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

by Annette Laing

  “But why would Cuffee cover for Mr. Gordon?” Hannah asked irritably. “Why wouldn’t he just report him to Mr. Jones or someone?”

  “Yeah, we wondered about that, too,” Alex said. “I think it was fear, All of us slaves are afraid of him. And do you really think Mr. Jones, or Mr. Osborn, or any of them would take a black man’s word over the word of a white man?”

  “I don’t know.” Hannah shook her head. “I just can’t imagine Mr. Gordon would stand there and watch Sukey burn to death when he knew he was responsible.”

  “Try,” Alex said firmly to his sister. “He cut off Cuffee’s foot, and Sukey said that didn’t bother him at all. He doesn’t care about slaves, Hannah, or white servants, either. Do you know that Mr. Gordon is Tony’s father?”

  Hannah didn’t know that. “Seriously?” she said. “Sukey was his girlfriend? He enslaved his girlfriend? His son?”

  Alex pressed on. “Look what he did to you, when he hit you. Look how he’s selling you. He just uses all of us to make money.”

  “But isn’t Sukey valuable?” Hannah was still struggling with the idea of Mr. Gordon as a murderer.

  “Not really,” Brandon said. “She’s getting old, and he doesn’t need her at all up in South Carolina.”

  “Well . . . whatever. We have to save her,” Hannah said firmly. “Come on. Let’s go to the lock-up. Then I think it’s time we all hightailed it out of here.”

  “Not so fast,” Brandon said, putting a restraining hand on her arm. “Where will we go? There’s no point in me running away from Mr. Osborn.”

  “Let’s not argue, okay?” Alex said. “First, let’s go see if we can get Sukey out of jail. Then we can worry about what to do next.”

  He ran to the side of the house and yanked a hatchet out of an old log where it was used for splitting firewood. Lifting it up, he yelled, “Come on, you guys.”

  When they arrived at the tiny jail, Brandon suggested that it would be wise to let Sukey know that they were about to smash the lock. But when Hannah peeked through the bars, the tiny prison was empty.

  “Do you think they already took her away for trial?” Alex asked anxiously, putting down the hatchet.

  Brandon shook his head. “Mr. Osborn would have told me. I guess she escaped. Look, the lock is open.”

  Alex examined the heavy black padlock. “That’s weird,” he said. “It doesn’t look like someone opened it by force.”

  “Maybe they picked it,” said Jane. “All them locks use the same key.”

  “Well, you would know about picking locks, Jane,” Hannah spat. She was still annoyed that Jane hadn’t told her about the ring. “Whatever. We have to find Sukey. I bet she’s taken the canoe and gone to Mr. MacKenzie’s.”

  “Doubt it,” Brandon said. “MacKenzie’s a white guy, right? No, she will be looking for black people to help her.”

  “How do you know?” Hannah asked crossly, but then she backed down as Brandon aimed a level gaze at her.

  “Oh . . . right,” she said, chagrined. “Yeah. You would know. I guess.”

  “Maybe she’s gone to see the white witch,” Alex said.

  Brandon and Hannah exchanged looks.

  “Good point. There’s only one problem,” Brandon said. “Does anyone know where to find her?”

  “I do,” Alex said. “Sukey pointed out her house to me just last week.”

  “Could you find it again?” Brandon asked.

  He nodded. “I think so.”

  Alex got lost several times along the way, and an hour later, the four kids still hadn’t reached their destination.

  As they walked along the trail, Hannah began to shiver. “Is it just me, or is it cold?” she griped.

  “It’s cold,” her brother said, kicking up leaves and pine straw.

  “No,” Hannah said, “I mean really, really cold.”

  Nobody replied. Hannah pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders as a shiver ran up her back. As she did so, she felt the first pangs of a headache.

  They finally found the hut almost by accident, when Alex spotted it deep in the woods. It was surrounded by trees and tangled undergrowth, and it was as well hidden as anything could be in a place as flat as southeastern Georgia. Only a stream of smoke issuing from the chimney gave it away.

  “This is weird,” Hannah said, as the kids spied on the back of the hut. “I wonder if she’ll mind a bunch of white people showing up on her doorstep? Maybe you should go first, Alex, and tell her what’s going on. She won’t mind you, I’m sure.”

