Slave Graves (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 1) (39 page)

“It’s a sample of what we found this morning,” she said.

“Where?” asked Frank.

“The area where the Captain’s cabin should have been,” the woman replied.

“Find any more possessions of Captain Henry?” he said as he opened the plastic sample bag.

“Not yet.”

Small seashells fell on the ground.

“These are trading shells,” said Frank. “Cowries.”

The woman continued, “One of the new workers was moving his trowel along the strata line, right below the charcoal and the point of the blade opened what was like a fissure in the side of the hole. The shells just started to pour into the hole, like children’s gumballs out of a candy machine. There was quite a pile of them in the floor of the pit.”

Frank bent over to pick up the tiny shells. “Must be left over from the trading journey.”

“Yes,” Maggie said. “It’s horrible to think of, isn’t it? I wonder how many of these shells would buy a human child?”

“Antonius could tell us, but I’d rather not know,” said Frank.

He looked up at the Army truck parked near the boxwood. “That truck did its job for us. I thought I’d try to locate the real owner. I’d like to buy it from him.”

“If you take it back to the university, you’ll certainly surprise your friends.”

“I’m not going back.”

“What will you do?”

“I’m staying here to work with you on this project,” said Frank, looking into her eyes.

Maggie looked away, “The Pastor is going to speak in a few minutes. I thought we could listen together.”

“There’s a radio in the truck,” said Frank.

They walked toward the truck, silent for a moment.

Then she said, “You’ll really stay here?”

“This is a pretty place. I’ve always wanted to work in a pretty place.”

“What about your department at the university?”

He looked at her. “I’m going to resign. There’s nothing more for me there.” He paused. “Sometime, I’d like to tell you about Vietnam.”

“I’d like to hear,” she said. She moved her toe in the mud.

He said, “Would you mind if I worked with you?”

“If you were still the same guy who came down here a few days ago, my answer would be a lot different.”

He smiled. “I wouldn’t want to work with that guy either.”

She looked at her watch. “The Pastor’s speech.”

He opened the door to the truck. “Here, sit up here.” He looked at her across the large sea. “It’s a little different than last time.”

She smiled. “Last time wasn’t all bad. You and I were here together.” He reached under the steel dashboard to where a small radio was strapped to the dash supports. He turned the radio on.

“I know how to get the station.” Maggie reached over and tuned the set.

A voice welcomed them to the Daily Church Hour with Pastor Jefferson Allingham.

“Birdey said she was taking the Pastor out to see the butterflies,” said Maggie. “She’s also going to try to raise some money to get General Store started up again.”

“I think they could do a lot together if they wanted to.”

The radio blurted again. “Here is Pastor Jefferson Allingham.”

The familiar voice began.

“Mercy.”

“Amen,” responded his congregation.

“I say again, Mercy You hear me now.”

“Yeah.”

“The children were down below shouting for mercy,” said the Pastor.

“Yeah.”

“Adam and Eve had a son, didn’t they?”

“Yes, yes, they did,” chanted the congregation.

“The son Cain was up above murdering his brother Abel.”

“Yes, yes, he was doing that.”

“Then the innocent children were set afire, burned to death,” said the Pastor.

“Amen.”

“Murdered to hide that crime of brother against brother.”

“Amen.”

“Do we hear the children now?” asked the Pastor.

“Yes, Dear Jesus, yes.”

“Do we hear the cries for mercy?”

“Yes, Lord, yes, Amen.”

“I say to you those cries we hear are not for mercy,” asserted the Pastor.

“That’s right, you’re saying it.”

“They are for justice.”

“Yeah.”

“We will make that justice come over the land.” said the Pastor.

“Yes, we will,” agreed the congregation.

“I say that every one of those souls will have a grave on land.”

“A true grave now.”

“Every one will have the prayers of the Lord said over them,” the Pastor said.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“We pray that their own gods will accept the prayer to our God.”

“Amen.”

“That land were they have lain so many centuries, that land will be made pure again.”

“Amen.”

“That land will be testament to the Lord,” charged the Pastor.

“To the truth,” agreed the congregation.

“Let me say again there will be butterflies in this land now.”

“Amen.”

“There will be no bridge and profiteers to destroy the land.”

“Yes.”

“There will be always butterflies for these children.”

“There will be butterflies for all children,” agreed the congregation.

“As we walk among these new graves we will shout that Jesus is great.”

“Amen.”

“Let me hear you now,” shouted the Pastor.

“Amen.”

“These will not be the graves of slavery,” said the Pastor, his tone lower.

“No.”

“These will not be the graves of the oppressed.”

“No.”

“These will be the monuments to the future.”

“Like soldiers of Jesus,” said the congregation.

“Like the survivors that they are,” said the Pastor.

“Amen.”

“Like the children that they will always be.”

“Amen.”

“Let me hear you sing, my brothers and sisters.”

Frank switched off the radio. Above the truck a helicopter was circling. It was a television news unit, big silver letters on its fuselage, photographing the site for the evening television news in Baltimore. The noise of the rotors resounded over the area. At the site many of the workers looked up for a moment, then resumed their toil.

Frank and Maggie climbed out of the truck. He scratched his neck and adjusted his hat. Together, they looked out at the shimmering Nanticoke River. A large red white and blue harbor tug was moored next to the half sunken barge. A diver was over the side from the tug working on the leak in the steel hull. They could see the air hoses going down into the oil stained water and small bubbles coming to the surface.

