Triumph

by Heather Graham

  “If a man has deserted his army and run to the swamps to steal from the Seminole and rape and murder his wife or children, then yes, you, like any man, have a right to defend yourself.”

  Charlie grinned. “Come to my chickee, quarter-cousin-wolf. Friends remain forever.”

  Charlie’s wife, Lilly, was a shy, gentle girl. She prepared food for Charlie and Taylor and some of the other men of the small village. She served it, but then moved away to the women’s chickee, as was the custom. Sitting on the platform that rose about three feet from the ground, Taylor ate deer and a porridge made from the koonti root, and with the men, he shared the black drink, a strong brew, known to give men visions. He was careful to appear to swallow much more than he actually did. He spoke with the men, honestly, telling them what was going on in the white men’s world, how the war went on, how many of their number fought for the Confederates—because of the uniform.

  The men around him were grave, listening, judging, nodding.

  Then Charlie spoke.

  “You didn’t come here to teach us about the war, Taylor Douglas. You wear your blue uniform but come to us as White Wolf, our cousin. You don’t ask our aid to fight white men in the state. So why are you here?”

  “I’m looking for a man, a soldier. One who wears this uniform as well. He was on a ship that went down in a storm. The ship was wounded by an enemy gunner, then she was caught by the wind and waves, and wrecked. Some men survived and were picked up by another ship. Some men were drowned, and their bodies were found floating. But one man was carrying papers important to our government, and he carried information in his head that mustn’t fall into Rebel hands. I need to find him, or find out if he drowned and if the papers went to the bottom of the sea. Have you heard of such a man, living here somewhere? The swamp is vast, but still, word travels here. News about a white man from the sea would not be common.”

  He knew, before they answered him, that they knew of the man. His heart quickened; he hadn’t begun to pray that he might find the man he was seeking.

  “Charlie?” he said.

  “White men are not so unusual as you think. More come all the time. Even with the war. They run into the swamps, as we ran into the swamps, to avoid their governments,” Charlie told him. “The man you are looking for could easily be dead.”

  “Is he dead?”

  Emathla spoke quietly. “There is a white man, nearly dead from the sea.”

  “Where?”

  Charlie smiled. “You have come to us ... when the man you seek is south.”

  “South where? Will I be able to find him?”

  “Such a man is with your grandmother’s nephew, James McKenzie. A white man, nearly dead from the sea ... yes, indeed, there is such a man. Go south to your family there, and you will find what you are looking for.”

  Taylor frowned. “Is he dying? Is James caring for him?” He felt a strange chill. James was a Rebel, and though he would never murder the survivor of a shipwreck for being a Yankee, would he care for an enemy in his own home?

  “Go see James McKenzie, and you will understand,” Charlie told him. “Will you stay here with us tonight, and ride south tomorrow?”

  “I accept your gracious invitation.

  “You never need an invitation. You are among your mother’s people.”

  He inclined his head in acknowledgment of Charlie’s words, making no further protest. He was glad to see that his mother’s small band was doing well; they had cattle and pigs, and were growing pumpkins and other fruits and vegetables. There were a number of strong, sturdy chickees built in a circle within the copse, space for the band to grow. They had already fought their wars and had come to this place, and though they seemed interested in his news about the war, they were not affected by the war itself.

  The night was balmy. Taylor stripped down to his breeches to sleep, and felt the air wrap pleasantly around him. The mosquitoes weren’t bad this season, the breeze was light, and the moon continued to give the sky a golden glow. He had a chickee to himself, and in the night, it was like being alone in the world.

  From across the copse, he heard soft shuffling and whispers. Charlie and his wife making love. The stars and the air were good. Being alone was not. He felt the air cool as his body burned. Life certainly took strange twists and turns. Godiva had been enticing; she had intrigued him, and he had wanted her. But the reality of Tia McKenzie as his wife was far more than he’d ever imagined—in his most erotic dreams.

