Forsaken Dreams (28 page)

“Of course. We are back to formalities.”

“Do you blame me?”

Eliza flattened her lips. “Then why not allow Mr. Graves to toss me overboard?”

“Because I am not a murderer, Mrs. Crawford … or Watts.”

Eliza drew in a ragged breath, trying to settle her nerves. Still he stayed, taunting her with his presence. As agonizing as it was, she wanted him to stay. She wanted to talk to him. Make him see how sorry she was. “Why are you awake so early?”

A hint of gray circled the horizon. “Nightmares. I can’t seem to rid myself of them.” He approached the railing, sorrow weighing his tone.

Eliza longed to touch him, longed to smooth the lines on his forehead. “Quite normal for men suffering from the war.”

He cleared his throat as if embarrassed about his malady. “How is the baby? I have not seen Sarah above deck.”

“Lydia. She is small but healthy. The difficult birth taxed them both.”

“I doubt either would be alive without you.”

Eliza gobbled up the compliment like a starving woman would a scrap of bread. Yet just like a scrap, it did nothing to ease her hunger. “Mable, Magnolia’s slave, was a great help.”

“Hmm. Regardless of what the crew thinks, they are fortunate to have you on board for the journey.”

Another compliment? Dare she hope he was softening toward her? “And you? What do you think, Colonel?”

He faced her. His eyes as hard and unyielding as steel. “I wish I had never met you, Mrs. Crawford. That is what I think.”

Blake regretted both his words and his tone the minute they left his lips. Not because he didn’t mean them, but because Eliza’s sweet face melted into a puddle of despair. Yet it couldn’t be helped. When he saw Mr. Graves harassing the lady, as an officer and a gentleman, Blake was obligated to step forth. It was his duty and the only reason he had broken his vow of silence to the lady.

But that was all it was. She was still a liar and a traitor. Two things he could never forget.

Or forgive.

Then why had he stayed?

It was as if some invisible force had kept his feet fastened to the deck, some rebellious need to hear her voice, to look into those golden eyes once more. Eyes that now flooded with pain and turned away. Excusing himself, Blake mounted the steps to the foredeck, seeking solace at the bow where the crash of waves drowned out his conflicting thoughts. In the east, the sun peeked over the horizon, but instead of tossing golden spires across the water, a strange darkness immediately stole the light. A gray mass, thick and black—like storm clouds, yet not storm clouds—appeared in the sky. It settled on the water and began to grow and tumble toward them like a dust storm on an open prairie. Yet this dust storm soon spanned the entire horizon and rose into the sky, shoving back the sun and obscuring all stars in its path. The helmsman eased beside him, his eyes wide.

“What is it?” Blake asked.

“I dunno, Colonel. I ain’t seen nothin’ like it.”

“Wake Captain Barclay.”

Within minutes, the captain and most of the crew flooded the deck, along with some passengers who had woken during the commotion. Telescope pressed to his eye, Captain Barclay examined the approaching monster, his body stiffening. He lowered the glass. The lines on his face deepened.

“There’s no thunder,” he said. “No lightning. No rain. It’s not a squall. But what is it?” He tapped the telescope into the palm of his hand then turned and bellowed orders to the crew to lower sail.

James slipped beside them.

More people came above, rubbing their eyes and turning to look at the hungry cloud churning and swirling and moving toward them, eating up the ocean in its path. The air fled Blake’s lungs. He glanced over his shoulder to see Eliza, staring at the foggy beast, hugging herself. Angeline stood beside her. Concern for their safety, for
her
safety, bit at his conscience. Before Blake could act, James headed toward them, but Hayden leaped in front of him and beat him to the ladies, leading them beside the quarterdeck.

Then it hit. The gray mass swallowed up the brig without so much as flapping a sail or stirring a lock of hair. No breeze. No wind. No sight. Nothing but gray covered everything: the sea, the sky, and the ship. It was as if a bowl had been dropped on them by the spoiled child of some unearthly giant. Eerie silence reigned. An odd smell, like sulfur, burned Blake’s nose. Sailors lit lanterns. Passengers huddled together as voices shot through the fog calling to friends and family.

