by Barbara Best
“Pack the hoop,” Jane decides. “I think I’ll wear my stiff crinoline instead.” This is no time to conform to the expectations of Southern womanhood with their frill and furbelow. Not when they are about to escape like prison convicts in the cloak of darkness. Her petticoat with row upon row of cording will give some fullness and kick out the hem of her skirt to keep it from bunching between her legs. It is similar to the one she wore at the hospital working for Doctor Arnold.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jane scowls at her husband. Her voice is jerky as she pulls on her stockings. Jane plunges her feet into the soft leather of her new high-top shoes that Mr. Bagger made for her. Phoebe is standing by with the buttonhook.
“Please, Miz Jane, let me,” Phoebe smiles, knowing she is handier with the tool.
“Thanks.” Jane glares at Matt, “I would have already been up and ready.”
Matt is fully dressed in his military uniform and fastening the black leather belt that secures his saber by his side. The plate of his buckle with the raised letters CS for Confederate States shines in the dim light.
“You needed rest, Jane. Knowing you, you would not have slept a wink. As I see it, we have thirty minutes to be on our way. We must be crafty and swift,” Matt grins in the most debonair manner. The excitement of adventure is bright in his eyes.
“Holy Pete!” Jane makes a beeline for the dressing screen. Phoebe is fast on her heels, brandishing a horsehair brush and trying to work on a moving target. With help, Jane wrestles her corset and petticoats on and slips her dress over her head. The fabric is a neutral sandalwood-brown color. The sleeves are straight-cut with piping at the shoulders and along the seams. The trim on her bonnet and wool mantle have a tawny hue.
“Meet you downstairs,” Matt calls over his shoulder.
Jane and Matt ride their horses just in case anything should go awry. James Isaac, who left the house ahead of them, will be waiting at the dock. He hauled the necessities for their trip in a small wagon using a different route. They will meet at the far end of Savannah’s port, which is heavily guarded by Confederate troops.
“The SS Creed,” Jane smiles when they arrive at their destination. She appraises the profile of two large, black chimney stacks, twin masts and a pronounced side-wheel. The SS must stand for Side-wheel Steamer.
“Seventeen runs and five-thousand bales of cotton,” Matt says with admiration. “There will be more before she’s done.”
“A blockade runner? Matt, seriously!” Jane gives her husband’s arm a good shake for leaving out this critical detail. She knows something about these beefed-up steamers that are long in shape and low in the water.
Being it’s the Civil War, many sea-going steamships find it necessary to make their way through Federal blockades that extend over three thousand miles along the Atlantic and Gulf coastlines and lower Mississippi River. Manned with guns and other ordnance, the ships carry precious cargo and are designed to outrun and outsmart the enemy. The SS Creed’s steady nautical bearing and clipper bow with its demi-woman figurehead emanates mystery, wisdom and power.
“Awesome,” the word breaks out of Jane’s mouth in one expelled breath.
“That she is,” comes a masculine response.
The tall, trim man in his fifties with a clipped mustache, oval rimmed blued-steel spectacles and cheerful demeanor, is nothing like the gruff, barnacle-weathered mariner Jane vaguely had in mind.
“Captain Brighton, this is my wife, Mrs. Jane Hopkins.”
“Mrs. Hopkins, at your service.” Captain Brighton politely tips his cap, “Welcome aboard, Major.” The two officers shake hands. “We will be underway soon.”
Not only is his demeanor cheery, but he also exudes a calmness that would put anyone at ease. For Jane, this is a welcome relief when thinking about hairpin maneuvers at top speed through a string of Union Naval ships that mean to blow anything remotely Confederate out of the water.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Jane smiles.
“The pleasure is mine.” Captain Brighton barks a sharp order to his left, “If you will pardon me.”
Jane and Matt’s welfare is briskly turned over to another member of the crew. A young boy formally escorts them up the gangplank and to their sparse accommodations on board. There, Jane is left to her own devices, while Matt makes a quick exit to join the hive of activity topside.
