Honor Redeemed

by Christine Johnson

  “I am perfectly sane. In fact, my thoughts have never been clearer.”

  “Naturally you want to see your fiancé, but do be practical. Even if you could afford such a voyage, someone must travel with you.”

  Prosperity clutched the envelope. “I shall travel alone.”

  “Alone? You cannot. Sea travel is neither comfortable nor safe. I speak from experience, dear. Mr. Franklin and I have traveled to Charleston in the past. It’s not a voyage to be undertaken without great care. A woman alone?” She shuddered. “Your reputation and quite likely your person would suffer.”

  “It does not matter. David awaits me.”

  “You cannot mean that.” Mrs. Franklin’s voice rose with every word, her expression earnest. “I will account your rash decision to grief, but even if you will not guard your reputation, you must consider the uncertainty of the seas. Your father was a seasoned sailor, yet the sea claimed his life. The risk is too great. Better your fiancé return to you.”

  “He cannot. He would never leave his post.”

  “Then wait. You are welcome at our house.”

  Though Mrs. Franklin’s concerns chipped at Prosperity’s confidence, she would not be swayed. When weighed against servitude or destitution, the risk was small, for if she succeeded, her beloved awaited.

  Prosperity squared her shoulders. “I am sailing for Key West, and you cannot persuade me otherwise.”

  Key West

  That Night

  Lt. David Latham’s hand trembled. A drop of ink splotched onto the white paper.

  “Not again.” His muttered frustration echoed off the walls of the small but adequate quarters.

  Already the sheet of paper was a tangle of scratched-out beginnings and blotted ink drops. Once he got the wording right, he would begin anew with a fresh sheet of stationery, but two hours of wrangling had produced only the date. In thirty minutes, even that would be incorrect.

  Ordinarily he handled any difficulty with calm precision. An engineer in the United States Army Corps must rely on logical analysis to conquer frequent setbacks. This one, however, was both personal and painfully unexpected. It drove a spike into the heart of his carefully drawn future.

  It made this letter far from ordinary.

  He returned the pen to its holder and flexed his fingers. To his right, the window opened onto a star-filled sky barren of suggestions.

  How to begin? Every letter required a salutation, but no combination of words worked. His usual address bespoke an affection that would gladden his beloved’s heart. What cruelty when a paragraph later he must crush that joy. On the other hand, formal address would send her into a panic before he’d cushioned the blow with careful reasoning.

  No, this was a delicate affair.

  He laughed bitterly.

  Affair was too kind a word. Debacle fit much better, especially when he could not recall a single moment of the slip into temptation that led to this painful decision. To counter his disbelief, she had brought forth witnesses. The result could not be denied. He was responsible.

  Oh, Prosperity, dear Prosperity, what have I done to you?

  He ran a finger over the daguerreotype that he had commissioned immediately after she agreed to marry him. The frozen image could not capture the glow of compassion in her gold-flecked hazel eyes. The interminable wait without moving a muscle resulted in too severe an expression. Despite the hardships Prosperity had endured, she brought joy and light to the darkest day. Her plain gown and cap in this picture reflected her present lowly estate. He had planned to one day clothe her in the fine gowns she deserved.

  That hope was gone, whisked away in a single night of shameful revelry.

  He kneaded his throbbing temples. Why couldn’t he remember? He had no recollection of Aileen Carlyle beyond some playful jesting when she brought the rum to the table he and his soldier friends occupied. The first toasts led to more and more until he awoke the next morning in the soldiers’ barracks with a splitting headache and no idea how he’d gotten there. After a stern reprimand, the incident seemed over until Miss Carlyle approached him four weeks ago with news that chilled his bones.

  Why hadn’t he turned away at the grogshop door? Why had he even gone there? He never drank spirits, but the men had insisted, and he had been flattered by their attention. He’d let camaraderie draw him into temptation.

  Why such a terrible price?

