time, they shared their table with an aging couple on their way to Jacksonville, to see their third grandchild.
The
Belle
âs next stopâat Wilmington, North Carolinaâcame up in the afternoon, some twenty hours out of Norfolk. A major port for the Confederacy, on the Cape Fear River, Wilmington had been the capital of blockade runners after Norfolkâs fall, holding out until February of 1865. When Gen. Braxton Bragg evacuated, driven out by Union troops, heâd burned large quantities of cotton and tobacco marked for sale in England. Even so, most of the action had occurred outside the city, leaving stately antebellum homes intact.
The packetâs stops in one port or another soon became routine to Ryder. There was Charleston, scene of Fort Sumterâs bombardment, and Savannah, captured by General Sherman as a Christmas present for President Lincoln in December 1864, where Arnie Cagle took his bulging sample case and disembarked. The weather started getting steamier as they continued down the coast to Florida, stopping again at Jacksonville, a seedy and dilapidated port where shirtless black men loaded ships under the watchful eyes of overseers, much as Ryder thought they must have done before they were emancipated. Eighteen hours farther down the coast, Miami was a tiny settlement, noteworthy only for its lighthouse at the southern tip of Key Biscayne.
Mostly, he concentrated on Irene McGowan, sharing meals with her and, by their third day on the
Southern Belle
, accompanying her on walks around the packetâs several decks. On the night they left Miami, Ryder had a feeling that she might invite him to her stateroom, but she left him standing at the door instead, after a chaste peck on the cheek. He chalked it up as progress of a sort, and went off to his narrow bed alone.
Proprieties.
It was too much, Ryder supposed, to think that she would risk her reputation on a man she barely knew, and whom sheâd never see again after they parted at Tampa. So much for shipboard romance.
They were finishing breakfast, four days out, when the
Belle
âs steam whistle sounded their approach to Key West, dominated by Fort Zachary Taylor and a U.S. Navy base. Key West had stayed in Union hands throughout the war, despite Floridaâs secession, and Fort Jeffersonâsixty-odd miles distant, on Garden Key in the Dry Tortugasâpresently served as a federal prison, with Dr. Samuel Mudd numbered among its inmates.
The island wasnât large, less than eight square miles of land, but it was jammed with shops and houses lining narrow streets, its harbor filled with ships and boats of every size. Ryder went ashore with Irene, browsing at shops and market stalls, but limited his purchase to a bag of oranges. Four hours out of port, the
Southern Belle
entered the Straits of Florida, starting its swing into the Gulf of Mexico and up the long peninsulaâs west coast to reach Tampa, the best part of another day ahead.
Standing with Irene at the rail, sharing an orange, Ryder considered that they still had one more night on board, together. He had already decided not to press his luck, simply enjoy her company and not make anything more of it, feeling fairly virtuous for his restraint. At the same time, he wondered whether he had lost his touch with women other than the working ladies he had patronized in Washington.
In any case, considering the job at hand, this wouldnât be the time to startâ
âOh, look!â she said. âAnother ship!â
It was a sleek, three-masted clipper, sails billowing as it tacked from westward, on a course that seemed designed to intercept the
Southern Belle
. Ryder could see the crewmen scurrying about on deck, doing whatever sailors did to maximize a vesselâs speed.
âYou donât suppose weâll hit it, do you?â asked Irene.
âDoubtful.â
As if on cue, the
Belle
sounded its warning whistle, sharp and
The
Belle
âs next stopâat Wilmington, North Carolinaâcame up in the afternoon, some twenty hours out of Norfolk. A major port for the Confederacy, on the Cape Fear River, Wilmington had been the capital of blockade runners after Norfolkâs fall, holding out until February of 1865. When Gen. Braxton Bragg evacuated, driven out by Union troops, heâd burned large quantities of cotton and tobacco marked for sale in England. Even so, most of the action had occurred outside the city, leaving stately antebellum homes intact.
The packetâs stops in one port or another soon became routine to Ryder. There was Charleston, scene of Fort Sumterâs bombardment, and Savannah, captured by General Sherman as a Christmas present for President Lincoln in December 1864, where Arnie Cagle took his bulging sample case and disembarked. The weather started getting steamier as they continued down the coast to Florida, stopping again at Jacksonville, a seedy and dilapidated port where shirtless black men loaded ships under the watchful eyes of overseers, much as Ryder thought they must have done before they were emancipated. Eighteen hours farther down the coast, Miami was a tiny settlement, noteworthy only for its lighthouse at the southern tip of Key Biscayne.
Mostly, he concentrated on Irene McGowan, sharing meals with her and, by their third day on the
Southern Belle
, accompanying her on walks around the packetâs several decks. On the night they left Miami, Ryder had a feeling that she might invite him to her stateroom, but she left him standing at the door instead, after a chaste peck on the cheek. He chalked it up as progress of a sort, and went off to his narrow bed alone.
Proprieties.
It was too much, Ryder supposed, to think that she would risk her reputation on a man she barely knew, and whom sheâd never see again after they parted at Tampa. So much for shipboard romance.
They were finishing breakfast, four days out, when the
Belle
âs steam whistle sounded their approach to Key West, dominated by Fort Zachary Taylor and a U.S. Navy base. Key West had stayed in Union hands throughout the war, despite Floridaâs secession, and Fort Jeffersonâsixty-odd miles distant, on Garden Key in the Dry Tortugasâpresently served as a federal prison, with Dr. Samuel Mudd numbered among its inmates.
The island wasnât large, less than eight square miles of land, but it was jammed with shops and houses lining narrow streets, its harbor filled with ships and boats of every size. Ryder went ashore with Irene, browsing at shops and market stalls, but limited his purchase to a bag of oranges. Four hours out of port, the
Southern Belle
entered the Straits of Florida, starting its swing into the Gulf of Mexico and up the long peninsulaâs west coast to reach Tampa, the best part of another day ahead.
Standing with Irene at the rail, sharing an orange, Ryder considered that they still had one more night on board, together. He had already decided not to press his luck, simply enjoy her company and not make anything more of it, feeling fairly virtuous for his restraint. At the same time, he wondered whether he had lost his touch with women other than the working ladies he had patronized in Washington.
In any case, considering the job at hand, this wouldnât be the time to startâ
âOh, look!â she said. âAnother ship!â
It was a sleek, three-masted clipper, sails billowing as it tacked from westward, on a course that seemed designed to intercept the
Southern Belle
. Ryder could see the crewmen scurrying about on deck, doing whatever sailors did to maximize a vesselâs speed.
âYou donât suppose weâll hit it, do you?â asked Irene.
âDoubtful.â
As if on cue, the
Belle
sounded its warning whistle, sharp and
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