The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “There is always need for a doctor’s services,” Jane suggests earnestly. “I have nursing skills and worked almost a year at a military hospital in Savannah. Doctor Arnold, do you know him?”

  “Indeed.” The doctor’s eyes glimmer with curiosity. Both men’s brows angle upward.

  Doctor Elliott smiles, “Doctor Arnold, Richard Arnold, why I know him well.”

  “Some in Savannah know me by my maiden name, Jane Peterson.” Jane is glad to have the men’s attention, although she can tell they see no connection. “If you are in need of an assistant, doctor, my skills are quite good. I am recommended,” Jane says. She hides her crossed fingers in the folds of her skirt. Richard had insisted on writing a letter of recommendation when she visited him at the hospital. He vowed her talents are far too great to waste.

  Upon rudely eyeballing her from head to toe, Mr. Paddy, a textile merchant from Boston who frequently visits Savannah on business, waves his cigar, “Hell’s bells, we have Florence Nightingale in our midst.” The man’s words are mildly slurred.

  The doctor clears his throat noisily to cover, and shoots Mr. Paddy a warning glance. He moves forward a little, softening his expression.

  “It is nice of you to offer, Mrs. Hopkins. I have only just learned the ship’s appointed surgeon came down with a case of the ague right before our departure. Unfortunately, good reason has forced him to stay behind.”

  Jane offers tentatively, “Perhaps I can organize medical supplies. I’m pretty sure there will be reports of seasickness, especially when we get out into the Atlantic. You can have your hands full rather quickly.”

  Jane had seen a line of tired untidy soldiers marching up the gangplank right before they boarded. Matt told her the newly formed Georgia regiment of green recruits will be making the trip to Wilmington. The soldiers, who probably have not traveled more than a few miles from home in their lifetimes, are assigned to steerage. They will be packed in berths, eighteen inches wide and stacked four high, with little more than two feet between them. For most, it is their first sailing.

  “Very well—” Doctor Elliott’s words are broken off by a shuddering wobble. The steamer lists again. This time, it creaks sharply to the right.

  Jane rolls with it, her feet planted firmly apart and her knees slightly bent to keep her balance.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Paddy?” she asks. The man grips the table and appears extremely uncomfortable.

  Tossing his cigar into a bucket, where Jane imagines it will smolder, he mops his damp face with his handkerchief. The ship pitches unexpectedly forward.

  Mr. Paddy’s cheeks bulge, “Oh dear!” he wails. Throwing one hand up to his mouth, he darts into his cabin.

  “I think Mr. Paddy may be your second patient, Doctor Elliott,” Jane observes dryly. “He looks a bit green around the gills.”

  Doctor Elliott is immediately impressed by Mrs. Hopkins’ calm bearing. Tugging the hem of his vest, “I am happy to have your help, Mrs. Hopkins. Shall I speak with your husband, then?”

  “No need to, sir. Major Hopkins and I have an understanding,” Jane smiles, covering her disapproval of this common practice.

  The doctor pulls out his timepiece and studies it for a second. He habitually gives the winding crown a few twirls to tighten the mainspring and snaps it shut.

  “What time is it?” Jane asks.

  “Almost three,” the doctor reports, and retrieves his black bag. “I really must be off.”

  “Hang on,” Jane says, and winces. She shrugs an apology for her forwardness, and explains, “I packed an apron. If you don’t mind, I would like to get right to work.”

  “Idleness is the root of all evil,” Doctor Elliott spouts the age-old maxim.

  “And wickedness loves company,” Jane counters.

  The doctor barks a laugh of astonishment and stares after the woman. She leaves the door of her cabin casually ajar, “I think we are about to get along royally, Mrs. Hopkins,” he calls out, smoothing his red beard that does not match his brown hair and eyes. “The major did not mention his wife is a humorist. How positively delightful.”

  Jane reappears, pinning the bib of her apron to her bodice. She instructs Master Gray to check on Mr. Paddy and let her husband know her whereabouts.

  With a smile that creases his eyes, Doctor Elliott sweeps the heavy door leading to the passageway wide, “After you.”

