Must the Maiden Die (15 page)

"I'll go there this afternoon," Elise Jager said.
"And thank you, Constable."

Glynis glanced at Cullen with curiosity. He
had been writing something on a piece of paper, and when he looked
up his face was grim.

"I think you may be in for a rough time," he
said to Elise Jager, "and your daughter is going to need legal
representation." He stood, leaning over his desk to hand the paper
to her. "Jeremiah Merrycoyf is one of the best attorneys in western
New York. I've written down the address of the Merrycoyf and
MacAlistair law offices on Fall Street. Tell him of your daughter's
situation. If he's reluctant to become involved—which he might be
since he insists that he's retired—I'll try to intercede for you.
And so, I'm sure, will Miss Tryon."

When Elise Jager took the paper from him,
her eyes threatened to overflow. "Thank you, again, Constable. And
you, Miss Tryon. I hope you'll forgive ..."

"It's O.K.," Cullen said. "I'm about to get
a search party under way, and for that I'll need a complete
description of your daughter."

"But I haven't seen Tamar for two
years."

Glynis turned back to the window as Cullen
handed the woman more sheets of paper, saying, "Just do the best
you can then, when you fill these out. I know you want to find your
daughter, but I need to find her, too. And regardless of whether I
like it or not, she is still the best suspect I have in Roland
Brant's murder."

Elise Jager's face flushed as she said, "But
Tamar would never—" She broke off at what might have seemed an
inflexible stance on Cullen's part, but Glynis knew better. He was
a fair man, and would search for the girl whatever the reason.

Elise Jager took a handkerchief from her
purse, and after wiping her eyes she said, "How long do you think
it will be until you find her?"

"I can't say. At the moment we don't have
any leads as to where she might have gone, and this is a big
county. Parts of it even I'm not familiar with. There are thousands
of acres of marshland, and if someone really wants to stay
lost..."

He stopped as Glynis sent him a look of
appeal.

"We'll do our best, Mrs. Jager," he said.
"With luck, we'll find your daughter. That's all I can tell you
right now." He turned to Glynis saying, "I'm going back out to the
Brant place late this afternoon. Need to talk to the family and
servants again, now that we have a little more to go on. Since Zeph
and Liam will be heading the search party, I'd like you to come
with me." His face bore the ghost of a smile when he added, "You
know the women there."

"Constable, I want to see the Brants, too,"
Elise Jager said, looking up from the forms Cullen had given her.
"They had Tamar for two years!"

"No," responded Cullen somewhat sharply,
"That's not a good idea. At least not yet. Your daughter is a
murder suspect—the Brants are not likely to welcome you. Wait until
I have more information. I assume you aren't planning to leave
town?"

"No, of course not."

"Good. Don't. You can be reached at Carr's
Hotel?"

"Yes."

"Cullen, I'll be at the library," Glynis told him,
"and I need to stop at the Women's Refuge before I leave with you
for the Brant place."

"I'll come by there after I get the search
started. I need to talk to the doc, anyway."

"Mrs. Jager," Glynis said, "if you need me,
I'm usually at the library at the corner of Fall and Cayuga
Streets. But if I'm not there, you can leave a message with my
assistant, Jonathan Quant."

As Elise Jager was thanking her, Glynis
suddenly remembered what she'd wanted to ask. "Can you tell me how
long your daughter Tamar has been . . . has not talked?"

"Not talked?" The blue eyes widened.
"Whatever do you mean?"

Since Glynis had her answer, she shook her
head, saying only, "I understand she is a rather quiet girl?"

The woman's shoulders relaxed, then slumped.
"Yes, she's always been shy."

Although she feared Mrs. Jager might resent
it, Glynis could not keep herself from briefly touching the woman's
shoulder before she left, saying, "We'll find Tamar."

At least, she thought, I pray that we
do.

It was only when Glynis reached Fall Street
that she recalled the question Bronwen had put to Mrs. Jager. And
that it had not been answered.

Already, we begin to cry out for more
ammunition, and already the blockade is beginning to shut it all
out.

