Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  He was grateful that his mother was dead.

  Then rage filled him, rage and loss, but he still knelt there, just staring. And then he stiffened as he heard shuffling footsteps on the parched earth behind him.

  “Mastuh Brent?” The query was disbelieving, as if he were a phantom in the field. He turned to see a gaunt black man behind him.

  “By God! It is you, Mastuh Brent!”

  “Hello, Thomas,” Brent said softly to the rheumatoid Negro who had served as his father’s valet. He gripped the offered black hand firmly and came tiredly to his feet. “Thomas, where’s Jennifer? And Patricia and Patrick?”

  “Don’t fret none, young sir. Miss Patricia and her boy done gone on up to Richmond to stay with her folks. Miss Jenny, now, she didn’t want to leave. But your sister’s just fine. They didn’t burn no slave quarters. Dem Yanks are too busy tryin’ to get us coloreds signed up in the Union Army to leave us with no place to stay! Miss Jennifer is back in the cottage with Mammy Lee.”

  “Can you take me to her, Thomas?” Brent asked wearily.

  “Why, yes, sir, I’ll be right happy to! But you know, Mastuh Brent, it’s right dangerous for you to be wanderin’ around these here parts. The Yanks set a big store on pullin’ you in as a prisoner.”

  “Yes, I know, Thomas, thanks. I’ll get out soon enough. But I’ve got to see Jenny.”

  “Right this way, sir, yes, right this way. Mammy Lee is in the big cottage these days. Afore the Reb army run off, we was taking in sick and wounded soldiers at the ol’ manor. Miss Jenny had already moved out to leave more room for the soldiers.”

  Brent nodded bleakly as they walked past the rubble. He stopped suddenly, stroking his pounding forehead as he stared at the remains of his home.

  He exhaled a soft whistle. “They didn’t just burn the house down; they took explosives to it!”

  “Yes, sir, they did, Mastuh Brent. But you come on now, and get inside ’fore some of them Yankees take a ride on by here.”

  Brent knew that there were planters who kept their slaves in misery. He knew that some slave quarters were no better than leaky barns, and in his soul, he knew that slavery wasn’t right.

  But when he stepped into the warm whitewashed cottage of the family cook, it was hard to feel that the McClains had been cruel taskmasters. A fire burned in a neat grate; mocha curtains covered the windows, and an old rug from the manor parlor carpeted the floorboards.

  He barely saw thin old Mammy Lee when he first came through the doorway; his eyes instantly lit on the petite blonde in stunning crinolines and frills who dipped her head low over her sewing by the fire.

  “Jenny,” he said hoarsely.

  She looked up at him instantly, lovely smoke-gray eyes like saucers. The sewing flew from her hands and she bolted from the rocker.

  “Brent!”

  She vaulted into his arms with the force of a hurricane, and hugged him so tightly he staggered. “Oh, Brent! It’s so good to see you! But you shouldn’t be here!”

  He took hold of her slender shoulders and then held her away from him, his lips curling into a smile and his eyes savoring every line of her. “Jenny . . . you look wonderful.” Again he hugged her to him, meaning his words, but saddened also by what he hadn’t said. She had aged so much in such a short time! She was still several months shy of seventeen, but since he had seen her last, her gamine’s face had aged by years. She had been a girl, but now, she was a woman, lovely, shapely, and mature with deep sorrow in her eyes.

  “What happened, Jenny?” he asked her tensely, still holding her close. He felt again the inadequacies of war. Older brothers teased sisters, but they protected them; they gave them shoulders to cry on, and they wiped away their tears.

  Jenny had been left to stand alone.

  And she had done so admirably. Her eyes had saddened, her features hardened. But other than that, she looked like a breath of spring. The little puffed sleeves of her gown were low on her shoulders, making the bodice low and tight. Her wrist was slim and pinched, and the skirt of the pale blue gown swayed about her in a graceful bell. The shiny coils of her hair were looped about her head in an attractive array of ringlets and braids.

  She was very precious to him, he realized, warmth flooding away some of the coldness in his heart. The destruction of South Seas hurt; it was an anger and a pain that gnawed away at his insides. But South Seas could be rebuilt. Jenny was flesh and blood and irreplaceable.

