“Damnit, I done told’tchu, Davis. There ain’t no gold down in that swamp. D’you really think you can find what dozens of lustful men the past 100 years hain’t? Hell, the Jemison family wasted three generations digging out there inbetween every planting season. The First Methodist pastor back in the eighties got such a fever cooked up that he abandoned the pulpit to dig for the rest of his pitiful life. Just because dad’s got that old story about the Crowell family doesn’t mean you can magically find some lost treasure.”
I’d heard all this from my older brother, Paul, countless times, and it’s not like I had my heart set on this time being any different. But he was my brother, after all, and who else was I supposed to dream with?
“Paul, look all I’m saying is that we can search in ways those men couldn’t! We can—”
“DAMNIT Davis, I do not want to hear it. Go on somewhere else now. I’ve got bigger concerns than your little treasure hunt game. You want to keep playing like when we were boys, you go right on ahead. I’ll have no part in it. Goodnight, brother.”
With that, Paul flicked out his cigarette in the parking lot outside The Printworks Bar, gave me a pat on the back that told me he loved me despite my folly, and went to his truck to go home. “Goodnight, Paul,” I told him as he got in. He gave a wave out the window, cranked up his stereo, and was gone.
“What’s up with your bro, Davis? We were having a good ol’ time shooting the shit, but, man, as soon as you mentioned that gold story, Paul flipped out,” my good friend Thomas asked.
“Bro, it’s a long story itself, honestly. Paul and I used to scheme about finding the lost gold all the time as kids—really all the way up to when he went off to college. Shortly after that, though, he just started turning sour on the whole deal. It got to where I couldn’t even reminisce with him about how much fun we used to have without him getting on to me like I was wasting his time.”
I met Thomas during freshman year at college in Intro to American Government, and we became fast friends after realizing we were both big music fans, especially Tom Petty, and both hated the American Government. After hanging out and sharing at least a case of beer a couple of times, we were able to bullshit about pretty much anything like brothers—politics, history, conspiracies of the most schizophrenic variety, everything under and beyond the sun.
“That’s a shame, man. We really could have used a third,” Thomas exhaled from his cigarette. Of course, I had clued Thomas in about the lost gold once I realized he would “get it.” He did, and we immediately began scheming on a whole ‘nother level. Aerial drones, LIDAR imaging, ghillie suit camouflage, magnetometers, and various makes and models of metal detectors, among other details, had become our common refrain of conversation over the past couple of years at school. Now that we had just graduated, it was time to really start putting the plan in motion. I wanted to give Paul one last shot at being involved, but it looks like he’s totally foreclosed to the idea. I don’t blame him at all, but I do find myself feeling sorry for him. He’s in his second year of working as an attorney for the state agriculture commission, and it seems like he’s only growing more distant from the family as the months go by.
The feeling that I wish I’d never mentioned it to him at all caught me in the gut, but I’m consoled by the fact that I really didn’t let on to any plan actually being in operation. I think Paul will be none the wiser, and that will be just fine and for the best anyway.
“Yea, it is a shame, but we’ll manage,” I say after taking one last draw of my cigarette and snuffing it out in the ashtray. “You wanna split another pitcher and play a couple games of pool before we call it a night?”
“You bet, this one’s on me,” Thomas replied. The Printworks Bar’s neon sign glowed in the puddles of the parking lot. The insignia was of an old printing press angled so that you could see a flaming torch printed on the page. With the old neon tubes outlining the press filled with green krypton, and the flame filled with orange helium, it looked like the potholed pavement was a mob marching for retribution as the reflections danced in the puddles. We marched inside for more beer and a friendly game of eight-ball.
