Stacey Ferguson
Wife, mother, and veteran who lives in Camden, South Carolina, USA. Favorite genre: historical fiction.
Stacey Ferguson
Wife, mother, and veteran who lives in Camden, South Carolina, USA. Favorite genre: historical fiction.
Wife, mother, and veteran who lives in Camden, South Carolina, USA. Favorite genre: historical fiction.
Wife, mother, and veteran who lives in Camden, South Carolina, USA. Favorite genre: historical fiction.
Carrie had hiked through this forest many times--it was her refuge, when life was beating her up. With each inhale, the scent of woody pine cleansed her mind and quieted her self-doubt. The dappled sunlight filtered through the ancient trees and sparkled in the slow drips of sap clinging to the crevasses of the bark. Beneath her feet, layers of brown pine needles shushed under her feet and cushioned every step. The sounds...
She stopped dead. No birds, no squirrels, no rustling of the forest's busy fauna. What would cause this? Her heartbeat started to quicken with the overwhelming feeling of danger.
I grab my sister’s hand and pull her towards the cliff edge with me. She nods slowly in my direction, then we jump. We had agreed on our escape plan weeks ago—we were ready. We fell in slow motion, I felt my stomach rise up into my chest, my sister’s long, blonde locks stood on end as we plunged towards the frothy sea. A seagull and her chicks were nested on a small shelf on the vertical cliff; she watched us fall past her cozy home.
We hit the water with tremendous force; the cold, the briny water punching me in the face. It felt as though watery spike pierced through one ear and out the other; my ears rang and I could hear nothing else. My skirts swirled up and around my face further disorienting me as I flailed through the water to propel myself to the surface.
Junie made it to the surface first and grabbed my thrashing hand to pull me towards her. We kicked and paddled our way towards the hidden cove as the weight of our heavy skirts tried to pull us back under the water. Another face full of water sent stinging salt water down my nose, causing me to panic and choke. Junie pulled me towards the cove where Joshua had hidden our bundle of clothes, food, and money. My ears were still ringing, and I retched what seemed like gallons of salt water.
“You’re okay,” said Junie, barely audible over my ringing ears. “We’re okay. He’ll never be able to harm us again.”
I move in slow motion, a stroll in three dimensions. There is no pain, no stress in this cold dream world. My voice means nothing, I cannot talk, cannot scream. Sound is warped—a sigh is now a burble, a clank is now a tink. Fizzing and crackling are the sound of vibrant, busy creatures. I am there, but all the creatures pay me no mind—predator and prey, flora and fauna. I am gray, and my blood is black; I am surrounded by teal, saphire, amarinthe, and vermilion. The sunlight does not warm me, it shimmers and sparkles and changes the colors of all the creatures. I lose my sense of space, I am a small person in a vast universe, afraid of what I cannot see. If only I could live in this universe forever! Yet, I cannot escape time; oxygen and nitrogen are my tethers which I cannot sever. The alien creatures that have allowed me to watch, show their indifference as I pull away. I look down upon them from afar, as I start to feel the sun’s warmth again. Begrudgingly, I am back in my own world. My fellow travelers and I chatter unceasingly about our visit to the alien world; it felt so real, yet so magical!
It was the worst kind of day to be lost and alone on a mountain. As if there were any “good” days to cross the Pyrenees to escape to neutral Spain, but today was exceptionally bad. The snow was beginning to fall; by the looks of the leaden gray clouds it wasn’t going to be a mere light dusting. George would scream in frustration if he weren’t trying to evade capture by Nazis.
It had been nearly two months since his plane was shot down over central France. He and his crew had sneaked through France on foot, bicycles, and cargo trains. The French Resistance agents had stuck their necks out to hide them and guide them to safety. They had had many close calls, and heard of others that were not so lucky as George and his crew. In one town they walked past a man and woman strung up by the neck with a note—in English and French—saying, “This is what happens to those that help the British!”
