The Blue and the Gray Undercover

by Ed Gorman

  Garrett eased the telescope into its mounting bracket. “Here comes one even as we speak.”

  A small group of people approached along the hillcrest. Monica recognized Greenly, Captain Fairweather, and De Vere.

  “At least Fairweather doesn’t have a squad of marines with him,” Monica murmured. “Let’s construe that as a positive sign.”

  She lifted her head and her voice. “Good morning, Mr. Greenly. And you as well, Captain. And Mr. De Vere. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

  “Good morning, good morning, Mrs. Van Telflin,” Greenly caroled as he bustled up. “I’m so sorry you had to leave us so soon last evening. Your charming presence was sorely missed.”

  “I regret my premature departure as well, sir,” she replied with an appropriate smile, “but as a New England girt I still find these warm Bermudan nights somewhat debilitating at times.”

  “Quite so,” Captain Fairweather interjected. The lanky Englishman was maintaining an air of amused sardonicism. “I trust you have recovered from your … I believe it was a headache?”

  “Fully, Captain. All I required was an opportunity to lie down for a time.” Monica met his gaze levelly for a long moment and then returned her attention to Greenly. “I daresay it would be unpatriotic of me to wish you well on your endeavor, Mr. Greenly, but there should be no harm in at least seeing your ship off.”

  “Frankly, Greenly, I’m here hoping to see your ship on the reef,” Garrett growled, coming to stand beside Monica.

  “I understand both your feelings fully,” the little merchant preened back. “Even yours, Commander. But please remember, there is nothing personal, just good business.”

  Monica envied George his ability to openly scowl. Her own smile ached on her face.

  Someone along the hillside called our. “She’s coming!”

  A few moments later and the Reindeer appeared around Commissioner’s Point to the north, clearing the mouth of Great Sound and heading to the west.

  Monica had to admit that the little black steamer was a beauty, her rakishness giving the impression of speed even as she hove to for the pilot’s yawl. The impression became a reality within a few minutes as, with the pilot clear, she headed out into the open Atlantic, the smoke from good Welsh coal streaming from her stacks and a broad fan of foam whipping from her paddle buckets. Hats and scarves were waved after her as she pulled away toward the dawn-shadowed western horizon.

  Monica felt the warmth of George’s body as he brushed close past her. “If there’s anyone out there,” he murmured, “they’ll wait until she’s well clear of the three-mile limit.”

  Monica didn’t reply. She kept her attention focused on the eyepiece of the telescope, tracking the blockader as she diminished swiftly in the distance.

  Had the chief engineer caught on to the fact that one of his safeties wasn’t “talking” yet? Or were they still idling along with the taut-set boilers not pushed close to their pressure limits? Had he noted that one of his pressure gauges was underreading, and investigated, or had he ordered his stokers to push the fire in what he thought was a lagging furnace?

  Long minutes passed and the Reindeer dwindled away to toy size.

  “Hoy!” someone called out. “There’s another ship out there!”

  Field glasses and telescopes, including Monica’s, swiveled around. Garrett brushed her aside, taking over the eyepiece.

  “She looks to be a Yankee cruiser,” Fairweather reported, peering through his binoculars.

  “Damn right she is!” Garrett replied fiercely. “The screw steam sloop Penobscott.”

  Fairweather’s brows lifted behind his field glasses. “Bloody convenient, her lurking about out there this morning.”

  “Quite so, Captain.” Garrett grinned back. “Your investment’s in a world of trouble, Greenly. The Penny is a ship that can go some!”

  The British industrialist’s customary bland grin faltered and a handkerchief materialized in his hand to blot a sudden outburst of perspiration. The heartiness in his tone was forced as he turned to the Port Hamilton banker who accompanied him.

  “A trifle, sir. I assure you. Now you’ll have the opportunity to see my Reindeer do what she was built to do: show her heels to the Federal Navy.”

  De Vere only nodded. “As you say, sir.”

  Monica said nothing. Resuming her place at the telescope, she watched the chase unfold.

