Dreams of Savannah

by Roseanna M. White

  But try as he might to focus on the Scriptures, he couldn’t seem to read more than a verse before Delia’s face swam before his eyes. Only her lips kept turning into a smile that was full of pity and apology. Her eyes mocked him. And her imagined fingers, stained black with ink, pulled away from his.

  He slapped the tome shut and set it on the deck, rubbed a hand over his face.

  Luther arched a brow. He stood with his back against the mast, arms folded. All but daring anyone to approach, with that glower of his. For a man who had complained endlessly about the need to hide his freedom and bite his tongue, he seemed to be having quite a bit of fun at the expense of the blockade runners—and had gotten rather adept at communicating with nothing but facial expressions.

  Phin raked a hand through his hair, his hat long since discarded. “The light isn’t good for reading.”

  Luther blinked. Just blinked, but said plenty. Enough to make the truth worm its way to the surface of Phin’s mind, though he’d just as soon it stay hidden. “All right, fine. It’s me. Me and this fear gnawing away at me that says I’m too late.”

  Though he looked as though he’d like to say something, Luther just pressed his lips together. Phin ran his hand over his face again, though he couldn’t wipe away that tight, thudding feeling inside.

  My times are in thy hand.

  He grunted a laugh. Even with Luther mute, he could hear his voice in his head, reading. That verse was from . . . the Psalms, if he remembered correctly.

  His “guardian” chuckled too—perhaps he somehow sensed what had flitted through Phin’s mind.

  And why not? For all those weeks, it was Phin who had been struck dumb while Luther spoke, while he shared all his ideas, thoughts, and concerns. Now the tables were simply turned. Except that it was still Luther’s thoughts, it seemed, rattling through Phin’s brain, so obviously the man would have no trouble divining them.

  Although it begged the question of what had become of his own thoughts. What had become of him.

  He settled his hands in his lap and cast his gaze to sea. The port of Cedar Key grew larger on the horizon, but the open water caught his attention. Largely because it didn’t beckon him as it once had. How many times had he looked toward the ocean when on land and felt that itch in his feet? The tug in his gut that said his home lay not in Georgia but on the ever-churning waves of the Atlantic and beyond?

  Yet now it was only . . . water. Pretty, to be sure. The sunshine sparked diamonds onto the sapphire blue of the Gulf, and the sky was a perfect upturned bowl of cloudless azure. The deck under his feet should have reminded him of Uncle Beau’s, should have made him yearn to stride along it, clamber up its masts, or grip the wheel and steer her safely into port.

  Why, then, was he content to sit here in the chair Luther had brought up for him? Why did he want only to reach land? Maybe it was just the need to get home and prove to all that he was alive. Maybe he’d feel the call of the waves again once he had satisfied that, once his leg had healed.

  Maybe. Again with the doubts.

  Lord, why do I feel as if I died while I lay in that stupor? You preserved my life, and I thank you for that. But it seems now I need you to show me what I’m to do with this gift—the life I left behind feels as distant as the Orient.

  Luther moved toward the rail and leaned onto it, his face a storm to contradict the blue above them. There was a decided irony to the fact that they had bought passage aboard an English ship. An English ship pledged to help the Confederacy, at least insofar as it was profitable. An English ship for a man who must deny being English.

  Phin watched him draw in a deep breath and then turn to face the encroaching land. Watched the yearning possess his face. That was what he had once felt for the sea, for the wide-open world. That very same longing Luther felt for Eva. That feeling that life itself waited yonder.

  A new pressure built inside, steady if not too intense. He had no idea how to go about finding the man’s wife. If he asked too many questions about one black woman whom Luther described as “the most beautiful creature to ever smile upon man”—very helpful description, that—all he’d achieve would be making Savannah think it his own woman of dubious relations he was searching for.

  Luther’s nostrils flared, his brows tugged down. Then he closed his eyes, lips moving in what was no doubt a silent prayer, and his face cleared again.