  Eyes so dark, face so pale, the cascade of her hair a cloak of silk, encompassing them both, feather soft in his hands. She haunted him in the night; thoughts of her flesh, her lips, the way she moved, the way she looked at him, eyes shimmering ebony, like the deepest pond in a tempest of shadow and light, a tempest that spoke eloquently of the strange bond that had formed between them, of the desire that had burned with incredible brilliance, seizing them like the wind, taking them both unawares ...

  He groaned softly and sat up. Not enough of the black drink. He watched the stars.

  Wanting her.

  Chapter 18

  LONG BEFORE HE REACHED James McKenzie’s home, Taylor knew again that he was being watched. A breakwater and lagoon shielded the property from the sea; at a distance, the house and grounds could not be seen. On land, the house was surrounded by thick pine forests, and the trails through the forests were known only by those who were familiar with the area.

  The place had burned to the ground a year or so earlier, but it had been rebuilt and stood again as a spectacular enhancement to the natural beauty of the landscape. Built of wood, limestone, and coral rock, the house itself was back from the beach, designed to best embrace the north-south breezes, and painted a soft blue-green that blended with the colors of sea and sky. There were long sweeps of tended lawn right around the house, but then the grass grew sparse and sand began to intermingle with shrubs. Sea grapes shaded the lawn; pines and coconut palms dotted the ocean side of the house. In gardens that fringed around the house, Teela McKenzie grew medicinal herbs and beautiful flowering plants. Far from the back of the house, Taylor knew, the lagoon swept around to an entirely private pool, secluded by underbrush and trees, a paradise within an Eden. Before the war, white friends and neighbors had visited by boat while James McKenzie’s native kin and friends had ridden the narrow Indian trails, many of them very old, down to the wild area off the bay. Taylor had journeyed to the property both ways. The McKenzies were as he was himself, both Indian and white, and sometimes, feeling like an outcast from both societies.

  As a child, he had felt a strong affection for James, Teela, and their children—there were not many men who straddled the fences of such diverse cultures. Yet now ...

  He knew that many men would fiercely fight for James McKenzie, defend this place as they would defend him, if they felt that he were threatened. Taylor might well have been afraid here, but he was not. Whatever James’s belief about the war, he would never allow his own kin to be gunned down on his doorstep.

  Even as that thought crossed Taylor’s mind, he was startled by a sudden sound that whistled through the air. He turned in time to prepare himself for the attack of the warrior who flew at him with a wild impetus of strength from the branch of a sea grape.

  Taylor let the force take them both from Friar and down hard upon the ground. He knew how to twist to take the weight from another person in such a fall—and he knew how to twist to give his opponent the disadvantage as well. He did so, straddling the man, pinning the arm that wielded a long-bladed knife. His attacker was a full-blooded Seminole, a wiry, well-muscled fellow with his flesh bear greased and slippery as all hell. He wore nothing but a breech clout, attire often worn by a people who had learned that clothing fragments could cause infection and bring mortality from wounds that might not have been fatal.

  The brave was young and strong, and angry. Taylor slammed his arm hard against the ground, aware that he had to force the weapon from his opponent before it became wedged i
n his own throat. The fellow grunted; Taylor forced the tactic again. The knife slipped, hitting the ground. Taylor reached for it, hurling it far away from them both into a bed of nearby crotons. The brave slammed a fist against Taylor’s chin, a stunning blow. Taylor worked his jaw, hoping he didn’t have a broken bone. He could have pulled a Colt, sent a bullet straight into the warrior’s heart. In fact, such an action might have become necessary to save his own life because the brave beneath him was wild, twisting, trying to strike again. Taylor got in his own blow, however—a good one. Stunned, the brave lay still.

  “Dammit, don’t come after me again, you fool,” Taylor warned him, standing up. “I’m not here to hurt anyone!”

  “So why are you here?”

  The question, in English, seemed to come from thin air. Taylor turned. A tall, thin Seminole with a remarkably strong and arresting profile stood before him. Taylor recognized the man, known as Billy Bones. In fact, he was a relative, the son of a cousin of his grandmother.

