The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  Jane whispers, “We’ll sink.”

  “I will not hear this nonsense. Only God knows the outcome. We will put our faith in Him. Now quiet yourself, wife,” Matt protectively moves closer and pulls Jane into another embrace, which leaves them both breathless.

  He gently tips Jane’s chin up with one finger to study her face. “You are working entirely too hard.” Matt has never seen a more industrious woman.

  Jane throws herself into a task with the work ethic of a man. She applies the same time, energy, and dedication and insists hard work never hurt anyone. More than once, Jane described women of her day as capable of holding full-time jobs and living independently, taking care of themselves without the help of others.

  “No, it’s not that. Work does me a lot of good.” Jane considers, “ I just know what hurricanes are like. I’ve seen them.”

  “How can you see a hurricane, madam?” Matt frowns, tamping down a feeling of being bested.

  “Radar. Satellites. Big cameras in space above the earth’s atmosphere take pictures of moving fronts. Forecasters, meteorologists help us prepare. They let us know what is coming.”

  “We do have the telegraph,” Matt mildly defends the primitive method of communication in his century.

  “Yeah, most of the time the lines are down. Reports aren’t always reliable, you know that.” Telegraphic news in the Confederacy is muddier and more unintelligible by the day.

  “It is simply weather, Jane,” Matt persists. “There have always been storms.”

  “I just never imagined myself on a boat in the middle of one.” Jane had glimpsed the landscape not too long ago. It looks absolutely desolate where they are going. How people or a Confederate army can live in this bleak, scrubby, mosquito-ridden wetland is unfathomable.

  “There is a first time for everything,” Matt smiles, repeating one of Jane’s favorite expressions. “Now, I must get back up on deck, madam. Captain Brighton has called all hands to make ready. He knows the spirit of the sea and has not lost a ship yet. Trust, my sweet.”

  Jane’s smile quivers a little. Her thoughts shift again to the hasty overconfidence of men and the expression, famous last words.

  “Well, there’s one good thing about it. I bet the SS Ino is sorry they came anywhere near us. Let’s hope they get a good thrashing,” she smirks. She throws her hands on her hips, “I best get busy too. We should probably batten down the hatches, right? And, Doctor Elliott will have his hands full. He will need my help.”

  “Ah! There’s my beautiful, fearless one.” Matt tweaks the tip of Jane’s nose. “I love you, Mrs. Hopkins. Upon my honor, a few short hours and this will be well behind us.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Jane calls after. She can hear Matt’s chuckle fade as he exits. He is dressed in full uniform, something she hasn’t seen since they boarded. Perhaps he wants to look his best when they go down with the ship. Jane gives her head a shake and straightens her shoulders. “This is not the time to fall apart,” she scolds out loud. She surveys the cabin for things that must be stowed. “Yes, there’s much to do.”

  Chapter 47

  HOURS OF DARKNESS

  Their night of terror plays over in Jane’s bewildered mind like a sick horror movie. She is left battered like a victim of a vicious crime. The crushing murderous storm that engulfed them in the hours of darkness showed no mercy. It tore the SS Creed to shreds and stripped their self-reliance and pride down to nothing. The numbing ordeal can only be pieced together in the aftermath and bad dreams that she knows will haunt her for the rest of her life.

  Electrified by vivid green lightning that gave off a pungent ozone smell, the destructive hurricane attacked with dizzying swiftness and a deafening roar. Like a living thing, the Creed gasped and groaned as great waves pounded its hull and seawater poured through every hatch, window, crack and crevice.

  Light in their cabin was the first thing to go when the lantern recklessly left hanging from a beam sprung from its hook. Crashing to the wood plank floor, tendrils of flames instantly ran in all directions. Mr. Paddy heard Jane’s frantic shriek, “fire,” and came running with a bucket of water. They used a wool blanket to extinguish the blaze before it spread.

  “She’s run aground!” The news blared like a voice on a bullhorn. The rising surge quickly rendered the ship’s sea anchor useless. Bobbing around like a cork, lethal winds brought them broadside to the force of icy fingers that washed over the deck in an attempt to pull them under.

  Before the final pitch and shattering roll, all passengers had been ordered below.

