by Karen White
“I volunteer my mom,” Beth said, handing the book up front to her mother. “I’m finally over my morning sickness, and I’m not excited at the prospect of feeling nauseous again.”
Tish took the book with an exaggerated sigh. “I guess I’ll do it. Hang on while I find my readers.”
I concentrated on driving while she dug into her enormous purse that looked more like a duffel bag. “Have you heard anything more from the archaeological institute about the remains I found?”
She clapped her hands down on her purse. “I knew I was forgetting something! I swear I’m having sympathy pregnancy symptoms with Beth, because I barely seem to be able to remember my own name most days.” She closed her eyes briefly as if to compose herself. “Yes, Dr. Hirsch called yesterday afternoon. I would have called you immediately, but a bride came into the store and I spent two hours with her and her fiancé discussing their wedding. I’d completely forgotten until now.”
“What did he say?”
“The groom?”
“Mom!” came the groan from the backseat, and I had to smile.
“Oh, right. Sorry. You mean Dr. Hirsch. Well, they’ve been excavating the grave, and it’s pretty clear it’s not part of the Smith Plantation cemetery, because it’s too far away. They’re thinking the body was placed in a relatively isolated spot on purpose. They’re going to try to bring in some imaging equipment to see if they can find anything else, maybe even other remains, but that could take a while.”
Her cheeks puffed out slightly, as if she were holding on to a secret, and I wanted to squash them with the flats of my hands like my brothers had always done to me. Instead, I kept my hands firmly on the steering wheel and asked, “So why do they think it was put there instead of the cemetery?”
“Because,” she said, drawing the word out slowly. “Remember I told you that they found skull fragments? Well, they also found a bullet among the fragments and what looks to be the edge of a small hole in one of the bone pieces. The British occupation was completely peaceful—if you don’t count looting and the release of slaves—and there were no documented casualties. So it looks like this was an isolated incident, and maybe even one that was covered up or overlooked.”
“Really?” I asked. “But how could a war casualty—especially one in a peaceful occupation—be overlooked?”
Her eyes gleamed, and I wondered whether she’d missed her true calling as an archaeologist or historian. “The metal ball found with the skull fragment was too small to have come from a musket—so it probably came from a pistol. Both were standard-issue to both armies at the time, but the pistol was used for closer combat. But as there was no combat on the island, it begs the question, doesn’t it?”
“Are you saying they think it could have been foul play?”
“They’re thinking it’s a possibility. But the lead ball isn’t the most interesting thing they found in the grave.”
Again she paused, but it was Beth this time who interjected. “Mom—just tell us already!”
“Well, it looks like the remains of a medical bag were also buried near the body. Of course, it would be too hard to tell if it belonged to the person or was just thrown in there, but they do seem to be from the same era. The leather of the bag is completely disintegrated, but the metal tools inside are mostly intact.”
I frowned, remembering something I’d seen in the book. “Beth—flip to the index pages and find the section on James Madison’s War—which is just another name for the War of 1812. There’s a sketch of a British doctor tending to a child. I’m wondering if there’s any mention of a name or regiment or something we can use for reference when we’re in the archives.”
She flipped through the pages and then began to read when she found it. “‘A surgeon of the Royal Marines tends to a young child suffering from malaria. He is credited with saving at least one life during their short stay in February of 1815 before their evacuation on March first following the signing of the Treaty of Ghent.’”
I remembered reading the same passage, and smelling the strong scent of wet wool. “How could there have been a malaria outbreak in February? Doesn’t that come from mosquitoes?”
Tish nodded. “Yes, but some forms of the disease, if not completely cured, will remain dormant and will then crop up later. I think the longest dormancy is something like thirty years, but I think a single year is more likely.”
I nodded, thinking I’d had this conversation before. “What would they have treated it with in 1815?”
Tish pursed her lips as she thought. “You’re trying my feeble memory here, but I don’t think quinine was developed until afterward. I’m thinking they were still using Peruvian bark—not very easy to come by, unless you’re a British surgeon with a stock of medicines you’ve brought back from the homeland, where there’s an active trade going on with the suppliers on another continent.” She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “I know Pierce Butler, the husband of the actress Fanny Kemble, who owned Hampton Point Plantation, died here of malaria after the Civil War. Definitely a disease that crosses social lines.”
I shivered, thinking how lucky I was that mosquitoes had never liked me, and how such a simple thing as blood that mosquitoes found unappealing could have been a lifesaver in another time.
Beth’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “It doesn’t give a name.”
I nodded. “But it does say he was a surgeon in the Royal Marines. Maybe we can find a list of the surgeons or other medical personnel that were with the British regiments stationed on St. Simons.”
“Under Admiral Cockburn’s command,” said Tish, squaring her shoulders. “I do know my St. Simons history. And don’t forget we do have the two initials that were carved on the tombstone—T and E. Dr. Hirsch has better access to that kind of information than we do. If we don’t find more information today, I can at least ask him to check to see if there are any names that match those initials.”
“Aren’t Dr. Hirsch’s people doing their own search?” Beth asked.