  “Billy. It’s Taylor.”

  “So I see,” Billy told him gravely.

  Billy was carrying a rifle. It wasn’t directed at Taylor, but held loosely in his hand. If he chose to fire, however, it would all happen with the speed of lightning.

  “I need to see James. I’ve come alone, not to do harm.”

  “This is a Southern state. You’re wearing a Union uniform. Why have you come here in that uniform?”

  “Because I’m not a spy, Billy. I’ve come as what I am, and I wouldn’t pretend to be anything but what I am.”

  “What you are is not a friend.”

  “Billy, we are kin, no matter what clothing I wear. If I discard the uniform, I still believe in the cause I’m fighting for.”

  Billy watched him gravely. “You are sure you are alone?”

  “When I had no father, James McKenzie was that to me and more. I would not come to his house except alone.”

  Billy Bones nodded after a while. Billy spoke in Muskogee, telling the boy to get up. The warrior who had attacked Taylor got to his feet, watching him carefully.

  Billy raised a hand, indicating that Taylor should join him.

  Taylor did so. Friar obediently followed along behind them. They followed the trail around to the rear of the house, where the porch let out by the lagoon. To the northeastern side of the house were the docks, and Taylor was sure that there were always more men on guard at that point. He was sure, as well, that Jerome often brought his blockade runner, the Lady Varina, into these docks.

  James McKenzie stood on his rear porch, arms folded over his chest. Like Billy, he had been aware of his coming company.

  “Taylor,” he acknowledged gravely. Then he said, “Looks like you’re acquiring a bruise on that jaw.”

  Taylor grinned. “But you should see the other guy.”

  James smiled, eyes downcast for a minute. “If you’d hurt that other guy, you would have been in some severe trouble.”

  “Did you think I would?”

  “No,” James said after a moment. “But I had to be sure. So—what are you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for a man. A Union soldier. He was on a ship that went down, but he had despatches from Key West that carried a fair amount of information about naval movements.”

  “And what do you want with such a man?”

  “Well, I want the despatches, of course.”

  “And the man?”

  “And the man.”

  “Does the Union government suspect him of treason, of having changed sides to give the information to the Confederate government?”

  Taylor hesitated only a moment. “Probably.”

  “And if I knew this man, why would I allow you to take him to be hanged?”

  “A man who too easily changes sides may also too easily be a traitor to both.”

  Behind James, a door suddenly opened. A tall, slender young man with gaunt cheeks shuffled out on crutches. He was wearing a bleached white muslin shirt and dark cotton trousers. His one foot was bandaged; his other foot was bare.

  James turned, saying firmly, “Michael, I told you to stay inside.”

  “Yes, sir, you did. But I won’t bring the war to your doorstep. Colonel Douglas, I’m Lieutenant Michael Long. I’m the man you’re looking for. The despatches remain in my coat pocket. They have not been touched. If I’m to face a court-martial, I will do so.”

  “No!”

  Behind Lieutenant Michael Long, the door burst open again. Jennifer McKenzie, beautiful straight black hair flying behind her like a sea of ravens, came flying out of the house, slipping an arm around Long, and staring at Taylor with defiant, troubled eyes. “No, he came here half-dead! He can still barely walk. He nearly died of a fever!”

  “Jennifer—” James began firmly.

  “Jennifer,” Long repeated.

  The door opened again. Teela hurried out, coming to stand beside James and stare at Taylor. “Taylor, welcome. I think. Oh, dear, this is quite awkward, isn’t it?”

  From inside, he could hear a wailing. Mary, a little over a year old, the youngest of the offspring of James and Teela McKenzie, didn’t like being separated from her mother.

  Surveying the group before him, Taylor felt a sense of defeat. This was not what he had expected.

  “Perhaps we could go in and talk,” he suggested quietly. He smiled at Teela. “I never got to see the baby.”

  “Oh, she’s beautiful!” Teela said. “James ...”