  Alex didn’t look much like he fancied that idea, but reluctantly he agreed.

  While he disappeared around the corner to the front of the house, the kids remained in the bushes. But very soon, to their surprise, Alex returned with a stranger, a black man. Brandon thought the man looked familiar, but he couldn’t think why.

  “We have Sukey with us,” the man said in what sounded like a West Indian accent. He spoke with authority, which surprised Brandon. He had expected the man to be much more subdued around whites. The man continued, “My wife says you can leave the two girls here with us for now. But you boys must say nothing at all, or all our lives will be in danger. Do you swear?”

  Brandon wondered why the witch and her husband would trust them. He said carefully, “There’s one person I do have to tell about Sukey. It’s Mr. Osborn, the minister. But it’s all right. He’s on our side. He won’t betray us. I got to tell you, though, the other white men will search for Sukey. Don’t be surprised if they come here.”

  The man looked troubled by this news. He said, “I will ask my wife what she thinks. Wait here.”

  He walked back into the house, leaving puzzled faces behind him.

  But he soon came back with a reply. “She says she trusts you to do what you think is best.”

  “Okay, that’s just strange,” Brandon muttered to the other kids. “She doesn’t even know us, or Mr. Osborn.”

  “Maybe she’s using her psychic powers?” Hannah smirked. In truth, she was very nervous about entrusting her fate to this unknown woman. Was she really a witch? Or just crazy?

  With some trepidation, Hannah and Jane bid farewell to Alex and Brandon, and followed the old man toward the house.

  As the door swung open, the old man called out, “Annie, here are the two girls.” From the upstairs loft, someone slowly stepped down the creaking stairs.

  Hannah first saw skirts and shoes. And as the woman carefully picked her way to the ground floor, Hannah got a shock.

  Now she knew why this woman was called the “white witch.” It wasn’t because she practiced good spells. It was because she was white. The old woman was short, and slightly stooped, with flyaway white hair and masses of wrinkles. She looked to be at least eighty, and very stern in appearance. But her eyes were kindly and somehow familiar. She greeted Hannah and Jane with a big smile.

  “Fred,” she said to her husband, “please could you make us all tea?” Fred smiled back at his wife as he returned outside. Hannah could see that he was quite a few years younger than she was, and that he adored her. “Now then,” the witch said to Hannah. “I am delighted to see you at long last.”

  Her greeting was warm, but Hannah looked at her suspiciously. “I know you’re supposed to be a witch. Are you psychic or something? Did you know we were coming?”

  The old woman smiled and said nothing.

  Just then, Hannah’s head swam and she felt slightly nauseated. “I think I’ve got the start of the flu,” she said weakly. “Can I please lie down?”

  “There is a bed in here,” said a familiar voice from the other room. Sukey appeared in the doorway, and Hannah gave her a hug.

  Watching them, the witch said, “By all means, settle in, Hannah. But Sukey, we must make haste. It is not safe for you to remain here long. I have sent word to a friend of ours who has agreed to help us, and I am sure he will spirit you away. I expect him in two or three days.”

  “But if it’s not safe for
Sukey, are we in danger too?” Hannah asked.

  “Of course,” said the witch calmly. “But not straightaway. I am thinking of what would be best for you two girls, too.”

  For a moment, Hannah wondered if the old woman planned to make them into a stew, sort of like Hansel and Gretel.

  As they walked back through the woods toward Mr. Osborn’s house, Brandon turned to Alex. “We have to tell Mr. Osborn what’s going on,” he said. “Right now.”

  “What makes you think he’ll want to help?” Alex asked skeptically.

  “I understand what you mean,” Brandon sighed. “He’s not exactly Mr. Popularity with the white guys around here, and getting involved in this could be seriously dangerous for him. So I’m just going to have to appeal to him as a Christian, you know, to do the right thing.”

  Alex was not sure that this would work, but he said nothing.

  As the boys crossed the pasture, they spotted Mr. Osborn riding up to the house. Dismounting, he tied up his horse and then stomped inside, glowering.

  “Maybe this isn’t the right time,” Alex said tremulously. “He looks seriously mad. Maybe he’s been looking for us.”

