© 2013 by MaryLu Tyndall
Print ISBN 978-1-61626-596-0
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62029-993-7
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62029-992-0
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Faceout Studio, www.faceoutstudio.com
Cover Model: Photography: Tyler Gould
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
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Printed in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Author’s Historical Note
About the Author
To obey is better than sacrifice.
1 SAMUEL 15:22
Dedicated to every Jonah running from God.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Colonel Blake Wallace—leader and organizer of the expedition to Brazil and a decorated war hero wanted for war crimes by the Union. He suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder.
Eliza Crawford—widow and Confederate army nurse who signed on to nurse the colonists, married to a Yankee general, and disowned by her Southern, politician father.
James Callaway—Confederate army surgeon turned Baptist preacher who signed on as the colony’s only doctor but who suffers from an extreme fear of blood.
Hayden Gale—con man who has been searching for his father to execute revenge for the death of his mother. Believing the man is heading toward Brazil, Hayden stows away on board the New Hope.
Angeline Moore—signed on as the colony’s seamstress, Angeline is a broken woman who wants more than anything to put her past behind her. Unfortunately, there are a few passengers on board whom she recognizes from her prior life.
Magnolia Scott—Georgia plantation owner’s pampered daughter who doesn’t want to go to Brazil and will do anything to turn the ship around. Constantly belittled by her father, she is obsessed with her appearance.
Mr. and Mrs. Scott—once wealthy plantation owners who claim to have lost everything in the war, yet they still retain their haughty, patrician attitude toward others. They hope to regain their position and wealth in Brazil.
Sarah Jorden—seven months pregnant and a war widow, she signed on to teach the colony’s children.
Wiley Dodd—ex-lawman from Richmond who is fond of the ladies and in possession of a treasure map that points to Brazil as the location of a vast amount of gold.
Harman Graves—senator’s son and ex-politician from Maryland whose hopes to someday run for president were crushed when the South seceded from the Union.
Captain Barclay—old sea dog who was a blockade runner in the war and who captains and owns the ship New Hope.
Parson Bailey—signed on as the colony’s pastor and spiritual guide.
Emory Lewis—the colony’s carpenter who took to drink after losing his wife and child in the war.
Moses and Delia—a freed slave and his sister who, along with her two children, want to start over in a new land away from the memory of slavery.
Jesse and Rosa Jenkins—simple farmers who, with their young daughter, Henrietta, hope to have a chance at a good life away from the ravages of war.
Mable—slave to the Scotts.
CHAPTER 1
May 29, 1866
Somewhere in the Caribbean
We shall all be in heaven or hell by night’s end!” Parson Bailey shouted above the din of the storm. “God save us. God save us.” His pudgy face swelled with each fateful phrase, while his eyes as wide as beacons, skittered around the tiny storeroom with each pound of wave and wind.
Eliza Crawford extracted herself from her friends huddling in the corner and made her way to the parson, intending to beg his silence. It did no good for him to say such things. Why, a parson of all people should comfort others, not increase their fears.
Thunder shook the ship. The deck canted, and instead of reaching Parson Bailey, Eliza tumbled into the arms of the very man she’d been trying to avoid since she boarded the New Hope almost three weeks ago—Wiley Dodd. Though of obvious means, evident in the fine broadcloth coat he wore and the gold watch he so often flaunted, something in his eyes, the way he looked at the women, made her stomach sour.
“In need of male comfort, Mrs. Crawford?” he asked. That sourness now turned to nausea as his arms encircled her. Not that she needed much assistance in the squeamish department. Her stomach had been convulsing since the storm began a few hours ago. But the perfumed Macassar oil Mr. Dodd slicked through his hair threatened to destroy all her efforts to keep her lunch from reappearing over his posh attire.
“We are done for. Done for, I say.” The parson continued his rambling as he clung to the mast pole.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodd.” Pushing against his chest, Eliza snapped from his clawing grip.
The lizard-like smile on his lips belied their dire situation. “You’re welcome to stay with me if you are frightened, my dear.”
“Yesterday you called me a Yankee whore, sir!”
His smile remained though he gave a little shrug. “Desperate times and all that, you know.”
Lightning flashed through the porthole, masking his face in a deathly gray.
“Why are you not frightened?” she asked him.
“Naught but a summer squall,” he shouted over the ensuing roar of thunder. “I have experienced many such storms.”
Eliza wondered how often a sheriff would have been to sea. Even so, he’d still chosen to remain below instead of help above with the other men. The ship careened upward as if it were but a toy in a child’s hands. Eliza stumbled again and struck the bulkhead. A wall of water slammed against the porthole, creating a perverted dance of seething foam that lasted far longer than it should.
Was the ship sinking? Her lungs seized at the thought.
“The end is near. Near, I tell you!” the parson ranted.
