Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  A shudder of doom gripped Brent’s gut. New Orleans. The largest city in the South . . .

  “Thank you for telling me. Good day, Commander. I hope we meet again when this war is over.”

  “So do I,” Travis muttered, “so do I . . . Captain?”

  “Yes?”

  “Look for her. Search for Kendall until you find her. She’s a fair sailor, but she’s alone. The only advantage she has is that John is in New Orleans right now. But I don’t know where she was headed. Find her.”

  “I will find her.”

  The words were quiet. Low. In the steel-gray eyes that observed him astutely, Travis could find no reason to doubt their intensity.

  “And tell her for me . . . tell her that I love her.”

  McClain didn’t reply. He saluted sardonically. “Good day, Commander Deland.”

  “Good day, Captain.”

  * * *

  The men of the Jenni-Lyn removed the grappling hooks as soon as the Yankee commander had boarded his own ship.

  They were sailing back around the tip of the island when Brent reappeared on deck, striding toward Charlie at the wheel.

  “I’m going to spend half this damned war in the pursuit of one fool female!” he thundered. “Keep her headed north, Charlie. Follow the chain. Double the man in the crow’s nest, and keep a spyglass on the islands. We’re looking for . . . anything that sails. Fool female!” he spat out again, pounding on the wheel with a fury.

  Charlie wasn’t fooled for a second. He knew that Brent was worried sick. But he couldn’t worry about Brent for long because Lloyd was suddenly shouting from the crow’s nest, “Sloop ahead, Captain. Starboard side!”

  “What flag is she flying?” Brent demanded tensely.

  “No flag, sir. Should I lower our colors?”

  The Stars and Bars flew proudly from the Jenni-Lyn’s mast. Brent shook his head and then called out, “No, leave them flying. We should be a match for any sloop. Keep your eyes trained for a flag.”

  “They’re raising one, sir. It’s the Stars and Bars, sir! She’s a Confederate. And she’s signaling for a rendezvous.”

  “We’ll meet aside her then, sailor. But get the men to battle stations just in case. We’re still in Yankee waters.”

  But they needn’t have worried. The sloop was a privateer out of Richmond, heading for the Bahamas. The young captain told Brent he hadn’t dared raise his own colors until he had seen Brent’s.

  “But I was hoping to catch ya, Captain McClain,” the young runner told him. “We pulled into Biscayne real carefully, ’cause we’d heard the Rebs had a man there to kind of help us along, you know. I had some repairs to make on the hull—caught a cannonball a few days ago. Anyway this old man—Harold Armstrong, he said his name was—said I might catch up with you out here. Said to tell you that he’s got the woman. Didn’t say anything else, Captain, just that.”

  Brent silently exhaled a long sigh of relief. “Thanks, Captain. You’ve just saved us a hell of a lot of time.”

  “You’ve heard about New Orleans?” the privateer asked quietly.

  “Yeah, I just heard.”

  “‘Damn the torpedoes—full speed ahead.’”

  “What?”

  “Oh, just something that Union Admiral Farragut said when he swept past the forts. The Yanks are quoting him all over the place. The Union is piling on more and more ships. We just don’t seem to be able to keep up.”

  “No, we don’t,” Brent said. “Well, thanks again. And watch out—you’re in Yankee territory here, as you know. The blockade gets tight as hell a little farther south. They know we’re pulling in supplies from the Bahamas.”

  “I’ll be careful. Oh—and thank you, sir.”

  “For what?”

  “Never thought I’d get to meet the Night Hawk. You have quite a number of admirers up Richmond way, sir. And, I might add, quite a few enemies up Washington way.”

  “I know. But that’s war, sir.” He saluted the privateer captain then turned to Charlie. “Charlie, we’ve one stop to make, and then we’ll return to the damned war!”

  He shook his head with aggravation and turned away from Charlie. “I’m going to catch up on a little sleep. Tell Red Fox that Kendall is with Harry. Damn woman!” he muttered. “Thinks she can take on not only the Yanks, but the whole damn sea. She’s driving me crazy. I’m going to kill her!”