  Brandon frowned. “Man, I hope not. We have to talk to him right now, or it might be too late.”

  Alex stopped and kicked at the soil with his bare toes. “Look, are you sure about that? The witch’s house is pretty well hidden. Maybe we do have time to wait for him to be in a good mood.”

  “That’s true,” said Brandon slowly. “I don’t think the white people have ever gone looking for her. They don’t even know Fred exists, and they don’t see the witch as a threat. But if they suspect she’s hiding Sukey, that might change. Fast.”

  “Good point,” said Alex. “Okay, let’s talk to him now. Should we ask him to help Hannah and Jane, too?”

  “I think,” Brandon said, “it would be best not to mention Hannah and Jane, at least not for now. Let’s just focus on getting him to help Sukey. Okay?”

  In silence, the boys walked the last few hundred yards to the house.

  Mr. Osborn had removed his wig and coat, and poured himself a glass of Madeira wine. He was slumped in a chair, staring into the fireplace. He no longer looked angry, but deeply depressed. He barely glanced up when the boys entered.

  “The vestry has informed me,” he said slowly, gazing into the smoldering embers, “that they no longer require my services, and that they have already written to the Bishop to ask for my replacement. In their letter, they tell me, they have told His Grace that I am a drunkard.”

  The boys began to protest this outrage, but Mr. Osborn held up a hand to silence them. “You know as well as I that this is a shameful lie, and a grotesque slur upon my good character. Indeed, as you probably know, some of the accusers themselves are guilty of the sin of which they accuse me. They are wellknown for their familiarity with the bottle.” He stopped, looking at the glass of wine in his hand almost in amusement.

  “You know, before I left England,” he said quietly, “I met with some of my brother clergy in London. They took me to supper, and they warned me that ministers who go to America are often falsely accused of drunkenness and other sins. Because there is no bishop in America, they said, the Bishop of London must determine the truth or falsehood of such accusations. His Grace has begun to suspect that many of these accusations indeed are false, they said, but it was difficult to make judgments across a vast span of ocean, and so . . .” He trailed off. “I was warned,” he added unhappily.

  “What do you plan to do now?” Brandon asked quietly, fighting down his rising panic.

  “I know not,” Mr. Osborn said, biting his lip and glancing downward. “I came here to do good, and also, I will confess it, I came here because I so very much wanted to have my own parish, to support myself as a gentleman ought to be supported. To confess failure is difficult for me. Nonetheless, I have failed.”

  “I don’t think you’ve failed,” Brandon said hesitantly. He was really moved by Mr. Osborn’s honesty about his own weaknesses, and he was determined to make his master feel better. “They failed you. And you can still do good, sir.”

  Mr. Osborn looked at him sharply. “How so?”

  Brandon took a deep breath, and said, “You can help us.”

  After Brandon and Alex had explained the results of their investigation, and their belief that Mr. Gordon himself had set the fire, Mr. Osborn, in silence, searched their faces. Brandon was suddenly afraid that he and Alex had made a terrible mistake by confiding in the minister.

  But now Mr. Osborn rose to his feet. “The men of the parish are meeting this very minute to divide up the search among them,” he said. “I shall volunteer to search due west of the plantation.”

  Brandon thought quickly. This wasn’t quite what he had had in mind. If Mr. Osborn visited the witch’s house, he would also find Hannah and Jane. If they told him about the girls now, he would wonder why they had not told him the whole truth before. And the less he knew, the better for everyone. Maybe Alex could go and warn the girls, so they could get out of sight before Mr. Osborn arrived?

  But now Brandon wondered if he was just panicking and jumping the gun. He said, “Are we actually going into the witch’s house, sir? I just thought maybe we should warn her.”

  Mr. Osborn was already halfway out the door, but he turned back. “Well put, Brandon. Indeed, it would be best if we did not trouble her, or confirm our suspicion that she is sheltering Sukey. The less we know for certain, the less we will need to bear false witness to Mr. Jones and Mr. Gordon. We need make only a brief investigation of the area, so that we can report to them that we have found nothing amiss, and thereby discourage further searches. Now, wait here. I shall return for you shortly.” With that, he left. Brandon and Alex turned to each other, and gave huge sighs of relief. They had an adult ally, and a good one at that.

