Gregory, Lisa (6 page)

Lieutenant
Perkins, seeing her flushed face and the sparkle that fear had brought to her
eyes, was shaken with his love. "Miss Devereaux, would you—that is, might
I have the liberty of calling on you?"

She
looked up at him, only half-listening. "Why, yes, if you'd like,
Lieutenant Perkins."

Stunned
by his own good fortune, he almost stopped, but managed to recover. Too happy
to speak, he contented himself with gently squeezing the delicate gloved hand
resting in the crook of his arm.

The
sight of the large, rough-edged Lieutenant Perkins perched on one of the
delicate drawing room chairs, holding a dainty Havilland teacup in one
sea-hardened hand, was so ludicrous that Katherine had to bite her lip to keep
from smiling.

Knowing
what her aunt's reaction would be to the casual way in which they had met,
Katherine had told her only that a young lieutenant to whom her father had
introduced her might be expected to pay a call on them soon. Aunt Amelia,
knowing no Perkins in Boston, assumed he was from another city, perhaps
even—heaven forbid—another state. She could only hope that he wasn't from some
horrid state like New York or Pennsylvania. There was, she thought, a rather prominent
Perkins family in Providence, Rhode Island, which would not be too
unacceptable, considering the fact that her niece was running out of chances.

He
paid a call on them the first Sunday afternoon after he had asked her, as she
suspected he would. When the butler showed him into their drawing room, he had
bowed awkwardly, looking ridiculously out of place among the fragile
furnishings. That didn't surprise Katherine; it had been her experience that
many seamen became suddenly gauche and clumsy when removed from their natural
habitat. Aunt Amelia, expecting an ordinary civilian parading in a navy
uniform, was rather taken aback, but set up a brave chatter about the weather,
preparations for the upcoming holidays, and the enormous decisions to be made concerning
Christmas presents. The lieutenant listened attentively, a look of grim
determination on his face. Katherine, amused, had intervened with an offer of
tea, which he gratefully accepted—though no doubt he wished he hadn't, once he
was faced with the awkwardness of holding the fragile little cup and saucer.

"What
part of the Navy are you in, Lieutenant Perkins?" Aunt Amelia asked him.

Katherine,
realizing that the inquisition had begun, perked up so that she might be in
readiness to come to his aid.

"I
sail under Captain LeGrau, Miss Fritham, on the
U.S.S. Pentucket."

"He
has been out chasing those Rebel pirates, Auntie. Doesn't that sound
exciting?"

But
Aunt Amelia, timid though she might be, was, after all, a Fritham and not
easily diverted when she was on the trail of someone's background. "Yes,
dear, it certainly is. But, of course, the lieutenant is much more used to sea
adventures than I, I'm sure. Did you sail before the war?"

"Yes,
I was in the merchant marine."

"Why,
how nice. Are you intending to return after the war?"

"The
sea is the only thing I know. I grew up with it and I guess that I will stay
with it until I die."

"I
have always thought that if I had been a man, I should have been a
sailor," Katherine said conversationally. "I have always felt quite
drawn to the sea."

"Katherine,"
her aunt admonished, "you say the most outlandish things. Tell me,
Lieutenant, where is your home?"

"Nantucket."

Katherine
could see the wheels spinning in her aunt's mind as she tried to remember any
Perkins in Nantucket.

The
man gulped and, casting his fate to the winds, said, "My father is a
ship's captain, Miss Fritham."

"How
nice," Aunt Amelia said automatically.

"Is
he?" Katherine said interestedly. "What line?"

"The
Stephens Line," he said, wishing he could have said "his own."

"The
Stephens Line?" Amelia brightened at the name. "Katherine, are those
Henry Stephens's ships?"

"Yes,
Aunt Amelia, but in spite of that, it's a very good line."

"Katherine!"
Amelia exclaimed as Perkins choked back a laugh.

Lieutenant
Perkins, miserably sure that all hope for his suit was lost, soon rose to take
his leave. Politely he bowed over Miss Fritham's hand and then Katherine's, a
slight squeeze of her hand and a warm look from his eyes telling her that he
recognized and appreciated her efforts to draw the fire. Katherine smiled
reassuringly at him, glad that, since frail Amelia so intimidated him, he had
not had to face the heavy guns of Aunt Amanda.

"Katherine,"
Amelia said after he had gone, "I really don't think he's quite the thing.
A sailor from Nantucket?" From her tone she might have been saying "a
convict from Devil's Island."

"Well,
I wouldn't worry about it, Aunt Amelia," Katherine snapped. "I think
you managed to frighten him off. I doubt he'll return."

"Dear,
surely you haven't developed an affection for that young man?"

"Don't
be nonsensical. I just think he's a very fine man, and it makes me angry that
you can see nothing but his name and where he's from and whether his ancestors
came over on the
Mayflower."

Quick
tears started in Amelia's eyes, but her aunt's easy sensitivity simply
irritated Katherine further and she flounced off upstairs to her room where she
occupied herself by staring out the window and drumming her fingers on the arm
of her chair. She had to admit that her aunt was not the source of her nerves;
she had been on edge ever since that fight at the yards five days before.

