Tomorrow the Glory

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Tomorrow the Glory Page 28

by Heather Graham


  “Watch it, Stirling!” Brent rasped as a cannonball went flying over their heads with a warning whistle and exploded just feet behind them. Brent felt as if he’d been picked up by strong, hot hands and literally tossed into the air like a leaf. He crashed heavily to the ground. For seconds he lay still, gasping in the heated, wet air. Then he moved. Nothing broken. But there was so much powder in the air that he couldn’t see a thing. He got to his knees and began to crawl about blindly, hearing the agonized cries of wounded men from every direction.

  “Stirling? Pa?”

  He found his brother when the smoke began to clear. A thin line of blood trailed from Stirling’s mouth. But it wasn’t that blood which terrified Brent; it was the pool that congealed around a hole his brother gripped with his hands at his middle.

  “Brent?”

  “I’m here, Stirling. Don’t try to talk, I’m going to get you out of here.”

  Stirling emitted a short laugh that quickly became a choke. “Remember the magnolias, Brent? How they dipped low over the drive? I always loved to ride along the drive, racing until I could see South Seas rising above the trees . . . don’t you remember, Brent?”

  “Yes, Stirling, I remember. Quit talking. I’m going to patch you up.”

  Stirling screamed as Brent lifted him to wrap his coat tightly around his middle. He had to get Stirling off the field. He had to find a surgeon. Dear God, where did one find a surgeon in this melee of blue and gray bodies?

  Beyond them stood the West Woods. Across from the woods, battle had been raging at the Dunkar church. Who held the church? Brent wondered. Could he get help?

  He dragged his brother from the range of artillery fire and found a cool clearing in the woods. Stirling opened his eyes.

  “Take care of South Seas, Brent. And Patricia and Patrick . . .”

  “Quiet, Stirling,” Brent said, trying to hide his anxiety with exasperation. “Just lie still and breathe slow.”

  “Stretcher!”

  Brent swung about as he heard the cry come from nearby. He couldn’t see much of anything because of the smoke in the woods.

  “Stretcher!” he called out himself. There did seem to be medical help in the vicinity.

  “I’m coming . . . Call out again so I can find you!”

  The voice that responded to his was low and calm and full of reassuring authority. Brent stood to stare through the smoke and foliage—then froze as a man stepped into view.

  He was in blue. A Yankee captain, Brent saw from the gold insignia on his sleeves. His sandy hair was short, his brown eyes wide, warm, and sharply intelligent. The man was about his own age, and he returned the same startled stare.

  For moments the two stood, tensely and warily locked in that stare. Then the captain’s eyes wavered down to Stirling.

  “Gut shot, is he?”

  “I think,” Brent said tersely.

  The Union captain knelt down beside Stirling and moved Brent’s improvised bandage. “It may not be that bad,” he muttered as he ripped away Stirling’s cavalry jacket and shirt and bared the flesh.

  “I need to get him out of here,” Brent said thickly. It was obvious that the Yanks were controlling the Dunkar church and the woods.

  The Yankee captain turned to Brent. “You can’t move him without assistance. You could kill him.”

  Brent swallowed against a thickness in his throat.

  “I can’t leave him,” he barely whispered.

  The Yank captain stood, gnawing at his lower lip. “Listen to me, Reb. All that you might have heard about Yankee surgeons killing more Rebs than our artillery isn’t exactly true. I’m a doctor, sir. And I believe in my oath to save lives—and my oath doesn’t say a damn thing about saving only lives in blue coats. Leave him with me. It’s his only chance. This land is already swimming in death. Thousands have died already, and more will do so. Don’t make him be one of them.”

  Stirling suddenly groaned in a shuddering agony. Brent knelt down beside him “Stirling, can you hear me? This is Captain . . . uh—”

  “Captain Durbin, Medical Corps,” the Yank supplied, kneeling again at Stirling’s other side across from Brent.

  “I met Durbin before the war in New York,” Brent lied. “He’s going to take care of you.”

  “No—no, don’t leave me to die with the Yanks.”

