"Yes," he answered, his voice distracted as he watched Lorna beside him in the wet darkness.
They were nearly upon the ship. Lorna felt that she should move, should offer to go below, but she could not seem to make herself do it. She stood rooted, watching the flagship looming toward them, waiting for the cry that would mean they had been sighted, braced for the roar of guns. It did not happen. The ship lay quiet, swinging on her cables, enduring the pounding rain in sullen stillness. The men on her would be exhausted from the battle they had fought that day and the work of repairing the damage in the aftermath; they would be lying as the dead in the forecastle. There would be the injured to see to, the dead to be prepared for burial either in the river or when they reached New Orleans. No one would be expecting a cotton runner to be insane enough to try to race by them in the storm-swept danger of the night.
The Creole blockade runner beside her remained still, lending his presence, his protection, without fanfare, embodying the courage of every man on the ship. Lorna grew aware of a sense of camaraderie, of shared danger that seemed to bring them close, closer than she had ever been to any human being. It was a disquieting feeling, one she could not welcome, for it seemed that when it was withdrawn she would be more alone than before.
They were past and leaving the Hartford behind. Ahead could be seen another signal lantern on the prow of another ship. "I had better go below," Lorna said in low tones, "but I am grateful to you for letting me stay this long."
His voice was abrupt, almost as if he regretted the impulse, as he answered, "My pleasure."
If the minutes and hours had been slow in passing earlier, they scarcely seemed to move at all now. In the cabin, Lorna stood at one of the portholes for a time, but could see nothing since it was on the port side of the ship and the federal fleet lay at anchor to starboard. No sound could be heard on the steamer except the slow hammer strokes of the boom, mingling with the thunder and the rain-like splash of the water from the wheel. She found after a time that her muscles were tensed, as if waiting for a blow. Unable to see or hear, consigned to idle waiting, it seemed the best thing she could do was to follow Ramon's suggestion. She moved to the bunk and lay down, staring into the darkness, her hands clenched into fists held stiffly beside her.
There formed in her mind a mental picture of the steamer ghosting past an endless line of ships, black hulks heaving on the breast of the river, lashed by rain, marked only be their wavering lights. She thought after a time that she could tell when they passed one; there was a change in the sounds of the night, a compressed quality with the hollow ring of an echo. As it came again, and yet again, with no challenge to the Lorelei, she began to relax. The gentle rise and fall of the vessel in the water was soothing. As her tension eased, it was replaced by a vast tiredness. Her legs and arms felt heavy, weighted to the bunk. Her eyes burned, and she lowered her lashes for an instant.
The night exploded with a bursting report that reverberated from one tree-lined shore to the other. Hard upon it came a crash overhead and the tinkle of breaking glass. The ship rocked from the blow, so that she was thrown against the wall. The starboard paddle wheel, lifted from the water, beat a wild measure as it spun, then, the vessel settled again with a rumbling crash. As Lorna clung to the sides of the bunk, she heard the shrill whistle as air was blown through the tubes connecting with the engine room. Immediately, the beat of the paddle wheels accelerated.
Again came the shattering boom of big guns, the sound rolling across the water. The shells made great splashes nearby, as if they had fallen short. In the interval that followed, it seemed to Lorna that she could hear the shout of distant orders on board the federal ship away to their fight; then, came the third crash of gunfire.
It sang as it approached, a high-pitched and deadly whine that passed harmlessly overhead. She did not move, though it was the hardest thing she had ever done. The need to leap up, to do something, anything, was a rage inside her. She felt so useless lying there, a burdensome responsibility, of neither benefit nor aid to the men of the ship, or to herself.
Was it all to end here on this wet April night? It was possible that she deserved no more. The wheels of the gods might not always grind slowly. With wide eyes, she breathed a silent prayer and waited for the next shot. It did not come. With paddle wheels thrashing, the Lorelei plunged into the rain drenched night, intent on her heedless, yet calculated, run to the sea.
