An Enigma Solved: The Fair Oaks Diary

By Adam Dumphy

A story within a story, this is a romantic novel in the style of the 1940’s, which means it is brief, simple, plausible and clean. The first protagonist, a Hessian Lt. with Burgoyne’s Army at Saratoga in 1777, and an ancestor of the author, is sent with dispatches to General Cornwallis at Charleston. On a subsequent (fictional) trip his troop is ambushed carrying a British war chest of gold intended to equip Scottish Royalist troops in the Georgia hills. Although wounded he is not captured through the kindness of the then Mistress of the Fair Oaks Plantation who secrets him in a hidey-hole of the mansion.

What subsequently happens to him is unknown until 1909 when his diary is found between the thick walls of the mansion intact and legible. Legible except that the last pages are written in some strange code and cannot be read.

In 1946 Ab Andrus, the only Inheritance Investigator in the South is requested by the State of Georgia to make a formal statement as to the authenticity of the Diary.

Like the Hessian he gets to know too warmly the current Mistress of Fair Oaks and both couples learn a great about themselves and each other in their contacts made in the search. One wins his lady and the other does not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 18, 2005
• ISBN: 9781463459376

Adam Dumphy

Inflamed by a novel of and during the Spanish Civil War of 1936, titled, “The Kansas City Milkman”, Adam Dumphy searched out and contacted a clandestine enlistment center for the British Ambulance Corps operating there. Clandestine as it was at the time an illegal act to aid either side in the conflict. To Adam that fit the novel and made it all the more interesting to him and more Hemingwayesque. He ever after felt the British people generally to be biased and intolerant as he was rejected and simply for being only twelve years old. Still he found himself fascinated by that most peculiar of wars even as some men are towards our American Civil War. All the books and information he collected then he still has. His loyalty he has tried to maintain unbiased to either side although it has varied in degree from one side to another from year to year. Now from the vantage point of eighty years of age the only thing he can decide with certainty about the affair is that both sides got a very “bad press”. But then he believes that is true of most major events.

Book preview

An Enigma Solved

The Fair Oaks Diary

by

Adam Dumphy

Title_Page_Logo.ai

© 2004 Adam Dumphy

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/09/04

ISBN: 1-4184-9813-0 (sc)

ISBN: 9781463459376 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Part II

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Part III

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part IV

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Addendum: I

Addendum II

About the Author

To Irene

As always

Part 1

Baton Rouge, LA. June, 1947

Chapter 1

Well my young friend Abonijah, your fame as the only inheritance investigator extant, has spread afield… The old man paused. To distant, exotic, and uncultured climes… He paused again drawing out his announcement. The Attorney General’s Office of the State of Georgia requests your services.

The old man stopped, looked over the top of his half glasses to observe the reaction to his words. Apparently satisfied at the astonishment produced he continued.

Have you ever heard of the Fair Oaks Diary?

The very tall, large, young man seated opposite him looked down suspiciously at the spindle legged Chippendale chair upon which he was perched and across the room from old man’s the huge mahogany desk. He stirred uncomfortably, crossed one leg over the other cautiously and scratched the back of his neck, as was his custom when considering deeply.

No sir. He admitted at last. He was reluctant to make the admission, as it seemed as if it was something he should know about, still he knew how the old man hated equivocation.

Good, good. Judge Dandridge dropped the glasses on the spotless, green blotter, a part of a handsome, tooled leather desk set, occupying the exact center of the great desk. Surrounded as it was by stacks of neatly piled manila folders on all other available space, it looked as if mounted.

I was afraid that all my boning up last night might be wasted. ‘Tisn’t often I get to lecture to someone your age these days. Particularly someone who might listen.

He again looked closely at the young man opposite him assuming the expression caught so well in the oil painting hanging in the State House Hall of Justice among other distinguished barristers. That was a noticeable oil as most subjects there were fat and pompous, while he looked like a gray, old eagle, lean and hungry, but still with beak and claws and formidable powers to strike out.

The contrast between the two men in the room was also remarkable. The young man was huge and ungainly with a shock of pale hair overhanging a high bossed forehead, quiet gray eyes, plain features and with that permanent half smile as if he was apologizing in advance for himself and his appearance.

And before him the old man withered now over the years from skinny to just bones. But under the surface they were much alike especially in their outlook. The old man was often reminded of that. It was just that half smile on the young man’s face. That gawky, ungainly body that even an obviously well tailored gray, flannel suit could not conceal; the bony knees cragged the knife sharp creases of the trousers; the white shirt with French cuffs and plain silver cuff links were not quite long enough to hide knobby wrists and great bony hands. The neat cordovan brogans must needs be a special size, thirteen or perhaps greater.

Ruby! The old man bellowed suddenly. A door at the side of the private suite opened suddenly and a woman peeped in. She was as old as the old man himself although no one would ever know for certain, for every Saturday found her at the hair stylist to renew the tight curls about her head and the quite unlikely pink tint of her hair. Every week day morning she appeared in a stylish business suit, whether personally flattering or not it was in the latest style and latest hem length. Three-inch heels still clicked briskly about the office below slender if now rather bumpy, and arthritic ankles.

