Captured (37 page)

Cole watched in disgust as Monty pocketed the girl’s coins. He moved forward, determined to stop the sale.

Devon caught his arm. “Let him be, Cole.”

He stared at her in amazement. “What? We can’t let him—”

“Let him be.”

There was a quiet firmness to her tone. He shook his head, wondering why she wasn’t as sickened as he was. Still, he did as she bid, watching as Monty ducked behind the booth, then handed the girl a box containing the syrup. He admonished her not to open it until she got home, lest she spill a drop. The girl thanked him profusely and skipped away.

Cole frowned and said to Devon, “You can’t believe that what he gave her will actually cure the babe.”

Devon shrugged. “No,” she said softly, “it won’t cure the babe. But it will help, and that’s all we can do.”

Cole watched her move to join her uncle, taken aback by her faith in the cure-all. She gave her uncle a quick hug, murmuring words that sounded like praise. Cole’s unease rose. Perhaps Devon had learned to tolerate her uncle’s schemes and wiles, but he definitely had not. Devon and Monty’s absolute lack of remorse at taking the girl’s only coin bothered him more than he cared to admit.

Realizing that they’d lost the momentum of the show, Monty and Devon dispensed the few remaining bottles free of charge to the wounded Rebel soldiers who lined the area in front of the booth. The men eagerly accepted the tonic, then hobbled off. Cole assisted Monty in dismantling the booth as Devon folded the banner.

When they finished, Devon excused herself and walked to the small shop across street, wanting to pick up a few items before they returned to the ship. Though Cole doubted she’d find much among the barren shelves, he welcomed the opportunity to talk to Monty alone. Cole had rented a wagon and a swaybacked old nag, the only horseflesh in town that hadn’t been impressed by the army. As they loaded everything up, he said, “Well done, Monty. I do believe you could charm the skin off a snake.”

Monty shrugged. “So I’ve been told.” He nodded to a passing coach, tipped his hat to the ladies inside, then turned back to Cole. “Speaking of snakes, I received a message from our good friend Mr. Finch today.”

Cole tensed. “Where has he been?” The man had left the ship the day they docked and hadn’t been seen since.

“Taking care of business, apparently. Evidently you passed on both counts, Captain. The cargo was in good order and no one has ever heard of you‌—‌either as a blockader or as a runner. Exactly what we wanted.”

“So now what?” he pressed.

“Now we proceed as planned, of course. Your ship is loaded, ready to go. Finch will meet us aboard at five o’clock for departure, just as you requested.”

Cole nodded. “Finch will be aboard for the return run?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

That considerably offset the possibility that they were being led into a trap‌—‌at least while Finch was aboard. The man was rabid about saving his own skin. Still, Cole felt uneasy. He wondered why Finch had sent a message about departure to Monty rather than to him, as the ship’s captain. There were hundreds of possibilities, none of which was very reassuring. His eyes locked on Monty’s as he said, “You know, it could be that Finch has no idea where Sharpe is routing that ship. In fact, he may never have even heard of Jonas Sharpe. He could be nothing but a stooge you paid to lure me into making this run and providing you with a handsome profit.”

Monty brought his hand down on Cole’s shoulder in a gesture of solid approval. “Brilliant, my boy! Absolutely brilliant. I’m only ashamed I didn’t think of it myself.”

“What I’m interested in is whether it’s true.”

Monty smiled. “Do you know what your problem is? You trusted me, and now you regret it.” He sighed and shook his head. “My good friend, it’s a classic symptom‌—‌I run into it all the time in my line of work. You’re angry at yourself and you’re suspicious of me, but there’s no going back. I offered you Jonas Sharpe and my darling niece in one neat package, and you leapt at the chance to have them both. You should have examined this thoroughly before you agreed, but now it’s too late.”

“Listen, dammit, if you think this is some kind of a game—”

“A game? No, Captain, it most assuredly is not,” Monty replied. For once, his tone was serious.

Devon approached the wagon, and Cole let the conversation drop. He helped her aboard, seating her between him and Monty as they made their way back to the Ghost. “By the way, Captain,” Monty said. “Finch will be expecting a little payment from you. Five hundred dollars, to be exact.”

Cole pulled up the reins and brought their tired nag to a dead stop. “For what?”

