It was raining again, a feathery wetness that blew in upon the crowd hanging over the railing of the steamboat. It was this, on top of the soggy wetness of the past days, that was causing such greasy billows of smoke to lie over the town, rising from the fires.
Around her, Lorna heard the babble of speculation. She glanced at Ramon and saw his face was grim, his attention narrowed on the ships that lay at anchor along the levee. Turning back, she saw activity along the snaking length of the waterfront. Carriages bowled here and there, and knots of men were gathered, brandishing torches in the gloom. More men were rolling huge barrels of sugar and hogsheads of molasses from the buildings. They were breaking these open with axes, letting the richness pour into the streets, while women and children scooped up the spilled goods in buckets and baskets, pots and aprons, ignoring the falling rain as they scavenged. At one point farther along, wounded men with stained bandages were being unloaded from a steamer, carried on stretchers or helped along on crutches, and put into ambulance wagons backed up to the levee.
"What is it? What's happening?" she asked, catching at Ramon's arm.
"At a guess, I would say the federal fleet has fought its way past the forts at the mouth of the river and is on its way upstream. Looks like somebody has given orders to burn the coal and steamboat wood, as well as the cotton and other supplies stockpiled in the warehouses, to keep them from falling into enemy hands."
He was right. The news was flung at them in a dozen clamoring voices as they reached the wooden dock built out from the levee. Anxious friends and relatives, come to meet those disembarking from the river packet, told of how the Yankee fleet, numbering some twenty mortar schooners and gunboats, and seventeen warships for a total of more than 350 guns under the command of Captain Farragut, had attacked Fort Jackson and Fort St. Philip. The garrisons of the forts had not been captured, but the federals had been able to break the chain barrier laid across the river channel and, despite heavy fire, steam past the first and only line of defense for the city of New Orleans. Farragut's fleet had been damaged by Confederate rams during the engagement, but sheer numbers had carried the day, and the federal commander was now steaming slowly toward New Orleans. He would be there in a matter of hours.
It seemed impossible. The ships of the federal fleet had been there, off the coast below the city, for so many months. At first an annoyance, then, as the effectiveness of the blockade grew, a hardship, they had never seemed a real threat.
New Orleans must fall. The people in the crowd, some babbling, others staring at each other in shock, some few women crying into their handkerchiefs, accepted that fact without question. Because of the surrounding flat terrain and the lack of fortifications, the city was indefensible. The best thing that the Confederate forces garrisoned there could do would be to retreat to avoid capture, with the hope of rejoining the Army of the West and reoccupying New Orleans at a later date. When they left, the people of the town would be left defenseless before federal invaders. What they would do, how the townspeople would be treated they did not know. It was possible that the city would be looted, plundered; as for the women, heaven alone knew what they might be called upon to suffer.
Ramon paid no attention to the chaos around him. His gaze was fastened on a ship a few yards farther along the levee. She was a side-wheeler, but there her resemblance to the clumsy riverboats such as the Rose of Sharon ceased. Long and narrow, with the pointed bow of an ocean-going vessel, she had truncated masts and a single stack that could be telescoped out of the way when she was under sail. The housings for her side-wheels were enormous, with steps and railings built over them by way of a promenade. Her color was not white, but a dirty shade of mist-colored gray. At her stern, she flew the Union Jack of Great Britain. She did not flaunt her name with huge lettering and painted designs on her paddle boxes, but marked it instead in scrolling gold letters high on her prow. She was the Lorelei.
Ramon was the first man across the gangplank when it was finally let down. Lorna, half-walking, half-trotting at his side, wondered if he even remembered she was there. She was certain she had been forgotten a few minutes later when, nearing the ship, he was spotted by a man patrolling the deck with a shotgun in his arms.
