Surrender in Moonlight

by Jennifer Blake

  "Buy a sugar apple, lady," he said, his voice mellow and lilting as he prepared to show his wares.

  She had seen him before, playing about the wharf, peddling fruits of one kind or another, jigging to the music of the goombay players for pennies from the sailors, and swimming with several others on the beach west of the town. Well known to the crew of the Lorelei, he was always certain of a sale to Ramon, whom he addressed simply as "the captain." For reasons best known to his mother, he was called Largo. That he had penetrated her disguise so easily was disturbing, though at any other time his immense tolerance for the odd doings of the white folks might have been amusing. She had no time to dwell on this however.

  "If you will do something for me," she said slowly, "I will buy all you have."

  The boy played his part well, wandering out to the end of the dock, pretending to slip, flailing about in the water and screaming for help. Chris ran to look, then stripped off his spectacles, peeled off shirt and boots, and went over the side.

  Lorna did not hesitate. Taking a firm grip on her straw trunk, she ran for the gangplank, darted up it and across the deck, and flung herself down the companionway. She paused for a moment at the bottom to listen, then moved with swift care to the door of the ladies' cabin. She looked quickly both ways, then turned the knob and swung inside.

  She stopped suddenly with a whispered oath that would have been a credit to Frazier, or even Ramon. The room was stacked high with crates and barrels and bundles. There was barely room for her to edge inside enough to close the door. Once it was shut, she was left in darkness, with no idea of what lay in front of her or what she was going to do for three days in a room bulging with merchandise.

  She could not stand there. The best thing she could do, she decided finally, would be to find a way to one of the bunks. If she could clear a space to sit or lie down, she would be all right. Leaving her trunk beside the door where she could not lose it in the dark, she set to work.

  It was a heavy job, lifting bundles of odd shapes and sizes, setting them aside, piling them one on the other until they reached the low ceiling. With the portholes closed, holding in the heat of the day, it was stifling, too. She was soon streaming with perspiration as she strained, trying to work silently, feeling her way in the blackness. Doubts about the necessity of what she was doing crowded in upon her. She paused once to wipe her face with her sleeve, wondering why she didn't just walk out the door and go to Ramon. She could take him by the collar and talk until he listened to her. But no, he would be so intent on getting her safely off that he would not heed her. Setting her jaws, she went doggedly back to her task.

  By the time the ship started to move, she had cleared a weaving path around the bales of cloth and barrels of what must undoubtedly be lead, which she could not move. She had found a bunk with its china toilet appointments underneath. Clearing it of boxes, she wound her way back to the door to retrieve her small trunk. She was returning when she felt the ship surge forward, picking up speed. She felt the bundles on her right move, heard a bumping, slithering sound. The cargo was shifting. She had disturbed its placement. She put up an arm to protect her head, taking a quick step forward, but it was too late. The bundles and bales slid, toppled. Something big and heavy hurtled down on her, knocking her to the floor. Her temple struck something sharp, and pain exploded in her head. The darkness rushed in upon her. The thudding, sliding sounds continued for a moment, then all was silent.

  When she opened her eyes, it was daylight; she could see it in shafts and splinters of brightness coming through the crates and bundles that covered her. She groaned softly. Her head ached with a dull throb; her body felt like a solid bruise; and so stiff was she from lying in one position on the hard decking that it seemed unlikely she would ever be able to move again.

  She did, however, with gritted teeth and slow care. She inched upward, pushing aside a gross of bon-bon boxes, a bale of velvet, and a wooden crate marked "field glasses." As she sat up, she saw towering above her a stack of long wooden boxes, each stenciled with the word "hardware." From their shape, she thought they could only be filled with guns, though there was one that might well hold a field cannon. If those had fallen on her, she would have felt far worse than she did.

  Digging her trunk out from under, she took her water from it and drank deep. Putting it back, she dragged herself over the piled merchandise to the bunk. She dropped down on it and struggled out of her jacket. Folding it for a pillow, she lay down with her head upon it, closing her eyes. Within moments, she was asleep.

