The Lover's Eye, page 33
part #2 of Time Travel Series
“Shit!” Bryce cries out as he tries to twist over in a last ditch effort to pull himself to safety. But it is too late. In one thunderous roar, bear, tree and all come down on top of him.
CHAPTER 54: THROWN OFF BALANCE
Whistling minie balls cut into him and strike down his cousin’s horse with a deadly thud. Thrown off balance as chaos ensues, his horse rears, flinging him to the ground. But for a tangled boot in its left stirrup, the spirited steed would bolt.
Floating over the incident, Matthew watches an upsetting scene unfold. It flows like the pages of a book. Is it real? A certain feeling he cannot explain draws him nearer.
In a flurry of flailing arms, legs and hoofs, 2nd Lieutenant Francis Gunter, the young nephew of Anna Gunter Hopkins, is also thrown to the ground and struggles to get free. His horse’s sudden and horrifying stillness crafts a stark contrast to the pop, pop, pop of artillery, muffled cries, and howls of angry men that carry in the night air.
Francis kicks out from under the weight and claws his way on hands and knees to Matthew’s side. Lifting his head and shoulders out of the dirt, “My God, Cousin!” Oozing warm liquid covers both his hands. “You’re hurt!”
Four Confederate soldiers abruptly scramble across the road a short distance away and disappear into the thick brush, emitting blood-curdling Rebel yells.
Dangling from his horse like a rag doll, Matthew fights for cohesiveness as his vision dims. He is overcome by a disconcerting throb in more places than he can count. “Francis . . . Cousin, untangle me and take my horse.” His tone is calmer than expected.
Francis’ head darts in all directions, expecting Yankees to appear in pursuit at any moment. He moves immediately to release the captured boot from the horse’s stirrup. The sharp gasp gives little doubt the ankle or leg is sprained or broken.
“Here, my dispatch case! It is imperative you complete our mission. Hurry! Precious time is wasted. Go before it is too late.”
Francis struggles to help Matthew to the side of the road and hands him his canteen. Tormented by the thought of leaving, he hesitates. “I simply can’t . . .” his voice breaks.
“We just saw some of our boys, didn’t we? I will be fine. Now, make haste! Save Jackson if you can, and ride for Lee’s headquarters.”
In one flowing movement, Francis slings Matthew’s dispatch case over his shoulder, takes three steps, grabs the horse’s reins, and mounts.
“I will come back for you, Cousin. We will both get through this somehow.” The words loom over the pair like an ominous storm cloud. The men are mutually struck by the insincerity of its meaning, knowing well their quandary.
Francis rides like a demon into the night, driven by duty towards his destination. He prays he can make it in time.
A gentle lull settles over Matthew where no sound, no thought, no sensation or vision can penetrate. The pain recedes. Through the blackness, the corner of his cracked lips turns up in amusement. They are all but feathers in the wind. Drifting . . . drifting.
In and out of foggy consciousness, during long shadowy hours of painful jarring and feverish delirium, Matthew fights to live.
A memory. A lifeline to cling to. He sees a radiant image of a beautiful lady who is standing by his mother in a house-full of colorful guests. A glow that lights the room, and everyone and everything pales around her.
Again, in his father’s library. Fiery red tresses in flowing disarray, loosened from its ties and curling about her face and shoulders. Honey-sweet lips, blossom soft and not yet kissed. Well-formed brows that tilt with good humor and look down on sweeping lashes. Mesmerizing eyes. Deep pools of green that touch his heart and the very depths of his soul as he lie hopelessly captivated beneath her. She laughs down at him.
Impressions of an angel, then swiftly she disappears into a burst of intense all consuming light, blinding him behind sealed lids. Then mercifully, a blissful void, an entombed silence that separates once again.
CHAPTER 55: HINESVILLE
A long track of fairly even dirt road had improved their travel considerably. Jane suspects they are coming close to a town. “Do you know where we are, Boss?”
“No Miss Jane . . . can’t say that I do. But if’n we keep headin’ east, we’ll find our way to Darien. ‘Spect it’s another two days, with this here old rickety wagon.”