  How many times he had prayed for God to relieve him of this burden. How often he had dropped to his knees pleading for a miracle that would absolve him, but this sin could not be whisked out the door.

  The fruit of his error grew, and honor dictated he must set matters to rights. That entailed breaking the unwelcome news to his fiancée. Such a thing ought to be handled in person, but she dwelt nearly fourteen hundred miles north of this tropical island outpost. A letter was his only means of communication. Delivery would take weeks, perhaps a month if weather delayed the ship. By the time she received this . . .

  He heaved a sigh.

  It would be done.

  Irrevocable in the sight of God.

  Thus he must write the painful letter, and a letter began with a salutation. He drew a clean sheet of paper from the desk drawer.

  As an engineer working on the construction of the new fort, named in honor of the late President Zachary Taylor, he would move to larger quarters sufficient for a family after the wedding.

  The event that had once filled him with anticipation now churned up dread. He had always envisioned a proper ceremony back home on Nantucket Island. His parents and brothers, cousins and uncles would witness the joyous uniting of kindred spirits in their family church. He had promised to wed as soon as he finished his tour of duty in Key West. Though this meant years apart, the income he earned here would build a solid financial foundation to start a family. The reasoning had made perfect sense at the time, and she had gazed up at him with complete trust.

  Oh that he had tossed reason to the wind and married her at once.

  He raked fingers through his tangled locks. Nothing could be done now to alter the plans. Fate—or rather, despicable conduct—dictated his future. He would wed sooner rather than later, and not to the woman he adored.

  She gazed at him sweetly from the daguerreotype. Despite the loss and hardship she’d endured, hope shone in her eyes. That hope had been rooted in his promise.

  He slammed the image facedown on his desk. How could he look her in the eye?

  She trusted him, and he had betrayed that trust. He must break her heart. Dear, gentle Prosperity deserved the best after all she had suffered, not another loss.

  Unable to bear not seeing her, he lifted the image once more. He traced the curve of her cheeks to the dimpled chin. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear her resonant voice, surprisingly deep for one so small. He could still feel the softness of her hair, a lock of which was buried in his trunk. He could still smell the freshness of the sea upon her, as if she’d just climbed the dunes to look for her father’s lost whaling ship.

  “You deserve better,” he whispered.

  The cricket he’d not managed to evict from his room answered with a shrill taunt.

  He ought to destroy the daguerreotype. That part of his life was over. But he could not bear to lose this last link to her, so he tore apart the frame and removed the silvered plate. He tucked the image between the pages of his Bible. Then he closed the volume and slid it into the bottom desk drawer beneath his engineering manuals and the army regulations that ordered his days. Tomorrow morning he would take them all to his office.

  The time for regret was over. A man accepted his responsibilities, no matter how distasteful.

  He picked up the pen, his hand steadier.

  Dearest Prosperity, he scrawled, forgoing the initial My. She was dearest to him still, though he could no longer claim her affection.

  I cannot ask your forgiveness, nor do I deserve it. Though I am tempted to soften the blow, your honest, practical natu
re would not wish me to couch what I must tell you in false cheer. Thus I will be straightforward, trusting that your affections have so sufficiently dimmed over the two years of our separation that this news will not inflict great suffering.

  I fear that I must break our engagement.

  The trembling began again, so violently that he had to set down the pen. Driven by torment, he sprang to his feet and paced to the darkened window. Yanking off his spectacles, he stared into the night. In the distance, a few lanterns dotted anchored vessels. Nearer, lamps brightened the commander’s windows and glowed dimly at one end of the soldiers’ barracks. Soon they would be put out, leaving only the moon and the stars to light the garrison.

  No light could illuminate David’s soul. Such sooty blackness could never be scrubbed clean. She was better off without him, but he was lost without her.

  Despair welled again. Once more he pushed it down. Honor dictated but one course. Lives would be wrecked no matter which path he took, but only one protected the innocent.

