Tomorrow the Glory

by Heather Graham

  John! They had all forgotten him in the melee, they had assumed him dead. He should have been dead, oh, dear, God, didn’t the man ever die!?

  The fight between Travis and Brent had come to an end. In silence they both stood. Lolly, pale faced, hovered behind the pair. Red Fox, as still as the others, stood by her side. They had all of them forgotten John, presumed him dead.

  But now he stood. Half dead perhaps, but with enough life in him to threaten Kendall’s own.

  “You bloody bastards!” John hissed, glaring at them all, his eyes lighting with a fixed fury on Travis. “All of you—bloody bastards!”

  Brent took a step forward, his eyes dark smoke, his features tense. “Let her go! Now!”

  “Ah, so there he is at last, the bold, the reckless, the daring, the magnificent Captain McClain!” John mocked. “Seducer of other men’s wives! Well, sir, mine will not be worth much when I have finished with her, I do assure you! But then, again, she is mine! Mine, you god-damn Rebel! And now, she is coming home, with me.”

  The knife was shaking in his hands. Kendall didn’t dare breathe. She could almost feel it scraping her vein, cutting down to draw blood . . .

  “John!” Travis cried out. “For the love of God, let her go! I’m the one—”

  “Ah, yes! There he stands, my lifelong friend! The man who stabbed me in the back! There will be a time to settle old scores with you as well, Travis. But for now, well, Kendall is going to have my full attention. I’m not going to kill her. Not unless you force me to. So keep your distance. My wife is coming home. Into my ever-loving and tender embrace! She’ll never be the same again, Reb. I promise. You loved her face once, eh? Look well now! Her breasts were beautiful, well, I knew that, too . . . but then again, they will never be the same. Maybe I’ll let you see her again some time, Reb. Maybe we’ll all meet up again—in hell!”

  He started to back away, toward the boats, dragging Kendall along with him. She almost didn’t dare breathe. But even as John began to move, a sound like a low growl suddenly seemed to grow like thunder in the hammock.

  And suddenly, Brent was flying after her. Moving like mercury, seeming to fling himself across the space between them with the force and impetus of a tiger. He made his reckless, desperate leap with precision, hurling against John, and knocking him from Kendall to the ground.

  John Moore let out a roar of fury, trying to slam the knife into Brent’s chest. Kendall screamed, but Brent hadn’t needed the warning. He caught hold of John’s wrist and slammed it down hard against the ground. The knife flew from John’s grasp, sliding into the dirt. Brent drew back a fist, knotting tight in fury, and slammed it into John’s face. He stared down at John Moore with glazed gray eyes, with stone-cold, tense features and started to strike him again.

  Kendall suddenly screamed out in horror again, running to him, sliding down to her knees in the dirt. “Brent, Brent!”

  She didn’t want John Moore to live. She had wanted to kill him herself so many times.

  But she couldn’t bear to watch Brent beat him to death. If he finished the task, something would die within both of them as well.

  “Brent, he’s down, he’s no danger. Brent . . .”

  She couldn’t even voice what she meant to say. It was the same thing she had felt the day when she had seen him and the others go after the woman who had given them the poisoned pie. Perhaps John deserved to die for his deeds just as the woman had deserved to die for hers. But she didn’t want Brent to have to be judge and jury. Not like this.

  Brent stared at her. It seemed as if eons passed, as if everyone else in the hammock was dead still, as if even the breeze waited. Then she knew that he understood what she couldn’t really explain herself. He sighed. He reached out a hand, stroking her cheek. “God, I love you,” he said softly.

  He rose, took her hand, and drew her up beside him. He started to walk away with her, away from the man who had caused them so much pain, then they both paused, frozen, as a sudden, violent splash of silver arced past them.

  They heard a gasp, and spun back together.

  John had been rising—going for the knife in the dirt. His eyes, his mouth were bloodied and swollen; he hadn’t cared. He had meant to kill someone—her or Brent, Kendall would never know.

