Red Kelly, watching him with piercing blue eyes, read his thoughts. “We move tomorrow,” he said. “Be patient. God made this land and the sky above it. Live at peace this lazy day.”
“Do you think we can win this war?”
“We have many more men under arms than the Rebs and we’re backed by the might of our industry. But this is a big, far-ranging war. The good Lord knows how long it will last.”
Tim pushed back his cap and ran his hand through his stiff sandy hair. “The boys in the West are fighting a war that moves. We’re fighting a sitting war.”
“They’ve done their share of sitting in the West and in Virginia. Before this week is finished you’ll have your chance to fight again and a chance to die.”
Tim smiled. “I have no wish to die.”
Red’s face was flushed as he pulled at the oars. They moved across the inlet and glided into a tidal pool. They beached the boat, dragging it into the marsh grass. They moved through the heavy undergrowth, shielded from the sun by tall mop-headed palmetto trees. As they left the shadow of the trees the sun flashed pain into their eyes.
The beach stretched away to the northeast, ending in a point of land where palmetto trees hung over the sand on great shelves, their roots stripped bare by stormy seas. The ocean was flat and vast, and on the horizon the masts of a sailing ship barely moved in a distant, ghostly mist. To the southwest a big steam frigate moved slowly into Port Royal Sound. When its ensign had disappeared behind the trees they stripped off their clothes and splashed into the water.
Red had never learned to swim, so he stuck close to the shallow places. Tim swam into deeper water and paddled just out of his depth, letting the current take him along the shore. Suddenly Red shouted, “Sharks!”
Tim saw two putty-colored fins sliding obliquely toward him. Terror struck at his chest and he wheeled and swam for shore. As he reached shallow water he leapt and dashed, the water dragging at his legs, pulling him back. At last his ankles broke free.