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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.
    â€œYou think I’m crazy,” she said quietly, breaking through the rhythmic sound of the oars on the water.
    â€œYou said you must do this. Then you must,” he said. “Will I worry about you? Indeed, child, I will.”
    â€œHave you ever had anything like this happen to you?” Tara asked. “I mean, where your dreams wereof someone else and came upon you like a sickness of worry?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œBut if we see omens, doesn’t that mean there’s at least a prayer we can stop a catastrophe?”
    â€œPerhaps,” 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.”
    â€œLife 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.”
    â€œThe war isn’t over yet,” she half protested, though she didn’t know why.
    â€œAll but the tail end of the dying. Trust me—I’ve seen war. At the end, there is nothing but blood.”
    â€œThere 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