Captured (35 page)

Before, her feelings toward Cole had been elusive bits of hope and fear, torn apart by the slightest ill wind. But the past two days had changed all that. Her emotions were now solid, grounded, and not easily chased away. As Uncle Monty would have said, they’d grown roots.

They spent hours in Cole’s bed talking of important issues, holding fiery debates, and telling bawdy jokes. Devon didn’t know where the talking ended and the lovemaking began; there was so much they wanted to do of both. She’d discovered that Cole was adventurous and curious, and he whetted the same appetites within her. Their unions were a blend of fiery passion and playful teasing, ludicrous positions that had them both tumbling out of bed laughing until they cried. They made love on the floor, across Cole’s desk (not very comfortable), tried it while sitting in a stiff-backed wooden chair (better, because she was astride his lap), and standing up against the-wall… What little sleep they’d had was enjoyed curled up in each other’s arms.

There’d been not only physical discoveries, but emotional ones as well. Devon had gone looking for Cole yesterday and found him sitting near the starboard rail.

His posture was that which she’d always identified as uniquely his own: one knee drawn up against his chest, his arm thrown casually over it. The wind whipped back his shirt and tossed his hair. Beyond him, the sun streaked the sky with gold and crimson, a fiery ball that sank into the deep teal sea. Gentle, rolling swells rocked the ship and filled the sea with small, white-crested waves.

She’d stopped and stared, her breath caught in her throat. He was a picture of rugged male perfection, yet he seemed to pulse with life. He wasn’t just riding out the sea, but was leaning forward, as if a part of it. The ship and the sky, the sea and the man; all molded into one. It revealed a different side of him, a part of Cole she had glimpsed but never fully understood.

There was a sense of healing about him as well. A slow, steady reconciliation, taking place deep within himself. The rough, sharp edges, so spiked and painful when they’d met in Fort Monroe, were finally beginning to be smoothed away. The nightmares had begun to fade as well.

Devon had backed away, not wanting to intrude on his solitude, when Cole turned, as if suddenly sensing her presence. He’d smiled at her and held out his hand. She had hesitated, then moved forward, feeling as though she were walking into a dream. She remembered little of what they spoke of, only that the sun had sunk and disappeared. The stars had risen one by one, and faint glimmers of light slowly imbued the indigo sky with sparkling, shimmering brilliance.

All the while, Cole had held her hand. Touched her in a way that wasn’t sexual, but simply brought them together as they talked. Establishing a trust and friendship that added a different dimension to their relationship; one that was pure and bright. Distinctly unlike the smoky haze and passionate fire of their lovemaking, but equally powerful.

As she remembered that moment, a soft smile lit her features as she paused in her evening stroll and leaned against the deck rail. Devon stared absently at the sea, unable to contain her joy. When the worry that their marriage was nothing but a temporary arrangement threatened to intrude, she abruptly banished it. If she was to be crushed later, so be it. She’d accumulated more than enough memories to last her the rest of her life. For now she was content to live only for the moment, to let the winds of fate carry her wherever she was destined to go. Right now, if she was meant to be with Cole, she would be. Totally and completely.

Just as she’d resolved that in her mind, an order was passed among the crewmen to extinguish the lights; the ship was plunged into darkness. Though she’d been expecting it, the eerie quiet and total blackness sent her heart racing, for it could mean only one thing. It was time to run the blockade.

Devon lifted her skirts and moved gropingly along through the darkness, making her way up to the bridge. There she found not only Cole and the ship’s pilot, but her Uncle Monty and Mr. Finch. She slipped quietly into their midst. The only other place for her to go was back to her cabin, but the thought of sitting alone all night, not knowing anything, was intolerable. At least here she’d have Cole’s presence to comfort her. Even now, as she studied his rugged profile, she felt some of her fear and nervousness begin to slip away.

Last night, he’d explained to her in nautical terms what they faced in running the blockade, and she focused on that now. They’d made good time out of St. George. Too good, as a matter of fact. At noon, Cole ordered the sails lowered and the engines cut, allowing them to drift around Cape Fear and approach the river to Wilmington from the northern end of the blockade, which was their present position. Devon glanced at the sky. It was a moonless night and a slight fog enveloped them—‌a runner’s dream‌—‌better conditions than they ever could have hoped for.

