by Barbara Best
In Boston, they purchased a challis fabric from a back-alley huckster’s pushcart. They think the material was obtained unlawfully. Colette explained the paisley-striped print is made from worsted wool and silk, very fine and worth way more than they paid. It will be good to wear something colorful again.
With all due respect, she has mourned enough. Sophie can hardly endure the strict Victorian rules of widowhood a moment longer. Benjamin Downing has been lamented in every way possible. At some point, she must let go. Although she will never forget, she must move on. Ben would want it that way.
“Why don’t we go up on the porch?” Jane suggests. “There’s really nothing else to see. A farm is a farm, if you know what I mean.”
Jane remembers Jim Blake’s homestead in Hinesville, Georgia. The nine days she spent with Uncle Jim, Billy Bacon and Katherine — alias Kit who led a soldier’s life by her brother’s side — taught her a good deal about farm life. She can’t help but understand Mrs. Burt’s circumstances.
She adds softly, “Martha has her hands full with this place, five kids and one on the way. The woman simply does not want anyone or anything to disrupt her sweet peace. What little she has.”
“The woman doesn’t like us. She smells trouble,” Sophie grumbles and kicks her foot. “Shoo, dammit!” Half a dozen chickens scatter at her tenor, but take up their scratching again a few feet away.
Jane chuckles, “All anyone can smell are those pigs rutting and wallowing in the mud over there. Pee-yew!” She pinches the bridge of her nose and peers beyond the woodpile and corncrib to the pigpen. The weather vane above the barn rocks north to northeast. It blows an obnoxious odor intermittently their way.
“Given time, we could all become good friends,” Jane says thoughtfully.
“Sure,” Sophie scoffs.
“Hey, I think Martha’s nice. But you’re right, whatever her husband has told her about us, she’s probably not happy. My Georgia drawl. Well, she might suspect we are Southern sympathizers. Copperheads.” Jane remembers the hateful slur made by the midnight raiders of Head Matron Roper’s liquor supplies. She continues, “This stuff is dangerous business for people round here.”
Sophie feels like making a childish face and sticking her tongue out when she and Jane pass by the kitchen window. The two head up onto the covered porch with its tin-plated iron roof. The rocking chair and a long peg-legged bench are inviting them to sit-a-spell. She ducks away from a hovering wasp that has built a nest high up on a jutting beam. Sensing a burst of energy, her attention is drawn to the Burt’s two youngest girls who race out of the barn where the mysterious visitors from out of town have hidden their trunks.
“Martha’s little ones are too cute,” Jane remarks, enjoying their carefree frolics.
The giggles and joy of innocent youth drift on the air and lighten the mood. Two freckled-faced girls are cooing at a feral kitten that is doing everything it can to get away. The Burt’s three older children, ages eight, nine and ten, attend school. Their one-room schoolhouse is a three-mile walk from the farm. When the kitten suddenly springs, Lily and Linda shriek and run after it.
Jane cups her hand to her forehead to search the road that winds up and over a hill, willing Matt somehow to appear.
“I have a cat. I named her Millie for Millennium. Funny, huh,” she smiles. “She’s at Sea Oaks now, the plantation I told you about. I miss her. She’s been through some crazy adventures with me.”
“You talk a lot about your life here, Jane. Somehow, you have made a go of it. I don’t know, it’s like you belong.”
Jane wants to say Bryce told her that once — on her wedding day — but keeps that detail to herself. Getting to know Sophie again has been a careful, deliberate process. The more Jane and Sophie are together, though, Jane knows she will eventually trust her completely again. She misses the great relationship they had in Savannah as coworkers, confidants and shopping buddies.
To fill the pause, Sophie continues, “I hope I can do the same. Learn how to belong, I mean.” She wonders about her and her baby’s future in this time. So much has happened since that day at the hospital with Ben in Cape Town. She shrugs off tender feelings that ripple beneath the surface and changes the subject. “I know I’ve said this before, but I can’t wait to meet your husband. This dashing Confederate Major of yours.”
