Souls Aflame

by Patricia Hagan

  The hold of the Pamlico would be loaded by expert stevedores, the cotton bales so closely packed that it would be difficult for even a rat to find a hiding place. She wondered just where Harley planned to conceal the two of them.

  Julie knew the hatches had been put on, and there was a tier of cotton bales fore and aft in every available spot on the deck, leaving openings and approaches only to the cabins, the engine room, and the men’s forecastle. She could spot the somewhat thinner tier on the top, and with only its foremast up, the steamer, with its low funnel and gray-painted sides, looked like a huge bale of cotton with a stick placed upright at one end of it.

  “They’re ready to go,” Harley said nervously. “I don’t know what they’re waiting on, except maybe to load those damn chickens. We’ve got to move fast.”

  There was one sentry, leaning against a crate, and his head nodded now and then as though he was fighting to stay awake. Harley instructed Julie to move as close as possible to the sentry and call to him.

  “And what shall I say?” she asked, her whole body trembling with apprehension and fright. “He might shoot me…”

  “Don’t be a fool. He’ll look up, see how pretty you are, and that’s all it will take. Here, fix this—” With a deft movement he reached out and yanked at the bodice of her dress so that her breasts were almost completely exposed. “Make him think you’ve been raped or something. Ask him for help. You just get moving, Julie, or so help me…”

  She winced as she saw the knife’s blade gleaming in the starlight.

  Julie began to move cautiously forward, and thoughts flashed through her mind—Myles…her mother in her grave…Lionel and Sara wondering frantically why she had never returned…Derek…

  Oh, God, she thought, feeling a nauseating wave of panic, this can’t be happening!

  “Halt!” The sentry snapped to alertness, the rifle he held pointing toward the saw grass. “Who’s there?”

  “Help me…” she murmured faintly, stumbling forward. “I—I need help…”

  His eyes widened at the sight of her, dress torn, breasts all but pouring forth, hair disheveled. Dropping his weapon, he lunged forward. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?…”

  Like a flash, Harley was out of the dense foliage and plunged his knife into the sentry’s throat. Julie stuffed her fist in her mouth and fell to her knees, fighting the nausea, the hysteria, that threatened to erupt.

  Harley was upon her, dragging her to her feet. “That man…” she whispered dizzily, sorrowfully.

  “I’ve already dragged him into the bushes. Move quickly. They’ll think he deserted. On board. Up the ramp. Fast…”

  A mist settled over her, and Julie allowed him to lead her. She felt as though she were walking in a fog, that none of this was real. She stooped and squatted when he told her, lay down flat when he ordered. It seemed forever, and then again, it could only have taken seconds, she reasoned. All sense of time and existence was dissolved.

  Then she felt herself being shoved through a hole, deep into the bowels of the ship. It was hard to breathe, for the air was hot and close. Her skin was pressed against the rough burlap binding the cotton bales, and Harley pushed her back even farther. “I can’t get my breath!” she gasped, and he gave her another vicious shove.

  “Shut up and save the air,” he snapped. “No telling how long we’re gonna have to hide here. We may be eating rats to keep from starving before it’s over. But you better make up your mind whether you want to live or die, because I’ve come too damn far to let you mess me up now.”

  Finally they were pressed as far back into the tightly packed bales as they could get. There was no room to lie down, and for this, Julie was grateful. At least there was no chance of Harley forcing himself upon her.

  Harley chuckled, sounding a bit nervous. “I wish I could see your Captain Ironheart when he finds out you helped a deserter kill one of his men.”

  A twinge of anger began to overshadow her fear and timidity. “When I tell him the truth, he’ll hunt you down and kill you like the mad dog you are!” she hissed.

  “You just shut your mouth, or I’ll fix you so’s you won’t be able to talk. I’ll slice your tongue out.” He was silent for a moment, then went on in a rasping voice, “I’ve heard about him, how he’s supposed to be so goddamned tough. If he ever comes up against me and my blade, there ain’t nothing going to save his ass.”

