The Lincoln Penny

by Barbara Best

  “Yes sir!” the men return in accord.

  “Now, get out of here. Both of you!”

  The first sergeant and private bolt up stiffly to salute.

  “Hold on. Where did you put the corpse?” Lou questions distastefully. “You heard me! Where is it?”

  “In the barrel, sir. We weren’t so sure what to do.” Rufus offers tentatively.

  “Just make sure it’s hidden good, out of sight. Leave the rest to me.” Lou looks up at the two men, who are as white as ghosts. “Well, go on! Get out of here!” he barks. “Dismissed!”

  Just as the men are tripping over one another to get out the door, Lou grabs up the first thing within reach. It whistles by, directly over the men’s heads and slams into the wall with a loud bang.

  Feeling better for it, Lou straightens and checks himself. He folds his loosened sleeve flat and tucks the end back in place, between two buttons of his lapel.

  Reckon that Whisper character will be comin’ round to claim his property in a couple of days. Lou imagines he will have to talk a blue streak to right this matter with the old codger. If truth were told, Lou had never intended on turning the runaway back over to the slave hunter in the first place. Even if it meant losing his promised cut in the over sixteen hundred dollars the scalawag swore his property would bring at auction. Good breeding stock, he said.

  No, Lou had formulated a more effectual plan for this town. There is nothing like a good hanging to appease a restless crowd. Making an example of the thieving runaway might have put an end to some of the insurrection. Ever since that blasted Lincoln set his mind to freeing their negroes, seems like every living thing in these parts has been in uproar. Lou can’t decide which he hates worse, a bunch of rebellious slaves, or a multitude of panic-stricken whites, who are fearing for their rights and feeling the worst is upon them.

  It appears an amended strategy is in order.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Lou is up before sunrise the next day going over the report from his men and sorting through a checklist of incriminating evidence. “Just wait until those ole town cronies hear what is really at hand,” Lou swells with pleasure and settles in to review the facts.

  Lou dips his pen and scratches the nib across the paper, underlining two words. Madame Néve. Authorities had suspected her of mischief from the moment she came into town. After all, she is a foreigner, a stranger with strange ways.

  But oh she is clever, that one! The recluse had kept a low profile and sought to pacify people’s dark fascination for the exotic. As a result, she has been tolerated all this time solely for the township’s own amusement. Like a common whore on the waterfront. And the good people of Savannah, what of them? Those who made every justification and would willingly pay their sum to dally in the occult? Why they remained quiet and contented for a time.

  How easily people can turn. With her disappearance, Lou suspects they are driven by fear of exposure. After all, Madame Néve had been intimate with at least half the citizens of Savannah. What she must know! With a sudden vengeance, city leaders, who had once sought her services, now squawk of secret operations and Union spies. They demand to know why Madame Néve would abandon her house in the dark of night. Why she would set out on her own in such great haste and without detection? Where was she going? What was she about?

  The minute the alarm went up Madame Néve had vanished, Lou dispatched an urgent message by telegraph to confederate troops in all directions. From Savannah, north to Charleston, south to Darien and all points west. No one has seen hide-nor-hair of the woman. Escaped without a trace.

  Lou has his designs on the last bit of evidence. The interrogation went afoul, but he has enough to support his case. He doesn’t know what or where, but he intends to find out. Lou scratches two words across the paper. Underground Tunnels. It all seems to fit and rumors aren’t always far from the truth. It is entirely possible Madame Néve worked her way through a network of secret passageways that slave girl talked about and somehow made her way to the water’s edge. From there she could easily have set out by boat. There is a good chance she is a short distance upriver at Fort Pulaski and under the protection of federals. Wouldn’t that beat the Dutch!

  African Baptist Church. Lou rubs his shoulder and as habit, looks down to check his left sleeve, which is neatly in place. His men have their orders to form-up at sundown. He will put an end to this business once and for all. The thought of personally leading his regulars in a surprise raid this very evening is exhilarating.