She
kept seeing again the rifle smashing into his face, the blood streaming from
his mouth. Despicable and insulting as he was, it went against her grain to see
a shackled man so brutally hit. No doubt one as insolent as he had to be
punished, but surely a crude remark didn't warrant that! To make it worse, she
had not seen him among the prisoners the rest of the week. Had he been
hospitalized? Or was he being punished by not being allowed to go on the work
detail? Remembering what Perkins had said about the effect of prison on a
seafaring man, she felt a stab of pain for the Southerner. And somehow she felt
that it was her fault. She told herself that he had brought it on himself, that
he had delivered a deliberate insult to her. But she couldn't help but feel
that she had been wrong to go down to the ship in the first place. It had been
a foolish, impulsive thing to do, and she suspected it had been motivated by a
wicked desire to see that impudent man brought low, chained and forced to work
for his enemy.

Nor
could she erase the memory of his bitter words about the treatment of the
prisoners. She could see that they were not warmly enough dressed, and that the
shackles chafed their skin. Finally, she had been compelled to inspect their
lunch herself and was repelled by the watery bean soup that was their fare.

"Man's
inhumanity to man," she sighed. Suddenly an idea flashed into her head and
she ran out of her room and pelted down the stairs and into her father's study.

"Papa?"
she said, a little breathless from running with the iron clamp of her stays
pinching her lungs. "Papa, I have an idea!"

Her
father looked up inquiringly.

"About
the prisoners. I want to feed them lunch."

"What?"

"Well,
supplement it, actually. I thought I would add meat and bread and perhaps a
vegetable. And vinegar or limes to combat the scurvy."

"My
dear, how did you come by this madcap scheme?"

"Oh,
Papa, I saw the lunch that is dished out to them; it's so little, you can't
imagine. It—it nearly breaks my heart to see them in irons and see how their
clothes are too thin and see the food they receive. And I thought, well, I can
help them. Get them some warm clothes and give them decent food at least once a
day. Why, it's like charity work and that's something I'm quite experienced
at."

Mr.
Devereaux looked at her and sighed. "No, my girl, I'm afraid this is one
time I must forbid you to do as you wish."

"Oh,
but it won't cost much. There can't be more than thirty men. And it will take a
minimum of time and effort. Good staple food, nothing difficult, of course. It
wouldn't be much more work for Mrs. Woods—I can help her. You know how good I
am at organizing."

"Katherine,
I know that with you in charge it would be performed quite efficiently. Nor do
I begrudge the expense. But if I let you, the military would be offended. These
are prisoners of war, not charity cases! Why, your efforts would be seen as a rebuke
to the Army. In fact, I doubt that they would allow you to do it."

"Not
allow me! Why, that's just so unfair. You're
paying
the prison for the
work these men do for you, and the prison won't spend a cent on them. And won't
let anyone else!"

"Now,
don't get that look in your eye. This is not time for one of your fits of
stubbornness. Really, Katherine, they are prisoners of war. A few months ago
these very men were no doubt pillaging our ships. And just recently their
comrades were tramping through Pennsylvania to Gettysburg. These are the men
you have been reviling for years as monsters, bloodthirsty slaveowners."

"I
still decry their abominable slavery. But their wickedness doesn't justify our
treating them with the same wickedness. We gain nothing by it, and we release
the same evil in ourselves! Can't you see how wrong it is?"

"Katherine,
I'm afraid this is one time I'm going to have to refuse you."

Katherine
was not used to being refused anything, especially by her father. She had
always been so determined, so capable, so forceful that she usually overwhelmed
him. She took a direct counterattack.

"Father,
if I were to approach the commandant at Fort Warren and get his permission,
then might I be allowed to feed these men?"

"Dear
God in Heaven, Katherine, you are a stubborn girl! I don't want you pestering
the Army about this."

"I
certainly shan't pester him."

Her
father raised his eyebrows quizzically at that remark, but he replied gravely,
"Katherine, I think it would be best if you stopped coming to the yard.
It's not the place for you, especially with all those prisoners. It was foolish
to allow you in the first place. Of course, these men are a disturbing,
pitiable sight to a gently reared young lady; it's quite natural that you have
become upset. I think the best thing is for you to stay home."

Katherine
was quite happy to be diverted from the original conversation as her father, by
sidestepping the issue, had not actually refused her permission to approach the
commandant. She started to hotly protest her father's wishes, but stopped.
"Let him try without me," she thought, "and see how well he gets
along." She had declared war.

Calmly,
icily, she said, "Very well, Father. I shan't trouble you with my presence
any longer." Regally she rose and exited. Josiah Devereaux sighed and
dropped his head to his hands. He found it so difficult to handle his daughter
and for the millionth time wished that his wife had not died.

Pegeen
Shaughnessy was crestfallen the next morning when she learned that her mistress
would not be going to the office. "Oh, Miss Kate," she cried,
thinking of the lost walks with Jimmy O'Toole. "How dreadful! Can't you
talk your father out of it?"

"Perhaps
I could, but I don't intend to try," said Katherine, the light of battle
in her eyes. "At least not at the moment. I have other things to do. And
perhaps Papa will find out that it's not so easy to manage without me. Don't
worry, Peggy, I'll return before too long."

Devereaux,
at first smugly sure that he had won on all fronts, soon began to feel a change
in positions. It didn't take him long to regret barring his daughter from the
office. Orders, receipts, letters, the books—everything began to pile up.
Moreover, Teddy did not possess Katherine's spidery copperplate handwriting
(and grammar, punctuation, and spelling skills), so that there was no one to
write Devereaux's letters at his dictation. Clerks and secretaries were almost
impossible to find—certainly none with the brains, quickness, and ready
knowledge of Katherine. Devereaux, before a week had passed, was searching for
a way to ask her back without losing face.