The Halifax Connection (49 page)

Jack Murray had done the same, done it easily and naturally, without the slightest consciousness of anything amiss. If Erryn were to ask him how the values he once embraced could have led him here, he would look at his friend in pure bewilderment. He would find the question absurd.

And that, Erryn Shaw, is your great good fortune. Don’t bloody grumble about it.

“So,” Jack murmured to him, very low, “I hear it said you’re courting.”

“Have you, indeed.”

“Well, are you?”

“I took a young lady to tea. Does that constitute courting?”

Jack laughed. “Oh, all right, Erryn. I’ll mind my own business. But you were seen with her before, you know. Collier didn’t think twice about it, the first time. He didn’t know who she was—”

“And now he does think twice about it? Rather presumptuous of him, wouldn’t you say?”

“Easy, mate. I didn’t mean anything.”

“No, of course you didn’t. Sorry. I have an old, well-entrenched dislike for gossip when I’m the object of it. Petty of me, I know, but there you are. Can I get you some more punch?”

Well, he thought, to show himself so touchy on the matter, he might as well have admitted to being hopelessly in love. He filled Jack’s glass very generously, handed it to him with a flourish and a smile, and changed the subject. He was irritated by his own naked reaction; but mostly he was irritated by them, by all of them, collectively. He knew how they would speak of Sylvie Bowen, and how they would evaluate her, noting her scars and her age and her place in the world—most especially her place in the world—wondering what could possibly make her worth it, even for sport. It would have to be for sport, of course; no other possibility would cross their minds. An aristocrat might well seduce a servant. He might, if he was truly besotted, set her up as a kept woman. He did not marry her. In England it would lose him both his friends and his position. Here, at least in some circles, it would make him a laughingstock.

Dinner was eventually served, at a long table draped in pure white linen and glistening with silver and candles. The guests from Montreal were seated in the places of honour next to their host. Erryn, seeing Maury Janes well out of reach, was both sorry and relieved. He knew he had to seek Janes out at some point and spend some time with him, but he did not look forward to it in the least. He felt a powerful distaste for the man. He had felt it almost the
instant they met, back in Montreal: the hackles going up all over him, along with a powerful, gut-knotting wish to be somewhere else. He knew, when he thought about it sensibly, that such antipathies simply happened between people, as did their opposite; he had come to love Cuyler in a day. He knew also that he could sometimes be a snob, not as to rank, but as to qualities of mind and spirit; and Maury Janes had a certain shabby crassness about him that represented, perhaps, the complete opposite of what Erryn admired in other men. Yet, when he accounted for all of this, something still remained, something cold and repugnant, like old rubbish, something that made him look repeatedly down the length of the table and think:
Watch that one, Erryn Shaw. Watch him like a hawk.

“Tell me, does it ever get warm in this place?”

The words came out like taffy, sticky and slow, with most of the
r’s
left behind altogether.
Evah. Wahm.
Erryn smiled, turning back to his tablemate, a worn and shaggy Southerner who was, in Jamie Orton’s words, “the best blockade-running pilot in the game.” His name was Taber Hague and he was, he had said, from South Carolina. He had obviously never encountered a northern winter before, not even the tolerable Nova Scotian variety. He was wearing his outdoor jacket to the table, with a heavy scarf around his neck, and he still seemed cold.

“Warm?” Across the table, James Orton responded to his question with a chuckle. He was his old aggressive self, having spent less than twenty-four hours in jail for his part in the escape of George Wade. The local justice simply refused to hear the case against him, holding it over to the spring session of the Supreme Court. That was months away, and Erryn knew that the longer they dallied, the more it all became past history, the less likely would be any sort of conviction at all.

The Grey Tory leader spoke proudly now to Taber Hague. “There’s no a bonnier spot in the world than this one, come summertime.”

“I’ll take your word for it, sir,” the pilot said.

“No need to take my word for it, lad. There’s thousands to tell you the same, and it’s the good Lord’s truth.” He was sitting several places away. He planted his elbows on the table and leaned well forward, the better to affirm the good Lord’s truth. “As ye know, lad, the sun never sets on the British Empire, and that makes for many a garrison town, and many a soldier lad to man them. And do you ken what they all pray for, when the hot sun’s killing them in Nassau and the cholera in India? They pray to be posted to bonnie Halifax the next time round. So they do, lad, every last one of them.”

The pilot smiled and reached for his whiskey glass. There was, after all, no accounting for the strange tastes of Englishmen. There was also no arguing with James Dougal Orton. Every time he spoke, he was like a train coming at you. You didn’t argue; you got out of the way. Erryn Shaw had known several such men in his life, the first and most memorable being his father.

He took a small sip of port and studied his companions. There were some twenty of them, in a strange mix of the very elite and the decidedly raffish—men who, under ordinary circumstances, would never be found eating and drinking together. There was a Virginian named Evers who had been in Halifax since the start of the war, writing newspaper articles, organizing lectures and meetings, and generally promoting the Confederate cause. He was highly effective; Erryn often wondered why the Union never troubled itself to send a man of its own to do the same. Along with Evers were eight other Americans, including Confederate naval captain John Fallon. The remaining guests were Englishmen and local Grey Tories. At the far end of the table, one of them was just rising to his feet.

“Gentlemen, a toast.”

Everyone fell expectantly silent. They had already paid tribute to the Queen, to the Confederate States of America, and to their host, Alexander MacNab, who was paying for this exceptional
dinner. At some point there would be a toast to Jefferson Davis, may his government soon be recognized by the world, and another to Robert E. Lee, the finest general since Wellington. Someone would remember His Excellency the Archbishop, who was doing as much as any man could to keep God on their side. They would drink to dark nights and safe voyaging, and Erryn himself would raise his glass “To the ladies, God bless them!” if no one else did. By midnight, he thought, most everyone should be well and thoroughly drunk.

