Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  The sweetness in her voice grew thin as she continued despite his interruption. “I do not want to languish in some godforsaken swamp with a bunch of red men and alligators!”

  Brent at last eased his hold on her and sat up, staring at the window where the telltale signs of morning were becoming brighter. “Kendall, darlin’,” he said tightly, his low drawl heavy with sarcasm, “neither the southern belle act nor an all-out temper tantrum is going to work. You’re staying here.”

  She was silent so long that he at last turned back to look at her. She had pushed herself up to a seated position, shielding her nudity with her arms hugged tightly about her knees. Clouded eyes as deeply blue as a late night sky were upon him; she again chewed furiously on her lip.

  “For how long?” she asked in a tense whisper.

  His eyes scanned her. Damn her! She could come from a bout of the wildest passion, and just moments later appear like the most provocative of innocents, her wide eyes and her mass of tangled hair enhancing her beauty, which seemed eternally pure . . .

  He sighed, relenting. “Until I come back. Until I figure out where to take you, where I’m certain there won’t be fighting any time soon.”

  A slight tremor shook her. Was it relief? He didn’t know. She tossed her hair back over her shoulder and stared at him defiantly once more. “If I stay, Captain McClain, I want it understood that I don’t grind any more of that damned koonti root. And I don’t do laundry other than my own!”

  Brent chuckled softly, swept her into his arms, and pushed her back down on the floor, the temptation to do so too strong to resist.

  “Brent,” she protested breathlessly, delicate fingers clasping his shoulders.

  But he stared down at her relentlessly. “Listen to me, Kendall. It’s important. I want your word that you won’t give the Indians any trouble. The swamp can be a haven; it can also be a dangerous hell. And with Yankees cruising the coast all the time, there’s even more danger. As a Confederate who has become your lover, I’m not about to return you to a husband you’ve taken drastic measures to escape. But I guarantee that if you run into any Yanks, they’ll return you to John Moore so fast your head will spin. That’s nothing against the Federals; it would merely be the honorable thing for them to do.”

  For the first time he saw tears spring to her eyes; she quickly blinked them away. He wondered with a bitter pain just what kind of a life she had led with John Moore.

  “I want your word, Kendall,” he said tensely.

  She lowered her lashes again. “I won’t try to run away from the Indians. I like Red Fox. And Apolka. I . . .” Pain twisted her voice as she paused and then spoke tonelessly once again. “I just wish I could go home. But then, I guess I don’t really even have a home anymore. I’d be running in Charleston, too.”

  It was not a plea for pity; it was a statement of fact. And in that moment, Brent forgave her everything. He tenderly held her cheeks between his palms and gazed deeply into her eyes. “Kendall, the war can’t last forever.”

  She laughed bitterly. “I know. I’ve heard it from both sides. ‘We’re gonna whomp the bejesus outa those damn Yanks in a month.’ ‘Those Johnny Rebs’ll hightail it back home in no time.’”

  “All right, Kendall. It isn’t going to end soon. But it will end. And when it’s possible, I’ll get you to a southern port. In the meantime, admit that this life isn’t so bad. Red Fox is hardly a savage.”

  “No, but the Night Hawk . . .” she muttered sarcastically.

  “Am I?” he queried politely, ignoring the jeer. “So savage?”

  “Entirely.”

  He looked out at the growing crimson morning light seeping through the window. Then he looked back at her. “I’m glad you recognize the nature of the beast, darlin’, ’cause I’m getting those savage urges again, and it is going to be a long and dreary war.”

  She had no thought at all of not wanting him. With a soft sigh she embraced him, welcoming his touch, his quickly aroused desire. Already she was learning him, and the more she learned, the more heady became the intoxication of knowing . . . of anticipating.

  And morning was here. Her life, her being, had changed drastically in one night because of this man who had at last become her lover. She had discovered the fun and beautiful depths of passion between a man and a woman, and in his arms, she could forget. Forget the tragic winds of the war that ravaged the country. Forget the embittered turmoil that was the reality of her life.

  She did not know what he felt for her. She didn’t fully comprehend her feelings for him. She only knew that she wanted to cherish him, meet his tempest with a tempest of her own, stamp the memory of him on her body and soul. She wanted to hold fast to her dreams of love and honor in the long nights to come . . .

