The Black Swan

by Day Taylor

  "Miss, you've overstayed your time," the guard broke in.

  "Please—just another minute."

  "Rules, Miss."

  Glenn took her hand. "I hope you come again, Dulcie.**

  With the gentle guidance of Patricia and Mad, Dulcie spent more time visiting the prisoners and working in Mrs. Sullivan's soup kitchen. Though it didn't stop the gnawing hunger for Adam, it gave her purpose, and in a way made her feel closer to him.

  Mrs. Burris, one of Mrs. Sullivan's workers, drew Dulcie aside one day. "I'm delighted to see another staunch Southerner aiding her fellow man. Your mother and aunt are such marvelous ladies. Isn't Molly Sullivan wonderful? To have the gumption to think up such a brilliant idea as this soup kitchen and then to persuade the Federal authorities to permit it!"

  "Yes, indeed. She seems a fine, kind lady."

  "Oh, but I completely forgot what I wanted to ask you. We have formed a literary society, the Jeffersonians. Mad suggested you might like it. I am so sorry, Mrs. Tremain,

  your aunt did mention that your husband is missing. It is all so sad. There are so many. But for that reason you might wish to join us. We gather news from the South. Occasionally we obtain outstanding speakers."

  Dulcie could hardly speak. "You gather information?**

  "Yes, as much as we are able.**

  "I'd like very much to come."

  "Splendid! This month our speaker is a man who travels throughout the South. He has just come back from a harrowing adventure and will tell us about it Tuesday evening. Mr. Revanche is our best source of information. He understands how we yearn for our loved ones and takes the time to bring back whatever news he can. It will be a real treat for you to meet a man of his caliber and know he is fighting for our side.'*

  Dulcie thought Tuesday night would never come. Her thoughts in the intervening days were all of the stranger named Edmund Revanche, a new source of hope. She rehearsed what she would say as she asked him to help locate Adam. More than ever it seemed he had to be alive.

  Several carriages lined the street in front of Mrs. Burris's handsome townhouse. Inside the brightly lit parlor ladies and gentlemen clustered around a tall foreign-looking man in black. He was dignified and reserved, speaking with courtesy but little animation. His hair, black tinged with gray, formed a deep V at his forehead. Unlike most men of the day, he wore no moustache. He had charm in plenty, as Mrs. Burris had said, but a rather automatic smile, which he seemed to switch on as he deemed appropriate. The man was experienced in handling numbers of admirers at once. His dark, magnetic eyes found Dulcie. After a deliberate stare he returned to his conversation.

  Mrs. Burris hovered anxiously, waiting to introduce the latest arrivals. "Mr. Revanche, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Raymer, Mr. and Mrs. James Moran, and their daughter, Mrs. Tremain?"

  The hooded lids over the dark eyes flickered. He pressed his cool lips overlong on Dulcie's hand. "The name is very familiar. Is your husband a Southerner, Mrs. Tremain?"

  Faced with the man who might help her, Dulcie's throat tightened painfully. "He . . . was." To his questioning, sympathetic gaze, she managed to go on. "He is—missin'. Perhaps. They say he died at sea."

  "My condolences Madame. So many brave men have died. But you have hope. You did say he is missing? Perhaps we can—" With an apologetic half-smile Edmund turned to be introduced to a noisily insistent woman.

  Dulcie had all she could do to keep from grasping his coat sleeve. Perhaps he could—^what?

  "Come sit down, dear. You're so pale. Dulcie, truly you must not go on like this." Mad held her hand tightly.

  "Aunt Mad, I must talk to him! He was about to say he would help me! I knew he was, and then that old cow interrupted." Dulcie squeezed Mad's fingers until she cried out.

  She sat back at Mad's insistence, waiting until Mr. Revanche had spoken. Then she would talk to him. She'd talk to him if she had to follow him home!

  Mrs. Burris was saying, "Mrs. Meadows, would you be kind enough to take Dulcie around and introduce her? We want her to feel right at home with the Jeffersonians. Oh, and she must meet Mr. Revanche's companions."

