“Damn!” she murmured.
Again she leapt from her place at the wheel, hurrying to bring down the tattered sails. The task was a labored one; weathered and scorched rigging battled her fiercely. But at last she brought down all but the jib, then scampered about the deck as she sought out the anchor crank. Miraculously, it was in decent shape. Too late she realized that it would be far easier to cast anchor than to weigh it. But despite all the humiliation she had already endured in her life, she had been raised with a keen sense of propriety. She hadn’t minded stripping to save the ship, but she certainly wasn’t going to greet society practically naked. There had to be some piece of clothing in the crew’s quarters. And although she wasn’t exactly in the inlet yet, she was beyond the first stand of mangroves, hidden from any other ship that might wander into the bay.
Despite her determination to garb herself, Kendall felt a sweep of fear once again as she approached the steps to go below deck. It was like stepping into a void of the unknown, and her hands trembled as she touched the rail. But the sun was shining through a multitude of portholes, and Kendall shook off her fear. If there were any Yankees aboard the ghost vessel, they would have appeared by now.
Still she hesitated in the narrow hallway that apparently led to the officers’ cabins. Horrible visions of cruel, leering deserters filled her mind. Impatiently, she forced herself to move forward and approach a door. If she was such a pathetic coward, she should have never swum out to the ship. As it was, she had to do something.
Kendall breathed a sigh of relief as she pushed the door in and found the dim cabin empty. Her assumptions about the crew deserting had to be correct. The Pride was definitely empty.
She discovered quickly that she had stumbled into the captain’s cabin. A ship’s log lay open on a desk, and a navy frock coat with a captain’s bars lay tossed over the chair before it. Curiously Kendall ran her fingers over the last page of the log, reading the words written in a handsome and flourishing script:
Tears stung Kendall’s eyes. The page didn’t read at all as a ship’s log should—not after 1300 hours. It was not blunt fact. Not just a chronicle of happenings.
She would like to have known Captain Julian Cuspis Smith. He was a man incapable of being a war machine.
Kendall breathed a silent prayer that the captain had lived as she flipped through the previous pages of the log. The New England Pride had been commissioned into the U.S. Navy in June of 1860. Her keel had been laid in Boston the previous year. She had been involved in the blockade of Charleston, and had recently been ordered to join a patrol outside Mobile.
Nothing really worth knowing, Kendall thought pensively. Still, she would carry the log ashore and turn it over to Harry.
Kendall picked up the captain’s blue frock coat and the log and left the cabin, closing the door behind her. She slipped the frock coat over her shoulders as she climbed to the deck once more, pensively chewing at her lower lip as her mind clouded with the tragedy of war. She walked up to the deck with a suddenly weary heart. She wished she had not read the log; she wished that she had never known Travis. War was so much easier to endure when you could hate the enemy without question.
“Well, well, well. What have we here?”
Kendall started violently and stared across the deck. A man stood by the helm. His short-waisted cavalry coat was of an indiscriminate color—possibly because of fading or possibly because of dirt. His trousers were blue, but that told her nothing, for many Rebels wore blue pants beneath gray or butternut jackets.
He was of medium height and stocky build. His hair was dark, his beard rough and matted with the stains of chewing tobacco. A leer spread across his features.
“My, my, my, what do we have here!” he breathed again, walking toward her.
Kendall clutched the log tightly against her chest for whatever protection it might offer.
“Who are you?” she snapped with a forced bravado. “How did you get aboard this ship?”
He paused, obviously surprised by her angry demand. But he merely hiked up shaggy brows and laughed. “Little Reb’s got a bit of fight in her, huh? That’s all right, honey, I like my women with spirit.”
Kendall ignored his insinuation, staring him down while she desperately wracked her mind for a course of action.
“Are you a Yankee, then?” she demanded, not able to pinpoint his accent or his clothing.
“Reb—Yank—what’s the difference. The army ain’t no place for old Zeb.”
“You’re a deserter.”
