“So you’re going to see him in London?” Brandon said. “May I ask you another huge favor?”
Lifting the last book, Mr. Osborn sighed again. “You may ask, but whether I grant your request will very much depend on its nature.”
Brandon explained what had happened to Hannah and Jane. “We’ll take care of Hannah,” he said. “She’s a time-traveler too, like us. But will you take Jane home to England with you and deliver her to her parents in Balesworth? I mean, even if you don’t get your job at St. Swithin’s, Balesworth’s not far from London, is it?”
Mr. Osborn shook his head sadly. “Why would I risk my life and Jane’s by breaking the law? She was sentenced to a fixed term of transportation, was she not? And she committed the crime of which she was accused, did she not?”
“True,” Brandon admitted. “But she’s Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins’ daughter. You know, the couple who run the Balesworth Arms?”
Mr. Osborn looked incredulously at him. “Surely you jest?”
“It’s true,” Alex chimed in. “She was abducted when she was a kid, and the people who kidnapped her taught her to steal. But Brandon and Hannah figured out who she was when she talked about her parents.”
Mr. Osborn said falteringly. “I lived in Balesworth only for a short time. Mrs. Jenkins once made mention in my presence of having lost a daughter, but I assumed that the child was dead.”
“No,” Alex said stoutly, “She’s not dead. She’s Jane.”
Mr. Osborn looked at both of them. “But what you ask of me is quite impossible. To repeat, there is the problem that she has been sentenced to a fixed term of transportation. If she is caught returning before her time is up, she will be hanged.”
Brandon thought about this for a moment. Then his eyes lit up. “Nobody carries ID here, right?” he said eagerly.
Mr. Osborn looked at him in confusion, so Brandon answered his own question, speaking rapidly. “Right. Nobody does. No ID. No passports. And Hannah said Jane told her she was convicted under another name in court. And neither of them got branded, because Hannah bribed the guy who does the branding. So as long as Jane stays out of London, and keeps quiet in Balesworth about what happened, and uses her real name, which is Jane Jenkins, there should be no problem. If anyone asks, you can tell people she’s your cousin.”
Alex nodded frantically in agreement.
Mr. Osborn smiled despite himself. But then his face grew serious again. “And you swear that my part in all this will remain a secret?”
“For the rest of your life, and so long as you wish it, yes,” Brandon said.
Mr. Osborn breathed out heavily through his nose. “Very well. I believe that what you ask is right and just. But I do foresee one insurmountable difficulty.”
“And what is that?” said Brandon.
Mr. Osborn raised an eyebrow. “How do you propose that Jane will pay for her passage to England?”
Alex looked quizzically at him. “Couldn’t you just pay it, and ask her parents to give you the money when you get there?”
Mr. Osborn shook his head emphatically. “You are asking me to gamble no small amount of my own money. Should Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins refuse to reimburse me, or should the girl, God forbid, die upon the voyage, I should be out of pocket a considerable sum.”
Alex screwed up his face in thought, and then suddenly, he exclaimed, “The ring! We could sell it. That would raise a lot of money, I bet.”
But Brandon threw him a warning look, and changed tactics. It was time for an appeal to Mr. Osborn’s conscience. “Mr. Osborn, please put your trust in the Lord,” he said. “I promise, I swear, your goodness will be repaid. And without your help, the wrong will never be put right.”
“By rights,” the minister said slowly, “it should be the girl Hannah whom I return to England. It was she who was wrongfully convicted. I was unable to persuade Mr. Gordon of that miscarriage of justice, however.”
But Brandon was already shaking a finger. “Don’t worry about Hannah, Mr. Osborn. It’s Jane who needs your help. You could tell people in Balesworth that it was mistaken identity. I mean, Jane and Hannah look a lot like each other. And you could say it was a miracle that you discovered on board the ship that the girl you were bringing back wasn’t Hannah at all, but Jane Jenkins, who had been abducted away to America. That’s not unheard of, right, kids being abducted and spirited away to America?”
Mr. Osborn licked his lips nervously. “So I believe . . . . Brandon, your ability to weave such a tangled story is remarkable, but I admit that what you say is plausible. Very well. I shall do as you ask. And may God in his infinite mercy protect us all.”
“Amen to that,” said Brandon with relief.