  Mrs. Meadows skillfully moved Dulcie among the guests. She met Chad Kaufman, a powerfully built, stocky man who hadn't the grace or the elegance of his mentor. His eyes, ice blue, assessed Dulcie as he spoke. A hard, cold man, Dulcie thought, relieved that it was not Chad Kaufman whose help she would request in finding Adam. Edmund Revanche's other companion was Josiah Whinburn, a pale, lusterless man who seemed ill at ease. Neither could claim Edmund Revanche's charm or his concentrated interest in the people to whom he spoke. Both had had considerable to drink.

  As Mrs. Meadows led her to another group, a Mrs. Downing said indignantly, "The Abolitionists are worse than ever, now that wet rag Mr. Lincoln has issued his Emancipation Proclamation. I notice he didn't free any slaves except those of Confederate citizens!"

  "It's hard to believe that man was a Southerner by birth."

  "A Kentucky mule, I've heard him called," said a mut-tonchopped man.

  "Let me tell you the latest," said Mrs. Downing." A blockade runner—calls himself the Black Swan—has been stealing people's servants by the boatload and bringing them into New York. In broad daylight!"

  "He must have a secret harbor."

  "I have heard he comes into Long Island.**

  "He wouldn't dare. The Yankees would have him in a second."

  "Oh, but he has to be in league with them," said Mrs. Downing. "No sane man could be so bold and daring! They say he goes into Wilmington as regular as clockwork, and soon after, he's here in New York with the fugitives. I've heard this man cares nothing for his own life, that he risks everything to free those darkies! And friends, the worst is stiU to come. I have heard that the Black Swan is himself a Southerner!"

  "A traitor!" gasped one woman.

  "Ought to be lynched," the whiskered man agreed. "Who is he?"

  Dulcie stood very still. They might have been describing Adam. Or Ben, Still, such recklessness did not fit either man.

  Mrs. Downing whispered, and every head bent toward her. "No one knows his real name. lis ship is called the Black Swan too."

  Dulcie released held breath with a sob she covered with a cough.

  "Cowardly traitor!" the muttonchopped man declared.

  Another man said, "I hear that without the drugs, arms, and ammunition the Black Swan daringly brings to the South, General Lee's army would long ago have had to surrender."

  Mrs. Downing said frigidly, "I don't believe we are talking of the same person, Mr. Bates."

  "Did I hear someone mention the Black Swan?" asked Edmund. "Hardly any decent Southerner but would like to see him hanged."

  "Oh, Mr. Revanche, do you know him?" Mrs. Downing fluted.

  "Yes, dear lady, I know him. He is a low troublemaker. Even as a boy he was disrespectful. As a young man he ruined a business arrangement, and when he was challenged because of his interference, he refused that challenge! I was personal witness to that. The dastardly fellow hid behind the skirts of two women! As for stealing slaves, he ruined a very fine gentleman of my acquaintance. Yes, I know the Black Swan."

  "Has he done you harm, Mr. Revanche?" Dulcie asked boldly.

  "He has done me no harm, Madame. But such men are pernicious influences on Southern society, which is suffering cruel enough blows. But I will say no more, lest I have nothing left for my lecture." He bowed, smiled, and turned to his associates.

  As a lecturer Revanche was superb. Using maps. Revanche showed the area still in Confederate hands. He demonstrated the curve of land that swung from Virginia to New Orleans, land Union forces had gained.

  "They are trying to squeeze us out of our homes," he said. "They will force this line to the sea—unless we stop them. And, ladies and gentlemen, we can stop them." He shook his fist menacingly at the air, and his listeners cheered. "We can brighten the spirits of our loved ones still in the South. A small way, taking but moments of your time,
a little paper, and ink. Letters, my friends! I am in a position to ensure that your letters will reach your families and friends.

  "Those of you who would like to communicate with your loved ones will be interested to know that I am going to Wilmington shortly. If you will speak with me or my associates, we will arrange personal delivery of letters."

  "What does Mr. Revanche do?" Dulcie whispered to Mrs. Downing.

  "My dear, I thought everyone knew. He's a spy for the Confederacy."

  "But appearin' in public like this—"

  "He deals only with loyal Southerners! He is here to raise money for supplies. He has brought us beautiful letters from Confederate officers who have personally thanked him for his esteemed services. He is quite an important man, invited to the best homes. We trust him implicitly."

  Several people flocked around Mr. Revanche. Dulcie waited until she could speak to him alone. She didn't want the other sympathetic, curious faces watching her, listening as she talked to him. As the group surrounding him dwindled, Dulcie stood close by.

