Sam rummaged through his memories as he wiped down the skin on Moira’s listless forearms. Pa had hammered his faith into both Asher and Sam just the way he hammered out horseshoes on his anvil. Faith made sense back then. Less so after Pa died. And the various religious courses that had been required while Sam posed as a student from the colonies only muddied the waters. What did Pa used to say? Knowledge puffed up a man’s pride but wisdom came from God.
Now, however, when it came to Moira’s life, he knew beyond all reason that it came down to God’s will and that no amount of herbal remedies would override His divine decision.
But why would God listen to Sam’s petitions? He didn’t deserve to be heard in heaven.
Perspiration trickled down his temples and Sam wiped it away with his shirt sleeve. The cabin had become so stuffy in the late afternoon heat that he could barely breathe. But it was hotter outside. Worse, nary a breeze blew. At this snail’s pace, they’d dock in Virginia by Christmastime!
Moira groaned and Sam shook off his thoughts.. “Moira, can you hear me? Open your eyes, darling daisy.”
Her eyelids remained shut, though she rolled her head from side to side.
Sam tried to get her to quiet and drink some water. Amazingly, she drank, except Sam noticed her wince.
“What is it? Are you in pain?”
Many moments went by and Sam figured she wouldn’t respond.
“My throat…” She croaked like a swamp frog, but Sam perked right up. “My throat is terribly sore.”
Sam sat back, welcoming the sudden hope filling his insides. ’Twas good news; a sore throat was not a symptom of the typhus. “Rest easy, my love. You’re going to be all right. Hear me?”
Sam put the wet rag across her head once more and, again, he wished he weren’t so powerless.
Rachel entered the cabin a while later, bringing Sam a tray of supper along with broth and water for Moira. “How is she?”
Sam tore his gaze from Moira. “She woke up long enough to take in some liquid and say her throat is sore.”
Rachel’s dark eyes widened and a little smile curled the corners of her lips. “Then it is not the typhus.”
“I assume not.” But Rachel’s affirmation sent relief spiraling through him.
“Now if she could just rid herself of that fever...”
“Yes.” Sam felt responsible for this calamity. He’d brought both the sickly monk and Moira aboard.
“You’re doing a good job. Most men would leave the care of their wives to another woman or doctor.” Rachel patted his shoulder. “Moira is young and strong and, unlike Brother Tobias, doesn’t have a back full of infected gashes.”
Sam looked up at Rachel in time to see her shudder at the memory.
She met his gaze. “You’re a fine husband to her, Sam.”
“She deserves finer, that’s for sure.”
“Nonsense. Now eat some supper to keep up your strength and see if you can coax her to take some broth.”
“Your wish is my command, madam.”
Rachel snorted a laugh and headed for the door.
After she’d gone, Sam leaned close to Moira. “Hear that, darling daisy? Rachel said I’m a fine husband.” A shame that his wife might find it more a joke than a compliment.
When there was no response, Sam stood and stretched. He picked at his supper and lit a lamp after the sun sank behind the western horizon. He heard the slap of the sails and Harney shouting a string of commands. They were moving.
Sam unlatched the porthole and a cool wind struck him in the face. He breathed deeply of the fresh, salty night air then quickly closed the window so Moira wouldn’t get chilled.
She stirred and he stepped over to her bedside. “Here, try to take another drink.” With his assistance, she took several swallows of the broth then lay back against the damp bedding.
“Open the window again, please, that I may breathe in more fresh air.”
“I’m not sure that would be in your best interest.” He felt her forehead. Still much too warm. “You’ve still got a fever.”
“On the contrary. I believe fresh air will do me much good.”
“Well…” He didn’t want to deny her such a simple pleasure, but he had an inkling it ran contrary to popular medical beliefs.
He thought of his mother. She’d tell him to open the window too.
A guffaw worked its way up and out his nostrils. Mama would like Miss Moira Kingsley…er, Mrs. Sam Stryker.