“Nah, honey. Just a sharp man.” His black button eyes narrowed shrewdly upon her. “And I’m going to take this ship and hightail it outta here, little lady. It’s shore gonna be mighty nice to have you with me honey. Yeah, mighty nice.”
He took another step toward her, and Kendall noticed that he had a pair of smooth-bore pistols crossed into the waistband of his pants. A leather thong tied about his thick girth held a leather case with a long and lethal Bowie knife. The closer he came, the yellower his teeth appeared to be, the more loathsome his odor.
“This is my ship,” she stated flatly, coldly. “And you aren’t taking it anywhere.”
“Whoo-whee! Little lady! Old Zeb is gonna have a good time with you! Now hand the book over, baby, and let old Zeb hold you in his arms.”
If she retreated, she would fall down the companionway. If he touched her, she would pass out with the horror.
But he held three weapons while she had nothing but a book.
He snatched the log out of her hands. The captain’s coat she had taken from the cabin fell to the deck, and she stood before the man with her damp undergarments hiding little from his imagination.
“Oh, Lordy, Lordy . . .” he murmured.
She felt herself crushed against him, and at first she did have to fight an overwhelming dizziness as his scent and cruel touch assailed her simultaneously.
She had to think, had to do something . . .
She forced herself to touch him as he nuzzled his coarse beard against the flesh of her throat, greedy lips planting wet smacking kisses on her. She willed herself not to foolishly pit her fists against him in a frenzy.
And she allowed her hands to wander down his back until she found the leather thong . . . and then the case . . . and then the hilt of his Bowie knife.
Once her hand closed over that handle, she couldn’t allow herself to think anymore. In a quick slash of her arm, she brought all her strength into play to drive the blade deep between his shoulder blades.
A bellow of amazement and pain raged from him. He cast her brutally away to claw in a frenzy at his own back, his face turning a mottled purple, his features contorted with stunned fury.
“Bitch! Southern bitch!”
Kendall had fallen to the deck. Hurriedly she jumped to her feet and nervously backed away as he once more came toward her with staggering steps. She screamed when his hand—blunt and squat, the fingernails black with dirt—reached for her, catching the lace of her chemise and ripping it open.
She had failed. And the filthy monster was going to make her wish she were dead a hundred times over before she really was.
She screamed again in primal rage and despair as his hand clawed for the bare flesh of her breasts.
But he never touched her. Suddenly he stopped and stood straight; his eyes widening, his mouth forming an O of disbelief. For countless seconds he simply stood there, suspended. Then he crashed to a heap at Kendall’s feet
She stared down at him in shock and amazement.
And then realized that another knife had joined hers in his back.
Slowly, her shock seeped through her and rendered her mind and body incapable of normal action. She looked across the deck.
Red Fox, silent and dripping wet, balanced on the gunwale. He barely glanced at Kendall, then silently hopped to the deck and approached the fallen man. He pulled his knife from the bloodied, lifeless back and wiped it clean on the sleeves of the man’s short caval
ry coat. He repeated the action with the Bowie knife, tucking both into a band about his calf.
Kendall was so transfixed by the Seminole chief’s appearance that she couldn’t even think to pull her torn bodice together. He stood, and his dark eyes flickered over her briefly. He padded silently on bare feet to the fallen navy frock coat and brought it to Kendall, slipping it around her shoulders.
His touch brought her back to life. She hurled herself against him, shuddering, tears streaking down her cheeks.
“Red Fox . . . bless you . . . how . . . where did you come from?”
He held her a moment, then set her away and squatted to pick up the dead man’s legs and drag him toward the railing. Then he stooped again, and heaved the corpse overboard.
He watched as the water accepted the body as it might a sacrifice, whirling, seeming to suck the man under. He would come afloat again, but for now he was food for the fishes. Then he turned back to Kendall.
“I am often near,” he said simply. “I saw you swim for the ship, and I watched as you brought her around. I came to the inlet by land, and so it took some time. I saw that white trash pull a canoe from the trees and approach. I swam.”