  The next time she woke, she was ravenous and it was dark again. She ate cold roast chicken and bread from her trunk, plus a sugar apple, washing it all down with water. Afterward, she spared a little of her precious liquid to wet a handkerchief and wipe her face, scrubbing at the sore place on her temple to remove the dried blood she felt caked there. Pushing to her feet, she stretched, wincing at the multitude of sore places her movement made known to her. She then made her way to the porthole and unlatched it, pulling it wide.

  The night wind was fresh; the sound of the gurgling sea moving past the ship and of the rush of water over the paddle wheels was familiar and welcome. The mist that drifted in at the opening, settling on her lips, had the taste of salt. She steadied herself against the plunging of the ship and breathed deep. She was here. She had not been discovered. Her needs were met. It was going to be all right. It was.

  They made good time, or so it seemed. The days passed quickly between sleeping, reading, staring out the porthole to watch the waves and the streaking silver-winged shapes of flying fish, and thinking; she spent far too much time thinking. The delicious aromas that wafted from the galley at certain hours tantalized her. Now and then, she heard the voices of the men: Ramon, Cupid, Slick, Chris, and others she did not recognize. It had been difficult, once she knew they had passed beyond the Abaco lighthouse, which marked the last island of the Bahamas, past the point of turning back, not to emerge. She did not want her presence, her safety, to influence any decision that Ramon might be forced to make, however, and she was reluctant to relinquish the advantage there might be in surprise.

  It was the change in the sound of the engines that warned her they were approaching the mainland. The steady beat that had marked the miles of sea slowed. Sliding from the bunk, she moved to the porthole for the thousandth time. In the distance, through the dimness of the night, she could just make out the white line of breakers that was the North Carolina coast. The hour was near midnight, she thought. Slowly, they drew closer. They must be passing through the outer squadron of the blockade, making ready to turn for the run down the coast.

  Soon now, if she were correct, would be the time of greatest danger from the fox-faced man. Lorna turned from the porthole. Picking up her jacket from the foot of the bunk, patting the derringer that rested in the pocket, she prepared to face it.

  The Lorelei had swung, moving south, by the time Lorna let herself out of the ladies' cabin. She paused to listen in the passage, straining her eyes to see in the darkness. There was no one moving about in this section. She pulled her cap down closer over her hair and turned toward the companionway.

  The wind was fresh, blowing a stiff breeze on the deck. The smell of burning coal and smoke wafted about the ship in the down draft. A score or more of men were on deck. Among them there was strung a taut excitement. A few stood around the smokestack. One or two were perched on the low housing of the deck cabin, while several others were standing on the steps of the wooden paddle box over the splashing wheels, night glasses trained ahead. There on their port bow was a federal cruiser, some distance away, sailing majestically past with her lights like stars caught in her rigging.

  It struck Lorna that, though there was tension and a lively recognition of danger hanging over the ship, there was also confidence. It came from the man in command; was fed by the measured tones of his voice, the deliberate orders he gave, his calm control. His men leaped to do his bidding as much out of respec
t and liking as for the sake of their lucrative berths. Pausing to watch as Ramon stood near the wheel, conning the ship through the dangers of the night, she felt such fullness in her heart that it brought tears welling in her throat.

  She turned sharply away, searching the dimness for the fox-faced man. She identified him by his scraggly side-whiskers, which flapped about his face in the wind, and by the outline of the small, flat hat he wore. He was standing on the port paddle box, holding to the railing that arched over it. Beside him was a portly man, an Englishman, judging from his accent. He was holding forth in a garrulous whisper, waving an unlighted, but well-chewed cigar for emphasis.

  "I've hunted tiger in India, ridden in a cavalry charge or two, and been chased by heathen pirates in the Aegean, but never have I come across anything to beat this. What an exhilarating pastime!"

  "As you say," the fox-faced man commented in sour tones.

  "Who can deny it? Playing cat and mouse with a goodly portion of the federal fleet, all armed to the teeth while we are as defenseless as babes, standing over enough gunpowder to blow us to kingdom come, trying to find the mouth of a small river on a featureless coast in pitch darkness, while daylight threatens to expose us. That's if we don't run aground from keeping too close in to shore. My God, just think of the responsibility for the lives in the captain's keeping, to say nothing of the fortune in goods entrusted to his care. I wouldn't have the job, no sir, I would not. I'll warrant there are few who would!"

