Lorna, moving to stand beside the executive officer at the railing, waited until Slick had lowered his glasses before asking, "What is it?"
"Another blockade runner, Ma'am," the north Louisianian drawled, sending her a quick glance. "I'd say, from the look of her, the Bonny Girl."
Peter's ship. Slick might be curious as to her reaction, knowing she had received attention from the Englishman, but she did not intend to give anything away if she could help it. In truth, she felt a bit strange, a little anxious for Peter. For the Lorelei and herself, she felt no such trepidation. Her trust in Ramon's skill and judgment was complete, regardless of her dislike of his principles.
To direct the conversation into other channels, she asked, "How far are we off the Carolinas?"
"No more than an hour or so. We are at half-speed now, if you will listen to the engines, idling along, so we don't come up on the federal fleet before good dark. Actually, we've passed the mouth of the Cape Fear."
The Cape Fear River, rather like the Mississippi River below New Orleans, was the entranceway to Wilmington, though the city was only sixteen miles upstream instead of the one hundred fifty that separated New Orleans from the gulf. "Passed it?"
The officer turned, smiling a little, ready to show his knowledge. "The river is named for the point of land, or cape, that juts out just here on the coast. At some time or other, it made itself two different outlets to the sea. There's an island, Smith Island, as if the tip of the cape had broken off and floated out a piece. One river channel goes to the south of it, and the other to the north. There are two fortifications, Fort Caswell to the south, and Fort Fisher to the north, protecting the channels. The blockade fleet is strung out across both entrances, stationed at close intervals, if you can picture that."
"Yes, I think so," Lorna said, frowning in concentration.
"All right. During the day, the federals lie at anchor, but at night they patrol, keeping in touch with the flagship, which stays put. The batteries at the north fort, Fort Fisher, are so strong they can pick off the Yankee ships like sitting ducks if they aren't careful; so, up there, the gunboats have a tendency to stay farther out from shore. The idea, for runners like us, is to steam north of the entrances, run around the end of the fleet, and come down the coast inside the line of vessels. Being more shallow-drafted, we can steam closer in. When we get near the river's mouth, where the Yankee ships are the thickest, we run under the guns of the fort and are home free."
"You make it sound so easy."
He shook his head. "It is, and it isn't. You have to have a navigator who can find the mouth of a river only a half-mile wide in the dark, a pilot who can sound the bottom and tell you by the color of the sand whether you are too far north, or not far enough. You need a captain with the nerve to decide if navigator and pilot are right, and a ship with a good, steady engine that won't quit on you or blow off steam at the wrong moment. Most of all, you have to have luck. Any ship without it is going to wind up forty fathoms under or beached on the sand with sea gulls roosting in its ribs."
Night came on with incredible swiftness, or perhaps it only seemed so because of the apprehension the executive officer's words had stirred inside her. The lights on the ship, ordinarily doused at dusk, were double-checked. Tarpaulins were used to cover the hatches of the engine room, in spite of the hellish heat and lack of air below. The binnacle was closed off with only a funnel-shaped aperture left through which the man at the wheel could see the compass. Warnings against even the smoking of a cigar were issued to the few male passengers who gathered on the deck. The cook's fire had long since been allowed to go out, and Cupid passed around cold meat and bread, and wine to wash it down with, just before they stopped to cast a lead, taking a sounding of the bottom, then proceeding faster.
The night was fairly clear, but a mist lay on the sea. A vagrant night wind, neither cold nor yet warm, drifted over the decks. Lorna stood with her black cloak wrapped around her and her back to the wheelhouse, in the shadow of the smokestack. Nearby, a pair of the men passengers crouched behind the bulwarks at the prow, so that their silhouettes could not be seen against the gray of the ship. The smell of the coal smoke wafted warm on the air, but, though she craned her neck to watch, no spark flew past overhead from the anthracite being used in the boiler room.
She should be below, as she well knew. The silent darkness was claustrophobic, however, especially when she knew that every man on the ship was on the main deck, save those laboring to keep the engines running. She would take her chances in the open, no matter what Ramon said. She did not want to be a hindrance, but he had no right to command her, particularly if he did not ask the other passengers to abide by the same rules.
There was a rustle of sound near her; then a voice hissed in her ear. "Black snake!"
She spun around in a sweep of skirts, at the same time recognizing Ramon's voice. Still, her tone was sharp as she asked, "What?"
"Black snake," he repeated, laughter threading his low voice. "It's what the federal naval sentries on board the cruisers call when they see a blockade runner, instead of 'Sail ho!' It implies the sighting of something sneaky, also fast and elusive."
"And what, may I ask, has that to do with me?"
"You know well enough."
"You mean because I am here, instead of in that dark, stifling cabin."
"Correct."
"I won't go," she said after a moment, her voice quiet, "and, if you were truly concerned for me, you wouldn't ask it."
"I've told you before, it's the flying glass, the splinters, the fragments of shell that are the greatest danger."
"I know, but you risk it and so do the others."
"I'm not a woman, nor are they."
"What has that to do with anything?"
"The consequences-maiming, death-are not as important."
"Why? We are all human beings."
"I don't have time to argue philosophy with you. It's a fact, something every man recognizes and most women are happy to acknowledge."
She ignored his comment for lack of an answer. "I won't get in the way, I promise. Nor will I scream or faint or cause any more trouble than the other passengers should we be fired upon."
"Lorna-"
"Please?"
