A languid feeling crept over her. She watched him through narrowed eyes, her gaze following the movements of his smooth gliding muscles as his hands swept along her sides. Her attention drifted to the flat sheathing of brown skin over his abdomen, the sculpting of the muscles there, and the sharp line of demarcation where the bronze of his upper body met the ivory paleness of the lower. And yet, his skin tones were not so white as her own, due to the olive skin of his Creole ancestors. The faint mantling of perspiration from his exertions and the tropical night gave a gilded sheen to his body in the lamplight. Almost unconsciously, she reached out to touch him, then followed the musculature of his belly upward to the planes of his chest, stopping with her fingertips just over his heart. Its beat was strong and steady, pulsing under her hand, throbbing through her nerves until it combined with the race of her own blood.
She allowed her touch to drift a fraction lower. Swallowing with difficulty, she said, “It healed all right, your rib?”
“Fine.”
“I’m glad.”
“Your concern, of course, being solely for my health?”
“Solely,” she answered, but could not prevent the smile that flickered like silver lightning across the gray of her eyes.
“I was afraid of that.” He had found the tapes that held her pantaloons and slipped the bowknot. His fingers smoothing the red line left around her waist, he brushed the fine linen lower, and lower still. When it bunched under her, he shook his head in mock annoyance, and slowly drew the material down over her hips, his gaze dropping to the taut surface of her belly as the wheat-straw gold triangle at the apex of her legs appeared.
Under his warm appraisal, she felt naked indeed now. “I — my nightgown. It’s in the other cabin with the rest of my clothes.”
He came to his feet, and, swinging in rampant, aroused maleness, moved to extinguish the lamp. There was a hint of laughter in his voice as he came toward her in the darkness. “Don’t worry,” he said, “you won’t need it — or them.”
13
Ramon was right. She did not need either nightgown or clothing until far into the next morning, well after they had left the protection of the channel between the islands ‘and moved into the open sea. It was then that a federal cruiser was sighted. Ramon threw on his clothes and went above, grudgingly giving the order for Cupid to transfer her trunk from the ladies’ cabin to his own. By the time she had dressed, put up her hair in a coil on top of her head against the force of the wind, and followed him topside, they had run into a squall. Taking advantage of the rain and low-lying cloud bank, they had changed course, leaving the cruiser behind.
It was a rough trip. The Lorelei’s engine labored as she rolled in the waves. The decks stayed wet and slippery, and lines were left up both topside and along the corridors for handholds. It was the safest kind of weather, according to the men. Poor visibility for the federal frigates on the lookout for runners, and therefore good for making time, since they did not have to be constantly turning tail and running from the Yankees. It was not the best for comfort, however. Lorna did not feel truly seasick from the pitching, but neither did she feel at her best. She spent much of the time in the bunk, reading by the fitful light of the swinging lamps during the gray days when a light could be shone; staring at the ceiling, thinking, after dark.
She had for company in the cabin stacks of bonnet boxes. She had not paid them much attention that first night, but as the ship pitched, the lightweight boxes, made of thin wood covered with paper painted in floral scenes, had a tendency to slide back and forth across the floor, tumbling from their stacks, rolling about the cabin. The tissue-wrapped bonnets spilled out, shining in their rich satin and taffeta and lace, with trims of feathers and gilt cord and silk flowers. Lorna had picked them up, holding them in her hands for a moment before thrusting them carelessly back into their boxes. The more she saw of them, the more her anger with Ramon grew. What use were bonnets for fighting the Yankees or feeding hungry people? The extra space in the cabin could have been much better utilized for transporting cloth for uniforms and good leather boots, or cotton cards to remove the seeds from the cotton, so it could be turned into thread on the spinning wheels being brought from the attics all over the South — anything except bonnets to please the vanity of the few women who could still afford such luxury.
It was true that he was performing a great service by shipping the gunpowder so badly needed by Confederate forces, but his reason was purely monetary. What could be admirable about endangering his life, and that of his men, for gain? That flaw in his character troubled Lorna as she lay alone in the bunk, but when he stepped into the cabin, on those few occasions when he could leave his duties, and came toward her with his dark eyes alight with desire, she put aside her misgivings.
Toward the evening of the third day, the sky cleared. The rose-pink light of sunset lay across the water, turning it to an opalescent purple, on the horizon and giving a rose tinge to the ship’s gray paint. It outlined a ship, small due to distance making headway on their right.
Lorna, moving to stand beside the executive officer at the railing, waited until Slick had lowered his glasses before asking, “What is it?”
“Another blockade runner, Ma’am,” the north Louisianian drawled, sending her a quick glance. “I’d say, from the look of her, the Bonny Girl.”
Peter’s ship. Slick might be curious as to her reaction, knowing she had received attention from the Englishman, but she did not intend to give anything away if she could help it. In truth, she felt a bit strange, a little anxious for Peter. For the Lorelei and herself, she felt no such trepidation. Her trust in Ramon’s skill and judgment was complete, regardless of her dislike of his principles.
To direct the conversation into other channels, she asked, “How far are we off the Carolinas?”
