Dreams of Savannah

by Roseanna M. White

  Didn’t see no one though. Not in the garden, not near the stable.

  The hum came again. From directly below her. She leaned into the windowsill and looked down so she could smile into River’s face. “What you doin out here, River? Idlin?”

  “Enjoyin it whilst I kin, yes’m.” He grinned at her, but it wasn’t just light in his eyes. It was side by side with something graver. “Yo even pretty upside down, Salina girl.”

  He lit something inside her, sure enough. She’d tried denying it, tried telling herself it was nothing but friendship, but the more hours he’d spent here, accompanying Miss Sassy, the more the truth had welled inside her like floodwaters. This man was more than a handsome face, never kept a string of girls, and looked at no one else like he looked at her. This man was something special, and every time she smiled at him, she felt the sunshine all the way to her toes. “Ah, get on with you.”

  He pushed himself up and turned around, but didn’t stand. No, just found himself a seat on an upturned flowerpot positioned just under her window. Felt strange, looking down on him like that. Course, when he smiled at her in that way of his, all understanding and affection, she plumb forgot to notice.

  Took all the restraint she had in her not to reach right out that window and rest her palm on his cheek. “Why you look at me like that, River?”

  “B’cause I love you.” He said it so simply, so sure. Without so much as a nervous blink or shuffle of his toe.

  She, on the other hand, felt the force of it so hard it sent her upward—right into the window above her. Clamping her eyes shut against the agony of embarrassment and her lips against the cry of pain, she would have retreated into the house to go cry over ruining such a moment had strong hands not framed her face. Probed her head. And pulled her right back down where she was.

  “You a’ight, honey?”

  His tone soothed like the scent of roses, wrapping around her just like his arm had last fall, on the street that day. She opened her eyes and found his face close, stamped with concern. Least she could do was dig up a smile for him. “You oughta warn a girl before you go sayin that.”

  “Now, you kin’t tell me you didn’t know how I felt.” His thumb stroked over her cheek, so soft and gentle she just wanted to curl up like a kitten and purr. “And it ain’t like I ’spect you to say nothin back. I knows I ain’t good nuff fo you, you havin Owens blood.”

  As if that did anything but lower her. “It ain’t that, River, ain’t a matter of goodness.”

  “Is in yo pa’s eyes, I reckon.”

  She would have straightened again, had she not learned her lesson. And had his light touch not anchored her in place. “He ain’t my pa. He’s my massuh, and he’s my father. But not my pa.”

  River searched her gaze, held it until she heard herself as he must have. She was about to apologize, assure him she wasn’t as bitter as she sounded, but he hushed her before she ever spoke by brushing his thumb over her lips. “I sho wish I could give you a family, Sal. Let my pa be yo pa, my murruh yo murruh. Wish I could hold you close eb’ry night and raise up a couple babies wif you.”

  The ache that thudded in her chest at his words, at the sincerity in his gray eyes, was unlike any she’d ever felt. “I wish you could too.” She’d tried so hard not to dream it. Not to want it. But the moment he put the words to it, she knew how fully she’d failed. She’d never wanted nothing much as she wanted this. Not just him, but a life with him.

  He sat back down on his flowerpot, grasped her hands. “You do? I ain’t no Big Tom—”

  “Hush up, River. I don’t want Big Tom and never did, so don’t even think about him.” Big Tom might have been handsome enough to turn her to corn mush, but she’d always known that wasn’t enough. He’d never made her wonder what she had to lose by disobeying Mass Owens’s commands.

  And really, what did she have to lose? Wasn’t like she had Mass Owens’s respect nohow, nor his love. Wasn’t like she could lose it if she followed her heart instead of his instruction. “Maybe . . . maybe someday. Eventually Miss Delia will convince her daddy to let her marry Mr. Phin. And then . . . ain’t like he’ll have no say then. Won’t be nothing he can do. And Miss Delia would be happy for me.”

  But River just pressed his lips together, pressed their palms together, and stared deep into her eyes. Not saying something he obviously should be. Something that made her drag in a quick breath. “What?”

