by Barbara Best
She raps on Cambrio’s cabin door. There is no answer. She knocks again, this time with the flat of her hand. There is still no answer. She tries the door and peeks inside. He is not there.
“What in the world.” Sophie retraces her steps in the passageway back to a main juncture. With her hoop and the hem of her dress extending practically from wall-to-wall, she has had to try to flatten herself to allow other passengers to pass. Along with their polite greetings and calls of “pardon me, excuse me,” she receives a hefty portion of curious stares.
“I say, aren’t you Widow Downing?” A wisp of a man with a narrow face, smug grin and top hat nods in gentlemanly fashion. “Can I be of service?”
“Oh, I’m turned around, but I know my way.”
“Are you quite sure? It would be a pleasure to escort—”
“No, I’m fine, thank you. Have a nice evening.”
“You, as well.” The man’s mouth puckers at the mild rejection, but he tips his hat and travels on in the opposite direction.
By some miracle, Sophie makes the right number of turns, winding her way to the main deck without incident. When she feels the first burst of fresh air, her spirits lift. She breathes in deeply, closing her mind to her troubles and letting the steady fingers of a breeze caress her face and clothes with quiet abandon. It is chilly and near dark outside. There is dampness that smells like rain. She draws her shawl up around her shoulders and looks left and right for any sign of people stirring about. The deck is puddled in places and has run anyone with common sense inside.
“It rained,” Sophie says, looking up at the night sky and the circular haze of a moon that hides behind swift-moving clouds. Something tells her she should turn back. But before she can complete her thought, Father Cambrio comes trotting to her side.
“Why, there you are. You left your cabin early, you naughty girl. But I see you have found your way. My goodness, I thought I had lost you,” he huffs noisily from exertion, drawing up close.
Sophie forms a stiff smile, “How many places can I be?” She refuses to apologize for worrying him. There is something about Father Cambrio’s eyes. Has he been drinking? His close contact sends a shudder over her when he takes her arm. She steps back, more so on impulse and nothing to do with the movement of the ship.
Ignoring her reaction, Cambrio firmly folds Sophie’s gloved hand into the crease of his arm.
Sophie checks her mood and tries to relax her posture. Something inside tells her to bide her time.
“It has rained,” she suggests, not knowing what else to say.
“So it has.” Cambrio questions, “Colette?”
“With a friend. Where were you? I stopped by your cabin before coming up.”
“Tending to business,” Cambrio says casually, looking about.
Sophie would like to know what kind of business, but she keeps her mouth shut. The pressure of his fingers cupping her hand on his arm and assumption of cozy companionship is uncomfortable.
“You have not walked the length of the ship, from bow to stern. The promenade,” Cambrio smiles, then clears his throat. “It is a treat. I don’t suppose you are up to it?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sophie counters, feeling suddenly like a fish taking bait. Cambrio has a keen way of goading her, a manipulative ploy she abhors. Perhaps he is setting her up for another one of his snobbish orations — sharply defining her role and how her conduct must be softened by a more graceful and God-fearing manner.
Sophie throws off her annoyance and turns her attention to the excitement she feels upon exploring topside at night. She makes a mental plan to be out again at dawn to watch the sun come up on the horizon.
“Well, where to?” she asks.
“Ah, molto bene,” Cambrio exclaims with satisfaction. “This way, shall we? I pray to God our taste of good weather will hold. It is He who divided the Red Sea and calmed the storm,” he elaborately expounds. “Mind the deck. It is a tad slick.”
Chapter 37
A CARDINAL SIN
“You actually think God has something to do with this?” Sophie’s voice cracks under emotional stress. She snatches the black ribbon of her bonnet that has flapped across her mouth. “That He has thrust you into this unbelievable situation for a reason? Surely you see it’s the hand of man who has put us here.”
Sophie wants to point an accusing finger, but contains her irritation. “The Highland Gaelic Rite was attacked and people died. Your job is to see this through. Or did I miss something?”
Father Cambrio’s hold suddenly feels like steel on her arm. She doubts she can pull away. “I don’t get it. What’s changed?”