“No more than an hour or so. We are at half-speed now, if you will listen to the engines, idling along, so we don’t come up on the federal fleet before good dark. Actually, we’ve passed the mouth of the Cape Fear.”
The Cape Fear River, rather like the Mississippi River below New Orleans, was the entranceway to Wilmington, though the city was only sixteen miles upstream instead of the one hundred fifty that separated New Orleans from the gulf. “Passed it?”
The officer turned, smiling a little, ready to show his knowledge. “The river is named for the point of land, or cape, that juts out just here on the coast. At some time or other, it made itself two different outlets to the sea. There’s an island, Smith Island, as if the tip of the cape had broken off and floated out a piece. One river channel goes to the south of it, and the other to the north. There are two fortifications, Fort Caswell to the south, and Fort Fisher to the north, protecting the channels. The blockade fleet is strung out across both entrances, stationed at close intervals, if you can picture that.”
“Yes, I think so,” Lorna said, frowning in concentration.
“All right. During the day, the federals lie at anchor, but at night they patrol, keeping in touch with the flagship, which stays put. The batteries at the north fort, Fort Fisher, are so strong they can pick off the Yankee ships like sitting ducks if they aren’t careful; so, up there, the gunboats have a tendency to stay farther out from shore. The idea, for runners like us, is to steam north of the entrances, run around the end of the fleet, and come down the coast inside the line of vessels. Being more shallow-drafted, we can steam closer in. When we get near the river’s mouth, where the Yankee ships are the thickest, we run under the guns of the fort and are home free.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
He shook his head. “It is, and it isn’t. You have to have a navigator who can find the mouth of a river only a half-mile wide in the dark, a pilot who can sound the bottom and tell you by the color of the sand whether you are too far north, or not far enough. You need a captain with the nerve to decide if navigator and pilot are right, and a ship with a good, steady engine that won’t quit on you or blow off stea
m at the wrong moment. Most of all, you have to have luck. Any ship without it is going to wind up forty fathoms under or beached on the sand with sea gulls roosting in its ribs.”
Night came on with incredible swiftness, or perhaps it only seemed so because of the apprehension the executive officer’s words had stirred inside her. The lights on the ship, ordinarily doused at dusk, were double-checked. Tarpaulins were used to cover the hatches of the engine room, in spite of the hellish heat and lack of air below. The binnacle was closed off with only a funnel-shaped aperture left through which the man at the wheel could see the compass. Warnings against even the smoking of a cigar were issued to the few male passengers who gathered on the deck. The cook’s fire had long since been allowed to go out, and Cupid passed around cold meat and bread, and wine to wash it down with, just before they stopped to cast a lead, taking a sounding of the bottom, then proceeding faster.
The night was fairly clear, but a mist lay on the sea. A vagrant night wind, neither cold nor yet warm, drifted over the decks. Lorna stood with her black cloak wrapped around her and her back to the wheelhouse, in the shadow of the smokestack. Nearby, a pair of the men passengers crouched behind the bulwarks at the prow, so that their silhouettes could not be seen against the gray of the ship. The smell of the coal smoke wafted warm on the air, but, though she craned her neck to watch, no spark flew past overhead from the anthracite being used in the boiler room.
She should be below, as she well knew. The silent darkness was claustrophobic, however, especially when she knew that every man on the ship was on the main deck, save those laboring to keep the engines running. She would take her chances in the open, no matter what Ramon said. She did not want to be a hindrance, but he had no right to command her, particularly if he did not ask the other passengers to abide by the same rules.
There was a rustle of sound near her; then a voice hissed in her ear. “Black snake!”
She spun around in a sweep of skirts, at the same time recognizing Ramon’s voice. Still, her tone was sharp as she asked, “What?”
“Black snake,” he repeated, laughter threading his low voice. “It’s what the federal naval sentries on board the cruisers call when they see a blockade runner, instead of ‘Sail ho!’ It implies the sighting of something sneaky, also fast and elusive.”
“And what, may I ask, has that to do with me?”
“You know well enough.”
“You mean because I am here, instead of in that dark, stifling cabin.”
“Correct.”
“I won’t go,” she said after a moment, her voice quiet, “and, if you were truly concerned for me, you wouldn’t ask it.”
“I’ve told you before, it’s the flying glass, the splinters, the fragments of shell that are the greatest danger.”
“I know, but you risk it and so do the others.”
“I’m not a woman, nor are they.”
“What has that to do with anything?”
“The consequences — maiming, death — are not as important.”
“Why? We are all human beings.”
“I don’t have time to argue philosophy with you. It’s a fact, something every man recognizes and most women are happy to acknowledge.”
She ignored his comment for lack of an answer. “I won’t get in the way, I promise. Nor will I scream or faint or cause any more trouble than the other passengers should we be fired upon.”
“Lorna—”
“Please?”
He did not answer at once, but weighed her request. She sensed a certain tension about him that was caused, she thought, partially by the weight of responsibility upon him at this juncture, partially from concern for her safety, and to no small extent from irritation that she was causing difficulties. She shifted slightly, half-turning toward the companionway to go below, when he reached out and caught her hand.
“This way,” he said, “to the wheelhouse. At least you will be beside me.”