It might have been the sun that woke Lorna; it might have been the sound of footfalls in the corridor outside. She lay dazed, but with her eyes open as Ramon stepped into the cabin. He met her gray gaze as he swung the door to behind him. Releasing the knob, he moved to pull out a chair from the table and dropped into with the heaviness of exhaustion. He sat for a moment, before beginning slowly to remove his boots.
"We are safe, then?" she said, her voice husky.
"As safe as we can expect to be, with the federal navy on the prowl."
"Are we in the gulf?"
"Just leaving the Mississippi Sound, heading out into dark blue water, but past the danger point." He dropped one boot to the floor with a thud and began to tug at the other.
He seemed hardly conscious of what he was saying. It was not surprising. Other than the few snatched hours aboard the river packet, he must have had little rest in nearly three days. Her next question came without thinking, born, she told herself, of no more than natural concern for a fellow human being. "Have you eaten?"
"With the men, yes." He set the other boot aside and got to his feet, dragging his shirt from his trousers.
She lowered her lashes. "I thought, from the sound of it, that we were hit last night."
"We were."
"Was anyone hurt?"
"Only a few scratches. A shell ventilated the wheelhouse, nothing major."
"We were lucky then." From the corner of her eye, she saw his shirt as he flung it across the chair in which he had been sitting.
"It was one of the last gunboats that fired on us," he said. "There were two others, river steamers converted into gunboats, but they couldn't get our range, or else they never really got a good look at us."
There came the rustle of his twill trousers as he stepped from them, throwing them to join his shirt. The bunk jarred slightly as he sat down on the edge. Lorna shifted with a quick, scooting motion, making room, and he slid beneath the sheet. His broad form took up nearly three-quarters of the available space. The calf of his leg touched hers, and she drew away, huddling on her side against the bulkhead, facing him as though on the defensive.
He smelled of fresh salt air with an undertone of warm maleness. His eyes were bloodshot, and the stubble of his beard made a dark shadow beneath the bronze of his skin. As she watched, he let his eyelids fall shut, and so tightly did they seal that his lashes, black and curling, tangled together. She could feel the warmth emanating from his body. It made her uncomfortably aware of the habit she still wore, with the long skirt twisting around her knees and thighs. She had not been able to bring herself to remove it, not even when it had seemed they might be safe. Now that the rain had been left behind and the sun was out, the air in the cabin was close, freighted with warmth.
"Could we let in a little air?" she asked.
His answer was an indistinct sound, but she took it for an affirmative. Clambering over him, she struggled upright, shaking out her skirt. She crossed to the porthole and turned the heavy bolt that held the frame closed, swinging the sash with its thick glass wide on its hinges.
The gulf breeze swirled into the small cabin, filling it with the tang of the sea and the somnolent heat of the bright day. It caressed her face with a gentle touch, lifting soft tendrils of hair, fluttering them about her cheeks. She reached up and released the soft knot of her hair, spreading the silk roll of it with her fingers, so that it ' hung wild down her back in a shining curtain. Working at a tangle, she stared out the opening where she could see the water, dancing in sun-struck waves, stretching to the far horizon.
It was as deep and impenetrably blue as Spanish ink, or as the painted eyes of a china doll she had had as a child. There was no land in sight, nothing except endless reaches of water. Louisiana, the occupied city of New Orleans, and Nate Bacon all lay far astern.
At the thought, she felt a lightening of her spirits, the relaxing of close-held fear. She flung back her hair in a sudden gesture of freedom, shaking it, so that the soft wind fluttered the ends. Abruptly, a yawn caught her and she stretched, bending an arm to massage the stiff muscles of her neck even as she filled her lungs with clean, warm air.
How lovely it would be to feel the breeze upon her skin. She turned to fling a quick glance at Ramon, but he lay unmoving, his eyes closed. With nimble fingers, she unbuttoned the bodice of her jacket, shrugging from it. She tossed the jacket to lie with Ramon's clothing on the chair, and began to unfasten her skirt.
