Surrender (10 page)

“It’s quite all right, Jeremiah. I’m to have a room so that I can’t swim away. That sounds fine. I understand.”

“You do? Anyway, whenever you’re ready …”

She set down her empty coffee cup. “I’m ready.”

She rose. She’d never been to the Bahamas. She’d heard that the British, sympathetic to the Southern cause, sometimes used these islands to reoutfit ships for use by the South, and to trade with the Rebels, and even donate supplies. Yet, though they were British possessions, the Bahama Islands were a long way from the motherland.

The islands were a haven for pirates and, she had heard, anything could happen here. Anything at all.

She just had to use whatever happened to her own advantage.

Jerome had many advantages in Nassau.

One was his association with the Royal Inn.

Despite its name, the inn was small, situated in a back street just a short distance from the harbor. It was owned by a man called Jay Eagle—a distant cousin. Jay had left south Florida fifteen years ago, armed with a loan from Jerome’s father, James McKenzie. The Royal Inn was an exceptionally snug harbor for Jerome; he could actually sleep at night, well aware that Jay would warn him if any danger threatened. It was a place where he could do business in safety and anonymity.

And it was a fine place to bring a captive. She could rant and rave if she chose, bang on the door, scream her little heart out—and no one would lift a finger to help her escape him. She had two good guards, his own seaman, Jimmy, and Big Tim, a giant who worked for Jay Eagle.

So far, however, it seemed his captive hadn’t made a peep. Hamlin Douglas had quietly reported to him that Risa had been brought ashore several hours ago, and so far, she had been the model prisoner.

He could almost forget she was with them.

As he needed to this evening.

Now, comfortably situated at his distant cousin’s inn himself, he had the use of a discreet private room off the public dining room and lounge. He met with Julio Garcia, a very rich Mexican.

Julio had little use for any Americans or Englishmen—but he had a great fondness for money, and so he had cast his lot with the blockade runners. He was a smart man, slim, dark, and well manicured. He had fought against General Winfield Scott during the Mexican War, and since that war had been lost to him, he continued to dislike the American government. He took pleasure in dealing with blockade runners, and enjoyed discussing the war. He spoke Spanish, since his English was very poor. His two bodyguards, always with him at a respectful distance, were equally ignorant of the English language.

Thankfully, Jerome’s Spanish was excellent. Not only was the south Florida coastline often visited by Spanish traders from Central and South America, but many of the Seminole Indians residing there spoke the language as well—they’d traded with the Spaniards for guns and supplies during their years of war with the United States Army.

Julio was listening to one of Michael O’Hara’s impassioned arguments about the South’s right to rebel. Michael spoke fluent Spanish, since one of his distant relations had been a survivor of a ship from the great Spanish Armada that had wrecked off the coast of Ireland.

They met today to sign the last papers for their trade—and to exchange information. Julio had news regarding the Union ship ordered to take the Confederate
Montmarte
as soon as she had taken on her cargo at Nassau. The
Montmarte
was nearly ready to sail. She was a larger ship than the
Lady Varina
, and would be carrying far more guns and ammunition bound for Charleston Harbor.

That afternoon, they’d taken on a cargo of Enfield rifles, medicines, and bandages. They’d taken on water
and fresh meat as well. In exchange, Julio had taken on a good supply of Southern cotton and sugarcane.

Now they finished their business, but it seemed a slow process. Julio was in a talkative mood.

“St!”
Julio declared in response to Michael’s justification of the war. “As your forefathers rebelled against the tyranny of British taxation without representation, so the Southern states now rebel against their Northern neighbors for trying to chain them to a government that does not work for them.”

“You understand completely!” Michael said happily. “We are all different states, with different laws.”

“This war, though, it is a tragic thing,
si
, Captain McKenzie?”

“Damned tragic,” Jerome agreed dryly. He’d been quiet during most of the conversation. He’d heard the arguments for and against the war and the South’s right to secede a thousand times. Civilians and politicians spoke eloquently in taverns. Honor and glory were words readily bandied about. Jerome had seen true heroism on both sides, but the everyday soldiers who fought the war knew that shimmering words were meaningless to them; war meant marching through muddy terrain, freezing in winter, roasting in summer, dying most frequently of disease, and going hungry most of the time.