“Well, at least it’s a private room.” Jane sniffs the air. There is a musty, cool dampness of frequent use, and a smell like turpentine and oil that she is sure will permeate everything she owns.
Jane puts her hands on her hips, thinking she would prefer to be part of the excitement on deck. The muffled banging and scraping overhead makes her feel fidgety. Turning the wick on the kerosene lamp for more light, she rustles through their things to retrieve what they might need. She does what she can to settle into the space. Matt promised not to leave her alone for very long. Hopefully, he will keep his word.
Chapter 43
TURNED TO DUST
The rain follows them on their walk from the Old Homestead. Bryce wraps his arm around Kat’s shoulder to keep from getting soaked. They are huddled under an oversize blue and white golf umbrella.
Clearing a small group of trees, the tip of a monument reaches skyward out of a cluster of late-blooming azaleas. An ancient oak serves as a backdrop. Along its massive sinewy arms, knotted and bent with time, moisture-ridden moss hangs like tinsel.
The memorial is encircled by a black iron fence with dozens of yellow ribbons tied to the bars in places. Kat explains they are left by the school children that tour Sea Oaks.
“You can see the river,” Bryce points out. Thunder rumbles in the distance, a clash between cold and warm currents of air. A front of stormy weather moving through is typical this time of year.
“The Altamaha River. It’s hard to catch a glimpse of the river from the Old Homestead any more. The woods around it have become thick, but that is nature for you.” Kat breathes in the cool freshness of autumn. “Hot one day, cold the next. I need my sweater,” she notes the change in temperature. Only yesterday, she was wearing shorts and sandals.
“The Salva Society helped us raise money to clean up this place. Last year’s hurricane made a mess of things. We lost a lot of pine trees. They are usually the first to go in a strong wind. I am glad that wise old oak is still standing. This spot is beautiful, rain or shine.” The closeness of Bryce stirs something inside that Kat has not felt for a while.
“And you say members of the Salva Society are not here now?” Bryce reconfirms. Jane’s warning was clear.
“No, they’ve come and gone. We probably won’t see them again until spring. There’s a branch of business related to Salva that might visit the perfumery, considering they have a stake in our European markets, but they are not interested in preservation. They seldom come this way.”
“What about the grounds people?” Bryce had seen a few workers in matching brown coveralls mulching and pruning shrubs.
“Subcontracted.”
A long silence ensues as Bryce surveys the gentle Georgia scenery. It normally gives him pleasure, but not this time. He intends to make peace with his ghosts and get this dreary business behind him as soon as possible. Thinking of Jane six feet under raises gooseflesh on his arms.
He and Jane had been privy to something unnatural, taking liberties and tampering with nature. Bryce wonders where God is in all this, and if they have committed a mortal sin in His eyes. His thoughts travel to Adam and Eve, fruit from any tree but the tree of good and evil. Surely he has racked up a hefty price to pay for his actions, whether involuntary or not. Acting as his own judge and jury, he finds himself guilty by association.
Taking a deep breath, Bryce studies the private resting place. Maybe this is his price, his brutal consequence. To see Jane here, his sweet Jane so full of life and laughter, her glittering green eyes always reflecting her quest for knowledge. In 1863, he had seen a new Jane, stronger than ever and more
sure of herself.
Bryce shakes his head. She can be one stubborn redhead. And, as hot as chili peppers if anyone dare interfere with what she had her heart set on. He refuses to think she is gone, turned to dust, decayed by time’s malevolent end, an entombed cadaver like the empty shell of those he had seen in the hospital morgue where he worked.
Kat’s gentle nudge startles Bryce out of his morbid funk. His random musings have been so potent and isolating he completely forgot the woman standing next to him. Bryce abruptly removes his arm.
“You’re pretty incredible, Kat. I can’t believe you didn’t poke me sooner.”
“There is no hurry. I like this place too, so peaceful. It has special meaning for each of us.” Kat does not fail to notice how easy and safe it feels to be near him. In his quiet deliberation, she had a chance to enjoy the man’s aura. She has no sense of the otherworldly creature he claims to be.