  Chapter 45

  BILLOW AND BREEZE

  A day in the life of a mariner is never dull. There is an abundance of activity aboard the SS Creed and both Jane and Matt are temporary participants, circulating in their own domains and seldom crossing paths. It’s funny, what little private-time they do enjoy is not reserved for passionate reunions, but instead falling gratefully onto their berth, letting total exhaustion take its course. With billow and breeze rocking them to sleep, they surrender to the ocean’s soft embrace. It seems the slumbering giant is resting too.

  As Jane might expect, Matt has thrown his mind and body into mastering a ship’s operation. Rolling up his sleeves, he takes pleasure in the size and nature of their vessel and a voyage that tests a new perspective of his manhood. Jane teasingly calls it a crash course in Mariner 101.

  The captain, who understands Matt’s lust for adventure, encourages his vim and vigor by showing an interest and alleging, “the man is a natural born sailor.”

  Jane adds this newest dimension of their lives onto the blank pages of her diary.

  “A swashbuckling pirate is more like it,” she giggles, while nibbling the end of her pencil. Matt has all the makings. On one of her trips topside, she had glimpsed her husband in action — his face and hair kissed by the sun, the muscles of his back and arms taxing the seams of his white shirt. With a bit of salty gleam on his brow and a twinkle in his eye, she cannot deny her husband makes quite a bold spectacle. Exertion after a long and worrisome recuperation does him a world of good. He appears fully fit for service and Jane admits she couldn’t be prouder.

  Christopher Brighton is a top-notch captain and everyone on board his side-wheel steamer knows his ship outclasses its rivals. With instincts and raw grit, Brighton had skillfully breached the Union’s iron grip at the port of Savannah and enabled them to sail past Union-held Fort Pulaski on Cockspur Island. Before the light of dawn and with the wind in their favor, they had effortlessly maneuvered their way out to sea to meet the golden rays of a glorious day.

  Captain Brighton, who rose through the ranks and took command of the French-built SS Creed in 1862, is master of his profession. He made a name for himself by evading Union blockaders through smoke screens and cleverly executed decoy signal rockets. There is not a Federal gunboat in their fleet he cannot outrun.

  Matt quoted the captain as saying, “A bullet, gentlemen, has a path called a line of trajectory. All you have to do to ensure safety is to stand to the left or right of it.” Brighton has gained Matt’s total respect and is highly praised by his handpicked crew. They call him God’s immortal and trust him with their lives.

  With all the kudos heaped on Captain Brighton by those around him, to Jane there is nothing impressive about the man’s overconfidence and claim to fame. She remembers the ruinous bombardment of Fort Pulaski and surrender to Union forces. History records Robert E. Lee’s famous last words, “They cannot breach its walls at this distance.” He meant from Tybee Island. Boy, was he mistaken. It seems men with inflated egos are often made to eat crow when proven wrong after taking such strong positions.

  For luck and more than once, Jane has secretly knocked on wood. She reasons Matt’s enthusiasm and confidence is his way of putting her at ease in an uneasy environment. After all, they are at sea and at sea anything can happen. Especially when the horizon is dotted with trolling enemy vessels and they are in the midst of hurricane season. Jane is not sure which one of these perils worries her most.

  To escape from her concerns, she has thrown herself into her new work with Doctor Elliott. The doctor couldn’t hav
e been more right. They do get along royally, and she is happy to lift a significant weight off his shoulders in helping tend to the needs of a group of men in steerage.

  The Georgia boys in her care are the most rambunctious bunch she has ever been around. Many of them, still in their teens, have come right off the farm. She is sure a few of them are too young to enlist, having lied about their age when they signed up.

  Terribly homesick, sentimental and not without fear, they focus on the thrill of their adventure. They talk about battles and idolize the commanders in the field. They write letters and share stories about the war. Three of the soldiers play instruments and others break out in song to liven things up. They have a certain forbearance about them, are respectful in manner, and like most boys love to play games and crack jokes.

