The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “C’est bon, but this is good, no? Now, let’s get you off to bed.” Colette tugs off Sophie’s right boot and starts tackling the left.

  “Stop pampering me,” Sophie says. “I’m not a child.” She tries to withdraw, but her foot is firmly held in place.

  “No, but you are carrying one and I am here to help. Relax and let me take care of you. No more talking. You need to rest your poor larynx. We will begin to sort this out tomorrow. Can you stand?”

  “Of course,” Sophie submits. With the fast work of Colette’s agile fingers, her damp dress, hoop, corset and chemise drop to the floor. A dry nightdress is quickly slipped over her head and her bloomers replaced with a dry pair.

  “We’ll worry about your hair in the morning,” Colette says.

  Sophie sits on the side of her berth and makes an effort to speak.

  “Hush! Not another word. Do you want to use the chamber pot?”

  Sophie shakes her head, no.

  Colette turns the flame of their lamp down to dim the light in their cabin and clicks her tongue at her friend. “You are not drinking enough fluids,” she scolds. “We still have some fresh water left. Let me pour you a glass.” Their water is taken each morning from a personal cask made with a silver component added to its lining and labeled Cambrio. Its content is boiled as an extra precautionary measure and silver is a known pathogen killer. Water stored in reused barrels on a ship is a source of complaint from the passengers and usually the first to go bad. The lack of proper cleaning from previous journeys can leave a rancid smell. Sometimes it is bad enough to make people sick.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Again, Sophie shakes her head, no, and takes a few painful sips of her water. “A couple of Tylenol would be nice,” she simpers.

  Colette helps lift Sophie’s legs up onto her mattress. With effort, Sophie slowly eases down. She is fast asleep before her head hits the flip side of her pillow dampened by tears. Colette grabs her glass before it rolls to the floor.

  Chapter 51

  NEXT AFTER GOD

  A shipmaster at sea is considered “next after God.” There is seldom anyone aboard with greater power. In abidance with maritime traditions, the Nannie Dee’s Captain Varney dutifully serves as judge and jury and everything else, having the law in his hands.

  To Sophie’s great relief, investigation of her incident lasted less than an hour. Justice was fair and swift. As with any offense committed at sea, evidence had been immediately gathered and an inquiry effected. After short deliberation, Captain Varney ruled Father Cambrio overly distraught and held liable for his negligent conduct. He deemed Cambrio’s untimely death accidental. The captain also dismissed any related charges construed from the murderous attack on the Widow Downing’s person and Reverend Post’s consequential actions. Thus, the trial at sea briskly came to a fastidious end.

  Although ship’s officers are held accountable to government officials and shipowners when they arrive in port, Captain Varney assured Sophie there is no concern regarding further action. In his mind, the dirty papist simply lost his scruples. His lust got the best of him. The thought of Cambrio’s advances toward Widow Downing is enough to raise bile in any man’s throat. Most who accept the truth of what occurred on deck feel the man got his just deserts.

  Sophie is truly thankful for Reverend Post who eloquently spoke on her behalf. Motivated by righteousness, the reverend believes it is God’s grace and His perfect timing that spared Widow Downing’s life. He reminds everyone condemnation is the enemy of the flesh and they are all sinners. They must find forgiveness in their hearts and pray for Father Cambrio’s misguided soul.

  Because of fast moving showers that evening and the remote location Cambrio lured Sophie to, only one eyewitness came forward. Seventeen-year-old Seaman Ogden of West Yorkshire glimpsed the last few seconds of the struggle from his post in the crow’s nest and understood the importance of his testimony.

  Sophie can hardly believe that in the midst of her terrible ordeal there is never a need to mention Father Cambrio’s poisoned tea or his twisted scheme to abort her baby. The attack on her is considered sexual in nature and she is not of a mind to sway opinion. It is best to let sleeping dogs lie. Cambrio is dead. He and his wicked ruse are miles deep at the bottom of the Atlantic.

  Reverend Post assures Sophie to this day “the Lord works in mysterious ways.” In a private moment with her, he humbly acknowledged the Almighty led him to retrieve the small amber vial for the purpose of saving her. Realizing its divine significance, he felt no further need to question the bottle or its content.