“If they make it.” Jane’s eyes cloud with worry. Her anxiety has grown so great she thinks if anything bad happens she will die.
“Don’t say that! They will make it.” Thinking of Ben again, Sophie puts her hand on Jane’s arm and squeezes. “You’ll see. They said by dark.”
Sophie spots the girls. “That poor kitty. They are going to love it to death,” she says, making a tsk-tsk sound. “Serious Jane, and don’t ask me how, but I know deep down Colette and Mr. Burt will pull this off. We’ll be out of here before you know it.”
Sophie can’t tell if she has said too much or too little. Jane is in anguish and there is no way to help her. Miserably, they must wait it out with no contact or worthwhile means to communicate.
On the sunny side, Mr. Staff has offered his mule and wagon for sale. Mr. Staff and Mr. Burt both agree the mule and wagon being used in Matthew Hopkins’ escape might be recognized after today. When Sophie asked how the pitiful creature could carry four people, their luggage and supplies, she was told a well-fed mule, treated proper, can pull a heavy load in hard conditions.
“Poor Colette,” Jane breathes. She has grown to like the lively French woman who attended an elite collegiate university in Paris. Jane is completely blown away by her knowledge and willingness to share. In truth, she is flattered that Colette would even give her the time of day. They are worlds apart, yet Colette makes Jane believe they are the best of friends.
“Colette is going to be fine. She’s the smartest person I know and can handle herself,” Sophie says. “You’ll be reunited with your hubby soon, Jane. I promise.”
The screen door creaks and Martha appears in a rush. “Get inside. Both of you.”
“What?” Jane and Sophie chime at the same time and scramble to their feet.
Martha juts her chin to the road coming in from the opposite direction. She thrusts the barrel of a loaded musket, gripped in no-nonsense fashion, to make her point.
“Inside and be quick about it.” Martha brushes past them, “Girls? Linda? Lily!” Her voice frays nerves and makes them all go into action.
“Oh my God,” Jane whispers when the low-pitched rumble reaches her ears. She has heard that sound before.
Martha Burt runs out into the yard to round up her children and close the barn doors. The farm is her life, and she is thoroughly acquainted with every nook and cranny. She can feel the smallest thing out of place. When the wind shifted, the disturbance carried enough for her to identify the source. It is the unmistakable thunder of rolling weaponry and heavy equipment, and hundreds of tramping boots and hooves — an army on the move and headed their way.
Chapter 78
RABBIT HOLE
“Bloody hell! The Yankees are coming,” Sophie swallows her giddiness at the canned phrase. The dazed moment of a future movie-fantasy abruptly merging with the serious reality of the present makes her face flush. She throws her hands to her cheeks at the scorching primal reaction spurred by pure fright.
The screen door slams shut with a bang, sending a quiver up Jane’s spine.
“Where’s your sister?” Jane asks the little girl, trying to remain calm.
The five-year-old’s eyes are bright with worry. Lily’s hair is fixed in two long pigtails and she is anxiously chewing the tip of one braided strand. Jane gently pulls it free. Like Sophie, the child’s cheeks are rosy-pink.
“Linda’s staying with Ma to greet the soldiers,” Lily snivels, her lower lip trembling. “I want to see the soldiers too. But Ma said to get you to the root cellar. There is a secret way Pa taught us to use in a fix.”
“Your Ma knows what’s best, Lily. We really nee
d your help, sweetie,” Jane says. “Show us what to do.”
Sophie and Jane follow Lily into the kitchen. She points to the floor under the table.
Jane doesn’t wait for instructions. With surprising strength, she uses her hip to bump the heavy table loaded with Martha’s labors for the next meal over a good foot. Sophie helps Lily lift the trap door that is disguised by a rag rug nailed on top.
“Down that rabbit hole? I don’t think so,” Sophie warns, shaking her head at the narrow opening of a foreboding black pit they must climb down into. She could fall and hurt the baby.
