The first full day on Coal Island was a blur of searching out the right talents to perform the correct jobs. A few of the men joined the small fishing fleet while a dozen men joined the lumberjacks. Anyone who could cook had a permanent job in the kitchen. A few men went to the warehouse. A precious few who knew stone set to work mining the granite while most of the Georgians joined the sledge crews.
The quarry itself was a hole carved into the stone of the island a dozen paces from the shore. The red granite vein had started close to the surface by the entrance of the cave, slowly descended for a few hundred feet, then suddenly arced deep into the earth. This gave the floor of the quarry a flat appearance until it neared the lake, where layers cut successively deeper.
The quarry produced beautiful red granite that was popular in Chicago and the growing Midwest cities of Detroit and St. Paul. While fetching a good price for the stone, the money was a needed commodity for the purchase of food. A ration system was used to limit appetites, but this created a demand for storage space. The solution was to use branching sections of the cave as cold storage, these areas locked behind wooden walls of thick cut timber until needed.
The men set to work good-naturedly. Three years of uncertainty replaced with the ability to create a safe future. Certainty replaced the prospect of death and became hope. The Georgia men joined the work with a zest that denied the fatigue of months of marching north.
Caves were nothing new to the rebels. Robert had seen munitions factories in caves, one of them directly under the union encampment near Sharpsburg; the men were perfectly safe as long as the union Army did not discover their presence.
The cave on Coal Island was different. There was an air of corruption to the deeper reaches, almost a stench of death, but most likely organic debris washed down by rain. There was also a sense of danger in the dark, a sense that a bear might wander into the light of a fire.
The sense of foreboding permeated the men to varying degrees. Most of the prisoners who greeted the Georgians spoke softly of the Robber King, a story that could generate the fear. Robert felt himself above such foolishness despite never hearing the tale.
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A few days on the island brought a pattern to the activities of the men, most noticeably spending the evening seated around campfires on the island’s open slope. The weather remained calm, with only a slight chill as the sun touched the horizon on those first few days, cool enough that the warmth of the fire felt good.
It was at such a moment that General Cornell requested a special story from Colonel Beltran.
Obviously, the general had previously heard the tale and knew the colonel needed little persuasion to recall his oratory. The general sat back with a grin while Colonel Beltran told the tale, embellishing it with grand gestures using one arm while the other hand held his pipe used for emphasis.
“It seems a robber terrorized the northern Wisconsin shore of Lake Superior, stealing like a shadow in the night and disappearing into the mists that form often near the lake. Such was his success that local constables joined forces to hunt the Robber King.”
The colonel smiled. “All to no avail.”
“He struck at will for two years until an intrepid posse chased the Robber King into a fog and found a cave. Prints crossed pristine sand leading to the cave.”
“A quick search revealed a far-reaching cave that led under the Lake with the sound of movement echoing off the interior stone.”
Colonel Beltran held up three fingers. “Three men followed the Robber King into the cave. They collected lanterns, food and weapons for the trip, then disappeared into the depths.”
“The rest of the men set camp and a close watch should the Robber King somehow elude his hunters and try to flee.”
“The men in the camp were in fine humor the first day, but by the third day they were worrying. Very early on the morning of the fourth day, the men guarding the cave entrance thought they heard distant screams echoing from the depths.”
“They waited.” Robert felt a shiver as the Col. paused and stoked his pipe. It was the same feeling he felt when waiting for an artillery barrage or enemy assault.
“On the eighth day, all hope of survival ceased. The men who had entered the cave were certainly dead. With heavy hearts, the posse set kegs of black powder and lit the fuse, collapsing the mouth of the cave.” The colonel shook his head.
“The Robber King disappeared.” Beltran tapped his ear with the stem of his pipe. “But if you listen carefully near the collapsed cave, you can hear muffled cries for help.”
The colonel paused and surveyed his audience, only to cackle with glee when he saw wary eyes. General. Cornell thought the story was wonderful entertainment and would occasionally ask troops if they had seen the Robber King or his loot in the cave.
Even if the story was not true, there was still something strange about the cave. You could almost hear the Robber King laughing at the prisoners’ discomfort.