The Lover's Eye, page 6
part #2 of Time Travel Series
It is a grand formula that could ultimately spell success for the South, yet it weighs heavily on the enlightened party.
Is one able to disregard the unknown physical effects upon existing reality as consequence for their actions? Not hardly. Like it or not, they are each hauntingly aware this gift will well interfere with the natural order of things, and ill prepared for any piteous potion they have concocted for an even greater disaster. Even with this incredible story in their hands, it is still anyone’s guess how it will all turn out in the end.
Until his mission is complete, Matthew remains true to his convictions and does not voice an opinion, either verbally or nonverbally, as Jane unravels a broken and sad account of her knowledge of events that are to transpire.
Jane rubs her temples, “Errr! This is getting to me. I wish I could remember more. I really do! History is such a big deal for me, yet I feel so unequipped for this job. Did you know the kids at school called me a history geek growing up?”
Matthew raises his head and gives her a puzzled glance.
“Geek?” When he nods, Jane explains, “Oh . . . well, that’s sort of someone who is obsessed with something. Like a horse with blinders, they tend to focus on a particular thing, more so than those around them. I love history.
“My dad and I collected and studied antiques. We made it a point to understand what we had and where it came from, about when it was created and who created it, how it was used and who used it, and so on. It was our favorite pastime, mine especially, and a fairly decent side business. I grew up surrounded by old things from this period and others. Immersed in history. Little did I know, I’d be living it,” Jane’s eyes sweep all the fine details of the room and her voice trails off.
Realizing she is off track a bit by the way Matthew is examining the nib of his pen, but not quite ready to jump back into details of the war yet, Jane takes a deep breath and puffs it out. “As for history . . . now, I wish I knew even more. In my time we have textbooks, of course. But better than that, we have a record of everything literally from the beginning of time, or almost, available at the touch of a button. Type in a topic and the answer is there on a screen in a split second. We rely on the Internet for everything. The Internet is global and has anything a person could possibly want to know. I’m also afraid it has made us all lazy when it comes to committing things to memory.” Jane feels her momentum waning.
Matthew watches Miss Peterson closely as she talks on. She is the most intriguing of all women, completely undaunted. Her strength and stamina is beyond impressive. He only wishes they had more time. “This mystical Internet that pulls information out of thin air. Why it boggles the imagination! I am entranced by such astounding contraptions as this in your future world,” he offers sincerely. “But then, we have more pressing matters at hand.” Matthew coughs lightly into his fist and quickly segues into their more urgent topic. He thumbs back through the pages in his log. “Here now. You mentioned the decimation of Atlanta and what you call Sherman’s March to the Sea.” Matthew, with the practiced discipline, stays on task.
“Yes. Atlanta was, uh . . . will be totally destroyed. Burned.” Jane flinches from the magnitude of her words as a vision of Gone With The Wind and Rhett Butler driving a team of frantic horses through a raging inferno flashes through her mind.
Jane has seen the movie so many times and repeats now the caption played during the dramatic scene that describes the horrific moment in history, “To split the Confederacy, to leave it crippled and forever humbled, the Great Invader marched leaving behind him a path of destruction sixty miles wide, from Atlanta to the sea.”
Reaching down to lift Millie onto her lap, Jane slides her hand down the feline’s soft orange-striped back as her kitty arches lovingly against her fingers. Millie meows her satisfaction and nestles into the ample folds of her skirt. “General Sherman will march his army through Georgia all the way to the East Coast, to Savannah. His troops will pillage and plunder and exaggerated stories of his march will spread to terrified populations in his path. For Civil War buffs, the quote from Sherman’s is to make the Confederates howl.” Jane shrugs apologetically, “Or something to that effect.”
