Dreams of Savannah

by Roseanna M. White

  Her sister was in love. It made Salina grin, at least for a moment. Until that terrible dream swept over her again. Put her in mind of the tales her aunt used to tell, though she knew now such happenings came from the Lord Almighty, not the spirits Aunt Lila used to talk about.

  She closed her eyes and let the dream images wash through her mind. “Protect Miss Delia’s man, Lord God above. Lift him out of those troubled waters, fly him far away from danger and sorrow. Bring him back to her, if you please. Bring him back so he can take us away. Far, far away from danger and sorrow.”

  “This is the stupidest piece of nonsense I’ve ever read, and I will not make a fool of myself by being in it.”

  Cordelia’s eyes went wide with disbelief when Annaleigh Young snatched up the copy of the tableaux vivants that Cordelia had copied with painstaking care for her. Coffee-brown curls bouncing, Annaleigh sneered at the story and rent it in two. The paper seemed to weep as it ripped.

  Or perhaps that was Cordelia. She covered her mouth to keep her gasp from being followed by a squeal. It was only paper and ink. Never mind that the ink formed her words, her story, and that it had taken an hour to transcribe each copy.

  Annaleigh tossed the shreds to the ground and stomped to the window, her bell skirt swaying.

  Hateful creature. Petulant child.

  “Annaleigh!” Sassy Dunn swished her fan before her and scowled at Annaleigh’s back. “What a mean thing to say. Especially since we all know it isn’t the story you have a problem with, only the fact that you will not be in the center of the stage so much as Lacy.”

  Cordelia’s sister rolled her eyes. “Fiddle-faddle. We can trade parts if that will make you stop this nonsense, Annaleigh.”

  Cordelia’s chest went tight as the girl raised her chin and turned just enough to look down her nose at them. She looked the perfect villain. All cool disdain over that roiling venom that flowed where her blood ought to have been.

  “You could not persuade me to take part,” the villainess said on a long drawl, “were you to offer me all the places. It’s nothing but a bunch of romantic claptrap, unsuitable for young ladies to be reading at all, much less portraying before all Savannah. Why, I shouldn’t even look at some of the artwork we’re supposed to be presenting in live form, and with that story she wrote to tie them together . . . it’s as bad as a novel.”

  Try as she might, Cordelia couldn’t keep her eyes from narrowing, her lips from pressing into a thin line. And now that she thought of it, Annaleigh’s hair wasn’t coffee brown at all. It was dark as murderous midnight and would be better suited to having snakes curl through it rather than ribbons and lace. No doubt she had a vial of poison hidden in the bodice of her gown too.

  Lacy’s sigh carried a note of exasperation. “Oh, Annie, don’t act this way. It’s not for our own good we’re doing it, after all—it’s to raise funds for the soldiers, for the Confederacy. Who’s to say if our contribution doesn’t pay for a weapon that turns the tide of a battle? Or even the war?”

  Annaleigh sniffed. Probably mentally murmured some ancient curse to fall about poor Lacy’s head too. “I shall consider it. That is all I can promise.” No doubt those innocent words were code for something far more sinister—she was probably calling her minions down upon them even now.

  When the door squeaked open behind her, Cordelia jumped and half expected to see her imagined toadies marching in. But no, it was only a black woman with a tea tray in hand.

  The new figure ought not to have garnered any attention, but Cordelia found herself watching her. And not just because of Cordelia’s silly fancies. There was something in this woman that made her think a story lurked. Something about the stick-straight posture, the defiant roll of her shoulders, the stubborn light in her eyes. Not at all what one usually saw in a servant. She didn’t move with the silent motions meant to go unnoticed, nor did she slide the tray onto the table without a clatter.

  No indeed, she all but plunked it down, and then she turned to Annaleigh with a brazen lift of her brow. “Do ya be needin anythin else, miss?” She spoke in an accent Cordelia hadn’t heard before. Not the Gullah from the Low Country, not the more structured patterns some in the city used.

  Annaleigh didn’t so much as glance at the tray. “Lemon.”

  “There is some there already.”

  “Bring more, then.”

