The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “Prisoner. Where?”

  The silence that follows is so severe between them, it runs cold through Clayton’s veins. “Don’t tell me Fort Warren,” he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief.

  At Sophie’s downcast expression, Clayton’s nerves zing at an alarming rate, causing the hair on his neck to stand. “Fort Warren. A Confederate?” It is the worst thing he can possibly think of, and a far-reaching conclusion he is sure Sophie will refute to ease his shock. His eyes scan the room. It would not pay to be overheard.

  “I just thought you might understand,” Sophie says. The increased pressure of Clayton’s fingers is an instant worry.

  “Understand?” Clayton releases Sophie and folds his arms. “I do understand. Harboring this friend is no less than treason. I beg you, rethink what you are doing before it is too late. You risk much. Who is this woman? What about Colette? And poor Mrs. Finch!” His concerns fire like a repeating rifle.

  “We’re being careful,” Sophie frowns. “Mrs. Finch is oblivious. I came to you directly. I was so sure you would want me to,” she slows, and reaches out. Clayton withdraws his hand and hers falls unseemly to his thigh. She can feel him freeze at her touch.

  “Clayton, please, I know how this must sound. Won’t you at least give me a contact? You have political connections. Maybe there is someone I can talk to? Someone who might sympathize.”

  “I cannot. My conscience and good reason is not inclined to endure the consequence or the danger we are in by having this discussion. I will not lead a lamb to slaughter.”

  “You won’t help me?” Sophie draws her hankie from the cuff of her sleeve and dabs her eyes in earnest. It hurts to see Clayton so crestfallen, but she cannot take it back. “I just thought—”

  “What? You thought you would waltz your pretty little self through the portico and make demands of our Union garrison installed there? It is entirely too fantastic. Have you lost your mind, woman?” Clayton’s brain races to an extreme solution and he puts one finger to his mouth to contain his desperate judgment. If pressed, he could have her temporarily restrained. Sophie’s life is much too precious for her to squander it on an impulsive moment of fallacious heroism.

  “You are . . . you are not yourself,” he warns.

  “Don’t be silly,” Sophie titters, attempting to make light in the face of condemnation. Actually, she has never seen him this livid before.

  “Be reasonable,” she suggests, keeping her voice low and persuasive. “Can you at least tell me if Fort Warren allows visitors? Surely there are others who have loved ones there or wish to secure release of those being held captive. I don’t know how the system works. Remember, these men are God’s children. They need our charity.”

  “And this is war, Widow Downing. It is hellish in its horror and destruction.”

  “It is also hellish in suffering,” Sophie counters, her complexion abruptly pale in contrast to the rigid black of mourning that envelops her. “It comes with illness, starvation, disease, and death.” She can see her ploy for compassion roll off.

  “I am appalled by your interference in matters that do not concern you. My counsel would be to let this go. We will pretend this never happened.” Clayton’s tone is measured.

  “Please, I just want to help,” Sophie stubbornly pursues. “You said conditions in prisons were horrible.” The flash of high school textbooks and ghastly old photos substantiate her claim. Colette and Jane have painted a graphic impression of what they know about it. “You also said you’ve been called once or twice to conduct services for the men at Fort Warren. How can someone like me get in? If you’ll answer my question, I won’t ask another thing of your kindness.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Look, Clayton, this is very important to me. I’ve made a promise and will not go back on my word. I owe this friend a huge debt, more than you know.”

  Clayton stands and tugs at the lapels of his clerical frock coat. The harshness in his voice is crushing, “God forgive you, and me. This conversation is finished. And this friend of yours? Remove her from our presence immediately. Send her packing before we are all implicated,” he says, his hands forming fists at his sides.

  The irrepressible pain and outrage on his face are striking. With glaring eyes that hold Sophie in a stunned vise, “You, my dear, would be wise to leave the bitter affairs of war to others more capable. Keep to your place, madam. Take care of this matter at once or I will take steps to deal with it myself.”

  Reverend Post turns on his heels and briskly walks away.

  Sophie stares after him in a state of shock. She throws her hands to her burning cheeks, “Damn!”

