by Barbara Best
Chap releases Jane abruptly. “Watch ‘er!” he barks and dashes back out the door.
Jane is left with two armed and very Confederate soldiers. They seem so young. One of them awkwardly motions her to a chair. She sits. Confused and shaken to her very core, prickly pain behind her eyes warns that warm salty tears are percolating. Jane bites at her lower lip to counter the reaction. A bad habit, but at least it keeps her from falling to pieces.
A shrill whoosh immediately followed by a shattering roar of deadly impact, and then another, makes Jane practically jump out of her skin, “Holy Crap!” Both hands fly to her mouth as she recoils from the reverberating blast.
Did she just hear someone cry out? “Oh my God, is someone hurt out there? What is going on here?” Jane’s inner voice jabs in answer, as if you don’t know.
The men exchange glances, though neither respond to her exclamations. They remain at attention, not moving from their positions. One stands at the door and the other, to Jane’s left side.
Jane is totally lost, irresolute. She holds her throbbing fingers up in front of her face, turning her hands this way and that, feeling as if they belong to someone else. What on earth am I waiting for? What am I supposed to do? How can this be happening?
To ward off a rush of unwelcome thoughts, she wills herself to rest her tender hands in her lap and with a great amount of willpower, begins to assess her surroundings. It’s sort of right. She is certain this is Fort Pulaski. This is the Colonel’s Quarters. There’s the fireplace framed by two vertical windows on either side. One of the windows, the area she had arranged her bed and peacefully slept the night before, is partially obscured by a heavy partition that looks similar to a dressing screen she saw in the shop window of The Speckled Egg near where she works. But where are my things? Where is everything?
“Where did the viewing-booth go?”
“Ma’am?” The younger soldier beside her asks, glancing at his buddy near the door.
“Oh! Nothing. It’s nothing.” Jane hadn’t realized she spoke out loud. She stares at the doorway skeptically. The soldier standing there wiggles uncomfortably and averts his eyes.
Why, the structure built by the park at the entrance to this room is missing? The place where tourists could step in and peek with pointing fingers and where excited children press their noses to the glass to watch the reenactors move about inside. Completely gone like it was never there? That sickening feeling of urgency begins to bubble its way up again. Jane’s mind screams for answers. Something, anything to take hold and make sense of this!
Keep busy, Jane! Focus on the details. What else do you see?
An oil lamp burns low on the fireplace mantle. There is brighter light coming from the center of the room where three candles flicker over a stack of papers on a large square table. On one end of the table, a straight-back spindle chair sits in front of a good-sized field desk. Nice touch! The field desk is open and the things in and around it are arranged is such a way to appear as if they are being used. There’s a chart or map of some kind anchored by stones to keep it from rolling up. To the side rests a pair of crude glasses, a leather-bound book, and pen and inkwell. Great props. Looks like a soldier’s room. Dad would love this! Jane would actually love to take a closer look at that field desk. You don’t see many in such great condition.
The room has a different smell about it. The smells and profusion of information as she surveys the space in full kicks Jane into overload, causing unexpected and uncontrollable quivering. Enough to make her teeth chatter. It is as if every nerve in her body is racing along like an electrical current under her skin. She hugs herself close for comfort. She applies all her energy to prevent the rocking motion of someone who is about to lose it.
Jane closes her eyes and opens them again, blinking hard to clear the fog. Seeing, yet not seeing. Brutally disconnected. Something is very, very wrong. You know it’s wrong . . . or, I’ve completely lost my mind. Jane takes another fleeting glimpse at the soldiers who seem oblivious to her dilemma. A bad dream, a really bad dream gone real!
She tries hard to remember what actually did happen when she fit her key into the lock. But there’s only a sickening blackness to it, an empty void. Cold and hot and cold again, which puts her in panic mode. It’s like her brain is taking over and every muscle in her body is tensed, telling her to flee the scene. Run! Get out of here! Fast! A flash of searing, unavoidable truth is deliberately pushed away by pure, unadulterated fear. The palm sweating, stomach gripping, and heart stopping kind.