  The black woman’s lips parted, gleaming with disgust, but then she clamped her mouth closed and nearly stomped from the room.

  Yes, definitely a story there. Though it might be as simple as being fed up with a surly mistress.

  “Stupid creature.” Annaleigh flounced back over to her seat beside Sassy. “I do declare, Pa ought to have sent her to the rice fields rather than keeping her here—and will yet, if I have anything to say about it.”

  Sassy turned her face Cordelia’s way and gave her a wide-eyed stare that begged her to change the subject.

  There was nothing in the world like shared emotions to restore Cordelia’s cheer. She grinned. Why pass up even the smallest opportunity to play the role of heroine? “Have you heard from your brother lately, Sassy?”

  “Not directly, no.” But she smiled and smoothed back her sleek, honey-colored hair, though it needed no smoothing. “Daddy read a report that the CSS Sumter finally broke through the blockade, though, and is in open water. Apparently it caused quite a fuss among the Yankees.”

  “Blockade running!” Annaleigh snapped open her fan and gave it a vigorous swish. “Oh, it’s so dangerous. I hate to even think of dear Phin in such a situation.”

  Dear Phin? Why, if that little ninny had any designs on him . . . well, it didn’t matter. He was Delia’s beau. She was the one with the right to dream of him, she was the one he was writing to, she was the one he’d asked to wait for him. Cordelia tilted her head a bit and folded her hands in her lap. “Really? But just imagine the adventure he’s having. I hear the mouth of the Mississippi is a treacherous place, unable to be navigated by any but the most experienced pilots. And it can’t have been easy to find one, what with the Yankees patrolling the waters.”

  She leaned forward, a smile tickling her lips. “I imagine he and his crew had to sneak by them in the dead of night. The sultry, brackish air would have been hanging heavy over them, the eerie light from the full moon shining down on their deck. And they’d have been praying for a cloud. A whole bank of clouds to block that traitorous moonlight.”

  Sassy lifted her hoop just enough to make a quick move from Annaleigh’s couch to Cordelia’s. “Did it come? Or did they have to make a run for it?”

  “They could see the cover they needed building on the horizon, but it was still hours away. ‘Gentlemen,’ their captain said as he paced the deck before them, ‘it is time to beseech the Almighty for a way to be made for us—and to go out and search for our prophet who can lead us toward it. We must find a pilot.’ And so he appointed a scouting party to put down on a little island close by.” She paused, frowned. Were there little islands in the mouth of the Mississippi? “And at the head of it, of course, was the favorite among the crew—Mr. Phineas Dunn.”

  Lacy gave a little clap and edged closer, expression enthralled. “Keep going, Delia. Did they find their prophet-pilot?”

  Oh heavens, she hoped so. And that no giant squids were involved. Pasting on her most mysterious smile, she pitched her voice low. “Well, he led his men into the thick undergrowth of the island, with only that cursed moonlight to illumine his path. . . .”

  Chapter Five

  Phin tossed a few more pieces of jerky onto the tray and deemed it good enough for the prisoner crew. He made no pretense of being a ship’s cook, and so they’d have to settle for what was on hand—a few hard biscuits, the jerky, and a couple shriveled apples.

  Unfortunately, the prize crew would have to settle for the same until they made it to Cienfuegos and rejoined the Sumter. For the sake of his friends aboard the second ship they’d captured, he hoped they had bette
r fare on the Machias.

  He strode from the galley toward the captain’s cabin, where the Cuba’s men were being held. Spencer had been assigned the task of guarding them, along with Davidson.

  Yet the passageway outside the cabin was empty. Where the devil were the men?

  He didn’t know whether to be relieved or irritated when he heard Spencer’s voice coming from within the cabin. “Do I have your word as a gentleman?”

  “You do.” Stroud’s voice, calm and low.

  Phin snorted even as something went tight in his chest. He didn’t know what Spencer was talking to this man about, but he sure hoped his friend realized that no Yankee really knew the meaning of the word gentleman. Each and every one he’d met put higher stock in his own goals than in honor—which was why they were now at war with them. Had the Northerners abided by their word to let the South live as it desired, to determine its own laws and fix its own mistakes and live its own way . . .

