The supercargo shook his head, so that the lamplight overhead gleamed on his shiny bald dome. "That's the truth, sure enough. What I say is, we ought to ease off down this river until we sight the federals; then, saying they're still moving, we slip over to the bank and tie up. What with the rain and the dark, they'd never spot us. Them blue boys would sail right on by, and as soon as the last one got around the bend, we could slip our lines and run for the gulf."
Ramon looked toward his executive officer. "Well, Slick?"
The tall man shrugged. "I'd say there're going to be plenty of lookouts on the decks of the fleet, what with the fired ships coming down on them, and them in enemy waters, not knowing what to expect. What happens if one of those hulks, burning like merry hell and lighting up the night, comes floating past just as a gun ship skates by, or if the good Lord sees fit to send a flash of lightning, so that some eagle-eyed Yankee catches a glimpse of us and sets off a calcium rocket to take a better look? It would take us a few minutes to get steam up again and move on. In that length of time, we'd be as easy to hit as a tired turkey at a snipe hunt. I think stopping would be a mistake."
"These are deep-draft ocean vessels for the most part," Ramon said slowly. "It's probable they will proceed upstream in single file, keeping to the main river channel, strung out over ten or fifteen miles of river. If we are discovered, if one ship starts to fire, then the others in the line will be alerted. We would have to run the gauntlet with a vengeance."
"That's true," Slick said. "The Yankee ships down the line would be ready and waiting for us, and there would be no place to run. But, if I've got to get mine, I'd just as soon take it running free. The Lorelei will do fourteen knots, maybe a bit more at full speed, and this flood current will add another couple. I say we barrel down on them and slide past before they can get their foot back, much less bring their guns to bear."
Lorna glanced at the others, seeing in their faces silent agreement with the sentiments expressed by the tall executive officer. From the faint smile on Ramon's face, she thought he too was satisfied. He stood up, twisting his chair back around under the table.
"That's the way we'll do it then," he said.
Hard on the words, Cupid returned with the coffee and rolls with thick slices of ham pushed into them. The men talked as they ate, completing the details of the plans for the night ahead, while Cupid, tray dangling from his fingers, stood listening, content that he had managed to get in on the end of the meeting. When they were finished, they left as unceremoniously as they had come, Ramon returning to the deck with the others.
The men did not glance at Lorna as they left; indeed, had barely acknowledged her presence during the entire conclave. The business that had brought them was vitally important, of course, and their position much too grim to allow for social formalities. Still, she could not help wondering how much her position as the woman who was to share their captain's cabin had to do with their manner toward her.
She got to her feet, taking a turn about the cabin, stopping to glance at the charts on the table before moving on to stare out the small window, from which she could see the orange flares of burning ships some distance away, moving down the river.
She was being ridiculously sensitive. It was probably so common to see a woman here in this cabin that it had not required comment. Since Ramon was their commanding officer, it would have been impolite, not to say insubordinate, for his officers to accord her too much attention. If she felt like an interloper, it was not to be wondered at; she was. If she was treated as a pariah, it was her own fault for allowing Ramon to see so plainly that she was at a loss, here in New Orleans, as to what to do or where to go.
She should never have let him see that she was disturbed at parting from him. She should have protested at his sudden abduction, refused the place he had assigned her. She had done none of those things and so could not complain.
Why hadn't she? Why had she permitted him to take charge of her? She could plead exhaustion and confusion at the violent upheaval of her hitherto dull life. She could say she had not realized what he meant to do, that it had happened so quickly she had not had time to think. Neither was strictly true, though each had contributed a small part. The fact was that when she had thought of Ramon sailing away free and unencumbered down the river, leaving behind the degrading events of the past days and their frightening consequences, she had wanted to go with him with a longing that was disconcerting in its intensity. To escape, to sail into blue skies and sunshine, away from everything and everyone she had ever known, away from her desolate childhood and the ugly memories that had followed, beyond the reach of the law and Nate Bacon, had been a burning need inside her. She had known Ramon could satisfy that need; that was why she had wanted to go with him. It had nothing to do with him as a man, or of what had passed between them.
