The Lincoln Penny

by Barbara Best

  Warren’s grandpa comes up from behind Matthew overhearing the two talking and says pointedly, as if reading Matthew’s mind, “I told the boy here to stay away from that trouble. Tom Leach said some of his boys saw Cap’m Tucker’s men out a few miles south o’ here. Could be a raid. Whatever it is, we don’t want no part of it.” He points a crooked finger at Matthew, “And you would do well to keep an eye on that strange girl you nice people been puttin’ up. There is some big ta-do about her too. Young Warren, here, says he heard it from a fella named Elias.” The grandpa curves his finger around to poke Warren in the ribs. “Speak up boy. Tell him what you heard.”

  “Yes sir. One of them regulars. Elias, that’s right,” Warren spits, and runs his sleeve across his mouth. “Ain’t seen him round the shop before. Said his horse had cast a shoe and he was needin’ nails. He jabbered on too much for my liken. Mostly about nothin’ in particular, a real rattlebrain.” Warren hangs his head and kicks the dirt with the tip of his boot, seeming uneasy, “Anyhow, he told me he heard the lady carries that ole Yank president’s picture and they are fixin’ to catch a spy. Got my attention, that’s all.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  Jane waited until she was sure Anna, who had been given a small dose of laudanum, was sleeping soundly. With a quick word to Tessie, she tiptoes out of the bedroom, picks up one of several lit candles from a narrow table in the hallway and heads downstairs to the library. There must be another book of interest in the Hopkins’ collection to occupy her time. They weren’t the action-packed thrillers, science fiction or occasional fantasy romance novels Jane had always liked reading. They weren’t anything like the historical audio books that she favored on a long drive. But thus far, their large collection of classics weren’t half bad.

  Until now, Jane was less concerned about the content of a novel and more interested in a book’s history, popularity and condition. Her dad had a great selection of books and was always on the hunt for rare first editions and first printings. Jane and her dad felt it was a more-than-worthy cause to prevent the valuable things from slipping into perdition.

  With the writing styles of the 1800s and prior eras that are so different from what she is used to, Jane has had to learn patience. Many times the writings are a real challenge to comprehend and rouse a certain amount of thought and self-reflection. As Jane improves her reading skills and struggles through one book after another, she can finally say she is becoming accustomed. Even enjoying herself. And certainly her newly obtained knowledge is suitable in conversation as books and their authors are a delightful topic among Jane’s small circle of friends. Her tenth grade English teacher, Mrs. Giddens, would be so proud.

  Reading, Jane has discovered, is one of her more successful endeavors to fill what she calls, the in-between times. It allows her to still the anxious sentiment of idle, wasted hours during long days, and even longer nights. It is only by trial and error in trying different stuff that she was able to determine this.

  From the beginning Anna and Clara had encouraged Jane to work with them on needlepoint, which is one of their pastimes of choice to while away the hours. Although their patience with her was endless, somehow Jane never achieved a fondness for it. It made her fingers major sore and invariably led to an abominable amount of time ripping stitches that either didn’t pass her own quality control inspection or the careful scrutiny of the ‘needlepoint police’. It takes a lot more practice and patience than she is willing to give.

  There were times in the early months when Jane had also tried helping Cook in the kitchen to make herself useful. Jane called Cook, Cookie Monster or Cookie for short, which always got a huge smile from a woman who was normally accustomed to a more serious, straight-faced demeanor. Cookie loves to eat anything and everything, but had no idea what Jane’s teasing was all about. She never asked, though she never seemed to mind either. To Jane it was easy to tell Cookie, as gruff as she could be, liked the attention.

  As much as Jane enjoyed spending time with Cookie, it wasn’t long before she got the feeling she was under foot. Cook was always agreeable, of course. In fact, once she warmed up, Jane became a real curiosity to her. Especially when Jane showed Cook how to make an easy dough that was rolled out flat and dressed with a tomato sauce, which they made by mixing chopped tomatoes, a little sugar, a touch of vinegar and cooking it down real good. On top Jane sprinkled chopped onions, parsley, leftover sausage, cheese and a small amount of garlic. When Jane was satisfied with her creation, they baked it over hot embers until it was all bubbly and the crust nice and crisp. Jane will never forget Cookie’s expression when she took her first bite. After all, who doesn’t like pizza!