Standing in camisole and pantaloons, she stretched again, wishing she dared to throw herself down naked to sleep, like Ramon. She might have, if she had been alone, but the fact remained that she was not, and the habits of a lifetime were difficult to break. Eyeing the space on the other side of him, loath to wake him or, in truth, to share his bunk, she wondered if there was some other place where she might sleep.
"Will you stop dithering and get in the bunk?"
She was so startled by his sudden request that her answer was sharper than she intended. "I'm not sure I want to."
"That makes no difference. It's the safest place for you just now."
"Safe? What danger could there be?"
"There are twenty-six men on this ship, twenty-six good men. I'm not saying you would be assaulted if you stepped beyond the door alone, but you would be a definite enticement. I don't intend for the ability of my men to work as a unit to be jeopardized simply because you aren't sleepy anymore."
She drew in her breath with an angry gasp. "If you think that I am in the habit of dispensing my…favors…to all and sundry, then I take leave to inform you that you are wrong!"
"No." His eyes flew open and he heaved himself over, bracing on one elbow. "I never said such a thing nor hinted at it. My concern is that, in trying to attract your attention, my crew will forget their duties. If the notice of the man on lookout strays, or the man at the wheel, or a stoker who should be in the hold watching the boilers, it could mean disaster. I can't help it if you are sensitive on the subject of your favors, but I did not raise it."
She could feel a tide of color as it swept to her hairline. He was correct, she was sensitive to the charge she had thought he was making so obliquely. That was something she had no intention of acknowledging, however. "Anyway," she said through set teeth, "I don't see how you could think I meant to go outside dressed like this!"
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. In dulcet tones, he said, "It should have occurred to me, but since a good three-quarters of the men on this ship are wearing less this morning, it escaped my notice."
"Did it indeed?" She narrowed her eyes, trying to decide if he were deliberately teasing her. It was a novel idea. Such a thing, along with horseplay and practical jokes, had been discouraged in her aunt's household.
"Perhaps I should have said I was in no condition to allow myself to notice," he amended, a smile creeping into his eyes. "Are you, in truth, weary of sleeping already?"
She shook her head. "Not really."
"Then come."
He moved closer to the edge, making more room for her between himself and the bulkhead before lying back on the pillow and clasping his hands behind his head. She approached the bunk, keeping a wary eye upon his long form. He was watching her closely, his gaze resting on her chest. Glancing down, she saw that the tucked and lace-inset lawn of the camisole was not as concealing as she had imagined. Plainly through the soft and much laundered material could be seen the rose-pink shadows of her nipples.
She turned her head with a quick movement, and her hair cascaded forward over her shoulder, falling down her breasts in a silken, concealing curtain. She put one knee on the edge of the bunk and leaned across him. Placing her hands on the resilience of the soft cotton mattress, she rested her weight upon them. As she lifted up her other knee, drawing it across his body, the inner surface of her thigh brushed across his pelvis. She was aware, suddenly, of the open crotch of her pantaloons, those garments always constructed with a split seam for ease in attending to the functions of nature while clad in the voluminous fashions women wore. She refused to look at him to see if he had seen. Instead, she dived across him, at the same time lifting the sheet and slipping beneath it.
She half-expected some comment about her ungainly haste. It did not come. For long moments he lay still, staring at the close-matched boards of the ceiling. He threw a glance at her lying so stiff beside him, and an expression crossed his face that seemed composed of equal parts of amusement, concern, and irritation. He lowered his arms and reached across to close his hand on the smooth roundness of her shoulder, drawing her nearer to him. As he pillowed her head on his shoulder, his voice was deep and rough against her hair.
"It's all right. Before God, I promise it. Go to sleep."
She was hot. She felt as if her skin were melting. The air she breathed had a cook-stove heat. It stirred around her, but so warm was it that it had no power to cool. She was swathed in covering, wrapped to the point that she could hardly move. There was a pounding inside her head, allied to a rocking motion that seemed unceasing. It was funny; she didn't feel ill.
