Thieves of Mercy Page 16

  But Tattnall was ready to fight. Such an opportunity as this would not occur again in what was left of his life. He wanted to take the Virginia into battle. He wanted to fight Monitor. He wanted to beat her.

  He lowered the field glasses and continued to regard the Union fleet as the Virginia steamed ahead. The other ships did not concern him. Their guns could do Virginia no harm, and their weak scantlings would be torn apart by the nine-inch Dahlgrens in Virginia’s broadside. He doubted they would even stay around for a fight.

  No, it was Monitor he wanted. But every time he came close, the cheese box steamed away. He imagined the Yankees did not dare risk their invention in another fight with Virginia. They had tried to lure Virginia into a trap, tried to get her to steam into narrow channels where they could use fast rams on her. But Tattnall would have none of that. He wanted a straight fight, like the one Jones had had, gun to gun, ironclad to ironclad.

  Let us finish this thing, and see whose ship and men are the finer.

  Jones came back, reported the guns ready. Tattnall felt the old excitement build, such as he had not felt in years. The sun was warm on his head and the breeze felt good ruffling his white hair and he was going into battle.

  He enjoyed four minutes of that pleasure and then he heard Jones shuffle and make a little coughing sound.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “Looks as if the Yankee fleet is getting under way, sir.”

  In his excitement, Tattnall misinterpreted Jones’s statement, thought the luff meant the Yankees were coming to meet Virginia, and he felt his excitement rise. And then he realized what Jones meant. The Yankees were steaming off. Heading for the protection of Fortress Monroe’s guns.

  Tattnall held the field glasses to his eyes. Sure enough. The ships were stern-to the Virginia. Heading northeast. Running away.

  “Goddamn their cowardly hides!” Tattnall said out loud, all but shouting. He wanted to stamp in frustration. For some time, he and Jones just watched them go.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Jones said. “We’ll have another chance at them.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Tattnall said, trying to hide his disappointment. Damn them…

  Jones did not sound as disappointed. That was because Jones was a young man. Jones would have a second chance, or a third, or a fourth.

  If there was anything Tattnall envied Jones, it was the luff’s youth. Young men trusted in second chances. Old men like Tattnall knew that sometimes they never came.

  THIRTEEN

  I avail myself of the occasion to thank you for your courtesy and all your conduct, so far as known to me, during my brief visit here.

  Yours, very truly,

  A. LINCOLN

  TO FLAG OFFICER L. M. GOLDSBOROUGH

  The Union fleet was getting under way, but Wendy and Molly, still in the company of their hosts, were waiting.

  They stood in a knot on the tug’s starboard side deck, an uncomfortable group, waiting for the dispatch boat. Molly, imperious as always as the aristocratic Ingrid Nielsen, Wendy, quiet and deferential to her overbearing aunt, a bit awed by the august company. Lincoln, who was hard to read. Polite and solicitous, still there was a quality in his manner that suggested he was not entirely on board with the idea that the women were who they said they were.

  Wendy marveled at the many layers of suspicion and deception playing out in that little space of deck, tempered by the demands of diplomatic protocol. Lincoln, whatever he thought, clearly was not confident enough in his suspicions to challenge their story. Nor did he have to, because the Norvier’s arrival meant that within the next hour, the truth would be revealed with absolute certainty.

  The tug’s commanding officer, hovering around, eager to help, was completely unaware of the silent tragicomedy being performed right before his eyes.

  A quarter mile off, and steaming toward them under a black plume, with a white pile of water under her bow, came the dispatch boat that had been summoned by means of signal flag.

  “Please, Miss Atkins,” Lincoln said, “tell Mrs. Nielsen that I greatly regret that I cannot bring her myself to her husband’s ship. The precarious nature of our military situation leaves me not a moment to spare, and I would not be able to do her husband the honor he deserves. Pray tell her I will send an invitation for them to join me at the White House as soon as is convenient.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wendy said and translated to Molly.

  “Tell the President I understand entirely,” Molly said and Wendy translated again.

  They waited in uncomfortable silence another five minutes until the dispatch boat—another tug, but smaller than the one they were aboard—made her slow approach and bumped gently against the thick rope fenders that had been let over the side. Sailors passed lines back and forth, the two vessels made fast to one another.

