The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  Not long after they set sail, Colette told Sophie the crew discovered stowaways. It seems a cat smuggled her five kittens from the wharf aboard. Colette says the bond between cats and men at sea has been a strong one throughout history. The toughest sailors have surprisingly soft hearts and taken a special fancy to their unexpected shipmates. The mother cat, affectionately called Mrs. Tiddles, has her work cut out for her with her litter to care for and rodent duties to perform.

  Colette also described the mix of passengers. Some of them are having a hard time and find fault with their treatment, yet they are careful not to rile the captain over it. The crew has their own rash of complaints. They all, however, must adhere to a rigid code of conduct. Not long after their departure, there was a big to-do about a missing coat. Colette said the very next day she spotted one of the sailors wearing a sign on his back with the bold letters, T-H-I-E-F, written for all to see. Colette’s stories, compassion and sense of humor have been instrumental in helping them both.

  Sophie’s serene expression shifts when her thoughts suddenly travel to Father Cambrio’s daily tea. In an instant her moment of serenity unravels. It evaporates like rain on a hot surface. How can she have such dislike for the man? Is she blaming him for her predicament? She knows that would be totally unreasonable. This is not his fault. Turning over on her side and resting her head on her curled arm, Sophie takes a deep breath and tries to snooze.

  There is no sense of how much time has passed, maybe seconds, maybe minutes. But when her eyes shoot open, Sophie’s brain is in a quandary. It is like a light bulb went off in her sleep, brilliant and with blinding intensity. It is like a carousel of random thoughts have drawn to one center and exploded in a burst of awareness. An idea, a bizarre nightmare causes her to bolt upright. She just misses the boards that support Colette’s berth.

  It can’t be, her mind rails. Everything in her tries to dispel her wicked thoughts.

  In a flash, Sophie is on her feet, not knowing which way to turn. She thinks she may be going mad this moment, her discernment is so disturbing. Yet it lingers in perfect, unabated clarity. She holds still, taking in the feedback of her brain that gathered scraps of evidence like pieces of a puzzle and fit them together while she dozed.

  Confused, her feet tingle with the need to run, but where? Sophie’s eyes dart to Colette’s still form wrapped peacefully in her blanket. She crosses to the chair and sits, rubbing the sides of her arms and trying to get a grip. She is determined to hang on to the conflicting information and prickly impressions that cause her alarm.

  “Sophie?” Colette croaks. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Colette. Go back to sleep.” She can hear the artificial sweetness of her voice, but Colette does not notice.

  Holding her breath, Sophie listens to rustling as her friend changes position and settles again.

  Be calm, she coaches, as she hugs her upper body. Be calm, she repeats inwardly, making an effort to still her thumping heart. Was it a nightmare? Was she dreaming? She searches for an answer and it comes in one astounding revelation. No! This is real, all of it.

  Chapter 30

  DUSTY ROADS OF GEORGIA

  For Matt, the need to make rhyme or reason out of his wife’s phenomenon has passed. Jane has filled the gaps in his memory, told him incredible stories, and shared her forecast of future events. She has also expressed more than once her strong opposition to a slave republic and nation permanently divided.

  Although he has no stomach for the institution of slavery and freed his family’s slaves at Summerwoods Plantation, he made Jane promise not to reveal her viewpoint to anyone during their journey. At this, his wife crossed her eyes and clucked, “No duh!” The odd expression made him laugh.

  Matt studies Jane’s form with appreciation. She rides her horse Cleopatra at a walk a few paces ahead. The graceful rocking of her hips and swaying of her back paints a high-toned, yet wantonly tantalizing picture in his mind. The sight of her stirs the innermost part of his soul and sets his unshakable ache afire.

  Jane insists her modified dress is perfect for roaming the dusty roads of Georgia. Her skirt has been cut and hemmed below the knee and she wears a matching pair of trousers underneath. She tells him her ensemble is nothing new. There are fashion plates of women sporting trousers under their skirts in their time.

