Even after they left the red-brick factor's building near the waterfront, it was still some time before they ate. Their wandering in search of a suitable place took them past the photographer's shop. There was a great cry, suddenly, to have their likenesses made, and they descended en masse on the hapless practitioner of the art. A short, slim man with thinning hair that left a lifeless brown peak on his high, shining forehead, he was so flustered by such an influx of business so near to the noon hour that he made a muddle of names and amounts of payment. He posed Lorna, as the only lady present, first. Fussing with the backdrop of dark green drapery, arranging her gown in careful folds, placing her hands just so and tilting her head at a precise angle, he kept ducking back under the black cloth that covered his camera on its wooden leg supports. The color of her gown did not suit him, being much too light, as was her hair in his opinion. Her gray eyes would be a problem too; brown eyes showed up best in photographs, and dark blue eyes did tolerably well, but light blue and gray seemed to disappear. It would be much more satisfactory if they were to have the likeness tinted. There was a woman he could recommend who did an excellent job for a very reasonable fee.
One likeness was not enough. Ramon insisted on having one made for her as well as for himself; and Peter, with a sidelong glance at his friend, requested one too. Not to be outdone, or else as a means of taking a sly dig at Ramon and Peter at the same time, a number of the other Englishmen demanded the same. Lorna sat stiffly smiling, trying not to laugh from the ridiculous advice being thrown at her from all sides as the others watched from behind the photographic artist. As frame after frame was pushed into the wooden box of the camera and pulled out again, as the powder that gave light for each exposure went off again and again, filling the air with acrid smoke that made her eyes water, she began to wonder when it would end.
Ramon, when it came his turn, engaged the harassed photographer in a conversation about the difficulties of taking photographs in the field and of the value of such records on the battlefields of the current conflict. It was a subject the man seemed to feel strongly about, and he settled down to his business, taking with unruffled calm the clowning of Peter and the others as they struck Napoleonic and Admiral Nelson poses for posterity. Nevertheless, it was the contention of the young Englishmen, propounded almost before the door of the photographer's shop had closed behind them, that Lorna had been the cause of the man's initial lack of composure. Her fatal beauty had completely upset his equilibrium, they declared, and they would not be convinced otherwise, no matter how she protested.
Luncheon, served in a brick-floored court in the shade of a venerable oak, consisted of turtle soup, rare roast beef, fresh-baked bread, new potatoes in a cream sauce with scallions, and trifle. It was a hilarious affair, with the quips and the wine flowing in equal proportions. Lorna, her sides aching from laughing, watched them as they lounged along the table there in the court, their faces dappled by the sunlight falling through the leaves of the trees, limning the unconscious daring and quick intelligence found in each one. They were never still, never silent, a tightly knit group bound by the camaraderie of kinsmen in a strange country, engaged in a dangerous calling. She found herself thinking, as she let her gaze move from one to the other, of the trip they must all make back down the Cape Fear River and out past the guns of the blockade squadron on the run back to Nassau. How many of them would make it? A year from now, as the blockade tightened and the danger increased by slow degrees, how many would still be alive? How many would remain in memory only as the fading images on pieces of photographic cardboard?
A species of superstitious horror gripped her for an instant, and she shivered, reaching for her wineglass. It was a relief when Peter glanced at his pocket watch, announcing it was time they made their way toward the auction house if they intended to watch the proceedings.
Lorna had never been to an auction. She was intrigued by the marvelous variety of merchandise standing in bundles, boxes, and barrels, from spirits to soft diaper linen for infants, each tagged with their lot numbers and arranged along the sides of the great open room. She looked with interest at the podium and lines of stiff, uncomfortable chairs, and at the men and women who promenaded slowly around the room, pausing now and then to finger a piece of cloth or sniff at a sample of an open vial of perfume or a box of spice. It was difficult, given the amplitude of the goods and the prosperous look of the people, to remember that there was a war on and a blockade in force. That was, until the bidding started.