George wanted to just sit down and cry—he simply didn’t know what else to do. They had left Cibure, France at 11 pm two nights earlier with four other Allied aircrew and their Basque guide who spoke no English. For the first time since they were shot down, he had allowed himself to finally feel hopeful. Their guide gave them canvas shoes to mask their footsteps. They had been comfortable enough when they first set out, but now they were soaked and freezing.
Yesterday they had stopped in a house in Urrugne where a woman set them up in a hayloft to sleep until dark. George and his companions were bone weary; he swore he had been sleeping even while they walked, unable to remember large swaths of the journey. But, now that they were in a relatively comfortable place, they were all too on edge to sleep. They dozed fitfully, popping awake at every sound of footsteps, wagons, or vehicles.
“Hallo! öffne die Tür! “ They awoke in panic at the sound of hostile fist beats on the door of the farmhouse, holding their breaths, exchanging wary glances with each other. Len, the leader of their group, darted his eyes towards the door at the top of the hayloft—let’s go. Now! The men descended the rickety ladder, praying that it would hold their weight and not squeak. George was the first down the ladder; he bolted across fifty yards open ground and dived behind an ancient stone wall.
“Du kommst jetzt her! Schnell!” He heard a woman and children screaming. Pop! Pop! Gunshots. He dare not take the time to look back at his companions. He scrambled up the side of the nearby mountain to a place he thought would provide ample concealment. Brrrrt! Automatic gunfire. As he caught his breath, he looked back at the idyllic farm on top of a rolling hill. One of his companions lay face down in the field, blood spewing out of a hole in his skull. At least he didn’t suffer, he thought. The other men were being led away, hands on their heads. A soldier gripped the woman by the hair and led her out next to his dead companion, and shot her in the head, point blank.
Ten hours later, George was there, alone, on the top of Xoldokogaina Mountain, deep in the Pyrenees, while the snow came down, heavy and wet. He shivered violently, wondering how long he could stay alive in these conditions. It would be so easy to give up, to lay down and fall asleep and never wake. He was hopelessly lost, and alone.
Snap! He heard a branch break. That’s it. I’m done. I’ll be damned if they take me prisoner…
“Agur!” The woman’s voice was barely audible. He didn’t know the language; it must be Basque. He looked ahead at her—the same woman whose brains were spewed across the meadow at the farmstead. She beckoned him to walk on.
Was George crazy? Haunted? Seeing the woman who had died trying to save them was all the motivation he needed to keep going. I owe you my life, lady, he thought as he followed her down the other side of the mountain.
(This selection is part of a novel currently in work.)
I was having the strangest dream; everywhere I stepped, my footsteps sounded like broken glass. People were shouting with my every step, my feet were bleeding, yet they did not hurt. Charles and Eliza were crying out; I had to walk across the glass to get to them, but they seemed farther away with every step. I bellowed in frustration, wresting myself from fitful slumber.
The sounds of broken glass and shouting were still there; a diffuse orange glow showed through the window. I threw back the blankets and dashed to the window—the redcoats were torching Camden.
“Fire! Everyone! Quick! We must get out!” They hadn’t yet reached our shop and house, but they would. Soon. “Betsey! Grace! Take the children out through the garden. I shall see if I can stop them.”
I grabbed father’s pistol from the top of the cupboard as I tore down the stairs. Just as I crossed the threshold two panes of glass shattered as two lit torches flew in and landed on top of and behind the counter. Time seemed to slow down, I dropped the pistol and clambered for the ewer in the back room. Too late. The fire reached our jar full of grain alcohol and exploded, engulfing our shop. A wave of searing hot wind hit my face and knocked me backwards. I cracked my head on something; bright white flashes danced around my vision. I felt for the edge of the counter, found my ledger and dispensatory books by feel, and crawled for the back door as best I could in my night rail and heaving two heavy books. The back door seemed to be miles away; the acrid smoke robbed my breath and sight as the rest of my senses seemed to be shutting down. I pushed the books along the floor in front of me until I felt them drop over the first step. I felt the gentle hand of oblivion beckoning me to escape—quiet, soothing, merciful.
“Abbie! Abbie! Look! She’s there!” Charles screamed, ceaselessly, his voice a lifeline back to my family, and away from the burning wreckage of our home. “Abigail! Don’t leave us!”
