“Still, Colonel. You flatter me too much. It is I who should sing your praises for the sacrifices you made on the battlefield.”
He glanced across the deck, his lips tight. “We have all sacrificed.”
His humility only added to her regard.
He faced her. “You sacrificed your husband to this horrid war.”
Eliza nodded and shifted her gaze to the bay, suddenly feeling like she had no right even to speak to such a man.
“Forgive me. I’m far too blunt at times.”
Eliza could now add kindness to his list of exemplary qualities.
“But let’s talk of more pleasant things.” He studied her. The tone and expression on his face made her wonder if he, too, felt the overwhelming attraction between them. Another flush heated her neck. Oh fiddle! She was behaving like an innocent girl, not a widow who knew the intimacies of marriage. But then again, men had not paid her much notice in the past three years when she’d been covered in blood and filth on the battlefield.
“What do you hope for in Brazil, if I may ask, Mrs. Crawford?”
“A new start, like most of us, I imagine. But most of all peace. I long for peace, and a place to nurse cuts and colds not amputations and bullet wounds.”
He nodded his understanding.
“And you, Colonel? Aside from desiring any place where you aren’t hunted by authorities, that is.”
“You said it all so succinctly in that one word. Peace.” He gazed across the bay, such pain burning in his eyes, it nearly brought tears to her own. Pain and something else. A hint of hope, a longing. He faced her, snapping out of his daze. “Yes, peace. And to start a colony. Be there at the beginning of a new city, a new community, just like our forefathers. Very exciting!”
“And I have no doubt you’ll find yourself as equal to the leadership of a colony as you were to the leadership of a regiment.”
He looked down as if embarrassed by her compliment. How unusual and yet utterly charming for a man who was used to being in command.
“Now it is I who am flattered, madam. However, I’m quite pleased to have such an advocate on board.”
“Then you can count on me, Colonel.” Eliza smiled as they stared into each other’s eyes a bit too long for being so newly introduced. Yet she couldn’t seem to pull herself away.
Until thankfully, the snap of a sail broke the trance. With topsails spread to the rising wind, the New Hope approached the neck of the bay. Silence permeated every plank and timber as all gazes bounced between Fort Sumter on their right and Fort Moultrie on their left. Colonel Wallace stiffened. He slipped even closer to Eliza, as if he could actually protect her from a cannon blast. An endearing sentiment that brought a smile to her lips.
Though the American stars and stripes waved proudly above the fort, most of the buildings were nothing but crumbling ruins. Hammer and chisel echoed over the waters as soldiers worked to repair the once magnificent fort. Some of them stopped to gaze at the passing ship. One man even raised his hat to wave at them. Captain Barclay and a few sailors waved back, chuckling. As they sailed past, the remaining intact cannons merely winked at them in the sunlight.
Colonel Wallace released a breath. Captain Barclay ordered more sails raised, and within minutes, the unfurled canvas caught the wind in a jaunty snap, and the New Hope burst onto the open sea, free at last.
Other passengers emerged from below, among them the finely attired older couple Eliza had seen come aboard earlier.
“Mr. and Mrs. Scott,” the colonel said in a low voice, following the direction of her gaze. “Wealthy plantation owners from Roswell, Georgia. Their daughter, Magnolia, must still be below. And behind them, there”—he pointed to a man in a striped shirt and suspenders. His rosy round face reminded Eliza of an aged apple. “Mr. Lewis, our carpenter.”
The poor man’s hands shook as he clasped them together and made his way to the foredeck. “He seems a bit unnerved,” Eliza said.
“We are all unnerved, Mrs. Crawford. It is not easy leaving everything we know.”
A gasp sounded from the Scotts’ direction, and Eliza glanced to see Mrs. Scott, hand over her mouth, pointing across the deck at a Negro man and a woman with two small children.
“Ah yes.” The colonel frowned. “The only freed Negroes coming on the journey. Moses; his sister, Delia; and her children, Joseph and Mariah.”