  Colette quickly puts the frightening episode behind her and encourages Sophie to do the same. It is troubling to know her existence in this time stems from a sloppy last resort by the Highland Gaelic Rite and an emergency appointment gone hideously wrong. It is even more disturbing to think Father Cambrio had been the only one privy to the Rite’s master plan.

  Whiling away the hours of Surgeon Spalding’s prescribed cabin confinement, Sophie and Colette spend time exchanging stories about their past and exploring the possibilities of their future. Since they are in charge now, their perspective has changed considerably.

  “So. What do you think, madame?” Colette asks, patting her springy black hair. She misses the deep conditioners that provide a plethora of moisture and body to her curls.

  “I think it is nuts to go to New Orleans. I am scared for you more than anything else. Oops,” Sophie has dropped her needle again. She searches the folds of her black skirt to find it. “There you are.”

  “Are you suggesting the color of my skin, then?” Colette grins, shooting Sophie a sideways glance.

  “Yes, to be blunt. I can’t even begin to think what might happen. It’s an unnecessary risk. We don’t know why we are going there anyway.”

  “You must remember, I am a free Black woman and have the appropriate documentation to prove it.”

  “Hypothetically,” Sophie retorts. “But how can you be so sure? My mid-19th Century history may be so-so, but everyone knows it is a terrible time for your race. With the wrong people, that freedom paper won’t mean a thing. Man-stealers, I think Ben called them. I’m worried they might kidnap you and sell you into slavery.”

  Sophie sighs heavily, “I wish Ben were here. Living in the South all his life, he knows, I mean knew, he knew so much more than I do. He was a walking library on the period. A hard-core Civil War Reenactor.”

  “In Georgia, no?” Colette confirms, recalling this particular facet of Sophie’s life. “Your friends, Jane Peterson and Bryce McKenzie. If they are here in this time, would you like to find them one day?”

  “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Sophie considers. She remembers every deplorable detail of the story Camila Salva told her on Gough Island. “It’s highly probable Jane blames me for everything. Unbeknown to me, she was targeted by the Salva Society during the weeks leading up to her disappearance. One of the ladies in my reenactment group was a Salva plant. Layla Balan. She was the brains behind the plan and a master manipulator. She used me, big time. But Jane doesn’t know that. All she knows is I was there when she went through the portal at Fort Pulaski. I was the one who told her to try her key in the door inside Casemate 8. Bloody hell, I even bought a chatelaine for her antique key so she could wear it to our Civil War events.”

  Sophie gets mad every time she thinks about it. “And then there’s Bryce McKenzie.” She drops her sewing into her lap and shakes her head. “Well, I’m totally guilty. Ben wouldn’t tell me much of anything at the time, but I knew what I was doing. I was an accomplice. The fear in Bryce’s eyes when he realized something horrible was about to happen to him. I’ll never forget it. He grabbed my silk shawl. It was a beautiful jade-green color, embroidered with dainty pink rosebuds. If I hadn’t let go, he would have taken me through the portal with him.”

  After a pause, Sophie sadly suggests, “Neither one of them would be here by choice. How can I help them now, anywa
y? What would I say, the portal is closed and they are condemned to a life sentence in this place? I’m sure that would go down like a lead balloon.”

  When it is Colette’s turn to share, she does not hold back. “We must learn to trust one another if we are to survive. No secrets, deceit or lies between us,” she says, and she means it. She begins with the hardest part. Colette admits she has little knowledge of Sophie’s case or the master plan behind it.

  At this, Sophie openly expresses her disappointment. “Cambrio really did a number on us. We are navigating without a compass.”

  “But we are resourceful women, are we not? Once we get our heads around this, we can do great things. Our advanced intellect and common knowledge will be our guide,” Colette grins, tapping her temple with one finger. “In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity. I am quoting Albert Einstein, of course.”

