The Lincoln Penny

by Barbara Best

  Both men huddle over the find. Sean takes the metal piece and jiggles it with his fingers that are stiff from cold.

  Gus holds his knife on the ready, “I can make quick work of it.”

  “No, man. Let’s give it time. I would like to open it proper-like and if it is closed, then, it has to have opened some way.” After a couple of tries rocking the metal piece back and forth, Sean finds out he can slide the pull across the pouch to separate the teeth into two parts. “There now!” he’s all proud his logic and patience has proven successful.

  Tucked flat inside the pouch Sean pulls out a clear bag with papers plainly visible from the outside. “Clear as glass, yet it’s all soft and smooth. Bendable glass! What do ya know? You can see right through it. This is gettin’ more interesting by the minute. What do you suppose?”

  “Don’t know . . . but it sure did a fair job of keepin’ them p…papers there from gettin’ wet.”

  Sean rotates the bag around until he gets to the top seam where there’s another pull. He tugs again and with the same slide motion it separates. Interesting. Sean is quickly able to identify the contents, “Well, well, well, I think our Miss was headed somewhere. These look like travel papers.” Sean unfolds the papers, amazed at how dry they are after floating in the river all this while. He tilts the sheets to the light, “Saints preserve us! It says here, Marela Néve!” Sean glances up at Gus, “Now that don’t sound one bit like Nike, does it? Madame Néve. That lady who disappeared out of town so mysterious-like? That fortune-teller they think is a spy, an abolitionist.”

  Eyes wide and brows arched high in surprise, the men discover a number of folded bills in a clip. Sean fans them out, “Would ya be believin’ it. I think this here is new Yankee money. Greenbacks from those banks up north. Fer sure, it ain’t Confederate.”

  “There is s…some mighty dirty business ‘bout this. And fer sure,” Gus mimics, “it is nothin’ ta do with me and mine. I wash my hands of it.”

  “Well, Gus Maguire, I reckon we are fully agreed. We best get our findings back to headquarters. They will know what ta do. Especially with all the talk of treason goin’ round.”

  Sean stuffs the money and papers back inside the black pouch and accidentally drops the soft glass bag in the process. It is quickly caught by a gust of wind, lifted up and away, disappearing into the blackness before either man can react.

  “Damn!” Sean could kick himself for being so careless. “Ya eejit!”

  “Weren’t my doin’,” Gus shrugs and doesn’t move to help.

  Sean searches the dark span of ramp and river below for some sign of movement. The thing is gone just like that. He finally shrugs himself and tugs the metal piece on the pouch back to its original position. The tiny teeth fit back together, as smoothly as they opened. Locking it tight. Sean is thinking this is probably some new fandangled Yankee invention. And ta be sure, another scourge against us.

  CHAPTER NINETY

  What witchery is this that would snatch an innocent from one time and toss her into another without so much as a by your leave? What purpose would it serve? What end was this extraordinary and unnatural phenomenon meant to achieve? Matthew is stunned by the cruel turn of events.

  Jane’s differences, this manifestation, can no longer be dispelled as a figment of imagination, some frippery or benefit of doubt. His mind objects to the words that bore into his brain, “I was born on April 10th, 1989.” His imaginative, spontaneous, and fiercely independent Jane is not of this time. Why, of course she is not. It makes perfect sense now, although it is utterly fantastic. How can it be? It flies in the teeth of reason. It resists all logic. Matthew is filled with a disconcerted sense of loss, of futility, yet he refuses to relinquish his hold on hope. What must she know!

  As preparations were being made for Mrs. Marshall and Miss Peterson’s hasty departure from Savannah, the all-consuming, all damning and unretractable question spilled out of Matthew’s mouth before he could squelch it, ‘Will the South prevail?’

  It is difficult to explain the grave and shattering effects of Jane’s one single, binding answer that was whispered softly in apologetic reply. Its significance is overwhelming.

  He needed fresh air, the comfort of a dark cool night to still his brittle nerves. Jane had matched his quick gait and ignored his sharp order to get back inside for her own safety. She followed him down the steps of Mrs. Marshall’s home, out into the yard and to the carriage house where his horse was waiting. He could see the simple, inescapable and defining word, “No,” was extremely difficult for her too. The sorrow and regret was transparent on her face. Her green eyes, dampened with uncertainty, fixed on his, searching. Eyes that hold the secrets of the world.