  Having no serious ailments to report, still, there are many cases of seasickness. Understanding the cause of their symptoms, Jane has had the men prop themselves up on their berths facing forward. Further, she has negotiated to have three at a time go up on deck for fresh air and to fix their gaze on the horizon in thirty-minute shifts. She found ginger in their supplies, and Doctor Elliott agrees with her it might help.

  Although Jane can only offer tiny amounts of the root, and even if the outcome appears more psychological than physical, it seems to work. Simple remedies, along with rules — those unaffected must keep their cramped conditions shipshape and no smoking or chewing tobacco inside — have lightened the men’s complaints considerably. But then, just when Jane feels she can relax a little and as if Murphy’s law is working overtime, the hint of sudden foul conditions presents yet another challenge.

  As the SS Creed zigzags its way up the coast, their blessing of fair winds and following seas abruptly makes a turn for the worse. With little time to react, they hit rough weather head on.

  “When it rains, it pours,” Jane says when one of the men shares another even more alarming threat. As chance would have it, a Federal gunboat has been sighted in the distance and identified as the USS Ino. The Ino is part of an imposing South Atlantic Blockading Squadron. Many seafarers who man the Creed know the Ino and its crew captured the French bark La Manche when she attempted to run Charleston’s blockade.

  After several anxious hours of brilliant maneuvering and the miracle of a rolling predawn fog, the word finally goes out, they have escaped. But it is not without consequence.

  When Jane finishes the unpleasant task of having buckets of vomit gathered by the men for their vigorous scrubbing with seawater, she excuses herself and sets off to find Matt. It has been a rough day and the word is they are steaming toward the sounds of Roanoke Island, a sharp detour from their designated destination.

  “Blockade runners are frequently forced to use other ports,” Matt calmly explains to his wife.

  “So, in a sense, keep them guessing,” Jane suggests. She is relieved to have found her husband in their cabin, but suspects it will be a long night and she will be sleeping a good part of it alone.

  “Yes, my dear, and rest assured Roanoke Island is occupied by Confederate troops. They protect our vital Carolina port cities.” Matt briefly details their captain’s abundant knowledge. “Brighton knows these waters, channels and bays. The coastal sounds are shallow and stretch between the mainland and barrier islands. It is a place where no Clipper warship dares sail. We will be well sheltered and out of range.”

  “But Matt, I’ve heard it can be risky. Very risky. I’ve heard a few wild tales about steaming through these waters.” Jane drops her dress to the floor and goes to pour water into a bowl to wash up. Hopefully, it won’t all slosh out before she is finished. She has every intention of using a small bar of fairly good quality soap to clean and refresh herself. She feels Matt’s eyes on her. He has stretched across their berth to give her room to move about. He lies on his side propped on one arm and is partially dressed, having changed into a fresh shirt.

  “It is unfortunate the young men in your care are not more respectful of your feelings,” Matt says seriously, not wanting Jane to worry unnecessarily. “They are inexperienced and should keep their concerns to themselves.”

  Jane frowns, ruffled by the insinuation. Her boys are anything but inconsiderate. “Well, we will be back at sea when the trouble’s over, right?” Jane’s question hangs in the silence. She dislikes the idea of them sailing off course and perhaps wrecking on a sandbar somewhere. Open water is more to her liking. However, she suppresses her complaints and says nothing further about it.

  “We are in good hands and Godspeed,” is the best Matt can offer at the moment. He will not worry his wife with Captain Brighton’s grave prediction. Changing the subject, “I must ask, do you recall any history about this region of North Carolina that might be helpful?”

  “The Lost Colony, Virginia Dare and Sir Walter Raleigh,” Jane spouts. “But that’s early history of new settlements from Europe.”

  Jane’s eyes roll upward. She turns the wick of their lantern down to a dim glow and wonders if it needs more fuel. “I remember something about fighting around here, but where isn’t there fighting? I visited the Outer Banks — they call it that in the future,” she pauses, laying down her brush and finishing the knot on her yellow ribbon to contain her hair. She thinks tomorrow she will figure a way to wash it. Hopefully, they won’t be rocking as much.