—Mary Boykin Chesnut, 1861 entry from
A
Diary from Dixie

The two men stood several feet apart, facing
each other, the set of their shoulders uncompromising. During their
argument, the intensity of which waxed and waned, both
continually glanced about to make certain they could not be
overheard. They had isolated themselves, so they thought, under an
oak of great age that grew on a slope overlooking the port city of
Oswego, New York. The only objects within hailing distance of them
were a few empty hay wagons.

The city of Oswego lies on the southeastern
shore of Lake Ontario, the smallest of the Great Lakes but eventual
heir to all their waters that flow to the sea; waters funneled east
to the Atlantic by the powerful, rapids-frothing St. Lawrence
River. Below the two men, the port bustled with activity under a
bright noonday sun.

The Oswego River and canal also empty into
Lake Ontario The city itself straddles the river, and when the
men—one English, the other American—looked to the high banks east
of it, they could see a symbol of their centuries-old enmity in the
brick Fort Ontario, reconstructed after the British burned it in
1812. Due north of the men, and too far across the shining water to
see, lay the Canadian shoreline and another port city, that of
Kingston, Ontario.

But these two men were more absorbed by what
sailed on the water than by what stood on the land.

Lake schooners and three-masted frigates
plied the lake and mouth of the river, as did sloops, trading
ships, canal packets, and fishermen's boats, and even an
occasional bark canoe. Both men turned their eyes often to scan
these voyagers. Only the American, however, studied anew the
half-mile distance between the Oswego-Syracuse Railroad and the
wharves. These wharves at midday were swarming with dockworkers,
and the smell of the fisheries reached even the men standing under
the oak. Overhead in a cloudless sky, gulls screamed and wheeled in
endless, searching arcs.

The slender, hawk-faced Englishman took an
immaculate white handkerchief from a pocket of his gray-wool
morning coat and dabbed the perspiration on his clean-shaven upper
lip. "Those are the terms, my good man," he said with a restrained
smile. "You are quite welcome to reject them, although I would not
advise it."

"We had a deal," snapped the robust
American, who had taken off his short box coat and slung it over
his shoulder. "And this is the third shipment. You can't change the
terms now!"

"Oh, indeed I can. And it is not I but you
who have proposed changing the original agreement. Thus the
situation is somewhat different than when we implemented the
initial shipments. Your Mr. Lincoln's blockade of the southern
Atlantic ports has limited my options."

"We had a deal!" the American repeated.
"It's not my fault the damn shipment is three days early! And your
options are not the issue here."

"Ah, but they are, you see—"

"No, I don't see.
You're
not the one
running those rifles to the South."

"And there is the rub." The candor in the
Englishman's voice belied the shrewdness in his eyes. "You misled
me, as well as my associates in Britain, into believing that we
would simply be shipping the rifles to Canada, and that would be
the end of it. Now I have learned, to my consternation, that you
expect an additional, and more hazardous, course of action. Since
that course is out of the question, I may be forced to look
elsewhere for markets. I've just come from the South and demand
there is high. But to supply that demand will almost certainly
involve the blockade—"

"Just a minute. I'm taking the lion's share
of the risk here. My partner and I are the ones smuggling those
rifles and bayonets, let's not forget that."

"Delivering them to
my
contacts in
the South. Let us not forget
that."

"What the hell is there to argue about?" the
American demanded. "So the Enfields are arriving early. All I'm
asking is that you
unload
the damn things! Once that's done,
I'll get them the rest of the way. But Seneca Falls," he added, "is
forty miles from here."

"Nonetheless, our original agreement called only
for the Enfields to be shipped from London across the Atlantic to
the Gulf of St. Lawrence. And then up the river to—"

"We've been over that!" interrupted the
American, anger flushing his face. "I admit we made a mistake. We
figured the canal bypassing the rapids at Montreal could handle a
deep-draft ship. That the guns could come straight up the river to
Kingston. We were wrong!"

"Yes, and because of your error, the guns
must now be brought almost two hundred miles overland from
Montreal. As if that were not complicated enough, you insisted that
we put them aboard a Canadian ship and sail them to this port. And
my partners agreed to that, although under some duress, if memory
serves me. But that was
all
the agreement covered."