  The fox-faced man grunted. As Lorna drew nearer, mounting the steps, she heard his reply plainly. "There are some," he said, "to whom money means more than life, or death."

  The Englishman reared back to give him a stare. "Then, I say thank God for them! A pretty pickle you would be in, my good man, if there was no one willing to run the blockade into the Confederate states! The same might be said of the South, if it comes to that."

  Lorna, halting behind the pair, felt a real affection for the rather pompous Englishman. This did not change the fact, however, that the fox-faced man was correct. She glanced at him as he fidgeted, holding a cold pipe in one hand, the other clenched on the railing as he stared after the cruiser now disappearing into the darkness. He was clearly impatient of the company of the other man, and that only served to make her think she was right. She edged closer, slipping her hand into her pocket and closing her fingers around the derringer.

  They heard distant firing, saw the shimmer of the flashes on the horizon. After a time, it stopped. There was much speculation as to which runner had been the target, but it died away and the night closed in again. They crept onward, with the ship's officers glancing often toward the east, watching for the first light of dawn. The sky in that direction was growing less dark by swift degrees, and still they had not sighted the Big Hill that marked the batteries of Fort Fisher and the entrance to Cape Fear.

  The ship appeared like a ghost. One moment there was nothing; the next, the flagship of the federal fleet lay directly across their path.

  "Hard to port!"

  The Lorelei answered on the instant, and they were steaming east, away from the river and back out into the blockading fleet; away, too, from the shoals. Almost at once, they saw a man-of-war moving toward them. On their present course, it would strike them amidship. The order to turn to starboard came clearly, if quietly, and they swung in a slow arc, easing in dead silence on a course that would take them between the two vessels.

  Beside her, Lorna saw the fox-faced man dip his hand into his pocket and out again. He put his pipe between his teeth and started to bend his head. Lorna was ready. She brought out her hand and stepped to shove the muzzle of the derringer into the side of the whiskered man.

  "Strike the match you have in your hand, sir, and you are dead."

  A match in the darkness. The flare of light, small though it was, would have been like a beacon, drawing the fire of the federal ships down upon them. The man cursed and swung, as if he meant to try to disarm her. From the other side came the quiet voice of the second officer. "I wouldn't advise it," Chris said, "unless you would like to give me an excuse to turn you into a sieve."

  "You wouldn't risk the noise," the fox-faced man said with a sneer, though he remained still, facing Lorna, with his hands held out away from his body.

  "A good point, but it can be remedied," Chris answered. Hard on the words, he raised his hand and struck the man a hard blow with his pistol butt behind the ear. The fox-faced man pitched forward, and Lorna, to prevent the sound of his falling, caught him under the arms, staggering back.

  The second officer leaped forward, while the Englishman, staring with dropped jaw, collected himself and reached to grab an arm of the unconscious man. Together they lowered him to the paddle box.

  Chris, staring at her across the inert figure as they crouched beside it, said softly, "Lorna?"

  "Not now, if you please," she said just as quietly.

  It was not Chris who answered. The voice that spoke was deeper, etched with anger for all its low tone. Standing below them on the deck with his legs spread against the rise and fall of the ship and his hands on his hips, Ramon demanded, "What is the matter now?"

  Lorna came slowly to her feet, staring down at him. "I…I didn't want to be a distraction."

  "And, that is why you decked yourself out like a pitchman at a fair?"

  "Here, now," Chris protested, turning from eyeing the clothing Lorna had on with puzzled recognition, "that's my best suit."

  "Remind me never to ask your advice on my wardrobe," Ramon said in a rude aside before he continued, his black gaze on Lorna. "What in bloody hell are you doing here?"

  "I had to come. I didn't think you had listened when I told you about him." She indicated the red-haired man at her feet.

  "You were wrong."

  "I couldn't know that. You didn't seem to be paying much notice."

