by Barbara Best
A principal part of passengers in steerage belong to a religion called the Latter-Day Saints. They have their own way of churching, is how Clayton put it. He has little understanding of the Mormon beliefs, but thinks they are an honest, kindhearted and hard-working people with a challenging future. Many are on their way to New Orleans, Louisiana. From there, they will migrate in a steady stream of covered wagons. They will cross dangerous and unpredictable territory to join their brethren in a picturesque valley on the shores of a great salt lake. Some might go farther west to settle with relations in California, where the gold rush took many of their worshipers in ’49.
Sophie takes Clayton’s hand to round a small puddle. The promenade deck is swabbed to a glossy sheen. Coming close enough, she enjoys the scent of his shaving soap combined with the weathered wool of his black frock coat. It feels comfortable walking side-by-side.
“Well, all said and done, I hate being a victim. And, I sure don’t plan to let this horrible mess slow me down,” Sophie vows with strong conviction. “Can’t we talk about something else?”
To this, Clayton entertains Sophie with another story. His tales vary in size and scope. Many of his stories are about his childhood.
Sophie is particularly fond of the rock throwing, war playing, cigar puffing high jinks of Clayton and his brothers, and the time he put berry stains in his sister’s hair. His descriptions of the children’s rowdy antics are hilarious and delightfully risky. In Victorian days, Sophie had always thought kids were seen and not heard. It is astonishing to hear parents of the 1800s actually encourage kids to get the wildness out of their system. She is impressed by the final outcome of Clayton’s permissive upbringing.
“You sound like the Tom Sawyer of your time,” Sophie points out. She ventures there must be a Becky Thatcher in Clayton’s life. This thought causes a flutter of mixed feelings. “You might even give Huck Finn a run for his money.”
“Tom Sawyer?” Clayton frowns.
“An active imagination, a good heart and strong moral conscience — that’s what I’m saying. You know, characters out of Mark Twain’s head, his books,” she stalls, suddenly afraid the famous author’s books are not published yet.
“Indeed.” Clayton notices Sophie’s eyes dart to the horizon and mid-morning sun that has made a hazy ring in a blue sky. As in a painting, it is accentuated with fluffy white clouds. He continues, “But why the reference, of your time. You have said this before, as if my time and your time are separate entities?”
“Oh. Well.”
“I profess, it is a rather strange way of—”
“Oh, I’m strange all right,” Sophie interrupts. “More than you know.”
Hoping to avoid further explanation, she deflects, “At least I don’t refer to myself in third person.”
Straightaway, Clayton knows Sophie is referring to his stuffy companions from Washington. The men who dress like fops, the over-the-top fellows who put on airs and thrive on the human capacity for attention. “I suppose their brief audience with the Queen has gone to their heads.”
Sophie is glad to hear Clayton chuckle. A little voice reminds her friends don’t have secrets. She glances at Colette, who is stretched over the rail a few feet away. Other passengers are doing the same. All are pointing at the dorsal fins of dolphins cutting through the ship’s frothy wake at lightning speed. The playful, warm-blooded mammals visit them so often some have been identified and given names.
“You are a walking riddle, madam,” Clayton says fondly. “I have never met anyone quite like you.”
“And I doubt you ever will, sir.”
“Now you are being coy.” One handsome brow arches, “Unnecessarily mysterious.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be.”
“Please, won’t you indulge me but a little?”
“I’m afraid it will hurt you,” Sophie blurts. Stepping away, she furls her parasol and wanders along the taffrail. Breathing deeply, she holds her face to the sun and knows he has followed her. “I don’t think I could have stood another minute of my Spalding-induced confinement. After the first couple of days, I thought I might go stir-crazy. If it wasn’t for Colette—”
“Hurt me?” Clayton questions.
“Yes. Please, let’s change the subject.”