A whoop of joy broke across the levee, followed by a rapped-out order to lower the gangplank. The young man who had spoken was short and slender, his brown hair covered by a uniform cap that came down on his brow to the wire-rimmed spectacles he wore. He swung up to stand on the stacked cotton bales that crowded the ship from stem to stern. "Hey, Captain," he called, "I had a bet with Frazier you'd show up before dark. He's been grumbling like an old grandpa, but we've had steam up for two hours, since we fought off that bunch of riff-raff that tried to set fire to us. We were going to take her out into the river, if they tried it again."
"Good man, Chris," Ramon called. "Is everybody aboard?"
"Every man-jack of us!"
"The repairs?"
"Done, since yesterday! Are we going to run for it?"
"What do you think?" Ramon shouted, his face slashed by a grin of anticipation. His words were echoed by a yell from the gathering crew of the steamer.
In spite of Lorna's misgivings, he had not forgotten her. He turned to her as the gangplank was run out to thud gently onto the top of the levee. "Tell me quickly," he said, "is there anywhere I can escort you? Is there anywhere you think you might find safety.?"
She glanced at the ship that waited, then back to his face where impatience to be gone was overlaid by his concern for her. She shook her head. "No. You should go, now, with your ship. You don't want to be caught here."
He was gentleman enough not to show his relief, nor to take the easy way out. "We never decided what you would do, where you would go."
"I think…it must be the convent. It isn't far from here. You needn't worry."
He sent a hard glance a hundred yards down the levee to where a group of men, shouting drunkenly, were rolling whiskey barrels from a shed, smashing them in the street even as the shed began to burn above their heads. He took her arm. "Come, I will walk with you."
She shook him off, holding out her hand. "No, it isn't necessary. You don't owe me anything. I will say good-bye now."
"Ma chère," he said, slowly taking her cool fingers in his strong, warm grasp, "To say farewell and leave you here, like this, it troubles me."
She forced a smile, looking away from him to where the Lorelie rose and fell with the river's current, the rain dappling the surface of the water. Her habit was growing wet again, but she did not notice. Attempting to withdraw her hand, she said, "There is no need."
He did not release her. "I wish…" he began, his voice low and tense, "I wish there were something I could do for you. I would take you with me if the risk were not so great, and if I thought you would go."
Her gray gaze met his dark eyes briefly, then flicked away again. "No, I understand."
He swung, calling. "Chris, do you have any specie on you? Whatever you have, bring it here."
"I don't want your money!" she said, anger tightening her voice. "I won't take it!"
"Don't be a little fool!" he said in grating tones as he spun back to her. "It isn't for services rendered, you know. You will need something to live on until you can find a position, or someone to take care of you."
Her chin rose. "I can take care of myself. I don't need your money. I don't need you or anyone else."
The officer he had spoken to came over the gangplank and stopped at Ramon's side, holding out a leather purse. Ramon took it from him and, reaching for Lorna's hand, slapped it into her palm.
"Take it and, for the love of le bon Dieu, use it! Let me do this as a salve to my conscience, if nothing else!"
She did not agree, but neither did she refuse the money again. Her fingers curled around the stiff leather, feeling the rough suede with heightened sensitivity. He released her hand; then, almost against his will, he clasped her forearms, drawing her toward him. His kiss was w
arm and deep, a farewell flavored faintly with chicory and so infinitely tender that she felt the rise of salt tears in the back of her throat. He released her with a ragged sigh and stepped back. His dark eyes held her silvery gaze, and his voice was rough when he spoke.
"Good-bye, Lorna."
She summoned a smile, though a shimmer of tears dimmed her vision. "Good-bye."
He turned sharply and stepped to the gangplank, striding across. The order was given to cast off, and men leaped to obey. Their feet thudded back across the gangplank. Another order was called, and she heard the creak and rattle of chains as the plank was run in. The deep blast of a steam whistle shook the air, sounding once, twice, three times. The paddle wheels began to churn. The ship inched backward. Across the widening gap of water, she sought and found Ramon, standing with his hands braced on the railing. Warm tears spilled from her lashes, and she turned sharply away.