  Phin drew in a long breath. To the devil with what anyone thought. He would find the man’s wife for him, would purchase her from whoever had bought her—which would be far easier than trying to convince said person they had bought the woman illegally. Then he’d send them both back to England, back to their home and their church.

  Lord, I am, without question, going to need your mighty assistance on this one, if you please.

  He nearly laughed at himself. Never in his life had his thoughts given way to prayer so easily. Had he not, in fact, lain in agony upon that Cuban beach trying to remember how to pray? Yet here he was, doing just that every two minutes.

  Something had happened to him. No question about that. He didn’t know what, didn’t know where the old Phin had gone. But right at this moment, he didn’t much miss him. That Phin should have been a bit wiser. Chased fewer adventures and more relationships. And better learned in whom he could place his trust.

  The Yankee ship gave up and turned back toward the horizon. Not an hour later, the British crew had maneuvered the blockade runner safely into port, and Luther had gone below to fetch their few belongings. Phin stood, supported by the crutches the doctor in Cuba had provided, and debated the best way to get himself down the gangway.

  That was certainly one thing the Phin from last spring had in his favor—the ability to move wherever he pleased. Ah well. He would make do somehow, hopefully without disgracing himself entirely.

  The thud of footfalls reached his ears, too heavy to belong to any of the sailors. When the enormous shadow fell over him, Phin sighed. “I’m afraid I may require your assistance in debarking . . . Monty.” The assumed name still felt strange on his tongue, but he had to get used to using it. They’d had quite a time choosing what Luther would answer to in Savannah. Phin had first suggested Mountain, arguing it would complement River, but Luther had vetoed that idea. He hadn’t minded the anglicized version of the French word for it, though.

  Luther moved to his side and bent over as if to scoop him up. With a snort of laughter, Phin retreated a step. “I’m not that much an invalid anymore, thank you. Just . . . if you could . . . I don’t know. You have the reach of a crane, perhaps you could just follow behind me but clasp my elbow to steady me in case my crutches slip on the plank.”

  Amusement dancing in his eyes, Luther shrugged as if to say, Suit yourself.

  Phin rolled his eyes and turned to face the captain when he approached. He bowed as much as his crutches would allow. “My humblest thanks, Captain, for the use of your fine vessel in delivering me nearer to home.”

  “Glad to be of service, my good man.” The captain nodded, a wisp of his cloud-white hair floating free of his hat. “You were a pleasure to have aboard.”

  “I only regret I couldn’t be of any use to your crew. I am unaccustomed to sitting idly by when there is work to be done.” Phin cast another glance over his shoulder at the men scurrying to and fro, taking care of last-minute details so they could get to shore.

  “I wish you a most speedy recovery, so you might be back on another fine deck soon.” The captain held out a hand.

  Luther stepped forward, scowl in place.

  Phin barely held back a laugh. His friend obviously knew the poor old captain was offering no threat, but the way the fellow leapt back . . . well, it was scarce amusements to be had for Luther these days.

  Phin cleared his throat and held out his own hand. The captain shook it warily, then retreated again with a mumbled “Quite so. Very good. Farewell.”

  Once he was gone, Phin let the chuckle build and escape. “You’re a cruel ma
n.”

  A twitch of a smile was Luther’s only response.

  “Well, we might as well begin this delightful process. Say a prayer, will you?”

  That earned him an affirmative hum.

  Sweat trickled down Phin’s temple within the first minute as he struggled to raise himself up to the plank. It no doubt would have been easier to let Luther haul him off like any other useless baggage, but if he succumbed to that now, that’s what he would become.

  Not exactly the war hero he had hoped to be when he returned home to Delia.

  No, he wouldn’t be ruled by his injury. Wouldn’t let Spencer’s betrayal ruin him—let it remain solely on Spence’s conscience. With one final heave, he poised himself at the top of the gangplank.