  Working with Cookie was interesting and great fun, though after a while Jane began to understand being kitchen buddies would never be totally comfortable or acceptable for the two of them. Everyone in the house has a role and there are subtle, yet concrete divisions between slaves and the families they serve. The novelty wore off pretty quickly and as Jane became more involved at the hospital, she eventually stopped her frequent visits to see Cookie.

  To show Jane she hadn’t forgotten their time together, Cook served pizza on occasion in Jane’s honor. It was referred to as Miss Jane’s special tomato pie. And everyone loved it.

  She misses her work at the hospital. It has made her 1800s life more rewarding and bearable and keeps what she calls, the super-dreads, from persistently hanging over her. Jane dreads facing a future she stubbornly has no interest in. Oh, she has a good bit of happiness here and, for sure, is one lucky girl to have landed in such a sweet spot, but try as she may, she can’t thoroughly convince herself this is it. Forever.

  Jane wonders what Doctor Arnold is doing without her? Is she quickly forgotten? Does any of it matter, or is she just kidding herself that it does?

  So the big question, what is she to do now?

  Make some kind of plan, right? Even a half-baked one would be nice. Sounds easy, but it’s not. The big problem is Jane has no idea how to make a plan in 1863. All the knowledge, all the experience, all of life’s lessons she has acquired, all the skills and material things she possesses and freedoms she enjoyed, even the lay of the land in getting from place to place, are useless when you think about it. All the thousands of things she had access to in her own time are soulfully non-existent. And over the months, do you think she would get one clue about what this is really about, what is the purpose for her long journey through time? Nope. Other than getting her into a lot of trouble, she gets nothing.

  After the confrontation with Matthew, somehow Jane has done a pretty darned good job of managing to keep her mind at ease, promising over and over, this is only temporary. It will go away. Besides, there is nothing in her head right now that would make it even remotely possible to find a practical solution for her predicament. If they take her to jail and put her on trial for treason, so be it. What could she do about it anyway? Another terrifying thought. If there is such a thing as fate or manifest destiny, then she is forced to rely upon it. Her hands are tied, so it will just have to be. What else can she do?

  Scanning the rows of books for something that catches her eye, a thought crosses Jane’s mind. It is too bad she hadn’t had a chance to meet Anna’s husband. This is his library. But he’s been away fighting since she came, which is just short of a full year now. A year. “A year!” Jane repeats in amazement. Frustration taunts her, haven’t I done my time? Surely there has been enough punishment! And her tormented mind whirls around again like the broken record it is. Round and round we go, like the ring she is absentmindedly twisting around her finger.

  Heavy footsteps, two steps at a time, up the stairs startle Jane out of her mixed mood. She freezes and listens intently. In a few moments, the heavy boots come crashing back down and towards the room she’s in. She shrinks back behind a chair to put something in front of her for protection. Panic rises from the pit of her stomach. More bad.

  “Thank God! I feared I was too late.” Matt
hew is highly excited, his face flushed red. He is wearing his uniform, his coat, but the hat he usually wears is gone and his hair is tousled. “We have to go now. There’s no time to explain!” he grabs Jane’s arm and drags her out of the library, through the house, and out back where his horse is waiting.

  Jane can hardly catch her breath much less say anything. She is sure she must do exactly as she is told and has no time to even form thoughts on what must have transpired. She stumbles hard a couple of time, getting her dress bunched up between her legs. Luckily, she is quick to recover her footing.

  Matthew mounts, “Get on! Hurry!” he reaches for Jane’s hand and James Isaac comes from out of nowhere, immediately offering his back for Jane to step up and swing onto the back of the horse behind Matthew.