Kendall was amazed and touched to realize that Red Fox had been keeping an eye on her from a safe distance.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“You did well,” he said, ignoring her words. “The wound you inflicted on him was deep, but not mortal. You have more to learn, Kendall.”
She nodded in silent agreement. “Will you teach me, Red Fox?”
He shrugged. “In time. You should not have come aboard the ship, Kendall.”
She hesitated a moment, lowering her eyes. “But I—we—have her now, Red Fox. She is battered, but she could be made seaworthy.”
Red Fox lifted one eyebrow sardonically. “We have her? And for what?”
“I don’t know . . . yet,” Kendall faltered. But then she felt a defiant determination. An idea that had been a vague cloud in her mind now found full formation. “This ship is mine,” she said. “I found her. I saved her from grounding. She is ours if you wish—but she is most definitely mine.”
Red Fox emitted a growl of impatient irritation. “I ask again—for what?”
“To fight,” Kendall said softly.
Red Fox threw up his hands in exasperation and stalked across the deck once more to set his hands and muscled biceps on the anchor crank. Kendall scampered across the deck, following him.
“Red Fox, listen to me—”
“No!”
“We could do something, we could have a purpose!”
He spun around to face her, dark eyes blazing. “Fool woman! I seek to protect you, but you wish to hurl yourself into danger and possible death.”
“Red Fox, I can’t stand the waiting.”
“The Night Hawk would be furious.”
“The hell with the Night Hawk!” Kendall exclaimed, startled by her own declaration yet determined that the Indian would not see her falter. “Red Fox, Brent comes so briefly. Then he sails away. I love him, Red Fox, yet still he is easily able to forget me and turn his heart to the war. He risks his life daily, yet that is expected. I am not property, Red Fox. I am not a slave. My life is my own, as is his. Please, Red Fox, please, listen to me. We could do some good with very little risk. Slip out of the inlet at night and seek out small Yankee blockade ships. We could—”
“Without a crew?” Red Fox demanded skeptically.
“We can find a crew.”
Red Fox sniffed. “Where, Kendall? The men left in the settlement are boys and old grandfathers.”
“Old doesn’t mean worthless. And you have braves, Red Fox.”
“Whites do not fight alongside Indians. They use them in alliance, yes, but they do not fight beside them. And it does not matter. What you suggest is”—for once, Kendall saw Red Fox struggle for a word in English—“ridiculous!” he at last exploded.
Kendall turned her back on him. “I told you, Red Fox, this is my ship. And I will sail her—with or without your help.”
He broke into a fit of what she assumed to be cursing—but he spoke in his own tongue too swiftly and vehemently for her to understand his words. At the end of his tirade she heard him mention Brent’s name again, and she spun around to face him once more, her eyes alight with pleading.
“Red Fox, Brent will never know! He won’t be back for months! We can slip in and out of harbors and give all the ammunition and ships we seize to the Confederacy. Red Fox, I even know something about these cannons. I was”—she hesitated a moment, the brilliance of her eyes clouding—“I was at Fort Taylor long enough to learn something about artillery. These are Parrotts,” she said, gesturing toward the guns mounted on the schooner’s deck. “And if we’re lucky, the shot will still be good. Oh won’t you listen, Red Fox? Can’t you see? We’ll repaint this boat and rename her Rebel’s Pride! We wouldn’t need a crew of more than twenty—ten whites, ten Indians! And—”
“One woman?” Red Fox queried with doleful skepticism.
“Yes,” Kendall said quietly. “I am a good sailor, Red Fox. I proved that when I made it here in a rowboat! We’ll be careful. We’ll test our wings thoroughly before we fly! Red Fox, women on both sides have been spies. They have even donned men’s garb and joined the armies. I’m a Confederate, Red Fox. I have to fight this war!”
“Do you seek to fight a war—or to exact revenge?”
“Does it matter?”
“If you are captured, you know what will happen.”