  Before his departure and with little time to spare, Jane delivers a parting gift. Yet another unwelcomed jolt to Matthew’s senses. Jane tells Matthew she had heard the thunder of cannons in the distance and understood Federal ironclads had bombarded Fort McAllister. She said if her history is accurate, there shouldn’t be any significant occurrences in and around Savannah until much later in the war, toward the end of 1864 with Sherman’s March to the Sea. Then, she reveals some knowledge of a Federal raid on Darien, Georgia. Jane didn’t have all the specifics, but she knew Union troops would loot and burn the town to the ground sometime in June. “It is a scene in Glory, a movie, but it really did happen,” were her exact words. She hoped the information would help. She hoped it would curb any skepticism he, and others, might have. She hoped there was a way to save Darien and everything in it.

  A movie? What the devil is a movie? Sherman’s March to the Sea? Is that William Tecumseh, the Union general she speaks of? He recoils from what he cannot or does not want to comprehend. Matthew is reluctant to accept this new twist on fate and its heavy load. Is this one of God’s unfathomable mysteries? Or worse yet, is it some evil trickery? Why, it confronts the principles of their very existence. You are born, you live, you die, and by the by . . . you can be conveyed through time as some cruel jest. Are not the reality and complexity of their lives challenging enough? Matthew’s mind grapples for meaning. Finally, he can only dare to presume with dreadful clarity, their gentle south, their traditions, their way of life are truly in great peril. They are about to lose everything.

  “Ya breakfast is ready.” Phoebe stirs Matthew from deep contemplation. She has always had an exceptional way of appearing and disappearing from a room without a sound.

  “Oh, I am sorry Phoebe. I have been preoccupied and didn’t hear you come in.” Matthew pinches the bridge of his nose. Food and sleep are the last things on his mind right now.

  “Tessie say ya needs ta eat, Mistah Matt. We have grits and dose cakes Cook always say ya likes. An’ how bout some of dat good cheese pie left over from lass night. I be glad ta bring ya sumpin on a tray.” Phoebe crosses over, opens the drapes to let in first morning’s light and snuffs out the flames on two cranberry oil lamps that sit on a dropleaf table positioned against the wall between two windows.

  With the mention of food Matthew realizes he is about starved and reaches for his timepiece to check the hour, “A tray. That will be fine. I will take it here, in the library. Thank you, Phoebe.”

  Matthew gets up from his father’s leather chair behind the grand mahogany desk to pace the room a bit. He thinks much better on his feet. Hopefully it will ease the tension and help him ponder his next move.

  Over the past months, Matthew has been stationed along the lines around Savannah as quartermaster in Charles’ regiment under General Mercer. General Mercer commands the military District of Georgia. It had been a moderately quiet winter at their encampment near the Catholic Cemetery at Camp Neely. So far, there have only been two incidents — one to meet the enemy on Whitemarsh Island and, the other, more recently to support the forces at Fort McAllister.

  On a number of occasions, Matthew and Charles have conversed on the matter of General Lee’s offer and the advancement of Matthew’s military career. The new assignment u
nder their great Rebel chief would certainly be a critical post in their most successful of Confederate armies and thrust him into the heart of the war. Matthew respected the colonel’s judgment, but after several attempts to draw him out, Charles simply would not commit an opinion. Matthew’s friend was adamant any decision pertinent to duty and honor was his alone. Charles, however, had expressed many times his deep regret in losing a fine officer and trusted confidant.

  Everything is changed. With the colonel’s backing and out of transformed responsibility and obligation, Matthew has penned an urgent message to General Lee’s Headquarters inquiring about the position of assistant adjutant general and captaincy within his personal staff. Matthew understands General Lee is opposed to large personal staffs as a waste of military material and hopes his offer still stands. He has also respectfully requested an immediate audience with the general on a most critical and urgent matter. He is afraid to say more in his post for fear of it getting into the wrong hands, north or south.