Though many freed slaves had been wandering the streets since Eliza had come to Charleston, she’d never actually spoken to one. Her parents had kept a few house slaves in their home in Marietta, but Eliza had no idea whether freed slaves would be relieved, fearful, angry, or even hostile toward whites. Yet the kind look on Moses’ face did much to ease her apprehension.
“And there is the doctor.”
Eliza snapped her attention to a tall, brawny man with light brown hair and a scar angling down the side of his mouth. “Doctor?” She felt immediate relief that she wasn’t the only medical person on board.
The colonel shifted his weight. “James Callaway. Well, at least he used to be a doctor in the war. He says he hasn’t tended patients since. Became a preacher after that.”
Eliza was about to comment on how odd a transition that must have been when a woman’s scream blared from below.
All eyes shot toward the companionway hatch. Excusing himself, the colonel headed toward the sound when another scream pierced the air. Eliza followed him, fearing that her new roommates were somehow in trouble. Before they even reached the companionway, a man emerged. The wind caught his dark hair and blew it around him as he stumbled above, clutching his side. The plantation owner’s daughter, Miss Magnolia, popped up behind him, her face awash with rage and fear. “He attacked me! That man attacked me in my cabin!” She dashed to her mother, who gathered her up in her arms and tried to console her daughter amid her hysterical sobs.
But the man didn’t look as though he could attack anyone. Hand pressed to his side, he dropped to his knees before tumbling backward to the deck. Only then did Eliza see blood oozing in between his fingers.
She knelt beside him and studied the wound. “This man’s been shot!”
CHAPTER 4
The night before
Hayden Gale sauntered into McCrady’s Tavern, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. He scanned the mob of merchants, fishermen, gamblers, and ne’er-do-wells who frequented his favorite Charleston haunt, searching for the man he was to meet. Mr. Wilbur Ladson, Hayden’s latest mark. Worth more than four thousand dollars a year and owner of more than five hundred acres of farmland in Ohio. The wealthy landowner had come to Charleston on a business deal, or so Hayden had heard. But Hayden’s business with him had nothing to do with a deal and more to do with a sham—a sham that would make Hayden rich. Which was why he’d purposely made Mr. Ladson’s acquaintance and, in the process, found him to be a man of oversized paunch and undersized intelligence. Add to that his excessive greed, and he was the perfect target. A target who would provide Hayden with both the means and the freedom to focus on a far more important goal.
Spotting the ill-bred, fatwit in the corner, Hayden headed his way, spiraling through tables laden with flickering lanterns, cards, and foamy mugs of beer, while waving off greetings tossed his way. It was good to be back in Charleston, the town of his birth, despite the memories that lurked in every corner, tugging at what was left of his heart. The heart he’d left behind when his mother had died and those same memories had banished him from town. But he was back now on a tip, a very reliable tip, that his father, Patrick Gale, had returned.
Hayden swept a gaze over the bawdy mob, looking for that face that was forever planted in his mind from a tintype of his mother’s. He’d been searching for his father for fifteen years, and he wouldn’t give up until he found him—and planted him six feet under for what he’d done. Even if it took the rest of his life. He scanned the faces one more time. His father wasn’t here.
Just as well. Hayden had business to attend to.
Besides, it was only a matter of time before he found the man. He’d nearly caught him in Galveston—had been in the same room with him, but the charlatan had slipped away. It was as if the man knew Hayden was looking for him. Which was impossible. Zooks, he probably didn’t even remember he had a son.
Hayden stopped before Mr. Ladson, who was devouring a plate of shrimp and grits, grease sliding down his chin. A skinny man with spectacles perched atop a pointy nose sat beside him, sipping a drink. Odors of lard, alcohol, and tallow blended unpleasantness in Hayden’s nose.
“Ah, Mr. Jones. Please join us.” Mr. Ladson gestured toward a chair. “I’ll order you a plate. Charleston excels herself in grits and seafood.”
“No thank you.” Hayden slipped comfortably into the phony name he’d given Mr. Ladson, as easily as he slipped onto the seat and gestured for the barmaid to bring him some port.