  "I always notice," he said, his tone harsh.

  "Captain, another one!" It was Slick who called, his voice soft, but carrying. He had taken Ramon's place beside the helmsman, with the pilot at his side.

  Ramon nodded as a blossom of fire suddenly appeared in the night and guns exploded. All around them, men scrambled for cover, falling to the deck. Chris and the Englishman caught the shoulders of the unconscious man and pulled him unceremoniously down the steps of the paddle box, his boots bumping on each, until he was flat on the deck.

  Lorna drew a deep breath as Ramon turned back to her. Before he could speak, she said, "I suppose I had better go below."

  "Yes."

  Still, he stood as shells screamed past and a sheet parted, the hemp line cracking, whipping around a spar. He made a movement toward her, and she spun abruptly running lightly down the paddle box steps, coming even with him there upon the deck before slipping past.

  "Go to my cabin," he said, his voice grating. "I will join you there shortly."

  There were miles of open water and the federal blockading fleet between him and the leisure of a private tête-à-tête. Still, not for a moment did Lorna doubt that he would do exactly as he said. He would come, and there would be, once more, a reckoning.

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  Chapter 19

  The federal gunners could not find the range of the fast-moving blockade runner this time. Their firepower whined around the ship in a brilliant pyrotechnic display, heating the air and plowing the waves, but the Lorelei raced on unscathed. Within minutes the booming of the cannons from Fort Fisher was heard, and the federal ships fell back out of range, Tthe surging wash of the was left behind as they crossed the bar into Cape Fear and steamed into calm water. A short time later, they dropped anchor opposite Smithville, and all was quiet.

  Lorna expected Ramon to appear at any moment. He did not. There was a great deal of activity overhead. The sound of new arrivals, possibly the health inspectors for the quarantine. The light of dawn seeped into the cabin. An hour passed. Then, just as the sun began to rise, the pipes to the engine room squ
ealed and, with a rumble and hiss of steam, they got under way once more.

  As the light increased, Lorna looked around her. There was not a great deal more room in Ramon's quarters than there had been in the ladies' cabin. It was stacked with boxes that were wedged in place by barrels. The blue stenciling on the sides was blurred, though she made it out finally. The boxes were filled with medical supplies, with morphine, quinine, calomel, carbolic acid, and with surgical instruments. There were also bolts of white linen to be torn into strips and rolled for bandaging.

  She stood frowning, her hand resting on a bolt, her fingers smoothing the sewn cover that kept the linen from being soiled. It was a responsible cargo, one sorely needed, and yet the sight of it sitting there in Ramon's cabin troubled her.

  At the click of the door latch, she looked up. Ramon stood in the doorway. He paused a moment, watching her, then stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His voice hard, he said, "It isn't bonnets."

  "No," she answered before she could stop herself, "something even more Pprofitable."

  "I won't deny it."

  "That would be a little ridiculous, wouldn't it?"

  "If it irritates you so, I don't know why you insisted on sneaking on board to see it."

  His scorn was like a lash. "I didn't come for that, as you well know. I came because I was afraid of what that man was going to do, of what Nate Bacon had paid him to do."

  "There was no need."

  "So, I saw," she snapped, goaded, "though there was nothing to indicate it before."

  "You might have realized that I weigh every word you say, and some you leave unsaid." There was a hint of warning in his words, but the anger had faded from his eyes, leaving them dark.

  She grew uncomfortable under his gaze. Swinging from him, she lifted a hand to her hair that was coiled around her head, shining pale gold in the dim light. Its smoothness had been disturbed by the removal of her cap, and she tucked in a loose strand. She had taken off her jacket also. The soft linen of the shirt she wore draped over the globes of her breasts, outlining them in a way that made her self-conscious. As she looked, she saw that the thin weave allowed the dark rose of her nipples to show through the cloth. A quick glance at Ramon informed her that he had noticed. His gaze moved downward to the curve of her hips and the tender line of her thighs in the close-fitting trousers. She hardly knew whether to face him or turn her back, and the dilemma brought a flush of annoyance to her cheek bones.