She met his eyes without flinching. “Yes, I know.”
The anchor thudded into place, and Red Fox spoke again. “I cannot do this to the only white man I can truly call my friend.”
“Then I will do it without you,” Kendall vowed staunchly.
Red Fox released a weary sigh. Apolka’s death had not been mentioned between them, yet Kendall knew that he thought of his slain wife and son.
“The Armstrongs will stop you. They will never agree to this foolhardy plan of yours.”
Kendall lowered her eyes to hide a smile. She knew she had Red Fox convinced. And if she could convince an Indian with a heart and will of steel, she could convince anyone.
The New England Pride was about to become the Rebel’s Pride. They would paint the schooner gray and sail for the Confederacy.
Brent wouldn’t be pleased if he found out, but Kendall hoped he never would.
And she couldn’t afford to think about Brent. Just as she couldn’t dwell on the fact that she had stabbed a man and that Red Fox had finished him off with cold detachment. And she couldn’t allow herself to wonder if she wasn’t anxious to come upon John Moore.
Neither Red Fox nor Brent would ever understand that she needed to fight her own battle with the man who had made her life a hell before there ever was a war.
And Brent had been gone so long. In the endless days and sleepless nights, it was sometimes hard to believe that he had ever held her.
Love was not a tangible substance. And in the present chaos of fraternal bloodshed, she often wondered if she could ever really reach out and grasp it tightly . . .
Chapter Fifteen
September 1862
The Jenni-Lyn limped into Norfolk and up the James River to Richmond Harbor. She had taken five shots, yet still she sailed, battered and bruised, her precious cargo safe in the hold.
Brent was glad to step onto dry land, yet as soon as he did, he was greeted by navy officers. He suffered enthusiastic congratulations and was then informed that President Davis and Secretary of the Navy Mallory were waiting to see him.
He ordered Charlie to see to the ship’s repairs and Chris to see to the unloading and dispersement of the cargo. He then climbed into a buckboard and traveled through the streets of the Confederacy’s capital.
How ragged Richmond looked after London.
There was no lack of silk or satin in England. Smiling women in the height of fashion, well attuned to
the latest French styles, graced the manors and markets in their finery, unaware of the stench of poverty beneath their noses—or of a foolish war being fought across the ocean.
A foolish war . . .
Richmond was pathetic.
Few people walked the streets. Those who did appeared tense and pinched. And thin.
A neatly attired Negro greeted him cordially at the president’s home, and led him to a small informal parlor.
As Brent accepted Davis’s hand in a firm shake, he thought the president had aged a great deal in just the little more than a year since he had seen him last. Mallory wasn’t looking healthy, either.
The black valet poured them brandy and offered Brent a cheroot. Brent accepted it, savoring the fine tobacco. They just didn’t know how to roll a decent cigar in Britain.
“You were shot up quite a bit coming in, I hear,” Jefferson Davis said thoughtfully.
“Yes, sir. Two frigates gave us a run as soon as they saw our colors.”
“But you made it.” Davis shook his graying head. “You’re quite an anomaly, Captain. One of the men of which our gallant South is made,” he added softly, more to himself than to Brent. Then he offered his official guest a dry smile. “You’ll notice, Captain McClain,” Davis said cordially as he sat across from Brent on a slender settee, “that we’re a bit informal here today.” He hesitated, his expression pained. “The fighting just north of us has been very severe, and we’ve sent many of our womenfolk south for safety, including my wife, Varina.”
Brent nodded, Watching the president’s face. It was ironic that Jeff Davis should be sitting there at all, leading the Confederacy. He had been against secession—until Lincoln declared that he was absolutely opposed to adding more slave states from territories. Davis had served in the U.S. Senate and had been secretary of war under President Franklin Pierce—and then returned to the Senate. He was a dignified man, tall, slender, and straight, yet he was often plagued by illness. Known to have a hot temper, he quarreled frequently with his generals—Robert E. Lee, an old friend from West Point, being the exception.
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