  Mr. Osborn was indeed as good as his word. He was the first man to arrive when the searchers gathered. In front of Mr. Gordon, Mr. Jones, and the others, he made a great show of walking his horse along a trail into the forest, with Brandon and Alex trotting alongside him.

  As they went deeper into the woods, Brandon puffed to Alex, “Never been along here before. Where do you think we’re going?”

  Alex was worried. “I think we’re headed straight at the witch’s house,” he whispered to Brandon. “Do you think he’s taking us there? I thought he didn’t know where it is, and he didn’t want to meet her? What’s going on?”

  Brandon raised his eyebrows. He had no idea. He crossed his fingers and hoped for the best.

  But Mr. Osborn never left the main trail. He passed the hidden trail that led to the witch’s house, and took the boys up a gentle, densely-forested hill, which was practically a mountain by the standards of the flat lands of southeastern Georgia.

  At the summit was a tiny log house, with deer antlers mounted over its front doorway.

  Alex grinned. “I know where we are,” he said to Brandon. “This is downtown Snipesville! I don’t think it’s called that yet, but it sure looks familiar.”

  Then he paused doubtfully, and turned his head. “That’s a tavern, I’m sure it is. Check out the antlers. But I thought Mr. and Mrs. Marshburn were the first people to own a tavern here? The tavern I visited in 1851?”

  “What makes you think they were first?” asked Brandon.

  “Oh, my dad’s boss is descended from the Marshburns,” Alex said, “and that’s what he told me. I guess it wasn’t true.”

  “He probably didn’t know what was true,” Brandon said. “Look at all the stuff I don’t know about my ancestors.”

  “Come along boys,” called Mr. Osborn. He had tied up his horse, and was beckoning to them. “As the vestry have already styled me a drunkard,” he said cheerily, “I don’t suppose that a visit to a tavern will do my reputation any harm.”

  They sat at a table inside, and the tavern-keeper brought over tankards. Alex accepted a beer at Mr. Osborn’s insistence.
He sipped politely from the clay mug, stuck out his tongue at the bitter taste, and didn’t touch it again.

  When Mr. Osborn stepped outside to relieve himself, Brandon and Alex called over the serving girl to remove their unwanted drinks.

  “I’ve been thinking, Brandon,” Alex murmured. “You know where the witch’s house is, at the bottom of the hill? When I was here in 1851, that land was part of Kintyre Plantation, Mr. Gordon’s place. And in the twenty-first century . . . ”

  Brandon, excited, finished the sentence for him. “It’s in Braithwaite Park. It’s where we found the skeleton. Wow.”

  “So who is it?” Alex asked him, worry written across his face. “Is it Sukey, or Jane, or the witch or . . . ?”

  A silence fell between them. Brandon didn’t want to say Hannah’s name either. So was this how their adventures would end? With Hannah dead?

  Chapter 12: THE WHITE WITCH

  The very next day, Mr. Osborn started to pack up his stuff for the return to England. When Brandon and Alex found him in the loft, he was carefully placing each leather-bound book in his battered old trunk

  “Can we help, sir?” Brandon asked awkwardly, gesturing helplessly toward the last two books on the desk.

  Mr. Osborn shook his head sadly. “No, Brandon, there is no need. I have so very few belongings with which to return.”

  “Where will you go, sir?” Alex asked.

  “I doubt you would know the place, Cato,” Mr. Osborn said in a patronizing tone.

  “Try him,” said Brandon with a sly smile.

  Mr. Osborn sighed lightly. “I have written to the Bishop of London, and I have asked that he return me to Balesworth, or elsewhere in Hertfordshire. Now that I am a widower, I will be able to live on a small curate’s salary. And if no suitable curacy can be found in England, I have suggested that I be dispatched as a missionary once more, this time to the West Indies. But regardless of His Grace’s decision, I must return to London to hear his verdict. As I have informed His Grace, my circumstances do not permit me to wait in Georgia for months while a letter with his reply makes its way across the Atlantic. I have told the Bishop that I shall wait upon him in person at Lambeth Palace to hear his decision.”