“Who do you suppose they are?” Jane points her finger to two tiny figures way ahead. The road cuts through a large expanse of land she thinks belongs to someone. Part of it looks cleared out, as if made ready for crops, but is now overgrown with weeds. Deserted fields with withered stalks and fences that are in disrepair mark hard times, or it is simply abandoned and really old.
“Not sure,” Boss stands in his stirrups to get a better look. “I’ll ride on up a piece ‘n see.”
When Boss returns, he reports two Confederates. “Didn’t get close ‘nough ta speak, but they seem a’right. Don’t see anyone else round. One of ‘em is favorin’ a leg. He ain’t goin’ nowhere fast. I think we be fine.”
It takes their wagon a while to catch up to the pair.
“Pull on over, Mack.” Jane ignores Mack’s frown, and smiles down at the two rag-tag soldiers with a heavy coat of grime. Her eyes briefly fix on the smaller-framed guy. Hmmm . . . something about the way he’s standing. Jane does a double take. It’s a she! Jane is sure of it, but she keeps her surprise in check.
“Hi there!”
The injured man puts his crutch out front to prop on, “Fine mornin’ . . . uh,” his brow cocks, “Ma’am?”
“Yeah, sorry about the clothes. They are more practical, don’t you think?” Jane smiles even bigger and looks over at the timid one, who is keeping her head down. “Where are y’all headed?”
“Well, it is mighty kind of you to inquire. We are headed east.”
Jane’s heart is softened by her suspicion, “You two look really tired. Can we offer you a ride?” Jane hears Boss grunt his objection, but he keeps to his horse and his place.
The wounded soldier doesn’t look a day over 20 years old. A cute guy with ash blonde hair, stained dark with sweat, and curling around his ears under his kepi.
“That’s mighty kind of you, ma’am. I can go a ways more, but my partner, here, could really use the favor. If you don’t mind none, we’d be obliged to take you up on that offer.”
Jane notices the relief transform the girl’s face. What in the world is she doing dressed like a Confederate soldier? She’d heard stories of women who fought in the war. The pair favor in appearance, similar eyes and lines around the mouth. Perhaps they are brother and sister.
“Celia, would you please make room for these two. We are happy to help you. Climb on in.”
Under the shade of a lone oak tree, the small band breaks for lunch and it is Jane’s chance to get acquainted. She is bursting with curiosity. It is the first cool thing that has happened on their journey, so far.
“Thanks, Celia.” Jane had insisted their two interesting guests be served first. “It’s all we can spare,” she apologizes for the meager plate of beans dished out on tin plates the soldiers carry. By the wasted look of them, they haven’t eaten in a while.
“This is better than me and Kit could hope for, ma’am. Ain’t that right, Kit.” Billy nudges his partner and grins big. Nice teeth, a little yellowed, but no decay on the front ones yet.
Jane had learned the taller soldiers’ name on their brief ride, before stopping. “Do you know this area, Billy?”
“Yes ma’am. I ‘spect we do. This road leads to Hinesville, ma’am. Named for ol’ Hines himself. This place is as old as dirt. The Hines family has been around as early as the first settlers. They own most of the land west, where we’re travelin’ now.”
Billy continues, “I have an uncle who has a small farm on the outskirts of town, a few miles east of Hinesville. We are hopin’ he’ll take us in for a spell. You know, until I can get back on my feet an’ all.” Billy looks down at his crutch.
“Oh, I see.” Jane notices Kit hasn’t said a word. She is avoiding eye contact, and acts like the life has been beat out of her.
“My uncle, now, he don’t have much, but, we would be glad to return the favor, ma’am, if’n you need a place to stay. Your darkies here can bed down in the barn. He’s a kind old fella, a good Christian man with a pious soul, who wouldn’t dream of turning folks away.”
Boss, who had gone to scout the area, rides in and dismounts, “Miss Jane, they be a pretty lil creek real close by, if’n you want to wash up.”
“Man would I ever. Aren’t you too sweet!”
Both Billy and Kit exchange curious glances.
“Kit, would you like to join me?”
Kit’s head snaps up in shock at the suggestion and she scoots closer to Billy, unsure and confused.
