Spencer. Stroud. He had been shot. Fallen overboard. Ended up . . . where? How?
“Keep them in the midst of thine heart.”
Spencer. Phin squeezed his eyes shut. He’d thought they were friends. The best of friends, brothers, destined to serve out the war together and then remain close for the rest of their lives. But clearly that wasn’t true. If they’d really been friends, he couldn’t have turned on him like that, without so much as a word about the doubts he must have been having.
Why? Why had he done it? It was true that Spence didn’t have as much invested in the Confederate cause as some did—his family didn’t own a plantation, had only two slaves. But he’d understood that it was the whole way of life they were fighting to preserve, hadn’t he? The agrarian lifestyle. The focus on the land instead of cities and factories—as if that offered a better way of living to the hordes of overworked, starving immigrants who struggled to survive in the North. And above all, they were fighting for the right to decide for themselves how their states ought to be governed, rather than being dictated to by someone thousands of miles away who didn’t understand the first thing about life in the South.
But Spence must have decided that it wasn’t worth the fight after all. Perhaps he’d decided nothing was worth the fight. Was that it, maybe? The war itself, the cost of it, that had gotten to him so quickly?
Apparently a months-long friendship wasn’t enough to counteract that. Or maybe . . . maybe no friendship ever was. Maybe no man could be trusted beyond the moment.
Phin’s fingers dug into the prickly mattress under him. Was that breathing he heard from the other side of the room? He could barely make out the sound above the infernal insects, but he was fairly certain. Which would make sense. He was obviously under someone’s care. Someone had carried him here. Someone had bound his leg. Someone must have been giving him water, at least, for he felt only slight thirst.
A British voice. The man on the beach. That was right—the free black. But he wouldn’t have taken Phin in. His hatred had been obvious.
“For they are life unto those that find them, and health to all their flesh.”
That was definitely the voice he had been hearing though. Praying. Singing. Reading. That accounted for those fragments of verses filling his mind now. Were they from the Psalms? Maybe Proverbs? Memorization of Scripture had never been a high priority.
At least part of the mystery was solved. Motives may be beyond his grasp, but it had to have been the black man from the beach who brought him here, who had been tending him. He must have taken pity on him.
Well, Phin would see he was repaid for his effort. And get out from under this wretched roof soon as morning came. Perhaps dawn was near even now. He pulled himself up to try to get a better view of the window, to discern the angle of the moon.
Pain ripped, screamed, sliced through him. A guttural groan tore unbidden from his throat.
The breathing in the corner hitched and shifted. Then a lantern flamed.
Phin wanted to look, wanted to say something, but it took all his concentration to keep from crying out. He couldn’t convince his back to relax from its arch. Couldn’t convince his fingers to let loose the sheet under him. He pressed his head as hard as he could into the pillow, clenched his teeth. And waited. Just waited for the agony to pulse its way down to a manageable throb. Only once it had was he aware of how ragged his breath sounded, puffing out of flared nostrils.
If he ever got his hands on Spencer . . .
A clunk sounded near his head, inspiring him to pry his eyes open again. The lamp now sat on a small table within reach. It cast its light on a shadow of a man who seemed to go on and on, up and up, all the way to the ceiling.
Phin made an effort to slow his breathing. “You again.”
“Luther Bromley.” He sloshed some water into a cup and held it at Phin’s mouth. “I’m afraid I only caught Phin the other day.”
Phin took the cup, though his hands trembled. “Phineas Dunn.” He tried to drink with some dignity, but he shook too much and couldn’t lift his head enough. Water splashed out, dripping down his arm and onto his chest.
One of Luther’s meaty hands gripped his and helped steady the cup, the other sliding under his neck to prop his head. “Well, now that you’re coherent, Mr. Dunn, allow me to correct a few of your mistaken assumptions from the other day. I am no one’s slave, nor have I ever been. I will not pretend otherwise merely for your ease of mind.”
