Had Hargreaves led the gang that burned Clarkston and carried away her uncle? Would he truly go to such lengths for vengeance against her? If Hargreaves had been in that raiding party, he knew a lot more about her than she’d suspected. It was only a matter of time before he caught up to her again.
She took a quavering breath and gazed up at the last dead leaves rattling on the branch of a white oak. A sharp gust plucked them off and whirled them toward the rumbling thunderclouds. Where were the angels singing on high? It was Christmas day, a time for family and feasting. Not funerals.
Jesse stood next to her, ashen-faced, clutching the family Bible. On her other side, Nate sat cross-legged at the grave’s edge, grasping fistfuls of dirt and watching them shower through his fingers.
This little burial was far from the elaborate funerals Delia had found so impressive in New York. Only four mourners attended her interment. An empty cargo crate acted as her coffin while the wind wailed a sorrowful requiem.
C.C. put her arm around Jesse’s shoulder and gazed about the fenced family graveyard. Her grandparents, aunt and cousin lay nearby. Weeds and bramble roamed about her ancestors’ graves and spread the fragrance of decay and moist vegetation. Gray-green moss clung to the marble headstones rendering them nearly illegible.
The captain tied a rope to the oak tree and lowered her mother’s coffin into the hole. After climbing down to lay the crate square, he heaved himself up over the side and dusted himself off. “May I have the Bible now, lad?” he said gently.
Jesse quickly flipped to the marked page.
Captain Tollier held the open Bible in one hand, stepped between C.C. and Jesse, and put his arm around her shoulder. He began reading in his deep soothing rumble.
She laid her head against his shoulder. What would she have done if Captain Tollier hadn’t insisted on accompanying her to Clarkston? He’d helped her in so many ways. Not for the first time did she imagine them husband and wife. With her little cousins, now her wards, sitting at their feet, it felt like the four of them were a family.
As the captain’s words resonated in her ear, she could no longer hold back her wretchedness. Tears—those useless, embarrassing drops of misery—began to ooze from her eyes.
She gazed down into the grave. The little shell inside the crate wasn’t her mother, not really, not anymore. The woman who greeted her yesterday had been distilled down to the strongest remnants of her nature—spikes of steel and jagged glass.
Her real mother died to her on a bustling New York City dock a decade before. If they’d had more time, would she have been able to jog Delia’s memory for more answers? C.C. had written countless letters apologizing, hoping to mend the rift, but her mother would not relent. Forgiveness would not be granted until she married a titled Englishman.
Now it was too late.
Bagging a lord, as one annoying reprobate declared, had been doomed from the start. English aristocratic standards did not make allowances for the likes of C.C. After a London newspaper picked up the New York insane asylum article about her, the only titled bachelors who’d stepped forward were knaves and blackguards. Gentlemen of merit gave her a wide berth.
Spurned suitors gleefully circulated the story. She knew they’d only been after her money and considered her the inconvenient baggage attached to it. After she and Amelia made several unsuccessful attempts to silence the stories, a strange rebellion fomented inside. She decided if she was stuck with the stain, she might as well put it to use. Her mother probably would have been horrified by her occasional mischief.
She snuffled. A weak smile quivered at her lips, followed by a hiccup. She had to stop this. Not one thing in her life had ever been solved with tears.
The captain gently pressed his kerchief into her hand and gazed at her with concern.
“Nate,” he said in his caring low rumble. “Will you please pass around the posies?”
Nate had made little bouquets of dried flowers, berries and leaves. He got to his feet and handed everyone a posy.
“Shall we all bow our heads and say a prayer for Auntie Delia?” the captain intoned.
Nate took her hand, pinched his eyes closed and wrinkled up his face in concentration.
The captain waited until C.C. met his sympathetic gaze. He gave her shoulder a light squeeze, closed his eyes and bowed his head. After a moment he said quietly, “Please pray with me. ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.’”
The boys’ little voices hummed along in indistinct syllables.
