heat was king.
Some merchant ships still came, though they were heavily patrolled by the Union. Women still looked at fashions, but they could seldom afford to buy. The fish markets were quiet, with only the birds and the cats unaware of the unspoken tensions.
And it was no longer easy to set sail from the tiny island, not without proper credentials. Unless, of course, it was by darkness, in a small craft, and with someone who knew the lay of the land.
That being, Tara left the island of Key West on a single-mast fishing boat with Seminole Pete, who had long kept a bar in town. Pete had outlasted the Seminole Wars, and he had never surrendered or succumbed—he had just kept moving, and now his bar was a fixture. In his spare time, Pete “fished,” and in doing so he helped his friends, who numbered many. There were only friends and those who were not his friends. In his day, he’d seen half his people decimated in the Seminole Wars, and there was no white man in a uniform he trusted, North or South. Tara was Pete’s friend, and she loved that he was one of the few people who seemed to know everything about her without ever being told.
When Tara’s mother had died, just as the war had commenced, Tara had rented out the beautiful home on Caroline Street her grandfather had built, and took residence in a few rooms in the huge and rambling home Pete owned. Pete and Richard had both insisted she do so; it was dangerous for her to be alone.
That was fine with her. She’d always thought her mother would eventually marry Pete, but while the two were close and constantly together, they’d never taken vows. It was nice to be around him after her passing.
As they neared the small island just north of Key West, Tara became aware of the scents on the air: cows, pigs, chickens and other animals. The Union-held fort and the Confederate citizens of the lower Keys all found their sustenance through the remarkable resources of the island.
“We are near. You are in plenty of time,” Pete said, his voice expressionless.
Pete didn’t question the power of dreams; when she had explained to him that she felt that she had to get close to the American president, he merely nodded. He’d taken many a person through the years to Richard’s ship, hidden behind the mangroves. An Indian out in a small fishing boat was not someone with whom the Yankee troops would bother.
Besides, not even the Union troops questioned where Seminole Pete secured his beverages. Off-duty, they were far too pleased to enjoy his bar. In fact, at times, the situation there would have been comical if there weren’t a country pathetically at war all around them. Customers sometimes shouted taunts, or made them beneath their breath, but all kept it peaceful, as if they were but placing bets on different horses in a race.
She looked over at Pete. The sail was down, so he rowed steadily, his sculpted face impassive. He watched her as he steadfastly drew the oars, one easy, even stroke after another.
“You think I’m crazy,” she said quietly, breaking through the rhythmic sound of the oars on the water.
“You said you must do this. Then you must,” he said. “Will I worry about you? Indeed, child, I will.”
“Have you ever had anything like this happen to you?” Tara asked. “I mean, where your dreams were of someone else and came upon you like a sickness of worry?”
“I know many people who have had such dreams,” Pete said gravely. “But were they dreams? Or did we know that the guns were coming to our shores, and that we would be driven farther and farther into the swamps? Perhaps we rush to bring these things into our minds, and dreams are the culminations of our fear—fear for what we can’t stop.”
“But if we see omens, doesn’t that mean there’s at least a prayer we can stop a catastrophe?”
“Perhaps,” Pete said, gazing out across the darkness. “Sometimes we see a path, and think that we must take it, and then there’s a fork in the road. We may not go to the same destination.”
She smiled. “You’re confusing me, Pete.”
“Life is confusion. Now, more than ever. Or it is not. We just live. Time will come and go, and this war will end, and there will be new wars. I understand that any man or woman must do what they believe is asked of them by a great power. So, do what you must. And then come home. This is where you belong. Where you are known and where you are loved. There will be bitter days ahead, and harsh punishment, and our tiny island world will be far enough from the heaviest part of the boot when it falls.”
“The war isn’t over yet,” she half protested, though she didn’t know why.
“All but the tail end of the dying. Trust me—I’ve seen war. At the end, there is nothing but blood.”
“There is already blood,” Tara said softly.
Pete didn’t disagree; he had spoken his mind.
She was aware of the sound of the oars striking the water again and listened to them for a while. Then Pete nodded his head toward the horizon.
Squinting, Tara could see Richard’s Peace, sails down, at deep anchor off the stock island. It was barely a silhouette against the dark sky. She was surprised that Pete had seen it, but he had spent much of his life fighting and running through the darkness and the marsh.
Peace was a beautiful ship. Richard had commissioned her for his salvage and merchandising business before secession, and before he had ever dreamed of operating her as a war vessel. She had three masts and a square rig, which meant that at full sail she was quite a sight to behold. She could move swiftly over the open water, but since the decline of the clipper had begun with the advent of steam, Richard had modernized her by equipping her with a steamer, as well. She had a shallow draft, and could easily navigate the coral reefs and shoals, especially with a captain like Richard manning her; he knew the waters around the Florida Keys as well as he knew his own image in a mirror, if not better.
Richard had sailed out on a dark night many a time, evading the enemy ships. He hid the Peace and walked about Key West as an average citizen, avoiding the Yankee troops in the town these past four years.
Pete ceased to row, letting his small boat drift toward the larger ship. A man on guard on the deck quickly called down to them. “State your business, and speak quickly!”
“It’s Tara Fox!” she called quickly.
“Come aboard!”
A rope ladder was thrown down, and Tara leaned over to plant a kiss on Pete’s face. She imagined he might have blushed. “Don’t worry. I will make it home,” she promised him.
Grabbing her satchel and securing it around her shoulders, she reached for the rope and carefully climbed her way up to the deck. Richard was there to help her on board.
“You know, you are insane,” he told her huskily.
“Just following the lead of my captain!” she returned. He turned quickly, introducing her to the man on guard.
“Tara, I think you know Grant Quimbly here. Lawrence Seville is at the helm, and Gary French is working the steam engine. Make yourself at home in the cabin. We’ll be on our way.”
“Thank you, Richard,” she told him.
He nodded. “Lawrence, let’s get her under way!”