* * *
“Men we’ve got to clear out right this instant! A detachment of about 100 Wilson’s raiders are hot on us, only about a day’s ride away, and they’ve all got the new Spencers. They’ve heard word of our transport mission, and they aim to kill us and capture our cargo.” The voice was calm but forceful and belonged to a man upon a muscled gray Thoroughbred that the men heard galloping up at breakneck pace for the last couple of minutes before bursting forth from the brush beside the trail. He wore civilian clothes of black trousers and a muddied white shirt. His name was Jeremiah Crowell, and he was one of the finest horsemen in Dixie. From the start of the transport detail in Richmond, he’d been scouting out ahead to ensure their path was clear, and then falling back for short periods to gather intelligence.
There was not a hint of panic among them. They had lost all sense of fear long ago.
“Come now, Jeremiah. Only 100 Yankees, you say? That means they’ve only got us ten to one. We can rout them easily. It doesn’t make a damn if they’ve all got Spencers or not,” Jesse Burkhalter spoke up matter of factly from driver’s seat of the caboose wagon.
“Knowing you men, I don’t doubt that, Jesse, but we have more to consider than merely our own lives in this matter. We cannot allow any chance of the Treasury’s gold to fall into Yankee hands. This mission concerns the very life of the Confederacy.”
The men knew what Jeremiah said was true. President Davis ordered them on this mission in case General Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia fell, and Richmond with it. This gold was the only chance, slim as it was, of establishing a provisional government to continue the war effort from Mexico.
“There’s swamp all around. Let us go off the trail and hide the gold so that we can divert the Yankees away from it. They only know we carry cargo, not of what kind. If we’re found, then the new uniforms and accoutrements will satisfy their curiosity,” Jeremiah told the men. They continued down the trail for a little ways until coming to Bottleneck Ford where they could cross Dogwood Creek. After fording all three wagons across, the men continued down the trail a little ways until they reached a small opening leading into the swamp.
As they were preparing to carry the chests of gold to find a hiding place, it began to rain in that soft, steady way the sky does before the bottom falls out. As the men looked to the East, the clouds were pitch black billows of smoke from the sun setting the West on fire.
Jeremiah pulled a modest bottle of bourbon whiskey from his side satchel and took a hearty swig before passing it to Jesse to his right. “Let’s dig in boys. It’s gonna be a long night.”
* * *
As the sun peeked up over the horizon, the dawn July air was cool and crisp on my skin, and I felt my bones breathing it in. I woke up about a half hour ago in complete darkness and immediately began rebuilding the fire from the night before to boil up some coffee and cook a couple of eggs and toast for breakfast. I’ve been camping out like this on the family acreage adjacent to Dogwood Creek almost every weekend since graduating.
Each time, I feel the ground whisper to me a little more. “Lay your head upon me, dig your heels into me, your soul is bare out here.” I’m always struck by how the earth has such a way with words. More and more often, I catch it murmuring behind me. Sometimes at the campfire, or when I’m taking aim at some game, and especially when I take a dip in the creek, it whispers “you tread where your father has trod before. Your sweat and blood waters my roots, and I am yours to till and steward.”
There’s nothing like having a conversation with the dew-covered woods over a pot of cowboy coffee. The only thing better is talking with God under the stars.
I’ve had long conversations about the gold with both, and, from the best I can figure it, the woods would be more than happy to be rid of the shiny festers stuck in its form, and God knows I’m not one to bury the talents. As I finish up breakfast, I’m more confident than ever that the gold is within my reach. All I have to do is follow the plan.
Of course, the plan isn’t foolproof by any means. I’ve got no illusions about that, especially since it relies so much upon technology. Man is fickle, and technology is man’s most fickle folly. All the efficiency machines our minds can dream up and our fingers can tinker together cannot ever make us the little gods we are wont to build ourselves up to be. But hell, I’m not trying to go the moon or implant some chip in my brain—never under any circumstances. I’m just hunting for a bit of treasure and with it a ticket to a better life. A life where I only have to answer to God and my loved ones rather than slaving for mammon.
