Past Lives (8 page)

“Good Lord, Father! What’s happened?” Bastian asked, gently releasing his father’s grip and ushering him to a flowered sofa. He sat down abruptly, as though he had been hit on the head with a pot, his eyes dazed and distant. I noticed a letter dangling from his hand, the seal freshly broken. Wordlessly, he lifted it to Bastian, who gently pried it from his delicately aging fingers. Miss Jean watched on, looking bored.

As Bastian read the letter, his face fell more deeply into a somber mask, and my stomach began to ache with dread. He then looked up to Jack, and they shared some form of unspoken communication I couldn’t understand. They had always been like that. After what seemed like eternity, Bastian spoke.

“It would seem the Confederation has finally decided to take arms against the Yanks,” he said evenly, acceptance setting into his frame. “They’ve asked all able-bodied men to enlist for the cause, to fight for our right as a sovereign nation to live by our own standards, and to stop being oppressed by their ideals. Bring any or all weaponry and gear you have, as supplies are limited,” he read, paraphrasing the dreaded meaning of those written words. I glanced up, my gaze colliding with Jack’s, and I ignored his silent attempt to quell my panic. We had grown so accustomed to communicating with only our eyes over the years, as servants were never to cause a scene. Bastian looked back to Jack, who waited patiently for his master’s decision.

“When can we leave?” he asked. I stood amazed at his stoic acceptance that he would be leaving his pampered plantation life for certain death. He had to believe he would survive it, to be so calm. My brother, to his merit, was equally measured and composed, though as his sister I could see the raging fear looming behind the façade. No one could read Jack like I could.

“I think it fitting to obtain a wagon and load it with everything we can, sir. Extra weaponry and supplies could go a long way for our party on the road.”

I squeaked, the idea of losing my only support in the house too much to keep in. My insides began to explode, and I nearly fainted when every eye in the room swept over me. Jean smiled.

“Well, it looks like you’ve managed to scare my delicate little maid. I think it best we leave you to your plans. Come, J,” she demanded, rising gracefully, her dress smoothing around her perfect frame like cream. She floated out of the room on a cloud, and I cast one last desperate look at Jack, who gave the smallest shake of his head, before I was forced to follow my mistress. She strode proudly across the house, taking small steps up the grand main stairway until we reached her room.

Filled with delicate pinks and frilly lace, her room was a little girl’s paradise. Wide, sweeping French doors led to a small balcony, where she sat and took her tea when the weather was right. On that mild day in April, she pulled open the door and placed herself on a small cast iron bench, staring at me expectantly. Knowing better than to speak first, I waited for whatever torment she had in mind. Her crystal blue gaze was clear and unwavering.

“Your brother and my cousin are very likely to die on the battlefield, J. You know that, don’t you?”

It had taken many quiet beatings to learn that the answer was always yes when she wanted yes and no when she wanted no. If I couldn’t be beaten openly like a slave, it could be done quietly behind closed doors. I stared at the thin white scars on my knuckles, a constant reminder of Miss Jean’s commitment to “teaching” me.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, my voice as small as a mouse. All I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and weep for my brother, whom I could not bear to lose. And what of my father? Would they take the elder gentlemen as well? Bile rose up my throat, burning into my neck, and I swallowed furiously to keep from vomiting. Vomiting in front of the mistress would surely end in a whipping, and I couldn’t take it today of all days. She gazed out at the draping willow trees, casting shadows from the midday sun that danced along the ground, carefree and playful along the grass. I glanced down at them in envy, wishing I knew what it was like to be free—knowing that I never would.

“If only there were some way we could ensure their safety…or at least know where they are at all times,” she said, gazing out at the plantation, a hint of what she was suggesting evident in her tone. Confused, I continued to wait for her to spit out her point, unwilling to press her for information at the risk of injury to myself. Her attention snapped back to me, and I could tell she was annoyed.

“Don’t you think, J? It should be someone’s
duty
to follow them and make sure they remain unhurt for the duration of this skirmish,” she demanded, looking at me as though I was an idiotic school child, and she the instructor burdened with me, most unwillingly. Still, I waited. After enough silence passed, I acquiesced.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She clapped her hands, her eyes filled with delight and another emotion that frightened me much, much more. It was malicious determination. Whatever she had planned, once again it would not end well for me…and that was the point. I found myself wishing that I hadn’t moved to Georgia…that I had avoided the indefatigable ire of Miss Jean. I sank into the irrational wish that we had stayed in Boston and that I had died and gone to heaven with all the other impoverished Irish children living in the shantytowns.

“Of course, we can’t send you as a woman, J. We’ll have to sneak into your brother’s room and steal some of his clothes for you to wear. They must be baggy enough to hide your massive curves.”

