Honor Redeemed

by Christine Johnson

  Mrs. O’Malley shifted her gaze to him. “We are not afraid, Lieutenant. Have no fear, we will care for your son.”

  “We?” Some of the wealthier families kept a nurse, whether hired or slave, for their children.

  “Miss Jones will help look after your son.” She moved aside and handed Oliver to Prosperity, who stepped from the doorway behind her.

  David could not breathe. He could not move. He could not stop watching her. She gazed into Oliver’s eyes with such compassion that he could have collapsed from relief. Prosperity. Dear Prosperity would care for little Oliver. No one better existed. When she kissed the boy, joy flooded over him. This was more than he could have hoped for and all that he had wanted. “Thank you, Prosperity.”

  She did not look up. “I am doing this for Oliver’s sake.” All her compassion flooded onto his son. “He is an innocent and should not suffer for what others have done.”

  A hammer strike couldn’t have hurt worse. Her meaning was clear. David was to blame, not just for hurting her but for harming Oliver. How could she think that of him? “I would never hurt my son.”

  “I’m sure that’s not what Prosperity meant,” Mrs. O’Malley soothed.

  It was exactly what she’d meant. She had taken his hope and skewered it with veiled accusations. Though she had agreed to nurture his son, the deal did not come with a relationship attached. This act of service was not offered because she still loved him or because she hoped for a future together. No, she thought he would do to his son what he’d done to her. Didn’t she understand? Hadn’t he told her how he’d tried to help? She knew he’d written and sent money. He’d apologized. Yet she turned every attempt at reconciliation into another dagger.

  “I will always regret the pain I brought you.” He meant every word. Could she not see?

  Prosperity did not look at him. “I will care for your son.”

  “Together we will,” Mrs. O’Malley said.

  David couldn’t rip his gaze from Prosperity, who was cooing and tickling the baby’s chin. Little Oliver responded with a sound David had not yet heard from his son—a happy sound that made his heart ache for what might have been if only he had not strayed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She still did not look up. Her eyes were for Oliver alone. David might as well not exist.

  “Thank you,” he attempted.

  Prosperity looked to Mrs. O’Malley. “He looks hungry. I will prepare the sweet milk.” Then she disappeared down the hall with the baby.

  David leaned against the plastered wall, spent. He had grasped for the wind, and it slipped through his fingers.

  Mrs. O’Malley sighed sympathetically, but the doctor seemed to take great pleasure in Prosperity’s reaction. Naturally. The man probably figured he now had the upper hand.

  Goodenow tamped down his hat. “If all is settled here, I must check on Marnie.”

  “Please tell her we are praying for her,” Mrs. O’Malley said. “With Miss O’Neill gone, women only have her to rely upon.”

  “I will ask her if I might look in on those who are in confinement. If you hear of anyone in need of her services, please ask them to see me until she recovers completely.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, and thank you both for entrusting little Oliver to our care.”

  The doctor nodded and slipped out the door.

  Much as David hated to admit it, Goodenow was not an evil man. He was worthy of Prosperity’s affection. He did not discriminate against Oliver. He’d found perhaps the only nursing mother in Key West who would treat his son with dignity. He cared about those who were suffering. In so many ways, the doctor surpassed him. In comparison, David’s tally came up very short.

  No wonder Prosperity turned away.

  “Good evening, Mrs. O’Malley.” David placed his hat upon his head and turned to leave.

  She held him in place with a touch. “Don’t give up hope.”

  “Hope?” Fear raced through his veins. “Oliver will be all right, won’t he?”

  “That is not what I meant.” Her gaze offered encouragement. “All the work on Fort Taylor was washed away in the hurricane of ’46. Rebuilding that foundation took time.”

  He had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Great monuments can be lost in a day, Lieutenant, but it takes time to rebuild. So too with relationships.”