  His larynx bobbed. “I kin’t stay here no longer, Salina.” The whisper was so faint she scarcely heard, had to lean halfway out the window.

  And then nearly tumbled out the rest of the way when the words pulled her down like a stone. “What? You runnin?”

  “Got to. Mr. Phin tell me to—it’s that or dig. So . . . I goin to Tybee. Wif my family, and whoever else has flown thataway. To teach em to read, me and Monty. And I mean to make sure the plantation don’t git run over by the Yankees too.” He squeezed her hands. “Come wif me.”

  She sagged against the windowsill, wishing she had a chair, or even a handy pot like River’s. “I can’t. I can’t leave Miss Delia.”

  His fingers tightened on hers. “She wouldn’t begrudge it, would she?”

  Begrudge it? She nearly laughed. Delia had been whispering of little else in recent weeks. But that was the thing. Delia always saw the world in terms of happily-ever-afters. Salina knew that wasn’t likely. Not for people like her. It wasn’t worth the risk of death or worse.

  Or was it? Hadn’t seemed like it, not until she stood here looking at River’s earnest face.

  Her eyes slid shut. “It ain’t that. And she’s already taught me readin.”

  “Did she? Then you could help. We gwine need all the help we can git.” Now he wove their fingers together, which made hers feel small, delicate. Protected. “Sal. Honey. Think about it.”

  “Oh, you can be sure I’ll do that.” Getting away from here, away from the father who owned her and the mistress who hated her, fleeing with a man who made her whole soul take note, going somewhere she could belong, really belong, and be useful too . . . He painted a picture that called to her very being. “When you leavin?”

  He went so still it made her breath catch. And when he answered, it was so quiet she barely heard. “Whenever my brother gits here. Could be tonight. Could be tomorra. Soon, either way.”

  “Tonight? And you didn’t say nothin till now?” Panic seized her in two fists—she had to make a decision now, today. And whether she decided for or against, he’d be going. She’d have to say good-bye either to him or to Delia. The thought was enough to rip her right in two.

  “Got to—but you could come later. Rock, he be makin reg’lar runs here. Eb’ry week.”

  She reached out the window, fisted her hand in his shirt, and pulled him up. Pressed her lips to his until she thought she might cry if she didn’t let go.

  He kissed her again and again. Once more. Then fell back onto the flowerpot with a little groan. “Say you marry me, honey. Someday.”

  She’d have suggested they sneak out tonight, if he weren’t leaving. But that was no doubt a bad idea. She didn’t want to end up like Vangie, with a fatherless babe—not when she knew well it would result in Mass Owens sending her far away, where she couldn’t disappoint him. No, if she were going to marry River, it would be when she was with him. “Someday.” Movement to the left caught her eye, and she strained to see who or what it was.

  Mr. Julius strode through the garden toward the house, his face full of thunder and fire. No way he would have heard their low whispers, but still. When he turned her direction, her blood ran cold. He had a look about him, like trouble just searching for a place to roost. “You best get on now, honey, before that lion comes prowlin this way.”

  “You keep callin me honey, and I go anywhere you want.” He stole another kiss, quick but full of promise, as the sound of a slamming door reached them.

  “Go, go, go.” Not waiting to see where he’d choose to take himself, she pulled
her head back inside and lowered the window. Halfway, anyway—spring’s sweet breeze would be welcome in this little-used parlor.

  Another door slammed, this one close. Too close. She spun around in time to see Mr. Julius lowering his arm. His eyes blazed hot, with a million uglies roiling about inside them.

  Fly away!

  The lyrics struck her full-on, sent her stumbling and tripping. To her right, away from that devil and whatever evil he intended. He advanced, as she’d known he would—what with everyone at that gathering, this part of the house was empty. And if he was leaving soon, he’d have nothing to lose. But she couldn’t let those thoughts slow her. Couldn’t look over her shoulder.

  No use trying to get around him, he’d likely catch her. Her best hope, her only hope, was the door hidden in the paneling by the sofa. She scurried that way, shoved at the piece of molding that would let loose the catch, then at the door itself.