Like horsemen of the apocalypse, Sherman, with an uncanny understanding of modern warfare and how to terrorize both military and unsuspecting civilians, would blaze a path of utter destruction through the Georgia and Carolina countryside. His troops burned buildings and homes to the ground, tore down telegraph lines, demolished bridges, slaughtered livestock, destroyed food sources, and twisted miles of railroad track. The latter is called Sherman’s neckties — steel heated under fires by Union soldiers and bent around trees rendering it useless.
What began as a rather orthodox war in the early days, traditional as wars go with protected barriers of decency, would eventually make civilians fair game by 1864. The general’s intent was to make young and old, rich and poor feel the sting of war. After reaching Savannah, his march would continue into the early days of 1865. Mighty cities were reduced to smoldering rubble. The devastation so incredibly severe it would take the South over a hundred years to overcome.
“I am compelled to ask . . . did we give them a good fight? Savannah, I mean.”
Matthew’s question draws Jane out of contemplation. His eyes are alight with the colorful sequence of scenes she paints. “I wish I could say yes, but . . .” Jane is prickled by Matthew’s visible disappointment. “I’m sorry, but our Confederate soldiers will abandon the city before Sherman gets there. You have to think, though, this might have been for the best. You see Savannah is spared because of it. Preserved for all time. In fact, the general ends up making our city his headquarters for a time.”
“Why this is disgraceful news! Abandon our city, Miss Peterson. Are you quite sure?”
Jane holds Matthew’s soft brown gaze, intense with emotion, shocked by her words, “I love Savannah as much as y’all do. I have since the day I first set eyes on it. It is my home too, and as beautiful as ever, 150 years from now,” she says evenly.
“It is sad news, I know, but the South was in horrible shape by that time. The war had taken its toll on everything, and everyone. So many suffered and lost so much. Sherman will write a letter to General Grant giving Savannah as a Christmas present. A tragedy for the South, a victory for the North, and major turning point in the war.”
Matthew is taken aback. “General Grant, you say? Ulysses S. Grant.”
“Are you surprised?”
“Why yes, I am. Grant has somewhat of a tarnished reputation in military circles.” Matthew withholds some of the more distasteful descriptions, having heard of his heavy drinking and failings in many pursuits. His reenlistment into the United States Army, however, has already caused the South some concern in Tennessee.
“That’s right. But during the Civil War, Grant gets his act together, finds his niche. It is discovered that he is a formidable foe to opposing forces on the battlefield, and because of this, President Lincoln eventually appoints him commander over all U.S. Armies. Grant will go on to win the war for the North. He will also be President of the United States one day.”
“I see.” Matthew says, writing furiously and holding his rush of thoughts at bay. After a brief pause to review his notes, “Before we proceed further. Is there more yet to reveal about Sherman’s march?”
“Let me think. After taking Savannah, Sherman’s army moves on to Charleston. If it makes you feel any better, the troops there also withdraw. The city’s good citizens gave over without a fight. I’m sure there was nothing else they could do.”
Jane moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue, “That’s about it.” There is much information buried within the wrinkles of her brain, but recovering even a portion of it is a chore. “Hmmm, let’s see. I don’t know much about what happened to Savannah after Sherman marched in, except the entire place cleverly manages to survive. There are minor details. Stories like the one about Mr. Champion, who hid his bank’s gold in a garden well on his property before the Yankees came, and Mr. Green, who willingly turned over his home to Sherman to save it from damage. I don’t know anything about you, or Anna and your family.”
Jane turns to her friend, who is quietly knitting in a chair by the window, “I don’t know very much about you either, Mary, other than Marshall Row, and the historic Marshall House that will once again become a lovely hotel. It has been beautifully restored in my time and carefully preserved with many original artifacts. You should see it, Mary! You’d be so proud.”
Mary practically glows with this bit of news, “Gracious me! My Marshall House . . . so many years from now,” she titters openly, and brings one delicate hand to her mouth to cover her excitement.