Phin took a sip of lukewarm water that did little to calm the pain-ridden irritation. Free or not, what gave this man the right to assume he knew Phin’s mind? Solely to irritate him in return, he asked, “Then why are you serving me?”
Was that a hum or a growl that came from the man’s throat? “Like so many of your kind, you mistake Christian duty for a natural station. Let me assure you, young man, that I read all the philosophers at Cambridge, I know from whence your ideas come, and they are sadly misconstrued. If you’re going to advocate a monstrosity like slavery, do so honestly—just say outright you want cheap labor. Don’t try to dress it up with a nonexistent morality.” He leaned close, his dark eyes gleaming like firebrands. “It only makes you look like an idiot.”
“Watch yourself.” How many times had he heard his father’s friends expound on the dangers of offering education to colored people? They said they came away with ideas that could do them no good but get them into heaps of trouble. Phin had never put much stock in that idea, had in fact made certain River was able to read and write and do arithmetic. But he’d also cautioned his valet never to let on that he knew as much as he did—no matter the right or wrong of it, it could land him in a heap of trouble. A lesson this mountain of a man had clearly never had cause to learn but which was undoubtedly as true in Cuba as it was in Georgia. He tried again to push himself up and was rewarded again with an agonizing spear of pain in his leg. Through clenched teeth he said, “Help me up.”
Luther arched a sparse brow. “Did your mother teach you no manners?”
“What?”
The other brow reached up to match its mate. “I am happy to help those in need, but even the beggars in the streets of London have the good graces to say please when they ask something of me. Don’t tell me they are better taught than a pampered planter’s son from Georgia.”
Phin slammed his eyes closed. As if he’d been able to get out anything but those three words through the pain. Though now, after a few deep breaths, the tension eased. “I’m beginning to wish you had left me on the beach.”
“And I may yet return you there.” Luther crossed his arms, thick as most men’s thighs, over his barrel chest.
So be it. If this high and mighty Englishman was going to act this way, Phin would just have to get on without his assistance. His leg couldn’t be that bad. He would just sit up. Swing his feet to the floor. Hobble his way out of doors and find someone somewhere who wouldn’t assume that every word to fall from his lips was meant to be an insult.
He got so far as to move his lower leg halfway off the cot when the ferocious pain made the world spin and go gray. A distant scream echoed in the recesses of his mind. Not until the ache registered in his throat did he realize it was his own.
It seemed half of forever that the room kept rocking, that every sound was far away and nonsensical. When at last his senses settled, Luther was dabbing Phin’s brow with a damp cloth, his mouth set in a grim line.
He was stuck here. At this giant’s mercy. Unable to move at all. He swallowed back the fear-tinged anger and forced out a whisper. “It’s bad, isn’t it? My leg?”
“Dr. Santiago fears he may yet have to amputate. The bullet shattered your femur.” The rag left his brow. “What happened to you?”
Phin kept his eyes closed and let the darkness take him back. “I’m one of the Sumter’s crew.”
“The what?”
He blinked his eyes open, though only for a moment. Why would he expect this man to know about his ship? “
The CSS Sumter. The Confederate States’ first cruiser.”
Luther pursed his lips. “A pirate ship.”
“Absolutely not! We are a duly certified ship of the Confederacy—”
“Whose sole purpose is to prey on virtually unarmed merchant vessels. That makes it a pirate ship.”
He may yet lose his leg, but he hadn’t lost his honor. Phin gripped the sheet under him. “Cruiser.”
“Semantics.” An infuriating half-smirk mocked him.
“Depriving our enemy combatants of vital goods and resources is not an act of piracy, especially given the blockade they have on every Southern port, attempting to deprive our wives and children of the same.”
The giant leaned forward, bracing his forearms against his knees. “Delia is your wife, then? You have children?”
The question punched him in the stomach. Phin pushed himself up on one elbow to fight it, gritting his teeth against the pain. “What do you know of Delia?”
“Calm down, Phineas.” He used a single finger to push him back down to the pillow, no doubt to illustrate how weak Phin was right now. “You mentioned her the day I found you. Seemed rather distressed that you hadn’t told her you love her.”