Their conversation has made a frightening turn. Sophie questions her judgment in entertaining the man’s invitation to stroll. Especially now since it has taken them to a secluded part of the ship. Has he drawn her here on purpose?
“Butchering history is a cardinal sin,” Cambrio says adamantly, his jaw working. “It defies the will of our Creator,” he throws his free hand up to the heavens, “The Giver and Sustainer of all life.”
“Don’t preach to me about God or pretend to be a Savior, Cambrio,” Sophie glares with scorn. The man is every bit a hypocrite. “What would Doctor Archer say if he knew you were second guessing his great plan?”
Sophie sees Cambrio’s mouth twitch. The dim flicker of a lantern swinging on a hook nearby casts a sinister glow on one side of his head. A dangerous gleam in his slanted eyes reflects the round orb of a moon that has shown itself again in the sky. Her timing is incredibly bad. A brief rain cleared the deck of passengers who had been enjoying calmer seas a short time ago.
“Why are you even talking to me about this? What gives you the right to stamp out the evil that has been done?”
“Because it flies in the face of humanity,” Cambrio rails, his words stripped away by a gust of wind. “I will set things right,” he rigidly avows.
“Set things right?” Sophie sputters, her anger blazing. “Not if it has to do with me and Colette. No way!”
There is a heated pause as each seeks to gain a stronger position.
“You have been poisoning us,” Sophie blurts.
The priest’s brow furrows. His fleshy features form a menacing expression, suddenly ugly.
“Tansy and some other stuff, just as bad,” Sophie seethes, caught in the throes of utter outrage. “I found it in your cabin. You have been bloody poisoning our tea.”
In an instant he is on her, grabbing her other arm and shoving her up against the rail.
“Stop that! You are hurting—” Sophie squeaks with alarm, instantly silenced by the pressure of his hand on her throat.
“Get a hold of yourself, my dear. You are positively hysterical,” Cambrio rasps through gritted teeth. Unbridled wildness shoots from his eyes like laser beams on a target, dangerously on the verge of berserk. “We wouldn’t want to draw attention.”
Father Cambrio drags Sophie past a barrier with strength she did not know he had. She bucks and twists to purchase some foothold, but to no avail. She is as vulnerable as a rag doll in his lethal grip.
“Now, be a good girl and stop struggling,” Cambrio drops his gaze slightly and tilts his head at an odd angle like he is listening to some inaudible voice.
For a moment, Sophie thinks he has come to his senses. She nods consent, and the pressure on her neck eases.
“You are a fair and righteous man, Father. Surely there is a better way,” Sophie mollifies between strangled gasps. She suddenly feels like the victim of a serial killer doing whatever it takes to survive.
“I beg you to reconsider. If not for me, for my—” Sophie halts abruptly. Seamus’ reference to her child runs through her mind with brutal clarity. He will forge a promising future for the true and rightful heirs of the North American continent. Her son plays a critical role in this altered time, bringing about a peaceful coexistence and creating a new nation to the west.
Father Cambrio’s lips curl into a malevolent g
rin.
“It’s not me. It’s my child,” Sophie reels from the revelation. “You can’t.” A mother’s instinct makes a desperate plea. “You wouldn’t interfere with God’s miracle, the precious life of an innocent. What about the American Indians and their total annihilation? Why can’t we trust what will be for the good of mankind? It’s what Seamus wanted,” Sophie pants at a nightmare unfolding. “Please.”
“You complicate things.” Cambrio’s face has turned the ashen gray of an oyster shell and shines with pearls of perspiration. The stark-white yoke of purity encircling his neck is tainted by his evil intent.
Sophie looks down at the ache in her numb arm, small in Cambrio’s powerful vise. He uses his body to block her movements and thrusts one of his legs painfully between her thighs. The bands of her hoop fold inward. She cringes at the repulsive sensation.
“Father,” she says, hearing her calm voice as if from afar. “With all the bad, you may be throwing away the good. I’m willing to forgive—”
“Damnation,” Cambrio hardens, blocking the woman’s last pitiful effort to squirm out of his grasp.