This can’t be what I think it is!
Jane grips both arms of her chair. Breathe, Jane, breathe! Easy now, slow it down. Relax your shoulders and breathe . . . in and out, in and out. Couldn’t be much different than her yoga class, right? Close your eyes and find your center. A small amount of time passes and Jane begins to come out of it. She assesses the two men again. Both continue their façade. But it’s not a façade, is it.
There are voices outside. A man of average height, not much older than Jane, unexpectedly bursts onto the scene. His entourage is just steps behind him as they all come through the door in noisy haste.
Jane is instantly pinged by recognition. Dark brown hair, parted low on the side. A good start on a major receding hairline that sweeps high above sensitive brows. Deep-set eyes, a straight nose and full beard.
“I need reinforcements! I have three hundred and eighty-five poor souls whose lives are in peril and Confederate authorities are silent.” With both hands on the table, he leans over the chart and then absently picks up his spectacles. “Those Yankee devils and their great guns will be our undoing!”
At first Jane thinks she may be invisible, until the man turns his steely eyes on her. “Now tell me, young woman, what in heaven’s name are you doing here? Speak plainly. I don’t have time for prattle.”
Not good. He is the spitting image of the photo on a Plexiglas stand right outside the door to this room. Or, used to be outside this room. Confederate Commander, Colonel Charles Hart Olmstead.
It’s funny how the mind reacts when reality takes hold. A sudden calmness settles over Jane like a soft warm blanket, yet she is fully alert, completely aware and functioning. All her senses are sharpened, honed in on this moment. Jane fixates on the unreal, unbelievable historic figure before her, “You’ve got to be kidding! In real life? No way!” Jane snaps her jaw shut, suppressing a chest-full of giggles from the sound of her words and the looks on their faces.
The men straighten, seeing little humor in her outburst. The colonel gives an embarrassed harrumph into his fist, “Well I can assure you, in flesh and blood, we are about as real as anyone might expect.” His expression, unsmiling, “Your name?”
Jane opens her mouth again, though nothing but a squeak comes out. She swallows hard, and clears her throat, “I’m sorry. It’s Jane. My name is Jane . . . Jane Peterson and I really don’t know what I’m doing here. I’m just trying to deal right now, okay? Nothing makes sense to me.”
The earth quakes under their feet and everything around them rattles. This time Jane tenses, but doesn’t jump at the tremendous blows of what can only be heavy artillery fire, shelling, and the crash of falling masonry.
Colonel Olmstead raises his head and listens. He eyeballs Jane pensively, wishing to continue, “Although your manner of speech is strange, with that accent my guess would be you are from these parts . . .” Another hideous blast outside, really close this time, stops Olmstead in mid-sentence and he is off as quickly as he came.
One of the men that came in with Olmstead, the one with the nice face, remains behind. His disposition is less intimidating. With him, Jane is able to find a steady voice again and some semblance of courage. “Was that Colonel Olmstead, as in Charles H?” As if she needs to ask!
“One and the same.” The officer squints his eyes and crosses his arms. The naming of his commanding officer is troublesome. He would like to know how the woman came by this, but he will leave that up to the c
olonel. For the time being, she appears to be no immediate threat, “Now, what are we to do with you? I don’t suppose you are a Union spy.”
Jane shakes her head adamantly, no. She has no idea what to do except get right to the point. “Listen, do you mind if I stand?” Jane is getting a little tired of looking up and doesn’t wait for the man’s consent. “What year is this anyway?”
What a peculiar question. “It is April 10th, the year of our Lord, 1862.” An injury to the head, perhaps? She appears quite shaken and ill at ease. “Are you all right, Miss?”
“No! Yes! Yes . . . I’m fine . . . I think.” Can’t be! It just can’t be! “And what day?” the words are exhaled diffidently.
“It is Thursday, Miss . . . uhhh . . .”
