The officer scrutinized our battle wagons and said, "Your papers are not in order. Something is fishy!" Cold sweat began to trickle down my back; I would be "guilty by association!" In my mind's eye, I could already see myself making license plates and doing hard time.
Here's what had happened. Part of the Rebs' assault would be an amphibious one, but they were unable to sneak their craft across the Mason-Dixon line. So they procured the services of a couple of smugglers, "The River Rat" and "Skeet, the Canoe." The officer thought "Skeet" had forged some documents or that we had stolen the vehicles. Anyway, it's a long and complicated story. The officer's interrogation was intense; I thought the hairy-faced one would crack. Not that Johnny Reb, he stayed cool. "Georgia" didn't produce no sissy.
Soon they were back in the fray, fully armed, their fury unabated. Me? I had resigned myself to fate. My mind became like a steno-pad, recording every detail. For four more days the attack pressed on. And then, as quickly as it started, it stopped.
The Rebs set me free, showered, shaved, and slipped through the security net at BIA. They cleverly disguised themselves as mild-mannered executives.
Bruised, but not beaten, the Bass family gathered at the Old Town dam and watched the bad guys head south. It would be in my own best interest not to quote them verbatim. But I can say this, they gave those Rebs plenty of lip and lived to tell about it.