  Jane and Matt had desperately hung on with their last bit of fortitude, huddled together like drowning rats in a hole. With all sources of light extinguished, the absence of sight brought on a detached, cave-like disorientation, tinged with petrifying degrees of claustrophobia.

  After the fateful cry “abandon ship” came, paralyzing panic ensued in the face of death. It clouded Jane’s reason and stunted any chance for action. While she wrestled with the decision to stay or go, her mind was made up for her. In a determined frenzy and with rock-hard purpose Matt tugged and shoved her down flooded passageways and up to a place on deck with the strength of ten men.

  How she got from the ship to shore is a wonder. From the minute she experienced the terrible jar and heard the fatal crack of keel and hull, she was thrust into mayhem and a fight for life as violent as the storm itself. She prayed for the lives of the poor, inexperienced soldiers in steerage, of young Master Gray and Doctor Elliott, of the battered and bruised crew.

  Shivering profusely and soaked to the bone, Jane sheltered with other survivors in a small thicket on a shore not consumed by water and tide. Huddled under a wet sheet of canvas, they were thankful the intensity of the storm had subsided and the heavy rain had turned to no more than a gusting drizzle. A fire was built and the wood smoked heavily.

  Covered with sand and drawn into a tight ball with her arms wrapped around her legs and her chin on her knees, Jane was left again to her own devices. Matt, Doctor Elliott and Mr. Paddy hastily formed a band of men to seek and aid others ashore. They also wanted to help the crew salvage what they could from the badly damaged steamer. During the foggy dark hours, they all waited for dawn to shed light on their sorry predicament.

  When the sun rose to a sweet-tempered breeze and the sharp cries of seagulls, the SS Creed could be seen several hundred feet offshore, a whirl of wreckage and partially sunk below the water’s surface. Captain Brighton and some of his crew made trips out in small boats to inventory the splintered timbers, shattered side-wheel, and dismembered spars to recover what precious cargo they could. Jane helped gather articles that had washed up on shore.

  By chance an outlying battery of Confederates whose camp was destroyed during the storm happened to spot the distress signal-lamp of the floundering SS Creed offshore. At first light, they came to investigate and would bring all the survivors to Fort Huger on Roanoke Island.

  Cupping her hand over her eyes, Jane surveys the noisy chaos of debris, men, animals, wheelbarrows, wagons and cannons. The garrison is already in full recovery mode, but the hurricane isn’t the last of their troubles.

  No sooner had they arrived at Fort Huger than word spread Rebel troops are engaged in a Union attack. The sound of artillery fire can be heard in the distance. General Burnside’s Federal Army and a flotilla of Federal gunboats advanced on the South’s weakened lines. Flanked on all sides, the Confederate soldiers could see no other alternative but to retreat to the safety of fortifications along the coast.

  “Doctor Elliott is staying. I don’t see why I can’t stay too,” Jane asserts. She frowns at the sound of her raspy voice, raw from swallowing mouthfuls of seawater. Matt’s latest proposal makes her feel singled out and her irritation flares, “I don’t understand.”

  “There is nothing to understand, dear. Colonel’s orders. Civilians are to be transported to the nearest port city out of range.” Matt pauses, “This is n
o place for a wom—”

  “Don’t say it,” Jane warns.

  “I am afraid I concur with the colonel’s judgment.”

  “Traitor,” Jane scowls, and abruptly changes her position, “Go with me then.” She presses her hand to her heart for meaning. Deep down she is terrified of leaving Matt’s side. If this is her first real test of being a military wife, then she is failing miserably. “They have plenty of soldiers here. What’s one less person?”

  She continues, “Just look at this place. It’s a sand pit. There is not enough room to breathe. It is hard to believe you’d delay our plans. General Lee is expecting us.”

  “A hollow defense under the circumstances,” Matt smiles, seeing the truth in Jane’s green eyes. It touches the very depths of his soul. “Would you have me turn my back on these men?” he gently mitigates.

  “This isn’t your fight, Matt.”

  “Ah, but it is.”

