by Lyle Brandt
His cabin, so called, was more of a cubbyhole and made the rented room he’d left behind seem spacious by comparison. Its eighty-odd square feet contained a bunk that he could just about stretch out on, and a straight-backed wooden chair tucked into a desk-type dresser of sorts with drawers on one side and a mirror on top. A printed card on the bunk told Ryder that each deck had its own dining room, smoking lounge, and bathroom facilities. The latter were segregated by sex, with the women’s facility forward, the men’s located aft. Ventilation and a view of the outside world—or, presently, the backsides of his fellow passengers standing along the rail—was provided by a porthole the size of a dinner plate.
Ryder didn’t bother to unpack, just yet. He set his portmanteau and rifle case atop the narrow bunk and made sure that his cabin door was locked before he left and moved along a corridor, known as a passageway on shipboard, toward a staircase sailors labeled a companionway. That took him up and out onto the upper deck, where he could scan the docks and almost see the point where the Patapsco River flowed into Chesapeake Bay. Beyond lay the Atlantic Ocean, and a long run down the Eastern Seaboard to the Gulf.
And then?
The rest, he thought, could wait until he had his feet on solid ground again, in Galveston. Or did an island qualify as solid ground?
He’d find out soon enough, in any case, and then his real work would begin.
*
Sailing from the harbor seemed to be a cause for celebration on the Southern Belle, though Ryder could not figure out exactly why. He understood the whistles sounding, as a warning to the other boats or ships nearby, but since the steamer came and went from Baltimore at weekly intervals, routine departure on another run did not impress him as a grand occasion for the cheers that echoed from its crowded decks and from spectators lined up at quayside.
Then again, perhaps he simply wasn’t getting in the spirit of the thing.
For many of his fellow passengers, he guessed, the Belle’s departure signaled the beginning of a personal adventure. Some of them were on vacation, heading off to visit relatives or friends or lovers. Others would be traveling on urgent business, anxious to cash in on profits promised by the end of war. A few were probably Republicans, embarking on a perilous endeavor as officials named by Washington to help administer the late Confederacy. What awaited them when they arrived was anybody’s guess, but Ryder doubted that they would be welcomed to the South with open arms.
Firearms, perhaps. But that was what the bluecoats stationed in the former Rebel states were for, to keep the peace.
Ryder supposed that no one else aboard the Southern Belle was traveling on business quite like his, a secret mission for the government—but then again, how would he know? President Johnson was following through on his late predecessor’s plan for readmission of the former Rebel states on relatively easy terms, while his Republican opponents in Congress—lately dubbed “radicals” in the Democratic press—clamored for giving former slaves the vote and passing legislation granting them complete social equality with whites. Johnson was holding firm against that tide so far, but even his plan would demand that southern legislatures ratify a new Thirteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, banning slavery. Lincoln had sought compensation for slave owners forced to release their human property, but members of his own party had killed that provision before passing the amendment through the House in April 1864, and through the Senate nine months later.
There was still, Ryder reflected, ample room for intrigue on both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line—and would be, he supposed, for years to come. The hatred spawned by civil war would not fade quickly, if at all, nor would the counterfeiters who had prospered during wartime suddenly give up their trade.
From his hasty education as a Secret Service agent, Ryder knew that a nationwide network of some sixteen hundred private, state-chartered banks were authorized to print paper money and did so, producing a staggering thirty thousand different varieties in all colors and sizes. In 1861, Congress had authorized the U.S. Treasury to print its own “demand notes,” replaced a year later by currency widely dubbed “greenbacks.” The vast array of paper money presently in circulation made America a happy hunting ground for counterfeiters, printing reams of “bogus,” as the operators called it, every month.
While I’m off hunting smugglers. Just my luck, he thought.
