I got in the car as soon as I saw the listing. If I moved fast, I could beat the vultures. The private estate sale listed old furnishings, fixtures, lamps, and other worn out junk but the pictures were especially lousy. Most estate sales are run by professional auction houses or appraisal firms who take good pictures and put a high price on anything interesting or valuable. I prefer private listings because they are placed by the stiff’s relatives who just want to clear the junk so they can sell the house. The heavy rain would also work in my favor.
I arrived first. The house leaned from the weight of the years. Remnants of the ornamental façade hinted at a decayed elegance. A heavyset woman marinating in a century’s worth of moldy dankness greeted me at the door. The scarred furniture and fixtures were worthless. The roof offered feeble resistance and puddles formed in several areas of the house. Rotting newspapers and magazines dominated the back room but vermin ruled the area and discouraged me from searching through the piles.
A glint from the corner of the room caught my eye. It was a glass hutch filled with old militaria. There were several flattened Minie balls, a rusted belt buckle, the rusted remnants of firearms, a crooked bayonet, and a bugle. The hutch was garbage; however, the banged-up bugle still had bits of the original tassel wrapped around the tubing. I asked about the items and the woman said her husband’s late grandfather found the items in a nearby quarry in the early 1900s. The woman said they were genuine artifacts from the American Civil War.
She wanted $90 for the bugle but I offered $15 since I knew nobody would drive this far in the rain for a houseful of waterlogged crap. She reluctantly accepted my offer and I gave her cash. I knew I could easily flip the bugle for $45.
The next day after work, I ate my roommate’s leftover pizza and opened his last beer and began preparing the bugle for sale. I sat on the back porch and rubbed some brass polish on the bugle hoping to coax a shine out of it. Then I poured water into the bell and watched gobs of disgusting debris pour out the other end. It took several minutes for the water to run clear. I used a tiny bottle brush to clean the inside of the mouthpiece as far as it would go and a thin nylon plumbing snake to go through the rest of the instrument. Then I blew into it.
I played trumpet two years in middle school. The director told us to always blow air into the horn before playing. The bugle was just like a trumpet except it had no valves. As I blew into the bugle, I heard what sounded like thunder in the distance but the day was bright and cloudless. The bugle suddenly felt hot – too hot. Another BOOM shook the ground followed by a spray of popping sounds. The blasts seemed to be getting louder but I could not tell from where they were coming.
Smoke began rolling in from the tree line at the back of the yard. Were kids playing with fireworks back there? I better check before it got out of control. Three more blasts rattled the windows of the house. They came from my left. The smoke got thicker and it smelled of gunpowder. I ran into the woods to find the source of the smoke.
The smoke got thick and it became hard to breathe. I could not see more than five feet in any direction, then I heard shouting. The shouts seemed to come from everywhere. I could not make out words but the tone was raw fear and agony. I heard running footsteps a few feet ahead of me going from left to right. A disembodied voice shouted, “Run! We got flanked!” The pops got louder and something buzzed by my ear and slammed into the tree I was leaning against. Did someone shoot at me? I heard horses galloping toward me from my left side so I ran the other way. I heard men running all around but could not see any of them. They were in a panic like me and ran in the same direction but the heavy smoke made it impossible to see them.
The hoofbeats and shouting got louder. I felt the bugle banging onto my side as I ran. A nearby voice shouted, “Bugler, sound retreat!” I stopped and looked toward the voice but did not see anyone. “Bugler, for God’s sake sound retreat!” Was he talking to me? More pops followed by screams of agony pierced the air. The horses seemed to be right on top of me so I ran as fast as I could away from the sounds.
Something was wrong. I instantly felt heavy and sluggish. It was almost impossible to breathe. I collided with a tree and crawled behind it. Why was I wearing a heavy woolen uniform? A rifle with a bayonet was slung across my back next to a heavy ammunition knapsack. The bugle was still slung over my right shoulder but a revolver was now in a holster around my waist. Was this a nightmare? I trembled from the adrenaline rush as the hoofbeats got closer. I drew a deep breath and sprinted blindly away from the hoofbeats.
I exhaled just as the ground fell out from under me and I plunged into deep cold water. The weaponry was too heavy and I inhaled water before I could even attempt to surface. The searing pain in my chest stunned me. I could not move. The sounds faded and I saw the darkness slowly come for me. At least I beat the vultures.