After recovering from his wounds received in the Korean War, US Army veteran Chris Jones lands a job as a park ranger with the State Department of Natural Resources in Florida. The Silver Star winner is eager to start his new task of opening up Dade Battlefield, the site of an 1835 battle between the Seminole Indians and the US Army. Unfortunately, Chris also lands smack in the middle of a feud. There are those in the nearby community of Bushnell who want the park out of state hands and returned to the local Battlefield Historical Society, and they're determined to have their way. It doesn't help matters when Chris falls in love with June Trammel, one of Bushnell's less-than-upstanding citizens, and begins to encounter the racism prevalent in the small Southern town. Then something peculiar happens. One night, while out walking on the battlefield, he encounters a group of soldiers dressed in uniforms from the 1830s. These are no reenactors, but ghosts from the battle itself. Why have they come back to haunt the field, and what do they want? As tensions in the town reach a breaking point, Chris must determine how he can bring peace not only to the community, but to the haunted souls walking Dade Battlefield.

The Button

By Thom H. Weekley

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Thom H. Weekley
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4697-8823-4

Contents

Chapter 1. American War Hero.........................................................1Chapter 2. First Days on the Job.....................................................6Chapter 3. December, 1835—The March to Fort King...............................19Chapter 4. The Lodge Meeting and Making a Date.......................................23Chapter 5. December, 1835—Crossing the Hillsboro River.........................32Chapter 6. Night out in Sumter County................................................34Chapter 7. December, 1835—Crossing the Withlacoochee River.....................38Chapter 8. A Better Weekend..........................................................42Chapter 9. Bivouac In The Piney Woods................................................47Chapter 10. The Strange Illusion.....................................................50Chapter 11. Chris and June Get Closer and the Confrontation..........................54Chapter 12. Holiday Fever............................................................64Chapter 13. Trip to Tennessee and Christmas..........................................71Chapter 14. Ghosts at the Park.......................................................79Chapter 15. The Ku Klux and a Sinful Hero............................................85Chapter 16. A House, a Wedding and a Honeymoon.......................................93Chapter 17. The Trial................................................................99Chapter 18. Glory Days...............................................................107Chapter 19. The Second Seminole War..................................................112Chapter 20. That Old Dog Still Has A Bite............................................117Chapter 21. The Holidays.............................................................122Chapter 22. The Vision...............................................................126Chapter 23. The Awakening............................................................132

Chapter One

American War Hero

January 23, 1953: Uijonbou Ridge near Munsan, Korea

The Browning Automatic Rifle chattered out lethal doses of lead to the advancing Chinese regulars charging up the hill as the soldier peered through the BC scope mounted on top of the barrel. His name was Pfc. Chris Jones and he was one of the last men dug in along that ridge. His partner, Corporal Alfred Baily had been hit by a stray Communist bullet and lay dead beside him, eyes wide open as if he never knew what hit him. The gun continued to grind out bullets and the Chinese kept coming in massive waves of men. Lance Corporal Edwin E. Lee came up to Jones in an attempt to get him to withdraw like the other men, knowing that the defense of the hill was impossible. But Jones had been given strict orders to hold the hill or die, and that was just what he expected to do.

"Come on, Chris, the other men are waiting on you. Those commies are going to overrun this hill and there is no sense in dying just because some lieutenant ordered you to stay up here."

"I was told to hold this position and that is what I'm going to do. Besides, you men are going to need some cover fire or you will never make it down the hill," Jones said as he let out another burst of fire from the BAR, "so you guys better skedaddle if'n you are going."

"Oh, all right. Don't say I didn't warn you, though." He turned, ran down the trench and waved the other men out the back side and down the hill, each man carrying his M1 Garand rifle.

An A frame plane dropped a load of napalm along the enemy line, but it didn't seem to do much good. More men just took their places and stormed up the hill toward Jones' position. Jones kept firing, mowing them down like wheat stalks, but the others just jumped over the dead men and kept advancing.

Down at the bottom of the hill, Captain Blaine Billings was organizing a group of new recruits to join the fracas at the top of the hill when he saw the men retreating back down. "Corporal, where the hell are you going?" he yelled.

