For the Want of A Musket

By Jerry Sciortino

Against a background of a weekend’s outing in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, a group of men and women in search of adventure and personal fulfillment find more than they hoped for: love, death, gold and, a second chance!

Their quests take them thru Time: to
the battlefields of the Civil War, thru the streets of a New York City long past and, the beauty and ­majesty of Alaska during the gold rush

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jerry Sciortino
• Release date: Sep 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311100603

Jerry Sciortino

Autographed softcover novels may be ordered by contacting author.Please email: [e-mail]

Book preview

Title and Copyright Page

FOR THE WANT OF A MUSKET

by Jerry Sciortino

Two Musketeers LLC

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where footnotes or other acknowledgements are indicated, any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Two characters were placed in the proximity of actual historical figures or, portrayed as eye witnesses to historic events. There is a brief conversation between a character and an historical figure. Care was taken to ensure that my fictional portrayals in no way diminished historical figures or altered their images.

Copyright © 2010 by Jerome J. Sciortino

Second Edition

For The Want Of A Musket

Publisher: Two Musketeers LLC at Smashwords

ISBN: 978-0-692-01138-6

Photos by Jerry Sciortino

Book design by Digital Palace, Inc.

Manufactured in the United States of America

* * * * * *

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to the men and women of the North-South Skirmish Association who, for over a half-century, have celebrated the essence of the heritage left us by our forebears. While ever-mindful of the terrible realities wrought by the Civil War, our Skirmish Family has exchanged bloodshed for bloodless competition, and has transmuted enmity into camaraderie.

With a heavy heart, I especially dedicate my novel to the memory of Donald Bucky Malson. Others have filled pages just to highlight the personality and extraordinary accomplishments of this almost larger-than-life gentleman. For me, Bucky exemplified what a Skirmisher could and should be; kind, generous and sharing of his vast knowledge, his possessions and his time. I treasure the forty-plus years of our friendship. Bucky will live on in my memory…and far beyond!

* * * * * *

Acknowledgements

I wish to acknowledge and thank the people and associations that helped to make this novel a reality:

The North-South Skirmish Association.

Gary Crawford, who reviewed excerpts of the manuscript and who corrected my aerial map of Ft. Shenandoah.

Norma Coates, who graciously guided me along the path toward approval and,

Charlie Smithgall and the N-SSA Board of Directors, for permitting my usage of Ft. Shenandoah and details of our organization as the cornerstone of my book.

Winchester Historical Society

John Ritter, who provided details which helped me to form a mental sketch of ante-bellum Winchester.

John Venskoske, who like Mr. Ritter, provided needed details about the local countryside and most important; about the original 5th Virginia Infantry.

Francis Bannerman and Sons

Jim Hogan, the last General Manager; who gave me written permission to use material gleaned from their catalogs and from tales he told about this fascinating, defunct company…and for his walk-on appearance.

My dear friends, Donald and Nancy Malson, for their willingness to interact with my characters. Bucky also provided hours of yarn-spinning and personal anecdotes of his many trips to Bannerman Island and their Broadway store.

Last, but certainly not least; I thank and salute my N-SSA comrades-in-arms, past and present, of the 79th N.Y. Cameron Highlanders, the 1st N.J. Volunteer Infantry and the 2nd N.J. Volunteer Infantry. It was and still is an honor and pleasure to have served with you all.

