CHAPTER 16

Steve punched in the number of the insurance agency in Wilmington and was mildly surprised when a live voice responded. Not a menu of choices as so often happens. He asked for Linda Stearns and was somewhat relieved when the voice said, “One moment please.” It appeared he was on the right track.

A warm voice came on the line. “Linda Stearns.”

“Linda, my name is Steve Glenn, and I’m on a genealogy mission. I’m searching for a long lost relative, and I have reason to believe you can help me.”

There was silence on the line, so Steve continued. “I went to see your uncle, Robert Stearns, about this, but had trouble discussing it with him. He apparently thought I was trying to sell him something.”

“I don’t think I understand what ...”

“Linda, let me ask you just one question. Is there a family burial ground on the acreage where Mr. Stearns lives?”

“Yes, there is. Or was. But I really don’t have time to …..”

“Linda, I have found something to indicate that a relative of mine may have been buried in that plot.” The line was silent and Steve hoped she was still there. “I’d like to tell you a little about the man and ask just a couple of questions. Could we meet somewhere after work? Are you familiar with the Pilot House on the waterfront?” A pause. “I understand they have good appetizers.”

“I don’t think you’d find anyone in Wilmington not familiar with it.” She hesitated. “I gather you’re not from this area.”

“No, I’m from St. Louis. Back in Missouri. You might say I’m here because footsteps from the past brought me. Look, I know this may sound frivolous to you, getting so wound up in something to do with genealogy. I’m sure it’s meaningless to many.”

“No, no, I understand. But I think you’ve made a mistake. I don’t believe there is anyone in that burial ground other than family.”

“I have some information dating clear back to Civil War days that indicates that this indeed happened. It spells out a situation that occurred back then, and I’m sure you would be interested in it. How it came about.” He paused. “Linda, I’d really like to talk to you about this. Would you prefer some place other than the Pilot House? Could we meet after you get off?”

“Well, I couldn’t stay long. But, okay. I could spare a little time right after work. If that’s all right. I’m off at 5. The Pilot House is fine.”

# # # #

It was an intriguing view for a landlubber from the Midwest, the scene from the Pilot House, and Steve was taking it all in. His table looked out on boat traffic making headway up and down the Cape Fear River. A bustling sight, fit for a commercial photographer. In St. Louis the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers didn’t offer as many picture postcard views as this, Steve decided.

He wondered what it was like back in Civil War days. Possibly the “Lower Cape Fear” was even busier back then, judging from the exhibit he had viewed at the Cape Fear Museum.

He was watching a southbound trawler moving smartly along when the girl from the front desk appeared with Linda. She was a good match, Steve thought, for the pleasant voice he’d heard on the telephone.

He arose and gestured toward a seat. “Hi. Thank you for coming.”

When Linda was seated, she said, “Your call certainly aroused my curiosity. But let me ask you first, how did you find me? I’m fairly new on the job in Wilmington.”

Steve smiled. “I found you through your friend, Sheila, in Castle Hayne. She didn’t have an address or phone number, but she had a general idea where you worked.”

“Oh, I should have known. In Castle Hayne you don’t need a newspaper. Just ask Sheila what’s going on. So, are you on vacation?”

“I’m between jobs. A good time to be searching for a lost relative. It’s my great grandfather, and as I mentioned, I have some information to the effect that he was buried in the cemetery ground on your uncle’s place.”

“What makes you think that?”

Steve produced a photocopy from his shirt pocket. “Here is what I found. This was mentioned in the diary of a Union soldier who was there.” Steve passed the copy across the table.

Linda read the few lines dated February 20, 1865 about the arrival of an ailing Gideon Glenn “on property belonging to a Mr. Stearns,” and the request that on passing he be buried “in that cemetery plot.” She looked up. “Where in the world did you find this?”

“This is from the transcript of the diary,” Steve said. “Those pages that were still readable. It’s in the county library here. This is why I went to see your uncle. I wanted to take a look, to see if I could find the grave. By the way, in our phone call you mentioned the cemetery plot in the past tense. Isn’t it still intact?”