“You know, we don’t need this anymore,” she giggles, meaning the umbrella.
Bryce puts his hand out to test the weather. “I’ll be darned.”
“Where were you, anyway?” Kat observes and carefully furls the umbrella, letting it drip by her side.
“Who me?”
“Yes, you. You seemed a million miles away.”
“Try one hundred fifty years away.”
“Mercy! Not that again.”
“I recall you specifically said no lies. Besides the letter is proof,” Bryce chuckles and starts ahead of her. He unlatches the gate and holds it to one side.
“Why thank you, sir.” Kat saunters through.
“Impressive,” Bryce says, tipping his hat back with one index finger to look up. “This must have cost a pretty penny.” The polished white marble obelisk capped with a gold pyramid shape at the top is dressed with engraved roses. He imagines they are the famous green roses that thrive on the property.
Drawing closer to the inevitable, “Life is nothing more than an illusion, a happy remembrance, a passing thought, a promise for tomorrow,” Bryce reads the inscription chiseled at the foot of the monument’s hard polished surface. He takes his hat off out of respect and braces for a rush of feelings and depressing truths.
“This was erected in the late 19th Century with great pomp and circumstance. The newspapers were full of praise. Some say it is Jane Hopkins’ own words.”
“That’s Jane. Always the optimist.”
Kat moves away. She is not comfortable with Bryce’s reference to Jane as a person still living. His bereavement, although carefully guarded, is odd and puzzling.
“Jane and her husband were buried on the other side facing the river.” Kat rounds the obelisk on a slate walkway.
The toes of Bryce’s boots point to two granite hand-chiseled headstones, sitting side-by-side. They are sunk into closely cut mounds of ivy and laid with floral tributes.
“Christ, Jane,” he whispers in a forced whoosh that comes from the lowest part of his diaphragm. The saliva dries in his mouth.
Kat has read Jane Fiona Peterson-Hopkins’ epitaph a hundred times, but this time it falls in a different light.
“Go forth our beloved traveler. You bade us sing the love, the joy, the pastoral tranquility of each new day. Yours was but a brief visit, yet your grace and wisdom impressed us beyond our years. We will meet again, you and I,” she finishes softly. The romantic words, memorialized by a devoted husband, have new meaning.
With tunnel vision Bryce’s gaze goes to her name and the date — Departed This World, August 1867. Something is definitely out of kilter.
“There’s no date of birth,” Kat feels another jolt of comprehension. “I always wondered about that.”
“Yeah, since Jane was born in 1989.” Bryce straightens his back and squares his shoulders with renewed resolve. “Listen, I need to learn anything and everything I can about this,” he says. “I know this is probably asking way too much, Kat. Heck, you don’t know me from a hole in the ground,” he stalls.
“Why you wound me, sir,” Kat feigns disappointment. “We are well beyond a passing acquaintance and you are far removed from that stranger I picked up last night.”
“But, I’ve already taken up way too much of your time as it is. I have no right.”
Kat thinks for a moment, “Do you believe in fate, Mr. McKenzie?”
“Ha! Why I am a walking, talking bundle of fate, ma’am. A time traveler extraordinaire, a history evildoer, vagabond and some say an Explorer, whatever that means,” Bryce laughs roughly at his cutting description. When he sees Kat’s expression drop and her eyes mist up with confusion, his heart gives an uneven thud.
He kicks his frustration out on a small rock in their path. “Maybe I should slow it down a bit.” He takes a calming breath, “Plain and simple, Kat, I need your help. Please, I have no one else to turn to.”
Whether Kat next response comes from empathy or a passing whim, she is not sure, but she firmly commits, “You can count on me.” She immediately cringes at the gamble she takes. “That is—”
“That is, what?” Bryce holds out his palm to capture tiny silver droplets from a gray-blue cloud overhead.
“That is, if you return the favor. I have a dozen questions, Bryce McKenzie,” Kat says, making her umbrella ready for the next downpour. She has no idea where this will take her, but the thought of unexplored observations, covert truths, and alter-realities is simply exhilarating and terrifying all at once.
