Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  But there were times when even she could not shake off the misery of prison life. Half the men were suffering from dysentery and scurvy. Rations were so lean that few had the strength to shake off illness when it struck. The death toll was horrendous.

  At six o’clock each morning, the buglers sounded reveille. The prisoners were lined up in the yard and roll was called. No one dared move out of line; sick or weak prisoners were held up by their friends. Infractions of the rules were harshly punished. An unwary word could sentence a man to hours astride a “Morgan’s mule”—a large sawhorse set behind the barracks. The guards also used solitary confinement and ration-cutting, which could be fatal, to punish offenders.

  Although the commander of Camp Douglas was known to be a cruel man, the majority of the Yankee guards were not. They were forced to run the place by their commander’s rules, yet it was not true brutality on their part that created misery for the prisoners. The true misery resulted from the overcrowding, the hunger, and the rampant disease.

  After roll call, the prisoners were generally left alone. The kinder jailors sometimes brought them newspapers and, occasionally, letters from home. Kendall spent many of her days avidly reading and rereading the papers. She read them aloud to the few Georgia Regulars who had never learned to read. By the time she had been in the prison for a month, she had become their official reader. Each time a paper became available, the men would form a crescent about her, and all of them would listen as she read.

  The end of July brought them sad news. Kendall’s voice trembled as she read to her fellows that Vicksburg had fallen. Pemberton had officially surrendered to Grant on the Fourth of July. And worse than that, the Fourth of July had marked the end of another battle—a battle in a tiny little town in south-central Pennsylvania called Gettysburg. General Robert E. Lee had been forced back. Both Rebels and Yankees had suffered terrible death tolls during the battles that raged from the first to the fourth.

  An ironic Independence Day for both nations . . .

  Everyone was solemn when Kendall’s voice at last faded away, the final word of print having been read. Silently they broke their cluster, ambling in different directions to find what solitude they could within their own minds.

  Kendall sat against the wall with her knees hugged to her body. She rested her head on her arm and tried to understand the numbness that assailed her. She wanted to feel . . . she wanted to hurt for all the thousands who had died at Gettysburg.

  But she couldn’t seem to feel anything at all. The war was numbing her heart to tragedy.

  She felt a presence near her and lifted her head as Beau Randall sank down beside her. “You all right?” he asked gently.

  She nodded.

  “Sure?”

  Kendall grimaced. “I think I have lice.”

  Beau laughed. “Probably. If you don’t, it’s a miracle—living with us as you are. We’re all infested!”

  Kendall smiled for a moment, then frowned. “Beau, aren’t the two sides exchanging prisoners anymore? Is there any hope that we’ll get out of here?”

  He sighed. “I’m afraid there’s very little hope. General Grant is afraid we’d all wind up right back in the front line and that he’d have to eradicate the entire southern population to win the war. He knows his own boys are suffering badly in our prisons. Hell, he even knows a lot of them will die. But he can reinforce his ranks without calling in released prisoners; Robert E. Lee can’t do that.”

  “Then there’s no hope,” Kendall whispered.

  “There is hope, Kendall. There’s always hope. A lot of these Yanks are human; they’re not fond of seeing us sicken and starve. I’d be willing to bet a number of them could be bribed—if any of us had anything to bribe them with. I . . .”

  Beau’s sentence trailed away as they both turned to the door of their barracks. They could hear the heavy lock grating. Curiously they glanced at the Union soldier who entered.

  “Mrs. Moore!” His eyes ran across the lethargic prisoners until they came to rest on Kendall. “Note for you, Mrs. Moore.”

  Frowning, Kendall stood and took the note from the Federal guard. He spun on his heel to leave the second she had it in her hand.

  Beau stood beside her. “What is it?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” she murmured, slitting the envelope.

  Dizziness swept through her as she saw her husband’s precise scrawl:

  “What is it?” Beau demanded again as he saw Kendall’s complexion turn as pale as snow. She sagged against him, and he grasped the paper from her fingers. Quickly his eyes scanned the words. “Kendall, you’re going to get out of here. This is wonderful.”