Of course it had not! How could there be any attraction between them, other than a brief carnal pleasure, when they had known each other no more than a few short hours, and those under only the most adverse circumstances. He had used her, and now, she was using him. It was as simple as that.
Now that she was here on the blockade runner, steaming into danger, was it really what she had wanted? She didn't know. It was so difficult to sort out her feelings. It was not only her life that was changing, disintegrating, but the world as she had known it. She was not unhappy; she was even relieved, if a little fearful of the future, and of the man who had taken her from New Orleans.
In the end, however, it was simple. There was no one else she would rather be with, no place else she would rather be.
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Chapter 7
Time dragged past. The steamer seemed to be creeping along. Rain lashed at the decks overhead, and thunder growled. The wooden hull with its thin sheathing of iron creaked as the ship wallowed in the wind-whipped current. The lamps swung, casting swaying shadows on the walls. Lorna could not bring herself to undress and lie down. If the Lorelei was hit, she did not want to be caught unclothed, half-asleep. She moved about the cabin, sitting down on the bunk, jumping up again. Catching sight of herself in the mirror of the shaving stand, she grimaced at the unkempt sight she presented. In need of distracting herself, she paused before the trunk at the foot of the bunk, then reached to lift the lid.
Inside, on a tray, lay the jacket of a uniform of dark blue with gray flaps on the pockets, epaulettes sporting gold bullion, and down the front brass buttons embossed with the depiction of a ship under steam and with the word Lorelei in scroll underneath. To match the jacket, there were gray trousers with a dark blue stripe down the side of each leg. Under the top tray was more casual clothing, jackets and trousers in somber hues, light-colored waistcoats, silk cravats, and stiffly starched shirts.
She saw these at a glance, but then her gaze was caught by a canvas bag pushed carelessly under the linen. Prodding it gently with one finger, she felt the contents slide, heard the solid, metallic clink of gold. There were more bags deeper down, she thought, though she looked no further. Lying in that trunk, unlocked, in plain view in a cabin that was also unsecured, was a fortune in gold. No wonder Ramon had not minded the few coins he had distributed for service on board the Rose of Sbaron.
She let the lid of the trunk fall shut and turned sharply away. Blockade running was a lucrative business; she had known that. Seeing the hard gold, always demanded by the runners instead of the Confederate script that had been steadily losing value since its issue, brought home certain realities to her as nothing else could have done. She thought of all the gold pouring from the South into the hands of the blockade runners and their backers, and from there into the coffers of the English merchants from whence came the goods that were brought in, and she knew a moment of dismay. The states forming the Confederacy had been rich, incredibly so, before the war began; still, how long could they afford to disburse such a stream of wealth while the cotton and the sugarcane fields that had produced it lay fallow? And, when the mone
y was gone, what then? Defeat?
The South had to win, and soon; it had to. The losses, the changes any other outcome must bring, were unthinkable. The Lorelei had to get through, then. Regardless of the fortunes they made, men like Ramon were still the South's one hope.
It was impossible to realize, standing there in the warm, dry safety of the cabin, that the ship might be blown into splinters before morning, left to sink to the bottom of the river. The mind, in self-protection, rejected the idea. Yet that same intelligence recognized with dread the fast-approaching moment when the first federal ship must be sighted.
There was a bookcase holding neat rows of volumes above the bunk. Lorna glanced over the titles: Scott's Ivanhoe, a thick tome of famous naval battles, collected poems of Edward Young and Alexander Pope, Defoe's Robinson Crusoe, Michaud's History Of the Crusades, Thierry's History of France, a treatise by Chateaubriand, and others by Dumas, Flaubert, and a half dozen more. She picked up The Three Musketeers and, moving to one of the chairs, sat down, turning the pages.
