Look Ahead, Look Back (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 3)

by Annette Laing

  “And you were dumb enough to drink it?” Hannah hissed at her brother. “That stuff could be really bad for you.”

  “It was fine,” Alex protested. “It was actually pretty good. It even had honey in it.”

  Sukey looked reproachfully at Hannah. “You think I would give him poison?”

  “No,” Hannah said quickly. “Of course not.” Still, she muttered to Alex, “Don’t do it again, okay?”

  Alex ignored his sister. “Sukey, can you tell us my favorite story?” he said. “The one about the ghost and the man on the horse?”

  Sukey drew a deep breath and then exhaled noisily. “Again? I tell it so many times to you.”

  “Please, Sukey!” begged Jane.

  Sukey relented, and Hannah could see that she was really flattered to be asked to retell a story. “Oh, very well. But Jane, first you bring another log for the fire.”

  Alex watched Sukey expectantly, and drew up his knees to his chin. Jane carefully added a log to the flames.

  Although the night was cold, the bonfire’s glow kept Hannah warm. Sitting around the leaping flames made her long for hot dogs and s’mores. But she had to content herself with hoe cakes, pancakes from cornmeal and water, and cooked over the fire on the blades of hoes that were normally used in the fields.

  As the flames snapped and crackled, they lit up Sukey’s face, and she began to speak. “This is a true story, from Sidlaw, the master’s plantation in Carolina. When I live at Sidlaw, I once know a gentleman on another plantation, a man called Master Smith. When he was a young man, Master Smith sometimes pay a visit on an old gentleman he know, a man called Master Cooper.

  “Now one day, old Master Cooper say to him, ’I die soon, but when I do, I return and visit you, to repay your kindness to me.’ But Master Smith does not believe in h’ants . . . .”

  “Ghosts,” Alex whispered to Hannah.

  “Yeah, I guessed that,” his sister whispered back impatiently.

  Sukey continued, “ . . . and so he laughs about it all the way home. A few weeks later, the old gentleman, Master Cooper, he dies. But no h’ant appears, and so Master Smith forgets his friend’s promise. Over the years, Master Cooper’s old house begins to molder and to crumble, and the weeds grow tall, and the woods take back what belongs to them.

  “Master Smith grows grey, and prosperous, and he builds a fine house on his plantation. Sometimes, for old times’ sake, he rides his horse by where his friend’s house had been.

  “One night he is riding by, when, to his astonishment, he sees Master Cooper’s house as though it is new! He reckons somebody has rebuilt it, but when he turns back to look again, it is a ruin.”

  “Was he on his way home from a party?” Hannah asked, smirking.

  Sukey pretended not to hear her. “When he is almost home,” she said in an ominous voice, “he suddenly feels warm, and he fears he is afflicted by sickness. But now he sees his friend Master Cooper appear in the road ahead of him. The h’ant is as real as Master Cooper was in life. But it says nought. It just stares at him.”

  She paused, and the kids continued to watch her, rapt.

  “So, Master Smith starts a-shaking and a-sweating, for he knows, this must be a h’ant,” she said, and then paused again.

  “Pray, what did ’ee do?” Jane asked breathlessly.

  Sukey stared at her, and said slowly, “He looks the h’ant in the eye, and says, trembling, ‘Good evening to you, neighbor . . .’ And the h’ant smiles . . .and then it vanishes, right afore his eyes.”

  Hannah felt a cold shiver running down her back, and she glanced behind her involuntarily. Alex shuffled closer to his sister.

  Jane picked up a short, narrow, fallen branch from behind her, and thrust it into the fire.

  “I’m making a big torch, now that it is dark,” she said. “I want to scare away ghosts.”

  The end of the branch caught light, and Jane held it up. In the darkness, the glow from the end of her stick reflected in everyone’s eyes, and the effect, Hannah thought, was very sinister. Jane stared at the torch in fascination.

  Tremulously, Alex said, “Sukey, do you have any stories that aren’t so scary?”

  Sukey laughed, and Alex turned to Jane. “Why don’t you tell us about your life, Jane?”

  Hannah wondered where her brother was going with this. If she and Alex took turns telling their life stories, what on earth would they say?