“Oh yes, it’s intact,” Linda said. “But it has no modern-day occupants. I’m afraid it’s been lightly maintained and seldom visited. But it’s still there.”

“Linda, I would be indebted to you if you could arrange for me to see it. That cemetery might answer some questions that have lingered for well over a century.”

Well, I don’t see why it can’t be worked out,” Linda said. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, and I’m off. I’ll call Sarah about it. My aunt. Maybe I can arrange for a visit tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 17

Saturday blossomed beautifully, a good day to inspect that cemetery, or if that was not feasible, any of an unlimited choice of other activities. In a call to Linda later that morning Steve learned that the visit was off for the moment.

But all was not lost. She agreed to have lunch with him and do some sight-seeing. A relief to Steve. He had been living out of a suitcase on this solo mission for some time now and Linda, he had discovered, was more than just polite company.

Steve wondered where she stood in the normal order of things. She appeared near the top of the order when it came to any judging of “southern belles” seen on his recent journey through Dixie. Where had she been? And where was she going? She had said she had some news. What was that all about?

They took over a table at a waterfront site on the Cape Fear, overlooking Battleship Park. “It was good of you to join me today”, Steve said. “It takes two to enjoy a day like this. I hope I’m not messing up some plans you had.”

“No, no,” Linda said. “Nothing that can’t wait. Besides, I wanted to tell you what I learned from Sarah. She said she had heard a story long ago, a story handed down in the Stearns family from Civil War days, about a Yankee soldier who turned up near the family cemetery. A strange story. Something to do with my great-grandfather. It’s pretty sketchy, I know, but it seems to fit with what you found in the diary.”

“Has she seen the grave?”

“No, she hasn’t. She only vaguely recalls the story. Said it had something to do with a ‘dying Yankee’ being left there, in her words. She may have heard it from Uncle Robert’s grandparents. Can’t recall the details. She was a young bride then, new in the area, and probably had other things on her mind.”

“But your uncle didn’t agree to my dropping by?”

“He wasn’t feeling well, and Sarah said she didn’t bring it up. I’m going to go out there tonight and talk to both of them.”

She waved off an attempt at an apology from Steve. “It’s no problem. So, what do you think of the Wilmington area?”

“It has a lot going for it. You have an attractive riverfront city, and you’re close to an ocean as well. That’s a great combination.”

Steve watched a triple-decker paddlewheel boat shoving off. “Oh, and one thing that particularly interests me – the area’s rich history. I could spend some time here just nosing around.”

“Any particular place in mind?”

“Well, we’re pretty close to Fort Fisher. The place has quite a story to tell. Also, today it should be rich in salt air and sunshine.”

They turned onto a road heading south from Wilmington, just to the east of the Cape Fear River. The river, Steve noted, was beginning to take on the proportions of a sound, as it approached the Atlantic. A rather impressive body of water.

“So, you’ve never visited Fort Fisher,” Steve said.

“No, I’ve seen it from a distance,” Linda said. “On an excursion boat.”

The exit loomed ahead for the “Fort Fisher Recreational Area.” They were not a great distance from the infamous Cape Fear.

“Here stands the most important earthwork fortification in the South during the Civil War,” Steve said, eyeing the sandy fortress.

“It’s not as big as I expected,” Linda said. “I’m surprised.”

“The fort isn’t impressive today because most of it’s gone. It was made mainly of earth and sand, and erosion has taken its toll. I read that maybe ten percent of the fort is still here. During the war the fort grew to a huge size and protected over a mile of ocean front, they say.”

Steve inspected one of the gun emplacements still there. “One of the Confederate cannons reportedly could fire 150-pound shells up to five miles. British made. It’s at West Point now. It sure helped keep the Union gunboats at bay.”

Linda surveyed the scene. “The South did all this to defend Wilmington?”

“Well, they weren’t defending Wilmington,” Steve said. “What they were defending was the shipping as it approached the Cape Fear River. They were here to help the blockade runners slip in with supplies for the Confederates.”

“Coming in to Wilmington?”

“That’s right. The blockade runners went to Bermuda and the Bahamas with cotton and tobacco in exchange for food and clothing. And munitions. And all those supplies they brought back went by rail from Wilmington up to the Army of Northern Virginia. Lee’s army, that is.”

