Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  “We won’t lose,” he murmured, but even as he spoke he felt a frightening chill of apprehension.

  “I said, ‘what if,’ Brent,” Kendall pleaded tearfully.

  “We will still manage. You lived in New York for a while, Kendall. You know the Yanks are flesh-and-blood people. There will be northern mothers to weep for the death of southern sons. If we lose, the South will face a period of punishment. Things will change forever, irrevocably. But we will still be dealing with people. I have friends in the northern ports, too, Kendall. Washington, Baltimore, Boston. They didn’t turn into monsters because of the war. One way or another, when the fighting is over, we’ll see that you get a divorce. Please don’t cry so, Kendall.” He hesitated a moment. “Kendall, we both know that Travis would help you in court—if the word of a Confederate officer should come to mean nothing.”

  She bit her lip and closed her eyes tightly, nodding briefly, then restlessly raised her lashes once more. “But what about your family? What about your home?” she asked.

  “My home is a pile of rubble, and my family will love you—whether you previously had one husband or twenty. Don’t insult them, Kendall. They will not judge you; they will take pleasure in our happiness. Now, how is that?”

  “Oh, no, Brent! Your home—”

  “Jacksonville was invaded,” he said briefly, then added, “the Confederate Army caused most of the destruction, but I’m afraid the McClains aren’t popular among the Federals. It was just a house, Kendall. My sister was fine, and I learned that my father and brother were fine the last she had heard. Houses can be rebuilt. I learned just how little South Seas meant when I reached Red Fox and truly learned what loss was. Kendall, believe me, we are lucky. So much tragedy surrounds us. Yet we have one another to cling to; we have dreams to see us through the night. We will make it to a happier time.”

  He drew away and gazed deeply into her eyes. She tried to smile at him, but the effort was ludicrous. Bursting into tears again she hurled herself against his shoulder once more.

  “What now?” he demanded, both exasperated and amused.

  “You’re going to leave,” she sobbed. “You’re going to sail away in the morning . . . and I’m so frightened for you, Brent. So terribly frightened. So many men have died . . . so many more will die . . .”

  “I promise you I won’t die,” he swore ridiculously, massaging away the pain and tension along her shoulder blades as he held her tight. “I promise you, I won’t die.”

  “I cannot bear that you are going away.”

  He had no reply for that; no rational answer to make it all easier.

  He thought of what a fighter she was; of all that she had endured with dignity and pride. He thought about the stripes on her back and how much abuse she had suffered and still held her chin proudly high; her slender back straight and her slim shoulders squared.

  And he was glad that she had finally given way to her deluge of tears. He was glad that he was with her, able to give her at least his shoulder to cry on when he could offer little else except vague promises.

  “Brent?”

  “What, my love?”

  “Promise me that you will hold me all night, that you won’t let go for a single moment.”

  He lay beside her, cradling her against the length of his form and holding her tightly. “I promise,” he whispered.

  It was one promise he could keep.

  * * *

  By morning she had regained her poise. They made love fiercely, then she assisted him with his frock coat, tying his gold sash about his waist with deft fingers. She stood silently by while he buckled on his scabbard and sword, and handed him his slouch hat with its defiant plume. They clung together in a long embrace, ignoring the dawn as they hungrily savored a last kiss.

  Then it was Kendall who opened the door, and calmly slipped an arm through his to escort him to the Jenni-Lyn.

  The men of the Jenni-Lyn bade respectful goodbyes to the Armstrongs and the settlers who had come to see them off. And then each man came to Kendall, cheerfully boasting that their ship could best anything at sea and that it would, quickly. Even Lloyd kissed her after he had passionately done so to his wife; Charlie McPherson gallantly kissed both her hands—then blushed all the way to the Jenni-Lyn.

  At last she felt the touch of Brent’s lips against her cheeks as his gloved hands wrapped around hers. She didn’t dare look at him, but stared ahead at the ship silently.

  He squeezed her hands briefly and released them, then turned and stalked toward the Jenni-Lyn.