  But Jane was thrilled to be asked about herself. “I was born in London, and I lived there all my life,” she said dramatically. “My parents, they worked in an inn. My dad was the barman, and my mum ran the kitchens. I was ’appy, I suppose, but when I was nine, this woman and man, that man what accused you, ’annah, they steals me away, and makes me work for them. Eventually, I got sick of that, and I ran off.”

  “Did you find your parents again?” Alex asked.

  “Nah,” Jane said, shaking her head sadly. “They’d gone, ’adn’t they? The pub had a new landlord, and he threw me out when I came a-calling. But the maid what works there, she comes out to the street and calls after me, to tell me what happened to them. She says my dad inherited some money, like, and they’d gone. That was all she knew, she said.”

  To Hannah’s embarrassment, tears began to pour down Jane’s cheeks.

  Sukey looked at her sympathetically. “It is hard,” she said. “I miss Sidlaw. I miss my children, and my grandchildren. Maybe Master Gordon take me to visit Sidlaw one day, and I see them.”

  She didn’t sound hopeful.

  Alex encouraged Jane to continue her story.

  “Ain’t much to tell,” Jane sighed. “I took up a little pocket-picking and ’ouse-breaking. I got caught once, and I spent a few months in prison, but they found me not guilty. The court never knew I’d ’ad a conviction, because at that time I called myself Elizabeth Strachan.”

  Hannah was dumbfounded. “Wait, that’s the name they called me, in court in London!”

  Jane was surprised. “Is that so? Do you suppose you was mistaken for me?”

  Alex turned from one girl to the other. “You guys look like each other, for real.”

  Hannah looked at him skeptically, but when she returned her attention to Jane, she had to admit that there was a resemblance. True, Jane was blonde, while Hannah was not, but there was something about her eyes and nose that seemed very familiar. Hannah suddenly put two and two together. “So your name is really Elizabeth Strachan?”

  “Not anymore,” said Jane. “Not since a year or more past.”

  Hannah was excited now. “They did, they mistook you for me in court! I mean, me for you! No, wait . . .That man who kidnapped you, was his name Evans?”

  “That was what he sometimes called ’imself, yes,” Jane said.

  Hannah’s brow furrowed. “So he must have seen that I looked like you,” she said slowly, “and . . . look, according to Brandon, this Evans guy came to Balesworth, to the inn where I was working, and he kept looking at me funny, like he knew me. Then he accused me of stealing his silver plate. Turns out, he had pawned the plate to my boss, and this was his way of stealing it back.”

  “That sounds like ’im,” Jane nodded with a sigh.

  “What a scumbag,” Hannah said angrily.

  Alex asked Jane, “What’s your real name? Is it Elizabeth Strachan?”

  “Oh, no. My name is Jane,” she said earnestly. “My true name is Jane Jenkins.”

  Hannah blanked for a second, then gave a delighted gasp, and cried, “I think I know your parents! I mean, it’s a pretty common name and all, but . . .” She described Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins.

  As Hannah spoke, Jane’s face grew bright and happy. But suddenly, her eyes filled with tears, and she turned away from Hannah. “Don’t matter anymore, does it?” she muttered. “I’ll never clap eyes on them again so long as I live, no matter where they are, because they are in England, and I’m here.”

  Hannah was about to say something optimistic to Jane, when what she had le
arned hit her with full force. Stopping only to pat Jane’s hand, she turned to Alex excitedly. “Mrs. Jenkins was one of Mrs. D.’s ancestors, so do you think that means . . .”

  Alex interrupted her. “Yeah, and you look like Jane, so do you think . . .”

  They said it together: “We’re related.”

  Hannah repeated it in wonderment. “We must be related. To all of them.”

  But now Alex had doubts, and his face fell. “Wait a minute,” he said. “How?”

  Hannah’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, right. I have no clue. I mean, we’re Portuguese, right?”

  “Right. It’s just a coincidence, then,” said Alex. He was disappointed. It would have been so great for everything to start to make sense.

  Just then, Sukey asked, “What is a coincidence?”

  Alex had to think about how to explain. He wished he had a dictionary. “It means that even though Hannah and Jane could be sisters, it’s just an accident.”

  “Nothing is an accident,” said Sukey. “Everything happens for a reason.”

  Hannah and Alex smiled politely at her. She’s so superstitious, Hannah thought. But suppose she’s right?