  “What happened, Jenny?” he repeated softly.

  She pulled away from him this time and tried to give him a bright smile. “Give Mammy Lee a hug first, Brent, and then come sit. Mammy’ll get us some tea. Have you eaten, Brent? Seems to me that soldiers and sailors are always starvin’!”

  Brent obediently hugged the old woman who had been a part of his family as far back as he could remember. She crushed him in return, as Jenny had done, wiping tears from her eyes. “You set, Mastuh Brent. I’ll git you younguns some tea an’ then Thomas and I will leave you alone.”

  “Thank you mightily, Mammy Lee,” Brent said, stilling his impatience to hear what his sister had to say. “And I don’t need anything to eat, Jenny. My ship’s galley is in good shape.”

  Moments later he sat cross-legged on the floor, sipping sassafras tea that was strongly laced with brandy. “Have you heard anything from Pa or Stirling?” he asked her first.

  “About a month ago I got a letter from Pa signed by them both. They’re doing well, but their regiment seems to be committed to the army in Virginia,” she replied with a sigh, then smiled. “Pa’s so proud of you, Brent. He says they hear all the way up in Virginia about the way you slip through those Union lines!”

  Brent grimaced painfully, her words reminding him of the question for which he had to have an answer.

  “They did it because of me, didn’t they? They burned South Seas in retaliation.”

  Jenny settled her skirts about her, squirming uncomfortably as she groped for an answer.

  “Didn’t they, Jenny?”

  “Well, yes, Brent. But not just because of you, of course. They did it because of Pa and Stirling, too. And Brent, this is going to sound odd to you, but it was like they didn’t want to. I was standing at the door with a shotgun when they came. Told them they weren’t coming in while I could draw breath. The lieutenant in charge was real nice, though, Brent. They packed explosives around all sides of the house, and he walked right up the steps to stare at me. I know he believed that I would shoot him. But he was more terrified that the fire would start and I wouldn’t move. He started telling me how sorry he was to have to ask me to leave my home, but that the orders had come from the top. Brent, when I heard the Yankees were coming, I was terrified. You know, all the stories you hear. I was sure I’d be raped and have my throat slit from ear to ear. But this lieutenant was a real gentleman! He said I could shoot him, but that he just had to move me before I could get hurt. Well, I didn’t shoot him. And, Brent, he went into the house after me when he might have been blown to bits. I’d gone back to get the family Bible—Ma did set such a store by that book—and he rushed into the house after me and pulled me out.” She fell silent for a minute. “His name is Lieutenant Jacob Halloran. If you ever run into that Yankee, Brent, don’t kill him.”

  Brent was silent for a moment, taking a long sip of his tea. “This is a war, Jenny. You don’t often get to know the men you kill.”

  “There are decent Yanks,” Jenny said softly.

  Brent raised his cup to her. “And rotten Rebels. War doesn’t change men, Jenny. It just brings out the best and the worst in them. A decent man is a decent man. The Mason-Dixon Line can’t alter that.” He stood up suddenly, handing her his cup. “But it is a war, Jenny. Do you have any idea what they did with the explosives when they were done?”

  Jenny shrugged. “They took them out of a supply wagon, I know that. Maybe they took it on over to the Murphy place. They were going to use that house as a headquarters. Why?” Her eyes went wide
again as she looked into his, and she jumped to her feet, heedlessly dropping both cups as she grasped his arms. “What are you planning, Brent? You listen to me, big brother. The whole damned Confederate Army fled because there were too many Yanks. What in God’s name do you think you can do?”

  “A little sabotage, Jenny. A little retaliation of my own.”

  Her eyes registered her fear. “Brent, I don’t think you understand! There’s nothin’ here but Yanks! Our troops left, Brent. There wasn’t even a battle here, just a smooth occupation!”

  “Jenny, I understand perfectly.”

  “South Seas isn’t worth your life, Brent McClain!”

  “Isn’t it?” he demanded. South Seas. The cotton. The port of Jacksonville. Riding out on his own acres. Running their crops to the mills in the North.