Behind her, she thought she heard his rough oath. The rattle of chains came again. Swinging back, blinking hard, she saw Ramon spring to the moving gangplank jutting out over the water and leap to the levee. He strode toward her, and bent to thrust an arm beneath her knees, lifting her high against his chest. Before she could move, before she could protest, he took a running step toward the moving ship and vaulted the oper stretch between the shore and the blockade steamer.
He landed hard on the bolted planking. Eager hands reached out to steady him, to catch and pull him back onto the deck. He glanced around him with a lifted brow, and the men drifted away, suddenly remembering important tasks that needed their attention as the ship headed into the river channel.
He glanced down at Lorna then, and his gaze was unfathomable. The muscles in the arms that held her were like coiled steel. Rain clung to his lashes and beaded his hair, so that it curled over his head, falling forward onto his forehead. The rain surrounded them in a curtain of mist, gentle, protective. A slow smile carved deep indentations in the planes of his face and crinkled the corners of his eyes. With great care, he set her on her feet. Looking up, he located the officer who had brought the money, the spectacled youth who was overseeing the coiling of the hawsers some distance away.
"Chris," he called, his voice sure and deep. "Show this lady to my cabin, then, let's run for Nassau."
What Ramon had failed to mention, and his men had accepted with such high good-humor, was the fact that, rather than evading the blockade squadron at the mouth of the river, to reach the gulf the Lorelie would have to sail past the federal fleet now ascending the river. Slipping by thirty armed ships, any one of which could blow them out of the water, would be no sinecure. The coloring of the ship, designed to make her invisible in fog and sea mist, would be an advantage in the lightly falling rain and the early darkness that was fast approaching, but the risk had increased a hundredfold.
Lorna, left alone in the captain's cabin, faced the danger squarely. It did not dismay her, any more than it did Ramon's crew. Whether from confidence in his ability to surmount a difficult obstacle, from an inability to grasp the possibility of her own mortality, or from sheer refusal to accept the fact of the Yankee victory, she was not afraid. Her only wish was for something to do, some way of passing the hours that lay ahead.
She looked around at Ramon's quarters with a certain curiosity. They appeared to serve all his needs in one compact area. A wide bunk took up one wall, with an oil lamp in gimbals swinging at its head and a large brass-bound trunk at the foot. Another lamp was attached to the wall above a table that sat under a pair of fair-sized portholes. It illuminated the charts spread over that surface, which was also set with a silver and brass condiment holder containing salt, with its own tiny silver serving spoon, a shaker for pepper, and wide-bottomed cruets for oil and vinegar. There were two heavy chairs with turned legs at the table, while on the floor beneath and extending to the four walls of the cabin was a matting of woven straw for coolness in tropical ports.
Minutes after the vessel had cleared the port, leaving the smoking, panic-stricken city behind them, a meeting of the ship's officers was convened in the captain's cabin. Ramon entered first, explaining to her in a few terse sentences what was about to take place. He gave no indication that he wished her to leave; still, she could not be comfortable as the men filed into the small room.
The first to arrive was the executive officer, second in command after Ramon. A tall, rather gangling, sandy-haired man with sky-blue eyes, his name was Earnest Masters, though he answered, also, to Slick. As he was introduced, he spoke to her in a slow and confident drawl that had the sound of the hill country of northern Louisiana. Behind him came Frazier, the supercargo, an older man, short, pot-bellied, with a bald head polished to shining and edged with a fringe of salt and pepper hair that trailed down his jawline forming magnificent mutton-chop whiskers. He was an islander, from the Bahamas, and their pilot in those waters. Finally, the second officer, who also served as navigator, joined them. This was Christopher Sanderly, whom she had seen before. Quiet, almost shy as she returned his borrowed purse, he radiated intelligence from the hazel eyes behind his spectacles, an impression confirmed by Ramon's claim that he was a genius with numbers.
