Forsaken Dreams (4 page)

Blake thought about praying, but he’d given that up long ago. The day he’d received word that his baby brother had been killed at the Battle of Antietam. His only brother. The pride and joy of the entire family. He was only seventeen.

Blake drew in a deep breath and continued onward. The visions faded and his mind cleared. Perhaps God was looking out for him after all. He marched—limped—forward as nonchalantly as he could, trying to signal Captain Barclay on the quarterdeck to begin hoisting sail. But the old sea dog must’ve already assessed the situation, as sailors leaped to the tops to unfurl canvas. The plank had been removed, and men lined the railing, their stances and faces tight, their eyes suddenly widening at something behind Blake.

Only then did he hear the thumping of boots and feel the dock tremble beneath him.

A hand clutched Blake’s arm and spun him around. Two Union solders stared him down. “And where do you think you’re going, Johnny Reb?”

C
HAPTER
3

G
rant was sure the beat of his heart was visible through his chest. Yet with the control and experience gained from years in command, he faced his enemies with a look of authoritative aplomb. One, a mere sergeant, by the stripes on his coat, was busy gazing at a group of young ladies standing by the millinery shop across Bay Street. The other, a lieutenant, shifty-eyed, thickset, with a mustache that dripped down both sides of his mouth, stared at Blake as if he were a toad.

“Where are your papers, sir?” He jerked a thumb toward the
New Hope
. “You can’t leave port without proper papers.”

Blake’s stomach churned as he reached into his waistcoat and handed them to the man. “Everything is in order. Surely the port master informed you.”

“Port masters take bribes, Mr.”—he examined the papers—“Roberts.” He squinted as he glanced over the document. His friend finally lost interest in the ladies and faced Blake as well.

“Where are you heading?”

“As you can plainly see, Lieutenant, Brazil.”

The sergeant chuckled. “I’ve seen the signs posted around town. You’re starting a new colony, ain’t ya?” He pointed a finger at Blake, nearly poking him in the chest. “‘A Southern utopia,’ the pamphlet said.” He exchanged a look of disgust with his partner and continued laughing. “But what else should we expect from Rebs? Always running away like cowards.”

Blake ground his fists together behind his back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the crew of the
New Hope
loose the lines that tied the ship to the wharf. Thankfully, the soldiers hadn’t noticed. Blake’s stomach tightened. Captain Barclay would leave without him. He’d instructed him to do just that should Blake be arrested. But he was so close. Just ten more yards and he’d be on board.

Just ten yards between him and freedom.

A dark cloud swallowed up the sun. A portend of bad things to come? Shifting weight off his bad led, Blake scratched his neck, feeling the cinch of the noose already. A breeze coming off the bay brought the scent of rain and freedom, but it did nothing to cool the sheen of sweat covering his neck and arms.

The lieutenant slid fingers down his long mustache and thrust the papers back at Blake. “Prepare your ship to be searched, Mr. Roberts.”

Blake’s chest tightened. “For what purpose?”

“Slaves, Rebel soldiers, valuables that belong to the Union.” He thrust his face into Blake’s, dousing him with the smell of alcohol. “I’m sure we’ll find plenty of contraband to confiscate.” He faced his friend. “Go assemble a band of men. Tell them to arm themselves. We wouldn’t want our Rebel friends to forget themselves, would we?”

“I assure you, Lieutenant, we aren’t carrying anything illegal.”

“Then you have nothing to fear.” His gaze pierced Blake before he turned toward the sergeant ambling down the wharf. “Bart!” The man didn’t turn. The lieutenant marched after him. “Sergeant Bart!” he yelled, finally getting his attention. “Bring me the list of war criminals again.” He jerked a thumb toward Blake. “This one seems familiar.…”

But Blake didn’t stay to hear the rest. The
New Hope
drifted from the quay, and the crew beckoned him on with anxious gestures, their faces pinched. He didn’t have time to check how wide the expanse of sea had become between dock and hull. He didn’t want to know. It mattered not anyway. He had no other choice.