When they were alone, Alex asked Brandon why he didn’t want to sell the gold ring to pay for Jane’s ticket.
“Simple,” said Brandon. “That ring is supposed to be here. It’s supposed to be found here. If it leaves St. Swithin’s Parish, how can I find it in Snipesville in the twenty-first century?”
“But don’t you see?” Alex said anxiously, “Maybe you’re not meant to find the ring. All you’re doing by keeping it here is making sure that someone we know dies, maybe even Hannah.”
Brandon blanched. “Do you really think so? Man. So what do we do? Mr. Osborn will leave before we have a chance to sell it in Savannah, and there’s no way I want to give it to him. It’s cursed. Maybe we can sell it after he’s gone, and use the money to live on.”
“Hold on,” said Alex, thoughtful now. “Now I think about it, selling it is kind of a mean thing to do. Would you want to be responsible for selling somebody the Ring of Death? Shouldn’t we just bury it somewhere instead?”
Brandon said nothing, but he looked somber. “This is hurting my brain. Look, I know we think we can control what happens. But one thing I’ve learned here is that, well, a lot of things happen that we can’t do anything about. You were right when you said that, sometimes, things are just meant to happen. Maybe it would be better just to let whatever is going to happen, happen. And right now, what’s happening is that Jane is wearing the ring.”
Gingerly, the boys called out as they approached the witch’s house, trying to alert but not alarm the occupants. There was no reply, so they tapped gently on the door.
“Who goes there?” asked a gruff voice. It was Fred.
“It’s Cato and Brandon,” Alex replied. The door opened a crack. When Fred had satisfied himself as to the boys’ identity, he opened it wider.
“Come in, quickly,” he urged them.
The boys did as they were told.
“What’s wrong?” Brandon asked.
“We had a visit from Tony, Sukey’s son,” said Fred, as the witch and Sukey stood behind him. “He says that Gordon has now ordered a search for the girls also, but all the slaves are doing their best to distract the searchers from this place.”
Jane stepped forward now, and she looked panicky. “You won’t let ’em take us, will you, missis?” she pleaded with the witch.
The witch smiled and patted her shoulder. “Of course we won’t, my dear. Over my dead body.”
“I think you’ll be okay,” Brandon said uncertainly. “Mr. Osborn has told the gentlemen that he searched this whole area, and didn’t find anyone. You should just lay low for now.”
As quickly as he could, he explained the plan for Mr. Osborn to take Jane to England.
The witch seemed impressed. “That was very enterprising of you boys. Well done. Now, I have news for you, but not so good. Hannah is sick. I think she has malaria. I have no cinchona with which to treat her, and no means to obtain some. You see, I’m afraid it is too dangerous now for us to travel to the nearest apothecary, which is in Savannah.”
Alex teared up and stole an anxious glance at his sister, who was sleeping in the other room.
“I could go,” Brandon said quickly. “Nobody would suspect me. I bet Mr. Osborn would take me. What’s the stuff you want? Does it work?”
The
witch wrote the name with a finger in the dust of the cabin floor. “Cinchona. It is the bark of a tree from Peru, and it will heal her.”
Brandon’s heart sank. Tree bark? That was the best she could offer? The witch saw his dismay, and said firmly, “It is a proven cure for her fever.”
“And you’re sure I can get it in Savannah?” Brandon asked worriedly.
“No,” she sighed. “There are often shortages. But it is our only chance.”
“Will she die without it?” Alex asked tearfully. He was reeling from the news. Why did his sister have to be so stubborn? Why hadn’t she taken the malaria pills when she had the chance?
“It is possible she will die,” said the witch sadly, “but many people survive malaria. I have had it myself. Fred and I met when he found me lying in the swamp, lost and fevered, so many years ago.”
Fred smiled at the memory and squeezed her hand.
In the other room, Hannah stirred in her sleep and groaned, her face knotted in pain. Hearing her, Sukey took a rag from a clay pot filled with water, wrung it out, and squatted on a stool next to her patient. Gently she mopped Hannah’s forehead, then ran her hand across the girl’s hair, murmuring to her. Alex, standing alongside, leaned down and stroked his sister’s hand.
“We’d better get going,” Brandon muttered. “Maybe I can persuade Mr. Osborn to give me a ride to Savannah. Come on, Alex.”