She was babbling on now about wrappings for my breasts and just how to hide me in the wagon until they arrived for duty at Savannah. It wasn’t until she got to the part about making sure I had a gun that my fuzzy brain realized what she was actually proposing.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but you want
me
to fight in the war…as a man?”

She stomped her heeled foot impatiently.

“You are such an idiot, J. No one else can do it but you. You’re the most masculine woman I’ve ever seen. Plus, you’re a servant, and therefore were built for harsh conditions.”

I stared at her in disbelief, ready to accept a beating in return for slapping her in the face. She would send me to war? I hesitated, pondering fully what a relief it might be to have Jack by my side at all times, not having to watch what I do or say…because I would be a man, and an equal as a soldier. I had worked plenty hard in my life at the plantation. Surely it was something I could be brave enough to do, if it meant having Jack in my life all the time once again?

“Ah, now I see you’re coming to your senses,” Miss Jean said, her grin catlike, her eyes plotting a thousand steps ahead—none of which she would ever take herself. I cast my gaze back to the thin line of the horizon, the foreboding indigo of a coming storm resting at the edge of sight—a spring thunderstorm to muddy everything up just in time for the departure.

Great.

I looked to Miss Jean, who knew that she had won. I would be out of her hair, and she would be the first to receive gossip from the front lines…or I might as well not bother coming home.

“I’ll just be on my way to Jack’s rooms, then,” I sighed, making my way back inside as a telling wind blew against my back. I heard Miss Jean’s skirts slide against each other as she rose, too, and made her way past me.

“Close up all the windows first, J. That looks like a nasty little storm.”

Chapter Twelve

A Soldier’s Life

It wasn’t hard sneaking into Jack’s room. The whole house had erupted in chaos before going completely silent as everyone was sent on errands to obtain supplies before nightfall. It was no small thing to ask of a household so far away from a general store, and so with everyone scouring the countryside to serve their master’s purpose, I slid in undetected and found an older pair of trousers and a thick white shirt. I then made my way back to my own rooms, where I pulled out my comfortable kitchen shoes and set them in front of my pile of clothing on the bed.

Gingerly, I pulled out a small shard of mirror from under my mattress. Years ago it had broken, and I had snatched this piece while no one was looking. I spent that night making faces at myself by candlelight until I fell asleep and was flogged the next day for yawning too much. I never stayed up late again. Still, as I pulled out the mirror and gazed into my fearful eyes, I hoped against hope that Miss Jean was right, and that I would be masculine enough to pull off being a man—or at the very least a boy. Removing my serving cap, I allowed my thick black hair to fall luxuriously down my back, observing the natural curls with resignation.

It was fortunate that I had been trained not to see myself as beautiful. To value my beauty at all was forbidden by Miss Jean, and as I placed the mirror back under the bed and tied my hair back up, I wished it a fond farewell—for after that night it would have to be cut at the nape of my neck. I would have cried for it, if I had not already known that it didn’t belong to me anyway. Nothing belonged to me. Not the bed I slept in, nor the time I was given on earth. I had come to learn that through many horrible lessons.

I finished out the evening as I normally would, tending to Miss Jean, who couldn’t stop smiling through dinner preparations. As we made our way downstairs she fixed her face into a properly somber mask, and Jack and I observed as dinner passed with conversation about the preparations for the following day. I listened very closely.

“We’ll leave at dawn, father,” Bastian said, after swallowing a bite of steak dipped in a decadent sauce. Master Liddell said nothing, focusing steadfastly on his meat. He grunted. Not knowing what to do with a patriarch that had lost his will to lead, Bastian went on to explain all the supplies and weaponry they were able to gather. As he spoke, I listened to the angry spat of rain that pummeled against the house, water rushing down the outer walls and back into the earth. I tried to focus my brain on what it felt like to have one’s hair, as after nightfall I would take my shard of glass and hack mine away.

Dinner came to an end, followed by reading and sewing in the library. The mood became bleaker with each passing moment, Master Liddell staring into the fire like a lifeline. Finally, he stood and faced the room.

“I can’t lose you, Sebastian, I just can’t!” he cried, pacing around like a trapped animal. My heart began to patter in fear, but a glance at Jack told me that interfering would be a poor life choice. Bastian rose quickly and gently wrapped his hands around his father’s arms, steadying him upright.

“I’ll be fine, father. I have Jack with me, and we’ve been shooting our whole lives. I know enough to survive,” he cajoled unconvincingly.