Ignoring the pain shooting up his right leg, he bolted down the remainder of the dock and leaped into the air. His feet spiraled over murky water. His arms flailed through emptiness, scrambling to reach the rope the crew dangled down the side of the brig.

Curses and shots fired behind him. A bullet whizzed past his ear. The rope loomed in his vision as if it were at the end of a long tunnel. Larger and larger it grew. And yet farther and farther away it seemed. His lifeline. One scraggly rope that would either save him or hang him. The crew shouted encouragements, but their voices seemed muffled and distant. So did the pistol shots and the voice of the lieutenant damning him to hell from the wharf.

Pop! Pop! Pop!
More shots exploded around him.

Tiny holes appeared in the hull of the ship, shattering the wood into chips. The brig drifted farther away. Blake’s feet touched water. It was all over. He wasn’t going to make it. Then his hand felt rough hemp. He closed his fingers. His shoulder snapped hard. His arm ached. He slammed into the hull with a jarring thud. Swinging his other arm up, he clutched the rope.

A shot zipped past his head. Its eerie whine catapulted him into action. He yanked his feet from the water and began to climb up the oaken hull. Someone pulled the rope from above.

A storm of boots thundered over the wharf, releasing a hail of bullets. A woman screamed. The wind snapped in the sails, and the water began a soft purl against the hull as the brig pulled out of port.

Almost there. Almost there. Blake released the rope and grabbed onto the bulwarks. Hands hauled him on board just as the soldiers on the dock unleashed hell.

Eliza backed away from the group of sailors as they dragged Colonel Wallace over the railing and onto the deck. She had not gone below as ordered. Not when a man’s life was at stake. Not when their entire journey was at stake. She knew trouble was afoot when those soldiers had stopped the colonel. Nothing good ever came of a chat with Union officers. Certainly not in the past year since the war had ended. They were out for blood. Pure and simple. They wanted nothing but to punish the South for her sins. And as self-appointed judge and jury, they wielded the whip of revenge with the utmost cruelty.

Remorse and sorrow flooded her at the thought that she had once associated herself with the North. Quite intimately associated.

The colonel landed with a thump on the deck as a torrent of shots peppered the sky and the ship, and seemed to rain down on them from everywhere.

“In the name of the Army of the United States and by command of Lieutenant Colonel Milton Banks, I order you to stop and drop your anchor at once!”

Eliza glanced at the dock. At least twenty Union soldiers stood in line, some firing pistols and rifles at the
New Hope
, others furiously reloading their weapons.

So stunned by the sight, she could only stand and watch as sailors ducked and slumped to the deck all around her. Strong arms grabbed her shoulders and pulled her down just as a bullet struck the mast behind her. The acrid smell of gunpowder bit her nose. Still, the firestorm continued. But it was Colonel Wallace’s body atop hers that caused her to tremble. Not any fear of death.

“Stay low, Mrs. Crawford.” His hot breath wafted over her cheek as he cocooned her with his body—his muscles hard and hot from exertion.

Eliza couldn’t breathe. Her skin buzzed. He smelled of man and sweat. Oh how she’d forgotten what it felt like to be held by a man. The shame of it! She must stop this at once. Here she was in the middle of a battle, her very life on the line, and all she could think of was how wonderful it felt to be in the colonel’s arms. Sails flapped and thundered above her until, suddenly, they bloated with wind. The ship jerked, and the rush of water grew louder. Shots popped and cracked in the air, but they no longer struck the ship.

Colonel Wallace gazed down at her for a moment, uncertainty in his gray eyes, and something else.… He jumped off her as if she had a disease. A breeze swept his body heat away, leaving a chill behind. And the all-too-familiar feeling of being alone in the world.

He offered her his hand and helped her to her feet. “Forgive me, Mrs. Crawford.”

But before she could thank him, he turned and hobbled to the railing where sailors lined up to watch the Union soldiers shake their fists in the air and growl at them from the quay. With a sweep of his hand, he gave a mock bow. “It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen!” he yelled, eliciting chuckles from the crew.