  “Yes, of course,” James said after a moment. “Yes, we should go in and talk.”

  With that, Teela smiled, walked down the porch steps, and greeted Taylor with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She smelled sweetly of jasmine, as she always had.

  “Are you coming in, Billy?” she asked.

  “I think I’ll see to my nephew,” Billy said. He looked at Taylor, nodded, and passed him by. It was the best he could expect. He was the enemy.

  But it hurt. Teela slipped her arm through his. They walked to the porch together. He met James McKenzie’s eyes, a startling blue against the bronze of his features. James hesitated, then reached out and embraced him. Taylor closed his eyes.

  God, how he was coming to hate the war.

  James released him, and they entered the house. Teela went to retrieve her crying baby from the mixed-blood servant who held her. “Taylor, Mary. Mary, meet your distant cousin Taylor.”

  He was startled when the little girl stopped crying, reached out to him, then wound up in his arms, placed there by Teela. “Hello, Mary!” he said uncertainly. “You are very beautiful, very definitely a little McKenzie!” The baby was all McKenzie, with huge, blue green eyes and ink-dark hair.

  “Let me get drinks,” Teela said, turning to start down a hallway.

  “Mama!” Mary cried, her little arms now reaching out for her mother.

  “We’re following her!” Taylor said, hurrying after Teela. He liked children, though he wasn’t accustomed to them quite this young. Still, she smelled so sweet, like soap and talc. Her eyes were wide and trusting. Holding her, he remembered that once he’d wanted children, then Abby had died and he’d forgotten everything except the business at hand—the war. But now ...

  Now, he had a wife. A McKenzie wife, closer to this child than he was himself ...

  He could hear Lieutenant Michael Long limping after him, James and Jennifer in his wake. A few minutes later, he was seated in James’s study, nicely redone after the fire. Mary had been rescued by Jennifer, who was watching Long with tears continually forming in her eyes. Seated in a leather chair with a large whiskey, Long explained the shipwreck, how he’d been unconscious for weeks and still woke up in the night with chills and fever. “The despatches are safe, Colonel Douglas. Completely safe. I’d not have betrayed my country, but ... but ...” he looked at Taylor. “I’ve prayed that the Union government would think me dead.”

  “They had to find the despatches,” Taylor said. “You must have known that.”

  �
�Perhaps. Perhaps I just prayed they wouldn’t find me.” He glanced at Jennifer, then stared at Taylor again. “I don’t wish to be a deserter. But neither do I wish to make war against the South anymore. Nor do I think, in all truth, that I may be able. I still can’t walk. My ankle was broken and not set quickly enough.”

  “Taylor, please ... isn’t there something you can do?” Jennifer pleaded.

  “You can see that he really can’t go back to war,” Teela whispered.

  What he could see was that Jennifer had fallen in love. And that Michael Long seemed to be a very decent man. Tired of the war—and not about to fight the people who had saved his life. He would let me shoot him before taking him from here, Taylor thought—except that he wouldn’t do that now because the man who had rescued him was kin. He wouldn’t cause bloodshed among the family.

  James seemed to understand Taylor’s situation all too well, and maybe he was damning himself for not remembering that though Taylor was kin, he remained the enemy as well. “Do you think that Taylor can go back to the Union military authorities—and lie?” he asked harshly.

  Long lowered his head. “There will be no bloodshed here. I will go back.”

  Jennifer started to weep.

  Taylor rose, walking over to her. He hunkered down before her. “I can’t lie, but ... I can take the despatches to the fort at Key West. And see what I can do.”

  She looked up at him tearfully. “You won’t take Michael?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, Lord, Taylor, you’ll be taking a risk.”

  “Well, I might be taking a risk if I tried to seize him as well, right?”

  “How’s that?”

  “Your father could have me shot down.”

  “My father wouldn’t do that.”

  “And neither, Jennifer, would I hurt a good man who is wounded already. Or a cousin who has already felt the tragedy of this war too closely.”