  She shook her head, unable to speak. “You . . . you don’t understand,” she at last murmured. “He’ll . . . he’ll kill me!”

  “No, Kendall, no man could be angry enough to kill you! Surely he understands your feelings. Brothers have fought brothers in this war. Sons have fought their own fathers.”

  Kendall shook her head. “John is no ordinary man. He doesn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘mercy.’”

  Suddenly she was crying on his shoulder again, and as he tried to soothe her, she discovered herself pouring out her life story. She told him about her flight to Charleston—so long ago now!—and she told him about Red Fox and the Indians—and all about Brent.

  “Brent McClain?” Beau asked a little incredulously.

  Kendall didn’t notice the tone of his voice. She nodded.

  “By reputation,” Beau murmured, “he’s quite a man. And”—his voice softened—“it sounds as if he’s very much in love with you.”

  Kendall laughed bitterly through her tears. “Not so much in love, Beau. He walked out on me.”

  “Kendall, he’s a naval officer. He had to follow orders.” Beau hesitated a moment, frowning. “McClain . . . There’s a McClain here. Lieutenant Stirling McClain.”

  “It must be his brother,” Kendall murmured, glad to hear that he was alive—for the time being, at least. “He was wounded very seriously at Sharpsburg last year.”

  “Well, he looks all right—as all right as any of us,” Beau added with a grimace. “I’ve spoken to him a few times. They send the Georgia and Florida boys out to exercise together occasionally.”

  “I’m glad he’s well,” Kendall whispered. “A . . . a friend told me he was wounded . . . and she also told me that their father was reported missing. Assumed dead, I imagine. I’m so glad Stirling recovered.”

  Beau placed his hands on her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Kendall, you told me that Brent left you shortly after he returned from Sharpsburg. Honey, don’t you know how he must have felt just then? I can tell you what he was thinking.”

  “What?” Kendall asked listlessly.

  “Brent had just lost his father, and his brother. He couldn’t bear the thought of you being killed, too—or captured, as you have been. Sharpsburg was a horrible battle, Kendall. A bloodbath. It’s no wonder he was furious with you for taking so many risks. He couldn’t stand to lose you, too. He left because he did love you—but couldn’t guarantee that you wouldn’t throw yourself back into the fray.”

  Kendall shrugged. “I doubt it. It’s been almost a year since I’ve seen him. I doubt if he still remembers what I look like. Hah! I doubt if he’d recognize me now. Even my mother wouldn’t know me now.” She sniffed with bitterness. “He never came back . . . and I didn’t try to throw myself into the fray again. I became a nurse—behind the lines, like a good female. It was pure chance that gave me to the Yankees . . . Oh, what does it matter?” she sighed tonelessly. Her tears had made her so tired that she couldn’t seem to care about anything. She leaned against Beau’s shoulder, and closed her eyes. “At least,” she whispered, “you understand now why John will . . . kill me.”

  “Don’t give up hope, Kendall,” he whispered vaguely, staring blankly across the room. “Never give up hope. We’ll think of something. I promise.”

  “It doesn�
�t really matter,” she said. And as she leaned against him in her despair, it didn’t. War and hunger and disease were her only reality. And John . . . John as dangerous as war and hunger . . . and disease. There was nothing for her.

  Once there had been. A silver time of hope and happiness. . .

  Brent. She could still see him in her mind’s eye so clearly . . . so painfully, agonizingly clearly. And she still loved him. With all her heart and soul—but she was certain she would never see him again.

  John Moore was coming for her. And she was suddenly praying that her days at Camp Douglas could go on forever.

  “I’m so tired, Beau. So tired.”

  “Rest,” he told her softly. Beau Randall didn’t say anything else. He let her fall asleep against his shoulder.

  When she was in a sound, exhausted slumber, he gently lowered her head to the floor. He found the note, which had fluttered to the floor, then inquired softly among the men for a piece of graphite. He didn’t have much space to write, so he chose his words carefully.