Eliza could only stare at him like a silly schoolgirl. Such courage, this man. The way he had jumped across the wide gulf without hesitation beneath a barrage of bullets. Then the gallant way he protected her with his own body. Dare she admit that her skin still tingled from the encounter? And now, his lively sarcasm toward his enemy made her smile.

“Back to your stations!” Captain Barclay shouted from the quarterdeck. “We’ve still got to get past Fort Sumter and Fort Moultrie.”

The sailors scattered like rats before light, some leaping into shrouds, others handling lines on deck.

“Praise God! Praise God!” A tall, gangly man with tiny eyes and thick sideburns emerged from the crowd, Bible clutched to his chest. “He has saved us!” He slapped Colonel Wallace on the back. “Excellent jump, my dear man. Excellent jump!”

Other passengers popped up from below to congratulate the colonel. He received all their accolades with a wave of his hand as if embarrassed at the attention. But there was one man not rejoicing. One man, dressed all in black, who leaned against the starboard railing, eyeing the proceedings as a scientist would a specimen beneath a microscope. His angular face nearly matched the odd-shaped stone he rubbed between two fingers. When his dark eyes latched on hers, he snorted and ambled away.

Eliza rubbed her arms against a sudden chill. Or maybe it was just the hearty breeze that now blew across the deck, filling sails and fluttering the hem of her gown. Making her way to the railing, she spotted the soldiers slogging down the wharf in defeat, far out of range now as the ship picked up speed. A kaleidoscope of tall ships anchored at wharfs and quays passed before her eyes. Warehouses and taverns cluttered the docks. Mills and shops stretched into Charleston, where citizens began to emerge from their homes. A loud horn startled her, drawing her gaze to the other side of the brig, where a steamship made its way into port, white smoke pouring from its stack. If only they had steam power, they’d make it to Brazil much quicker. The sooner the better, to her way of thinking.

She glanced back toward Charleston. A string of quaint homes stretched across East Bay Street, reminding Eliza of her family home in Marietta, a faint memory these past years.

Colonel Wallace slipped beside her, following her gaze to the city. Her heart skipped a beat as the wind showered her with his scent. “Take a good look, Mrs. Crawford. We shall not see Charleston in a long while, if ever again.”

“Does it sadden you, Colonel?” She gave him a sly grin.

He blinked and raised his brows. “You know who I am?”

“I know
of
you, sir.”

“No wonder those soldiers suspected me.” He chuckled, his eyes sparkling. “It would appear my charade fooled no one.”

“It is hard to hide the look of a warrior.”

“Hmm. I wasn’t aware there
was
a look.”

Eliza dragged her eyes away from him to view Shutes’ Folly Island off their port side.

Blake swung about, placing his elbows on the railing. The breeze toyed with the black hair at his collar. “Ah, Castle Pinckney.” He pointed to a small masonry fortification on the island. “We used it as a prisoner-of-war camp during the war.”

Eliza studied the crumbling structure and thought of all the Confederate soldiers still being held in prisons in the North. An ache weighed on her heart. Enough was enough. Why couldn’t the Union forgive and forget? Build instead of destroy? What good would it do this great nation to foster even more hatred and bitterness? She sighed, squinting against the sun. Yet prejudices ran deep, fueled by the agony of loss. She, of all people, knew that firsthand. It would be years, maybe even decades, before the wounds of this horrid war healed. Which was why she must leave her beloved country, her beloved South forever. She swung back around as they passed the South Battery at the tip of Charleston. Charred, cold cannons lined the park like sleeping soldiers. Dormant until the next war woke them into action.

Colonel Wallace gripped the railing, lost in his own thoughts. Finally, he said, “No, I am not sad to leave what has become of the South. It will never be what it once was. The North has seen to that.” Spite bit his tone, but he wiped it away with a smile. “And you, Mrs. Crawford? Are you sad to say good-bye to your homeland?”