  Matt, along with the Georgia regiment and crew of the SS Creed have been recruited to help amass Fort Huger’s defensive strength. Roanoke Island needs all the men it can muster. Having the lack of proper reinforcements and on the heels of a great storm, they are poorly armed and equipped. Their own General Wise lay sick in bed in Nags Head, leaving Colonel H. M. Shaw of the 8th North Carolina in charge of their critical Confederate stronghold. If their defense falls, the whole state of North Carolina and its livelihood will be in peril.

  Before the full strength of the enemy rains down, Colonel Shaw keeps his word and removes civilians from the area. Jane, Mr. Paddy, an elderly Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and Master Gray join a handful of select others to be transported by wagon to Albemarle Sound where they will be ferried to Edenton.

  When Jane and her ragtag group safely reach their destination, they receive the first sketchy news. After losing less than a hundred men, Colonel Shaw surrendered the coast to avoid pointless bloodshed. It is a terrible blow to Confederate morale and leaves Eastern North Carolina wide open to Union control. Even the rail lines carrying vital supplies from Wilmington are in jeopardy. The damage is appalling — 2,500 Confederate men and 32 guns.

  Chapter 48

  EDENTON, NORTH CAROLINA

  Jane can see, firsthand, the onset of dread and personal loss on the faces of citizens in Edenton, North Carolina. The fall of Roanoke Island and their Rebel-held defense has caused a great calamity that rattles the chain of small towns framing Albemarle Sound. Many have relatives or friends who serve on Roanoke. Like Jane, they anxiously await the names of those Confederate soldiers who are surrendered to the enemy.

  Mr. Vincent Paddy, who made Jane’s acquaintance on the SS Creed, admits openly he never does well with the ladies. He lacks the ability to make a good first impression. The cigar-smoking dandy with a face scarred by smallpox, bushy brows and handlebar mustache, meticulously waxed at the tips, can be a complete turnoff. The trademark stovepipe hat Mr. Paddy comically flaunts exceeds in height any Jane has ever seen. Everyone knows it is meant to create the illusion of tallness for one who is uncommonly short in stature.

  Yet, when Jane needs help most, Mr. Paddy of all people is the one who comes to the forefront. He is the first to show compassion for Jane’s sad turn of events, insisting she accept his support. His influence allows them to book rooms in the nicest hotel on Edenton’s main thoroughfare and take regular meals at the tavern across the street.

  The exercise of biding time while awaiting sensitive news can only be described as excruciating. However, within a week’s time Mr. Paddy, who appoints himself Jane’s liaison, cunningly obtains vital information. The Roanoke Island captured Confederates are being transported to Fort Warren in Boston, Massachusetts. To Jane’s prayerful relief, Major Matthew Hopkins is among them.

  “Fort Warren, as in prison,” Jane says with finality. Boston is hundreds of miles away. It is deep within enemy territory. How will she ever get there?

  She shudders at the thought of how Confederate prisoners are treated in Northern prisons. Matt has already been captured and exchanged once. It is something he rarely talks about. Hasn’t he suffered enough? Haven’t they all?

  “Indeed,” Mr. Paddy hurries on, as though he fears the woman will become emotional. “He is in good company, Mrs. Hopkins. If my sources are correct, Doctor Elliott is also on the list of those taken by the Union.” Because of Elliott’s profession, Mr. Paddy knows it is possible the doctor will be traded. As for the others, they are dealt a hard road.

  Jane swallows the sharp pain in the back of her throat. She will not let anything interfere with her renewed hope. It will give her strength to draw on. Discreetly, she dabs the moisture that wells in the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief. She sits erect and is careful not to make a scene in a public place.

  “Massachusetts,” Jane bravely adds.

  “It seems,” Mr. Paddy says, scrubbing his chin with his napkin, careful not to disturb the fixed shape of his mustache. “Right in my backyard, so to speak.”

  Mr. Paddy is like many nomadic businessmen of Civil War times. He finds ways to benefit from strife and the misfortune of others, while filling his coffers with a healthy profit. He barters his textiles on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line and has invested in four steamers. The poor SS Creed is one, a write-off he does not intend to replace. Mr. Paddy must confess the business he’s about has run its course. One must be clever and adaptable. Mr. Paddy is a gambler of the highest caliber whose disreputable schemes are plentiful. His appetite for playing cards is a prowess suitable for his audacious profession.