  Once again he sat at his desk and picked up the pen. He could not profess what was in his heart, that he loved her still, that he would love her until the day he died. That would be cruel. No, this letter must sever their bond in a single stroke, break every connecting sinew, and leave not even a ray of hope. Only then could the wound heal. Only then could his beloved let go of the future they had planned together and turn her gaze toward another.

  He dipped the nib in ink and touched it to the paper. The words did not come easily. His unsteady hand bore witness. He scratched it out as best he could.

  I will marry tomorrow.

  2

  Five Weeks Later

  Prosperity squinted into the dazzling sun and blotted the perspiration from her brow. The steamer had changed course, and the brim of her bonnet did little to shield her from the glare. The waters shimmered, and heat rose from the wooden deck in waves. Though she’d attempted to find refuge in the shadow of the deckhouse, this course change put her full into the sun.

  Mourning black was not made for such climes. She pressed the handkerchief to her forehead again.

  “You ought to go indoors,” Mrs. Cunningham stated in her usual abrupt manner. The Cunninghams had graciously agreed to escort Prosperity on the final leg of the journey from Charleston, where the Franklins had disembarked. “Without a parasol, the tropical sun will wilt a Northerner like you.”

  Naturally the woman did not offer to loan her one of the many stowed in her stateroom.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Prosperity had learned early on that debate accomplished nothing. She simply agreed with Mrs. Cunningham’s counsel and continued on her course. This morning, that course included a first glimpse of Key West. Not even the oppressive heat could persuade her to miss that.

  As the steamer glided nearer the small island, a substantial brick edifice rose from the water with only a narrow spit of sand to connect it to the shore. The wall stood a full story in some spots while other sections did not reach the gun ports yet. Even from this distance, the exterior walls looked several feet thick.

  “Oh my!” Prosperity clapped her hands. “That must be David’s fort.”

  Mrs. Cunningham lifted a dark, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “David’s?”

  “Not his, strictly speaking. The nation owns it, but he has worked so diligently for two years that I think of it as his.”

  “All partiality aside, I believe the credit lies elsewhere. Mr. Cunningham often dines with Captain Dutton, who has taken charge of the project from the beginning.”

  “Naturally,” Prosperity murmured, embarrassed by her outburst but not her excitement. Soon she would see David. So very soon.

  Knowing David, he would be hard at work. Workers and cranes and all manner of mechanical devices crowded the site. As the steamer passed, Prosperity leaned over the rail to keep the edifice within view. How grand it looked, floating upon the turquoise seas, as if an island. David’s island.

  She touched the locket at her throat. Had he changed over the two years, or would he look as crisp and perfectly ordered as the day he marched aboard the ferry to Boston? Had his hair lightened in the brilliant sun? Had the clime darkened his fair skin? Was he thinner or had he gained strength from the hard labor? Would his eyes sparkle when he saw her?

  Oh, that they would. His earlier writings had led her to believe that he would welcome her arrival, but the long-anticipated batch of letters did not come before she left. The unusual delay must have been due to an exhausting workload or even a wrecked mail ship, but she would not know for certain until she saw him. And he saw her.

  He would know by her mourning attire that her mother had passed, but she would not allow sorrow to overcome the joy of their reunion. She would go to him and profess her undiminished affection. One look into his eyes would confirm her hope.

  “When completed, it will protect us from those dreadful Spaniards,” Mrs. Cunningham sniffed.

  The statement snapped Prosperity from her daydreams. Her traveling companion must have been speaking for some time, but she caught only the last words. “Spaniards?”

  “Havana is only a day’s sail away, whereas the nearest American settlement of any size is at least three times that distance. We are completely unprotected.”

  “The army is here.”

  “A few companies. Ill equipped and ill supplied. Half at a time are sick with fever and ague, especially the Northerners. I will never understand why they don’t send a good Southern regiment here.”

  Prosperity gritted her teeth, for David was one of those Northerners whom Mrs. Cunningham deemed weak. “You can have the greatest confidence in our soldiers. Lieutenant Latham will see the fort completed. He will ensure you are protected.”

