"Makes it harder to figure out what the Confederates are up to if we can't believe anything they say," he remarked.
"That's not our worry," Cressy said. "The way I look at things is, we don't believe any of it till we either have evidence of our own that we should or until our superiors tell us what's true and what isn't. You can bet they've got spies inside the CSA finding out what the straight dope is."
I hope they do. They'd be damn fools if they didn't, Carsten thought. That cheered him, but not for long. A lifetime in the Navy had convinced him that a lot of his superiors were damn fools, and the only thing he could do about it was try to keep them from causing as much harm as possible.
He did say, "I wonder how many spies the Confederates have in the USA."
Nobody answered the question, which produced a chilly silence in the wardroom. He might have started talking about whorehouses he'd known at a women's club meeting. The Remembrance's officers were willing enough to think about their own spies, but not about the other fellow's.
Commander Cressy looked thoughtful, though he didn't say anything. But then, Commander Cressy always looked thoughtful, so Sam wasn't sure how much that proved, or whether it proved anything at all.
Every once in a while, Boston cast up a mild, springlike day, even if the calendar said it was early February. If it was a Saturday, too, well, all the better. People who'd stayed indoors as much as they could since winter slammed down emerged from their nests, blinking at the watery sunshine and the pale blue sky. They might almost have been animals coming out of hibernation.
Sylvia Enos certainly felt that way. With the mercury in the high forties- one reckless weatherman on the wireless even talked about the fifties-she wanted to be out and doing things. She didn't need to worry about long johns or overcoat or mittens or thick wool muffler. All she had to do was throw a sweater on over her blouse and go outside. And, gratefully, she did.
Mary Jane didn't even bother with a sweater, perhaps because her blouse was wool, perhaps because she wanted to show off while she had the chance. Sylvia minded that impulse less than she'd thought she would in a daughter. Mary Jane was heading from her mid- toward her late twenties, and hadn't snagged a husband yet. She didn't seem unduly worried about it, either. As far as Sylvia was concerned, a little display might be in order.
They went to Quincy Market, next to Faneuil Hall. The grasshopper on the weather vane atop Faneuil Hall showed the wind coming out of the south. Pointing to it, Sylvia said, "That's the only good thing from the Confederate States: the weather, I mean." She paused to light a cigarette, then shook her head. "No, I take it back. Their tobacco's nice, too. The rest? Forget it."
"Let me have one of those, will you?" Mary Jane said. Sylvia handed her the pack, then leaned close to give her a light. Mary Jane sucked in smoke. She blew it out and nodded. "That's pretty good, all right."
A sailor on leave whistled at her. She ignored him. Sylvia would have ignored him, too. He was a little bowlegged fellow with a face like a ferret's. Ten seconds later, he whistled at another woman. She didn't pay any attention to him, either.
Mary Jane said, "How's Ernie? Or don't I want to know?"
"He's not that bad," Sylvia said defensively. "He's been… sweet lately. His writing is going better. That always helps." Ernie said it helped him starve slow instead of fast. As long as Sylvia had known him, though, he'd always managed to make at least some kind of living from his typewriter.
"Hurrah," Mary Jane said. "Hasn't pulled a gun on you lately?"
"Not lately," Sylvia agreed.
"I don't care how sweet he is. He's trouble," her daughter said.
She was probably right. No-she was right, and Sylvia knew it. That didn't mean she wanted to dump Ernie. If she'd wanted to, she would have long since. The whiff of danger he brought to things excited her. (Actually, it was a good deal more than a whiff, but Sylvia refused to dwell on that.) And, if anything, his… shortcoming posed a challenge. When she pleased him, she knew she'd accomplished something.
How to put that into words? "He may be trouble, but he's never dull."
"He may not be dull, but he's trouble," her daughter said.
Again, Sylvia didn't argue. She just kept walking past the stalls and shops of Quincy Market. People sold everything from home-canned chowder and oyster stew to books to frying pans to furniture to jewelry to hats. Mary Jane admired sterling-silver cups that aped ones made by Paul Revere. Sylvia admired the cups, too, but not their prices. Those horrified her. "They're for rich tourists," she said.
"I know," Mary Jane answered. "But they are pretty."
Someone-not a tourist, by his accent, which was purest Boston-took a silver gravy boat up to the shopkeeper and peeled green bills out of his wallet. Sylvia sighed. "It must be fun to be able to afford nice things," she said.
Mary Jane pointed to a new stall across the way. "Those look nice," she said, "and they might not be too expensive."
Sylvia read the sign: " 'Clogston's Quilts.' " She shivered, knowing winter wasn't over in spite of this mild day. "Some of the blankets are getting pretty ratty, all right. Let's go have a look."
The quilts on display made a rainbow under a roof of waterproof canvas. They were carefully laid out with an eye to which colors went with others, and that only made the display more enticing. Some duplicated colonial patterns, while others were brightly modern.
"Hello, ladies," said the proprietor, a pleasant woman in her early forties with a wide smile and very white teeth. "Help you with something?"
"Do you make all these?" Mary Jane blurted.
"I sure do. Chris Clogston, at your service." She dipped her head in the same brisk way a man running a shop might have used. "When you don't see me here, you'll find me at the sewing machine."
"When do you sleep, Mrs.-uh, Miss-Clogston?" Sylvia asked, awkwardly changing the question when she noticed the other woman wore no ring.
"Sleep? What's that? I just hang myself in a corner now and then to get the wrinkles out." Chris Clogston laughed. It was a good laugh, a laugh that invited anyone who heard it to share the joke. She went on, "I do stay busy, but I like making quilts, picking out the colors and making sure everything is strong and will last. It doesn't seem like work. And it beats the stuffing"-she laughed again-"out of going to a factory every day."
"Oh, yes." Sylvia had done her share of that and more. "What sort of living do you make, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I'm still here," the shopkeeper answered. "Actually, I'm new here, new in Quincy Market. The rent for this space is twice what I paid where I was before, but I get a lot more customers, so it's worth it." Her gray eyes widened a little. "And what can I interest you in?"
"That one's pretty." Sylvia pointed.
Chris Clogston nodded, seeming pleased. "I'm glad you like it. That pattern's been in the family for I don't know how long-since before the Revolution, anyhow. I'm a ninth-generation Clogston in America. John, the first one we know about, came to Boston before 1740, out of Belfast."
"Wow," Mary Jane said.
"Wow is right," Sylvia said. "I can't trace my pedigree back past my great-grandfather, and I don't know much about him."
"My granny was mad for family history, and she gave me some of the bug," Chris Clogston said. She picked up the quilt. "Now, this particular one is stuffed with cotton. I also make it stuffed with goose down if you want it extra warm. That will cost you more, though."
"How much is this one, and how much would it be with the down?" Sylvia asked.
"This one's $4.45," the quiltmaker answered. "It's nice and toasty, too- don't get me wrong. If you want it with goose down, though, it goes up to $7.75."