She had been with the old man since he had first hung out a shingle announcing ‘Daniel Webster Dandredge, Atty. at Law’. How long ago that was no one knew or would tell.

For the old man at first there was a small neat sign, Attorney at Law, beneath the larger sign reading, ‘Daly Groceries’ and an arrow pointed to the rear of a store where a plank flight of outside stairs led to an upstairs office and living quarters.

And now as semi-retired head of the most prestigious law firm in all the South Central States, he and his twenty-five associates were duly respected, venerated, imitated and blasphemed by every legal and accounting system in a hundred counties and a dozen states.

Just as he had become the unofficial doyen and conscience of the law practice in this area, she had become the task-mistress and instructeress of the office personal. And woe be it to some desultory secretary, indolent young attorney or feckless accountant, for when one received a reprimand from Ruby you were left indelibly branded.

She fussed as she approached. It was right on top of the ‘F’ file for Fair Oaks. She chided.

Not that, not that, I know that by heart, my glasses.

She drew open a long desk drawer containing a case of a dozen half glasses in various shapes and frames. For seeing or for gnawing on? She asked.

When he didn’t answer she drew out a battered appearing pair and set them firmly before him. He picked them up squinted through them out the window, at the desk, at the floor and them satisfied he tucked an ear piece of the frame into the corner of his mouth and bit down contentedly.

No reason you should know of it really, Lad. First found in 1909, fifteen years, he looked at the young man, or even more before you were even born…1909… He considered. Not a bad year actually considering most.

Ab knew the old man was thinking of his young bride killed in 1913 in a buggy accident when a skittish carriage horse saw its first auto. She looked down now from a large, gilt-framed picture hanging behind his desk. A pale, young girl with a piquant face, the eyes too overly blue, cheeks too pink, skin too pasty white as was the custom with tinted photographs of those days.

Since then the firm had been his livelihood but also more, his mistress, his only mistress and he lived only for it.

Starting again. Fair Oaks Plantation, site of the first settlement of the area, seat of the Fairfax family, and first settlement in what is now Fairfax County in Southwest Georgia, and Fair Oaks Manor the jewel in its plafond is ante primum bellum.

Ab had to consider this until he realized that the old man was talking about the Revolutionary War. Most in that area did not consider the Revolutionary War as a Civil War but it actually was. The first in the nation’s history and as much Civil and bitter as that which was later called the War of the Rebellion.

Started in 1743 it was not completed until ‘67. Late editions could not alter its original grace and beauty. Classical not Georgian, or some such, if I have my terms correct, and more remarkable it has never been allowed an owner outside the Fairfax family. Not that the Fairfaxes or Millhouses or Campbells or Allens were always good and worthy citizens. But almost by chance or perhaps luck, when a male heir was a wastrel he married a wealthy wife and when there were no male heirs the daughter married a financially solid citizen.

He leafed through a file on one stack and with a half dozen ineffectual gestures the neat piles were instantly a shambles of randomly mixed files all in the middle of the desk.

In its isolated location, wars, and depressions and calamities have passed it over as lightly as they did the family. It has remained the centerpiece, the shelter, the pride, and the conscience of an entire valley. In time of trouble the old settlers and even the younger generations that had moved away to greener climes, returned to the big house for guidance or sympathy or support, but not money I guess, never money. That was always in short supply. And no one has ever been turned away. Newcomers to the valley checked in to the Kin-Folks" of the house for approval before they became newcomers in fact.

"And the family used their resources on the place, foregoing the stock market or race track or fancier pursuits in general to invest shrewdly. The place has been well kept up. Never a leaky roof to damage the plank oak floors and vintage furniture, and no indolent tenant to run the place down.

"So it was that in 1909 when a patch of dry rot was found in one of the upstairs bedrooms, money was found some how to cauterize the canker. Opening an inside wall they found lying on a fire block a package wrapped in watered silk. It had once been tied with a string, now unraveled, but how it got there no one could say.

The owner also a prudent man stopped all further work, took photographs in place and subpoenas from all concerned. The old man looked up.

The young man had dropped his stiff ‘at attention’ pose and elbows on knees were leaning forward like a boy listening to a tale of pirate plunder.

The old man continued. It was opened before varied dignitaries from historical societies, history buffs and professors of anthropology and such like esoteric and exotic species, so there could be not doubt of its authenticity.

Unless, the young man interrupted without thinking, Unless it was too well documented. It is pretty rare to have something as perfectly documented as that.

The old man chuckled. That is something you will have to decide for yourself. He waited for further comment and when there was none he continued.

"It was a small, red, leather-bound book with the scrolled words ‘My Daily Diary’ on the cover. Having been hanging between walls and near a fireplace it was in excellent condition and could be opened and read immediately. The first page… He scrambled among the folders littered about his desk, found one and read, reads, ‘Presented by Baroness G. von. R.., February 17, 1768’. And inside the cover, ‘Diary and Record of Lt. C….T….de ..F., Lt. Col. Braun’s Battalion, Reidesel Regiment, of the British Expeditionary Force in Canada, J. Burgoyne, Lt. General, Commanding. And being a full and accurate account of my execution of orders given me May 17, 1778 by Lord Charles Cornwallis at Charlestown, with my efforts to obey them. Including the hiding of the 5,000 gold sovereigns of the British War Chest and the location where it was secreted to be safe from the perfidious and blood stained hands of the ungentlemanly troopers of General Wm. Washington’s command.’"