  Not wanting to goad him further, Julie said nothing. Then she felt his hand groping beneath her skirt, and she opened her mouth to protest but froze, as did his seeking fingers, at the sound of voices drifting around the cargo.

  “Where in the hell did Junius run off to?” someone was saying irritably. “Never took him for no deserter.”

  “Hell, maybe he had some popskull and got drunk and passed out in the saw grass. One thing’s for sure—if Ironheart ever lays eyes on him again, he’ll hang his ass. He hates a deserter. Here. Give me a hand with these chickens. We’ve got to get going.”

  There were sounds of movements, grunts, chickens cackling nervously as their crates were hurriedly stacked. Then the men’s shuffling footsteps faded. Harley, thinking they were at last alone, began to explore Julie’s trembling body once again.

  Then more voices were heard, coming closer, and he whispered tersely, “Goddamn, I reckon we’re gonna have these jackasses swarming around for a while. You stay quiet now, or I’ll slit your throat.”

  It was difficult to raise her arm, as tightly squeezed in as they were, but she managed to do so, pressing her hand against her quivering lips. A sickening sight kept dancing before her eyes: the knife plunging into the unsuspecting sentry’s throat, the sudden spurt of thick, hot blood, the way his eyes flickered but a second with surprise before glassing over as he slumped silently to the ground.

  The ship began to move. They were under way. Crewmen wandered through the hold as they stacked and shoved and pushed the cargo about to better balance the load. Julie prayed for discovery, but Harley had pushed them so far back that their hiding place was not likely to be found.

  After a time, they were alone. She realized Harley had fallen asleep, and she was tempted to give way to her own weariness. Her mind would not let her, remaining ablaze from all that had happened in the last few hours. She was so engrossed in thought that when the steamer slowed, she did not notice, but then she suddenly realized it had stopped all forward motion and was still.

  Men were once again moving through the hold. Harley continued to sleep, and she prayed he would not awaken. Perhaps there was a chance they would be discovered.

  An annoyed voice pierced the stillness. “It’s stupid to take time to stop at Smithfield to look for stowaways. I wish we’d just go ahead and make the damn dash through the blockade and hit the Gulf Stream and be on our way.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” another voice drawled. “But they require all outward bound steamers to stop here and make one more check.”

  The first man continued to grumble. “Hell, we do a good job of checking when we’re loading. We ain’t never caught nobody.”

  “Well,” the other voice laughed caustically, “I feel sorry for the poor wretch Ironheart ever does catch stowing away on his ship.”

  Ironheart! The sound of his name sent a thrilled shiver through Julie’s cramped, tired body. Soon she would see him. She was warmed by the thought of being folded in those strong arms against that rock-hard chest. Once more she would experience the overwhelming feeling that nothing could hurt her as long as he held her in his embrace.

  The men were coming closer.

  The knife! Harley had tucked the knife inside his boot after killing the sentry. If he awakened, he would use it on these men, and he might kill her too, thinking she had alerted them. She had to get to the weapon before he woke up.

  She tried to bend over but realized it was futile because she was so tightly wedged into position. Forcing her knees to twist slightly, she maneuvered herself downward, careful lest she ja
r Harley.

  Her face rubbed painfully against the burlap. His right boot brushed her arm. Raising herself slightly, she touched the top rim of his shoe and carefully slid her fingertips inside.

  She felt nothing!

  Harley moved slightly, and Julie froze, holding her breath. The voices were getting closer. Any time now, he would hear them, wake up, and reach for his knife, and he would find her groping for it! Cautiously she moved her fingers out and down and across the top of his boot, inching her way to the left one. Once more reaching gingerly inside, her body tensed as she felt the knife handle. Carefully, slowly, she began to slide it upward.

  She had it in her hand. Then, just as she started to move back, to struggle to an upright position, a loud voice slashed the air about them. “Let’s look between these rows. Looks like these bales might be a little wider apart than the others…”

  Harley awoke with a start. Instantly he pushed his hand down, reaching for his knife, but instead of fastening his groping fingers about it, he found himself clutching a handful of thick black hair.

