The Soldier's Wife. Cheryl Reavis
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Bartholomew said as he took boiled eggs from the basket and handed them to him. And there was hardtack and beef jerky among the numerous small wrapped packets. The boiled eggs must have come from the orphanage kitchen, but Jack had no idea how the priest would have come by the army rations.
“One last thing,” Father Bartholomew said. “I seem to remember you had a great fondness for these.” Incredibly, he handed Jack several sticks of peppermint candy. “You do still like them?” he asked with the barest of smiles.
“I...don’t know,” Jack said truthfully. “It’s been a long time.”
“All the more enjoyable, then,” the priest said.
Jack shook his head. He was just short of being amused that Father Bartholomew would think peppermint sticks could make him feel better. Even so, he put the candy into his pocket.
“I don’t think you should head west,” Father Bartholomew said. “I believe Vance’s assassins will be expecting you to try for Louisville. Going south into Tennessee will be a better choice. Get to Knoxville and then head east into the mountains. It will be easier for you to get lost there and it is not a likely route since you’ve so soon come from the war. Farrell Vance is not going to think you would want to go back into that troubled land. Then, later, after he tires of looking for you, you might head farther south and by some circuitous route eventually make your way to St. Louis.”
“Father—”
“It would be better if we didn’t argue about this, Jeremiah. You haven’t the time.”
“I was only wondering,” Jack said. “You seem well versed in how to make a man disappear.”
“You aren’t my first fugitive, Jeremiah, and I sincerely doubt you’ll be my last. Now. I want to give you this, but don’t open it,” he said, handing Jack an envelope. “I’ve written down some things I want you to know, but this...wisdom, if you will, won’t be helpful to you now. You are still too raw. From the war. From your association with Elrissa Vance. I want you to wait before you read it. Wait until you are...content.”
“Content?” Jack said, thinking he hadn’t heard right.
“Contentment is one of life’s finer accomplishments, Jeremiah. You won’t understand what I’ve said unless you have it. Now. Ike is going to go with you to the edge of town. He’s hidden a horse for you in the cemetery. If you’re stopped, Ike will seem very drunk, and you will react to his inebriation accordingly.”
“Little Ike has never had a drop of liquor in his life,” Jack said.
“But he’s wearing a good dose of it on his clothing and he’s very good at mimicking its effects. I’m sorry to say it was something he saw in his own home far too often when he was a small boy. Once you’re out of the town, travel mostly at night and stay to yourself. And don’t look like you’re on the run. People are going to remember a horseman riding fast no matter what time of day it is. Now, you must hurry. I expect the watchmen to come and search the premises again tonight and I expect they will prevail upon the smaller children to tell what they know. I need to be on hand to calm them.”
Jack looked at him. Elrissa’s lie was more far-reaching than he had realized. “I’m sorry for all this, Father.”
“We must concern ourselves with what is, Jeremiah, and not become entangled in regrets, especially those over which we have no control. And we must keep a firm grasp on our hopes. My hope for you is a good, new life, one that begins this very minute.”
Father Bartholomew opened the door quietly and looked in both directions before he stepped out into the dark hallway. They moved quietly through the building toward the side door, cutting through the main dining hall as they went. Several votive candles in red holders burned on the mantelpiece, and Jack could see a long row of tin cups behind them. Thirty-seven of them; he knew how many without counting.
Thirty-seven.
“It was a great kindness to send us those, Jeremiah,” Father Bartholomew said when Jack stopped to look at them. “We keep them in a place of honor, and I believe our boys know we are remembering them.”
Did they? Jack thought. He had no idea. At the moment he had other things to worry about. If he were caught, his attempt to escape would only underline his already-presumed guilt.
He would just have to see to it that he wasn’t caught.
Ike waited by the side door, reeking of the O Be Joyful just as Father Bartholomew had said. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a sound they both mistook for cannonading for a brief moment. The wind was picking up and the trees on the grounds of the orphanage began to sway.
“A good storm will give you cover,” Father Bartholomew said. “Be watchful and Godspeed to you both.”
“Thank you, Father,” Jack said, offering the old man his hand. “This is twice now you’ve given me my life.”
“I believe it to be worth the effort,” Father Bartholomew said. “You’re a good man, Jeremiah. Sometimes in spite of yourself. Now go! Hurry!”
The rain came only moments after they’d left the grounds. Ike led the way, alert as he always was whenever the Orphans’ Guild—or one of its members—was in danger. He zigzagged through back lots and alleys Jack had never even seen before or didn’t recognize. It was taking twice the time it ordinarily would have to reach the old cemetery where the horse was supposed to be. As the thunder grew louder, Jack began to lose hope that it would still be there. Tied securely or not, horses didn’t wait well in a thunderstorm without a human in attendance, and even then it could be difficult.
“Wait,” Ike whispered when they were about to cross a street. His warning was well-timed. Two of the city’s watchmen were coming out of the narrow lane they intended to travel. They waited in the shadows until the men had passed.
“Now!” Ike whispered, and they began to run, the noise of their passing hidden in the sound of the rain and wind. “Not much farther—”
It took only minutes to reach the iron gates. Ike pulled one of them ajar. It creaked loudly, and they hurriedly took refuge behind an ornate but eroded angel-covered tombstone until they could be certain that no one had heard the sound.
“That way,” Ike said after a moment, and Jack followed him as best he could in the dark, stumbling several times over footstones along the way.
“I don’t see the horse,” Jack said.
“Over there—”
Jack still didn’t see it—and then he realized that Ike meant inside a nearby mausoleum, one he immediately recognized.
Ike laughed and slapped him on the back. “I knew you’d be thinking that horse was long gone. Ain’t, though, is it?”
“I’ll tell you after we actually find it,” Jack said, making Ike laugh harder.
But the horse was where Ike had left it. Dry and out of sight inside an ostentatious marble structure dedicated to the erstwhile Horne-Windham family. Jack remembered playing in the mausoleum when he was a boy. It was a good place to hide—except that Father Bartholomew always found him.
“Don’t reckon the Horne-Windhams ever expected a horse to be in here,” Ike said as he lit a candle stub he had in his pocket. He let some hot wax drip onto a narrow ledge and planted the candle firmly into it. The rain was barely audible inside the thick marble structure and the candle flickered in the draft from the entrance.
“They’re not the only ones,” Jack said, wiping the rain from his face and attempting to calm the horse because it had become unsettled by their sudden appearance.
Despite the animal, there was still enough room to get around. He looked at the many bronze plaques placed one above the other on the opposite marble wall and appearing to reach well above his head. “It’s a good thing there were so many of them.”
“Biggest marble box in the