Dark Chaos (# 4 in the Bregdan Chronicles Historical Fiction Romance Series) (37 page)

Libby Prison was just as crowded as Matthew remembered it.  Hundreds of men looked up as he and Peter were escorted into the room after being registered in the office with the twenty other men chosen to stay.  

              “Welcome to Libby Prison.” 

             
Matthew forced a smile as he turned to look at the man standing close behind him.  “Greetings from the outside world.”  He knew from past experience that the men confined here longed for any word of what was happening outside the four walls they were trapped in. 

             
“My name is Captain Arthur Anderson.”

             
“And I’m Matthew Justin.  This is Peter Jansen.”

             
“Your commissions?”

             
“We’re journalists.”

             
A smile lit Captain Anderson’s face.  “Come on over here, boys.  We’ve got us a couple of journalists.  Now we can really find out what is going on out there!”  He pulled up a barrel and plunked down on it.  “Talk.”

             
Two hours later Matthew and Peter had answered all their questions.  At least the ones they had fired at them so far. 

             
“My turn,” Matthew finally said firmly.  “How is the prisoner exchange going?”  In spite of his determination not to hope, he was grasping on to the chance his time here would be short.

             
Anderson shrugged.  “Hooker lost a lot more men than Lee at Chancellorsville.  There has been exchange going on, but there are still  lots of us here.  The Rebels like to hang on to the officers in case there is someone really important they want to exchange for.”

             
Matthew felt his hope flicker.  “I see.” 

             
“Come on, Matthew.  They aren’t going to keep a couple of journalists here,” Peter argued.  “We’ll be out of here soon.”

             
Matthew said nothing.  The look on Anderson’s face said it all.  The rules of this war had all changed.  They were now being written as need dictated.  There might be the need for a couple of Yankee journalists.  As long as there was that possibility, they would be held.  Their very novelty made them a valuable commodity. 

             
“What’s Belle Island like?” he asked suddenly.  Matthew wanted to take his mind off his own situation.

             
Anderson scowled.  “It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen.  And nothing you ever want to experience.  This is a grand hotel compared to what those men are enduring.  There is precious little shelter, and never enough food.  Those men are crammed in there like rats in a cage.”  His voice grew husky.  “We watch them from the windows sometimes.  You can see dark shapes tottering around.  God help them if this war isn’t over by winter.  Having them out there then will be nothing less than murder.”

             
Matthew watched the agony play over the man’s face.  He knew some of the men he had commanded must be confined on the island. 

             
“I’m the president of the Libby Prison Association,” Anderson said finally.  “It is my privilege to inform you of the rules on conduct we have established here.”  He smiled.  “They’re pretty simple really.  We just decided that when we finally get out of here we will still be civilized gentlemen.”

             
“Those of us who started that way,” a listening man hooted.  The room rang with laughter. 

             
Matthew felt himself relax a little.  The faces had changed since he had last been here, but the camaraderie remained the same.  The South could steal a man’s freedom, but it couldn’t steal his humanity.   That was a choice that would always remain his.  As before, Matthew determined to maintain his humanity. 

“What happens if you need to go to the bathroom?”  Peter asked quietly.

              Matthew smiled slightly, settling in his cramped position among the rows of men laying on the floor side by side, their feet towards the narrow center aisle.  He had asked the same question.  “You do your best to hold your bladder,” he said matter-of-factly.  “It’s almost impossible to get up without stepping on someone.  It’s not the best way to form friendships,” he said dryly.

             
Peter was quiet, digesting this piece of information.  “Do you really think we’ll be here a long time?”  His voice lacked its usual confidence. 

             
“I won’t be,” Matthew said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

             
Peter turned over to stare at him.  “What...?”

             
“I’m going to escape,” Matthew whispered.  Then he turned his back to avoid any more questions.   Just one day back in the prison had convinced him he would not willingly stay longer than necessary.  Every day would be spent waiting for the right opportunity. 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

             
Robert settled down at the rustic wooden table with a mug of ale in his hand.  He leaned back against the plush cushions behind him and scanned the room slowly.  He had been in London almost a month now.  He had become familiar with the streets, grown accustomed to the constant noise, and had made many new friends, but nothing had eased the ache in his heart for Carrie.  He thought about her now as he took a sip from his mug.  He tried to envision her - where she was, what she was doing.  He frowned, once again feeling the frustration of not even knowing whether she was safe.  If she had written letters, none of them had reached him. 

             
“What’s the frown for, old man?” 

             
Robert looked up as a cheerful voice broke into his thoughts.  He smiled, relieved to have someone to take his mind off home.  “About time you got here, Charles,” he said, raising his mug.  “I’ve been waiting for almost twenty minutes.”

             
“I was delayed,” Charles said casually, slipping into the chair next to Robert.  “The weather is rather beastly, don’t you think?”

