Forsaken Dreams

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Ah, two preachers on board.” The lieutenant’s gaze swerved in Parson Bailey’s direction, but the man was hidden behind a group of farmers. “You Rebels are certainly religious sorts, but then you’ll need the extra prayers of repentance, I expect.”

  Blood surged to Hayden’s fists. And from the look on his face, the doctor’s as well.

  “Well, Preacher.” The officer poked James in the chest. “I have found that weapons in the hands of Rebels are a danger to all that is good and free. Ergo, we will confiscate yours.” He gave a caustic grin and spun on his heels.

  “Then how will we hunt and defend ourselves?” Hayden knew he should keep his mouth shut, but his anger overcame his good judgment.

  Halting, the man cast Hayden an impudent glance over his shoulder. “I don’t have a care, sir. You should have thought of that before you tore our country apart.” He continued onward.

  “And you should—”

  Sarah clutched Hayden’s arm and drew him back. But thankfully the flap of loose sails above had drowned out his foolish outburst. The last thing he needed was to get into an altercation with a Union lieutenant.

  Thunder grumbled in the distance where dark clouds amassed on the horizon. Captain Barclay handed the Yankee captain some papers. He leafed through them with a scowl as the New Hope‘s sailors stood in haphazard rows on the main deck, some shifting their feet, some clenching and unclenching their hands as if anxious for a fight. Hayden would love nothing more than to get in a scrap with these feather-brained braggarts and put them in their place, but at the moment they held the advantage. And besides, there were innocent civilians to protect, farmers and teachers and blacksmiths—people far more innocent than he.

  Most of whom now huddled on the foredeck, some shivering in fear, others staring straight ahead. Ever the politician, Mr. Graves leaned against the railing, a placid look on his face. Something about that man ate at Hayden’s insides. Beside him, Mr. Lewis, the carpenter, sneaked swigs from a flask within his coat, reminding Hayden he could use a drink about now as well.

  Two Union sailors hauled Moses, his sister, and the Scotts’ slave before the frigate captain, who looked them up and down with so much disgust, Hayden wondered if the man realized he had fought a war to set them free. After ensuring they had, indeed, been released from their chains—a lie the Scotts’ slave pronounced after repeated glares from her owner—the captain waved them off.

  “Mr. Vane, Mr. Harkins,” he barked at two sailors nearby. “Take a crew below and search every nook and cranny of this old bucket. I want everyone brought above. Even the rats. Do you hear me?”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Both men saluted and got to task.

  “And Mr. Staves,” the captain addressed the lieutenant who had recently spoken with James, “take ten men to the hold and haul up anything of value.”

  James leaned toward Hayden. “They are looking for someone in particular—a Rebel officer, no doubt.”

  “Where is the colonel?”

  “In the sick bay with Eliza.”

  Hayden turned to Sarah. “If you’re of a mind to pray, madam, now would be a good time.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Every shuffle of boots, every shout, every pitch and inflection of a Northern accent, sent Eliza’s heart into her throat as she paced the sick bay’s narrow deck. She could hear the Yankee sailors searching the hold, the cabins. She could hear them rummaging in every corner and closet, and by the sound of their moans and grunts, hauling things above. She gazed at the colonel, envious of his unconscious bliss.

  He’d been all but blissful up on deck when he’d crouched, hands to his ears, against phantom missiles, screaming the name Jeremy over and over.

  She knew exactly what was happening to him. She’d seen it in military hospitals more times than she could count. Men reliving the horrors of war, reliving moments on the battlefield with such clarity it seemed they were still in the midst of the fighting. Hallucinations of brutality, death, terror. Usually the symptoms faded with time, but more often than not, these men ended up in asylums.

  Tears pooled in her eyes at the thought of that happening to Colonel Wallace. She’d watched him through the entire chase—hadn’t been able to keep her eyes off him. She’d met many officers in her years as a nurse, married one in fact. They were not all created equal. Stripes and pins and ribbons did not a warrior make. The true mettle of a soldier was measured on the battlefield. Eliza had seen officers knowingly send their men to their deaths while saving themselves. She’d seen others who froze and cowered when facing the full arsenal of an enemy advance. Even worse, there were those who gloated over heroic deeds not their own but performed by men of lower rank.