The three men drifted into conversation about the weather, the high price of goods in the South now that the war was over, the ease with which one could purchase Rebel land, all topics that conversely bored or angered Hayden. Though he’d spent some time during the past few years in the North, he was Southern bred through and through and hated what the “Reconstruction” was doing to his home. Reconstruction, indeed. More like destruction.
Mr. Ladson finished his feast, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and sat back in his chair. Someone began playing a piano on the other side of the room.
“We should get down to business, Mr. Jones.” The skinny man, whom Hayden now remembered was Mr. Ladson’s accountant, slid his spectacles up his nose. “Mr. Ladson and I have another business dealing later tonight.”
“Another venture, sir?” Hayden smiled at Ladson. “It would seem your visit to Charleston has been quite lucrative.”
“Indeed, Mr. Jones. First your deal involving a hundred acres of cultivated farmland and then another deal with Mr. Haley involving a grand investment in a railroad. The South is indeed prime for the picking!”
Hayden ignored the man’s ravenous glee. In fact, he ignored everything else but the name Haley—a name that sent his stomach into his throat. “Mr. Martin Haley?”
“The same. Do you know him?”
Hayden painted a nonchalant mask on his face to disguise the hatred roiling within, something he had grown quite adept at doing over the years. Haley. One of his father’s aliases. “I’ve made his acquaintance.” He tapped his fingers over the rough wood.
The skinny man’s eyes lit up. “Do you vouch for his integrity, Mr. Jones?”
Hayden could barely restrain his laughter. As it was, he coughed into his hand to hide any telltale expression sneaking onto his face. “Of course. He’s a fair man. In fact, I have some business with him myself.”
The men exchanged a glance before Mr. Ladson said. “Well, you best hurry. I believe Mr. Haley said he was leaving town tomorrow.”
“Leaving?” Hayden kept his tone nonchalant.
“Yes, headed for Brazil on some wild scheme to buy up land so the South can rise again”—he lifted his mug of ale in mock salute—“or some such nonsense.”
Hayden sifted this new information through his mind, pondering the implications. It sounded just like his father to run off to Brazil on some harebrained enterprise. The barmaid returned with his port. After flipping her a coin and sending her a wink that made her giggle, he downed the drink in a single gulp.
The skinny man pulled out a leather satchel that Hayden hoped was full of money, while Hayden withdrew the writ of sale from his coat pocket along with a pen and ink and laid them on the table. Cultivated farmland, indeed. The property Mr. Ladson had toured was such, but the land he was purchasing was nothing but a swamp.
The accountant grabbed the document and scanned it in the lantern light, his beady eyes shifting back and forth. A drop of sweat slid from his slicked-back hair onto his forehead.
“I assure you everything is in order,” Hayden said. Mr. Ladson picked up the pen, dipped it in ink, and anxiously awaited his friend’s approval.
Just sign the paper and give me the money. Hayden hid his urgency behind a placid smile. Once this deal was completed, he would leave a far richer man than when he’d arrived. And just in the nick of time. He was down to his last twenty dollars. And the crème de la crème of this fortuitous night would be that afterward he would follow these slatterns to their meeting with his father. Finally, he would have his revenge.
He shoved down a pinch of regret over swindling Mr. Ladson. The man was a Northerner who hated the South. He certainly deserved far worse. Besides, he had plenty of money. Yet even those excuses did not stop the accusations that constantly rang in Hayden’s ears day and night, the words that stabbed his conscience and haunted his dreams.
You’re just like your father.
A shadow drifted over the table, causing the lantern flame to sputter and cower. Mr. Ladson hesitated, pen poised over the document that would free Hayden to pursue his father without any encumbrances.
A voice accompanied the shadow. “Hayden Gale?”
Hayden gazed up into a pair of seething eyes set deep in a pudgy face. Hair bristled on the back of his neck. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, sir. There is no one here by that name. Now if you don’t mind.” He batted him away. “We have personal business to discuss.”