  Verbatim, Matthew has painstakingly put the words of Miss Peterson to paper, making sure not to overlook the most minute of details. It is locked away now in his father’s safe. Driven by principle and duty, he intends to share Jane’s tale, no matter how extraordinary and shocking, as soon as he receives orders from Lee’s staff on when and where to report. Matthew believes the general is, by all accounts, still camped at his winter headquarters outside Fredericksburg. Unless he hears otherwise, Matthew plans to make preparations to meet him there.

  Then, there is the matter of Captain Louis Tucker. Matthew has just written a scathing letter of protest, berating the incredulous surprise assault upon his home and family. An inexcusable abuse of power!

  In Matthew’s brief absence last night, James Isaac and Phoebe had quickly affixed a black ribbon to their front door to signify a house in mourning. Smart like foxes the both of them. It makes him smile. For under grim circumstances and quite understandably, James with his slightly bent, yet sturdy frame had bravely barred the entranceway to their home and refused to accept any visitors when the soldiers came knocking.

  James said the soldiers, a Lieutenant Galley and one Private Paget, seemed befuddled at first, but recovered quick enough to offer their sincere apologies for their intrusion, and condolences to Mrs. Hopkins. They would return at a more appropriate time.

  “Sho-nuff, doe’s men know you weren’t here. Dey all set to surprise Miss Jane is what. Wantin’ ta tote her off somewhere. Lawd know what dey do to her. I’se thinkin’ of dat poor girl Angel bein’ dead an all.”

  “Wait. What girl is this?”

  “Well, suh, I heard tell dis Angel belong to Madame Néve. She be caught on da run and brought back ta Cap’m Tucker. Word get round pretty quick-like she drown. It worried me, dat poor girl dead fa no reason and dem soldiers after our Miss Jane. Course, dey had no idea you took her off,” James grins. “I jess played it up real good . . . the family in mournin’. Dat seem ta work jess fine. I sho hopes you don’t mind, Massa Matt.”

  James Isaac had been a loyal and trusted member of their family for as long as Matthew could remember. Matthew quickly eased James’ concerns, praised him heartily for his quick action, and told him he did right by their family in his absence. He also made sure to correct his use of the title, Master, when addressing him. Matthew thanked James and said he knew it was meant out of respect following his father’s passing, but he felt Mister Hopkins, and the slave’s pet name for him, Mister Matt, in private would suffice.

  Age old traditions. He is not quite so sure they are fitting now.

  Shortly after arriving back in Savannah and at his father’s bidding, Matthew had taken the two-day ride out to his family’s Summerwood Plantation. What he found was unacceptable. Their homestead had so quickly fallen to disrepair, surviving on a thread. Cotton production and all trade cut off, crops unattended, their beautiful gardens and grounds half gone to vine and weed. Four chickens and an old rooster, a cow, and one sway-backed mare were all that was left of their livestock. What had been a thriving cotton plantation lies in potential ruin, having had the life sucked out of it.

  Matthew had released his overseer almost immediately. He found him living in the big house as master with young Jasmine, not but thirteen years old and heavy with child. Where was his Great Uncle Marcus? Marcus, his grandfather’s brother on his father’s side of the family, was too old to fight and had remained at their plantation with his Aunt to manage their affairs. Both are dead and without a single word to the family. Fever he was told took them along with three of their slaves.

  Upon raising issue with Summerwood’s overseer and his concubine, the young Jasmine fell all to pieces and, on her knees, begged Matthew for forgiveness, swearing up and down she was forced, “Jus kill me now Mistah Matt!” she wailed. “I be willin’ ta die and take my poor baby wit me ‘fore I live dis way.” It was a desperate and bold move in the presence of his overseer who, of course, denied everything and looked upon the hapless girl with murderous eyes.

  It crossed Matthew’s mind that the man was the type to pull the wings off a butterfly or kick a dog when no one was looking. It was easy to see the slaves scatter or take a wide berth whenever the man was around. How could his father and Uncle have put so much trust in this vile, neglectful ogre!

  It didn’t take Matthew long to decide on a course of action. He has known Jasmine as a good, hard-working girl. His instincts and the deep purple blotch on her cheek under her right eye told him clearly she was being truthful. Three generations of Jasmine’s family had served Summerwood over the many decades and his family had provided and cared for all of them.

