Chapter 37
Every muscle taut, Devon leaned onto his mustang’s foam-coated neck. Almost to Matagorda, and they’d been spotted by a squad of Reb cavalry. He gripped the reins in one hand as he goaded the animal with his knees, demanding every extra hoof beat he could get.
Hip-high brown brittle grass swished by.
No tree cover, just prairie and marsh. His saddle horn pressed below his ribs as they plowed through the carpet of growth and struck the red dirt of the trail.
The Federal lines couldn’t be much farther.
Not even Jeremy knew for certain how far.
They could only pray that their troops still controlled the peninsula.
Bare-headed, Jeremy galloped alongside at breakneck speed, reins in one hand and a carbine in the other, twisting and firing. Frederick hung on for dear life while the cavalry troopers amongst the group rode and shot as best they could manage.
Bullets from their pursuers zinged by. One grazed Devon’s ear. The muscles of his injured arm rebelled as he flexed his left hand tight on the reins and reached for his Colt with his right.
A biting wind kicked sand into his face.
Salt air mixed with the rotten egg stink of gunpowder.
A bugle sounded up ahead. He squinted and peered into the distance.
Men on horseback? Dear God. Please let it be.
He blinked again. A couple dozen soldiers rode toward them.
Soldiers dressed in dusty blue. Thank God! Hope surged through him.
Another bullet whizzed by, close enough to slice his sleeve and tingle his flesh.
A loud grunt from somewhere close behind. He couldn’t turn, couldn’t afford to look back.
In one glorious whoosh, the cavalry filtered past toward the enemy at full charge, carbines blazing.
Devon rode on, slacking the pace for his exhausted horse as the gunfire became distant, and the Federal fortifications, rows of driftwood stacked three or four feet high in front of grass-laden sandy hills, drew near.
Dressed in a short kersey wool jacket and trousers, Devon swung his legs over the oyster sloop’s railing and dug his boot toes into the rope ladder rungs as he descended to the waiting dinghy.
A pink glow edged over the eastern horizon.
Enough waiting. A norther had hit the evening Devon arrived at the Matagorda Peninsula with Jeremy and the five survivors of the seven who’d started the journey with them.
The soldiers’ tents had proved inadequate for the monstrous winds that pounded the canvas and plummeted the temperatures well below freezing.
Some of the troops had shoveled holes in the sand to protect themselves.
Stiff-limbed and cold, Devon had crawled out from under the canvas the next morning ready to find a boat.
Major Tucker, commanding officer of the company manning the fortifications, had argued, but Jeremy had set him straight.
Jeremy was under the direct command of Colonel Davis of the 1st Texas US Cavalry.
Therefore, he and Devon could pursue their mission as they saw fit.
It’d taken most of the day to locate a conveyance with a Unionist-leaning captain willing to help.
An oyster boat was the perfect cover for traveling close to the Confederate-controlled coast without drawing suspicion.
But they’d had to wait until that night for the sea to settle before they could set out.
Jeremy followed after Devon on the rope ladder.
The dinghy rocked as Devon stepped foot in it and sat.
Hidden by the port side of the boat from view of the Reb patrols, they’d row for the grasses and walk into Galveston.
Catch Moyer at breakfast if they were lucky.
What if that breakfast was with Morning Fawn in a shared hotel room? What if they were already married?
Couldn’t be. Devon would be in time to stop any wedding. He had to be. Coming by coach, Moyer probably hadn’t arrived until yesterday or the day before. Morning Fawn couldn’t be that man’s wife. And if the scoundrel had done anything else to her…he would pay.
“You stay low once we get there.” Jeremy picked up the oars. Ocean spray clung to his black wool wheel cap. “I’ll go to the hotels. Pose as a messenger looking for Moyer.”
“If you find out where he’s staying, you come tell me. I’ll be at the wharf. I’ll smudge some dirt on my face, keep my cap down, and mingle with the workers. See if I can get word on any blockade runners preparing to leave for England. I’ll act interested in hiring on.” Devon reached for the oars.
Jeremy shook his head. “Save your arm for what’s coming. You let the doc look at it for all of ten minutes yesterday. It’s only been two-and-a-half weeks since you had a bullet slice through it.”
“There’ll be time enough for me to take care of myself after I have my girl safe and sound.” It didn’t matter what Moyer had done or not done. Morning Fawn was Devon’s woman.
Achill shuddered through Devon despite the mid-morning sun. “Could you repeat that?”
The gray-haired slave lowered his crate to the weathered planks of the pier.
“The Eliza Jane slipped out of here a couple hours before sunup. Painted gray, low in the water, low smoke stacks—a blockade runner, sure as my name’s Frankie.
I’s helped load her up, sir.” He tugged off his neckerchief and mopped his wrinkled brow.
Waves crashed against the pilings.
Devon swallowed. “Did you happen to catch a glimpse at the passengers? I’m looking for a young woman, honey-blond hair.” His breath snagged in his throat.
The man scratched his head. “Yep, she was on it. With some fellow in a fancy suit.”
Iron bands cinched Devon’s chest. No! An inward cry blasted through him. “You…she…she departed with him? You’re certain?”
The man’s eyes softened. “Sorry, Massar. But I reckon she did.”
“I’m not your massar.” The monotone words tumbled out without thought. Morning Fawn gone. Gone. On a steamer, faster than a sloop. He scoured the horizon. How would a man even begin to find a ship out there?
The slave shuffled his boots. A stockinged toe stuck out of a worn flap. “She done looked none too pleased. The way she kept looking back, I’s figured she might just run down the plank.”
“But she didn’t?”
“No, sir.”
Why not? He scrubbed his hand down his face in a long-drawn-out pull that he wished would scrub away every day since Christmas Eve. “Do you know if they were married, her and the gentleman?”
“I’s don’t know.” The man bent down for his crate. “I’s got to get back to work before my massar catch me loafing. Sorry I couldn’t be of no more help.”
Devon nodded his thanks.
He had failed her. He bent over hands to his knees. Dear God, no.
The sun chose that moment to peek through a puff of white clouds.
Its brilliance shimmered on the water. He glanced up.
Seagulls circled overhead against a deep-blue sky which had churned angry black only a couple days before.
Hope. The blue sky had been there all along, just temporarily covered by the storm.
A thought pulsed through him. He wouldn’t give up.
He had an oyster sloop at his disposal, provided he could convince the captain to go along with the wild idea of pursuing a blockade runner.
The steamer was faster, but maybe it’d have to slow down or even hide out to avoid a Federal blockader.
Maybe the captain of the oyster boat would have some knowledge of the routes usually taken by blockade runners.
No. He wouldn’t give up. Heart pounding, he took off at a run to find Jeremy.