Surrender in Moonlight

by Jennifer Blake

  Lorna thought of Ramon and his claim that he would sail under a half-moon. He must have known even then that the phase would change to full before he could return. They were mad, these men who ran the blockade. It had been dangerous enough in pitch darkness; it was sheer reckless bravado to try it with moonlight on the sea. And why did they do it? For gold, only for gold.

  There was hardly room for her skirts between the glass-paned wall of the belvedere and the railing of the walk around it. She compressed them with her hands as she paced slowly in a complete circuit, gazing out over each point of the compass. There was a light at Government House and, farther along, a pale gleam at Fort Fincastle. A small sloop was coming in from the east, with the glow of moonlight on its sail. The darkness lay more dense to the north, as if there might be a storm brewing far out to sea, a possibility since the rainy season was almost upon them. There was nothing to be seen, however, in the North West Channel, nothing more than there had been the first time she looked.

  At a sound behind her, she turned. It was only Peter. In his hand, he balanced a tray holding two glasses of water, two of champagne, and a plate heaped with food and covered by a napkin.

  "How did you-?" she began.

  "A lucky guess, since you weren't in your room."

  He offered the tray, and she took a glass of water. "You shouldn't have."

  "Service of the house."

  "You…you are far too kind."

  "Kind enough to marry?"

  The words were spoken in a tone not too unlike his usual banter. It was a moment before their meaning penetrated. She looked up quickly, her eyes wide.

  His mouth curved in a wry grin only half-visible in the darkness. "It can't be that much of a surprise. I've been out of my head since I saw you."

  But, it was. She had been so much involved with her own problems that she had not seen it coming. For a brief instant, she considered it. If she had never met Ramon, she might have been happy, even honored, to accept Peter. He was a dear friend, such good company; she had come to depend on him more in the past few days than was wise, or good, for either of them. Still, his touch didn't set her on fire as that of Ramon did, and when he was not with her, she did not think of when she would see him again. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

  "I thought you…just liked women, that you enjoyed light flirtation."

  "It hasn't been so light lately."

  "I didn't realize."

  "Now that you do, what do you think?"

  She put her hand on the railing behind her. The wind swayed the bell of her skirts, lifting the tulle with little fluttering motions. It tugged his cravat from his waistcoat, flapping the ends not held by his stick pin, and tore the napkin from the plate he carried, sending it sailing out over the roof where it lodged on the shingles. He hardly glanced at it.

  "Why?" she asked, her voice quiet.

  "Because I love you. Because I want to take care of you. Because I want the right, if a man like Bacon touches you again, to smash his face in for him."

  "Are you certain it isn't because you…feel sorry for me?"

  He swung back inside and set the tray down on a chair, then moved back to where she stood. He reached out, taking her arms. "There is nothing to feel sorry for you about," he said. "You are a beautiful woman with much to give a man; I hope you will let that man be me."

  "Your family-"

  "-Is in England and will not, in any case, have anything to say about the woman I marry."

  There was one other objection, the most important one. She had saved it for last because it seemed so unlikely that it would be needed once she pointed out the others. She raised it now.

  "And Ramon?" As he did not answer, she went on, "Oh, Peter, can't you see that I can't do it?"

  He took a deep breath. "Because he's missing?"

  "Because…oh, because-"

  "You are in love with him."

  "What if I am?" She broke his grasp, swinging from him as pain surged through her, staring out over the ocean. "Is that so terrible?"

  His voice grave, he said, "I don't know. Is it?"

  "You…can't begin to guess." She lifted her head, afraid the tears welling slowly into her eyes would fall, betraying her.

  He moved to her side, reaching to close his warm fingers on her shoulder. His sigh was a rustle of sound. "I think I can."

  She did not answer. She put up her hand, dashing the moisture from her eyes, looking again to where the channel lay under the moonlight. She stretched out a hand that trembled. "There," she said, her tone strained. "Do you see it?"

