The black swan (88 page)

Dulcie murmured her thanks, trjdng to regdn control. Her eyes shone with gratitude. "How can I thank you, Mr. Revanche? Not only are you the only person who has offered to help, but you understand. I think . . . there must be someone you love very much."

Edmund looked out the window, his fine profile to her, "There was. My wife. But she died a long time ago. Since then "—^he turned to look fully at Dulcie—"there has been no one to compare with her."

Dulcie's hand rested lightly on his arm. "I—^I understand that."

"I am sure you do, Mrs. Tremain." Edmund frowned slightly, his face contorting into worry. "But there is one thing."

"Yesr

"Of course, I hope only for the best news. But there is no telling what I'll find. He may be dead. Or it may be something else."

"I want to know. I must know. Please promise me that whatever you find out you will tell me."

"It may not be pleasant"

"But it may be I It may be the very thing I've hoped for."

"I would never withhold that from you, Mrs. Tremain. It is the other sort of news that I fear. I would rather ^ear the tongue from my head than have it bear ill tidings to you."

"You are a kind man, Mr. Revanche, but I ann much stronger than I look. I have hved through many experiences I didn't think I could. The hardest thing I have ever borne is not knowin' if Adam is alive. Whatever your news, I want to be told."

Chapter Nine

Edmund Revanche traveled south in comparative luxury because he had Northern trains and passes available to him. Chad Kaufman, blond and Nordic, expanded under preferential treatment, his expression haughty as he sat across from Edmund. Both men were impeccably dressed. Edmund, as usual, was clothed in black, the severe tailoring accentuating the hard, long lines of his body, his aristocratic paleness, his proud inbred delicacy. Chad, though he emulated Edmund in other ways, dressed as a dandy. His compact, pampered body was swathed in a silk shirt and pastel brocaded waistcoat, topped by a fur-trimmed mauve frock coat.

Watching them with an inner revulsion was Josiah Whin-burn. Ever since he had become indebted to Edmund Revanche in a brag game eleven years ago, Josiah had become increasingly, inexorably dependent on Edmund's hard, cruel strength. Tom Pierson had tried to save him once by lending him twenty-five thousand dollars to keep Marsh House from being sold. He might have succeeded in turning his back on gambling and drink if only Tom had remained in New Orleans.

But Tom had left New Orleans. And Josiah had never been strong enough to run Marsh House on his own. It had only been a matter of time before Josiah had become a slave to Edmund's bidding.

Only once had Josiah gotten the better of Edmund, and he had paid dearly for that piece of rebellious independence. Edmund had coveted Marsh House. But Josiah, after holding it for years at a great loss, had sold it to Webster Tilden in 1860. Through the years Edmund had reminded Josiah repeatedly of his ungrateful, spiteful act

Edmund had made Josiah pay by hours of humiliation, by performance of tasks odious and menial. Edmund controlled Josiah's life.

Though Edmund had not indicated that this trip was different from others, Josiah looked at his smug expression and knew it was. Edmund's dark eyes burned with an inner glow. The harsh linear mouth twitched in private amusement.

"Why'd you tell Mrs. Tremain we'd deliver her letters?" Josiah's tongue was thick with too much liquor, his words running together. "We're not goin' to Charleston, and Smithville is out of the way. We head inland from Wilmington."

Edmund looked at Josiah down the length of his nose. "Would you have me disappoint the lady, Josiah?"

"You've disappointed others."

"Oh. Have I? But perhaps I view this particular young woman differently. Perhaps she has touched my heart."

Chad smiled. "Ah, love. It seems capable of humbling the mightiest."

Edmund sneered at him. "You can be such an abominable fool, Chad. Here, dispose of this." He handed him Dulcie's letter to Zoe. The letter to Ben he tucked into his breast pocket. "The young lady can be told we went to great lengths. This letter was undeliverable."

"Why tell her anything?" Chad imitated Edmund's pedantic inflection.

"Because I choose to. Keep your mind on things you understand. Which reminds me, devise a more clever code. We need details of Lee's plans this next month and a map of the supply routes between Wilmington and Lee's army. Should we be stopped by a Confederate with even minimal intelligence, he could decipher your code."

Chad smoothed his waistcoat and performed a small ritual with the ends of his moustache. "I—^I beg your pardon. I'll change the code, of course, but we've had no difficulty. No one has questioned us."