The wave retreated. Leaden sky took its place, and Eliza scrambled on hands and knees back to her position beside a massive crate strapped to the bulkhead. Back to her only friends on this ill-fated ship. Mrs. Sarah Jorden and Miss Angeline Moore received her with open arms, neither one sobbing as one would expect of genteel ladies in such harrowing circumstance
s. Besides, there was sobbing enough coming from the other side of the room, where the wealthy plantation owners, Mr. and Mrs. Scott, and their pampered daughter, Magnolia, clung to each other in a desperate barbarism contrary to their elevated station. In fact, Mr. Scott had not opened his eyes in hours. Perhaps he attempted to drown out his wife’s incessant howling, which elevated to a piercing level after each of the parson’s decrees of doom. Tears streamed down Magnolia’s fair cheeks, pricking Eliza’s heart.
She should be angry at the young lady for exposing Eliza’s ruse. But all she felt was pity.
Sitting beside the wealthy planters, Magnolia’s personal slave hunched with folded hands and moving lips as if she were praying. Eliza hoped so. They needed all the prayers they could get. She had already lifted her petitions to the Almighty. Still, she whispered one more appeal, just in case, as she scanned the rest of the passengers crowded in the tiny storeroom—sent below by the captain when the seas had grown rough.
Farmers, merchants, lawyers, people of all classes and wealth. Jessie and Rosa Jenkins and their young daughter, Henrietta, had not uttered a peep since they’d tied themselves to a large table anchored to the deck. Mr. Harman Graves, a politician from Maryland, sat with his back against the bulkhead and a pleased look on his angular face, as if he knew something they did not. He rubbed an amulet between thumb and forefinger, lips moving as if in prayer, though Eliza doubted it was directed at God.
Next to him, Mr. Emory Lewis, a carpenter, if Eliza remembered correctly, kept plucking a flask from his pocket, taking a sip, and putting it back, only to repeat the ritual over again.
The eerie whistle of wind through rigging tore at Eliza’s remaining courage. She shivered, and Sarah squeezed her arm, whispering something in her ear that was lost in the boom of another wave pounding the hull.
A child’s whimper brought her gaze to her left, where Delia, a freed Negress, hugged her two young children close. A flash of lightning accentuated the fear tightening the woman’s coffee-colored face. The fear of death—a fear they all felt at the moment. A fear that was no respecter of class or race. A fear that broke through all social barriers. For yesterday, the Scotts, as well as some of the others present, would not have agreed to be in the same room with a freed slave.
Or even with Eliza.
Thunder bellowed, barely audible above the explosion of wind and wave. How did this tiny brig withstand such a beating? Surely the timbers would burst any moment, splintering and filling the room with the mad gush of the sea. Locking her arms with the ladies on either side, she closed her eyes as the galloping ship tossed them like rag dolls over the hard deck.
“And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them: and they were judged every man according to their works.” Parson Bailey had taken to quoting scripture, which only caused Mrs. Scott to howl even louder.
Eliza’s thoughts shifted to Blake and the other men struggling to save the ship up on deck. Well, mainly to Blake, if she were honest. Which was something she hadn’t been of late. But that was another matter altogether. Oh fiddle, Colonel Blake Wallace, she reproved herself. She shouldn’t be calling him by his Christian name. Though the last nineteen days she’d spent in his company seemed a lifetime, in truth she hardly knew the man.
Then why, in her darkest hour as she faced a suffocating death in the middle of the Caribbean, was it Colonel Wallace who drew her thoughts? Not just her thoughts, but her concern—fear for his safety. Fear that she wouldn’t have a chance to explain why she had lied, wouldn’t have a chance to win back the affection that had so recently blossomed in both their hearts. She rubbed her tired eyes.
But what did it matter now? He hated her for who she was. No, for whom she had married. In fact, as she glanced over the terrified faces in the room, only loathing shot back at her. To them she was the enemy. An enemy they were risking their lives to escape. And now they were all going to die. Together in the middle of the sea. With no one to mourn them. No one who would know their fate. Not even Eliza’s father or Uncle James and Aunt Sophia or little Alfred, Rachel, or Henry. Not that they would care. To them, she was already dead.
Disowned. Disinherited. Forsaken.
The brig twisted and spun around as if caught in a whirlpool. Angeline’s trembling body crashed into Eliza on one side while Sarah’s smashed into her from the other, making Eliza feel like a garment run through a clothespress. An explosion of thunder cracked the sky wide open, followed by an eerie silence, as if all of nature had been stunned by the angry shout of God. Or maybe they were all dead. But then the wind outside the hull and the whimpers of fear within resumed. Angeline pressed Stowy, her cat, tightly against her chest while Sarah’s free hand clutched her belly swollen with child. Seven months along. How worried she must be for her wee one!
“Repent, for the end is at hand!” Parson Bailey’s flashing eyes speared Eliza with a look of hatred. She knew what he was thinking. What they all were thinking.
That she was the reason for the storm.
Another thunderous blast and Eliza squeezed her eyes shut again, wishing—praying—this was only a bad dream. How did she get herself into this mess? Why, oh why, did she ever think she could start afresh in Brazil?