  War has a way of generating a more practical nature. Women who join the ranks of men or travel with their husbands on campaigns might naturally adapt their style of clothing to hard conditions. Although Matt finds the idea outrageous, Jane warns in the years ahead women’s skirts will be traded for the casual wearing of pants and something she calls shorts. Though dresses are worn, it is with a shocking amount of bare skin showing. This vulgar public display comes with little restriction or judgment upon them.

  To cover her red hair, Jane traded her bonnet for an old pork pie hat with a curled-up brim she found in the attic of the Old Homestead. Against the grain of masculine taste and opinion, Matt is proud of his wife’s unconventional style and fortitude over the miles from Darien to Savannah. There will be no pathetic whining or whimpering from her sweet lips.

  Settled back in his saddle and satisfied Jane is enjoying a moment of quiet solitude, Matt turns his mind to the unpleasantness of politics and war.

  While bondage of human beings is abolished in many places — England, for one, is a great promoter of the abolitionist movement — the South holds on to its traditions. Their livelihood depends on slave labor. Any voice against it flies in the face of Southern principles and dishonors the countless lives affected by their cause.

  Matt strongly feels they will ultimately seek a more positive solution and align themselves with new worldviews. But it must be in their own time rather than having it forced down their throats by the Federal government. God willing, he believes General Lee is the perfect leader to reestablish peace and harmony. His capable hands can plant and nurture the seeds of restoration for all people.

  The wheels of change are already in motion. The French government has begun to recognize the revitalized efforts of the Confederacy that led to victory at Gettysburg and created utter chaos in Washington. The survival of General Stonewall Jackson, by Bryce McKenzie’s competent design, has given the South a prodigious advantage. In Jane’s future, these two key elements are absent. France stood with England, remaining officially neutral, and their fervent General Jackson lost his life a few days after he was accidentally shot by his own men during the Battle of Chancellorsville.

  Matt is eager to get back to what he calls, the final fight. A post awaits him under Lee’s command. He and Jane plan to penetrate deep into Bobby Lee’s Rebel stronghold and provide their critical intelligence, for what it is worth. Although they cannot measure the volatile movement of history’s actions and reactions, he hopes some of their knowledge will help stamp out any remaining chance of Union success.

  Robert E. Lee is the only man who has Matt’s undivided trust. They will alert the general to what they know about the war. He is particularly interested in divulging that Union fiend General Sherman’s total-war plan to march his Federal forces through Georgia’s countryside in the upcoming year. If not stopped, Jane predicts Sherman’s troops will swarm on them like migrating locusts to the sea. Her account of destruction and desolation — Atlanta in flames, railroad tracks mangled, and towns and farms laid to waste — makes his blood boil.

  “The winds of war blow in our favor,” Matt remarks. Such a declaration savored of hope impresses on him the magnitude of their purpose.

  “Oh yes, forever changed.” Jane draws gently on the reins to slow her progress and clicks her tongue to nudge her pretty camel-colored mare to Matt’s side.

  Over the months Jane lived at Sea Oaks, she had learned to ride sidesaddle. Her friend Becky Maccaw insisted it was the most appropriate manner for posture and to preserve a lady’s modesty. Now Jane is glad she had taken up the forgotten art. Contrary to myth, she found it comfortable when tr
aveling long distances. The seat and two pommels of her saddle are padded and well fitted. Riding is much like casually sitting in a chair at home with her right leg crossed over the left. At least she has alleviated one potential problem. Yes, she is sore, but she will not be blistering the insides of her thighs astride her horse.

  “But Matt, nothing is etched in stone,” Jane firmly reminds. “The unknown factor is still with us. It is the nature of the beast.” She knew this all too well. No matter how much they might share or do, their future is still a mystery.

  Jane’s attention soon moves back to three wiry boys with cane poles and shabby clothes walking barefoot along the road. She has been watching their approach. One of them is carrying a string of fish, probably for supper. In idle chitchat she and Matt decide the boys must live in the modest cabin with the large vegetable garden they rode by.

  “We are nearing Savannah,” Matt smiles, familiar with the countryside outside the great Confederate city and port of Georgia. His horse is easily spurred to a trot, sensing his excitement. Obediently, Cleopatra picks up her pace to match.