  He held her for a long while, and at last rose. Kendall turned her face into the blanket, not wanting to watch him dress and leave. She couldn’t seem to stir herself. She was drained and exhausted, both physically and mentally. So much within her had been stripped bare and laid open. He had played havoc with her emotions, determinedly raped her soul, but then given her a lifeline, which she still grasped hesitantly, but with desperate hope. She was content with the fury of his lovemaking, pleased that he had seemed to need a memory, too, yet incredibly tired from the experience.

  It was agony to know that he was leaving. “Night Hawk,” she murmured, talking to keep the tears of despair from falling. “Red Fox. And then Apolka. Why Red Fox and Night Hawk? Those are English names.”

  She sensed his shrug, but didn’t dare look his way as he pulled on his shirt and tucked it into his breeches.

  “Civilization. The white man, darlin’,” he said. “During the Indian wars the whites started giving the red men surnames. And to negotiate with the whites a number of the Seminoles and Mikasukis adopted their own surnames, often from the animals of the forest. Eagle, Possum, Gopher, Gater, and Fox. Now, like the whites, the Indians are beginning to take their fathers’ surnames, but it’s really a matriarchal society. Red Fox was the son of a squaw named Little Fox. He has a Seminole name; all Seminoles and Mikasukis have a ‘real’ name, given them at the Green Corn Dance. Red Fox is also Asiyaholo, for his father, Osceola. The whites couldn’t pronounce the name correctly.”

  Kendall heard the thump of his boots on the floor. She felt him approach her and knew that he towered over her. “Then there is the word ‘Seminole’ itself. The settlers claimed that it meant ‘runaway,’ because the Indians ran away to the south to escape tribal wars and the whites. But that isn’t what it means at all. ‘Running free’ is the real meaning of the word—and Red Fox runs free. No matter how they have beaten and butchered his people, he runs free . . .” His voice trailed away, and suddenly he knelt beside her, turning her to face him as he held her in a rough grip and spoke tensely, silencing the cry of protest that rose to her lips with the depths of his emotion. “Running free, Kendall. It’s all we’re really trying to do. Red Fox, you . . . me. Trust in him, Kendall. But if anything ever happens to Red Fox, there is a man at the bay who will help you if you give him my name. He is Harold Armstrong. You can find him at the mouth of the Miami River on the first night of the full moon. The cry of a mockingbird is a signal that all is clear. Understand?”

  Kendall stared into his eyes, strenuously fighting tears, and nodded. Bleakly she wondered how he had come to mean so very much to her so quickly. A night . . . only one night had been theirs. And that night had begun with bitter hostility.

  “I understand,” she at last whispered.

  She thought he would kiss her again. A heated fusion before the final parting. But he released her abruptly, stood, and strode to the door. He paused, not daring to turn. His stomach was in knots, a pain seared his chest. He was fighting a war, yet leaving this woman he had so recently wanted to strangle was the hardest thing he had ever had to do. If he saw her again—the blanket draped about her but not hiding the magnolia rise of her breast, her golden hair a wild, tangled cascade
, her eyes liquid pools of beguiling indigo, bluer than blue . . .

  “I’ll see what I can do about the koonti grinding,” he said harshly.

  “Do that,” she whispered, her voice almost catching in a sob. She bit her lip and swallowed and managed to speak in a smooth, sarcastic drawl to combat the overwhelming emotion threatening to choke her. “And please, Captain McClain, don’t get yourself killed. The swamp can be hospitable, but I’d rather not stay here too long . . .”

  Her voice trailed away. He remained still a moment longer; she stared at his broad back in the gray uniform frock coat and at his tawny head.

  Then the door opened, and closed behind him. But the bolt did not slide into place. She heard the fall of his quick steps on the rungs of the ladder, and the soft thud as he leapt the final feet to the ground. The sound of men’s voices came to her ears. Orders were snapped out in English and Muskogee. And then she heard a loud chorus of “Dixie”—so incongruous in the primitive Glades. But the sound faded like the fall of the wind, disappearing into the swamp.