  Mrs. Cunningham cocked her head with its beribboned straw bonnet. “You are very certain of your fiancé.”

  “I have known him for many years. We attended the same schoolhouse and church. He courted me three years before offering for my hand. Indeed I know him as well as any woman can know a man.”

  “If you were my daughter, I would have insisted you write for his return, not run off on some wild goose chase.”

  “It is not a wild goose chase. I know Lieutenant Latham. He holds honor in the highest regard. He will keep his word.”

  “Time changes men.” Mrs. Cunningham must have said that because her husband spent his days in the gentlemen’s lounge gambling at cards.

  “Not Lieutenant Latham.”

  “I hope for your sake that you’re right. I can’t believe you did not send a letter ahead to warn him.” Mrs. Cunningham shook her head. “He will be surprised, to say the very least.”

  “He will be overjoyed.”

  Prosperity had no reason to doubt David. He’d written faithfully of his love and affection. The language was as stiff as his posture, as if he took hours crafting each word. Perhaps he did. An engineer did not hastily place an arch or doorway. He considered it from every angle, calculating the strength of the surrounding walls. It made perfect sense that he measured words with the same care. No unbridled passion. No careless declarations. Even so, passion lurked beneath the surface.

  She smiled. Yes, David would rejoice to see her. Nothing stood in the way of their marriage now. A simple church wedding would suffice. She did not require an elaborate ceremony. After all, he earned only a lieutenant’s wage while she brought nothing to this union but love and a willingness to work.

  “Ah, home at last,” Mrs. Cunningham said.

  The shoreline now displayed quaint houses reminiscent of home. Many had two floors. Some boasted a veranda on each. Whitewashing was not in great use here. Instead many allowed the bare wood to weather to silver. Arching palms and brilliant flowers lent the scene an exotic appearance.

  “Look at all the colors,” she breathed.

  Mrs. Cunningham offered an indulgent smile. “It must seem strange to a newcomer.”

  “Are there parrots and monkeys here?”

  �
��Only those brought by sailors and kept indoors or aboard ship.”

  That disappointment vanished when another curiosity arose. “What are the round balls in that palm tree?”

  “Coconuts.”

  “I’ve never eaten one.”

  “You will eat so many here, I fear, that you will grow to despise them.”

  “I can’t imagine that.”

  As the steamer proceeded along the shoreline, Prosperity’s attention shifted to the harbor with its huge warehouses, each labeled. “Tift. O’Malley & Sons.”

  “Local merchants,” Mrs. Cunningham said. “They control the wharves and any cargo brought into port.”

  “Much like Nantucket. Do they fish?”

  “Fish, turtle, and sponge.”

  Prosperity had a great deal to learn about this place, but she relished the idea of David showing her every street and shop and delicacy. He stood head and shoulders above her, a commanding stature. With his talent and skill, she had no doubt he would soon rise in rank until that fort truly was his, or at least under his command. Together they would make this town their own, just as Ma and Pa had claimed a spot in the fabric of Nantucket.

  She stood on her tiptoes and leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the docks as they entered the harbor. Throngs of passengers crowded the rail, waving and shouting at people ashore, and she could not see past them.

  She settled back on her heels. The steamer would soon dock, and everyone would disembark. Those waving passengers would hurry to meet family or friends. The Cunninghams would return home. Why did she need to see the wharves? No one waited for her. David didn’t know she was coming.

  Mrs. Cunningham touched her forearm. “Mr. Cunningham can hire a cart for your trunks.”

  Prosperity’s luggage consisted of one small bag. “Thank you, but that isn’t necessary.”

  “Of course it is. The army post is a goodly distance from the harbor. You certainly can’t drag your trunks that far. If we had a carriage, we would gladly take you, but Mr. Cunningham refuses to buy one. He insists the cost outweighs the occasional need.”