  Colette goes on to say, although she is a member of the Supreme Divinity Temple of the Highland Gaelic Rite, a relationship established by her ancestor King long ago, she has always been sheltered from its internal workings. Only recently did she convince Doctor Seamus Archer her academic credentials could be an asset. Against her parents’ wishes, Colette joined the Rite as an Apprentice Research Historian. This initiated her acquaintance with the renowned Father Cambrio on his many visits from Rome. She also befriended Lead Technician Walter Abbott through her work and learned, quite by chance, about the ancient rustic portal, the time travel gateway in the weeping wall.

  Colette emphasizes she has never had the proper level clearance to gain access to what the Rite calls “the hub” or truly understand its purpose. To their detriment and in so many ways she is as much a newbie to this complex undertaking as Sophie.

  “Magnifique,” Colette exclaims, reaching over and patting Sophie’s practice square of fabric with her hand. “Your stitches improve each day. I might make a seamstress out of you yet.”

  “Coming from you, I’m flattered. Sewing is a dying art. I’m surprised you would even let your mom teach you this stuff. Most kids would think it’s a waste of time.”

  “You don’t know my maman,” Colette chuckles. Her face glows with humor and fond memories. “I had no choice. It is a family art, a skill and tradition passed down for generations. And now, look at us. We have a trade to earn our keep. Oui?”

  “Well, let’s hope our money lasts a while. I’m not ready to launch a career,” Sophie smirks, and holds her practice stitching up to the light. She stops to study Colette. Her friend is working on a fine piece of soft white batiste, making smocking for her baby’s layette set.

  Colette never ceases to amaze. During the confusion of Sophie’s terrible ordeal and in a moment of genius, Colette smuggled three bags of assorted coin and period notes from Cambrio’s cabin under her petticoats without detection. They had their livelihood safely hidden beneath the loose wooden planks supporting Sophie’s mattress on the bottom berth. Soon after, Father Cambrio’s belongings were impounded as the shipping line’s property until they arrive in port and a decision can be made on what to do with it next.

  “Getting back to our subject. The color of my skin,” Colette gives a light little cough. “In my study of American history, Blacks have contributed much to the fiber of American culture. Despite their burdens, there are poets, writers, teachers, land and business owners, inventors, religious leaders and soldiers in this era. I won’t quibble, though. Racial misconceptions run deep, along with the unyielding belief we are, let us say, inferior.”

  “That’s what I’m nervous about,” Sophie insists. “I think you might be seeing history through rose-colored glasses. Having lived in Georgia and being around Ben enough, the Civil War is a lethal conflict where crime runs rampant. Slavery is a harsh truth. I will not put you in the middle of it. We stand a better chance in the North.”

  “We will find our way, no?” Colette pauses and her face lights. “Boston! It is the cradle of liberty. We must think of this as a marvelous adventure.” Colette lifts her shoulders and twists the tension from her graceful neck. Her eyes look to a far-off place. “Perhaps one day I can help others. The war is not over yet.”

  “Seriously, Colette, you mean the Underground—?” The word Railroad catches in Sophie’s throat as she darts a glance at the door of their cabin. They made a habit of keeping their voices down, but even with the constant noise of the Nannie Dee and ruckus of the passengers in the saloon a short distance away she fears there is always a chance of being overheard. “Don’t even go there.”

  After sleeping on it, Sophie and Colette make a final decision to scrap the original plans devised by Cambrio and the powers that be. Traveling to New Orleans would not only be costly, but take them over a thousand miles into the very bowels of the Confederacy. Naturally, they are ready to plant their feet on solid ground again and happy to agree Boston will be their new home.

  Chapter 52

  PROFOUND SPIRITUALISM

  “Next to heaven itself, our strolls give the greatest pleasure. I’ve always loved the sea. Its curative powers clear the mind of earthly woes,” Reverend Clayton Post offers mindfully, as if testing the temperature of the surf with his big toe. With Widow Downing, he is never quite sure-footed.

  “Uh-huh,” Sophie agrees absently. Her attention is focused on the incessant hammering and clatter of able-bodied seamen toiling over their work. The sharp bark of the boatswain, “Put your backs into it lads, we ain’t got all day,” is the only cross noise on an otherwise exceptional day.