  “You’re not going to die, Stirling. I never did want to run South Seas. You have to live to do so. Stirling! The Yanks are the only ones with supplies! The only ones with—”

  A hand touched Brent’s arm. He stared into the army captain’s eyes. Durbin said, “He’s passed out. You don’t need to keep talking. He may die, but I give you my word that I’ll do my best to save him. But you’d better get the hell out of here if you can. A prison isn’t the nicest place in the world to be. Tell me where to reach you. I’ll write about his condition as soon as I can.”

  Brent hesitated only a second. “Jennifer McClain, Jacksonville. If he dies, our sister will notify his wife . . . and son.”

  The Yankee nodded. “Go, Reb. Get out of here before you get me court-martialed.”

  Brent stood and ran back through the woods.

  * * *

  Through the afternoon the fighting continued. General Hood tried valiantly to hold a line in a pitted alley along one side of the field, but there were too many Federals. The bodies piled in the path were three and four deep, and already the soldiers were calling it Bloody Lane.

  Lee made the decision to cross back over the Potomac to western Virginia, and McClellan made no move to stop him.

  The bloodiest single day’s battle in the Civil War had been fought.

  Brent spent the night listening to the cries of the wounded and searching for his father.

  Captain Justin McClain, Second Florida Cavalry, was among the missing.

  * * *

  Brent left the Army of Northern Virginia the following dawn, riding for Richmond. He skirted the buildings of the capital and made straight for his ship. His men were not aboard as they were still on leave. But Brent wasn’t interested in company. He spent the next four days in solitude, staring at the paneling above him as he lay on his bunk and listened to the hammering of the shipbuilders.

  Charlie McPherson was the first to return. He had heard about Brent’s father and brother, and respected his captain’s privacy. But as the crew began to drift back, Charlie appeared at Brent’s door.

  “Won’t disturb you long, Captain, till we set out of here, that is. But we’ve been hearing some strange rumors in the taverns. I thought you might want to know about them.”

  “What is it, Charlie?” Brent asked wearily.

  “Seems we have some competition on the blockade. A Confederate schooner has been appearing from nowhere with no commissioned officers. The Yankees are saying she’s commanded by an Indian—and a woman. She’s blown four Union sloops, three schooners, and two frigates out of the water. All down in the South Florida waters. She’s bearing the name Rebel’s Pride.”

  Brent had been lying on his bunk. His feet suddenly slammed to the floor. “What?” he hissed.

  “Rumor’s got to be true, Captain. The old tars at the tavern were quoting right out of the Yank newspapers. And the Yanks are a little bit in awe—and mighty upset. There’s a hell of a bounty out on that ship. Perty near as high as the one on ours!”

  “Son of a bitch!” Brent thundered. “That little idiot! I don’t believe her! She has no conception of what warfare is all about. Where the hell did she get a ship? Or a crew? An Indian, huh? Damn Red Fox!”

  Charlie stood back in silence, wishing he hadn’t felt honor-bound to be the bearer of such tidings. Brent McClain seldom lost control of his temper, but when he did, all hell raged.

  Captain McClain paced the confines of the cabin, his gray eyes as fierce as a smoldering fire about to explode into blazing heat.

  Suddenly he stopped before his desk. “Are we ready to sail?”

  “Yes, sir. Crew’s all aboa
rd. We were supposed to go out with the dawn—”

  Brent strode determinedly past Charlie.

  “We’re sailing now. Dusk is a good time to run the blockade.” Halfway out of the door, Brent suddenly paused and slammed a fist into the paneling.

  “I’m going to kill her. Damn—I’m going to strangle her. She’s got to learn that she isn’t invincible and can’t run around like a damned fool—if I have to put her in chains to prove it!”

  Brent stalked out on deck, shouting orders.

  Charlie followed along, but he wasn’t about to remind Brent that he was a bit of a fool himself—joining up with the Army of Northern Virginia for a lethal battle and then storming through a Federal blockade as if it were a yacht race.

  Fools, Charlie thought. Fools and heroes. They were much the same.

