Lady of Ashes (32 page)

Graham took up the glass again. “Are the North’s ships fleeing?”

“Hard to tell, it’s too dark. Everyone is extinguishing their lanterns. I don’t see any floating munitions batteries left, so if they’ve retreated, we know the ships can’t re-arm.”

“What do we do?”

Fletcher considered. “I say we wait another hour. If there’s no further activity, we’ll wake the crew and slip in, unload as quickly as possible, then get back out before dawn. If we can make it down around Old Point Comfort, it should then be a quick jaunt up to Hampton. Should be quite fun.”

“Yes, positively exhilarating,” Graham said.

All was silent for the next hour, so they woke the crew, pulled anchor, and quickly sluiced through the waters around the edges of where a fierce sea battle had raged just hours before. Fletcher forbade the crew from lighting any lamps or using any voice signals. They would travel by instinct and moonlight.

The crew steered
Lillian Rose
so that she made a wide berth to the north, bringing the ship to a slow crawl. No need to alert anyone of their presence through wave motion.

Almost there. As they neared the coast, Fletcher commanded a hard turn to port so they could hug the shoreline on their way into Hampton Roads harbor. It was risky, for they still had to stay five hundred yards out to avoid running aground.

The men aboard
Lillian Rose
were silent, hardly daring to breathe as they crept their way past both Northern and Southern warships toward Old Point Comfort and an escape into the harbor.

Graham could hardly contemplate the danger in getting back out.

The men were all focused on the shore as they inexorably floated to the point. Slowly, slowly now. They were almost there. Yes, just a bit farther and—

A light came on at their port side. What the . . . ?

“Identify yourself,” came a voice from near the swinging lantern.

“Who are you to demand my identity?” Fletcher called back toward the light.

“I am Lieutenant John Worden, commander of USS
Monitor
. You sound British, sir, and you are in dangerous waters. What is your purpose here?”

“I am Fletcher Morgan and this is my brother, Graham. We are undertakers delivering much-needed supplies to all of the Confederate soldiers you are dispatching faster than the spin of a screw propeller.”

“Surely, sir, you understand there is a blockade in force against the Confederacy?”

“And surely, sir, you understand that we are on a humanitarian mission, as willing to help fallen brethren in the North as well as the South.”

Graham lit his own lantern and peered over the side of
Lillian Rose
. If he thought
Virginia
looked strange, this . . . contraption . . . was otherworldly. There was hardly more than the deck of the ship riding above the water line. A half dozen men stood on the deck, next to a round turret anchored down to it. Surely there were more crew members for the ship, which must have been nearly two hundred feet long, as long as
Lillian Rose,
but prowling along the water line like one of the crocodiles he’d seen in Jamaica. Were they all on decks below what was visible? How was it possible for a ship to maneuver through the seas like that without sinking, especially since the exposed sides were clearly ironclad?

Graham held his breath as Lt. Worden conferred with his own men. He expelled it in disbelief when
Monitor
’s commander stated that he was sending a boarding party onto
Lillian Rose
for a search.

“Don’t worry,” Fletcher muttered before going to assist some of
Monitor
’s crew in boarding. “We still have plenty of weaponry hidden in this old girl to scare them off.”

Graham wasn’t so sure.
Lillian Rose
’s wood hull was no match for this monstrosity and its turret, which had several cannon pointed menacingly through openings in the turret. What if the hull below water decided to ram
Lillian Rose
? They’d be splintered to pieces. They were also thoroughly outnumbered and had no authority to be in these waters.

The crew of
Monitor
threw up two rope ladders, which
Lillian Rose
’s men deftly caught and held to allow Lt. Worden’s men to board.

Graham was nervous, yet Fletcher appeared unconcerned. “Are there more than just a few whiskey barrels keeping that thing afloat?” he called down to
Monitor
’s commander.

Fool!
Graham thought bitterly. What was it about sea life that turned some men into arrogant imbeciles?

As expected, Lt. Worden took offense. “Sir, I’ll have you know this ship is new, nearly indestructible, and far more formidable than your leaky wooden bucket.”

Fletcher laughed. “I suppose you back up such words with the little whirlabout you have there.”

Graham was certain Lt. Worden would not hesitate to back up his words.

“Quiet,” he hissed to his brother, but the damage was done. The best Graham could hope for was that their cargo would not be seized. At worst, their ship would be taken as a prize and the entire crew made to fend its own way back to England.