“It’s okay.” Jane smiles her reassurance. “I think we have a lot in common, you and me. And, there’s nothing better than a little soap and water.” One of the dead Yankee soldiers, the younger one who participated in the raid and destruction of Tohidu, actually had a brand new bar of soap in his saddlebags. By the perfumed scent, maybe meant for his sweetheart. It sounds horrible, but Jane is ready to enjoy every bit of the spoils they came by.
As promised, there is a small creek with rushing cool water a short distance away. It is about knee deep and perfect for a refreshing dip.
Mack stands guard out of sight, yet within ear distance for protection. Boss and Celia remained back at their temporary camp with Billy, who seemed to catch on to Jane’s proposal and practically shoved his partner off in her direction.
Jane plunks down on the bank to take her boots off, while Kit just stands there eyeing the water with yearning. She is undecided on what to do.
“Kit,” Jane says gently, looking up into the girl’s amber eyes. “Although we are dressed in men’s clothing, we both know who we really are, right? Come on. Don’t be afraid around me. I wouldn’t do a thing to hurt you or give your disguise away. You don’t have to explain, just take your boots off. We’ll both feel a whole lot better once we wash this filth off. Please, it’s okay. Really.”
For the first time, Kit looks genuinely happy. Jane is surprised how pretty she is, with finely arched brows that would clean up nicely after a little plucking, two deep dimples, wide-open eyes, and an adorable turned up nose. The shift in her disposition gives her age away. The poor girl is even younger than Jane thought.
With a telling sigh, Kit sits down beside Jane. She pulls her boots and socks off, and wiggles her dirty toes.
“Perfect! Now, let’s get in and have a good wash. No one’s around and no one will ever know our secret. I promise you.”
Jane stomps into the water with Kit right behind. They each give a muffled squeal and grin their pleasure.
“Ahhh . . . this feels so good.” Jane closes her eyes and dips her head back, her long hair turning crimson with moisture and swirling in the current. With the bar of soap, she begins to scrub. “You’re next,” she promises.
“I can’t thank you enough, ma’am,” are the first words out of Kit’s mouth. Her hair tumbles out from under her cap, which she tosses to shore. It is cropped to shoulder length and the same color as Billy’s, but not quite as curly.
“Please, call me Jane. Are you two brother and sister?” Jane asks, and suddenly regrets her boldness. “Sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”
“It’s all right. Truly,” Kit finally lets go and relaxes. “Yes, Billy is my brother.”
For a few precious minutes, in the wilds of a vast Georgia countryside, the women are young girls again. Splashing and giggling with pure joy, they are bound by their gender, a natural understanding and familiarity, although they are chasms apart.
Scrubbed from their heads to their toes and feeling human again, they find a soft patch of grass to dry their clothes and hair in the sun. The clouds part briefly on the girls’ private scene and wrap them in May warmth.
It is one of those perfect moments, shared in unison. A moment Jane and Kit needed badly, for each have their unspoken tales of woe, stories of hardship and tragedy. They keep the darkness locked away, buried for a time. Each, forgetting the ominous brooding and omnipotent force that watches and waits to rob them of their youth and innocence at every opportunity.
Satiated and appreciative of their unique experience, they finally set out to join Mack and make their way back. Kit gathered purple wildflowers along their path and tucked a couple of them behind Jane’s ear. Jane laughed when she saw Kit twist her hair up again under her kepi and make like a man.
It is right before sunset when they decide to make camp for the night in a secluded area, just outside Hinesville. None of them were ready to waltz into town.
Jane remembers when she rode into Savannah from Fort Jackson and all the looks, rude stares and flickering glances she and Jimmy got. People are curious about strangers and their little group would certainly cause tongues to wag. She also worried about drawing attention to Boss, Celia and Mack, who had no papers. With a convincing argument, Jane got everyone to agree staying on the outskirts of town and making their way to Billy and Kit’s Uncle’s place was a better option.
Eyeballing Boss and Mack, who are making preparations for the night, and watching Celia, who is tending a bubbling kettle over the fire, Billy asks, “Are these your nig . . .”