  20

  Late afternoon sun gilded the rooftops surrounding the lush garden behind the O’Malley house. Little Jamie napped while Prosperity fed Oliver. She could find peace here if not for Elizabeth’s pointed story.

  “I struggled to forgive my father, but in the end it was essential.” Elizabeth finished with a summation that would make her attorney father proud.

  For over two weeks Elizabeth had attempted to change Prosperity’s opinion of David. Prosperity understood the point her friend was trying to make, yet their situations were not the same. In some ways, Elizabeth had suffered greater betrayal, but her father had repented and begged forgiveness. David’s apology had been delivered in his usual unbending manner, as if spoken from duty, not regret. Never once had he explained why he’d abandoned her for a woman of ill repute.

  She continued to drip milk into the baby’s mouth with the peculiar glass bottle that Captain O’Malley had procured from an apothecary. The oddly shaped vial with the metal tube delivered just enough milk for the baby to swallow, though it did nothing for little Oliver’s need to suckle. He kept reaching for the glass.

  “He prefers mother’s milk,” Prosperity noted.

  “That he does, but if anything my milk is lessening.”

  Prosperity shot her friend a concerned glance. Elizabeth already couldn’t keep up with Jamie’s voracious appetite, and she had been supplementing with sweet milk before Oliver arrived. Seeing her sacrifice for an unrelated baby had spurred Prosperity to take in the little boy, but a baby needed mother’s milk. “What will we do?”

  “Though it’s best to begin weaning in the cooler months, I will start now.”

  Prosperity shook her head. “Don’t put your son at risk. We can hire another wet nurse.”

  “That poor boy has already had too many nurses.”

  “Then we will continue as we have for as long as we can. Oliver takes sweet milk without problem. I will feed him more often.” She could not give up this little one who had wormed his way into her heart. She kissed Oliver’s forehead, soft and sweet smelling.

  Florie took the empty feeding bottle back to the cookhouse for boiling.

  “You did a fine job of changing the subject,” Elizabeth noted. “You must understand why I told you about my differences with my father.”

  A fool could tell. Though Prosperity had many faults, she hoped foolishness was not one of them. “You want me to forgive David.”

  “I’m simply pointing out that I couldn’t move forward with my life until I forgave my father.”

  “I know.” Truly she did. The Bible said that one must forgive to be forgiven. “But that doesn’t make it any easier, especially when he isn’t sorry for his actions.”

  “Why do you say that? He said he regretted hurting you.”

  “Words are not enough. It must come from the heart.”

  “I see.” Elizabeth plucked a coco plum from the nearby tree and dropped it into a basket. “I had to forgive my father before he repented. It wasn’t easy. I had to say the words over and over to convince myself.”

  “That doesn’t sound like forgiveness to me.”

  “Forgiveness is an act of will. Speak the words, and ask God to help erase the hurt.”

  Jamie awoke with a cry. Elizabeth hurried to his cradle, which they had set in the shade.

  Prosperity had always thought forgiveness must come from the heart, that she must first feel compassion for the one who had wounded her. Elizabeth seemed to be saying the opposite. Yet how could she extend forgiveness when the pain still kept her awake at night? Perhaps that pain was her answer. David was
no longer the man with whom she had pledged to share her life. Dr. Goodenow would never cause her anguish, for she felt nothing but pleasing friendship with him. Without passion, she could not suffer pain.

  Little Oliver clasped her finger. Poor child. Not David’s son by blood, certainly, and subject to a lifetime of cruelty. The ignorant and vicious would slander his mother and thus him. Some would even say he should never have been born. What would David’s father say? Reverend Latham favored returning the Africans to their native lands. How would he react to this baby, who was likely not Negro but certainly had mixed blood? She could not envision Oliver on Nantucket or in the fearsome minister’s home. Then where would this poor child go? Everywhere, lines were drawn on the basis of skin color.

  “Jamie is asleep again.” Elizabeth settled in her chair.

