Bride of the Night
“THEY'RE GOOD-THE BLOCKADE runners around these waters,” Captain John Tremblay told Finn, looking out at the darkness. “They're very, very good-the men who sail in the night and the darkness. They know when to make their runs. They know how to make use of moonless nights, when cloud cover erases even the stars.” He turned and looked at Finn. “But, of course, you chose the date.”
The sea and the sky seemed to combine that night, as if they might have been sailing off the earth's surface into a stygian void of nothingness. Setting out on the captain's steamer, USS Punisher, they had navigated easily enough; the Key West lighthouse helped ships on both sides avoid calamity on the reefs. But Tremblay and crew were now beyond its glow, heading north, and the moonless, starless night created an eerie realm where even the truth and the horror of the war seemed of another world. The stars, of course, were out there. But cloud cover was blocking even their gentle light. The world was one, water and air merged. Watching the vastness of the ocean at night, Finn could well understand how the medieval population had believed that the world was flat.
He'd been at sea enough to comprehend winds and tides; he'd kept a small sailboat on the river for years. But here, tonight, the sky was deep velvet and blue-black, and the sea seemed to be a glass sheet as vast as the endless dark heavens above them. Though Calloway had been apprised of his mission, Captain Tremblay had not been told any of the particulars, other than a Pinkerton was seeking a certain man, and he believed that he'd find him in these waters.
Finn found himself admiring both the Union navy seamen who plied these waters and the blockade runners themselves. Of course, there was money in running the blockade, but at this stage of the war, many of the men willing to risk the noose of the Union navy did so out of a sense of patriotism; money only meant something if you were alive. Of course, there were those reckless would-be pirates who were willing to take a chance at anything, but at this stage of the game, many were also die-hard heroes, continuing to fight a losing battle in the hope of keeping the Confederacy alive long enough for the North to tire of the war before the South was completely decimated.
“What makes you think your man is a blockade runner?” Captain Tremblay asked him, handing him the spyglass.
“We intercepted communications,” Finn said. He looked through the glass, and still there was nothing to see but blackness.
“About a blockade runner?” Tremblay asked. He seemed puzzled, and then said, “Blockade runners are not often spies, except, of course, they will carry whatever information they acquire. They're seldom assassins.”
“This one is an unusual circumstance. The man is apparently obsessed with his hatred, though I don't suppose that's so unusual at this time…?. But he has a vendetta against Lincoln, and he just happens to be a blockade runner, and since he's able to move around quickly and communicate with others, he's especially dangerous.”
Finn hesitated a minute, looking at Tremblay, but he was afraid that if they didn't catch the man tonight, whether his name was known or not wasn't going to matter much. “He's a man who goes by the code name of Gator. His brother was killed at Gettysburg, and one of his conspirators was apprehended in the capital-with an incriminating correspondence.”
“Many good men were killed at Gettysburg. Tens of thousands,” Tremblay said, a hoarse note in his voice. “But putting together a conspiracy… What fool puts that information in a letter?”
“Most of it was code, but we have code-breakers. This Gator is moving supplies to the Jacksonville area-there are scores of inlets that connect with the St. Johns River. A Florida militia is planning a movement somewhere in the north of the state. Gator is bringing up arms procured in the Bahamas, and beef from the Keys. His delivery made, he will continue north, without stock or arms, and gain entry close to the capital, possibly around northern Virginia or Maryland. He'll carry nothing but legal sales goods at that point, in case he's stopped. Once he makes land, he'll find his way to the capital, working then as some kind of a sutler. He has fellow conspirators in the North, who will supply him with arms when the time comes. I don't think he cares if he's shot on the spot himself-not if he manages to kill President Lincoln. That's why it's imperative that we stop him now, while he's bearing goods to break the blockade. Once he divests himself of arms, it will be difficult-even in war-to recognize him, detain him and stop him.”
“Then we'll do our best to bring him down,” Tremblay said.
Finn lowered the spyglass. “Thank you, Captain.”