"Of course not, you idiot. We're known as Confederate agents. But in case your powers of observation have failed entirely, I shall remind you the complexion of the war is changing. The great Southern cause is badly bruised. Our compatriots may not be so trusting and naive as in the past. You might also keep in mind, Chad, that since the value of Confederate currency is near nothing, the informa-

tion we have been bringing them is also worth nothing. Confusion has been our ally, but I would expect one of these days someone will note that agents Revanche, Kaufman, and Whinburn are somewhat less than adept."

"So why're we makin' the trip at all?" Joseph slurred. "We turned complete traitor? Bad enough we been sellin' secrets on both sides. Now we jes' gonna help the Yankees destroy our lan's an' people?"

"Perhaps it would ease your conscience to join one of our fine Confederate fighting units, Josiah."

"Would. Would, by God. Least I could die like an honorable Southerner. Least I wouldn't be bitin' the hand o' my own people. Least I wouldn't be foolin' some pore I'il widow, makin' her think I was goin' to fin' her los' hus-ban' fo' her."

"Ah, Josiah, you wound me. How could you think me so heartless? I intend to bring definitive information of the missing Captain Tremain to his widow. I shall ascertain when and how her stalwart husband died. I shall also make certain his widow happily recovers from her sorrows."

"E'mun', what you gonna do? Why don't you let tha' pore li'l lady alone?" Josiah whined. "You don* know nothin' 'bout her husband. I^et her be."

"You're mistaken, Josiah. I know her husband quite well. If my information is correct, Captain Tremain should be in Smithville any day now.".

Adam docked at Wilmington and left the discharge of cargo in Rosebud's capable hands. By early morning he was in bed in Zoe's house. It had been a sleepless, harrowing run. The blockade around the Cape Fear was formidable, with the Yankees increasingly eager to capture the invaluable supplies being carried by the blockade runners. Without Colonel Lamb's tireless vigilance at Fort Fisher, the odds against the unarmed blockade runners would have been insurmountable.

There was no longer any such thing as an easy run. The main mast and bunkers of the Black Swan had received heavy damage, yet Adam considered himself lucky. The carpenter had cut away the spar and made temporary repairs, but before he could leave port, major repairs would have to be made.

Adam yawned, his body aching. Disquiet remained with him. The edginess was becoming a constant part of his

life. Except in Nassau, he never felt safe. The nagging feeling of something amiss dogged him—something overlooked, some danger ignored, something lurking just around the next turn, the next mile of open ocean, the next run. Something was there, just waiting for him to make a mistake.

He tossed in bed, punching at his pillow. "You're beginning to jump at shadows," he muttered into the gloomy dawn light. He sank back to stare at the ceiling, relentlessly retracing each mile of the last voyage, until, exhausted, he fell into a fitful sleep.

He was groggy when he awakened. He went searching for food and Zoe.

"I have to take advantage of every moment Mammy and Claudine aren't around, or I'd not be allowed in my own kitchen." She laughed. "Sit down like you used to at the kitchen table, and I'll fix something."

"Where is everyone? Ma, did you tell Angela?"

"I gave you my word, dear. But don't take her to the swamp today. We'll have this evening at home. I've baked pies, and there'll be an extra for Tom."

"Ma, I told you I was taking her first thing. There's no use in putting it off."

"Adam, I'm not weakening. Honestly. Angela needed some things, and I sent her shopping with Mammy and Claudine. Anyway, Tom won't be at his cabin until tomorrow. Someone has been attacking the saltworks of the swamp people, and Tom has gone to help."

"Who'd attack the swamp salt camps? Yankees wouldn't bother. The swamp folks don't have works big enough to be worth their while."

"Tom says whoever it is has a grudge against you. The work has been attributed to the Black Swan."

Adam shook his head. "Probably some local who sees a good little salt camp and wants it for himself."

"Well, it's a good thing it was Seth's and Johnnie Mae's people, or they might have believed those rumors. They're saying the Black Swan has turned traitor and is being paid to disrupt salt production. Oh, Adam, I wish you'd be more cautious. Why can't you—why does everybody have to know about you, dear? Couldn't you be more secretive about your—your work?"

"Nobody'll believe those stories, Ma. I wasn't even here

when the attacks happened. My comings and goings are easily noted."