“Dock fees have to be paid, of course. Then there are the export taxes on the cotton and compensation for the extra hours the stevedores worked to assist your crew loading and unloading the cargo.”

“I’ve never heard of any of those charges. Sounds like Finch is getting greedy.”

“Either that or it’s nothing but local graft.” Monty thought it over, then shrugged. “A bit of both, I suspect.”

“Finch expects me to hand over five hundred dollars in less than thirty minutes?”

“If we intend to leave Wilmington today, yes. The fees have to be paid first.”

“That’s impossible.”

Monty frowned. “The money is of little consequence, Captain. We’ll make it up at least a hundred times over once we sell the cotton we’re bringing out.”

“That’s exactly the point. I have about ten dollars in Rebel notes left to my name. The cargo I carried in was swapped directly for cotton‌—‌there was never an exchange of currency.” Cole had enough Federal currency in his cabin to cover the fees, but a Rebel blockade runner certainly couldn’t flash Yankee bills around a Southern port. He’d managed to get his hands on some Rebel notes before he’d left St. George, but obviously not enough.

“I see. My, this is a tight fix, isn’t it?” Monty said, not sounding the least bit concerned.

Cole let out a sigh of disgust, then brightened as he remembered the money the crowd had tossed at Monty for Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup. While he hadn’t approved, at five dollars a bottle Monty had earned at least what they needed to cover the fees. Probably twice that. “Pay Finch the money,” he said shortly. “I’ll reimburse you with Federal currency.”

“Actually, Captain, I would prefer not to do that.”

Cole stiffened. “And I would prefer not to pay the damned money in the first place. But it doesn’t appear either of us has a choice, now does it?”

“Unfortunately I regret that I will not be able to oblige—”

“Now listen, Monty—”

“He doesn’t have the money, Cole,” Devon interrupted.

“Now, now, my girl, there’s no need—” Monty protested as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“What do you mean, he doesn’t have the money?” Cole said. “I saw him take at least…” His voice trailed off as he remembered the elixir Monty had sold the young girl. Unlike the others he’d passed out to the crowd, hers hadn’t been in a clear bottle. Instead he’d handed her a tightly sealed box and admonished her not to open it until she returned home. He recalled Devon’s soft smile as she said, It won’t cure the babe. But it will help. He turned and stared at Monty in stunned disbelief. “You gave it to that girl, didn’t you?”

“Every penny,” Devon answered for her uncle, “and probably every cent he had in his own pockets, as well.”

Monty looked away, his expression thoroughly displeased. “Even I have my standards,” he grumbled.

Cole shook his head in amazement. “I never would have believed it.”

“I’ll thank you to keep your mouth shut about it too,” Monty snapped. “After all, I do have my reputation to consider.”

Cole glanced at Devon, who wrapped her arm through her uncle’s, looking both pleased and proud. With a flick of the reins, he set the nag in motion and brought his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “That leaves us with less than thirty minutes to come up with five hundred dollars in Rebel currency.”

Monty brightened, happy with the shift in conversation, particularly since they were back in his area of expertise. He rubbed his hands together, his broad smile firmly in place. “Thirty minutes? Plenty of time, my good friend, plenty of time.” He pointed to a waterfront tavern they were about to pass. “I think this should do nicely, Captain.”

Cole drew to a stop and hitched the wagon. He secured the reins, knowing they had little choice. Obviously Monty was about to pick every pocket in the place. They moved into the dark, crowded tavern and took a seat at a table along a side wall. Monty studied a group of three men, listening intently to their conversation. Cole glanced at them as well.

The three looked wealthy and prosperous. Their conversation was easily overheard, as they were boasting loudly of the money they’d been making since the start of the war. A woman timidly approached, tapped one of them on the sleeve, and whispered a few words. The man scowled at the interruption. He made a remark to his friends about nagging wives, then turned sharply. “Not now, woman. Can’t you see I’ve got business to take care of?” His wife turned and left the tavern, her mouth pinched and unhappy as the men resumed their drinking.

Monty smiled. “By jove, I think we’ve found our man.”

“We couldn’t have wished for better,” Devon replied.

Cole sent him a stern frown. “Just make sure he doesn’t catch you lifting his wallet.”

Monty raised his brows and looked at Devon. “Crass, isn’t he?” he asked.

“A complete cynic as well,” she agreed. “No faith whatsoever.”