  She would never forget the way he looked as he left that morning, the epitome of both chivalry and authority in his captain’s uniform, his hat angled slightly over a brow, his mustache and beard freshly clipped. His shoulders seemed incredibly broad, his form entirely lithe and agile and yet stalwart as he swung aboard his ship.

  His eyes met hers briefly across the water. He saluted her, offering a dry grimace. She returned his salute with a wave, and forced a brilliant smile to her face.

  Kendall kept that smile rigidly set into her features until the Jenni-Lyn sailed from the bay.

  Then slowly it faded away until the Jenni-Lyn became a speck on the horizon.

  “Come on back to the cabin now, honey.”

  Kendall felt a gentle touch on her shoulder and turned to see Amy Armstrong staring at her with deep compassion etched in her endearingly plump features.

  It seemed strange, but the sight of Amy’s matronly face tugged on Kendall’s heartstrings. A yearning swept her to go home to Charleston.

  She wanted to see her mother and Lolly. There had been a time when her mother had been loving and supportive; a time when she had cuddled her daughters to her and given tremendous comfort.

  But Kendall couldn’t go home. And she had more comfort than she might have ever hoped for in Amy Armstrong.

  Yet it wasn’t the same. And she had to learn to stand alone.

  “I’ll be along soon, Amy,” Kendall promised, managing another assuring smile. “I promise. You run along. And when I come back up, I promise I’ll make up for all the chores I haven’t done!”

  Amy didn’t look particularly happy, but she acquiesced to Kendall’s wishes. “All right, child, but don’t stay down here alone for too long now.”

  “I won’t.”

  Amy left her. Kendall stared past the inlet’s mouth to the bay, feeling the breeze, hearing the sounds of the forest.

  There was a subtle change in the air. Kendall turned swiftly to see that Red Fox stood behind her.

  “Time passes, Kendall,” he said quietly.

  “I know.”

  “As surely as the setting sun.”

  Kendall nodded.

  Red Fox stretched out a hand to her. She took it with both of her own.

  “I am leaving,” he said softly, “but I will always be near you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” She lifted her head, and at last was able to smile from the heart. “And I also know that I shall be able to find you.”

  Red Fox removed his hand from hers. Much as Brent might, he reached to smooth a straying lock of hair from her cheek. “I will see you soon,” he murmured. She nodded, and he silently turned to disappear into the trees.

  She wondered suddenly if Brent could ever truly understand that although the love was different, the bond that drew her to Red Fox was equally strong as that which entwined the two of them eternally together.

  Chapter Fourteen

  June 1862

  The greatest travail of the war for those left behind was the anxiety of waiting and the tedium of day-to-day life.

  Kendall had taken to spending the mornings helping Amy with the livestock and gardens, and the afternoons riding the trails and beaches.

  Summer was hot, unbearably so, but in the numerous coves and strips of palm-shaded white sand, the sea breezes could be cooling. And she liked haunting the shores of the bay; somehow it made her feel closer to Brent.

  It ha
d been a shattering disappointment when he had not returned after his assignment to the Gulf. All the more bitter because he had accomplished nothing. New Orleans had been closed up tighter than a drum, and Pensacola remained in Federal hands. Brent had carried desperately needed Florida salt into the wilds of the Louisiana bayous, and could only hope that the militia had managed to disperse the precious substance to the slaughter yards where it could be used to preserve meat for the fighting forces of the Deep South.

  Brent had been sent on to London where a shipment of morphine had been promised him. There hadn’t even been an extra afternoon that he might have given her. As the war raged on, not even the numerous Confederate victories could brighten the plight of the wounded soldiers. With the blockade winding ever tighter, the Confederate Armies suffered ever more severely from lack of supplies. In the letter Brent had sent her he had spoken with an eloquent despair about the fate of the wounded. One of his gunners had taken a shell in the leg at the mouth of the Mississippi. There hadn’t been a drop of anesthetic to give him, not even a drop of brandy or bourbon to ease his pain when the limb had been amputated. He could only imagine the plight of the soldiers on the field.