  “Scoot over. You are taking up the whole bed.” Jane decides to sleep in her stockings, bloomers and chemise, just in case she needs to dress in a hurry. She latches the bed rail to keep them from rolling out.

  “I can only stay a little while,” Matt reminds, and grins at her soft moan. “Outer Banks?” he inquires.

  “Yes. It is a popular vacation destination. The beaches are beautiful. Then, there was the first flight at Kitty Hawk.”

  “Flight,” Matt says, enjoying his wife’s warm body nestled next to his. He kisses her sweet lips, her nose and her forehead and flips onto his back, as there is little room to move. His wife turns too and rests her head in the crease of his arm. He had bathed in seawater on deck and his hair is still damp and a bit brittle.

  “Yes, airplanes. I told you about flying. Huge ships with wings that carry passengers in the sky from place to place.” Jane stops a minute, seeing the clear outline of a jumbo 747 in her mind. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Even if I did have a story to tell, so much has changed.”

  It is true, the focus, timing and concentration of battles have been altered. The documented strategies of their revised Civil War are different. Stonewall Jackson’s survival has had a far-reaching effect and changed a lot of things. Jane wonders what the smattering of historic accounts in her recollection is really worth at this point. Matt insists they will complete their mission, no matter how small the impact. He promises it is for General Lee’s ears only.

  General Lee, Matt’s new boss, Jane smiles to herself. The thrill of actually getting to see the famous Confederate general again gives her goosebumps every time she thinks about it. Lee made a tremendous impression when she first met him at Mary Marshall’s dinner party. He is everything they say, a most perfect and inspiring model of history.

  Thinking again on her husband’s need for more information, “I guess, Matt, under the circumstances I know about as much as you do,” she yawns. “The Union has Hatteras and the Confederates, Roanoke.”

  Chapter 46

  AN APPROACHING STORM

  “I hate it when I’m right.” Jane has the worst sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She can tolerate most things, but this ignites a primal fear.

  With no forecasts in the mid-19th Century, fishermen, farmers and others who worked in the open had to depend on weather wisdom. Obvious signs like a red sky, rainbow, a moon with rings, low-flying birds, a cat swiping its ears, or an extraordinary day of fishing are recognized as reliable forecasts of impending conditions. These odd scenarios of nature are common predictors that people swear by. They receive more attention than the knowledge obtained from men of science
.

  Most of the crew and passengers on the SS Creed sense shifting winds from the East and claim they’ve seen other signs. Jane’s own foreboding is derived from the ominous, fast-moving clouds that roll through with bands of rain and pummeling waves in a hostile sea.

  “To sail into an approaching storm introduces needless risk,” Matt tries to reason. “We stand a better chance barricading ourselves in a place where we have land mass on both sides. Should there be wind, the dunes, marsh and dense vegetation will block it. Captain Brighton—”

  “Don’t even tell me what Captain Brighton, King of the Seas, says. I imagine his head is buried in his almanacs, studying maps, winds and currents. I’m sorry, that is not a comforting thought for me.”

  Matt’s gaze shifts to the door of their cabin. It would not pay to spread alarm. Frankly, he is surprised at his wife’s reaction. Normally she is calm and self-possessed.

  Jane takes a deep breath. “I’m okay,” she softens. “Maybe I just need a hug,” to which Matt liberally accommodates her. They both know intimacy on any level is a challenge on board. It will be even more so when they join General Lee’s Army.

  After a sound kissing that Jane felt all the way down to her toes, she murmurs, “I have a bad feeling, Matt.” She will not be swayed.

  Peering into his eyes, Jane runs her fingers over her husband’s ear to smooth his tousled hair. “I’m no weatherman, but we could be right in the path of a hurricane. I didn’t tell you, but in my time we call the months of June through the end of November hurricane season.”

  “I am sure our capable captain has weathered a storm or two in his day.”

  “I know, but a hurricane, Matt? Seriously.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “You’re right, we don’t know anything. Where I’m from, we have technology to track tropical waves from the moment they spin off the coast of South Africa, turn into tropical storms and strengthen over warm seas into massive hurricanes. By the time a hurricane makes it to our coast — and they do — they can have a disastrous effect.”