“No,” Clayton says firmly and silently moves to the railing directly in Sophie’s path. She stops and their eyes meet briefly before she turns to the sea again. “I would like permission to know you better. Your company, your friendship means a lot to me. More than you know,” he stalls, feeling the pressure of not seeing her face front-on. The brim of her bonnet obscures her eyes, which can be as soft as the wings of a mourning dove or turn the stony color of granite.
Clayton rolls his eyes upward in frustration. “Heaven knows it is a delicate matter.”
He had thought to tread lightly, but for how long? Perhaps the time for tolerance is over. Secrets, if not addressed, can percolate and stew. As if from nowhere, they roll in like a huge downpour causing unnecessary damage. He thinks Sophie is an expert at avoiding any talk about herself and this puzzles him. She appears comfortable in her own skin, kind and funny, intelligent, an engaging listener, beautiful in every way.
Sophie is widowed and in a family way. She sails with them from Europe with one servant and a Catholic Priest who met his death in an inexplicable act of violence. She is American, but from where? Her dialect and strange mannerisms are hard to place. And there the threads of her life come to a halting dead end.
The silence between them is so thick it can be cut with a knife. Sophie is suddenly sorry to have let the two of them get this far. She can feel Colette’s stare boring a hole in her back. Her romantic friend has encouraged her, loving the range of possibilities. She is sure Colette wants her to be happy in a very French oh-la-la, love conquers all kind of way.
“I’m at a loss for what to say,” Sophie’s words come in a whoosh. “I never thought you were the prying kind,” she chortles, but instantly regrets the remark. She knows better than to tease him so. It is flippant and insensitive. The man does not deserve it. She senses Clayton’s posture straighten like she has given him a direct punch. Her heart drops with sympathy. She cannot bear his disappointment.
Chapter 53
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
Jane Peterson-Hopkins holds the crown of her bonnet and turns her face up to observe the belching smokestacks of the old wheel steamer Fastidious. The constant polluting stream of gritty black that trails far behind has been reduced to a thin ribbon. They have slowed their pace to troll behind other vessels in the harbor. Ironically and with no further incident she, Mr. Paddy and well over a dozen other passengers have reached Boston, Massachusetts.
The wintry mid-afternoon breeze and cry of seagulls that swoop overhead in lazy arcs are a stimulating tonic. Jane inhales the crisp air into her lungs and enjoys the wisps of cirrus clouds that race across an azure blue sky. Air is always moving on the water, but she can tell the neat lines of white are being carried by stronger winds they cannot feel. The long, mellow sound of the steamer’s whistle vibrates in three echoing organ-like blasts. It boosts the degree of excitement to a fever pitch for just about everyone on board.
Jane isn’t the first on deck. Other passengers crowd the rail to get a glimpse of their progress as the Fastidious carefully churns its way through the deep channel. They seem every bit as mesmerized as she is.
The beauty of a colorful, bustling harbor is impressive to the eye. A conglomerate of ships and boats in assorted shapes and sizes are scattered about like fall leaves on a lake. Whether moored or under sail, the skills of good seamanship are evident during such heavily congested conditions. In the distance, the Federal Stars-and-Bars proudly waves over the elegant golden dome of the State House that sits atop Beacon Hill and serves as a measuring rod to all who travel to the great city. Tall round stacks and brick chimneys soar over the basic outline of the waterfront.
Surprisingly, a dul
l pang of longing runs through Jane. She misses home, her first home, something she has not allowed herself to feel for a while. She misses the United States that she knew once, one nation, united under one flag. It is a sure bet things are changed forever, especially since the war has made a clever turn in the South’s favor.
Two boys, the sons of Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong push to the rail near her. They climb a little too high and lean far out over the side.
“Be careful!” Jane gasps.
Mrs. Armstrong is instantly on the scene and gives Jane an apologetic nod. Grabbing up the oldest by the ear and making the other yelp, she hauls them both off. “You boys stop your fidgeting. Where’s your manners?” their mother scolds. “Come now, there will be plenty of time to see.”