  Morphine was vital.

  Kendall understood, but still the waiting was hard. She read and reread every precious newspaper that made its way to the settlement, and gloried along with Harry at news of the southern victories. General McClellan’s hesitant tactics had made something of a disaster of his Peninsula campaign; Stonewall Jackson, Jeb Stuart, Old Jubal Early, and the dignified Robert E. Lee were running their troops ragged with sheer audacity and, as always, superior strategy. McClellan was such a procrastinator, Harry told Kendall, that Abe Lincoln had made a number of dry witticisms at his general’s expense—one being, “If McClellan is not using the army, I should like to borrow it for a while.”

  McClellan, it was assumed by both sides, would shortly be replaced. But for the time being, his army was taking no great victories.

  But no matter whether North or South took the day, death took its toll. And there were injured to suffer the stark agony of battle wounds.

  Kendall halted her filly on the sand of the cove where Brent had taken her that day so long ago. She tethered the mare to a seagrape, stripped off her shoes and stockings, and tucked her skirts about her to run her toes through the sand and surf.

  A frown knitted her brow. Although the armies on the eastern front were doing well, the Confederates in the western arena had suffered a number of serious blows, the loss of New Orleans among them. General U. S. Grant was fighting battles in Tennessee, Kentucky, and along the Mississippi. He had led successful campaigns against Fort Henry and Fort Donelson in western Tennessee, and although the Union had suffered very heavy losses at Shiloh, the Confederates had been forced to withdraw. Another of Lincoln’s famous quotations referred to Grant: “I can’t spare this man—he fights.”

  The question that had plagued her since she had first voiced it to Brent came back to pierce her mind.

  What if the Union wins the war?

  Kendall pressed her hands over her eyes. She couldn’t bear the thought. Something, some vague thing that was irreplaceable would be lost. Forever.

  She pulled her hands from her face and stared out over the water and frowned again, then placed her hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun’s glare. Her heart seemed to catch in her throat for a moment as she saw a ship heeling lightly before the wind—not five hundred yards out.

  It was a schooner, well supplied with guns. Four that she could see on the port side, like those on many of the ships she had seen at Fort Taylor.

  And the Stars and Stripes waved from the mizzenmast.

  In panic Kendall started to run from the surf, but then she paused, turning back to stare at the ship again.

  The schooner wasn’t at anchor. And its movement was erratic, as if the vessel were unmanned, a ghost ship playing upon the surf.

  It would shortly run aground, Kendall surmised shrewdly. Straining her eyes still further, she saw that the masts were charred and the sails tattered.

  It is a deserted ship, Kendall thought with a little thrill.

  Harry . . . she had to run and get Harold Armstrong, Kendall thought logically. But again she paused. Although grievously wounded, the schooner still appeared to be maneuverable. And it wasn’t far away. In fact, it had been veering closer and closer.

  Kendall bit her lip and stared back to the seagrape where the filly was contentedly searching out the few clumps of grass that grew from the sand. She stared back at the ship.

  If the schooner wasn’t quickly steered into the deeper water of the channel, it would definitely run aground, and possibly be wrecked on an underwater rock near the shore. It was a large schooner and certainly couldn’t be sailed by one person alone for any distance. But the weather was fair; the breeze light. There was enough canvas left to a number of the ragged sails to catch the wind . . .

  I have to be mad, Kendall thought. Maybe the ship only appeared to be deserted. If she swam out, she could be plunging into disaster. Asking to be raped or murdered or, at the very least, captured.

  She waited, as seconds ticked by. But then a heady excitement gripped her with the potency of a drug. All she ever did was wait. Wait—endlessly. And here was a chance to do something.

  She was always dictated to by the whims of men. John Moore. And even those who loved her sought to direct her. Travis, Red Fox—and Brent. When Brent was with her, he assumed full command. And when he left, it was as if he could calmly place her into a cubicle of his mind, assured that she would be where he had left her while he turned his thoughts to the war.