  But not Colonel Wallace.

  Though certainly unfamiliar with sea battles, he had taken immediate command of the gun crew, issuing orders as if they were second nature, staring down the enemy and facing death side by side with his men. No hesitation. No fear. Even when the frigate fired round after round at them, his concern had been for his men.

  Now, lying on the cot, his nankeen trousers stretched tight over muscular thighs that still twitched from battle, his hair dark against the cream-colored pillow, his open shirt revealing a dusting of black hair, Eliza felt a stirring within her she’d never felt before. Not even with Stanton. She looked away. She shouldn’t be staring at him while he slept.

  Voices drilled down the halls. She could hear Captain Barclay bantering with the Union captain. She hoped Angeline and Sarah were safe. Water slapped against the hull, grating Eliza’s nerves and making her stomach feel as though she’d swallowed a brick. Sinking into a chair, she gripped her belly and willed the terror to subside.

  The colonel stirred, and she glanced his way.

  She’d done all she could. The blotches on his cheeks and neck looked so real, she shivered in remembrance of the disease. And the moisture she’d dabbed on his skin did, indeed, appear like sweat from a fever. If only one didn’t look too close. Which was what she was counting on. Close up, anyone could tell the marks were nothing but a paste of powder and a few drops of iodine. She sighed. Hopefully, Blake would remain unconscious and not disturb them. Oh Lord, let him remain unconscious. She wrung her hands together. The thud of boots approached, and she grabbed a cloth.

  The door swung open, and two men entered. One a lieutenant and the other an unrated seaman.

  “Well, look what we have here.”

  Settling her nerves, Eliza slowly rose and stared at the tall, lanky officer. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  He laughed, took a step inside, and planted his hands at his waist. “In case you aren’t aware, miss, your ship has been captured and boarded by the U.S.S. Perilous.”

  Perilous, indeed. Eliza raised her chin. “In case you aren’t aware, Lieutenant, we are no longer at war.”

  “In case you aren’t aware, miss, we are searching for war criminals trying to escape their due justice.”

  “In case—” Eliza snapped her mouth shut. This was ridiculous. “As you can see, Lieutenant. There are no war criminals in here.”

  The man took another step inside, his lackey nipping at his heels. “Sir,” the lieutenant shouted in the colonel’s direction. “You are to go above at once!”

  “Any fool can see this man is ill.” Eliza huffed.

  “Rather bold tongue for a defeated enemy, miss.” His sordid gaze raked her. “However, ill or not, he must go above. Along with you.” Snapping his fingers, he gestured toward the door.

  “Very well.” Eliza raised a brow and stepped aside, hoping they didn’t notice her trembling legs. “If you want to be exposed to the pox, be my guest. Pick him up and take him above.” She tossed the rag into a basin of water. “No doubt you’ve already been exposed just by coming aboard.”

  The lieutenant halted.

  “Oh?” Eliza went on. “Captain Barclay didn’t warn you?” She gave a sweet smile and clicked her tongue. “How uncivilized of him.”

 
The man’s mouth hung open, and he quickly drew a hand to his nose. The other sailor retreated toward the door, his face chalky white.

  “Who is he?” The officer took a step back.

  “Henry Crawford, a farmer from Savannah. I’m his wife, Eliza.”

  “A farmer? Did he serve in the military?” The ship rocked, and he pressed a hand to the bulkhead.

  “No.”

  “Would youu swear to that?”

  “I believe, sir”—Eliza raised her voice to cover the quaver in her voice—“I would know whether my own husband had been home the past four years.”

  His horrified gaze bounced between her and the colonel. “Very well,” he coughed into his hand and glanced behind him, no doubt looking for the other sailor, but the man had already disappeared into the hallway. Rushing out the door, the officer slammed it behind him.

