Martial Law

By Wylene Carter Brown

Jason Bennett and his wife Brandie travel south to Carbondale, South
Carolina to learn about his father of whom he knows very little.

He remembers being given a piece of paper by one of his relatives at his father's funeral that he takes with him.

That piece of paper, after being shown to a local attorney, turns out to uncover a secret that pits Jason and the entire Bennett family up against a huge corporation - the largest employer in Carbondale.

He learns his ancestry includes an Indian who befriends a trapper of German descent. He also learns of an Uncle, who everyone thought was dead, who reveals his long-kept knowledge of this trapper's assurance that all would be good when Martial' Law' comes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543478044

Wylene Carter Brown

Wylene Carter Brown, a native New Yorker, now resides in Marshalls Creek, Pennsylvania. She holds a Master Degree in Forensic Psychology from John Jay College of Criminal Justice, City of New York. Martial Law is her first work of fiction.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Wylene Carter Brown.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2018900604

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5434-7802-0

      Softcover      978-1-5434-7803-7

      eBook         978-1-5434-7804-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 02/08/2018

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

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18

19

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22

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26

Epilogue

image004.jpg Acknowledgements image004.jpg

Thank you Lauren Pearle and David Gronsman for gifting the instruments for me to start writing again after the original manuscript and all copies went down with Tower 1 on September 11; thank you to my friend Bill Adams for the knowledge of that bush; thank you to the Archivist of the Camden Archives for his invaluable historical assistant; thank you Sister Eugenia Little for being my friend and sounding board; and thank you to my husband Vincent Brown for your continued support and encouragement.

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In the Year 1828

The Catawba village was set out in the valley along the bank of the Wateree River near Mississippi. The valley, now tranquil, had been the foreground of years of conflict between the Catawba and Cherokee nations. They were bitter enemies who had fought each other and lost many young braves.

Ebbwa stood on the hill overlooking the village. Across the Wateree he could see the Cherokee village. The sky was a cloudy gray, reminding him of the day when his grandfather and Black Bear had sat across from each other, each suspicious, cautious, but restrained. Any move that could be interpreted as a trick would signal the resumption of hostilities between their two nations, and they both knew that conflict would begin with the two of them—leaving only one survivor.

The Catawbas and Cherokees had first agreed upon a truce and then realized that it would be in their best interest to see if their nations could work out their differences. They were all tired of war, and the pain of their losses still remained as both talked of the restless spirits of brave young sons who had willingly ridden into battle and spilled their blood.

The Cherokees were well-known as fierce warriors and were feared by all inhabitants of the area. The Catawbas, on the other hand, were a peaceful tribe who were forced to move their native lands in the northernmost area of what was known as the Carolinas in search of alternative hunting grounds. For years they had avoided angering the Cherokees who had controlled the trade routes from Virginia to the north, clear down to the south at Bucks Crossing just near the bend of the Wateree.

White traders who paid handsomely with liquor and guns for safe passage through Cherokee land would not remain profitable if they were, in any way, hampered on their way to Charlestown. Here their furs could be sold in exchange for badly needed provisions for the return trip as well as their most profitable commodity—the unloaded human cargo from slave ships.

The Catawbas had long been aware of the Cherokees’ agreement with the white traders and had suffered because of it. Not only were their trade routes cut off but many of the Catawba people, particularly the women who were known for their beauty, were also captured during battle and sold to the traders and other settlers as slaves.

After five long years the Cherokees had successfully driven the Catawbas across the Wateree. Ebbwa’s father had told him of his uncle, Deganoweda, then chief, who had looked into the faces of weary braves, tired old people, and frightened children. As chief, he had made a decision. Up until now, the enemy had easily pushed his people from their native lands all the way south across the river. It was time to turn and fight. His plan was simple. Wait for nightfall, cross the river back to their side, and attack them as they slept. They would never suspect this.

The Catawbas were triumphant on that glorious day. The Cherokees were caught totally by surprise, and in the end, Deganoweda and Black Bear negotiated a truce at Black Bear’s insistence since his mighty braves had been soundly defeated by Catawba braves who were outnumbered five to one. The agreement reached called for the Cherokees to stay north of the Wateree River, and the Catawbas would stay on the other side to the south. Each tribe would be able to use the river for fishing and trading so long as neither would invade the lands of the other. The Wateree River essentially became the boundary line between them.

This agreement had been acceptable to Black Bear and the Cherokees since they were assured of the continued existence of the trade routes they controlled.

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Jason had had a sleepless night, tossing and turning, before, finally, it was dawn and the morning sun broke through the bedroom curtains.

You want to tell me what’s bothering you? his wife, Brandie, asked. She herself had slept little.

You know, honey, I know very little about my father’s wfamily. I’d like to go south to visit one of my aunts and talk to her about my side of the family. It sort of got me to thinking about that when we went to your family reunion. You know a lot about your family. I know almost nothing about mine.

