The Fallen Fruit, page 28
Millie turned away from her teacher and focused on the decision to be made. She could wait on the farm—just like she did when she and Isaiah waited to fall—or she could continue to forge her own path.
Millie had never faced such a difficult decision before, so she sat quietly and weighed her options.
When Clara arrived with a fresh tea service, Millie finally rose from her chair. “Professor Mayberry, it’s time for us to catch that train to Petersburg.”
Chapter 34
Emily Bridge
March 1758
During the days of preparation with Professor Mayberry, Amelia’s teacher had never told her about the silence. The quiet left Amelia, now Emily, uneasy. After she fell through time, it was the stillness that welcomed her. The clanks and thuds of heavy machinery and the steam train’s urgent whistle calling to board were gone. There was only a profound quiet encompassing all, even the spaces between the cattails and the dribble of early spring flaking away above the current of Swift Creek. Thick evergreens and oak trees filled the land as far as she could see.
None of the tales passed down from her family spoke of the moment right after. That free-fall feeling when one missed a step off a street curb. Her aunt Ursula had once told her of a woman who’d crossed her doorstep thirteen years ago. The woman had “arrived,” as Auntie had called it, in barely a stitch of clothing with wild eyes and lips stretched thin in grief.
“No other Bridge has fallen this far back,” Professor Mayberry had said. “You represent a new start. The opening to the old Emily’s tale is no more—you rewrite history now.”
If she were lucky, she’d have a happy ending.
Emily stooped to one knee to retrieve a compass and a change of clothes from her pack. The wool coat, white blouse, and skirt she wore would draw unwanted attention. In time, she’d repurpose them. As she changed clothes into a simple cotton dress and petticoat, all the while shivering and shaken, she kept alert. She wouldn’t have to deal with wild animals during the daylight hours, but the night would bring other dangers.
Tonight there might be nowhere to go. No haven from the overcast sky or the bite from the evening’s draft. She returned to the creek to fill her jug. With a couple of cattails for dinner in hand, she used her compass to walk westward. Swift Creek fed into the Appomattox River to the west, but she wouldn’t find the Pocahontas Island peninsula with its namesake settlement in that direction—so she ventured southwest.
There was nothing to see but untouched land. Signs of spring life popped up in the rabbits emerging from their winter dens and the fragile buds peeking from the trees’ branches. Perhaps she’d arrived in late February or early March. A lone eagle’s nest reigned over the barren woods from high up in some elm trees. The bird peered at her, its eyes following her trek through the naked branches. While she walked, she plucked the leaves from winter-hardy, edible plants. The tension in her shoulders eased when she came across stinging nettle and field chickweed. Each leaf meant she’d survive another day.
But less than a half hour into walking, she couldn’t help but glance at her watch. She laughed—did she really think it’d be that easy to figure out the time and date? Perhaps she’d pass a paperboy with today’s news too.
By the time she spied trails of chimney smoke in the distance, Emily’s legs ached. All those years of taking public transportation in the city had left her soft.
The flat land left little mystery to the location of Pocahontas Island. Six to ten dwellings were scattered along the northern part of the riverbank, a smattering of homes compared to the budding township of Petersburg across a bridge to the south. To the west, she spied the lower end of a small, forest-covered atoll called Flea Island.
Emily stuck to the outer confines of the Pocahontas Island houses, many of them homes with straw roofs and buildings for pigs and sheep. The smell of roasted meat wafted from a house to the north.
She shivered against the wind hitting her back and made her way around a house with dust for a yard and thin chickens underfoot.
Professor Mayberry hadn’t said much about how to find shelter in Pocahontas.
An older Negro man appeared at the door with a sullen expression and little pity in his eyes. She wouldn’t find a warm welcome here. The two small houses farthest to the north, with trees hugging the back, drew her eyes.
As she considered where to head next, she saw a light-skinned middle-aged Negro woman shuffling to a well. The woman huffed and puffed as she carried her pail. Em quickened her steps to the same destination. The woman paused, eyeing Emily with suspicion, until Emily gave the woman a short smile.
“Good day to you,” Emily said, her feet moving almost to a run. Hopefully Professor Mayberry was right about how folks greeted one another in these times.
Emily reached the well and tried to keep her breath even.
The lady struggled to pull the rope to draw up the bucket.
“Do you need help?” Em asked.
She’d ignored the fourth rule—don’t speak to strangers unless absolutely necessary—and yet she couldn’t stand there like a fool.
The woman disregarded Emily and kept her gaze fixed on each tug and pull. Her light-brown skin blanched as she struggled to get the bucket to the top. She stood half a foot taller than Emily with a dark-blue dress and pale white neckerchief. Tufts of curly white and black hair peeked out from under the scarf on her head. The woman’s hand shook as she grabbed the bucket handle. Emily edged closer—something was wrong, but then again in these days who didn’t have something wrong with them? She’d seen such labored breathing from her brother and the patients at her uncle’s practice. Perhaps the woman had a heart issue—not that the woman would let Emily examine her.
“Phoebe, what are you doing?” a woman called.
Emily turned to see another woman standing in the doorway of a nearby house. Her eyebrows were drawn to dark slants against her forehead and the skin of her dark-brown cheeks was cast in shadow.