  Chapter Sixteen

  October 1862

  “She’s gone, Kendall! The Rebel’s Pride is gone! He’s taken her!”

  Kendall’s eyes flew open, she stared numbly at Amy Armstrong who had burst open her bedroom door and brought her to a startled and confused awareness. Amy wrung her hands nervously while Kendall tried to blink the sleep from her eyes and comprehend the words being shouted at her.

  She had been dreaming, and in her pleasant dreams the war had been over; life had again become what it once was . . . long ago, so long ago. Cresthaven was the focus of her dream; the grand plantation house had loomed majestically beyond the miles and miles of cotton ready for harvest.

  In the dream she had walked along a trail with Brent, arm in arm, and though they bemoaned the lost past, it was with a soft nostalgia for the pain endured by both North and South. Their own future loomed beautifully before them.

  The glorious cause had become a reality; the Confederate States of America had survived. And she had been a part of it. Small, perhaps. But her determination to put to sea the abandoned Yankee schooner had been an important contribution to the war effort . . .

  “Gone!” Kendall gasped incredulously, throwing her covers from her and wrenching her mind away from the dream. “The ship is gone? Amy, what are you talking about? How could she just be gone? We have lookouts to guard her!”

  Amy opened her mouth to speak as Kendall stood up next to the bed, but she gasped instead as a man’s broad bronzed hands fell on her shoulders and firmly moved her out of the way. Kendall’s jaw dropped as Brent stepped into view and bodily removed Amy from the room.

  “I’ll explain the situation, if you don’t mind, Amy,” he murmured politely. Much too politely . . .

  He looked wonderful; just seeing him, hearing the low drawl of his voice made Kendall feel as if her blood heated, as if her entire form quivered inside and out. He was always on her mind, day in, day out. She lived for the few precious times when he would appear before her. She wanted to fly to him, throw her arms around him and hug and hold him and assure herself that he was real, cherish him.

  Instead, she froze where she stood, feeling as if the heat in her veins had suddenly been replaced by ice water.

  She had never seen him stare at her so coldly—or so furiously. And it was all the more terrible because it wasn’t a fit of sudden rage. He was calm, perfectly calm. And perfectly controlled. Yet she felt that if she touched him, he would feel like rock, cold and rigid.

  “Brent,” she murmured, trying to keep her voice from quivering, forcing herself to remain still and not back away from the calculated fury that hovered like an aura about him.

  Apparently Amy had decided to obey Brent—and desert Kendall. At any rate, she was gone.

  Brent stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

  Kendall didn’t want to admit it, but she was frightened of him. Truly frightened, as she had been when she had seen him in the swamp for the first time after the disaster in Charleston. More so, perhaps, because she knew him now.

  Knew him, and yet didn’t know him. What was the war doing to all of them? Did her own eyes ever mirror that look of pain beyond description? His eyes were so cold that she felt as if her heart had stopped.

  His anger was dispassionate, yet raw . . . and ruthless.

  Physically he hadn’t changed. He still wore his gray frock coat with the gold insignia and decoration with the same handsome cavalier effect. His mustache and beard needed a trim. The rugged angles and planes of his face appeared a little more gaunt than when she had last seen him. His lips were tightly compressed, but then she reflected sadly that she had more often seen him in anger than in laughter.

  No, her heart cried out. He loved her, she knew that he loved her. And when they had been together last her world had been full of splendor despite the war that raged.

  He hadn’t spoken yet, he was just staring at her, and as always, he had that explosive vitality about him, even as he stood still. In movement he exuded agility and power. Even immobile he still seemed to radiate an overwhelming passion.

  And she couldn’t move. All she could do was stand there and return his stare, and vaguely and sickly think that this wasn’t the way she had dreamed of seeing him again . . .

  At last she did move. Her fingers fluttered nervously to the throat of her high-collared white nightgown. And at last, through the shock of seeing him so, her mind began to function. Amy had been shouting about the Rebel’s Pride being gone, and now here was Brent, staring at her as if he were a king about to order an execution.

