by Barbara Best
As they make their way at a turtle’s pace, thousands of burrowing fiddler crabs, brandishing their single oversized claw like a fierce weapon, scamper sideways into their holes. The crabs kept Jane entertained for a time, but had eventually become just another monotonous part of the landscape. A croaking, honking sound gets her attention as a blue heron flaps its blue-gray wings and lifts gracefully into the sky. The marsh is teaming with wildlife. It is a regular animal kingdom. Jane’s not amused or taken with the glory of nature at the moment. She just wants to get to Savannah. Anything is better than this.
The bumpy ride is tedious. Although it is a zesty spring day, the rising sun is becoming uncomfortably warm when it bears down on unprotected skin. Her layers of heavy damp clothing are sticky with exposure to the salt air. Jane peers behind them where the wagon has etched two snake-like ruts. Fragile impressions that disappear into wet pools where the wheels meet moisture under the surface. At first Jane thought they would surely get stuck. So far, however, the ground where they are traveling is uneven yet firm enough. They must be inland just a ways, but there are definitely signs of traveling parallel to a shoreline. It helps Jane keep her bearings and not feel so totally lost.
Jimmy has had to get out several times to guide the mule and wagon around obstacles in their path or through shallow puddles of saltwater lined with sharp, cutting oyster shells. They have both been up to their ankles in mud, but they have managed to keep going without incident.
Jane’s boots, laced up tight, have come in handy, but they are no match for this type of terrain. She has pulled them off to dry. Jimmy is not happy with her behavior, especially when she has pulled her hoop and skirt up practically to her waist on several occasions. Jane knows in this period her carelessness in exposing her undergarments is a breach in common decency, but it has kept her dress from getting completely ruined. This is real life ‘Survivor’ and Jane is determined to keep what little she owns whole.
After traveling pretty steadily for a good amount of time, Jimmy reaches inside his shirt, “Bud Crow said to give this to you when it were safe. Someone musta slipped it to him.”
Jane takes the folded paper Jimmy had hidden and opens it, “It’s a letter from Mr. Hopkins! Have you read this?”
“Naw, I can’t read none, ma’am. But Bud told me a thing or two. He heard the adjutant give up his spot to Henry.”
“What do you mean he gave up his spot, and who is Henry?”
“Bud said it’s a condition of surrender, ma’am. Our men, the ones who are sick or hurt, will be sent home. Adjutant Hopkins was to stay behind with ‘em. But he, bein’ a God-faring man an all, gave up his place so poor ole Henry could be with his brother Tom.
“Now Henry, he ain’t hurt none. But Thomas . . . he’s bad mangled, ma’am. Lost his leg up to his hip, part of an arm and his skull’s cracked wide open. See, a shell came right down on poor ole Tom. Doc said he ain’t long fer this world. And Henry bein’ so distressed an all. Well, the good-hearted adjutant just couldn’t bear to see the brothers parted.”
Jane keeps quiet. What can she say to this? That she knows for a fact Tom and the other men who are sick and wounded won’t make it home. She doesn’t know how many will die exactly, but Tom is probably one of them. She is positive she heard something about this. She assumes they were held at Pulaski. But how long were they held? She draws a blank.
“What do you think will happen to Hopkins and the rest of the garrison?” Jane bats at another ferocious swarm, “Geez! These things are flat out evil!” Thank goodness she’s covered with all the layers of clothing making it more of a challenge for the brutal insects to find their mark.
“Just be glad it’s still cool enough to keep the mosquitoes at bay. This whole place can be black with ‘em. Cover a man from head to toe, day or night. Eat you alive.” Jimmy is right taken with this so-called Mystifying Ghost Lady. She is tougher than a lot of men he knows and a might strange at that. To answer her question, “They’ll be packin’ them on a steamer to who knows, ma’am. Adjutant Hopkins is mighty brave to give up his spot like that. Bein’ hurt himself an all. Imagine he wants to stand by the Kunnel durin’ such hard trials.”
Such an officer and a gentleman . . . Jane finishes off the thought to herself. She focuses on the scratchy ink on paper, probably written in a hurry. It’s to his mom. Jane gets a ping of guilt at first, thinking maybe she shouldn’t read something so private. Oh, what the hay! Bud, after all, did tell Jimmy to give it to me.