He did not answer at once, but weighed her request. She sensed a certain tension about him that was caused, she thought, partially by the weight of responsibility upon him at this juncture, partially from concern for her safety, and to no small extent from irritation that she was causing difficulties. She shifted slightly, half-turning toward the companionway to go below, when he reached out and caught her hand.
"This way," he said, "to the wheelhouse. At least you will be beside me."
The pilot was already there beside the helmsman, staring into the darkness, a North Carolinian who had taken Frazier's place on this leg of the run. He turned to glance briefly at Ramon and Lorna, then swung back to strain his eyes into the blackness ahead of them. There was nothing to be seen except the faint shifting of the water and the pale drift, like a soft silk scarf, of the mist around them. They pressed on, with the beat of the paddle wheels and wash of the water cascading from them sounding increasingly louder. Long minutes passed, Pperhaps an hour later, the pilot shifted uneasily.
"Better cast the lead again, Captain."
The order was given to stop. The engines ceased. Silence closed in as they waited with held breaths for the hiss of steam blowing off, a sound that would carry for miles. It did not come. The shadow figure of a man slipped forward into the forechains. The report came back in a minute or two. They were free of the speckled-mud bottom, the indication they had been waiting for that meant they were far enough to the north.
"Starboard," Ramon ordered, "and go ahead easy."
They turned in a long gentle sweep, moving in toward shore, and began to creep down the coast. There was not a sound now except the regular beat of the floats on the paddles, dangerously echoing on the water though blending somewhat with the rush
of the surf as they proceeded at the pace of a snail. On the right lay a line of sand dunes, pale and ghostly pyramids in the night. The shortened masts of the ship, denuded now of sails since they were moving away from the open sea, were no taller than their sandy peaks.
The minutes passed. A quarter hour, then a half. The night was fleeting, and Lorna wondered if they would have time to reach Wilmington before dawn at the plodding rate they were traveling. If they were caught in this trap between the shore and the blockade fleet when dawn came, they would be as helpless as a target barge towed behind a slow frigate.
"There! On the port bow."
Before the pilot's voice had died away, Ramon's quiet order came. "Starboard a point. Steady."
It was only then that Lorna saw the long, black shape in the water, lying absolutely still. It carried no lights, nothing to alert the runners to the presence of a federal ship. A sloop, it rose and fell with the swell, not a hundred yards away, its masts and spars waving as if trying to help keep balance.
They slid past in dead quiet. Not a man seemed to breathe. Lorna stood still, as though her immobility was a protection. Her hands were clenched, the nails cutting into her palms. Ramon was a dark statue beside her. The pilot's head turned slowly as he kept his eyes on the blockader. Somewhere a man, possibly one of the passengers, stifled a cough.
The Lorelei drew ahead half her length, her whole length, double that. They steamed on four hundred yards, eight hundred. The sloop was swallowed up in darkness and mist, dropping away behind them. They were safely beyond her, and had not been seen. No man spoke or offered congratulations. Certainly none cheered. They were only beginning to run the blockade.
Where was Peter's ship? They had not seen the Bonny Girl for some time, not since just before sunset. Was he ahead of them or behind them? Was he even taking the same course? There were other passages into Wilmington, Lorna knew, for she had heard the men speak of them these last weeks. This was the safest, the preferred course, but was perhaps more closely watched because of it.
Her eyes were burning from trying to penetrate the encroaching gloom. She closed them tightly, then opened them again. A stir of movement in the mist caught her attention, resolving into the vague outline of a ship steaming slowly across their bow. She reached out to clutch Ramon's arm. At the same time, he said quietly, "Stop her."
The engines stopped, and there came the quiet bubbling sound of steam blowing off under water. The paddle wheels ceased. The ship glided a short distance under her headway, then sat on the water, wallowing in the swell. Ahead of them, the Federal ship materialized out of the murkiness of the night, moving at an angle from the featureless shoreline to seaward. She showed up, a black mass, the smoke from her stacks a dark veil above her shot with tiny red sparks, proving beyond all doubt the wisdom of the blockade runners in painting their ships the soft gray of ghosts, and the value of good Welsh coal.
The noise of the Yankee vessel's paddles was muffled, but carrying. They sat listening to it long after she had moved on, disappearing into the darkness. It was only after Ramon gave the quiet order to re-start the engines that Lorna began to breathe normally and realized that her heart was pounding, beating with deafening strokes that sounded in her ears with the same feathery thudding of enemy paddle floats.
They altered course to steam as close to shore and the dim line of the surf as they dared, as far from the line of federal fleet as possible. It was some time later that the pilot grunted, pointing out a mound of earth about the size of a tall tree, and perhaps as big around. Called Big Hill or, sometimes, the Mound, it was a landmark used to tell how far they were from Fort Fisher. It would not be long now before they could expect the aid of the batteries against the ships drawn up near the mouth of the river. They were always thicker and more heavily armed in this area.
Minutes passed, and they saw nothing. The night was hushed, though the faint sighing of the surf could be heard away to starboard. The darkness was oppressive, a weight that they had been fighting for hours, or so it seemed. The tension was a palpable thing. Despite the coolness of the night, Lorna felt a beading of perspiration on her upper lip. She was not certain if she was glad or sorry she had stayed on deck. It might almost have been better not to have known what was taking place, to have remained ignorant of the close brush of danger. But no, the wild play of imagination would have been worse by far, that and the feeling of being shut away, denied a part in the events of the night.
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 be
hind 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.
Surrender in Moonlight Page 26