She read a few lines here, a few there, went back to the first of the book and began again, but the words were without meaning. Flinging the book aside, she crossed her arms on the table-top and leaned to rest her forehead upon them. Her eyes were burning and her head ached. As she sat there, the aroma of coffee, as well as the smell of food, reached her from the tray left on the table when the men had gone. She was not hungry, had not taken more than a few sips of coffee earlier, but a weakness in her knees told her it was time she put something in her stomach. Straightening, she reached out for a roll with a thick slice of ham inside and poured herself a cup of lukewarm coffee.
It was as well that she had eaten. A short time later, the French-Acadian cook knocked and stepped inside. He had come, he said, to collect the dishes. It was a rule. The capitaine did not want glass flying about if there was shooting.
"Your name is Cupid, I think," she said, her smile wry as she recognized her feeble attempt to hold the ship's cook in conversation.
"Oui, Mademoiselle." He stepped to the table and began to stack the remains of the makeshift meal on the tray he carried. "I apologize, me, for coming so late to remove these things. I thought to prepare enough to eat, so that it would be ready in case of battle. There can be no fire then, you comprehend. I almost forget, me, that I left the coffee for you to finish. We are not used to women on this ship, no."
She shook her head with a light laugh. "You don't expect me to believe that."
"But, yes." He lifted a brow as he sent her a look of surprise. "It is not allowed. Ramon, he always say that the females only cause trouble. What a man does on shore, that is his affair, but he will not bring his amours onto the ship, not in the so beautiful form of a woman, not in the lovesick sighs and moans." His disdain was amusing, but she did not permit herself to smile again. "He…is a hard captain, M'sieur Cazenave?"
"Non, rnais non, did I say so? He is always fair, always generous, but some things he requires-a clean ship, hot food, a close schedule; some he will not allow, the women, loose plates and cups during action at sea, and…talking behind his back."
The rebuke was pointed, even if made with a shrug and a wink. She accepted it, changing the subject. "I don't suppose the federal fleet has been sighted yet?"
"Non, Mademoiselle. You would have known by the sound of the engines, by the quiet and the dark. But soon, I think."
When Cupid had gone, Lorna moved to lower the wicks on the lamps, so as not to alert the federals by a show of light through the portholes. That done, she resumed her pacing. Perhaps a half hour later, the rain ceased. It died away so quietly, it was hard to tell when it had passed. It had become such a constant background sound the last few days that it was some moments before Lorna noticed its absence. That it should desert them when it was so badly needed for cover for the ship seemed a betrayal.
For the dozenth time, she moved to a porthole and stood staring out. There was still nothing to be seen, however, no glimmer of light, no shift of movement. She felt so shut away there in the cabin below decks. Now and then, she could hear the others moving about above her, could catch their muffled voices, the passing in subdued tones of an order. It was stuffy in the cabin, heavy with the smell of coal oil and soot from the extinguished lamps. The need for fresh air, the urge to know what was happening, was too strong to be denied longer. Turning abruptly, she crossed to the door and let herself out.
The passageway was cool and dark, without lights. To the left lay the cabins of the other officers and the crew's quarters; to the right, if she remembered correctly, lay the companionway down which she had come when she was led below. Sliding her hand along one wall in the darkness, she made her way forward. She stubbed the toe of her riding boots on the bottom step of the ladder-like stairway. Lifting her skirts, she began to climb.
The thumping of the beams that turned the great paddle wheels was like a giant heartbeat, a thunderous sound echoed by the splash of the water cascading back into the river. It filled the night, deafening in the stillness. Though the rain had ceased, the decks were wet, reflecting the flashes of lightning behind them in the northwest. The shallow-draft blockade runner was hugging the east shore as closely as possible, at the edge of the channel. Lorna could just make out the dense shape of the tree line, hear the sighing of the wind through the branches. That same wind billowed her skirts around her and slapped the collar of her jacket against her cheek. It flung the cool dankness of the river into her face, so that she drew in her breath with the fresh shock of it.