"I told you," said the American, "we've had a
problem with ready cash. It's nothing that can't be fixed in a few
days. But you refuse to unload! And you won't wait without more
money!"

"I cannot wait. The rifles are in Montreal,
due to reach Kingston today or tomorrow, and will immediately be
loaded onto a Canadian ship. Every minute that ship rides at anchor
in port is costly."

The American wiped his hand across his
forehead. "You know this takes careful planning. One small hitch
and—"

"My dear man, I hardly need to be lectured
about planning." The Englishman's eyes took on a brighter glint.
"Just what is it you are not telling me?"

"Nothing. There's nothing to tell. Except
the damn shipment is early and ... and I don't have the men to
unload it. But again, why the hell can't
your
crew unload
the guns?"

"Quite simply because I refuse to violate
the law of the United States."

"Oh, c'mon!" the American jeered. "Since
when did you become so law-abiding? I'm not a fool—you're just
playing my partner and me for more money. And don't act
self-righteous! You'll do anything to see the Confederacy succeed
so your cotton supply is protected. You and your associates are
involved in this up to your greedy necks."

"Not so. I merely bring our rifles through
international waters. What happens to them after that is none of my
concern. And, my good man," the Englishman added, "our greed,
unlike yours, does not embrace treason."

The American's look of exasperation
heightened, and his glance went again from the limestone railroad
station to the wharves. "All right! If you won't unload, then hold
the ship up in Kingston."

"I believe that is what I suggested
earlier."

"No, what you
suggested
is that this
delay will cost us plenty."

"Regrettably, that is correct. And now
having come full circle we are back precisely where we started,"
said the Englishman. "Those are the terms. If you accept them, I
will have the ship held in Kingston."

"I need to talk to my partner. It's a lot of
money, de Warde!"

The Englishman's eyes widened into the
intent black stare of a raptor, and his voice carried a dangerous
edge. "Don't
ever
call me by name.
Not ever."
Then
his face relaxed, and he went on as if nothing untoward had
occurred. "I'm afraid that I cannot afford to wait for
consultations. Do you accept the terms or not?"

The American, who had been looking northward
across the water, now returned his gaze to the other man. At last,
he shrugged. "You've taken advantage of this, you bastard— but it
looks like I have no choice."

"Excellent. And I am certain, now that we
fully understand each other, that this can continue to be a
mutually beneficial arrangement. Good day, my dear sir."

Colonel Dorian de Warde gave the other man a
pleasant smile before turning to walk down to the harbor. The
American stood for only a moment, directing a resentful glare at
the back of the Englishman's gray morning coat, before he started
at a run for the rail station.

Neither man had paid much attention to the
empty hay wagons parked a short distance away. Nor did they now see
the lone figure who crawled from beneath a false floor of one
wagon. And who also took off at a run, but toward the city.

Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, returning to
this country from England about the time of the breaking out of
war, fresh from an acquaintance with Miss Nightingale, and filled
with enthusiasm, at once called an informal meeting at the New York
Infirmary for Women and Children....its object being to concentrate
scattered efforts by a large formal organization
[called]
the "Woman's Central Relief Association of New York."

—
History of Woman Suffrage,
edited by
Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Susan B. Anthony, and Matilda Joslyn
Gage

After leaving Cullen's office, Glynis was
walking toward the library when she saw Bronwen dash from the Fall
Street telegraph office. She then darted across the road to the
entrance of Carr's Hotel. Glynis stood puzzling over her niece's
behavior, until she remembered that Professor Thaddeus Lowe was
staying at the hotel. Bronwen had mentioned that she needed to see
him, as she might have found a place with gas available to inflate
the balloon—a place most likely to be Rochester or Syracuse. That
could explain the telegrams. But it could not explain Bronwen's
newly acquired obsession with time. Glynis again reminded herself
that Bronwen's business was not also her business, and that her
sister Gwen would be there soon enough to ride herd on her youngest
daughter. Despite an aroused curiosity, Glynis had other pressing
things to do at the moment. No doubt she'd have opportunity to talk
with her niece that evening.