  Lou taps his pen on a blotter and scribbles more on the document he is preparing. “So what do we have next?” Ah! Southern women who are sympathetic to the north! And just who might these southern accomplices be?

  Mrs. Marshall. Mrs. Marshall’s carriage was seen outside Madame Néve’s residence the night of her disappearance. Lou drops a splotch of ink over Mrs. Marshall’s name on the paper and draws his finger across it, eradicating the reference. Idly, he rubs the ink between thumb and finger until it dries. All things considered, he prefers to ignore this minor detail and focus on what has transpired since. Why, the citizenry would be up in arms if he were to point a finger at their beloved matriarch.

  On the other hand, we have our mysterious Jane Peterson, who bears a most intimate and incriminating connection. Lou writes the letters evenly and then retraces it for emphasis, making the print much bolder.

  Before her unfortunate demise, the runaway had mentioned something about a piece of eight. Now this has Lou bemused. “A piece of eight,” he repeats out loud. This is pirate code for treasure. Lou should know. He grew up with tales of the sea. His father was Ship’s Captain aboard the Pons, an American built barque that was known for its speed in transporting precious cargo from Africa, through the Caribbean, and ultimately to the Americas. A piece of silver or gold with the Union President on it? Never heard of such a thing. Perhaps instead it is a token of some kind, a secret signal the slaves use to help them continue their route north. Now that’s more like it.

  Lou dips his pen in ink and writes, the Ring . . . and a very unusual ring at that. Lou should have heard back from the adjutant by now and his patience grows thin. He had released the property and first knowledge of the box to Hopkins, expecting the man would get to the root of the situation and uncover some truths on his own about this whole affair. Why do these people insist on protecting the woman? What hold does she have on them! Well, the adjutant has had his opportunity. With evidence clearly mounting, Lou will be more than happy to take matters into his own hands.

  So what do we know about our dear Miss Peterson? There are eyewitness accounts of a lady who suddenly appeared during the siege at Fort Pulaski. A spirit who took human form, one soldier had said.

  A spirit all right! She must be to have achieved such a magnificent feat. What form of scheming would enable a mere woman to gain access to a fort in the midst of battle and expertly gain the confidence of a garrison’s commanding officers in just a few transitory hours? Then, with the fall of Pulaski, this Mystifying Ghost Lady, is simply set free from enemy hands. She is, by some miracle, able to secure her release and abscond through enemy lines to Fort Jackson without impediment or disruption.

  Why Miss Peterson has even stood in the presence of their great General Robert E. Lee! How supremely convenient the young woman finds herself rubbing elbows with only the most elite families and prominent personalities of Savannah society. Lou has seen her at the hospital on a couple of occasions. Everywhere she goes, everything she touches turns to gold. Accolades are heaped upon her in colossal proportion. It seems Miss Peterson can do no wrong.

  “Oh, you are good, very good!” She has quite the loyal following. Doc Arnold, for one, speaks highly of Miss Peterson and the immense difference she has made. A prize find, he says. Yep, she’s a prize find all right. A well-regarded gem that has expediently gravitated to a place where soldiers would easily share their stories. A military hospital, where a spy might be privy to sensitive informati
on and easily keep a finger on the pulse of the war.

  “Yes sirree. Pretty goddamn convenient, I’d say!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  The animals are dropping their heads and flipping them high with anticipation, snorting and blowing great clouds of vapor out of their nostrils. There will be frost on the ground by morning. The temperature has dropped another good ten degrees as the last bit of sun has disappeared leaving flame colored streaks on the horizon. Horse and man are ready to be off, if for no other reason than to help stay warm. They have been ordered to meet at a designated place and are waiting for further instructions from Captain Tucker.

  “What do you suppose we’re about this fine night?” Brady asks his friends and tightens the reins as his horse shifts its weight.

  “Don’t know for sure, but I reckon it has somethin’ to do with all this talk about spyin’ an all.” Private Forrest Paget is a few years older and always the one the others look to for a reasonable answer. “Folks around here are pretty riled up about it.”