  The hushed comment pulled Prosperity from her thoughts. “Where does your sister live?”

  Elizabeth drew in her breath, clearly surprised.

  “I’m sorry,” Prosperity said. “You don’t need to answer.”

  “It’s not a secret. She lives in the colored section, beyond the hospital.”

  “Separate.”

  “We asked them to live near us, but they said they were more comfortable there.”

  Prosperity kissed the baby’s forehead. “What is going to happen to him?”

  “A lot will depend on the love he receives from his parents.”

  “His mother is dead. David must not know the father, or he would have contacted him.” Prosperity doubted anyone knew.

  “Parents do not need to be blood relations. They just need to love. The lieutenant seems to have accepted Oliver as his own. That’s a good sign.”

  “Is it?” Prosperity nibbled on her lip. “Won’t it be difficult for Oliver to grow up with a white father?”

  “Perhaps. He will need strength and character to shrug off the slurs. His parents can teach him that.”

  “I heard some of the women at the social.”

  “There will always be ignorance and cruelty, but love can prevail.”

  Prosperity wasn’t so certain. Poverty had cast her in a different light than her aunt and neighbors. Many looked down on her family. Aunt Florence’s criticisms always stung, yet how mild those were in comparison to what this little baby would face. “He will need to be strong.”

  “And that strength must be tempered with love and forgiveness.”

  There was that word again. Prosperity involuntarily shuddered.

  “Try,” Elizabeth counseled. “Simply try. For little Oliver’s sake if not for your own.”

  Jamie howled again, and Elizabeth slipped away.

  Alone again, Prosperity gazed at the babe, whose eyelids had drifted shut. In a short time, this little one had captured her heart. She could not bear to see him hurt even a little. Animosity between her and his father would harm this precious child.

  For Oliver’s sake. Prosperity could not forgive David for his sake or hers, but she would try for the sake of this little baby.

  Closing her eyes, she whispered, “I forgive you.”

  Each word hurt.

  Elizabeth said she had repeated it over and over.

  “I forgive you.”

  But she wasn’t thinking of David. To mean it, she must picture him when she said the words.

  “I—” She choked.

  Take a breath. Blow it out. Smell the sweetness of the baby sleeping. Do it for his sake. Her nerves calmed.

  “I forgive you, David.”

  Oh, how it sliced through her, with pain so fresh it took her breath away. She had remained utterly faithful, but he had not. She had counted on him, had placed all her hope in him, and he failed her. When she needed him most, he was not there.

  Yet the moment his wife died, he’d expected her to return as if nothing had happened. She’d seen that hope in his eyes, as if she could forget what he had done. Impossible. The last wet nurse said David did not visit his son. She had to send word asking him to fetch the boy.

  Those were not the actions of a loving man.

  She pulled little Oliver close. She could never leave this innocent boy with such a man. Never.

  David mopped the perspiration from his brow and puzzled over his calculations. It was easier than thinking about Prosperity. He had visited his son at the close of each day since leaving him with her three weeks ago. She never joined him, nor would Mrs. O’Malley give an explanation for her absence. He suspected Prosperity hid in her room rather than see him. If she was working late, Mrs. O’Malley would have told him.

  He must be grateful for the help he’d received and forget the hope he’d once held.

  This afternoon another ugly mess arose. Missing tools. He had acquired plenty of chisels for the masons, but they insisted they’d run short. Tools dulled and broke, but the craftsmen had shown him their failed tools and a tally that showed the new chisels had arrived. Yet the storeroom was empty. He had gone over supply lists and counted all the chisels he could locate on site. He had recalculated three times. The figures were correct.

  The thief had struck again.

  This time he stole a different item, which meant either he knew David had planted a trap with the spikes or he was exceedingly careful. Either way, the problem remained. His stonemasons had no tools to fashion the granite blocks.

  David ground his teeth. Captain Dutton had given him the responsibility to stop the thieving, but David had allowed personal matters to cloud his judgment. No longer. He would find the man responsible and see him punished.