  Chapter 70

  ASHES FLY

  Colette watches anxiously, on the lookout for any sign of interference. Discovery would mean questions. She hugs her body to insulate herself against the chill and stays hidden from passing pedestrians on the sidewalk by the street. Brandishing a broom taken from the back stoop, she is ready to shoo away the next rat that threatens to scurry for warm cover under her skirt. The man should be here by now.

  She had hired a local ragpicker named Mooch, who owns a two-wheeled cart pulled by a furry donkey, to retrieve Jane’s trunk from the hospital. When Mooch finally arrives, Colette hastily has him help her store the trunk in an abandoned well house on the small back property. She pays the man extra for his trouble and quietly slips back inside. Nobody is the wiser.

  To prevent complications, Jane’s presence is kept quiet. For the time being, she is confined to the four walls of their rented room until Sophie returns. Both Jane and Colette are on pins and needles waiting for news. They literally jump at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Sophie whisks into the room, her skirt swings to and fro as she tosses her bonnet on the bed, “Shut the door. Quickly.”

  “I don’t think you have good news,” Jane’s heart sinks.

  “Come sit, madame, before you have a spell,” Colette says. She notices Sophie’s ashen face and can feel trouble coming.

  “Don’t fuss over me. I’m okay. I’m just shocked as hell. Reverend Post is not willing to help us in any way. I think he’ll keep our conversation to himself, but he’s terribly upset. I’ve never seen him like that before.”

  There is a knock on the door.

  The women’s heads snap up and their round-eyes meet.

  “Who could that be?” Sophie whispers, and motions with a jerk of her chin to the three-panel screen in the corner of their room.

  Without a word Jane heads for the privy and blows out a candle that might expose her whereabouts. She gathers her skirt and ducks down.

  Colette opens the door wide. “Bonjour, Madame Finch. Won’t you come in?” Her voice is creamy.

  Sophie pretends to doze, having laid her head back on the straw and cotton-stuffed cushion of their only chair.

  “Pardon my intrusion,” Mrs. Finch says apologetically. She can see Widow Downing from her position in the hallway. “There is a gentleman. A Mr. Cadbury inquires if you are free. He wants a minute of your time.”

  “Me?” Colette questions, although there is no doubt the woman’s eyes are pinned on her.

  The tips of Mrs. Finch’s brows lift almost to the center part in her hairline. “You are the only Colored under my roof,” she quips, her nose slightly elevated.

  Anyone can tell the landlady is bursting with curiosity. She has a strong sense something is astir in her household of misfit girls.

  “His card,” Mrs. Finch offers.

  “May I see it, Colette?” Sophie speaks clearly. “I’m sorry, I was just resting my eyes for a minute. Hello, Mrs. Finch,” she smiles pleasantly.

  Colette drops the small card into Sophie’s hand.

  Sophie quickly reads, Walter Cadbury, The Boston Gazette.

  “I’ll take care of this.” Sophie shoots Colette a glance that makes her step to one side and lower her head. “Mrs. Finch, would you be kind enough to tell Mr. Cadbury I will be down in a minute. H
opefully, he won’t mind waiting. I’ll need to freshen up.”

  “Mmm, I suppose,” Bernice Finch huffs, and eyeballs Colette stiffly before setting off.

  When the door is pushed to and footsteps fade from earshot, “What’s a reporter doing here?” Sophie’s tone is thin with concern.

  “Mon dieu, what does he want with me?” Colette says, truly surprised.

  “Let me see,” Jane comes tearing out from behind the screen, her dress brushing the fire in the hearth. Ashes fly in all directions.

  “Jesus, Jane! You’ll go up like a torch,” Sophie snaps at the close call.

  Colette immediately checks Jane’s hem, while Jane snatches the card and studies the black print.

  “Cadbury! This is really fishy,” Jane’s eyes widen with recognition. “I know this man. But, he said he’s an attorney. I have his trade-card somewhere.”

  Colette’s mouth drops open. “What does this man want with me?” she repeats, her question is stronger this time.

  “Maybe he followed the trunk here from Massachusetts General,” Sophie speculates. “Are you sure of the name, Cadbury, Jane?”

