The Lincoln Penny

by Barbara Best

  Feeling a cold chill from the damp night air, Jane grabs up a scratchy wool blanket from a trunk. Wrapped tightly, she settles in, resting her head back against the hard brick surface. She struggles to relax and is finally successful. At some point she can no longer keep her head up or eyes open. Of course, there’s the horrible deafening noise of every shell, which jerks her to hazy levels of consciousness. But still, she finds sleep. Oblivion, where there is no pain or fear.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  There’s a lot of commotion outside.

  Slumped in her chair, sore and fuzzyheaded from fitful sleep, Jane unwillingly stretches to life. She runs her tongue over her teeth. What she wouldn’t give for a toothbrush and toothpaste right now. Jane’s eyes flicker from one object in the room to the next to help her get her bearings. Everything is just as it was when she zonked out. Okay, so I’m still here in 1862.

  The candles on the table have burned out along with the embers in the fireplace and the room is cold and damp. There is a small bit of light filtering through what she can now see are shuttered windows. She notices one of the shutters is slightly ajar, probably to look in on her. Jane’s stomach draws her immediate attention, doing a quick flip. Whether from hunger or her new reality, she is not sure. Maybe both.

  I can’t sit here like this! Jane pushes to her feet, shakes out her skirt and tries to smooth down her poor hair. Her fingers brush the flowers she wore last night. Somehow the small bouquet managed to stay fastened with bobby pins. What’s left of it falls apart at her touch and lays withered in pieces on the floor. Jane studies the bruised pink petals of her azalea blossoms for a minute. Kind of how I feel. Pulling out the stems and readjusting a hairpin or two, Jane is amazed most of her unruly mass is still bound up in a bun at the nap of her neck. There’s no mirror anywhere to see what she looks like, although she would guess she’s a sorry mess.

  She had been sick and remembers throwing up when the whole “beam me up Scottie” thing happened. She pulls the fabric of her skirt out flat and checks her dress once more. First the front and what she can make of the back in the sketchy morning light. How she didn’t manage to roll in the stuff she’ll never know. Maybe she left the contents of her stomach along with her key in 2012.

  With that unpleasant thought, Jane takes the few short steps to the door and peeks out. The guard’s back is turned, but he quickly spins around at the sound. “Morning, Miss.” He tips his cap.

  “Would it be possible for you to get Colonel Olmstead or Ad . . . Mr. Hopkins, for me? I promise not to go anywhere.” Talking to these people is just too bizarre.

  The soldier doesn’t leave his post, although it isn’t long before someone takes his place. Hopefully he will go get somebody. As Jane waits, she wonders when firing from Union troops across the river on Tybee Island will resume.

  “Taking a little break, are we, before pretty much finishing us off! I wonder what time it is?” Jane asks the question to an empty room. Oh boy, she’s talking to herself. Great. Her Mom would say that is the first sign of insanity.

  Time already seems much slower in 1862 without all the distractions of modern day. Barring, of course, the 4th of July fireworks just outside her room. Most mornings, Jane’s routine meant waking to a rad Android App she installed onto her phone, flipping the switch on her Keurig, and popping a bagel into the toaster. At her kitchen table, she would have quickly checked her Facebook messages and caught the local news stream on her laptop.

  Jane runs her hand along the table in the center of the room and inspects a metal-nibbed pen with its companion bottle of ink that was left when the portable field desk and all papers were removed last night. The leather book and glasses are gone too. She moves to the freshly painted fireplace mantel, walking circles in her makeshift cell.

  The wait seems like an eternity and is just enough time for her to begin to regret the idea of sending for someone. Really dumb, Jane! Nothing like begging for trouble! Like what is she supposed to say when he gets here? Before she can scramble her brain with more panic driven thoughts, in comes Olmstead with Hopkins close behind. Two soldiers remain near the door.

  “I have very little time and you are in a most precarious situation, my dear,” the colonel begins, but shifts to a more pleasant and gentlemanly tone. “In my haste last night, I am afraid I missed introductions. I hope you understand and will forgive my faux pas. I am Colonel Olmstead and this is my adjutant, Matthew Hopkins. I believe you two have made your acquaintance.”