Jane’s twinkling green eyes return to Matthew, “I have nothing on Colonel Olmstead after Fort Pulaski surrendered and what I’ve experienced living there, in Savannah, this past year. I have no real knowledge of Dr. Arnold’s hospital, but I know a little about hospitals in general and their usefulness during the war. I have nothing on the patients there, just that they suffer primitive medicine in the hands of innocent and badly informed practitioners.” She rubs her forehead and runs her hand along her throat, sitting silent for a moment before continuing.
“All children in the future know something about the American Civil War. ‘Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.’ It’s President Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. Lincoln will be assassinated by John Wilkes Booth.”
Both Mary and Matthew’s heads snap up, startled by the familiar name.
Mary is the first to speak, “John? Why that’s scandalous. Surely not Edwin’s brother!”
“Yes, sorry to say. You don’t know how difficult it was for me to keep my cool at your dinner party with Edwin Booth present. He will be completely oblivious to John’s involvement and the events leading up to his brother’s ultimate murderous act. It all takes place at Ford’s Theatre in Washington, a few days after General Lee surrenders to Grant. Lincoln will be fatally shot in the head, a terrible tragedy and shock to our nation — one that is still felt, debated and discussed many times over.
“Lincoln’s Gettysburg address will become his eulogy and one of the most significant speeches in American history. We believe all men . . . and women too, Mary, are created equal and as a nation are willing to suffer hardship and adversity to achieve it. During the few years of this war, we will lose two and a half percent of our population. I read somewhere that would mean something like seven million people if this war were fought in my time. Just awful! The ground will be soaked with the blood of thousands. Men killed at the hands of each other.”
Mary grabs for her lace hankie and dabs at her face. Matthew is stunned, but remains stoic.
Jane finishes, “Well, that’s that. I can’t think of another thing to say. In fact, I don’t want to say any more, at least not now. It’s all too much.”
She remains appropriately dressed during Matthew’s visit. Hearing something rustle in another room, Millie promptly jumps down in pursuit and Jane smooths the fabric of her skirt that does a good job of hiding her sturdy work boots. Changing her clothes for the occasion may have been a requirement, but there is no way she would give up her soft black kid-leather boots that tie neatly to support her ankles. Noticeably worn, they are far more comfortable and practical than the satin slippers Anna had special-made to go with her gowns. Shoes made with a small heel that always managed to catch on the edge of something, tripping her up, and would never stay properly on her feet.
Because of the large size of her feet, compared to the ladies of this time, Anna also had Jane fitted for her boots. Jane personally worked with the shoemaker on designing a left and right version, which would conform to the shape of each foot, and she explained the need for arch support.
It was fun to watch Mr. Bagger, a small-framed Englishman who was permanently bent over from his trade, consider the unique ideas with fascination. Jane’s boots may lack the complex rubber soles and other man-made materials of modern-day shoes, but they are a perfect fit and serve well enough for hiking, which she has done a lot of lately. Jane likes the free feeling of setting out into the simplicity and rawness of nature. Exploring is a new pastime she heartily enjoys.
“Okay. So can we break from this for a minute? My brainwaves are scrambled, tangled up in knots, fried. I know this stuff is terribly important and you are in a hurry, but I’m also dying to hear more about what happened after Mary and I left Savannah?”
Matthew, sitting at a small writing table that Boss had brought into the room, hurriedly scratches another line or two, before he looks up from his book and sets his pen aside. “Of course, of course!” He stands, “You must think me a terrible bore. Please, let us dispense with this tedious affair, for now.
“Would you care to take a walk, Miss Peterson? Mrs. Marshall, would you mind? The day is lovely and Miss Peterson seems to enjoy the out-of-doors.” Matthew smiles at the thought of Miss Peterson in her comical masculine clothing, dripping wet. First, there was a flash of anger from those mesmerizing green eyes, then she laughed merrily with him for making such a splash. She is even more beautiful than he remembers. The wilderness suits her.
