Somewhere ahead of them there came a distant shout, no more than a human sound without words at that far remove. It was followed by a hoarse, whistling sound. Light flared, a great yellow bloom that soared upward to explode in a red glare, reflecting from the deep mist with an orange sheen. It hung in the sky, fading only slowly, a calcium rocket illuminating the scene below.
It showed the embankments of Fort Fisher, sullen earthworks above the river, facing out to sea. Surrounding it at a healthy distance were six or seven gunboats. In the stretch of water in between was a ship just getting up full steam after her slow approach, her paddles beginning to churn and sparks flying as fresh coal was thrown into her furnaces. A thudding boom sounded, and there was a flash of light from the gunboats. In its last gleams could be seen the geyser of water that spewed up on the beam of the ship running toward the fort, the blockade runner Bonny Girl.
“It’s Peter,” Lorna whispered.
“Full speed ahead!” Ramon called, no longer bothering to lower his voice. To her, he said, “So it is Peter, but you had better be worrying about yourself. Get down!”
Hard on his words came a growling explosion, followed by a high-pitched whine. The shell fell in front of them, spouting water upward, so that it fell on the deck. The calcium rocket had lit the area, catching them as well as Peter in its glare.
Lorna had not needed Ramon’s hard hand on her shoulder to bring her to her knees. She remembered too well the whistle and scream of musket balls around them on the night they had left Beau Repose. Now, crouching, she flattened her skirts around her. The pilot dropped down beside her, hunkering with one hand on the deck as another shot burst overhead and bits of hot metal rained, rattling, down onto the steamer. The concussion of the explosion was hot, numbing. Lorna saw Ramon grab for a brass bar to haul himself erect. Hard on that blast, mingling with it, was another. Wood screamed as the shell tore into the deck. Splinters flew, pinging on the hatches, clattering. Lorna felt a tug at the folds of her cloak, but did not bother to look. Foremost in her mind as she knelt with the deck vibrating beneath her hands was the thought of the dynamite stored in the hold beneath them, waiting for an errant spark.
The vessel was picking up speed, her wheels beating the water to a froth, the thud of the beam increasing in tempo. They were racing toward the fort, sprinting, straining with every ounce of power and particle of pride in the ship. It was almost as if the Lorelei were alive, could sense the desperate need to reach safety; that she reacted to the orders of the man who guided her by voice alone, without need of mechanical guidance. Behind them, a shot fell short. A broadside, deafening in its staggered booming, scattered around them, so that they ran through a rain of water spouts, but were unhurt.
A rocket flared, soaring into the heavens. Lorna could not resist the need to see their progress, to judge the distance they must go. She pushed herself upward, balancing on the plunging deck. At that same moment, a salvo roared from the fort ahead, whirring past them. The Bonny Girl was beneath that beneficent shower of shot, dashing homeward.
Not so, the Lorelei. Ahead of them was the white water of a shoal, and, though Lorna had not heard the order given above the shelling, they were moving out from shore in the direction of the gunboats.
“Port, hard, for the love of God!”
She saw then what Ramon had seen. It was the hulk of a blockade runner, half-sunk earlier in the night perhaps, lying waterlogged in the mist. Near impossible to see until the rocket had lighted the sky, it lay across their way. There was no time to stop, and none to pass behind it; they would plow into it, risking tearing the bottom of the ship out on the jagged stern. There was just room, if they were lucky, to slip by between the sunken bow and the shoals to starboard. Ramon had given the only possible order, and he stood now, the planes of his face set and hard in the yellow-red light.
She thought they were going to make it, skimming past with inches to spare on one side and white water foaming around the paddle wheel on the other. The gunboats thought so, also, for they sent out a double broadside that whistled and screamed around them, toppling the aft mast, so that it crashed to the deck and a man yelled in pain. Then, there came a whispering, scraping noise, a ringing of the ironclad hull like the thumping of a tin kettle. The Lorelei shuddered. They struck.