Well, when do you want to go?

This weekend, tomorrow. Let’s drive to Carbondale this weekend.

Okay. I have to warn you, Jason. You need a lot of patience to do research on family members.

I have a lot of patience, he quipped. I married you, didn’t I?

The next day, Saturday, the Bennetts both got up early and set out for Carbondale, South Carolina.

*   *   *

Jason and Brandie stopped for gas just prior to crossing the North Carolina border into South Carolina.

Why can’t you buy cornmeal in the Bronx? Jason asked his wife. She had insisted on stopping at the first grocery store they could find once they had traveled south of the Mason–Dixon line in search of water-ground cornmeal. She loved it and was extremely pleased that the gas station sold it.

Now can we go?

I wish we could stop somewhere so we could make some of this. I’m hungry.

You’re always hungry, Jason laughed. It won’t take long to get to Aunt Betty’s house.

When they arrived, Betty was so glad to see her nephew that she burst into tears. She began to cook a meal fit for three kings, a meal that covered her entire dining room table.

Ya eat as much as ya want, Betty urged as Brandie dug in. She was happy that Betty’s meal included cornmeal flapjacks. When they both had finished eating, they sat down in the living room.

Aunt Betty, we’re here to learn about my father. I don’t know that much about him. I don’t even have any pictures of him. Do I look anything like him? Jason asked.

Betty went to retrieve a photo album.

No, baby, ya looks more like ya uncle Walta. See, Aunt Betty said as she pointed to a photo of a man wearing a uniform.

Where is he now?

He neva come back from da war.

What war? Vietnam?

Tink so, not sure.

Do you know who could tell me more about the family besides you, Aunt Betty?

Prob’ly ya aunt Eunice, but she not feelin’ so good. Did ya know ya got some Injun in ya?

Brandie and Jason were startled by this news.

No, we didn’t. Jason leaned forward in his chair.

Yes, we is. We’s related to da Catawbas. Da archives in town would know mo’ ’bout dat, but we is.

Wow, that’s fascinating. Jason noticed that his aunt had started to cry again.

Aunt Betty, what’s wrong?

I’m so glad you’s here. You talk to da archive man, okay?

Okay, we’ll talk to him. Please don’t cry. Everything will be okay.

With that, Jason and Brandie set out to find the Carbondale Archives on Main Street.

I wonder why she started to cry, Jason.

I don’t know, but she seemed pretty upset. We’ll stop back by her house before heading home.

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Jonathan Fischer had been the chief archivist at the Carbondale Archives since 1979. He took over the position after George Weber had left as a result of a scandal involving him and the wife of the local high school principal. He never knew the details of the scandal but learned that the principal, Paul Scott, was now serving a lengthy prison term for the attempted murder of both Mr. Weber and Mrs. Scott. Mrs. Scott vanished along with her three children, and Mr. Weber left shortly thereafter, never to be heard from again.

Jonathan loved his job and looked forward to coming in to work every day. This morning, Saturday, he was busy indexing some new material when he heard the Archives’ front door open.

Good morning. May I help you?

I hope so. My name is Jason Bennett, and this is my wife, Brandie.

Very pleased to meet you. I am Jonathan Fischer, the chief archivist here in Carbondale. So you’re related to the Bennetts?

Yes, Mr. Fischer. We’re here to try to find out about my father, and my aunt told us you would be the best person to help us.

Please call me Jon. Which aunt directed you to me?

My aunt Betty.

Ah, yes. Miss Betty. Lovely lady. Well, Mr. Bennett, what is your father’s name?

Please, Jon, call me Jason. My father’s name was Joshua, Joshua Bennett.

Well, why don’t the two of you step over here, and I’ll show you how to use these machines. I think the easiest way to start is to search census records. Census records are taken every ten years. Can you tell me how long your father lived in Carbondale? I presume your father and Miss Betty are brother and sister?

That’s right. However, I really can’t tell you much about my father.

Okay, not to worry. Let’s look at the 1940 census. I picked that year because I believe your aunt would appear on the census for that year. Let’s take a look.

This record contained several Bennett households. Jonathan found the one he was looking for.

There he is, Jonathan said, putting his finger on Joshua’s name, who was listed under Head of Household Tom Bennett. Looks like he had just been born.

There he is, Brandie. Jason could hardly contain his excitement. And look at everyone who’s living with my grandfather at that time. Jon, I have a question. My aunt mentioned that my family is related to an Indian tribe. Brandie, do you remember the name?

The Bennetts are directly related to the Catawba Indian nation, Jonathan answered.

Yes, that’s them. What can you tell me about the Catawbas?

Jonathan stepped over to some drawers where he searched for and found a map of the area in question. He spread the map out on a table and began to educate the Bennetts on the Catawba Indians.