Dearest Mother,
I gladly avail myself of this opportunity to write you to let you know that I am still among the living. In fact by God’s grace I am much recovered from a wound to my eye received during the siege. This letter brings with it our dear cousin Jane, who like an angel graciously devoted herself to the care of your son who was most assuredly in need. I now return her to your care with gratitude and a wish to repay her in some way for her unassuming acts of kindness. I do not know when I will be able to write again. Tomorrow I am told we depart by steamer. I will try to send word how I am doing.
Yours affectionately,
Matthew H. Hopkins,
Adjutant
1st Vol. Reg. of Georgia.
Hmmm . . . carefully written. “Well Jimmy, Mr. Hopkins has asked his family to help out when we get to Savannah.” Jane tries to sound optimistic, but has major concerns. She really needs to figure out how she is going to explain herself. So far she’s been able to dodge suspicions. No one she’s been in contact with has spent any time on her situation or drawn any conclusions about her sudden appearance. Oh, she’s gotten the raised eyebrows and questioning looks, but much more grave matters have been a distraction, making it pretty easy to get by.
When it comes to Jimmy, Jane gets the impression she is star-like material. Right up on a pedestal. He has proved totally devoted and accepting. Never asking her one question about herself. Nonetheless, someone will eventually take notice and hopefully she’ll be ready to deal.
One thing’s for sure, she’s no cousin. And for certain, she’s no Southern Belle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Jane and Jimmy stop to investigate the sack tossed into the back of the wagon and to take a bathroom break. It’s the last time Jane wants to navigate through large palmetto, cactus, grasses up to ten feet tall, and god-knows what deadly things that live within, to find a private spot to pee. She and Sophie had laughed about the crotchless drawers. Never has she been more thankful for such a thing than now. All the same, as she struggles back to the wagon with skirt lifted high and praying nothing creepy crawls up her legs, Jane vows to hold it the rest of the way. Well, at least she can try.
“Campfire ahead.” Jimmy stands on the worn wagon bench, shielding his eyes from the April sun to get a better look. He hops down and hands Jane the canteen.
“You’re kidding me.” Jane takes three quick swallows trying hard not to think about where the water came from or what else has been outside and inside the container. The two share a wedge of stale cornbread from the sack. Jane squints in the direction of Jimmy’s gaze and detects the fine wisp of smoke swirling up into the atmosphere.
“No ma’am. Ain’t no kiddin’ bout it. Can’t say for sure, but I’ll wager it’s a bunch of blues.” Jimmy throws the sack in the back of the wagon and holds out his hand to Jane.
Jane can’t help but be impressed by his calm demeanor. Jimmy may be young and small in stature but in so many ways he’s every bit of a man. He has a confidence about him, not easy to ruffle.
“Is there a way to go around?” Jane’s not real happy with the thought of going off the trail that has thus far been pretty reliable.
Jimmy helps Jane back into the wagon and climbs up to take the reins. “Not unless you want to swim for it. Besides, they’d probably spot us anyway. Naw. I spect it’s best we meet ‘em head on. We got this paper here.” Jimmy pulls the official paper the Yankee soldier handed them out of his haversack.
“Wait! Just wait a m
inute!” Jane is panicked and trying desperately to get her wits about her. They have to do this the right way, or chance both of them getting killed. And from what she’s read about the nasty business of this war, there’s also a huge possibility of being raped.
“Jimmy, they might not see you’re just a kid. You heard what that soldier told us back there. That uniform could get you shot on sight. You need to give me the reins and get in the back of the wagon . . . please. At least this way we can get close enough for them to see I’m a girl and no threat,” she hopes.
From Jimmy’s expression, Jane is sure he is not completely convinced of her plan, or her ability to pull it off. “Jimmy you have to let me do this.” Jane pleads in a hushed but forceful voice. “I know you want to protect me, but they might kill you and then, where would we be! Where would I be? Just think about it for a minute.”
Gradually Jimmy hands the reins to Jane.
