Reincarnation

by Suzanne Weyn

“No. You’re an honorable man,” Abby insisted. “Was it very horrible?”

  He nodded. “I almost couldn’t bear it. Just before they were to light the fire, I nearly came forward and said I was mistaken, that I was wrong about everything.”

  “What stopped you?” Abby asked.

  “I realized that she was wearing those earrings. It was remarkable how they gleamed in the firelight.”

  Before they lit the fire, as I stood at the stake beside Miss Pritchard and Lily, I believed Brian would come for me. He would spring from the crowd, untie my bonds, and off we would go on a white horse. Miss Pritchard’s card reading had foretold that I would see him again. I wore the earrings to show him that my love was still alive, so he would know.

  He did not appear.

  When they lit the fire, something snapped in my mind, cracked.

  It remains broken.

  My death. I do not want to talk about it.

  I am smoke now, perpetually escaping from the flame.

  Salem, Massachusetts, 1750:

  Here lies Abigail Wheldon

  1670–1750

  Died of smallpox in the 80th year of her life

  “As I am now, so shall ye be.”

  Widow of Charles Wheldon of Salem, Massachusetts

  Mrs. Wheldon was the proprietor of the Wheldon tobacco plantation. Though she comes home to Salem for her final rest, she is no doubt mourned by her many slaves back in Virginia.

  Dublin, Ireland, 1695:

  from the diary of Mrs. Brian Kelly

  The baby was born while my husband was away on yet another long sea voyage. She had her father’s hazel green eyes. I named her Maureen. All seemed fine with her until I lit a peat fire to keep her warm. The poor babe began to scream hysterically. I nursed her and rocked her and did all in my power to soothe the pathetic wailing creature but she would have none of it. I was so distracted that I forgot to attend the fire and let it die down. Only then did little Maureen stop crying.

  After that she slept a great deal and was a good baby, except when I lit the fire. Each time she would fall into a fit of pitiful crying. I could not keep the fire unlit as it is the dead of winter and we would freeze without it, though now I wish I had done without and taken my chances under woolen blankets. One night it was so cold everywhere in our thatched cottage that I sat beside the fire, rocking the wee babe in my arms, enduring her nerve-racking screams.

  I fell asleep and when I awoke, the baby was dead in my arms. The doctor says she most likely died of smoke fumes. I believe she died of fear and I blame myself for leaving her near the flame for so long. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why a child should be born with a wild terror of flames such as that, but that she had it, I am certain.

  My heart is broken. Her father, Brian, comes home from sea today. I don’t know how I will tell him his baby girl is gone.

  Rosetta, Egypt, July 1799:

  To My Rosalie,

  As you know, since we first set sail on 19 April 1798 under the command of the great Napoleon Bonaparte so much has happened. The city of Alexandria, which we successfully conquered in the name of France during the Battle of the Pyramids last July, has seen great improvements under French rule. Streetlights have been installed, hospitals have been established, and the lawless citizens have been disarmed, among many other improvements.

  These things, however, are not what I want to tell you. In other letters I have imparted the sensations that have come over me since arriving in this exotic country. Things that should be wholly unfamiliar are strangely known to me. When we fought against the troops of the Egyptian governor last year, I could hardly fire my gun, so overcome was I with the feeling that I had been there before. At first, the old headaches returned, so frightening and unexplainable were these sensations.

  And now, just yesterday, the most bizarre of all occurrences happened. In a city known to us as Rosetta, though the natives call it Rashid, on the west bank of the formidable Nile River, my company was working under the direction of Captain Pierre Francois Xavier Bouchard, an able leader. We were engaged in the task of knocking down an old wall to extend Fort Julien, our base of operation. I was about to demolish a wall with a sledgehammer when I noticed that there was writing inscribed on the wall. It was a text etched in three different languages. You know I speak and write only one language, French, but this is the curious part: I could read most of this ancient inscription.

  It was written in Greek, and in Egyptian hieroglyphics, and I could read them both. The third script, below the other two, I could not read, although it appeared to be Egyptian of some kind. The hieroglyphics and the Greek said the same thing. They were thanking one of the ptolemies, who I am told were Greek pharaohs of Egypt, for something.

  I called over Captain Bouchard to tell him what I had discovered. “That is impossible,” he said. “No one can understand the meaning behind this ancient picture language of the Egyptians. How do you know this?”

  I confessed that I was as bewildered by it as he; nonetheless, I was certain my reading was accurate. Still skeptical, the captain preserved the piece of writing and had it presented to the scholars who have accompanied Napoleon here to Egypt. They are studying it now.

  After this, my dreams have been filled with strange imagery. I see myself shooting arrows and a pulsing green eye hovers in a black, star-flecked sky. Last night I dreamed I rowed up the Nile in an ancient boat with many other men. Whips snapped over our heads.

  I suppose these fevered dreams are to be expected here in this foreign land. Though I long to see you again, part of me will always belong to Egypt.

  Sincerely,

  Jacques

  Bedlam Hospital, London, September 1810: Case 781

  By order of the asylum administrator, Mr. Phineas Smith, the unfortunate Marianna Clark will heretofore be bound by hand and foot and strapped to a chair during the waking hours. This has been deemed necessary because Miss Clark remains under a delusion that has been with her since birth: She believes that she is on fire.