  He swung to follow the direction in which she was pointing, his forehead drawn in a frown. "No-yes. Yes!"

  "Is it-"

  "I can't tell."

  In tense silence, they watched it come closer, a soft gray blot on the sea that resolved itself into a ship. It carried no deck cargo, no masts or bulwarks, and appeared to have no housing to the wheelhouse, no superstructure over the paddle wheels. It crept in at half-speed or less, with a peculiar crab-like movement caused by a heavy list to starboard. The smoke that boiled from its stack was black and shot with sparks, as if it were burning wood instead of coal.

  "My God," Peter breathed.

  The tightness of fear in her throat made the words hard to get out. "The Lorelei?"

  His face was bleak as he answered. "What's left of her."

  Lightning flashed overhead and thunder growled by the time the ship dropped anchor in the harbor. That did not deter the guests from the ball, who, discovering her limping progress, descended en masse to the dock to watch her arrival, cheering as her anchor chain rattled down. Nor did it deter Lorna and Peter, who by that time had commandeered a boat and were riding the waves made by the last turn of her paddle wheels, almost at her side.

  Lorna had not thought to change. She had only paused long enough to snatch a shawl from her room and fling it around her. Staring at the landing stage let over the side, and the rope ladder leading up from it, she wished devoutly that she had at least removed her hoops, if not donned her old riding habit. But what had to be done, could be, and she was used to managing the width of her skirts. At least it was night, so that Peter, steadying the ladder from the boat below, would not be treated to a display of ankles and undergarments.

  Slick and Chris were there to help her aboard. The executive officer had several cuts on the right side of his face, as if from flying glass, and his right arm was in a sling. The second officer appeared unharmed, until he turned to give a hand to Peter; then, he favored his right leg. Anticipating her first question, they said that Ramon was in his cabin. He had remained upright until they had passed the breakwater at the tip of Hog Island, entering the harbor; then he had lost consciousness.

  "How badly is he injured?" Lorna asked, her face pale in the lantern light.

  "We caught grapeshot, Ma'am, from a cruiser late the second day out," Slick answered. "Ramon got a couple of pieces of scrap iron driven through him, a bolt and an old knife blade. Neither hit a vital spot, but there was no time to tend to them for quite awhile. He lost a right smart of blood. It didn't bother him much until yesterday morning, when the fever started. Might have still been all right, if he could have rested, but we got blown off course by the storm after we ran into it to escape the federals, and he had to bring us in."

  Lightning flashed overhead, showing the desecrated state of the ship. Peter spoke then. "It looks as if that last took some doing."

  "I'd say so," Chris answered, turning from giving orders for the landing stage to be brought in. "We ran out of coal yesterday afternoon. We were so far out we had to practically burn her to the waterline to make steam. 'Course, most of the planking was so torn up from the shelling that it didn't make a lot of difference, but throwing on the cotton soaked in the turpentine hurt."

  Nodding, the Englishman said, "I think I should direct your attention to the crowd on the dock and warn you that you may be swamped with visitors at any moment."
r />   "Good," Slick said, casting a short glance toward shore. "They can man the pumps. We're all about tuckered out from trying to stay afloat."

  Fear was a tight knot inside Lorna, but around it burned a slow anger. Why did men have to risk their lives in such dangerous undertakings? True, without such as these, the South would be forced to her knees before the year was out, but there had to be some other way of settling differences than putting human beings made of fragile flesh and bone at risk.

  "I would like to see Ramon," she said.

  "Frazier's with him now, seeing to him. Might not be a pretty sight, Ma'am." The two officers exchanged a look, then glanced at Peter.

  She gave an impatient shake of her head. "That doesn't matter."

  "If you say so."

  Slick indicated that she was to precede him, then stepped toward the place on the deck where the doorway to the companionway had stood. There was only a series of steps leading down now. Flattening her skirts with her hands, wishing yet again for simpler clothing, she began the descent.

