by Tamara Gill
Delight! Jacqui ripped her fingers away from the dry, rough paper. The emotions were so potent that she closed her eyes, holding back tears. Delight? Oh Alfred Booker, if only you’d known where those three days would take you. Your reputation destroyed, your life a shambles from which it would never recover.
More shaken than she could imagine, Jacqui slowly opened her eyes. She stared at the papers. When she’d touched the photos she’d heard voices. This time she had felt emotions. What next?
Carefully holding the margins, she folded up the newspaper and put it away in its package before selecting another. This one contained several issues of a Toronto paper. She drew them all out using her gloved hand and chose one dated June 3, 1866. The lead story on the front page described the Battle of Lime Ridge, what most people now called the Battle of Ridgeway. Jaclyn stared at the paper for a long time. Did she want to take the chance of feeling the emotions of men involved in a battle?
Or would she? Maybe she was imagining all this. After all, it was easy to guess that a man wearing a regimental uniform and having his photo taken would probably be doing it with others around, while a man who was chosen to be the commander of a militia regiment would be proud of himself. Sure, this was nothing more than her overactive imagination at work.
Right. No problem.
She touched the Toronto paper gingerly. The yellowed paper crackled under her fingertips, but she hardly noticed, for this time she was there in the middle of a column of marching volunteers, taking part in the Battle of Ridgeway.
There were no screams of wounded men, as she’d half feared, but a sense of jubilance. Her legs were tired and her feet hurt. The air stank of gunpowder and her body burned from the sun’s heat. Sweat ran down her back in itchy tickles and her wool tunic scratched roughly against her skin. But none of that mattered, for she and her fellows were pushing the enemy back behind their entrenched lines. She could taste the exaltation of certain victory. She had never felt so alive, so potent. So powerful.
And then she heard the trumpet blare, followed by shouts of “Cavalry! Prepare to meet cavalry!” Confusion swept her, chasing away elation and confidence. Why were they forming squares to repel cavalry? There was no cavalry in sight. The momentum was lost as hundreds of marching soldiers sought to change their formation from a moving column to a static square where men waited with weapons raised, bayonets ready, to gut a charging horse or counter the slash of a rider’s saber.
The acrid smell of sweating, close-packed men merged with that of black gunpowder to assail her nostrils while the lethal bark of gunfire hammered at her ears. The man beside her screamed. She saw his green tunic blacken with the rush of blood. The jubilation fled, chased away by fear and desperation. Then panic seized her, an emotion so strong that she was ready to run.
And she was back in the reading room, standing in front of the table, her hand hovering above the paper, no longer touching it.
Safe.
Swallowing, she stared down at the newspaper as if it were a viper coiled, ready to strike. She sat down again, but caution made her careful not to touch the paper. She had to think this through. There must be a reason for these bizarre occurrences. There had to be.
She’d been studying the available information on the Fenian raid for a month. She’d read everything she could find, from newspapers to personal letters to a detailed account of Alfred Booker’s trial. Gradually she had pieced together her own vision of what had happened during the first three days of June 1866, a vision that went beyond the web pages and the general histories she’d used at the beginning of her search.
The phenomena she thought she had experienced on Saturday and now again today was simply her imagination kicking in. That was all, nothing more.
Yet when she read the article again, this time keeping her hands carefully in her lap, she couldn’t suppress a nagging uneasiness. Nothing had been written about the physical sensations she had felt or the strong, very clear emotions that had consumed her. Where did they come from?
Her imagination, she repeated stoutly to herself. That was all. Leave it!
Once again she carefully touched the margin of the paper. Nothing happened. Relieved, she turned the page. Ignoring several articles on the invasion, she focused on an old-fashioned advertisement on the corner of a page.
Encased in a box, the layout contained a crude drawing of a bottle beside a very cheerful looking man. Below the artwork was a blurb about a tonic guaranteed to increase energy. The ad looked harmless enough.
