The motion awakened Patrick and he lay still, looking at her. How exquisite she is, he thought, and how lucky I am. She was as lithe as a dancer, a picture of sinuous grace, with small but exquisitely pointed breasts and a flat belly with a tuft of light hair at its base. Her legs were slender and lean, not chunky as he’d been told Dutch and German girls’ legs often were. And to think she thought so little of herself. Once, she had described herself as plain and thought others considered her homely. What utter nonsense. He would have the rest of their lives to convince her what a remarkable person she was.
“You’re beautiful.”
She smiled softly. “I thought you were asleep.”
“Who me?” he teased. “I’d never fall asleep on our wedding night.” At least not now, he thought, as he watched, enthralled. She was so slender and lovely as the soft light of the stormy dawn danced across her body. A flash of lightning illuminated her like fire, and he saw she was smiling at him.
“Can I convince you to come back to bed before you catch cold?”
“Possibly,” she responded and returned. She knelt on the bed beside him and looked at his body. Not bad at all, she thought. Not a Greek statue, but a good, solid, live man. She ran her hands down his chest, found his manhood, and felt it harden under her touch. “Oh my.”
A malicious thought entered her head and she responded by lying beside him and then on top of him, straddling his chest. “What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the way her breasts swayed above him.
Trina slid farther down until she was directly above him. “Molly explained to me just how she and Heinz have to make love because of his wounds. Now lie still.” He groaned as she maneuvered herself so he slid easily into her.
“Are you going to dominate me like this all the time?”
She giggled. “Only when you deserve it. Or when I want to.”
Much later and in the light of full morning they sat in their kitchen, primly dressed in gowns and robes, and sipped some hot coffee while they debated how to spend the rest of their day. Their conversation was interrupted by a sharp and insistent pounding on the front door.
“Who the heck is that?” Patrick asked.
“Probably not Paul Revere, since he’s been dead awhile,” Trina remarked. “You better go answer it.” Patrick, muttering half angrily, opened the door to find Lieutenant Colonel Harris. It was on the tip of Patrick’s tongue to rip the colonel hard for daring to interrupt his commanding officer on the morning after his wedding, but he recognized that Harris was visibly upset.
“What’s wrong, Jon?”
Harris took a deep breath. “A general alarm just came over the telegraph. We don’t know whether the Krauts are coming out or not, but we think something awful has happened in New York.”
23
C APTAIN RICHMOND HOBSON felt that at least some of his prayers had been answered. The awful rain had slackened and his instincts told him it was likely to cease altogether in a little while. Visibility had improved dramatically and he could now see the running lights of scores of ships anchored in close formation in the upper bay of New York harbor. Although the wind continued to be strong and the waves choppier than he would have thought optimal, both were well within acceptable limits. The only problem was that it was already midnight and his plans had to be executed in the darkest part of the night. If he did not rush, it would be dawn before he and his men could make their way out and back, and there would be a slaughter.
Of course, he could wait one more day and start earlier in the night, when better weather would make their attempts that much easier. If he did that, however, then many of the dozens of ships would have made their way out the Narrows and into the lower bay anchorage or, worse, started back to Germany.
It was a real Hobson’s choice. He smiled ruefully and silently condemned the English stable owner of the same name who had created the statement.
There was no choice. It would be tonight. “Mr. Holland!”
John Holland had been gazing at the Germans as well, and the summons startled him. A small, bearded man in his sixties, he looked like an innocuous college professor, not an inventor of military devices.
“Yes, Captain Hobson?”
“Can you get your boat ready to depart in one hour? And in position to attack no later than four in the morning?”
Holland thought a moment. “I believe so. I might have to settle for a long shot, but perhaps I can run on the surface a little longer than I first planned. The Germans shouldn’t be too concerned about what might look to them like bobbing debris after such a great storm.”
“Then get started.” Holland nodded and turned away. “And don’t forget which fleet you’re shooting at.” Holland looked back and flashed a quick grin. John Holland’s personal sympathies lay in a desire for Irish independence, which resulted in an almost pathological hatred of things British. He had openly proclaimed a willingness to use America ’s only submarine against the Royal Navy.
A part of Hobson’s mind was intrigued by the possibility of using a submarine as a part of his plans, but the poor little boat had so many limitations. First, it had only one torpedo tube; thus, although it carried three torpedoes, it could only fire one at a time and then the tubes had to be torturously reloaded. Second, the vessel was very slow. Holland said it could do seven knots on the surface and four submerged, but Hobson had doubts whether the choppy seas would permit such speeds to be achieved. Worse, the half-dozen or so crewmen lived, if that was the proper word, in a stifling environment and breathed chemical-filled air. The submarine called theHolland, also known as the A-1, used diesel engines for surface travel and acid batteries for underwater propulsion. Hobson was surprised that anyone survived a cruise, however brief. It was no wonder that submarines were referred to as floating coffins. Had he not been ordered to do so by the secretary of the navy, he would have left Holland and his odd craft behind. But the powers that be wanted a little return for their investment.
Under normal circumstances, Hobson would not have permitted a civilian like Holland to participate, but the man was the inventor, designer, and builder of the boat, had been working with the crew, and knew more about his revolutionary craft than any man alive. TheHolland, which he had so humbly named after himself, was the sixth submarine John Holland had built and the first accepted by the navy. John Holland was determined that this one would succeed and that others would follow. It would doubtless make him a rich man, and he would use the money to help free Ireland.
A soft, chugging sound disturbed Hobson, and he turned to see theHolland departing its anchorage. This brought a genuine smile to Hobson. Holland and his crew had indeed been ready. Well, they had better be. They had only a few hours to make it out of the Kill Van Kull channel, which connected Newark Bay with the upper bay. Judging by the way the submarine was having to bull its way through the chop, she would need every minute of it. At four in the morning they had to be ready.
God, what an ugly duckling the submarine was, Hobson thought as he waved at the little man whose derbied head projected incongruously from the conning tower. It was time for Hobson to charge up the real weapons at his disposal.
Passage through the channel and out into the bay was a wretched endeavor. Even though theHolland was able to run on the surface through the channel, the hatches had to be kept closed to prevent the sub from being swamped by the waves. This made the already miserable air worse, and the men began to sicken.