As they crept cautiously forward, a thick tension spread over the ship. Orders were passed back and forth in whispers. The ship’s compass was draped with a dark cloth, shielding the tiny light from view. There was no noise but the dull rumble of the engines and the gentle, splashing wake created by the Ghost’s screw propellers.

Dead ahead, she saw a looming mound of earth, which she recognized from Cole’s description as Smith Island. It divided Cape Fear River at its mouth into two channels: New Inlet to the north, guarded by the guns of Fort Fisher, and the main channel to the South, guarded by Fort Caswell. She strained her eyes, looking for the signal that would guide them into the channel.

“There!” Devon cried softly, seeing a soft glow through the thick fog. Soon she was able to make out the second lantern as well.

“All right, let her drift,” Cole said.

He gave the command without any hesitation, though Devon was well-aware of the risk. The Ghost was to drift north, keeping the lights in view, until the two lights merged into one. Only then would the ship be in position to make it over the sandbar without trapping the hull. In theory, it was a sound plan. But too much could go wrong. The Federals could: have learned of the run and moved the lights, sending them crashing ashore. Their position could have been miscalculated by the Rebels who set them out. A strong gust of wind could have blown one lantern over, setting it off just enough to ground them.

Cole’s voice was cool and in control. “Steady… Steady… There. Send her in.”

Devon held her breath, waiting for the grinding roar that meant they were trapped.

They sailed cleanly through the narrow passageway. She heard a low rush of air as every man aboard let out his breath. Beside her, Finch reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar. With a trembling hand, he struck a match and raised it to the end.

Cole spun around furiously and jerked the cigar out of Finch’s mouth. He knocked the match from his hand and ground it out with his boot. “What the hell are you doing?” he hissed.

Finch stared at him in stupefied amazement. “Why, I just… I didn’t think—”

“Captain! Off the starboard bow,” whispered the pilot urgently.

Cole turned his back on Finch and focused his attention on the river. Devon peered into the fog but saw nothing. Cole’s voice was little more than a cool, steady whisper. “Yes, I see her. Starboard a little. Keep her steady.” They inched through the water, and still Devon saw nothing. She felt a subtle shift beneath her feet as the Ghost strained against tide. The black, motionless hulk of a Yankee gunboat materialized to her right as they slid past. She caught her breath, expecting at any moment to see the angry flash of guns as Yankee cannon exploded at them. Miraculously, they sailed by undetected, cloaked by the fog and inky blackness of the night.

They moved perhaps another hundred yards when she felt Uncle Monty’s fingers digging into her arm. “There!” he cried softly, “I see one!”

“Hard aport,” Cole ordered in a rough whisper. “Cut the engine. Just the starboard, dammit! Now!”

The pilot obeyed and the Ghost swung in a hard ninety-degree angle to the left. The Yankee gunboat slid past on their right. The ship was so close that Devon could hear the conversations of the crewmen aboard the other vessel. Her knees buckled, and she gripped the rail in an effort to remain standing.

A phantom ship rose from the fog dead ahead of them, crossing the bow.

“Stop her,” Cole said.

The pilot obeyed once again, cutting the port engine. The Ghost sat silent in the water. But their momentum and the current continued to push her forward, directly in the path of the steamer. Devon closed her eyes, bracing herself for the impact of the collision. Instead they passed so close to the steamer’s stern that the spray of the paddle wheel soaked the deck.

Relief surged through Devon. She longed to collapse in an undignified heap in the middle of the bridge, laughing and crying at the same time. She felt Monty sag against her. The pilot slumped against the helm, and Finch leaned against the rail as though he were about to be sick. Only Cole remained unaffected by their near-disaster. “I need a reading,” he said.

The order was relayed forward, where a man handling the forechains lowered the lead and checked the depth and condition of the bottom. The information obtained was sent back to the bridge in whispers.

Devon saw quickly why Cole hadn’t been relieved at their near-miss. What he’d been unwilling to explain to his shaky passengers, he and his crew knew only too well: they’d barely begun their run. The Ghost’s engines were stoked once again and they inched on through the night, dodging enemy warships as they went. To Devon’s increasingly strained nerves, each near miss and close encounter was more terrifying than the next.