Mr. Paddy makes a momentary appearance, dressed to the nines. His mustache is freshly waxed and his stovepipe hat is firmly planted on his head. A new fashion accessory recently added to his wardrobe is a rather dignified, ornamental walking stick that he currently uses to point out a massive fortification.
“Fort Warren, my dear, in all its glory. Our defense on Georges Island is a comforting presence for the residence here.” The gray stone and granite of the star-shaped ramparts loom ahead. “They finished construction only two years ago, shortly after the war started. It glows like my mother’s silver tea set. Heard it was named after a Revolutionary hero.”
“Nice cane. I’ve missed you, Mr. Paddy,” Jane says over the noise, and forms a pleasant smile. She is careful with her words. It is smart to flatter, rather than snap where the hell have you been?
She doesn’t really need to ask where Mr. Paddy has been keeping himself. He spent the entirety of their journey engaged in a serious game of cards with a group of unruly, hard-drinking Yankees officers they picked up along the way. She heard the stakes were high and he had the winning hand more times than not.
Although Jane is definitely perturbed by Mr. Paddy’s absence during their trip, she endeavors to be patient. It should be enough the man hasn’t bailed on her or told her he is having second thoughts about getting involved. They are in Yankee territory now and Jane’s risk is far greater without his support. One might consider Mr. Paddy a Southern sympathizer, but he simply insists he has a weakness for damsels in distress.
“It’s so big,” Jane comments further. Formidable, impenetrable and impossible are conceivably better descriptions.
“Quite, ahem, yes quite,” Mr. Paddy says, patting his pockets for a cigar and excusing himself from her company.
Before leaving, he promises to attend their disembarkation and personally escort her to his Boston home. Jane has been assured more than once she is welcome to stay at his residence with his elderly mother for as long as she wishes. Mr. Paddy’s offer is very generous, but he is a betting man. Jane wonders if he assumes it is a transitory arrangement and she is the type to give up on Matt and go home.
Mr. Paddy cautioned her, in the kindest way possible, that Matt might never see the light of day. The prisoner exchange system that existed at the beginning of the war is almost non-existent now. Matt may have been fortunate the first time around, but things have changed.
Jane remembers Matt’s capture. He was transported from Fort Pulaski to a New York prison. Not too long after, his release was implemented. It seems President Lincoln has since changed his tune. Mr. Paddy explained at the beginning of the year the president called for the active enlistment of free Coloreds and slaves. The Union president demanded they be treated equally in prisoner exchanges. When the Confederacy refused, the large-scale exchanges stopped. As a result, prison populations on both sides continue to grow with great celerity.
Fort Warren’s thick, imposing walls are only ten miles from the heart of the state’s historic city. Its effect on Jane’s psyche is indescribable. Seeing it for the first time gives her a blend of untold joy and accomplishment joined by a dark sense of gravity and consternation.
“I’m here, sweetheart,” she murmurs, determination clamping down upon her features. The terrible injustice, agony and apprehension send a surge of white-hot fury through her veins.
Jane can hardly believe their misfortune. Could it be that an invisible force is keeping her and Matt from reaching General Lee? This is the second time their attempt to reveal future events and her mysterious secret of time travel has met with disaster. She looks down at the water that mirrors her stormy thoughts. Becoming increasingly choppy, their temperate day is disturbed in a matter of minutes. The wind has picked up as a fast moving front blows in from the Northeast.
Matt is within swimming distance from her now. Jane grips the rail with one gloved hand that is instantly soiled by black, oily soot, and tries to calm her crazy impulse to dive in and swim to his rescue. The tiny hairs on her forearms stand and quiver from the reality of what she faces.
Shielding her eyes from the last bit of sun they will see today, she scans the embrasures of Fort Warren for the slightest hint of recognition as they pass. Perchance within a crack or crevice she might catch a tiny glimpse of Confederate gray in a sea of blue uniforms.