“I should have trained you better. I should have sent you to West Point. We should have seen this coming,” Master Liddell babbled furiously. Never in my life had I seen him so out of control. I continued to stand my post, a backdrop to the glittering world that began to dissolve into dreamy mist. Miss Jean didn’t look up from her sewing, and continued her usual method of looking uninterested. It was a game everyone played—to be proper you must do absolutely nothing when someone became frantic. Otherwise you might show yourself at a bad angle by helping them.

“We are a strong and noble family, father,” Bastian said, giving his father a firm shake to try and get him to calm down. At the very least, it got his attention enough to prevent more babbling. “We will not fail you. We will all have a great laugh and smoke cigars upon our return—free of the tyranny of the north!” His rallying speech was enough to at least calm Master Liddell to a dull sadness once again. Roughly, he wrapped his son in his massive embrace, and they hugged it out for way longer than was proper. Still, I wiped a small tear from my eye at the fierce love and devotion shown by the father to his son. I had often wondered what fatherly love felt like, and thinking of my own father only made me sad. Miss Jean yawned, a well-manicured hand brushing her lips.

“Well then. Have a safe trip Bastian, and do come back soon, will you? It will be frightfully boring without you,” she said, rising and making her exit. Bastian stared at her with a mixture of disbelief and embarrassment before mumbling agreement that he would indeed come home as soon as he could. Her glance at me gave the silent order, and I followed her up to her rooms, where I began to dress her for bed.

“Do you have your plan all mapped out?” she asked eagerly. I nodded at her reflection in the mirror. As a rule, I never looked at myself when we communicated in this way—it was too much of a risk. Vanity would be punished.

“I imagine you don’t have anything to carry your belongings with,” she stated matter-of- factly. It was true that I was struggling to think of how I would carry my things, contemplating the idea of cutting up a dress and tying it to a stick. She rose and moved over to one of her dressers, opened a door, and pulled out a satchel that would be perfect for carrying provisions. She held it out to me proudly.

“This should help,” she said, her smile luminous. I accepted the bag gingerly, unsure what to do. It was rare when Miss Jean bestowed a gift that didn’t come with some form of back payment. Still, there was nothing she could gain from this, and as I moved to open the satchel to check how much it would fit, I saw fresh sheets of paper, some bottled ink and a quill.

“You will keep me updated on how everything is, now won’t you?” she asked, her delight completely unconcealed. Knowing how poor my script was, I was sure she would hardly be able to read it, but I told her I would and was promptly sent away, as though we would continue our daily routine without problem the next morning. Padding back to my room, I sat on my bed and waited, watching the candlelight flicker in wild abandon along the wooden paneling of my wall. A light knock startled me out of my reverie, and the creaking of the door soon followed. Jack’s pale face appeared behind it.

“Jack!” I cried, flinging myself into his thin arms. Being raised completely malnourished, we were both small and thin, and I worried for him even more as I felt his lean muscles beneath my small hands. How would we survive as soldiers, when we were built for a more delicate life? Why had we been built delicately and then given a life of hardship?

Jack held me tight, and I allowed myself, in the quiet privacy of my room, to weep openly into his clean shirt. We stood like that for some time, our forbidden affection for each other playing itself out until fear had us pulling apart lest someone enter the room. Although we were rarely allowed to spend time together as brother and sister, rather than servants sharing a common space, our closeness had never waned. I realized then that I would gladly die for him, and was content with the choice I was about to make.

He stared lovingly at my face, taking in every detail as though trying to memorize it inch by inch. His eyes then shifted to my bed, the only piece of furniture in the room, for a split second. That was all it took for him to register the men’s clothing, the sturdy shoes, and the satchel—all waiting to be used. His eyes darted back to mine.

“No,” he said, crossing his arms and stepping back, gazing down at me in deep disapproval. At that point I had two options. I could either be truthful, and risk having him rat me out for my own good and being left to endure the wrath of Miss Jean, or I could lie. I allowed my shoulders to slump in defeat. My greatest triumph would be being able to convince my brother of the lie.

“I just wanted to keep you safe,” I said, dejected. My pathetic behavior worked. I watched the fierceness in him change right back to affection, heard it in his chuckle.

“You are a wild Irish lass, you know that?” he said affectionately, his Irish brogue coming out of its secret hiding place. I continued to frown at him, the pretense being that I would possibly never see him again. He gave me another fierce hug.

“Don’t be fearing for me now, J. We’re survivors, you and I. We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?” he asked, his attempt at consoling me seemingly successful. I heaved a heavy sigh.

“Well then, make it quick, and be back for it. You realize that you’re fighting to protect the entrapment of slaves,” I finished pointedly. He winced.

