Murder at the Holiday Flotilla (2 page)

“
This looks like a late-eighteenth, early-nineteenth century document.” I’d had an introduction to historic documents in one of my graduate classes at the Savannah College of Arts and Design.

“
Are you saying you can read that gobbledygook?” Melanie asked. “It’s English, I can see that, but who can make sense of it?”

“
Why, I can,” Binkie said. “But I’ve only had time for a cursory perusal. Just a quick glance to see what we are dealing with.”

“
I feel sure I can too,” I said. “Just takes a bit of getting used to.”

I carefully turned to the last page and discovered what I had expected to find: a list of witnesses’ signatures.

“
This is a last will and testament. And these names are the signatures of the witnesses,” I said as I scanned the document for a date. “Oh, here it is. Here’s the date the will was written and witnessed. April 2, 1805.”

I turned to the last page. “And this is when the will was proved, April 30, 1805.”

“
Proved? What does that mean?” Cam asked, leaning forward on the sofa to gaze down at the sheaf of papers I’d spread on the coffee table.

“
Similar to probate. This means the person who wrote this will died sometime between April 2nd and April 30th in 1805.”

As a history professor, Binkie would recognize the significance of these early documents. “Have you read these papers?” I asked him. There were other folded documents in the box as well as the will.

“
Just a brief look. Long enough to know they are of value. Wills and property appraisals. Either the originals or hand-written copies. There are bonds of marriage as well, and marriage registrations.”

Turning to the others, he explained, “In the Colonial era they had what was called ‘a bond of marriage.’ The man had to pledge a sum of money to a magistrate. If he did not go through with the marriage, he forfeited the bond to his fiancée.”

Melanie pursed her lips. “Not a bad custom.” She squeezed back onto the sofa between Cam and Binkie.

“
I’d have put up a bond for you,” Cam said, teasing. “A big bond.” Or perhaps he was not teasing.

Binkie rose and came around the coffee table to sit by my side and give me a reassuring hug. “It’s a treasure trove, Ashley dear. Here is proof of your ancestors. Some of these papers predate the Revolutionary War.”

“
We still have boxes and boxes to explore,” Melanie said. “These papers were in an old trunk.”

“
Would someone turn the lamp a little brighter,” I asked as I peered intently at the papers spread before me. “The cover sheet reads, ‘Samuel Wood’s Will, proven April 30, 1805.’ Aunt Ruby, have you ever heard of Samuel Wood? Who was he?”

Aunt Ruby replied thoughtfully, “Your mother was a Chastain, as I am, of course. Of the Savannah Chastains. And Scarlett is of the Chastain line. Your father was a Wilkes, to state the obvious. His mother was a Humphreys. And if memory serves me correctly, her grandmother was a Wood. Margaret Wood whose grandfather was a Wood. I do recall that Margaret Wood married a Civil War veteran named John Humphreys. I reckon this Samuel Wood was an ancestor of Margaret Wood.”

“
I vaguely remember Daddy telling me we had an ancestor who served in the Revolutionary War,” Melanie said. “Perhaps this Samuel Wood was that patriot.”

I said, “Let me read what I can of this will. The language is very formal so bear with me.

“
In the name of God, Amen, I Samuel Wood of the County of Brunswick and state of North Carolina, being weak in body but of sound and disposing mind and memory, blessed be God, do make and publish this my last will and testament in manner as follows. First, I recommend my soul to God, and my body to the Earth and as touching such worldly goods as it hath pleased God to bestow on me in life, I give and dispose of them as follows.”

I paused, studying the document. “There’s a word here I can’t make out. Then he goes on to leave three daughters the sum of five dollars each. But one also receives a horse and saddle.”

“
Five dollars? He must not have thought much of his daughters,” Cam said.

Binkie said, “No doubt he was relying on their husbands to provide for them. And remember, this was 1805. Five dollars was a lot of money in 1805. Continue with your reading, Ashley dear.”