There was time for little more than a smile and nod of acknowledgment for each man as he entered, before the door swung open again with a bang.
"Mon Capitaine! They say you are back, but I must see it with my own eyes, me! Hey, you one welcome man, I tell you. What for you stay away so long?"
The new arrival was a small and lively Frenchman with the rakish look and the scraggly beard of the sailing men of Marseilles, allied to the happy disposition of the Acadians of Louisiana. His name was Cupid, and he had been a seaman for nearly thirty years, most of them before the mast, though an injured shoulder that had caused his arm to wither had turned him into a cook. He preened at having the spotlight as he was made known to Lorna and, by way of approval for her appearance, rolled his eyes expressively at Ramon. His next move was to offer ham sandwiches and hot coffee all around, to fortify them against the night ahead. As Ramon accepted, the Frenchman took himself from the room, but not before he had given a quick wink to Lorna.
She took one of the two chairs the cabin boasted, placing it out of the way in a corner before she sat down. Ramon took the other and, turning the seat toward him, set one booted foot upon it, leaning his wrist across his knee.
There was no need to outline the situation; they knew it well enough. The details Lorna had not known, Ramon had given her before the others had made their way to the cabin. They were cruising at half-speed, with visibility cut to no more than a few yards, and a rain storm on their beam. If that weren't suicidal enough in a river known for shifting its sandbars overnight and carrying enough downed timber any day to build a fair-sized town, they were without a river pilot and heading into the teeth of the best fighting ships the North had to offer. At their present speed, allowing for the effect of the flood current, and if they were lucky, they would make the 150 odd miles to the gulf in approximately fifteen hours, just in time for ships of the rear guard of Farragut's fleet, no doubt patrolling the river's mouth, to use them for target practice at dawn. Before that could happen, they would have to get past Farragut himself.
"The floor is open," Ramon said with an easy smile. "Does anyone have any idea when we may be expected to come upon the main fleet.?"
The supercargo, Frazier, cleared his throat. "They were saying on the docks that Farragut started past the forts in the early hours of this morning. If he came straight on after the battle, that would put him just about on New Orleans's doorstep."
"He would have to travel at the speed of the slowest ship in his fleet, say maybe nine or ten knots an hour, moving upstream against the current," the second officer said. "it stands to reason that he would proceed with caution since he wouldn't know the river and couldn't afford to put complete trust in any southern river pilot he might be able to hire. Under those conditions, and given the number of ships he has with him, it would be foo
lish to risk steaming at night; too much chance of their fouling each other if there were some kind of accident."
"Then, there are the batteries at Chalmette. It's likely he will want to pass them near dawn, as he did the forts." That piece of informed deduction came from Slick, the executive officer, who stood with his lanky form braced against the wall.
Ramon gave a short nod, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "We can reasonably expect to run into him two or three hours downstream, then, either making slow headway or tied up for the night. The question is, what do we do about it?"
There was a moment of silence. Christopher Sanderly looked from Ramon to Slick, then back again. He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally spoke. "There are all these ships that have been set on fire floating on the river right now, plus nearly a score of cotton runners like ourselves, and then that many again of river packets, even a Confederate iron-clad. From what we heard, there will be more. I say we rig barrels or something with wet cotton in them to make a smoke screen, make it look like we're just another burning hulk. If we cut the engines and float down on the federals, they'll steer clear of us and let us go right on by."
"Good thinking, Chris," Ramon said. Then, as the second officer began to grin, he continued, "There are only two things wrong with it. The first is the danger of any fires set getting out of control, and the second is that ships like the Lorelei have an irresistible appeal to the federal navy. They are still in need of every ship they can lay their hands on, and nothing would make them happier than getting hold of a fast runner to use to chase down others of her kind. So long as there were no actual flames, no sign of structural damage to the ship as it went by, it's all too likely a boarding party would be sent out. The minute the fighting started, we would be exposed and reinforcements would be sent."
Surrender in Moonlight Page 12