“You know I have no choice,” he said, almost in a whisper. No one knew better than I that he had no choice. I placed my hand consolingly on his arm.

“I know, brother. Just…come back to us,” I whispered hoarsely. He gently kissed my forehead, and it was clear I was still a small child in my elder brother’s eyes. I gave him my best look of encouragement, and we squeezed hands before he crept right back out of my room and into the darkness. I had been waiting for his visit, and now that it had passed I slowly crept back to my bed and pulled out the sharp piece of glass. Pulling my night braid to the side, I began to saw at little pieces of my hair, knowing it would be ugly and uneven. Hopefully no one would be the wiser. When it was done, I stared at the black pile on the floor, shaking my head left and right in awe of the lightness of it. There was a sort of freedom that came with cutting off my hair, but it was also a final seal. There would be no going back now, no matter the consequences.

I put on Jack’s baggy trousers and shirt, taking care to bag the shirt out a little more underneath my breasts. Luckily, I wasn’t voluptuous, much as Jean liked to proclaim, and I was very grateful for that now. Having to wrap my chest down every day would have been a daunting task, and I didn’t know how much privacy I would get. I slid on my only pair of sturdy socks and my work shoes, and then I blew out the candle and sat on the hard floor by my bed, waiting. Another hour or so should be late enough to sneak into the wagon, I thought.

Time passed slowly, silence permeating my entire world. I thought about what it would be like, marching about and shooting muskets. In a million years, I never would have seen myself in such a state. Finally, I decided to make my move. I crept to the door and slid out into the hallway, my eyes well-adjusted to the pitch black of night. I winced at every small creak in the servants’ staircase as I made my way down painfully slowly, my heart pounding at the thought of being caught. Finally, I made it to the outside door, the world a glittering sheen covered in fresh rain, dancing in the light of a muted moon. I crept silently over to the wagon, lifted myself in, and curled up under a pile of blankets Bastian had thought might be useful.

The wagon smelled of oiled metal and horse. I tried to find a comfortable spot, splintered wood digging into my side seemingly every way I turned. Finally, exhausted at the hint of first light, I passed out well hidden under a pile of battle supplies. My dreams were wrought with shouting, and suddenly I was being tossed about in an angry ocean. I was back on the immigrant ship from Ireland, the stench of human bodies and bile piercing the air around me. Suddenly a monster yelled, “Look out!” and I hit a brick wall, knocked straight into consciousness.

The canvas surrounding me in the wagon was backlit by a bright sun, which heated the small space enough to make it hot enough to suffocate. My body was drenched in sweat, clothing sticking to moist skin. Slowly, I peeled back a hot blanket from my face. No one sat inside the wagon, though I watched as numerous shadows made their way to and fro alongside it. Hearing voices approach the open back side, I tucked my head back under.

“This is right kind of you, Mister Liddell,” a man said, and I could hear him poking around at some of the supplies closer to the entrance.
Please don’t come any further,
I prayed.

“We’re happy to help, Robert. Anything we can do, you just let me know.”

“Much obliged, much obliged,” he said politely, and then suddenly he was yelling.

“Johnny! Get this wagon over near the supplies, and move it fast!”

My head banged against the front of the wagon bed as the horses jerked forward, and I realized very quickly that I was going to have to find a way out of the bed without looking like a thief. Rubbing the hurt out of my head, I waited until the wagon came to a complete stop again, drooping and lifting with the weight of the man who had driven it as he made his departure. Holding my breath, I slowly crouched, wrapping my sack behind me, the strap sitting comfortably across the front of my body. I carefully untied the two pieces of canvas holding the front of the wagon bed together, peeking out at a thankfully empty supply area. I slipped out as quickly as I could and dropped down to the ground, landing heavily on my bottom, a cloud of dust erupting around me.

Afraid of being caught, I scrambled through some trees until I saw the enlisting tent, a long line of men waiting to be registered and prepped for departure. This was it, I thought. Either I got caught for the fake I was, or they miraculously believed me to be a young boy with a desire to fight for his country. I hunched over a bit in an attempt to keep my chest hidden and made my way over to the long line, keeping a wary eye out for my brother and Bastian. They were nowhere to be found.

There wasn’t a blade of grass to be seen in the encampment, and everyone was covered from head to toe with dust from the thirsty ground. If it had rained here last night, there was no way to tell, and I breathed in the scent of campfire smoke and leather. I made every attempt not to make eye contact with anyone, to completely disappear, and I kept it up as the line slowly snaked forward into the tent. Men chatted nervously with one another, firing each other up with the passion of their beliefs. My belly was on fire with hunger, and the scent of biscuits and some kind of meat hit my nostrils, fueling the uncomfortable ache.