  Chapter Twelve

  “You mark my words, Kendall,” Harold Armstrong said, securing a clump of dirt around a freshly transplanted bougainvillea, “the day will come when this place will be busier than Richmond!”

  He sat back on his heels and dusted the dirt from his hands as he smiled at Kendall. “You’ll find plants here that are native to South America—and North America! You see the trade winds carried pollen. The Glades are unique, young lady. Wild. And when they’re bordered by this glorious stretch of beach . . .” He sighed, a man completely replete with bounty for life.

  Kendall laughed. “Yes, Harry, your place is very beautiful.” The smile faded from her features. “And of course, I saw the beauty of the Everglades when I was with Red Fox . . . but I don’t know if I have enough of the pioneer spirit to live there! It’s also lonely. And beauty can harbor quicksand and snakes and—”

  She stopped short as Harry chortled out a gleeful laugh. “You’re gonna tell me, girl, that you haven’t got the pioneer spirit! You sailed all that distance in a little dinghy? You’re pioneer enough for me, girl.”

  Kendall shook her head with a sigh. “I dream of home all the time, Harry.” When she wasn’t worrying about Brent and Travis and Red Fox and everything that could be happening while she waited, she added silently. “I dream that the war will end. That the Yankees will at last grow tired of trying to subdue us and leave us to live as we please. And one day I will go back to Charleston. I’ll find a way to defeat my stepfather, and I’ll restore Cresthaven to its former grandeur. Oh, Harry! Pa built his plantation with so much grace! The grand staircase appears to stretch forever, and when we had a party, the house was filled with women in beautiful gowns and rustling crinolines and men in the most handsome attire! Pa was considered to be quite a theologian; the debates that filled the drawing room were wonderfully exciting!”

  Harry smiled vaguely, wondering why it hurt so to hear her speak about her home. Plants were his love, now that his children were dead. He had made his move to Florida with contented purpose in his heart. But although the slavery question had meant little to him and Amy in their wilderness retreat, he was a born South Carolinian, and when his state seceded—and then his adopted land followed suit—he’d known he would have to become involved in the conflict, at least in some small way.

  And when Kendall spoke, he could see things through her beautiful blue eyes. Days of grace. Of easy, dignified living. A code of behavior so dignified and gallant and held dear to every heart with no rules on a piece of paper to make them so.

  But that was over. He didn’t know why he felt it was gone; the South appeared to be winning the war. Except that New Orleans was already under Yankee rule, and he knew full well that the South was suffering severe shortages. He didn’t want to tell Kendall that, though. Just as the young woman had captured his wife’s heart, so had she captured his.

  And he loved to see her smile. To hear her laugh.

  “Yes, yes,” he murmured, catching one of her delicate hands to pat absently. “How about helping me prune back the tomatoes?”

  “Of course, Harry.”

  Harry Armstrong started to amble around the cabin toward the vegetable garden in the rear, but he stopped suddenly as a long, mournful note sounded in the air. He gazed easterly, toward the beach, and a broad smile broke out on his features.

  “Harry?” Kendall queried in confusion. “What was that?”

  He laughed heartily, and his warm eyes twinkled out his pleasure. “A signal, girl! Billy McGretter’s down at the beach blowing out a signal on a conch shell.”

 
“What does it mean?”

  “It means, young lady, that Captain McClain is back!”

  “Oh!”

  He had made it! Kendall’s hand fluttered to her throat. Shivers of delight and fearful anticipation seemed to race all along her limbs, making her feel dreadfully weak. She wanted to see him so badly! She ached for him, longed for him . . . and he was here. But what should she do? Should she stand here and coolly await him? Or give in to her heart and fly down the path to the beach where the river met the ocean to watch him come ashore and then throw herself into his arms, heedless of all but the wonder of seeing him?

  She closed her eyes for a quivery moment. What if he hated her for all the tragedy she had brought about? What if he had only thought to save her because he was, whatever his denials, a gentleman. A cavalier of the highest order, unable to leave her in the hands of the enemy.

  Her dilemma was solved as Amy suddenly came running out of the cabin, allowing the door to swing shut behind her as she anxiously wiped her floured hands upon her apron. “They’re here!” she cried joyously. “What’s keeping you two? Let’s give our boys in gray a proper welcome!”