She moved her head, lifting her arm from the coils of hair that bound her in its damp skeins, and she woke at once. She opened her eyes, and the cabin steadied around her, swaying only with the movement of the ship, while the steady beat of the paddle wheels took on an ordinary, muted cadence. She turned her head on the pillow, and perspiration trickled along her hairline. She lay alone in the bunk, though the moisture along her side was enough to tell her that it had not been long since Ramon had left her.
A tinkling sound drew her attention to the foot of the bunk. The lid of the trunk that sat there was raised. Above it, she could just see the top of Ramon's head as he knelt in front of it. From the sounds, she thought he was searching for something. It seemed obvious that he was looking for fresh clothing, until he slammed the trunk lid down and got to his feet. In his hand, he held not a clean shirt or pair of trousers, but a roll of bandaging. His movements were stiff, and he held one arm clamped across his chest.
"What is it?" she asked, flinging back the sheet, pulling her hair from beneath her with an impatient gesture as she raised up in the bunk.
"My rib," he said shortly. "I was thrown against the wheel last night when we were shelled. Must have struck the same place your fine father-in-law hit me."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Now that you ask, ma belle, there is. The thing needs strapping down."
He came to sit on the edge of the bunk, one brow lifted in silent challenge as he proffered the roll of cotton stripping. She took it gingerly. "I would be glad to help, but I'm not sure I know how."
"There's nothing to it. You just wrap that around me nice and snug and tie it tight." He watched her as he spoke, and the bright look in his eyes was a reminder of her disheveled state, of the dew of perspiration across her upper lip, and the way in which her damp camisole clung to her upper body.
She sat up, drawing her legs under her, sitting on her heels. She flung her hair back over one shoulder and, keeping her attention on what she was doing, began to unroll the bandaging. He turned toward her, obligingly raising his arms. Reaching around him at the level of his heart, she caught the end of the strip of cloth and began to carefully unwind the roll, smoothing it with her fingers against the sculpted planes of his chest. There was a livid bruise to guide her as to where to place the greatest thickness. She covered the center of it, continuing to his back where, leaning close, so that the top of her head brushed his chin, she secured the end and began the next round.
His chest
rose and fell with his steady breathing. His skin seemed to tingle under her fingertips, as though he were more alive than most men. She found herself lingering, gliding her palms over the muscular sheathing of his back, while a peculiar disturbance grew inside her, and her blood sang in her veins. She sent him a quick glance from under her lashes. He was watching her with narrowed attention.
She swallowed hard. "Does it hurt?"
"Only when I breathe."
The words were without inflection, a simple statement of truth. "Am I getting this too tight?"
He shook his head. "Feels better already."
She suspected a hidden meaning to his words, but did not care to press it for fear she was right. "It didn't seem to bother you last night, or rather, I should say, this morning."
"I suppose there was too much going on to worry about it."
Considering the rigors of the night, this did not seem unreasonable. After a moment, driven by the need to find distraction and keep some semblance of ease between them, she said, "I didn't hear the Lorelei return the fire of the gunboats last night."
"She didn't."
Lorna sent him a quick, frowning glance. "Why not?"
"The ship is unarmed."
"What?"
"No blockade runner is armed."
"But-I don't understand. Isn't that dangerous?"
"Not as dangerous as being caught with guns abroad. When a blockade is in force, any ship entering or leaving a closed port is considered a hostile belligerent and is liable to be treated as such by being fired upon with, in the event of capture, imprisonment for the crew. That is the rule of maritime warfare, and has been for centuries. If a ship is armed, however, and fires in her own defense, her crew becomes pirates and can be hanged out of hand."
"They can slaughter every man on board and sink your ship, but you can't fire a shot in return? That must be maddening!"
"It can be, yes, but our goal is to get merchandise into port, not fight federal cruisers. If we wanted to engage the enemy, we could have ourselves commissioned as a ship of the Confederate navy, a commerce raider, and go out and sink northern shipping, both commercial and naval."
Surrender in Moonlight Page 14