  Chapter 10: UP IN FLAMES

  Every time Hannah emptied scraps into the trough, the scarred old pig she called Bacon gave her a gentle nuzzle that almost knocked her off her feet. “Hey, you’re too big to do that!” she protested yet again. She laughed, and tried to shove him away with her knee. He didn’t move. But after she scratched his rough back, he obediently tottered away.

  “You are way too smart,” Hannah groused. It was then that she noticed that the pig was limping. “What’s the matter, Bacon?” she murmured. She followed him, and then crouched down for a better look at his legs.

  Bacon’s back right leg was badly gashed, and even against his dark skin, she could see rivulets of dried blood. She called over to Tony. “Hey, you need to take Bacon to the vet. He’s hurt.”

  Tony gave her a puzzled frown, then leaned down to take a look. Immediately, he stood up straight, ran his hand over his head, and smiled ruefully. “Yes, it’s his time. I’ll tell the master.”

  What time, Hannah wondered? But Mrs. Gordon called for her, and so distracted, she never asked.

  Early the next morning, Sukey shook Hannah awake.

  “What’s wrong?” Hannah mumbled.

  “You got to get up,” Sukey whispered. “I need you and Jane to help me.”

  “Help with what?” Hannah moaned, reluctantly swinging her legs out of bed and rubbing her eyes. “What time is it?”

  Before Sukey could answer, an unearthly screech rent the air. Terrified, Hannah lurched out of bed. “What was that?”

  “That’s why you got to help me,” Sukey said insistently, tugging on the sleeve of Hannah’s shift. “Come.”

  Hannah felt rising panic. What was going on? Why was Sukey acting so strangely? Was there a slave rebellion? Was Sukey luring her to her death?

  Hannah glanced at Jane, who groaned as she awoke on their shared bed, but she didn’t seem at all alarmed.

  When Sukey left the hut, Hannah pulled her crumpled petticoat and skirt over her head, tied the strings that held them around her waist, and rushed to the door. What greeted her outside was a horrifying sight.

  Tony and three other slaves, all stripped to the waist, were standing around Bacon. Hannah recognized the pig immediately from his scar. And the next thing she noticed was that he wasn’t moving.

  Cuffee was standing behind Bacon’s head, pulling on a rope hooked over his snout, while Tony was holding up a knife. Bacon was lying on his back on a pile of straw, and a stream of red water was pouring from him. Only it wasn’t water. It was blood.

  Hannah screamed, dashed back inside, and threw herself face down on her bed with her hands over her ears.

  It took Jane and Sukey a few minutes to calm Hannah down. Shaking and in floods of tears, she swore she would never eat meat again. “It’s supposed to come in little plastic trays from the supermarket, not all this blood and stuff,” she whimpered. Jane and Sukey glanced at each other in confusion.

  “Now then,” Sukey said sternly, “You talk foolishness. That pig, he has a good life, and it is time for him to go. He die quick when Tony cut his throat, and now he is at peace.”

  Hannah sobbed even harder, and Sukey lost patience, tutting at her. “Come, now. Pig doesn’t mind. He offer himself to us for our vittles. Now, come, you help me. Fetch water to boil, so we can singe the bristles. Later, the men start butchering, and we make the sausages.”

  Hannah gagged at the thought. Bacon had been her pet. I am so going vegetarian, she thought.

  While Hannah learned where meat really came from, Brandon and the Osborns were eating a breakfast of bacon and eggs. “I am concerned,” said Mr. Osborn to nobody in particular, “that if Mr. Gordon learns that Brandon is catechizing his slaves, he will no longer be willing to sell me a slave at a reasonable cost.”

  There was a silence at the breakfast table, because it wasn’t clear that Mr. Osborn wanted anyone to reply to him. Finally, Mrs. Osborn said, “Perhaps, Mr. Osborn, if you are determined to do so, you ought to arrange the purchase with him at the earliest opportunity?”

  “Before he discovers the truth, you mean?” Mr. Osborn said, chewing on a piece of meat. It seems dishonest and dishonorable . . . . But it also seems the wisest course of action.”

  “Sir, I think you should offer to buy Cato from him,” Brandon said quickly.

  “Why so?” asked Mr. Osborn.

