"I don't understand."
Mallory smiled for the first time. "You will, my boy, you will."
"A piece of information you may find useful," said Semmes, changing the subject. "My spies report that our former ironclad ram, the Atlanta, captured last year by `Yankee monitors, has been pressed into service by the Union navy and is patrolling the river above Newport News."
Tombs brightened. "Yes, I see. Since the Texas has the same general shape and approximate dimensions she could be mistaken for the Atlanta in the dark."
Semmes nodded and handed him a folded flag. "The stars and stripes. You'll need it for the masquerade."
Tombs took the Union banner and held it under one arm. "I'll have it run up the mast shortly before we reach the Union artillery emplacements at Trents Reach."
"Then good luck to you," said Semmes. "Sorry we can't stay to see you cast off, but the Secretary has a train to catch and I have to return to the fleet and oversee its destruction before the Yankees are upon us."
The Secretary of the Confederate navy shook Tombs' hand once more. "The blockade runner Fox is standing by off Bermuda to recoal your bunkers for the next leg of your voyage. Good fortune to you, Commander. The salvation of the Confederacy is in your hands."
Before Tombs could reply, Mallory ordered the carriage driver to move on. Tombs raised his hand in a final salute and stood there, his mind failing to comprehend the Secretary's farewell. Salvation of the Confederacy? The words made no sense. The war was lost. With Sherman moving north from the Carolinas and Grant surging south through Virginia like a tidal wave, Lee would be caught between the Union pincers and forced to surrender in a matter of days. Jefferson Davis would soon be broken from President of the Confederate States to a common fugitive.
And within a few short hours, the Texas had every expectation of being the last ship of the Confederate navy to die a watery death.
Where was the salvation should the Texas make good her escape? Tombs failed to fathom a vague answer. His orders were to transport the government's archives to a neutral port of his choosing and remain out of sight until contacted by courier. How could the successful smuggling of bureaucratic records possibly prevent the certain defeat of the South?
His th
oughts were interrupted by his first officer, Lieutenant Ezra Craven.
"The loading is completed and the cargo stored, sir," announced Craven. "Shall I give the order to cast off?"
Tombs turned. "Not yet. We have to take on a passenger."
Craven, a big brusque Scotsman, spoke with a peculiar combination of brogue and southern drawl. "He'd better make it damned quick."
"Is Chief Engineer O'Hare ready to get underway?"
"His engines have a full head of steam."
"And the gun crews?"
"Manning their stations."
"We'll stay buttoned up until we meet the Federal fleet. We can't afford to lode a gun and crew from a lucky shot through a port beforehand."
"The men won't take kindly to turning the other cheek."
"Tell them they'll live longer-"
Both men swung and stared toward the shore at the sound of approaching hooves. A few seconds later a Confederate officer rode out of the darkness and onto the dock.
"One of you Commander Tombs?" he asked in a tired voice.
"I'm Tombs," he said, stepping forward.
The rider swung down from his horse and saluted. He was covered with road dust and looked exhausted. "My compliments, sir. Captain Neville Brown, in charge of the escort for your prisoner."
"Prisoner," Tombs echoed. "I was told he was a passenger."
"Treat him as you will," Brown shrugged indifferently.
"Where is he?" Tombs asked for the second time that night.