  Kendall’s feet found life when Amy rushed past her, her ample bosom heaving with the exertion. The trail through the pines seemed to stretch forever, and as she ran, Kendall was tortured with doubt. Was the bond that existed between them real? Or had she conjured it up in her mind out of her own desperate need for him? Could he possibly be as magnificent as she had created him in memory?

  The pines began to thin out as she neared the beach. The earth beneath her feet slowly changed from dirt to dusky sand. Then suddenly she was clear of the trees altogether; only tenacious bushes grew sporadically along the edge of the brackish water.

  And then, just as her legs had carried her without conscious command, they ceased to move, bringing her to a breathless halt far from the river’s edge.

  The Jenni-Lyn had been anchored within the inlet. The crewmen were eschewing the dinghies and hopping into the water to swim to shore. The men laughed and splashed one another and whooped out loud, triumphant Rebel yells. Kendall wondered vaguely if they all knew that, for this brief time, they were sheltered from the war. But she couldn’t share their enjoyment of the safe harbor; she was too busy searching for one certain Rebel. Her breath was ragged from more than the run; her heart was pounding out the beat of a thousand cannons as she stood still, paralyzed when at last she saw him.

  He was dressed in his gray captain’s frock coat with the gold trim, much as she had last seen him. His boots were almost knee-high, but as he thrashed to the shoreline with his long strides, they didn’t protect his fitted gray trousers from being drenched. Like his men, he didn’t seem to care much about being drenched. His movement was too full of hurry and purpose.

  He had grown a mustache and beard, which he kept neatly clipped, Kendall noted. And they were quite becoming. He was, she thought—love and pride sending through her body a rush of thrills—the epitome of the cavalier. Imagination could never outdo reality . . .

  “Brent! Oh, Brent!”

  She forgot fear, she forgot protocol—and she completely forgot that a lady in her circumstance chanced all hope for respectability as she again found wings within her feet to run. She gave no thought to her gown, nor to any of the onlookers, as she rushed in headlong toward him, splashing heedlessly through the water.

  His gray eyes at last touched upon her. A dry grin cut across his features, and he waited.

  And when she was at last right before him, he stretched his arms to catch her to him, holding her close. She wanted to weep with the joy of feeling him. Of being held against his male warmth and strength. His iron grip about her caused no pain, only a delirious happiness.

  “Oh, Brent!”

  He at last held her away and lifted a wicked brow. “You almost make me forget that I’m ready to strangle you.”

  “Strangle me?” Kendall demanded, her eyes hungrily devouring his features. She wanted to touch them one by one, explore the fullness of his lips beneath the handsome curve of his mustache, ease away the lines of strain about his eyes, smooth the tautness of his brow . . .

  “Yes, ma’am, strangle you,” he said sternly, and she was quickly reminded of how piercingly his steel gaze could cut into her. “When I met with your Commander Deland—”

  “Travis!” Kendall murmured, horrified. “Oh, Brent, you didn’t kill Travis, did you?”

  She was too worried to feel the rigid stiffening of his body so close to hers. She wasn’t even aware of the strict tightening of his jaw. He blinked, and then said caustically, “No, I didn’t kill him. Your Yank friend is just fine.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Kendall murmured. But when she broke free of his hold, only to throw her arms around his neck once more, she saw that Red Fox, his features as fathomless and proud as ever, stood right behind Brent. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she broke from Brent with a wild strength to reach the Indian, clasping his hands and falling to her knees in the shallow water before him.

  “Oh, dear God, Red Fox! I’m so sorry. So very, very, sorry. Forgive me!”

  “Get up, Kendall,” Red Fox commanded, kneeling to bring her up beside him. His dark eyes met hers gently. “Do not ask to be forgiven for the cruelty of others.”

  “Red Fox . . .” Her lips quivered as she whispered his name, and then she was hugging him, clinging to him, trying somehow to give back what had been taken from him, to offer her sorrow in understanding of his. His arms awkwardly came around her; his hand patted her back.