  The Penobscott had been circling well clear of the island, her topmasts stricken to reduce her silhouette and her gray blockade paint merging her into the horizon haze. Now the big Federal sloop-of-war was driving in hard from the southwest, making a run on the Reindeer, as a wolf might lunge at a rabbit. White foam boiled beneath her bowsprit, and the dense smoke trail streaming in her wake suggested that her black gang had the coal flying out of her stacks.

  It would have been easy enough for the Reindeer to reverse course and scurry back into the shelter of Bermudan territorial waters. However, Captain Enoch knew that his owner had investors watching, Instead, he accepted the challenge. The sleek little paddle-steamer paid off to the northwest, her own smoke plume thickening as she piled on speed. Enoch intended to do an end round of his pursuer, leaving her behind by literally sailing a circle around the Federal warship.

  A silence fell across the hillside, the chatter and the casual laughter fading, leaving only the excited voices of the glass-holders as they described the developing events to the other onlookers.

  In Monica’s view, the Penobscott was no longer quartering. She was broadside on, due west of the headland, straining to cut across the circle being drawn by her fleet-footed prey. It was futility, though. The Confederate blockader danced on her wheels, pulling away. Burdened by her size and the weight of her guns, the Federal sloop-of-war stood no chance.

  But she was making the Reindeer run. Right to her limits.

  Monica could visualize the blockade-runner’s stokeholds, lit by the hellfire glare of the furnaces, the damned souls of her stokers hurling an avalanche of coal onto the white-hot grates. And looming over them, the boilers. One of which was now a bomb ticking down toward detonation.

  Monica wondered if “her” stoker had recovered enough to stand to his station. She had no argument with such men, but she would fight to the death, hers and theirs, to stop the cause they served.

  Then again, maybe there was nothing to wait for. Maybe her gagging job had been uncovered and the valve freed and Enoch and his crew were laughing on their victorious way to Charleston.

  Monica straightened from behind the telescope, looking to George for encouragement, He provided it with a nod and staunch grin.

  Thus, neither of them saw it happen.

  Exclamations and shouts rippled among the onlookers and Monica whipped hack to the telescope. The dark banner streaming back from the Reindeer’s funnels was going pale, raw steam mixing with the coal smoke.

  “George!”

  Garrett took over the eyepiece and studied silently for a moment. “Her stacks are still standing, so she didn’t bust a kettle,” he said judgmentally. “But she’s venting heavily through her deck hatches. She’s blown a feed line or I’m a Dutchman. How would you call it, Captain?”

  “Hmm,” Fairweather nodded. “I’d think that a reasonable assessment, Commander.”

  With a scalding geyser of live steam erupting belowdecks, the Reindeer’s engine spaces would be unlivable. As her black gang abandoned their stations to escape topside, the racing heart of the blockader began to slow, her paddles clanking to a halt.

  Amid the billowing clouds of vapor, the Reindeer’s auxiliary sails could be seen crawling up her masts. Enoch was frantically trying to get his ship under way again; no doubt in an attempt to beat back to the safety of Crown waters.

  Now, though, it was the Reindeer that had no chance. The Penobscott thundered down upon the crippled blockade-runner like an express train.

  A gout of gunsmoke and orange flame spewed from the sloop’s bow-chaser
and a mast-high jet of whitewater lifted off the paddle steamer’s bow, the thud of the one-hundred-pounder Parrott rifle echoing in dully from the sea. The Reindeer came about sluggishly, the tiny gray scrap of the Confederate flag sinking to the blockader’s deck.

  “Well, that’s it, then,” Fairweather said, recasing his field glasses. He lifted his voice slightly. “It appears Commander Garrett was right. One can’t go about slapping a ship together like a packing case and expect to get anything decent out of it.”

  De Vere shot a cold glance in Greenly’s direction. “Words of wisdom, Captain. In the future when dealing with matters of the sea, I’ll make it a point to listen to sailors and not shopkeepers. Good day, gentlemen, Mrs. Van Telflin.”

  The banker stalked away toward a group of Hamilton businessmen caucusing downslope.