Cole listened impatiently as they discussed his faults. Finally Monty turned to him and said, “Captain, I have no intention of stealing anything. Within ten minutes, that man will offer me five hundred dollars. In fact, he’ll be angry if I don’t accept it.”

“Just how do you intend to accomplish that?”

Monty handed him a card. Cole took it and read aloud: “Calvin. Renowned astrologer and diviner of future events. Seventh son of a seventh son—”

“Ah. Pardon me,” Monty plucked the card from his grasp and replaced it with another. It read simply:

Horace Greeley, Esq. Lottery Agent

“I still don’t understand—”

“You will, my good friend, you will. How much money do you have on you?”

Cole frowned and reached into his pocket. “Only—”

“Perfect.” Monty removed the ten-dollar note from his hand and motioned to one of the serving women. “My dear,” he said to her, “do you see that gentleman standing by the bar? Yes, the one in the blue suit. He’s an old chum of mine from school, and I’ve quite forgotten his name.”

The woman squinted at the bar. “You mean Edward Oakes? You went to school with him?”

Monty beamed. “Of course, dear old Eddy. The other fellows and I used to call him Spider Legs, but I won’t bore you with that.” He placed the ten-dollar note on her tray. “Be a love and don’t tell him I couldn’t remember his name. Most embarrassing, you know.”

The waitress quickly pocketed the money, nodded, and left. Monty stood up, taking his card and hat with him. “You can time me if you like, Captain. Ten minutes, no more.” With that he was gone, meandering back through the crowd and toward the front entrance.

Cole looked at Devon. “He can’t possibly be serious,” he said flatly. “No one can swindle five hundred dollars in ten minutes.”

Devon watched her uncle walk away, then looked at the man about to be swindled. “You’re right, not in ten minutes,” she agreed as she stifled a yawn. “It can’t possibly take him longer than five.”

Despite her cavalier attitude, Cole was intrigued. He watched as Monty made his way from the front of the tavern toward the three men. Fortunately they were standing close enough for him to overhear their words. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” Monty said as he broached their circle. “I was told I might find a Mr. Oakes here.”

“I’m Oakes,” said their prey.

“Ah, my good friend, how nice it is to meet you at last. It is indeed an honor, sir.” Monty reached for Oakes’s hand and shook it vigorously. “I was beginning to fear I would never find you.”

Oakes frowned. “Who are you?”

“Forgive me, I’ve quite lost my head, haven’t I?” Monty gave a small bow and handed over his card. “Horace Greeley at your service, sir. Representative of the Confederate States Lottery Commission. I have the privilege to inform you that your generosity to our dear cause has indeed paid off.”

Oakes frowned. “I don’t know what—”

“Most men only purchased five, maybe ten dollars’ worth of tickets,” Monty said to Oakes’s friends, “but do you know what Mr. Oakes did? Why, he purchased one thousand dollars’ worth of tickets! Granted, all of the funds are going directly to help our boys in battle, but we never expected such selfless giving, such glorious commitment to our cause.” He paused, beaming up at Oakes as his friends stared at him in slack-jawed astonishment. Oakes looked as stunned as his companions.

“Imagine our delight at the lottery office,” Monty continued smoothly, “to discover that Mr. Oakes actually won the raffle!”

“I won?” echoed Oakes.

“You did indeed. A fine Arabian thoroughbred, the most magnificent piece of horseflesh I’ve ever seen. Sired by the same stallion who was recently delivered to President Jefferson Davis himself. The saddle was made by the same craftsman who designed Jeff Davis’s saddle as well. Doubtless you’ve seen the sketches in all the papers of your esteemed president sitting atop his magnificent steed. Now you, Mr. Oakes, will travel in the same glorious style. A style which befits a man of your stature and generosity.”

“I will?” said Oakes.

Monty nodded. “We would like to submit sketches of you sitting astride Apollo to all the papers as well. I imagine the caption should read: Edward Oakes, Noble Confederate Patriot. That is, if we have your permission, sir.”

Cole watched as Oakes puffed up his chest, looking supremely satisfied. “Of course.”

“My associates can deliver Apollo directly to your home tomorrow morning, if that’s satisfactory.”

“That will do,” he conceded grandly.

“Very good,” said Monty. “What a thrill this is. There are just a few more details, sir, and then I’ll be on my way.”