Lt. Worden’s voice was now frosty. “
Monitor
may only have two eleven-inch cannon aboard her, but they hold thirty-pound charges and rotate around quickly in our steam-powered—what did you call it?—whirlabout. Your rowboat will be decimated in seconds should I call for it.”

“Ah, but you won’t, sir,” Fletcher said. “For you were not present at the battle earlier today, so I suspect your arrival now is intended to be a secret from the Confederates. Why would you reveal your stealthy approach over a couple of innocent undertakers?”

Lt. Worden ignored Fletcher, instead calling out to the men he sent aboard
Lillian Rose,
“Be thorough.”

Graham was now tamping down full-fledged panic as Worden’s men scrambled down the stairs belowdecks and into the hold.

“Fletcher,” Graham said quietly, pulling his brother aside. “It may be time to start negotiating with Lt. Worden. Offer him something to let us pass.”

Fletcher lifted a shoulder. “Why give up what little gold we have? It’s not as though the Americans have the desire to do anything against a British ship, not after the humiliating apology they had to make over the whole
Trent
incident. Perhaps I should remind Lt. Worden of that as well.” He moved as if to return to his taunting spot next to the rail.

Graham grabbed his brother by the arm. “I don’t think you realize how much trouble we’re in.”

Fletcher shrugged him off. “I don’t think you realize how enormously hen-hearted you are.” Yet he stayed where he was and no longer engaged
Monitor
’s commander.

The minutes ticked by inexorably as they waited to see what Worden’s men would find. Graham’s thoughts drifted back to Violet. It was early dawn back home; surely she was in deep slumber. Alone. The image of Samuel Harper rose in his mind like a hideous specter. Violet wouldn’t dare cuckold her husband. Not after all Graham had done to improve their status, even now risking his life so that she might move about as a society matron one day. The mental image of Harper was replaced by the cursed minister, Charles Francis Adams, who was hopefully lying in some unmarked grave. Both men were equally responsible for Graham’s misery.

This whole rotten episode was initiated by Graham’s desire to fulfill Pap’s final wishes and Fletcher’s assurances that he could do so. He remembered their discussion when Fletcher had first proposed smuggling guns to the South. “Why would you want to help them? Either side?” Graham had asked.

“I don’t care about helping them. I only care about helping me. I mean us. First, envision how thoroughly you could avenge Pap by having the Americans kill themselves with abandon. Now think how much money either side would be willing to pay to restock their armaments. I imagine we could make a sizable fortune in a very short period. A fortune you could use to expand your funeral services, furnish your home, attire Violet in elegant gowns, and elevate your status.”

“And what would you use a fortune on?”

“Refitting my ship, possibly buying another one. Acquiring a small country estate somewhere south of London.”

Graham had narrowed his eyes. “And why do you propose inviting me into this scheme of yours, rather than keeping all the profits for yourself?”

“Simple. I need cover for my shipments. What customs inspector is going to open up funerary supplies to look for goods being transported illegally? And a man’s coffin would hold a rifle just perfectly. Also, there is the little matter of financing.”

“Meaning?”

Fletcher spread his hands. “Those who would profit from this bountiful enterprise should be expected to invest in it, right? I need a little seed money before I meet with my contacts so that I can make a good-faith deposit on my first order.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure I like the idea of providing the Americans with quality English goods, even if it’s for profit, and even if they will use them to slaughter each other.”

“Ah, now, brother.” Fletcher clasped an arm around Graham’s shoulders. “Who said anything about the goods being of quality?”

Graham had signed on to Fletcher’s plans, but now everything was ruined.

If he could make it back to London one day, he would set things right. First, he would restart Morgan Undertaking but leave Violet out of it so she could concentrate on their home and having children. It wasn’t too late for them to have a son. She’d be much happier at home, too, in her proper place. It had been a mistake to let her do men’s work. Conversely, he would forget his dream of avenging Pap’s death and just be a husband and a businessman.

Meanwhile, he had to survive this inspection as well as Fletcher’s conceit.

Monitor
’s sailors emerged from belowdecks, their faces grim. One went to the rail, calling out “Lieutenant!” and making indecipherable hand signals.

In moments, Lt. Worden and at least ten more men had clambered up the ladder his own men now held, brandishing pistols and swords.

Graham turned to Fletcher, who had scurried to the other end of the deck and was unlocking a chest.

“What are you doing there?” Lt. Worden demanded.