  Startled, Julie dropped the weapon.

  “What the hell?” He was too surprised to think about keeping his voice low. Twisting her hair so painfully she cried out, he snarled, “What’re you doing? Where’s my goddamn knife?”

  “In there! Quick! Somebody’s in there. Move these bales.” The crewmen were working frantically.

  Harley’s fingers found their way to Julie’s throat, pulling her roughly up beside him as he began to squeeze the breath from her. He yelled to the men: “Stay back or I’ll kill her. So help me, I’ll choke her to death…”

  The bales parted suddenly, and Harley had the necessary room to flex his arms and elbows outward to squeeze even tighter. The crewmen took in the sight with wide eyes, and one of them quickly yelled, “You think we give a damn? We’ll blow you both apart where you stand—” He pointed a gun menacingly toward their faces.

  Julie felt her life ebbing. If Harley did not kill her, then these two angry men, blurring before her swelling eyes, would.

  And her last conscious thought, as the black shroud surrounded her, was of Myles, imprisoned beyond hope.

  Then the image of his dear face faded, and in its place were ebony eyes burning with anger, shaded with desire. And as she succumbed to inevitable death, she felt only the pang of sorrow over never again knowing the sweet comfort of his arms…

  Chapter Eighteen

  Leaning back against a small wooden table, arms folded casually across his massive chest, Derek stared down at Julie. She had been placed, unconscious, on his narrow bunk. And despite her haggard appearance, he thought once again, with a rush of desire, how she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  The doctor on board had examined her and said that she was unconscious because that man, whoever he was, had almost choked her to death. She would be all right, he promised, and could awaken any time. Derek told the doctor not to attempt to bring her around with smelling salts. He wanted her to sleep. They had to run the blockade, and there was no time for talk—and God knows, he had plenty of questions to ask. First of all, he wanted to know how she came to be on the ship, squeezed between tightly packed bales of cotton, with some rogue trying to kill her.

  The crewmen who discovered them explained how one of the crew, quite adept with his knife, had sent a blade plunging into the man’s leg. With a howl of pain, he’d released Julie. In the ensuing struggle he’d been killed, and his body unceremoniously dumped overboard for the sharks’ supper. Julie had been brought to Derek.

  Derek had not let on that he knew her, even though it had been extremely difficult to retain his composure and mask his concern. Often in the past months he had wondered about her fate, promising himself that once the blasted war ended, if he was still alive, he’d try to track her down.

  And here she was, in all her glorious flesh. He only hoped that she remained in her present comatose state until they had slipped through the Federal blockade and were on the open seas.

  He moved to tuck the blanket tighter under her chin, letting his hand brush her bosom. There was no denying the tightening in his loins. God, but she had been a warm, loving creature in his arms. He’d known the pleasure of hundreds of women’s bodies, but never one that made him feel as though he were plunging into living, breathing velvet, so soft, yet so hot and eager to receive him. Chuckling to himself, he remembered how there had been times when she struggled to reject him, but he had been able to turn her into a writhing mass of begging ecstasy.

  And he would know the joys again, he promised himself as he left his cabin. Whatever her reason and purpose for slipping aboard his ship, he would have his fill of her before letting her go.

  Derek went topside, grateful for the moonless night. No matter how many times he ran the damned blockade, he always felt a knot of apprehension in the pit of his stomach until they had actually gotten through it.

  He knew that the Federal blockade stretched across an arc about forty miles wide, from New Inlet, twenty-five miles south of Wilmington, down around the Cape and Frying Pan Shoals to Old Inlet, which lay just below Smithville and the mouth of the Cape Fear River.

  He saw that the ship was quiet, his crew alert. Someone reported that all hatches had been tightly covered with canvas to assure that no light from the fireroom below would show and give them away. There was one remaining light left aboard, which shone on the binnacle, but it, too, had been shielded by heavy canvas. Once Derek was satisfied that the ship was dark and blended in with sea and sky, he softly called orders down the tube, and the Pamlico, its engines smoothly humming, began steaming toward the line of blockading cruisers.