I wipe my old No. 3 cast-iron skillet down with a little bit of bacon grease until the seasoning glistens and put it away ready to be used again tomorrow. It’s Saturday morning, and I plan on coming back later this afternoon with Thomas to test out some of the new equipment, so I put out the fire and tidy up camp a bit but leave my tent pitched with my sleeping bag inside.
I toss my duffle bag in the passenger seat as I hop behind the wheel of my old Isuzu Trooper turbo diesel and head towards town as “Refugee” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers plays over cassette tape. I turn it up.
“Honey, it don’t make no difference to me, baby. Everybody’s had to fight to be free.”
I think about how a life of debt and making someone else rich working a 9 to 5 until I die to pay taxes funding the crack house across the street doesn’t sound like something I really care to fool with.
“You see, you don’t have to live like a refugee.”
As I pull up to the house that Thomas and I have been splitting rent on since we moved off campus, I see him piddling around in the backyard with a metal detector.
“Alright!” I holler at him as I get out of the truck.
“Yessir, the new piece got here a couple days early. It was on the doorstep when I got back home this morning from the library,” Thomas grinned.
“Excellent, now we’ll be able to take it for a spin up at the camp this afternoon. How’d that go, by the way?” I asked.
“Great, actually. I got that cute librarian assistant’s number, y’know the tall girl with wavy black hair that’s always wearing the sweaters over collared shirts and a tennis skirt with leggings? Did you know she smokes cigarettes? She said she has a couple a day, as little treats. What a classic dame. I think I’m in love, bro. Her eyes are blue, but she’s got black hair! You know that’s my type, like that Joan of Arc phenotype—”
I’m laughing out loud at this point. “The maps, bro, how’d the maps go?” I interject has I grab the stitch in my side. “Right on about the new wifey, you’ll have to tell me more. But please tell me you had some luck with the map search, too,” I practically plead as I’m still trying to stop laughing over my boy’s wedding plans.
“Davis, my brother, you know I’m slick with the librarian mommas, too. Of course I had luck with the maps. Come on in, lemme show you this shit on the desktop. The sweet old woman even let me take photos of the archival pieces in the back room.”
We went on in, and I opened the fridge to grab a beer as Thomas booted the desktop up to display a projector onto our den wall, “You want a cold one?”
“For sure, ‘preciate it.”
I crack em open and hand one to Thomas as he starts pulling up the pictures.
We had kept the den’s lights off for the projector, but the old wooden shutters on the east side of the room let little rays of the sun peep in at our planning sesh. They cast near vertically down onto the brick tile and formed their own little labyrinthine map of light and shadows. As I followed one ray’s path to the ground for a moment, I saw a small flash of gold in the corner of my eye. This sunbeam had disguised itself as a flying Spanish doubloon just to have a bit of fun at my expense. I appreciated the mischief as I took a swig of beer and looked over at the projection.
There they were, beamed onto the wall like a message from beyond—the first detailed survey map of [redacted] county from 1820. One by one, Thomas pulled up a half dozen more maps—one just before the war, one during Yankee occupation, one from the turn of the century, another from the Civilian Conservation Corp, and then one from the eighties and another from the early aughts. “Great work, bro. These are exactly what we need. Will you pull up the 1820 map and zoom in on the Essee River? And then put the CCC map next to it and zoom in on Hwy [xx] near the Eastern county line.”
“Ten-four. Done. And done. What’re we looking for?”
“We’re going to find where Dogwood Creek flows into the Essee on the west bank. That’s where old Bottleneck Ford is, the last known location of our boys before they hid the gold and got into a skirmish with the Yankees. Look, it’s even marked on the 1820 map!” I’m in the middle of the projection, now, becoming the map as I put my finger on the wall where the ford is.
“Okay, perfect. Here, I’ll zoom into the same spot on the CCC map,” Thomas says as he cracks open another beer. I hadn’t noticed that he’d even gotten up. “Here we are, looks like it’s about a mile south of mile marker 80,” he says right before a nonchalant chug of about half the new bottle.