“About time!” Jane smiles. “All right now, you get in the back and I’ll take it from here. Where’s the note that nasty Yankee gave you?” Jane can’t believe she just used the word Yankee like a bonafide Southerner. She would never have made such a derogatory comment like that in her time. Not politically correct.
Jimmy reluctantly hands Jane the paper. “Hope you know what you’re doin’, ma’am.”
“Now, I want you to lay low, be still until I can work this out. And take that hat off and sit on it, will you?” The less Jimmy looks like a soldier the better.
Jane pulls up her skirt real quick to hide Matthew’s note under the garter of her hose just above her knee and takes the reins in both hands. Holding the reins isn’t totally unfamiliar to her. She went horseback riding a few times when she was younger. The outdoorsy thing wasn’t her scene. It was something Bryce had wanted her to try. She’s glad now she did.
“Just let the mule show you the way, ma’am.” Jimmy scrambles over into the back and sits down facing backwards. “I won’t be long for this here bed and sittin’ if the slightest thing happens,” he warns.
“Well, let’s pray nothing does.” Jane’s words sound shallow and she takes a deep breath, “Hold on!” Jane snaps the reins twice, and on the third try the wagon finally jerks forward. They’re moving and the mule doesn’t seem to mind that someone else is driving. So far so good. As they move forward down the trail Jane gets a better idea of where the smoke is coming from. It’s directly ahead and definitely in their way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Ambushed. Five very rough looking men in blue uniforms, armed with guns and rifles, come from out of nowhere, surrounding them. One of the Union soldiers, a short, emaciated man with outrageously big ears, grabs the mule and digs his feet in, “Whoa. Whoooa, now” and proceeds to yelp a nervous titter that sounds akin to a hyena.
Another man with a heavy black beard, yellow teeth and a distinct scar on his cheek in the shape of a fishing hook, steps up to the wagon where Jane is sitting. “Now what do we have here?” He looks up at Jane and then peers over into the back of the wagon, “Well, well, well, lookee what we have! Boys, we got us a Johnny Reb. What’s the matter son, cat got your tongue?” He jabs at Jimmy’s shoulder with the butt of his rifle.
Don’t move don’t move! Jane is frantic. If Jimmy moves one inch they are done for. They are so outnumbered. “We’re unarmed.” Jane speaks up with as much authority as she can muster, forcing herself to look into the repulsive man’s bloodshot eyes. We’re unarmed . . . that’s what you’re supposed to say, isn’t it? “Who’s in charge here?” Her voice sounds surprisingly better than she is feeling right now.
Scarface grins broadly, showing diseased gums. “I reckon you’re speakin’ to him,” he spits a wad of something onto the ground.
“Listen, we don’t want any trouble. The kid and I are just trying to get back to Savannah. I was visiting my cousin at Fort Pulaski right before the battle and couldn’t leave until after the fighting ended. Your General Gillmore was kind enough to send us home first thing this morning.”
“Ya hear that? She said General Gillmore, boys!”
“Wha-hoo! Well ain’t that a fuggin’ piece a news,” a foul animal on the other side of the wagon, to Jane’s right, wheezes like he has a bad case of asthma.
“Watch your trash mouth, Lowell!” the Yank leader growls.
“Yeah Lo-well . . . Sarg is right . . . can’t ya see, this here’s a la-dy,” a man with dark features and a hatchet face sings out sarcastically from the rear end of the wagon.
The hyena repeats his detestable cackling, which grates on Jane’s nerves, raw with paralyzing fear. She tries hard to ignore the chilling unnatural sound and taunting remarks. “Yes! General Gillmore,” Jane lowers her tone and projects her voice to hopefully sound strong, possibly indignant, and realistically, ready to snap at any minute from the tension. “Here’s our paper explaining. This ensures us safe passage.”
“The two men closest to Jane wreak of alcohol meaning, what else, lowered inhibitions, hell, NO inhibitions! And a good chance this whole thing could get worse, much worse. She tries to hand the paper to the Yankee sergeant, but he just stands there smirking at her, the lumpy hook on his face turning from shades of purple to a pale pink as he works his jaw muscles. Lord knows what he’s thinking. Where’s my mace, where’s 911!