Jaclyn touched the text. Nothing. No sensations, no sounds, no emotions. She tried the drawing—still nothing. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was just her imagination.
Still, when she glanced through the rest of the newspapers, she was careful to touch only the margins. Caution was the other half of valor, after all.
CHAPTER FOUR
Now here she was, sitting beside this earnest man who called himself Private Quinn and insisted on pretending he was truly a member of the Fenian invasion force. Despite the voices she’d heard at her Aunt Martha’s house and the vision she’d had of a battlefield while reading the old newspapers at the archives, Jaclyn wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge the possibility that these strange phenomena would translate into something more substantial.
Ghosts weren’t real and time travel wasn’t possible. This man was simply an earnest re-enactor who refused to slip out of character and be the normal twenty-first century man he must be.
Still, it would be a good idea to find as much as she could about the re-enactment. She smiled at Quinn in what she hoped was a disarming way. “‘We’re here to liberate you from the yoke of British domination.’ What a great line! How come you didn’t advertise this was going to be happening today? I bet lots of people would have wanted to come out and watch.” Her imagination took flight. “You know, if you’d marketed it properly you probably would have gotten a large crowd from Toronto. Next time you put one of these things on try linking it to one of the plays at the Shaw Festival. I bet you could really get a lot of tourist dollars into the area.”
“I beg your pardon?” Quinn said faintly.
The sun was coming up now and expressions were clearly visible. Her captor was staring at her as if she’d just produced a chicken from one of her ears. Jacqui’s stomach knotted. “Well, I guess you’re not into that part of the operation. Maybe I’ll talk to one of your organizers.”
Recovering, Quinn said, “Ha! And why would the Colonel want to talk to the likes of you?”
Jaclyn could think of a dozen good reasons, starting with these people needed a reality check, but she didn’t mention any of them to Private Quinn. He clearly was a very earnest fellow with no sense of the absurd. Maybe it would be better to play along with him.
She shifted position. The ground was damp from the night dew, but if the weather held, the day would be as hot as yesterday and the moisture would soon dry. She leaned back against a tree trunk and looked up. “What kind of trees are these?” she asked, making idle conversation with the surly Quinn.
He looked up at the leafy branches impatiently. “How should I know? You’re the local lad. Ask whoever owns this orchard.”
Jaclyn opened her mouth to tell him that she wasn’t a local at all, but at the last minute thought the better of it. The Fenians had made camp in Thomas Newbigging’s orchard in the early morning of June 1. That was why this kook Quinn said this tree and the ones around it were part of an orchard. That was all. They weren’t really in Newbigging’s orchard. They couldn’t be. It was long gone. In fact, the Fenians had cut it down themselves, much to Newbigging’s annoyance.
Still, there were an awful lot of trees around and as dawn chased away the darkness, she saw that they did look a lot like fruit trees.
She shivered, then brightened. Well of course they looked like fruit trees! The Niagara region was famous for the fruit that was grown and harvested here. There was no special reason to think that she was being held captive in
Thomas Newbigging’s orchard on June 1, 1866.
“Where do you come from, Quinn?” she asked, wanting to make conversation to keep her mind away from the frightening direction speculation was taking her.
“County Cork,” Quinn said. “I came to America in ’62 and joined the army right off. When my unit was disbanded a year ago I was in Memphis. I stayed there for a time before I moved on to Nashville.”
Nashville, Tennessee. That fit the scenario very nicely along with the comment about demobilization. This guy really had done his homework. “What’s Tennessee like? I’ve never been there, but some of my friends have. They’re Elvis fans, you know. They went down to Memphis so they could visit Graceland. Have you ever been there?”
Quinn was now looking at her as if she’d just offered to eat fire. “Elvis! What kind of heathen name is that? And what is Graceland? And why should I care about it?”
Maybe they didn’t go for rock music in County Cork. “Graceland is Elvis’ estate. Lot’s of people go there. It’s sort of like a shrine to his memory.”
