Patricia Potter (2 page)

And the mirror! Bloody hell.

Adrian was not a superstitious man. Yet the broken mirror sent ripples of apprehension up his spine.

He shook his head at his own absurdity. A man made his own luck. Those who depended on fate were headed for disaster.

But he was too tired to think of it anymore. He pushed the glass to one side with his boot, and then found a package of crackers for Socrates. Shortly he lay down and, within minutes, was asleep.

As they approached the Bahamas, Adrian gave one more disgusted look at his disordered cabin. He had no cabin boy, not wanting a youngster under fire, and his crew had better things to do than clean up after an errant pet. As usual, he would have someone in Nassau clean the room and do his laundry.

He went out on deck. They would be approaching Nassau soon, and this run had been an uncommonly profitable one. He wanted nothing to interfere now, although he had little fear of the Union blockaders around Nassau. His ship could outrun any of them, and they dared not venture too close to the islands and risk British wrath. Britain was supposedly neutral, and prohibited any aggression within its territorial waters. Both Union and Confederate ships, in fact, visited Nassau for supplies and repairs, an oddity that resulted in numerous fights both on streets and in taverns.

Adrian grinned as he saw Wade trying to maneuver around the bales of cotton piled all over the deck. Every spare inch of space was taken, and he had heard any number of curses and complaints. They were good-natured, however, since each man would share in the profits of this voyage, and they would be substantial. Rum and women were readily available for a price, and his men would be knee-deep in both tonight.

He made his way through the cotton bales and leaned on the railing, staring at the dot growing larger in the horizon. A day of sleep, and then negotiations for a new shipment and another run through the blockade to Charleston. He had no time for women, nor was he willing to spend his money on them. Ridgely was all that mattered now. His family’s estate for nearly seven hundred years, until his older brother gambled it away and then put a gun to his head and killed himself.

The American Civil War was giving Adrian a chance to buy it back. Another year of successful runs, and he would be a wealthy man.

If only the war would last …

As the ship neared New Providence Island and its capital city of Nassau, he thought again of the mirror and once more felt that unfamiliar twinge of … not fear, but a kind of foreboding.

Nonsense, he told himself. If only the war continued, he would have everything he’d ever wanted.

On the main deck of the American clipper
Marilee,
Lauren Bradley felt alone and hollow and uncharacteristically unsure of herself. She’d always had a place before, duties she understood, people she loved. Now she had none of those, and was embarked on a mission she found frightening and, in many ways, unprincipled.

She had become more and more uncertain of her ability to lie and pretend during the months of training in both Washington and England, but she had committed herself and was determined to do her best. She owed that much, and more, to her brother, Laurence. He had given his life for his country. Surely she could give several months of her time and relinquish a few principles for a better cause—or at least so she kept telling herself.

Her gaze lifted from the water to the distance, where she spied a gray ship. Barely visible, the vessel appeared uncommonly graceful, even with the chimney and side-wheels, as it moved swiftly through the water.

She heard a sound beside her and turned to the captain, who had just approached her. “I’ve never seen a ship like that,” she remarked.

“That’s the
Specter
,” he said admiringly. “It’s probably the most successful blockade runner on the seas.”

Lauren felt her stomach lurch. So that was Captain Cabot’s ship. She turned around and smiled at the captain, who had taken her under his wing during the three-week voyage. “Tell me about it.”
Tell me about the man who killed my brother.
Tell me
about the man who helps prolong this
terrible
war.

Captain Harry Taggert was only too pleased to do so. Lauren Bradley had a way about her. She smiled frequently, although there was a hint of sadness in her eyes.

She was a Marylander, she’d told him privately, and both her father and brother had been killed in the war. She didn’t say which army they’d fought for, and he hadn’t asked. It was enough that she was in mourning. She said her uncle in Nassau had invited her to come to the island and, needing a change, she had agreed.

And now she wanted to know about the man who fascinated Taggert above all others. Cabot aided the enemy, but Captain Taggert appreciated his seamanship.

“He has the luck of the very devil,” Taggert remarked. “He’s completed more runs than any other captain.” With the awe many Americans held for English nobility, he added, “And he’s an English lord.”

Lauren looked at her informant with surprise. Mr. Phillips had not mentioned that fact—she wondered why.

“An English lord?” she echoed.

“Lord Ridgely.” Captain Taggert smiled through broken teeth. “He’s a viscount.”

“Why would a British aristocrat involve himself in our war?” Lauren wondered.

“Why, for the money, of course,” Taggert said. “There’s a large number of English firms and crews involved in running the blockade. Enormous profits involved, you understand.”

“Why would Lord Ridgely need money?” Lauren inquired.

Taggert shrugged. “No one knows,” he said. “No one even knew he was a viscount until the arrival of a government official who knew his family. But,” he added with an appreciative smile as he thought of something that might amuse his charming passenger, “he does have one well-known peculiarity. He has a monkey he takes everyplace,” Taggert said triumphantly, pleased to see the question in her eyes replaced by astonishment.

“A monkey?”

“A monkey he calls Socrates,” confirmed Taggert. “Bad-tempered beast. Bit me once—bites most everyone.”

“A monkey named Socrates,” Lauren said aloud, wondering at a man who would choose such an affectation. What kind of a man would use a helpless animal that way.

One who cared nothing about life, about morality, who would profit from war, from death.
The bitterness in the pit of her stomach grew. She forced a smile back on her lips. “Your Captain Cabot sounds very interesting.”

Captain Taggert was startled to hear an edge in her voice, but then he thought he might have only imagined it. Regretfully, he knew he had to leave her. He wanted to be at the wheel as they approached Nassau.

