The Lincoln Penny

by Barbara Best

  Matthew’s been gone all day long. Jane has kept to her room like a good little girl since late yesterday, waiting for Matthew to make up his mind on what to do next. Is she really in that much trouble? Jane has been wracking her brain on what to do, herself, and is totally shocked at how dependent she has become in this place. Something she is not at all happy with, though so far, there has been nothing she can do about it.

  Jane frowns when offensive words like ‘mooch’ and ‘freeloader’ pop into her head. She can’t fathom the thought of being reduced to the realm of dependent, subservient and unequal. She is beginning to think more about that money in her jewelry box and how maybe she can use it to free herself, escape, and give these nice folks a break.

  Her jewelry box! That has only crossed her mind a hundred times and kept her tossing and turning half the night. It hasn’t shown up at the Hopkins so far as she can tell. Luckily, her bedroom is in the front corner of the house. Most of the day Jane has kept a vigilant watch from her windows, which give a pretty good view of the front yard and side dirt track to the back. No one she recognizes from Mary’s place has come by.

  Mary was asked to send the box over, but, if Jane knows Mary, she is taking her sweet time. She moves with slow deliberation, never hurried on anything. Especially with something that has become as significant as this. Jane nervously twists the rose gold ring on her finger and waits for news from downstairs.

  After no more than five minutes, she can’t take it any more and gets the guts to move to the top of the stairs. Uncertain what to do, Jane just stands there motionless, waiting like an idiot, like some sort of pariah.

  Finally, Jane can detect muffled noise from the back of the house. Possibly the library. She begins to creep her way downward, compelled to move forward towards the sound. At the foot of the stairs she leans to peek over the banister. Against the wall, Tessie, Phoebe, Cook and James are lined up, heads bent low, and with blank, staring expressions on their faces. The tracks on the library doors make an audible groan as Matthew moves out into the hall and over to Tessie. They exchange a few soft-spoken words before he notices Jane.

  Their eyes meet as he passes by her. “It’s bad news. Father’s dead,” Matthew murmurs as he heads out the front door. James follows close behind with sorrowful eyes cast down, his full lips pulled in tight to form a thin turned-down line.

  “Oh My God,” is all Jane can say as she watches them go. She is stunned, and sick at heart. Poor Anna. Poor family. How awful.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  Jane hastily tugs at the bun on the back of her head, which is pulled so tight it is giving her a headache. Who wouldn’t have a headache right now? She checks her dress in the mirror before she heads down the hall. Anna had immediately taken to her bed and young Clara is with her mother.

  Jane taps lightly and, after a minute of rustling on the other side of the door, Tessie lets her in. Jane respectfully stands just inside the darkened room and waits for her eyes to adjust. She is thankful Anna has summoned her and hopes to let her know she is here for her.

  Clara is under a lightweight pink knitted blanket nestled up against her mother in a huge four-poster bed. The bed is substantial, with an elegant headboard and fluted posts that support a massive wooden canopy. The atmosphere is poignant. The only light is coming from the fireplace that fails miserably at cheering things up.

  “Come, sit by me.” Anna’s silhouette calls out gently and pats the mattress.

  Jane almost falls forward in relief at her friend’s gesture. It’s the Anna she knows and feared she had lost. “Anna, I am so sorry. There are no words . . .”

  “I know. Thank you, dear,” Anna pulls Clara protectively to her and shifts over a tiny bit.

  Clara is sleeping like a small child in her mother’s arms and it is apparent both have been crying their eyes out. Swollen faces, creased with lines of sorrow and the shock of deep loss. Anna is holding on to be strong for her daughter, though anyone can plainly see she is in intense pain. Nothing could be worse than to find them like this.

  Jane tentatively sits on the edge of the bed, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. Is there anything I can do?” Like what can she do, really?

  “Just sit here with me for a while.” Anna kisses the top of Clara’s head and lovingly smoothes her daughter’s hair. She wipes her cheek again with her handkerchief and looks at the moisture on the fabric as if she doesn’t know how it got there.