  Greenly didn’t seem to notice. Ghost-pale, he stared out at the horizon, at what had been his ship. “I’m finished,” he whispered to no one in particular. “I put everything into this. Everything!”

  Monica almost felt sorry for him … almost. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Greenly. It was such a pretty boat, too.”

  * * *

  As George lugged the tripod and telescope tube back up the hill to where Monica’s carriage waited, Captain Fairweather lingered.

  “Most peculiar how this morning’s event came to pass,” he mused. “One of your Federal warships ambling by just when Greenly’s great enterprise is launched. Then Greenly’s ship breaking down just at the most awkward of moments for him. Most peculiar.”

  “As you say, Captain,” Monica tugged at the scarf bow and removed her sun hat, savoring the feel of the freshening sea breeze. In the distance, offshore, two ships were fading from sight over the horizon, the smaller the towed captive of the larger, both now bound for a Northern naval base. “Of course I know little of such matters but it would seem to me that poor Mr. Greenly was stricken by the most dreadfully bad luck.”

  “Indeed. But, my dear lady, it has been my experience that sometimes such ‘bad luck’ is manufactured.” The port captain’s steel-colored eyes hardened. “And mind you, should I ever catch anyone on this island producing any further such ‘bad luck,’ male or female, civilian or military, that individual can expect to face the fullest wrath of Crown law!”

  Monica laughed and held out a hand, its glove concealing the lingering grease and soot stains that two hours in her bath had failed to remove. “My dear captain, could we ever expect anything less of you?”

  Fairweather’s expression softened back into wryness and his fingers closed around hers. “Now, having said that, might I ask you out to dinner some evening after you colonials finish this little disagreement of yours? I’ve simply got to find out how you and Garrett pulled this one off.”

  “You may consider it an engagement, Captain.”

  Aileen Schumacher is a civil/environmental engineer who resides in Florida with her husband and two children. Rosewood’s Ashes is the fourth in her Travers/Alvarez mystery series. Visit her Web site at www.aliken.com/aileen/.

  The famous, or notorious, depending on which side you may have supported, Confederate blockade runner Michael Usina and his equally famous dog, Tinker, make an appearance in the following story, proving that even a man who’s been around the world and back can still fall under the spell of a woman.

  WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

  Aileen Schumacher

  The irony of finding himself left high and dry in Nassau was not lost on somebody known throughout the Confederate navy as the Boy Captain.

  Michael Usina was the youngest man to ever command a Confederate blockade-runner—a man known for his steady nerves, great courage, and wily strategies. He was a deft and daring sailor who had never been captured in spite of the fact that he had more blockade-running missions under his belt than many men twice his age.

  Unfortunately. Michael Usina was also a man who was currently incapable of finding one simple vessel to transport him and five of his crew to Bermuda. A new ship awaited him there. He could visualize her, sleek and stripped down for speed, painted gray to blend in with twilight seas, sitting low in the water because her holds were already packed full of supplies desperately needed by the Confederacy. Unfortunately, that particular ship was, for the time being, as far out of Usina’s reach as the moon.

  He took another look at the address he’d just been given. It was his latest lead regarding a ship which might possibly be available for hire, something Usina was beginning to think was a fantasy in Nassau. Of course, this new destination was a fair distance away from where he now stood, and why should he be surprised at that? Usina had been from one end of the bustling city to the other more times than he could remember during his futile search for transport, so what was one more trip across town? Especially if the alternative was to remain high and dry, something Usina never intended to do while there was breath in his body and a seaworthy ship at his disposal.

  Thinking of ships, Usina shaded his eyes against the bright tropical sun and glanced toward the water, at a harbor so crowded with vessels that it seemed there was not room for even one more. Appearances notwithstanding, Usina well knew that by nightfall, additional ships would have joined those already clogging the waterway.

  He reflected, and not for the first time, that whatever the outcome of this hellacious War between the States, the Bahamas and Bermuda would emerge victorious. Because of the Northern blockade, most of the profitable trade between Britain and the Southern cotton-growing states was funneled through these islands, resulting in a lip-service allegiance to the Confederacy, In truth, the allegiance Usina most often encountered in the islands was to King Profit. The ports abounded with spies and sympathizers from both sides, in addition to a plethora of seafarers and merchants who were always seeking the highest bid.

