Рита Браун: Tail Gait

“Come, come,” Ewing indulgently replied. “I can and will do better than that, but you must make a bargain with me.”

“Yes.”

“Your hand is remarkable. You can create anything.” He tilted his head. “Indeed, your hand is better than the clerks who write all these papers, writs, and so forth.” He waved his hand, as though dismissing hordes of clerks. “If you can create such papers for me, I will be happy to have you in my employ.”

Charles couldn’t help smiling. “I trust, Sir, you need no discharge papers.”

Ewing laughed uproariously at this. “My, my, no, but I need a bill of sale. Peter Ashcombe, a Loyalist, owns two thousand acres. He will never return to claim them and he has no heirs. He left in haste and in anger and unfortunate feelings still persist. Indeed, he would be foolish to return. I have taken the precaution of retaining his farm manager at a higher salary than that which he formerly enjoyed. I’ve told him I am in contact with Peter to effect this sale, but alas, that’s not true. I haven’t been able to reach Ashcombe. I would like to buy those acres, and with you, I shall.”

“Have you a model?”

“I do. I have had copies made of every land transaction I have ever concluded to my satisfaction.” Ewing emphasized the word satisfaction.

“Have you parchment or vellum?”

“I do, and I have good ink, sharp quills, and wax.”

“Ribbons, Sir. We need ribbons.”

“Ah.” Ewing sprang from his chair, opened the door.

“Roger.”

Immediately, the butler appeared.

“Will you find one of my daughters and ask for fine ribbon?” He looked to Charles.

“Silk,” Charles added. “Or satin, but good ribbons. In red.”

Roger bowed and left.

Ewing returned to his chair. “I can see you are a businessman.”

“I have not your gift, but I do hope over time some of it rubs off.” Charles smiled, as did Piglet, at his feet.

Once Roger returned with the ribbon, Charles, sitting at the large, lovely desk, began work on a good sheet of vellum, using Ewing’s most recent land purchase as a model. He added flourishes of his own, quite happy that, although they were cracked a bit, his hands hadn’t been ruined by the cold. Cutting two ribbons set at an angle, he took a candle and dripped red wax where they joined, turning the stamp to smear it a bit, as they had no good stamp with the correct symbols on it. Gently shaking some sand on the document, he waited a bit, then carefully tilted the vellum so the sand would go into the wastebasket.

“Mr. Garth, according to your instructions.”

“Yes, yes. Now, what is this?”

Charles read, “ ‘In the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and eighty-two, February first, in the twenty-second year of the reign of His Majesty George the Third.’ ” Charles looked up. “Ashcombe is a Loyalist—this is his version from England. Now I must make one that records it for this country. You see, the recordkeeper will be either amused or angry at the mention of the year of George the Third’s reign. He probably will not look closely at these documents.”

“Ah, Lieutenant, you are exceedingly clever.”

Within short order, Charles completed the transfer for the county clerk. Both papers would be taken down to his office tomorrow.

Ewing was barely able to contain his excitement, reveling in Charles’s fine work. “Those years when I thought I might be hung. And now this.” He looked at Charles. “Shall we start at ten pounds a month, living quarters and food, of course?”

“Ten pounds.” Charles couldn’t believe it, for this was a very generous sum that he would be able to augment with drawings of people’s homes, carriages, plantings.

“For your first year. I believe over time you will see thankful increase.”

“Sir, I thank you.”

“And I thank you. These are remarkable.” Ewing took a deep breath, then laughed with joy. “No one will ever know.”

Dear Reader,

In 2005, the National Trust for Historic Preservation named Camp Security in York County, Pennsylvania, on a list of America’s eleven most endangered historic places. For two hundred twenty-five years, the prisoner-of-war camp had suffered nothing other than normal farming disturbances. A local developer wanted to build a 105-house subdivision on this land, thereby rendering it useless to archaeological examination.

In 1979, a team of professional archaeologists examined just two acres of the camp, recovering more than fifteen thousand artifacts. Given the severe time limitations under which they worked, there was no way to discover what remained hidden on the thirty acres remaining.

Carol Tanzola, a luminous soul with a passion for history, for finding out just who we were and who we are, couldn’t abide this. Like many people who think about civilizations, the past, wars, et cetera, Carol knew that one can judge a time, a people by how they treat military prisoners, to say nothing of how they treat women, animals, or those unable to compete due to physical or mental infirmity. A woman with a deep sense of fairness as well as curiosity, she started Friends of Camp Security.

As with all such nonprofit organizations, they discovered that fund-raising is the second oldest profession.

Undaunted, they pressed on. The developer was not charmed. The Friends never gave up and over time the local newspaper began to keep track of goings-on. The York Historical Society also took note. (This organization is housed in a wonderful home off York Square.)

More than twelve years later, Carol and the Friends have finally saved Camp Security for all Americans. Over the years much will be unearthed about how people lived, their pastimes, their old pipes, et cetera. There’s hope that the grave sites of those who died in the unfortunate sweeps of fever will be found. Perhaps the archaeologists will find medical information, as well. It’s quite exciting.

On a personal note, Carol is a fellow foxhunter, and we met through this rapturous love at the Pennsylvania Horse Show held at the end of October. It’s the last of the great indoor shows. Madison Square Garden is gone. Washington hangs on but changes venue. But the Penn National remains what it has always been: fierce competition, elegance, and fabulous horses.

Over the years we stayed in touch. I should add here that Carol, Jim, and their two daughters are all crazy fun so I looked forward to any communication and always to the big show.

I could never write big checks. I live with the typical writers’ curse: chicken one day, feathers the next. But I promised Carol that I’d find a way to put Camp Security into a mystery. And so I did. I will continue to revisit the camp and York in the future. In fact, I’m surprised that York County, in particular, and southeastern Pennsylvania, in general, haven’t been the backdrop for more novels. Apart from the area’s physical beauty and history, the people present an array of delicious contradictions. What writer could ask for more?

Well, I’ve nattered on but the long struggle to save Camp Security reaffirmed my faith in Americans. One person can make a difference.

In this case, it was Carol Tanzola.

Well done, Madam.

Always and Ever,

With gratitude to

Carol Tanzola

Acknowledgments

Nelson Yarbrough, D.D.S., and his wife, Sandra, also D.D.S., have put up with me for just about four decades. Last year, I inflicted myself on Nelson, the quarterback of the 1959 University of Virginia football team, for an overview of UVA, as well as college football, during that era.