The auctioneer was hefty and balding; the men aiding him to spot and keep track of bids in the audience, eagle-eyed and brisk, bordering on rudeness. The selling process began in an orderly enough fashion, with an item, such as a bolt of cloth, being held up while the pitch was made in the fast-running, smooth-tongued request for bids. Then, as again and again the bid was pushed up higher than bidders could pay or the crowd thought reasonable, men began to mutter and women to cry. A rough-clad farmer shouted his contempt; a woman fainted. Two gentlemen, both claiming the high bid, went at each other with their canes, while their wives screamed and hid their faces in their hands. A pair of women who could not be classed as ladies both tried to take possession of a length of tulle edged with silver lamé ribbon. Before they could be separated, they had torn each other's bonnets off and stamped them on the floor, ripped flounces from bodices, dragged hair improvers from curls, and were clawing at each other's faces. The auctioneer pounded his table for order, his helpers shouted, and men with muskets in their hands poured in a back door to stand before the bales of tea, sacks of coffee, and other foodstuffs as the crowd surged in that direction.
Order was finally restored, but those moments of turmoil had been enough to show the fear that lurked behind the pretense of normality, the desperate need to hoard against an uncertain future, the grasping after the things that represented accustomed luxury in the pretense that it was not, could not, be threatened.
Lorna had seen all she cared to see, but did not like to suggest leaving since Ramon would feel obligated to escort her. Her head began to ache with the constant chant of the auctioneer, the shouts of the men helping him, and the closeness of the packed room. A few seats down from where they sat, a back-country farmer with a plug of tobacco in his jaw chewed rhythmically, squirting the juice between his teeth into a cuspidor he held between his feet. The odor of the brass container, the monotonous regularity of his bending to spit, the sound of it striking into the nearly full cuspidor, affected her with aversion. Then came the turn at the auction table for the bonnets Ramon had stacked in the cabin of the Lorelei.
They were not to be sold singly, but as a whole lot. With the announcement, pandemonium broke out. Women wept and pleaded, their cries rising piteously as several of the Parisian confections were unpacked. There was one of pink straw lined with gathered rose satin and tulle and with a spray of silk roses under the brim. Another was cunningly made of moss green velvet over a wire frame with an open back to expose a woman's coiffure, and with a fluttering, dipping garnishment of peacock and marabou feathers. The third and most fascinating was of black satin swathed in veiling and featuring a spray of jet flowers that lay along the crown and extended on fine wires, so that they would lie in the center of the wearer's forehead.
The bidding started high and went higher. There were six or seven merchants competing in the beginning; they were gradually weaned out to three, then only two. The sobs and sighs died away as the price rose to astronomical heights. Woman sat frozen, while their men looked at each other in grim disbelief. Nothing bidded on so far had brought such sums, not tea or chocolate, not bread flour, not material for summer clothing, not tanned leather for shoes. That so much of the resources of a strangling economy should be squandered on something so frivolous, so unnecessary, was appalling, even treasonous, and yet there was not a woman in the room who would not have bartered her soul for one of the bonnets, and not a man who would not have spent his last penny to get it for her.
The hammer fell. The bonnets were sold to a self-satisfied merchant who was immediately besieged by women demanding to know when they would be put up for sale. In the confusion, Lorna stood and, stepping over Peter's feet before he could move, made her way toward the door. Ramon caught up with her, catching her arm in a strong grasp, hauling her to a halt while he pushed open the door for her. When they were outside on the sidewalk, he swung her to face him.
"What is it? Are you ill?"
Tight-lipped, stony-eyed, she stared at him. "No."
His dark gaze raked her face, as if searching for signs of the illness he feared. He lifted a thick brow, his features hardening. "It was the bonnets, then."
"Yes, the bonnets! Why did you bring them? Why did you have to make such useless things a part of your cargo?"
"Because, as you saw, it's what women want."
"But, they don't need them! They will spend money that could be used so much better for food and clothing, or to supply our soldiers."
