Chapter 14: Fuck Farming. Hire someone and I explore my inheritance

Having taken stock of how much of my life was being consumed by the farming end of things, I desired to become a gentleman farmer with more emphasis on the gentleman than the farmer. I had a slab poured near the second barn sized for a two bedroom pre-fabricated house with an attached garage. I made certain that it was a high-end model, not trash that would fall apart in five years. I had it furnished, the kitchen supplied and appropriate linens purchased for the place.

I advertised for a younger farmer that had unfortunately trusted a bank yet still wanted to farm. I had a list of eleven candidates. When I showed them around most gave it up as a bad job. They just wanted to sit on a tractor. I had two men left to choose between. I showed them the list of tasks that I planned to finish within the next two years, such as replacing the barbed wire fence with a riven wood, or split rail, fence; re-planting the coppice woods, erecting and setting up a traditional early American barn and getting the orchards operational. Only one of them wanted to get in there and get his hands dirty—Mark Sturm. He wasn't adverse to a few head of pigs either, and stated that "If I didn't start a compost pile I was a damned idiot". I hired him with the understanding that we had too few hands on the farm to support a dairy operation. I invited him up to my house for dinner and to look over the binder I'd produced while setting this place up, along with what it had cost. I promised him a capital budget if he could explain the long and short term benefits of the outlay. I introduced him to the dogs and ordered him a gate opener as well as a FRS radio and a charger. I set him up with an expense account and a debit card as well. My arrangement with him was much like Julie's—thirty five thousand dollars a year with room and board, full medical and two weeks off a year, payday the first of every month, all auto expenses covered including gas and a 1099 at the end of the year.

I'd taken shipment of the things left in storage with the law firm. They'd been sitting in the office waiting for me. There were three big steamer chests and one long box that for the life of me looked like a short coffin, but it was square instead of tapered. I'd been oiling the leather straps on the chests, hoping not to destroy them when they were opened.

I looked at that long, black box and couldn't resist getting into it first. I got a hammer and a jimmy bar from the tool crib and started working my way around the lid. I tried to loosen it without damaging it or the contents. With a reluctant squeal the nails came out of the wood and the lid came free. Within were six long lumps with an age-yellowed canvas shroud laid over all of them. I called Julie and the kids in to witness the denouement. I carefully drew back the canvas exposing six long arms and three small wooden boxes. None showed any sign of rust.

Starting at one end I picked up each one with a handkerchief between the weapon and my hand. The barrel read 'Henry .44 RF'. The plates covering the mechanism were a dull steel grey. An odd-looking round, leather covered box with a shoulder strap lay next to it. It was full of empty metal frames with a tang on one end. Using the photographs I took I later found it to be an iron frame Henry.

The next had brass plates. The barrel read '1866 Winchester .44 RF'. I recognized it as an early 'yellowboy' but I'd never seen one in a rim-fire cartridge before!

The third was marked '1874 Sharps .45-70'. Behind the rear sight was a small nipple. It clicked in my head when I then saw the name 'Creedmoor' on the small wooden boxes. I lay the rifle back down and opened a box. Yep, three range-marked hinged sights with a sliding peephole on each of them. Each box had three sights, one for short, medium and long range.

Another Sharps was in .50-90 caliber. It also had a Creedmoor sight mount.

The fifth rifle was marked '1865 Spencer .52'

The last long arm wasn't a rifle. It was a Winchester 1893 pump-action shotgun.

I looked over at my three witnesses. "These were the weapons that either fought a bloody war between the states or killed most of the buffalo and drove the Indians west across the Great Plains. These appear to be original firearms. These are pieces of our history before you. Nobody should touch one without either wearing clean cotton gloves or, like I am, using a clean cotton handkerchief."

I looked over at the chests. From what I'd seen so far, I had a feeling that their contents were going to be interesting.

I photographed each long-arm, taking care to record the butt plates, their sear cover-plates and their serial numbers and then put them back in the chest, re-covered them with their protective canvas shroud and tapped the lid back into place. I'd want to get a desiccant pack and an oxygen getter in that case as soon as possible as the seal had been broken.

I called several local colleges and museums to try and get a team of paper and woven goods conservators down for at least a weekend to do a preliminary evaluation of what was in the trunks. I finally sent them copies of the pictures I'd taken of the long-arms. I got three people down for a week. I bought several long banquet tables and bleached linen tablecloths to cover them in preparation for working with the chests. Julie agreed to cook for all of us while the team was here if I'd give her comp time later. I had no problem with that.

I made sure to have a copy of the contract handy so that these people couldn't claim that the contents of the chests were 'found' and therefore somehow claimable through the courts. I didn't want to have to go out and buy a backhoe just to hide the evidence. I decided to be quite belligerent about claiming ownership of whatever we found.