Gruff hands grabbed Hayden by the coat and hauled him from the chair, slamming him against the tavern wall. Dust showered him from above. Spitting it away, Hayden held up arms of surrender. “My name is Elias Jones, sir. You have the wrong man.” He tried to make out the man’s features in the shadows, but he couldn’t recollect him from the many men he had swindled over the past years. How was Hayden supposed to remember each one?
“Do I now?” The man gritted his teeth and hissed like an angry cat. “You’re the one, all right. You defiled my wife and swindled my family out of our last two hundred dollars. No, no, I’d know you anywhere.” Releasing Hayden, he slugged him across the jaw.
Hayden’s head whipped around. His cheek stung. Ah yes, now he remembered the man. Rubbing his face, he glanced over at Mr. Ladson, who had put down the pen and was frowning at Hayden. Blast it all! Hayden released a foul curse. “I have no idea what you are referring to, sir.” Drawing back, Hayden slammed his fist into the man’s rather large belly. “But I will not stand by while you attack me and my character without cause.” He shook his aching hand, but the man barely toppled over before he righted himself.
The music stopped, and a crowd formed around the altercation. Hayden wiped blood from his lip. He supposed he deserved the man’s rage and worse for what he had done, but why did he have to find Hayden now when he was on the cusp of a huge deal?
Fist raised, the man charged Hayden again. This time Hayden blocked his blow with one hand while shoving the other across the man’s jaw. Cheers erupted from the mob as more of the besotted gathered around to be entertained. But Hayden had no desire to provide said entertainment. He had no beef with this man, and he certainly didn’t relish dying on the sticky floor of this hole-in-the-wall. Hayden’s strike barely caused the burly man’s head to swivel.
Shaking out the pain in his hand once again, Hayden backed away, studying the room for the best escape route. The man pulled out a pistol. Hayden barely heard the hammer snap into place over the raucous cheers, but the sound of it spelled certain doom.
“I’ll kill you for what you’ve done, ye thievin’ carp.”
Hayden had no doubt he would do just that. “Now, calm yourself, sir. If you kill me, you’ll go to jail, hang for murder. Then what would become of your lovely wife?”
The man seemed to be pondering that very thing as the shouts of the throng grew in intensity. This can’t be the end. Hayden could not die for one night with a lady he barely remembered and a measly two hundred dollars. It just didn’t seem fair. He’d done far worse than that in recent years. Several of those incidents now passed through his mind like a badly acted play—a play that would no doubt be perfo
rmed before God on judgment day. Shame burned within him.
The ogre smacked his lips together. “Naw, killin’ you will be worth it.” He fired his pistol. Searing pain struck Hayden’s side. Gunpowder stung his nose. The mob went wild, some rushing toward Hayden, others toward the man, while some broke into fistfights among themselves.
Gripping his side, Hayden ducked and wove a trail through the frenzied mob, finally blasting through the front door into the cool night air. He stumbled down the street, wincing at the pain and ignoring the horrified looks of passing citizens. He couldn’t risk someone helping him. They would ask too many questions. Besides, his ruse was blown. He must leave town as soon as possible. The pain of losing the fortune hurt nearly as much as his bullet wound. Nearly.
He slipped into a dark alleyway and slid to the ground by a rotting barrel. A rat sped across a shaft of moonlight. Hayden removed his hand. Blood poured from the wound. He peered into the shadows and grabbed a paper lying nearby. He intended to press it over his wound when a word at the top caught his eye. BRAZIL. He read further. A ship called the New Hope was leaving tomorrow at sunrise for Brazil to start a new Southern colony. Despite his pain, Hayden smiled. There could only be one ship leaving Charleston for Brazil tomorrow.
Perhaps fortune shone on Hayden after all.
Back to the present
Eliza glanced over the crowd of sailors and passengers closing around the wounded man. “Doctor, please help!” She addressed the man whom the colonel said was a physician, but he stood gaping at the patient as if he’d never seen blood before.
The colonel gripped the doctor’s arm, drawing his gaze.
“That man assaulted me!” Magnolia Scott whined from across the deck.
Forsaken Dreams Page 4