* * * * * *

Fictional Characters

Present Day:

Brian Burns

Tim Didek

Maureen Erickson

Paul Faro

Ernie Fielding

Jean Fielding

Nick Masters

Fred Terry

Geri Pender

Chris Reilly

John Romano

Adele Simone

Ralph Steiner

Ralph’s Father

Harvey Vine

1950’s:

Takashi

Butch

1920’s:

Aunt Viola

Charles Satterfield

1890’s:

Claire Adams

Dick Graydon

Joe Girardeau

Bart Summers

No’Ka Tseek

Sookie

1860’s:

George Conroy

Lonnie Harris

Becky Morgan

Billy Morgan

Hunt Morgan

Amy Parker

Will Parker

Doc Wilkins

Cal

1830’s:

Dr. Everett Maxwell

* * * * * *

Table of Contents

Prologue Virginia, 1835

Introduction Virginia, 1998

Chapter One The Awakening

Chapter Two May, 1998: 3rd NJ Campsite

Chapter Three The Gunsmith: May, 1858

Chapter Four Thursday Evening: May, 1998

Chapter Five January, 1861: Friends & Neighbor

Chapter Six Campfire Revelations: May, 1998

Chapter Seven January, 1861: Wedding Bells?

Chapter Eight Morgan: May, 1998

Chapter Nine May, 1961: First Blood

Chapter Ten Kirlian Experiments

Chapter Eleven After the Battle: 1862

Chapter Twelve Chessmaster

Chapter Thirteen September 19, 1864

Chapter Fourteen Questions and Answers: May, 1998

Chapter Fifteen April, 1865: War’s End?

Chapter Sixteen Trial Run

Chapter Seventeen Toward Reunion: 1885

Chapter Eighteen Threshold: May, 1998

Chapter Nineteen Ft. Shenandoah: Countdown

Chapter Twenty New York City: May, 1955

Chapter Twenty-One Second Chance

Chapter Twenty-Two Alaskan Adventures!

Chapter Twenty-Three Merger?

Chapter Twenty-Four Gold Quest: 1900

Chapter Twenty-Five Granny: 1998, 1955 & 1920

Chapter Twenty-Six Lonnie: May, 1872

Chapter Twenty-Seven Ralph’s Wish

Chapter Twenty-Eight May, 1872: A Tangled Web

Chapter Twenty-Nine Morning After

Chapter Thirty Alaskan Gold

Epilogue October, 1998

Bibliography

Prologue

Virginia, 1835

Little information was known about the life and works of Dr. Everett Maxwell until recently, when a diary of sorts was found in an earthenware canister in the house he’d built in the mid-1830s. He was a well-regarded medical doctor and had a keen interest in herbal medicines. His studies and field research into the local varieties of these herbs were as extensive as were his specimens. When he was not treating the sick and injured he was, according to his neighbor, fussing with his weeds.

Maxwell’s studies led him far from his small Northern Virginia town to the friendly Indian tribes from the Carolinas to Canada. His pursuits next drew him overseas where he traveled throughout Europe and the British Isles. A great wealth of knowledge of herbal medicines and treatments came back with him. If the good doctor had taken the time to arrange and publish all of the material he had gleaned, our world might have been a healthier place in which to live.

Dr. Maxwell learned that the still-hostile Seminole Indians in Florida used certain swamp vegetation to remedy sickness that afflicted people in hot, swampy regions. He reasoned that these would be of help against the diseases suffered by his Tidewater folk.

The doctor decided to make the journey by land. He would probably not return for some months, so he entrusted the safekeeping of all his records to a colleague who had built a fine new house on the edge of town. It had a strong room built onto it. It was within this room that all of his records and herb specimens were stored.

As the doctor’s wagon crossed over into North Carolina, an uncaring bolt of lightning struck the new house. Fire flared and spread through the entire structure, consuming everything but the stone fireplaces and chimney. Nothing of the records, notes or specimens which represented fifteen years of Maxwell’s life, escaped the conflagration.

He had no knowledge of the tragedy, as he fought his way southward through the tropical marshes, at the mercy of every microbe, insect and animal he encountered. He contracted one of the debilitating maladies for which he sought a cure and was forced to return north before he reached the Seminoles. The long journey home was not one he cared to remember.

He returned to see only a blackened area, with mounds of blackened stone where that proud new house had recently stood. The repository of most of his life’s work had been reduced to a pile of muddy ashes and melted glass. What vitality that still remained within his body and spirit was drained from him as he sagged to the ground.

