Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  But the troops hadn’t been enough. Federals had invaded St. Augustine and Fernandina—and now Jacksonville.

  Smoke billowed over the trees, clouding the blue skies, obliterating the brilliance of the sun. Brent closed his eyes and ground his teeth tensely. It was the waiting that was driving him crazy. The total helplessness. He wanted to climb madly through the trees, or strip off his clothing and fling himself into the water and swim—anything to reach the city, to move inland, to see South Seas . . .

  He was a captain, he kept telling himself. He couldn’t do things rashly; he couldn’t risk his ship or his crew or even his own life needlessly. He had to wait until the dinghy returned with information.

  “Ahoy, Captain!”

  Brent spun about fiercely as Charlie McPherson climbed the rope ladder to the Jenni-Lyn’s bow.

  “Here, Charlie, quick. Tell me what’s happened.”

  Charlie looked at the tension in Brent’s hard features, and lowered his eyes, shaking his head sadly. It was true hell to have to tell one’s granite-faced captain that his own hometown had been ransacked beyond recognition.

  “Charlie!” Brent snapped.

  “The Feds have occupied St. Augustine as well as Jacksonville, Captain. The Fourth New Hampshire are holding it now. The Confederate Army had to abandon the city. Most of the damage was done by our own men, and the fires are mostly from the sawmills. Our troops burned them up to keep them from the Feds. And they burned millions of feet of lumber, an iron foundry, and an ironworks. They’ve scuttled a few ships, too, Captain, so we’ll have to watch the river passages.”

  Brent was silent. Deathly silent. Both St. Augustine and Jacksonville were dangerously close to South Seas. Charlie felt a chill grip his heart as he stared at the rage and sorrow in his captain’s eyes.

  Charlie cleared his throat and started speaking again. “It’s really not as bad as it looks, sir. From what we could see, the homes are still standing. Oh, the Yanks are tearing up a little, but from what Chris and I could gather, they’re going easy. A hell of a lot easier than they’ll go if’n they ever reach Charleston or Richmond. They think there’s a number of Union sympathizers in the city, so they’re taking care.”

  Brent suddenly sprang into action, his mouth a grim line of determination as he turned to stride toward his cabin. The men on deck looked awkwardly at one another as they nervously awaited his reappearance.

  It was quick in coming. He had changed from his gold-decorated gray uniform into fawn breeches, white shirt, and blue frock coat. He had stripped off all insignias of his rank in the Confederate Navy. He was tucking his pistol into the waistband of his pants as he strode back to the bow; his hunting knife was strapped high over his calf. His eyes still looked like quick death as they scanned his men.

  “I’m going in,” he said tersely. “I’d like three of you to come with me, and I’m asking for volunteers. We may need to do some fast talking, and we may wind up shot or spending the remainder of the war in a prison camp. Shot most likely. Out of uniform, we can be taken as spies, and the Feds and Rebs both like to shoot spies and ask questions later.”

  Andrew Scott, who had accompanied Charlie on the spying mission, stepped forward. “I’m more’n willing to go with you, Captain, and I’m volunteering for duty. But have you thought about this, sir? Both cities are occupied, and the ranking Confederate officer near St. Augustine ordered us back west if we were too late to help out here—”

  “To hell with the ranking Confederate Officer,” Brent said softly. “On this ship, I am the ranking Confederate Navy officer, and we’ll get back to the west coast soon enough!”

  Andrew hesitated a moment, a little worried by the reckless fever in his captain’s eyes. But as always, Brent McClain appeared calm. Quietly, relentlessly determined, but calm. He would never lead them without a cunning strategy in mind. And weren’t they famous because of him? Not only in the South? Just last January, after they had left the abortive Confederate attack on Fort Pickens and sailed into New Orleans, they had been proudly given a New York paper. In it the cartoonist had done an excellent lampoon depicting the Night Raiders of Brent McClain as he slipped through a squadron of Federal ships—right beneath their bows.

  McClain was daring, all right. The Feds didn’t know yet just how clever.

  “I’m your man, Captain,” Andrew said.