“It’s still Peterson.” Jane frowns, twisting a forsaken wisp of red hair behind one ear and sweeping the room one more time with sharp eyes. Eyes trained to spot and identify detail and date objects, which in her world are antiques. “This is absolutely, mind-blowing crazy,” she whispers through a tense jaw.
Another cannon blast from the terreplein reminds Jane, with crystal clear vision, how this will end, and end badly. If she is still here tomorrow afternoon, April 11, 1862, Colonel Olmstead will surrender Savannah’s mainstay of defense. The ill-fated Fort Pulaski and its regiment, this whole place will fall into the hands of the Federal army. And she, Jane Peterson, has somehow managed to land smack dab in the middle of a sizeable siege that makes the Civil War history books. OMG! If this is all real, then what in the world am I supposed to do?
“Miss Peterson?” There is an unwearied pause, then slightly louder. “Miss Peterson.”
The man’s voice finally reaches her ears. Jane refocuses on the calm and considerate tone. “Yes, I’m sorry. I’m listening.”
“As I was saying, Miss Peterson . . . I am afraid this will be a very long night. You must know you are here at a most difficult time. Under these circumstances, I can only spare one guard for your protection. I trust you will use sound judgment and not leave this room for any purpose.”
He places serious emphasis on the not leave part. This man seems more approachable than his boss, yet Jane gets the distinct impression he also possesses a strong will and resolve.
“Before you leave, will you give me your name?” Jane ventures and is surprised when the man stops and turns back to her.
“Adjutant Matthew Hopkins, Miss.” He nods and reconsiders. “I apologize. This is no place for a lady. But I can assure you, you are well sheltered here. Will you be needing anything?”
Well he had to ask, Jane shrugs, “If you don’t mind, sir, I really need to go to the bathroom. I mean . . . go to the water closet . . . oh, good grief. The latrine or, however you say it.” Jane decides she needs a crash course in 1860s-speak. And fast.
Matthew’s brows arc, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he politely motions toward the large standing screen in the corner of the room. “Ah-hum, of course. Behind there,” he offers uncomfortably. Then, with a slight bow from the waist and one hand to the rim of his hat, he takes his leave.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Behind the folding screen and to her great relief Jane finds not only a spotless chamber pot, but also a washstand, complete with bowl and pitcher. There’s water, a small piece of soap, and a clean towel. Heavenly!
Jane is allowed some privacy as well. Just before Adjutant Hopkins made his exit, he was thoughtful enough to instruct the guard to move just outside the door of the Colonel’s Quarters.
Jane is dying to wash up and delighted about this unexpected convenience. Her poor dirty hands! To think, she was crawling around in the dark on that nasty storeroom floor. And overhearing those men talk about lice. It’s enough to send anyone running for the nearest bottle of sanitizer.
Jane lifts the pitcher and carefully pours water into a deep bowl. Cold, sharp needles pierce tender skin, as fingers and palms are submerged. Jane sucks air through her teeth. “O-wee!” But quickly, the pain recedes and the water does its job to sooth.
She is pretty sure her physical injuries are minor. Her left hand and bruised elbow seem to have gotten the worst of it. Pitifully, it is the only reminder of her tumble into this time and place. She will most likely need to pick splinters out with the pins she carries in a small metal container hanging from her chatelaine. Her chatelaine! She didn’t lose it in all the madness.
“Thank you Sophie, wherever you are!”
The shelling has ceased, but Jane knows it is only temporary. She’d watched it twice. Fort Pulaski’s Visitor Center runs a brief historical documentary, every hour like clockwork. It has given her enough fresh information to predict “the shells will continue to fall through the night to keep the garrison from rebuilding.” And she is sure this part of history will keep her from sleeping too!
There’s nothing in the history books about a woman being present during the battle at Fort Pulaski. Does this mean she will not survive this? Or does this mean a new chapter in history is written from this point going forward? Is history even fixed on one track or are there numerous tracks in multiple layers?