The old man put down the sheets and grinned a boyish grin. How is that for a cracking good tale? By Gadfrey, I would like to go with you, Lad. It’s a real adventure story, isn’t it?

The young man shifted his weight carefully, began to speak then felt the chair beneath him shift and creak, and instead held to the seat tightly one hand on each side and said nothing.

The old man continued. Well the first is a straight forward account which you shall read. But the directions to where the war chest was hidden and certain pages later on of a very personal nature are totally unreadable. Written in some strange alphabet or language it has defied deciphering completely. Not Arabic or Cyrillic for the letters are quite unintelligible. Linguists, historians, epigraphers, military experts, dilettantes in all fields have had a try at it and each has come up puzzled and with a different answer, gibberish mostly. One said it was Gaelic, another Celt Iberian or Berber and one even suggested it a distorted Ogam. But their respective translations remain gibberish and so it has remained to this day.

He stopped and watched the young man ruminate on this information.

The young man’s thoughts came out slowly. It is romantic certainly, Sir, but my special knowledge, or interest rather, is the deeds and land grants and business transactions of the past two or three generations. I am hardly qualified as a historian or epigrapher.

The old man gave that commendatory little smile that he used when a junior had come to the right conclusion, and of course that meant the conclusion that the Judge favored.

When Justin Atherley mentioned just that I told him you were both innovative and ingenious and just the man for the job.

Ab stirred at the words. As if his own pride was not enough to put him under pressure to succeed, now he must produce for his boss’s sake. No, more than that he wanted, he lusted, to produce to please this old man.

"Now the legal end, Lad. You probably are not interested in it but it is information you needs must have. Fair Oaks Plantation is located in the center of a large tract of still virgin land which has been bought up gradually by State and Federal funds to make a National Forest. Behind that in Georgia are the powerful Corcoran family who want Fair Oaks lands to complete what will be the Franklin Farragut Corcoran National Wilderness Area, after one of their more venial predecessors. The corner stone of philanthropy, of course, being immorally obtained funds and the philanthrophic act being done generally to alleviate the guilty conscience therein engendered. Paying their dirty debts here on earth they are smoothing their passage in the hereafter like the indulgence system of the Middle Ages.

For some years now they have been lurking in the background wanting to snap up the property for tax arrears and very nearly have succeeded several times. The current owner, He stopped to consult his papers, "A Mrs. Cosimo Costello, I don’t know how a Costello got into there especially a Cosimo one, but she has been barely paying her taxes these last years and the Corcorans are tired of waiting.

They got a bill through the State Legislature condemning the property on the grounds of almost every thing; road access through a National Forest, fire hazard, public nuisance. I wonder they did not declare it a pest house. And it will come to a final hearing in six weeks so you do not have much time.

The old man paused to watch the younger one think this over. Then,

"The Fair Oaks’ attorney, who ever he is, is no fool. He did not fight the Condemnation Procedure, which would have been a losing cause. Very ingeniously he is fighting the assessed value figure.

"The actual value for the property and buildings might be about $75,000. The assessed value is determined as a measly 40% of that. He argues however that because of the British War Chest buried on the land, 5000 gold sovereigns, which by present day collector’s value might be worth a million and a half more, the land and house are worth three million.

"That is a little inflated perhaps but nearly true just the same. And sharp young fellow that he is, he claims that the historical and romantic value of the entire episode adds another $3,000,000 and makes it an historical site. And whom could possible assess or even argue such a thing as that?

"This changes the entire picture. The Corcorans are not investing their own money you maybe sure of that.They are using Federal funds from somewhere or other. And even to those idiots in Washington four to five million dollars is a spite of money.

So if the defense wins this hearing the purchase of the property is permanently stalled.

He looked up again. Why so downcast, Lad. You are not really under the gun as much as it might seem. No one expects you to find the treasure or even prove its authenticity. All you have to do is to investigate it and give your considered opinion if it ever existed or if there is any chance of its having been buried there in the first place…. The key of course is the authenticity of the old Diary and you do know something about old documents.

Well yes, Sir. He added grudgingly.

What’s bothering you then?

Well this. Just exactly who does the money belong to? Morally I mean. I would think to the British Government. But that cuts little these days so whose is it legally here in the United States?

"Ah. Another interesting point and so complex that I can hardly answer. Not only that but laws vary tremendously from state to state and only recently have the Feds started to clarify their statutes… Generally however a treasure trove found by a treasure hunter belongs to he who finds it. ‘Finders keepers’, of course. Then once he spends or invests it he must declare it as income so the state and federal governments may take most of what is left when the venial members of the legal profession are through wrangling over the carcass.

"Where