The Lincoln Penny

by Barbara Best

  Sophie stops for a minutes as if lost in thought. “We found a door, I think an original, in one of the casemates. We were laughing and joking about ghosts and then . . .”

  Bryce and Ben are both holding their breath. Ben see’s Sophie start to shut down and encourages her, “It’s okay. Take your time, honey.”

  “Listen. You guys are going to have to keep an open mind on this one. I’m not making it up. Believe me, I don’t plan on telling this to anyone else as long as I live. No way, no how! It’s just too bizarre.”

  Sophie struggles on, “Okay. So Jane turns the key in the lock, the door opens and everything goes wacko. It was like an unbelievable force of some kind that sucked Jane in, and tossed me out.

  I remember screaming. I remember being hit hard by a blast of air, like a shock wave. You know, like the shock wave they show in those old-timey war films that show what happens when an atomic bomb is detonated. I don’t mean to exaggerate, but honestly, that’s what it makes me think of. The concussion of it, like a mini-version. Then, there was this horrific roaring noise I could actually feel inside, like amplified subwoofers. It knocked me on my ass and I think I must have lost consciousness for a minute or two. I hit my head pretty hard and Ben’s old tin lantern I was carrying was thrown to the other side of the room. Luckily it was low on fuel and only burned a small part of the floor in the corner where it landed. Ben and the guys were able to put the fire out.”

  Sophie sits for a minute, completely taxed, “Whatever it was, it was major strong. And now Jane’s gone. And that’s all I want to say about it.” She decides that’s enough of her woeful tale for a while and discovers she is pleasantly distracted by the looks of Jane’s best friend.

  Bloody hell! She didn’t tell me he’s a dead ringer for a young Harrison Ford. What a hottie with those intense brown eyes and that slightly crooked, boyish grin. He’s a bigger than life kind of guy. Tall and rugged, yet soft spoken and unpretentious. Yep, it’s Harrison, no doubt about it. Why in the world would Jane let a guy like this get away? Instead of coming to Savannah, she should have moved her ass up to Athens, Georgia where he lives. Jane is talented and could have found work there just as easily. Even finished up college.

  Sophie throws herself back onto the colorful pillows she and Jane had fun shopping for a week ago at Pottery Barn and closes her eyes, resting her mind. “God it was good to get that out.” She sits back up and feebly shrugs her shoulders. “Crazy, huh.”

  Both men are dumbfounded.

  Ben is the first to speak, “Well, Soph, you have to admit that’s one pretty incredible story.” He sits down beside her to rub her back.

  This is the first time Ben has been this worried about his wife. The night all this happened he and some of the guys were in one of the casemates at the opposite end of the fort. They were putting the finishing touches on plans for the next day when he heard Sophie’s strangled cry for help. The unnatural high-pitched shrill carried across the parade ground and made his blood run cold. It sent everyone running towards the sound in a panic.

  Up until this moment, Ben only knew Sophie had been knocked out by a bad fall and Jane was gone for no apparent reason. The local police and FBI that were called in had no explanation. No sign of foul play. If anything, they may have alluded to the possibility Jane might have hit Sophie on the head and then fled the scene, but there is no motive. And Sophie vehemently denied anything like that had happened and said she was even willing to take a lie detector test.

  Sophie moans and drops her head into her hands, “Whatever it was, Ben, it took her away. Where I don’t know. I still don’t believe it. Can’t explain it. I’m so scared for her.”

  Sophie looks around their modestly decorated contemporary-style living room and hates the fact that she’s all safe and sound while Jane is who knows where, “It’s my fault.” Two large bitter tears travel soundlessly down her cheek, streaking her makeup. “I started the silly try the key idea. I don’t understand what happened but everything in me says, she’s alive.”

  “That makes two of us.” Everything in him wants to believe she’s alive. Bryce stands up, stretches and slides his hands into the back pockets of his Gap jeans. The explosion that woke him out of a sound sleep could have been what Sophie is describing. He’s sure he heard Jane call for him. They are connected that way, always have been.