  Never in his life had its downward slope looked so terrifying. Phin exhaled a slow breath and willed his pulse to slow. His leg thumped, pain beating in time to each pump of blood. Gritting his teeth, he edged his crutches down a bit. Slid his feet after them. Again and again, making progress so slowly that he could only imagine the impatience of the sailors behind him.

  But no one said anything, and he felt Luther just behind him. Ready to help but not interfering. And then, finally, his feet were upon Confederate soil. Or rather, the Confederate planks of the dock.

  Luther’s sigh blustered out behind him, sounding relieved. He drew even with Phin, then retreated a half step.

  Phin took a steadying breath and grinned. “To the depot?”

  Luther opened his mouth, then closed it and nodded toward the puff of smoke chugging toward the docks.

  Phin had made port in Cedar Key before, with Uncle Beau, and had supervised the loading of their cargo onto the train that made its way over the bridge to the strip of docks. He’d even spent an evening or two in town, had visited the newly commissioned lighthouse. Not that said lighthouse would be operational now. As with most Confederate lights, it would be extinguished so as to avoid helping the Yankee ships that haunted the seas.

  “The train comes to the docks for cargo, but not for us.” Phin nodded toward the wooden pier that would deliver them to Front Street. “We’ll have to take Second Street over to the depot.”

  Luther frowned at the distance he indicated, then at Phin’s leg.

  “I’ll be fine. The exercise will be welcome.” And after a few days’ practice on the uncomfortable crutches, he’d mastered the rhythm that would allow him to move at a somewhat normal pace.

  He didn’t dread that nearly so much as what was sure to be a long, jostling trip home.

  It took only a few minutes to reach the sandy solid ground and follow B-Street to Front Street. Phin glanced to his left, where he knew there was a bookshop that would no doubt have a few tomes to make Delia rub her hands together. But first things first. He turned to the right, where the street would lead directly to the rail company’s station.

  As he swung past a grocery and sundry other stores, Phin’s stomach growled. But that, too, would have to wait. For now, he just worked on getting past the clapboard structures and making his way to the depot. When finally he hobbled up to the ticket window, he had no trouble digging up a smile. Home was finally within reach.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  The ticket clerk looked up from his task behind the window and nodded a greeting. “Good afternoon. Have you been separated from your regiment? All our troops have been sent east to defend Fernandina.”

  Phin propped his crutches against the wall. “I have at that, though I’m not with the Florida units. I’m trying to get back to Savannah, where I can let my superiors know I’m alive.”

  The clerk whistled. “Savannah—that’ll be quite the long, difficult trip, young man. Using the stage as well as the train.”

  “Long and difficult.” Phin tamped down a grin. “Given what I’ve been through these past few months, sir, I daresay this will be a delight in comparison.”

  “Certainly easier than evading the navy along the coast, I daresay.” The man looked to the chart upon his wall. “You’ll want to take the train here all the way to Fernandina, then catch the stage to Savannah. Or if you were willing to risk another run of the blockade, you could get off at Baldwin instead and hook up with the Florida, Atlantic, and Gulf Central Railroad to Jacksonville, then try to steam your way home.”

  He had to shake his head at that. “Now that I’ve finally made Confederate soil, I aim to stay on it. I’ll take the tickets to Fernandina, for me and my man here.”

  Luther didn’t move, didn’t shift, certainly didn’t speak. But Phin swore he felt him tense at being called such. Which made him want to shift from foot to foot, which would have been a bad idea. He settled for casting a glance over his shoulder, one that would hopefully convey his apology for needing to speak in such a way.

  He’d known it would be difficult for Luther to play this role. But who would have thought that such a pretense would prove so difficult for him?

  The hard lines around Luther’s mouth softened, though. He didn’t nod his acknowledgment of Phin’s silent apology, but the acknowledgment nevertheless came through in his features.

  So long as they understood each other, understood this was necessity and not personal will, they would get on just fine.

  Phin handed over a few shillings to cover the cost—borrowed from Luther, which still felt wrong. The clerk didn’t bat a lash at the British currency, no doubt seeing plenty of it with the runners who came into port.