Julio leaned forward, addressing Jerome. “You joined the Confederate navy; you gave your talents and your ship over to the power of a new government when many men captain their own ships as blockade runners without accepting the command of superior officers.”

Jerome shrugged. “Not all, but some captains are profiteers. I am not.”

Julio grinned. “And you own no slaves.”

“No. My family has not owned slaves for several generations.”

“Yet you join a people who fight for the right to keep slaves.”

Jerome leaned forward. “The South is built on an economy that makes use of slave labor. With or without war, change would have come. I personally believe that slavery is a dying institution—I hope that it is. And though I grant you that slavery is a major issue, you are
misunderstanding the point. The Southern states seceded because they seek the right to make the decisions regarding the way that they are governed and the laws that are to be enforced themselves.”

“Lofty words. Yet you are uncomfortable with this,
si
?” Julio asked him, amused by his ability to provoke the cool captain. “So you fight, you risk your life—when those all around you are fighting for slavery.”

“Only the rich own slaves, and I assure you, the whole of the South is not rich. Most of the fighting men and boys in the field own no slaves,” Jerome said. He shook his head impatiently. “Many men who don’t believe in the institution of slavery are fighting for the South because they’re fighting for their states. I’m fighting for my state. For Florida.” He fell silent, but he could have continued. He spoke the truth; his effort was for his state—Florida. He hadn’t wanted it to happen, but Florida had jumped to secede from the Union. Her government and her people had been passionate. But though she had quickly joined the Confederacy, there was little that the Confederacy had been able to do for Florida. The fighting was taking place elsewhere. Bitter, bloody, brutal fighting. Virginians died on Virginian soil, and troops were called from farther south to replace them. Florida boys were sent north, and the state was left stripped of her manpower and her defenses. Fernandina Beach now hosted the Union ships that patrolled Florida waters in the hopes of seizing or sinking blockade runners. St. Augustine remained in Union hands, and Jacksonville had been taken—and then abandoned.

No one could guard Florida’s hundreds of miles of coastline; no one could hold them, either. But most blockade runners, Confederate States Navy and independent, applied to nearby neutral powers—Nassau, Bermuda, Havana, and Matamoros—for supplies, then raced past the Federal ships to ports such as New Orleans, Savannah, and Mobile.

New Orleans was now lost. And it could take six days to make a round-trip run from Nassau to other ports. Florida was but 180 miles from Nassau. The population did not exist to make a dangerous run profitable for those in it for the money, nor could supplies be moved
quickly enough to serve the troops in the field. As the war progressed, the Union grew ever more effective with the blockade. The Union meant to starve the South and deprive her of supplies, thus forcing her into submission. It was a tactic that worked well. Though Florida was close to Nassau and offered hundreds of inlets, once a Confederate runner entered a river and ventured deep within it for safety, one small Union ship could block her in and force her into battle.

Not many people were willing to risk Florida. But Florida was Jerome’s home. When asked to do so, he slipped through the night and past Union vessels into other ports. But he served the Confederacy for his state, so that his state might survive the war, and it was as simple as that.

“Ah, you fight for Florida! But rumor has it that had the Union chosen to keep troops in Jacksonville, there might well have been a new state created out of east Florida.”

Jerome shrugged, running a finger down his whiskey glass. “The Union troops did pull out of Jacksonville—and there is no new state.”

“To Florida, then!” Julio said, lifting his whiskey glass and saluting. “To Florida. Salute!”

“Do you have any new information?” Jerome asked impatiently.

Julio grinned and sighed. “General McClellan remains a fool, overestimating troops. General Lee keeps him at bay. They fight all around Richmond, adjusting troops here and there, the wily Lee always ahead of the Yanks.”

“So the action remains around Richmond,” Jerome murmured. Brent would be where the action was, fighting to save lives. No matter how weary he grew of it all, Jerome knew he had to keep going himself, to keep doctors like his brother supplied.