  Kendall glanced hurriedly about her, then waited no more. She tore her gown over her head and dropped her single crinoline to the sand. Standing in pantalettes and chemise only, she took one deep breath and flung herself into the water.

  She wasn’t an experienced swimmer; she had learned to keep herself afloat, however, while she lived with the Indians. And as she moved to the bluer depths of the bay, she suffered stabs of fear, which she fought furiously. Sharks sometimes plagued these waters. And there were all sorts of other vicious little sea creatures. Devilfish, jellyfish, barracuda . . .

  And there might be creatures even more vicious aboard the schooner. Men. She would be vulnerable indeed when she rose dripping from the sea clad only in sheer white cotton.

  Kendall kicked more vigorously against the warm surf. Her arms began to flail at the water and she was suddenly gulping for breath. She was panicking, she realized.

  She halted, treading water and drawing in a long breath. A wave came to lift her and shower droplets over her head, but she didn’t go under. And when it had passed, she had calmed herself. If she met with trouble, she would meet with trouble—but she would be damned if she would allow herself to foolishly drown because she was a coward.

  Kendall made her strokes sure and smooth. In just minutes she reached the schooner. Once there, however, she faced another problem. How to get aboard. She forgot that the bay might be host to hungry sharks as she swam around the schooner in perplexity. But at last, along the bow, she discovered a spot where the hull had been severely damaged. Planking was ripped away almost to the water line. By gripping the starboard gunwale, she could hurtle herself upward and onto the deck.

  For a moment she paused there, feeling the sun beat down on her sea-salty flesh. Dizziness swept through her as she blinked furiously. Had she truly been an idiot? What had happened to the schooner’s crew? What if they had died from disease? Was she now contaminated?

  She clutched the gunwale to steady herself, and then winced as a splinter tore into her palm. Mechanically bringing her hand to her mouth to bite down on the injury, she looked about her.

  The schooner wasn’t as large as the Jenni-Lyn, but she was graceful and compact. Across the deck Kendall saw a lifeboat suspended from the rigging with the name of the schooner painted on its stern in black: U.S.S. New England Pri
de.

  “All right, New England Pride,” Kendall murmured, moving slowly across the deck. “Let’s see if we can make you the C.S.S.—something!”

  As she gingerly walked to the wheel, Kendall became more and more convinced that, for whatever reason, the ship had been deserted. Possibly it had been engaged in a battle, and its crew had simply left her.

  But the schooner hadn’t sunk, and relentless currents had carried it here.

  Kendall strained and puffed to take the schooner about, and she almost gave up in despair and frustration as her strength didn’t seem to be equal to the task. But just as she cried out in fury against her own helplessness and buried her face against a sweaty arm on the wheel, the wind gave a sudden shift—and with it the schooner gave in to her command.

  Once the ship had submitted to Kendall’s handling, it became as docile as a lamb. The ragged sails took the wind, and the vessel floated across the bay. But as she neared the mouth of the deep-water inlet, Kendall suddenly realized that she was approaching a secret harbor where Rebel ships sought shelter—and she was flying the Union flag! Praying that the ship would hold the course, Kendall scrambled around to the mizzenmast and fumbled with the knot in the rigging that worked as a pulley for the flag. She turned her teeth to the task, and at last the weathered knot began to give. Heedlessly Kendall kept working at it, wearing the flesh of her fingers raw as she tugged at the hemp with teeth and hands. At last it gave, and a sturdy jerk pulled the Stars and Stripes from their proud whip in the wind.

  But the schooner began to heel dangerously to port, and Kendall made another mad dash back to the helm. The ship responded to her touch this time as sweetly as a kitten.

  “If I could only be in two places at once,” Kendall murmured to the ship, “I think I would actually have a good chance with you on the open sea!”

  But she couldn’t be two places at once—and just as she had realized she was sailing into a settlement with the Union flag flying, she remembered that she was sitting at the wheel with her chemise and pantalettes plastered against her. She might just as well be naked.