"All of them?" Zoe asked, eyebrows raised.

"Enough of them," Adam said sheepishly.

"That is exactly what I meant! Why can't you be more cautious? O, fie! I don't know why I waste my breath. You'll do as you please anyway, but we are having supper together tonight. In that I'll have my way."

"So Angela gets a reprieve. But a short one."

Angela was sullen as she sat on the wagon waiting for Adam and Zoe to stop arguing over how many supplies would go with Angela into the swamp. Three times Clau-dine had patiently taken off and put on packages as the argument shifted first one way then another.

"I'm taking her to Tom's cabin, Ma! She won't need all this stuff."

"Humor me, dear. A woman doesn't stop being a woman just because she's not in a town. I wouldn't feel right sending Angela off without—"

Adam threw his hands into the air. Claudine giggled and drew his frustration on her. "Shut up!"

"Adam!" Zoe gasped.

"Not you. Ma. Christ! Deliver me from women," he muttered. "I'm sorry. Ma. Put your packages on." He kissed her, helped Claudine onto the back of the wagon, then took his own seat next to Angela.

"I won't stay with Tom," Angela said savagely. "I'll run away."

"You can do anything you damned well please, but sit still and shut up!"

"You don't care about anyone! You're mean and rotten, Adam Tremain!"

They traveled by wagon as long as the log roads through the swamp were passable. The scent of open fires was heavy as they passed several small saltworks. Rough-looking men, armed and wary, guarded the perimeters of the salt camps, eyeing Adam and the two women suspiciously.

A few miles from Tom's cabin the roads were mere rutted, spongy paths. Adam reined in the horses and leaped down to search in the thick brush near one of the swamp water channels. The last miles would be traveled by flat-boat.

Settled in the boat, Angela gazed up at him with eyes that implored him not to shut her away from everything she knew and liked, and Claudine's dark eyes accused him of forcing her to go somewhere she didn't want to go, to serve someone she didn't want to serve. He hadn't a moment's peace of mind.

When they arrived at the cabin, they found it empty. Tom and Seth's men had not returned from searching for the men who had disrupted the saltworks. Gruffly Adam ordered Claudine to fix them something to eat and Angela to help unload her things from the boat

"It's awful here," Angela pouted.

"It's your home."

"It's not my home! It's Tom's."

"Look, I'm tired of arguing with you."

Angela dropped the small bag she carried and ran to him. "Adam, I'll be good. I'll do whatever Aunt Zoe wants. Please! I promise."

He patted her awkwardly. "You're better off here. Give yourself a chance, Angela. You'll like the swamp."

"Never!" she moaned.

"You've just forgotten. Remember the house on the bayou? the flowers? Your mama was always worried you'd pick up a snake because you loved the pretty colors."

"You're not angry with me anymore, are you?" Teary eyes gazed hopefully into his.

"I can never stay angry with you. You're still my first girl."

"I wish you meant that."

"I do, but—"

She sighed gustily. "I know. Your sister."

Claudine produced a good fish muddle for supper. "When Mastah Tom gwine get heah?" Her eyes darted to the window where close-growing vines and branches rubbed, made eerie rustlings. "How long we got to stay heah?"

"I have to stay here forever," Angela said dramatically.

"Well, Ah doan."

"Go on to bed, Claudine. If Tom were coming tonight, he'd have been here already. He's probably holed up at Seth's or Winnabow's place."

"Wheah Ah'm gwine sleep? Ah ain't gwine out to dat big ol' cabin by mahseff." Claudine shivered, glancing at the fugitives barracks.

"You and Angela sleep here in the house. I'll sleep out there."

"You gwine leave us alone in here!'*

"Nothing's going to get you, Claudine.'*

"But dey's things out dere. Ah kin heah 'em tippy-toein' 'roun' an' scratchin' at de winders."

"Just branches."

Adam waited until there was quiet in Angela's room, silence from the loft where Claudine slept. Then he went across the yard to the slave building, weary from his sleepless nights and the long journey. He stripped off his shirt and boots and fell into the first bunk. Within minutes he was sound asleep.

He dreamed. Disturbing dreams, making him shift on the bed, restless and trapped. His arms, thrust over his head, began to prickle. He grew still, his eyes opening slowly to bright sunlight and complete awareness.