  Brandon folded his arms. “Because he’s young, so he’ll be cheap. But I also happen to know that he’s honest. And he’s a Christian.”

  “Is he, indeed?” Mr. Osborn perked up with a smile. “In that case, I shall approach Mr. Gordon at the first suitable opportunity.”

  Brandon liked the sound of that, and he also looked forward to having Alex’s company.

  By the time Brandon returned to the house from his morning chores, he was famished. Shoving the door open, however, he was disappointed to find no noontime meal awaiting him on the table. Instead, Mrs. Osborn called weakly from her upstairs bed, “Brandon? Go for . . . my husband . . . . Tell him it is my time. The baby is coming.”

  Forgetting his hunger, Brandon yelped an acknowledgment, slammed through the door, and tore across the fields. He was breathless by the time he reached Mr. Osborn, who immediately dropped his hoe on hearing the news, and ran back to the house. There, he checked on his wife, and then hurriedly hooked up his horse to the wagon, instructing Brandon to stay with Mrs. Osborn while he fetched help.

  To Brandon’s shame, he couldn’t muster the courage to sit by Mrs. Osborn’s bedside. She screamed and cried during her contractions, while he helplessly paced the floor downstairs, hating himself for his cowardice.

  It felt to Brandon like an eternity before Mr. Osborn returned, although he was gone for less than an hour. He did not come back alone: Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Jones clambered down from the wagon and quickly took over. He surely heard his wife’s distressed cries as she had another contraction, but this time, he did not go to her. Instead, he turned pale and slumped in a chair at the table, next to Brandon. However, Mrs. Jones, taking charge, would not allow them to remain there, but shooed both of them from the house. “This is no place for men or boys,” she fussed.

  Actually, Brandon was relieved to be banished back to the fields, far from the unsettling sound of Mrs. Osborn’s wails. He knew there was no point in asking whether there were any drugs to ease her pain: He already knew the answer.

  Later that morning, Brandon laid down his hoe to give his sore hands a brief break from weeding the winter garden. Never in his life had he imagined that he would miss sticky bandages, he thought, but now he did as he examined his blisters. Looking up he saw a small black figure approach, and it took him a few moments to figure out who it was. He still couldn’t get over Alex’s new appearance.

  “Mr. Gordon is loaning me to you,” Alex said. “H
e thought maybe you guys might need help today.”

  At that moment Mr. Osborn’s voice echoed across the field, calling Brandon’s name. Brandon, followed by Alex, hurried to see what he wanted.

  When they found him outside the house, Mr. Osborn looked pale and drawn.

  “The women need more help. The infant died . . . and my wife is losing much blood,” he said desperately.

  Brandon didn’t know what to say, but Alex glanced at him and then said, “I bet Sukey can help. Shall I go get her?”

  Mr. Osborn nodded rapidly, and Alex took off at a run.

  By the time he arrived at the Gordons’ place, Sukey was pouring more boiling water over the dead pig, while a glum Hannah watched, waiting to scrape off more of the bristles.

  Alex explained why he had come back, and he asked Sukey to go to the Osborns with him. Sukey said quietly, “I will go to Mrs. Osborn, but first I go to the witch.”

  She handed her bucket to Hannah, saying, “Hannah, you finish this task.” Without further explanation, she hurried in the direction of the woods. Alex remained behind, unsure of whether he was supposed to go or stay. He worried, too, whether he had followed his instructions by allowing Sukey to make a detour to see the witch. Hannah, meanwhile, was scraping bristles off Bacon’s corpse, with an air of boredom and resignation. Alex couldn’t help being impressed by this sight: These days, it seemed, his sister could turn her hand to practically anything.

  Two hours later Sukey approached the Osborns’ house, bearing an armful of herbs. Watching her walk across the fields, Brandon knew that her arrival would bring only dismay, not relief. She was too late: Mrs. Osborn had died.

  Alex returned to the plantation in mid-afternoon and found his sister pulling up greens for supper. “What a rotten day,” Hannah said. “Mrs. Osborn and her baby died, which is awful. And I saw Bacon get killed, and I have to make him into meat. It’s gross. I’m going to be a vegetarian.”

  “But then all you can eat is cornmeal and greens,” Alex warned. “Anyway, you knew they would kill and eat the pig someday.”