Secret Way to the Heart

by Camille Regholec

  I am unsure of what news you are receiving way up North, but the majority of the South is in open rebellion. At 2:30 p.m., April thirteenth, Major Anderson surrendered Fort Sumter, evacuating the garrison on the following day. On April fifteenth, President Lincoln called for a 75,000 man militia to suppress the insurrection. This move provoked four remaining Southern states. On April seventeenth, Virginia seceded from the Union, quickly followed within days by Arkansas, Tennessee, and North Carolina. But not everyone is for this separation. In June, residents of the western counties of Virginia did not wish to secede along with the rest of the state, so that same month, the new state of West Virginia was born. Strangely, but thankfully, four slave states also decided to stay in the Union. Delaware, Kentucky, Maryland, and Missouri, despite their acceptance of slavery, did not join the Confederacy. I believe the political maneuvering and Union military pressure kept these states from seceding.

  I cannot leave this place at this time, and I am not sure how long it will take before this letter reaches you, if at all. I am assisting my friend Frances Polcher, who, as you know, is a well-respected writer of several works on the medicinal properties of plants. Despite all his pre-war responsibilities— Porcher had joined the Confederate Army at the war’s start—he was temporarily excused from field and hospital duty by the Confederate Surgeon General, Samuel Moore. Moore has assigned Frances to the important project of preparing a treatise on the indigenous plants of the South for the army. This list will also cover everything, including the manufacture of gunpowder from bat guano and saltpeter found in the thousands of caves dotting the South. Also, he is researching the production of paper from native reeds and, yes, native plants for the use of alternative medicine. I could be shot as a spy for telling you all this, but I find this research so interesting because it reminds me of my childhood with you, Mother, and with Aunt Hannah and how we would spend hours hunting for just the right herb so that someone could have relief. The only sad part is that I am not the researcher now but the recorder. The administration is unsure of me, but my position is secure because of my friendship with Frances, or at least it is until Clara returns and sounds the alarm. I am very surprised that it hasn’t happened yet, as so much time has gone past since her departure from you all.

  I know her family still awaits news of the child’s birth. I will pray for wisdom on how to handle this. I am sending this letter along with some baggage. Please take care of it for me. Keep me in your prayers as I will keep you in mine.

  Your loving son, Jim

  Chapter 11

  “Jim will continue to send runaways for as long as he is able,” Jayne's father said with awe in his voice. “I’d imagine he figures if the South should win, he will have freed many more than those people who stopped doing it because they believed the North would win.”

  “The North will win, Father!” Jayne stated firmly, her eyes blazing. “I think Jim is doing it so they can be free that much sooner.”

  “You could be right,” He commented, looking at Jayne. “Your brother is doing what he must for the good of many without thought of the consequences to himself. I am honored to be his father.”

  Life took on a resemblance of normalcy after Hannah’s death. Chores were done. Meals were prepared and eaten. Daily Scriptures were read and prayers lifted up. But there was an emptiness that seemed to intensify at the sight of Hannah’s favorite chair now empty by the hearth.

  For George, his anguish at the loss of his wife was painful to see. He sat for hours on the porch, silently staring off into the distance. His bowed back and sorrowful eyes attesting to his grief. A man of few words before, his lack of response was heartbreaking.

  George smiled wearily when Jayne sat down beside him one afternoon. He leaned his head against the porch post and closed his eyes. “I just want to be with my Hannah.”

  “Oh, George. Please don’t talk like that,” Jayne pleaded as she sat beside him. “We all miss her, too, but she wouldn’t want you to give up.”

  “What would I be giving up?” George gave a slight shake of his head as he raised one of his massive hands to scratch his chest. “Nothin’ means anythin’ without her.”

  “But . . .” Jayne became quiet as she contemplated the truth of the elderly man’s words.

  “I am an old man living a life not worth waking up for. What future do I have to look forward to?”

  Jayne sputtered, “God knows when it will be time and gives us the strength to endure it.”

  Not knowing how soon the loss would come, Jayne tried to help the elderly man to find purpose for living, but when a few short weeks later, George was found by Hannah’s grave, his own eyes closed in eternal sleep, it was not a surprise to anyone. Jayne’s father mourned deeply for the woman who had raised him almost his whole life, and the additional loss of his friend George seemed to sap away his energy. Jayne's mother spent hours softly trying to encourage him, but Jayne could see the couple’s deaths had taken a heavy toll on her fragile parent. Mary and Pete went off to work each day but in the evening talked about closing the eatery and moving away. Jacob and Caleb, their twin sons, spoke of going off to fight.

  “Why can we not fight to free our brothers and sisters trapped in bondage in the South?” Jacob stated angrily. ”There are many of us willing to fight. Why will they reject willing men from serving?”

  “Are we not free in this state to do what we believe is right?” Caleb continued his twin brother’s complaint. “The paper said, ‘New York Says No to African American Soldiers.’ How can anyone stop a citizen from joining?”