“I’ll miss you, Miss Bradley,” he said.

“You’ve been very kind, Captain,” she replied, with a warm smile.

“Perhaps I’ll see you in Nassau?”

“I’m sure you will,” Lauren said. “My uncle’s shop is on Bay Street, and I’ll be helping him.”

“I’ll be by,” he said, with a smile, and touched his hand to his forehead in respect. Then he left her to gaze at the island which was taking more substantial form as the ship neared.

She turned and again looked back out toward the sea, and saw that the blockade runner was following them in. Luck? Fortune? The steamer was closer now, and she squinted in an effort to see more, to try to make out figures on the deck. But the distance was too great.

Captain Adrian Cabot was aboard that ship. He was, most probably, on deck. Adrian Cabot … she remembered the first time she heard his name. It was in a small, nondescript office in Washington, D.C., and a large, bulky man had regarded her carefully. “I’m sorry about your brother, Miss Bradley,” he said.

“Thank you,” she heard herself say tonelessly. The last few months had been a nightmare. First her father, then her brother. They had both been doctors, healers. Her father had died of a fever contracted from a patient two months before her twin brother had been killed on a Union ship where he served as a doctor.

Lauren had received a visitor three days after her premonition of Larry’s death, officially informing her of her twin’s demise. She had traveled to Washington and made a nuisance of herself trying to discover what had happened, but no one had any information, or would give her any. Finally, a visitor came to the hotel where she was staying; he said he had some additional details about her brother, if she would accompany him to a government office. Thirty minutes later, she was sitting in front of a man named E. J. Phillips, feeling strangely uncertain as he stared at her with searching eyes. Phillips had told her there perhaps was something she could do for her country; she had grasped at the opportunity.

“Your brother was killed,” he said slowly, “by one of our own ships.”

Lauren bowed her head. Of all things she had expected, this explanation was the most painful. “How … ?”

“Your brother’s ship was chasing a blockade runner in the dead of night. There was another patrol ship in the vicinity. The blockade runner apparently knew our signals, and gave the second ship the coordinates of the one chasing the runner.” The big man slouched down in his chair. “There was a direct hit.”

Lauren absorbed the information painfully. “The blockade runner?”

“Got away free.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t the blockade runner that fired?” Somehow the pain would be less if Larry died by the enemy’s hands.

Phillips’s hands played with some papers on his desk. “Few blockade runners carry guns, Miss Bradley. They’re too heavy, for one thing, and take space reserved for cargo. For another, their crews could be charged with piracy if they attacked a Union ship. Especially this particular blockade runner.”

“Why this one?” Lauren asked, sensing quickly that Phillips’s words had special meaning.

“This captain is English. He would not have the protection of a Confederate uniform. The damn—excuse me, ma’am—the … Brits are supposed to be neutral, but they’re financing blockade runners as well as building ships for the Confederate Navy.”

“But why?”

“Money,” he said contemptuously. “Unlike with the Southern captains, no patriotism is involved, only huge profits at the expense of the North and in violation of their own country’s neutrality.”

Lauren had felt anger—deep, deadly anger. Her brother had died for gold, her dear, good brother who had wanted only to make people well.

She noticed that Phillips was watching her closely, and she wondered why. The answer came quickly.

“You might be able to help us, Miss Bradley.”

“What can I do?” she said quietly.

“If we can cut off the Southern supply line, the war could end months, perhaps even years, earlier.” He continued for a long time. The blockade runners had almost no Southern ports remaining to them. New Orleans had been captured, Mobile was effectively closed; so was Savannah. Charleston, Wilmington, and Galveston were the only ports remaining open to any degree.

“We don’t have enough ships to completely block these ports, and seventy-five percent of the blockade runs are successful. And blockade runners can expect profits of a hundred thousand or more on a run,” Phillips said. He added, perhaps unnecessarily, “It’s more than sufficient incentive to keep open the lifeline of the Confederacy.”

He had paused, assessing her, and Lauren had waited for him to continue.

“We have to make it unprofitable,” Phillips explained. “These captains are wily, and none more so than the captain of the
Specter
. He always seems to know our signals, and often he disappears along the coast when we sight him. It’s obvious he knows some waterways we’re not aware of.”

“What happens if you capture him?”

Phillips looked disgusted. “Damned little—beg your pardon, miss. We can confiscate his ship and cargo, of course, but because he’s English, a neutral, we can’t bold him any longer than it takes to hold a prize court. And he makes enough money from one run to purchase a new ship. But,” he added, “that will take him time, time which will hurt the Rebs.”

Lauren was horrified that a captain could be responsible for the destruction of an American ship—for her own brother’s death—and still be considered a neutral. “After destroying one of our ships … ?”

“Remember,” her visitor said, “he doesn’t carry guns … It was one of our own which fired the shell.”

Lauren frowned. “But I still don’t understand what I can do.”

“The blockade captains have a real eye for the ladies,” Mr. Phillips said. “We have spies in Nassau, of course, but none of them has been able to get close enough to Cabot to give us any help.”

Lauren’s eyes widened, and a flush crept up her face.

“No, no,” the man opposite said hurriedly. “We’re not asking you to do anything improper. We have a man there, a merchant. We can send you there as his niece, and you will come in contact with the blockade runners. Some men say more to a lady. They like to … boast a little. If we can learn his schedule, the rivers or inlets where he sometimes hides, then we can have ships waiting for him.”

Lauren’s gaze questioned him, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There’s another possibility,” he said.

Lauren straightened in her chair.

“If something … were to happen to the ship when approaching Charleston, Cabot would have no choice but to surrender.”