LITMIR.BIZ

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scores of inlets that connect with the St. Johns River. A Florida militia is planning a movement somewhere in the north of the state. Gator is bringing up arms procured in the Bahamas, and beef from the Keys. His delivery made, he will continue north, without stock or arms, and gain entry close to the capital, possibly around northern Virginia or Maryland. He’ll carry nothing but legal sales goods at that point, in case he’s stopped. Once he makes land, he’ll find his way to the capital, working then as some kind of a sutler. He has fellow conspirators in the North, who will supply him with arms when the time comes. I don’t think he cares if he’s shot on the spot himself—not if he manages to kill President Lincoln. That’s why it’s imperative that we stop him now, while he’s bearing goods to break the blockade. Once he divests himself of arms, it will be difficult—even in war—to recognize him, detain him and stop him.”

      “Then we’ll do our best to bring him down,” Tremblay said.

      Finn lowered the spyglass. “Thank you, Captain.”

      Tremblay nodded. He was an old-timer, a man who had spent his life in naval service. His beard and hair were white, his eyes were blue and his stance was square and steady. As he looked at Finn, he added, “We’ve lost many a good ship to the Confederates, you know. We had to scuttle three in the river up at Jacksonville just last November. Many of the blockade runners have guns aboard as well, but they’re not fighters. They keep themselves light and shallow for speed and the ability to slip through narrow channels and rivers. But if we come across your man, there may be a fight.”

      “Captain,” Finn said, a note of bitter amusement in his voice. “Do I look like a man who’s never seen a fight?”

      Tremblay studied him a moment, and then grinned sheepishly. “No, sir, you do not. But fighting as a Pinkerton is different, of course, from a fight at sea.”

      “Don’t worry, Captain. I’ve seen my share of action—on land and on sea.”

      Finn looked through the glass again. Nothing. His vision tended to be excellent, no matter the velvety blue-black of the night. But there was nothing to see, as yet.

      And, of course, this mission could be a futile one.

      Still, better futile through overexertion than through laziness and bad surveillance.

      No matter how much energy it took, Finn couldn’t let this Gator make his connections, definitely could not let him reach the capital and their leader. No matter how many times guards, generals, friends and fellow politicians warned him, President Lincoln was a man of the people. He rode his carriage along the mall. He invited his constituents to speak with him. Quite simply, Lincoln believed to the core that if he was not available, then he was not serving anyone. To try to change him might well be an effort to change the very soul of the man they all strove so diligently and with such love and admiration to protect.

      Finn didn’t know that he and others could prevail, not forever. He did know, however, that there had been many times when his abilities helped him single out the right person to stop in a crowd. That he had protected his charge on that particular day. He didn’t necessarily face an assassin every time, but often someone bent on harassment, or ready to throw rotten food at the president, or to create a riot out of a rally. He had done well so far, but it only took one mistake….

       Like the woman at Gettysburg. Moving toward him, reaching beneath her cloak …

      She had carried a scarf, he reminded himself. She might have meant nothing but a show of worship.

      Yet, she had been so strange. So beautiful, and so different, dangerous … dangerous even if what she had produced had been a hand-knitted scarf. She had wanted to get close to the president, and there had just been that strange difference about her….

      He still had that narrow lock of her hair in his wallet. And he still believed that she was out there somewhere, and that, one day, he would find her.

      Of course, now he was here.

       And still thinking about his failure that day!

      Finn chafed at this assignment. He felt better serving the president nearer to him; he was ready to stop a bullet for the man at any time. He felt himself well qualified to do so.

      But he also knew something about the sea, and it was true—he had seen many a naval battle and survived. He’d seen battles the good captain couldn’t begin to imagine.

      Staring into the darkness, assigned to stop a blooming threat before it could fully materialize.

      “You needn’t worry about me,” Finn said. “Whatever course is called, I will be ready.”

      “Bosun!” the captain called, looking to the man up on the fantail behind them, a sailor who was studying the night with his own spyglass. “Any signs of life?”

      “No, Captain, sir!” the sailor called back. “Not a whisper as of yet!”

      Captain Tremblay looked through the glass again. “I see nothing.”

      Finn narrowed his eyes suddenly, looking toward the shore. He knew that they were in an area where mangrove swamp gave way to rivers and waterways. They were now north in the Florida Keys, nearing the mainland. It was an area where the Atlantic frequently gave way to channels between the islands, where little mangrove spits were in the tectonic process of gathering silt and debris to become islands, and where trim, shallow-draft ships could easily disappear in the blink of an eye.

      “There!” Finn announced suddenly.

      “Where?”

      “There … hugging the shore. He must know of an inlet.”

      “Bosun!” the captain called.

      “Nothing. I see nothing, sir!” called the lookout.

      “It’s there, believe me,” Finn said. “We didn’t see her, but she’s seen us, and she’s ducking through a channel now, heading for the gulf.”

      As Finn spoke, a break formed in the cloud cover overhead. The moon might be new on this January night, so crisp and cool even, but with cloud cover gone, the sky seemed to be filled with a sudden burst of starlight. Perhaps God himself was on the side of the North, Finn mused.

      And there, just disappearing before them, was what almost appeared to be a ghost ship, a steam clipper, gliding away, her sails down but her masts just caught in a pale sparkle of starlight.

      “Full speed ahead, sir!” Finn said.

      “Man your guns!” the captain bellowed.

      And the chase was on.

      TARA HAD BEGUN TO FEEL that her fears had been entirely unjustified. They had set out with a light wind, cutting through the islands midway between Key West and the mainland and then out to the Atlantic, where they had run parallel with the coast. A breeze had picked up, perfect for the sails, and for a while, she had gone to the cabin, far too restless for sleep, but determined to at least lie down awhile.

      And it had been while she had been there, planning a route once she reached land, that she heard Richard’s anxious shout.

      “Union steamer starboard. Down the sails! Steam power, with all due speed!”

      Tara jerked up and raced out to the deck. The men were grimly pulling down the sails. Richard was at the helm, and they were under steam power once again. The Peace moved quickly. Richard knew how to avoid the reefs, and she was certain that he would head back into the inlets and perhaps the gulf, doing his best to ground the enemy ship as it came in pursuit.

      He cast her a glance as she hurried to him at the helm. “She’s heavily gunned,” he said tersely, indicating the enemy ship. “If the firing starts … do whatever you need to do to get out of here. Even if you haven’t the strength to go far, you’ll know where you can find shelter along the islands and the coast.”

      “I’m fine, Richard.”

      “You’re

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