“A shrine to a man’s memory? I know of no such heathen practices in Memphis!” He leaned forward and poked his finger in Jaclyn’s face. “Listen you—”
Behind Quinn, a throat was cleared. The private looked around, then jumped to attention and saluted.
“At ease, soldier.” The voice was deep, rich and resonant. There was a distinct Irish lilt in it that shivered down Jaclyn’s spine. She looked at the owner of the voice and had to resist the urge to jump up herself. Instead she tilted her head back and observed him along the length of his long, slightly bowed legs, past his narrow hips and strong chest to his face. She couldn’t tell exactly what he looked like though, because the early light was behind him and his features were shadowed by the wide brim of a US cavalry hat, circa 1860. Like the sergeant’s, it had an emblem on the front, the crossed sabers of the cavalry. She shivered. These earnest re-enactors certainly put a lot of detail into their pageant.
And they hadn’t advertised it. Was that possible?
“You are relieved, Private. I’ll be takin’ charge of the prisoner now. Rejoin your unit,” said the man with the lovely Irish lilt.
Quinn saluted sharply and marched off. Jaclyn watched him leave uneasily. She wasn’t sure what to expect from this tall stranger.
“Stand up, boy,” the Irish lilt said. “Let me look at you.”
Jaclyn stared up at the man’s shadowed face and considered. The lovely Irish tones held no hint of bullying. Nor did he look particularly threatening. Beneath the wide brimmed hat his black hair was thick and a little long, but that was okay. She wished she could see his eyes, but at this angle all she could make out was the Poncho Villa style black mustache that adorned his upper lip.
He waited patiently, not hassling her while she thought. He did put his hand on the thing hanging from the black leather belt around his waist, though. As she rose to her feet, Jaclyn took a closer look. It was the practical, unadorned hilt of a sword. Damn, but these people were good!
She nodded toward the sword. “Are you an officer?”
She thought she saw the hint of a smile on firm lips. “Major Sean O’Dell, at your service.”
“Nice name,” Jaclyn said absently. As she’d expected he was a tall man, six feet or more, long and lean in build. The slight bow to his legs that she’d noticed earlier told her that he’d spent a lot of his life riding horses. Hence his decision to represent a cavalry officer, she supposed. The trouble was, he had no horse.
Of course, when the Fenians invaded they crossed the Niagara in small boats and didn’t have any way to transport horses. That was why they’d gone on foraging expeditions as soon as they’d made camp, looking for supplies and transportation.
She leaned against the tree trunk and scrutinized him. “What are you going to do with me?”
“Talk to you, nothing more.” Amusement invaded the lovely Irish lilt.
“Okay. What do you want to know?”
“Your name would be a fine beginning.”
Jaclyn grinned. “Name, rank and serial number. That’s all I’m allowed to give you.”
She saw his body tense as if he was trying to figure out what her flip comment meant. She rubbed her chin and told herself to get a grip. Of course he knew what it meant. It was a stock phrase in every war movie from the ’40s to the present. Everyone on the planet had heard it used, or had used it themselves, at one time or another.
“Do you live hereabouts?”
Jacqui was considering whether she should admit she was visiting from Toronto, or tell him she was from Fort Erie when a shaft of early sunlight penetrated the orchard and fell cross the face of Major Sean O’Dell. Her heart skipped a beat and her breath caught in her throat. My, oh my, but he was gorgeous. His face was lean, like the rest of him. Deep-set eyes, the pure blue of a clear summer sky and fringed with long, black lashes, looked out from under arched black eyebrows. Beneath was the slash of high cheekbones and a straight nose neither too long nor too short. His mouth was wide, with firm, well-shaped lips and his chin had a decided jut that was relieved by the hint of a crease. Oh man, what a package this guy was.
He raised one black brow and tried again. “What are your parents’ names? They’ll be missing you if you don’t come in for breakfast.”