  A hand grabbed her by the turban, pulling on the hair underneath it. A scream ripped from her throat, her limbs flailed out. When her foot caught his leg, he grunted, cursed, and let go just enough for her to lunge into the dark passage.

  She screamed again when fingers closed around her ankle, pulled her down. “Get off me!”

  “I don’t think so, sweetheart.” His voice sounded like the rattle of a snake in her ears. “I’ll have a taste of you, at least, before I go.”

  The passage was so narrow she couldn’t fall far, just into the wall. If she could just shake him enough to get up and run, he’d get lost soon enough. She could come out in another part of the house and he’d never—

  His hand slid from ankle to calf. “Go ahead and scream. No one’ll hear you over the music. No one else is close enough.”

  She kicked, praying she’d find his head or something equally vital, not even knowing what words came from her lips. Cries, pleas, prayers, she didn’t know. Didn’t care. Just had to get away, get away. Take wing and fly. Fly somewhere else, somewhere safe.

  He tugged on her leg, making her slip, grapple for a hold to keep herself upright. Her fingers caught on a hole.

  The latch, the latch for Mass Owens’s study, right beside the little parlor. She flipped it, pushed the door open. Toppled out of the darkness and into the room, whimpering now when her knees struck the wood floor.

  She could feel him just behind her, knew he was close, getting closer. One hand braced on the floor, she tried to get to her feet, but he caught hold of the back of her dress and gave her a push. Try as she might to catch herself, she headed downward, and her forehead bounced off . . . a shiny black boot.

  The click of a rifle cocking sounded like cannon fire in the room.

  Those terrible hands let her go, and Salina wasted no time in pulling away, turning, standing.

  Beside her father. Who had that rifle usually mounted behind his desk aimed square at Mr. Julius’s chest, and a look of such rage on his face that it was a wonder the whole Union army didn’t feel it and run on home.

  He said nothing, just held his place and steamed.

  Mr. Julius edged back a step, hands up, but apparently the way Mass Owens repositioned the gun made him rethink trying to get away. No, he instead tried for a smile, though the confidence of it wavered in the corners. “Sir, it’s not—she threw herself at me. I should have walked away, I know, but I’m only a man.”

  Mass Owens narrowed his eyes. And his trigger finger twitched. “Do you think I’m deaf, Julius? Didn’t hear her screaming?”

  Salina inched closer to her father. “He attacked me, sir. I didn’t do nothing—anything to invite it. I didn’t.”

  The devil swallowed. Hard. “She’s ashamed at getting caught, that’s all. It was a game, sir. Just a—a—”

  Her father stepped forward and jammed the barrel of the gun into his chest. “Are you calling my daughter a liar?”

  His daughter. He’d just called her his daughter to someone else, to another gentleman. Claimed her, if only to save her.

  “Your . . . ?” Yet Mr. Julius’s gaze, after flicking between them, lost most of its fear. “You understand, then, Owens.”

  “Understand?” His voice was low, vibrating with fury. “I never forced myself on a servant. Not my own, and certainly not someone else’s.”

  And Salina’s heart sank back down into the pit of her stomach. Daughter in one breath, servant in the next. As she would always be. Thinking that just because Murruh hadn’t screamed and fought—hadn’t dared—that she welcomed his touch.

  “I . . . I’m sorry, sir.” Mr. Julius drew in a breath and pasted on that terrible excuse for a smile again. “I was out of my head after Delia rejected me again. That’s all. Not thinking.”

  Though Mass Owens lowered the weapon, there was nothing forgiving about his manner as he did. And so it was no great surprise when he grabbed Mr. Julius by the collar and gave him a jerk away from the servant’s door, then a mighty shove toward the exit of his study. “She was right about you. She tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen. You best get out of my house, Lieutenant.”

  Mr. Julius regained his footing in the doorway, squared his shoulders, and sent a challenging look at him. “I’m the only hope you’ve got for all your plans. You dismiss me and you might as well kiss them all good-bye.”

  Salina glanced at her father, who gripped his gun so tight his knuckles were white, to match his face. “Get. Out.” The breath he drew in seemed half a gasp. “Now.”