"Captain, those commies are charging up the hill in human waves. It was near 'bout impossible to stop them with the firepower we had."

"You were told to hold that ridge or die trying. That's machine gun fire up there. Who is that soldier?"

"It's Pfc. Chris Jones, sir. He was covering our escape back down the hill. He said he was going to stay up there no matter what."

"You turn your asses around and lead these men up that side of the hill. I'll lead these men up this side. We have someone up there that deserves our assistance. Now get going!" the captain ordered.

Back on top of the hill, Jones kept firing the BAR, holding the ammunition belt with his left hand and pushing the firing trigger button with his right. The communist soldiers just kept coming. Finally one soldier jumped into the trench on Chris' left and stormed at him with the bayonet of his empty rifle. Out of the corner of his eye, Jones saw the soldier coming at him and turned just in time to get kicked in the head. Back he went and the last thing he saw was the soldier poised to jam the bayonet into his rib cage.

A burst of fire came from behind the soldier, sending a bullet through the back of his head and out the front. Blood and brains covered Jones' body so that it was impossible to see who was hurt worse. The soldier keeled over, but the bayonet entered Chris' body right under the right clavicle and sent blood spurting back through the hole where the knife entered.

Seeing the carnage at his feet, Captain Billings ordered, "Get the medic up here. This man will need a blood transfusion, if not more. He is worth saving."

* * *

One year later....

"Clara, show Private Jones in ..."

He was George Mason, Superintendent of Parks in Florida, at the State Capital in Tallahassee.

"Private Jones, come in and sit down. Make yourself at home."

"Yes sir,' Jones replied as he sat in a leather chair opposite Mason's desk.

"Says here in your record that you won a Purple Heart and a Silver Star in Korea. Is that so?"

"Yes sir."

"I, myself, fought in World War II. I landed with the First Airborne behind German lines at D Day. We landed five miles from our drop point and had to hoof it back to the coast to blow up gun emplacements aimed at our troops landing on Omaha. What was left of us got captured by a German patrol. They put us in a grain silo and left us there over night until they decided what they were going to do. Finally, I guess they planned to hightail it away and one of them threw a concussion grenade inside the opening at the top of the silo."

"The next thing I knew I woke up in England. I was the only one in the group who survived the grenade. General Patton himself pinned my Purple Heart to my bed pillow in the infirmary. Told me, `Son, I want you to come back to France with me and kill some of those Hun bastards.' My teeth were so loose in my mouth that I had to dine on milk toast and sugared milk for a week before I could even eat soup. I went back eventually and was put in a regiment under the command of General Patton. They told me to take the point in a patrol that was headed toward a German line at the Battle of the Bulge. I told them, `Not me. You get some other son of a bitch to take the point. I done fought enough of this war.' They then sent me back to Miami, Florida to a mental institution because I had "battle fatigue."

"Sounds like you just had a bout of good sense, Mr. Mason."

"What's your story, Jones?"

"I'm not rightly sure, Mr. Mason. I was shooting Communist soldiers charging up a hill at Ouijonbou and I saw a one coming at me with a bayonet. I'm not sure why he didn't just shoot me unless he was out of bullets. I'm like you, the next thing I know is that I woke up in an army hospital in Tokyo and a captain was pinning those medals on my pillow. I surely don't feel like some kind of hero, though, I just did what I was told to do."

"None of us do, Jones. We should all get medals for doing what we were supposed to do. Now, I have a job for you to do, and it may not be an easy one. They have a battlefield down in Bushnell, Florida, where Major Francis Dade got killed doing just what he was told to do. It has been run by the Bushnell Battle Field Society for years and they have built it into a pretty neat place. Now the State has taken over the site and I'm sending you down to take over the place. We have arranged to have accommodations at the site for you to live at until you find a place of your own there in town. You think you might want the job?"

"I been without a real job since the war. Mr. Mason, I'd go to a butt kicking contest and furnish all the butt to get a job. I need to get back to work for my own sanity. Yes, I want the job."

"Good. I'll do the necessary paperwork and you can move in by the end of the week."