Satisfied that at least her hands and face are clean and presentable, Jane fumbles with the buttons on the damp under-sleeves of her ridiculous Civil War costume. Amazing how it no longer has the romantic appeal it had a short time ago. Talk about putting on a façade! Pretty ridiculous now, if you think about it. Look at the mess it got her into. She fingers the chatelaine still pinned at her waist and the empty link where she had hung her antique key. She inspects her nails in the light from the low burning lantern on the fireplace.
“Ugh! Still dirty.” Jane throws the towel over her shoulder and, with a grimace, submerges her hands once more.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
With the welcome silence, Jane busies her mind with open-ended questions that fail to present concrete answers.
So, where is the key? Is it still in the door in 2012 or did it travel here somehow to this place? What about poor Sophie? Jane imagines Sophie being questioned by police. Her poor friend! How will she ever explain?
A small moan escapes Jane’s lips. Her poor family! Her job! How can this be real? How can her life be suddenly ended? With one innocent act, it is all totally gone. It is gone with the wind.
“Gone With The Wind,” those four poignant words echo off coarse rose-colored brick walls, washed in heavy white paint. The sound of her truism makes Jane laugh out loud. It is a dry, choking laugh, which forms another small chink in her tenuous armor.
So think about it. There’s no such thing as time travel. But maybe that is because people just disappear. There are enough unsolved missing persons cases to validate that idea. You would think someone would have said something, written down his or her experience as record over the centuries. A message to the world that they are still around, just misplaced.
Then again, if there is no such thing as time travel, except for a few unproven theories and a dozen bookshelves full of time travel novels and science fiction literature at the library, could it possibly be there was some glitch in the universe. She, Jane Peterson, is the very first time traveler? A little hard to believe!
Maybe she really did die. It sure felt like it. Maybe this is another version of the life after death experience. Great! I’m going to be just like those hokey people that talk about the tunnel, white light, and encounter with long dead relatives. If she makes it back to 2012, what will she say? I opened a door and after a bumpy ride ended up in 1862 with a bunch of smelly men who are fighting for their lives. Doesn’t sound very spiritual.
Jane wiggles her fingers around. She is hoping her second attempt at cleanliness is a slam-dunk. Besides, soaking her hands in a bowl of cold water until they are practically numb seems to be the most helpful distraction for the moment.
While she is behind the screen, a couple of soldiers come into the room to gather a number of things, she assumes, off the table. Jane watches their shadows projected onto the wall and waits pat
iently, wanting to avoid interaction. Arms full, they hesitate a few seconds. Probably listening to make sure the unexplained intruder is still around. Jane pushes the pitcher to one side and makes splashing sounds. Satisfied, the men quietly depart. Guess it is decided that headquarters will be moved to another room.
When she is sure she’s alone again, Jane dries her hands a second time and ventures out into the room, alone with her thoughts. Her mind won’t rest. She struggles with her plight. She must find a way back, by any method or means. She is sure the key is her only viable solution. It has to be the answer to all this.
Jane wistfully pictures it in her mind. The key still seated in the lock or perhaps it is lying on the floor by the door somewhere. How in the world will she get past a guard, through a war zone to the casemate where this all started? She’d be crazy to try! For all she knows, by now that part of the fort is exploded into a million pieces. And who says it’s a two way portal and getting back is even an option. Moving through time was a horrific experience she dreads repeating. The return trip could end up killing her. If she’s not dead already!
“That’s enough thinking!” Jane says to an empty room. “It is what it is, so stop it.” Jane walks the boundaries of her quarters trying to calm another wave of nerves snaking their way through her body. Her adrenalin is working overtime.
The windows look boarded up on the outside so she can’t see a thing except for the occasional flash of light that seeps through the uneven cracks. She crosses the room and grabs an iron rod hanging on a hook near the fireplace and pokes the hot embers, hoping to generate a little heat and ends up sitting on one of two beds against the wall nearby. That doesn’t feel right so she goes back to sit in her original chair.