  The real Colonel Olmstead before her can’t be much older than she is. Jane’s guess is about mid to late twenties. Actually, he has a nice build. He is trim and taller than most of the men she’s seen so far. It is painfully obvious Jane is much too tall for this era, especially for a woman. Her height puts her practically eye level with the colonel and his fellow officer. They must think it odd. It sure feels that way to her.

  “Nice to meet you Colonel Olmstead.” He looks tired. Jane’s thought is the colonel is much too young for such an enormous responsibility and such a heavy burden. Now, add to that a girl that appears, poof, from out of nowhere, which brings her to, “I lost my cape in the storeroom last night. It was really dark and your men might have missed it when they checked. I would like to look for it this morning? It will only take a minute.” Sounds reasonable. Jane decides it is best not to mention her key.

  “Your cape,” Olmstead says dryly. “You must pardon my candor, Miss Peterson, but I will have an explanation on how you came to be before we proceed on matters of relative triviality.”

  What am I supposed to tell him? I’m a time traveler? Guarded, Jane stammers, “Honestly, I don’t know how I got here. All I know is, I was unconscious and when I came to, I was in your storeroom.” She shrugs apologetically. “I didn’t even know it was a storeroom.”

  Olmstead’s acute I mean business posture is definitely effective and makes Jane very uncomfortable. Luckily, he keeps it simple, “Do you recollect where you are from then?”

  Jane has to do some quick thinking. She can’t really say Savannah. They could easily check that out. There’s a chance they even live there. She finally decides, “My family lives in Vidalia, Georgia.”

  The colonel’s brows furrow and he straightens, “I know of no such place.”

  No one moves. Everything stops for a split second.

  Oops, my bad. Jane feels like thumping her forehead with the palm of her hand. The town Vidalia doesn’t even exist yet, dummy! She’s going to have to sharpen up. If her history is right, Vidalia is all farmland about now, mostly settled by Scottish Highlanders and their families who have high hopes of making a good life in America. Jane is a descendent of one of those families. The Petersons. She remembers all the stories her dad told her about the Scots who migrated to Georgia during colonial days after being defeated at the Battle of Culloden and being forced to give up their lands. He talked about the great potato famine that destroyed their livelihood.

  Jane gives it another try, “My family farms a small track of land purchased from the McIntoshes of Georgia.”

  Jane is silently thankful to be that history geek everyone claims she is and prays she is convincing enough. She studies the two men standing before her. Even in all this mayhem they are composed and proper in both dress and manner. Perfect gentlemen. What must they think of her with her poor excuse for a dress, hair all undone, and in bad need of a good scrubbing with some heavy-duty antibacterial soap? Jane suppresses hysteria, trying to hang on to her sanity a bit longer.

  “I know of this place, sir” Adjutant Hopkins speaks up. “And the names McIntosh and Peterson.” Hopkins glances at the young woman and then turns back to the colonel, “Miss Peterson is correct. It is inland, about eighty miles southeast of Savannah.”

  “Unbelievable!”

  “No madam, I assure you, I speak well the truth,” Matthew’s eyes flit to Jane. Why would that be impossible to believe?

  “No,” Jane counters. “Unbelievable as in awesome. Cr
azy ridiculous. A one-in-a-million chance . . . like winning the lottery,” she says in humorous release, but promptly becomes conscious of quizzical frowns from both men. She shouldn’t be so reckless with her words.

  Olmstead’s sweeping hand gesture indicates he’s had enough. His eyes remain locked on Jane, assessing, probing. A sudden incoming blast, too close, diverts his attention, “Adjutant, see to it the fire is stoked and Miss Peterson gets something to eat. I am afraid you have come at a particularly bad time, my dear. However, we will do everything within our power to assure your comfort and protection while you are here. If you will excuse me.”

  And just like that, Olmstead is off again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “So, what am I to do with you?” Matthew would like to make this obligation quick. Obviously, he has more important and pressing matters to attend to.