The dreadful place is an enduring monument to the cruelty of men and powerful force of an enemy government. It is a reminder this dreadful Civil War is still in full swing. Activity abounds over the isolated acreage rising out of the bay with bodies moving about like ants. Matt and the hundreds of other Confederate prisoners contained within its walls are well out of sight.
Chapter 54
DANDY PIECE OF NEWS
Kat leads the way up the steps onto the expansive veranda of Sea Oaks’ manor house. “I am hesitant to tell you this, but you should know Jane Hopkins had a child. A little girl.”
“Serious?” Bryce stops in his tracks.
Kat turns, “Get up here. You’re getting soaked.”
Bryce grudgingly does as he is told. “Now, ain’t that a dandy piece of news,” he growls through clenched teeth. He takes the umbrella from Kat and gives it a couple of vigorous shakes.
Kat throws up her hands, “Easy!” She brushes the scattered spray of moisture from her cheek and the front of her blouse.
“Sorry.” His mouth curls sheepishly and he slumps a little, “That was pretty stupid.”
Kat’s latest detail pushes Bryce’s emotional state to dizzying extremes. It feels like the time he got sucker punched by a bully and found himself on the ground not knowing how he got there. Of course Jane could have children, he reasons. His mind flashes a happy family scene of a toddler playing under the watchful eyes of her doting parents. Jane and what’s his name.
“Aw, poor kitty,” Kat says. The orange cat Millie, from generations of Millies, appears from out of nowhere and slinks against Kat’s leg. She gives a pitiful meow, conveying her mournful dislike of rainy days. Kat squats down to give the feline some love. “You’re dry. It’s all right,” she coos.
“We’ve made some mess of things,” Bryce rubs the back of his neck and peers out into the yard. “Rain’s picked up,” he casts an eye upward.
Bryce remembers dreaming about Jane on his difficult journey. When White Owl impressed on him the significance of dreams, he had no idea his future with her would be severed as cleanly as the precision cut Surgeon Marcus Brimmer made to amputate General Stonewall Jackson’s arm.
He fights to accept what is truth. When you awaken from your dream, Bear On Top . . . It is only then the real truth will reveal itself. The pursuit of truth will set you free. Bryce clearly recalls White Owl’s parting words. Some truth. Jane chose someone else. This revelation is crushing and only a few hours old. It will take a while to get over it, to get his bearings, if he ever will.
Bryce fits the umbrella into a stand where there are others. “I suppose the little girl looks just like her,” he mumbles, heaving a doleful sigh.
“Pardon me?” Kat strains to get up. She loves running three times a week, but it is doing a number on her knees.
“Just talking to myself. Bad habit. I was thinking, though, there
is no gravestone for the child. At least, I didn’t see one.”
“You’re right. Unfortunately, we don’t really know what happened to her,” Kat pauses. “What did you mean, you’ve made a mess?”
“A mess? That’s one huge understatement,” Bryce scoffs. “It’s a hellava story I have to tell. But one thing at a time. So, you’re sure Jane Peterson had a daughter.”
“Jane Hopkins. And yes. There’s a notation made by Captain McIntosh in our family Bible. The Hopkins and McIntoshes were close, but we don’t know where the girl is buried. She could have died suddenly from fever like her mother.”
“Christ, this keeps getting better all the time. Jane died of fever?” Bryce is surprised at his reluctance to gather facts. The doctor in him would have normally asked for the cause of Jane’s premature death right off the bat.
“That’s what they say. There was a yellow fever outbreak round here about that time.”
Kat concedes quietly, “I forget you’ve just lost your friend.” She wants to say girlfriend. Kat is ninety-nine percent sure Jane Hopkins is the reason for Bryce’s deep hurt and disillusion.
“Jane died of fever,” Bryce says again, his mind working a mile a minute. “Holy crap.”
“What?”
“Oh nothing. It’s just a lot to process,” Bryce soft-pedals. He smiles, “So, you are going along with this crazy stuff.”
“Uncanny as it is,” Kat says.
“Way to go,” Bryce’s smile grows wider.