“Very well. I shall open it, but only for a minute or two.”
Beneath the lamplight, gratitude shone in Moira’s fever-bright eyes. True to his word, Sam opened the porthole again.
Activity above deck seemed to have increased and one glance toward the darkening horizon told him why. A ship. Was she friend or foe?
“Moira, I shall return shortly. I promise.”
She gave a weak nod, and Sam took off to find out which ship approached them.
Standing on the main deck, Sam watched the other merchant ship near until it bobbed starboard side and parallel with the Seahawk. The crew of the Lady Magenta was well-known to Harney and his men. Sam had breathed sheer relief when he learned that, like the crew of the Seahawk, they were United States merchantmen. But their news of Virginia’s fate caused Sam’s heart to sink like an anchor.
“The Brits burned the U.S. Capital,” the captain of Lady Magenta hollered across the distance. “Then they took Alexandria and occupy it as we speak. We’ve heard they have set their sights on Baltimore now.”
Sam hung his head back and squeezed his eyes closed.
“And what of President Madison?” Harney bellowed.
“Escaped along with the congressmen.”
Relief spiraled through Sam. Thank God the president and statesmen ran the country, and not the Crown.
“No passage into Virginia,” the other captain called. “We’ve set sail from Florida, but heard tell of British gunboats everywhere along the northeastern shores of the U.S., from Canada south to Virginia. My suggestion is to head for South Carolina. The British blockade doesn’t extend that far south. Not yet, anyway.”
The banter continued, but Sam felt heartsick. He traipsed to the hatch and returned to his cabin below deck. Moira had turned onto her side, but appeared to be sleeping.
“Blast it all!” Sam punched his fist into his palm. The very news he carried for President Madison was of no use now—now that the worst had happened.
He looked upward. Why? Why, God, would you allow the U S. to fall back into the hands of tyranny?
The story of Jonah flashed through his mind. Jonah and the big fish that swallowed him whole because of his disobedience. In the belly of the beast, Jonah ruminated over his own will and God’s. Once he surrendered to God’s will, the big fish spit him out and he found himself in a land he didn’t find worthy of his visit. He was surrounded by people who, Jonah determined, didn’t deserve God’s mercy and grace.
But God saw the circumstances differently.
“Sam?” Moira’s gaze pinned him to the scuffed wooden floor and he recognized the concern in her eyes. “What’s happening outside?”
“Nothing to fear, my darling.” Sam put his hands on his hips. “But it appears the Almighty is pointing me toward home, whether I wish to go there or not.”
Moira seemed to strain to keep her eyes open, but her dry, cracked lips worked a smile nonetheless. “Then you’ll escort me to the missionaries at the outpost?”
Oh, how he wished she’d get that idea out of her head. “We’ll discuss the particulars when you’re better.” He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bunk.
She replied with a hint of a nod before succumbing to another deep sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
Nightfall brought the steady drumbeats that carried across the muddy river.
“No, Papa, don’t leave me.” Moira fought against the rushes that grew thicker and taller as she tried to reach her father. “Wait, Papa. Don’t go
!”
A snake’s face, the size of a full-grown man’s, rose up and blocked Moira’s path. His laughter sounded like Uncle Tyrus’s.
Moira screamed.
The river melded into the deep, deep ocean. Blue-green suddenly surrounded her as far as she could see. Nothing and no one to hang onto.
Lord, save me!
Despite her efforts to stay afloat, the water covered her face and the world blurred as she sank. She kicked and clawed, desperate to resurface, but the current dragged her down deeper, deeper…
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
Her memorial—except she was still very much alive. She fought the rough sack that covered her as she lay on a hard plank as Brother Tobias had.
“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.”
She knew to whom the voice belonged…
“Sam! Help me, Sam!” She tried to rip open the stitches sealing the sack. “Sam!”
She opened her eyes and sucked in a breath. Precious air. She gulped it in. “Don’t throw me overboard,” she panted. “I’m not dead yet.”