  Drinking good bourbon before a fire with a book. Hunting on a blooded stallion with a pack of fine foxhounds, following the code of behavior that was all that was left of the Old South.

  South Seas . . .

  And after all these years, he had found a woman with whom he wanted to share it all. A woman who understood the old way of life . . .

  South Seas. A code of honor. A life that might have been.

  If he wasn’t fighting a war for those things, what the hell was he fighting for?

  He smoothed the worried frown from his sister’s brow. “I accepted a commission into the Confederate Navy, Jenny. And I have orders to bring supplies to those who need them—and create havoc upon the Union wherever and whenever I could. Don’t fret, Jenny. I have a number of good reasons to go on living. And I’m the Night Hawk, remember? More than a little indomitable. Now, you think they’ve got supply wagons out at the Murphy place?”

  Jenny nodded unhappily. “Just be careful, Brent, will you please? There’s a lot of people here who’ve changed the color of their coats since the invasion. People who are claiming they’ve been Unionists all along.”

  “I’ll be careful, Jenny. I promise. I told you, I’m sure as hell not harboring any wishes of death.”

  She looked at him curiously. “Something’s different about you, Brent.”

  He grinned. “I think I’m in love.”

  “Really?” Her eyes lit up like torches.

  “Umm. I’ll tell you about it sometime. But right now, I have work to do.”

  Chapter Eight

  “I swear to Christ, Brent McClain, you are crazier than a rabid hound!”

  Charlie issued the vehement words in a whisper as he and Brent broke the surface of the chilly night water alongside the Marianna, a sizable, steam-powered warship berthed in Jacksonville harbor.

  Brent ignored the comment as he treaded water and raised a bundle wrapped in waterproof tarpaulins high above his head. “I’m only crazy if the fuses have gotten wet. Remember, Charlie, success can make the difference between insanity and brilliance.”

  It hadn’t been at all difficult to steal a nice supply of explosives from the wagons. The guards had been lax. And why not? The Yankees had walked right into Jacksonville, their only real problems being the destruction left by the fleeing Confederates. Why would they fear sabotage or an attack? Jacksonville was theirs.

  Brent’s greatest problem had been convincing Jennifer that he wasn’t going to behave recklessly because of his rage over South Seas.

  He had been reckless—but only at first. Before he had seen that South Seas no longer existed, but knew it within his heart.

  Now clear logic had taken control, and he moved carefully. He had filched the explosives and then lain low for the night, watching the Yanks the next day and sending messages to his men through Jenny and Lil. He lay low another night and another day and now . . .

  He knew what he was up against. There were guards studiously watching the docks and ships. And that fact necessitated the cold midnight swim in the spring waters. The only way to reach a ship undetected was from the stern.

  “How the damn hell we’re gonna light matches with wet fingers I’ll never know,” Charlie grumbled nervously, kicking hard beneath the surface to keep himself afloat.

  “Shh!” Brent warned. “You just help me get aboard and then hightail it out of here. I’m going to do the lighting. And get the dinghy back to the ship. I’ll swim to shore and make it overland to the river. We won’t be coming back this way. They will be after us like a pack of wolves. But they don’t have much here they can navigate the river with, and there won’t be much they can do till morning anyway. By then I’ll be back with you.”

  Charlie didn’t answer; he cursed as he tried to help Brent and dropped a packet of explosive powder into the sea.

  “This ain’t ever going to work, Brent.”

  Since they were alone, Charlie had dispensed with all formality. That he had become a first lieutenant in the Confederate States Navy didn’t mean a hell of a lot to him. Brent was still his captain, and he was still the first officer. Just like always.

  “All we need is one packet, well placed. Then the ship’s own armaments and powder can do the rest. Give me a boost, Charlie. I’ve got to catch hold of her tie line and get to the deck.”

  Charlie began to spit out a long stream of sailors’ oaths as he struggled to assist Brent and remain ready to catch the explosives should Brent lose his grip.

  “Yep, you’re crazier than a damn rabid dog, Brent McClain.”