A heavy draft blew through the trees making them creak and moan. Her mother’s rasping voice seemed to echo in the sound. “Promise me you will raise Jesse and Nate and keep them safe.”
“I promise, Mama,” C.C. whispered. She might not have been able to accomplish her mother’s other ambitions, but raising her two little cousins was something she could do.
A lock of hair broke free from her hat. She watched it dance on the current of air and felt lighter, as if a burden had lifted from her shoulders.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” the captain recited.
Flurries of wind bent the tall trees on one side of the graveyard. The chill scent of pine worked its way through her senses and sparked an insight: this journey’s true purpose hadn’t been about her or her mother. It had been about C.C.’s little cousins. They were the ones needing rescuing. She could give them a far better life in England—plenty to eat, a safe home, a good education and all the other extras a child needed.
“Forever. Amen.” The captain held out his posy.
She looked down at the small crate at the bottom of the grave and dropped her bouquet. There was nothing more she could do to bridge the chasm with her mother.
The captain turned and took her hand. “I’m sorry you didn’t have more time with her. You did your best. I suspect she held on so she could see you one last time.”
C.C. bit her quivering lip. Above, clouds stirred, shedding patches of light around the pasture. Currents of wind undulated through the grass like waves across the ocean.
After drying her eyes, her vision sharpened. Everything around her became more distinct. Her exile had changed the course of her life. It had given her the freedom and strength to come to her cousins’ aid…like Miss Priddy had freedom to help the soldiers. C.C.’s struggles now seemed to have a purpose.
The captain caught a fluttering lock of her hair and gently tucked it back under her straw hat. “In her own way, I know she deeply loved you and wanted everything for you. Love her especially for her mistakes and weaknesses, C.C. Her flaws helped you become one of the strongest, most exemplary women I know.”
***
Two hours later, Beau had the mule harnessed and wagon loaded, waiting for C.C. and the boys to finish collecting mementos. The sooner they reached Goldsboro, the better he’d feel. C.C.’s constitution had declined further during this trip to Clarkston. Now, besides shabby clothes and fragile health, desolation and exhaustion completed the image of a distressed Southern woman.
How he wanted to pull her onto his lap, enfold her in his arms and rock her cares away. But her mother’s request that he step aside and allow C.C. to find a better man held him back. After all she’d been through, he didn’t want to add to her disappointments.
The boys required help, as well, and a safe home. If needs be, he could take them all back with him to Nassau and eventually to England. He could never forgive himself for his irresponsibility with Millie and Freddie, but perhaps helping C.C. and the boys would make some amends.
They all sat in silence until he’d gotten the mule going down the open road. “Maybe we can spend some time in Goldsboro. We’ll get a couple of rooms, rest and eat some good food. You might like the town once you have a chance to look it over.”
“I suppose we could all use a bath, a warm bed and a few hot meals,” C.C. acknowledged. Both she and Beau turned to look at Nate, Jesse and Patches huddled together under quilts in the back of th
e wagon. “How does that sound to you, boys?” she said.
Jesse perked up. “Can we have apple pie and lots of cake?”
“And more cinnamon candy and sugar sticks?” Nate chimed in.
“You can have whatever you like.” A smile struggled at her lips. Dark circles ringed her sable eyes, now full of grief and disillusionment.
Love for her sank its talons deeper into Beau’s heart. When they reached Goldsboro, he would make sure they all rested and relaxed. He hoped she’d like the place well enough to stay for a while.
A few hours later, when they’d reached the outskirts of town, C.C. ordered him to stop. She hopped off the wagon, trudged up the steps and entered a mercantile. In less than a minute she returned with a newspaper. Her teeth worried her lower lip as she read.
He could see the front-page headline: “Union Navy Attacks Fort Fisher!” So the rumors had been true. All those Union vessels off the coast weren’t there merely to blockade. They were assembling for war. “Have they taken the fort?”
