The black swan (87 page)

Dulcie's voice quavered on a high note. "Dad-deee!"

"You're coming with me!" He let go of one arm. She slapped him as hard as she could, squirming to get away.

"Let my daughter go!" Jem's pistol pointed unwaveringly at Justin. His face was suffused with rage.

Dulcie recognized the steely look. "Justin, he'll do it!"

"Bloody lot you care!" He sent her hurtling into the marble-topped stand.

"You misbegotten whoreson!" Jem yelped.

"Daddy, don't! I'm all right!"

Justin looked at Jem, then at Dulcie. "Is that supposed to make us even? I save your skin and you save mine?"

"Justin, take my gratitude—it's all I've got to give you!'*

Justin snorted. "Gratitude makes a cold screw. You can put your gun away. Keep your ass-licking daughter."

Jem was advancing on Justin. "Get out of here before I kill you!"

"Justin, I didn't mean to hurt you. I had to do what I did."

He raised his eyebrows sardonically. "I suppose you did. It was the only civilized thing to do."

When he had gone, Dulcie went to her room. She lay across her bed staring at the wallpaper, trying to justify what she had had to do.

September went by, with cool, bright days. Dulcie got government approval for good character and a permit to visit the Confederate prison on David's Island. Glenn was gaunt, one arm in a sling, and pathetically happy to see her. When she told him Adam was thought dead, he was as sorrowful as though Adam had been his boyhood friend.

To lighten his maudlin thoughts, Dulcie said, "Mamia tells me you have two little boys."

Glenn's face brightened. "I haven't seen the baby yet. Addie's living with her parents. They'll take good care of her and the children, but I worry. The war's gettin' closer to Savannah. Dulcie—and there's nothin' I can do. I could go home—if I live—and not find a trace of my family."

"Miss, you've overstayed your time," the guard broke in.

"Please—just another minute."

"Rules, Miss."

Glenn took her hand. "I hope you come again, Dulcie.**

With the gentle guidance of Patricia and Mad, Dulcie spent more time visiting the prisoners and working in Mrs. Sullivan's soup kitchen. Though it didn't stop the gnawing hunger for Adam, it gave her purpose, and in a way made her feel closer to him.

Mrs. Burris, one of Mrs. Sullivan's workers, drew Dulcie aside one day. "I'm delighted to see another staunch Southerner aiding her fellow man. Your mother and aunt are such marvelous ladies. Isn't Molly Sullivan wonderful? To have the gumption to think up such a brilliant idea as this soup kitchen and then to persuade the Federal authorities to permit it!"

"Yes, indeed. She seems a fine, kind lady."

"Oh, but I completely forgot what I wanted to ask you. We have formed a literary society, the Jeffersonians. Mad suggested you might like it. I am so sorry, Mrs. Tremain,

your aunt did mention that your husband is missing. It is all so sad. There are so many. But for that reason you might wish to join us. We gather news from the South. Occasionally we obtain outstanding speakers."

Dulcie could hardly speak. "You gather information?**

"Yes, as much as we are able.**

"I'd like very much to come."

"Splendid! This month our speaker is a man who travels throughout the South. He has just come back from a harrowing adventure and will tell us about it Tuesday evening. Mr. Revanche is our best source of information. He understands how we yearn for our loved ones and takes the time to bring back whatever news he can. It will be a real treat for you to meet a man of his caliber and know he is fighting for our side.'*

Dulcie thought Tuesday night would never come. Her thoughts in the intervening days were all of the stranger named Edmund Revanche, a new source of hope. She rehearsed what she would say as she asked him to help locate Adam. More than ever it seemed he had to be alive.

Several carriages lined the street in front of Mrs. Burris's handsome townhouse. Inside the brightly lit parlor ladies and gentlemen clustered around a tall foreign-looking man in black. He was dignified and reserved, speaking with courtesy but little animation. His hair, black tinged with gray, formed a deep V at his forehead. Unlike most men of the day, he wore no moustache. He had charm in plenty, as Mrs. Burris had said, but a rather automatic smile, which he seemed to switch on as he deemed appropriate. The man was experienced in handling numbers of admirers at once. His dark, magnetic eyes found Dulcie. After a deliberate stare he returned to his conversation.

Mrs. Burris hovered anxiously, waiting to introduce the latest arrivals. "Mr. Revanche, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Raymer, Mr. and Mrs. James Moran, and their daughter, Mrs. Tremain?"