Only a damp powder charge, in the flint pistol that he’d pressed to his head, preserved the life of Dr. Maxwell. He was found and cared for by some of his own flock and returned to his home. Reluctantly, he staggered back on the path toward his scheduled touch of Destiny.

The months passed and the doctor struggled to regain his health and then, his livelihood. He found little time or inclination to rewrite the few recipes and procedures that he still remembered. He realized that the lingering illness might be blamed for part of his lassitude, but he knew that his mental state was brought on by the loss of so much of his life’s work. The memory of it was a burden too painful to bear.

Meanwhile, there were children to bring into the world and suffering to mitigate. That is what he needed to do with his life! His health slowly returned and the painful barbs of memory dulled. Gradually, his interests in the herbal sciences were rekindled; though never as bright as before.

One day, while he rode his mare thru the hills and farmlands, Maxwell’s eyes fell upon a beautiful knoll, ringed with Chestnut trees. A streamlet sparkled its way around its base, filling a small, natural pond. Maxwell sought out the farmer who owned the property. He marked out the segment of land he wanted by circling the area many times with his horse’s hooves. A price was quickly agreed upon, the town surveyor staked it out and, soon, all was duly executed and recorded.

Maxwell discovered that he had a flair for house design. Sketches for the exterior seemed to flow from his pen. He called in a master carpenter to look over his proposed layout and sketches. These included a laboratory and cold cellar, and a large kitchen. The carpenter was inspired, especially after the financial terms were agreed upon. He agreed to undertake construction of the home, making only minor structural changes.

The doctor spent summer and early fall enjoying his new home. During the hottest times of the day, he could escape to his cool dry cellar, the ideal location for what he called his Apothecary. Once again, herbs and roots hung on nails and powders were stored in glass or earthenware containers. On a large stone-topped table sat his scales and related pharmaceutical equipment.

Maxwell set out some of this equipment one day, along with a number of herbs whose usages were well known to him. He was on the quest for a curative for a malady afflicting the aged. With his mortar and pestle, he ground the herbs to a fine powder. The powder was then infused in boiling water and when the liquid cooled, a diluted grain alcohol blend was decanted into it.

The compound did in fact ease the joint pain, but only for a few hours. The concoction (Maxwell had named it Elixir #3) seemed to ease many maladies, from the common cold to snakebite, according to his enthusiastic patients.

The doctor discovered that a small quantity of the stuff improved the taste of even the bitterest of medicines. No longer was physical strength or terror tactics required to dose children. Old and young alike not only took their medicines, some doubled-up on dosages! His medical practice grew rapidly.

Never a man given to self-delusion, Maxwell realized that his new-found popularity was not due to his bedside manner or his ability to cure folk; it was the demand for his Elixir. His patients never showed any negative side effects from this palatable additive, so he continued to produce it in large quantities and store it in ceramic jugs.

Now in late middle age, financially independent and relieved to see new doctors settle into the area, Maxwell wanted to reduce the size of his flock. He missed the changing scenery and the excitement of the open road that he remembered from those younger, questing years.

The doctor met and spent a delightful evening with a man who introduced himself as a Purveyor of Patent Medicines. They shared food, liquid refreshment and many laughs as they compared and contrasted each other’s ways of Guarding the health and happiness of folk in far-flung places. Long after that meeting, Maxwell often imagined what it might be like to try his own variations on the Patent Medicine theme. He could legally practice medicine in any case, when and where he chose. Why not take his services out on the road?

By all that’s holy . . . I will do it! he said aloud to a startled songbird.

In early spring, Dr. Maxwell made up a large batch of Elixir #3 with which to lace the various potions he’d prepare on his first cross-country Medicine Run.

The still-warm earthenware jugs were sealed and stored to cool in a trench he’d dug in the earth of the dark cellar. Sawdust saved from the house construction blanketed the vessels to provide insulation. Soon he would load up his specially built wagon and once again, heed the call of the open road!

