by Barbara Best
Matthew and his father had stopped at the corner of Bull and Liberty to wait for the B. R. Hastings’ Ice Wagon to pass, its frozen commodity brought in on ships to Savannah’s port from New England. On the opposite side of the busy street an elderly lady with a cane was walking at a snails pace with two young girls on each arm assisting her progress. Matthew guessed the girls were only a year or two younger than he, possibly seven or eight, and the woman, possibly their nanny, although she looked a bit old for the position. A faithful and rather large shepherd padded happily along beside them.
One of the little girls was stroking and patting the back of the contented animal when, out of nowhere chaos ensued. From down the block hurtled a powerful mongrel, barking and snarling loudly, and primed for a fight. Swiftly the animal lunged at the shepherd, who sprang back at him in a snarling, furious rage. The two dogs pounced and snapped with bared teeth, growling and barking ferociously in a life or death struggle.
What happened next was even worse. Instead of removing themselves from the mayhem the elderly woman began to wildly thrash her cane at their attacker, while the two hysterical girls desperately clung to her, their ghastly shrieks and sobs mixed with wild, furious barks and growls. The noise was loud and shocking.
Somewhere amidst that frightening sound, Matthew’s father was instantly roused to an enraged defensive action. With a crisp order, “Wait here,” he crossed the street. In route, he had managed somehow to strip his jacket off and in the same fluid motion roll up the newspaper he had carried to use as a club.
In seconds he was upon them. His father stepped between the terrified woman and two girls and began pelting the dogs with all he had to separate them and chase off the attacker. Soon others were there to aid his defense, yet to all of them, there was no doubt his brave father intervened, single-handedly, without a thought for his own safety.
In his death, he protects them still. If the terrible news of his father’s passing was not delivered at the perfect hour, Matthew would not have gone to Susan’s, nor would he have been out in the streets on that particular night to witness the burning church and hear the clear warning Jane was in harms way.
Yes, an inappropriate, egregious abuse of power! So far the impropriety of the unwelcome visit by two armed soldiers at their residence has been kept from his mother, who remains inconsolable in her grief and confined to her bed.
By the time Matthew returned from Mrs. Marshall’s the intruders had been shooed away and his household was in preparation for mourning. Mirrors are covered in each room and windows are draped in black crepe. The pendulum in the old grandfather clock in his father’s library has been silenced. Food from all their friends and neighbors had begun to arrive. Customs he never quite understood nor had much patience for.
When he said something to that effect, Tessie reminded him in no uncertain terms, “Dis jess be da way of things, Mistah Matt. You know dat. Miz Anna be terrible sad. Dis bring back all da pain from when her sweet baby girl, your sister, died. She so grief-stricken, it scare ole Tessie! No, we don’t have Massa Hopkins here wit us to lay to rest proper, but he be here in spirit. We can go through da motions to honor him jess da same.”
Tessie always had a way of pointing out one’s shallowness, “I do believe you are wise for your years, Tessie dear. And we had best hang on to our Southern traditions and beliefs because, when it all boils down, this bond and conduct we share may be all we have left to build anew.”
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
This night is foiled, a folly, a disaster. Lou absentmindedly rubs the deformed reminder of his defected arm and pours another drink. The golden brown liquid sloshes out of his cup onto the surface of his desk, darkening a number of deep scratches in the wood. He is in foul temper, returning to headquarters from the church beaten at his game. Another bad hand has been dealt him, played out and lost.
Lou presses the palm of his hand hard against the lid of his eye, hard enough to see stars and wipe out the searing-hot blaze that had burned a lasting image. Every time he closes his eyes Lou can see the steeple, a white-hot torch of resinous woods illuminating the night sky. By the time they got to the church, flames were already leaping out windows and doors, crawling up the outer walls like a living, breathing thing. He watched half the roof cave in as he sat his horse in stunned silence. His lips clamped tight to keep his aroused tongue from spewing a string of expletives. He was sure his small operation had the element of surprise. Everything was going according to plan, yet somehow he had been found out. All trace of evidence, of harbored fugitives and hidden tunnels . . . up in smoke. Completely destroyed and decisively ended.