Lorna hurtled forward, coming up hard against a warm chest. Strong arms closed around her as they sprawled, rolling, slamming into the windowed side of the enclosure. Ramon grunted; then, as a shell exploded above them with the shattering tinkle of broken glass, he pinned her beneath him, covering her with his body.
The firing stopped. Ramon rolled from her, springing to his feet. He issued terse orders to settle the crew and get the grounded ship moving. The pilot and helmsman regained their feet, the last daubing at his bleeding neck as he caught the spinning wheel. Lorna pulled herself up, backing out of the way. Around her in the dimness was torn decking and splintered railing. The stern of the boat had a crippled look with the downed mast lying at a grotesque angle over the side. Somewhere a man moaned, and she left the protection of the wheelhouse, moving toward the sound. She found him, one of the passengers, a Scotsman from Edinburgh. His right arm was broken and he had a gash in his head. She knelt beside him for a moment, wiping ineffectually with her handkerchief at the blood running across his face. Rising, she looked around for one of the officers, anyone who might tell her where medical supplies could be found. The ship, in common with most runners, carried no surgeon.
It was then she saw it, a long boat in the water with a lantern amidship. It carried a complement of blue-clad soldiers, their muskets at the ready and an officer of rank glittering with braid at the prow. She was standing, staring at it still, when Ramon appeared at her side.
“We are about to be boarded,” he said, his voice abrupt. “You had better go below.”
She indicated the passenger moaning at her feet. “But, this man is hurt. Someone needs to see to him.”
“He’ll be taken care of.”
“I — when they come aboard, you don’t intend to resist?” It would be suicide as they sat there under enemy guns, besides branding them as pirates rather than merchants.
“No,” he said, the single word etched with the acid of bitterness, “but you can never tell what might happen.”
He took her arm then, forestalling further questions or argument. At the door of the companionway, he left her, striding aft to deal with his crew and the situation that awaited him.
Lorna hesitated, holding to the door frame, staring back toward the injured man. She heard then the thump of the grappling hooks as a rope ladder was secured to the side. A moment later, there came the sound of rough, self-important voices.
She did not care to witness Ramon’s humiliation at having his ship seized, at his being taken prisoner. In the hectic pace of events, it was only beginning to come to her what this grounding of the ship meant. They were caught. The Lorelei would never run the blockade again. They would be taken aboard one of the federal ships, and Ramon’s gallant vessel confiscated. A numbness gripped her, but of the kind that gave warning of pain when it wore away. She turned, thinking distractedly of the things she would have to do to make ready to be taken off the ship. Behind her, the arrogant voice of a federal officer rang out.
“I understand you have on board a female passenger, one Miss Lorna Forrester, a known Confederate courier. I have orders of search and seizure for this woman, and demand that she be turned over to me on the instant.”
Lorna heard Ramon’s hard denial, his questions, but she did not wait for the result. She plunged down the companionway and along the corridor to the cabin. Search and seizure. The implications of the term were plain; the meaning of it in connection with her name, and on the lips of the federal officer, would have to wait. Inside, she swung her gaze around the small space. She dragged the oilskin packet of dispatches from her cloak pocket, weighing it in her hand as she sought a hiding place. Her trunk was the first place they wo
uld look, and doubtless Ramon’s the second. Under the mattress was too obvious; likewise under the straw matting on the floor. To put it among Ramon’s papers would be to implicate him, the last thing she wanted to do.
Outside she heard the clatter of booted feet on the companionway. There was no time to be clever. She took a step forward, and her slippered foot kicked against a hatbox, one of several scattered over the floor by the force of the grounding. She had become so used to them, she had scarcely noticed them in the dark. Now, she swooped to pick up a bonnet that had spilled from its nest of tissue paper. A confection of black lace with long veiling, it was peculiarly appropriate for wartime, a mourning bonnet. She thrust the oilskin packet into the crown, wadded the tissue paper around it, and crammed it back into the box. She was just putting the lid back on when the door crashed open behind her.
She swung around, fixing a startled look on her face as she confronted the officer at the head of the detail of men in blue, one of whom carried a lantern. Pitching her voice higher than was normal for her, she said, “Oh, you gave me a fright.”