“Shh…I’m here, darling.” Sam held her trembling hand between both of his steady ones. A single flickering candle cut through the darkness around them.
“I was drowning.” The words came out on breathless puffs. “I couldn’t breathe.”
“Just a bad dream.”
“Nay. ’Twas real. I was about to slide down the plank, like Brother Tobias.”
“Shh…” He pushed her hair from her face.
“You were reading my eulogy.”
He smiled. “I was reading the Psalms to you. You’ve been restless tonight, calling out for your parents, so I found your Bible. I thought hearing the Scriptures might give you peace.”
“Oh, Sam…” Moira still felt breathless. “I couldn’t breathe.” A sudden and violent coughing attack rocked her body, leaving her even more breathless than her nightmare. When she quieted, she wheezed and then guessed her illness. “Pneumonia?”
“It appears so, yes. But the fact that you’re coughing is good news, according to Rachel. We’ve been hoping…no, praying…that you’d wake up and cough. Our prayers were just now answered.”
As if on cue, another wave of coughing hit. This time it left her with a mouthful of foul-tasting phlegm and a chest that felt as though it were on fire.
Sam encouraged her to spit into an empty bowl. Next he urged her to drink. The water tasted like rum and something else, something bitter.
“What is this that I’m drinking?”
“In addition to rum to purify the water, Rachel added quinine to your portion. She says it will help to loosen the congestion in your chest.” A smile inched its way across his handsome face. “I believe you’re going to be all right.”
“So I was dying?”
“We feared so this past week.” He felt her forehead. “But now your fever’s gone. Glory be to God. It’s a true miracle.”
“I’ve not heard you talk about praising God and miracles before.” Moira’s chest felt like a mule sat on it. She drank the rest of the water.
“I’ve been talking to God quite a bit lately. It appears I’ve behaved like the Prodigal Son.” A little smile twitched the corners of his mouth. “After my father was killed, I went my own way and God decided to turn me around and take me home.”
“Home?”
“To Yemassee Village in which I grew up.”
“Do you think that’s where Brother Tobias was truly headed?”
Sam’s shoulders rose and fell. “I reckon we shall find out soon enough. We drop anchor in Charleston tomorrow morning.”
Moira didn’t find this welcome news. She attempted to sit up and succeeded only when Sam assisted her. “I must make myself presentable.” Her head felt too heavy for her neck to hold. She leaned back against the wooden plank wall.
“Not so fast, my darling daisy.”
“Stop calling me that, Sam.” She turned away from the surprise on his face.
“’Tis an endearment is all.”
Moira hated her weakened condition, hated that she needed him so much. “Endearments imply an intimacy between two people.”
“And?”
“And you’re annulling our marriage as soon as your feet touch down on land. Your affection is as real as…as my nightmare.” She allowed her body to slide back down on the bunk, but rolled onto her side, her back to Sam.
“Moira…”
“No! Don’t tell me how impractical my feelings for you are. I’m quite aware of it.” Tears burst into her eyes, but she wouldn’t let Sam see a single one. He’d warned her from the start. “I owe you my life. I’m eternally grateful for all you’ve done for me. But I also know that”—she swallowed a lump of emotion and forced a steadiness into her voice that she didn’t feel—“you could never settle for a daisy when an entire flower garden lay at your disposal.”
“Hmm…well, I must admit that accurately describes my frame of mind right up until the time I met you.”
Moira’s emotions triggered another fit of coughing and within minutes she lay helplessly weak against Sam’s shoulder. He held her close.
“This voyage has changed me, Moira. I can’t say when it happened precisely, but I know I’ll be debarking the ship as a married man, devoted to my wife.”
Was he joking? Moira pushed off his shoulder and peered into his face. He brushed her tears off her cheeks.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s difficult to explain. First I began to think of you as mine. My darling daisy. Then I began thinking in plural terms, no longer I and me, but us and we.”