  An officer appeared on the boat deck of the dispatch boat, a man in his late twenties or early thirties, a neatly trimmed beard, blue uniform coat as if it had just left the tailor’s that morning. He saluted the way one would demonstrate saluting to a new recruit. He might have been addressing himself to the lieutenant who stood at Lincoln’s side, but the performance was for the President.

  “Acting Master Newcomb,” the lieutenant said, giving back a much more lax salute, “the President requires that you give these ladies transport.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” snapped Newcomb. He pulled a watch from his vest pocket, the silver case sparkling in the sun. He snapped it open, glanced at the face, snapped it shut, and replaced it with the ease of a familiar gesture.

  A gang of sailors pushed their way past, wrestling with a wooden brow that had stanchions along its length and rope handrails adorned with fancy ropework. They laid the brow across the rails of the two vessels. Two more sailors appeared bearing the women’s scant luggage and they carried it over the brow and set it on the deck of the dispatch boat.

  Lincoln muttered something in the lieutenant’s ear. “Mr. Newcomb, please come aboard. The President wishes to discuss this matter.”

  Wendy took a half step back, hoping to escape notice, to eavesdrop on the President’s instructions, but Lincoln was not going to let that happen.

  “Ladies,” he said as he led the way to the brow, even as Newcomb was crossing his boat deck to the ladder down. “I fear this is where we part company. I cannot tell you what a delight it was for Stanton and me to have you aboard, even if it was such a trying circumstance for yourselves.”

  Wendy translated. Molly replied to the effect that the President was courtesy itself. She turned to Lincoln, gave a shallow curtsey, smiled, and said in heavily accented English, “Tank you.”

  Lincoln nodded his head. “You are most welcome,” he said, then added, “Who’s to know, perhaps we shall see one another again shortly.” There was again that devilish undertone in his words, that suggestion that he was going along but he was not being played for a fool. Was he covering all bets, so that regardless of how it turned out, he would look as if he knew the truth all along? Perhaps.

  With a helpful hand on their backs, Lincoln guided Molly and then Wendy to the brow, where sailors reached out to aid them in their crossing, though it seemed to Wendy as if the sailors were more interested in touching than helping.

  Acting Master Newcomb was coming around the front of the deckhouse as Molly stepped aboard and strode aft, leaving Wendy alone to greet him.

  “Ma’am,” Newcomb bowed. “I am Acting Master Roger Newcomb, at your service.”

  “Miss Wendy Atkins.” Wendy gave a dip. “My aunt, Mrs. In-grid Nielsen,” she said, indicating Molly’s back. “She has had a very trying time.”

  “We will do everything we can to accommodate you both,” Newcomb said in a solicitous and patronizing tone that gave Wendy an instant dislike for the man. He pulled his watch from his vest pocket, snapped it open, glanced down, as if to see if he was late for his appointment with the President. He snapped it shut, replaced it as he bowed to Wendy, then crossed the brow to present
himself to Lincoln. Wendy stood looking idly around, looking at anything but the President, straining to catch any word of what he was saying, but Lincoln was careful that she did not.

  Molly was sitting down on the boat’s rail, her face in her hand. Wendy stepped over to her, suddenly concerned.

  “Aunt,” she began in English, caught herself, and continued in French, “are you all right?”

  “My head is hurting terribly, I am sure it is from the sun, and too little sleep. Please ask the captain, when he returns, if there is a private place aboard to which I might retire until we reach the Norvier.”

  “Of course,” Wendy said. She was concerned, but her concern was tempered with uncertainty. Was Molly really feeling ill? Or was this part of the play?

  It does not matter, Wendy thought. It all must be played as real. That was why Molly had given no indication if her pain was real or feigned.

  “Mr. Newcomb?” Wendy said as she hurried back up the deck. Newcomb replaced the watch in his vest as he stepped on board, and the sailors whisked the brow away and cast off the lines.

  “Yes, Miss Atkins?” His attitude was different now. Guarded, not so eager to please. Wendy could well guess the subject of his talk with Lincoln.