  He toed open the door and set the tray down upon a table with a bit more clanging than necessary, then sent his closest friend an arch glance. “Everything all right in here, Spence?”

  Was it his imagination, or was Spencer’s smile too bright? “Just fine, Dunn, just fine. Davidson and I were asking the captain about the, uh, company to be found in Cienfuegos. Not sure he’s directed us to the right place though.”

  He glanced to Stroud, whose mustache twitched. The man was seated at his desk, unbound, on the assumption that he could do no harm without a weapon. Like saying a snake couldn’t harm you if you had it by the tail, in Phin’s opinion.

  He scanned the rest of the room, not missing the way Davidson seemed to find the ceiling so very interesting. Then Phin nodded at Spencer. “You’d better get back outside before Hudgins comes by.”

  “Good idea. Gentlemen, enjoy your . . . meal, if that’s what we’re calling it. This the best you could do, Dunn?” Spencer’s grin looked right this time, natural.

  Maybe it had been his imagination—or maybe the man was just embarrassed at having been caught talking to a Yankee about where to find intimate company in Cuba. He ought to be . . . but that wasn’t his usual way.

  Phin mustered up a smile of his own. “Careful, sir, or you’ll offend my honor and I’ll have to call you out.”

  Spencer laughed and slapped a hand to Phin’s shoulder that propelled him out the door. “I’ll guard my tongue. Captain, gentlemen.”

  The three stepped into the hall, and Spencer pulled the door shut and turned the key in it.

  Phin shook his head. “You’re lucky it was me who came by and not Hudgins.”

  “Probably. But no harm done.” Spencer reclined against the door. “Please tell me there’s better food than that for us.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” With a smile and wave, he headed for the stairs leading topside. Before he headed back to the galley, he needed to get this foul taste out of his mouth. Thankfully, he spotted the prize master at the rail. “Hudgins.”

  His superior turned around with a welcoming smile. “Dunn. All well below?”

  Phin leaned onto the railing, bracing his forearms against it. Another cloudy night hovered over them, blocking the light of the moon and holding in the muggy heat. “Probably fine.”

  Hudgins arched a brow.

  Phin sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was get his friends in trouble, but he needed to hear the prize master tell him all was well. “It’s just Spencer. He and Davidson were in the cabin talking to the captain. Harmless, according to Spence, but it makes me uneasy.”

  “Hmm.” Hudgins pursed his lips and stared out at the Sumter just ahead of them. “Not the wisest behavior, to be sure. But he’s just a sailor, a merchant—not accustomed to the ways of war.”

  “I’m a merchant sailor myself, sir, and you wouldn’t find me having an amiable conversation with the enemy.”

  The midshipman chuckled. “I tend to forget you’re not trained in the military. You’ve taken to it better than the others. We’ll keep an eye on Spencer and Davidson and make sure they don’t act that way again. For now, why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll take first watch, and then you can relieve me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Phin straightened, saluted, and headed below once more, happy to let someone else deal with meals for the prize crew—for his part, he had no appetite. But as he settled into the borrowed hammock, he couldn’t shake the feeling that rest wasn’t what he needed either.

  Delia’s face crowded his mind when he shut his eyes, those big green eyes gleaming, her kissable lips set in a concerned frown. How was it that he’d left home so many times before and never missed any one person more than another, yet now her image was always there? A bittersweet ache took up residence in his chest.

  He let himself relive that moment when he drew her into his arms. Her tiny waist under his hands, the scent of lilac water drifting to his nose. The look in her eyes—hope and desire, surprise and fear.

  Was she waiting for him like she promised? Or had her father already persuaded her to bestow her sunshine smiles on someone else?

  He felt himself drifting off with that question spinning round his mind. His dreams were a muddled jumble of swaying skirts and her light laughter, and of other uniformed men pulling her into a dance or under that live oak in her garden. Their tree. He tried to move forward to reclaim her, snatch her from the faceless man’s arms, but he couldn’t find his footing. It was like the ground had become an ocean.

  “Sumter men! On deck, now!”