Flames sprang to life on the back of Phin’s neck. “How long have I been here?”
Luther just studied him. Did the question really require that much contemplation? “Not married, I’m guessing, or you wouldn’t be so embarrassed. Betrothed?”
If only. “We have an understanding. How long? A day? Two?”
“Four. You were speaking in general, then, about the Northerners depriving the wives and children of the South.” Luther nodded and leaned back. “And so, you were aboard a ship called the CSS Sumter, attempting to deprive the United States of valuable resources.”
Phin’s eyes slid closed again. “How could it have been four days? I have no recollection of any of it after waking up on the beach.”
“You’ve been in such pain that Dr. Santiago has administered morphine regularly. Was the Sumter near here? I’ve never heard of it.”
“We were off the Isle of Pines. Captured two ships, and I was on the prize crew aboard one. Seas were rough, the second prize broke free of its tow, so the Sumter had to tend to it and cut ours. Two—” He had to pause, suck in a long breath. “Two of our sailors turned on us. Freed the ship’s crew, and . . . I don’t know what happened. Our officer was up a mast, shooting broke out. I was struck, hit the railing. I fell overboard and managed at some point to find a piece of wood to anchor myself to, though I remember little other than that.”
What had become of Hudgins and the others? Had they retaken the Cuba? Rendezvoused with Commander Semmes in Cienfuegos?
What had happened to Spencer? Had he been killed? Arrested? Would he be tried for treason? Or, the unthinkable—what if that treason had been successful? Would his friend end up in the North? Would he . . . would he fight for them? How could he go through life knowing he’d bear the badge of a turncoat forever on his soul? How would his sense of honor allow it?
Maybe he didn’t have a sense of honor. Maybe that was the problem.
A breath whistled past Luther’s lips. “The Isle of Pines, you say? I wonder how you made it all the way here. The Lord must have held you in His hand.”
The Lord? It seemed that if the Lord was going to be so active as to save him, He could have intervened a little earlier and stopped the treachery. “Where am I? Near Cienfuegos?”
Luther straightened and frowned. “You’re in the Pinar del Río province. Nearly three hundred miles from Cienfuegos, if my Cuban geography can be trusted. Which, granted, I don’t know nearly so well as British, but . . .”
But he was right in this case. Phin scrubbed a hand over his face. Those three hundred miles might as well be a thousand in his current state. He couldn’t walk. He had no horse and suspected this Luther fellow didn’t either. There must be a town around here somewhere sizable enough to have a telegraph . . . though from what he’d read, Cuba’s telegraph wires were undependable. And wasn’t there some law about only Spanish messages being allowed? A telegraph office certainly wouldn’t help him get word home. It may, at best, allow him to get a message to Uncle Beau’s contacts in Havana.
Or to Cienfuegos. Maybe Semmes was still there. They didn’t need any repairs yet, having only been on the open ocean a few days, but the commander would most likely take the opportunity to seek more coal for the boiler. Perhaps give the men shore leave. It was possible he was still there. If Phin could get him a message, maybe he would wait for him.
Oh, who was he fooling? The Sumter couldn’t wait for one lost sailor as low in the ranks as Phin. Especially one who would be confined to his hammock until they could reach some other port to put him off at.
He would be a liability. A mouth to feed that couldn’t earn its own keep. Trouble. Nothing more.
Still, he must get in touch with someone. Let them know he was alive, see what became of Hudgins and the marines . . . and of Spencer. Get instruction on what he was to do. Failing the help of a telegram, he’d simply resort to letters.
Luther stood, took a single step. Banged a few pieces of metal together, presumably pots or cups or whatnot. He came back a minute later with a tin plate covered in fruit. “Can you eat?”
Phin eyed the offerings and tried to query his stomach on whether it was empty or not. Nothing looked appetizing, even though all appeared fresh and juicy. He shook his head.
Luther nodded and sat again, sliced off a piece of mango. “You aren’t even going to ask, are you? It hasn’t occurred to you to wonder. Perhaps it’s the pain. And the morphine. I shall give you the benefit of the doubt and assume so.”