  “I’m positive. Cadbury, as in the Cadbury Bunny, the little chocolate eggs at Easter. The man sat on my bench in a park I visited the other day. I knew he was up to something. There can’t be more than one Walter Cadbury. It is too much of a coincidence.”

  “Well,” Sophie’s voice breaks at the end. “It appears our Mr. Cad-hic-bury wears more than one hat.” Feeling a case of hiccups coming on, Sophie takes a deep breath and holds it. She heads for their small mirror to check her appearance.

  “You’re not going down there,” Jane and Colette exclaim at the same time.

  “I can and I-hic-will,” Sophie scowls. She holds her breath a few more seconds, exhales fully and holds still. “Phew! I think they’re gone.”

  “Listen,” Sophie continues. “We need to know what’s going on. In the meantime, I hate to say this, but we’re out of here. Get as many of our things together as you can. Colette, don’t forget the money we have stashed behind the brick. That ragpicker, the man with the cart. We’ll need him again.”

  “What’s with the we?” Jane commits. “If anyone’s leaving, I should be the one to go.”

  “Not without us. We were separated once, my friend. I’ll not let it happen again. Colette, you know your way around the city. Where can we meet up?”

  “Sophie, I can’t let you do this,” Jane implores, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. She has been wearing her emotions on her sleeve lately.

  “Don’t be absurd,” Sophie says, inspecting her reflection. She wets her fingers with her tongue and smoothes her hair at her center part. “This Cadbury character, whoever he is, can’t be that scary. I don’t know a thing, right? And if he makes it too hard on me, I’ll simply swoon. Now get going! I mean it. We are in this together.”

  Colette, who is already rushing about their room at warp speed, stops a second. “You know, it may be nothing,” she points out.

  “That’s true,” Sophie says. “If it’s a false alarm, well, we’ve practiced a drill that might come in handy later. Take the steps up to the attic and go down the old servants’ stairway. Be careful.”

  “The docks! I know where we can go,” Jane says, glancing at the small watch attached to her chatelaine. “There’s a ferry that leaves for Hull Island. It crosses the harbor twice a day and will get us out of the city. We can make the one o’clock.”

  “I know the place,” Colette says. She grabs a pencil and, on a scrap piece of paper, quickly draws a tree-like diagram of streets and names.

  “All right, then. I’ll meet you.” Sophie folds the paper, tucks it into the hidden pocket of her dress and straightens the cuffs of her undersleeves. “How do I look?” She smiles a little too brightly.

  “Like you’re walking into the lion’s den,” Jane says.

  “C’mon. It’s okay,” Sophie laughs nervously. “Where’s his card?”

  “Right here.” Jane hands Mr. Cadbury’s card over and spontaneously gives her friend a hug. “Sophie, I—”

  “Oh, please! I’ll see you in a bit. No big deal.”

  “Get rid of that guy as soon as you can, madame?” Colette says. “We’ll be waiting for you at the dock.”

  “We won’t leave without you,” Jane assures and briskly turns to pack.

  Chapter 71

  KEEP A LOW PROFILE

  Although the climate is much like a game of chance, activity in Boston Harbor never wavers. Great sailing vessels, steamers and small ships, tugs and fishing boats battle the winds and currents, moving their cargo, crews and passengers here and there. Wintertime birds make their home around the outer harbor islands. A few indigenous ducks and migratory geese seem unaffected by the cold. Ever-present seagulls swoop and flap their wings at the stern of the old steamer. A father is tossing scraps to entertain his children. They clap their hands with glee at the feathered display.

  Jane, Sophie and Colette huddle along the rail of the Prince Piper that ferries its ticketed passengers daily to Hull Island.

  “Georges Island,” Jane points to the massive Fort Warren. The fortification’s granite and stone ramparts are tucked neatly between two drumlins that rise out of the bay. “Matt is so close,” she sighs. “I hope he’s okay. I worry if he is getting enough to eat. If he has fresh water and a clean place to sleep.”

  “Spoken like a true wife,” Sophie chuckles.

  Jane passes her handy spyglass to her friend, “You’re next.”

