Eliza’s thoughts shifted to Blake and the other men struggling to save the ship up on deck. Well, mainly to Blake, if she were honest. Which was something she hadn’t been of late. But that was another matter altogether.
Oh fiddle, Colonel Blake Wallace
, she reproved herself. She shouldn’t be calling him by his Christian name. Though the last nineteen days she’d spent in his company seemed a lifetime, in truth she hardly knew the man.
Then why, in her darkest hour as she faced a suffocating death in the middle of the Caribbean, was it Colonel Wallace who drew her thoughts? Not just her thoughts, but her concern—fear for his safety. Fear that she wouldn’t have a chance to explain why she had lied, wouldn’t have a chance to win back the affection that had so recently blossomed in both their hearts. She rubbed her tired eyes.
But what did it matter now? He hated her for who she was. No, for whom she had married. In fact, as she glanced over the terrified faces in the room, only loathing shot back at her. To them she was the enemy. An enemy they were risking their lives to escape. And now they were all going to die. Together in the middle of the sea. With no one to mourn them. No one who would know their fate. Not even Eliza’s father or Uncle James and Aunt Sophia or little Alfred, Rachel, or Henry. Not that they would care. To them, she was already dead.
Disowned. Disinherited. Forsaken.
The brig twisted and spun around as if caught in a whirlpool. Angeline’s trembling body crashed into Eliza on one side while Sarah’s smashed into her from the other, making Eliza feel like a garment run through a clothespress. An explosion of thunder cracked the sky wide open, followed by an eerie silence, as if all of nature had been stunned by the angry shout of God. Or maybe they were all dead. But then the wind outside the hull and the whimpers of fear within resumed. Angeline pressed Stowy, her cat, tightly against her chest while Sarah’s free hand clutched her belly swollen with child. Seven months along. How worried she must be for her wee one!
“Repent, for the end is at hand!” Parson Bailey’s flashing eyes speared Eliza with a look of hatred. She knew what he was thinking. What they all were thinking.
That she was the reason for the storm.
Another thunderous blast and Eliza squeezed her eyes shut again, wishing—praying—this was only a bad dream. How did she get herself into this mess? Why, oh why, did she ever think she could start afresh in Brazil?
She opened her eyes and stared at the oscillating shadows: light and dark drifting over the bulkhead, crates, boxes, and tables. And over the hopeless faces. A torn piece of rope tumbled back and forth across the deck. Parson Bailey still glared at her. Something maniacal glinted in his eyes as he shared a glance with Mr. Dodd and Mr. Graves.
“It’s you!” he raged, glancing over the others. “God told me this Yankee is the cause of the storm!”
Though all eyes shot toward the parson, no one said a word. Hopefully they were too busy holding on and too frightened for their lives to do anything about it. Mr. Graves, however, staggered to his feet, slipped the amulet into his pocket, and glanced at Eliza like a cougar eyeing a rabbit.
She tried to swallow, but her throat felt like sand.
Mr. Dodd grinned. “I say we toss her over!”
“Aye, she’s our Jonah!” Mr. Graves added.
“Precisely.” Parson Bailey nodded.
Though the freed Negress’s eyes widened even farther, only the farmers, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, offered any protests. Protests that were lost in the thunderous boom of the storm.
“Don’t be absurd, Parson!” Sarah added from beside Eliza. “God cares not a whit whether Eliza is a Yankee or a Rebel!” Yet, no sooner had the words fled her mouth than thunder exploded so loud it seemed God disagreed with the young teacher’s pronouncement.
Eliza frowned. For goodness’ sake, whose side was God on, anyway?
The ship bucked, and Eliza’s bottom lifted from the deck then slammed back again. A rope snapped, and a crate slid across the room. Mr. Dodd halted it with his boot then glanced at Mr. Graves while jerking his head toward Eliza.
“Jonah must go overboard for the seas to calm!” The parson howled above the storm, though he seemed unwilling to let go of the mast pole to carry out his depraved decree.
Angeline squeezed Eliza’s arm. “I won’t let them take you!”
As much as she appreciated her friend’s courageous stance, Eliza knew what she must do. She must leave, get out of this room, out from under these incriminating eyes, before these men dragged her above and did just what they threatened.