Tish raised her eyebrows. “His ‘people’? They’re so underfunded right now that he practically wept with gratitude when I told him what we were doing today. He did have an intern call ahead for us—something I would probably have forgotten to do—to have files pulled before we get there, which will save us a lot of time.”
She stuck her readers on her nose, then pulled out an iPad from her purse. “They don’t allow pens or purses or backpacks in the archives, but they will allow laptops and tablets to take notes on.” She reached into her large tote bag and took out two of her yellow notepads and two pencils. “These are for you.”
I glanced down at her iPad screen and watched as she typed in list format, “T.E., Royal Marines, 1815.” Then “ague,” “malaria,” and “War of 1812.”
“What’s ague?” Beth asked, reading over her mother’s shoulder.
“It’s what they called malaria back then,” Tish said.
“Don’t forget Geoffrey Frazier,” I said. “Or any mention of the last name Frazier.”
I kept my gaze focused on the road, listening to Tish type the eight letters, feeling sick and exhilarated at the same time.
I found a parking spot on the street a block away from Hodgson Hall on Whitaker, where the Georgia Historical Society housed its archives. As we climbed the steep steps of the Italianate building, Beth said, “They have the Demere family Bible here, but mostly just random collections of papers from the various St. Simons founding families.” She held one of the large wooden doors open, and Tish and I stepped into the air-conditioned space before her.
In a lower voice, Beth continued. “I’m afraid that most if not all of the stuff we’ve requested is noncirculating and not on microfiche, which means we’ll be here for a long time. I’d suggest we each grab a box and jot down any names we come across, then cross-reference against the names on the list we compiled on Tish’s iPad.”
As soon as we entered the great hall, my gaze went upward t
o the soaring three-story-high ceilings, before settling on the inscription on the wall above the main entrance: NO FEASTING, DRINKING, AND SMOKING OR AMUSEMENTS OF ANY KIND WILL BE PERMITTED WITHIN ITS WALLS.
“They really make history fun,” Beth said with a smirk as Tish walked past us to the main desk to show her photo ID and register.
We checked our bags, then made our way to the green-floored reading room. It was a long, rectangular room with tall ceilings and large, arched windows encircling the mezzanine area at the top, while bookshelves stood sentry along the walls in the lower portion of the room. Long wooden tables with lamps marched down the center. The room was empty except for an elderly gentleman poring over a thick book with a magnifying glass, a notepad and pencil nearby, and a librarian sitting at the large desk nestled between the tables. A nameplate identified her as Cathy Blanco. She gave us a stern look as we passed, just in case we were even thinking about talking too loudly. As if on cue, the three of us checked our cell phones to make sure the ringers were off.
We settled ourselves at the last table just as our research materials were delivered—four large boxes of bound and cataloged papers. Tish settled her iPad on its stand in front of us so we could refer to her notes while each of us claimed a box.
“Whoever gets done first gets the fourth box,” Beth said.
“Oh, boy,” I said, then put a finger to my lips to indicate to Beth that Cathy Blanco was watching us. I turned to my box and lifted out the first folder and settled it in front of me. With a breath of anticipation, I waited for my two table companions to do the same; then I opened the first folder and began to read.
Three hours later, with a crick in my neck and stiff shoulders, I looked up at Tish and Beth. From their expressions and empty notepads I had a strong suspicion that their frustration matched my own. The name Frazier was mentioned several times, but never Geoffrey’s name, or any other name that seemed familiar to me or that appeared on Tish’s list. There was also nothing referencing a malaria outbreak or the British occupation. I knew the odds were against our finding a mention in what remained of letters from two hundred years ago, but nevertheless I’d been optimistic. I was beginning to agree with Matthew: that somehow my very vivid imagination had conjured a different world and peopled it with characters whose names I’d seen somewhere but didn’t recall.
I dropped my pencil on my pad and pushed the hair off of my face. “All we have here is correspondence between the plantation families on St. Simons, and all of their household papers. If our T.E. was murdered, I doubt somebody would have put it in a letter or kept a receipt for his headstone.” I rubbed my eyes, which made them feel even grittier. I slid my chair back. “I just refuse to leave here empty-handed.”
I walked over to the reference desk and the librarian looked up. She appeared to be older than me, yet I noticed that she had an earbud stuck into her left ear and what sounded like a tinny version of Pearl Jam leaking out the other bud.
With a single, efficient movement, she removed the earbuds, then slipped them into her desk drawer. “May I help you?” she whispered.
I nodded, trying to look more confident than I felt. “Do you have any old books, like nineteenth century, about legends or ghost stories of St. Simons?” I scanned my brain for any other source of literature that might have a nonfictional event at its core. “Or even poetry,” I added.
“One moment,” she said, and her fingers began to tap quickly on her computer keyboard. “We have quite a few books on those subjects that have been published in the last fifty years,” she offered.
“No, unless those are reprints of books originally printed in the nineteenth century. I’m looking for firsthand accounts or writings.”
Her pink-tipped fingers again dashed across the keyboard. “We have A Concise and Thorough History of St. Simons Island by Richard Stanley Kobylt,” she said, her eyes reflecting the blue screen.