“Miss Lorna Forrester?” The officer was tall and clean-cut, nice-looking in a wholesome way, with brown hair tinged with mahogany and hazel eyes. He was not, she thought, more than twenty-six or twenty-seven.
“Why, yes.”
“I must ask you to come with me, Ma’am.”
After the first brief glance tinged with admiration, the officer had stared somewhere just over her head. With a small, helpless gesture, she inquired, “Whatever for?”
“Orders of the commander of the fleet, Captain Winslow, Ma’am.”
“The fleet commander? I am honored,” she said, touching her hair, smoothing loose strands, “but I’m so untidy, and this cabin is such a mess—”
“This way, if you please, Ma’am.”
She gave a small shrug and set the hatbox aside. Still fussing with her appearance, brushing off her cloak and patting her hair, she swept from the cabin ahead of him.
Cupid stood in the passageway outside. He bobbed his head at the federals, stepping out of the way. As Lorna met his black gaze, he gave her a sly wink that seemed to carry a message. She smiled, grateful for the encouragement, before turning toward the companionway.
Lanterns had been lighted and set about on the deck. Soldiers with muskets were ranged along the railing behind the federal commander, while Ramon stood facing him. The ship’s officers were ranged behind Ramon, with the crew gathered beyond them in the prow. Cupid, who had undoubtedly been ordered to point the way to the cabin where Lorna was, now followed her topside and joined the others. Lorna moved to stand at Ramon’s side, facing the fleet commander. The naval lieutenant stopped a pace behind her, while his detail ranged themselves on one side.
Captain Winslow was a man of medium height with a craggy face half-concealed behind a brown beard that jutted out at an arrogant angle from his chin. Barrel-chested, he held himself erect with his hands clasped behind his back. As he looked Lorna over, his eyes burned with zeal, and there was in his expression something of the implacability of the Puritan faced with a suspected witch.
“Miss Forrester, sir,” the officer who had served as her escort said.
“Humph.” The commander cleared his throat before beginning. “According to my information, Miss Forrester, you are a known courier of the insurrectionist Confederate government, carrying dispatches destined for Davis. I demand that you give those documents into my possession.”
“I would be happy to comply, sir, if I had such things, but I’m afraid I haven’t the least idea in the world what you are speaking of. May I ask who may have given you such vicious and erroneous information?”
“You may not. And I warn you not to play games with me, Miss! I will not be taken in by an air of innocence or coquetry, however prettily done. You will turn over the papers you carry willingly, or I will have you searched for them. Is that understood?”
Ramon took a step forward. “You are exceeding your authority. This is highly irregular. When did the United States government begin harassing ladies as a pastime.?”
“This is no pastime, I assure you. The ladies of the South would be quite safe from harassment if they would stick to their embroidery and refrain from involving themselves in the conduct of this war. As to my authority, I assure you it is valid, though I see no reason to bandy words with an ex-officer of the United States Navy turned traitor!”
“What happens, sir, if you are wrong?” Lorna asked, summoning an injured frown. “Who will restore my self-respect after being submitted to such an ordeal?”
“You will have the apologies of the United States Navy, Miss Forrester,” the commander said with heavy irony, “but I foresee no need for them. For the last time, will you volunteer the dispatches you are carrying or must we search for them?”
“I have told you, I am not what you think. You have been misinformed. If I cannot convince you, then I am afraid you must do as you think best.”
Even as she made the small, poignant gesture of defenselessness that accompanied her consciously brave words, she was aware of Ramon’s sharp glance in her direction. He knew that angry defiance was more in character for her than this fragile acceptance. What he did not realize was how important it was for their search to be cursory, if undertaken at all.
“You leave me no choice,” the commander said, his features hard. He nodded to the officer behind her. “Lieutenant Donavan, see to it.”
“No,” Ramon stepped forward, putting his hand on Lorna’s arm. “Couldn’t this wait until you are ashore, where a woman could be brought in?”
“And give Miss Forrester time to dispose of the dispatches? No. Lieutenant?”
