Bride of the Night (25 page)

She eased back, allowing herself a little smile. “You were well worth saving, Mr. Richard Anderson. Under the worst of circumstances, you fought the killer instinct. And you actually managed to save the day, you know.”

He was pleased with the compliment. “We all need one another in this world, I think.” He rose to answer a knock at the door. It was Dr. MacKay, and he carried a tray. There was a delightful scent of something cooked over their brazier, dried beef freshened with salt and pepper in boiling water, hardtack coconut meat and a small tankard that she was pretty sure was filled with blood.

“How's our patient?” he asked.

“Strong and rested,” she assured him.

“Good. The captain says we'll make the naval yard by tomorrow dusk. You'll need to be rested,” he said, and leaving the tray, he went out to attend to his other patients.

Richard followed him, but paused at the door. He looked back at her and smiled. “You know, Miss Fox, we all do need one another in this world. And it's rare when a man or woman finds that perfect person. There's no one in government of society who can stop them from being together. So, my darling friend, sister, I'm telling you this as one who loves you deeply—stop being a stubborn fool and stop being afraid that you may love someone more than a person loves you. For God's sake, Tara, marry that man!” he said.

“He hasn't asked me,” she told him.

Richard grinned. “Then ask
him!
”

She felt a strange trembling seize her and she was surprised when she spoke with quivering lips. “Richard, we may not survive that long.”

“All the more reason, Tara,” he said seriously, “that if you do, you be honest with yourself, and with him, and seize the happiness you are both surely due.”

With that, he left the cabin.

 

F
INN MADE LAND IN
Northern Virginia. Exhausted, he lay on the ground, breathing, gathering his strength again. He closed his eyes, and the thunder of his breath was
so loud, and he was so exhausted, that he didn't hear the approaching men.

When he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by soldiers.

Union men, he saw with gratitude.

Someone poked him with the business end of a rifle. “Get up, man! Identify yourself!”

“Phineas Dunne,” he said, “Pinkerton agent. It's imperative that I reach the capital as quickly as possible.” He tried to get to his feet, but he staggered. A man reached out to help him.

“We'll get you to the general,” he was told. “Have you credentials?”

“Who is the general in charge here?” he asked.

“Ulysses S. Grant, and he'll know the truth of you, that's for sure. And if you're lying, and you're a Reb spy, you'll hang, sir! General Grant shows pity on fighting men, but spies…spies hang from the neck until dead!”

“Just get me to him. Speed is of the essence now. By God, speed is everything!”

Finn chafed at any time spent away from his pursuit, but the swim across miles of ocean had cost him dearly. Nor did he wish to cause harm to these officers. He allowed himself to be escorted and seated atop one on the soldier's mounts, again chafing at the time it took to reach the federal encampment. There was more time when lesser officers argued his position, and then finally agreed that Grant must have the final say. By the time he was ushered into the field tent where the general
sat with maps, a bottle of whiskey and a cigar before him, he'd been given dry clothing, and he was feeling the return of warmth and power to his muscles.

“Dunne!”

Finn was surprised when Grant recognized him immediately. They had only met briefly, and that before the general had been sent to the Western campaign, years before. Grant actually rose, and reached for his hand. “A glass, man, bring a glass,” he ordered his aide. “This man is in sound need of a drink!”

Yes, a small portion of blood would be nice right now,
Finn thought.

But he accepted a whiskey instead.

“I must make Washington, D.C., with all haste, general,” Finn said. “There is a spy about to land in the area, and I believe he will have killed somewhere along the coast to acquire a ship for access into the capital. I need to send a special warning to the president, and to certain men in the capital who have dealt with such a man and his life before. Can you get a telegraph out for me?”

“Indeed, I can, and if this matter be so grave, I can send men with you,” the general replied.

“I must find this man myself, sir, and the problem is that he spreads a disease. It is better to trust no man than take a chance trusting one who has been infected. I need a conveyance into the capital—the quickest route possible.”