  Ramon lay upon the bunk, his booted feet hanging off the end. His shirt had been removed, but he still wore his trousers. The light from the lamp in the gimbals above him outlined the planes and hollows of his face, bringing out the flush of fever on the bronze of his skin and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. It glinted with blue lights on the growth of beard covering his chin that indicated plainly he had not had time for grooming in days, had not been out of his clothes. From the stains on the bandaging that wrapped his chest, it did not appear that the dressing had been changed.

  Frazier had been kneeling beside the bunk. He got to his feet as Lorna entered, greeting her with every appearance of relief, nodding to Peter who entered behind Slick.

  "How is he?" she asked.

  Frazier threw a worried glance at the man on the bed. "About the same. I sponged him down with cold water, but it didn't seem to help much. He hasn't come to enough to take anything to drink."

  "What about a doctor?" Peter asked.

  "We can send for one now that you have brought us a boat," Slick answered. "Ours sort of got turned into kindling wood."

  He swung, leaving the room to see to fetching a doctor. Frazier glanced after him. "I suppose it's best, but I don't think it's necessary. The captain has been through worse than this before. He'll mend just fine, now that he's able to stop for a minute."

  Lorna moved closer, dropping beside the bunk in a soft rustle and billow of skirts. "Do you think so?"

  "I know it, Ma'am. Takes more than this to get him down."

  "He's so hot," she said, her hand on his forehead.

  "That he is. It's my belief it's natural, like the swelling, but I don't know. Grape is a mean thing to catch, Ma'am. They load up the cannons with all manner of odds and ends, anything metal; rusty nuts and bolts and pieces of chain. Makes for ugly wounds, bad to fester."

  "I don't like his being unconscious like this."

  "I'd say he was just plain exhausted," the supercargo said with a shake of his head. "And if it's all the same to you, I'd as soon he stayed quiet. He's been hell to be around, begging your pardon, Ma'am, though I can't lay it to the holes in him. He had something on his mind on the trip up to Wilmington, and it didn't help his temper. He near wore a trench in the deck from his pacing, until we could get reloaded and on our way again."

  It seemed best not to attempt an answer. Carefully avoiding Peter's gaze, she said to Frazier, "I expect you're tired, too. If you would like to rest, I'll stay with him."

  "I appreciate the thought, Ma'am, but I'll wait to see what the sawbones says, just the same."

  The doctor came, a bleary-eyed Englishman with a puffy face made wider by enormous, graying muttonchops whiskers. He lifted Ramon's eyelids, listened to his chest, and felt his forehead. He cut the bandages and stripped them off, tearing away the scabbing, so that the wounds began bleeding again, then sprinkled them with a white powder and wrapped him up again so tightly it was a source of wonder that Ramon could breathe.

  Lorna watched, nearly crying out at the callous way Ramon was being handled. The men who were gathered in the room, Peter and the ship's officers, seemed to see nothing amiss however. She had no real knowledge of medicine, other than what she had learned helping her aunt tend the slaves her uncle had worked, and no right to question the doctor's treatment. She remained silent, but could not wait for the medical man to leave the ship. Her contempt knew no bounds when he did so without even suggesting that his patient be made more comfortable.

  The moment he was gone, she threw off her shawl and directed Frazier to help her undress Ramon and get him under the covers. In the end, they had to cut the boots from his feet. He had worn them so long without removing them, and a large part of that time they had remained wet, that his feet had swollen and the leather shrunk, until the two had become almost inseparable.

  They sponged him down again from head to toe, and it seemed that he grew a little cooler. The doctor had left powders to be given to him, but, though they tried to rouse him to take them, it was no use. Frazier left them, finally. The boat returned from taking the doctor ashore. Lorna heard voices on deck, and once or twice men came and put their heads into the room, but she hardly noticed them as she knelt beside the bunk, holding Ramon's hand in her own. It was Peter who spoke to them quietly, turning them away. After a time, quiet descended.

  "Lorna?"