  He jerked awake, and it took only a second to realize it was the Caribbean heaving under him, not the rich Georgian soil. Phin leapt down and raced topside, where the wind gusted hot over him and waves pounded the Cuba’s hull.

  Hudgins motioned him over. “They cut our line—the Machias’s tow snapped, and the Sumter had to catch her. They signaled us to continue into Cienfuegos on our own. Take the wheel, Dunn, heading north by northeast.”

  “Aye, sir.” He spun toward the wheel—and came up short when he saw the muzzle of a pistol pointed at his face.

  “Belay that, Mr. Dunn.” Captain Stroud cocked the gun and stepped into the circle of lantern light. “I’ll be taking my ship back now.”

  Phin heard a curse from behind him but was a bit more concerned with the pistol just now. He sketched a bow, sweeping his arm out in a grand gesture. But rather than just tuck it to his chest, he grabbed his own sidearm and came up with it leveled at Stroud. “It’s my honor to inform you that you’re mistaken, Captain.”

  Hurried footsteps sounded from every direction, and Hudgins darted across Phin’s periphery. “Davidson! Spencer! Get those prisoners back belowdecks!”

  But when Spencer stepped up behind Stroud, weapon raised, he didn’t point it at the Yankee captain.

  He leveled it on Phin.

  Hope sank into his stomach and turned to wormwood. “Spence?”

  “Sorry, Phin.” His friend gulped and stepped up beside the Yankee. “It’s nothing personal.”

  Nothing personal? His closest friend was betraying all they stood for, and he called it nothing personal? Phin edged back a step. “Call me antiquated, but I’m afraid I do take it personally when someone holds a gun on me.”

  More running footsteps reached his ears, along with the crash of a wave. From the direction of the mainmast he heard one of the marines call, “We’re with you, sir!”

  So the treachery was limited to Spencer and Davidson. Small comfort.

  He had to get clear of Stroud and Spence, make his way over to Hudgins and the marine. They’d have a better chance of regaining the upper hand if they could cover one another. Hopefully that wouldn’t require him raising his gun against his friend. Spence might have no difficulty doing so, but Phin sure would.

  Before he could determine a sound plan, a gunshot blasted from near the wheel. Lightning echoed it above them, its slice of light illumining full-blown panic on the deck. Not exactly the opportunity he had hoped for, but he wasn’t about to let
it pass him by.

  He lunged away, his glance raking the deck as he went. He spotted Hudgins climbing the mainmast, no doubt so he could see the rebelling crew all at once. Their marines stood in position below him, one firing at whomever had taken a shot from the wheel.

  “Phin, stop!” Spencer shouted into the wind.

  “Let him run.” Stroud’s words slicked over him like ice.

  His party was only twenty feet away. A few more seconds, a few more running steps.

  He saw the wide eyes of one of the marines as he looked over Phin’s shoulder. Heard the crack from behind. Felt the impact in his leg, the pain exploding like a cannonball as flesh ripped away.

  A scream wrenched its way from his throat. He tried to catch himself, to put his weight on his good leg so he could keep moving. But he slipped, his boots finding no purchase on the spray-soaked deck that even then pitched on another swell. Was anyone steering the brig through the rising waves?

  Lightning flashed again. Brilliant, blinding. Thunder rolled through the heavens and from the guns.

  His pistol fell from his hand as he crashed into the rail. His fingers curled around the wood. The ship rose again, forcing him to hold on or be sent tumbling still more.

  His leg throbbed in time to the night. Was it his vision that went blurry, or just the darkness and ocean’s spray that made it seem so?

  Another bullet tore into the rail, inches from his fingers, and he jerked away. Tried to put weight on his injured leg.

  Stars burst before his eyes as he buckled. Dizzy, so dizzy. He couldn’t tell where the water came from, or where the wood under his feet had gone. Blackness seemed to wait everywhere when those stars faded.

  Delia’s fingers were in his hands again, her eyes bright and glistening. “Don’t go.”

  He tried to hold on to her—had to hold on. But he didn’t want to pull her down with him, did he? Not here. Not into the gunfire and convulsing sea. He relaxed his grip.

  “Dunn! No!” Hudgins?