Chapter Two

First Days on the Job

He awoke when he hit his head in the tiny area set aside for a bed in this glorified travel trailer. It was the dream. It was the same dream that he had had since his days in the Army. It always ends as the Communist soldier stares down at him, his eyes full of hate and his bayonet poised to plunge into his chest. He always wakes as a cold sweat forms on his brow, but this time an added headache ensued as he hit his head on the makeshift end table/dining table and collided with the area just above his left eye. The superintendent didn't explain just how primitive the lodging would be. When he called Tallahassee to complain, they just dismissed the request and added that he should look diligently for better accommodations in Bushnell.

The alarm bell went off. It was time to get up, get dressed, and start his first day on the job at the new Dade Battlefield State Park. The department had furnished him with a long-sleeve and a short-sleeved shirt with the customary patches sewn onto the sleeves and chest, two pair of khaki pants with black stripes down the legs, and an Ike jacket, also with the appropriate patches sewn to the sleeves and chest. These were considered dress uniforms, so he decided the first thing he should do is get the layout of the property. He reached for his old jeans and a T-shirt. He donned his old Army boots and thought that he should inquire about an army surplus store nearby and get a couple of sets of fatigues for work. But that was later. He decided to go into town and have some breakfast first.

He cranked up his old Buick, the one he had bought right before he went into the Army and that had been stored at his parents' home in Tennessee until he was discharged from the veterans' hospital in Tampa. He drove down the road and turned right toward the small village with just a tiny inking of what he was about to embrace as a temporary hometown. He parked at the rear of a small café known locally as Bernie's Restaurant on Highway 301. He heard the patrons inside chattering away, but when he stepped inside, all the conversations stopped and he felt that the whole establishment was giving him the evil eye of a sort. As he passed a group of men sitting at a large round table, he waved and said, "Howdy, gentlemen," putting on his best southern drawl. He sat down at an empty table near the far wall of the restaurant. He halfway expected this reception because he was advised by the superintendent that Bushnell was a closed society; strangers were simply tolerated, not necessarily befriended.

A portly old man with a grin as wide as his face would allow stepped up to his table with a breakfast menu and said, "Hi! My name is Bernie. This is my restaurant. You must be the new park ranger at the battlefield."

"Yes, I am. But how did you know?"

"We saw your old Buick parked near the travel trailer over by the battlefield fellowship hall. What can I get you this morning?"

"I'll have a couple of eggs over easy, some grits and bacon and some toast, thank you."

Soon the restaurant chatter started back up again, but he could feel that most of those conversations were about him. This is really a closed society, he thought.

Soon afterwards an elderly lady came up to his table and introduced herself. "My name is Mable Edwards. I was president of the Battlefield Historical Society when the State came in to take over the property. I understand that you are the new park ranger at the site."

Mabel was at least in her 70's, but her voice was that of a highly cultured southern woman, disarmingly charming, with just a hint of a southern drawl. It rolled over Chris as if she were a doting grandmother.

"I just wanted to tell you how we ran the park in hopes that we could eliminate any unnecessary discord between the Battlefield Historical Society and the state's park system."

"I thank you, Ms. Mabel. I'm new at this job and I could use all the help I can get." Chris replied, but that was only a half truth. He had been warned by the superintendent about some of the rancor a few of the members of the Society had for the State Parks system when it decided to take over the facility.

"Well the, first thing," she said, "is that we put up a voluntary admissions box at the entrance and we would like to see the people's money be a donation to the Society."

"I have no intention, ma'am, of doing away with the voluntary admissions box at the front of the park, but I should warn you that the money collected will go towards the maintenance of the park, and not to the whims of the Society. But I would appreciate any advice you may have on the upkeep of the park."

"I see. Then you don't intend to turn over any of the people's money to the Society that kept this park going for so many years."

"No ma'am. But again, I would appreciate any suggestion the Society may have toward the operation of the park facility."

"Well, the next thing I would like to see is offering the park free of charge to school children from both Lake and Sumter Counties while on scheduled field trips sponsored by their schools."