  When they set out on the two-day ride, Jane had high hopes and fairy-tale ambitions. Galloping wild and free with Matt on a new adventure with the wind in her hair and sun on her face sounded great. However, her preconceptions were soon disrupted. On the first day of their two-day journey, Matt advised her to be careful with her horse. It could trip or throw a shoe.

  The heavy flow of Southern refugees and military transports with large wagons, artillery, teams of animals and foot soldiers moving through made the road rutty and vitiated. Then there’s the wafting odor of urine and manure made damp by passing showers. She has been covered from head to toe with fine, choking dust, drenched to the bone in a downpour and, no doubt, thoroughly entreated to all rudiments of discomfort. Making it to their beloved Savannah is a happy relief.

  At breakfast, Jane gives a vibrant smile, “It is so good to be home again. I slept much better last night. The first night I was so exhausted I tossed and turned. How much longer do you think we will be here?”

  She had learned they must gather supplies and book passage on a steamer from Savannah to Wilmington, North Carolina. Wilmington’s port is a sturdy defense. The city manages to avoid the Union’s vigorous blockades and remains a vital lifeline to the Confederacy’s trading partners in Europe.

  Matt and Jane love being in the Hopkins family home again. Anna left a skeleton crew of reliable servants to tend the city property. Mr. and Mrs. Collier, a nice couple and good family friends, were hired to oversee the place. They lost their farm and moved to the city to be with their daughter and passel of grandchildren. Anyone who knows the Collier family also knows they have committed four sons to the war. Two, the oldest and the youngest, are buried in an unmarked mass grave near the bullet-strewn stone bridge at Antietam Creek.

  “We depart tomorrow, my dearest. We board the SS Creed first thing in the morning. She is a coastal steamer employed by the Confederacy and armed to the hilt. I foresee no trouble getting to our destination.”

  “Sooner than I thought,” Jane sighs. “I’ve never been on a steamer before. The closest thing was a paddle-wheel steamboat. A ride at Disney,” Jane chuckles.

  “Disney?” Matt has a habit of calling out Jane’s quirky dialect.

  “Yes, people in the future ride on pieces of history, like a steamboat, for instance. In this case, it is a real working riverboat that runs on a fake track in a man-made river with fake scenes around it. Disney World is a huge resort with lots of make-believe rides people go on for fun.” Seeing Matt’s eyes flit to her, his brows slightly raised, “I’m sorry, sort of trivial, huh,” Jane says. Her husband’s mind has been elsewhere this morning. His head is currently buried in the local newspaper.

  When Jane is suddenly quiet, Matt looks up again, expectantly.

  He continues his line of thought, “Unlike steamboats that travel our rivers and tributaries, the Creed is ocean-going and has a side paddle. She runs on coal. I’m sure you will find her most intriguing. Much like your, uh, fake riverboat ride,” Matt grins. “The Creed is the latest in modern transportation.” He knows well it can never compete with the mystifying wonders of Jane’s future-world.

  “Well, it will be a lot easier on my backside, that’s for sure?” Jane chuckles. “So, the Creed has been confiscated by the military.”

  “Out of necessity. We all serve the South in our own capacity, I suppose,” Matt says, and neatly folds his copy of the Savannah Republican, laying it aside. “It has a civilian crew. Captain Brighton assures we will be made as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. I am told five other private citizens have booked passage. The rest, of course, are military men and cargo.”

  “It has a civilian crew?”

  “Subject to orders.”

  “I see. And, where are you headed today, Major Hopkins?” Jane pursues a different topic.

  “I am riding out to see our old friend Colonel Olmstead.”

  “Dear Colonel Olmstead,” Jane recalls. “So much has happened since I last saw him.” Her thoughts roam back to the colonel’s surrender of Fort Pulaski and her race across enemy lines to Savannah. “Please give my regards and tell him hello for me.”

  “What are your plans, Mrs. Hopkins? The carriage is at your disposal. James Isaac will see you anywhere you wish to go.” Matt’s eyebrows draw together at the sudden thought of Captain Tucker. He assured Jane yesterday he had news Tucker was reassigned to Blakely’s Brigade in Alabama and she need not be concerned about venturing out. The man’s devious conduct had not only aroused and agitated the citizenry, but had put his wife in harm’s way. Matt is glad to be rid of him.