“Sorry, I don’t like it either. But, we can’t make any trouble for these folks. Take your hoop off.” Jane had already yanked her skirt up to unfasten her ties. She drops her cage crinoline into the opening and helps Sophie wrestle with hers. “It will make the climb easier. Wrap your skirt and petticoats up over one arm—”
“I know, I know, I’ve done this before. On the ship. Bloody Christ!” Sophie says through gritted teeth.
With the sound of a large military force drawing closer by the second, their raised stares meet in recognition and alarm.
“I’ll go first,” Lily offers. “It’s not so bad.”
“Okay, Lily, show us how brave you are.”
“Wait. Here’s a candle,” Sophie says. Jane helps her quickly light the wick and they hold it out. It dimly illuminates Lily’s path down a narrow vertical wooden ladder.
“Go Lily,” Jane encourages. “Be careful.”
The girl scampers with the agility of youth down to the dirt floor below and hurries to make more light for them.
“You’re next, Sophie. Give your eyes a chance to adjust. One step at a time and hold on tight. Lily will help. Right Lily?”
Jane gets down on her knees to steady Sophie as she twists her body and feels for the nearest rung with the toe of her boot.
The baby makes Sophie more awkward by the day. No lie, she is scared stiff. The choky smell of earth, of stale air and fungus is beyond creepy.
“Crickets and spiders and rats—oh my!” Sophie says, making Jane laugh. “Not funny,” she groans. “If a cockroach crawls on me, I’m done for.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Jane quips. “Get going now.”
“Where do you get your courage?” Sophie pants, slowly releasing Jane’s sturdy hand and quickly grabbing the ladder’s side rail. She has always thought of herself as the stronger, more adventuresome of the two. Jane has been the restrained, conscientious, studious type. But she is changed, impressively in her element.
“You’ll be fine, Sophie. Remember, the soles of your shoes are slick.”
When her friend reaches the bottom, Jane speedily shoves the table back to its original position and manages to wriggle through the opening herself. She pulls the trap door down behind her. Sand caught between the floorboards sprinkles her hair.
Waiting is nerve-racking. Huddled together, their breaths banish clouds of condensation. The three are truly like rabbits in a hole hiding from wild predators. In their underground bunker, the approaching threat is blocked by an unnatural stillness. When the men are practically over their heads, they feel the muffled vibrations and hear the clunks and rattles of a great army.
Fortunately, their time under the house is tolerably short and the units pass through without suspecting a thing. After a light afternoon meal, the women congregate in the kitchen. The older kids are home from school. The Burt’s only son is out in the barn doing his chores and tending the livestock.
Sophie is wearing one of Martha’s aprons and helping the girls with the dishes. Bone tired and yearning for a bath, she finally settles on a stool by the window. From her vantage point she can see the barn and keep an eye on the road beyond. Sophie and Jane have opted to leave their hoops off. They pinned their skirts to their petticoats, raising their hems up off the floor. It makes it less cumbersome to move about.
“My Gael will know what to do. Don’t you fret none,” Martha says with certainty. They all know the direction the three Massachusetts regiments are marching is not good for anyone coming in on the road out front.
“You can hear the men clanking and clopping a mile away, right? You could hear them, Martha, before we could,” Jane notes hopefully. “If the ground wasn’t so damp, we’d spot the dust from it too.”
Martha nods, “Those woods are pretty dense out there and Gael knows every leaf, every blade. Mind me, if there is a threat, they will hide themselves until it passes.” She lifts her eyes and smiles at Jane, plainly aware she misses adult conversation between Sunday prayer meetings. It is nice having Jane and Sophie’s company.
“We all know about the Federal training camps round here, but they don’t usually come down this old road,” Martha explains. Any movement of military near her home is disconcerting. “Gael said he thought they might be marching by one day,” she sighs.
Their tight-knit community has seen changes over the past few months. There is talk about the increased activity of military force — the volume of soldiers amassed to be thrust upon the enemy in droves. The Rebels are bringing the North hardships to bear. As the savage conflict rages on, a few of their Christian neighbors say the tables had turned against them. Martha prays every day the killing will stop. Surely there will come a time when the teachings of Christ are heeded and an end put to the bloody strife.