Tremblay nodded. He was an old-timer, a man who had spent his life in naval service. His beard and hair were white, his eyes were blue and his stance was square and steady. As he looked at Finn, he added, “We've lost many a good ship to the Confederates, you know. We had to scuttle three in the river up at Jacksonville just last November. Many of the blockade runners have guns aboard as well, but they're not fighters. They keep themselves light and shallow for speed and the ability to slip through narrow channels and rivers. But if we come across your man, there may be a fight.”
“Captain,” Finn said, a note of bitter amusement in his voice. “Do I look like a man who's never seen a fight?”
Tremblay studied him a moment, and then grinned sheepishly. “No, sir, you do not. But fighting as a Pinkerton is different, of course, from a fight at sea.”
“Don't worry, Captain. I've seen my share of action-on land and on sea.”
Finn looked through the glass again. Nothing. His vision tended to be excellent, no matter the velvety blue-black of the night. But there was nothing to see, as yet.
And, of course, this mission could be a futile one.
Still, better futile through overexertion than through laziness and bad surveillance.
No matter how much energy it took, Finn couldn't let this Gator make his connections, definitely could not let him reach the capital and their leader. No matter how many times guards, generals, friends and fellow politicians warned him, President Lincoln was a man of the people. He rode his carriage along the mall. He invited his constituents to speak with him. Quite simply, Lincoln believed to the core that if he was not available, then he was not serving anyone. To try to change him might well be an effort to change the very soul of the man they all strove so diligently and with such love and admiration to protect.
Finn didn't know that he and others could prevail, not forever. He did know, however, that there had been many times when his abilities helped him single out the right person to stop in a crowd. That he had protected his charge on that particular day. He didn't necessarily face an assassin every time, but often someone bent on harassment, or ready to throw rotten food at the president, or to create a riot out of a rally. He had done well so far, but it only took one mistake…?.
Like the woman at Gettysburg. Moving toward him, reaching beneath her cloak…
She had carried a scarf, he reminded himself. She might have meant nothing but a show of worship.
Yet, she had been so strange. So beautiful, and so different, dangerous…dangerous even if what she had produced had been a hand-knitted scarf. She had wanted to get close to the president, and there had just been that strange difference about her…?.
He still had that narrow lock of her hair in his wallet. And he still believed that she was out there somewhere, and that, one day, he would find her.
Of course, now he was here.
And still thinking about his failure that day!
Finn chafed at this assignment. He felt better serving the president nearer to him; he was ready to stop a bullet for the man at any time. He felt himself well qualified to do so.
But he also knew something about the sea, and it was true-he had seen many a naval battle and survived. He'd seen battles the good captain couldn't begin to imagine.
Staring into the darkness, assigned to stop a blooming threat before it could fully materialize.
“You needn't worry about me,” Finn said. “Whatever course is called, I will be ready.”
“Bosun!” the captain called, looking to the man up on the fantail behind them, a sailor who was studying the night with his own spyglass. “Any signs of life?”
“No, Captain, sir!” the sailor called back. “Not a whisper as of yet!”
Captain Tremblay looked through the glass again. “I see nothing.”
Finn narrowed his eyes suddenly, looking toward the shore. He knew that they were in an area where mangrove swamp gave way to rivers and waterways. They were now north in the Florida Keys, nearing the mainland. It was an area where the Atlantic frequently gave way to channels between the islands, where little mangrove spits were in the tectonic process of gathering silt and debris to become islands, and where trim, shallow-draft ships could easily disappear in the blink of an eye.
“There!” Finn announced suddenly.
“Where?”
“There…hugging the shore. He must know of an inlet.”
“Bosun!” the captain called.
“Nothing. I see nothing, sir!” called the lookout.
“It's there, believe me,” Finn said. “We didn't see her, but she's seen us, and she's ducking through a channel now, heading for the gulf.”
As Finn spoke, a break formed in the cloud cover overhead. The moon might be new on this January night, so crisp and cool even, but with cloud cover gone, the sky seemed to be filled with a sudden burst of starlight. Perhaps God himself was on the side of the North, Finn mused.
And there, just disappearing before them, was what almost appeared to be a ghost ship, a steam clipper, gliding away, her sails down but her masts just caught in a pale sparkle of starlight.