  “You’ll want to be on the train headed east in two hours.” He handed Phin the tickets with an indulgent smile. “Best of luck to you, young man. Godspeed, and I wish you quickly healed.”

  “Much appreciated.” He paused, brows raised. “I don’t suppose telegraph lines have made it here yet?”

  The clerk chuckled. “Amusing. With war on? No, sir. All those plans came to a screeching halt when conflict broke out. You can post a letter, of course . . . though it would be traveling the same route you’ll be on, so if it’s Savannah you’re hoping to contact, you’d arrive at the same time.”

  He’d just have to hope the one he’d already sent had made it past the blockade. “Well, I thank you for the information, at any rate.” He turned and, with crutches back in place, headed for the sandy road. “Couple more days, Luth—Monty. Just a couple days, and we’ll be in Savannah.”

  His companion drew in a long breath. Under it, he muttered, “Amen and amen.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cordelia gripped the drapes and wished they were a portal to another world. That she could disappear behind them and find herself somewhere else. Anywhere else. That they would whisk her away to an island somewhere . . . to another time, perhaps . . . to a place where the reality was not so harsh. Instead, she looked down and saw the Dunns climbing out of their carriage, and her heart twisted.

  They all wore black, unrelieved and intense. They all moved more slowly than usual, and their shoulders were bent. Their mourning was still in its infancy, early enough that she was a bit surprised they had come to the ball tonight. But then, the death of a son or brother need not keep one at home. Only the death of a husband did that.

  Her throat closed, cutting off all air. All desire for air. Why, why was she standing here in a ball gown of shimmering blue? She ought to be in black even darker than Sassy’s. She ought to have a veil over her face. She ought to have the right to lock herself in her room and hide herself from the prying eyes of society.

  “Miss Delia.” Salina’s voice came soft and gentle, much like the hand that gripped her arm. “You get on back from that window, now, and get yourself downstairs. There’s a crowd there already.”

  She let herself be pulled away, but she also shook her head. “I can’t. Not yet. Not until they make me.” To prove it, she sank down onto the feather bed and let it pillow around her.

  Salina sighed. “You’ll make a mess of your fine silk dress doing that—and you know how long your mama had to look to find any material for you.”

/>   Even the mention of it hurt. “I told her not to. I told her I didn’t want a ball—didn’t even want to attend one.” But the last weeks had been nothing but this ridiculous planning. As if with talk of invitations and fabric and what society remained in Savannah, her mother could blot out the callous reaction to the news of Phin’s death and the hatred she’d shown toward Salina. As if Daddy could undo all his sins if he spent enough money on musicians and candles and food.

  Salina sank to the floor at her feet and gripped the hands that lay limp in her lap. “You can’t sit up here staring blankly at the wall no more, Miss Delia, she’s right about that much. I hate seeing you like this. Like you plumb gave up. You haven’t hardly read anything, haven’t picked up your pen and ink since you got the news about Mr. Phin. It’s been two weeks.”

  Cordelia turned her gaze away from that earnest, beautiful face that bade her believe. But how could she keep believing in the impossible, when the whole world said Phin was dead? “I don’t know what to write anymore, Sal. I’ve tried, but all my heroes still turn into Phin. And they keep falling into crises out of which I can’t seem to deliver them. And I can’t—it’s like losing him in new ways each time I close my eyes and try to imagine.”

  “You ain’t lost him at all.” Salina squeezed her hands, her voice intent. “Somewhere, under all the fear and the disappointment your family’s been heaping on you, you know that. You know the Lord sent us those dreams to encourage you.”

  Did she know that? Cordelia’s eyes slid shut. She wasn’t so sure anymore. Maybe they weren’t from the Lord at all. Maybe they were just coincidences. Maybe they hadn’t even been so similar, their dreams, but they had colored each other’s recollection of them in the telling. Maybe, as Mama said, she had imagination enough to convince herself of anything.