  Half the crew stepped forward instantly. Brent eyed them all with a taut grin and careful assessment. “Chris, Andrew, and—”

  Charlie appeared dead square in front of him. “You ain’t going in without me, Brent McClain.”

  Brent pursed his lips against laughter. Charlie was shaking, but he was determined. “All right, Charlie, you’re coming. Listen up, the rest of you, because we may have to skedaddle out of here fast. Have the Jenni-Lyn at the ready. Keep her out of sight. We can head upriver should we have to, but I’d rather take to the open sea. Our best offense with her has always been defense. We can outrun the Feds. Chris, Andrew, Charlie—get out of your sailors’ garb. We’ve just become merchants—Union sympathizers—fleeing south since we’ve heard that the Feds have hit the coast.”

  Despite his frantic worry, Brent waited until nightfall to row the dinghy north of the Jacksonville docks with his three-man crew. The sight of the Union warships in Jacksonville’s harbor brought further gut pain wrenching through him. Just five months ago he had brought the Jenni-Lyn in to home port for minor repairs. She had been berthed where a Union gunboat now lay at anchor, Stars and Stripes still flying in the night. His heartbeat quickened. Did soldiers now tramp the pine-paneled halls of South Seas? His father and older brother were nowhere near, he knew. Justin and Stirling McClain had joined up with the First Florida Cavalry Regiment; two months ago their troop had been sent north to fight with the Army of Northern Virginia. But his sister Jennifer would be there, and Stirling’s wife Patricia and his five-year-old nephew Patrick.

  For a brief moment Brent closed his eyes. He was grateful for once that his mother had died in 1858. South Seas had been like another child to her; she had planned each room and decorated every nook and cranny. She had lavished her life and love on two things only, her family, and her home . . . South Seas.

  It was possible, just possible, that the Yanks had spared the plantations that lay between St. Augustine and Jacksonville. He could see the haze of lights already as the dinghy lapped quietly through the water. It appeared that the residential and business buildings along the wharf had remained unmolested.

  But he had a reputation as a formidable enemy of the North. The McClains were well known. Fine planters, fine sailors, and fine Confederate officers. Would the Yanks leave standing a home that belonged to two Confederate cavalry officers and a notorious naval captain?

  “Pull into the little cove up ahead,” he ordered quietly, inclining his head to Charlie, who pulled on the oars. “We’ll have to go on foot the rest of the way. Split up and convene in town.”

  They pulled the dinghy high up on a sand spit and covered it with branches. A half-mile separated the beach from the harbor, but as they began to move, Brent motioned for them to crouch down. They could see the Union sentries, dark shadows guarding the docks and wharves. As Brent watched tensely, two soldiers met and paused, lighting up pipes. They appeared relaxed. Why not? he wondered bitterly. The Confederate defenses had left them the city.

  “They’re not expecting any action,” Brent murmured absently to Charlie, who lay flat on the sandy ground beside him. “That’s to our advantage.” To their advantage for what? He wasn’t planning any great military action. All he wanted to do was get hold of a horse and get out to the countryside and reach South Seas. He’d had no right to drag his men into this.

  “How about Lil’s?” Charlie queried.

  Brent knit his brow thoughtfully. Lil ran a tavern on Main Street that was popular with sailors. It was quite possible that Union officers might be imbibing after their victory, and that might make the plan all the better.


  “In by the kitchen,” he hissed. “Follow the wharf shacks and outbuildings, and move quickly. One by one. Be nimble with your tongues if you’re caught.”

  “Who first?” Andrew queried.

  “Me,” Brent said. “If I don’t make it to that warehouse, you hightail it back to the ship. Chris next, then Andrew, then Charlie.”

  Brent tensed his body to the ready. He waited until the sentries split and began to divide and walk toward the far sides of the docks. Then he sprang, a darting shadow in the night.

  He was breathless when he reached the warehouse and flattened himself against it. He waited tensely a moment, closing his eyes to still the beating of his heart. His breathing at last slowed, and he stared back across the field and far beach, raising a hand, and bringing it down. Instantly a second shadow darted into the darkness. Then a third, and a fourth. At last they all stood pressed against the warehouse, holding to it as if it were a lifeline.