Blake groped his way toward the main deck, looking for Eliza, but he couldn’t see a soul in the thick smoke. Voices sounded hollow as if coming from within a deep well. “Eliza!” His voice bounced across the deck and returned to him, ringing in his ears. Sails flapped above. The sea dashed against the creaking hull, telling him that at least the ship still sailed.

Then the coughing began. At first a few coughs pumped into the fog from all around, then more and more until they coalesced into a crescendo that reminded him of corn popping in a kettle.

“All hands stay where you are. No one move.” Captain Barclay’s shout muffled through the fog. “Stay calm.” Yet his voice was far from calm.

Shadowy figures drifted in the haze. Fearful muttering tickled Blake’s ears. What in the blazes was going on? Heart seizing, he found the railing and slid his fingers along the damp wood, thrusting into the smoke toward the spot where he’d last seen Eliza.

Crackling sounded. Light speared the darkness. A single ray at first, striking the deck and scattering the mysterious vapor. Then another shaft and another until the deck, railing, wheel, the masts, the entire brig took form and shape and the mysterious gray shroud disappeared, leaving the ship in full sunlight. Scanning the horizon, Blake squinted at the brightness but found no trace of the gray mass. How could it have dissipated so suddenly? His stomach tightened. The last time they’d been cloaked in fog, the Union frigate had fired on them. This time he wasn’t even sure the strange cloud
was
fog. Whatever it was, he shivered at the possibility that it brought an even worse disaster.

He glanced over the brig, making sure no one was hurt. Dodd toppled to the deck. Then two other passengers. Mrs. Scott fainted in her husband’s arms. Mr. Jenkins coughed then slouched over the railing. Hayden collapsed beside Eliza.

Captain Barclay opened his mouth to speak, but only garbled words emerged before he fell to the deck with a thud.

C
HAPTER
21

T
hunder bellowed in the distance. Eliza gazed at the dark, roiling clouds—dark and heavy like her heart. She hugged herself against a sudden chill and forced her attention to the two canvas-bound forms lying lifeless on the plank: Mr. Milner, one of the ship’s seamen, and the baker’s wife, Mrs. Flanders, with her husband crouching over her body, tears streaming from his eyes.

James opened his Bible and began to read:

“‘And as we have borne the image of the earthy, we shall also bear the image of the heavenly.… So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.’”

The words sounded hollow in Eliza’s ears. Hollow like the empty threat of thunder in the distance. After all the catastrophes they’d thus endured, what damage could any storm do to them now? What curse could be worse than the deadly disease that had plagued them ever since the strange, ethereal mist had enveloped the ship?
Was
it a curse? Were there such things? Yet three days later, with over half the passengers and crew sick, and these two precious lives gone, what else could Eliza think?

Worst of all, though Eliza and James had tried every cure and medicine at their disposal, nothing seemed to work. Tears blurred her vision as she glanced over the morbid assembly, faces filled with shock, despair, and, in some, contempt as they met her gaze. Nearly everyone on board had a loved one or friend sick or dying below in the hold. And now, these deaths stole any hope that they’d ever see their loved ones returned to health.

Frantic as any caring doctor could be, James had searched through all his medical books, staying up long into the night until his eyes were red and his face haggard. Now, as he stood reading the scriptures, even his voice bled frustration. Over his shoulder, Mr. Graves leaned casually on the foredeck railing, watching the proceedings with a detachment that sent unease slithering all the way to Eliza’s toes.

“O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Eliza shifted her gaze away from Mr. Graves only to land on Blake, beside James, his face a mask of control that defied the outrage in his eyes. He would not look at her. Hadn’t looked at her all day.

James closed the Bible, said a quick prayer, and nodded to the sailors standing at the end of the plank. They lifted the wood. The bodies slid over the railing and plunged into the agitated sea with a resounding splash.