The hooded lids over the dark eyes flickered. He pressed his cool lips overlong on Dulcie's hand. "The name is very familiar. Is your husband a Southerner, Mrs. Tremain?"

Faced with the man who might help her, Dulcie's throat tightened painfully. "He . . . was." To his questioning, sympathetic gaze, she managed to go on. "He is—missin'. Perhaps. They say he died at sea."

"My condolences Madame. So many brave men have died. But you have hope. You did say he is missing? Perhaps we can—" With an apologetic half-smile Edmund turned to be introduced to a noisily insistent woman.

Dulcie had all she could do to keep from grasping his coat sleeve. Perhaps he could—^what?

"Come sit down, dear. You're so pale. Dulcie, truly you must not go on like this." Mad held her hand tightly.

"Aunt Mad, I must talk to him! He was about to say he would help me! I knew he was, and then that old cow interrupted." Dulcie squeezed Mad's fingers until she cried out.

She sat back at Mad's insistence, waiting until Mr. Revanche had spoken. Then she would talk to him. She'd talk to him if she had to follow him home!

Mrs. Burris was saying, "Mrs. Meadows, would you be kind enough to take Dulcie around and introduce her? We want her to feel right at home with the Jeffersonians. Oh, and she must meet Mr. Revanche's companions."

Mrs. Meadows skillfully moved Dulcie among the guests. She met Chad Kaufman, a powerfully built, stocky man who hadn't the grace or the elegance of his mentor. His eyes, ice blue, assessed Dulcie as he spoke. A hard, cold man, Dulcie thought, relieved that it was not Chad Kaufman whose help she would request in finding Adam. Edmund Revanche's other companion was Josiah Whinburn, a pale, lusterless man who seemed ill at ease. Neither could claim Edmund Revanche's charm or his concentrated interest in the people to whom he spoke. Both had had considerable to drink.

As Mrs. Meadows led her to another group, a Mrs. Downing said indignantly, "The Abolitionists are worse than ever, now that wet rag Mr. Lincoln has issued his Emancipation Proclamation. I notice he didn't free any slaves except those of Confederate citizens!"

"It's hard to believe that man was a Southerner by birth."

"A Kentucky mule, I've heard him called," said a mut-tonchopped man.

"Let me tell you the latest," said Mrs. Downing." A blockade runner—calls himself the Black Swan—has been stealing people's servants by the boatload and bringing them into New York. In broad daylight!"

"He must have a secret harbor."

"I have heard he comes into Long Island.**

"He wouldn't dare. The Yankees would have him in a second."

"Oh, but he has to be in league with them," said Mrs. Downing. "No sane man could be so bold and daring! They say he goes into Wilmington as regular as clockwork, and soon after, he's here in New York with the fugitives. I've heard this man cares nothing for his own life, that he risks everything to free those darkies! And friends, the worst is stiU to come. I have heard that the Black Swan is himself a Southerner!"

"A traitor!" gasped one woman.

"Ought to be lynched," the whiskered man agreed. "Who is he?"

Dulcie stood very still. They might have been describing Adam. Or Ben, Still, such recklessness did not fit either man.

Mrs. Downing whispered, and every head bent toward her. "No one knows his real name. lis ship is called the Black Swan too."

Dulcie released held breath with a sob she covered with a cough.

"Cowardly traitor!" the muttonchopped man declared.

Another man said, "I hear that without the drugs, arms, and ammunition the Black Swan daringly brings to the South, General Lee's army would long ago have had to surrender."

Mrs. Downing said frigidly, "I don't believe we are talking of the same person, Mr. Bates."

"Did I hear someone mention the Black Swan?" asked Edmund. "Hardly any decent Southerner but would like to see him hanged."

"Oh, Mr. Revanche, do you know him?" Mrs. Downing fluted.

"Yes, dear lady, I know him. He is a low troublemaker. Even as a boy he was disrespectful. As a young man he ruined a business arrangement, and when he was challenged because of his interference, he refused that challenge! I was personal witness to that. The dastardly fellow hid behind the skirts of two women! As for stealing slaves, he ruined a very fine gentleman of my acquaintance. Yes, I know the Black Swan."

"Has he done you harm, Mr. Revanche?" Dulcie asked boldly.

"He has done me no harm, Madame. But such men are pernicious influences on Southern society, which is suffering cruel enough blows. But I will say no more, lest I have nothing left for my lecture." He bowed, smiled, and turned to his associates.