Grant nodded, still watching him.

“General, the president's life lies in the balance.”

Grant stood. “I will see that you are accompanied to Lieutenant Dickson, who will get your telegraph out. And I will help you with whatever provisions and God's speed that I am able to supply.”

“Thank you,” Finn told him.

Grant nodded. “If you get to the president, let him know this personally from me. I have General Lee all but pinned down here.” He pointed to the map. “He is low on men, and the land is all but stripped. He is feeling the noose of the blockades and knows that there is nothing more than what he has. If Lee will surrender, the South will be broken. God help me, I fear that I will sacrifice thousands more men, but we will corner Lee, here in Virginia. A good man, a brilliant commander, one who might well have stopped the war years ago, had he only agreed when Lincoln asked him to head the Union army.” He lifted his glass. “To my enemy. May he survive, and may we end this quickly, while American men—of all states—still live.”

Finn lifted his glass in turn, feeling Grant's determination, and his sorrow.

 

D
USK FELL AND THE
USS Freedom
made its way through the waterways, halted time and again by the guards of the defense system that surrounded the capital.

Tara was on deck when they at last made port, and she eagerly examined the yard and those who were working there. It had taken them nearly two full days to arrive, and she was heartily afraid that danger and
death might well have arrived before them. But, there was a bustle about everywhere, and it seemed that the men were fine. Even at dusk, men were working in the shipyard, and the guard that greeted them as they debarked was fierce.

Captain Tremblay immediately wanted to know if there had been any disturbance in the area; they were assured that there had not been.

Lieutenant John Dahlgren, in charge of the yard, was absent, overseeing the launch of a new ship, but a Captain Myers was at the officers' building, a beautiful residence with terraces and built-in brick, cleanly painted and welcoming, and had insisted they report there.

Beneath the glow of a bright new moon and the many lamps that burned around the busy area, the yard presented a strange spectacle of peace; across the river Tara could see sloping fields and farms, all restful as night fell. Following Captain Tremblay, with Richard and Dr. MacKay at her side, she hurried toward the officers' building.

Many soldiers and sailors were housed there as the war progressed. Tara kept a sharp eye on the men they passed as they were escorted in and led to an office on the second floor. They entered alone, and soon after, Captain Myers came into the room, ready to greet them.

Myers was a young man, perhaps in his late twenties at best. He greeted them with a salute, and while he asked them to sit, Captain Tremblay remained standing. “Sir! It's imperative that we know of any ships that
might have made port in the past forty-eight hours, and of any disturbance, no matter how small, that might have occurred in that time,” Tremblay told him. “We have immediate knowledge of an especially heinous and…diseased spy who was attempting to arrive and, from here, attack the president of the United States!”

“Captain Tremblay, please, sir, take a seat. We've had no such arrivals, nor have we endured the least disturbance. I can see to it that you and your crew are housed for the night, and that your ship is refurbished, and then send you on your way again.” He stared pointedly at Tara. “Miss…what would your function be on this journey?”

“I know the spy,” she said. “I can point him out to you.”

He lowered his head, his lips curving into a half smile. “Miss, trust me, at this point of the war, we have dealt with many spies. Indeed, one of the finest ladies in Washington society, Mrs. Rose Greenhow, was caught for her espionage for the Southern front. She abided for a while in prison, and was sent south. I hear that the woman died, drowned, after attempting to procure foreign assistance for the Rebels. You see, we have learned, and we will prevail.”

Tara stood, placing her hands on the desk. “Lieutenant, this is a spy like no other. The men from this ship and I need to mingle with the officers, enlisted men and shipbuilders here. This man, called Gator by many—a known figure wanted by the Pinkerton agency—is tal
ented beyond all expectations. We are also expecting a Pinkerton agent to have arrived here in pursuit of this spy.”

“Dunne isn't with you?” Lieutenant Myers asked.

He knew about Finn. There was only one way.