Lightning carved a jagged knife across the sky.

The crowd scuffled away, all save Mr. Flanders, who stood at the railing staring at the last remnants of his wife’s body before she sank to the bottom of the sea. Eliza longed to comfort him, but the hatred she’d seen earlier in his eyes kept her in place.

Hatred that now spewed toward her from the friends of the dead seaman.

“It’s her fault!” one of them shouted. “She’s bad luck!”

“Aye, she’s the cause of this,” another sailor said, darts of malice firing from eyes red with grief.

People turned to stare at her. Thunder rumbled.

James marched forward, Bible pressed to his chest. “Now, gentlemen. No one can cause an illness.”

“The devil can!” one of the passengers shouted.

Eliza glanced over the mob, seeking a friendly face—any friendly face. But she found none, save James. Wind blasted over them, whipping her hair onto her cheek. She brushed the strands aside. She was so tired. Tired of being hated. Tired of being threatened. Tired of tending the hopelessly sick. So tired in every way possible. A detached numbness overtook her.

Mr. Graves stared at her from the foredeck, his lips sliding into a grin. Blake, who had been gazing out to sea, finally turned toward the ruckus. A battlefield of emotions stormed across his face. He opened his mouth to say something when James continued, “This woman has been helping your loved ones get better. She’s been up for three days straight with no sleep and little food tending their every need.”

Lightning cast their faces in a deathly gray. Rain drops splattered on the deck. Women and children darted below. The men lowered their gazes and shuffled off, from the rain or from the doctor’s speech, Eliza couldn’t be sure. And she didn’t care. Wiping water from her face, she smiled at James and headed below deck. His footsteps followed her.

The sour stench of illness nearly sent her back above, but she pressed on, determined to do what she could to ease the suffering. She sat on the stool beside the first hammock and rubbed her aching legs, thankful for the temporary relief. Settling the swinging bed with one hand, she pressed a damp rag over the feverish face that sank deeper among the canvas folds with each passing day. Poor Mrs. Jenkins hadn’t woken in two days. Eliza had barely been able to get enough broth down her throat to keep her alive. Her husband looked up from the chair at the end of the hammock, their young daughter, Henrietta, in his lap. His brows teetered in anticipation of good news but quickly sank when Eliza shook her head.

Rising, she moved to the next patient. Raindrops tapped a death march on the deck above. Swaying lanterns cast undulating shadows across the sick—light and dark, light and dark—as if trying to decide which ones would live and which ones would die.

Eliza’s gaze met James’s across the way. He attempted a smile, but she could see from his face that hope was slipping away, replaced by a brewing frustration and anger. Beside him, Angeline held a cup of water to Hayden’s lips. At least he was still conscious and hadn’t slipped into delirium as some of the sick had done. Beyond her, Magnolia flitted from patient to patient like a hummingbird, hovering over each one long enough to offer a kind word or a sip of broth. She split her time between those below and her mother in their state cabin above. Still, the sight astounded Eliza. She never would have thought such charity existed in the self-absorbed woman.

The ship dove, and Eliza clung to a mast to keep from falling. Patients’ groans and grunts rose to join the creak of wood and pounding of water against the hull. Though the captain lay ailing in his cabin, with the first mate recovered from his injury and Blake’s assistance, the ship sped heartily on its way. She only prayed they wouldn’t arrive in Brazil a ghost ship, with not a living soul left on board.

Eliza shivered at the thought.

She lifted a mug of broth to a young ex-soldier and, once he’d taken a sip, wiped the dribbles from his chin. He mouthed a “thank you” before closing his eyes once again. In the next hammock, Sarah, with Lydia strapped to her chest, read the Bible to the blacksmith’s wife. Though Eliza had told her she should rest and avoid contact with the illness, she insisted on helping, stating that if it was God’s will for her to get sick, she’d get sick no matter what.