The pilot was already there beside the helmsman, staring into the darkness, a North Carolinian who had taken Frazier’s place on this leg of the run. He turned to glance briefly at Ramon and Lorna, then swung back to strain his eyes into the blackness ahead of them. There was nothing to be seen except the faint shifting of the water and the pale drift, like a soft silk scarf, of the mist around them. They pressed on, with the beat of the paddle wheels and wash of the water cascading from them sounding increasingly louder. Long minutes passed. Perhaps an hour later, the pilot shifted uneasily.
“Better cast the lead again, Captain.”
The order was given to stop. The engines ceased. Silence closed in as they waited with held breaths for the hiss of steam blowing off, a sound that would carry for miles. It did not come. The shadow figure of a man slipped forward into the forechains. The report came back in a minute or two. They were free of the speckled-mud bottom, the indication they had been waiting for that meant they were far enough to the north.
“Starboard,” Ramon ordered, “and go ahead easy.”
They turned in a long gentle sweep, moving in toward shore, and began to creep down the coast. There was not a sound now except the regular beat of the floats on the paddles, dangerously echoing on the water though blending somewhat with the rush of the surf as they proceeded at the pace of a snail. On the right lay a line of sand dunes, pale and ghostly pyramids in the night. The shortened masts of the ship, denuded now of sails since they were moving away from the open sea, were no taller than their sandy peaks.
The minutes passed. A quarter hour, then a half. The night was fleeting, and Lorna wondered if they would have time to reach Wilmington before dawn at the plodding rate they were traveling. If they were caught in this trap between the shore and the blockade fleet when dawn came, they would be as helpless as a target barge towed behind a slow frigate.
“There! On the port bow.”
Before the pilot’s voice had died away, Ramon’s quiet order came. “Starboard a point. Steady.”
It was only then that Lorna saw the long, black shape in the water, lying absolutely still. It carried no lights, nothing to alert the runners to the presence of a federal ship. A sloop, it rose and fell with the swell, not a hundred yards away, its masts and spars waving as if trying to help keep balance.
They slid past in dead quiet. Not a man seemed to breathe. Lorna stood still, as though her immobility was a protection. Her hands were clenched, the nails cutting into her palms. Ramon was a dark statue beside her. The pilot’s head turned slowly as he kept his eyes on the blockader. Somewhere a man, possibly one of the passengers, stifled a cough.
The Lorelei drew ahead half her length, her whole length, double that. They steamed on four hundred yards, eight hundred. The sloop was swallowed up in darkness and mist, dropping away behind them. They were safely beyond her, and had not been seen. No man spoke or offered congratulations. Certainly none cheered. They were only beginning to run the blockade.
Where was Peter’s ship? They had not seen the Bonny Girl for some time, not since just before sunset. Was he ahead of them or behind them? Was he even taking the same course? There were other passages into Wilmington, Lorna knew, for she had heard the men speak of them these last weeks. This was the safest, the preferred course, but was perhaps more closely watched because of it.
Her eyes were burning from trying to penetrate the encroaching gloom. She closed them tightly, then opened them again. A stir of movement in the mist caught her attention, resolving into the vague outline of a ship steaming slowly across their bow. She reached out to clutch Ramon’s arm. At the same time, he said quietly, “Stop her.”
The engines stopped, and there came the quiet bubbling sound of steam blowing off under water. The paddle wheels ceased. The ship glided a short distance under her headway, then sat on the water, wallowing in the swell. Ahead of them, the Federal ship materialized out of the murkiness of the night, moving at an angle from the featureless shoreline to seaward. She showed up, a black mass, the smoke from her stack
s a dark veil above her shot with tiny red sparks, proving beyond all doubt the wisdom of the blockade runners in painting their ships the soft gray of ghosts, and the value of good Welsh coal.
The noise of the Yankee vessel’s paddles was muffled, but carrying. They sat listening to it long after she had moved on, disappearing into the darkness. It was only after Ramon gave the quiet order to restart the engines that Lorna began to breathe normally and realized that her heart was pounding, beating with deafening strokes that sounded in her ears with the same feathery thudding of enemy paddle floats.
They altered course to steam as close to shore and the dim line of the surf as they dared, as far from the line of federal fleet as possible. It was some time later that the pilot grunted, pointing out a mound of earth about the size of a tall tree, and perhaps as big around. Called Big Hill or, sometimes, the Mound, it was a landmark used to tell how far they were from Fort Fisher. It would not be long now before they could expect the aid of the batteries against the ships drawn up near the mouth of the river. They were always thicker and more heavily armed in this area.
Minutes passed, and they saw nothing. The night was hushed, though the faint sighing of the surf could be heard away to starboard. The darkness was oppressive, a weight that they had been fighting for hours, or so it seemed. The tension was a palpable thing. Despite the coolness of the night, Lorna felt a beading of perspiration on her upper lip. She was not certain if she was glad or sorry she had stayed on deck. It might almost have been better not to have known what was taking place, to have remained ignorant of the close brush of danger. But no, the wild play of imagination would have been worse by far, that and the feeling of being shut away, denied a part in the events of the night.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2 Page 26