  The trio is immediately awed by the coastal defense. Each takes a turn at getting an up-close glimpse of the north sally port, outbuildings and pier.

  When it is Jane’s turn again, she watches figures of people, carts and horses move about like ants on a mound. Men in blue uniforms with rifles are overseeing a small group of Confederates who are unloading burlap sacks from a wagon. One of the Union soldiers is shouting something, his face puckered with anger, but his outburst rolls off the workers’ backs. Jane’s breath first catches at the sight. However, she quickly determines neither Matt nor Doctor Elliott is among them. None of the toiling soldiers in the round lens pressed up to her eye are officers.

  Jane and Colette, who share an astute interest in American History, have an amalgamation of historical facts to share. Colette launches another story she remembers about an escape made from a Civil War prison. They agree prison breaks are more frequent than anyone might expect or admit. They also agree it is a risky venture.

  When a man wearing a greatcoat with an attached cape strolls by and tips his hat, their private conversation is temporarily set aside.

  “First, we must find lodging, no?” Colette’s eyes follow the man until he descends a flight of metal stairs leading to a lower deck.

  “Yes. Fingers crossed, Mrs. Kingston can help us,” Jane says. In a determined effort, she tightens the ribbon of her bonnet that threatens to be stripped off her head.

  “I’m freezing to death,” Sophie fusses, reminded by the latest gust that none of them are wearing underwear. She clutches her skirt, “Let’s go this way.”

  Sophie advances to a more secluded spot that is warmed by noisy machinery operating behind a barrier. Jane and Colette trail behind her. There is a section of panel that extends to the rail and helps shield them from the wind.

  “Much better,” Jane smiles.

  Since fewer ferries run during colder months, the Prince Piper will dock at two other islands before it reaches its final destination, Hull Island. The three women remain on deck because the common area inside is overcrowded, airless and smoky. The combination is guaranteed to make Sophie queasy. In addition, being outside allows them to talk freely.

  At Sophie’s nod, Jane continues, “Mrs. Kingston is proud of her boarding house. Enough to take me on a tour the day I explored the island. She helps women who work at a nearby factory. Her Mill Girls, she calls them.” Jane hopes there is a vacancy. Perhaps Sophie, who has bee
n successful renting a room, will take a stab at convincing Mrs. Kingston they are worthy tenants.

  “If there’s no vacancy, then maybe she can suggest another place,” Colette says optimistically. “Let’s pray your Mrs. Kingston will be discrete. We must keep a low profile, whatever we do.”

  “Yeah, look at us. We stand out like a sore thumb,” Sophie scoffs. “A Mystifying Ghost Lady, Black Frenchie and Pregnant Widow,” she chuckles. “Folks can tell there’s something odd about me. But they just can’t put their finger on it.”

  “Oh, I’ve been getting that since the day I arrived in this century. Trust me, they don’t have a clue.”

  Jane hesitates briefly, before adding, “Matt knows.”

  “You told him how you got here? About time travel?” Sophie and Colette ring in unison.

  Jane frowns, “Of course I told him.”

  Sophie glances sideways at Jane and moves on, “Well, Mr. Cadbury may not understand the finer points about us, but I think he knows enough to cause a problem.”

  “It is good you were able to ditch Monsieur Cadbury and make your escape,” Colette utters in earnest.

  “You don’t think Mr. Cadbury is a Tracker, do you?” Jane asks, testing one of the descriptive labels Sophie introduced when she shared details about the all-powerful Salva Society.

  Sophie explained Jane and Bryce are Explorers. Explorers have a genetic code in their DNA from an ancient clan of Scottish Highlanders which makes them prime for time travel. It is this link to Jane’s ancestry and pattern of inheritance that separates her from others. Interestingly, Bryce has the same DNA coding. Somehow they are remotely related.

  Jane remembers Bryce saying he heard the word Explorer when a group of men posing as soldiers abducted him from Fort Pulaski. He didn’t know they were minions of Salva, the people Sophie calls Trackers. Trackers circulate within a dimension to track down and direct Explorers to Salva’s purpose. Their job ensures critical strategies are carried out.