Sophie gags at the rank odor of the priest’s hot breath, the smell of stale beer and unbrushed teeth. Her spine grinds on the rail. Imprisoned by her corset, she feels her feet lift off the ground. Her attacker gains momentum in sending her over.
“Murder,” Sophie chokes as her bonnet peels from her head and flies up and out into the void. His deadly squeeze on her windpipe causes an agonizing burn. The veins in her face bulge to the point of exploding. Sophie claws in terror at his sleeve, hearing the threads of her dress ripping at the seams. Her bodice restricts her flexibility. She writhes and kicks in a jumbled maze of fabric, as every cell in her body screams for oxygen. Red and white shards of light behind her eyes tell her there are only seconds left to escape.
Cambrio’s cassock is a protective barrier that leaves him unaffected. He laughs openly at her struggle, surprised at what little it will take to be done with this scourge on history. He had tried to save the woman and dispose of the child, but that was not His will.
“God grant me the strength to stop this gross immorality, now. Fatum ut abyssus!” Cambrio booms. His words and the ropy spittle from his mouth are sucked away by the wind. Looking heavenward, he makes the sign of the cross.
A final jolt of adrenaline flies through Sophie’s racing heart, but she can do little against the overpowering mass. A paralyzing quiet engulfs her thoughts as she realizes she is dying and will soon sink beneath the black frothy surface below. She is lost.
“Unhand her!” comes a razor-sharp command from behind.
Father Cambrio’s head snaps up and his balance slightly shifts.
At once, Sophie’s fight reflex is unleashed. Jerking her arm, she seizes the large needle she had pinned to her waist and stabs Cambrio with all her might.
Cambrio screams in fury and draws back. Tripping on one of the ship’s rollers, he slips on the well-scrubbed wooden planks and falls against a hinged gate within the bulwark that is used for loading cargo.
To their shock, the priest’s body swings outward. A rusted iron clamp on the rail had not been properly secured. Losing his three-finger grip on the stanchion with his other arm purchasing nothing but air, Cambrio’s wrathful curses rise over the crash of waves against the hull. They follow him down before anything can be done. Thrashing about, his beating sleeves billow outward like a ghostly black angel soaring in the swift-moving surf. Father’s white collar is the last thing that shows in an endless sea before he is greedily swallowed up and disappears from sight. A light rain begins to fall again.
“Man overboard!” a loud shout splits the air from above. And, as if from out of nowhere, sailors scramble in from all directions.
Reverend Post had snatched Sophie away before she, too, slipped into the abyss.
“He was going to kill me,” Sophie sobs in a fit of coughing. She stares in horror at the needle still clutched in her hand. Reverend Post sees it too. He takes it from her and tosses it over the side.
“It is over. You are safe,” Clayton says gently, quickly assessing the woman’s condition. “Are you hurt?”
Sophie pushes his hand away, standing as stiff as a board, her complexion as pale as white marble. Tears mixed with rain stream down her cheeks and her loosened hair hangs in ropy strands around her face. Her shawl and hat had been lost in the struggle.
“Stand back,” Clayton says to the men who have gathered. He drapes his coat over her shoulders. “Can you walk?” he asks, afraid she will fall to pieces at his touch.
“Sweet heavens,” Clayton grunts, when the woman’s knees begin to buckle. “Here now, lean on me. Let’s get you below.”
Sophie’s mind is emotionally void of all thought or reason. Before they can take the first step, she melts into a dead faint.
Chapter 38
FIRST-RATE TREATMENT
Bryce’s eyes roam from one facet of his surroundings to the next. Revisiting Sea Oaks Plantation is like a sequel to a dream that has broken through the walls of consciousness. Miz Logan is giving him first-rate treatment he can’t say he deserves and a tour that goes beyond the norm. Making an effort to show respect, he contains his tendency to drop sarcastic remarks when he’s nervous.
Generally speaking, he has done a great job of keeping it together. That is, considering he only just determined his whole life has been erased. He is starting anew with an unsolicited blank canvas. This world has no record of his past, he is constructing a poor excuse for the present, and has no benchmark for the future.
Bryce works to keep the worry off his face and maneuvers the long hallway on the ground floor. Kat says there is a sprawling second story and more rooms on the third level she would like to show him. She is particularly fond of the large nursery and schoolroom.