“I would think the Union could have blocked the entrance to the Cape Fear, somehow,” Linda said.

“From what I’ve read, the Union was successful in stopping blockade runners at most ports,” Steve said. “But not here. Not until late in the war. A combination of factors. Too many lanes into the Cape Fear to protect against. And artillery fire from this fort really got their attention. Union gunboats had to keep their distance.”

Following a walk on nearby Kure Beach, they headed back. It was getting late in the afternoon.

Steve turned to Linda. “Can I call you in the morning?”

“Sure. Let’s assume I can work out a visit to the graveyard. I’m almost as interested in this as you are.”

CHAPTER 18

Steve reached Linda’s apartment at 10 Sunday morning, the appointed hour. He was glad she had agreed to ride with him. Maybe they could make a day of it. Just like Saturday. He’d enjoyed that. They started north from Wilmington on route 117.

Steve glanced at Linda. “How did you manage to get your uncle to agree to this?”

“It wasn’t that difficult,” Linda said. “He’ll listen to me, but he doesn’t hear very well when Sarah talks to him. Anyway, I convinced him that it would be a shame for someone to travel a long distance to visit the grave of a relative and be denied the opportunity.” Linda smiled. “When I left there, he sounded almost as if your visiting was his idea.”

“Glad it worked out. Thanks for going to bat for me.”

They turned into the lengthy drive that led to the home of Robert Wren Stearns, and stopped in the parking area to the left of the house. They were greeted by the two big, noisy dogs that had approached Steve with enthusiasm on his first visit. This time they gave Steve the cold shoulder when they realized their friend, Linda, was there.

“I guess your aunt and uncle have been alerted to our arrival,” Steve said.

“Oh, they’ve probably gone to church,” Linda said. “Anyway, they have no knowledge of the gravesite. Just that rather vague story passed down about a Yankee soldier being left here.” She pointed to a grove of trees some distance to the left. “The burial ground is behind that grove.”

Rolling pastureland separated them from the grove. They let themselves through the gate and started in that direction. “It’s my fondest hope that there’s some sort of marker on that grave,” Steve said.

“I’m quite sure I would have heard about that, if it existed. Sarah and Uncle Robert would surely have seen it. Or would have remembered hearing about it.”

Behind the grove of trees they found the Stearns Family Cemetery, surrounded by a waist-high chain-link fence. Stepping stones led to a gate, which Steve opened.

It was a secluded spot. The grove of trees encroached on the fence line, and wild shrubbery threatened both sides of the fence. With the passage of time, vegetation had formed a cover over some of the area.

Linda surveyed the scene. “Why do you suppose your man Gideon happened to wind up here? Near Castle Hayne, of all places. Were they by any chance looking for Wilmington?”

“They were trying to avoid Wilmington, Steve said. “The Confederate guards had heard that Fort Fisher had fallen and Union troops were in Wilmington. And Sherman was in the neighborhood. He’d moved up the Carolina coast from Savannah and was routing any Confederate forces around.”

“So, the North came into the Carolinas from the south?”

“That’s about right. In any event, the guards with the prisoners were probably trying to reach Confederate units, and they might have to go as far north as Virginia to do it.”

Steve noted there were close to a dozen ancient tombstones in the burial ground, generally clustered toward the center of the enclosure. All family members of generations past.

“I see what you mean. You said there were no modern-day occupants.”

“No, this is a thing of the past, and as you can see, the place is rather lightly maintained,” Linda said. “And it’s seldom visited. I understand my uncle mows it occasionally.”

Steve surveyed the area. “I guess somewhere near the fence is where we need to start looking.”

They walked to the back of the plot. A mower could not quite reach the fence line any more because underbrush was encroaching. Steve picked up a branch of a few feet in length and proceeded to poke at the ground cover.

“I’ll go get something out of the tool shed that we can work with,” Linda said.

She returned with a rake and a hoe, and they started moving along the fence line, feeling their way. They went the length of the fence, Linda following along behind Steve. Then a second sweep, to no avail.