To loosen his muscles and enjoy the warm afternoon weather, he split a load of firewood. Suddenly exhausted, he put down the axe and sat at the base of his favorite Chestnut tree to gaze at the incredibly beautiful colors of the herringbone sunset. He felt no pain when his heart stopped beating.

One hundred and four years after Dr. Maxwell had breathed his last, a Russian scientist named Semyon Kirlian accidentally captured an image on photographic paper, without benefit of a camera.

It was an extraordinary image of a human hand revealed when a charge of electrical energy was accidentally released close to the hand. The resulting phenomenon, subsequently called Kirlian Aura, was the subject of far and wide-ranging experimentation that continued through the 1970’s.

Today, we can only speculate on what Fate might have held for mankind and for the world if only Maxwell and Kirlian been contemporaries and had been able to work together.

Introduction

Virginia, May, 1998

One of the men dropped a few chunks of firewood into the heart of the flames, sending a column of bright swirling cinders into the dark Northern Virginia sky. He moved back to the picnic bench on which were spread cleaning tools and the parts of his Civil War period Smith carbine. An older, heavier man sat across the table and raised the mantle on a Coleman lantern to shed more light on the gun parts. Nodding thanks, the slender man began the familiar process of cleaning powder residue from the gun parts.

Y’know what? he asked of no one in particular, Shooting Civil War guns is probably the most enjoyable thing you can do with your clothes on.

His companion snorted; Oh yeah? So . . . what things can you do with ’em off?

The grizzled veteran gave the Coleman lantern a few pumps and sat upright to unbutton his faded blue wool tunic. As he turned slightly, the firelight illuminated a stack of light blue chevrons and hash marks which extend the length of his sleeve. He took off his kepi, the slouched, leather-peaked cap worn by the armies of both North and South. On its crown, a red felt cross is fastened in place by the brass hunting horn insignia of the infantry. A large 3 is pinned through the center of the horn, and below it are the letters NJ. He lifted his bulk from the table and tossed his discarded clothing into his new camper.

About a dozen people sat or stood within the flickering circle of firelight. A few talked quietly with an attractive woman in sweatshirt and jeans while she draped a military greatcoat over her shoulders.

A series of popping sounds are heard coming from the fire. Another swirling cylinder of sparks, like an opened jar filled with fireflies, race upward into the clear night sky.

Imagine that we could transport ourselves; light as those sparks, hitching a ride high into the sky. Borne on the same warm drafts of air, a panorama expands beneath us and we can see many campfires with groups of people surrounding them. The campfires dot the hills and flats and illuminate the surrounding trees.

Like the 3rd New Jersey Infantry, other people relax after their day’s activities and enjoy the camaraderie and the spring weather. Children laugh and run, weaving in and out of the shadows. Casual strollers make their way along the rolling, dusty roads that meander through the Union and Confederate campsites. Many of the strollers will wind up down there . . . by that brightly-lit patch. It acts like a beacon to guide the shoppers and socializers. We call it Sutler’s Row.

Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself . . . let me explain a few things. First, we are members of The North-South Skirmish Association. This is our Spring National Skirmish. People from around the country and from all walks of life, come together to re-create something of the atmosphere of Nineteenth Century American life and living. We are drawn here by the common bonds of interest in Civil War history. Shooting competitions play a big part in these get-togethers that are called Skirmishes . . . but more about these later.

Sutler’s Row is sort of a 19th Century shopping mall. Skirmishers spend lots of time here, crunching over its gravel walkways and looking over the wares displayed in open-fronted booth structures. Sutler’s Row is also our social center. Here, you’re almost certain to meet many of the friends you haven’t seen since the Fall Skirmish.

Women interested in shopping for 1860’s style clothing and accessories will find bonnets, calico, gowns, hoops, parasols and patterns, for both little girls and big ones. Shooters search for bullet moulds, gun parts and accessories while others sort thru leather goods and uniforms of blue wool, gray or butternut plus, a variety of fascinating old junk.

