclaimed in unison.
“He carved his initials in a tree to mark the spot indicated on the map,” Elly nodded confidently. “He’s giving us directions to the location.”
“Yeah, but it’s been what … over a hundred and sixty years?” Jimmy retorted. “What makes you think you’d be able to read the initials carved in a tree that long ago?”
******
The sign on the side of the road read: New Town, Virginia. I could see a junction in the road ahead. The storm had let up some, but the lightning was still intense to the point you could almost feel the static electricity and smell the ozone in the air. I was about to accelerate when I saw a man standing in the middle of the road. He was wearing a long, black oil slicker and a slouch hat dripping with rainwater. He looked in our direction and then turned and began walking down the road as a shaft of lightning flashed directly overhead. I turned sharply to the right to avoid hitting him. As I came out of the turn the man had suddenly vanished.
“Maybe we should head for the hotel in Farmville and get some rest,” Cassie suggested after our close call. “It doesn’t look like this rain is going to let up any time soon, and it’s been a long day.”
I didn’t hear what she said. In my mind I could still see the man standing in the road. Instead, I hit the gas and continued on.
“What’s down here?” Cassie asked, confused by my sudden move.
“It’s down here,” I said as I slowed down to observe the few buildings and houses along the way.
“What’s down here?” Then she realized the spirits in my head were once again pointing the way and knew enough not to question my actions.
The New Town Baptist Church sat on the right on a grassy knoll fifty yards off the road just outside the town limits. It was becoming dark as night with ominous, towering cumulus clouds moving in, frequently being lit up by lightning. It looked like a scene out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Each time the lightning flashed we could see a small cemetery on the hill behind the church. We could see perhaps thirty or forty identical limestone markers all lined up in rows, half concealed in sheaves of dried grass and weeds along the western perimeter fence. There were another one hundred or so larger gravestones and monuments throughout the rest of the cemetery. The wrought iron fence that ran the circumference of the graveyard was toppled in many places and grass, briars and creeper vines had overgrown the entire place.
I pulled into the empty church parking lot facing the front of the cemetery. I pointed to the graveyard as the wind whipped around our SUV. “We have to get out there.”
“Now … in this storm?” Cassie objected loudly. “It’s too dangerous.”
“You can stay here. I’ll go check things out.” I was about to get out when I saw the old man again, standing just outside the open cemetery gate. “Can you see him?”
“Oh my God … what’s he doing out in this weather?” Cassie shrieked.
“So you do see him?” I looked one more time … he was still standing there.
“Yeah … why? Shouldn’t I?”
“Yes, I guess he’s real enough. I need to go talk to him.”
A strong gust rocked our SUV just before another bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree close to where we were parked, nearly splitting it in half and falling into the lot. The blinding light stole our vision for a few seconds. When it returned we looked through the curtain of rain to find the old man had disappeared once again.
Before we could respond the rain mysterious stopped and a patch of blue sky just to the west was moving in our direction. I couldn’t help feeling someone didn’t want us to leave.
“Don’t you dare tell me the spirits had anything to do with this,” Cassie said as she looked up towards the sky. Reaching into the console she pulled out her Glock. “I’m not taking any chances this time.”
We didn’t have much time, so we hurried along the weed covered gravel pathway that led through the forest of granite monuments until we reached the small cluster of limestone markers along the western fence.
“You think this is it?” Cassie inquired as we stared at the thirty-three stones all enclosed in a small fence we hadn’t seen before.
“This has to be it. This enclosure has been set aside from the others. Best I can tell from the dates, everyone buried here all died in the same year … 1865.”
We knelt down in the wet leaves and began to read what appeared to be the last names and ranks, many almost impossible to read, our heart beating with excitement as the winds began to pick up and the rains threatened once again.
******
And so the stage is set. The search for the mysterious cargo Major Hanscomb salvaged and hid somewhere near the Jamison Ford back in 1863 begins, but the question still remains … what was it and who will find it first. As for the second mystery, is Napoleon and Cassie about to uncover Grandpa Zach’s lost grave site or is it one of those mysteries that will remain unsolved through the annals of time. Last, but not least, how does young Jeremiah Jamison and the ghost soldiers bring this all to a final conclusion?
As a reader from Warrenton, Virginia emailed me: “This is your best book yet!”