Ryder was still uneasy with the plan outlined by William Wood. His former duties with the Marshals Service had been more or less straightforward: guarding federal judges who’d been threatened in performance of their duties, tracking fugitives who’d been identified by other officers but managed to elude them. He had never tried to infiltrate a gang of any kind, or even thought about it heretofore. Ryder had told his share of lies, but never had occasion to pretend that he was someone other than himself, much less a hunted criminal.
First time for everything.
The trick would be ensuring that it didn’t prove to be his last time.
Going in, he had a physical description of his target, Bryan Marley, and a short list of red-light establishments he patronized in Galveston. Beyond that, Marley was suspected of assorted crimes ranging from theft and smuggling contraband to murder, but he’d never been indicted, much less tried and convicted. Bagging him depended on whatever evidence Ryder could collect, if any, and his own survival to present a case in court.
The Southern Belle took its time steaming out of Baltimore Harbor, into the Patapsco River. From there, Ryder knew, it was 39 miles down to Chesapeake Bay, then another 173 miles to the boat’s first stop at Norfolk. Call it 2,300 miles from start to finish, by the time they reached Galveston on the Gulf of Mexico, with the Belle making an average 18 miles per hour between stops.
The prospect of a week on board was daunting, but at least he felt no stirring of seasickness yet. In fact, the grumbling in his stomach now reminded him that he’d skipped breakfast to be early for the sailing, and he wondered how long it would be before some kind of food was ready in the dining hall. It wouldn’t hurt to see if any serving times were posted, then he could explore the boat for safety features, means of disembarking in a hurry, any kind of firefighting equipment. Just in case.
If something happened to the Southern Belle, he didn’t plan to be among those lost at sea. Enough danger awaited Ryder at the far end of his journey without drowning or becoming food for sharks. He wanted to survive, at least until he went ashore at Galveston.
Beyond that, only time would tell.
*
Lunch service aboard the Southern Belle began at noon, five hours after leaving port and six hours before the steamer’s stop at Norfolk. Ryder’s stomach was protesting volubly by then, which might have been embarrassing except for all the talk and clatter in the dining hall, accompanied by steady rumbling from the engine room below. There was no system for assigning seats at any of the round tables designed to serve four diners each, so Ryder took one in a corner of the room, his back against the nearest wall—or bulkhead, as they called it on a sailing vessel—with three empty seats around his table when he first arrived.
The dining hall began to fill up shortly after Ryder took his corner seat, couples and larger parties fanning out to empty tables, leaving Ryder on his own. He didn’t mind the solitude—in fact, preferred to eat alone if possible—but soon the other seats were taken and his luck ran out. A portly fellow crossed to stand before his table, nodding to the empty chair directly opposite and asking, “May I?”
“Go ahead,” Ryder replied.
The new arrival had a drummer’s look about him: thinning hair slicked back, a waxed mustache and easy smile, ruddy gin blossoms on his cheeks and bulbous nose. He wore a broadcloth coat over a silver satin vest and white shirt with a black string tie. His hands, atop the table, looked like hair spiders. Underneath his jacket, on the left side near the armpit, a small pistol in some kind of a shoulder holster bulged against the fabric.
“Arnie Cagle. I’m in ladies’ corsets,” he
announced and snorted laughter at his own bon mot. Ryder obliged him with a smile and introduced himself as George Revere, the alias he and Director Wood had finally agreed upon in Washington.
“You kin to Paul Revere?”
“Not that I ever heard.”
“Now, when I say that I’m in ladies’ corsets—”
“Let me guess. You sell them?”
“You got it right in one. Other foundation garments too, of course. Your basic camisoles and crinolines, garters and drawers, the latest—”
“May I join you gentlemen?”
Ryder glanced up to find a well-dressed woman of about his own age standing several paces from their table, studying the drummer with a look of mild amusement on her heart-shaped face. It was a good face, somewhere short of beautiful, but certainly attractive, underneath a small green feathered hat that rode atop a frothy pile of auburn hair. She wore a blue silk dress, high-necked, with wide pagoda sleeves, the hem of her wide paneled skirt grazing the carpet of the dining hall. Ryder had no idea if she was wearing anything from Cagle’s stock beneath the dress but gave his mind freedom to speculate.
