Dreams of Savannah

by Roseanna M. White

  He traced a finger over the ink stains and calluses on her hands and hummed a vague acknowledgment.

  She laughed even as she gasped in horror. “She told you! Your sister can’t keep a secret for anything!”

  He laughed, too, and gripped her fingers again. “Don’t be mad. I was bemoaning that your latest letters didn’t include any stories in them, and she let it slip that it was probably because you were spending so much time recording some for me for Christmas.”

  Though she huffed, she couldn’t exactly be angry with Sassy. Not today. Not when Phin was here, his fingers around hers. “I’d been saving up a blank journal and filled it to the brim. Some of them are old ones I know you liked. Some are newer. Though I haven’t written much fiction since—” Oh, fiddle. She hadn’t meant to say so much.

  Phin’s brows lifted. “Since what?”

  She looked down at Great Expectations again. Would he judge her for the projects of late? Think her foolish, as she knew her family would, for transcribing the tales of their servants?

  Or was he maybe the only one who would understand? “I’ve been writing . . . memoirs.”

  “Memoirs?” His fingers went lax in hers. “Of whom?”

  She shouldn’t have said anything. Certainly not the truth. It was asking too much of him to expect him to be inclined in this particular direction. Still, she cleared her throat. “Old Moses and Fiona. Fanny. Martha. Henry. Jill—”

  “Delia.” He stopped her with a finger to her lips. And his eyes—his eyes weren’t condemning at all. They weren’t accusatory. They didn’t name her ridiculous. No, his eyes were warm golden pools in which she could well drown. “I love you. You’re the most remarkable person I’ve ever met.”

  Forget the books. The shawl. Even the kiss. That was the best gift she ever could have dreamed of receiving this Christmas. “Oh, Phin. I love you too.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  FEBRUARY 17, 1862

  Phin tried to focus on the words before him, but the small print in the Bible kept blurring. Or perhaps it was that his gaze kept tracking right, to the newsprint not completely obscured by the Scriptures.

  Two forts fallen to the Union in ten days. Fort Henry on the sixth, and now Fort Donelson, just yesterday. And General Grant marched onward. Deeper into the heart of the South. The fleet on the coast was no doubt making its men cozy on the plantations dotting the barrier islands, the Dunns’ among them.

  His eyes moved again, this time to the map pinned to his wall. Sketching it had been drudgery during his school days, but now he looked at each carefully noted city and river and fort and was glad he had. Glad he could see that no matter how vast a land might seem when you’re simply standing upon it and going about your day, it wasn’t nearly big enough when the enemy drew near.

  Fort Pulaski he had marked with a more extravagant star than had been necessary, and his teacher had taken a point off because of it. But he had thought it had deserved the attention. After all, it was a mere fifteen miles from Savannah, the guardian to the city. Only one mile from Tybee Island.

  Only one mile from the Yankees.

  Who were only sixteen miles from the city.

  They were coming. If not to Savannah itself, to the fort. If not now, then soon. There was no question about that. The question was whether the structure, deemed impregnable upon its completion more than a dozen years ago, would withstand its first bombardment.

  And as if it wasn’t enough to worry that his very home might be destroyed, they’d also just received word this morning that they were expected to send more slaves to dig trenches for the Confederacy. They’d have bucked against that order regardless, but with the plantation cut off, that meant the workers in demand were expected to come from their household staff. Which meant, in a word, River.

  And Luther, since no one knew he wasn’t in fact a slave.

  Dear Lord. He closed his eyes, rested his head upon clasped hands. Dear Lord.

  But he didn’t know what to pray. Didn’t know if he could accept what answers might come. Lead me, Lord. Lead me in the paths of righteousness.

  He splayed a hand onto his Bible, where that most familiar Psalm lay open. The twenty-third—one of the few he had known even before Luther recited it to him again and again, over and over. Every day. Every night.

  “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

  I’ve wanted, Father God, you know how I have. All my life, seeking that next great adventure. Delia. Prize money. Glory, honor. I wanted . . . and always wanted. But I don’t want all that anymore, Lord. I just want to be in your shadow. Help me want what you want.