All would agree, however, that the greatest attractions are the neatly arrayed Civil War period rifled muskets, carbines and revolvers, in their myriad shapes and sizes, that can be seen at virtually every booth.

The wooden bridge across from Sutler’s Row spans a stream named Back Creek. Crossing the bridge, that building to the right contains offices for the Commander and Inspector General of the N-SSA. Down to the left, is the food concession and across from that, is the Statistical Shack where target scoring is done. That tall structure in front is the Range Tower, standing high above the firing line. The firing line extends for half a mile . . . long enough to provide elbowroom for over five hundred skirmishers, thrashing ramrods and all.

Over the next few days, thousands of shooters in blue and gray will stand there, side by side. With original or replica Civil War firearms, they will shoot at a variety of breakable targets in serious, but friendly competitions.

Tomorrow will be Friday and by nightfall, that broad vista down there will be glowing brighter still. Nearly five thousand members of the North-South Skirmish Association, plus their families and friends, will have arrived at Fort Shenandoah. The music of strumming guitars, fife and drums and laughter will be heard. At the barn dance, there will be more music, as men in uniform twirl their ladies in hooped gowns or in casual clothing.

But whether it be around a campfire, in line waiting for a hot snack, along Sutler’s Row or at the barn dance, it’s almost certain that most conversations will revolve around: Civil War history, shooting, acquiring old guns, shooting old guns and . . . uh, stuff about old guns.

Well, the cinders from the campfire have cooled and once again, we are coming back to earth. The term coming back was to take on a new meaning, as we were soon to learn. None of us in the Third New Jersey were prepared for what was to happen. How could we have known that before the weekend drew to a close, lives would be lost or radically changed; that the Past would be rediscovered or re-lived and, that history would be changed as well?

No one has coerced me into relating the details of our adventures. I sort of volunteered to chronicle what I know. I’m still not sure just how everything will work out for my friends and me. If Fortune frowns upon us, well . . . we’d want our loved ones to know something of what might have happened.

But I’m writing this for you readers as well, so that if you too should be tempted to make the sort of decisions that we did, then hopefully, our experiences may help guide you to avoid making the same sort of mistakes.

Chapter One

The Awakening

Consciousness came as the mid-morning sun burned his face and pierced his eyelids with blades of light. Turning his head to avoid the direct sunlight, he forced open his encrusted eyelids. At first, his vision slipped in and out of focus. He shut his eyes for a few moments, digesting what he had seen; woods and sky. He looked up again and saw that new leaves tinted patches of the bright blue sky.

Beneath him, the ground was warm and covered with a thick layer of old leaves that were returning to the soil. A rock or perhaps, a knobby root was pressing painfully against his hip. Pain shot through the base of his skull when he tried to sit up. A wave of vertigo washed over him. Clamping his eyes shut, he fought off the nausea that threatened, and carefully laid his head back down in the thick layer of leaves.

Mustering his strength and gritting his teeth, he tried once again to sit up. This time, he succeeded. Gingerly, he probed the back of his head and neck with a fingertip. Swollen, he thought, but no bleeding. Encouraged, he got to his feet slowly, flexing his neck and limbs tentatively.

He walked around stiffly as he gently messaged his shoulders and the back of his neck, feeling the circulation return. I’m on a hill top, he quickly observed, but how did I get here and where the hell am I? Another question arose from within; demanding recognition and an answer. His conscious mind, however, forced it down again, unable to cope with it just yet.

He became aware of something heavy shift in his pocket. He thrust his hand inside and withdrew a pocketknife. The pocket stitching was ripped and the knife had been lodged in the hole. He stared at it as if he had never seen its red plastic side plates before.

He searched his pockets for anything else that might help to jog his memory. My pockets are empty. Why don’t I have other things on me that could have helped? He stopped his hand in mid-motion and brought it closer to his eyes. There were spatters of blood on his sleeve and on the leg of his pants, but he had no idea where they came from.