She opened her eyes and stared at the oscillating shadows: light and dark drifting over the bulkhead, crates, boxes, and tables. And over the hopeless faces. A torn piece of rope tumbled back and forth across the deck. Parson Bailey still glared at her. Something maniacal glinted in his eyes as he shared a glance with Mr. Dodd and Mr. Graves.
“It’s you!” he raged, glancing over the others. “God told me this Yankee is the cause of the storm!”
Though all eyes shot toward the parson, no one said a word. Hopefully they were too busy holding on and too frightened for their lives to do anything about it. Mr. Graves, however, staggered to his feet, slipped the amulet into his pocket, and glanced at Eliza like a cougar eyeing a rabbit.
She tried to swallow, but her throat felt like sand.
Mr. Dodd grinned. “I say we toss her over!”
“Aye, she’s our Jonah!” Mr. Graves added.
“Precisely.” Parson Bailey nodded.
Though the freed Negress’s eyes widened even farther, only the farmers, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, offered any protests. Protests that were lost in the thunderous boom of the storm.
“Don’t be absurd, Parson!” Sarah added from beside Eliza. “God cares not a whit whether Eliza is a Yankee or a Rebel!” Yet, no sooner had the words fled her mouth than thunder exploded so loud it seemed God disagreed with the young teacher’s pronouncement.
Eliza frowned. For goodness’ sake, whose side was God on, anyway?
The ship bucked, and Eliza’s bottom lifted from the deck then slammed back again. A rope snapped, and a crate slid across the room. Mr. Dodd halted it with his boot then glanced at Mr. Graves while jerking his head toward Eliza.
“Jonah must go overboard for the seas to calm!” The parson howled above the storm, though he seemed unwilling to let go of the mast pole to carry out his depraved decree.
Angeline squeezed Eliza’s arm. “I won’t let them take you!”
As much as she appreciated her friend’s courageous stance, Eliza knew what she must do. She must leave, get out of this room, out from under these incriminating eyes, before these men dragged her above and did just what they threatened.
Terror stole the breath from her lungs, but she tugged from her friends’ arms nonetheless and lunged for the door. She was prepared for the angry slurs behind her when she opened it. She wasn’t prepared for the blast of wind and slap of seawater that shoved her flat onto her derriere and sent her crinolette flailing about her face. Pain shot up her spine. Humiliation at her exposed petticoat and stockings reddened her face. But when she glanced around, everyone’s eyes were closed against the wind and spray bursting into the room. Shaking the stinging water from her eyes, Eliza rose, braced against the torrent,
gripped the handle with both hands, and heaved the door shut behind her. Then leaning her head into the wind, she forged down the narrow hall. She had no idea what she intended to do. Toss herself into the sea? She shivered at the thought. Yet if that was God’s will, if He wanted her to throw herself into the raging waters, then so be it!
But then again, when had she ever obeyed God?
The burning prick of conscience was instantly doused by a cascade of seawater crashing down the companionway ladder. The mad surge grabbed her feet and swept them from beneath her. Gripping the railing, she hung on for dear life as she floated off the deck. Seawater filled her mouth. Thoughts of her imminent demise filled her mind. But then her body dropped to the sodden wood. Eliza gasped and spit the salty taste from her mouth.
Thunder roared, shaking the railing beneath her hand. The brig jerked and flung her against the ladder. Struggling to her feet, she dragged her dripping gown up the steps, unprepared for the sight that met her eyes.
Waves of towering heights surrounded the ship, their foamy tips scattering like spears in the wind. Rain fell in thick panels, making it nearly impossible to see anything except blurry, distorted shapes that surely must be the crew hard at work. Wind crashed into Eliza, stealing her breath and howling in her ears. Rain pelted her like hail. The ship pitched over a swell. Eliza toppled to the deck then rolled as if she weighed no more than a feather. She bumped into a small boat and gripped the slippery moorings anchoring it to the deck.
Salt! Salt everywhere. It filled her mouth. It filled her nose. It stung her eyes. It was all she could smell. And taste. That and fear. Not just her own. Fear saturated the air like the rain and waves. It boomed in the muffled shouts ricocheting across the ship. Buzzed in the electric charge of lightning. Clinging to the moorings, her gown flapping like a torn sail, she squinted and searched for the captain, hoping his calm expression would soothe her fears. Yet from his rigid stance on the quarterdeck and his viselike grip on the wheel, Eliza’s hopes were swept away with the wind.
Which did nothing to ease her terror. A terror that numbed her heart as she accepted her fate. A wall of water slammed into her. She closed her eyes and hung on as the ship angled to port. Why did she always make bad decisions? Why did she never listen to her conscience? Stubborn, rebellious girl! If she hadn’t married Stanton, if she had listened to her father and her uncle, she would be home now with a loving family. She wouldn’t have been forced to become a nurse in the war, forced to witness things no lady should witness. Forced to take care of herself in a man’s world.
Forsaken Dreams Page 1