"I have no problem with that, ma'am. I want the park to be a friendly place for school children properly chaperoned on field trips sponsored by their school. On this we can agree."

Still not getting over the rebuke she received on her first request, she continued. "At least we can agree on that, son. Now the last thing I would like to see is an advisory board set up made up of Society members to oversee the operation of the park. This wouldn't be a problem, would it?"

"Ma'am, my bosses entrusted me to get the park under state operation. I'm not sure how long I'm going to be here in order to make permanent park policy on how the facility is going to be run. But again, I would appreciate any suggestions that you and your board may have on the running of the park. That may come under the jurisdiction of the new park rangers. But again, until then I will appreciate any suggestion the board may come up with, but, in the end, the decisions will be mine to make."

"You order these eggs and bacon?" It was Alma Johnson, the waitress at the restaurant. She dropped them down on the table and walked away without even waiting for his response.

Chris looked at Ms. Mabel and said, "Not much personality?"

"Oh, she will warm up to you when she gets to know you better. I guess we have a lot of things to iron out, Mr. Jones. I'll talk to you later about all of this." With that she got up from her seat, meandered back through the restaurant, briefly stopping to chat with the men at the large table and then out the door.

Chris quickly and quietly ate his breakfast and got up to walk toward the door. He stopped briefly to say hello to the men at the table. It was time to go to work.

When Chris got back to the park he immediately noticed two old Gatling guns inside a triangular log embankment about two logs high. He knew very little about the history of the guns, but he was sure they were an anachronism. He knew from his combat training that those first versions of a rapid fire gun were not invented until late in the Civil War. They would have to go, he thought, but he didn't have any idea how may toes he would have to step on to get this done. He made his way to the tool shed and retrieved a shovel and a hoe. His intention was to weed around the outside of the community center. His thoughts were instantly interrupted, though, by an old truck that pulled up to the shed. A tall, lanky man in tattered blue jeans got out of the truck. He was scruffy in appearance with his unshaven face and came right up to Chris. "You Mr. Jones?" he asked, in an almost threatening tone of voice.

"Yes, I am Chris Jones. May I ask who you are?"

"Name is Hal Trammel. I work around the park on Fridays. I just came to see if my services were still going to be needed when the state took over the place."

"To my knowledge, there is money in the budget for the upkeep of the grounds. I guess that will depend on how much you charge."

"I get one dollar an hour for doing the hard work, and my daughter inside the truck gets fifty cents."

"I believe we can find enough in the budget to pay you a dollar an hour and cover your daughter's salary as well." Chris glanced over to the truck and saw a young female inside the cab.

"My daughter does the mowing and I do the `man' work around here. I see you got out a shovel and a hoe."

"Yes, my intention was to weed around the community center. If you don't mind, of course."

Trammel instantly changed his attitude to one that was more affable, probably because he knew his job was no longer in jeopardy. He whistled over to the truck and his daughter immediately got out and retrieved a mower out of the truck bed. Chris was taken aback by her apparent good looks. She had short blond hair and a cute, but plain, face. She was a bit stocky and had no troubled putting the mower to the ground. She was certainly a pleasing sight compared to the unkempt father who was already walking toward the work at the community center.

"Mr. Trammel, what is your daughter's name so I can enter it into the books as a paid employee?"

"We call her June, 'cause she was born in the June of the year. Why? You interested? We been looking for a suitor for her. She's only been on one date in high school. You married, Mr. Jones?"

"No Mr. Trammel, I'm not married. And I think it's a little too early to consider me a suitor."

"Well, I'll do the weeding at the community center and you figure out a way get away from Ms. Mabel. By the way, call me Hal."

"I thought I saw a bald eagle nest in the top of one of those pine trees on the other side of the park. Is there any chance that there are any birds in it?" Chris inquired.

"Probably not during this time of the year. But they should be moving back in sometime soon. You know they mate for life."

"Yea, I know that. I had some experience with eagles back in Tennessee where I was raised. I know they make damn good watch dogs. If anything unexpected comes up they start screeching like the dickens."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Buttonby Thom H. Weekley Copyright © 2012 by Thom H. Weekley. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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