“Looks like this is a job for modern technology,” Steve said. “Like a gasoline-powered weed whipper for starters. And maybe a once-over with a mower.”

As he moved away from the fence, Steve caught himself when his foot tripped over something. He knelt to inspect it. A rock, maybe. He pried earth away from it for a better look. A gravestone? Additional excavating indicated it could be something handcrafted.

“There’s something here, Linda,” Steve said.

“A headstone?”

“Could be. It’s shaped like it.”

Presently Steve had it sufficiently cleared for a close inspection. It didn’t take long. He looked up at Linda and shook his head.

“The search continues. Sorry to get your hopes up. And mine. Anyway, it’s getting late. Let’s break ‘til tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 19

Sarah placed a tall glass of iced tea in front of Steve, who was enjoying the shade in the back yard of the the Stearns place. She took a spot across from Steve and Linda at the picnic table.

“What a waste of a holiday,” she said. Half of it, anyway. I’m really sorry you didn’t find the grave.”

“I’m only concerned that I wasted half of Linda’s holiday,” Steve said. “We sure came up empty, didn’t we? Well, anyway, I must say the cemetery plot looks a lot better for the effort.”

“It’s amazing, how much better, Sarah said. “You certainly spruced it up. Robert is very happy with it.”

Steve had spent most of the morning clearing the graveyard of brush around the fence lines, and mowing the grass down to size. If no other benefit, Steve thought, at least he had succeeded in thawing out Mr. Stearns, who he spotted heading in their direction.

Mr. Stearns poured a full glass of iced tea and sat next to Sarah. “So, what are you folks cookin’ up?”

“Looks like we’re done cookin,’” Sarah said. “We were just wondering what else Steve could do to locate that relative. It’s a shame he didn’t find anything.”

Linda shook her head. “Steve has put so much effort into this. If only we’d found some clue. So Steve could close the book on Gideon. Where else is there to look?”

“Yeah, I’m afraid that Civil War diary was the last word,” Steve said. “I guess we’ve exhausted our supply of clues.”

Mr. Stearns turned toward Sarah. “How about those old family papers up in George’s attic? Some of them are pretty ancient. May be something in there about that soldier they say was left here.”

“Robert Stearns, what are you talking about?” Sarah’s voice had an edge to it.

“Why, there’s a whole trunkload of paperwork up there. Been there forever. There’s old family letters, legal documents, stuff that nobody wanted to throw away. Oh yeah, ancient photographs, tintypes, that sort of thing.”

Steve pulled out his pocket notepad. “Who, may I ask, is George?”

“And how come you know so much about what’s in his attic?” Sarah added.

“He’s my cousin,” Robert Stearns said. “When we were kids George and I used to play at his place. That’s how come I wound up pokin’ about in his attic. Once when we were playin’ around up there I saw it. This collection. Pretty old. Lots of letters and stuff.

“The name’s George Stearns?”

“No, the name’s George Durant. His mother was Freda, one of Isaac’s daughters. I guess I should mention, Isaac is the ‘Mr. Stearns’ you encountered in that diary. He was my great grandfather.”

Steve gestured toward the Stearns farm home. “Did Isaac Stearns build this house?”

“No no. The house Isaac lived in is long gone. But it’s the same site, or pretty close.”

“I wonder what George’s attic looks like,” Sarah said. “If it’s anything like ours, it’s a disaster. Robert won’t ever let me throw anything away up there. I figure a bomb’s the only sure way to clear it.”

“Could be,” Mr. Stearns said. “But before you throw a grenade in any attics, maybe these kids would like to go take a look. Place is about three miles northwest of here. I’ll call and see what he’s doing.”

CHAPTER 20

Steve surveyed the scene as they entered the drive to the Durant farm home. Everything looked spic and span except for one rather tall, weathered structure with a pitched roof – a tobacco curing barn, Steve guessed.

George Durant gave the four of them a hearty welcome, and it was apparent to Steve that he and Robert Stearns were still kids at heart when the two of them got together. Seated in the rather cozy family room of the Durant home Steve noted framed photos of healthy-looking tobacco plants in the field. “Mr. Durant,” he said, “I noted that tobacco barn as we were driving up. Is that still operational?”