  But he had never reached the knife. The hilt of a blade now rose from dead center in his chest, from his heart. Dark crimson stained his uniform, and continued to pump from his now still form, then stopped.

  Red Fox walked past Lolly and Travis and Brent and Kendall. He stood over the corpse. John was dead this time; indisputably dead. But it didn’t matter. Red Fox knelt down and drew the knife from his heart, and slammed it into the corpse again, hard. “The first for Apolka, my wife, my life. The second for my son. My blood.”

  Then he rose.

  Brent now stood before Travis. “Deland,” he said huskily. “I do beg your pardon. But now, sir, please get the hell out of our domain before—”

  “Brent!” Kendall cried urgently. “It isn’t our domain. Brent, it’s over. The war is over.”

  He stared at her. Blinked. Stared at Travis. Shook his head.

  “Kendall—”

  “General Lee has surrendered!” she insisted. “Travis, tell him, convince him!”

  Brent stared at Travis again, hard. Travis nodded solemnly. “I swear it, McClain,” Travis said. “Lee surrendered at Appomattox Courthouse on the ninth.”

  Brent inhaled and exhaled. He still stood as straight as a poker, but he dropped Kendall’s hand. His fingers knotted into his palms, white-knuckled.

  “Lee isn’t the only general. Surely, Kirby-Smith is still fighting in the western arena. It isn’t over. It can’t be over. Damn it, can’t be over, it’s been too many years, too many lives, too much blood!”

  “Too much blood, too many lives!” Kendall agreed, pleading. “Brent, please, it’s over!”

  There was a silence in the hammock. Then Lolly’s baby began to cry.

  Brent paused just a moment longer, then started walking toward the boats. He didn’t seem to see anything; he walked like a blind man.

  “McClain!” Travis called out. “I’m authorized to offer a pardon to any Rebels who cast down their arms!”

  Brent paused, then kept on walking for the boats. Kendall started to race after him, but Red Fox caught her arm. “Let him be,” he said softly. “He loves you; he would have gladly died for you. In time, he will live for you. Let him accept that the fighting is done. Then he will listen to you.”

  Kendall stood still, watching as Brent rowed away, her own heart feeling as if it had been torn asunder. She vaguely heard Lolly pick up her crying infant and address Travis with undisguised hostility. “Well, Yank, what have your friends done to the settlement?”

  “Nothing!” he snapped. “I told you the war is over. I ordered my men to withdraw.”

  Lolly walked toward the rowboat that had brought them to the hammock. “An Indian and a Yankee,” she muttered. “Kendall, we may as well go home—if the Yankee is telling the truth and we have a home.”

  “I’m telling the truth,” Travis insisted, his own animosity aroused and the shield of his gallantry thin indeed.

  “Kendall?” Lolly queried again.

  “Not yet,” Kendall murmured. She felt no sorrow that John was dead, but she knew that she and Travis would have to bury him.

  “Well, then,” Lolly murmured. “I guess I’m stuck with the Indian.”

  Red Fox laughed. “You should take care with savages, Golden-Woman,” he said calmly. “But, for your sister, I will take you back.”

  Kendall watched the two as they settled in the boat. Then she turned to Travis. “You came to save my life, and I know what it cost you.”

  Travis shrugged, but lowered his lashes over his eyes. “John should have died long ago. He hasn’t really lived in years. But he was, at one time, my friend. I pray that he is at peace at last.”

  “Yes,” Kendall murmured.

  T
hey set to work, digging with an oar and the water pail. They buried John, and with him they buried the past.

  And when they had at last fashioned a cross above the body, they turned to the one remaining boat. And as they rowed back to the settlement, they spoke of the future.

  * * *

  She found Brent at the cove, as she had expected. He was staring out at the sea. She knew he heard her, but he gave no sign.

  Kendall sat down beside him. He didn’t look her way, and he didn’t speak. At length she leaned her head against his shoulder and stared out at the night sea along with him. “I love you,” she said softly.

  A shudder rippled through him. At last he put an arm around her. “The South is lost, Kendall. The war was all for nothing. We have nothing.”