"I don't force them to buy them," he answered, his voice threaded with temper held firmly in check.
"Maybe not, but the choice was yours, to bring them or to leave them for something more valuable!"
He studied her, a grim light in his eyes. "It isn't really the bonnets, is it? It's the money."
"Why shouldn't it be?" she demanded. "You have enriched yourself by preying on the weakness of women for pretty things in an ugly time It's not fair; in fact, it's cruel."
"Why? If the women can afford it, and it helps them to make the best of the stupid quarrels of men? They can cheer just as loudly with a new bonnet on as they could deprived of such things."
"You don't understand," she said, her gray gaze direct, "or is it that you just don't want to?"
Stepping around him, she drew her skirts aside from contact with his boots and swung down the sidewalk. He plunged after her, catching her in a few quick strides, blocking her path.
"I have never pretended to be a glory boy, ready to wave the flag and lead a suicide charge. You knew that before you came on this run. If you didn't expect to see evidence of my mercenary habits, then you should have stayed in Nassau."
She gave him a cold stare, moving around him once more. "I suppose I should."
"And worn that riding habit of yours while you earned your living," he called after her, his tone grating.
She stopped for a stunned instant as she realized that he meant to remind her he was supporting her, and on money earned running the blockade. She whirled to face him, her eyes dark with fury and shame. "That can be done, too."
"Lorna-" he began, reaching out, the rage leaving his face, to be replaced by wary regret. But, she did not listen. Swinging around again so fast that the hoops of her crinoline dipped and swayed, she left him there in front of the auction barn.
The run back to Nassau was hardly a rest cure for the nerves, but was without major incident. One of the greatest requirements for a successful runner of the blockade was impudence, the quality of intelligent daring. Ramon had that in full measure. To break through the line of federal ships that guarded the entrance to Cape Fear on their way out, the scheme hit upon by him and his officers was simple, but sublime. The federal flagship remained in place during the night, while the remainder of the fleet cruised up and down the coast. Because of this, there was a small area around the flagship that was left unguarded. The Lorelei moved down the river in the afternoon of their third day in port, creeping up until she could lie hidden behind Fort Fisher. A boat was sent ashore to discover the latest news of the positions of the ships. Then, with the fall of good darkness, they slipped from concealment and steamed for the federals.
They passed the flagship in deepest silence, close enough to hear the sound of a harmonica coming from her decks, but put her behind them without incident. A short time later, they saw a frigate toiling past in belligerent majesty some two hundred yards away. They stopped dead still to allow her to pass, then threshed onward without further incident. Toward daylight, they saw bales of Sea Island cotton floating in the water, where some unfortunate comrade of the sea had been forced to jettison at least his deck cargo. Some suggestion was made of picking up the bales, valued at several hundred dollars each, but it was concluded that there was no place on the ship to store them. So overloaded were they already that from a distance they must appear square and brown with baled cotton, and there was a standing order out to pray for fair weather into Nassau.
It had been Lorna's intention to remove herself from Ramon's cabin. That course proved unnecessary. He did not descend to it once during the three days of the voyage. Constant vigilance was the watchword, as they scanned the seas for sail or smoke, turning away from it until it was below the horizon each time it was sighted. Ramon stayed at his post, sleeping only in snatches, and then flinging himself down on the bales of cotton on the decks.
Lorna came upon him as she took the air on their final day at sea, after they had reached the relative safety of Bahamian waters. He lay sprawled on his stomach, exhausted, his face turned to one side. His features were marked with the strain of the last days, yet they were relaxed, almost boy-like in sleep. The wind rippled the linen of his shirt that was stretched over the rigid muscles of his back. It ruffled his dark hair and stirred the crisp curl that lay on his forehead. A peculiar tenderness rose unbidden inside her. She stretched out her hand with the impulse to brush back the curl as she had seen him do a thousand times.