Finally, the thoughts and emotions he’d fought down since he regained consciousness, now welled up to the surface. A moan escaped his lips, heard only by the surrounding trees. He could no longer deny the truth that he was lost, alone and . . . that he had lost his memory!

Afterwards, he was embarrassed by his childish display of giving vent to his emotions. Wallow in self-pity another time, sport. Right now, find out where you are and get your sorry ass out of here. He rejected the idea of climbing a tree for increased visibility. In my condition, I’d probably break my neck. He peered through breaks in the foliage, and spotted tendrils of smoke rising from what looked like bonfires, some miles to the southeast.

He slowly made his way down the hill, grasping branches or saplings for support as he descended. At the bottom, a wide creek cut across his path. Something about the stream and the lay of the land seemed familiar . . . but the thought was quickly dismissed. He waded across the stream and plodded on while he tried to pierce the mental curtain that separated him from the fragments of his lost memory.

After what seemed like hours, fatigue crept over him and pains throbbed anew. He continued on until at last, dirty, aching and hungry, he climbed a gentle rise . . . and stared at the vista below him.

Bathed in golden sunlight, a handsome, two-story fieldstone house nestled atop a tree-fringed knoll. Its columned porch faced a small pond that sparkled invitingly. A circular fieldstone drive, partly overgrown by wildflowers, wound around the house then down to a dirt road that continued south. It looked as though no one lived there presently.

As he neared the pond, he thought that it must be spring-fed, owing to its clarity. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to take a long drink and to feel its cool, cleansing water wash over him. He stripped off jacket and shirt and plunged into the pond. The water was cold and he gasped at the shock it had on his taut nerves and aching muscles. He broke the surface and tread water for a few strokes. It was deeper than he’d expected . . . and colder!

He found firm footing and waded until he stood waist-deep in the water. He stared at his reflection . . . dancing shards of afternoon colors. Shattered, like my memory!

He shouted to his watery image; What’s happened to me? He paused, until the water’s surface calmed. The face that looked back at him was almost unrecognizable. I know that I’m looking at me . . . and I look like hell.

DAMN YOU, WHAT’S YOUR NAME? he shouted, slapping at the rippling reflection with his open palm. The stinging pain helped him to regain control.

He scooped handfuls of water into his parched throat and clambered up on the bank. Making his way toward the rear of the house, he found a sun-drenched patch where two evergreens had deposited a thick bed of pine needles. He lay down on the soft aromatic stuff, wriggling into it and pulled some of this pine blanket across his legs and back, and went to sleep.

When he awoke in the late afternoon, his clothes were almost dry and his mind was calmer than it had been. Though he had not so much as stepped up to the front door of the stone house, there was something about it and this patch of property that made him feel as though he had come home.

Suddenly, the burden of his memory loss and the inarticulate childhood fears which can flood the adult mind in moments of great stress, were lifted. I have come home.

Just to hear human speech, he replied aloud; Oh yeah, and when did you make the last mortgage payment?

Circling the house, he studied its lines and construction. It had not been lived in or seen much maintenance for years, but it had been built by a master. The limestone blocks used for the foundation were sawn and chipped to uniform size and their mortar joints were free from cracks. Leaves drifted around the base of the steps and up on the porch. A film of reddish dust, from countless windstorms, clung to the windows, rendering them almost opaque. The wood was weathered but showed no signs of rot.

That’s because they’re made of Chestnut. Damn! If I can recognize types of wood, why can’t I remember my name? Am I a carpenter or, a furniture maker?

Frustrated, he wondered why he’d bothered to look at this old deserted house when by rights he should push on as long as there was light. Now, darkness was less than an hour away and he doubted that he could make it to that town in the dark.

Maybe, if that door lock’s a simple one, I can sleep inside the house tonight.