“No,” Alex said faintly. “You go. I’ll stay with Hannah.”
“Go with him,” the witch urged Alex in a gentle tone.
“No,” said Alex determinedly. “I’m staying here.”
But the witch regarded him sternly. “I have enough work to do without you getting in the way. Sukey and I will care for your sister. You go with Brandon.”
Only when he was well along the road to Savannah with Brandon and Mr. Osborn did Alex wonder how on earth the witch knew that he and Hannah were brother and sister.
The three of them arrived late in Savannah, and spent an uncomfortable night at a crowded and filthy inn. Only in the morning did they discover that they had lodged right next door to an apothecary’s shop.
Outside, the shop was advertised by a sign bearing the image of a mortar and pestle. Inside, it was very basic: A wooden counter ran the length of the room, and behind it, shelves reached to the ceiling. Each shelf held large glass bottles and white china jars. Although they came in various sizes, the jars otherwise matched each other. All were illustrated in pale blue wash, with leaves, flowers, fruit, and mysterious abbreviations and numbers.
As Brandon stood at the counter with Alex and Mr. Osborn, he became fascinated by the wooden drawers below the shelves, which bore mysterious labels such as Caryophylla and Rad. Cal. Ar. He wondered what strange concoctions lurked behind these exotic names.
Mr. Osborn cleared his throat loudly, and the apothecary came bustling into the shop from a back room. He was a thin and balding young man.
“May I be of assistance, sir?” he asked Mr. Osborn cheerfully in a Scottish accent.
For once, Mr. Osborn got straight to the point. “I am looking for a preparation of Jesuit’s bark, to treat ague.”
Brandon whispered to Alex, “Aren’t we supposed to get chinchilla or whatever it’s called?”
“Er, that’s cinchona, Brandon,” Alex whispered with a smile. “Same thing, I guess. I mean, the Jesuit’s bark is the same thing. A chinchilla, on the other hand, is a small, furry animal.”
“Just like a marmite,” said Brandon, and both boys got the giggles. It was an old joke of theirs.
Meanwhile, the apothecary looked concerned. “Where is the patient?” he asked. “Have I visited him?”
A pharmacist who makes house calls? Brandon thought. Now he had heard it all.
“No, you have not seen her,” said Mr. Osborn. “The girl is in St. Swithin’s parish, some miles distant hence.”
“Ah,” said the apothecary with a knowing smile. “Then it is fortunate that you arrived today. Had you called upon me last week, I should, regretfully, have had to turn you away. The most recent shipment arrived last Tuesday, you see, and it was the first supply I have had in some months. It is exceedingly difficult to obtain cinchona bark.”
He trotted into the back room and returned with a step ladder, which he climbed to reach the top shelf. Carefully lifting a jar in one hand, he returned to ground, and put it on the counter. He produced a small hand-held brass scale from under the counter, and placed a tiny, coin-sized weight on one side of it. On the other side, he placed a piece of paper, and uncorking the jar, removed a stick of the brown, crumbly bark, and carefully laid it on the scale. When he was satisfied that he had weighed it properly, he used the paper to tip the bark into a mortar, and began expertly crushing it with a pestle.
“So where did you learn to be an apothecary, sir?” Brandon asked, watching him work.
“I was educated in Edinburgh,” said the apothecary. Mr. Osborn smiled, and opened his mouth to say something, but the apothecary continued, “Why do you ask? Do you think to make a living in my profession, lad?”
“I might,” Brandon smiled, thinking of his work with another Mr. Gordon, the dentist who had employed him on an earlier adventure. “I’d like to know what all those names on your jars mean.”
The apothecary laid down his pestle. “The s,” he said, pointing to a jar overhead, “stands for syrupus, the English meaning for which is ‘syrup,’ while the u stands for unguentum, or ointment.”
“So the jars are labeled in Latin?” Brandon said. “I thought so.”
The apothecary gave him a smile. “You understand Latin? I did not take you for a gentleman, young sir.”
“I’m not, I’m a servant,” Brandon said, “and I don’t really know Latin. But I am interested.”