  “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.”

  You’ll give me peace if I follow you. I see that in those who do. In Luther, though such trials have come upon him. In my father, who bears the burden of such loss with our property cut off as it is. And here I am, still aching. Not in the leg, but in the soul. I ache, Father, from so much thrashing about in my own mind. I just want to rest. No more troubled seas, just the still waters of your guidance.

  “He restoreth my soul.”

  Restore my soul, O Lord.

  His mind wouldn’t let go of that verse. “He restoreth my soul.”

  Restore me, Father. Restore my soul.

  He felt the waters wash over him. A mighty wave, strong enough to send a ship rolling, to make a deck pitch. Strong enough to wash a man from carefully fitted wood into the great abyss of uncharted waters.

  His knees hit the floor, chair tumbling down somewhere behind him. But the gleaming oak of his bedchamber’s planking gave way to the night-darkened deck of the Cuba. It bobbed, it tilted. And thunder filled his ears. That from the sky, and that from the weapons.

  That from the hungry sea. Frothing and foaming, calling out to him.

  He restoreth my soul. He restoreth my soul. He restoreth my soul.

  Sucking in a breath only made him shudder, made the world yawn open. He restoreth my soul.

  It crashed again, that relentless water. Submerged him into the deep.

  Deep. So deep it called unto itself.

  But not dark. His wonders were there. Though the depths may overflow, they didn’t swallow him up.

  There you are, Lord. There you have always been. If I take on the wings of the morning and make my home in the sea, you are there. If I descend into heaven or make my bed in hell, you are there. You restoreth my soul.

  The torrents came, but the waters receded. Warmth of sun touched his back. Touched his mind. Touched his spirit. Lead me, Lord. Lead me in the path of righteousness. For your name’s sake.

  River.

  It wasn’t the name that filled his mind, but rather that familiar face, which he’d looked on far more often than he had his own. His eyes flew open to see the polished wood of his floor. His chest still heaved. “Lord?” His voice emerged as a hoarse whisper through his tight throat.

  Never once had he felt pressure upon his spirit like this. Never had something, someone filled his mind so thoroughly in such a way.

  No other direction came. But then, he needed none. Sucking in breath enough to withstand the painful climb to his feet, Phin staggered up, grabbed his cane from where it was leaning against his desk, and surged out the door.

  He nearly bowled into one of the maids, who squealed and then slapped a hand over her mouth in apology. Her eyes, at least, danced with laughter at the near collision.

  It was all he could do to force a smile. “My apologies, Tansy. Do you happen to know where River is?”

  The laughter flashed into something else. Something he had no name for. “I think he be runnin an errand, Mr. Phin. Don’t rightly know though.”

  An errand? Phin thanked her and turned toward the stairs. He certainly hadn’t sent him on any errand. Though it was possible Sassy or his parents had, he supposed. They were so shorthanded these days, anyone could end up doing anything. Regardless, it meant there was no use looking for
him around the house. Where, then?

  Outside was the obvious first step, so he headed for the back door, breathing a sigh of relief when he spotted Luther shouldering a sack of flour toward the kitchen. “Monty!”

  Luther paused, looking as though he barely noticed the fifty-pound weight, and turned to him with an arched brow.

  Phin hurried over to him, as much as his limp allowed. He saw no one else nearby but still pitched his voice to a murmur. “River—do you know where he is?”

  Something flashed through his eyes, not altogether dissimilar from what had sparked in Tansy’s. What was going on? Whatever it was, the servants knew it. And clearly didn’t want the masters to.

  Phin hissed out a breath, that pressure on his spirit weighing all the heavier. He splayed a hand over his chest. “It’s urgent. I don’t know why, but I . . . I was praying, and his face flashed to mind, and now there’s this weight. . . .”

  Luther’s lips twitched up.

  Phin nearly growled. “Yes, yes, you can crow over the change in me later. For now—River.”