Then to add insult to injury, Lieutenant Galley and Private Paget returned empty handed. Miss Peterson seems to have eluded him as well this night. Their failure to carry out his direct orders to bring her in for questioning made him so furious, if he had had his colt revolver strapped to his hip, he would have shot the two bearers of this sorry news on the spot.
It is not like he hasn’t shot a man before. In a war, killing on a massive scale is permissible, and he has done his share, all under the guise of moral conviction, just cause and duty. Years of fighting have made him cold and hard; killing has become easy. Lou marvels at his own crassness and vaguely remembers he wasn’t always like this. There was a time when he could see the fear in the other person’s eyes, the sweat on their brow and sickening pain in their face. He would retch uncontrollably at the sight of life’s blood spurting, and cringe at the sound of their desperate cries for mercy. Somewhere along the line the human element, the connection to his own kind has become twisted. Killing has become just plain killing, a deadly act without remorse or care of consequence.
Lou swirls the liquid around, swallows down and fills his glass for the third time. The sedating effect gradually begins to take hold and he feels the pressures of the evening ease a bit. He tilts back in his chair, props his boots up, and closes his eyes, willing the scorching arcs of burning white away.
What starts as a timid tap, becomes a persistent, irritating knock to get his attention. “Sir. Cap’m Tucker, sir. A word with you please, sir.” the muffled voice carries through the door.
“Go away!” Lou snarls. Where in tarnation is my orderly? He had given strict orders not to be disturbed.
“But sir, please! You will want to see this sir. It’s Corporal Donnelly, sir.”
Lou slams his cup down on the desk, hard enough to chip the edge and glares at the door. “Well, come in, goddammit. No need to break the door down.”
He recognizes the young man when he pushes up from his chair and returns the salute. “What time is it, Corporal?” Lou can hear his own hoarse voice as if detached from his body, yet he is not so numb that he cannot function. He is curious why the Corporal would break chain of command.
“One o’clock in the morning, sir. I just got off duty, sir.” Sizing up the situation, Sean is not so sure coming directly to Captain Tucker was one of his better ideas. That rascal Gus had flat out refused to go inside with him. No amount of coaxing or bribery would change his mind.
Lou notices something in the Corporal’s hand. With his curiosity peaked, he decides to forego giving him a severe dressing down for not reporting to his Sergeant first. The soldier’s conduct will not be tolerated and disciplinary action is warranted. But it can wait.
“So, what is so hell-fired important.” Lou barks, coming around his desk and pushing past the Corporal who flinches reflexively as if he were about to be struck.
Lou strides purposeful through the doorway of his office and discovers his orderly propped back in a chair against a wall, snoring loudly. He walks over and kicks the boy’s boot with such force, the surprised orderly flies back, arms flailing, which tips the chair and sends both chair and man crashing to the floor.
Satisfied, Lou returns to his office, closing the door behind him. “At ease, son.” Lou abandons his drink and gives the Corporal his full attention.
Sean is literally sh
aking in his boots by now, made mute from the loud ruckus that ricocheted off walls and sent a cold chill up his spine. The Captain’s orderly musta just got the shit knocked out of him . . . and he could be next. All Sean can think to do is hold the black pouch out as an offering when the Captain storms back into the room.
“And what do we have here?” Lou snatches the odd shaped item with straps hanging from each end. He flips it over and then back again, puzzled. “Let’s have a look.” Lou motions to the table that was built waist high, that he would never admit is most useful with his affliction. He lays the item flat and smoothes the lettering. Nike. “Just don’t stand there like an imbecile! What the blazes is it?”