“Not yet, but it’s been under siege since the twenty-third of December. There’s also an article about General Sherman. He captured Savannah, Georgia, on the twenty-first. Lines of determination formed at the sides of her mouth. “We need to send a telegram to the agent in Wilmington to ready the ship.”
She handed Beau the newspaper. After reading it he removed his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. Perhaps we should discuss alternatives to Wilmington.” He didn’t want to cloud the issue by revealing he’d already ordered the Redemption to be readied while he escorted C.C. to Clarkston.
“We must return immediately!” She’d fisted her hands in her lap.
It hurt to see the fatigue and suffering in her face. She needed rest and good food and time to regain her strength, not go haring off into the face of danger. He lowered his voice and tried to explain it logically. “The Cape Fear River is filled with Yanks. We’ll be sailing right into them. Once they take Fort Fisher, they’ll move upriver to the other forts and Wilmington.”
She fixed him with a stare. “Now that Sherman has made it to the sea, it’s only a matter of time before he marches up the coast and takes Goldsboro. It’s too important of a hub for the Confederacy. We need to get back to Wilmington as quickly as possible and make for Nassau.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think it wise. Aside from the fact that the Union considers me a pirate, if they discover you brought a prized cargo for the Confederacy, they may call you a Southern sympathizer. Then who will take care of the boys?”
“We’ll deal with that when the time comes. Right now we must secure the ship. They can’t take the Redemption. I have great trust in Colonel Lamb. Fort Fisher will not fall.”
“I admire him too. He’s the best friend a blockade-runner can have, but we shouldn’t return until the battle is decided.”
“I don’t agree.” She’d gripped her hands in her lap and said forcefully, “If you won’t send a telegram to the agent, I will. Until the Yanks have prevailed, the Redemption should be readied so it can sail as soon as we arrive.”
***
C.C. gazed at the rust-colored sky and pulled her coat tighter around her. Two and a half days in this miserable old wagon had her dreaming of her comfortable purple carriage in London with its soft cushions and well-balanced springs. Every jolt sent a bitter protest through her backside. They’d stopped to rest along the way—in an abandoned barn the first night, and hid in a thick grove of trees the next. Her crate of canned food kept them fed.
Captain Tollier sat next to her on the unyielding seat planks, bent forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He’d said little since they’d left Clarkston and even less after she’d insisted they return to Wilmington. The mule and road seemed to consume all his attention. Occasionally, he cut a glance her direction, regarding her with what she interpreted as suspicion.
How much had he heard of Delia’s insistence that C.C. hired assassins to kidnap and murder Sterling’s lover?
In the tiny cabin, the captain had only been in the next room. The way her mother raised her voice almost seemed like she wanted him to hear. Since then he’d been distant and watchful, like everyone else, once they’d heard the newspapers’ fabrications.
The captain urged the mule toward the tollhouse at the entrance to the plank road.
A sentry stepped up to the wagon. “Papers?” He held out his hand officiously.
C.C. didn’t like the sentry’s manner, but she desperately needed an update on the Cape Fear battle. In the distance, a long line of wagons were making their way down the plank road heading out of Wilmington. “Have the Yankees taken Fort Fisher?”
“No, ma’am. So far our boys have held ’em off.” He looked over the captain’s papers. “State your business in Wilmington.”
“I’m taking a ship back to Nassau with a load of cotton.”
“Good luck,” the sentry snickered and handed the captain back his papers. “Any contraband?” He didn’t wait for an answer and started searching under the wagon and around the boys in back. When satisfied, he used his rifle to point. “Pull up to the side there. The feller with the flag will give you a wave when you can go.”
As they sat waiting, C.C. spotted a familiar face in the long line of wagons. Erastus sat on a high perch driving a sturdy set of mules. Next to him sat Sally. And next to her sat Miss Priddy, who began flapping her hands like little wings as soon as she saw them.
Erastus drove the mules toward them and pulled up alongside.
“Oh, Captain Tollier. My goodness gracious,” Miss Priddy gushed. “Are you returning to Wilmington?”