  Having held his position as Colonel Olmstead’s appointed adjutant since January, Matthew Hopkins is no stranger to his old friend's ways and would never question his judgment. “These are grave times,” were Olmstead’s only words to him at daybreak. No doubt their position is in great peril and the appearance of this young woman is an ill-timed distraction they cannot afford.

  The account of Miss Peterson’s sudden appearance spread like wildfire through the garrison, which is already taxed beyond reason, on strained alert, and in an especially excited state. The men, who discovered her last night, are plainly spooked, which will no doubt raise false notions. Sergeant Murphy could attest to that and did so quite bluntly in his report after the incident.

  “The men say she is a bad omen, sir. An affliction to be sure.” Sergeant Murphy had witnessed much in his day and a lot of things he didn’t want to, but this was the very last he would expect to see with his own eyes.

  Born in a small village called Ballinadee in County Cork, Ireland in 1831, Thomas “Chap” Murphy is the oldest of eight children and the product of his Da’s dream to make a better life in America. His beloved mother Mary Alison would never step foot on American soil, having passed with his stillborn sister during the crossing. In the new world his Da would quickly take another wife, seventeen year old widow Kate Collins, to mother his three willful boys and give him three additional sons and two daughters. Chap and his three half brothers, Will 18, Frank 20, and Liam 21, had joined up to fight in the summer of 1861.

  “Aye sir,” Chap decides to continue his brief account when he observed the non-committal expression on the young officer’s face. “Well anyhow, my men were oot-side tha storeroom the whole time. They have assured me nu-one passed through. They swear to it. An apparition, they say. Materialized oot of thin air! We have searched the room and there is nu-other way in or out. Tha is the fact of it, sir.”

  Improbable and impossible! “Thank you, Sergeant Murphy. I would discourage such talk until we know more. We have enough affliction and trepidation. I will handle the matter. Get back to your men.” Matthew had dismissed the sergeant, as well as his report.

  It is true that without vindication there can only be unsupported summation and blind conjecture. Would Miss Peterson have arrived secretly by steamer then? He thinks it highly improbable. The last time their supply ship Ida maneuvered through these red Savannah waters it was fired upon by heavy Federal guns set up on the north bank. Mayhap she has been assisted by one of the men? What! Did they row her in here undetected? Not likely, and for what purpose? By the looks of Miss Peterson she is certainly ill prepared for venturing out or being stowed away. And she couldn’t have been here long. She is tousled, but otherwise unblemished and in amazing good health.

  The Petersons. It is an odd coincidence. Matthew was astounded he had, in fact, heard of her clan through family friends, Captain and Mrs. McIntosh, who reside in Darien, Georgia. They have a relation, a Mrs. Anice Peterson, whose family is part of a community of Highland Scots living a quiet existence farming corn and cotton. A good three, four-day ride from here.

  That certainly explains Miss Peterson’s shock of red hair. As red as Georgia clay after a fresh spring rain. She is fair, but her complexion has taken on a rich golden-brown hue from inappropriate exposure to the sun. Yes, she is as bonnie as they come with those expressive brows, arched over vivid green eyes. The thick green of rolling highland hills, deep pools into her soul. The eyes a man could get lost in . . .

  Enough of this drivel! Matthew contributes his rambling observations to a good case of sleep deprivation. Finally, “Ah! Here he is now.”

  “Sir? You sent for me, sir?” The eager young soldier snaps a smart salute from the doorway.

  With a smile, Matthew motions Private Hickory over. He is an agreeable fellow with an even temperament who should be pleased with this assignment. “Miss Peterson, this is Private Hickory. He is dispensed as your ward. Private Hickory, please see to it our guest is made as comfortable as possible.”

  Private Hickory takes a double take, looking from one to the other, and then back again. He quickly whips off his cap. “Ma’am,” he nods his head in greeting. It’s the redheaded lady the men have been talking about. She don’t look nothin’ like no ghost to me. Suddenly uneasy and self-conscious, Private Hickory averts his eyes as the woman has returned his impolite stare in equal proportion.