Fletcher spun around, holding a pistol in one hand and an old saber in the other. He was no longer his sunny, affable self, and instead wore the dripping sweat of a terrified man.

“I’m doing what any self-respecting ship’s captain does—protecting my ship and crew. Men, there are more weapons in the chest, help yourself.”

His crew was paralyzed, eyeing both the chest and
Monitor
’s well-armed crew nervously. Was it wise to risk spilling your own blood when it wasn’t for queen and country?

“Oh, all right then,” Fletcher said. “I’ll defend us all myself.” He brandished the saber at Lt. Worden. “Fancy a fight between blades? No? Then what if I simply place a large hole in your heart with this?” He held up the pistol and waved it back and forth.

In the dim lantern light it looked as though Fletcher was aiming the pistol directly at Lt. Worden. It probably wouldn’t fire anyway, given the lousy imitation Tranter revolvers they had purchased for trade. Not that Lt. Worden understood that.

Barking a shout of alarm at Fletcher’s presumable aim at him, Lt. Worden didn’t hesitate. He raised his own pistol and fired.

Fletcher looked down in great surprise at the dark stain spreading across his chest. His gaze sought his brother’s, which shook Graham out of his own disbelief and sent him running to Fletcher’s side.

Fletcher fell to the deck and was sightless before Graham reached him.

First Pap, then Father, Mother, and now Fletcher. It wasn’t possible. How had life gone so abominably wrong in such a short period of time?
Why does everyone persecute and work against me?

His frustration, anger, and grief welled up in one surging ball of red-hot fury, releasing itself in a tortured, animalistic howl as he crouched over his brother’s body. As he sought to find his balance and stand up once again, his hand instinctively closed around his brother’s pistol, which he picked up.

Graham stood and looked at Lt. Worden, who was already crossing the deck to inspect Fletcher’s body. Graham lifted the pistol and realized rather too late that there was actually a third outcome to the evening’s events, one he regretted more than everything that had happened with Violet.

 

C
harles Francis Adams digested the correspondence Henry laid before him. President Lincoln had issued an order reorganizing the Army of Virginia under Major General John Pope and relieving General McClellan of supreme command.

“I guess now the president is too busy with his latest crisis to send missives chastising my own work,” he said to his son.

Henry nodded. “Keep reading, there’s more.”

Charles Francis read the rest of the report. Two weeks ago, the first naval engagement between ironclad ships occurred. Confederate engineers converted USS
Merrimac,
a scuttled Union frigate—curse their ingenuity—into an iron-sided vessel rechristened CSS
Virginia
. The ship went into Hampton Roads, near the point where the James River meets the Chesapeake Bay.

Now an ironclad ram,
Virginia
destroyed two ships of the federal flotilla and was about to attack a third ship, USS
Minnesota,
which had run aground when darkness and falling tide halted action.
Virginia
retreated overnight to repair her minimal battle damage.

The following morning, on March 9,
Virginia
returned to the fray to finish off
Minnesota,
but was caught unawares by the ironclad USS
Monitor,
which had taken a defensive position during the night to protect the other wounded ship.

The two ironclads fought viciously for about three hours, with neither side able to inflict significant damage on the other. Eventually, both ships retreated, but the blockade was still in place—a victory for the North, as far as Charles Francis was concerned.

“This is excellent news, Henry. No further blockade running will be possible with ships like
Monitor
guarding Southern ports.”

Henry’s face split into an unusual grin. “Would you believe there’s even better news? We’ve also just received a secret report from Secretary of State Seward that during the night, between battles,
Monitor
happened upon a stray British ship, circling suspiciously around the fray. They stopped her, and guess what ship it was?
Lillian Rose
.”

Charles Francis shook his head. “Should I know of it?”

“You might be more familiar with her owner, Fletcher Morgan, who was aboard with his brother.”

“We finally captured them?”

“Not exactly. The commander of
Monitor
boarded
Lillian Rose
to determine whether she was a blockade runner and found the brothers had hidden a large cache of rum inside coffins in the hold.”

Charles Francis shook his head. “So they gave up arms smuggling to ply the liquor trade inside coffins. Daring.”

“More than you know. They had a wax figure in one of the most accessible coffins, more than likely in hopes that it would scare off anyone in the exact circumstances they found themselves in. Or would at least make authorities believe they were what they claimed to be—innocent undertakers. Fortunately for us, the commander of
Monitor
was the suspicious type.”

“Where are the Morgan brothers?”