Jane sits upright, back straight with the help of her corset, determined to show she is unscathed by the slimy stares she is getting, when in fact, it makes her skin crawl. She continues to keep her eyes focused on the leader, and is successful in keeping the other worthless beasts in her peripheral. All, except Trash Mouth, who has managed to find her blind spot.
The wagon rocks to one side.
“Never smelt a lady be-fore. Whoo-wee!” he crows. “How bout givin’ me a . . . li’l taste of . . .” With slurred speech and a gurgly hiccup, the coward behind Jane, Trash Mouth Lowell, reaches with grimy calloused fingers. Clumsily he pitches forward, arms outstretched, hands brushing under the hem of Jane’s dress as if he would grab her. The assault triggers lightning reflex. Jane shoots up, snatching her skirt and with all her weight, stomps the soldier’s hand as hard as she can with the heel of her boot. She kicks outward with all her might, just missing the man’s jawbone and grazing his forehead, knocking his hat off. The move does the trick, causing Trash Mouth to withdraw with a wolf-like howl, and the others to roar with laughter in escalating excitement.
Jane reacts so quickly, she has just enough time to rest a steady hand on Jimmy’s, who has gripped the back of the bench as if to spring into action. “I’m okay. Really, I’m okay.” Jane shakes her head no, please, no . . . until he finally releases, falling back into the wagon bed where the muzzle of a carbine, and stabbing blade of a bayonet is just inches from his temple. Finger on the trigger. All it would take is one edgy, drunken impulse to squeeze.
“Stop it!” Jane screams as loud as she can.
Jimmy’s hand flies up in a defensive posture, putting his palm between the razor sharp knife and his face.
For a second, nobody moves. “Now that’s one right-smart gray back, wouldn’t you say? Best settle down.” The sergeant glares at Jimmy and then fixes his eyes on the others, “ALL of you!” he hollers.
The man Jane stomped is still hopping around, saying “Hell lady! Hell lady!” Over and over, while shaking and grabbing his hand, and acting the drunken idiot to everyone’s hilarity. He rubs his forehead and looks down at his hand, “I’m bleeding!” he bleats in protest and starts dancing around again. Jane hopes with mirth that she has broken something.
“That’s enough!” At the rough sound of the leader’s forceful bark, all shenanigans cease. Trash Mouth straightens and puts his filthy fingers into his mouth.
Only the adrenaline pumping through Jane’s veins keeps the dream-like state of shock from kicking in. The men hover, ominous, capable of causing harm. The vision of a scene in the movie Tombstone flashes through Jane’s mind, ‘I’m your huckleberry’. She braces to play it out, planting
her feet as firmly as she can, and waving her paper impatiently in the air. “Well are you going to take it or not!”
“No need to get your dander up, Miss.” Union Sergeant Boston Garber signed on soon after Confederate warships bombarded Fort Sumter and that’s where his implicit sense of duty and patriotism begins and ends. His service in the army is only motivated by dollars and cents, and any expectations he might have had when he enlisted were quickly wronged by false promises. He is suspicious by nature, always seeking the easy road, never sorry for anything he’d done.
Looking at this unlikely pair, traveling a nearly impassable terrain and through newly formed Union territory is about as strange as anything Boston has seen. Well, I might as well take a gander at what the feisty little bitch is waving in front of my nose.
Boston snatches the paper and carefully examines the document, surprised by its content. He gives his men a sharp warning glance; all too aware the soldiers are waiting for a signal. One nod or one word from him and they would be all over these two. And who’s to say what would happen. He absently fingers his beard and rubs the back of his neck, feeling layers of dead skin and dirt peel up.
Jane waits what seems like an interminable amount of time, nerves wound tight, ready to fight for her life. What is she doing here! What did she do to deserve this craziness!
“They’re free to go.”
“Dad burn it, Sarg!” the hyena that has a good grip on the mule’s bridle, whines. “Can’t we have a little fun? This here lady’s might pert, and that gray looks like he could use some roughin’ up.”
“What about this here mule and wagon.” One of the other soldiers pipes in greedily.
“I SAID . . . let ‘em GO!” Boston snarls harshly, his voice carries to all ears, loud and dangerous.