Cagle was first to rise, wearing an unctuous smile and saying, “Please, by all means, grace our lonely company.”
Ryder kept quiet, trying not to roll his eyes.
Cagle stepped back to help the lady with her chair, adjusting it until she thanked him, granting leave for them to sit. “I’m Irene McGowan,” she announced. “And you are … ?”
“Arnie Cagle,” said the drummer.
“He’s in ladies’ corsets,” Ryder interjected.
Cagle shot a glare at him, while Irene said, “We’ll keep that to ourselves, shall we, mister … ?”
“Revere,” he told her. “George Revere.”
“No relation to Paul,” Cagle added.
She blinked at Cagle. “Paul?”
“It’s not important.”
“I would not have pegged you for a George,” she said.
“Oh, no?”
“Something a trifle more adventurous, I think. Perhaps Gerard, or Graham.”
“Sorry. Just plain George.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Mr. Revere.”
Cagle frowned, seemed on the verge of making some remark, but he was interrupted by a waiter stopping to deliver menus. Irene asked about the soup du jour, but grimaced when she learned that it was turtle, opting for a lobster tail instead. “I draw the line at reptiles,” she told Ryder, with a quirky smile.
He ordered T-bone steak with baked potato. Cagle put the waiter through an inquisition on the merits of the fried and roasted chicken, then decided on pork chops instead. They sat and talked about the Southern Belle’s accommodations and their several destinations while they waited for their food. Cagle was headed for Savannah, while Irene was going on around the Keys and Straits of Florida to visit kinfolk in Tampa.
She lit up with another smile when Ryder said that he was traveling to Galveston. “I hear it’s very wicked there,” she said.
“I couldn’t tell you,” he replied. “It’s my first time.”
“In Galveston, he means,” said Cagle, smirking.
Irene blushed at that, but the arrival of their meals saved her from having to respond. Ryder picked up his knife, imagining how it would feel to let some air out of the corset salesman, but he cut a bite out of his steak, instead, and found it was delicious.
Small talk occupied them while they ate. Ryder let Cagle carry most of it, describing a variety of trades he had pursued before he settled down to women’s intimates. Most of it had to do with clothes, though he’d spent the war designing military uniforms.
“Which side?” asked Ryder.
“The correct one,” Cagle said and gave him an exaggerated wink.
“And what do you do for a living, George?” Irene inquired.
It was a chance to try his cover story on for size. “Import and export,” he replied, leaving it vague.
“So, shipping,” Cagle said.
“My part has more to do with acquisition,” Ryder said, “and distribution.”
“Such as?” Irene pressed him.
“Anything my customers desire. Jamaican rum’s a popular commodity. Some other products from the islands. Now and then, a little something more exotic.”
“And you’ve visited these places?”
“All a part of doing business.”
“You must tell me more about them, when we have the time.”
Leaving the dining hall when they were done, Ryder decided that the trip might be more interesting than he’d thought.
*
Ryder soon discovered that the Southern Belle’s arrival in a port produced the same reaction as its steaming out of Baltimore. The packet’s whistle sounded well before it docked, drawing a crowd to meet it at the pier. Some came to welcome disembarking passengers, while others paid their fare and came aboard, bound for some other port. Cargo was hauled ashore and rapidly replaced with other items. Some folks simply came to gawk, while others stood and waited for their mail.
Norfolk wasn’t much to look at, in his personal opinion, when they reached it in late afternoon. All Ryder knew about it was what he had read in newspapers, during the war. The Battle of Hampton Roads had been fought there, at sea, in March of 1862, between the ironclads USS Monitor and CSS Virginia, built from remnants of the old USS Merrimack. It came down to a standoff, with some 340 dead and about 120 wounded, but Gen. John Wool had captured the Rebel port two months later, holding it for the remainder of the war. It had been spared from any major damage, and appeared to be a thriving spot for commerce now.