  Jane rests her hands in her lap and patiently waits, simply glad to be near her friend.

  “Susan!” Anna exclaims, jerking in alarm.

  “Now Miz Anna, young Mistah Hopkins has gone to tell her dis sad news,” Tessie reassures gently, her voice deep with emotion. “Don’t you worry ya-self none, honey. He know jess what ta do. He will take care o’ us.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course,” Anna says weakly and relaxes. “Poor Susan, she so loves her father. The news will truly break her heart.” There is a pause and with eyes closed to the world, “I remember when Susan was born. She was our first, and a girl, but Mister Hopkins was overjoyed. He was devoted to his girls as much as his son, loving each one in a special way.

  “He has been a good father and a good husband. I remember when we first met. It was at my Aunt Ellen’s cotillion. So long ago.” Anna stops for a moment as happy memories flood in, “I was to have a new gown. It was the palest lavender, almost white, trimmed in white lace and delicately embroidered with tiny white flowers. And oh, I was so proud of my new bonnet.

  “Henry James was a schoolmate of my brother’s and admitted later he only attended the cotillion as a courtesy. He said from that point onward, he would always look at good manners a little differently. Because, from that obligation, he had found the most beautiful girl in Chatham County.” A sweet, peaceful smile forms on Anna’s lips and the room goes quiet again. The only sound is the deep steady breathing of young Clara.

  “Oh my, oh my, oh my,” Anna moans softly in her grief.

  Jane brushes a tear that slips from the corner of her eye and sniffs. So sad, so very sad. She looks up at Tessie who is crying without a sound into her apron. These poor people!

  Jane knows what loss is. She too has lost the people vital to her life. In fact, all of them! But then it is so very different. She has to believe deep down those who mean so much are alive and well, coexisting in another place. She can imagine them in her time going about their daily activities, working, playing, and loving life. Even if it is without her. She figures her mom and dad, her family, Bryce, Sophie . . . all have adjusted to their loss as anyone might expect. Her dream job at Copperfield and Brine was advertised and filled long ago. Bryce is continuing his classes and work at the hospital. He may even have found a serious girlfriend, something neither one of them have had much luck with. Jane would want him to have every happiness. Sophie and Ben are sure to be doing their thing as always. Why it’s been almost a year now! She hopes all those she loves will continue with the business of living, accepting what life brings, just as she must.

  Exhausted, Anna takes Jane’s hand in hers and says one last thing before she drifts off, “I’m glad you’re here, Jane.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  Gus Maguire is balanced precariously on an old broken-down ramp at a deserted end of the wharves along Savannah’s barren waterfront that is deprived of its booming commerce. He sometimes crawls down under the ruins of this old dock to get away from everyone. He hates people, all people, and all kinds. He hates his life and misses the comfort and isolation of his small farm. It weren’t much, but it was a hell of a lot better than this!

  Gus listens to the lap, lap, lap, as the river beats a constant rhythm against the pilings. It’s about to lull him to sleep and his eyelids droop, fixed on the steady movement of the current and occasional fish that breaks through the surface with a silver splash. The moonlight makes a million diamonds on the water before it disappears briefly behind a passing cloud. He could just sit here forever. To
hell with the world and to hell with this confounded war!

  Like it always goes, poor men fighting a rich man’s battle. What did he have to gain? Absolutely nothing. Slaves? Hell, he’s against it! Always has been. It’s just another way for rich folks to get ahead, that’s all. And most of them uppities in this war? Well, if they were smart and had a good sum in their pocket, they could pay out of the fight anyhow, leaving it for some poor feller to lay down his life for a few notes. For what!

  Gus rubs the snot from his nose onto his sleeve in disgust. His thoughts go to, how would it feel to just sink into that blackness all peaceful-like and be done with this misery. He shivers from the morbid thought, though probably more so from the cold, and tugs the collar of his wool coat up around his ears. “Ba…better get back soon.” They’ll be missing him if he stays much longer. Gus takes another swallow of rotgut that usually does a better job of keeping him warm. Just a few more minutes then.