“I actually already have that one. Anything else?”
Her fingers tap-tapped again on the keyboard. “We also have a volume of verses penned by Royal Marines while stationed along the coast during the War of 1812.” She squinted at the screen. “It was published in London in 1820, and we have a single copy. Looks like it was a donation from the Smith collection.” She looked up at me. “Would you like to see that?”
I was only half listening, my mind trying to come up with new avenues of research. When I realized she’d asked me a question, I said, “Oh, yes. Sure. Thank you.”
She tapped a few keys. “It will take a few minutes, but somebody will bring it out to you shortly.” She opened a large drawer and drew something out and handed it to me. I looked down and saw that it was a bifold brochure. “If you’re interested in St. Simons history, you might want to take a look at the Smith collection at the Savannah History Museum. It’s not far from here, although you’ll need to take your car. You might find it helpful.”
I looked down at the brochure, where the portrait of an older man in profile dominated the front. His white sideburns were worn long, his high cravat touching his jawline. It was clear that in his younger years, Mr. Smith would have been a very handsome man, even by today’s standards.
Cathy Blanco stood to see the brochure better. “Sort of like an older George Clooney, huh? Pretty successful gentleman, too. He owned a medium-size but very profitable cotton plantation on St. Simons at the beginning of the nineteenth century. He ended up selling everything, then moving to Boston with his son and a freed slave. I believe his son came back to St. Simons, and it must have been his descendants who made the donation to the museum. You’ll have to visit the exhibition to learn all the details.” Her teeth parted in what I assumed was a librarian’s grin, as if she were afraid that if she smiled too much it would be like speaking too loudly. “Unfortunately, this job means I know very little about quite a bit.”
I held up the brochure. “Well, you’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”
I returned to the table and the last batch of letters from the fourth box, getting up again to retrieve the book that had been delivered to the front desk. The cover, gently worn but definitely old, was in a mauve-brown cloth with gilt titles on the front and spine: A Collection of Verse. I thought of Mr. Kobylt’s book and realized that book marketing in the nineteenth century didn’t include catchy book titles.
Carefully, I opened the cover, the scent of dust and years wafting out from between the covers. I gently flipped through the pages, skimming amateurish and melodramatic prose about battles, longing, and passion—sometimes all three—and was about to close the book and return it to whatever crypt it had been sleeping in when the title “Lullaby” caught my attention. Holding the book open, I read:
Oh, hush thee, my baby,
Thy sire be a king’s knave,
Thy mother his true love,
Separated by the deep ocean’s waves;
The text seemed to swim before my eyes, and I began to hum the familiar tune—the same melody of the lullaby my mother had sung to me, the same one that Jimmy whistled. But these were the words I remembered, the words Adrienne had written in beautiful calligraphy and hidden in the back of the frame.
I blinked to see more clearly, and quietly began to sing the next verse.
Oh, hush thee, my baby,
I am coming home to thee,
To love, serve, and honor,
My true love, thy mother, for eternity.
A throat clearing from the frowning librarian brought my head up, and I stopped singing. I looked at my table companions to see them both staring at me expectantly.
“What is it?” Tish whispered.
“I’m not sure.” My gaze skipped to the bottom of the page. Submitted by Mrs. Catherine Enlow.
I turned the book around so that Tish and Beth could see. “These are the lyrics I remember, Tish. The same ones that Adrienne had stuck behind the sketch in my parlor.”
“Enlow starts with an ‘E.’ That’s something, right?” Beth asked.
> My breath felt icy in my lungs as I closed my eyes and heard the lyrics again in my head as if I’d always known them. “It might be,” I said, surprised at how normal my voice sounded. “The words were written about a ‘true love.’ Maybe that true love was his wife.” I rubbed my hands over my face. “It’s a long shot, but we can give the last name to Dr. Hirsch and see what he can turn up. Maybe Catherine Enlow’s husband was stationed on St. Simons. And once we find his name, we can hopefully find out what happened to him.”
Tish held up her hand and I gave her a high five, trying to stop the trembling of my limbs.
I was excited by my find, but disappointed that we hadn’t learned more about Geoffrey, or Pamela, or Georgina, or any of the other characters who plagued my dreams.
I was about to suggest we pack everything up and head out for a late lunch when Tish began tapping her pencil against her page. “That’s interesting.”
“What?” Beth and I said in unison.
I hoped Tish would be more forthcoming with her information than in the past, as I didn’t think I had the patience to pry it from her piece by piece.
“Well, I guess this caught my eye since you’re a midwife, Ava, but in several pieces of correspondence that I’ve read through, when they’re talking about the birth of a child, they’ve mentioned the same midwife. The first name didn’t stand out to me—probably because they don’t mention a last name—but now I’m recognizing it. They do say that she came from a small farm on Dunbar Creek and was responsible for delivering many of the babies all the way from Sapelo to Cumberland from around 1800 to 1815. I haven’t seen any mention of her past 1815.”
“So what was her first name?” I asked, resisting the impulse to grab her notes and look at them myself. Instead, I kept my gaze on Tish’s notepad, wondering why the air around me seemed to suddenly lack oxygen.