“A meal for Neptune, I’m afraid. Fletcher Morgan drew a pistol on
Monitor
’s commander, Lt. Worden, and was promptly shot. His brother pretended to grieve, using his prone state to grab Fletcher’s gun. Lt. Worden was hesitant to shoot two brothers in succession and tried to reason with him. The man was demented and charged Worden, shouting the craziest things. Finally, Worden had no choice but to shoot him as well. Both bodies were tossed overboard, the crew transferred to
Monitor
to be moved to a mail steamer bound for England, then they towed
Lillian Rose
to shore near
Minnesota
. After the final battle,
Monitor
fired on
Lillian Rose
and destroyed her.”

“A fitting end for all concerned, including the ship. Tell me, what was Graham Morgan shouting?”

“It was the oddest thing, Father. Lt. Worden swears he was yelling, ‘All for Pap! All for Pap!’ over and over.”

“Bizarre. What did it mean?”

“I don’t know. Just the rantings of a deranged criminal.”

“I’m sure you’re right, son. At least we’ve put this ugly situation behind us and can quit spending time on tracking down the Morgan brothers.”

“What about Mr. Harper?”

“Yes, he’ll be gratified to know our quarry was brought to justice. I do believe he would prefer to bring the sad news of her husband’s death to the widow Morgan himself. Now that his work is complete, the fortunate man can go home to Massachusetts.”

“What do you plan to tell Lords Palmerston and Russell?”

“I think that after the dustup over the
Trent
Affair, it might be better to cover up this incident of Englishmen smuggling goods to the South, thus alleviating Great Britain of any further ill will with the North.”

Henry smiled. “Well said, Father. I’m sure they’ll agree. You say you aren’t a diplomat, but I think you are quite the statesman.”

 

Negotiating with Palmerston and Russell was simple. It was Samuel Harper who caused no end of grief.

“Our work is hardly done here, Mr. Adams,” Harper said. “Surely there are more weapons smugglers in England eager to get their wares to the Confederacy.”

“There have been none that you’ve found.”

“Naturally, the Morgans occupied a great deal of my time.”

“You mean Mrs. Morgan occupied your time.”

Harper had the good grace to redden at Charles Francis’s barb.

“Come, Sam, what more do you really expect to discover?”

“I think my presence will be helpful for the next six months or so, until the South is completely beaten back. I’ll keep a constant watch out for commerce raiders being built around Isle of Dogs and ports around London. There will be many more to take the Morgans’ place.”

Charles Francis frowned. “You think we have six months of war left?”

“At least.”

“I can imagine it. I’ll authorize another two months of your expenses, then you’re free to return home.”

Harper inclined his head. “As you wish.”

 

Violet shut the door behind Sam, her mind and stomach swirling in disbelief. Without a word to anyone else, she picked up her skirts and ran to her room, locking herself inside and collapsing on her bed, face up to the ceiling.

The builder had attempted some decorative detailing on it, but it was a hodgepodge of uneven plaster trimwork. Graham disliked it and once threatened to scrape it all down himself, except his other obsessions took priority, so nothing ever happened. And now never would.

Violet threw an arm across her eyes, blocking the light filtering in through a crack in the draperies and waiting for the tears to course bitterly down her cheeks.

Sam’s visit had left her speechless. According to his account of events, Graham and Fletcher were smuggling rum past the U.S. blockade in Virginia when they were stopped by a U.S. ironclad ship. Fletcher foolishly taunted the Americans, and Graham died defending his brother. Fletcher had always been too sure of himself, but Violet never thought of Graham as a great protector. It gave her comfort to think of him this way now.

Was that why tears refused to flow? Or was she just completely spent of them over the last few years of her marriage?

Sam said Fletcher and Graham were given respectful burials at sea, so there were no bodies for her to bury. Like Graham with his mother, Violet didn’t think she had the stomach for tending to her husband’s funeral. Yet . . . shouldn’t he have a ceremony? Fletcher, too. Surely she could do this for both men.

Even the thought of a memorial service wasn’t springing tears to her eyes. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her?

She rose from her bed and went into the corridor. A large window at one end overlooked the street below. She went to it, slipping inside the draperies as if she were a mere caterpillar wrapped in a cocoon. Resting her elbows on the sill, she gazed down at the activity below.

The street was full of the typical bustle of daily London life. Newspapers were hawked, wares were sold, and women’s skirts were muddied in the noxious mixture of road dust and horse dung that was the hallmark of most streets. No one saw conspiracy at every corner, nor felt a special calling to avenge the dead.