“Please!” Jane breaks in rapidly to drown Billy out. “I don’t mean to be rude, but never use that word around us. Where I come from it is totally unacceptable.” Jane is not actually surprised by the question. It would be the normal thing to ask in this time. She’s heard the ‘n’ word enough over the past year, although it never ceases to make her squeamish.
“Well, what would you have me call them?” Billy’s forehead wrinkles, and his shoulders go up. He is bewildered by the sharp reaction and did not mean to upset anyone.
“I’m sorry,” Jane smiles politely, “but they have names. We all have names.” If her friends overheard the ill-used expression, at least they know her personal feelings on the matter.
Jane tries to lighten things up, “It’s okay. No harm done, Billy. It’s just something I’m sensitive to.” Not wanting to cause further embarrassment, she offers an answer to Billy’s question. “Boss, Mack and Celia don’t belong to me. They are sort of loaned by a good friend of mine to help me get to Darien.
“Darien you say? Well ain’t that somethin’!”
Jane is relieved the name of the town throws Billy on to another subject. “Do you know the place?”
“Why I’ll be, ma’am. Me an’ Kit, here, we are from Darien. Our ma and pa, God rest their souls, had a small place there. Smallpox took them back in ‘61 and I had to take my . . . my, uh, younger brother here under my wing. Signed up for the Confederacy.” Billy elbows Kit in the side, “Didn’t we Kit?
Kit darts a knowing look at Jane and bobs her head up and down.
“We’d still be out there with our regiment, if’n I didn’t take a pretty sizable piece of shrapnel to my leg on picket, out Galveston-way. Thought I was a goner, for sure, the bleedin’ was so bad. With Kit’s help, though, I managed. We pulled a victory, that time, under General Magruder.” Billy chuckles and snaps off a long piece of grass to chew on, “Whoo-wee! That was some battle, wasn’t it Kit? Sent them Union boys runnin’ for their lives.”
“Galveston, Texas,” Jane confirms.
“That’s right, ma’am. Reckon we earned our furlough. We’re goin’ home.” Billy softens a little, “If this here leg keeps actin’ up, it might be for good.”
“Galveston. That’s a long way.”
“It sure is, ma’am. But Kit and me, we are a team, now, ain’t we Kit? Real partners.” Billy reaches down to gingerly rub his leg. “Never did heal right,” his voice trails off.
CHAPTER 56: WHITE OWL
Ancient ways. Made by hollowing out the trunk of a tree brought down by fire and coated with bear grease for buoyancy, he gracefully guides his canoe.
Onacona, named for a great white owl with blue eyes that visited his mother in a dream before he came to be, has been tracking a pair of giant beavers for a good part of the day. Currents favor his progress and make passage easy in a river he now calls home. Onacona imagines the thick brown coats and distinct paddle feet in his mind. A strong vision will perchance lead him to the illusive creatures and have a good outcome. The days of a time the white men call spring gives him hope and his excitement is awakened when he hears the rumbling sound of a waterfall in the distance.
As he paddles along, Onacona remembers a story told to him by his great-grandmother who was an Indian princess born to the Wabenaki of Northeast New England and traded to the Cherokee. When he was very young Onacona spent many seasons with his Elisi hunting berries, special plants and roots, and listening, with the fascination of a child, to her captivating tales.
Elisi said Glooscap was their creator — a true hero in her tribe who came from the sea. In the ancient story that was passed on through successive generations, Glooscap traveled a river in a canoe made of stone, chasing two beavers a long distance and trying to keep them from making trouble.
Onacona smiles, it is much like his river now and the beavers he tracks.
To prevent the beavers from going further, Glooscap built a dam. A dam so immense and strong, he was sure he would succeed in capturing them. Yet still the beavers managed to slip by.
Glooscap’s heart became heavy with disappointment. His failure had shamed him and he was almost ready to turn back. Then Glooscap had an idea. He took two stones and threw them at the beavers. One stone landed far up river and made a beautiful waterfall. The second stone hit the other beaver and landed in a rocky area where the creature’s blood formed the red clay.
Elisi reminded Onacona, although the Great Spirit made Glooscap, it is said he was not a perfect man. She explained that the name means “liar.” Glooscap got his name because he once lied about his secret weakness to an evil spirit to save himself.
