Would he be arrested? Jailed? How would he notify Judith?
Dorking reached for another leek. "You're on the wrong side, sir. This nigger slavery stuff — m' wife's very strong against it. So 'm I."
"Does your conviction spring from your conscience or your pocketbook, Dorking?"
The man scowled. "I wouldn't joke, sir. You are a foreign national, involved in serious violations of the Enlistment Act. Oh, I know the dodge, sir — shipyards cannot arm and equip vessels of war for belligerents with whom Great Britain is at peace. But nothing in the act says it's illegal to build a ship here" — he waved the green stem near Cooper's nose — "and buy guns and powder and shells there" — the leek flew away as he extended his arm — "and bring 'em together three or more nautical miles from our coastline. Not illegal, but it is definitely a Jesuitical interpretation of our law, wouldn't you say, sir?"
Cooper stayed silent. Dorking leaned in again, intimidating. "Very Jesuitical indeed. In your case, however, it could be overlooked — even a small stipend paid — if my clients received one or two brief reports as to the purpose and status of a certain vessel sometimes identified as the 290 and sometimes as Enrica — Still sailing the same course, aren't we, sir?"
Pale with rage despite his fright, Cooper said, "You are offering me a bribe, is that it, Mr. Dorking?"
"No, no! Merely a little more financial security, sir. Just for a few helpful facts — such as an explanation of the odd behavior of some sailor boys lately seen on Canning Street. They were marching along with fife and drum, playing a tune called 'Dixie's Land.' The same sailor boys had been spotted at John Laird's not long before. Spotted inside the gate. Do I make myself clear? Now what does that say to you, Mr. Main?"
"It says they like the tune of 'Dixie's Land,' Mr. Dorking. What does it say to you?"
"That Laird's might be hiring a crew, sir. For the proving run of a new Confederate States war vessel, could it be?" The inquiry agent flung his half-eaten leek on the table, roaring at Maggie. "Where's my damn gin, woman?" He then gave Cooper time to observe his narrowed eyes and clenched teeth before he said, "I shall be candid with you, sir. There's more than a fee if you help us. There's assured safety for your wife and little ones."
Maggie had reached the table. Cooper snatched the glass from her hand and dashed the gin in Dorking's face. The man cursed, dripping and wiping. Cooper grabbed his throat with his left hand.
"If you touch my wife or my children, I'll find you and personally kill you."
"I'll fetch Percy," Maggie said, starting away. "Me husband. He weighs seventeen stone."
Hearing that, Dorking bolted to the door, pausing long enough to shout back, "Slave-owning nigger-beating bastard. We'll stop you." He shook the paper sack. "Rely on it!" Jangle went the bell, vibrating long after the door slammed.
"You all right, sir?" Maggie asked.
"Yes." Cooper swallowed; shock set in. He couldn't believe he had seized Dudley's man so violently. It was the threat against his family that had provoked him — without thought or hesitation. The Confederate banners could sink to oblivion, Jeff Davis and all the rest could die and go to glory — he wouldn't care so long as nothing harmed the three human beings he held dear.
The incident left him shaken, and not solely because of the personal aspect. It showed him the hour was growing later, the stakes larger, the mood more desperate on both sides of the table. He finished his ale and drank a second, and still felt church-sober; no relief there.
Shadows heavied in the lane, and finally it was time to leave for the Church of St. Mary, Birkenhead. The church was situated near the Mersey, practically next door to Laird's and the ship he had never seen. "Want Percy to tag after you for safety's sake?" Maggie whispered before he went out. He did, desperately, but he shook his head.
The walk to the church was tense. The narrow streets of the Birkenhead waterfront struck him as peculiarly empty for a fine early evening. He kept glancing behind but reached the church, a cruciform structure of Gothic design built early in the century, without incident.
A nondescript man stepped away from the side of the building. He offered an apology and brief explanation for the delay. Then, after both checked the surrounding area for possible observers once more and saw none, Cooper removed his hat and passed the folded message to the man, who walked quickly away, and that was all.
Cooper ran most of the way to the ferry stage but missed the boat by three minutes and had to wait an hour for the next. The terminal smelted of dust and sausages and the odors of a drunk snoring on the floor in a corner. The short trip in the gathering evening was far less sunny than the earlier, one. Cooper again leaned on the rail, seeing not the water or the city but the eyes and mustache and chomping teeth of Marcellus Dorking.
We'll stop you.
Into his mind there stole a question that, even a week ago, would have revolted him and brought derisive laughter. But now —
"Sir?"
"What's that?" He started, then showed embarrassment; the person who had stolen up behind him was a crewman.
"We've docked, sir. Everyone else has got off."
"Oh. Thank you."
And away he went, frowning in the spring dusk, silently repeating the question that was ludicrous no longer: Should I get a gun?
53
"Take the regiment, Colonel Bent."
Over and over, he heard the command in his head. Heard it despite the crashing of artillery in the cool Sunday air. Heard it despite the clatter of guns and limbers wildly wheeling up to defend the line. Heard it despite the hurt or frightened cries of the untrained Ohioans he was to rally and hold in position. Heard it despite all the hell-noise of this April morning.
"Take the regiment, Colonel Bent."
The division commander's eye had fallen on him at staff headquarters near the little Shiloh Meeting House, an hour after the first faint firing and the return of the first patrols to confirm its dire meaning. Albert Sidney Johnston's army was out there to the southwest and had caught them by surprise.
Bent was in this spot because the division commander disliked him. The commander could have ordered a junior officer to lead the Ohio regiment when its colonel, lieutenant colonel, and adjutant were all reported killed. Instead, he sent a staff colonel — one to whom he had been curt and unpleasant since their first meeting.
Had any officer ever served in worse circumstances? The general was a besotted incompetent, the division commander a little martinet, who last fall had been prostrated by an attack of nerves brought on by fear of Albert Sidney Johnston. Bent was convinced William Tecumseh Sherman was a madman. Vindictive, too. "Take the regiment, Colonel Bent."
After that, Sherman said something that made Bent hate him as he had never hated anyone except Orry Main and George Hazard: "And don't let me hear of you standing behind a tree with your hand out, feeling for a furlough. I know about you and your Washington connections."
Those connections had rescued Elkanah Bent. Or so he thought till this Sabbath morning. The day he boarded the westbound train with Elmsdale, he wrote and posted a polite, apologetic letter — a last appeal — to lawyer Dills. When he arrived in Kentucky, he found new orders, reassigning him from line command to staff duty with Anderson.
Then commands were shuffled, as they were endlessly shuffled. Anderson left, replaced by Sherman, whose brother was an influential Ohio senator. Had the little madman somehow gotten wind of wire-pulling? Bent didn't know, but he knew the division commander had been waiting for an opportunity to punish him.