Despite the sorrows and gut-wrenching heartaches every human being endures, Violet imagined that the men, women, and children she watched down in the street at least lived a normal sort of life inside Her Majesty’s kingdom, notwithstanding the poverty endured by those like Susanna and her mother.

Violet wanted normalcy again, the simple life she had as a child. Would it ever be hers?

She stood motionless a while longer, gazing down on the world below. As her eye caught the paperboy once more, the thought occurred to her: Was Graham’s death in today’s news?

Startled out of her reverie, she scrambled out of the draperies, nearly tripping in the process. She fluttered down the staircase and out into the street to buy a copy of the evening edition of
The Times
.

She secreted herself in the dining room, dropping the drapes that closed it off from the hallway and sitting down to scan the paper.

Nothing. Not a single word about Graham’s misfortune at sea.

Impossible. The press had gobbled up the story of his treasonous activities not long ago. Why would they ignore this?

It was a relief, really. Violet wouldn’t have to defend her reputation in the public eye again.

She sat at the table, her elbows propped impolitely on the pages of the paper. They’d certainly be black with newsprint later, since she’d not taken the time to ask Mrs. Porter to iron the printed sheets.

A clock on the mantelpiece ticked and tocked in its usual endless manner. Violet normally paid it no mind, but willing herself to sadness made the room go stark, and the clock’s gentle noise was deafening, as though it were loudly reminding her that it needed to be stopped now that Graham was gone.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said aloud. She pushed the newspaper aside, got her gloves and hat, and called for Susanna, who came bounding down the stairs holding Mrs. Orange Peel.

“Do you want to go to the shop with me? I’ll teach you how I enter customers into the ledger that’s been used by Morgan Undertaking since the business was started.”

Susanna wrinkled her nose. “Where is Mr. Harper? Isn’t he staying for supper?”

“No, he stopped by because he needed to deliver a message is all.”

“Oh. Aren’t we done at the shop for the day?”

“Yes, but—no, I find I need to return there to busy myself.”

Susanna nodded with the wisdom of an eighty-year-old. “It will be fine, Mama, whatever it is that troubles you.”

 

Violet only told Susanna, Mary, the Porters, Will, and Harry of Graham’s and Fletcher’s deaths, in addition to sending an invitation to her parents to attend the memorial service. The black bunting draped across the windows of the shop and their home would tell their neighbors and customers all they needed to know.

Will and Harry did a commendable job of handling most matters so Violet could play the grieving widow.

She ordered coffins from Mr. Boyce, asking that he stain them as dark as possible. She also visited the chapel at Kensal Green to talk to the clergyman there about the unusual memorial service she planned to hold, replete with all elements of a funeral except for the bodies. Most everything else she left to her employees while she assembled the widow’s weeds she would now wear for the next year. Black dresses, hats, gloves, and jewelry.

To Violet’s great surprise, Mr. Boyce and his two sons attended the service, the old man’s eyes misty once again as he lamented that “there’s just no happy outcome to any marriage, is there, Mrs. Morgan?”

Violet put framed ambrotypes of Graham and Fletcher in each of their coffins, as well as their
cartes-de-visites
. That way, should their coffins ever be removed in the future, the world would know who the men were who belonged in the empty coffins.

The day after the memorial service, Violet received a package from Sam. Inside was a watch, its case intricately filigreed, with an unusual opening mechanism shaped like a small bird. When the watch opened, it played a snatch of a melodious tune. Sam’s enclosed note expressed his sympathy over Violet’s loss, as well as his hope that the watch, a Margaret Fleming–made piece crafted during Charles II’s reign, would help her look back fondly through time.

What a sweet gesture. He must have scoured London’s antique shops for it.

Graham’s brief will left his estate to any issue from his marriage. If there were no children, it was to be divided between his wife and brother. Therefore, his entire estate—the shop and its contents and the possessions of their home—was Violet’s.

Violet’s parents stayed on a mercifully brief time before returning to Brighton, sensing their daughter wanted to throw herself back into her strange world of work.

It suited Violet to be consumed with work, which was preferable to being preoccupied with guilt over not mourning Graham properly. It conflicted with the extraordinary sense of—not just relief, but
freedom
—she now felt. As though she’d been buried alive, but someone dug her up in time before she used up all of the oxygen in the coffin.