I sip mine for a minute as I sit in a chair in the midst of the projector beam. As I finish the last swig and go to grab another, I say “Thomas, we’re in business, man. The camp is on the west bank of Dogwood Creek about a half mile North of the highway. I always knew that Bottleneck Ford used to be below us, but now with these maps, we’ll be able to really zero in on the best starting point for us to map with the LIDAR drone.”
“Hell yeah! When are we making this shit happen? I mean, hell, we might as well take a crack at it this evening. We’ve been practicing with the drone long enough to not lose it,” Thomas says as he extends his hand high towards me, and we hit a triumphant high-five.
“Let’s do it. Shoot, it’s still only dinner time anyway. How bout we go grab a bite over at the farm and holler at Pops for a minute? It’s time you heard the story from the horse’s mouth, anyway.”
“I thought you’d never ask. I’m starvin such as I could eat a grindstone.”
* * *
As soon as we pulled through the gate and hit the gravel driveway, we heard a pack of dogs bolt from the house hidden around the bend of a long tree-covered driveway, barking and yowling our way. They knew the sound of the Trooper by heart. The ragtag gang met us by the time we lost sight of the road. Roscoe the Rottweiler and indomitable leader of the pack was first, hardly even panting, even at 10 years old. I put my arm out the window and tapped on my door as I slowed to a stop, “Still outrunning the youngins aren’t ‘cha, Roscoe?” Roscoe sat and licked at my hand as I flopped his ears petting his head.
I get on out of the truck to open up the back as the rest of the dogs catch up. “Alright, looooaaaadddddd uuuppppppp now doggies, get’oninthere!” Daisy, a wire-haired blue Border Terrier, flew right into the back and went to say hello to Thomas by trying to lick his ear. Then came Eddie the Coonhound who smelled the camp on my boots and hopped in hoping for a hunt, followed quickly by Scarlett, a young ruby Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Roscoe put his front paws up on the bumper, looked at me with his deep brown eyes expectantly, and I helped my oldest friend on up.
We carried on down the rest of the driveway and parked in front of the house. Dad got up from his rocking chair and started walking down the steps, “Davis, my boy! Come ‘ere and give your old man a hug. Your Momma just left to have tea and dinner with some of the ladies from church, so it’s just us. She’ll be sad she missed you. If I’d known you were coming, I would have already had something ready for us, but I’ve got some good ground sirloin we can fix up real quick for some burgers.”
I wrap both my arms around him and pat his back. “That sounds great, Pops. We’re both pretty hungry,” I say as we each take a half step back and look at time itself.
“Well, I imagine so,” he said with a smile. “Treasure huntin’s hard work boy,” and a glint of gold in his eye. I let the dogs out the back of the truck, and they gave me and Thomas a full welcoming. Pop shook Thomas’ hand and clapped his back, “Good seeing you again as always Thomas. Any fun pieces come through the range recently?”
“Yessir, likewise! Actually, yeah, I got to shoot one of those Kriss Vectors for the first time last week. Guy around our age brought one in. Granted, it was just the semi-auto variant, but I still had to get him to let me try it out. Are you familiar with that one?”
“Oh yea, I think I’ve seen that thing on Youtube. That’s the one with the funky recoil system right? Looks like it oughta be pretty fun. I need me one of those in full auto.”
“That’s the one. Yea, I bet full auto on those suckers is pretty righteous. I’ll tell you that thing was chambered in .45 ACP, and it shot as smooth as a little .22 target pistol.”
“Right on, that’s what I’m talking about. Shoot, we do need us some of those don’t we? I’m gonna come over and visit you sometime while you’re there. But of course you know we save the best pieces for practice here on the farm,” Pop winked as we headed inside for some grub.