“We got ye!” I felt a firm grip on both of my hands, a rock solid anchor tethered to life. Grace and Betsey pulled me down the steps and away from our burning house. “Eliza, fetch me the pitcher of water,” said Grace. “Yer safe, Abbie. Which ye ain’t gonna leave us, ye damned stubborn goat!” I attempted a laugh at Grace calling me a goat, which only made my hacking and gagging worse. Betsey rested my head on her knee and rubbed my back as I lay upon my side. Once Eliza brought the water, Betsey poured it over my eyes, mercifully washing the acidic soot out of my eyes. Once my coughing had abated I sipped a little, though it didn’t slake my burned throat.
“Buttermilk,” I croaked, unable to say much else, and Eliza fetched it. All over our neighborhood, glass broke, and fires raged. The bells were tolling as Camden’s citizens turned out to fight fires and save what they could—shouting, wailing, cursing as the British marched out of the chaos in an orderly fashion.
I would have been raging mad if I were not so tired and infirmed. I needed not to say anything, for Eliza said it for me. “You live in our homes, you eat our food, you killed my father, and this is the thanks we get? Damn you all to hell! Go back to England, you filthy devils!” Shocking language for a young lady…and my sentiments, exactly.
The house was awake—the thump and creak of feet on the floorboards, clanking of crockery, and the dull grinding that signified Betsey wielding the mortar and pestle. I picked up my basket and shears and walked out the back door to greet the day.
The garden was my refuge, my brief respite from the terrible war that boiled all around us. The flora and fauna of our garden piqued all of my senses and washed away melencholy. The delicate, melodic birdsong and hum of the bees gratefully replaced the clumsy thuds and knocks of the house within my consciousness. The butterflies and bees flitted from flower to flower, gathering their bounty. I stopped to observe an azure butterfly alight a coneflower and unroll its proboscus to collect the sweet dew. A sparkle from the bean trellises caught my eye—strings of crystalline dew framed a black and yellow garden spider who was patiently waiting for her breakfast.
I clipped a few handfuls of comfrey, borage, and mint, and breathed in the fresh, verbacious scent. I rubbed a velvety sage leaf and released its herbal aroma, which always made me think of roasted turkey or rabbit. As I walked along the rows, I pulled the weeds to feed to the chickens. My neat, orderly rows quieted my thoughts as I considered my plans for harvest and use. Though war has complicated much here, Almighty God has blessed us with bountiful gardens—there were very few ailments which I could not treat.
Patch was stalking something between the rows of turnips, making a game out of his meal. Clea, however, could not be bothered with such feline excitement. She stretched out in blissful repose on the garden brick path, enjoying the sun before the day grew too hot.
“Grace! It is such a beautiful morning—let us break our fast out in the garden. I will cut a few cucumbers, to go with it.” I clipped two cucumbers, warm from the morning sun.
As I walked back towards the kitchen, I stopped short to clip a large handful of camomile, for cordial and tea. I stood transfixed by the dainty, perfectly shaped flower. For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, said Shakespeare’s Falstaff. So, too, does liberty.
Abigail was standing at the foot of Captain Gibbons’s bed, the candlelight shining through her gauzy shift, showing the tantalizing outline of her lithe, curvy body. He held his breath as she sauntered towards him, finger pressed to her lips; he fought the urge to bolt out of bed, embrace her, and devour her with kisses. The corner of her mouth was upturned in a seductive half smile. Her silken, wavy hair glowed amber in the soft candlelight. She leaned over him, her hair tickling his face, neck, and chest, causing him to draw in a quick, shuddering breath. Abigail slowly reached out her hand, lightly drumming all over his body with her fingers. A rather odd thing to do, he thought; he wasn’t quite sure how to react with this…unexpected turn of effort. Ow! She pinched his big toe hard enough to draw blood.
He abruptly sat up—his room was heavy dark, save the purple velvet pre-dawn sky through the window. He was alone. It was a dream…but, he still felt something touching…
Henry bolted out of bed with a panicked yelp, squinting into the dark for the erstwhile muse of his fantasy turned nightmare. The skitter of small claws across his feet, induced another alarmed squalk as he frantically felt for his candlestick and flint to search for the creature loose in his room.