“My name’s George. And that tobacco barn’s a relic. They bulk-cure tobacco now. I don’t know. I could sell that timber tomorrow, or I might turn the place into a storage shed. Only problem, if you don’t maintain the thing it’ll quickly go from rustic to dilapidated, real quick.” “How’s the tobacco business?”

“You mean raising tobacco? I’m done with it. Hardly anyone around here raises tobacco any more. It’s a thing of the past, same as that tobacco barn.”

“Is demand dropping?”

“Oh no. It’s going up in some countries. But supply is skyrocketing. Tobacco cultivation has gone world-wide, where labor’s cheap. And growers here have no price support any more. It was bound to happen.”

“But there are other crops that are adapted to this area,” Robert Stearns remarked.

“Oh sure,” George said. “There’s cotton, corn and truck crops, that sort of thing. But there’s not near as much joy at harvest time as there was with brightleaf tobacco.”

“I suppose this has really changed farming around here,” Steve said.

George Durant chuckled. “Well, let me put it this way. For a century or so, tobacco paid the bills. And it built roads and schools. Hell, in North Carolina it’s even built cities. It goes clear back to the Civil War.”

“The Civil War?” Steve said. “How did the Civil War get involved?”

“Well, that’s when tobacco really took over. It was growing in popularity, and suddenly it got a blessing from the government. Both governments, I should say. Both Union and Confederate troops started getting regular rations of tobacco, and they took a liking to the brightleaf from around here. Probably all our ancestors started puffing away back then. Puffing when they weren’t chewing.”

“That’s better than fighting,” Robert Stearns said. He scooped some cashews off a dish on the coffee table. “George, I told Steve our ancestors preferred to make love, not war. So, not much to report, as far as the Civil War is concerned.

George Durant laughed. “Guess that’s partially true, far as the Stearns family is concerned. I’ve researched both families a little bit. Actually, your grandfather Benjamin was a little too young to fight. And so was Samuel.” He glanced toward Linda. “Samuel was Linda’s great-grandfather. But that doesn’t rule out the Durants. I had two ancestors fought with the Rebs.”

Robert Stearns snorted. “Okay, tell us about ‘em.”

“Not much to tell. They both died while they were in camp for the winter.”

“They died of boredom?”

“Robert, that’s not very nice,” Sarah said. “But, I wonder, why in the world did the soldiers spend a whole winter in camp? I’d think they would have preferred to keep fighting and get it over with.”

“The answer to that, I guess, is mud,” George Durant said.

Robert Stearns looked up. “Did you say ‘mud’?”

“Yep. It’s always been a great defense against a military attack. In the Civil War, when the weather got bad heavy artillery bogged down. Narrow wheels. Cut the roads to ribbons, and sometimes even the mules couldn’t budge an artillery piece.”

“So, they set up a winter camp?”

“Right, and then sickness started. Most of the soldiers were youngsters who had not been away from home before, and they’d never been exposed to the diseases that would invade a camp. Oftentimes childhood diseases. Especially in winter. Also the men were exposed to the elements – rain, snow and cold -- and that didn’t help.”

“They didn’t know much about sanitation, either,” Steve added. “In an account I read about my great grandfather’s regiment they called their winter quarters, ‘Camp Dysentery.’” Steve pulled out his notepad. “So Isaac Stearns had two boys?”

“Right. Two sons and two daughters.”

Robert Stearns reached for some more cashews. “George, I told these kids you had a trunk full of old correspondence and such up in your attic, family tree stuff and all. Don’t know why we don’t have anything like that in our place. Guess we were better at throwing things away.”

“That’s not the entire story,” George Durant said. “That trunk was mainly Freda’s doing.” He looked at Steve. “She was my grandmother. As I understand it, before they tore down the old house that Isaac Stearns built, Freda went over there and rescued lots of memorabilia. Family stuff mostly. Including anything left behind by Becky. That’s her sister. I believe Becky got married and moved west. Don’t know what you’ll find, but you’re welcome to go up there and have a look.”