The apothecary clearly approved of his enthusiasm. “You are evidently keen. A pity you are already indentured to this gentleman here, for you would make a fine apprentice to me. Having said that, I should warn you that I am now one of three medical men in this town, and there is not sufficient business for all of us. I have thought to purchase myself land and a slave, not too far distant from Savannah, while the land is affordable, and make my living that way. Or, perhaps, I shall return to Scotland.”
The apothecary made a cone-shaped package from a piece of paper, and poured the now-powdered bark into it. Handing the package to Mr. Osborn, he instructed, “In this moist weather, it is of particular importance that the patient be kept cool and dry. Make sure, also, that as she recovers, she takes exercise daily by walking to increase her strength. The sum, sir, is two shillings.”
Mr. Osborn gave a sharp intake of breath at the price, but he fumbled in his leather coin purse and handed over two silver coins.
As they turned to leave, Brandon said to the apothecary, “Thanks, Mr . . . I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know your name.”
“Gordon,” said the apothecary proudly. “Robert Gordon, at your service.”
“Sir,” stammered Brandon, “are you by any chance related to Mr. Robert Gordon of Kintyre plantation?”
The apothecary smiled. “No, my lad, I am not, at least not that I am aware. I have heard tell of the gentleman in question. There are many Robert Gordons from Scotland, of course.”
“Of course,” Brandon said, although this was news to him.
As soon as they were outside, Alex said, “What do you think it means, about him being called Mr. Gordon?”
“I don’t know,” Brandon said, climbing into the back of Mr. Osborn’s wagon. “It probably means nothing.” He whispered, so Mr. Osborn wouldn’t hear, “But I sure like the Mr. Gordon in Savannah a lot more than I like the one in Snipes County.”
“That wouldn’t be hard,” muttered Alex.
While she was awake, Hannah felt worse than she had ever felt in her entire life. The freezing cold and shivering had given way to a violent fever. Her body felt hot and clammy, and she had thrown up more times than she thought possible.
&nb
sp; She was afraid of dying. Was her life going to end here, in the backwoods of Georgia in the middle of the eighteenth century? Was her time up so soon?
While Hannah tossed and turned, wept and whimpered, the witch seldom left her side. She had taken charge from Sukey, and she now watched her patient from a chair near the bed. Occasionally she squatted on a stool next to Hannah, and softly wiped her forehead with a rag. While Hannah threw up, the witch put an arm around her shoulders and held a bowl under her mouth.
After six hours of high fever, Hannah started to revive. She struggled to sit up, but the witch gently pushed her back onto the bed. “You must rest,” she chided.
“But I feel better,” Hannah protested. “I mean, I’m still really weak, but the fever . . .”
“You have malaria,” said the witch decisively. “And it will soon return. Until Brandon and your brother come with the medicine, you will continue to cycle in and out of chills and fevers.”
Hannah felt a chill then, but not because of her illness. “Wait, how do you know Alex is my brother?” she asked in a small voice. “Who are you?” Once again, she was shaking, and this time, it was not because of the malaria.
The old woman looked at her appraisingly. Then she said, “Hannah, you don’t know?”
Hannah stared at the old woman’s face, and with a spasm of shock, she recognized her and gasped. “You can’t be . . . .”
The old woman threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, but I am. Hannah, I’m the woman you knew as Professor Kate Harrower. Now, I think you and I had better talk, don’t you?”
Hannah was too tired, too cold, and too sick to talk, but she still wanted to listen to the Professor’s story. She struggled to concentrate on the old woman’s words.
“I came here about fifteen years ago,” said the Professor, settling back on her rickety rocking chair. “When I was in my late sixties. That’s a long time after you and I first met. I never planned to be here, of course, and I had never found myself thrown so far back in time before. When Fred discovered me lying in the woods, I was delirious with malaria. He was a runaway slave, you see. He was born in Barbados, but after he was shipped to South Carolina, he ran off. He lived among the Cherokee for a short time. But then they decided to sell him as a slave. He got wind of their plans and ran off again. Naturally, he didn’t trust other people for a long time after that, and he decided to hide out in the woods. That’s when he built this place. But around the time he got tired of living like a hermit, he found me. “He was afraid to take in a white woman, but I was different, you see. For one thing, I was dressed so strangely. I arrived in modern clothes, which had never happened to me before. He assumed from my strange dress that I was an outcast just like him, which I suppose I was.
Look Ahead, Look Back (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 3) Page 28