Well, the Catawba nation was a peaceful lot were it not for the warring Cherokees. The Catawba village would be about here, Jonathan pointed out. There had been years of conflict between the two nations. Essentially, since the Catawbas were basically peaceful, the Cherokees took advantage of this and pushed the Catawbas around. The Cherokees forced them to move their native lands in the northernmost area of what was known as the Carolinas, here, in search of alternative hunting grounds. Jonathan again pointed to the area. For many years the Catawbas avoided angering the Cherokees who had controlled the trade routes from the area here, which is now Virginia to the north, clear down to the south at Bucks Crossing just near the bend of the Wateree River here. Jonathan sketched the area with his index finger. Not only were their trade routes cut off but many of the Catawba people, particularly the women who were known for their beauty, were also captured during battle and traded to the white traders and other settlers as slaves.

Jason and Brandie were hanging on to every word as Jonathan continued the story.

Do any of them still exist?

Well, you’re married to one, Jonathan replied, smiling. But seriously, your grandfather, Tom Bennett, was unmistakably related to this tribe. He was tall, fair, and had long black hair and piercing green eyes.

Jason had heard some incredible stories about his grandfather and said, I remember bits and pieces of stuff my father said about my grandfather. One thing my father said was that he had a lot of brothers and sisters. I know my aunt Betty, but I understand there’re a lot more aunts and uncles.

Oh, there are a lot more. I don’t think too many people really know how many children your grandfather had. Your aunt Betty would be the best person to answer that question.

All right, we’ll have to ask her.

Just before he and Brandie left for home, Jason remembered a piece of paper found among his father’s papers, handed to him by one of his relatives at his father’s funeral. He searched his pockets and found the document and asked Jonathan to look at it.

Not sure what this is. Jonathan was puzzled. It looks like a title of some sort, a piece of which is missing up here in the corner, you see. Jonathan pointed out. I have a friend across the street. His name is Moshe Rubin, an attorney. He may be able to tell you what this is.

Thanks, Jon. This has been very enlightening. We’ll make an appointment to see Mr. Rubin. Probably next weekend, if he’s free.

With that, Jason and Brandie shook hands with Jonathan, thanked him again for his help, and left to find someplace to eat. They crossed Main Street and began walking, passing a storefront whose sign read Moshe Rubin—Attorney-at-Law. Just a few blocks farther they came upon Butch’s Barbeque and decided to have lunch before heading back to New York, stopping at Betty’s on the way.

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Moshe Rubin gazed up at the wall clock over his office door for the fifth time. He was engaged in research involving contract law and couldn’t wait until lunchtime.

Why can’t cases be as easy as contract law in law school?

The clock read 11:50 a.m.

I’m going to lunch. You can reach me at Butch’s, he said to his longtime secretary, Jackie.

Jackie nodded her acknowledgement as she continued her conversation with her sister-in-law, Rachel Potts, already knowing where Moshe was having lunch. Every Wednesday he had lunch with his best friend, Jonathan. The two of them had raised eyebrows when they had first entered Butch’s Barbeque, both adorned in their traditional yarmulkes and sitting down to a deluxe order of a barbecue sandwich and ribs. Today, no one paid any attention since Moshe and Jonathan had had lunch at Butch’s every week for the past nine years.

He arrived at the restaurant soaked in sweat and panting as if he had run a marathon. He knew he was overweight. That’s why everyone in Carbondale always saw him in a black rayon suit. It was the only thing that would fit.

He stepped through the outer door then through the swinging inner door into the main dining area. He liked this restaurant for a couple of reasons; it was the only restaurant in Carbondale where one had a choice of items on the menu that were not fried. Secondly, Butch’s place had real linen tablecloths and napkins. A touch of class but, at the same time, ironic since every single customer had been seen licking their fingers at one time or another.

He sat across from Jonathan in a booth that for years, was never occupied on a Wednesday between the hours of twelve noon and 2:00 p.m. Everyone automatically presumed that the Jewish boys would be arriving during that time. Every Wednesday, Butch was sure to be seen shooing anyone away from a particular booth in anticipation of their arrival.

The waitress, as if on cue, brought their lunch orders, which never varied from week to week. She placed their food on the table and retreated to the kitchen. Moshe began to devour a slab of ribs, collard greens, and potato salad while Jonathan attacked a barbecue sandwich, also with a side of potato salad and collard greens. Neither talked while they ate lunch. Each wanted to savor every morsel of some of the best barbecue in the county. Both finished eating and leaned back to let it all settle. Jonathan loved Butch’s barbecue sandwiches, the sauce of which displayed prominently on his white shirt as splattered dark orange-red dots.

People came from as far as Columbia to Butch’s restaurant. The proprietor, Butch (no one except Betty and Eunice Bennett knew his real name), marveled at the notoriety. All he was doing was using a simple recipe that had been passed down through five generations, or so his mother told him. Whatever made up the ingredients of his special sauce caused customers to frequent the restaurant in droves. There were times when the line for those waiting to get into the restaurant contained more people than the seating capacity inside. Butch did