  He wished he could use the running lights for the twenty-five mile stretch of marsh-bordered water leading to the channel between Wilmington and Eagle’s Island. Just inside the channel, a few yards from shore on the east, there was an ancient cypress called the Dram Tree, which marked the beginning of real danger, for once it was sighted it was inevitable that they were heading straight towards the blockade. With good navigation, and luck, they would make it through again.

  All eyes, Derek knew, would be straining for sight of the Mound, a hillock no higher than a tree which would show a slight gradation of color marking black shore from black sea, and would mean that they were moving to New Inlet.

  They would then steam toward Confederate Point, a few miles above New Inlet. As they moved out of shallow waters, Derek stationed his leadsmen at each quarter of the ship. He could hear the men whispering measurements to each other. Ten feet. Twelve. Fifteen. He, himself, felt the pull of the waters.

  They were navigating now through New Inlet, a channel that had been opened by hurricanes over a hundred years ago. Even though it had a bar of shifting sand and silt, Derek was one of the few pilots who found it easy to navigate, and it had the added advantage of being protected by the small fort of palmetto logs and railroad iron called Battery Bolles.

  Derek knew that the Federals hung in as close to the shore as their drafts would permit, anchoring off the two main channel inlets of Cape Fear. Old Inlet entered the Cape Fear River at its mouth, which was guarded by Forts Holmes and Caswell. Navigationally it was the most dangerous route, and a boomerang-shaped bar known as the Lump lurked just two to five feet below the surface. One small miscalculation and the Pamlico would be run aground and left helpless and exposed to the fire of the Yankee cruisers, but Derek felt pride in knowing that his men placed their full trust and confidence in the fact that he could navigate them through the dangerous pass. He would never let them know that he too breathed a sigh of relief once he had succeeded.

  Now they were moving cautiously through Onslow Bay. No sound was heard, and Derek could smell no telltale smoke, yet he knew with the instinct of a jungle animal that somewhere out there in that foreboding darkness, they were there, like a giant spider in a massive web, waiting…for a sound…a flicker of light…a single mistake that would present them with a tar
get for their guns.

  Derek had lost count of the number of times he’d run the blockade. Since the Ariane had been blown to bits and he’d narrowly escaped with his life, he’d stopped thinking of the war in terms of making money and coming out of it a wealthy man. Now he wanted only revenge, and since he was akin to the sea and knew all the hazards waiting beneath the ocean’s murky depths, he liked the idea of making fools of the Yankees as he maneuvered the ship assigned to him through their damned web.

  Tension surrounded him. He could feel it in himself and his men. It would not last much longer, but each second seemed an eternity. He tried not to think of the present. Every possible precaution had been taken, he told his pounding heart. They had succeeded before, and they would make it this time. He would think of Julie, and how sweet it was going to be to take his pleasure with her once again.

  Suddenly his muscles tightened, and he gripped the railing with a grip like a steel vise. Something was not right. He could just feel it, dammit. His eyes darted everywhere, searching for something to tell him why he felt so anxious, why his nerves were stretched taut. Straining his ears, he listened for any sounds…voices…scrapings. Suddenly he knew. He could just feel it in his bones. Something was wrong, and a deep chill of foreboding began to wash over his body.

  And then the night exploded with brilliance as a Drummond light illuminated the sky. There, less than a mile apart, two ships waited. “Full speed ahead!” He thundered the order. “We’ve been spotted. Make a break for open waters, fast, dammit—”

  But just then both Yankee cruisers fired, and their shots landed heavily in the water nearby. Next the onshore battery of the Confederacy opened fire on the Federal ships, but they were too far out. At fifteen knots, Derek felt the Pamlico was crawling; yet their only chance was to hit the open waters and outrun the cruisers.

  A shot whizzed by his head, hitting the edge of a large wooden crate and sending it crashing down from its moorings on the port foredeck. It hit a seaman, who smashed against the deck with an agonized cry.