Continuing her animated narration, “Some of our visitors tell us they can hear the voices of children laughing and singing. We’re not haunted, mind you,” she chuckles. “But it’s a happy place.”
Kat moves them past a string of closed doors to the back of the manor house. They enter an impressive study with a substantial library.
Elegant French windows are trimmed with a flamboyant gold-corded fringe that runs all the way from ceiling to floor. The land outside stretches as far as the eye can see. It is a man’s room. Bryce can imagine Captain McIntosh surveying his kingdom and the fruits of slave labor from here. He notices a brass refracting telescope with a wooden tripod sitting in one corner of the room.
“Come on in, Mr. McKenzie. We have certain privileges most of our visitors don’t have.” Kat rounds the roped-off barrier where a small square of flooring is worn from constant foot traffic. Her movements about the room are natural. She has a presence of ownership.
Crossing to the windows, Kat pulls the heavy dark green drapes all the way back. Natural light spills into the space to expose a roomful of rich antique furnishings. Her love of the place is evident.
“Nice room,” Bryce politely comments.
“The drapes are a replica of the originals that hung in Captain’s study. They were taken down when this part of the manor was turned into a temporary rehabilitation hospital toward the end of the war.”
Kat talks about the first doctor in her family of medical professionals.
“Captain’s youngest son, Willie, aspired to be more than what they humbly called a planter in these parts. During her time at Sea Oaks, Jane Hopkins lavished affection on the boy who had a keen interest in her unusual practices when tending the sick and wounded. There are a few stories about Jane’s nursing. You probably know about Fort Pulaski, Jane’s life in Savannah, and her work at the wartime hospital there. Willie McIntosh had a remarkable propensity for healing that began at a very early age. He would go on to establish a lifelong career in medicine. We think because of Jane’s influence. They say her understanding of medicine was ahead of its time.”
As if another light bulb of history goes of
f, Kat adds enthusiastically, “Did you know our brilliant lady caught the attention of Jean-Charles Chenu? The famous French physician and naturalist. He mentioned Jane Hopkins briefly in his memoirs. When France joined the war, Chenu actually visited Sea Oaks. Captain was heavily involved in the politics of the day and befriended the man during one of his many trips to the Confederate capital. Chenu is the author of Encyclopedia of Natural History and studied William Bartram’s Georgia-Florida expeditions. William Bartram was a naturalist too. And some say a Freemason with ties to the Salva Society. He was very close to the early McIntoshes of the 1700s in this region.”
Kat pauses to appreciate the scenic view outside. The downpour brought on by a passing storm has receded and the sun is already out again. She is sure there must be a rainbow somewhere.
She turns to watch Mr. McKenzie browse their surroundings. He acts distracted, like Wyatt when he is off in his own little world.
“I am afraid I can chat overly about this place, Mr. McKenzie,” Kat sighs. Her finger taps the surface of her puckered lips in a mild display of modesty.
“Oh no,” Bryce runs his hand over the high back of a leather chair behind a large desk with claw feet and crosses to the wall of windows. “I am liking every bit of your tour, Miz Logan. Sea Oaks has a ton of history, plenty to see. You do it justice.” It is the best compliment he knows to give. “I’m listening to every word and amazed you have this all in your head. Please, don’t stop now,” he encourages.
“Well, if you insist,” Kat giggles and clears her throat. “Ahem, now, where was I? Ah yes, King Cotton. It is a rich and lucrative commodity. The lifeblood of the South — rambling fields of snow in summertime, the white gold of the Confederacy,” she quotes an article she had read not too long ago.
“Of course, our cotton has already been harvested for the year. The stalks have been cut down and chopped in preparation for next season. The days of slavery are long over and science and technology have replaced manpower in the fields, but the tradition carries on at Sea Oaks. We have a long list of volunteers who still work a small plot of our land today for the hands-on experience and to raise donations for their charitable foundations. They endure sun, snakes, cotton burrs, and mosquitoes to recreate a day’s labor on a cotton plantation. Reenactors, so to speak.”