“Gentlemen. To Captain John Fallon, and all the brave seamen who run the blockade!”

“Captain Fallon!”

As usual, Erryn found ways to drink much less than he appeared to, a process that became easier and easier as the evening wore on. Thus the toast to Captain Fallon was duly consumed, or not consumed, and the company sat down again. The conversation shifted to the exploits of the blockade-runners, those canny rogues, as Alexander MacNab described them, who ran in and out of the beleaguered Southern ports. They ran out with cotton, coveted in the starving mills of England, and with naval stores—pitch, turpentine, and oakum—coveted in every port city in the world, including Halifax. They ran back to the South with food, shoes, and clothing; with weapons, ammunition, and other materials of war … and with luxury goods. Mostly with luxury goods, as Erryn gradually discovered. They were entrepreneurs, after all, not patriots, something canny Al MacNab quite understood.

“It was priceless to see, sir. The look on his face!”

Erryn leaned forward a little to identify the speaker, even though he was sure he recognized the voice. It was Tremain, mate of the ship
Marigold
, whose captain, William Ross, had for some reason not attended this dinner. Tremain was smiling broadly, looking about to catch everyone’s attention, with the air of a man who had a tale to tell.

“The captain walks into his store—he’d walked past four or five different ones already. None of them was big enough, he said. Then he walks into MacNab’s and looks around, and this little clerk with spectacles hurries over. ‘Yes, sir, and what might I offer you today, sir?’ and Ross says, ‘All of it.’ The clerk just blinks. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ ‘I want all of it,’ says Ross. You should have seen the poor man’s face.”

Tremain glanced about, toward those few who were recently arrived in Halifax and might have no idea how impressive Alexander MacNab’s Dry Goods Emporium really was.

“There was rows and rows of shelves,” he went on, “eight feet high, loaded with bolts of wool, and silk, and the finest cotton broadcloth. There must’ve been a thousand miles of lace. There was boxes of whalebone corsets and high-button boots and fancy embroidered whatnots for the ladies, and boxes of scarves and shawls, and God almighty knows what else. I think Mr. MacNab couldn’t tell us himself without hauling out his books. And Captain Ross says to the clerk, just like he was ordering a pair of gloves: ‘I’ll take it all. Give me a price.’ The poor chap didn’t know what to do. I’m sure he thought we were taking him for a fool. But he was polite as anything. ‘I shall have to speak with Mr. MacNab, sir,’ he says, and scurries away like a mouse with his tail on fire.”

“And did Captain Ross take it all?” someone asked.

“He stripped the place bare. Those old monks who went fasting in the desert could have moved right in and felt at home.”

A small chuckle went around the table. Not surprisingly, someone proposed a toast to Captain Ross. Afterwards, Erryn murmured to the pilot who was sitting beside him: “Where is Captain Ross, do you know? I’m surprised he isn’t here.”

“Well, if you had a choice between dinner with a beautiful lady and dinner with us, which would you choose?”

“Us, hands down.”

The pilot grinned. “You’re the first Englishman I ever met who had a sense of humour.”

“Englishmen come in many shapes and sizes,” Erryn told him.
Altogether too many shapes and sizes
, he added silently, rearranging his legs beneath the table, carefully, so he would not kick the man opposite. “Captain Ross is a dull sort, then?”

“Ross is so full of himself, there ain’t no room left for anything else. He acted like he was doing me a great favour, going out of his way to pick me up in Nassau, even though they paid him extra for it. We got that sort in Charleston too, a few of them—treating white men like they was niggers just because they don’t have the fine ancestors or the fancy clothes. A real gentleman don’t do that. General Lee, now, they say he’s a real gentleman. He’d have the time of day for any ordinary fellow, same as for the high ones. And you, Mr. Shaw …” He lifted his glass in a small, discreet salute. His hand, Erryn noticed, was not steady. “… you are a real gentleman.”

“Why, thank you.”

Dessert had finally arrived: a generous serving of plum pudding in a thick brandied sauce. Erryn dipped into it thoughtfully, considering his choice of words.

“It must be bloody tricky, piloting a ship under these conditions. With the blockade, I mean. Having to find the channels with no moon, no lights, making barely a sound. And I’ve heard the Southern ports are treacherous, what with river currents shoving the sandbars one way and the ocean currents shoving them another.”

“You heard right. I piloted for sixteen years before the war started, and every trip was different from the one before. A harbour’s like a woman, Mr. Shaw: the first time you think you really know her, the first time you take her for granted, bang, there you are with your nose in the mud and your arse on a sandbar.”

The logistics of this were difficult to picture. Erryn tried briefly and gave up. “That ever happen to you?” he asked.

“Twice, years back. But I never lost a cargo or a passenger.”

“That’s impressive. How many times have you run the blockade?”

“I’ve took five ships out and four back in. The last run, I got so sick I couldn’t hardly stand up. That’s why they left me in Nassau. I recall them taking me off the ship in a blanket and waking up a week later in a hospital. They said it was malaria.”

“That’s most unfortunate.”

“Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

They talked on, perhaps for an hour or so, interrupted by numerous toasts and by waiters with great pots of coffee, for which Erryn was supremely grateful. Eventually their host tapped his glass for attention and rose to his feet.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “it’s been a mighty fine evening, but it’s late and time for me to go home. Those of you who are leaving tomorrow, I wish you good sailing, and good luck.”

On behalf of the company, Captain Fallon thanked him, followed by hearty applause and three cheers for Alexander MacNab. The gathering began to disperse then, mostly toward the bar. Captain Fallon approached the pilot, his greatcoat over his arm.

“I’m heading back to the ship, Taber. Are you coming?”