  Holding up one finger, Luther covered the remaining distance between Phin and the kitchen in a few long strides. He emerged again a moment later sans the flour sack and motioned him to follow.

  Following, however, meant fetching horses from the stable, the wait for which was nearly his undoing. But at last they were mounted and heading at a quick pace toward . . . the docks. In days past, this direction could well speak of an errand from his father. But with the river filled with rubble to keep the Yankee ships out, there hadn’t been any other shipping either. Father had long ago wrapped up what remaining business he had here. He’d barely made it back to Savannah as it was. If not for Rock—

  Rock. Phin sucked in a breath and nudged his horse’s pace up a bit more. Trading vessels may not be making it up the river, but small craft still could—if they had a skilled pilot. And there were none more skilled than River’s brother. Had he come here to meet him? Why?

  Unlike the last time he’d been down here, when the crowds had made it impossible to dismount, this time it was eerily empty. Gone was the hustle and bustle he’d always so enjoyed. The slips were full, but the ships all empty. By now the last of the holds had no doubt been emptied, and there was no point in loading them again. There would be no leaving, unless they sailed upriver. No doubt a few would, or already had. But the majority were stuck here until they dredged the stones from the river mouth again.

  As he neared where their vessel was docked, Phin swung down from his horse and hitched him to a post. River and Rock could be anywhere, and the horses wouldn’t allow him to search as many places.

  Luther followed suit, but he didn’t seem to have any other secret knowledge, since he didn’t lead the way. Forced to guess, Phin turned in a circle. And caught his breath when he heard a raised voice to the right. With his cane in hand, he took a few hurried steps, not sure whether to utter a prayer of praise or alarm when he spotted River’s familiar dark head—ducked before some sort of port official who was shouting at him.

  What in the world had they gotten themselves into? They rushed toward River—and, yes, Rock was there too.

  As they neared, he could make out more of the officer’s words. “Do you think I’m stupid, boy? That I’d believe such a harebrained story? You ain’t here on behalf of no one but your own self—or maybe a few ungrateful slaves you mean to steal away.”

  Stealing away slaves—helping them run? Was that what River and Rock were about? He looked from one of them to the other, then cast a glance toward Luther too. He was looking straight ahead, his face not giving anything away. Nor did the subservient postures of the brothers.

  But that would make sense. Rock was able to move between Savannah and the barrier islands as few could—the islands, where the Yankees were in control, with their promises of freedom and more to any slave who came to them. The islands, to which it was rumored slaves were running daily. Were River and Rock their means of doing so?

  His chest went tight. It took him a few more steps to realize it wasn’t with frustration, wasn’t with outrage, wasn’t with disbelief. No, it was one part fear, given the attention they’d obviously gained from sectors they should have been steering clear of. And it was at least two parts pride in his oldest friend. He was doing something. Helping people.

  Phin gripped his cane until his fingers ached. What was a family like his, on whose shoulders the burden of owning slaves sat so uncomfortably, to do? They couldn’t free them. But the only other way to distance themselves from the practice would be to sell them—and that was something they couldn’t countenance. Better to keep them, where at least they could be sure they were treated with decency and respect, than to send them to fates unknown, separating families and consigning them to possible whippings or worse.

  The law had tied their hands. But Phin found himself mentally cheering River for slipping around it, seizing the opportunity the war had presented. Phin was by no means a fan of the Yankees—but he couldn’t blame any slave for running to them.

  River had been mumbling something to the officer that Phin couldn’t catch. But he was close enough now that when the officer grabbed Rock roughly by the arm Phin could bark out, “See here, unhand my property!”

  The officer spun, clearly ready to argue with him. He paused, though, when he took in Phin. He’d be seeing the fine suit of clothes, the silver handle on his cane. Or perhaps Luther towering behind him.

  River’s eyes flashed up from the ground they’d been focused on. He’d know Phin used that particular phrase solely for effect, so no resentment gleamed there. But a bit of apprehension did.