  His grandfather once told him some people form a bond because they share a similar destiny. This came up during one of their long walks, when Bryce had tried to describe his special friendship with Jane. Grandpa Hank, who served as a doctor in the Japanese American internment camps during the Second World War, told him the Japanese call it kenzoku. He said sometimes in life, unusually deep connections form, like family. A bond, which cannot be diminished by time and distance. He explained these friendships are rare and precious.

  One thing Bryce knows for sure, he will never give up on his Jane. Not ever. One way or the other he will get to the bottom of this, no matter what it takes. She is too important to him. She is everything. He loves her. He wants to spend his life with her. And if he ever gets the chance, he intends to let her know.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Broad sandy thoroughfares and wide-open spaces. There are new plantings and only a smattering of spindly pine and oak trees. A lot of the new growth Jane sees in town will succumb to disease by the end of the century. Jane’s matured vision of Savannah, the expansive Sycamores with their flaky bark and large leaves, majestic live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, the Sweetgum, Sugarberry and Palms that create a diverse urban forest, won’t be established until the end of the century.

  Out in the open, Jane and Jimmy parade down East Bay in their rickety mule-drawn wagon among curious stares. “We are doing a fine job of drawing attention to ourselves,” Jane whispers to Jimmy. A smartly uniformed Confederate escort leads them on horseback. The two soldiers were given orders by Fort Jackson’s Commander, Captain John Anderson, to ensure their safety along the final stretch.

  Reaching the brick fortification of Fort Jackson was an enormous relief for the weary travelers. Jane could not believe they actually made it from the captured Fort Pulaski, through a precarious marsh, past a pack of Yankee wolves all in one piece.

  Captain Anderson would happen to agree with Miss Peterson unreservedly. Their journey is truly an indisputable phenomenon. As he peers through his spyglass upriver from Fort Jackson’s ramparts in the direction of Cockspur Island and the South’s latest catastrophe, “They were mighty lucky to have made it out of there. In fact, it is a damn miracle!” he grumbles in agitation.

  When his orderly burst through the door of his quarters to excitedly announce unexpected visitors, the skeptical captain hastily made his way to the sally port to greet them. The small wagon was spotted less than half a mile away and he had two of his men ride out to bring them in.

  At first impression, Captain Anderson didn’t exactly know what to make of the towering young woman with arresting red hair and the private he guessed is a might young for service. Both seemed genuine enough. They willingly answered his questions and offered two papers to validate their claims of being released from Fort Pulaski. One is impressively signed and sealed by Union Brigadier General Quincy Adams Gillmore and the other is a personal letter from Colonel Olmstead’s adjutant. Both documents are deemed legitimate and helped ease their immediate suspicions.

  This is essentially their first physical piece of intelligence from Fort Pulaski since the siege and its surrender to Federal forces. All communication was severed and he suspects a newly fortified fleet of Union warships will cut off any last hope of keeping their harbor open and functioning. Garrisoned by Confederate soldiers, Fort Jackson along with a number of spontaneous river batteries and ironclads are now the last vital river defense left to Savannah.

  During their brief stop, the unlikely visitors were offered decent food and drink and an opportunity to freshen up. Shortly after their arrival, Private Hickory was taken away t
o another part of the garrison for interrogation of a higher priority. Being the first and only soldier from Pulaski having been released from captivity, his account of the past few days was of critical importance. The private is advised when and where to report in, once they reach Savannah. As a courtesy, Anderson feels Hickory should be allowed to conclude his commitment to Miss Peterson’s care in seeing her to her final destination. Any decision the boy might have about going home would be left up to his newly assigned regiment.

  Jane is disappointed when she finally manages to squeeze a few guarded details out of Jimmy about his private session with fort officials. She wishes they would at least let him go home on furlough. Why can’t they see he is much too young to risk his life in an adult’s war? Only just fourteen for Pete’s sake! Kids his age should be in school and enjoying their childhood, playing games and hanging out with their friends. He’s such a brave and loyal boy too. So grown up. Jane admits it. She has become attached to the curly blond haired, blue-eyed youth with the toothy smile. She is certainly attached enough not to want anything to happen to him.