  “My aunt, Mrs. Nielsen, has a terrible headache. She is not at all used to such hardships as we have encountered. Is there a private place she might rest, until we reach her husband’s ship?”

  “Yesss,” Newcomb said, drawing the word out, as if he was not entirely certain. He glanced over at Molly, sitting on the rail. “Yes, certainly.” His eyebrows came together. “I will escort you there myself.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir.”

  Newcomb stepped past Wendy and Wendy trailed behind.

  “Ma’am”—Newcomb gave Molly a quick bow—“I wish you would do me the honor of using my cabin, until we reach the Norvier.”

  Molly made a small sound that suggested her lack of understanding. She did not look up, so Newcomb found himself addressing her straw hat.

  Wendy translated. “My aunt does not speak English,” she explained. “French is our only common language.”

  “Pas d’un problème,” Newcomb said. That is no problem. “I happen to be fluent in French.” The grammar was perfect, though he spoke with a stiff Yankee accent, and his generally pompous tone sounded twice again as pompous in French.

  Molly still had not looked up save for a slight tilting of her head in acknowledgment of Newcomb’s words. She did not say anything, so after a moment’s silence, Newcomb said, “Please, won’t you follow me?”

  “Oui, oui,” Molly said wearily. “Wendy, help me up.”

  With an arm around Molly’s waist, Wendy helped her to her feet. Newcomb remained at a safe distance, several feet away, watching. He led them forward and around the front of the deckhouse to a brightly varnished door below the wheelhouse.

  “My quarters are at your disposal. They are small, but accommodating.” In the dark interior, Wendy could see oak paneling and white-painted wainscoting, a bunk with rails to keep its occupant from rolling out, a small desk and chair, another larger wing chair, a sink, pitcher, and chamber pot. Small, but accommodating.

  Molly did not say a thing, simply stepped into the cabin as if it were her birthright, head down. Wendy said, “Thank you, Captain, this is most gracious.”

  Newcomb gave a nod of his head. “Certainly. I shall send word when we are approaching the Norvier. I don’t think it will take us above half an hour to close with her.”

  Newcomb stopped, but he did not leave, and his eyes were on Molly, whose hat was tipped over her face. When the silence became too much to bear, Wendy said again, “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Certainly. Please forgive me, I must get my ship under way.” He pulled his watch, opened it with a click, looked down at the face, shut it with a snap, bowed, and left, closing the door behind him. A minute later the women felt the dispatch boat get under way, her wallowing motion changing to a more deliberate headway, the thump of the engine below coming faster.

  In the half-dark of the cabin, Molly pulled off her hat and she smiled. She stood, leaned close to Wendy. “So far so good,” she whispered, and then crawled into Newcomb’s bunk and stretched out.

  Wendy knelt beside the bunk. “Have you any idea of what we’ll do when we reach the Norvier?” she asked. She spoke softly, and in French.

  “I do not know. Convince the minister that I am his wife? But I think if we can get the Yankees to leave us aboard, we should be all right.”

  “I do not think those were Lincoln’s instructions to Newcomb.”

  “Nor do I.” Molly paused, as if uncertain whether or not she should say what she was thinking. “There may be another problem.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s like this, dear. If you lay enough eggs, eventually one will grow up to be a chicken that comes home to roost.”

  “Whatever does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. I just fear we may have trouble from a different quarter.”

  They heard footsteps now, coming down the side deck, walking with purpose. Molly lay back in the bunk, her arm draped dramatically over her eyes, her back to the room. Wendy turned and looked at the door, waited for the knock she was sure would come.

  But it did not. Rather, the door was flung open and Acting Master Newcomb stepped in. Wendy leaped to her feet, gasped in genuine surprise. “Mr. Newcomb! How dare you…without so much as a knock—” But Newcomb was not listening.

  “All right, Cathy, the jig is up,” he barked, as if commanding a stubborn sailor. “You may leave off with the French and all your airs.” His lips continued to move even after he was done speaking. In the dim light the whites of his eyes stood out unnaturally bright.

