"Ashton, I just don't know if I have the courage —"
"Yes, you do." She clawed hold of both shoulders and shook him, fairly spitting. "By God, you do or you're no husband of mine. Now go to sleep. I want some air."
She snatched a cape, blew out the lamp, slammed the flimsy slatted door behind her. Hurrying away, she cursed foully when she heard him crying.
Her rage didn't abate as she struggled up the steeply tilting stair to the main deck. Only one passenger was in the saloon, a bald man sleeping with a month-old London Times tented on his paunch. Treading softly, Ashton reached the outside door and leaned against the weight of the wind to push it open.
The spill of light revealed Powell at the rail. His hair, much more gray than brown now, tossed in the wild gusts. He had run out of his favorite dye pomade; he had searched the apothecary shops in Nassau, but they had none.
"You shouldn't be out here in this terrible weather, Ashton. Beware the deck — it's wet and slip —"
The warning ended as the Royal Albert rolled sharply to port. Ashton's heels flew out from under her. She shrieked, tumbling toward the rail. Only Powell's body, with which she collided painfully, kept her from being flung overboard.
She leaned against him, queasy and terrified by the enormous white-topped waves visible in the glow from the ship's portholes. As a degree of calm returned, the physical contact suddenly aroused her. She pushed her breasts against Powell's sleeve, crushed them, almost to the point of pain. She didn't see him smile when he pulled her head down on his shoulder.
They were motionless a moment, then abruptly separated. A seaman in rubber foul-weather gear rushed by, reiterating the danger of being on deck in a heavy sea.
"I need air; I'll be careful," Ashton called to the disappearing figure. She was; she clutched the varnished rail with both hands. "I do need air," she said to Powell, "but more than that, I need some relief from James. He's driving me insane with his complaining. I can't stand this, I can't stand that —" Her high-pitched voice mimicked him cruelly. "But I'm the one who's breaking, Lamar. I can't come to your stateroom alone. I can't kiss you or even touch you." Half ill and overcome with love, she reached down and closed her hand on him. "This is what I want. Using nothing else, you chained me up as completely as some nigger plantation girl. You made me lose sleep — respectability — my sanity sometimes — just wanting this. You made me a slave to it, and then you took it away."
The whispered tirade delighted him. She lowered her head, realizing what she had done. She let go. He patted her arm in a way that was almost avuncular.
"I took it away, as you so delightfully put it, out of necessity. What's upset you?"
"Wanting you!"
"Nothing else? Has James forced himself on you?"
"Do you think I'd allow that?'' An unsteady laugh. "But, my God — you don't know how resisting him has taxed my capacity for lying. I've gone through the unmentionable monthly complaint, nerves, headaches, the vapors — an encyclopedia of excuses. Can you imagine how happy I was when he got seasick? For a while I even found the smell of the bucket tolerable. Doesn't that tell you how desperate I am?"
"Patience," he murmured, stroking her arm although the seaman was returning. "Patience."
"I don't have any left!" She was almost in her husband's state, ready to cry.
When the crewman was gone, he said, "Patience is vital. We need James awhile longer. Israel Quincy is gone and that Bellingham fellow — he was peculiar, but he had the makings of a splendid aide-de-camp. I need at least one man to go with me to Virginia City and help transport the gold from the mine." They had already argued violently about his plan for Ashton to travel separately to the destination in the Southwest he had not yet revealed. "There are some rough fellows I can enlist in Nevada, but none's as loyal, dependable — or pliable — as your husband."
She started to speak, started to tell him Huntoon's dependability was questionable, his loyalty all but gone. She decided against it. Things were bad enough.
Powell interpreted her silence as agreement. The steamer rolled again; spray burst over them, soaking her hair and streaming down her cheeks. Here with him, she didn't mind. Powell flung a look each way along the deck, then bent quickly and slid his tongue between her lips.
Weak, she grasped the rail again. Seconds passed, then he drew away, smiling. "What you talked of a moment ago, sweet — what you covet — will soon be placed back where it belongs."
"I can't live without you much longer, Lamar. James is more than disgusting —" she tried to warn him then "— he's weak. Things in Richmond changed him. The arrogance of the Virginians. His loss of faith in Davis. Certainly our deteriorating relationship played a big part. In any case, he isn't the man I married or even the windbag who gasconaded bravely so long as he was safe on some lecture platform. Don't put too much faith in him."
"Ashton, my dear, I place no faith in anyone but myself. Remember how I characterized James before I revealed my plans to him? How I described his role? He's a soldier. Useful so long as he obeys orders. Should he prove himself unwilling or unable to do that — well —" He shrugged. "The greatest factor separating the general from the private is the latter's expendability."
"Expendability? You mean you'd —?"
He smiled. "Without a qualm."
"Oh, God, I love you, Lamar." She gripped his arm and leaned her damp cheek against his lapel. That was the moment the purser chose to thrust his knobby head out the saloon door.
"Really, sir — madam — you are taking grave and unnecessary risks by remaining on deck in this weather. I saw you through the porthole. Since I am responsible for the welfare of passengers on this voyage, I really must insist you come inside."
Powell gave the stuffy little man a disdainful look, murmured a good night to Ashton, and sauntered away down the glistening deck without touching anything for support. Tired, wet, but filled with renewed confidence, Ashton went into the saloon.
A few days later, Cooper returned from Charleston along the river road, riding an old nag borrowed from a neighbor. Though he detested firearms, he had traveled with a loaded pocket pistol because Judith insisted.
His overnight visit to the besieged city could hardly be called a success. All he had been able to buy were two badly used Hawkens, twenty years old and caked with rust. Of the .50-caliber ammunition for the muzzle loaders, there was none. But he had found a mold and some bar lead, all of which would be coming up the Ashley on next week's steamer. Powder couldn't be had anywhere; they must make do with the small supply left at Mont Royal.
The afternoon was showery, the natural tunnel through the live oaks darker than usual. The closer Cooper and the plodding horse got to the plantation, the louder and more frequent became the cries of the salt crows. He had never known them to be so numerous this far upriver, but when he peered into the brush or the treetops, he couldn't see a single one. To his left, away from the Ashley, scarcely anything was visible.
In Charleston, he had also searched for little presents for his wife and daughter. Marie-Louise was stricken with girlish grief now that Lucius Chickering had returned to Richmond in the wake of Cooper's resignation. The best gifts he had been able to find in the depleted shops were two crudely made sachets. He took one from his pocket and peeled back part of the brown wrapping paper. He smelled the sachet. "Damn." The scent, weak to begin with, was nearly gone. Cheap goods, profiteer's goods —
A wild burst of crow calls, seeming to surround him, nearly caused him to drop the sachet in the mud. He shoved it in his pocket and heard a disembodied voice. "Mist' Cooper?"