“Full speed ahead, sir!” Finn said.
“Man your guns!” the captain bellowed.
And the chase was on.
TARA HAD BEGUN TO FEEL that her fears had been entirely unjustified. They had set out with a light wind, cutting through the islands midway between Key West and the mainland and then out to the Atlantic, where they had run parallel with the coast. A breeze had picked up, perfect for the sails, and for a while, she had gone to the cabin, far too restless for sleep, but determined to at least lie down awhile.
And it had been while she had been there, planning a route once she reached land, that she heard Richard's anxious shout.
“Union steamer starboard. Down the sails! Steam power, with all due speed!”
Tara jerked up and raced out to the deck. The men were grimly pulling down the sails. Richard was at the helm, and they were under steam power once again. The Peace moved quickly. Richard knew how to avoid the reefs, and she was certain that he would head back into the inlets and perhaps the gulf, doing his best to ground the enemy ship as it came in pursuit.
He cast her a glance as she hurried to him at the helm. “She's heavily gunned,” he said tersely, indicating the enemy ship. “If the firing starts…do whatever you need to do to get out of here. Even if you haven't the strength to go far, you'll know where you can find shelter along the islands and the coast.”
“I'm fine, Richard.”
“You're not listening to me. That ship is heavily gunned. I have a few small cannons. If I can't outrun her…”
“If you can't outrun her, you surrender,” Tara said, feeling a choking sensation in her throat. “Richard, do you hear me? You surrender. They don't shoot down blockade runners in cold blood. They're trying to stop the flow of supplies, not murder people.”
The look he gave her was one that clearly told her his thoughts.
No. In principle, the enemy was not out to commit murder.
But this was war.
And tempers flared and shots fired easily….
“Men die in the camps,” Richard said flatly.
“And men live in the camps!” Tara insisted.
“You should get out of here, now,” he told her.
“No.”
“You're stubborn!”
“I know my own resources.” It was difficult to see the Union ship, but she could make out its ominous silhouette.
“Take the helm!” Richard told her.
She did, and he reached for his spyglass, looking over at the enemy ship.
“He should be over the reef any minute…grounding, I pray…?.” And then he swore, quickly looking at her apologetically. “He rounded it. He knows the game I'm playing.”
“You'll outrun him,” Tara said with confidence-far more confidence than she was feeling. Few people knew these waters like a native son.
Save another native son.
“I'm heading for the channel. Maybe there…” Richard said.
“You will outrun him,” she repeated staunchly.
But the echo of her words had barely died when the sound of a cannon boom burst through the night.
The ball fell short of its target, causing the water in their wake to burst from the sea like a geyser.
“That was too close,” Richard murmured.
“Damned close!” Lawrence said.
“Aye, Grant. You and Lawrence, man the rear cannon!” Richard commanded. “Quickly. We must pray for a strike and hobble here on the reef!”
His men scurried to do as bidden. Before they could reach their posts belowdeck, a second volley came their way, closer this time. The Peace shook in the water, the waves rose and Tara quickly grabbed hold of the mast to keep her feet.
“Tara, do something to save yourself!” Richard said firmly.
“No! I'm not leaving you!”
Richard stared at her in frustration and yelled out to his men below. “Fire!”
A second later, their cannon fire boomed.
Tara stared out at the enemy ship, relieved to see a small burst of fire explode near her aft section.
“Direct hit, first volley!” she said.
Richard had his spyglass on the ship.
“She's lamed, she isn't dead,” he said flatly.
As he spoke, another volley exploded from the enemy ship.
“Hold on!” Richard roared to her, bracing himself.
The water exploded to their front aft side. A miss, though the Peace rocked precariously.
Tara held tight to the mast, weighing the possible consequences of the battle. It might be time for them to abandon ship, and use Richard's knowledge of the islands and the water to survive. “Where are we?” she asked him quickly.
“Near the mainland,” he told her. “Just a few islands southwest of the mainland. And it's time for you to go. Head northeast-“
“I will not leave you. You're-well, you've a safety net in me, if we're together. We'll head northeast. By ship, or by foot. They will flounder in the channel-they're floundering now! I'm not leaving you, so please don't waste your time trying to get me to do so.”
