The Soldier's Wife. Cheryl Reavis
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Jack followed Father Bartholomew inside the building through a side door and down the quiet hallway to his office. They had to pass several classrooms along the way, and he thought idly that he could have identified where he was blindfolded because of the smell of chalk and India ink. One of the classes was singing today—“The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Another group struggled with multiplication table rotes.
“Nine-times-one-is-nine!”
“Nine-times-two-is-eight-teen!”
Father Bartholomew looked inside the office before he allowed Jack to enter.
“Close the door, Jeremiah,” he said when they were inside. He indicated that he wanted Jack to sit in the one chair—the “scamp seat,” as Jack and the rest of the boys at the orphanage had called it—the one directly in front of the desk, where it was impossible to escape Father Bartholomew’s all-seeing gaze. Father Bartholomew took his usual place on the other side. It was a scene reminiscent of many Jack had experienced in this room, times when the young Jeremiah Murphy had let his foolhardy nature get the better of him and he’d had to be taken to task for it. The desk had seemed much bigger then, and so had Father Bartholomew.
Jack waited for the priest to say something—because that was the way it had always been done. Father Bartholomew sat quietly for a moment, tapping his fingertips together, perhaps praying. Jack couldn’t tell for sure. Motes of dust floated in the shaft of sunlight that came in through the high windows. He could hear the distant sounds of orphan life going on around them, and he felt such a sudden pang of homesickness and longing that it made him catch his breath.
Father Bartholomew looked up at him. “I believe Ike is correct in his assessment of this situation,” he said.
“Father, I—”
The priest held up his hand. “You have been in difficult circumstances before, ones which must have led you to rely on the Scriptures you were taught—”
“No, Father, I didn’t rely on them,” Jack said. He expected the priest to react, but Father Bartholomew merely let him twist in the wind after his remark and waited for him to continue.
“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” Jack said finally. “I would think about...being on the upstairs porch after the Saturday chores were done. I would think about it so hard, I could hear your voice reading the poem. It...helped.”
“A story of sin and redemption. God’s messages appear in many places. And I know for certain that when we need Him, He often chooses to speak to us in a way that we will accept and understand, and we have only to pay attention.
“I have known you since you were a small boy starving on the streets of Lexington, Jeremiah. Since then, you and I have had to address a number of sins and punishments—but I do not believe you are guilty of this accusation. I want you to stay in here out of sight until dark. I don’t believe the watchmen will be back looking for you until then. In the meantime, I have some arrangements to make. Will you do that? Stay here until I get back?”
“I’d rather talk to the police.”
“No,” Father Bartholomew said firmly. “I’m told that the watchmen looking for you are also in Farrell Vance’s employ, and they will prevent you from doing that.”
“Prevent—why?”
“Farrell Vance is a vain and arrogant man. He also has considerable authority regarding the enforcement of the law in this city. I believe he takes unnatural pleasure in perceiving insult where there is none so that he can inflict his own retribution. Your seeking out his wife without his knowledge is no small matter in his eyes. I don’t believe he will allow you to challenge the veracity of her accusations in court or anywhere else—whether he believes them or not. In his mind, you have crossed a line, and the man now wants you dead. You’ve come through a hard time, Jeremiah. You’ve lost many of your orphanage family and you’ve survived the horrors of war by the grace of God and...by your own ingenuity.” He paused, perhaps giving Jack the time to understand that he was referring to his unorthodox use for a poem about an ancient mariner.
“But all that hasn’t made you immune to the harm this man intends to do you. This is not a situation you can handle alone. You must trust in God and in the people who care about you. You must wait here.”
But Jack was unwilling to do that. He abruptly stood.
“This isn’t right, Father.”
“No, Jeremiah, it isn’t. But it’s not you or I who are the wrongdoers.”
“I don’t want to hide here, and I don’t want to run away.”
“You haven’t been home in a long time. The war has changed things here and not for the better. Farrell Vance was—is—a profiteer. You don’t understand how far this man’s influence can reach. It is absolutely necessary for you to leave Lexington. I don’t think you can stay alive otherwise. It’s either be murdered by his henchmen or be hanged for defending yourself,” the priest said, slowly getting to his feet, as well.
They stared at each other, and Father Bartholomew gave a quiet sigh. “I don’t want to lose another one of my boys, Jeremiah.”
“I’m not a boy, Father.”
“No. But you still need to trust my judgment. I will return as soon as I can. Don’t let any of the others see you. We want them to be telling the truth if they have to say they haven’t seen you and don’t know where you are.” He walked to the door and opened it, and Jack realized that the old man was trying not to limp. The past four years hadn’t been kind to him.
“There are apples in the cupboard there,” Father Bartholomew said. “Eat one if you’re hungry. Put the rest in your pockets. And move over there—into that corner. If anyone opens the door looking for me, I don’t want them to see you.”
“Father, I don’t understand why you’re doing this—”
“I told you. I don’t want to lose another one of my boys, especially if there is something I can do to prevent it. You are innocent and you belong to all of us here,” he said. “That is enough for me.”
“Are you that sure I’m not guilty of what Elrissa accuses me of?”
The old priest gave a slight smile. “Guilty men don’t risk being caught in order to bring a fine catch of catfish to an orphanage kitchen, Jeremiah. At least not in my experience. Rest now while you can. I fear you will need it.”
Jack stood for a long moment after Father Bartholomew had gone. Then, despite the fact that he was no longer one of the elderly priest’s charges, he did as he was told. He ate an apple. He filled his pockets with some of the ones left in the basket. He sat on the floor behind the door so that no one who opened it would see him. He was so tired suddenly, and there was nothing to do but wait. He kept trying to sort out what must have happened after he left Elrissa, and he couldn’t. Despite her earlier comments and his struggle to keep her at bay, Elrissa didn’t in any way seem distraught when Mary saw her—and couldn’t Mary say that?
No. Ike was right. No one would take Mary’s word, not when she would be contradicting the wife of Farrell Vance. Whether he’d been here these past four years or not, he knew enough about the power of wealth to know that. He’d seen it every day in the dry goods store.
It was nearly dark when Father Bartholomew returned. He came in carrying a large basket, and he had Ike in tow. He immediately sent Ike to keep watch along the hallway and outside the building while he apprised Jack of the escape plan.
“The money you left in my keeping,” Father Bartholomew said, giving him a leather pouch. “I wouldn’t carry all of it in that, though. Times are hard and I imagine the roads are full of desperate and misguided souls who will try to take it from you.”
The priest had brought the haversack Jack had carried for the duration of the war, and he handed it to him. Jack had left it and the rest of what remained of his army equipment