  All the proof Phin needed of what he’d been up to. And knowing that, he could pretty well deduce what else had been going on. He scowled, not at the brothers but at the officer. “What’s the meaning of this? I send my boys down here to see to my business, and you’re holding them up? As if running a business isn’t difficult enough in these times, you have to make trouble for me. I ought to report you to your superior.”

  The stranger narrowed his eyes but released Rock’s arm. “Business? Begging your pardon, mister, but there ain’t no business being done here these days.”

  Phin breathed a laugh. “Not for the unenterprising, perhaps. But I, sir, have a good pilot here who’s loyal to me. Aren’t you, boy?” Praying they’d both play along with his charade, he reached out with his cane and tapped Rock lightly on the leg.

  He’d never known Rock quite as well as River. But well enough. The young man looked up, then back down, shoulders slumped. “Yessuh, Mass Phin. Yessuh. We try an tell this fella we about yo bidness but he don’t believe us.”

  At that, Phin lifted a brow at the officer. “Let’s sort this out, then, shall we? You and I, so my boys can get back to work. Get on now, you two. Daylight’s burning.”

  They didn’t wait for the officer’s permission—they spun and took off at a quick walk.

  The man watched them go with narrowed eyes. “You can’t trust no slaves these days, Mr.—?”

  “Dunn.”

  “Well, Mr. Dunn, you can bet they’ll run off first chance they get. Keep getting reports of slaves sneaking off to the islands, and they obviously pass this way. We’ve been told to keep an eye out for any suspicious behavior. And I was told to keep an especial sharp eye on those two.”

  Phin’s spine tingled. “Told by whom?”

  The man’s brown eyes flashed, and his face went a bit red. As if he hadn’t meant to say quite as much as he had. “Well, I only meant . . .”

  “Let me guess. A certain lieutenant by the name of Julius James gave you that hint.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  Phin forced a laugh. “Simple rivalry, my friend. We’re both courting the same girl. He’d do anything to damage my business. But let me let you in on a little secret.” He leaned close, though he knew well his eyes would be sparking warning more than secrecy. “We both know all the soldiers will be
sent north any day now. Whatever he paid you or promised you, it’ll soon be over. I, however”—he indicated his bum leg—“am stuck here for the foreseeable future. So, I can make your life hard—or I can make your life easy. You just tell me which way you mean to look when my boys are down here.”

  “Well now.” The fellow took a step back, sizing up him and Luther again, clearly weighing his options. At length, he smiled. “I reckon I’ll look whichever way you please, Mr. Dunn.”

  “Glad to hear it. And your name is?”

  “McDonald, sir. Gus McDonald.”

  He made a mental note, nodded, pivoted. And flipped a silver coin over his shoulder. Not that he could afford to be tossing their precious silver around freely in general—but desperate times and all that.

  Not knowing exactly where River and Rock had scurried off to, Phin simply headed back toward his horse, making it a point not to hang back and allow Luther to catch up to him until he was well out of sight. And even then, he only exchanged a glance with him, hoping his friend understood the show he’d put on.

  Which, of course, he did—if anyone would at this point, it was Luther. And indeed, he smiled at him, pride gleaming in his eyes.

  The brothers were waiting by his and Luther’s horses. Phin let out his breath slowly as he approached.

  River made a show of holding his horse’s bridle. “Mr. Phin, it ain’t . . .”

  “I imagine it is, River. And I can’t blame you for that. I’d be doing the same in your place.”

  River’s brows shot upward. “You would?”

  Nodding, Phin secured his cane in its loop alongside his saddle. “Frankly . . .” With Luther’s gaze from a minute before still fresh in his mind, he nodded. “Frankly, I’m proud of you. Not that you need my pride or my approval. You’re a man following your conviction and your heart. But even so—you have it.” He reached up, gripped the saddle, but didn’t put his foot in the stirrup yet. Instead, he looked at River until he lifted his gaze. Held it. “You’re my friend. Always have been. That’s not conditional. You do what you have to do. I only ask one thing.”