  Boot steps faded down the hall. Eliza’s breath fled her lungs as she slumped into the chair, willing her heart to return to a normal beat.

  “Well done, Mrs. Crawford.”

  Eliza jumped at the sound of the colonel’s voice. She threw a hand to her chest as his eyes popped open and a smile curved his lips.

  “You were awake?”

  “Not the whole time.” His glance took in the room. Then swinging his feet over the cot, he sat and rubbed his face. “But long enough to know I should remain unconscious. What is this?” He stared at the paste on his fingers then swiped his cheek, depositing more of it on his hand.

  “It’s smallpox, and you should have left it in place should they return.”

  But they weren’t returning. Even now, Eliza could hear the jolly boats hammering the hull as they grew heavy with goods and men. The colonel’s gaze drifted above. “Very clever, Mrs. Crawford.” He assessed her, admiration pouring from his eyes. “I imagine your ruse is the reason for their sudden departure.”

  But Eliza no longer cared. Nothing mattered but the way he was looking at her. And the way it caused a pleasurable eddy to swirl in her stomach. Retrieving the cloth from the basin, she turned her back to him as she wrung it out then handed it to him. “It was a simple trick.”

  “But not one that most would have considered.” He wiped his hands and face. “I’ve never seen a lady so brave.”

  Eliza’s insides buzzed at the compliment. “I am not easily intimidated.”

  He flashed a grin. “Indeed.”

  “I fear it has oft gotten me into trouble in the past.”

  “But this time your bravado saved me from certain hanging.” He released a breath and ran a hand through his hair. Lantern light swayed back and forth over him as if it were dancing to the creak and groan of the ship. He stared at the rag in his hands. “Because I collapsed like a weakling.”

  Anguish lined his face, coupled with a flush of embarrassment.

  “Not a weakling, Colonel. A witness of horrors unimaginable.” Paste smeared his left cheek where he’d missed a spot. Giving in to an urge, Eliza took the cloth and knelt before him. Their eyes met, just inches apart. She could smell his scent, strong and musky, could feel his breath on her cheek. A storm brewed in those gray eyes, so vibrant, so intense, it seemed she could dive in and swirl among the tempest. If only she could. She would do everything in her power to calm the storm within him.

  “I am familiar with your symptoms, Colonel.” She wiped his cheek.

  He merely stared at her in wonder as if she had descended from heaven.

  “Many soldiers suffer as you do,” she continued. “There,” she added, “no more pox.” She rose, but his frown had returned.

  “I am not many soldiers.” He pushed to his feet, avoiding her gaze. “Sounds like the Yanks have left. I should go above to see if I can help.”

  Eliza didn’t want him to leave.

  He found his coat hanging on a hook and grabbed it as shame weighed heavy in the air between them. His shame. Unnecessary shame.

  “You really ought to sit and have some tea before you leave.”

  He glanced at her then—an apologetic glance. “You are a kind woman, Mrs. Crawford.” Then weaving around the operating table, he headed for the door.

  “Who is Jeremy?”

  He froze. The deck tilted. Eliza grabbed the table for balance.

  “Where did you hear that name?”

  Eliza nearly cried at the sorrow in his voice, the anger. “You spoke it in your delirium.”

  He turned. His Adam’s apple slid down his neck as he studied her, assessing her—assessing her worthiness, perhaps. “My brother,” he finally said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Tossing his coat on the table, he said, “Perhaps I will have that tea, after all, Mrs. Crawford.”

  Her smile swept the gloom from the cabin. Her understanding touched a place deep in his heart he thought long since extinct. She brushed past him to retrieve the pot of tea, making apologies for her wide skirts and saying something about how ships were not made for women’s fashions. It brought a much-needed chuckle to his lips and stole away a smidgeon of the embarrassment from his episode. Episode. For he knew not what else to call them. They’d started after the Battle of the Wilderness in ‘64 and had only gotten worse when the war ended. He hated that Mrs. Crawford had witnessed his weakness, hated that anyone had. He was the leader of this expedition and must be in control at all times. But, heaven help him, he could use a friend on board. And Mrs. Crawford filled a void he’d long since assumed was dead and buried.