“Captain? Captain are you alright?” Abigail queried from the other side of the door. “What’s amiss?”
“Please! Bring light! There is a wild beast in my chamber!” He knocked his papers to the floor as he groped blindly for the flint. The rank smell of animal musk piqued his disgust. He kicked the chamber pot with a disconcerting slosh as he sprung upon the bed.
Abigail cautiously opened the door, candelstick in hand, Grace and Betsey close behind with a broom, frying pan, and basket to apprehend—or obliterate—the intruder. Grace stifled a giggle at the ridiculous scene.
“Where is it?” asked Abigail. “And…what is it?”
“If I knew the answer to either of those questions, madam, I would not be standing upon the bed!”
“All right, now, don’t get yer breeches in a bunch,” said Grace, reproachfully. “‘Cept you ain’t wearing breeches, now, are ye?” Grace unsuccessfully to stifled another snigger as Captain Gibbons, wearing only his night shirt, flushed dark red.
“Charles, get down on the floor and see if you can spot the, um, beast under the furniture. Captain, you take that corner with the wash basin. Grace, you shoo it out with the broom. I shall cover the area of the desk and chair. Betsey, you be ready to capture it.”
Whatever it was proved to be a worthy adversary of seek-and-find; those items the creature didn’t up-end, its captors managed to topple. By the time Betsey managed to clap it under the basket, the room looked as though a hurricane had swept through. The ridiculousness of the whole situation caused them all to grin and snort with laughter. The trapped assailant voiced his displeasure with angry, high pitched growls and rustling about.
“What is it?” queried Captain Gibbons, dabbing at the bite marks on his big toe with the tail of his shirt.
“I…I think I know,” Charles interjected, meekly. “’Tis a weasel. I thought it could live in my…”
“Charles…you wicked boy! Take this wild animal outside this instant! If it bites you, you deserve it!
“Oh, Captain Gibbons, my sincerest apologies. Here, let us tidy up,” said Abigail as they endeavored to set everything to rights. Captain Gibbons stepped into the hallway to discreetly don his breeches. When he came back, Abigail was neatly stacking his correspondence back upon the desk.
“No! Miss Campbell, those are…” Henry blurted out, louder than he meant, as he lunged to wrest the stack of foolscap. “I mean…forgive me, madam, do not trouble yourself with those. Thank you for, um, coming to my rescue.” Rescue? Henry, you are a damned coward and reckless fool! he chided, inwardly.
“Captain, I am profoundly sorry for the trouble we have caused you…”
“Please think nothing of it. No harm done. Do not be hard on the boy; I was not much better at his age.”
“Very well, then. Good night.”
“How’d I do, Abbie?” whispered Charles. “Very well, my love. Most convincing. Remember: it is our secret.”
Abigail was standing at the foot of Captain Gibbons’s bed, the candlelight shining through her gauzy shift, showing the outline of her lithe, curvy body. He held his breath as she sauntered towards him, finger pressed to her lips; he fought the urge to bolt out of the bed and embrace her and devour her with kisses. The corner of her mouth was turned up in a seductive half smile as she leaned over him, her beautiful, flowing hair tickling his face, neck, and chest, causing him to draw in a quick, shuddering breath. Abigail reached out her hand and began lightly drumming all over his body with her fingers. He thought it a very odd thing to do, and wasn’t quite sure what to do about this unexpected turn of effort. Ow! She pinched his big toe hard enough to draw blood. He abruptly sat up—his room was dark, save the purple velvet pre-dawn sky through the window. It was a dream…but, he still felt the touch…
Henry bolted out of bed with a panicked yelp, looking for the muse of his fantasy turned nightmare. He felt the skitter of small claws across his feet, inducing another alarmed squalk as he felt for his candlestick and flint to search for the rodent loose in his room.
“Captain? Captain are you alright?” Abigail queried from the other side of his door. “What’s amiss?”