  “Savannah! Finally! I can’t believe we made it. I just can’t believe . . .” Jimmy has yanked Jane back down onto the bench to keep her from tipping over. Or, perhaps because she is making a spectacle of herself. Either way, who cares! She’s here and how thrilling it is to see many of the same antebellum structures so easy to identify. The architectural features Jane had driven by just days before in her Ford Fiesta, a high school graduation gift from her parents.

  There is evidence everywhere of a major boom. A boom that is painfully snuffed out. Much like the gas lantern in the harbor that Jimmy told her no longer burns. No doubt their future here has dimmed. Savannah’s international shipping port, one of the largest in the country, which linked to places like the Caribbean, Europe, Africa and South America, had been derailed in 1861. The once busy harbor with as much as seventy vessels docked three deep now sits idle. The victim of a Federal blockade, which has tightened even more with the loss of Pulaski. The Yankees have literally choked the life out of their existence. And matters would only get worse.

  For Jane, though, it is simply her Savannah. And she vows right here and now, that whether she is to exist in 1862 or 2012, it is home. Her heart leaps. The footprint of Savannah sits in all its glory, so shiny and new in its brilliant, but flickering moment of wealth and prosperity. Although the city’s future is paved with hardship, it will miraculously defy the odds and survive obliteration. Unlike its sister city Atlanta, two years from now when Sherman makes his famous March to the Sea, Savannah will be spared as a place ‘too beautiful to burn’. Oh, it will struggle. Its thriving port and population will wane, its businesses and economy will suffer, but as a city it would persevere.

  Taking it all in is surreal, like a movie set. “The city is alive. Wow!” Jane sees buggies, men on horseback, tethered horses, covered wagons and people moving about from place to place. A lot of the men, both civilian and military, are giving them a good dose of curious glances.

  “I can’t get over all the colors! This is awesome!” Jane leaps to her feet again in exhilaration and joy.

  Jimmy shakes his head and holds tight to the fabric of Jane’s skirt. “Miss Jane, please.”

  Jane’s not hearing it. Stretching, eyes wide, she can’t get enough of the detail, in gleaming Technicolor, saturated with all the colors of the rainbow. It’s like she’s been blind all this time to the reality of it. So unlike the black and white, faded prints she and her dad had collected over the years. The original daguerreotypes of early photography, which are completely void of vibrancy and movement. Only depicting a shell of the life and living she sees before her.

  On East Bay Street they slowly pass by businesses and storefronts buzzing with activity. Jane recognizes names like Savannah Daily Morning News and Bank of Savannah. Up on her left are the six imposing monolithic columns. The main façade of the U.S. Custom House, built of gray granite stones quarried in Massachusetts. Overhead it is proudly flying the doomed Confederate Stars and Bars. It’s a sight to see.

  At Jimmy’s persistent tug, Jane finds her seat again. “This is so incredible. You have no idea!”

  Hitching posts line the streets like modern-day city parking meters. Jimmy pulls the wagon over just past the Custom House, jumps down and ties up the mule to one. Their escorts dismount and exchange a few words with Jimmy. “Stay here,” they instruct before going up the steps and inside the building.

  Jane is spellbound. The sights and sounds of Savannah and the people walking about are more than real. The few women she sees are well dressed and with all the accessories she is sorely in need of. A bonnet, for one. And then there are gloves, and even a parasol. That would be really nice to have. She reaches up to pat her poor hair and gently runs the back of her fingers over tender sun burnt skin. Jimmy reaches up for Jane to help her down and they step up onto the walk.

  “Oh God! Here they come.” Jane whispers to Jimmy. Three men she had noticed a few minutes before are crossing the street and headed in their direction.

  “Miss,” drawls one of the men dressed in a waistcoat and hat like Rhett Butler’s. He eyes Jane’s neglected clothing with obvious disdain and then moves his attention on to Jimmy. “Af-ta-noon, private,” he pointedly prolongs his vowel sounds.

  Jane can’t stand the approach or this man’s high-handed appraisal of her, so she addresses the two other men who are with him. “My name is Jane Peterson. Jimmy and I have just come from Fort Pulaski.”

  Like bug-eyed cartoon characters, their brows go up in unison as all three men twitch with surprise.