Terror stole the breath from her lungs, but she tugged from her friends’ arms nonetheless and lunged for the door. She was prepared for the angry slurs behind her when she opened it. She wasn’t prepared for the blast of wind and slap of seawater that shoved her flat onto her derriere and sent her crinolette flailing about her face. Pain shot up her spine. Humiliation at her exposed petticoat and stockings reddened her face. But when she glanced around, everyone’s eyes were closed against the wind and spray bursting into the room. Shaking the stinging water from her eyes, Eliza rose, braced against the torrent, gripped the handle with both hands, and heaved the door shut behind her. Then leaning her head into the wind, she forged down the narrow hall. She had no idea what she intended to do. Toss herself into the sea? She shivered at the thought. Yet if that was God’s will, if He wanted her to throw herself into the raging waters, then so be it!
But then again, when had she ever obeyed God?
The burning prick of conscience was instantly doused by a cascade of seawater crashing down the companionway ladder. The mad surge grabbed her feet and swept them from beneath her. Gripping the railing, she hung on for dear life as she floated off the deck. Seawater filled her mouth. Thoughts of her imminent demise filled her mind. But then her body dropped to the sodden wood. Eliza gasped and spit the salty taste from her mouth.
Thunder roared, shaking the railing beneath her hand. The brig jerked and flung her against the ladder. Struggling to her feet, she dragged her dripping gown up the steps, unprepared for the sight that met her eyes.
Waves of towering heights surrounded the ship, their foamy tips scattering like spears in the wind. Rain fell in thick panels, making it nearly impossible to see anything except blurry, distorted shapes that surely must be the crew hard at work. Wind crashed into Eliza, stealing her breath and howling in her ears. Rain pelted her like hail. The ship pitched over a swell. Eliza toppled to the deck then rolled as if she weighed no more than a feather. She bumped into a small boat and gripped the slippery moorings anchoring it to the deck.
Salt! Salt everywhere. It filled her mouth. It filled her nose. It stung her eyes. It was all she could smell. And taste. That and fear. Not just her own. Fear saturated the air like the rain and waves. It boomed in the muffled shouts ricocheting across the ship. Buzzed in the electric charge of lightning. Clinging to the moorings, her gown flapping like a torn sail, she squinted and searched for the captain, hoping his calm expression would soothe her fears. Yet from his rigid stance on the quarterdeck and his viselike grip on the wheel, Eliza’s hopes were swept away with the wind.
Which did nothing to ease her terror. A terror that numbed her heart as she accepted her fate. A wall of water slammed into her. She closed her eyes and hung on as the ship angled to port. Why did she always make bad decisions? Why did she never listen to her conscience? Stubborn, rebellious girl! If she hadn’t married Stanton, if she had listened to her father and her uncle, she would be home now with a loving family. She wouldn’t have been forced to become a nurse in the war, forced to witness things no lady should witness. Forced to take care of herself in a man’s world.
Sailors, ropes tied about their waists, crisscrossed the deck in a tangled fury. By the foredeck, Hayden, their stowaway, his long dark hair thrashing around his face, held fast to a line that led up to the yards. In the distance, Eliza made out James Callaway clinging to the ratlines as he slowly made his way up to the tops. How could anyone hold on in this wind? Especially James, who was a doctor, not a sailor.
But where was Blake … Colonel Wallace? Fighting against the assault of seawater in her eyes, she scanned the deck, the tops.
Dear God, please. Please let him be all right
.
She must find him. Or discover his fate. She must talk to the captain. If they were going to sink, she’d rather know than cling to false hope. Bracing against the wind and rain, she rose to her knees, struggling against her multiple petticoats and crinolette. Inconvenient contraptions! If she stayed low, she may be able to crawl to the quarterdeck ladder and make her way up to the captain.
The ship rolled then plunged into a trough. The timbers creaked and groaned under the strain. Rain stabbed her back. Wind shrieked through the rigging like a death dirge. A massive wave rose before the ship. The bow leaped into it. Eliza dropped to the deck and dug her nails into the wood.
Oh God. No!
The ship lurched to near vertical. Lightning etched a jagged bolt across Eliza’s eyelids.
She lost her grip. Tumbling, tumbling, like a weed driven before the wind. She threw her hands out, searching for something to grab onto. Anything. But the glassy wood slipped from her fingers, leaving splinters in her palms.
And terror in her heart.
Her body slammed into the railing. The ship canted. She rolled over the bulwarks, flung her hand out in one last effort to save herself. Her fingers met wood. She latched on. The salivating sea reached up to grab her legs, tugging her down.