“Please! Bring light! There is a wild animal in my chamber!” He felt his papers scatter as he groped blindly for his flint. The rank smell of animal musk piqued his disgust. He kicked the chamber pot with a disconcerting slosh as he sprung upon the bed.
Abigail cautiously opened the door, candelstick in hand, Grace and Betsey close behind with a broom, cast iron pan, and basket to apprehend the intruder. Grace stifled a giggle at the ridiculous scene.
“Where is it?” asked Abigail. “And…what is it?”
“If I knew the answer to either of those questions, madam, I would not be standing upon the bed!”
“All right, now, don’t get your breeches in a bunch,” said Grace, reproachfully. “Um, ‘cept you ain’t wearing any breeches, now, are ye?” Grace tried unsuccessfully to stifle another snigger as Captain Gibbons, wearing only his night shirt, flushed dark red.
“Charles, get down on the floor and see if you can spot the, um, creature under the furniture. Captain, you take that corner with the wash basin. Grace, you shoo it out with the broom. I shall cover the area of the desk and chair. Betsey, you be ready to capture it.”
Whatever it was proved to be a worthy adversary of seek-and-find; those items the creature didn’t up-end, its erstwhile captors managed to topple. By the time Betsey managed to clap it under the basket, the room looked as though a hurricane had swept through. The ridiculousness of the whole situation caused them all to grin and snort with laughter. The trapped assailant, however, was voicing his dispeasure with angry, high pitched growls and rustling about.
“Do any of you know what type of beast it is?” queried Captain Gibbons.
“I…I think I know,” Charles interjected, meekly. “’Tis a weasel. I thought it could live in my…”
“Charles…you wicked boy! Take this wild animal outside this instant! If it bites you, you deserve it!
“Oh, Captain Gibbons, my sincerest apologies. Here, let us tidy up. Grace, will you fetch the mop? Betsey, can you gather up the broken crockery? I’ll see to the desk,” said Abigail as they endeavored to set everything to rights. Captain Gibbons stepped into the hallway to modestly don his breeches outside of the women’s sight. When he came back, Abigail was neatly stacking his correspondence back upon the desk.
“Miss Campbell, please do not trouble yourself with that!” Henry blurted out, louder than he meant, as he snatched the stack of foolscap out of her hands. “I mean, forgive me, I was about to put these away. Thank you for, um, coming to my rescue.” He cringed inside as he considered his lack of bravery in the matter.
“Oh! Not at all. I am profoundly sorry for the trouble we have caused you…”
“Please think nothing of it. No harm done. Please do not be hard on the boy; I remember what it is like to be nine. I was fond of letting toads loose in the nursery when I was his age.”
“Very well, then. We shall take our leave.”
“How’d I do, Abbie?” whispered Charles.
“Very well, my love. Most convincing. Remember, it is our secret.”
I woke up with a monstrous headache and a terribly sore elbow. It took me some time to remember how I arrived at this moment. I slowly sat up, holding my head with my good arm, and took stock of my situation. I may have a concussion—best to move slowly. Did I fracture my elbow? It is terribly painful to move, but I can move it—probably not broken. How did I manage to injure myself? What am I doing in the middle of the forest? I was on my way to meet someone…but, who? Sara! My friend, a Catawba healer…we were going to forage for medicinals. I do not usually walk to her…my horse! I was on Juniper, I must have fallen. She must have seen a snake; I know no other cause for her to throw me from the saddle. That would also explain why she did not stay close by.
Damn! I am in the forest, alone, with no mount. Though I have traveled to Sara’s village often, nothing looked familiar…sure sign of a concussion, I suppose. It is difficult to determine direction or estimate the time of day, since the forest blocks the sun so completely. Oh, I do hope Juniper is not captured and pressed into military uses!
“Think, Abbie, damn you,” I said to the forest. I never swear in front of others, it is not ladylike, but exceptional situations call for exceptional language. It is oppressively hot, my hair around my face is plastered to my damp skin—it must be afternoon. I have half of a canteen of water—that is good. There is only fetid, still water in my immediate vicinity—best not to drink that unless I have no other choice. I have my haversack with a few supplies, but most of my vials and jars are in my saddlebag, along with my lunch.