  “What’s happened?” Jane grabs on hard, thankful she’s not wearing a hoop, but she has no coat and it’s gotten colder. Matthew’s horse bolts forward almost causing Jane to lose her grip. My God I’m going to fall and bust my ass! She digs her knees and heels in as hard as she can and wraps her arms tight around Matthew’s waist clutching the fabric of his coat with one hand and grabbing her wrist in a vice with the other.

  “Hang on!” Matthew orders in warning as his horse charges ahead. James is left standing in the yard scratching his head.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  Just out into the clearing about a half-mile from the outskirts of town and their destination, he can’t believe his eyes. Captain Tucker sees it plain and clear. A blaze that lights the night sky and torches any aspirations he has for glory.

  It’s the church, sure as the devil. His men are mumbling and pointing. Lou is flabbergasted and filled with a seething, murderous rage that distorts his features. The company quickened their pace, the horses sensing the urgency and confusion of their riders.

  “How in the hell!” How in the hell has he been outsmarted? How in the hell has his foolproof plan gone awry? How could a bunch of ignorant darkies get the best of him! By the time they get there, there will be nothing left. Nothing!

  “Cap’m . . . Cap’m Tucker, sir?”

  Lou can only see red. His heart is racing. His mind is retracing the activities of the day. Looking for anything or anyone to direct his homicidal thoughts and the blame for this conundrum. Someone is going to answer to this! Someone will pay, by God!

  “Cap’m, sir.”

  Lou hadn’t realized his first sergeant had ridden up beside him. “YES!”

  Rufus pulls his horse up closer, shoulder-to-shoulder, beside Lou’s. “Could be the church, Cap’m.”

  “I have eyes, First Sergeant! Keep riding!” Lou clamps down so hard on his cigar, it breaks in half and he spits the butt end out onto the road. As they ride on at a gallop, Lou holds his frame rigid with unwavering resolve. He is set on seeing this through and swearing all the time he will exact revenge.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  If it hadn’t been for the bone-jarring ride and having to hang on for dear life, Jane might have enjoyed the agreeable sensation of wrapping her arms around a real life example of nineteenth century male masculinity. It is definitely different from what she knows in her time where so many guys have somehow lost a woman’s take on what manliness is all about.

  So far, Bryce had been the only one to make the grade in Jane’s book, but then, he is preoccupied with his future and ambiguous towards any kind of relationship that goes beyond friend. When Jane asked him once, why are you working so hard? Bryce told her, he is working for the wife and children he hopes to have one day. He was serious, yet didn’t mention who. And Jane didn’t ask.

  If Jane wasn’t so hell-bent on preventing a nasty fall and a mouth-full of road dirt she might have noticed the pleasant smoke and cedar scent of Matthew’s wool coat or the agreeable feeling of her cheek nestled against his neck and shoulder. She might have even appreciated the strength of his upper arms that pressed firmly down over hers and somehow managed to keep her centered and upright, riding double back, behind the saddle. Lean muscles that are conditioned for physical endeavors, and trained to be one with his horse on what Jane can only describe as Disney’s, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

  The few times Jane has been around the man had been interesting. Still more, he has a strange way of making her feel undone. Matthew is mature, confident and powerful, yet there is tenderness about him. He is a true Southern gentleman. Not over spoken or overly full of himself, he has a relaxed sense of who he is and where he is going. A refreshing thought for Jane, who is completely lost in this world of his.

  At long last, they come to a halt and Jane upon first opening her eyes is incredibly relieved their final destination is Mary Marshall’s estate. Hallelujah!

  “Whoa, girl.” Matthew turns, reaches for Jane’s arm and carefully helps her slide down over the damp left flank of the horse. He throws himself out of the saddle and hands the reins over to the stable boy with orders to quickly hide the horse out of sight. “I rode her pretty hard,” is his last spot of instructions.

  Before Jane can utter words of protest, Matthew is dragging her across the yard and up the steps onto the porch. So fast in fact, she swears her feet never touched the ground. Matthew bangs urgently on the door and they are invited in, only to be greeted by Mary just seconds later, her cane clacking her hastened state.