  Edmund, relaxed and at ease, smiled at her. "I am sorry you were the one to have been kept waiting, Mrs. Tre-main."

  Dulcie lowered her eyes. "Mr. Revanche, you say you'll be goin' to Wilmington. Would you carry a letter to my . . . late husband's mother? She lives in Smithville. That is thirty miles south."

  Revanche's eyes were warm on her. "I know it well. The entire area is a smuggler's paradise, and as you know, the North is not the only side to be harassed by traitors."

  •Then it wouldn't inconvenience you too much?"

  "It would be my pleasure, even if you were not so lovely a woman."

  Under his admiring glance, Dulcie blushed, which annoyed her, for it only showed that she was unaccustomed to civilized company. "I did not expect this—this service, so my letters are yet to be written. May I send them to you?"

  "I could come by for them tomorrow afternoon. Or, if you prefer, send them by messenger to Mrs. Burris."

  "I'll have the letters in Mrs. Burris's hands tomorrow morning,"

  His laughter was soft, private. "So, you'll deny me the pleasure of a visit with you."

  "Oh, no, it isn't that. I am in your debt, Mr. Revanche. This means so much to me. I wouldn't dream of puttin' you out of your way!"

  "Then by all means, Mrs. Tremain, we will arrange it as you wish. Now, dear lady, if I am not mistaken, there is more troubling your mind. Is there something else I could do for you?"

  Dulcie hesitated only for a moment, then said, "Yes." She looked around. Many others stood nearby, watching, listening.

  Edmund motioned with his eyes. "I believe the bay window would afford us some privacy, Mrs. Tremain."

  Heads turned curiously as Edmund led her to the shelter of the heavily draped bay window, but Dulcie was determined not to let this one chance of finding Adam slip away because of a bunch of nosy-bodies. In a low voice she said, "I believe ... I hope, Mr. Revanche, that my husband did not die at sea. He might have been cast ashore."

  "My dear, I do not wish to discourage you, but the chances of a man—"

  "I know. I've been told before, but please listen to me."

  Edmund touched her arm, his smile sympathetic and encouraging.

  "I—I was on the ship with my husband . . . and I survived. I was washed ashore. You see, I have reason for my hope. I am not merely indulging myself in wishful thinkin',

  am I?" Dulcie's golden eyes were full of appeal as she looked into Edmund's onyx bright ones.

  "I can't answer Mrs. Tremain, but let me say I envy your husband. Your love and faith in him is something any man, even a hardened traveler like myself, would give his life to know. Rest assured, dear lady, that if there is any information to be gleaned, I shall ferret it out.'*

  Dulcie couldn't hold back the tears. Embarrassed, she blinked, pretending there was something in her eye. Edmund placed his handkerchief into her hand. "Don't hide your tears from me. They do you credit. You have shown strength and courage in your undying search. After the sights of our war-ravaged South, it is a comfort to see a beautiful woman longing only for her man. For the most part I see hunger, despair, hatred. Love is far more refreshing."

  Dulcie murmured her thanks, trjdng to regdn control. Her eyes shone with gratitude. "How can I thank you, Mr. Revanche? Not only are you the only person who has offered to help, but you understand. I think . . . there must be someone you love very much."

  Edmund looked out the window, his fine profile to her, "There was. My wife. But she died a long time ago. Since then "—^he turned to look fully at Dulcie—"there has been no one to compare with her."

  Dulcie's hand rested lightly on his arm. "I—^I understand that."

  "I am sure you do, Mrs. Tremain." Edmund frowned slightly, his face contorting into worry. "But there is one thing."

  "Yesr

  "Of course, I hope only for the best news. But there is no telling what I'll find. He may be dead. Or it may be something else."

  "I want to know. I must know. Please promise me that whatever you find out you will tell me."

  "It may not be pleasant"

  "But it may be I It may be the very thing I've hoped for."

  "I would never withhold that from you, Mrs. Tremain. It is the other sort of news that I fear. I would rather ^ear the tongue from my head than have it bear ill tidings to you."

  "You are a kind man, Mr. Revanche, but I ann much stronger than I look. I have hved through many experiences I didn't think I could. The hardest thing I have ever borne is not knowin' if Adam is alive. Whatever your news, I want to be told."

