Chapter 39
Devon’s lips ached, cracked from the sun and wind.
A layer of salted moisture covered him. From late morning to more than halfway through the night, he’d rooted himself to the forecastle of the oyster sloop, Penny.
He’d explained to the captain how Morning Fawn had sacrificed her freedom for the sake of the striking a serious blow to the Confederate cotton supply and how they might be able to get their hands on a cotton emissary.
The captain had agreed to the pursuit, ready to do what he could to help the Union.
Devon had taken a few bites of salted pork and biscuits when Jeremy shoved it his way, but he had no appetite. The only thing that mattered was the Eliza Jane. He could only pray that the Reb captain had taken the customary route they were now following.
Just before dawn, thunder rumbled, followed by a pinprick of light to the south. Not lightning. More thunder, followed by quick flashes. Cannon fire? Devon rubbed his sleep-deprived eyes and leaned hard against the forecastle railing. Every hair on his limbs stood on end.
“Take a look!” Standing outside his cabin, Captain Abrams yelled at the lookout in the crow’s nest through his speaking trumpet. His heavy wool frock coat tugged against his belly.
Wind whipped about the sailor as he leaned forward, palm shielding his forehead, eyeing the gunfire.
Boom. Flash. Boom.
Devon’s breath solidified. His eyes scratched at the darkness, seeking solid form in the inky moonlit dark. The Eliza Jane wouldn’t be the one doing the firing. Blockade runners were built for stealth and speed, not fighting.
“It’s a battle, sir,” the sailor called down from above. “Looks like a Federal steamer firing on a blockade runner.”
“We’ve got to go there.” Devon turned and headed for the captain. “It could be her.”
“Could be.” Abrams lowered his spyglass and tipped his cap back. Black whiskers lined his cheeks. “But we’ve no business sailing into the middle of a battle. This is an oyster boat, not a gunboat. We’ve got no defense but side arms.”
Jeremy walked up looking as if he’d just crawled out of a hammock. “What’s happening?”
Devon ignored him. “Captain, I’m begging you…just get me close enough. I’ll take one of the rowboats.”
“Getting yourself shot or run down by a steamer ain’t going to do your girl a bit a good, son.
” The sea-weathered man puffed out a breath and scratched his scarred chin.
“We’ll head that direction but hang back until the firing’s done.
The blockade runner will likely try to run aground if she doesn’t sink first.”
“Sir, I didn’t come this far to do nothing while the woman I love is in danger.” Devon jutted his finger to the south.
Abrams spit tobacco juice onto the deck. “Convincing me to let you use my ship to chase her halfway across the Gulf ain’t nothing. But I’m still the captain, and my word goes. You’d best ready yourself for what’s coming when we arrive.”
“He’s right.” Jeremy put a hand on Devon’s back.
Devon shoved it aside and marched back to the bow. Pent-up steam flowed through his veins, enough to blow a boiler. He pulled his revolver from his holster and spun the chamber. Six loads. He was going to be ready, all right.
Did Morning Fawn know how to swim? Even if she did, knowing how to swim wasn’t any guarantee of survival. If the ship went down, it could suck her right down with it. His thoughts spun off in a circle of what-ifs.
No. He gripped the railing and lifted his gaze to the stars. Lord of the universe, she’s in Your hands.
Devon strained at his post as they neared the wreck.
Dawn’s misty web coated the world in a haze.
Abrams furled the sails, taking it slow through the debris.
The signaler stood in the crow’s nest whipping the flag this way and that, alerting the officers of the well-armed Federal steamer that the oyster boat Penny was friendly.
Thankfully, the captain had worked with Yankees previously and knew their codes.
Boards, a cap, even an umbrella lapped back and forth on the waves. A man’s body floated close by. Three rowboat loads of blue-clad troops from the Federal ship struck for shore.
The bow of a gray-clad steamer lay buried halfway up in the sand. The silent hull listed to its starboard side. One iron panel lay peeled back like an onion. The stern rocked with the waves.
Sweat broke out along his brow. An image of the doctor greeting him at his doorway when he rode into Fort Belknap eager to see his wife shivered through him.
Jeremy nudged his shoulder and handed him a cavalry kepi, part of the two Federal uniforms they’d hidden below deck. “Maybe it’s not even Morning Fawn’s ship. But we’ll find her if it is.”
Dead or alive or still on her way to England? Devon stuffed the hat on his head, lest he be mistaken as the enemy. “I’m rowing ashore. We’re close enough.” His step shifted to a run.
Jeremy and two armed sailors followed as he descended the rope ladder.
Devon grabbed the oars. “I’m rowing.” He struck the water like a grist mill, pouring himself into the motion, propelling them forward with all his might.