  Kendall shook off the fear that had gripped her and narrowed her eyes upon him. This was to be no tender reunion. And she’d be damned if she’d let him put her on the defensive with this unwarranted attack.

  “What did you do with my ship?” she demanded crisply.

  It was the spark that was needed to ignite all the smoldering fear and anger he had been burying beneath a calm facade all the way from Richmond.

  Maybe, if he had never been at Sharpsburg, never seen the blood flow in the water of Antietam Creek . . . Maybe, if he hadn’t seen his brother torn with shot, if he hadn’t been forced to leave Stirling with the Yankee surgeon, if his father hadn’t been among the missing . . .

  Maybe he could have behaved differently. Perhaps then he could have taken her into his arms and explained that he had already lost almost everything that he loved, and he couldn’t go on living if he were to lose her, too.

  He was shaking as he stalked across the room, his control shattered the defiant toss of her head and the coolness of her question. And he knew he hurt her when he gripped her arms, but he couldn’t ease his hold. He shook her as his eyes tore into the rebellious blue that met them, wanting to hurt, wanting to strip away the proud composure that could all too easily be her undoing on some distant day when he was too far away to fight for her.

  “You reckless little wench!” he hissed at her through clenched teeth. “If you want to get yourself killed, do so on your own! You’ve no right to kill old men and more Indians and a bunch of children in the process!”

  His grip on her was painful. Kendall’s first thought was self-preservation and escape. She brought her free hand against him, clawing at the fingers that ripped into her like iron talons. “Brent, stop it. Let go of me!”

  He did so, hurtling her from him with a force that sent her sprawling onto the bed. As she floundered to regain her balance, he paced toward the door again, stopping there and sweeping his hat from his head to rake his fingers through his hair. Kendall didn’t try to stand again. She fumbled against the material of her gown to come to her knees and back herself against the simply carved headboard of the bed.

  When he turned again she was ready to spring and run—or fight.

  “Do you ever,” he demanded heatedly, “stop to think of what you are doing?”

  Suddenly everything seemed to well up inside her—the waiting, the striving, the fighting . . . the dreaming. He was her world. He and a vague, intangible fantasy that faded daily—the South.

  Without them, there was no future. Only the bleak ashes of a burned-out existence.


  She had been compelled to fight the Yankees. As wonderful a man as Travis was—and she knew many other decent men who wore blue—she had to fight. Because she could never forgive all that had been done to her. The lash marks on her back had slowly vanished, but they would never disappear from her heart. Nor would she ever, as long as she lived, forget Apolka’s screams . . . or how helplessly she had stood as children died all around her.

  “I know precisely what I’m doing, Captain McClain!” she enunciated with crisp, slow wrath. “And I ask you again, what have you done with my ship?”

  He offered her a dry, grim smile, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning a shoulder nonchalantly against the door. “So you do admit it’s your ship?”

  Kendall hesitated. “I don’t captain her, if that’s what you mean. But she is mine. I found her, and I saved her.”

  “And you sail aboard her?”

  “Not always. Only when we stay close by and pick off the enemies who stumble into the area. Harry and Red Fox sometimes take her farther out, and Harry is officially her captain. Damn you, Brent! You act as if I were fighting for the other side.”

  “I see,” he interrupted smoothly. “It’s all for the war effort.”

  “Of course, you idiot, what did you think?”

  He lifted a brow; the muscles about his jaw constricted, but he made no reference to the name she had called him. “Then,” he said smoothly, striding toward her, “you certainly shouldn’t mind that the ship is being officially turned over to the Confederacy?”

  The color drained from her face as she realized exactly what he had done. Then a fury like a brush fire seemed to take hold of her. He was always gone. Always. And he had the nerve to sail back in and interfere with her life without even speaking to her first.

  “Yes, I do mind!” she hissed, not caring that he came ever closer to her. “I mind tremendously! I mind that—Brent! Stop—”

  His hands had clamped over her shoulders, wrenching her from her rigid pose against the headboard and swinging her onto her back, across his body, so that her hips lay on his lap and he was pressing her shoulders to the bed while leaning over her to deliver a staccato lecture.

 

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