  She didn’t cry. She stared blankly up at the thatched ceiling of her cabin. And in time the sounds of nature overrode the echoes of man. As the sun at last streaked brilliantly through the small windows, she became aware of a symphony of crickets, the screech of a crane, the piglike grunts of a distant ’gator . . .

  But it was the chorus of “Dixie” that stayed in her mind. Haunting her. And the broad, gray-clad back of a gray-eyed man. At last she turned into her blanket and again felt her tears take control. She sobbed herself into exhaustion, and then into the oblivion of sleep.

  * * *

  Kendall awoke with a start. She stared about her, trying to decide what had roused her. The cabin was silent and empty.

  She frowned, then realized consciously the difference she had sensed. It was not dark, but neither was it brilliantly light. The sun had already fallen low in the west, and dusk was almost upon the camp. She had slept for hours. And the Indians had not disturbed her.

  Kendall stood and hugged her arms about herself with a little shiver, closing her eyes. Brent McClain was hours gone, miles away, but she couldn’t allow herself to think about the loneliness that would now be hers. How bereft the shining interlude of tempest and splendor would leave her. She had more now than she had had in years. She had hope. She was running free . . .

  Kendall slowly smiled. Spinning around, she hurriedly dressed, smoothed out her hair, and approached the door of the cabin. It swung open easily, and she stepped out on the platform and climbed down the ladder.

  Life was going on as usual in the encampment. Barefoot children raced about. Cooking fires were flaring. The soft drone of women’s voices sounded as they chatted at their domestic tasks, sewing pieces of bright-colored fabric, stringing beads, beginning their preparations for the warriors’ meals.

  “You have decided to join us, Kendall Moore.”

  Kendall glanced toward the trail that led through the hammock to the brackish river and mangrove swamps. Red Fox was coming toward her, a young white-tailed deer lolling over his shoulders, an arrow cleanly piercing its neck. The chief had been hunting. He was dressed in the full plumage of a chief; a feathered band adorned his rich black hair; his shirt was ornamented with large silver crescents. He had eschewed the white man’s trousers and the brief loincloth he had worn on the ship, and instead he wore a short leather-fringed skirt. Leggings of buckskin protected his calves, and a shot pouch and powder horn hung from straps about his neck, as did his bow and arrows.

  “I was sleeping,” she murmured, annoyed at the rush of embarrassment that brought a flush to her cheeks. The dark glitter in Red Fox’s eyes assured her he understood her need for sleep. He chuckled softly, but didn’t taunt her. Instead he touched her elbow, drawing her to walk with him toward his chickee.

  “We did not always live in such dwellings, Kendall Moore,” he said conversationally. “In the north our villages were made up of fine log cabins, much like that which houses you. But so many times we were burned out. And so many times pushed south. And here, sometimes, the mighty winds that blow and the rains that fall can destroy everything. We have learned to spring back like the roots of the mangrove. We cannot be destroyed, because too quickly we can rebuild.” He stopped speaking and walking abruptly, turning to her with an amused grin. “I hear that you no longer wish to grind the koonti root.”

  Again Kendall flushed, aware that her words of anger to Brent must make her seem like an Indian’s perfect picture of a lazy and pampered white plantation woman. Not that even the wives of the wealthiest planters led easy lives; usually the larger the plantation, the more work there was for the woman of the house, no matter how many slaves the master owned. “I am not afraid of hard work, Red Fox. I do not mind doing my share, since I am to stay.”

  Red Fox smiled secretively and started walking again. “Then you have decided, of your free will, to stay with us.”

  “Yes,” Kendall said softly, panting lightly as she strove to keep up with the Indian’s long-legged gait.

  He paused again, so suddenly that she crashed into his broad back. He was still smiling as he faced her.

  “I do not wish you to grind koonti root. I wish you to teach my children to speak English.”

  Kendall stared at him, stunned. “But you speak English fluently yourself, Red Fox.”

  He waved his broad hands at her impatiently. “I am a man with little time. And I would like Apolka to learn the white man’s tongue, also. A man does not always keep his temper with his wife.”

  Kendall smiled. There were not so many differences between red and white men after all.