  “We will endure, Kendall,” he whispered in Muskogee, and her mind took several seconds to make the translation to English. Then she pulled back to meet his eyes again, her own still filled with tears. “Your son Chicola ran into the trees—”

  “He lives. He is safe with his mother’s people.”

  “Oh, thank God!”

  Red Fox gazed past her silken head, cradled against his bare chest. Brent McClain was staring at them, and for a moment the steel of his eyes had become as light and vulnerable as a silver mist. Then Brent stiffened perceptibly. Impenetrable steel fell with ruthless control over the silver mist. He raised a brow.

  “Shall we get out of the water, Mrs. Moore? Boots are difficult to replace these days.”

  His voice seemed to crack against Kendall like a lash, and she wondered what she had done when she turned from Red Fox to face him. She felt as if her heart were stretched like a bowstring, so tautly it might snap. Why was he so cruelly reminding her that she was a Yankee’s wife? Was it a warning? A taunt so that she wouldn’t forget that legal ties bound her to another, and that he was free? He might enjoy her—but, then, society did not decree that a man should not enjoy a lusty vitality. Along with southern gentility, Kendall thought with sudden fury and resentment, came southern arrogance. He felt it his due to claim her whenever he chose; he would probably never feel it his due to marry her, even if she were free.

  It was Amy Armstrong who saw the hurt, confusion, and then anger flicker across Kendall’s expressive eyes. She stepped forward, carefully staying just out of reach of the water’s edge. “Y’all come on up to the cabin, now, Brent McClain. Bring those wild boys of yours with you! We’ve got a whole side of beef ready to cook on a spit!”

  “Thank you, Amy,” Brent murmured distractedly. He sloshed out of the water and turned back to his men, who were still half in and half out of the water. “Liberty for all except the guard crew. And for Chrissake, Lloyd, Chris, remember you’re officers in the Confederate States Navy when you visit the preacher’s daughters!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Despite the respectful replies, the two young sailors gave one another joyful glances before wading ashore to freedom. Brent slipped an arm around Amy’s stout shoulders and murmured something that made her laugh like a girl.

  Kendall, standing in the river with the water up to her knees, froze rigidly as she watched Brent walk to the trail
. His men walked past her, yet she was barely aware of the surprising respect they offered her as they doffed their hats.

  “Come, Kendall.”

  When all had gone on by, she felt Red Fox place his hand gently on her shoulder.

  She stared into his dark eyes with bewilderment.

  “What did I do, Red Fox?”

  “You did nothing, Kendall.”

  “Then why—”

  “The Night Hawk is a strong man; he can deal with many things. He is not afraid to face battle, or death. But he is now beset by something new to him. He is learning fear.”

  “Fear? Brent is not afraid of me!”

  “He is afraid of what he feels for you. He is discovering what jealousy is. Now, come. It is a good lesson, but should not be pushed. I enjoy teaching him, but he is my friend, and friends should be taught gently.”

  Together, Red Fox and Kendall trailed behind the others to reach the high ground and the welcoming cabin of the Armstrongs.

  * * *

  Although Kendall hadn’t quite figured out where the other settlers had built their homes, a number of Brent’s crew had. Given liberty, the men had sought their own diversions. There were obviously more young ladies around than the preacher’s girls, because the sailors had disappeared almost to a man. Amy told Kendall with assurance that they would all be back when her meal was cooked—and that they’d probably have a few extra guests on their arms!

  And so as she stood in the cabin’s kitchen cleaning fresh vegetables to drop into a pot of seasoned broth, only Brent, Red Fox, Charlie McPherson, and Harry sat about in the adjoining parlor. Charlie and Harry puffed pleasurably on pipes while Brent lit up a cheroot. The foursome drank brandy while they discussed the war.

  “There’s gonna be trouble all along the Mississippi! Real trouble—more’n we had with Farragut taking New Orleans!” Harry advised dourly. “They’ve even got a general out on that western front that seems to know what he’s doing, name of Grant.”

  Brent, leaning against the coral rock mantel, grunted. Kendall gazed up from the potbellied stove to find his eyes broodingly upon her. He didn’t look away when he met and captured her gaze, and it seemed that he grew angry just from staring at her.