Her fingers were within inches of him before she snatched them away. She was becoming maudlin. That would not do. Such a weakness was of no use to her, and might well be dangerous. A few feet away, her footsteps faltered and she looked back. The sight of his body sprawled over the bale awakened furtive memories of a rain-soaked afternoon, a flickering fire, a damp, deserted house. Heat flowed in her bloodstream, tingling along her nerves. With her face flaming and her eyes bleak, she turned and, deliberately conquering the need to run, moved away.
By the time they landed in Nassau, Lorna's trunk was packed and she was ready to go ashore. She did not intend to make a clandestine departure; still, it could not be denied that she was glad to see only Cupid in evidence when she emerged on the deck. Explaining that she would send for her things, she left the ship, picked her way across the wharf, and emerged on Bay Street.
Before her lay Parliament Square with its government buildings washed a delicate shade of salmon pink. If she crossed the street and walked straight uphill, past the massive buildings with their porticos and columns, which reminded her of Beau Repose, she would come to the Royal Victoria. Instead, she stood looking around her. It was mid-afternoon, and the wheeled traffic was thick on this main thoroughfare in spite of the rubble that lay here and there where new curbstones were being laid and more gas street lamps erected. A dog, yelping, fled before a freight dray piled high with crates. A young native boy, a fruit peddler with a cherubic brown face and a sack of mangoes over his back, dodged in front of the fast-moving wagon, hooting at the driver. Two British sailors hanging from a buggy waved and called to her. Strolling toward her came a policeman in his white uniform. He noted her hesitation there on the street corner, glanced at the style of her gown, then stepped out into the street, holding up a gloved hand.
Traffic came to a halt with the rattle of traces and squeal of handbrakes. Horses neighed and drivers cursed. It would have been impossible, after that official courtesy, to refuse to cross, no matter what she meant to do afterward. Summoning a smile and a nod of appreciation for the policeman, she stepped into the white dust of the road and moved to the other side.
Somewhere nearby, perhaps three or four blocks beyond the hotel, in the vicinity of Government House, she thought there were lodgings. She was almost sure she had heard a man one day on the piazza mention them as being more reasonable in price than the hotel. If she could remove to something similar, then she could begin to look for work with which to keep herself. It was galling that she had not done so already in the weeks she had
been in Nassau, that she had left herself open to the charge Ramon had leveled in his anger. She had no excuse, no one to blame except herself. It was difficult to see, now, why she had not made the effort. Surely, she could not have wanted to be dependent on Ramon Cazenave?
The idea was ridiculous. She had been upset by everything that had happened, unable to think straight, that was all. Well, not anymore. Raising the parasol she carried, lifting the front of her skirts, she set out with a militant step to search for a room.
She did not find one. The tide of Confederate military and naval officers, diplomats, newspaper correspondents, advertisers of various goods and munitions, captains of the British navy, British civilians serving the blockade runners, speculators, gamblers, and ne'er-do-wells seeking an easy living where money was plentiful had filled every nook and cranny in the city. The only thing available was a single bed in a room smelling strongly of rats and with roaches crawling on the walls. Since the other four beds, empty at that hour, were to be occupied by four men, it was clearly unsuitable.
It was getting late. There was nothing to be done except return to the hotel for the night and try again in the morning.
By the time she reached the hotel, the swift tropical night had fallen. The glow of lamplight shone like beacons from the French doors of the graceful building. The doors of the dining room stood open to the evening air, revealing the diners at their tables beneath the sparkling chandeliers, while the terrace outside was dim and cool, lit by lanterns in the palm trees. A soft, piercingly sweet sound of violins reached Lorna. Suddenly, she was aware of a deep weariness and an inexplicable welling up of tears.
She trod the path that led through the new garden toward the great silk cotton tree with its balcony. Mingling with the smell of damp earth where the gardener had been at work and the scent of growing things, she caught the odor of a cigar. It came from the balcony in the lower branches, she thought, for there was a red glow at that point. As she came even with it, she looked up. The last light in the sky fell on her upturned face.
Surrender in Moonlight Page 31