We stuffed our faces with cheeseburgers fried in the cast iron and some hand cut fries fried in tallow as the dogs watched with the utmost etiquette. “So Davis, have you told Thomas the whole story about the gold yet?” Pop asked in between sips of a couple fingers of bourbon.
“I’ve mentioned some, but I’ve been telling him we needed to hear the story from you in person.”
“Oh I’m sure you could tell it just as well as I can son, but I’ll be glad to oblige you on that.” Pop set his old snuff glass down, laced his fingers under his chest, and leaned back in his chair some. “There’s several bits and pieces I always heard about the gold these past 70 something years, but the biggest piece has got to be from the old Crowell family itself. See, Jeremiah Crowell, who was one of our boys that was transporting the gold from Richmond actually ended up settling down here after the war. Some official records show there had been a skirmish between a Confederate transport detail and a few dozen of Wilson’s raiders who had spread out to pillage the countryside out this way. The boys gave the Yankees hell and got about fifty of em by fighting guerilla style in the swamp, and the dozen that survived turned tail and ran. But we lost a couple in the fight, too, and several more were injured, including Jeremiah. The only medical attention they could get was back towards town where old Doc Wilson lived on the outskirts. Damn good man, Doc Wilson, and his sons were too. His great grandson actually delivered me in the little hospital that closed 50 years ago. He worked his best on ‘em, and was able to save all but one who had been hit in the shoulder. Jeremiah and the others convinced the two boys who weren’t injured to go on home to their families since they were able-bodied enough to make the journey, and they all knew that the Yankees would be on to them soon. And sure enough, the Yankees heard word that Doc Wilson was harboring Rebels and took them all prisoner, including Doc, who was knocking on 80 years old at this time. Damned worthless Yankees.”
“Wow I’d forgotten about that. If that ain’t lowdown as hell, locking up an old doctor like that,” I shake my head.
“Well, you can’t expect any different from Yankees, boys. These were the same devils that were raping our women and terrorizing our negroes,” Pops said with indignant pain in his eyes. “That’s all been whitewashed though. Most people from the South don’t have any idea about what happened to us down here now. We remembered for a long time, though. I never thought that we’d accept how the feds took control of our schools and businesses back when I was y’alls age. People still remembered the last time they burned our cities and homes down then. I really thought the revolution was just around the corner. But hell, once they painted the South and how we were trying to make our unique situation work as evil, it was only a matter of time ‘til most people just sucked it up and submitted to the boot. The whites with money moved and started new communities and have been running away ever since. Shoot, I’m getting off track though. Where were we?”
“Not at all, Pops. Tell us like it is!” Thomas said, always eager to get dad fired up.
“Right before General Lee surrendered, right?” I prompt.
“Yes, that’s right. This all happened right at the end of the war, so thankfully the men weren’t prisoners long but unfortunately with Lee’s surrender their whole world was left burned to the ground with a bayonet still at their neck. Jeremiah settled down here in [redacted] county, and I even went to school with the nephew of his great grandson.”
I nod at Thomas, and we’re both grinning as we take a swig of bourbon, hanging on every word.
“Evidently, Jermiah and the men kept the location of the gold very tight to their chest, and they never mentioned the mission to anyone. In the immediate aftermath, I think they hoped to complete it, but once General Johnston surrendered and President Davis was captured, it was over. They couldn’t make much use of the gold during so-called ‘Reconstruction’ or there would be suspicions. I believe Jeremiah probably snuck a couple of coins to the remaining men of the mission at reunions, but the Crowells always lived extremely modest. Jeremiah made sure to pass the hiding spot down to his oldest son, who passed it down to the oldest grandson, who passed it down to the oldest great grandson, Robert Crowell. Robert’s only son passed away as a small child, but his sister had a son by a no account that ran off on her, and Robert was like a father to that boy. The sister even named him Bob after Robert. Back in the early 70s, Robert took very ill suddenly and was bedded up in the hospital. While Bob was visiting him one evening, Robert told him that he needed to tell him where the treasure was hidden that night.”