  “It appears you are only free in your own backyard,” Mary replied, her voice heavy with bitterness. “Those who are in control really don’t want you to learn how to shoot a man, especially a white one.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Jayne began. “If you are free—?”

  “Says who?” Mary asked through gritted teeth.

  “God,” Jayne blurted out.

  “Then God forgot to tell the white men who lead this state, and the South as well.”

  David Moses was the only brightness to be found in their days. A happy child, he made everyone smile when he was present. David Moses rarely cried during the day, for all wanted to hold him. With beautiful green eyes surrounded by thick black eyelashes and a halo of reddish-blond curls, he looked so similar to Jayne that one could almost believe he was her own child.

  With the many new chores she was learning as a surrogate mother, Jayne forced all thought of Clara’s claim on him from her mind during the day. It was only at night, when the baby woke her out of the deepest slumber with his wail from the cradle by the foot of her bed that the images of Clara’s face, twisted with hate, would flash through Jayne’s mind. The child’s cries to be changed or fed did not disturb her as much as the fear that Clara might return to snatch David Moses from her.

  Not used to nightly disturbances, Jayne was quickly becoming exhausted. One night, as she stumbled out of bed, her mother came to the door.

  “Go warm his milk, and I will change him. And take your time. He will survive.”

  Jayne sleepily did as she was told and, when she returned, found her mother had finished changing him and was singing softly into his ear as she held him and rocked back and forth in the chair by Jayne’s bed. Jayne remembered the scent of her mother’s soap. For just a moment, Jayne was transported back in her mind to the days when she had been a child in her mother’s arms. Though she could not recall being as young as David Moses, Jayne knew in her heart that what she was witnessing had occurred in her own life.

  “Mother?” Jayne sat on the edge of her bed and handed over the warmed bottle. Her mother tested the temperature of the bottle’s contents before placing the nipple into the waiting mouth of the child.

  “Mmmm?” So intent was her mother on the task at hand, she barely acknowledged Jayne.
Suddenly, Jayne wondered how her mother had felt at the deaths of Jayne’s older siblings. The idea of anything happening to David Moses terrified her.

  “Mother, I have to ask you something.”

  “What is it, dear?” her mother lifted her eyes to look at her, giving Jayne her full attention.

  “How is it I love this child so much that I quake at the thought of any harm coming to him and yet . . . and yet his own mother could reject him so completely?”

  Jayne reached out and lightly fingered the sleep bonnet on her nephew’s head. “I truly cannot understand it.”

  “God knows, Clara may today be regretting her choices,” her mother said, patting her daughter’s hand. “But your love for this child is a gift from God you fully accepted.”

  “Accepted?”

  “Your heart was—is—big enough to love a child not your own. Not everyone can do that. Your father also has such a heart. He accepted Lil’ Jim.”

  “But, Mother, “Jayne protested, “it isn’t hard to love this little one!”

  “Sorry to say, for some people it is,” She replied, putting the bottle aside and lifting the fussing child to her shoulder to burp him. “But you have lived among people whose hearts were always full to overflowing with love.

  “Hannah was a perfect example of such a heart.” She smiled sadly. “She freely gave love to those around her, no matter who they were. She loved your father, she loved me and my children, and she loved Mary, Pete, and all the little ones that came from them. None of us were of her body, but we all were blessed with her love.”

  “That doesn’t explain Clara,” Jayne said. “David Moses was from her body! How could she not love him?”

  “Not all women love their children at birth. Usually those feelings of disconnect leave, and the motherly love comes in.” She went back to feeding the baby. “She was raised in a different world, and her heart was torn between power and prestige. She was spoiled and wanted to stay that way. She was in a place of perceived enemies, and she had just found out her own husband was betraying her and her whole lifestyle. One must forgive her for reacting the way she did.”

  “Forgive her?” Jayne almost choked on the words. “How can you talk about forgiving the woman who not only abandoned your grandson but is the cause of a dear friend’s death and will probably alert the authorities about your own son?”

  “Forgiveness is a matter of choice,” Jayne's mother commented. “Just as hate is a choice.”

  Dear loving family,

  Clara returned just days after my last letter, and for the moment, she has said nothing other than she lost the child. I want to scream the truth that he lives and breathes, but sharing such knowledge may eventually bring harm to him. I thank God I took the time to pray before announcing my son’s birth. My wife returned to her father’s plantation and refuses to speak to me. They all believe she is in mourning and will eventually return to my home, but I saw the look in her eyes, which she made no attempt to mask. What she plans for the future only God and she knows.

  Exhaustion is setting in. I have no idea how long the Lord plans on this situation to continue. One part of me moves and smiles and talks as if all is well, but deep down within me is a voice crying out, “Help me! Save me from this terrible time.”

  Please do not ask me to stop what I have been called to do. Do not remind me of your love for me. I do what I do because of that love. Do not tell me of my sister’s need for my protection and guidance. Or of my abandoned son and how he needs his father. Jane still has her family around her as does my precious child, David Moses. Jane will mother him, and the rest of you will teach him all he needs to grow up loving God, his family, and his fellow man.