I was skimming along. “Let me summarize. You don’t want to hear every word. He left his house and his lot to his son, David Wood, and upon David’s death the house and lot were to go to David’s wife, then oldest child, in that order.

“
Then he leaves various small items to several named people.”

“
Possibly servants?” Melanie asked.

“
Ah. Here in item five he mentions the son David again. ‘I give and bequeath to my son David and his heirs and assigns all my lands, my longleaf pine forests, my personal estate, cash on hand, money at interest, together with all the residue of my Wilmington treasure.”

“
Wilmington treasure!” Melanie exclaimed. “What is that?”

“
Lastly he appoints his wife Elizabeth to serve as his executor.”

“
And the will was proven, you say,” Jon asked.

I pushed the sheaf of papers toward him, and pointed to the cover sheet. “See. Right there it says, Samuel Wood’s will. Proven April 30, 1805, and recorded in the surrogate’s office at Smithville in . . . something . . . looks like l-i-b-r . . .”

“
Library?” Aunt Ruby suggested.

“
Perhaps. To continue, in l-i-b-r at folio folio - folio is repeated twice - so, folio 18, and then there’s another word I can’t make out.”

“
May I have a look, Ashley?”

As I passed the will to Binkie, I told Cam, “In case you don’t know, Southport was originally known as Smithville.”

“
I think I heard that,” Cam responded.

Binkie slipped on readers. “Ah, yes, the word appears to be ‘of wills.’ But the two words are joined together. And then there is a signature. Jacob somebody. Can’t make out the last name. But there is a capital S following the surname with some swirls so perhaps he was the Surrogate.”

“
But what do you make of the treasure?” Melanie asked.

“
Never heard anything about a treasure,” I said, “but I’ve heard about the old Wood estate in Brunswick County for most of my life. Haven’t you, Binkie?”

“
Most definitely,” he replied. “One of the area’s oldest families. And to think they may be your ancestors.”

I continued, “And here is the oddest thing, the boys’ pediatrician is Amy Wood who inherited the Wood estate. That is where Jon and I are going tomorrow. Talk about coincidences. She asked us to look at the house because she’d like to restore it. And now, to think we might be related. Seems uncanny.”

No one remarked. We exchanged quizzical looks with each other. Then Cam broke the silence. “Has it occurred to anyone but me that if there is a family fortune floating around Brunswick County somewhere, our lovely brides here could very well be the heirs to a Colonial-era treasure.”

2

The next morning, after showing Aunt Ruby and Binkie our babies’ paraphernalia and explaining the function of each item, Aunt Ruby exclaimed, “My stars, times have surely changed.”

Jon said, “We can’t thank you enough. We know the little guys will be safe with you two in charge. And you’ve got our cell number. Call if you have any question, no matter how trivial.”

“
You go on to your job and don’t worry about a thing,” Binkie reassured us. “Ruby and I will have the time of our lives, playing with these precious babies.”

“
They’re angels when they’re sleeping,” I said. “Don’t let them give you a hard time when they awake.”

“
We won’t,” Ruby said. “You go on now and don’t keep your client waiting.”

“
We’re quite excited,” Jon said. “This just might be the oldest house we’ve ever tackled.”

“
I’ve always wanted to see that house,” I said.

With promises to check on them often, Jon and I kissed our babies goodbye, then drove across Memorial Bridge to Brunswick County. We crossed Eagle Island where the Battleship North Carolina is dry-docked, and picked up River Road at Belville.

“
The discovery of that old will has caused me to think about the colonial period. History was made here along River Road,” I said to Jon. “Look, there’s the plaque for Alfred Moore.” Moore had been a captain in the First North Carolina Continental Regiment. His grandfather had been Colonel Maurice Moore, one of the founders of Brunswick Town in 1720. Alfred Moore had been a defender of Brunswick Town when the British attacked and razed the small village in 1776.

The further south we drove, the denser the forests grew. Pine forests and more pine forests.