  In silence Brent indicated the next building. One by one they moved again, always keeping a wary eye on the sentries.

  There were more soldiers milling about the streets, making the Rebels’ next movements more dangerous. But there were also more obstacles to shield them. Wagons. Supply depots. Trees. Clumps of bushes.

  Miraculously, they scurried about undetected, and at last hurdled the picket fence surrounding Lil’s tavern.

  The sound of revelry within was loud and boisterous. It masked the sounds they made as they vaulted to the rear and again hit the dirt. Brent bolted to the back door and looked into the kitchen.

  The large room with its huge stove was empty. Brent carefully tried the door, but signaled for the others to wait. Inside the kitchen he ducked down beside the stove and waited. At long last he saw the wide swishing skirt of a woman swaying through the swinging door to the taproom. He waited until she approached the stove, then leapt quickly behind her to ease his hand over her mouth lest she betray him in surprise.

  “It’s me, Lil,” he said quickly. “Brent McClain.”

  The rigid form in his arms relaxed; monstrously wide brown eyes closed and reopened with relief. He released the woman who had been hostess to him and his crew on many a drunken evening.

  “Brent McClain!” she whispered, hugging him ferociously, then pulling away quickly. “You’re mad, Brent! There ain’t nothing but Yankees for miles around. Yankees who’d consider you a prize greater than their national treasury. What the fool hell are you doin’ here, darlin’?”

  Brent shrugged, smiling at the attractive woman. Lil smelled sweetly of lilac perfume; her wide belled skirt rustled with a feminine swish, and her pretty oval face never seemed to age. Her well-endowed figure was tightened to an hourglass shape by her corsets, and her breasts seemed about to spill out from a provocatively low bodice. Warm invitation already filled her eyes, heightened by the sense of dangerous excitement. There had been a time, not too long ago, when he would have been ready to answer that invitation. Lil had warmed him many a night, and he would have been lying to himself if he claimed that she left him unstirred now. But he wasn’t planning to prolong this spy mission; he wanted to get to South Seas and then get out. And if he didn’t . . .

  He wasn’t sure he wanted another woman. He wasn’t sure he could even close his eyes and pretend and find any satisfaction . . .

  “I have to know what’s happened, Lil. I’ve got three men outside in the bushes. Is it safe out here?”

  Lil nodded, and he opened the back door. Andrew, Chris, and Charlie silently moved inside. Lil crept back to the taproom door and carefully looked out. Gracefully she swept back toward them. “Just let me get ol’ Pete to keep an eye on the Yanks and I’ll see what I can do to help you fellows.” Ol’ Pete was a free black. He’d stayed on with Lil long ago when she signed his papers. He was a better watchdog than any coonhound.

  The four Confederates stared tensely at one another as they awaited her return. She smiled as she came toward them, but kept her voice low, watching Brent as she spoke.

  “Not much of anything has happened yet. Before our boys left, they burned everything that might have been of use to the Yankees. Some of the townspeople fled; a lot of them stayed. The Yanks have done some searching through the city, but they’ve been all right. There’s been a little looting, and a little burning, but nothing too mean. Seems the officers have them under orders to exercise control. They’ve been polite to the people. They’re hoping to find themselves enough Unionists here to hold the city by the townsfolk alone.” She followed her speech with a sniff.

  “What about the outskirts?” Brent demanded tensely.

  A flash of pain appeared in Lil’s pretty eyes. “I don’t know, Brent, truly I don’t. They’re confiscating cotton, tobacco, livestock, and food stores, but I don’t know what all else. But don’t fret none on account of your sister and Stirling’s wife. Like I said, honey, these men are on a tight chain. There ain’t been no raping or violence against the womenfolk. The town has been occupied real quiet. But, Brent, you’d better get the hell out of here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until I’ve been to South Seas,” Brent said firmly. “Lil, you still got that hidden storeroom down in the cellar?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I need you to get me a horse and tie it up around back. And get these boys down into that cellar until I get back.”