  Kendall trembled at the despair in his voice. She placed her hands on his shoulders and knelt before him in the sand, forcing his steel-hard gaze to hers.

  “Brent, we have everything.”

  “Everything!” he exclaimed. “Kendall, I have nothing! South Seas is gone, and I haven’t a cent except for Confederate paper that’s fit only to start a fire. The old way of life is gone, too. The South is gone.”

  “Not gone!” Kendall protested. “The land is still here, Brent. Yes, it will have to build anew, but it’s here! And we’re here, Brent. Oh, Brent, we have lost—but we have also won. We’re here, we’re alive. And I love you, Brent. Touch me, Brent! I’m alive, and I need you. And at last we can have something—something real, something forever.” She clasped his hand, and brought it to nestle between her breasts where her heart was pounding out its beat of life. A sob caught in her throat. “Dear God, Brent, it is over—but we can begin! Please, please . . .”

  She collapsed against him, sobbing brokenly. She had lost him along with the war. He could not accept the defeat. He would leave her again, go west to seek out the Rebels who were still fighting.

  But after a long moment, she felt his fingers lightly on her hair. Absently, he began to stroke her.

  “Kendall, I have nothing to offer you now. Not even a home. I don’t even know where the Jenni-Lyn is.”

  “I never had anything until I had you,” Kendall whispered. “We can build a home right here. Travis said that little will happen here. No one cares much about a small settlement on the outskirts of a swamp.” She hesitated a moment, but grew bolder as his touch lingered possessively on her. “Travis is interested in building a port and starting a shipping business here.”

  “You’re asking me to go into business with a Yankee?” Brent flared, his fingers knotting angrily into her hair.

  Kendall winced, but replied with dignity. “No, I’m asking you to consider the proposition of a man who has been a friend to both of us through everything.”

  She felt him stiffen and then relax. She lifted her head from his chest and wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand as she met his eyes. They were steel-gray as he scowled, but he reached out to cup her chin in his palm. “All right, I’ll consider it.”

  “Oh, Brent!” Kendall breathed happily, throwing herself against him so that they both fell backward to the sand. She kissed him quickly, before he could protest or turn her aside. His lips were cold and stiff at first, but then his arms wrapped around her, and his mouth formed to hers. Life and warmth and desire came to him, and his lips caressed and subtly savored hers. When she drew away, the hint of a grin had replaced his scowl. “I love you, little Reb,” he murmured, his arms still tight around her and his voice husky. “Maybe we do have everything. I will always have the courage and beauty of the South—as long as I have you.”

  “Oh, Brent,” Kendall murmured, leaning her cheek against his chest and feeling the heat and strength of him beneath her fingertips. They lay there awhile beneath the sea grapes and palms, savoring the peace and beauty of the night. Then she spoke again. “Brent, Travis made me another offer.”

  “Oh?”

  She felt his muscles go rigid, and she couldn’t resist a secret grin and an urge to draw out the moment. “Yes . . .”

  “Kendall!” His arms grew warningly tight about her.

  She lifted dazzlingly blue eyes to his. “He offered to marry the two of us aboard his ship. It’s quite legal for him to do so.”

  Brent laughed, and Kendall knew at last that all of their battles were truly over. It would take some time to rebuild their land, and their souls, but true peace was with them.

  “Sounds like a good offer,” he murmured, drawing her close. She allowed him a kiss, but then tried to squirm away.

  “Brent, he’ll marry us tonight if you like.”

  “I like.”

  “Well?” she demanded.

  He drew her closer, gray eyes heavy and sensual. “Soon,” he murmured. “Before I become a married man, I want one last hour beneath the moon with the hoyden who propositioned me all those years ago.”

  Kendall compressed her lips, but slowly grinned, succumbing to the pressure of his arms. The moon was beautiful . . . and they did need this time together . . . a gentle time. A time to begin the healing . . .

  * * *

  Two hours later, Brent McClain became a married man. Both Rebels and Yankees were in attendance; their respective commanders had ordered them to be civil. And so they stood near one another; blue coats and tattered gray.