  “Know it for a fact,” Elias spits a stream of dark brown juice onto the ground and swipes a trace of spat from the corner of his mouth. He is proud for once to have something important to share. “Heard it from that new private, just in. The one that has his head up First Sergeant’s blowhole. A real bootlicker that one.”

  The two men that are listening laugh outright at this.

  Elias continues on, right pleased with himself, “Yeah, well, he said he helped question that dead runaway. Told me a thing or two. A bad egg, that one.” Elias looks around and leans over, lowering his voice, “I think they killed that slave girl on purpose.”

  “That so.” Forrest scratches under his chin where his heavy beard has been crawling something fierce. “Best keep your trap shut, Elias. Could get you in a heap o’ trouble one day.”

  Frankly, Forrest couldn’t care less about any of this. He just wishes he were back in his bunk under that scratchy old gray-wool blanket of his. Last night was a late night and it looks a good deal like this is going to be another long one. “Well, we’ll know soon enough. Here comes the Cap’m.”

  “First Sergeant Stone,” Lou salutes. “Are all men accounted for?”

  “Yes sir, Cap’m Tucker.” The salute is returned.

  Lou, with the help of his lieutenant, size up the small company of ten they had mustered. Four of them are already on their horses. The others are standing around, stomping their brogans in front of a small fire they built with dry sticks and bark. Lou frowns at the sorry sight with their mismatched clothing. Some of the men catch his eye and straighten under the weight of his critical gaze.

  Out of the ten, half are inexperienced boys with little to no knowledge of what it takes to fight a war. Green recruits with their peach-fuzz faces and soft hands, who have never been in a gun battle in their lives. Probably had their mamas and papas pull a few strings to keep their precious little snotty nosed boys out of harm’s way. He makes a mental note to address the need for more marching and drilling with his first sergeant. He’ll not have perverseness, inactivity and reluctance among his militia.

  After Lou’s brisk nod, Rufus turns to the men. “You there, put that fire out and mount up,” he barks impatiently. “Form up now! Straighten that line!” the first sergeant looks up at the moon peeking in and out of fast-moving clouds. That should be enough light for them to easily move through. No lanterns or torches tonight.

  Lou grabs his one white glove between his teeth and wiggles his right hand into it. Folded flat, the other glove rides on the left side under the loop of his belt. His pinched expression deepens. Just ain’t right a man only wear one glove.

  Private Baker steadies the majestic chestnut Morgan that tosses its flaxen mane and focuses its lively eye on its owner. Horse and orderly wait patiently for Lou to mount from the right side. Lou reaches up to grab the horn, and with his right foot in the stirrup, swings his left limb over to seat himself on his horse. He adjusts his saber, presses his hat firmly onto his head and takes the reins. His men are armed and ready. They have met at a remote outpost deep in the woods, several miles south of town.

  Lou figures the time is right. “You men have probably heard a lot of gibberish about spies in our fine city. We, this night, are about the business of law and order. We must not tolerate treasonous acts that degrade our beliefs. We will not tolerate decadence that dishonors the true and righteous acts of our brave soldiers who fight and die on battlefields, far from home and family. It is our duty to keep the peace and our primary objective is to safeguard the citizens of Georgia in these Confederate States.

  “Tonight we are on a secret assignment.” Lou pauses to give his men a chance to comprehend the significance of what they are about. He sternly continues, “It appears we might have a safe house for runaway slaves right under our very noses.”

  The men fidget in their saddles, glancing at one another from the corner of their eyes so as not to draw too much attention.

  “Hot dang, a raid!” disrupts the silence and all heads jerk toward Elias, who is suddenly stone still and staring straight ahead at nothing.

  “That’s enough!” Rufus growls and kicks his horse forward in a threatening manner.

  “Hold steady boys.” Lou looks at each man, one at a time. He is pleased with the outburst and wants to build momentum for the task ahead. “You boys have been yearning for some excitement and it looks like tonight’s your lucky night. We are about to pay a surprise visit to that negro church on Montgomery Street and put an end, once and for all, to this corruption.”