  “I heard you are from Boston,” Jane notes the obvious in making conversation. Mr. Paddy’s distinct Bostonian accent confirms this without saying. With quiet distaste, Jane watches the man tackle a loaf of bread with a greedy vengeance, using it to sop up the broth in his second helping. He has acute cravings and carries extra pounds and a collection of crumbs on his mustache to prove it.

  “I’ve read about Boston,” Jane says. “A beautiful city with a significant history. But I have never been there myself.”

  “Yes, yes.” Mr. Paddy garbles the words as he stuffs a liberal portion of dripping bread into his mouth and dips his face low again to his bowl.

  Apparently the man cannot eat and talk at the same time. With a sigh, Jane finishes off a tasty fish stew specific to the Eastern North Carolina region and asks for the only dessert offered. She is considered a “fast eater” by most. It is a bad habit she picked up at her job in Savannah. She and Sophie spent most of their lunches making time for downtown shopping excursions. Eating was of secondary import and shamefully taken for granted.

  Taking a small bite of her cold bread pudding, Jane decides she will not order it again. The thought of stale bread, soaked in custard is not particularly appetizing in the first place. Satisfied she has had enough to avoid hurt feelings, she pushes her small dish aside.

  There is a sharp rap of a fist on a table nearby. It is no doubt a lively quarrel over political views. Lines are rigidly drawn and everyone is a partisan on one side or the other. Jane snaps out of her rootless musings when they roar insults at Mr. Owen who owns the general store in town and whose son is one of the captured on Roanoke Island. Mr. Owen’s face turns as red as a beet, but he recovers, giving them a piece of his mind. Jane thinks they have all had too much to drink.

  Taking a deep breath, Jane calms her fidgety tension by gazing out the wavy glass-pane window to one side of their table.

  Edenton is a lovely town founded in colonial times. A horse drawn hand-pump fire engine across the thoroughfare is being inspected by a group of men who are heaving in fits of hysteria at the horse hitched to it. She frowns at the poor beast with a shaved mane, cropped tail and white stripe painted down its back. Apparently, it suffers the brunt of someone’s bad joke.

  Jane turns back to Mr. Paddy who has taken a breather from his mealtime ritual. “Honestly, I am at a loss for what to do next,” she says, batting her green eyes to invoke empathy. “Boston is a long way from h
ere. I expect I have enough money to manage for a while.” Some of her currency is in gold and silver coins, hidden deep within the pockets under her petticoats. Matt had moved it to her care before she left him behind at Fort Huger.

  “Ah well, my dear, you know I am more than happy to assist you. Are you thinking of traveling to Boston then, Mrs. Hopkins?” Mr. Paddy’s brows arch. He could not imagine a lady of Mrs. Hopkins’ merit traveling north on her own. She should be to-home on the next available boat or train, back to the comfort of her family during these difficult times.

  “Of course, I am going to Boston. Where Major Hopkins goes, I go,” Jane says decisively.

  “How touching. The major is a lucky man.”

  Mr. Paddy slurps his tankard of ale, making a noisy sucking sound that causes Jane to cringe inside.

  He raises his quizzing glass, befitting his vanity, to one eye. The monocle with a faceted rim and elaborate handle helps him clearly see the contents of his meal. “These oysters are absolutely divine. You eat like a ravenous sparrow. Are you sure you don’t want something else?”

  During their conversation, Jane learns Mr. Paddy is knowledgeable about Fort Warren. It is in Boston Harbor and constructed to defend the capital. Located on Georges Island, the huge pentagonal fortification has just recently been completed, right before the start of the Civil War. Although no shot has been fired in anger from its battlements — at least not yet — Fort Warren serves a useful purpose as a training camp for several Massachusetts regiments. On a grim note, it also serves as a prison for Confederate officers and government officials.

  Jane listens to Mr. Paddy talk on about the fort and Boston for a while. He politely answers her modicum of noninflammatory questions and appears to relish her undivided attention. Jane even tolerates his after-dinner cigar and stays long enough for him to enjoy a small glass of port.