The lieutenant took a step toward her, then stopped, eying in something akin to dismay the bulky garments Lorna wore.
“She will have to disrobe,” the commander said with impatience. “Take her below.”
“I will go with her,” Ramon said.
The commander’s frown hardened and he lifted a brow. “I fail to see how the presence of another man will be of use to Miss Forrester. No. I require that you remain here. There are matters to be discussed concerning the cargo you carry, and then I am of a mind to go over this ship with the view of making her my flag vessel. That’s if her speed and seaworthiness prove satisfactory, which I have no doubt they will. If everything is in order, you will be needed to see her free of the shoals.”
Ramon paid no attention, moving to Lorna’s side as she turned toward the companionway. At a snapped order, the soldiers at the rail brought their weapons to the ready, pointed in his direction.
“Need I remind you, Captain Cazenave, that you are my prisoner?”
It was Lorna who came to an abrupt halt. “I think you had better do as he says,” she said quietly. “I will be all right.”
“Chérie—”
She made a quick, silencing movement. The visions that haunted him she could only guess at, but they could not be helped in any case. If the papers were not found, all would be well, but if they were it would be best if he were not present. She remembered too well, now, Sara Morgan’s warnings. She would be sent to prison for a time, months or years, if she were discovered. For Ramon, however, the penalty would be death. Sara Morgan had also said she would be immune from search as a woman, and she had been wrong. What else she might be wrong about, Lorna did her best not to think.
In the cabin once more, the officer held the door for her to enter. “This is new to me, Ma’am,” he said, his hazel eyes troubled, “but I think it would be best if you were to take off your things and hand them out to me. If you will light a lamp and pass it out first, I’ll be able to make my search out here.”
“Yes, I’ll do that, Lieutenant Donavan,” she said, real gratitude in her low tones. There were men to whom a woman, once she trespassed beyond the bounds normally reserved for her sex, was fair game. The ordeal before her might have been made much more unpleasant had the man been so inclined. It c
rossed her mind that his chivalry left much room for deceit, if such a thing had been necessary, but she pushed the realization from her. Removing her cloak, she put it in the lieutenant’s hands, then stepped into the cabin.
As she undid the buttons of her gown, Lorna heard thumping, thudding sounds vibrating through the ship. The soldiers were in the hold, examining the cargo, she thought. The Union armies would doubtless be able to make good use of the gunpowder and other arms and ammunition. It was to be hoped they had no use for bonnets. She thought of seizing the packet from its hiding place and pushing it out the porthole. If they could not find evidence of her guilt, they would be forced to release her, wouldn’t they?
Whether it was because of a reluctance to give up her mission for lost or of a simple need to deal fairly with the officer who had treated her with such courtesy, she did not make the attempt. Rather, she skimmed from her clothing with quick movements, passing it piece by piece out the door until she stood in her camisole and pantaloons. As she hesitated over handing them out, she heard a murmur of voices. After a few moments, a knock fell on the door.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Beg your pardon, but the commander has sent orders that I am to do a body search.”
“A what!”
“I’ll be as quick as possible.”
He did not wait for a reply, but turned the handle of the door and stepped into the room. She backed away from him with her arms crossed over her breasts covered only by thin linen. There was a grim line to his mouth, and his face was beet-colored. His gaze was steady, determined, though focused on a point just above her head.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but orders are orders. If you’ll hold out your arms, like this,” he said, demonstrating.
The officer’s embarrassment in some way mitigated her own. Lorna forced herself to comply. Her color was high, but her gray eyes steady as she watched his advance. A faint sheen of perspiration appeared on his face, and he swallowed, so that his Adam’s apple bobbed. Still, he stepped closer, hands extended. As he touched her sides, he closed his eyes. With a quick, patting motion, he felt up under her arms, pausing the merest fraction of a second at the soft roundness of her breasts, then moved quickly back down along her waist and over the curves of her hips. He knelt, sliding his hands along first one leg, then the other, then came erect, stepping back as if from a hot stove.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2 Page 27