Her fingers slipped. Pain radiated into her palms, her wrists. The brig heaved and canted again like a bucking horse.
God, is this how I am to die?
Perhaps it was. She’d run from God long enough.
Rain slapped her face, filled her nose. She couldn’t breathe. Her fingers slipped again. She couldn’t hold on much longer.
A strong hand grabbed her wrist. A face appeared over the railing. “Hang on! I’ve got you.”
C
HAPTER
2
May 10, 1866
Nineteen days earlier
Charleston, South Carolina
T
he hand that gripped Eliza’s was strong, firm, rough like a warrior’s, yet gentle. He lifted her gloved fingers to his lips and kissed them while eyes as gray and tumultuous as a storm assessed her. “Welcome aboard, Mrs. Crawford.” The voice equaled the strength that exuded from the man. No, not any man. A colonel, she had heard, a graduate of West Point. Though he was not broadcasting that fact to the Union authorities scouring Charleston.
“I’m”—he coughed into his hand—“Mr. Roberts, the overseer of this expedition. You are a nurse, if memory serves?” He assisted her from the plank onto the deck of the brig, where the scent of perspiration, tar, and aged wood swirled about her.
Mr. Roberts, indeed
. She knew his true identity to be that of Colonel Blake Wallace, a decorated hero of the war, but his secret was safe with her. She smiled. “You are correct, sir.” Thankful for his firm grip, Eliza steadied herself against the motion of the ship. Her heart needed steadying as well, as the colonel continued to gaze at her as if she’d sprouted angel wings. A flood of heat rose up her neck, and she tugged from his grip.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Crawford.” He shook his head as if in a daze and turned to welcome another passenger on board, giving Eliza a chance to study the man who’d organized this daring adventure. In the early morning sunlight, his hair glistened in waves of onyx down to his stiff collar where the strands curled slightly. Drawn along the lines of a soldier, his body displayed a strength only hinted at by the pull of his white shirt and black waistcoat across broad shoulders. Matching trousers stretched over firm thighs before disappearing inside tall leather boots. He turned and caught her staring at him. And then smiled—a glorious smile that was part rogue and part saint, if there was such a thing. Either way, it did terrible, marvelous things to her stomach. Or was that the rock of the ship?
Oh fiddle! He was heading her way. With a limp, she noticed. A slight limp that tugged at her heart.
“Do you have luggage, Mrs. Crawford?” Dark eyebrows rose over those stormy eyes, and Eliza thought it best not to stare at the man any longer. She was a widow, after all. A single woman. And she wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression of her character. “Over there.” She pointed her gloved finger to a large trunk perched on the edge of the dock.
“Very well.” Turning, he shouted to a man standing by the railing. “Mr. Mitchel. Would you bring that trunk to the master’s cabin?”
“Aye, aye.” The man darted across the plank.
The colonel nodded toward her and seemed about to say something when a burly man with a tablet stole his attention with a question.
Another man sped past Eliza, bumping into her and begging her pardon. Clutching her pocketbook, she stepped closer to the capstan, out of the way of sailors who scrambled across the deck of the two-masted brig, preparing the ship to sail and helping passengers and their luggage on board. The squawk of seagulls along with the thud of bare feet over the wooden planks accompanied the shouts of dockworkers and crewmen. Beyond the wharf, a group of citizens huddled on shore watching the goings-on from Bay Street.
Furniture, sewing machines, and a plethora of farming implements, along with trunks, lockers, and crates were soon hauled aboard. A pulley system, erected over the yards above, lowered a squealing pig through a hatch into the hold below.
Adjusting her bonnet to shade her eyes from the rising sun while fanning herself against the rising heat, Eliza studied the oncoming passengers. An elderly couple, dressed far too elegantly for sailing, boarded with a lady about Eliza’s age whom she assumed to be their daughter. Wearing a pink taffeta gown with a low neckline trimmed in Chantilly lace, the young woman drew the attention of nearly every man on board, including several sailors who stopped to gape at her. Eliza couldn’t blame them. With hair that rivaled the luster of ivory and skin as creamy as milk, she was the epitome of a Southern belle. Only her red-rimmed eyes marred an otherwise perfect face. That and her frown. She seemed oddly familiar to Eliza, as if they’d met before. Behind them, a young Negress, bent beneath the burden of a large valise, dragged a portmanteau as she struggled to keep up.