“Yes—” He gazed at C.C. and spoke slowly, as if measuring his words. “Miss Collins’s mother asked her to take her cousins back to England.”
“Oh, but that is not a good idea.” Miss Priddy’s voice rose with urgency. “War has finally come to our doorsteps. The Yankee fleet has been attacking Fort Fisher. I have no doubt they mean to take it. Surely you’re not planning to try to sneak past them!”
While Miss Priddy spoke, C.C. noted her overstuffed wagon. Blankets and quilts covered the contents from prying eyes. “Are you leaving town?”
“Dear me. Yes! Everyone knows the end is near. Thieves are having a heyday, looting and murdering. Once Fort Fisher falls, Wilmington will be next!” Pricilla fidgeted with her coat sleeves and muttered, “I don’t know what’s taking the Yanks so long.” She gestured toward the captain and then clasped her hands to her bosom, pleading. “You must turn around and find someplace safe, Captain. Cape Fear and Wilmington are a death trap.”
“Where should we go? Back to Goldsboro?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know if Goldsboro would be safe either.” Miss Priddy wrung her hands. “General Sherman has burned everything in his path and left a trail of death and destruction across the South. Unless he’s stopped, people think he’ll head straight to Goldsboro to destroy our railroads. We’re headed to friends of mine who have a place outside of Raleigh. You’re welcome to join us if you like.”
The captain said nothing and gazed at C.C. with a grim set to his lips.
“Please listen to me and don’t go to Wilmington!” Miss Priddy implored. “There are said to be so many Yankee ships in the Cape Fear River, not even a dinghy could sneak through.” She threw out her little hands toward the captain. “Oh, please, save yourselves!”
Chapter 23
Beau had learned through experience to be wary of anything that looked like good luck. Sometimes luck would bait him with a morsel of good only to hit him with a heap of bad. The Yankees’ ceasefire on Fort Fisher December twenty-seventh and their subsequent return to the sea looked like a stroke of good luck, but he wasn’t about to let down his guard.
Standing on the Redemption’s main deck, he’d a clear view of the Yankee blockaders on the other side of Cape Fear’s Western Bar. He held his spyglass to his eye to have another look at the ocean and blockading vessels.
Two
other blockade-runners sat anchored nearby, also loaded to the gills with cotton. Like him, they sat watching and waiting for the opportune moment to run the gauntlet.
When he and C.C. arrived in Wilmington word reached town that the Union fleet had gathered up all their troops and sailed out the Cape Fear River. No one could say how long they’d be gone, but most agreed they’d be back. With the Redemption loaded and ready, Beau knew making a run for it now might be their only chance.
After dropping down the Cape Fear and submitting to the mandatory stowaway fumigation, they now sat like a great big cotton ball anchored off Smithville.
George climbed aboard, waved to the man who’d given him a ride in his rowboat and shook Beau’s hand. “May I have a word with you below, Captain?”
Once they reached Beau’s cabin, George shut the door and took a seat opposite his desk.
“So what do you think?” Beau asked. “Do we have any business making this run?”
George took off his hat and raked his fingers through his thinning hair. “I took observations and talked to the lookouts. It appears most of the Yankee fleet that attacked Fort Fisher has headed north. We still have plenty of blockaders sitting off the coast, but there’s hardly a moon tonight and a mist is forming. Good conditions.”
“Having to replace Oley, as well as the helmsman and chief engineer might negate them.”
“The chief engineer went missing too?” George frowned. “Just like the Roundabout?”
“Aye. Not much we can do about it now. Still don’t know why the men didn’t report. We’ve circulated the Roundabout’s story among the crew. Hopefully the increased attention on the new men will be a deterrent.”
“I’ll keep watch on the new leadsman. What else should I know?” George asked.
Beau rubbed his palm against his eye. “Hargreaves may have burned Miss Collins’s family’s plantation. When we got there, most everything was cinders. Her uncle John had been abducted. I’m of a mind Hargreaves may have had something to do with our missing crewmembers.”
The Trouble With Misbehaving Page 22