  Something stinks. Gus sniffs a couple of times to see what he can make of it. The riverfront can play tricks on the senses. It can just be rotten fish. Maybe old dead reeds that accumulate under the dock or whatever else they have thrown or pissed into the river. He opens his eyes and looks around.

  Interested enough, he crawls to the end of a ramp that is half in the water. The pitch is pretty steep and he is careful not to topple over. It’s not the kind of night to end up in the drink.

  Gus studies the blackness from this angle and there, he sees it. Something floating. He drags his small lantern over. On first glance it must be a mass of grasses, yet it’s pretty big. Maybe just an old log, but no, there’s something shiny just under the surface.

  Without thinking Gus takes off his knitted gloves, carefully positions himself flat on the planks and extends his torso over the side. He grabs and pulls up hard. Lifted half out of the water, a head rolls around to challenge its captor. Gus’ lantern lights empty eye sockets, dark holes that see nothing and a gruesome smile that has long lost its humor. The slimy black hair tightens around his fingers and wrist as if trying to take hold. Gus gives a high-pitched yelp and gags, only to gulp in the rancid stench of waterlogged flesh that permeates the air around him.

  “Jesus, Mary and J…Joseph!” If he had a free hand he would cross himself, maybe twice for good measure. Instead he stares in horror at a face, or what was a face that is now eaten half off by bottom feeders. Putrid flesh that has been torn away from bone by sharpened oyster shells or from washing up against barnacles on the pilings below.

  It don’t look human.

  The first reaction is to let go, but then, Gus was sure he saw something. His curiosity gets the best of him and he goes up on both knees, shifts his weight, and yanks hard again. It takes him several tries and a couple of different positions to finally get the deadweight up onto the ramp. Half naked, exposed breasts shredded to bits and what’s left of a corset and skirt.

  The flesh bumps rise on his arms. “Holy Mother of God, it’s a woman!” he whispers as if too much noise might wake the dead.

  Gus has never searched a woman’s corpse before. On the left side of the head, which limply flops over, is the woman’s earbob still attached to a flap of skin. Gold!

  “Afraid you don’t have ma…much use for this any more.” It falls off easily into Gus’ hand, part ear and all. He greedily scrapes the soft tissue off on the ramp’s wood planks, ignoring the sickening feeling it gives him. He quickly tucks the jewelry, a solid gold hoop, into his pocket and wipes his fingers on the side of his pants leg.

  Nothing’s left around the neck. Balancing on one knee with his pockmarked face scrunched up and his neck craned to one side, Gus unfastens the metal clasps on the corset one at a time.

  “Well, lookee here,” a narrow black belt around the waist and halfway tucked beneath the waistband of the skirt. He takes out his bowie knife and quickly cuts the skirt away.

  Letting out a lung-full of air, Gus pulls his coat up over his nose again, breathes in deep and holds. He’ll never get used to the smell. It’s sickening sweet and unnatural.

  “Wha…well now,” Gus reaches for his lantern to investigate the black strap or belt fastened tightly around the corpses middle. Linked to it is some sort of flattened pouch. He’s heard of hidden pockets in ladies’ skirts, but this is different. And it looks like the perfect place to hide something important. “Hmmm. J…just what do we have here?”

  He thrusts his lantern closer to get a better look. The imprecise curved shape of a crescent moon on the stiff midnight-black fabric lights up as bright as can be. When he moves his lantern to the side to hunt for a buckle to unfasten the contraption, it seems to glow all eerie-like in the dark. Gus works his lantern back and forth a few more times to make sure he’s seeing right. There are some letters just above the odd shape. He knows a couple, however, he has no idea what it means. He never learned how to read.

  Gus rolls the decayed remains to one side. There’s the buckle all right, though it doesn’t look like anything he’s ever seen before and he can’t figure out how to pry it open. “You ain’t gonna need tha…this here neither.” Gus grimaces, and greedily cuts the belt away from the body and lifts his prize into the air.