  Usina turned from looking at the water to contemplate the crowded street in front of him, which held no appeal to a seagoing man. He had sought transport the previous day, all morning and part of the afternoon, and the last thing he wanted to do was trudge across town to one more shipyard. In spite of the fact that Usina was weary and discouraged, his companion remained steadfastly optimistic, hurrying on ahead, pausing only now and then to look back as though to censor the Boy Captain for his lack of enthusiasm regarding their current endeavor.

  “Tinker!” A burly sailor with a patch over one eye called out to Usina’s companion in a tone of voice usually reserved for infants and sweethearts. “It’s good to see you, boy—you’re looking fine today. Stop and say hello a moment—I think I’ve got a bit of something here in my pocket for you.”

  In a town housing a United States consul and teeming with spies, I am known as the man who owns that dog. I might as well wear a sign that advertises my nickname, the name of the ship awaiting me in Bermuda, and the cargo she holds. In spite of these thoughts and in spite of his weariness, Usina made a point to stop and talk pleasantly to the big sailor who was now squatting down on his heels, scratching the little black-and-white dog named Tinker behind the ears. After all, Usina suspected the only reason he had the current lead in his pocket was because of Tinker’s popularity, not his own.

  The little rat terrier had been left to him by a dying shipmate who expired at sea. Usina first cherished the dog for his original master’s sake, but rapidly became attached to Tinker on his own. The dog was fond of the water and used to living on board a ship, so the two became constant companions. It was then that Usina began to learn about the other amazing benefits of sharing Tinker’s company.

  The little dog seemed able to sense approaching Yankee ships even before they were sighted, and more than once his restlessness had sent Usina’s men scurrying to the lookout. When under fire, he would calmly follow Usina’s every step as though confident that the outcome could only be a successful one. A blockade-runner’s safety boats were always prepared for potential use before attempting a run, and Tinker seemed not only to inspect these preparations, but to know which was the captai
n’s boat in particular, and to give it special attention.

  After passing a few words with the sailor who was counted among Tinker’s many admirers, Usina and his dog continued on toward their destination. They hadn’t gone far before a woman, modestly dressed but obviously in a hurry, attempted to cross the crowded street right in front of Tinker and tripped over him. Usina, cursing under his breath, hurried to catch up, but the woman recovered her balance on her own and stood frozen for a moment staring down at Tinker.

  For his part, the little dog stood and looked steadily up at her, panting, obviously taking no responsibility whatsoever for the mishap. Although he was already rehearsing words of apology, Usina had no chance to use them before the woman scooped Tinker up in her arms and broke into tears, standing right there in the middle of the street.

  “Miss, I’m sorry,” said Usina immediately when he’d caught up with them. He noted youth, golden hair, and large blue eyes even as he glared at the source of this current problem. Tinker returned his master’s accusing look without blinking, seeming perfectly content to be clutched to the young woman’s ample bosom. Surely it was Usina’s imagination that the dog looked smug. As though he could read Usina’s thoughts, Tinker had the audacity to turn away and lick a single tear from the young woman’s porcelain cheek. “Are you hurt? Can I help in some way?” asked Usina. He wanted to snatch Tinker and shake him, but he didn’t want the young woman thinking she was being accosted in the street, in addition to tripping over a nuisance of a dog.

  “This poor little animal is running loose,” the young woman told Usina in a tearful voice with a trace of an English accent. “I can’t bear it—she looks just like my beloved Muffin that I had to leave behind.” Tinker looked somewhat disgusted by this speech—surely that was also Usina’s imagination—but he also looked as though he had no intention of leaving his present location anytime soon.

  Usina took the young woman’s elbow and guided her out of the middle of the street to stand in the shade provided by the awning of a boardinghouse. She was a small slip of a girl, with her head barely coming up to his shoulder, and she followed his lead quietly and without protest.