  “But, Red Fox, I don’t speak your language!”

  “You will learn a little at a time, as will the children and Apolka. And already you do speak some Muskogee, Kendall Moore—Tallahassee.”

  Kendall raised a brow and laughed. “I know only that it is the state capital.”

  “It means old town,” he told her briefly, lowering the deer to the ground before his home and slipping an arm around her as he led her to the chickee. He laughed and pointed toward his cabin, saying with a twinkle in his dark eyes, “Chuluota—fox den!”

  He spanned his hands abruptly around her waist and hoisted her effortlessly on the platform of the chickee. “And I, Kendall Moore, am going to teach you the swamp. You will learn where the rivers lead when it appears that all is endless saw grass and trees. You will know the color of the snakes that can kill and be aware of the slightest twitch of the rattler’s tail. You will know how to hear footsteps in your sleep, and foretell on what days the sky will bring rain by nightfall.”

  Kendall stared curiously at Red Fox’s strong features, and realized he was offering her a friendship few whites would ever receive. A friendship that Brent had long ago been granted and that he cherished and nurtured despite the opinions of his own society. She twisted about to see that Apolka was patiently awaiting her husband and his guest, her pretty mouth formed into a smile, her wide-eyed little boys hanging about her legs on either side, waiting to greet their father and the white woman they had long ago accepted.

  Kendall’s laughter suddenly rang out like a light melody on the air. She smiled at Apolka, and returned her gaze to Red Fox.

  “I will try to please you, Red Fox. I will try very hard—to teach and to learn.”

  Red Fox nodded, apparently satisfied. He tossed his sheathed hunting knife to Apolka, who caught it smoothly, and inclined his head toward the deer. Again he spoke to Kendall.

  “You may start your lessons now, Kendall Moore. Teach, while Apolka prepares our food. In the mornings you will come with me to learn.” He paused, dark eyes alight with laughter once more. “You will not need so much rest in the days to come. The Night Hawk will not return for some time. A warrior’s woman cannot claim the right to such idleness unless she has used her night hours in offering him comfort and pleasure.”

  Kendall felt her face grow red instantly; she wasn’
t sure if she wanted to strike the Indian or laugh. The latter seemed more practical, as Red Fox had already turned away.

  She swung around to stand in the chickee, smiling as Apolka urged her children toward Kendall. Kendall stooped to the little boys and hugged them against her, delighting in the warm hugs they returned.

  Savages, she thought remorsefully. Just a short time ago she had been ignorantly certain that all Indians were savages. And now she was ridiculously comforted because two little brown-skinned urchins were affectionately cuddling up to her.

  She sighed, holding them tight and watching as Apolka hopped down from the chickee to approach the deer. Night was coming to the Glades. The scene was peaceful, the orange sky enwrapping the encampment and the cypress hammock beyond.

  It wasn’t Charleston. And it wasn’t Richmond, Atlanta, or Mobile or New Orleans . . . but it was better than the Union barracks. Ummm, a far better place for a southerner to sit out the war. Maybe things would improve sooner than Brent seemed to think. The South had to win the war. Even the sketchy information Kendall had received made it clear that the Confederacy had superior generals, superior military strategy.

  The children hugged her more tightly, demanding her attention. They were so trusting. Truly, it wasn’t a bad place to be at all.

  A little shiver pierced her heart.

  It was, for her, the best place in the world to be. The place to which the Night Hawk would one day return for her . . .

  Chapter Seven

  March 13, 1862

  From the bow of the Jenni-Lyn, Brent McClain stared southward, searching through the sheltering pines that lined the north Florida river inlet. A tense frown lined his features with strain; his stance was rigid against the sick dread that knifed at his guts.

  Half of Jacksonville appeared to be burning.

  The war was not going well for the Florida Confederates.

  The U.S.S. Hatteras, out of Key West, had landed at Cedar Key on January 6, and her sailors and marines had destroyed the railroad wharf and depot, boxcars of military supplies, and the telegraph office. Schooners, and a ferryboat had been captured. Only twenty-three Confederates had been there to guard the railway terminus; two companies of troops had just been sent north to meet an anticipated attack on Fernandina.