Kary, Elizabeth (23 page)

All
she could think about was the horror of going inside and breaking the news of
Lucas's death to people who loved him more than she. Leigh had to relieve
herself of that burden at least, and then, absolved of that responsibility, in
the solitude of her room perhaps she could come to terms with the rest.

There
was a long pause before Hayes answered her. "Very well, Leigh. I'll see
you in a couple of days when you're thinking more clearly."

"No!"
She swung around to stare at him. The thought of discussing what had happened,
even at some time in the future, sent her into panic. "No, I don't ever
want to see you again! Never! Never!

"Leigh,
you don't mean that. You're upset and—"

"I
do mean it, Hayes." Her voice began to fray. "I promise you. Don't
ever come near me again."

He
made a slight conciliatory gesture. "Leigh, there are things we must
discuss, consequences—"

"No!
No!" His insistence drove her to action. Without waiting for him to open
the carriage door Leigh reached across to twist the handle and clambered out
over his long legs.

"Leigh!"
His voice was filled with entreaty she could not allow herself to acknowledge
as he followed her as far as the wrought-iron gate.

"Leigh,
please," he tried one last time. But she was so caught up in preparing
herself for the ordeal to come that his words barely reached her.

The
brick town house loomed before her: the flight of stone steps leading to the
arched double doors; the windows glowing invitingly, lit from within; the upper
floors shrouded in sleeting darkness. Yet there was no welcome for her here
tonight. This house had always been a sanctuary, but not now. For the first
time in her life she was reluctant to pass through the heavy, etched-glass
doors; down the spare, impersonal hallway into the commodious parlor. For the
first time in her life she was afraid to face the people within. They were
people who loved her: her parents and Felicity Hale. But now she had proved
herself unworthy of their love—or Lucas's either.

How
would she find words to tell them what she must? What could she possibly say
that would ease their grief?

She
fought her own overwrought emotions for calm, reached deep inside trying to
summon strength. She was aware of Hayes standing just beyond the gate, but
there was nothing more she could say to him. She had to concentrate on the task
before her, on that alone.

She
squared her shoulders, drew a deep, cold breath of air into her lungs, and
resolutely started up the steps to the door. She was going inside. If she was
to regain her self-respect, she had no choice.

January 16, 1862—Alton, Illinois

What
the
devil was this all about? Hayes Banister wondered as he followed Nathan Travis
into an innocuous clapboard hotel nestled beneath the towering, milky-hued
bluffs at the edge of Alton's bustling waterfront. Why had Nathan brought him to
the busy river town twenty-three miles upstream from St. Louis, and just who
was it that wanted so badly to see him?

It
had been early afternoon when Hayes received Nathan Travis's note, and he left
Eads's offices immediately, bound for the Planters' House Hotel. With the paper
still crumpled in his hand, Hayes had stood in the doorway to the Gentleman's
Ordinary trying to penetrate the pale gray filigree of smoke that drifted above
the tables. Finally he located the man he was seeking, sprawled in his chair
with a negligence that totally belied the urgency of his summons. As Hayes made
his way across the room, he felt the same surge of relief at the sight of his
friend that he had experienced when he recognized Travis's scrawl on the
message a few minutes before. Somehow Travis had returned from his mission to
the hills of Tennessee, hale and hearty in spite of the sporadic skirmishing
that would surely have turned friends into enemies and made every stranger
suspect.

Yet
as Hayes pulled out a chair on the other side of the table, his face gave away
none of the concern he had felt on the other man's behalf. "This had
better be good, Travis, to drag me away from the office in the middle of the
day," Hayes grumbled.

"It's
pleasant to see you again too, Banister," Travis said, raising his
half-empty glass in greeting. "It is important, I assure you, but don't
sit down and get too comfortable. There's someone who wants very badly to see
you, and I agreed I'd make the introductions." As he spoke, Nathan took a
handful of coins from his pocket and counted out the price of the drink.

Hayes
had frowned darkly as he waited, wondering what was going on. Who was it that
wanted to see him? And why couldn't the man show himself in St. Louis's finest
hotel? Hayes was wary of the tone of Nathan's invitation, but he was curious
enough to accompany him in spite of it.

For
the most part he trusted Travis, though until that night in Cairo, when Nathan
had confided his burgeoning feelings for Delia Dobbins, Hayes had not considered
him a friend. In the days before the war their paths had crossed from time to
time as they went about their business on the river, but it was only in the
past year that Banister had seen the other man with any frequency. First,
Travis had brought the request from the War Department to review James Eads's
plans for the ironclads. Then, once Hayes had come to St. Louis, he had shown
up in the city to pass the time between his mysterious visits downriver. Nathan
Travis had never played coy with Hayes about his activities behind the
Confederate lines, nor had he questioned Banister's trustworthiness. From their
first meeting all those years ago, it had been evident they shared the same
view of slavery and were willing to risk their lives to see Negroes smuggled
north to freedom. There had never been a need for the two of them to discuss
their loyalties or their beliefs since it was obvious that they both subscribed
to Abolitionist causes. But it was only lately that Hayes had begun to glean
any insight into the other man's personality, or for their acquaintance to
approach the realm of friendship.

Now,
as they stood before a door on the second-floor landing of this seedy Alton
hotel, the trust Hayes had put in Nathan Travis was being put to the test.
Travis knocked twice on the scarred wooden panel and waited. From the far side
of the door there was the faint creek of floorboards protesting under a man's
weight; then the barrier swung open. Silently, Travis stepped aside and
motioned Hayes into the darkened room. For an instant Banister hesitated,
looking at the other man with questioning eyes. Travis nodded once, then with a
hand on Hayes's shoulder guided him through the doorway and closed the panel
from the outside.