  Brent caught a firm hold on the rope with his hands and wrapped his legs around it, shimmying up. He had the long fuse gripped between his teeth, and his progress was smooth. He popped his head over the deck, saw no one about, and signaled Charlie before he leapt silently aboard.

  “Go!” he hissed to Charlie.

  The head of his first lieutenant disappeared below the water’s surface.

  Brent lost his first match. It sizzled and went out. He looked anxiously about the massive bow before striking another. The gun deck was right beneath him; if his fire caught hold, the Marianna would go up like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

  He frowned, wondering if he hadn’t made his fuse too long. It would burn forever. Then he shrugged. He wasn’t bent on dying. He wanted to give himself plenty of time to get started on the long swim.

  He exhaled as the flame of his next match caught the fuse.

  Then he stood, shouting out a loud “Ahoy there, Yanks! Your ship is about to blow. Get the hell overboard!”

  He grabbed a rigging line and hopped to the gunwale then dived into the water. But before he broke the surface, he heard the sound of scurrying feet; an alarm had been raised.

  He felt the strange whiz of a wild shot streaking through the water near his ear—too near his ear. With his lungs about to burst, he jackknifed his body deeper into the water, swimming northward, all the strength he could muster set into his powerful strokes. He passed the studs of the dock and the hulls of a dozen other ships before he allowed his head to break the surface and his aching lungs gasp in great gulps of air.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  He heard the thundering cry shrill upon the night air; men began to jump and dive from the ship into the harbor. Brent didn’t wait for more. He dived again—and felt the reverberations in the water as the ammunition aboard the Marianna began to blow.

  And as he had expected, the ship was a floating powder keg. When he broke surface again, the harbor did look like one big Fourth of July celebration. And the Yanks, milling in confusion, were everywhere. It was utter chaos. The water, even at his distance from the burning warship, grew warm.

  He plunged again and swam hard, dove again and swam—until he was certain his distance was great enough. The winter chill that still cooled the water kept him moving quickly. And when he swam into a rocky inlet of the shore, he could still see the fire.

  He hoped that all of the men aboard the Marianna had heeded his warning. He might be fighting a war, but he would never have a stomach for cold-blooded killing.

  For a while he lay on the shore, panting. Then he picked himself up and star
ted threading his way through the shoreline trees to the denser forest beyond them, shivering against the damp and the night cold. By dawn he would reach the river where the Jenni-Lyn lay hidden in certain shelter.

  * * *

  “Ahoy! Who goes there?”

  The demand was barked out to Brent as soon as he set a tired hand on the Jenni-Lyn’s ladder. Dripping and chilled with the river’s brackish water clinging to him now, Brent was relieved to hear that his lookout was alert.

  “It’s Captain McClain!” he shouted.

  “Sir! Come aboard! Come aboard!”

  He didn’t need assistance, but he didn’t protest when two pairs of brawny seamen’s arms reached over the gunwale and hurled him to the deck with exuberance.

  He righted himself quickly and saw that the men who welcomed him were Chris and Lloyd. “Where’s McPherson?” he asked quickly.

  “He came aboard half an hour ago, Captain. We poured some brandy into him and packed him off to quarters. Not that we had to strain too hard to get the liquor into ol’ Charlie—”

  “Ol’ Charlie is Lieutenant McPherson, men,” Brent said with only light reproach. He and his crew were an anomaly in the Confederate Navy. He had been commissioned a captain, but with certain understandings. His ship had only light guns; she was small in comparison with the frigates and warships designed for heavy battle. Her main function was to hurry supplies where needed with the greatest possible speed. The Jenni-Lyn was a blockade runner, but whereas a number of the blockade raiders, playing the game of the hare-and-hound, were privateers not averse to making a profit out of warfare, the Jenni-Lyn ran solely for the government in Richmond.

  Her crewmen were loyal Confederates, but they sailed without thought of personal gain for one reason only—Brent McClain. And Brent knew that he was in a strange position, carefully teetering on a fence rail. Discipline was always essential aboard ship; but discipline had to be carefully tempered if a crew was expected to play by tight rules. Brent had been offered larger ships; he had tactfully refused, reminding the secretary of the navy that his effectiveness was dependent on his maneuverability.