Sean feels another jolt of fear, which he pushes back down into the pit of his stomach where it does a number of uncomfortable flips. “Well I . . . well sir I, I was on duty tonight. You see sir . . . on the east end of the wharf, I seen Gus out there . . . out on that ole abandoned dock, a broke-down ramp . . . the one out on the deserted end. Well, he was lookin’ mighty peculiar . . . like . . . like he was up ta something. You see, sir, I . . . I caught him. He was stuffing that there pouch into his haversack for one thing.” The truth spiels out so fast Sean is dumb out of air. Not exactly as he planned. Why, he is stammering as bad as ole Gus.
“Take it easy, son.” Lou tones down the biting edge in his voice. The boy is about to soil his britches. “Gus who?”
Sean takes a deep breath and begins again, “Gus Maguire, sir. In the moonlight it looked as if he was rolling somethin’ pretty big into the river. I caught part of it with me own eyes. I didn’t know it was a body ta be sure, but I guessed right. By the time I got down there, that fella Gus . . . he had hidden this here thing. Right there it says Nike. We thought that might be the woman’s name.”
“Hold on. Woman?” Lou bends over and sticks his favorite figurado from earlier in the day into the flame of a lit candle and puffs a cloud of smoke. He takes a serious draw, rolls the cigar to the far side of his mouth and chomps down to hold it in place. He reaches over and turns the lantern in the center of the table up for more light and to have a better look at the unusual object in front of him.
“Yes sir. Gus found a woman floating in the river by the pilings under that old broke-down dock and pulled her up. She was wearing this here thing all tight round her waist. Said he had to cut it off her. Cut it right there. Don’t know how that buckle works.”
Sean relaxes some, as the Captain seems to be more interested in the flavor of his smoke. He is unaware that, although preoccupied, the man is not missing a detail of his account.
“Well sir, we ain’t ever heard of a woman named Nike before. Figured it had to be her name ‘cause it’s on this here thing. Them letters and the mark there are a rare sight . . . they stay all lit up in the dark somehow. That sure got my attention. All lit up . . . like them fireflies I used to catch at night when I was a boy. But what was even more peculiar, is what’s inside here.”
“In the river you say?” Lou leans in to get a closer look.
“Yes sir. Right as I came along, Gus had shoved the thing back into the water. There was no sign of her once I got down there. Said she was stinkin’ in a bad way.”
“How do you open it?” Lou is sure to keep his one hand occupied, and rolls the cigar between his fingers. It is something he has learned to do when he feels challenged and unable to perform what would be a simple task for any whole man. Saves him from humiliation. Saves him from anger that smolders like hot coals. Right now it is all he can do to keep from snatching the garment up and ripping it open with his teeth. The old familiar frustration of uselessness finds its way to the surface. It always does.
Sean is good and cautious, not wanting to overstep. He holds still until the Captain gives him the nod to demonstrate the mechanism that opens the pouch. “I have no idea what makes this thing work like it does. If you pull this here metal pick, it slides open. See? Pretty easy, if I do say so.” Sean proudly holds the pouch open wide, and waits for the Captain’s instructions before he places everything out on the table.
Lou rests his cigar on the edge of the wooden surface, where there are already a number of burn marks, and studies the contents in front of him. He unfolds the brown paper by shaking it out and begins to read. “Just where do you think you were going, Miss . . . uh,” Lou is immediately stunned by the name and lifts the sheet almost up to his nose. Marela Néve . . . Madame Néve! It can’t be possible!
He turns the sheet over and then back again. Looks official and contains the woman’s name all right. Plain as day, the name is handwritten as is appropriate for this kind of travel document. Good condition. In fact, it is completely dry and shows no sign of moisture damage.
How in tarnation did the document stay intact if it spent time in water? Lou peers up at the corporal with questioning brows. “This was in the river with the woman? You are positive?”
“It was some sort of container that kept it dry, sir. We lost it over the side.” Sean doesn’t go into a full explanation of the clear pliable glass he lost in the confusion.
“Well, she was sure on her way somewhere. Guilty of some glaring misdeed and headed upriver to that Yankee stronghold, would be my guess . . . uhhh.” Harrumph, Lou coughs realizing he is talking too much. Late hours and one too many. He looks up, “That will be all for now, Corporal. Fine work. Get some rest.” As an afterthought, “Oh, and Corporal, not one word of this to anyone, ya hear.”