Tara gave a hard look at the man's eyes. And she saw the little rim of red around the irises.

Myers realized that she recognized him for what he was—diseased.

He let out a hissing sound, curling his lips back as he pounced from behind his desk. He leaped toward her, but he was no Billy Seabold. Captain Tremblay pushed back, drawing his naval sword, but Tara didn't need his assistance to ward off the man. She caught him by the neck as he struggled to reach her. Captain Tremblay skewered him through the back, and straight through to the front, but not before the man managed to choke out a loud cry.

As Tremblay retrieved his sword from the body and Tara threw the man down, they heard the pounding of footsteps in the hall, men answering the cry of alarm from their commander. “His head, his head, be thorough!” Tara cried, wrenching Myers's sword from its hilt. Tremblay decapitated the man with a now-practiced swing.

“Lord, they'll think us murderers!” Dr. MacKay said.

“He's here—Billy Seabold is here,” Tara answered him. “We've got to defend ourselves. And try not to kill the innocent.”

“He might already be headed to the White House,” Richard warned.

There was a thunderous pounding at the door. Tara hurried to it and threw it open. “He's diseased! The lieutenant was diseased. There are others out there now who will try to kill you, as well,” she quickly told the five men—weapons posed—staring at her. “Help us. Before God, you've got to help us.”

“Murder!” one of the men cried. “Take them!”

Richard grabbed Tara. “Get out of here while you can. They'll imprison the rest of us—you go!”

“They'll
kill
you!” she argued.

One had raised a rifle. She flew at him, grabbing the rifle and twisting the rod. He stared at her, backing away in dismay and fear. She spun around, taking hard swings at two others. Captain Tremblay stole a paperweight from the captain's desk and smashed it against the head of the fourth man while Richard gave the last a right to the jaw. They could hear footsteps on the stairs and all around them.

“Let's go!” Tara cried.

She ran toward the stairs and met the men racing up them. “Out the window! The attacker leaped out the window!” she cried, and the troop of men went racing down the stairs.

They followed.

But when they reached the serenity of the terrace, they were suddenly met by another, larger group of men. Tara paused, and those who had come down the stairs
shouted that they were looking for an attacker that had gone out the window.

The group didn't move.

“What's the matter with you men?” a lieutenant demanded of the stilled men. “We've an assassin among us!”

The men opposite stood dead still, staring. And then, a hissing sound. Those in the front began to bare their fangs and move forward with deadly intent.

“Their heads! Go for their heads, men!” Captain Tremblay shouted.

Tara found herself in the midst of a melee, men coming after her, one after another, as if they knew she was the enemy to beat. She fought them off, aware of the tremendous numbers against her. Even as others tried to step in to come to her aid, they were batted off, stabbed, attacked and left behind.

And as she fought, trying and then failing to keep Captain Tremblay, Richard and Dr. MacKay in view, she realized that she was being herded back toward a smaller house that stood behind the officers' building.

She had no choice; she kept backing away, defending herself, slipping away with all speed only to discover that at least ten of the men knew her moves, and that they would be in front of her again. She killed one, two, three…and still, they kept coming. She was forced up the steps to the house, and the door opened, and she was forced in…?.

And suddenly, the men were gone.

She turned, and saw Billy Seabold, now wearing a Union brigadier general's uniform. He smiled at her from the bottom of the house's staircase.

“Welcome, Tara Fox!” he said. He approached her, and she realized again what a magnificent disguise he had managed as a lowly seaman, disguising his much taller, older and stronger self.

He smiled. “I have command of the naval yard. Come on in. I have a lovely cognac here, and it's been blended with the most delicious mixture of blood!”

“Human blood?” she asked. “I think not.”

“Oh, come, come. You're going to die, which is such a shame—you're truly such a beautiful creature! But…alas, I don't think I can bend you to my way of thinking, and thus, my dear, no matter what you were to say, you'd always be a danger to me.”