  Until last week, this condition would arise only under stressful situation calling for short-term confinement. The condition appeared to be worsening with the result that Miss Clark believed she was ablaze at almost every waking hour.

  Under these dire conditions I recommended that Miss Clark be administered the potent opium derivative known as laudanum in order to calm her. However, in this sedated state, Miss Clark claims with utmost certainty to be someone called the Mother Abbess Maria Regina, continually insisting, “This is my abbey. I know this building but someone has moved my room! Where is my room?” This claim would simply seem to be the further ravings of an unfortunate lunatic but it has an uncanny dimension to it. This very hospital building where the miserable Miss Clark is now incarcerated had its beginnings in the Middle Ages as a priory for the Catholic brothers and sisters of the Order of the Star of Bethlehem. In all likelihood, Miss Clark read this information during more lucid moments between her stays here and recalls it now in her delirium.

  It is my considered opinion that it is in everyone’s best interest for Miss Clark, in addition to being bound hand and foot, to be given daily a greatly increased dosage of laudanum. This will calm her and reduce her shrieking and the demented claims, which greatly unnerve the staff.

  New York City, 1863

  Dear George,

  How are you? I hope things have been calm down there in Gettysburg. Guess what? A man offered me three hundred dollars to take his place in the army and I took it. Now you won’t be the only soldier!

  Jane yelled for an hour when I came home and told her. She was glad for the three hundred dollars, and simmered down when I showed it to her.

  When I came out of the foundling home at sixteen, she was the only one I knew, since we grew up in the home together. She was like a sister to me and I always liked her beautiful red curls. Marrying her seemed like the sensible thing to do. She told me it was, though now I deeply regret it.

  So that
was part of the reason I needed to get away. She was driving me crazy. I hear Mr. Lincoln also has a tiresome, crazy wife, so I guess it’s not just the poor who are afflicted with such.

  The other reason I needed to get out was that these tenements are near to driving me insane. Every other day there’s a fire in one of them. These old wooden buildings go up in a second. They’re so overcrowded that someone is always accidentally knocking over a lamp or leaving a stove flame on, not to mention the drunkards who pass out with lit cigarettes still burning.

  As if all this isn’t bad enough, it’s part of my duties to fire up that new kiln in Pfeiffer’s Pottery Shop where I work. I was happy enough to get the job for, as you well know, I love making the pots like they taught us at the orphanage. The kiln shoots jets of fire just outside the building. I can see the flames through the window. Each time I see the flame jumping up, I nearly faint from terror. Jane says that I’m like a crazy person about fire but I can’t help it.

  That’s probably why I started taking the laudanum, my nerves being shot from my fear of fire. I got a doctor to get it for me to treat my bad ankle, which still gives out on me at the worst times. I hope it doesn’t give me a problem during the fighting — my ankle I mean, not the laudanum. To be totally honest, I look forward to taking the laudanum as it more or less puts me in another world.

  Well, maybe I’ll run into you. I hope so. The only thing I’ll miss from my present life is my cat, who I call Baby. He’s the pottery shop’s cat, really, but I’ve made him my pet. I don’t suppose pets are allowed in the army. I can tell you that I’m exceedingly happy to be getting out of here.

  Your brother,

  John

  John Mays looked across the field from which he’d just come. The Confederate soldiers were still in their line, muskets at the ready, but they’d sat down to rest.

  Looking around, he gazed over miles of rolling hills dotted with stands of trees and a river. He’d seen more countryside in the last six months than in his entire life spent in the city, but he had never expected that the fighting would take him this far away. Honey Springs wasn’t even in a state. It was Indian Territory.

  This battle had been going on for over an hour and the Confederate infantry forces under General Douglas Cooper were tough. And they weren’t only the regular rebel troops, either; they had independent Texas regiments and the Indians fighting with them. Some Cherokee were fighting with the north; Choctaw, Creek, Chickasaw, and Seminole were all fighting with the South. The Indians called this area Elk Creek.

  He was already exhausted. They’d marched all night through the rain to get to the fort. Plus, he was out of laudanum, which was bad. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to depend on it. Without the stuff, he really felt like death.

  The Union cavalry soldiers on horseback milled together not far away. Like the foot soldiers, they were temporarily resting themselves and their horses, readying to return to battle.

  John didn’t know if he could go back into battle again. His ankle, which had always been weak, now throbbed. Yanking up his pant leg, he saw that it had swollen to more than twice its usual size. It had started to hurt during the long walk last night and he’d turned it during the first advance, but still he’d pushed himself to keep going. Now he stood and his ankle instantly buckled under, dropping him down onto one knee.

  He was still down when he saw a line of fresh Union infantry troops march past him, advancing on the enemy. They were African soldiers! Some of them might have been freeborn, especially out here in the territories, but others of them had to be freed slaves. “Who are they?” he asked a nearby soldier.

  “Kansas First Regiment,” the soldier answered. His cartridge pouch was out and he was reloading his musket. “All volunteer colored infantry under James Lane.”

