Thieves Of Mercy

generally pompous tone sounded twice again as pompous in French.

Molly still had not looked up save for a slight tilting of her head in acknowledgment of Newcomb’s words. She did not say anything, so after a moment’s silence, Newcomb said, “Please, won’t you follow me?”

“Oui, oui,” Molly said wearily. “Wendy, help me up.”

With an arm around Molly’s waist, Wendy helped her to her feet. Newcomb remained at a safe distance, several feet away, watching. He led them forward and around the front of the deck-house to a brightly varnished door below the wheelhouse.

“My quarters are at your disposal. They are small, but accommodating.” In the dark interior, Wendy could see oak paneling and white-painted wainscoting, a bunk with rails to keep its occupant from rolling out, a small desk and chair, another larger wing chair, a sink, pitcher, and chamber pot. Small, but accommodating.

Molly did not say a thing, simply stepped into the cabin as if it were her birthright, head down. Wendy said, “Thank you, Captain, this is most gracious.”

Newcomb gave a nod of his head. “Certainly. I shall send word when we are approaching the Norvier. I don’t think it will take us above half an hour to close with her.”

Newcomb stopped, but he did not leave, and his eyes were on Molly, whose hat was tipped over her face. When the silence became too much to bear, Wendy said again, “Thank you, Captain.”

“Certainly. Please forgive me, I must get my ship under way.” He pulled his watch, opened it with a click, looked down at the face, shut it with a snap, bowed, and left, closing the door behind him. A minute later the women felt the dispatch boat get under way, her wallowing motion changing to a more deliberate headway, the thump of the engine below coming faster.

In the half-dark of the cabin, Molly pulled off her hat and she smiled. She stood, leaned close to Wendy. “So far so good,” she whispered, and then crawled into Newcomb’s bunk and stretched out.

Wendy knelt beside the bunk. “Have you any idea of what we’ll do when we reach the Norvier?” she asked. She spoke softly, and in French.

“I do not know. Convince the minister that I am his wife? But I think if we can get the Yankees to leave us aboard, we should be all right.”

“I do not think those were Lincoln ’s instructions to Newcomb.”

“Nor do I.” Molly paused, as if uncertain whether or not she should say what she was thinking. “There may be another problem.”

“What?”

“Well, it’s like this, dear. If you lay enough eggs, eventually one will grow up to be a chicken that comes home to roost.”

“Whatever does that mean?”

“I don’t know. I just fear we may have trouble from a different quarter.”

They heard footsteps now, coming down the side deck, walking with purpose. Molly lay back in the bunk, her arm draped dramatically over her eyes, her back to the room. Wendy turned and looked at the door, waited for the knock she was sure would come.

But it did not. Rather, the door was flung open and Acting Master Newcomb stepped in. Wendy leaped to her feet, gasped in genuine surprise. “Mr. Newcomb! How dare you… without so much as a knock-” But Newcomb was not listening.

“All right, Cathy, the jig is up,” he barked, as if commanding a stubborn sailor. “You may leave off with the French and all your airs.” His lips continued to move even after he was done speaking. In the dim light the whites of his eyes stood out unnaturally bright.

Wendy stared, wide-eyed. She could not have been more surprised if Newcomb had doused her with a bucket of seawater. But Molly sat up slowly, swung her legs over the side of the cot. “Pardon?” she asked.

Newcomb smiled, and it was not a friendly smile. More in the nature of a leer. “Par votre malheur vous se trouvez sur mon bateau,” he said. As your bad luck would have it, you find yourself on my ship.

“Bad luck?” Molly said, and it gave Wendy a little stab of panic to hear her speak in English, so conditioned had she become to Molly’s French. “Not bad luck at all, Roger. It is the very best luck for me to find myself under the protection of a dear old friend.”

Newcomb was silent for a moment. His hand reached for his pocket watch, pulled it free, snapped it open. He glanced at it, replaced it. “Humph,” he said at last. “Miss Atkins, sit there, please,” he ordered, indicating the desk chair, and Wendy sat. Newcomb stepped quickly across the cabin, three strides and he was in front of Molly. He reached past her, snatched up her reticule from the bunk.

“Mm-hmm,” he said. He pulled the pepperbox pistol out of the silk bag. “You always preferred this to the derringer.”

“These are dangerous times, Roger. A girl has to protect herself.”

“Indeed.” Newcomb slipped the pepperbox into his coat pocket. He looked around, saw Wendy’s purse sitting on top of their carpetbags. He snatched that up as well, opened the clasp, looked inside.

“Captain, how dare you?” Wendy nearly shouted, her outrage genuine. To look in a woman’s purse! It was the most extravagant liberty.

Newcomb closed the purse and put it down. “It’s nice to find a woman who’s not armed,” he said dryly.

“It would be nice to find a gentleman, armed or otherwise,” Wendy retorted, but even as she spoke she felt the panic come to life.

Armed! She had become so acclimated to the weight of the gun on her thigh that she had forgotten it was there, but now she was reminded and she became sharply conscious of it.

Oh, God, is it bulging my skirts? She wanted to look, to adjust her petticoat, but she fought the urge, and sat with hands folded in her lap.

“Roger, come now,” Molly said, her voice like honey.

“No, no. None of that. You won’t play me for a fool. I want to know what your game is.” His voice sounded to Wendy a few notes higher than it had been.

“It is very complicated,” Molly continued, soothing. “It involves the Norwegian minister, nothing to do with the United States.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Newcomb was on the edge of shouting. He seemed awfully upset about Molly’s pretending to be the Norwegian minister’s wife. Wendy wondered what their history was.

“The President,” Newcomb said, struggling to keep his tone under control, “the President, told me that you came to his ship under a Confederate flag of truce. He even had the Rebels still on board, and don’t imagine they are not being asked a few questions. Cathy… how could you? A Confederate spy? It’s so… it’s so cliched.”

Molly shrugged. “These are trying times, Roger, dear. Sometimes we must improvise. But look here, if I were a Confederate spy, do you think I would have let Mr. Lincoln live? I had my reticule in hand the whole time I was aboard.”

“I am not sure you would be willing to lose your own life for any cause. Do you really care about anything other than Cathy Luce?” But his voice had lost some of its conviction.

“I care, Roger.” She paused, looking into Newcomb’s eyes. God, she is a beautiful woman! Wendy thought. “I care about you.”

“Oh, Cathy, if only I could believe you-”

“You can believe me, Roger. I have never wanted to hurt you. The others I didn’t care about, but you are different.”

Wendy watched, fascinated, as if she were watching a magic show. Which she was, in a way. Molly was a spell-caster, a conjurer who brought to life any number of people, such as this Cathy Luce, whoever she might be, all housed in her slight frame.

“Help me, Roger,” Molly said, softly, pleading. Newcomb nodded his head, as if mesmerized, and took a step forward.

And then the spell collapsed, broken under the weight of an ancient wrong, a remembered resolve, Wendy did not know what, but it was gone. Newcomb spun around on his heel. “Oh, damnation!” He punched the bulkhead with his fist. He spun back. “No, Cathy. Not this time. You will not charm your way out of