Eventually we veered left onto Plantation Road and drove by the entrance to Orton Plantation. After 126 years in the Sprunt family, Orton had a new owner. “I can’t get over that the buyer is a direct descendant of Roger Moore,” I told Jon. “How cool is that? Wonder how he’ll restore the property.”

Jon glanced over at me. “I’ve heard he has a good track record and I’d love for us to get in on that project, wouldn’t you?”

“
An opportunity to work on Orton would be a dream come true and so good for our careers.”

“
The Coastal Land Trust holds conservation easements that cover most of the Orton property, so I don’t expect much to change. Only improve. Hopefully.”

We drove by the entrance to Old Brunswicktown, a wrought iron gate set in a white stucco wall, two massive stone eagles capping the gate posts.

We were nearing Historic Brunswick Town, now operated by the state. This quiet, picturesque site on the banks of the Cape Fear River has an amazing past. In 1726 Maurice Moore, the son of a former South Carolina governor, founded the port town. Although a small village, Brunswick prospered as a thriving political center because it was the home of two royal governors.

Then came the Stamp Act rebellion, followed by the War of Independence. With the growth of nearby Wilmington and the relocation of the royal governor to New Bern in 1770, few people remained in Brunswick in the spring of 1776 when British redcoats raided and burned the town. For almost two centuries the crumbling remains of the small village lay in obscurity, overgrown with thick foliage. Lost to memory.

Miraculously, in the late 1950s and early 1960s, archaeologists developed an interest in the old settlement and unearthed foundations from Brunswick's original days. The most impressive structure is St. Philip's Anglican Church, four roofless brick walls that date back to 1754.

“
Perhaps we’ll have time to make a quick detour to St. Philip’s before we return home. I love those ancient ruins, those huge arched open windows. The place feels . . . sacred.”

Jon reached for my hand. “Yes, it feels that way to me too. We’ll call home and if our boys are not giving Ruby and Binkie a fit, we’ll stop for a few minutes.

“
You know, Ashley, lately my mind seems to be leaping forward. I find myself daydreaming about the outings we’ll take as a family. The interesting places we can show our boys. We have so much to teach them.”

“
Jon, I’ve been thinking the same thing. I can’t wait. And I’m hoping that we can learn more about my ancestors so we can tell them exactly where they came from. Their legacy.”

“
Speaking of legacy . . . oh, we’ve arrived. This is our turn off.” Jon steered the Escalade into a narrow country lane. We traveled through a forest of longleaf pines. We found ourselves in a thickly wooded area, nothing out here but trees and more trees, swamps and alligators. After about a mile, we spotted an old house set directly at the end of the driveway.

The house had once been white but with age and disuse had turned a dingy gray. The center section was topped with the traditional Greek Revival pediment. A porch with columns spread across the front. Better days for this house had been a long, long time ago.

Our walk to the front porch was cushioned by pine needles. “Don’t see a doorbell,” I said.

Jon knocked on the screen door. Dr. Wood did not respond. “She is expecting us.”

The heavily wooded property was still and quiet with only the wind sighing in the tops of the tall pines. Then, suddenly, came the noise of incessant howling.

Jon stepped off the porch and looked around. “What in the world is that? Sounds like a pack of wild animals.”

“
It’s coming from the back.” The noise grew louder, a baying and a howling. Then furious barking. “Dogs,” I said. “It’s dogs. But where are they?”

We walked along the side of the house, following the noise of the howling dogs. I couldn’t see them but I could hear them.

The ground we hurried over was sandy and littered with pine needles and pine cones. We rounded some oleander bushes and I caught sight of Amy Wood. She was standing near a chain link fence, giant wire clippers in her right hand.

“
Amy?” I called.

She turned, saw us, then lifted a palm in warning – back off, back off.

“
What?” I wondered out loud.

Quickly, Amy stooped, lowering the wire cutters into position at the bottom of the fence. And began to snip. I could hear the snap, snap of the wire cutters cutting through the heavy wire mesh as she worked to make a small hole.