  “I would like to visit the cemetery and pay my respects,” Jane says. “I have a few words to say at the grave of Mary’s husband. I think I owe the two of them that much.”

  “A thoughtful gesture, my dear,” Matt agrees. He hopes it will help Jane find closure on the tragedy at Tohidu and untimely death of Mrs. Marshall.

  Jane’s eyes fall on her empty plate as she savors her last bite and blots her mouth with her napkin. She had devoured her eggs, fried potatoes and cornbread with a hearty appetite.

  “Yum, that was good,” she concludes.

  “And, what will you do with the rest of your day?”

  “I plan to shop a little. There are a few necessities I need to purchase from the mercantile on Bay Street. Bagger’s Cobble and Wares is also on my list. Knowing Mr. Bagger, he has already heard about my trip to the hospital to see Doctor Arnold yesterday. Word travels fast round here. He would never forgive me if I didn’t stop by. My visit will take a long minute of my time. Mr. Bagger loves to talk and I am sure I will come away with a bit of juicy gossip.”

  “Our accounts should still be honored. Get whatever you need. But remember, we are traveling light.”

  “I know how to pack, sir. We travel in my time too. More than you can imagine.”

  “Indeed, from 2012 all the way to 1862. That is quite a trip, wife.”

  “Matt! You are absolutely ruthless with your teasing. It’s much too early.” Jane’s chair scrapes the wooden floor as she rises. Crossing to her husband’s side, she reaches for his empty cup. “More coff—”

  With one swift move, Matt seizes Jane’s arm and skillfully winds her onto his lap. “I am teasing, madam, and admit it plainly. My spirits are forever playful when I have you by my side.” His warm breath is soft on her ear.

  Before Jane can protest his romantic impulse, Matt draws her rosebud lips to his. When her hands clutch the gray wool of his uniform and wind around his neck, he kisses her more deeply until any thought of refilling his cup is replaced with something more worthwhile.

  “You taste like breakfast,” Jane giggles. She smoothes his neatly combed hair. Sliding her fingers down his beard, she tugs gently at his chin.

  “And you taste as sweet as honey, my darling.” Matt delights in seeing the heated look on his wife’s face.
The heightened color of her cheeks and sensual glitter in her emerald green eyes drive him to near madness.

  “Ahem,” comes a low rumble.

  Matt and Jane’s heads snap up at once.

  “Ah! James Isaac,” Matt motions with his hand.

  “Ya horse be ready, suh. All fresh and frisky,” James Isaac grins, and chuckles softly to himself. He crosses the room to gather dishes from a massive sideboard with leaded glass doors.

  “Thank you, James Isaac.”

  “Well, you had best be off,” Jane says. She squirms out of Matt’s embrace and pats her hair, feeling thoroughly ravished.

  “I have a full day ahead, but I shall be back by supper. Will you be all right?” Matt asks seriously.

  “Of course. Now, go on,” Jane smiles, gathering the dishes off the table. “You and Colonel Olmstead have a lot of catching up to do.”

  Chapter 31

  THIS IS MR. DODD

  Jane looks up at the little brass bell as it dances excitedly on a hook at the top of a glass pane door. The pleasant smell of leather and polish fills her nostrils. She is back in her ladylike attire and shifts the weight of her skirt to cross the threshold. Her hoop under volumes of hand-quilted gray taffeta swings in the opposite direction when she closes the door. Her presence is instantly known at Bagger’s Cobble and Wares.

  “Upon my word, if it isn’t Mrs. Hopkins,” Mr. Bagger exclaims with glee, pushing his pencil behind his ear. He politely excuses himself and scurries over, his hand extended to take hers in warm greeting. “How wonderful to see you again. So, you are happily wed to our fine Major Hopkins. Congratulations, my dear, to you both.”

  Mr. Bagger’s two lady customers are eyeballing Jane like a couple of curious parrots with their colorful plume ornaments branching from their hats. Jane nods at the women who are puffed up with importance and seem somewhat deflated at the moment. She does not know them.