  Do not ask me to return before an end is accomplished. What kind of father would I be if I let other children become pieces of merchandise while I safely kiss my son good night? What kind of world would I leave him in if I did not do all I could to sew up the wounds of an injured country? Kiss my son for me. Hold him close. Tell him of my love, but mostly tell him about Jesus. I want to rest assured that if we do not meet on this earth, I will greet him one day in heaven.

  Know that a part of me is still with you, loving and praying for you all. God bless you.

  Your loving son, Lil’ Jim

  Chapter 12

  The sunlight shone through the church’s clear windows, the wavy texture of the sand glass causing the floor to carry a patchwork of rippling light. It was early fall, and the mornings were chilly, so Jayne adjusted the little jacket that David Moses wore over his white dress. She quickly walked up the aisle on the women’s side and took her usual seat. Since she’d temporally stopped baking for Mary, Jayne only could socialize before service, as long as David Moses didn’t fuss. Having to slip out during service because he decided to wail was embarrassing, but most of the women just smiled as she rushed out.

  “It’ll get easier when they stop fussing,” Jayne had been told once by a group of older women.

  “Really? That happens?” Jayne smiled in remembrance of her innocent response. “At what age is that usually?”

  “When they turn eighteen years old and get married.” They’d all roared with laughter. “Then his wife gets to take care of him.”

  Jayne continued to smile as she straightened her shawl and greeted her neighbors, who leaned over the pews to get a peek at the “little man.”

  For a moment, Jayne was silently amazed that no one ever inquired about the child’s parent. Jayne realized Clara’s sharp, biting comments directed toward the members of this church had not endeared her to any of them. Jayne prayed that she would one day be able to forgive Clara. Just the very thought of her sister-in-law’s name caused heat to rise upon Jayne’s neck and face. In fact, Jayne found it difficult to really think about anything lately, her emotions swinging between gray despair at the loss of Hannah and George, cold fear for her brother’s safety, and red hot fury in relation to the person who was the root of it all.

  “What a beautiful child you have, ma’m.”

  Jayne’s head jerked around, and all thoughts of Clara temporarily disappeared as her gaze lifted to look into Reverend Jeremiah Bronson’s startling golden-hazel eyes. It had been six months since she last saw him, and Jayne caught her breath as she stared at his rugged face. From the startled look in his eyes, he clearly had only focused on the child, and seeing he now spoke to Jayne seemed to confuse him.

  He appeared exceptionally fit for a preacher, his tall, sturdy body solid within his black frock coat. The runaway curl of his brown hair falling across his broad forehead was mesmerizing. His wide smile brightened his face as well as his eyes, and heat rose once again up onto Jayne’s cheeks as she realized he was speaking and she had not heard a word he’d said.

  But his Southern accent, so reminiscent of Clara’s, made the hair rise on the back of her neck. She was being irrational due to the fact that she had not seen him since before Clara gave birth—it still stung her pride that he’d been the one who’d snubbed her on those previous occasions!

  “I asked you to forgive my lack of manners, miss,” the man replied, making Jayne wonder in horror if she had spoken out loud. She saw him trying to catch a glimpse of her ring finger, but it was underneath David Moses. Jayne kept her hand hidden.

  “As Providence would have it, I have been asked to fill the pulpit this blessed Sunday, and for the next several ones, as the reverend has been called into service in Connecticut to bury a loved one and marry off another.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Jayne replied, her voice cool.

  “Sorry about what, Miss Jayne?” Jeremiah asked, a brighter twinkle coming to his eyes as he watched her, her skin no doubt growing a deeper shade of red. “Sorry that the preacher is in Connecticut? That a loved one died, that he is performing the marriage service of another, or the fact I am fil
ling in for him while he is out of the area?”

  “Well, I never!” Jayne huffed, angry with herself for letting him get the best of her. She wanted so desperately to say something sharp to cut him down in size, but her mother’s approach had Jayne temporarily holding her tongue.

  “I apologize for my rudeness.” He frowned as if embarrassed at his own words. For a moment he looked as if he could not imagine why he’d spoken.

  “How are you, sir?” Jayne's mother asked, breaking the awkward silence. “I have just heard that you are filling in for the reverend, and I wanted to invite you to Sunday supper after service.”

  “It is a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. van Hoyton, and I accept your kind invitation.” Jeremiah bowed slightly, moving aside to let Jayne's mother enter the pew before returning his attention to Jayne. “You are well, uh, miss? Or is it m’am now?”

  Jayne made room for her mother to pass her and the child, so she could converse with the woman seated in the pew behind them, before she corrected him sharply. “I am Miss van Hoyton, sir.”

  “Oh.” For a moment, a mixture of emotions seem to cross the man’s face as he looked from Jayne to the baby sleeping in her arms. “And this is . . .?”