  That meant confronting the men.

  He strode across his office and opened the door. His sergeant stood on the other side of the expansive parade ground, directing his work crew. David looked around and spotted a familiar figure lounging in the shadows of the completed casemates.

  “Private Jameson!”

  The handsome idler stepped into the open. “Lieutenant!” The crisp salute was regulation, but the grin was not.

  David scowled. The man had gotten away with idling for too long. That was about to change. “Assemble the men.”

  “Even the darkies?”

  David cringed. “Just the soldiers.” A Negro would have great trouble selling army supplies.

  Jameson’s eyebrows shot upward. “In the middle of the afternoon? The sun is blistering.”

  “Your place is not to question orders, Private. Continue to do so and you will be charged with insubordination.”

  Jameson stiffened and snapped another salute. “Assembling the men, sir!”

  The man irritated David. He did just enough to glide by, yet he seldom resisted an opportunity to question direction. David had been too lenient, allowing the men leeway when it came to army protocol. He disliked senseless regulations. After all, he had joined the army for the engineering corps. But he was beginning to see why his superiors demanded strict adherence to regulation. Leniency had led to idling. And worse.

  He hated to think any of his men capable of criminal activity, but the army paid poorly, the pay hadn’t arrived for nearly two weeks, and the opportunity to earn a little extra might prove too enticing.

  Especially to a man with debts.

  He stepped back into his office to retrieve his hat and coat.

  David considered which men frequented the grogshops. Jameson, Urich, Smeech, and Drenth must have been in one while he spoke with Aileen’s friend. Any one of them might have found himself in sufficient trouble to consider theft. One indiscretion often led to worse, as he had learned the painful way. Drunkards might become gamblers unable to pay a debt.

  Jameson knocked on the door frame. “The men are ready, sir.”

  David glanced out the window at the assembled workers. Most slumped. Some mopped foreheads. Very few stood at attention.

  He walked out of his office and into the yard.

  More of the men snapped to attention, but a goodly number made a weak showing of it. A quick tip of one finger to the forehead, a smirk or co
mment to a neighbor, and the ever-present slump marked those who didn’t respect leadership.

  David took a deep breath, intensifying his scowl, and stalked down the line. “Shoulders back. Chin up!”

  More men obeyed, but a few found the commands humorous.

  “A week in the stockade will take the edge off your joke, Smeech,” he barked.

  The man stiffened, though his expression still betrayed doubts. “Yes, sir.”

  David glared at the men. Only when he had every last man’s attention did he speak. Then he did so in a soft tone. He’d learned early on that this change of tone caught the men’s attention.

  “Certain supplies have turned up missing.” He paced down the line, keeping an eye on their reaction.

  No one betrayed his complicity. Yet.

  “Iron spikes. Chisels.”

  Urich glanced at . . . David followed the man’s gaze. Jameson. That David could believe, but he had to have more evidence than a foot soldier’s glance.

  “If anyone sees or hears one word about where they went, report to me. If the guilty party is in this platoon, his punishment will be less severe if he confesses.” He paused.

  The men remained closemouthed.

  “Very well. You know where my office is. Dismissed!”

  The men disbanded at once, much quieter than before. Some huddled together in whispered conversation. Others shook their heads and wandered back to their particular patch of shade. Jameson did not head toward his cronies but to the barrel of drinking water. No one angled for David’s office. None had betrayed guilt. He must have patience and allow the guilty to feel the sting of conviction. If the man had a conscience, he would either betray his guilt or confess it.

  David returned to his office and closed the door. In the late afternoon light, no one could see into the room unless they stood directly outside. David watched the men. Their movements were all natural. Urich, Smeech, and Drenth congregated, as was to be expected, but none of them approached Jameson, and he stayed a goodly distance from them. When the sergeant called the men back to work, they all plodded off as usual.