He’d noticed a small hand-wrought nail that had begun to work its way out of a window sill and pulled it free with some difficulty. Hammering the nail between two rocks, he formed a right-angled bend in the nail tip. He then inserted the short limb into the keyhole and, wedging the nail head between the closed blades of his knife, he began twisting slowly. He was gratified to feel the tumbler turn and snap. The knob grated in his hand and the door opened. The escaping air smelled musty and slightly herbal.

The large kitchen was well laid out and, if the windows were clean, it would be bright as well. A neat oven and hearth, crafted of brick and iron, dominated one wall. Iron frying pans sat on the iron grill and various copper utensils hung from decorative hand-wrought hooks on either side of the hearth. A few stoneware dishes and cups lay stacked on a counter top of planed wooden planks, inlet into which was a large copper sink. He saw that it was finely crafted with rounded angles and corners.

His damp shoes made tracks in the dust that lay thick on the oak floor. Webs crossed and draped over one another along the beamed ceiling. Pewter candlesticks and a few pieces of china sat on a well-crafted oak shelf. He briefly explored the rest of the house and was impressed by the quality of construction. He realized that, whoever the last occupants were, their departure must have been sudden or unsuspected.

Clothing, personal items, bedding and such were all set out, ready for use. Some of the items were shriveled and dried or moth-eaten but most seemed to be in serviceable condition. One room was made up into a doctor’s office. A section had apparently been given over to a small laboratory. The disturbing thing was that everything in the place looked like museum-quality nineteenth century reconstructions!

He brushed dust off a sturdy rocking chair, sat down and closed his eyes, trying once again to sort through and piece the fragments of shattered memory he’d regained. If I try hard enough, maybe I can put Humpty Dumpty together again. He felt a lassitude spreading over him. How can I be sleepy again, I just woke up? His stomach rumbled. I could use a large charcoal broiled steak about now . . . but then, a lot of people could. There were a number of berry bushes around the property. He picked handfuls of them and scooped them into his mouth. A bit sour but what the hell, they’re better than nothing.

He went back into the house and peered out through the thumb-sized spots that he’d rubbed clean on the outside of each grimy window. He didn’t want to be seen wandering around the house or grounds by a passerby.

The pain in his head returned, forcing all thoughts from his brain but the need to find surcease. He staggered outside and immersed his head in the pond water for as long as he could hold his breath.

A guy prone to headaches could drown himself with this cure.

He ate a few more handfuls of berries and stilled the loudest pangs of hunger then, he re-entered the house and locked the door. The moths didn’t leave enough of the wool blankets to be of much use to him. He covered himself as best he could with some old deer skins that he’d found spread over a chest and chairs in the bedroom. He arranged them on the kitchen floor and sank down on them. Sleep came upon him at once.

Diffused sunlight flooded the kitchen floor. Awake, he nonetheless remained flat on his back, eyes closed, and waited for his mind to clear. When he opened them and beheld the ceiling, a smile tugged at his cheeks. He wondered if there were more cobwebs up there or in his head.

He returned the deer skins to their original places then, taking one last look around, he inserted his makeshift key again and locked the door behind him. At the end of the driveway, he turned into the road that seemed to lead south.

He had been walking along the road for some minutes when the percussive sound of horse’s hooves was heard. A horse appeared over a rise, carrying a young man riding at a fast pace. As the rider drew abreast, they exchanged nods, but the horseman swept past. With a grim smile, he remembered how scruffy he looked, as he passed the dusty mirror by the door that morning. He could understand a single rider not wanting to dawdle with a stranger that looked like him.

At the base of the next hill, a stream ran noisily over its rock-strewn bed. He stepped out onto the small wooden bridge that spanned it and looked down into the water where trout swam in abundance.

Crossing the bridge, he moved on briskly, certain that his goal was near.