  Lou holds his horse that is itching to be off, “We don’t know quite what to expect or what we will find, but I call on you men to conduct yourselves appropriately. And without question, follow orders.” Then, without taking his eyes off his men, “We are ready, First Sergeant.”

  “You, Private Paget, go with Lieutenant Galley. Corporal Jones, take up the rear. All right men . . . in twos now, in twos. Keep it quiet.” Rufus waits for the men to get into position and when he’s satisfied, “Head out!”

  Brady and Elias are both wondering where their friend, Forrest, is off to with the lieutenant as they watch the two split from the group and ride into the darkness.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  There’s a timid tap on the door and Clara peeks her head in. Jane has been keeping her door slightly ajar all day to let those in the house know that she has not shut them out. Jane hopes this gesture, as small as it may seem, will help the strained relationship she has with the Hopkins family right now.

  Clara inches into the room along the wall, “Something is terribly wrong.” Delicate porcelain hands like her mother’s are clasped close under her chin. Her Hopkins eyes are open wide with concern and look to Jane for reassurance.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Matthew just came riding in on his horse like a bat out o’ hell and took Mama directly into the library.”

  Clara uses ‘Mama’ in private, but it’s not like her to use such a common expression like, bat out of hell. Jane can clearly see signs of distress written all over the young girl’s face.

  “I’m scared, Janie. Really scared.”

  The endearing nickname her dad sometimes used and Clara took up sends a ripple of pleasure through Jane. Before she has a chance to say or do anything.

  “Miss Clara. Miss Clara.” Tessie’s forced whisper urgently calls from the stairs down the hall.

  “I have to go.” It is halfway a question. Clara gives Jane a pitiful look as if she is trying to think of some excuse not to leave the room. But then, shoulders drooping, she turns to go.

  Jane’s stress level had already skyrocketed to about its peak with all the recent trouble. This episode only adds more. Her first thought is it might have to do with her, of course. But now she is thinking it could be something entirely different. Something dreadful. Surely it’s not bad news.

  There has been a lot of bad news for families in town. At the end of 1862, Savannah
, like so many other populations in the south, had finally begun to realize the full impact and length of the great American Civil War.

  The war’s powerful force catapults itself through the Christmas holidays and into the New Year, 1863, without as much as a hiccup. Heavy fighting has resulted in droves of casualties on both sides in states like Virginia, North Carolina, Mississippi, Arkansas, and Missouri and in places all too familiar to Jane, like Fredericksburg, Vicksburg, and Springfield. The newspapers are full of gruesome reports of the numerous battles and skirmishes. Photography, still in its infancy, provides the world a firsthand account of colorless landscapes, eroded and trenched, fraught by a sea of maimed and mutilated bodies. Images captured by names like Brady, Gardner and O’Sullivan would promptly dash any romantic notions Victorians might have had about warfare.

  Just last week five families Jane knows of through her association with the Hopkins and Mary Marshall received earth-shattering news from fighting that occurred near Murfreesboro somewhere in Tennessee. Seven strong healthy men, three of them brothers, two fathers, all sons of hysterical parents were killed in one day, in a battle that wiped out thousands in a massive wave of slaughter.

  Jane hasn’t seen it, but there is a list of names they post pretty regular somewhere in the Custom House. The families who are drawn there are constantly on pins and needles, praying and hoping beyond hope the names of their loved ones won’t appear on it. At this point everyone knows or are related to someone who is either wounded or deceased. It’s a horrific time in U.S. history of which only Jane, heaven help her, knows the outcome.

  There’s absolutely no sound in the house. Jane listens intently and opens her door a hair more to see what, if anything, is astir. Not a sound. No movement in the house, like its heart has stopped beating. Everything is completely still. Not good. Something bad has happened and she wants to go downstairs, yet she is afraid she will cause a problem.