“Oh, Tabitha, could you stop griping for one day?” Phoebe lugged the bucket back toward the house. Water sloshed over the sides, leaving tiny pools in the dirt. Emily stayed at the well, wishing she could follow.
Em escaped into the trees to the north, passing a second home, a sod house. She peeked through the trees to check Phoebe’s progress.
That poor thing needed a doctor.
Phoebe finally disappeared into the house, and Emily resigned herself to focus on minding her own affairs. She decided to gather kindling for a fire—once night came, she wouldn’t have daylight’s protection.
Soon enough, she had a fire going and her tiny cooking pot bubbled with roots she’d foraged. Right now, she was warm enough, but anyone could be a threat. She considered spending the night in the woods. And then perhaps in the morning she could find work on the Petersburg docks. She’d spied folks hauling goods off boats, unable to discern the enslaved from free men.
Emily took a deep breath to steady herself. For now, she had to listen, observe, and learn.
And get herself a pistol somehow.
She guffawed at the thought of trying to load a weapon with lead shots and gunpowder. She’d likely fumble the damn thing and end up shooting herself instead. Her hunting knife would have to do for now.
Isaiah, did you end up in a place like this one? she thought. Over the years, she’d dreamt of him landing in the 1800s. He’d disappear into the Canadian wilderness, or perhaps head out to the Pacific Northwest—somewhere safe from slavery.
And yet amid her dreams were nightmares: he ended up on a tobacco plantation back in 1792, or he landed in Richmond in the stockyards of 1817. No matter how free he was in his mind, many of the white men he’d encounter would see him as an inferior being, without intellect and unworthy of freedom.
The trees’ protection didn’t keep the wind from nipping at the flames of her kindling. She wished she had a brighter light so she could read before she slept—if she managed to sleep. Emily reached into her pack.
“I don’t think it’s wise to bring modern reading materials from the future,” Professor Mayberry had told her. The woman hadn’t faced Emily at the time, but Em had caught the it-won’t-go-as-you-expect tone.
“Why not?” Emily had replied.
“We’re trying to change the Bridge family’s future. Dumping definitive evidence of time travel isn’t wise.”
“I can remove the copyright page and choose a book that was already in existence.”
In the end, Professor Mayberry agreed to a newly printed copy of Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy. The irony of choosing a book about a person’s descent into hell had made Emily laugh. But it would be a welcome distraction.
The corner of the book’s cover brushed against her fingers while she rifled through the pack. She’d never carried this much before. Even when she’d had a pack as a kid.
Gone were the days of bright red wool polo coats and expensive cloth-top boots. Strapped to her belt was a field ax. It was small yet handy for chopping wood or cutting meat. She also had flint and steel for fire starting, a whetstone knife sharpener, needles, thread, petticoats, scarves, and cloth for her monthly time. She’d left so much behind, like her mama’s pearl hair comb. Professor Mayberry had promised to return it to her mother.
The sky deepened from a murky gray to sullen purple, and the first signs of a late sleet wet Emily’s cheeks. A calico cat with prominent whiskers approached her, but thought better of it and scampered into the safety of a nearby barn. Indeed, the colonial age had rolled out a warm welcome far better than any postwar parade.
She rolled up and stowed away everything. Her makeshift tent wouldn’t keep out the rain, but at least she’d be spared most of the chill.
As the sun retreated below the horizon, she tucked herself under the tent and took in the two houses across the small field. The sod house seemingly disappeared in the darkness while the larger stone-end home had lights bleeding through cracks in the door. Was everyone safe inside, eating a warm meal? That larger home had one shutter-covered window. The howling wind muffled the conversation within, but Emily imagined the inhabitants were comfortable enough yet cognizant of the dangers outside their door.
Emily drew her ax to her chest and decided to do the same.
Chapter 35
Emily Bridge
March 1758
When Emily woke up to a horse’s shrill whinny the next morning, the muscles in her back and legs ached. She fought to open her eyes. When she finally pried them open, she saw a middle-aged woman on the other side of the small field. Tabitha, as Phoebe had called her, wore a black cape and unassuming dark-blue dress.
Armed with a stony expression and a scar across her upper cheek, Tabitha moved with deft experience as she saddled the mare.
Emily grimaced. Her stiff fingers shook as she tossed kindling onto her nearly dead fire. She crept out of the tent, only for Tabitha to pause and look her up and down with a scowl. The woman had good eyesight.
Em jerked a nod in Tabitha’s direction. At least the woman’s glare hadn’t killed Emily in her sleep. Tabitha filled the saddlebags, mounted the horse, and rode south across the bridge into Petersburg.
Emily stared after her, wondering what this woman did for a living. She shuddered to imagine how many people must’ve walked by while she’d slept.
Before she ate her breakfast, she rubbed heat into her palms. Living outside would take some getting used to. The pleasant smell of burning wood and the heat fanning her face fed energy into her limbs. This was her new life now.
Emily began her day. She sipped water from her waterskin and balked at the sticky film in her mouth. Though Colgate’s toothpaste left a peculiar taste in her mouth, she would’ve much preferred that over gargling and spitting water. For breakfast, she ate some dried duck and wrapped up her precious reserves in her neckerchief.