“My parents don’t expect me until later,” she said absently, still trying to cope with the reality of the Adonis before her. She stiffened as soon as she realized what she’d said. Re-enactors or not, she was still in the midst of hundreds of men. Telling this hunk of luscious manhood that she wasn’t expected anywhere soon wasn’t too bright.
He took off his hat. A shock of thick black hair fell over his forehead. He combed it out of the way with his fingers, then wiped his forehead with his forearm. Above the place where the rim of the hat normally lay the skin was pale, below was a light tan.
Jaclyn swallowed. Not only was his move incredibly sexy, but the tan line indicated he wore the hat regularly. What was happening here?
“Look, boy. I’m not going to hurt you. None of us are. We’ve come to rescue your people from—”
“I know, the domination of Britain.”
His eyes narrowed. “And how would you know that?”
She shrugged. “The guy playing the sergeant has already given me the spiel.”
“Playing the sergeant?” he said softly.
Jaclyn didn’t want to get anyone into trouble. “Well, yeah. I’m not complaining, you understand. He did a great job! All I meant was that he’d already told me about your, er, mission statement.”
Major Sean O’Dell sighed. “Are you trying to confuse me, boy?”
“No.”
“Good. Let’s start again.”
There was no amusement in the Irish lilt now. It had hardened. Jaclyn thought that if he had been an officer in the Union army, he’d probably been the very devil to cross.
“What’s your name?”
She hesitated, then said, “Jack.” Like the others, this Sean O’Dell thought her a boy because of her short hair and trousers. It was probably a good idea to keep it that way.
“Jack. Would that be it, then? Just Jack?”
“I won’t tell you my last name or where I live. That would be an invasion of my privacy.”
This time when he sighed, she thought she detected a shade of amusement in the sound. “You are not going to make this easy for me, are you?”
Jacqui had to laugh. “I never make things easy for anyone. So tell me, Sean, is it your job to interrogate me?”
His blue eyes burned into her. “I’m Major O’Dell or just Major. How old are you, boy?”
Jaclyn blushed. She was a complete idiot. Here she was trying to pretend to be a kid and she was acting like an adult. She thrust up her chin and pulled a number out of the air. “I’m fifteen.”
He frowned. “Five and ten years old?”
“Yeah. Sort of.” She hunched her shoulders and looked down at
her feet. She was out of her depth here. This re-enactment stuff was too intense.
“Jack,” he said quietly.
She looked up.
“What harm is there if you answer my questions?”
“You’re a Fenian.”
“That I am. What of it?”
“I’m Canadian,” she said slowly. “I’m not British, although my people came over from Scotland. I was born here and this is my country.”
“Then you’ll understand why we want to chase the British tyrant from your shores.”
Jaclyn stared up into those gorgeous blue eyes and thought uneasily that the expression in them was remarkably sincere. “Sean. Sorry, Major!” she said hastily when his black brows snapped together. “We’ll get rid of the British ourselves in about a year. Our politicians are already working on a political union called Confederation. We don’t need outside help.”
He stared at her. “Britain has no place in North America.”
Opening her mouth to debate this statement, Jaclyn shook herself. What was she doing? She was falling into the mood of this re-enactment nonsense. “You know what? I’m tired of this game. Tell me what you’ve done with my car and I’ll be on my way.”
“I can’t let you leave,” he said.
Jacqui almost stamped her foot. “Listen mac! I’ve almost had it. I want to go home. Now.”
He raised one of his defining black brows. “And alert the area that we’ve landed? I think not my boyo.”
The hardening in his voice reminded her that he would probably be dangerous if he wanted. Jaclyn resigned herself to a few more hours spent in the midst of the re-enactors.
“Now what?”
“I need information.”
The sun was stronger now. It illuminated the area around them with devastating clarity. They were standing in what was definitely an orchard. Men were everywhere and suddenly one shouted, “She’s about to fall!”