  When he had completed the task to his satisfaction, he ran his fingers in a nimble search over his shirt. Sewn into the lining of a tiny pocket he found what he sought. His last gold piece. Holding it carefully in the palm of his hand, he sat and stared at the door, waiting for the night guard. He was the kindest of the jailors, and the father of six; he was always in need of money. And if a lot more could be promised, Beau reckoned, his note stood a good chance of getting through.

  He could only pray that it got through in time. Yet even if it did, he asked himself, what good could it do? Brent McClain was a naval genius—but not a magician. How in heaven and earth could McClain possibly get Kendall out of a Union prison? The Yankees would probably shoot him on sight.

  The Florida Keys

  August 18, 1863

  The schooner was running with the wind, heeling hard to the starboard and disappearing rapidly behind the island.

  Travis Deland cursed his luck as he stared at the spot of blue ocean and blue sky where the vessel had been.

  He sensed a trap. He hadn’t had a chance to see the ship’s name, and she hadn’t been flying a flag. If he had any sense, he’d turn back.

  He sighed. The orders had been adamant: Stop the blockade runners—at all costs.

  If all supplies could be kept out of the starving South, the North could win the war. But too many daring captains were running past the Union ships among the miles and miles of islands and the wild coastline of Florida. And Florida was now supplying the Confederate armies with most of their beef and salt.

  “Commander?” Lieutenant Hanson, at the wheel, queried.

  Travis shook his head, then sighed deeply a second time. “Chase the schooner, Lieutenant. What the hell! At worst we’ll all be killed. But God forbid we let the enemy escape.”

  Travis stood tensely as they took the vessel about and set off in the wake of the schooner. He could too clearly remember another day like this. A day when he had fallen right into a trap set by Brent McClain . . .

  They rounded the tip of the island. Immediately he saw the schooner dead ahead. And just as immediately, he felt the shuddering grate as his keel scraped over a coral reef.

  Damn! he thought furiously. He had let the Rebel captain lure him into another trap. He barked an order to his crew and stared across the water at the elusive schooner.

  She was flying a white flag. Travis frowned and squinted against the bright summer sun. The name of the schooner had been painted over, and she was flying no flag except the white one. Surely not for surrender!

  Truce? He studied the lines of the ship, and his heart began to beat heavily within his chest. It had to be the Jenni-Lyn. McClain’s ship.

  “Lower a boat,” he rasped out quickly.

  “Yes, sir. Shall I accompany you, sir?” Hanson asked.

  “No, I’ll go alone.”

  “Sir, it could be a dangerous privateer.”

  Travis laughed dryly. “The captain of that ship is the most dangerous man I know, Lieutenant. But not to me—not at this moment.”

  Fifteen minutes later he was facing Brent McClain.

  The southerner was shirtless—bronzed and lean and wire-muscled. The deepening lines around his steel-gray eyes were the only visible ravages of the war he fought.

  McClain’s men stood silently by as Travis climbed aboard the ship. Brent McClain offered his hand to Travis as he boarded. Ridiculously, Travis felt as if he were greeting an old friend.

  “Come to my cabin,” Brent said briefly. Then he turned quickly—not so much to lead the way as to control the sudden shaking that had gripped him.

  He had been terrified that he wouldn’t be able to find Deland in time.

  The message from Camp Douglas hadn’t reached him until the tenth of August. Mercifully he had just come back into Richmond. God! What would have happened if he’d been in London or in the Bahamas or somewhere out in the Gulf? He didn’t want to think about it. He had been in Richmond. And he had made the Keys in three days’ time with the Federals breathing down his neck all the way. It had taken him another five days of sweating worry that bordered on panic to seek out and corner Travis Deland . . . and this was just the beginning. He couldn’t panic. Everything had to move as smoothly as clockwork.

  He almost took his cabin door off the hinges as he opened it. Then he forced himself to take a deep breath and step inside.