  Wendy stared, wide-eyed. She could not have been more surprised if Newcomb had doused her with a bucket of seawater. But Molly sat up slowly, swung her legs over the side of the cot. “Pardon?” she asked.

  Newcomb smiled, and it was not a friendly smile. More in the nature of a leer. “Par votre malheur vous se trouvez sur mon bateau,” he said. As your bad luck would have it, you find yourself on my ship.

  “Bad luck?” Molly said, and it gave Wendy a little stab of panic to hear her speak in English, so conditioned had she become to Molly’s French. “Not bad luck at all, Roger. It is the very best luck for me to find myself under the protection of a dear old friend.”

  Newcomb was silent for a moment. His hand reached for his pocket watch, pulled it free, snapped it open. He glanced at it, replaced it. “Humph,” he said at last. “Miss Atkins, sit there, please,” he ordered, indicating the desk chair, and Wendy sat. Newcomb stepped quickly across the cabin, three strides and he was in front of Molly. He reached past her, snatched up her reticule from the bunk.

  “Mm-hmm,” he said. He pulled the pepperbox pistol out of the silk bag. “You always preferred this to the derringer.”

  “These are dangerous times, Roger. A girl has to protect herself.”

  “Indeed.” Newcomb slipped the pepperbox into his coat pocket. He looked around, saw Wendy’s purse sitting on top of their carpetbags. He snatched that up as well, opened the clasp, looked inside.

  “Captain, how dare you?” Wendy nearly shouted, her outrage genuine. To look in a woman’s purse! It was the most extravagant liberty.

  Newcomb closed the purse and put it down. “It’s nice to find a woman who’s not armed,” he said dryly.

  “It would be nice to find a gentleman, armed or otherwise,” Wendy retorted, but even as she spoke she felt the panic come to life.

  Armed! She had become so acclimated to the weight of the gun on her thigh that she had forgotten it was there, but now she was reminded and she became sharply conscious of it.

  Oh, God, is it bulging my skirts? She wanted to look, to adjust her petticoat, but she fought the urge, and sat with hands folded in her lap.

  “Roger, come now,” Molly said, her voice like honey.

  �
��No, no. None of that. You won’t play me for a fool. I want to know what your game is.” His voice sounded to Wendy a few notes higher than it had been.

  “It is very complicated,” Molly continued, soothing. “It involves the Norwegian minister, nothing to do with the United States.”

  “Don’t lie to me!” Newcomb was on the edge of shouting. He seemed awfully upset about Molly’s pretending to be the Norwegian minister’s wife. Wendy wondered what their history was.

  “The President,” Newcomb said, struggling to keep his tone under control, “the President, told me that you came to his ship under a Confederate flag of truce. He even had the Rebels still on board, and don’t imagine they are not being asked a few questions. Cathy…how could you? A Confederate spy? It’s so…it’s so clichéd.”

  Molly shrugged. “These are trying times, Roger, dear. Sometimes we must improvise. But look here, if I were a Confederate spy, do you think I would have let Mr. Lincoln live? I had my reticule in hand the whole time I was aboard.”

  “I am not sure you would be willing to lose your own life for any cause. Do you really care about anything other than Cathy Luce?” But his voice had lost some of its conviction.

  “I care, Roger.” She paused, looking into Newcomb’s eyes. God, she is a beautiful woman! Wendy thought. “I care about you.”

  “Oh, Cathy, if only I could believe you—”

  “You can believe me, Roger. I have never wanted to hurt you. The others I didn’t care about, but you are different.”

  Wendy watched, fascinated, as if she were watching a magic show. Which she was, in a way. Molly was a spell-caster, a conjurer who brought to life any number of people, such as this Cathy Luce, whoever she might be, all housed in her slight frame.

  “Help me, Roger,” Molly said, softly, pleading. Newcomb nodded his head, as if mesmerized, and took a step forward.

  And then the spell collapsed, broken under the weight of an ancient wrong, a remembered resolve, Wendy did not know what, but it was gone. Newcomb spun around on his heel. “Oh, damnation!” He punched the bulkhead with his fist. He spun back. “No, Cathy. Not this time. You will not charm your way out of this! The President of the United States himself ordered I get to the bottom of this!”