             
“London weather is almost always beastly,” Robert scoffed.  “I can deal with it though knowing I will be returning to the sunny South, but I don’t know how you Londoners stand it.”

             
“Oh, we get used to it,” Charles grinned.  “Besides, it gives us something to complain about.”    He took a large gulp from the mug of ale the waitress had put down in front of him and breathed a sigh of relief.  “I spent enough time in your sunny south to prefer clouds instead of suffocating humidity and hordes of mosquitoes.  I’ll take London, thank you.”

             
“To each his own,” Robert responded calmly.   Then he leaned forward.  “What did you find out?”  Charles was more than just a friend.  The middle-aged man sitting next to him had spent almost a decade in both North Carolina and South Carolina after he graduated from school in London.  He had stayed long enough to develop a firm loyalty for the South.   He owned, down by the waterfront, several warehouses that were stocked with tons of goods destined for the Confederate coastline. 

             
Charles reached up and tugged off his tweed hat.  His coppery curls shone under the light.  Bright blue eyes regarded Robert thoughtfully.  “I’m afraid it’s not good news,” he said somberly. 

             
Robert took another drink of his ale and waited.   He was sure his face didn’t reveal the sick feeling in his stomach.  He never knew who might be watching.

             
Charles leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper.  “Russell ordered seizure of the
Alexandra
today.”

             
Robert felt his heart sink.  The
Alexandra
was a boat commissioned by the South. It wasn’t one of the boats he was here for, but he knew its reputation - for its capacity not only to run the blockade but also to play a large role in destroying the weaker vessels of the Northern navy.  That reputation had inspired hope in the Confederate government.  “But I thought Russell was just going to look the other way,” he protested.  “His foreign policy so far would indicate he doesn’t want to get too involved in the blockade business.”

             
Charles shrugged.  “Things change.  He seems to be paying more attention to the foreign enlistment act of 1819.”

             
Robert had done his homework by now.  “The act prohibits the building and equipping of armed ships in British ports for the support of belligerents in a war in which Great Britain is a neutral,” he stated.  “But there is no rule against the building of ships sailed from British ports and equipped elsewhere.”

             
“Unless there is clear evidence that these ships are intended for use in your civil war,” Charles reminded him.

             
“And is there clear evidence?”  Robert demanded.  He had learned enough to know the American emissary sent over to negotiate the purchase of the two boats now in the Laird shipyard had covered his tracks extremely well.

             
Charles shrugged again, taking another gulp of his ale.  Loud music blared from the band, effectively covering their conversation.  They met here often.  It was a safe place to carry on business, and the food and drink were good.  It was always crowded, so there was no reason they should stand out. 

             
“What can I get for you chaps?” the waitress asked, poising her pencil above her pad. 

             
Robert glanced up and saw her thick dark hair.  Once again his heart ached for Carrie.  “Beef pie,” he said. Charles ordered the same; then the waitress moved away.

             
Charles leaned forward again.  “Russell is getting nervous.  He’s afraid northern privateers will start interfering with British commerce in retaliation.  English shipping interests are starting to fear the same thing.”

             
“And you?”  Robert asked sharply.

             
“I’m different,” Charles replied.  “I’m not in it just for the money.  I have a loyalty to the South these other men just don’t have.  They’ve been eager to be involved as long as the money is good, but they aren’t eager to jeopardize their other ventures.  They have plenty of other ways to make money.”  He shook his head.  “I’m sorry, Robert.  That’s just the way it is.”

             
“So what is Russell going to do?”

             
“I don’t know.  I don’t think Russell does either.”

             
“He knows about the two ships in the Laird shipyard?”

             
Charles nodded heavily.  “My reports say he does.  We’ve done our best to keep them a secret, but they
are
rather large,” he said sardonically.

             
Robert couldn’t argue with him.  “So what do we do now?”

             
“We wait,” Charles said flatly.  “It’s all we can do.  Russell ordered the seizure of the
Alexandra
, but the courts have to support him.  They may decide to order her release.”  His voice held little confidence. 

             
Just then the waitress appeared with their food.  Robert picked at it listlessly.  He had suddenly lost all his appetite. 

             
“Say, old man,” Charles admonished him.  “It’s not the end of the world.  We don’t know for sure what will happen.  In the meantime, there are still lots of top-notch blockade runners already out there.”  He took a hearty bite of his pie.  “I’m sending out six ships myself tomorrow.”

             
“Yeah,” Robert responded with a sigh.  He was too disheartened to think of anything else to say. 

             
Charles suddenly grinned and stood up.  “I’ll be right back,” he announced.

             
Robert watched him as he threaded his way across the crowded room.  He stopped in front of a woman with blond hair pulled up into a loose chignon.  Even from here, Robert could tell she was very attractive.  Charles talked to her earnestly for a few moments; then she looked up across the room to where Robert sat, and he nodded easily.   Moments later the two were moving toward him.  He stood as they approached the table.