Periodically Cole weighed anchor and requested a reading. He listened to the report on the river conditions, using that to adjust their heading. In short order, the helplessness of their position was made frighteningly clear. Cole was sailing the river blind, with nothing to guide him but memory, instinct, and what little information he was able to obtain from the readings.

He had told her that it normally took two hours to sail from Cape Fear to Fort Fisher. He’d anticipated they would make it in four. It had been six hours now since they’d entered the river. With all of their stops, starts, and wild maneuvering, it was even possible they’d turned completely around and were headed back out to sea, a position that would leave them wide open to attack, completely surrounded by enemy vessels.

Devon glanced anxiously at Cole. His mouth was grim; tense lines of strain showed around his eyes as the ship crept warily forward. In the past hour, he’d been stopping for more and more readings. To the east, the sky was tinted with a rosy glow as the sun began its ascent. They were about to lose their cover entirely.

“You don’t know where we are, do you, McRae?” Finch hissed, his face white with fear. “You’ve got us trapped—”

Cole ignored him and turned to the pilot. “I need a reading.”

“Another?!” shrieked Finch, his voice laced with panic. “Can’t you see the sun is coming up? There’s no time!”

Unfortunately he was right. A flash of red streaked through the rosy sky. A whirring shriek filled the air above their heads, followed by the roar of an explosion as a shell landed in the water behind them.

Devon spun around, her heart slamming against her chest. Six enemy warships bore down hard and fast, their guns blazing.

“Start the engines!” Cole shouted. “Give me all the steam she’s got!” He felt the thrust of the engines beneath his feet as the Ghost roared to life, churning up water in their wake. No more inching, creeping along the river. Speed was their only chance of survival now.

Shots rained furiously around them. The warships were still too far behind to have any sort of accuracy, but they were closing in fast. His crew, ready at their stations, manned their weapons. “Fire, sir?” a young recruit yelled from his position behind a fifty-pound pivot gun.

“No,” Cole called back. “Hold steady, men! Wait for my order!”

“No?!” echoed Finch in furious disbelief. He turned to the crewmen and waved his fist. “Fire, dammit! Shoot the bastards! Fire!”

The crewmen ignored Finch and stared at their captain instead as shots rained in all around them. Cole turned and yelled down to the engineer, “We need more speed!” But smoke poured through the stacks even as he shouted the command. He knew the men in the engine room were shoveling coal into the furnace as fast as they could. He couldn’t expect the ship to go from a near-crawl to full speed in a matter of seconds.

Cole raked his fingers through his hair, his gut clenched with sick dread. He’d failed. Dammit to hell,

he hadn’t gotten them through. The Federals were closing in. He glanced at the warships, able to identify them all. He knew most of the men commanding them by name, a few he even counted as friends. Now he had to do his best to blow them out of the water. The shots exploded closer, and he knew he had no choice. The fight was on. “Arms!” he called. “Ready to fire!”

A flash of pale blue calico caught his eye. Devon. He grabbed her by the arm and turned her toward the ladder that led from the bridge to the main deck. “Get below and wait for me in my cabin,” he ordered curtly.

She shook her head. “But what about—”

“Dammit, Devon, now! Get below!”

“Captain!” the pilot shouted. “Dead ahead! Big Hill!”

Cole whirled around, peering along the flat coastline until he saw the bump in the sand to which his crewman was referring. He relaxed his grip on Devon’s arm as icy relief poured through him. They’d made it.

Just beyond Big Hill lay the Confederate batteries of Fort Fisher. Within seconds, the roar of cannon fire exploded in the air. Hot lead shots sailed over the Ghost, striking within threatening range of the Federal ships. The warships pulled up short, clearly outmanned by the Rebel guns of the fort. They fired off a couple of angry, useless blasts, huddling in the distance like a pack of snarling dogs, then sensibly retreated. The jubilant cries of his crew mingled with the triumphant shouts of the men at the fort as the Ghost crossed the bar, her path to Wilmington now free and clear.