* * *
There were two quick raps at the door, and a nurse stuck her head in, “Visiting time is almost over for the evening, you’ve got five more minutes before we’ll have to walk you out sir.”
“Son, listen. I know that I’ve mentioned to you before that the gold is hidden out near Bottleneck Ford, but I’ve got to give you the exact spot,” Robert Crowell said in a hushed voice.
“Ah dad, you don’t have to worry about that. You’ll be out of here in no time, and we can just go together, and you’ll show me in person!”
“No, Bobby. You need to know tonight. It’s hardly nothing but swamp out there, and you’ll never find it just looking blind. This isn’t how I wanted things to go, and I’m sorry about that, but I love you, and I have to tell you this now.”
“I love you too, dad. Hey, you’re going to beat this. You don’t have to apologize for anything.”
Another quick rap and the nurse was standing in the doorway, “Alright, sorry gentlemen, but visiting time is up. You’ll be able to come back again starting at 8:30AM in the morning.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I just need to tell my son something real quick before he goes. It hasn’t even been five minutes, and I only need a couple more,” Robert said as calm and assertive as life and death.
“Well…,” she began.
“It’s okay, dad. The nurse says I can come back in the morning. I’ll be here first thing for when the doors open,” the son said standing up.
The father started to plead in his head but only said, “Alright son, if you’re sure I’ll see you in the morning.”
* * *
Pops continued, “But ol Bobby left without hearing him out, and Mr. Crowell didn’t make it through the night. It damn near killed that boy. We weren’t best friends particularly, but I was probably his only friend. He spent a couple of years digging like a demon out there. I helped him plenty of times. He even enlisted the Jemison family to help, and they sent their old black fieldhand, Monk Cook, who’d they’d raised since he was a baby. They’d been on the search digging out in the swamp adjacent to their land for 60 years at that point, much to the consternation of the Crowells. I’ll tell you, though, Monk was special. I remember the first time we picked him up to help, we asked him if he was ready to find some gold, and he says, ‘Well, I’d sho be happy tuh, but I’s been diggin since fo you boys wuz bo’n, each o’ dese past fo’ty yeuhs afta tha crops wuz laid by, they’d drag my black ass down in dat God fo’saken swamp ta dig fo dat Confed’rett gold, and I ain’t ne’er fount a piece.’ All we could say for laughing was ‘Well get on in the truck, Monk. Let’s go dig some more.’”
I look over at Thomas, “He’s a legend, man. Just wait til you hear more of Pops’ Monk Cook stories.”
“Yea, he sure was. Rest in peace to him, or R.I.P. as you boys say,” Pop chuckles. “But Mr. Crowell was right. Bobby never found it. His momma ended up getting worse on drugs and the bottle, and he ended up moving out of state without telling anyone, not even her. The Jemisons kept looking, but they never found it. And you would know it if they had, shoot. They wouldn’t have been able to help themselves. And the old Methodist pastor never did either. He had been out there digging the morning of his last day on this earth. They’re all gone, now.”
The kitchen was silent for a moment with the weight of the past, heavier than any hoard of gold. “But you best believe that gold is still out there. There’s always treasures from the past that people are dying to forget simply because they don’t have the heart to keep their chin up in defeat when they’ve been told to put their head down. And you boys have got the fire—don’t ever let it go out, especially in defeat,” Pops raised his glass towards us, downed the last finger of his bourbon, and rattled it on the table.
“Now go on and dig for some gold, men.”
Thank you for reading! It was a pleasure to write this piece for submission to the MW Pulp Fiction Contest. I’m looking forward to reading as many of the other submissions as I can. And congratulations to all the winners!
“Old South Gold, New South Swamp” is pieced together from stories very near and dear to my heart. The contest’s 5000 word limit constrained me to what you see above, so I may follow up with a Part II. Be sure to subscribe to Dog and Pony Show so you don’t miss it!