“How poetic.”
“Yes, very.”
A smile overruled her tears and Sam urged her back onto his shoulder.
“I love you, Moira. Perhaps I’ve loved you since the evening we met.”
Moira pulled herself back and stared at his earnest expression. “You’re not playacting, are you?”
A slight wag of his head loosened a rakish golden-brown lock that fell alongside his face. “I am as candid as I know how to be, a terrible thing for a spy to admit.”
His words fueled another smile. “I shan’t breathe a word of it.”
“I trust you completely.”
She cupped his face and felt his stubbly jaw against her palms. “I love you too, Sam. But you already know that.”
“I had an inkling, although before you got sick your actions befuddled me.”
It took only seconds for Moira to remember. “The more time I spent with you, the more I loved you. I knew your plans for after we anchored and disembark the ship. I didn’t want to get hurt any more than I felt I already would.” She ran her hands down his face, absorbing his every feature. Then she wrapped her arms around his thick neck and leaned in for a kiss.
“Ah…my darling daisy is no longer withering. ’Tis a good sign.”
Moira’s cheeks flamed at her own brazenness as if her fever had returned tenfold. “Can a wife kiss her husband that way?”
“Anytime she wants to…all day long, in fact.”
She smiled as Sam laid her back down on the bunk. As he stood she grabbed his hand. “There is room for you alongside me.”
“When you’re feeling a little better, my love. You must save your strength. Tomorrow will be a very busy day.”
Chapter Seventeen
Moira sank deeper into the fragrant bath water. Hotel Charleston had exceeded her expectations. The walls were solid and papered and there were men’s and ladies’ bathtub rooms at each end of the hallway. Businessmen from all over the world came and went through Charleston’s port and frequented the hotel. Whenever they ventured downstairs for an evening dinner, she and Sam met cotton and tobacco brokers, and traders of every kind of consumer goods—including African slaves.
Images of the poor souls being carted through the streets in irons scampered across Moira’s mind and despite the early S
eptember heat, she shuddered. Slave trading proved a despicable practice—and Sam agreed. He said one day his mother’s people could be the enslaved ones, being that there were more greedy white men than there were Catawba.
The last of the afternoon sunshine streamed through the second-story window. Noise from the street below wafted in along with the fat, buzzing flies. Moira swatted one away, then worked the bubbles into her hair. Over the past two weeks as she recovered from pneumonia, she’d enjoyed an evening bath to cool herself from the heat of the day. But as she’d grown stronger, she’d grown bored. Bathing was the one activity Sam and the doctor allowed her.
Meanwhile, as she convalesced, Sam purchased supplies they’d need to set up housekeeping. He’d already sent a message to his brother and mother and learned his childhood home near the smithy/livery was vacant. The small village was still in need of a blacksmith. So, after purchasing a wagon and a team of mules, a horse, and sundry other supplies, he began buying new, practical gowns for Moira along with newspapers and other publications to help pass the time. Each day Moira felt more anxious to begin her new life at the outpost.
A smile twitched her lips. So now that the doctor had pronounced her well enough to travel, Sam advised her to enjoy one last luxurious bath, for it may be the last she’d get for a long while. Tomorrow morning they’d pack their wagon, hitch up the horses, and head for the outpost.
Rinsing her hair, Moira finished up and stepped from the brass tub. The assistant, a large black woman named Harta, handed her a towel and led her to the dressing table.
“You all clean and cooled off now, Miss Moira.” Harta took the hairbrush from Moira’s recently purchased amenities and worked it through her long, straight hair. “I hears you be leavin’ us on the morrow.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Her insides fluttered with anticipation. Would Sam’s mother like her? Would the missionaries accept her help? After all, she wasn’t Brother Tobias, and now she was a married woman. Would they allow her to teach the village children? She stared down at her flat belly. Mayhap by the end of the year she’d be expecting a babe of her own.
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