She did not want to get in the way; still, she wanted to see. Keeping close to the deck housing, she worked her way toward the prow of the ship. She could hear the low murmur of voices. A few steps farther, and she had left the protection of the housing. The wind struck her like a blow, and she staggered a few steps, coming up against the rail before she regained her balance.
Ahead of her lay the river, like a huge, winding black alley. The water itself seemed a shade lighter than the banks on either side, gathering and reflecting what little light there was in the cloudy night sky. The flicker of lightning gave an eerie, intermittent light, but at the same time seemed to drain the color from the landscape, leaving it gray and black. They appeared to have outdistanced the burning ships, for there was none to be seen around them. The river stretched clear and empty, its surface ruffled into whitecaps in the flashes of light.
Without warning, the rain returned, closing in with the thick darkness of a blanket. In that sudden contrast, she saw it, a pinpoint of light that bobbed and darted, drawing nearer. At the same time, a quiet, but carrying cry sounded overhead.
"Ship away! Dead ahead!"
She half expected some violent reaction, a flurry of commands, crewmen running here and there to man stations. Instead, there was only a drop in the speed of the engines, the soft gurgle of steam being blown off underwater, and the decreasing cadence of the paddle wheels. Somewhere nearby a lantern's light was snuffed out with a pierced cover. The only gleam left on the upper deck came from the binnacle, though it was shielded by a solid wood screen.
Thunder rumbled and rain splashed down. The orange light at the masthead of the warship swam closer in the gloom. Lorna stood watching it with her hands clenched upon the railing and rain driving into her face.
A footfall sounded close behind her. She whirled to see the dark form of a crewman standing near her, his body tense, as if he had seen an apparition. He whirled, moving quickly out of sight. A moment later, she heard his voice in low warning. "Cap'n…"
Almost at once, Ramon materialized out of the darkness. His voice was harsh as he demanded, "What are you doing up here?"
"I only wanted a breath of air."
"I must ask you to go below at once. Get in the bunk and cover up, even your head. Don't move until someone comes for you."
She hesitated, then asked the question that had been troubling her. "But, what if we are hit, what if the Lorelei is sunk?"
He
took her meaning at once. "There will be plenty of time to bring you topside before she goes under. The greatest danger by far is from exploding shells, flying glass, and wood splinters. There is no time for argument or gentle persuasion. Will you go now, or must I carry you?"
"I will go, of course," she said, her voice quiet in counterpoint to the sharp impatience of his tone. "I would not like to be a handicap to you."
"Since you are still up, I suppose the cabin lamps are still burning?"
She had turned and taken a step back the way she had come. Now, she swung around. "No. Even I can see the need for turning them out."
As she whirled from him again, he said, "Wait."
"What is it now?"
"Would you like to see Farragut's flagship?"
"You mean…." She faced him them in the darkness, glancing uncertainly toward that shining beacon ahead.
"It's there, the Hartford, Farragues pet ship, the first in line. It looks as if they have tied up for the night."
She stepped forward, straining her eyes to see, scarcely noticing when Ramon moved to her side with his back to the wind, shielding her from the main force of the rain. The light grew, blossoming, separating into a second lantern in the rigging of the ship, and a third. Their glow outlined the masts and spars, still stripped for action of all except fore, main, and mizzen topsail yards, and with the sails clewed up, dripping in the rain. The vessel that lay at anchor was a screw sloop of twenty-four guns with twin stacks, but it carried the graceful lines of a sailing ship.
"She's a beauty," Ramon said, his voice shaded with reverence.
A beautiful thing dedicated to destruction, Lorna thought, though she did not say so. "You are going to run past her, then?" she asked as the Lorelei continued her slow forward progress.
"Slip past, I hope, and pass, too, whatever else is behind her."
"Pray God, the rain keeps up."
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