He stared at her with exasperation. But even as he did so, he bellowed to his men below.
“Fire!”
THE UNION SHIP WAS ROCKING like a cradle in the water, ablaze in the aft section, and Tremblay was shouting orders to his men.
Finn balanced easily enough, watching as men hurried about, stumbling here and there, and turning a slight shade of green at the pitch and heave of the ship.
Tremblay was a seasoned captain. He held his sea legs steady, moving with the motion of the ship, a pitch and roll he probably knew far too well.
“Gunners!” he shouted out, his voice calm and powerful. “Stay your posts! Seamen, douse that fire! See if we're taking on water!”
Tremblay swore beneath his breath. “She hit us! The lucky Reb actually hit us…?. Keep us steady men! We'll come apart on the reef! Gunners, fire! Take to the cannons, boy, and give her a long volley, one after the other, all ablaze!”
Finn turned to him. “Captain, we don't want all aboard killed.”
“We'll man the boats, and bring them in. We must stop her-before she stops us.” He stared at Finn. “We may be floundering already. If she scrapes coral now…”
“Demand her surrender,” Finn urged.
“Her surrender? We've been hit!” Tremblay said.
“Aye, but she is listing worse. Demand her surrender,” Finn insisted. “She can't know that we're taking on water just as badly.”
“Hold fire!” Tremblay called.
His order came just as someone fired a gun prematurely.
THE NIGHT WAS SPLIT again with a great boom of sound, and the earth itself seemed to tremble.
That time, the thunder in the air was followed by a shuddering explosion; they'd been hit again, and hard. The repercussion swept Tara off her feet. She fell and discovered that she was lying under Richard. She quickly eased from beneath and rose above him, touching his face. “Richard, Richard…”
He opened his eyes slowly, and then blinked rapidly. “We've been hit…we've been hit a death blow…?. Take the helm and try to steady her until we can abandon ship. I've got to get below…to the others…?.”
“Richard, it's burning. It's-it's too late!”
“Have to…have to get down there… My men…”
He staggered to his feet; she feared he wouldn't make it to the deck below, but there would be no stopping him. The night that had been so pleasantly dark and quiet was now ominous in its silence between small bursts of fire that ignited about the ship. Black smoke was heavy on the air.
“Richard, please,” she said softly.
He grabbed her by the shoulders; his eyes seemed almost blank. He was shell-shocked, she knew, but she couldn't stop him.
“I have to see,” he said thickly. “You know I have to see…?. Someone could be…injured.”
No. She wished that it was true, but no one could have survived that explosion.
He thrust himself from her, heading for the steps below.
Tara staggered back and grabbed the wildly jerking wheel, using all her strength to steady the ship, trying to keep her limping forward. But another volley followed, and another. It was all she could do, just to hold tight.
Richard burst out from the deck below, his face covered in soot, his features twisted in a grim mask.
He grabbed her by the shoulders, jerking her around to face him. “They're dead…the men are dead, and we're taking on water. Get out of here, now!”
Past Richard, she could see that the enemy steamer was moving in on them.
They stared at each other-Richard angry and impotent to get her away, Tara determined that she'd never leave him, not at any cost.
Then thunder burst through the sky again, so loud that it was painful, and when the ship shuddered, it was as if they'd been hit by the hand of God.
Perhaps they had been….
Tara landed hard, stunned and breathless. For a moment, even she was completely disoriented, seeing only darkness. Then color and light returned to her world. She grasped a trunk and pulled herself to her feet. Looking around desperately for Richard, she saw that he was hanging over the portside of the ship.
A wave crested over the ship. Water washed around her friend.
And when the water was gone, Richard was gone.
With a scream, Tara rushed to the rail, and saw his body being swallowed by the darkness of the ocean.
She pitched herself over the rail to follow him.
“JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH!” Tremblay raged. “Who's responsible? The last volley wasn't on order!”
Finn could have echoed his furious sentiments, but it would do no good. A gunner ran up to them, soot-faced and frantic.