“You’ve got a deal, ma’am,” Bryce grins.
Chapter 44
TRIP TO WILMINGTON
Jane drops her book in her lap and yawns into her hand. She borrowed The Woman In White from the Hopkins’ library, having heard the novel written in 1859 was a mad success, but for now her endeavor to read is short-lived. The light is just too poor and she is having trouble concentrating. Flopping back at an angle on their berth that is hardly wide enough for the two of them, her legs drape over the side with Mr. Bagger’s shoes still on her feet.
Jane is curious how the other passengers are doing. A string of cabins, four port and four starboard, border a common area that is not much bigger than a modern master on-suite. A long hardwood rectangle table lined by two benches is convenient for the few that could afford first class. Jane listens, thinking she should investigate, but drifts off.
Her eyes spring open at the sudden joggle from below. Listening carefully, she hears unfamiliar noises of a ship that is definitely in motion. Had they cast off? Jane bolts upright, knocking her book to the floor.
“Damn!” she hisses.
Hastily tying the ribbon on her bonnet and grabbing her wool paletot-style coat, Jane opens the cabin door. The boy who had escorted them to their room is stationed near the exit of the common area.
“Are we moving?” Jane asks, knowing the answer. She had expected to hear the powerful beat of the large side-wheel through the currents of the Savannah River, but quickly construes they are under sail — stealthily slipping through the fingers of the Union blockade. Her stomach churns with the urge to push past the boy and find her way outside to see what is going on.
“Yes mum, we’ve thrown off the bowlines and are underway. All paying passengers must remain in their quarters for the time being.”
Catching the boy’s conflict, Jane clarifies, “Civilians, you mean. Where’s Major Hopkins?”
“I believe Major Hopkins is up on deck, Mrs. Hopkins.”
“Exactly,” Jane feels a wave of disappointment. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Master Miles Gray, mum. At your service.” The cabin boy straightens his back and bows.
“Such good manners,” Jane smiles and shifts sideways to the listing of the ship. She puts her hand on the nearest wall to brace. If she were the type to get seasick, this would easily be the start of it.
“It is much too dangerous topside,” the boy warns, taking his orders seriously. He began his career at sea a year before at the age of eleven.
Jane tries not to frown at the thought of
Matt enjoying their adventure without her. She runs her fingers across her forehead.
“Your accommodations are comfortable, mum?” Master Gray’s eyes travel to the doorway of Jane’s cabin.
“I guess that’s my cue, huh,” Jane nods, and retreats back to where she began. Stripping her hat off her head and tossing it recklessly, she plunks down in a lumpy chair to wait. “Dammit, Matt. Not fair.”
The minutes tick by. Just when Jane thinks she cannot stand to wait a moment longer, she hears stirrings outside and two male voices. One of them is addressed as Doctor.
Not bothering with her bonnet this time, she pokes her head out her door. Two well-dressed men stand at the door to another cabin across from hers. They immediately turn in her direction. A physician’s black leather bag sits on the corner of the bench nearby.
“Good evening, or should I say good morning, gentlemen,” Jane says, stepping out into view.
Master Gray steps forward with great formality, “If you please, may I introduce, Mrs. Hopkins. Mrs. Hopkins, this is Doctor Elliott and Mr. Paddy.”
“Ah! Our Major’s lovely wife. So nice to meet you, madam,” Doctor Jerome Elliott bows, noting the most striking red hair and green eyes he has ever seen.
“A pleasure, I am sure,” Mr. Paddy removes the cigar from the crease of his mouth and rolls it between his fingers. The smoke curls upward to the ceiling and hovers there in an irritating haze.
“So nice to meet you as well.” Jane tries to stifle her cough reflex and need to cover her nose when Mr. Paddy takes a few more puffs. There is little ventilation in their confined space.
Jane smiles, her mind working a mile a minute. “Could I have a minute of your time, Doctor Elliott?”
“Why of course, Mrs. Hopkins. However, I am in a bit of a hurry. It seems sick bay has a present need. One of the sailors has injured his arm in a fall.”