  “We’re not letting you go alone, Captain,” Charlie protested.

  “Yes, you are. I’m ordering you to stay put. I’m not pulling you into my lunacy. If I don’t get back, listen good to anything Lil might be able to find out. Then get back to the Jenni-Lyn, and follow orders over to the Gulf. Got it?”

  His three men at last nodded unhappily. Lil was more vocal. “You’re a damned fool, Brent McClain.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Now, can you get me that horse?”

  * * *

  The back streets of the city were absurdly quiet, although a hint of smoke still hung in the air. But maybe quiet was the only way a city could be when it had just been deserted by one army and occupied by another. All of northern Florida waited breathlessly to see just what repercussions would come its way.

  The solemn hush was natural. Those who remained would keep themselves carefully indoors, praying that their homes escaped the wrath of conquering troops. Mothers would be afraid to let their children out for days; stiff, solemn faces would sullenly meet the intruders....

  And the Yanks, Brent decided, were handling the victory with downright carelessness. But maybe they just didn’t give a damn about Florida. As long as they could steal arms and supplies and ships . . .

  As he turned on to the westward pike, he dug his heels into the skinny flanks of the fleabitten gelding Lil had managed to have Pete smuggle to him. He was lucky, he supposed, that Lil had found him anything resembling a four-legged animal; during their retreat, the Confederates had ridden inland on practically anything that could move. Not many horses had been left. Florida’s fine cavalry units had taken the horses as well as the men out of the state.

  Brent had been certain when he first started out that he had gone mad, and he’d expected to be nabbed by a Union patrol the moment he mounted this sad excuse for a horse. He relaxed his own guard and allowed his mind to drift south.

  Don’t get yourself killed, Kendall had told him. She had sounded flippant. The charming drawl she could soften at will had been laced with mockery. Yet he had sensed everything that lay hidden beneath it, and he had never been more determined to live. And ever since that day, while he had fought and sailed, her memory had been with him. He dreamed of her . . . coming to him. Her image was so clear. All that had been, and all that hadn’t yet happened . . . He planned to rectify that one day.

  She was somehow part of his obsession to see his home. South Seas belonged to Justin, but there was plenty of land around the plantation. Acres and acres for a man and a woman to build a home together. Kendall belonged in a home, gracing it, reigning over it, waiting wi
th the magic of her stunning blue eyes to welcome him. A lady in the parlor, a vixen in the bedroom . . . but she was another man’s wife.

  Brent didn’t give a damn. Soon as the war was over there would be a divorce, and he wouldn’t care if the scandal knocked the socks off all the old guard. All he had to do was keep her out of Yankee hands until that day.

  He smiled suddenly, thinking of her in the swamp. It seemed so long since he had seen her. How were she and Red Fox doing together? He didn’t worry so much about Kendall surviving the Indians as he did about the Indians surviving Kendall.

  The yearning, wistful smile that had eased his features suddenly froze. The smell of smoke was thick in the air now. And it wasn’t drifting out of the city, but hanging over him.

  Brent dug his heels hard into the flanks of his horse. The animal found a sudden spurt of life and bolted into a heavy gallop at his command. Brent flew through the night with the smoke-laden wind, dread again invading his system like shivering sickness.

  He raced along the pike heedless of time and space. He came to the southwestern fork and turned without easing his gait. Yet when he came to the curving path that led to the magnolia-bordered trail to South Seas, he jerked the nag to a halt, his body seeming to curdle and freeze as he sat. His eyes were riveted straight ahead.

  Without averting his glazed stare, he slipped from the back of the horse and started walking down the trail. Halfway along he started to run. And then again, he came to a dead halt, and slowly sank to his knees.

  South Seas was gone. Only three tall Georgian pillars remained. Ghostly sentinels against the smoke-filled night sky. They were absurdly white against the charred rubble that lay about them as they reflected the glow of the high moon.

  How long he knelt there—a dull, empty pain numbing all thought—he didn’t know. The first conscious reflection that came to him was a soft prayer.