  She turned her head at the sound, smiling a little at Peter, who was still leaning against the wall.

  "It's getting late. Don't you think you ought to go back to the hotel? You can return in the morning."

  "I'm not sleepy."

  "You should be."

  "I…would really rather stay."

  As if disturbed by the sound of their voices, Ramon turned his head on the pillow with a soft rustling.

  Lorna turned back instantly. Her voice low, but insistent, she said, "Ramon?"

  His lashes quivered, lifted. He stared at her for long moments, his dark eyes bright with fever; then, slowly, he smiled.

  "Ramon," she whispered, tears in her voice.

  He moistened his lips with his tongue. She reached at once for the glass of water sitting beside her on the floor. Raising his head, she helped him drink the medicine it contained, then gave him more water. When he lay back down, his gaze remained on her face.

  "I saw you," he said, his voice a rasp of sound.

  "Hush, don't try to talk."

  "I did. I saw your face in the storm, with your hair blowing around you."

  He was delirious. Her gray eyes troubled, she reached out, taking his hand in hers again and placing a finger on his lips.

  He shook it away. "No. I did see you. And then I knew…knew we were going to make it."

  The tears spilled from her eyes, creeping slowly down her face. Her mouth curved in a tremulous smile. Seeing it, his mouth twitched slightly in answer; then slowly, as if against his will, his eyes closed.

  She bent her head, pressing her lips to the hard ridge of his knuckles. She looked up then to where Peter had been standing, her eyes shining with the joy that Ramon was going to be all right. Peter was no longer standing against the wall. He had gone.

  The rain drummed overhead, lashing the ship. It poured with the splashing sound of a waterfall down the open companionway and mingled with the steady thump of the pumps that tried to rid the ship of both rainwater and seawater, keeping it afloat. Ramon's breathing became deep and natural as he slept undisturbed.

  Lorna became stiff, crouching there on the floor. The stays of her corset cut into her, for she could not bend properly wearing it, and the stiffness of the tulle became scratchy. She thought of sending for a change of clothing, but knew at once it would not do. The men of the crew were as tired as their master, and those not manning the pump were probably asleep. Moreover, since Peter had gone, he had doubtless taken the boat, which was the only means of reaching shore at present.

  Pulling herself to her feet, she
stretched the cramp from her muscles. Her gaze moved to the trunk at the foot of the bed. She considered it, lifting a brow, glancing from it to the gown she wore. With sudden decision, she stepped to lift the lid. She set the top drawer aside, reaching for a shirt and a pair of trousers, holding them up to her. They were large, but the sleeves and trouser legs could be rolled up. She would be more comfortable until morning, until her own things could be brought.

  A few moments later, her gown and petticoats and hooped crinoline lay like a giant lavender and white, many-petaled flower in the middle of the floor, while she stood trying to stuff what seemed like yards of shirt into the wide waist of the trousers. She had borrowed Ramon's belt, but her waist was so small none of the holes in it were serviceable. Finally, she stripped it out of the loops and tossed it to one side. She picked up her shawl, wrapping it around her waist and looping the soft wool in a large knot. The trousers were lying in folds around her, and she grinned at the picture she must present. It didn't matter. There was no one to see her, and no one to care.

  Her smile a little strained, she moved to place her hand on Ramon's forehead. It seemed a little cooler, though not much. She swung away, her footsteps quiet in her dancing slippers as she stepped to the porthole to stand staring out at the few scattered spots of pale light where lamps glowed in the rain-lashed night. The ship rocked at anchor on the choppy waves, even in the quiet harbor. What must it have been like this last trip out on the ocean, beyond the protecting reefs and out-islands?

  She was tired. She had slept so little in the nights since Ramon had gone, fearful for him, disturbed by the possibility of Nate Bacon's paying a return visit, tormented by thoughts of the uncertain future. It was odd, but she felt safe, safer than in weeks, there on the crippled ship in the storm. She placed her hands on the sill beneath the glass and leaned her forehead against them.