As a lecturer Revanche was superb. Using maps. Revanche showed the area still in Confederate hands. He demonstrated the curve of land that swung from Virginia to New Orleans, land Union forces had gained.

"They are trying to squeeze us out of our homes," he said. "They will force this line to the sea—unless we stop them. And, ladies and gentlemen, we can stop them." He shook his fist menacingly at the air, and his listeners cheered. "We can brighten the spirits of our loved ones still in the South. A small way, taking but moments of your time, a little paper, and ink. Letters, my friends! I am in a position to ensure that your letters will reach your families and friends.

"Those of you who would like to communicate with your loved ones will be interested to know that I am going to Wilmington shortly. If you will speak with me or my associates, we will arrange personal delivery of letters."

"What does Mr. Revanche do?" Dulcie whispered to Mrs. Downing.

"My dear, I thought everyone knew. He's a spy for the Confederacy."

"But appearin' in public like this—"

"He deals only with loyal Southerners! He is here to raise money for supplies. He has brought us beautiful letters from Confederate officers who have personally thanked him for his esteemed services. He is quite an important man, invited to the best homes. We trust him implicitly."

Several people flocked around Mr. Revanche. Dulcie waited until she could speak to him alone. She didn't want the other sympathetic, curious faces watching her, listening as she talked to him. As the group surrounding him dwindled, Dulcie stood close by.

Edmund, relaxed and at ease, smiled at her. "I am sorry you were the one to have been kept waiting, Mrs. Tre-main."

Dulcie lowered her eyes. "Mr. Revanche, you say you'll be goin' to Wilmington. Would you carry a letter to my . . . late husband's mother? She lives in Smithville. That is thirty miles south."

Revanche's eyes were warm on her. "I know it well. The entire area is a smuggler's paradise, and as you know, the North is not the only side to be harassed by traitors."

•Then it wouldn't inconvenience you too much?"

"It would be my pleasure, even if you were not so lovely a woman."

Under his admiring glance, Dulcie blushed, which annoyed her, for it only showed that she was unaccustomed to civilized company. "I did not expect this—this service, so my letters are yet to be written. May I send them to you?"

"I could come by for them tomorrow afternoon. Or, if you prefer, send them by messenger to Mrs. Burris."

"I'll have the letters in Mrs. Burris's hands tomorrow morning,"

His laughter was soft, private. "So, you'll deny me the pleasure of a visit with you."

"Oh, no, it isn't that. I am in your debt, Mr. Revanche. This means so much to me. I wouldn't dream of puttin' you out of your way!"

"Then by all means, Mrs. Tremain, we will arrange it as you wish. Now, dear lady, if I am not mistaken, there is more troubling your mind. Is there something else I could do for you?"

Dulcie hesitated only for a moment, then said, "Yes." She looked around. Many others stood nearby, watching, listening.

Edmund motioned with his eyes. "I believe the bay window would afford us some privacy, Mrs. Tremain."

Heads turned curiously as Edmund led her to the shelter of the heavily draped bay window, but Dulcie was determined not to let this one chance of finding Adam slip away because of a bunch of nosy-bodies. In a low voice she said, "I believe ... I hope, Mr. Revanche, that my husband did not die at sea. He might have been cast ashore."

"My dear, I do not wish to discourage you, but the chances of a man—"

"I know. I've been told before, but please listen to me."

Edmund touched her arm, his smile sympathetic and encouraging.

"I—I was on the ship with my husband . . . and I survived. I was washed ashore. You see, I have reason for my hope. I am not merely indulging myself in wishful thinkin',

am I?" Dulcie's golden eyes were full of appeal as she looked into Edmund's onyx bright ones.

"I can't answer Mrs. Tremain, but let me say I envy your husband. Your love and faith in him is something any man, even a hardened traveler like myself, would give his life to know. Rest assured, dear lady, that if there is any information to be gleaned, I shall ferret it out.'*

Dulcie couldn't hold back the tears. Embarrassed, she blinked, pretending there was something in her eye. Edmund placed his handkerchief into her hand. "Don't hide your tears from me. They do you credit. You have shown strength and courage in your undying search. After the sights of our war-ravaged South, it is a comfort to see a beautiful woman longing only for her man. For the most part I see hunger, despair, hatred. Love is far more refreshing."