  He glances around, his nerves on edge, figuring he has spent about enough time on this nasty business. Gus rolls up the black pouch, puts it in his haversack, and sets about rolling the slimy body back into the water with a splash.

  “Hey! You! What are you doing down there!” breaks the silence.

  Gus’ head snaps up to the soldier on the wall above. The soldier hops down the four feet to the top of the dock, and heads directly for him.

  “I said, what are you about man?” Corporal Sean Donnelly repeats. He is on guard duty tonight and had only walked to this isolated end of the wharf to relieve himself. He had no idea it would end up with this delightful bit of entertainment. “Stealing from a corpse, are we now?” he challenges loudly.

  Gus cringes at the sound and thought of being caught with the goods. He checks around for others. There is no one.

  Corporal Donnelly inches forward with his rifle on the ready. The barrel, a deadly reflection in the moonlight. He knows what he saw and it didn’t seem right to him. “Well now, if it isn’t ole Ga-Ga-Gus Maguire himself,” he banters with a smirk. “Get up and move over there.” The Corporal moves carefully to the ramp that sits on a sharp tilt and peers over the side. What for all the saints is he up to?

  “She’s da…dead,” Gus blurts. “Been in the water for some time. No telling who she is, or why she’s in the river. Just f…found her floatin’.”

  “A she, is it?” Braced with feet apart and rifle still trained, Sean squints his eyes and peers over the side again into blackness.

  He can’t see a thing. “I’ll take your word for it. Now, throw your sack over here.”

  Gus hesitates and grips his haversack protectively, thinking, that stuck-up, good for nothin’ Corporal musta been watching me all the while. Damn luck that!

  “I said! Throw it over you blithering fool! That is if you know what’s good for ya.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  Matthew races through the streets of Savannah as fast as his horse will carry him. “Don’t trip and throw me, girl” he sends out a frantic prayer into the chilly night air. After another impossible twist in his saddle to avoid falling, his high-spirited, dapple-gray mare darts around another carriage, hooves pounding the pitted road beneath them.

  He had just come from Susan’s and witnessed a blaze out to the south of town, radiantly illuminating the sky above the tree line. Matthew had joined others who helplessly watched black smoke billow as an unnatural draft of wind sucked air and sparks high up in a spectacular display.

  “Lord almighty, don’t let it catch the city!” one old man’s thin wail lifts above the mutterings among the crowd. Savannah had seen fire many times before and it begins just like this. In ‘29, a good part of the town burned to the ground.

  The African churc
h is on fire and Matthew learns quickly that it is the steeple they can all see burning one hundred feet up. They aren’t sure how, but there is speculation on the why. Someone says they heard something about the old church harboring runaways. About secret tunnels being used.

  Underground tunnels in Savannah. Matthew recollects hearing this when he was a small boy. His grandfather filled his head with tales of the high seas and scary stories of secret passages the pirates used. How they would take unsuspecting men, who had drunk themselves unconscious, to ships waiting in the harbor. By the time the poor souls came to, they would already be in open water or in some strange port half a world away. He thought maybe the tunnels were impassible or didn’t even exist. Perhaps they are revived and being used to help slaves make their escape.

  People watch and worry as word gets around in this tight-knit community. A few able men had already gone off to see how to help. Those left are congregated just outside Beaumont’s Buggies and Bows, a decades-old establishment, which specializes in fine carriages and two-wheeled horse carts. Since the beginning of the war, the family-owned business has done quite well, having been commissioned to build supply and escort wagons for the army.

  Matthew had recognized and caught the attention of Warren Feldman. Warren works as an apprentice blacksmith for the Polk family. Matthew is surprised Warren hasn’t gone off to be in the middle of all the excitement. The young man, not quite fifteen going on twenty, is itching for an adventure. He has made it known how much he yearns to enlist and would have done so already if it hadn’t been for a promise to his dear mother. She begged him not to go, having already suffered the untimely death of her husband, who was harshly treated and deliberately starved in a Union prison camp.