  “Heavens! You are about to give me a spell!” Mary says, puffing heavily from exertion, “What are you about in the dead of night, riding in here like the devil himself is chasing you?”

  Matthew still has a vice on Jane’s arm. “You had best offer me one plausible reason to justify why I have put myself, my career and my family in peril this night.”

  “Why, sir, what ever are you talking about?” Mary drawls, looking from Matthew to Jane. Both her guests’ appearances are disheveled and extraordinarily tense. She scowls disapprovingly at Matthew for his treatment of Jane. Dragging her friend around like common baggage. Where is her cape, her bonnet? Why would he treat her thus! And where is his hat!

  Matthew rethinks his break in diplomacy, “Mrs. Marshall, you must pardon our intrusion at this late hour.” He slows down a bit to regain his composure, brushing his hair back away from his face with the flat of his free hand.

  “I am afraid we have come for refuge from the law.” He gives a charming boyish grin and interjects a touch of sarcasm. “You see, at this very moment ladies, all three of us could well be guilty of some egregious charge. Shall we say, tampering with evidence and oh . . . how about, obstruction of justice. Then, there is a matter of treason.” Matthew raises his brow, looking clearly at Jane.

  “Come this way.” Mary leads the two into the parlor and speaks briefly with the house slave, who answered the door. “We are not to be disturbed,” and the heavily carved double doors are pulled to, one at a time. “Please be seated. You both look a fright.”

  “We will stand, thank you. My humble apologies for sidestepping formalities, but I need to get to the bottom of certain inexplicable truths you must harbor. To put it direct, I demand answers. And now.” Matthew exhibits the patience of Job, although his stance and tone of voice is commanding and dares anyone to challenge him.

  Both women glance at each other. Jane is still in a death grip, Matthew’s steely fingers holding her fast.

  “East of here, the African Baptist Church has unquestionably burned to the ground and there is talk in the streets of hidden passages beneath our city. Within those very circumstances, I have been duly warned about a particular guest in my home. The jewelry box is long overdue, Mrs. Marshall. And you, my dear Miss Peterson . . . what picture do you possess of our deplorable enemy, who leads his armies to destroy us. President Lincoln, I am only to assume.”

  Jane is stunned, “Did you say the African Baptist? The one at Franklin Square? That can’t be! It wasn’t destroyed by fire during the war.” Has her intrusion, no matter how discrete or insignificant, already changed things like the ripple from a droplet of water on a glassy pond? Could the movemen
t of the air from her lungs and the motion of her body have caused a reaction like the butterfly effect where delicate beating wings miraculously alter the environment a continent away?

  Jane has that aching urge she often gets to reach for her phone to Google her facts. In its place she is, instead, left to search for traces of memory and luckily this time it’s pretty clear. In fact, it is real clear. Jane has noticed over the past many months her skills on recollection have improved considerably, working a muscle in her brain that apparently had gone soft.

  The Underground Railroad is a story she remembers. The tour guide’s narration gave a colorful account of slaves being helped north through this area. The African Baptist Church. How proud its congregation was of their heritage and role in sheltering runaways under the sanctuary floor. Actual holes had been discretely drilled into the wooden planks to form a tribal prayer design to conceal its well-kept secret and allow those hidden underneath to get fresh air.

  Jane already knew about the unique church ceiling. Copperfield and Brine had fabulous photo art of it in their conference room showing the finely restored nine ceiling squares that represented a quilt pattern. It is said this signified the church as a safe haven for many who embarked on a long and risky journey to freedom.

  “There’s no way the church burned down.” Jane repeats dryly.

  “I assure you Miss Peterson, it has indeed.” Matthew wonders how she can speak with such credence. Odd!

  “Geez. Where is all this coming from?” Jane is asking herself more than anyone else, and has the sinking feeling she is the cause.

  “Pray tell, Miss Peterson . . . do indulge us. And please, be done with this pretense.”

  Matthew’s mocking tone cuts through Jane’s concerns and she rolls her eyes. He can be such a smart ass!