  Chapter Nine

  Edmund Revanche traveled south in comparative luxury because he had Northern trains and passes available to him. Chad Kaufman, blond and Nordic, expanded under preferential treatment, his expression haughty as he sat across from Edmund. Both men were impeccably dressed. Edmund, as usual, was clothed in black, the severe tailoring accentuating the hard, long lines of his body, his aristocratic paleness, his proud inbred delicacy. Chad, though he emulated Edmund in other ways, dressed as a dandy. His compact, pampered body was swathed in a silk shirt and pastel brocaded waistcoat, topped by a fur-trimmed mauve frock coat.

  Watching them with an inner revulsion was Josiah Whin-burn. Ever since he had become indebted to Edmund Revanche in a brag game eleven years ago, Josiah had become increasingly, inexorably dependent on Edmund's hard, cruel strength. Tom Pierson had tried to save him once by lending him twenty-five thousand dollars to keep Marsh House from being sold. He might have succeeded in turning his back on gambling and drink if only Tom had remained in New Orleans.

  But Tom had left New Orleans. And Josiah had never been strong enough to run Marsh House on his own. It had only been a matter of time before Josiah had become a slave to Edmund's bidding.

  Only once had Josiah gotten the better of Edmund, and he had paid dearly for that piece of rebellious independence. Edmund had coveted Marsh House. But Josiah, after holding it for years at a great loss, had sold it to Webster Tilden in 1860. Through the years Edmund had reminded Josiah repeatedly of his ungrateful, spiteful act

  Edmund had made Josiah pay by hours of humiliation, by performance of tasks odious and menial. Edmund controlled Josiah's life.

  Though Edmund had not indicated that this trip was different from others, Josiah looked at his smug expression and knew it was. Edmund's dark eyes burned with an inner glow. The harsh linear mouth twitched in private amusement.

  "Why'd you tell Mrs. Tremain we'd deliver her letters?" Josiah's tongue was thick with too much liquor, his words running together. "We're not goin' to Charleston, and Smithville is out of the way. We head inland from Wilmington."

  Edmund looked at Josiah down the length of his nose. "Would you have me disappoint the lady, Josiah?"

  "You've disappointed others."

  "Oh. Have I? But perhaps I view this particular young woman differently. Perhaps she has touched my heart."

  Chad smiled. "Ah,
love. It seems capable of humbling the mightiest."

  Edmund sneered at him. "You can be such an abominable fool, Chad. Here, dispose of this." He handed him Dulcie's letter to Zoe. The letter to Ben he tucked into his breast pocket. "The young lady can be told we went to great lengths. This letter was undeliverable."

  "Why tell her anything?" Chad imitated Edmund's pedantic inflection.

  "Because I choose to. Keep your mind on things you understand. Which reminds me, devise a more clever code. We need details of Lee's plans this next month and a map of the supply routes between Wilmington and Lee's army. Should we be stopped by a Confederate with even minimal intelligence, he could decipher your code."

  Chad smoothed his waistcoat and performed a small ritual with the ends of his moustache. "I—^I beg your pardon. I'll change the code, of course, but we've had no difficulty. No one has questioned us."

  "Of course not, you idiot. We're known as Confederate agents. But in case your powers of observation have failed entirely, I shall remind you the complexion of the war is changing. The great Southern cause is badly bruised. Our compatriots may not be so trusting and naive as in the past. You might also keep in mind, Chad, that since the value of Confederate currency is near nothing, the informa-

  tion we have been bringing them is also worth nothing. Confusion has been our ally, but I would expect one of these days someone will note that agents Revanche, Kaufman, and Whinburn are somewhat less than adept."

  "So why're we makin' the trip at all?" Joseph slurred. "We turned complete traitor? Bad enough we been sellin' secrets on both sides. Now we jes' gonna help the Yankees destroy our lan's an' people?"

  "Perhaps it would ease your conscience to join one of our fine Confederate fighting units, Josiah."

  "Would. Would, by God. Least I could die like an honorable Southerner. Least I wouldn't be bitin' the hand o' my own people. Least I wouldn't be foolin' some pore I'il widow, makin' her think I was goin' to fin' her los' hus-ban' fo' her."