CHAPTER 10: CLOAKED IN MYSTERY
Jane and Matthew meander for a while in silence. They follow a worn twisted trail, wide enough for the two of them. The April days are warmer. Birds are fluttering about from branch to branch, bursting with communal chatter, as they share the promise of balmy summer days ahead.
Fourteen-year-old Celia, Mattie’s younger sister, follows the couple. She has only just arrived with one other servant, a young boy named Mack, in the supply wagon from Savannah. Celia is their designated chaperone who discreetly functions as an unassuming shadow that hovers in the background.
“Please, allow me,” he offers in his usual chivalrous way.
Jane watches Matthew untangle the hem of her skirt that had snagged on a patch of thorny vines growing at the base of a tall pine tree. “Thanks,” she smiles.
“Miss Peterson, I have some news that might be troubling to you.”
“Uh-oh.” Jane lifts the top ring of her hoop and shakes it a couple of times to straighten the fabric of her dress that has bunched up on one side. Matthew’s expression is so serious. “Go ahead,” she braces.
“I don’t know how to put this delicately, but they have found Madame Néve . . . in the Savannah River.”
“She’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God, are they sure it’s her?”
“I am afraid so.”
“I only saw Madame Néve that one time. And, trust me, once was enough. That whole deal with my jewelry box and my ring from the future freaked me out, big time. It was pretty underhanded, when you think about it. Does anyone know what happened?”
“We can only surmise. The events leading up to her demise are cloaked in mystery. A soldier in Captain Tucker’s company pulled the woman out of the river and reported it. We assume drowned. They found travel papers on,” Matthew politely draws a fist to his mouth, “ah-hum . . . on her body.”
Jane turns, “Are you okay back there?” She worries Celia can hear them, but reminds herself that Mary’s servants, and Anna’s for that matter, could be trusted to keep a secret. They are loyal to their families and know the importance of confidentiality.
“Oh yes, Miss Jane.” Celia says eagerly. She had heard about Miss Jane’s kindness from her sister.
Jane follows the path again with Matthew by her side, “When did it happen?”
“We presume the very night soldiers sought you at our family residence. The night James Isaac is sure Tucker’s men intended to take you into custody for questioning. But, Captain Tucker’s plans went terribly awry.”
Matthew remembers standing with a crowd of townsfolk the night the African Baptist Church burned and learning Miss Peterson was in peril. Swiftly, he takes two steps forward to clear a leafy branch, holding it carefully to one side. “By divine providence, Tucker’s intentions were revealed, which bought me precious time to whisk you off to Mrs. Marshall’s, saving us all misfortune.”
“My hero,” Jane says half teasing and half serious, looking into Matthew’s eyes. A brief pause allows her to observe his complexion redden, ever so briefly, at her inference. Bending slightly, “Why, thank you, sir.” Jane puts her hand to the back of her bonnet and maneuvers through. “Celia, it’s your turn.” The young girl scurries past and stands to one side.
Jane can picture the fortune-teller in her mind. The tall, slender woman, who had the grace of a dancer, with dark intelligent eyes that missed nothing, and the exotic accent of a gypsy that was ideal for her profession. Beautiful black hair, kept shiny and clean. Not crimped or waved, greased, twisted and wrapped, as fashion demands of the ladies in this period. Even the decor at her house, slash business, was different.
There are so many questions. Is she like me? Is she a time traveler too? That would explain the jewelry box and her ring turning up. What does it all mean and how can she ever figure things out when another extraordinary piece to her amazing mystery is lost now, forever? The thought of drowning in the Savannah River really creeps Jane out. Was she a victim? Did someone murder her? Was she used, and disposed of? No matter what evil scheme the woman had been involved in, “Poor Madame Néve.”
“Poor?” Matthew is obviously ruffled, “Poor Madame Néve, indeed! On the contrary, I have no sympathy for her, whatsoever. The woman was up to no good. In addition to aligning herself with you and Mrs. Marshall, there is potentially enough evidence to prove Madame and her slave Angel were both heavily involved in treasonous acts.”