I set out walking, slow enough to keep my head from pounding, and disturbing as little foliage as possible, lest I alert something—or someone—that might want to kill me. I wonder, which is more endangering: venomous snakes, panthers, Redcoats, or militia? I thought of the men that would often accompany Sara from the Catawba village, stalking through the forest with absolute silence. I attempt to copy their measured footfalls, the manner in which they scanned their heads side to side, looking and listening. I rarely take notice of the frogs and cicadas with their ever present din, but now I curse them for their noise, camouflaging potential threats.
With each passing hour, I grow more tired, more thirsty. My canopy is empty…can hold out a little bit longer…maybe I will find a suitable fresh water source soon. “God, can you please send me one of your glorious summer rain storms?” My clothes are drenched from sweat and mud. I must sit and rest, for just a moment. I sit upon a fallen log, my throbbing, blistered feet sending jolts of pain up through my legs. My elbow does not hurt so much as long as I keep it still. It feels so good to close my eyes, relieves the tension in my head.
Crack! The sound of thunder jolts me out of my slumber—how long have I slept, I wonder? The rain was already falling when I awoke—big, fat drops of marvelous, delicious water. I turn my face to the heavens, mouth wide open to slake my thirst. “Thank you, God!” Low, rolling thunder reverberates in my chest. Though the quandary of my thirst was solved, slogging through the mud slows my trek. Instantaneously I am blinded—a tree a hundred feet in front of me glows white hot and bursts into flames. I wondered, will I die here?
The stench of the gaol was overwhelming; I placed my handkerchief under my nose, though that did little to cover the miasma. Men and boys were exposed to the hot summer sun with little to no shade. Father was afforded the luxury of a slight, shady spot under an overhang; even in gaol, father was respected and honored by the men of Camden.
“Father! What…have they done to you?” I reached through the bars and cupped his dirty and bruised cheek.
“My sweet Abigail. I have naught but some bruises and cuts, but I fear that pales in comparison to what is in store for me,” he said, his eyes filling with tears.
“Colonel Rawdon will not see me; alas, I could only speak to his aide. He tells me you have already been tried?”
“It was a military tribunal, of sorts. Mr. Cook and I were staying with a family in the back country, not too far from Granny’s Quarter when a bedraggled group of men came looking for shelter, food, and care. A few of them were badly injured. We did not ask them what happened, or for whom they fought. I was treating their injuries with what meager supplies I had, when a group of the King’s soldiers beat on the door. According to them, I had provided ‘aid and comfort to the enemy’ and would be arrested and tried, accordingly. They arrested Mr. Cook and I, and the family who took us in. They offered no quarter to the injured men; they shot those that tried to fight back, and bayoneted those that that were too weak to rise.” Horrified, my hand flew to my mouth with a gasp.
“At the trial, an affadavit from ‘a concerned citizen’ named me as a patriot conspirator. That was the reason why my sentence is ‘to be hanged by the neck until dead.’” At father’s pronouncement, I thought I would be sick. I sank to the ground, into the odorous muck, as I tried to rein in my emotions. My father…a conspirator? What blackguard would accuse him of such?
“Surely, father, there’s something we can do? Maybe Mr. Kershaw or Mr. Chesnut could intercede on your behalf?”
“It would be no use, my dear girl. Without knowing who this ‘concerned citizen’ is, there is no hope of staying my execution. All of our influencial friends would risk their own necks by trying to save mine. I will not have them risk the security of their own families for me. Abbie, I have made my peace with God. I will be by your mother’s side a few short days from now, free from the pain and heartache of this world. I need you to be strong, for Betsy and Charles’s sake. Can you do that?” I nodded sorrowfully, my hands gripping the bars as father’s hands covered mine.
“You are just as much of an apothecarist as I have ever been. Promise me you will continue to run the shop? What we do is of the greatest importance, Abbie. Our neighbors and friends need us…need you…to provide succor and healing. And, yes, even those that seek to bend our will. You must treat them all equally, regardless of their allegiances.”
“Yes, father, I will,” I barely managed a whisper.