  When they were seated, Brent astounded Travis by tossing him a crumpled, dirty, and often folded note. Travis frowned as he tried to decipher the scrawls on it. He stiffened as he saw John’s handwriting—and read the words. Then his brow furrowed as he read the message that had been added in another hand:

  Travis threw the note on the table, shaken. “When did you get that?” he demanded hoarsely. “I’d heard that Kendall was in Vicksburg. They didn’t take prisoners when the city surrendered.”

  “From what I understand,” Brent said flatly, “she was taken before the surrender. A Dr. Armstrong was expecting some morphine to be smuggled in. They saw the boat they expected, but no one was rowing it.” He shrugged and exhaled slowly. “You know Kendall. She swam out to get it. And two Yank soldiers were aboard.”

  Travis picked up the note and stared at it again. He swallowed. “Maybe John has changed. I haven’t seen him in nearly a year. He’s been assigned to the Mississippi—”

  Brent McClain interrupted him with a sharp and explosive expletive. “You know as well as I do that he’ll kill her—or worse—if he gets hold of her again.”

  Travis made no denial. “This note says that your brother is in Camp Douglas, too.”

  “Yes.”

  Travis exhaled a long breath. “I’m not sure what I can do. This may come as a surprise to you, but Abe Lincoln is a kind and gentle man. He visited Capital Prison in Washington and was horrified. I’m sure he believes he’s doing Kendall a favor by ordering she be released to her husband. I have no authority whatsoever over John. There would be no way for me to secure her release when—”

  “I don’t want you to secure her release. I want you to take me into Camp Douglas as your prisoner.”

  “What? You’re crazy, McClain. How will that help? You’ll be in prison, and John will be able to walk off with Kendall—”

  “Getting out will be my problem,” Brent interjected smoothly. “Just get me into the right place. And lend me a handful of gold coins; my Confederate money is worthless. I’ll manage the rest. I’ll come with you now. Charlie McPherson will sail my ship away.”

  “But, McClain, I’m not the senior officer at Fort Taylor. The captain might decide to send you to another prison.”

  Brent raised a sardonic brow. “Aren’t the Yankees also trying to prove their honor.”

  Travis stiffened. “The captain is an honorable man.”

  “Then he will surely understand that you gave me your word when I surrendered that I would be sent to Fort Douglas—to join my brother.”

  “I just hope
someone doesn’t shoot you on the way,” Travis muttered.

  Brent laughed. “I think I have more faith in Union civility than you do, Deland. Let’s get out of here. We haven’t much time.”

  * * *

  Kendall sat in a corner of the yard, staring at the men as they walked for exercise, but not seeing them.

  Despite Beau’s determination to cheer her, she couldn’t rouse herself to even a semblance of energy.

  She simply didn’t care anymore. There was no way out of Fort Douglas; she was doomed. As each day passed, the time came nearer when John Moore would appear and take her . . .

  So many men had died in the war. Why not John?

  She despised the fact that she could wish for a man to die. But she did. Just as she cringed each time the barracks door swung open and booted feet entered. Just as she shivered when anyone, even Beau, came near her.

  “Kendall? Excuse me, but you must be Mrs. Moore.”

  Kendall saw that the dusty feet by her side were bare. She looked from the feet up the legs and torso of the man and swallowed with a start. His hair was dark, and he was pathetically lean—but there was one feature that was heart-wrenchingly familiar.

  Gray eyes . . . No, they were blue, but with that touch of storm clouds in them . . .

  “I’m sorry,” the man murmured hastily, bending down to her. Stirling McClain was alarmed at the pallor in the woman’s fragile features. She looked like a madwoman to him at first—red-blond hair a wild tangle to her waist, the color dull and lifeless, her dress ragged and worn, her complexion parchment frail.

  But beneath the prison dirt and tattered rags, he could now see a delicate and stunning beauty. He saw it in the teal-blue eyes that stared at him with alarm. He saw it beneath the smudges of dirt on her high cheekbones, and in her petal-soft lips.

  “I’m sorry,” Stirling repeated. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Stirling McClain.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “You . . . you look like Brent.”