It took her far longer than usual to get moving—just like old times back on the farm. What she wouldn’t give to smell fresh bread. Or hear the scrape of the spatula against the pan when her brother flipped over the hotcakes. Even a lukewarm boiled egg would taste better than gnawing on leathery meat.
She gathered up her supplies so she could set out for the forest to the north. The weather hadn’t warmed, but the clouds from yesterday had blown west, leaving skies bathed in blue with faint white smears. A breeze off the Appomattox River nipped at her skirts and spread a chill through her cotton stockings.
After marching north for some time while collecting dry branches, Emily turned around and realized the Pocahontas Island township had vanished far behind her. Briefly, she let a tempting and terrifying thought germinate in her mind. With free will in her pocket, she could go anywhere. She could see new places before she had to meet John and give birth to David.
She could keep walking north until she reached the northern colonies. But after that, then what? She had a couple of years, then she had to return to the farm. A decision had to be made, so she made one.
Returning south, she spotted Pocahontas again. It was time to find work. The many plantations along the river employed free Negroes and whites, but which places would offer a friendly face versus those that posed danger? She had no idea how to know.
Emily emerged from the forest, once more near Tabitha and Phoebe’s home. A herd of sheep had migrated from the house directly to the west and veered around the well, where now a lone Negro man drew water. Two women worked the herd while another man stoked the fire for a blacksmith’s home. While she had been gone this morning, Pocahontas had come to life.
Back on the Bridge farm, someone would’ve called out to her in greeting. But at the thought of calling attention to herself, the word “Mornin’ ” died in her mouth.
The spot where she’d camped the night before welcomed her back instead. The very thought of having the whole day to herself, with no obligations, made her laugh.
Maybe I could keep walking until I find the South Pole, she thought. Professor Mayberry would be proud.
Emily stopped laughing when she glanced to her right and noticed someone lying near the house’s wood lean-to. The calico cat she’d spied yesterday sat near Phoebe’s head. Em glanced toward the open doorway. Was someone else home?
“C’mon,” she breathed. Had anyone else seen Phoebe fall? No one shifted around the other houses in the glen. Only the sheep and chickens had been witnesses.
Emily picked up her skirt to keep her dress from catching on her feet and ran to the woman. No more than a couple feet away, she noticed Phoebe was still breathing.
Thank God, she thought as she leaned over to listen.
“Hello?” She pressed her ear to Phoebe’s chest and waited for a steady rhythm. The pulse echoed a rabbit’s frantic beat. Next, she examined Phoebe for any injuries.
The woman’s lips parted with a whimper before her eyes opened to slits.
“You fell.” Emily pressed her warm palm against the woman’s cheek.
Phoebe tried to rise, and Emily pressed her hands against her shoulders. “Don’t get up yet. When was the last time you ate?”
“Don’t hurt m-me.” The familiar lilt of home echoed in Phoebe’s words, but Emily caught a twinge of an English accent.
“I’d never,” Em said softly. “I was over there when you fell.”
Phoebe tried to get up again. This wouldn’t be the first time Emily had a reluctant patient.
“This has happened before. I’ll be fine,” Phoebe said.
“You will be fine lying here until your symptoms improve.” Emily wiped the woman’s clammy brow. “Did you break your fast this morning?”
Phoebe pursed her thin lips. “I had no water for cooking, so I fetched some.”
“But you didn’t eat.” Emily got up. “Don’t move until I return.”
Em backed away at first, expecting the woman to try to escape, but Phoebe stayed put as Emily ran to fetch her pack. From inside, she retrieved a few pieces of dried apple. Professor Mayberry had shared taffy with her during their train ride down to Petersburg, which she’d pocketed without eating, but a produce seller with dried fruit at the train station had caught her interest. She palmed three generous pieces and went back to Phoebe.
“Here, eat this,” Em said firmly.
Phoebe eyed the food with suspicion. “What’s that?”
Just like when Em had to take care of her mama during her spells, Emily brought the food to Phoebe’s mouth. After a hesitation, she accepted the first slice.
“I ate a bit of venison, but—” the woman began.
“But you’re still tired,” Emily finished. “Some folks need porridge, fruits, and such in the morning or they’ll fall ill.”
“You sound like Tabitha,” Phoebe grumbled.
“Your friend knows what she’s talking about.” Emily grasped the woman’s wrist and found her pulse steadier this time. “Let’s get you into the house. You should be right as rain very soon. I’m Emily Freeman. What’s your name?”
“Phoebe . . . Phoebe McDonald.”
Emily draped the woman’s arm over her shoulder and helped her to her feet. “There we go. Don’t go too fast,” she instructed.
The woman finally smiled, revealing a mouth full of small teeth and generous gums. “Not that I’d ever run anywhere feeling like this.”
They were halfway to the house when Phoebe spoke again. “The last time this happened, Tabby told me I’d be face down in the dirt, but I wasn’t.”
“Tabitha has sound advice,” Emily replied. “You should mind your health, or you’ll spend an afternoon in the cold.”