Even
in the unlighted hallway it had been brighter than it was in the shuttered
hotel room, and it took Hayes's eyes a moment to adapt to the dimness. As he
did, he became aware of the figure standing in the deeper shadow beside the
bed, sighting at him down the smooth bore of a pistol. It was a moment before
Hayes could raise his gaze from the cold steel barrel to the face of his host,
but when he did, Banister caught his breath with recognition and surprise. The
man holding the revolver was purported to be Secretary of War Cameron's man in
the West, Albert Pincheon.

Stepping
away from the wall Pincheon circled Banister slowly, like a lion scenting his
prey. A frisson of uneasiness skittered along Hayes's nerves, but he stood his
ground as the bearded man studied him judgmentally.

"How
long has it been since I've seen you, Banister?" Pincheon asked at last,
setting his pistol aside and offering his hand in a gesture of cordiality.
"Six years, maybe seven?"

Hayes
recalled the incident as if it were yesterday. "Closer to eight, I
expect—not since I delivered that young couple and their sick child to you just
south of Chicago." The family had come aboard the
Priscilla Anne
just below
Memphis: a woman with cavernous eyes, a baby half dead of some fever, and a man
with the marks of shackles worn into his ankles and wrists. Hayes shuddered
with the memory; it was one of the things about those years that haunted him
still. "I went back to work at my family's shipyard in Cincinnati shortly
after that."

Pincheon
nodded. "Yes, I know."

Pincheon
had always known more about him than Hayes would have liked, and he was
assailed by vague feelings of
violation now. Beyond the realization that this man
undoubtedly knew everything he had done these last months was the even more
unnerving fact that the reputed head of spies for the Union in the West wanted
to see him.

"Won't
you have a seat, Banister?" Pincheon offered, indicating a chair by the
table at the far side of the room. "Can I offer you a drink or some
coffee?"

Hayes
accepted a seat and declined the offer of refreshment. Pincheon nodded again.
He was a man without the ease of social graces, and once he'd discharged his
pretense at hospitality, he stormed ahead to the reason he'd had Hayes brought
to Alton.

"Banister,
I know that you've been working in partnership with James Eads on construction
of the ironclads and that your recommendations were instrumental in having the
project approved by the War Department and President Lincoln. For your service
to the nation during this crisis, I am to commend you."

"I
thank you, sir, but I hardly did more than any American would do," Hayes
hedged, inexplicably nervous at the compliment. "Besides, James Eads was
the one who got the project under way."

"Nevertheless,
your nation is grateful, and in more peaceful times your actions would be
suitably recognized. But instead of rewarding you, it is my duty to ask you to
undertake another mission for the sake of the Union."

Hayes
waited, making no comment. What was it Pincheon wanted him to do?

"As
you must know, the ironclads were designed specifically to capture the forts
the Confederates have built to guard the Mississippi River system, and it is
vital to the war effort that these waterways are opened to Union vessels. To
that end General Grant is about to embark on a campaign meant to claim areas of
the Mississippi basin and surrounding territory for the Union."

"Yes,
sir, I am aware of that," Hayes put in. It was not difficult to anticipate
the thrust of the spring offensive, and Hayes wondered if Travis had been
scouting in Tennessee in preparation for the upcoming maneuvers.

"What
I'm asking you to do, Banister, is to go along with the troops and evaluate the
use of the ironclads in actual battle situations. Normally, a civilian engineer
would not be allowed to accompany a fighting force like this one, but you are
to be an exception. We need to know if the ironclads are working up to their
full capacity and if there are mechanical or tactical changes that could
enhance their efficiency. We want to know if Grant is using their firepower to
the best advantage on land and if Admiral Foote is deploying them successfully
on the water."

"But
why are you asking me to make such a report? Surely your own military people
are better able to make those judgments than I. And besides, it is James Eads
who should be asked to go since the construction of the ironclads is largely
his doing."

"Don't
you want to go, Banister?" Pincheon taunted, his cold eyes raking over the
other man. "Do you feel you've done enough to serve your country?"

A
dull red flush rose under Hayes's skin at the other man's tone. "Are you
asking me if I'm a coward, Pincheon?"

"I'd
never have accused you of it a few years ago when you were risking your neck to
run slaves north. That was far more dangerous than what I'm asking you to do
now, but some men just don't like the sound of battle."

Hayes
was plainly angry, but held his temper in check. "I chose to serve my
country in this crisis where I thought I could do the most good: building
warships. When my usefulness runs out at the shipyards, I will sign on to fight
somewhere else."

Pincheon
nodded cannily, as if the questions had been some kind of a test. "I
simply want an opinion of how the ironclads operate under battle conditions
from someone who knows their capabilities. You're a younger and fitter man than
James Eads, and I've heard he's not well."

It
was true. James had worn himself out with worry over the deadlines for
completion of the ships and because the government had not come through with
the money it had promised him. James was in no condition to undertake a
military campaign, but Hayes knew Eads would be disappointed at being denied a
chance to see his ironclads in action.

"What
do you want me to do?" Hayes finally asked.

The
hand that stroked his silky moustache hid Pincheon's victorious smile. "I
would like you to go down to the area around Forts Henry and Donelson before
the battle to scout any obstacles the ironclads might encounter. You might be
able to spot things a man without your background would overlook. Travis will
accompany you, and when you're finished, you will join Admiral Foote to
accompany the flotilla into battle."

"Is
that all?" Hayes asked sarcastically.

"What
you'll be doing is vitally important," Pincheon continued, watching
Banister through narrowed eyes, "vital to the security of this campaign
and to the future of the warships you helped design. Your cooperation will be
appreciated by President Lincoln, the war department, and myself."