Their second day at sea established Ryder’s pattern for the trip. He had an early breakfast in the dining hall and had a walk around the deck, stopped by the boat’s small library but couldn’t find a book that suited him, then went to lunch at noon. Irene McGowan met him there, while Arnie Cagle chose another table, trying out his jokes on a new audience. This time, they shared their table with an aging couple on their way to Jacksonville, to see their third grandchild.
The Belle’s next stop—at Wilmington, North Carolina—came up in the afternoon, some twenty hours out of Norfolk. A major port for the Confederacy, on the Cape Fear River, Wilmington had been the capital of blockade runners after Norfolk’s fall, holding out until February of 1865. When Gen. Braxton Bragg evacuated, driven out by Union troops, he’d burned large quantities of cotton and tobacco marked for sale in England. Even so, most of the action had occurred outside the city, leaving stately antebellum homes intact.
The packet’s stops in one port or another soon became routine to Ryder. There was Charleston, scene of Fort Sumter’s bombardment, and Savannah, captured by General Sherman as a Christmas present for President Lincoln in December 1864, where Arnie Cagle took his bulging sample case and disembarked. The weather started getting steamier as they continued down the coast to Florida, stopping again at Jacksonville, a seedy and dilapidated port where shirtless black men loaded ships under the watchful eyes of overseers, much as Ryder thought they must have done before they were emancipated. Eighteen hours farther down the coast, Miami was a tiny settlement, noteworthy only for its lighthouse at the southern tip of Key Biscayne.
Mostly, he concentrated on Irene McGowan, sharing meals with her and, by their third day on the Southern Belle, accompanying her on walks around the packet’s several decks. On the night they left Miami, Ryder had a feeling that she might invite him to her stateroom, but she left him standing at the door instead, after a chaste peck on the cheek. He chalked it up as progress of a sort, and went off to his narrow bed alone.
Proprieties.
It was too much, Ryder supposed, to think that she would risk her reputation on a man she barely knew, and whom she’d never see again after they parted at Tampa. So much for shipboard romance.
They were finishing breakfast, four days out, when the Belle’s steam whistle sounded their approach to Key West, dominated by Fort Zachary Tay
lor and a U.S. Navy base. Key West had stayed in Union hands throughout the war, despite Florida’s secession, and Fort Jefferson—sixty-odd miles distant, on Garden Key in the Dry Tortugas—presently served as a federal prison, with Dr. Samuel Mudd numbered among its inmates.
The island wasn’t large, less than eight square miles of land, but it was jammed with shops and houses lining narrow streets, its harbor filled with ships and boats of every size. Ryder went ashore with Irene, browsing at shops and market stalls, but limited his purchase to a bag of oranges. Four hours out of port, the Southern Belle entered the Straits of Florida, starting its swing into the Gulf of Mexico and up the long peninsula’s west coast to reach Tampa, the best part of another day ahead.
Standing with Irene at the rail, sharing an orange, Ryder considered that they still had one more night on board, together. He had already decided not to press his luck, simply enjoy her company and not make anything more of it, feeling fairly virtuous for his restraint. At the same time, he wondered whether he had lost his touch with women other than the working ladies he had patronized in Washington.
In any case, considering the job at hand, this wouldn’t be the time to start—
“Oh, look!” she said. “Another ship!”
It was a sleek, three-masted clipper, sails billowing as it tacked from westward, on a course that seemed designed to intercept the Southern Belle. Ryder could see the crewmen scurrying about on deck, doing whatever sailors did to maximize a vessel’s speed.
“You don’t suppose we’ll hit it, do you?” asked Irene.
“Doubtful.”
As if on cue, the Belle sounded its warning whistle, sharp and shrill.
“They’re putting up a flag!” Irene exclaimed.
“It isn’t just a flag,” said Ryder. “That’s a Jolly Roger.”
