And so they had come twenty-eight miles upriver to the city, where Cooper had fallen ill and Judith had feared for his life. Now he was recovered, at least physically, and he sat by the windows, watching the piers where armed soldiers were on guard to prevent deserters from stowing away on outbound ships.
He spoke only when necessary. Blue-black shadows ringed his eyes as he watched the March sun shimmer on the river. Watched the flatboats of the Market Street Ferry put out for the opposite shore. Watched the little sloops owned by local rice planters darting over the bright water.
Wilmington was a boom town, full of sharps, sailors, Confederate soldiers homeward bound on furlough. The streets, even their room, smelled of naval stores: the pine lumber, pitch, and turpentine busy merchants sold to representatives of the British Navy. Managing to secure a letter of credit from their Charleston bank, Judith purchased new clothing for the three of them from the M. Katz Emporium on Market. Cooper's suit hung in the wardrobe, still wrapped in paper.
Walking at the upper end of their street one day, Judith spied a splendid house with a great many prosperous young men in civilian dress coming and going. From an upstairs window she heard the singing of Negro minstrels. A peddler told her the place was the residence of most of the British masters and mates who ran the blockade. Flush with new money, they held all-night parties, wagered on cockfights in the garden, entertained women of ill repute, and scandalized the town. Judith was glad Cooper wasn't with her; the boisterous house would only make him angrier.
For he was angry. His silence told her. So did the queer glitter of his eyes. They shone like metal hemispheres as he sat staring into the March sunshine. They belonged to no man she knew.
At night, Judith often cried for a long time, thinking of Judah; he could not even be given a decent burial. The sorrow was increased by Cooper's remoteness. He no longer put his arm around her or touched her or said a single word when they lay side by side in the hard bed. Judith only cried more, ashamed of the tears but unable to stop them.
One day toward the end of March, Marie-Louise burst out, "Are we going to stay in this awful room the rest of our lives?" Judith wondered that herself. For the first week or so, she had refrained from pushing Cooper about leaving; he was still weak, and tired easily. Prompted by her daughter's question, she suggested to him that she telegraph Secretary Mallory and report their whereabouts. He answered her with a bleak nod and another of his peculiar, indifferent stares.
A few days later, she ran up the stairs of the rooming house with a sheet of flimsy yellow paper. Judith had left Marie-Louise in the parlor with a February number of the Southern Illustrated News she wanted to read the romantic serial and work the word puzzle.
Cooper sat, as usual, watching the piers and darting sloops. "Darling, splendid news," she said. Three steps carried her across the cramped room. There was a message from the secretary at the telegraph office."
Smiling, hoping to cheer and encourage him, she held out the yellow flimsy. He wouldn't take it. She laid it in his lap. "You must read it. Stephen sends condolences and pleads with you to travel to Richmond as soon as you can."
Cooper blinked twice. His gaunt face, so curiously alien lately, softened a little. "He has need of me?"
"Yes! Read the telegram."
Bending his head, he did.
She almost wished he hadn't when he looked up again. His smile had no humanity and somehow made his glaring eyes appear to sink deeper into their blue-black sockets. "I reckon it is time to go. I must have an accounting with Ashton."
"I know you've been brooding about that. But she isn't really responsible for —''
"She is," he interrupted. "Ballantyne said it explicitly — the owners wanted no delays. They wanted cargo delivered at all hazards. He gambled with Judah's life because of greed. His own and Ashton's. She is very much to blame."
A shiver shook Judith's slim frame. The gay, brightly barbed speech of the old Cooper was gone, replaced by pronouncements, bitterly made. She began to fear the consequences of his rage.
"Help me up," he said suddenly, flinging off the blanket.
"Are you strong enough?"
"Yes." The blanket fell. He wavered and took her arm, grasping so hard she winced.
"Cooper, you're hurting me."
He relaxed his grip without apology, and with a curious, stony indifference. "Where's my new suit? I want to go to the depot for train tickets."
"I can buy them."
"I will! I want to get to Richmond. We've stayed here too long."
"You were ill. You had to rest."
"I had to think, too. Clear my head. Find my purpose. I have. I intend to help the secretary prosecute this war to the full. Nothing else matters."
She shook her head. "I hear you, but I don't believe you. When the war started, you detested it"
"No longer. I share Mallory's view. We must win, not negotiate a peace. I'd like to win at the expense of a great many dead Yankees — and the more of them I can be responsible for, the better."
"Darling, don't talk that way."
"Stand aside so I can find my clothes."
"Cooper, listen to me. Don't let Judah's death rob you of the kindness and idealism that always —"
He slammed the wardrobe open, startling her to silence. Pivoting, his head thrust forward like some carrion bird's, he stared with those awful eyes.
"Why not?" he said. "Kindness couldn't save our son's life. Idealism couldn't prevent Ballantyne and my sister from murdering him."
"But you can't mourn him for the rest of your —"
"I wouldn't be mourning at all if you'd stayed in Nassau with the children as I begged you to do."
The shout drove her back from him. Pale, she said, "So that's it. You must have people to blame, and I'm one."
"Please excuse me while I get dressed." He turned his back on her.
Crying silently, Judith slipped out the door and waited with Marie-Louise till he came down twenty minutes later.
73
Ashton heard the sound, a cry of many voices, before its significance became clear.
She was just entering Franzblau's Epicurean, a fine shop on Main Street that only the wealthiest patronized, never being so indelicate as to ask the sources of its merchandise. Some had come in on the last successful voyage of Water Witch. There would be no more such voyages. The steamer had been trapped and sunk near the entrance to the Cape Fear River, Powell said. It didn't matter. The profits already realized were enormous.
Last night, while Huntoon once again worked late, a messenger had brought a note from Ashton's partner. Slyly worded to give an air of courtliness and propriety, it requested that she visit him in the morning so they might give a proper farewell to their late vessel and plan their strategy. Powell loved to tease her with such pretexts — as if she needed any. Already, thoughts of the meeting filled her cheeks with a pink that matched the fluffy dyed marabou trimming the cuffs and collar of her black velvet dress.
Although it was the second of April, a Thursday, the morning was cool. She had arrived at the Epicurean shortly after ten-thirty and now addressed the frail, gray-haired proprietor.
"Mumm's, if you have any, Mr. Franzblau. And a pot — no, two — of that wonderful goose-liver pâté."