A horse-drawn wagon appeared from the opposite direction. As it neared, he could see that it was recently painted. Prominent gold leaf lettering spanned the side panel which read; Hunt’s Confectionery Products. Below that it read; Comfits, Bon-Bon, Sweetmeats & Hard Candy. The owner’s full name was outlined in white, as if the artist had run out of gold leaf, but no address had yet been painted in.

The man on the wagon reined-in his horses when the pedestrian raised his hand in query. Good mornin’! drawled the rider, studying the strangely clad and disheveled figure below him.

Good morning, sir! returned the amnesiac. Would you please tell me how far we are from town?

The confectioners face cooled. You are a Northerner! The man’s voice bore a mocking quality. Why are you on foot, did you lose your horse?

Taken aback by the unwarranted hostility, the amnesiac searched for an answer.

The candy man looked down his nose once more and said; The town is about a mile back that way and flicking the reins across the horse’s back, he started on his way once more.

Unnerved by the encounter and the display of anger that radiated from the wagon driver, the amnesiac wondered why his Northern accent was greeted with such hostility!

Like some of those jerks who think the Civil War never ended. He thought again of the house with its Early American appointments. Am I in the South? He raised his hands to the sides of his head and shook it. I can’t deal with this crap now, maybe later.

The young man walked on, passing a few small wooden structures. Further on, he saw that the number of houses increased while the size of their surrounding properties decreased. He was on the edge of, what looked like, an old restored town. At last, the road widened into a street with shops and small businesses on both sides.

A mature man in a leather apron sat at a portable workbench in front of a gunsmith’s shop, applying a drawknife to a gunstock blank. The man paused in his labors to take a bite from what looked like a ham sandwich and a sip from a large earthenware mug.

After the run-in with the candy man, the younger man was a bit hesitant to speak with another person, even though he was bursting with questions. He watched the gunsmith work for a few moments but the smell of the coffee and food distracted him and he swore at himself for his weakness.

He looked up the street toward the other shops closer to the heart of the town. More people were in evidence and there was increased activity. Women went from shop to shop with honest-to-goodness woven shopping baskets! Across the street, a strapping man clad in a thick leather apron nailed a hot horseshoe to the hoof of a stallion. The scene was reminiscent of some historical recreation . . . sort of a later version of Colonial Williamsburg. Business and the detailed appearance of everyday living proceeded at a slower pace than what he thought as normal.

Williamsburg . . . When was I there? Who with? He shook his head and tried to concentrate on the scene before him. This is no restoration project! He closed his eyes and thought that at any minute, he was going to cry out or go mad. He was unaware that while he stared at his surroundings, the gunsmith had approached.

Good mornin’ young man. he said with an easy smile. You look a mite tuckered out. There’s a comfortable chair or two in front of my shop. Come over in the shade and set a spell. My daughter just brought my breakfast. Bless her . . . she forgets that she’s not feeding a house-full, just her old father. There’s enough meat, biscuits, and greens to feed three people. You’d be doing me a big favor if you helped me polish off that grub. Amy fusses at me when the plate’s not empty when she comes back at lunch time.

The man delivered his invitation in a low, friendly voice while casually looking about them. He waved to the blacksmith across the street then, glancing back at the younger man, raising his brows in inquiry.

What do you say, son, the coffee’s gettin’ cold.

Trying to mask his accent, the younger man replied; Thank you, you’re very kind to offer, sir. I just stopped to watch you shape that stock. I...I’m new to the area. I am not looking for a handout . . . I’m willing to work. The gunsmith studied him in silence for a moment that seemed to be interminable. Sure that he’d been rebuffed as before, he said; Never mind, sorry to bother you. and turned to walk away. He felt a light hand on his shoulder.

Hold on there, son. called the gunsmith, I could use some help for a few days. I’ll need another set of muscles to help rotate the racks of walnut planks drying out in back. Then, there’s stock patterns to cut out and tools to sharpen. If you’re interested, you can start work today. I’ll pay you fair wages.

The gunsmith glanced at him again, then looked down to