  After privately speaking with the slaves closest to Jasmine — Jake, Keesa, and Keesa’ mother, Eve — it was discernible all three were unquestionably shaken and fearful for their lives. It became blatantly clear the damn man had overstepped the boundaries of decency and his authority on a number of fronts. He learned of several beatings with a whip. A revolting practice, which is expressly forbidden at Summerwood.

  In a heated confrontation, Matthew asked Mister Hicks to leave the property and to never return.

  After summing up the situation at Summerwood and as a rational means of survival, Matthew had given his slaves privy to what was left of the food in the family’s locked pantry and smokehouse, and exposed the whereabouts of the family arsenal. A stockpile of pistols, rifles, powder, mini-balls and round shot that is kept well hidden in a secret room in his father’s cellar. He had given the two strongest and more responsible males, Jasmine’s older brother, Justice, and their cousin Aggery, instructions on the use of weapons if ever his fired overseer came around, or for that matter, any Yankees happened upon their land. They are at war, Matthew explained and they have a right to defend themselves. This was their home as much as it was his.

  With news of emancipation, which spread like wildfire across the countryside and was on the lips of every slave, Matthew felt it only right to have done what he did. Most of the slaves who remained at Summerwood said they had no place to go. Most said this was their home and all they had ever known. And surprisingly, the majority seemed to hate the Yankees as much as he did.

  They told Matthew a small band of Federals came through looking for food and provisions four months prior and took most anything that wasn’t nailed down. Justice said they saved the chickens and two cows by running them off into the woods. “But dem dirty Yankees got our pigs and burned da stables outta plain meanness. Nobody wanted dat sorry ole horse,” Aggery added. “She too far gone in years. Don’t know what happen to da rest of da stock. Reckon dey been stolen or sold off one-by-one by Missah Hicks . . . or eaten.”

  As an answer to prayer, Matthew was able to hire a new overseer before departing Summerwood. Jason Roberts, a kind and resourceful man, seemed willing enough. After a serious injury to his shoulder and the loss of three fingers, he had come home from the war to the graves of his wife and babies.

  Jason, who was visibly leaner
and hardened by the absence of his family and more than a year of the worst kind of fighting in the army, said he was pretty sure it was a yellow fever outbreak that started it, “probably what took the lives of your Aunt and Uncle, and others round here.”

  The bodies of Mr. Roberts’ nine-year old son, Kit, and baby Cassidy rest in the cool shade of a lone oak that spreads its intricate web of roots through unturned soil and rotten vegetation on a hopelessly lost farm. Upon his return home, he was grieved to find his beloved wife, Julia, had soon followed the children, departing this world with their third child, who died in her womb. “Said her heart was pure broken. Just too weak from grief and hardship to carry on.”

  Unavoidable and unpredictable, so many lives had been altered, lost, ruined forever. When the war began, Matthew’s father had moved his family to their second home in Savannah where he felt they would be safe and receive more personal comfort in his absence. He promised his lovely Anna, who became alarmed and filled with foreboding, it was in her best interest and would only be for a few short months until “certain differences” could be resolved. Could any of them have known months would turn into years? Matthew is glad his father was spared the vision of their family plantation in a shambles.

  Matthew’s thoughts draw back to the present and more pressing issues at hand. His blood boils at the audacity of Captain Tucker. Especially since he had just spoken with the man! He was sure they had reached an accord, an understanding and now this. If it had not been for word of his father’s death that brought him home to attend to his family, who knows what would have happened!

  Matthew rolls his eyes upward to search for some unknown spot on the ceiling. Your timing is impeccable as always. His father was forever the great protector, even now in death. He remembers once, when he was a young boy, witnessing Henry James Hopkins’ protective instinct dramatically in action.

  On a breezy spring day, his father had decided to invite him along for a pleasant stroll to Chippewa Square, named of course after the Battle of Chippewa. It was a happy occasion when father and son shared time together. The landscape was bursting with color. The birds were singing and the greenery was in full bloom. The type of day Jane would cheekily call, “Awesome!”