  “Can they fight?” he asked.

  The soldier shrugged. “I sure hope so.”

  John’s regiment was ordered to stand their ground as skirmishers, taking on any rebel troops that broke through the line. Meanwhile the African soldiers, with aid from the Cherokee, advanced on the enemy straight on.

  The Kansas First marched to within fifty paces of the Confederates and opened fire. They exchanged a volley of gunfire that filled the air with smoke.

  Lou Jones was at the front of the Union line, her musket pointed forward, ready. With her black hair cut short and her slim, athletic physique, she looked like a boy, a soldier boy. In her Union gray uniform, nobody but she knew any different. The rain had begun coming down hard now. Her uniform was heavy. Even if it got soaked, it wouldn’t cling and give her away. But she would have to reload soon and she was concerned about her gunpowder getting wet.

  Between the driving rain and the gray, gunpowder-thick air, she couldn’t see much. She shot straight ahead, into the enemy line, letting her ears guide her.

  Crouching there on the field, she drew a cartridge from the supply case slung over her shoulder. As she’d been trained to do, she bit off the part of the paper cartridge that held the bullet. Clasping the bullet between her teeth, she cocked the gun and poured some of the powder from the cartridge into the priming pan.

  She was about to spit the bullet into the gun barrel and ram it down with the ramrod attached to the musket when a Cherokee warrior came flying off his horse, hurtling through the air. Before she could dodge, he crashed on top of her as his horse ran off wildly into the field.

  Rolling out from under the dead man, she scrambled for her gun, which lay cocked, several feet away.

  A rebel soldier stepped in front of her, blocking the path to the gun. Looking up, his hate-filled eyes blazed down at her as he lifted his gun to fire.

  She knew that face.

  A flush of humiliation and rage overcame her. One of her terrible headaches was threatening, beginning to throb in the right-hand corner of her temple.

  No! she commanded it. She could not be disabled by a headache at this moment.

  This man before her would not win. “Not this time!” she shouted at him as she scooped up the bow and quiver of arrows that the fallen Cherokee had flung to the ground. With a knowledge seemingly born in her body, she deftly, fluidly loaded the bow and shot the arrow at the rebel soldier.

  His gun went off, ripping the skin from her forehead as he staggered backward.

  Blood pouring down her face, Lou grabbed for her gun and stood. The soldier lay in the field on his stomach.

  And then he moaned, not dead!

  Her gun was not yet reloaded so she grabbed another arrow, positioned it, and drew the bow, aiming down at him.

  It was her moment to finish him.

  But, strangely, she felt no desire to do it.

  Coming to consciousness, he rolled around. His eyes widened as he looked up and saw her there. It was at that moment she realized the Confederate infantry, the Texas regiment, and the Indian troops were retreating, fleeing the field.

  The rebel she had cornered raced away, clutching his shoulder with the arrow still jutting from it.

  She could have easily hit him again, but she lowered her bow. Watching them run from the field, she felt fully satisfied.

  The field doctor had sent John down to the river to soak his ankle in the icy running water. He put his hand on his musket, sensing someone’s approach, but relaxed when he saw it was only a soldier from the Kansas First Regiment. He was a young soldier, thin with not yet even the trace of a beard. John guessed he had lied about his age in order to join his regiment.

  “Your men fought well out there today,” he complimented the soldier. “After this battle, there can be no doubt that you men are fine soldiers. I heard General Blunt say so himself. I think he’s going to write as much in his report, too.”

  The young soldier nodded. John could see that his face was covered in dried blood. A horrific purple gash crossed his forehead. Whatever he’d been through, he was no doubt lucky to be alive. The soldier crouched by the stream a few yards away and began to splash his face with water
, washing the caked blood from his face.

  John pushed himself up and hobbled to the boy. “That’s a nasty-looking gash on your forehead,” he commented. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his inside pocket. “Here, take this. It will make the job easier.”

  “Thanks,” the young soldier mumbled, soaking the handkerchief in the river.

  John sat beside him, feeling oddly comfortable, perhaps because they had just come through such an ordeal together. He was surprised at his level of ease. He had never met a colored person before, though he’d seen some slaves and freeborn artisans in the city. He’d never actually spoken to someone from another race other than his own.

  “How’d you come to join your regiment?” John asked, picking up a lump of mud from the riverbank and squeezing it absently. Its cold wetness was soothing in his rough hand, like the wet clay in Pfeiffer’s Pottery Shop.

  “Just volunteered,” the young soldier answered, looking away. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “You freeborn or slave-born?” John asked.

  The boy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Freeborn,” he answered, standing. “Mind if I keep the handkerchief for a while?” He pressed it to his wound.

  “Sure. Keep it,” John answered.

  “Thanks.” The young soldier hurried off and John had the feeling he couldn’t get away fast enough.

  In her small tent within the fort courtyard, Lou listened to the silence in her head. Despite the ache in her bloodied forehead, the high whine of headache pain she’d grown accustomed to was not present.

  She dared not even breathe or move, fearing that the slightest change in her position would bring the headaches scorching back.

  Steeling her nerves, she turned her head, first to the right, then to the left.

  No pain.