  Matthew clears his throat, “Private. Have Quartermaster come up with something for Miss Peterson to eat. I am sure she is famished.”

  Matthew turns to their unexpected guest. “I am sorry, Miss Peterson, our rations are quite limited. You will eat what we eat this fine morning.” And with as much firmness as he can muster, “You understand there is little else for you but the four walls of this room. Do not attempt to leave these quarters under any circumstances.”

  To this, Matthew observes the enduring Miss Peterson’s almost imperceptibly nod. Shoulders back and stubborn chin tipped up as if she would challenge him. By her subtle movements and vigilance, there is no question she possesses an indiscrete measure of intellect and an equally impressive bearing. Amidst a great and fierce battle, about the worst any man can endure, she has neither swooned nor complained once about herself or her situation. Her confidence level is confusing, yet intriguing. She is certainly not demure like most women he’s familiar with.

  As an afterthought, Matthew elects to share, “Oh, and this cape you seek. If it should turn up, you will be the first to know.” There. Hopefully that will dismiss any gumption she might have to risk venturing out. Somehow, he wouldn’t put it past her.

  Yes, it is difficult to fathom what lies behind those guarded green eyes. What he can speculate, without doubt there is much more to Miss Jane Peterson than meets the eye.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  With Miss Peterson’s immediate needs attended to, Matthew makes his way through clouds of dust, fallen brick and splintered wood to Colonel Olmstead’s makeshift quarters a short distance away. The intense shelling that commenced a couple of hours ago has let up some. He’s certain not for long.

  Charles is leaning over his maps and studying a communication delivered by two emissaries from Savannah early this morning, “Impossible! We have no reinforcements.” He reaches for his timepiece, taps it a couple of times and with a steady hand, calmly winds the mechanism. He looks up at his friend “Come, sir, take a walk with me.”

  The early morning rays that peek through swirling mist expose the undeniable truth and spread a gloomy light on their sorry state of affairs. Both men are mute by it. There are no words for the enormous harm one day of Union artillery has done to them. Their casemates are in poor order. The west side of their fortification is wrecked and the southeast angle, badly breached. Enemy shelling has been systematically tearing apart their defenses.

  Matthew is appalled by what he sees. “They have us with a direct line to the traverse, sir. Our main magazine.” The imminent danger cannot be denied. One single blast is all it would take. Matthew fears the worst and stops a minute to survey their surroundings.

  Olmstead leads, a few steps ahead
in deep thought. Or prayer.

  Matthew feels the impact at the same instant the deadly roar penetrates his senses as a shell strikes the cheek of an embrasure. Flying brick, powder smoke and mortar rain down heavily, causing him to lose his footing. He stumbles and falls hard among dust and debris. Discombobulated, he lay still.

  Colonel Olmstead is sure the strike has killed his friend. He clamors to remove a large piece of rubbish off Mathew’s shoulder. “I thought we lost you, man! Are you hurt?”

  Matthew blindly struggles to stand. He is stunned and hears the alarm in Olmstead’s words as strong arms help him to safety. The pain in Matthew’s head is burning white hot and he is unable to open his eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It’s like an episode of The Twilight Zone, where people are unexpectedly placed in a situation and left to fend. Only difference, it’s not in grainy black and white. Instead, this is in high-def, digitally enhanced color and Dolby surround sound. The sights, sounds, smells and people are only too real. Jane wonders what the surprise ending will be?

  Urgent voices and a rush of tattered, grimy men barge into the Colonel’s Quarters, leaving a trail of mud in their wake. Adjutant Hopkins is helped by two more shabby souls onto one of the beds, bleeding from the head.

  Jane puts the large table in the center of the room between her and the commotion. Now what?

  Olmstead steps around his men and briskly addresses Jane. “Do you have any medicinal knowledge, Miss Peterson? The infirmary overflows its capacity and our surgeon and his helper are currently engaged in another, more critical case.”

  “There must be someone else. You can’t expect me . . . I’m not a nurse. I have no training.”

  “Private, see that Miss Peterson gets the supplies she needs. Do what you can, my dear.”