smiled, looking at the captain. He was reassuring; she didn’t believe that she had fallen into the hands of cold-blooded murderers. “Sir, I promise you, I don’t sit around the tavern gulping down rum or beer. Pete is like a father to me, just as the young man now in your care, Richard Anderson, is like a brother.”
“Your young ‘brother’ is one hell of a seaman, Miss Fox. And, I admit, I wish that he were on my side. But as he is not, he is not a man in my good graces, as my ship will soon be at the bottom of the sea, providing a home for the fish.”
“He is not a man who seeks to harm others.”
“He’s a blockade runner,” Tremblay said flatly. “Let me rephrase—was a blockade runner.”
“You will never be able to prove that Richard is anything other than a merchant, carrying food—”
“Young woman, do I look like a fool?” Tremblay demanded.
She shook her head. “No, sir, you don’t. I merely mention that in any legal court of law—”
“War changes everything, doesn’t it?” he said plainly.
“What will you do with us?” Tara asked politely, switching tactics.
“Well, had I just brought down the ship, I’d have seen that you were held at the fort, confined until this weary bloodbath limps to its halt. But you are prisoners of Agent Dunne, and I believe it’s his pleasure that you be brought to the capital.”
“Sir, we are not the cold-blooded killers he thinks us to be,” she said.
“The problem with war is that it makes cold-blooded killers out of all of us, now, doesn’t it?” Tremblay asked. “Never mind, child, the weary philosophy of an old tar. I believe you are standing there anxiously awaiting a chance to see to the welfare of your young seaman. You are free to do so.”
Thus encouraged, Tara gave him a grateful nod and headed for the tarp. A pallet had been set up for Richard. Doc MacKay was down on his knees. And seeing that Richard had come to, she let out a little cry of joy and slid down next to them both.
“Easy, now,” MacKay said. “The boy has taken a good rap to the head.”
“Richard!” Tara said happily. He looked at her, his face still ashen. He tried to smile. He caught her hand. “Thanks, my friend,” he murmured.
“You got him here—you swam?” MacKay asked, studying her. She flushed slightly, just imagining what she must have looked like in her tattered, salt-, sand-and debris-covered clothing, and sodden hair plastered to her face.
“I’m from Key West. I’m a strong swimmer,” Tara said.
“So you must be,” MacKay said. “I don’t believe there’s more than bruising to the skull—I can find no crack or rift—and I believe that Mr. Anderson will make a full recovery. Rest is in order now, but as we are awaiting rescue, rest can be easily procured.” He looked at Tara again. “What about you? You must be thirsty, my dear.”
She suddenly realized how thirsty she was. For water, at the moment.
MacKay offered her a canteen. She accepted it gratefully. After drinking a long swallow of cool freshwater, she looked at the doctor, who was studying her in return. She felt a flush come to her cheeks. “Thank you. We are receiving far greater kindness than I expected.”
“This is a war wherein fathers fight sons, and sons fight brothers. The intent is not to torture others, just to bring the conflict to an end.” He grinned, and she liked his grin. “Besides, I have taken an oath to save lives,” he reminded her.
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