  “You know where to find me when you change your mind.” With one last haughty adjustment to his sleeves, Mr. Julius turned on his heel. And plowed straight into a dark fist.

  Salina squealed, then covered her mouth with her hands. “River, no!” Didn’t he know what a fool thing that was? That devil-man could . . . would . . .

  Mass Owens jumped forward, caught Mr. Julius with his arm pulled back. “You had it coming, Julius, and if you dare make trouble with him for it, I’ll claim I did it. Just get on, now. Get out of here.”

  He left, spewing a string of vile words after him. But still, Salina couldn’t force a swallow, not with the way her father then let his gun clatter to a rest against the wall. Not with the way his eyes went all unfocused and his hand clutched at his chest.

  The panic just wouldn’t let go. “Mass Owens?”

  He didn’t say a word. Just dropped to his knees, hand still clawing at his chest.

  The scream tore up her throat again even as she fell to her knees beside him. “Help! Help! Someone help!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Phin pulled up on the reins as they neared the parade grounds and looked over the sea of “able-bodied men” who had been called upon to come hear a speech given by a Georgian colonel. There had to be at least a thousand men there, maybe closer to two.

  Phin shifted in his saddle and let out a sigh. It was a recruitment speech, nothing more. And according to his doctor, Phin wasn’t able-bodied. But the men who had come to his door that morning and demanded his presence had no interest in his medical discharge papers. It was mandatory and enforced by men with guns and a look in their eyes that said they were spoiling for a fight.

  So here he was.

  “And so,” the colonel bellowed from his place on the stage, “those who join up now, of their own will, before the draft is instituted next month, will receive a fifty-dollar bounty and a sixty-day furlough. These incentives await you men of conviction and courage, and I invite you now to walk three paces to the front and line up here.” He indicated the space between the stage and the start of the crowd and stepped back with a smile, gaze roaming the crowd.

  Not a single man pushed his way forward. Silence hung heavy as a curtain.

  Beside him, Luther muttered, “Awkward.”

  “Shh.” Phin shot him an amused glance.

  The colonel stepped forward again. “Come now, fine sirs, don’t be shy! Who has a hankering for that fifty dollars?”

  Movement on the fringe caught Phin’s eye, and the officer’s too.
A group of Irishmen made their way to the front, to the enthusiastic cheering of the crowd. The colonel jumped off the platform to exchange a word with them, then hushed the crowd. “These forty brave men step up as a new company, the Mitchell Guards. Now, who else will join them in service today?”

  At the renewed silence of the gathered throng, Phin shook his head and leaned toward Luther. “I have a feeling we’re going to be here awhile.”

  Luther returned the shushing and looked over to the edges of the crowd, where other uniformed men stood with weapons at their sides. Their message was clear—no one was leaving, not until the colonel had his men.

  Slowly, a few volunteers trickled forward. One here, another there, until fifty or so stood beside the Irishmen. But it took an hour. A far cry from the response the colonel no doubt wanted, and even from the rear of the crowd, Phin could detect his frustration.

  Did none feel the stirring within them? The desire to defend what was theirs? Or was it just that they didn’t want to defend what was Virginia’s? He shook his head. The eager ones had already enlisted, were already dying of disease in the trenches or marching north to meet the Yankees head-on. Those remaining in the city were either too incapable, too vital, or too cowardly to join them.

  Loathing closed off his throat. These long months, he hadn’t been forcing his recovery so he could rejoin. Wasn’t sure he wanted to. But as he looked out over the familiar buildings of his town, he didn’t want to be one of these men either. Maybe he didn’t believe in everything the Confederacy stood for, but he sure believed in defending his home and the people he loved.

  He believed in honor, even if too many didn’t.

  He believed in the right to fix what was broken himself, not let some politician in Washington do it for him, without the first clue how to do it right.

  The colonel pointed directly at him and shouted, “You there, on the painted horse, with the giant Negro beside him. Won’t you fight for your country?”

  His pulse didn’t even pick up. When he nudged his mount forward, the crowds made enough room to let him through, creating a path to the stage. Phin followed it until he emerged into that too-open area before the platform.