“Captain! There was a spark that flew from the match…it caught the wick. We didn't fire to destroy her!”
“Destroyed or not, I need the men aboard that ship,” Finn said.
Another filthy man ran up to the captain. “Sir, we're taking on water-heavily. We're working the pumps, bailing…?. She's on a reef, sir. Cut by the coral as well as their return fire!”
“Lower the longboats!” Tremblay ordered in a booming voice.
As the men hurried to do as told, Finn stared out at the Rebel runner.
“We're sinking, Agent Dunne!” Tremblay told him.
“I am aware, sir.”
He stood his ground, staring at the enemy ship. The masts were shattered; she was listing badly to the landward side. Fire had broken out in her aft; he'd seen the explosion that had hit her there. The way that flames were leaping and burning, he assumed they'd hit her powder supply.
Whatever cargo she carried would soon be lost.
Anyone caught in the aft was dead; they had, at the least, died swiftly. The portside of the ship and her fore still stood in the night, though the fire would soon consume them, as well.
He quickly reckoned the distance from the dying ship to the shore; a strong swimmer could make it. Theoretically, others-if not killed by the blast-might well still be aboard, dead or dying, or unconscious.
Finn didn't want to wait for the tenders; he stripped off his jacket and headed for the rail.
“Agent Dunne!” Tremblay called. “Sir! The boats will be speedy-“
“Not speedy enough.”
Finn dove from the ship's deck, hitting the water hard and pitching downward. The water was cold, a hard slap of ice against his flesh as he landed and thrust through its density. In the night, not even his eyesight was much against the depths, but he had little interest in what was around him. When his legs scraped coral, it only confirmed that their ship would have floundered had it come out this far. The Rebel captain they chased knew his landscape, and knew it well.
Finn swam hard, picking up greater speed with every length he cleared from the Union boat. He could see the Rebel ship burning and listing, and he swam harder; it was war, of course. A Union ship destroying a blockade runner and all aboard was a regrettable fact of war.
To Finn, it meant a dead end. If all aboard had perished, he might never know if he had found Gator, if this threat to Lincoln still remained; if failed, he might not be able to return to the president's side.
There were shouts audible in the air. The Union men had lowered the longboats, and crews were coming in his wake.
He reached the burning ship. It listed so badly to the side, he could climb straight aboard. The remnants of her shell would remain where it was in the days to come, her skeleton caught on the reef.
Despite the heavy smoke on the air, he could smell the sickly sweet scent of burning flesh, and he prayed that those caught in the inferno had been baked before the fire even reached them. Crawling aboard, dripping with seawater, he lifted his arm against the rise of the flame to protect his face. He quickly ascertained that there was no getting belowdeck; anyone caught there was gone.
But a hurried search topside against the rip of the flames in the night revealed no bodies consumed by fire or otherwise. And if anyone had survived, they had not gone for their longboats-they had done as he had, diving into the night.
Someone was out there. Even if the ship's crew had been small, there had been someone topside. Someone running the operation.
Gator?
In just another second, Finn realized that the heat of the fire had already nearly dried his sea-soaked clothing.
He could feel his flesh beginning to sear.
He dove back into the water, and began to swim again, aware that the water felt even more frigid against the heat of his body. The difference between the fire heat aboard the ship and the winter water was extreme; he knew that he had to keep moving, and move fast. The fire illuminated the night, and he looked toward the shore. He could just see a tangle of mangroves, and beyond that, the small spit of a beach.
The island was some distance. And though it might be far warmer than any sea farther north, the icy hand of winter had stretched even down here. Could an injured man have possibly survived?
Yes.
Possibly.
Whatever it took, he had to know.
Finn couldn't help his thoughts from spinning, even as he kept his arms and legs moving in swift, even strokes through the water. He was sick at the thought of the men caught by the cannons as the ship exploded. He was angry that he had come so far, and that he might never know if they had or hadn't killed Gator.
No.
Someone had to have been topside. And that person had survived.
Someone was out there, alive and well, or dying, in the midst of the mangrove isle, and he was going to find them.