The universal smell of warm, yeasty loaves permeates the air. The aroma of baking bread and love that goes into making it can make anyone hungry, whether their bellies are full or not.
Her work never done, Martha moves on to one of her apple pie masterpieces. She rummages through her cupboard of ingredients and makes a space on the table to work.
Jane is so uptight she feels like screaming and takes it out on the poor apples she has been assigned to core and pare. Soon, she will be chopping the fruit into thin slices.
“Mind you don’t cut a finger clean off,” Martha chuckles, knowing well how to constructively funnel impatience and temper her frustration. Women must learn how to wait. She has been waiting, it seems, most of her life. In times like these, work is the only remedy for a rattled mind and zinging nerves.
Jane is glad for Martha’s understanding and kindness in allowing her to help. Some of the best relationships among women begin in the kitchen. Coming together around food is a practice that has been used throughout history to form bonds, share stories, provoke laughter and celebrate blessings.
Fond memories play in Jane’s mind of the early days and times with Cook in her kitchen domain at the Hopkins’ Savannah home. The satisfaction she gained in accomplishing the smallest tasks and the wise lessons she learned are priceless.
Martha is interesting to talk to and openly compliments Jane on her culinary skills. In warm fashion, she willingly shares a few secrets of her favorite recipe that make her pies the tastiest in the county.
Enjoying a sense of unity in getting through a chilling moment, Martha offers a tidbit of gossip that troubles her. “The government has helped itself to farmland round here. Ol’ Jed Palmer, whose family has been in these parts for over a century, discovered men outside his front porch one morning. Just walked right up, some findin’ shade under the elm tree his great- great- grandpapa planted. They told him the Commonwealth required his property, and he would be compensated fairly.” She wipes her hands on her apron and gets a pinch of salt from a glass container.
“That’s about enough,” Martha says with double meaning. The unsettling fact that their family homes and livelihood can be confiscated without warning is a sore spot for everyone in the community.
Frankly, their encounter with troops today scared the bejesus out of her. She grumbles to no one in particular, “I gave those soldiers two of my good laying hens and some potatoes. Lucky for us, they weren’t too greedy. The men were on their way South pretty quick. Anxious to meet the Elephant, I guess.”
“Elephant?” Sophie asks from her perch.
“The enemy. Somethin’ m
y Gael says.”
“Oh.” Sophie glances out the window again at the road. A fiery red orb in a clearing sky dips below the trees and dyes the heavens a blend of orange and blood-red. She wonders, how much longer.
Chapter 79
FROM SWEET RAPTURE
“Jane?” Sophie murmurs, rising up off her stool. As if in slow motion, she leans closer to the window, squinting to see.
“Yes?” Jane glances sideways. Sophie’s movements in her peripheral are instantly clear to her. Her heart lurches into a thundering beat with a blast of adrenaline that nearly takes her breath away. She drops everything and makes a beeline for the front door. On the porch her eyes train on the distant hillside where the road meets a Technicolor sky.
She counts heads. One, two— “Matt! Matt! Oh my God, it’s you,” she squeals and takes off like a bullet across the yard, past the haystack, beyond the soft timbre of livestock, and through the wide opening in the split-rail fence.
“Matt!” She lifts her skirts high and runs with abandon, not feeling the ground beneath her feet.
A gray shape jumps down from the wagon and starts Jane’s way in a hurried trot.
“I can’t believe it,” Jane gasps, grabbing her mid-section from exertion. Her corset constricts as she tries to draw in more oxygen. The pain is powerful, but the layers of long separation, of anxiety, loneliness and fear fall away. In the last moments before reaching her husband, she thinks she will truly faint from sweet rapture.
“Praise be,” Matt chokes.
Jane throws herself into her husband’s arms with such force it almost sends them both tumbling to the ground.
Matt lifts Jane up off her feet and spins round. He cradles her head and smoothes her hair, laughing and kissing her tears away, hugging her close and promising himself she is real.