“That it does. Each side believes victory will belong to the side to take the other’s capital. Mark my words; Lee will advance soon enough. He’ll take the fighting off Southern soil, and strip the Yankees of provisions. Now, down to the business at hand,” Julio said suddenly. He drew papers from his coat pocket, laying them out
on the table. He and Jerome signed for the exchange of goods, then Julio showed him the manifest for the
Montmarte
. “She is a steamer, fresh from the docks of Liverpool, an extraordinary ship. And she carries a very rich prize, gentlemen, no? She was to head straight for Charleston, with her cargo intended for the very heart of the Confederacy—Richmond. My sources tell me that the warship
USN Invincible
is already on its way to accost her when she sets sail with the morning tide—perhaps twenty miles to the northeast, in open waters.”

“Her captain has been made aware of this situation?” Jerome asked.

“Captain Menkin has been advised. He will meet with you here, near midnight, so that you may make plans to engage. Your
Lady Varina
is much smaller than either ship, but I’ve been told that what she lacks in size, she makes up with speed and maneuverability. Menkin was quite grateful to learn that you were in port—he, too, is aware of your reputation.”

“If we can just keep the Yanks from knowing we’ll be prepared to ambush their ambush!” Michael murmured.

“The Yanks will not know,” Julio said, a hard gleam in his eyes, as if he remembered Mexico as he spoke. “The Yanks will not know. Amigo—how about that special rum your cousin says he keeps?”

“How about it?” Jerome said, rising. He could use some of Jay’s killer rum himself. He’d slept on the deck last night, loath to bunk with Dr. David Stewart in his taunting mood or with any of his other officers. His muscles were stiff, and he was tired and desperate for a good night’s sleep. Especially with the work at hand tomorrow.

“I shall find Jay myself, and see to it that we’ve the best bottle available,” Jerome said. He rose, leaving Michael alone with Garcia and his bodyguards.

McKenzie’s crew thought that Risa was sleeping.

They thought that she was worn and subdued—considering how her swim had gone.

And they’d been very kind. They’d arranged for a hip tub to be brought for her, and she’d nervously bathed. No one had disturbed her. Indeed, she might have been
a pampered guest. A fire had been lit in her room, she’d been supplied with the sweetest-smelling soap, and the fluffiest towels. War shortages did not exist here.

And despite McKenzie’s earlier words to her, he’d apparently parted with the cash to buy her new clothing. She had been brought a box containing a beautiful blue cotton day dress, chemise, and undergarments.

Naturally, she’d determined not to touch the things. She redonned Jeremiah’s clothing after her bath.

She’d pretended to drink a fair amount of wine with the dinner Jeremiah had brought to her an hour or so ago.

Then she had crawled into bed, and pretended to sleep.

She had heard a number of them whispering now and again at her door, and the words she’d heard had been surprisingly concerned and caring. She was exhausted, poor creature. It was a sorry thing when war involved women this way. But then again, the war was riddled with female spies, so even if they should be treated gently … they must be watched.

It seemed that she had waited forever. But finally, the tavern fell quiet, and she knew she had to try to escape. She dared to rise. Peeking out her door, she saw that she hadn’t been left alone. Jeremiah, left to watch her, had dozed in a chair in the upstairs hallway of the inn.

She stepped silently around him.

She walked carefully along the hallway, well aware that McKenzie’s men must be near, and that they would be wary of her. She passed one doorway and heard the light, tinkling laughter of a woman followed by a muffled, masculine comment and more laughter. She was in port with sailors, she thought, flushing. Naturally, they had engaged feminine company.

As she hurried down the length of the hall, she could hear a murmur of voices from below. Negotiations? From the stairway she looked down into the public rooms, but though she heard voices, she could see no one. Slipping silently down the stairs, she saw that the main room was empty. However, there was a private room off the main public area, handsomely appointed with a heavy oak table and upholstered chairs. She could
see a slim, dark-haired, elegant man facing her way. He was well dressed, and appeared very much the dandy. He wasn’t alone. Two men stood at a respectful distance behind him. He was talking to someone. She bit into her lower lip, wondering if he spoke with McKenzie. But as she anxiously moved forward, she saw the back of a blond head.