Thieves Of Mercy

If there was anything Tattnall envied Jones, it was the luff’s youth. Young men trusted in second chances. Old men like Tattnall knew that sometimes they never came.

THIRTEEN

I avail myself of the occasion to thank you for your courtesy and all your conduct, so far as known to me, during my brief visit here. Yours, very truly,

A. LINCOLN TO FLAG OFFICER L. M. GOLDSBOROUGH

The Union fleet was getting under way, but Wendy and Molly, still in the company of their hosts, were waiting. They stood in a knot on the tug’s starboard side deck, an uncomfortable group, waiting for the dispatch boat. Molly, imperious as always as the aristocratic Ingrid Nielsen, Wendy, quiet and deferential to her overbearing aunt, a bit awed by the august company. Lincoln, who was hard to read. Polite and solicitous, still there was a quality in his manner that suggested he was not entirely on board with the idea that the women were who they said they were.

Wendy marveled at the many layers of suspicion and deception playing out in that little space of deck, tempered by the demands of diplomatic protocol. Lincoln, whatever he thought, clearly was not confident enough in his suspicions to challenge their story. Nor did he have to, because the Norvier’s arrival meant that within the next hour, the truth would be revealed with absolute certainty.

The tug’s commanding officer, hovering around, eager to help, was completely unaware of the silent tragicomedy being performed right before his eyes.

A quarter mile off, and steaming toward them under a black plume, with a white pile of water under her bow, came the dispatch boat that had been summoned by means of signal flag.

“Please, Miss Atkins,” Lincoln said, “tell Mrs. Nielsen that I greatly regret that I cannot bring her myself to her husband’s ship. The precarious nature of our military situation leaves me not a moment to spare, and I would not be able to do her husband the honor he deserves. Pray tell her I will send an invitation for them to join me at the White House as soon as is convenient.”

“Yes, sir,” Wendy said and translated to Molly.

“Tell the President I understand entirely,” Molly said and Wendy translated again.

They waited in uncomfortable silence another five minutes until the dispatch boat-another tug, but smaller than the one they were aboard-made her slow approach and bumped gently against the thick rope fenders that had been let over the side. Sailors passed lines back and forth, the two vessels made fast to one another.

An officer appeared on the boat deck of the dispatch boat, a man in his late twenties or early thirties, a neatly trimmed beard, blue uniform coat as if it had just left the tailor’s that morning. He saluted the way one would demonstrate saluting to a new recruit. He might have been addressing himself to the lieutenant who stood at Lincoln ’s side, but the performance was for the President.

“Acting Master Newcomb,” the lieutenant said, giving back a much more lax salute, “the President requires that you give these ladies transport.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” snapped Newcomb. He pulled a watch from his vest pocket, the silver case sparkling in the sun. He snapped it open, glanced at the face, snapped it shut, and replaced it with the ease of a familiar gesture.

A gang of sailors pushed their way past, wrestling with a wooden brow that had stanchions along its length and rope handrails adorned with fancy ropework. They laid the brow across the rails of the two vessels. Two more sailors appeared bearing the women’s scant luggage and they carried it over the brow and set it on the deck of the dispatch boat.

Lincoln muttered something in the lieutenant’s ear. “Mr. New-comb, please come aboard. The President wishes to discuss this matter.”

Wendy took a half step back, hoping to escape notice, to eavesdrop on the President’s instructions, but Lincoln was not going to let that happen.

“Ladies,” he said as he led the way to the brow, even as New-comb was crossing his boat deck to the ladder down. “I fear this is where we part company. I cannot tell you what a delight it was for Stanton and me to have you aboard, even if it was such a trying circumstance for yourselves.”

Wendy translated. Molly replied to the effect that the President was courtesy itself. She turned to Lincoln, gave a shallow curtsey, smiled, and said in heavily accented English, “Tank you.”

Lincoln nodded his head. “You are most welcome,” he said, then added, “Who’s to know, perhaps we shall see one another again shortly.” There was again that devilish undertone in his words, that suggestion that he was going along but he was not being played for a fool. Was he covering all bets, so that regardless of how it turned out, he would look as if he knew the truth all along? Perhaps.

With a helpful hand on their backs, Lincoln guided Molly and then Wendy to the brow, where sailors reached out to aid them in their crossing, though it seemed to Wendy as if the sailors were more interested in touching than helping.

Acting Master Newcomb was coming around the front of the deckhouse as Molly stepped aboard and strode aft, leaving Wendy alone to greet him.

“Ma’am,” Newcomb bowed. “I am Acting Master Roger New-comb, at your service.”

“Miss Wendy Atkins.” Wendy gave a dip. “My aunt, Mrs. Ingrid Nielsen,” she said, indicating Molly’s back. “She has had a very trying time.”

“We will do everything we can to accommodate you both,” Newcomb said in a solicitous and patronizing tone that gave Wendy an instant dislike for the man. He pulled his watch from his vest pocket, snapped it open, glanced down, as if to see if he was late for his appointment with the President. He snapped it shut, replaced it as he bowed to Wendy, then crossed the brow to present himself to Lincoln. Wendy stood looking idly around, looking at anything but the President, straining to catch any word of what he was saying, but Lincoln was careful that she did not.

Molly was sitting down on the boat’s rail, her face in her hand. Wendy stepped over to her, suddenly concerned.

“Aunt,” she began in English, caught herself, and continued in French, “are you all right?”

“My head is hurting terribly, I am sure it is from the sun, and too little sleep. Please ask the captain, when he returns, if there is a private place aboard to which I might retire until we reach the Norvier.”

“Of course,” Wendy said. She was concerned, but her concern was tempered with uncertainty. Was Molly really feeling ill? Or was this part of the play?

It does not matter, Wendy thought. It all must be played as real. That was why Molly had given no indication if her pain was real or feigned.

“Mr. Newcomb?” Wendy said as she hurried back up the deck. Newcomb replaced the watch in his vest as he stepped on board, and the sailors whisked the brow away and cast off the lines.

“Yes, Miss Atkins?” His attitude was different now. Guarded, not so eager to please. Wendy could well guess the subject of his talk with Lincoln.

“My aunt, Mrs. Nielsen, has a terrible headache. She is not at all used to such hardships as we have encountered. Is there a private place she might rest, until we reach her husband’s ship?”

“Yesss,” Newcomb said, drawing the word out, as if he was not entirely certain. He glanced over at Molly, sitting on the rail. “Yes, certainly.” His eyebrows came together. “I will escort you there myself.”

“Oh, thank you, sir.”

Newcomb stepped past Wendy and Wendy trailed behind.

“Ma’am”-Newcomb gave Molly a quick bow-“I wish you would do me the honor of using my cabin, until we reach the Norvier.”

Molly made a small sound that suggested her lack of understanding. She did not look up, so Newcomb found himself addressing her straw hat.

Wendy translated. “My aunt does not speak English,” she explained. “French is our only common language.”

“Pas d’un probleme,” Newcomb said. That is no problem. “I happen to be fluent in French.” The grammar was perfect, though he spoke with a stiff Yankee accent, and his