  The tension was terrible when they first met. Yankees who blamed the Rebels for the years of hardship. Rebels who could not accept the fact that it was over, that the death and bloodshed and destruction had been for nothing . . .

  But as God was called upon to witness the marriage, something intangible was brought into being that could not merge blue and gray, but somehow brought home to all of them that the war was truly over at last. The earth had begun to renew itself; it was spring. They didn’t have to kill strangers any longer. They could go home.

  And when the brief ceremony was over, the men began to mix. They were stiff, there was hostility about them . . . but they were talking about what their lives would be like without war. The more they talked, the more anxious they were for peace to begin.

  Brent and Kendall went out on the deck of Travis’s ship. The spring breeze cooled them, the smell of the sea was fresh and pungent about them. Kendall pointed across the mouth of the river as she leaned contentedly against him. “Look, Brent.”

  The Rebel’s Pride stood at anchor, listing gently in the light current. She was indeed a proud lady as she stood before them, a beautiful silhouette in the night, her masts raised high against the moon. In a strange way, Kendall thought peacefully, it was as if the ship were trying to remind her that all was not really lost. Pride and honor and courage belonged to men and women, not just to the struggling nation that had died in infancy. Pride, honor, and courage were intangible, but she and Brent could hold on to them nonetheless, just as they had held on to their love.

  He rested his chin on the top of her head, and she felt his slow smile. Did his thoughts run along with hers? She was certain that they did.

  “I’m going to keep that ship somehow,” he told her.

  And somehow, she knew that he would.

  Epilogue

  December 1865

  The night was dark, the weather cold and damp. There was little holiday spirit about Charleston; the city was being hit hard by the laws of Reconstruction. It was here that the first state had seceded, here that the first shots of the war had been fired.

  Painfully, men and women were beginning to put the war behind them. They defied the repercussions against the South, which had been doubled since the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Many of the stalwart men who had made up one of the finest and most tenacious fighting forces of all time were beginning to look to the business of living once more.

  One of these men stood on the wall of the Battery, his rugged face turned seaward, his powerful work-roughened hands stuffed into the pockets of his frock coat. He was a southerner; he would always be a southerner. But he had risen above defea
t; he was determined the South would build anew. It would be different. Nostalgia would often plague him. But he would work for the future, and he would form it with his own hands.

  His steel-gray eyes were focused broodingly on the water as he thought of the years passed. The war had begun here. The loss had begun here . . . but so had all that was shimmeringly beautiful in his life. All that was good. All that was his future.

  He smiled, wondering if she would ever fully understand that she was his strength. She thought him indomitable. He wasn’t. But when he had almost surrendered to despair, she had been there, giving him back beauty; giving him back the ideal of honor and pride with which to live.

  It was cold on the Battery. Why he continued to stare seaward, facing the brisk breeze of winter, he didn’t know. He should be seeking shelter inside the comfortable master cabin aboard the Pride. A stiff shot of bourbon would warm him . . .

  Something, some slight movement, attracted his attention northward along the Battery.

  A woman stood there, a silhouette framed by the harbor light and the glow of the moon. She was too far away for him to have actually heard her; the movement alone must have caught his eye.

  She stood perfectly still now, her eyes on the sea.

  Smiling, he hurried toward her.

  “Madam,” he began, and she spun to face him with a dazzling smile curving her full rose-colored lips. He slipped his arms around her, and thought for the thousandth time that she was incredibly beautiful. Stunning blue eyes as dark and turbulent as the night sea met his, eyes that hypnotized, framed by lashes of deepest midnight velvet.

  “Why are you standing here?” he queried huskily, keeping his arm securely about her shoulder as he led her along the Battery toward the ship.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured, “just reflecting, I suppose. Oh, Brent! Charleston has changed so sadly!”

  His arm tightened about her. “Gaping wounds take time to heal, Kendall.”

  “I know. I just wish Lolly hadn’t been determined to return.”