The scent of the mango, tangy and earthy, only made his throat tighten. “Ask what?”
“What an educated black man from England is doing in a filthy little hovel in Spanish-held Cuba. I’m certain if you were yourself, it would strike you as odd. I know it still strikes me so on a daily basis.”
“Well, now that you mention it.” He had noted from the moment he first caught site of the giant that he was well dressed. Too well dressed to belong in this place. “You obviously have a story.” And it would obviously be full of what Luther would term injustice, which he’d probably expect Phin to defend. It sounded utterly exhausting. “Perhaps you can tell me about it tomorrow. I’m afraid I’m worn out.”
Luther sliced another piece of mango. “You’re going to listen now, young man, before you fall into another few days of opiate-induced delirium. Go ahead and close your eyes if you’re too taxed.”
He may have clenched his teeth until he felt the muscle in his jaw throb, but Phin kept his eyes decidedly open.
A chuckle was his reward. “That’s what I thought. But it isn’t really my story that has brought me here. It’s Eva’s.”
The name meant nothing to Phin, but the tone as Luther said it made him instantly aware of what kind of story this would be, at least in part. The kind that brought Delia’s face to mind, made his lips remember the feel of hers. The kind that made his chest ache in a way completely separate from the pain caused by bullet and battery.
The kind he wasn’t sure he could stand to hear right now. “Luther—”
“She was raised here, right here in this little bungalow, by her grammy, who was mammy to the master’s children. Her mother died when she was too young to remember, but because her grandmother was such a beloved house slave, my Evangelina was always treated well while the old master was alive.” Luther made another slice, this one with all the precision of a surgeon with his scalpel, and with just as much concentration. “The young master . . . well, you know how these things work, being a young master yourself.”
He knew how they could, yes. But he didn’t like the implications. Phin swallowed. “My family has never been of the mind that slave women are to be treated as concubines, Luther. My father taught me to respect all women, no matter their race or station.”
Lut
her grunted, raised the slice of orange fruit, but then sighed and tossed both whole mango and piece to the plate. “Think what you will about us, Phineas, but we’re not born with souls meant to shoulder such burdens. Eva . . . it nearly broke her, but praise be to the Lord, she and her grammy saved enough money to buy her freedom. She came to England. I met her mere days after she arrived, when she came into my church. It didn’t take us long to court, to marry.”
Phin tried to shift without causing a new wave of pain, and without interrupting Luther. The man stared into the flame of the lamp as if it held all the mysteries of past and future both. The light gleamed off his shining brown scalp.
“Ten happy years we had together. But the moment we step foot on this godforsaken island, it’s one loss after another.”
Phin’s brows knit. “Did she die?”
“No.” Luther looked up, eyes sparking. “At least I pray not, though I’ve not seen her in months.” He surged to his feet, turning his back to Phineas. “He took her from me. Her old master took my Eva and put her on a ship bound for Savannah, as if he had the right to do so. And no one dared listen when she screamed for help. Why would they? A white man claimed she was a troublesome slave, and she didn’t have her papers on her.”
All Phin’s attention was stuck on that one word. “Savannah.”
“Savannah.”
Phin shook his head. “But the slave trade has been closed for nigh unto sixty years. He couldn’t send her there to sell her.”
“You think there’s never a way around that? That a white man from Virginia never buys a slave in Cuba, where he’s been living, and then takes her home with him when he goes—or claims that, anyway?” Luther’s nostrils flared. “I tried to go after her, managed to get past the blockade. But they wouldn’t even let me step foot in port.”
“They wouldn’t, no.” Phin sighed and finally let his eyes slide shut. “Free blacks are considered rabble-rousers in the city.”
“Your city.” Luther’s voice had moved closer, coming from just above him now. “You can find what I can’t, Phineas. You can find where they sent my wife. And if you promise you will, then I promise I’ll not let you die.”
Dreams of Savannah Page 10