On the shore, two Confederate sailors crawled over the side of the wreck and dropped to the ground as smoke rose from the belly of the dilapidated vessel.
They ran for the woods where a handful of crewmembers were already disappearing into the trees.
A couple of others on the beach, wounded and dirty, struggled to stand.
The first group of Federal troopers landed. A private hopped out of the boat to pull it in.
Kaboom. A blast rent the air. The Federal private tumbled backward. Devon ducked and covered his head. A piece of iron sheeting flew by. The sailor behind him swore. The belly of the steamer belched fire and smoke.
Raising his head, Devon drove the oars through the water.
The sailor sitting in front of him nodded to the shore. “They blow it to destroy the cotton and keep it out of Yankee hands.”
The oars struck sand. Devon jumped over the side, leaving the securing of the boat to the rest. Water soaked his boots as he plowed through the knee-deep water. He slushed onto the beach and beyond. What if Morning Fawn was on the ship?
Still moving forward, he scanned the debris-filled shore. Poles, pieces of metal, tangled sails, and more. A body here and there. No one in a suit, all of them male. Morning Fawn couldn’t be aboard there. The men would have gotten her out. Wouldn’t they?
He squatted beside a soaking-wet fellow. Seaweed dangled from the man’s hair. Devon grabbed him by the collar. “Was this the Eliza Jane? Was there a lady on board?”
Dazed, the young sailor blinked up at him. “Yeah. Pretty lady. Getting married.”
Devon’s mind stuttered for a heartbeat. “Where is she?” He ratcheted his hold tighter.
The fellow shook his head. “Don’t know. She was on deck when…some of us were thrown.”
Devon released him. On deck, not in the hold. Thank God.
A dozen or so soldiers clamored toward the wreck, grabbing whatever they could to carry water to the blaze.
Devon moved toward the brush, farther from the shore. Something moved up ahead. Near the tree line, a man in a fancy suit stood up in a flattened swath of grass.
The devil himself. Moyer.
A chill shuddered through Devon. Moyer would know where she was. Devon ran across the sand at full charge.
Suit rumpled, Moyer turned toward him. Blood trickled down his forehead.
Hands clenched, Devon closed the distance, jumping over driftwood and tearing through the brush.
Moyer reached beneath his coat. Drew a revolver and aimed.
Devon slammed to halt, reached to his holster. Flap closed—
Moyer shot. Nothing.
Revolver in hand, Devon charged.
Moyer spun out his cylinder. Checked the chambers. Swore—
Devon plowed into him, knocking the weapon from his hand and throwing him to the ground.
Devon’s fists collided with Moyer’s jaw, first on the right and then on the left.
Moyer socked him a punch to his gut. Devon flinched.
Moyer shoved him off and lunged for his gun.
Devon tackled him to the ground and slammed his knee into the man’s back, clamping his hand on Moyer’s outstretched arm.
An audible gasp followed by a smothered squeal resonated from the left. A blur of blue snagged Devon’s gaze on the peripheral. Devon turned his head. Morning Fawn. Dress torn, hair disheveled, she stumbled up from a patch of sea oats. Alive. The rope-tight tension in his heart slacked a notch.
Moyer jerked his arm free and nailed Devon with an elbow jab to the ribs.
Thrown to the ground as Moyer gained his feet, Devon rolled away from the brunt of the man’s boot.
On his feet, Devon lunged, taking his enemy down again, wincing beneath a blow to his injured arm, but locking his grip on the man’s throat and driving a knee into his gut.
As Moyer gasped for air, Devon grabbed his revolver and pointed the end of the barrel against the man’s temple. “Move, and I’ll put a bullet in your brain.” He backed off his hold on the man’s throat a hair.
He’d killed men in this war and before that as a Ranger, but he usually didn’t see their faces. Moyer’s eyes bugged.
Morning Fawn dropped to her knees off to the side, her voice a hushed whisper. “Devon.” She touched his arm.
He locked his glare onto Moyer’s face. No distractions. Unspent rage surged through him. “My powder isn’t wet.” Devon gritted out the statement through clenched teeth. “I want to know, what you have done to my girl?”
Moyer’s lips curled upward in a crooked smile, his glare searing into Devon’s gut. “She’s mine.” His voice rasped. “Gave her word. I rescued you. She’s my wife.”
“I don’t think so.” Devon bored the barrel into Moyer’s flesh, just below where fresh blood from a cut pooled at his hairline.
Morning Fawn’s trembling hand retreated to her lap. “I gave him my word…” Her voice shook.
A chill deeper than frostbite sunk muscle deep. “Are you his wife?”
“Not yet, but—”