  “Pardon me, but did you just say Fort Pulaski?” The man with the detestable southern drawl sputters, rudely looking past Jane and intentionally at Jimmy for an answer. Of course, he would think Jimmy is much more capable than a woman to speak on the matter.

  “Yes, Mr. Land, that is exactly what Miss Peterson said,” an elderly gentleman with honest eyes, and finely dressed in a vest and cravat, interrupts. He touches the brim of his bowler in greeting, “You must pardon our poor excuse for manners, Miss Peterson.” Sweeping his hat at his two companions, “Miss Peterson, please allow me to introduce Mr. Land, Mr. Jeffries . . . and I am Doctor Arnold. Doctor Richard Arnold, at your service. Fort Pulaski you say. We have little news of Fort Pulaski other than it is now regrettably Union occupied.”

  “Yes. Colonel Olmstead was forced to surrender a couple of days ago. A Union general by the name of Gillmore was in charge when we left. Colonel Olmstead met with the general to arrange our release. Jimmy here,” Jane takes Jimmy’s arm, “and I are just arrived by way of Fort Jackson. Our escorts from Fort Jackson have gone into that building and I guess we are supposed to wait here for them.”

  “Most unusual, indeed.” Mr. Jeffries matches Doctor Arnold’s more placid and refined undertone, shaking his head in disbelief. All three men are stunned by her news.

  “May we be of any assistance, Miss Peterson?” Doctor Arnold kindly offers.

  Jane feels she can trust this man. “I’m glad you asked. Could you please tell us if you know a Mrs. Hopkins, Adjutant Matthew Hopkins’ mother?”

  The men glance at each other and then back at Jane.

  She is sure they recognize the name. Jane continues, “Matthew, I mean Ad-ju-tant Hopkins. I’m sorry, that’s a hard one for me to pronounce. Anyway, Mr. Hopkins was injured during the siege and I was able to help take care of his wounds. He has offered to repay the favor by sending us to his mother here in Savannah.” It’s probably a good idea to skip the whole cousin thing and keep the letter private. “Do you know where Mrs. Hopkins lives by any chance?”

  “Why, of course, Miss Peterson. I know the Hopkins family quite well, in fact.” His hat returned to his head, Doctor Arnold puts the tips of his fingers in his pants pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Their home is near Forsyth Park. It is the house on the corner, the one with the wrought iron balcony. If it is your wish, Miss Pe
terson, I will be more than happy to speak with your escorts to ensure you are delivered to Mrs. Hopkins’ door without delay. I am sure you must be exhausted from your journey.”

  That’s an understatement! Journey. He has no idea how far I’ve traveled! Jane smiles, “We really appreciate your help, Doctor Arnold.”

  And just in time. Here come the two soldiers from Fort Jackson.

  The men meet halfway on the steps. Jane wonders what they are talking about. It’s taking so long. Everything moves so slowly in this time and it’s true, patience is a virtue. But she is anxious to get moving again. She can feel stress catching up to her. Jane can honestly say she is aching all over and she is not so sure how much longer she can take bouncing along on that dreadful wooden bench. Her hoop has surely cut a permanent imprint into her backside and her salty sweat-ridden corset is rubbing her raw.

  As if reading her thoughts, Jimmy who hasn’t had much to say since they left Fort Jackson assures her, “It won’t be much longer, ma’am.”

  One more hurdle to jump before this chapter is thankfully over and they can both rest easier.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  A black dog with white paws yips playfully at the red wheels of the passing wagon. The mule doesn’t seem to notice and trudges on at the same slow, stubborn pace he’s been going all day. Three tow-headed boys with sticks dart behind an iron gate to get a closer look at the strangers from a better vantage point. Their mother has probably taught them it’s bad manners to stare.

  A short distance ahead a young woman hurries along, dressed in fashion from the pages of a nineteenth century Godey’s Lady’s Book. She is closely followed by a neatly dressed dark-skinned woman carrying packages.

  It’s getting late. The sun is low in the sky, casting light and shadow on budding pink and white camellias that add their sweetness to the late afternoon breeze.