  She handed him a cup and squeezed past him to take her seat in the chair once again, apologizing for the cold, stale tea. But Blake could not care less. Heat trailed his skin where their arms had touched ever so briefly. He was starting to enjoy the ship’s tight quarters.

  He leaned back against the wooden slab that served as an operating table. His leg ached, and he rubbed the familiar pain.

  “I can have a look at your leg, Colonel.”

  He sipped his tea, examining her. “It’s nothing. Old bullet wound.”

  “But it pains you.” Eyes as golden and glistening as topaz showered him with concern.

  “Now and then.” Blake reached for his coat on the table, plucked out the belt plate he’d been carrying around for four years, and handed it to her.

  She examined it. “A military belt buckle. Georgia, if I’m not mistaken.” She flipped it over, no doubt noting the initials JSW etched in the metal.

  “Jeremy Steven Wallace.”

  She swallowed and cupped it in her hands as if it were precious. “What happened?”

  He shrugged, fighting back the pain, not wanting it to show. “The same thing that happened to thousands of other young men—he died in battle.”

  She said nothing, only gazed at him with as much pain in her eyes as he felt in his gut.

  “He was only seventeen.” He set his cup down on the table with a clank, feeling the familiar anger scorching his belly. “Wounded at Antietam, then finished off by a Union officer while he lay on the field. Or so I heard.”

  Her eyes glassed with tears, causing his own to rise. Standing, he turned away and crossed his arms over his chest, seeking anger instead of sorrow. Anger was much easier.

  “And the rest of your family?” she asked.

  He clenched his jaw. “Died in our home in Atlanta when Sherman burned it to the ground. My sisters were only five and twelve.” He stared at the shadows of light and dark oscillating over the divots marring the deck. He heard her stand, heard the swish of her skirts, felt her touch on his arm where all that remained of his family were five black bands.

  She leaned her head on his back as if she were trying to absorb his pain. The gesture eroded the fortress around his heart. He wanted to embrace her, run his fingers through her hair, cry until the pain ceased, but instead he stepped away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have burdened you with my sad tale.”

  “It helps to talk about it.”

  “Not for me.” His temple throbbed. “The Yankees took everything: my famil
y, my home, my leg. And as you saw earlier, my sanity.” He gripped the edge of the table until his fingers hurt. “I hate them. Loathe them, in fact. All Union officers and their families should be hanged. No, worse. Quartered and then hanged. And anyone who had anything to do with them.”

  Eliza shrank back. The hatred spewing from Blake’s mouth filled the room, sending its venom into every crack and crevice. She’d seen plenty of anger during the war, and plenty more hatred over the past years, but she’d never seen such malevolent contempt. The man’s eye even began to twitch. She wanted to tell him that forgiveness was the only way to peace. But that hadn’t worked with her own family, why would it work with this raging beast before her? For that was what he’d transformed into. A beast with the gleam of murder in his eye.

  But then he drew a breath, lowered his shoulders, pried his fingers from the table, and the old colonel was back. “Forgive me, Mrs. Crawford, I’ve distressed you.”

  “I don’t distress any easier than I frighten, Colonel.” She offered him a smile.

  One which he returned. “But I’ve gone on and on about myself. I know you lost a husband in the war, probably other family members as well. I’ve met very few who haven’t.”

  Eliza clasped her hands before her. “No, my family still lives. My father and an uncle and aunt. My father is Se—” She slammed her mouth shut, shocked that she’d almost given his name. A name any military officer who had dealt with President Smith would know. A name that had been tainted by his traitorous daughter. “A … good man. He and my aunt and uncle”—she babbled on in order to cover her stutter—“own a grand hotel in Marietta.” Fiddle! She was giving him too much information

  “Hmm. I hear the town was occupied in ’64.” Lines deepened on his forehead. “Lots of destruction.”

  Eliza had heard as much as well. And although she’d not been allowed home, she had prayed for her family daily. “We suffered through it.” She looked away.