Stanley handed him the sealed envelope. "Take this to Colonel Baker at 217 Pennsylvania Avenue."
"Thank you, sir, thank you." Bent heaved to his feet, extending his hand, only to realize he held the letter. He let it drop. Stanley rose and clasped his hands at the small of his back.
Seething under the rebuff, Bent controlled himself and leaned over. It was hard to pick up the letter; his belly interfered. Sharply, Stanley said, "One more thing."
"Sir?"
"Your name does not appear on my appointment calendar for today. Our conversation never took place, and you will forget you were ever in this building. If you violate that instruction, it could go hard with you." He gestured. "Good morning."
What would they do if he talked? Murder him? The possibility frightened him, but not for long. He could hardly contain his excitement. He had finally found a door, even if open only a crack, to the corridors of power.
He reeled down the stairs, vowing to please Colonel Baker at all costs. He might be able to locate George and Billy Hazard through this special bureau. And the work sounded ideal. He imagined himself interrogating a female suspect. Saw himself tear her clothing. Reach down to touch her. She could do nothing.
Feeling reborn, he launched himself into the sunshine. Clerks and a pair of braid-crusted officers took startled note of an obese man almost dancing along the walks of President's Park.
70
From the starboard rail forward of the pilothouse, Cooper watched the skies. Was it imagination, or was the heavy cloud cover growing luminous? Thinning to permit the rays of the moon to shine through?
Ballantyne had told him that he depended on two conditions for a successful run: the right tide and total darkness. They had the tide, but now, late in the night, an onshore wind had sprung up to push the clouds. The lookout, invisible ten minutes ago, was clearly silhouetted in the crosstrees.
Water Witch had steamed from Nassau in three days without incident. Federal ships were sighted hull down on the horizon, but the runner banked her fires to reduce smoke and slipped past them without detection, aided by her low profile and the gray paint that blurred her lines. Then came the dangerous hours — that short period in which a master earned his five thousand in gold or Yankee dollars. Even as late as an hour ago, however, Ballantyne had acted unconcerned, promising Cooper and his wife the traditional drink of celebration, a champagne cocktail, after they passed Fort Fisher.
Since leaving port, Cooper had repeatedly tried to deal with the revelation that Ashton was part owner of this vessel that so flagrantly ignored the plight of the Confederacy. Ballantyne cautioned him that no one else aboard knew the names of any of the shareholders. He had mentioned Ashton's solely in the hope of stilling Cooper's protests.
It did that, all right, but it also left him in turmoil. He hadn't decided yet what to do about his discovery.
Gripping the rail, Cooper felt the sea breeze on his face. The air was warm for a Carolina wintertime. To port, spectral blue lights hovered, the lanterns of the blockading squadron. How could they not hear the steady slap and thud of the runner's paddle floats. Even though Water Witch was proceeding southward dead slow, close inshore in the deepwater channel, her paddles and engines sounded thunderous as she rolled and labored in moderately heavy surf.
"Big Hill to starboard," the lookout called softly. A crewman ran aft to pass the word to the pilothouse. Cooper strained for sight of the landmark on the flat, deserted shore. He saw it suddenly, with alarming clarity, a tall hummock that told runners they were near Fort Fisher and safe water. Overhead, white patches brightened and dimmed between the racing clouds.
Had Judith and the children been able to get to sleep in their cramped berths? He suspected not. The sense of urgent work being done to the vessel in the late afternoon had conveyed itself even to Marie-Louise. The Mains watched Ballantyne's crew cover the engine-room hatchways, drape the binnacle, and haul down all but the lower masts. Special crosstrees were raised on the foremast, and the lookout sent aloft after the perpetually smiling Ballantyne issued a warning to him.
"Remember the rule on my ship. Strike so much as one match for your pipe, and I'll hang you."
Ballantyne and the pilot had agreed on the course of the final dash. They ran some twenty miles north of Cape Fear, then swung around to port, bypassing the northernmost ship on the blockade line. The maneuver accomplished at twilight, they hove to and lay virtually motionless until full dark, then began to slip down the coast toward the mouth of the river.
Slow going, hard on the nerves. Always, off to their port side, the blue lanterns shone. Now, in the growing light, Cooper detected masts and a hull big enough to belong to a cruiser.
How far away? Half a mile? If he could see the Yankee, couldn't its lookout see them?
Once more he craned his head back. Dear God, the clouds were thin as gauze. A few of the larger ones radiated light from fluffy edges, and, between, he spied stars. In a few minutes the freshening wind would completely scour the sky.
He dashed for the pilothouse, forgetting in his haste that the boats had been lowered on their davits to the level of the rail. He banged his head, letting out an exclamation that drew an angry "Keep your goddamn voice down" from a crewman crouched at the gunwale. The man had a wool cap pulled over his ears; his face and hands were blacked with coal dust. Cooper had submitted to the same treatment after questioning the need and having Ballantyne reply, "You'll do it, sir, because it's better to be dirty than dead."
In the pilothouse there was enough moonlight for him to see Ballantyne, the pilot, and the helmsman peering into a large tin cone. The cone shielded the dim light of the compass. Cooper said, "Captain, surely you've taken note of the sky. It's clearing."
"Aye." Ballantyne's grin, his universal defense against all foes and adversities, seemed to waver in the silver light splashing the enclosure. The helmsman and the pilot whispered to each other. "Bad luck, that," Ballantyne added.
"Isn't the passage too risky now? Shouldn't we turn back?"
"What, run for it? If we did, the Yankees'd give chase."
"What if they do? We can get away, can't we? You told me we're fast enough to outrun any of those ships."
"So we are."
"And the closer we get to the river, the heavier the concentration of enemy vessels — isn't that right?"
"It is."
"Then we shouldn't risk it."
"Oh, have you become the master of Water Witch?" Ballantyne asked, growing unpleasant. "I think not. You're merely a passenger. It's true we face danger because the clouds broke up unexpectedly. But the owners have given me explicit orders. No unnecessary delays. I am paid to run Cape Fear at all hazards."
Furious, Cooper stepped closer to the captain, whose fear-born sweat he could suddenly smell. "The Confederacy won't fall if a shipment of Havana cigars and bonnet frames is delayed. I'll not allow your avarice and that of my sist — your owners to place my family in jeopardy. Show a little common sense, man! Turn back."
"Get off the bridge," Ballantyne said. "Get off or I'll have you hauled off."
Cooper reached for Ballantyne's arm. "Damn your greedy soul. Listen to —" The captain pushed him. Cooper stumbled and almost fell.
The pilot let out a despairing profanity. "Christ save us — there's the moon."
Flooding white, nearly full, it seemed to sail from behind a glowing cloud. From the pilothouse entrance, Cooper saw the masts and shrouds of four huge vessels light up like stage scenery to port. A baritone voice, amplified by a speaking trumpet, hailed Water Witch.