“They’ll pump her out. Then they’ll tow that equipment out of here,” said Maggie. The name on the barge was half under the water. The great white letters spelling “Torment” appeared to melt as they reflected under the surface of the water. Some other men from the tug were busy attaching restraining cables to the crane and the piled river.

“After they pump it out and get it level that crane won’t look so bad,” said Frank.

At that moment, the cat appeared from the nearby brush and nuzzled at Frank’s bare right foot. He looked down at the cat’s orange fur and black stripes.

“A cat that swims. Hard to believe.”

“You saved the butterflies, cat,” said Maggie.

“Cats don’t like butterflies.”

Maggie looked at Frank. “Why don’t cats like butterflies?”

“The Monarchs,” Frank grinned, “They’re poisonous to eat. Makes cats sick.”

Maggie stooped down and patted the cat. “You don’t eat butterflies, do you, cat?”

“Jake said cats brought him bad luck.”

“He sure didn’t like cats,” she said.

“Maybe it just comes down to luck,” said Frank.

Maggie looked at him, “Good beats evil.”

“The ghosts of all those dead people in the wreck rose up to get him?” Frank smiled. “No, I think maybe Jake just slipped. He had bad luck.”

In the distance from far down the river there came the sound of deep booming thuds, each boom separated by several minutes.

“Those people firing that cannon have their own reasons,” said Frank. “That old cannon has to insult, has to be heard to be alive.”

“There’s no way any of it can be compromised either,” said Maggie. She recited a poem. slowly, her lips moving around the words,

“War is slavery,

Slavery is war,

Slaves become warriors,

Warriors become slaves,

Until we learn to do better,

It will always be so.”

Frank said, “That’s not bad.”

“Soldado taught it to me,” she said.

“He knows a lot, that old man.” He pulled her close to him.

“I was thinking about those Mayan relics Soldado said might be found at the site.”

She grinned. “There’s just one thing you should know.”

“What?”

“Roses can never overcome thorns. They just learn to live together. So, you’ll have to get used to briars when you dig,” she said.

A man walked toward them from the edge of the field. He looked like many of the River Sunday farmers, tanned, capable, and roughly handsome. He might have been in his early thirties. He waved to the two of them and lifted his stained straw hat in friendship.

“What can we do for you, sir?” asked Frank, searching Maggie’s face to see if she recognized him. She shook her head slowly.

“My name is Jesse Lawson. I heard about your work here. I want to hire you to find a missing airplane.”

Frank asked, “How long has it been missing?”

“Since the end of World War Two,” Jesse said, his eyes on Frank’s face to gauge his reaction.

Frank did not disappoint. He showed amazement.“That’s a pretty old airplane. Why do you want to find it?”

“My grandfather was lost when it crashed. I want to find him, too.”

“You should go see Mike Howard in Wilmington. He looks for old planes out in the ocean. He’s been pretty successful.”

“So you would not be able to help me?”

Maggie spoke up strongly. “No.”

Jesse backed away from her. “Well, thanks for your information. I’ll go see Mike. I thank you folks.”

The man, his head down, walked away. They heard his truck start and watched the dust trail on the farm road as he left.

Frank turned to Maggie. “You were pretty definite.”

“It is a good case, but we’re in enough trouble as it is. Do you know who he is?”

“I thought I recognized that name.”

“His grandfather was the traitor who stole a top secret airplane to give to the Russians. I don’t think Mike will have anything to do with him, either.”

“It is an interesting project. I wonder how he will make out, given how much people hated his grandfather.”

Jesse tightened his arm around her waist as she held his hand. For a moment longer he thought about chasing after Jesse and telling him he’d look into his grandfather. He knew it would be another exciting project.

He watched an orange and black butterfly fly out from the brush on the shoreline. It flew near the old Vietnam truck and landed on the olive drab windshield frame .The Monarch reminded him that Jesse’s war, like all the others, would never really end.

The insect fluttered quietly for a moment and then took off, circling out over the site where the workers were digging in the boiling sun, flying tentatively to a small mound of wet earth that had just been excavated. Then as it lifted again into the sunlight, the butterfly seemed to tip its wing to Frank and Maggie before it disappeared among the honeysuckle.

The End

The adventure continues in
Magnolia Gods
, book 2 in the River Sunday series!

http://www.amazon.com/Magnolia-River-SundayRomance-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B006E904LQ

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About the Author

Thomas Hollyday brings to life strong Chesapeake characters showcased in their stunning, unique Eastern seaboard landscapes. Reviewers praise his rich sense of place and his respect for the great machines that made our era possible. His stories resonate with a deep awareness of history and legend. The humor in life shines through as Tom draws on a comedic sense honed sharp from an accomplished cartooning background.

In his River Sunday Romance Mysteries series, Tom honors the battles for love of land that have recurred over and over in the Chesapeake Bay. Past victories and defeats created mists of legend and history which shroud the present landscapes. Throughout Tom's stories, he incorporates both the machines that have left lasting imprints and the wildlife that enriches the captivating natural landscape. His modern and timely novels feature memorable characters from the small town of River Sunday, Maryland, and reveals their compelling stories as they search for answers to achieving love, unveiling mystery, and vanquishing evil.