  Sophie likes her time with Reverend Post on deck. Strolling is a relaxing occupation. The weather is chillier, but the ocean considerably calmer. The waves move in a gentle rolling action along the surface. Shimmering peaks scatter the light on a vast body of deep blue that stretches as far as the eye can see.

  A zesty breeze strips a few blond tendrils of hair from her bonnet and playfully whisks them about. She is fascinated by the ocean’s effect on her state of being. Colette calls it “blue mind,” a soothing sense of peacefulness, contentment and satisfaction with life in the moment.

  Clayton nods over one shoulder at Colette who is keeping an appropriate distance to allow them privacy. During the days following the attack, he made a routine of calling on Widow Downing. To his joy, she entertained his honorable intentions and they began to establish a mutual understanding. Clayton is doing most of the talking, at present, but he prays the dear lady will eventually reciprocate and come out of her shell in his company. He hopes she will commit to more than the role of charming good-listener.

  Among one of their earlier conversations, Widow Downing asked him if they could address each other by their Christian names. Clayton felt the familiarity premature, but he did not have the stamina to deny her wish. Secretly, her advances elate him. Thoroughly encouraged, he easily forgives her breach in social propriety.

  “Yes I agree, it is good to be out,” Sophie smiles tolerantly, taking up the topic. Clayton sometimes tries a little too hard to fill quiet times in their walks. “I’ve always heard time heals all wounds. Although I think it is more what you do within time that eventually heals the effects on our lives.” She checks the position of her pretty black-lace parasol, fearing it might be caught by a gust and yanked away.

  “As tyme hem hurt, a tyme doth hem cure,” Clayton spouts. “Chaucer.”

  “Really,” Sophie slants her eyes in his direction. Her opinion of Geoffrey Chaucer was formed in school. Being an overseas military brat growing up she had visited the poet’s burial-place on a tour of Westminster Abbey. “A classic, but not my favorite. I’ve always thought Chaucer’s Middle English sounded and looked more like the work of a drunken five-year-old with an atrocious spelling deficit?”

  This gets a hearty burst of laughter. Clayton swipes an imaginary tear from under his eye. “How intriguing. I’ve never thought of it quite like that before. But the message is clear.”

  “If you say so,” Sophie concedes, ready to move on to the next topic. She spots a beau
tifully marked little bird resting high up on the mast. “Look! An Arctic tern. Captain Varney told me they occasionally see them at sea making their flight from pole to pole.”

  Sophie sighs, “Oh to fly. It is a wonderful thing. Freedom.”

  There is a tiny lull in their conversation.

  “For I will restore health unto thee, and I will heal thee of thy wounds, saith the Lord,” Clayton quotes softly. He can only guess her meaning and feels she must eventually face her demons. He holds his Bible out from his chest, showing the source of his inspiration. “This alone is the steadfast anchor of our souls. It will lighten our burdens and ground us in our strife.”

  “Hmm, I wonder at your faith. How you can be so certain.” Sophie accepts the reverend’s profound spiritualism. For him it is the same as breathing.

  “Ah, scripture does not say faith is being certain,” he chuckles. “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

  Their two walks a week, quickly became three, then four, and now they stroll almost daily, except on the Sabbath. She is beginning to look forward to their time together.

  Early in their acquaintance, Sophie listened to Clayton talk about his mother. He claims she is a saint. Trusting her faith during times of hardship, it is his mother who impressed on him the importance of family as they struggled financially to keep their home in Boston.

  When Sophie mentioned the war, Clayton offered details of his recent trip to Washington, where he encountered President Lincoln. He also described a stirring show of force by Union troops camped on the White House lawn. Now that their conversations have become more personal, he naturally shares his budding aspirations to have his own church one day.

  Every day at the crack of dawn, Clayton holds his sunrise prayer meetings under the open heavens. Sophie admires his tireless devotion to the passengers and crew. She worries about his exposure to a measles outbreak in the cramped, unsanitary conditions of steerage. Sophie and Colette have been vaccinated for measles and many other diseases. Clayton, however, never complains or fears he is susceptible. He works to comfort the weak and suffering and helps ensure a proper burial at sea for those who pass away. So far, nine poor souls have been given a watery grave. Five of them, children. Death is never more solemn than at sea.