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir . . . good night, sir.” Sean snaps a salute and exits the room, more than anxious to be gone and finished with the disturbing affair.
Lou spreads the new Union greenbacks out across the surface of the table. A number of two and ten dollar notes, Washington, United States of America, August 1862. There’s seven 20s and six 50s, dated December 2, 1862 and a few smaller denominations. Out of the river and dry as bone. Makes him wonder about that line he’s just been fed. Must be almost $500 here. “A small fortune for a worthless, no-nothing oracle.”
Lou wonders how the woman had met her demise. Maybe one of those underground tunnels running out to the river, but he has no idea. At first light, he will lead a small group of his men down to the wharf to investigate. Current’s bad enough to drag a body a long ways by dawn, but it is worth a try. He wants to see for himself. In daylight, maybe they will find something else.
Lou neatly stacks Madame Néve’s Union notes, impressed with the amount, and reaches for the black pouch to take another look inside.
There appears to be a small pocket under a flap that has been overlooked. He goes to his desk to fetch his spectacles and slides them on. With two fingers on his one hand he manages to pry the flap open. It makes a crackling, tearing sound and is held tightly together with some kind of material, rigid and pointy on one side and smooth and fuzzy on the other. Let’s see now.
Two fingers are about all that will fit through the opening and Lou can feel something cool, but he is awkward and can’t quite get hold of whatever it is. He finally takes the pouch and shakes it vigorously. A tinkle and a flash of something streaks across the table, quick as lightning, onto the floor. It makes its way to the brick stoop of the fireplace, hits with a ping, and does a little rolling dance before settling.
Lou picks up his lantern to follow with determined curiosity. Stooping down, the lantern casts a light. There, laying flat on the floor is the engraved image of Lincoln — the Great Emancipator himself. A low-pitched, deep rumbling cackle breaks free in the silence and coils around Lou’s heart, making his chest hurt. The very sound of it negates his sanity. “I’ll be goddamned!” He says through clenched teeth. Lou sets the lantern back on the table, pushes his glasses up on his nose and reaches down to retrieve the round object.
If truth be told, Lou is a might tired of surprises this night and even more, entirely frustrated and devastated in discovering this final piece of evidence in the wrong hands. It is not where he had expected it to be, and wouldn’t you know, the in
dividual who possessed it is bobbing lifeless in the river somewhere. Foil and folly! Lou rolls the coin between his fingers and snorts back another nasty chortle. “It appears you are off the hook once again, my dear Miss Peterson,” he spits.
This is no piece of eight that crazy runaway slave was babbling about. Just another damn Yankee token is all. Looks to be copper. Interesting. Lou has never seen a coin like this, but that’s nothing new. He had heard government-issued cents had become so scarce because of rampant hoarding that citizens up north are privately minting their own style currency. Lou peers closer at the markings. ONE CENT, new and shiny, with some kind of columned structure, the façade of a building on the back, and stamped round the top, United States of America. He flips it over in his hand to the Lincoln side again for other markings and holds it up close to focus on four digits. Two-zero-one-two. “Well if that don’t beat the Dutch!”
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
“I do declare, these old bones are getting too old to travel. They are about to rattle to pieces!” Mary’s words hiccup as they drop with a heavy thud and sway back and forth. She can just make out the profile of her young friend, who has been staring out the window of their carriage for some time. It is not like Jane to be so still.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Mary’s heart goes out to the girl who sits across from her. “I simply cannot go another moment without saying how sorry I am for you, child. It pains me to think . . . all this time. How you must miss your family and your home. I only wish I had known.”
Jane had been watching the moon cast spooky shadows on a passing landscape as it peeked in and out of ghostly, fast-moving clouds. She can sense the humidity; a change in barometric pressure that sometimes gives her a mild headache. “It feels like rain.”
