Illustration:  Capt. John Geiger's house on Key West.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Having intercepted a coded message from the Rebel spy, Aaron begins his investigations in earnest. But he'll stop long enough to intercept Joe once again on the beach. Hmmm.

Enjoy the newest chapter of MUDSILLS & MOONCUSSERS.

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As Aaron approached the door of Will Curry's mercantile store, he met Lila Dauthier coming out of that establishment—on the arm of a Union officer. Aaron doffed his hat in greeting.

"Good morning, Miss Dauthier," Aaron said.

"Good morning, Mister Matthews!" Lila put her officer forward like a trophy. "May I present my friend, Lieutenant R.B. Locke, from New York. The lieutenant is the editor and publisher of Key West's newspaper, the New Era."

Aaron extended a hand, which Locke took while somehow seeming to keep his distance.

"It's a pleasure to meet a member of the fourth estate, Lieutenant Locke," said Aaron pleasantly. "I didn't realize the Army was in the journalism business now."

Locke stood straighter. "We are since the Secesh propagandists had the good sense to leave Key West," he said.

Lila gushed, "Lieutenant Locke is so knowledgeable about simply everything. I think it's so stimulating the way a journalist seems to fairly vibrate in tune with the pulse of a community."

"No doubt," said Aaron with a smile. If Lila was trying to make him jealous, her cause was hopeless. Aaron had never cared enough about a woman to be concerned when other men pursued her. Silently he wished them happy.

Locke began directing his flirtatious partner onward to other business, with a curt nod of farewell to Aaron. Lila waved prettily, and Aaron honored her with a courtly bow.

Once inside Curry's store, Aaron made his way between tables and shelves stacked with merchandise, much of it the cargo of ships wrecked in recent months on the reefs near Key West. Will Curry acknowledged Aaron with a nod but cautioned him with a sideways look at the customers in the store. Aaron saw Caroline Lowe and Mrs. Lowe as well as Josephine Marie Thibodeaux with friend (and parcel-bearer), Joseph Porter. The women were pawing through bolts of fabric—all of it the same color.

"Honestly," mewled Caroline, "I don't know why we have to keep looking. It's all the same."

Porter cautioned Joe, "That one has a water spot."

"Where?" she said, looking where he pointed. "Oh, yes. Thanks."

Caroline went on, "Wouldn't it be lovely to live in a town where nobody else had a dress exactly like yours?"

"Hush, child," said her mother. "Young ladies in Tallahassee are making their own hats out of palmetto fronds and crocheting their own shoes from scraps of baling twine. We'll take this one." She heaved a bolt of cloth from the bottom of the pile and plunked it on Curry's counter. She and Curry consummated the transaction, oblivious to the young people's further conversation.

"Tallahassee?" said Caroline. "We don't know anybody in Tallahassee. I've never even been to Florida."

"This is Florida, Caroline," said Joe, then consulted with Porter further: "I can't decide. Maybe the one with the water spot is more ... interesting."

Porter looked tired.

Aaron stepped from behind piles of merchandise with a greeting, "Miss Thibodeaux."

The three shoppers reacted in different ways. Joe showed surprise and pleasure, Caroline curiosity and anticipation, and Porter suspicion with a touch of jealousy.

"Why, Mister Matthews," said Joe, beaming. "You should have told me you needed something. I could have saved you a walk."

"Nonsense," he said. "It was worth the walk to meet such lovely ladies." He turned to Caroline, "Aaron Matthews, at your service, ma'am."

Porter looked relieved that Aaron's attentions had been directed elsewhere. It was Joe's turn to feel the green-eyed monster tickle her innards.

Caroline's eyes lit up when Aaron greeted her. "You came in the St. Gertrude!" she said.

"Guilty."

"I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Matthews. Tell me, were there any textiles among your goods?" Caroline had never knowingly missed an opportunity to expand her wardrobe.

A short time later, Caroline Lowe and Mrs. Lowe, with their parcels, exited Curry's store onto the street just as the familiar Sergeant Pfifer and his blue-clad patrol were striding past. Caroline couldn't resist teasing them.

"Good day, Sergeant," she chirped.

"Miss Lowe. Miz Lowe," Pfifer replied without missing a step.

The patrol went its way, the ladies theirs, but the last soldier to pass could not resist looking toward the roof of the Lowe house, just in case.  Fortunately, Caroline's illegal Rebel flag was not flying at the moment.

Back inside Curry's store, Joe and Porter had finished their shopping and prepared to leave. Aaron stepped into their path with an eye to their parcels.

"Need any help with that?" Matthews offered.

"I can handle it, thank you," was Porter's quick retort.

"Porter can handle it," said Joe, more pleasantly. "But thank you just the same."

Aaron nodded. "Well, then," he said. "Perhaps I'll see you later, Miss Thibodeaux. If you're not out turtling." He winked. He refused to question his motives. She was an attractive female, if slightly younger than the experienced courtesans he generally preferred. But she was no child and, therefore, was fair game.

Joe smiled, secretly reveling in the sharing of a private joke with this man.

Porter pressed forward saying, "Good day, Mister Matthews," and wasted no time getting Joe out of the store and away from the competition.

When they had gone, Aaron leaned on Curry's counter, fished the decoded message out from behind his belt buckle, and folded it into Curry's hand.

"Will you be sending a delivery to the fort today?" Aaron asked.

"Aye, if it's something they need," the Scotsman answered.

"It is. Now, if I wanted to know something about homing pigeons, who would I ask?"

Curry thought then said, "You could ask Arnau, the cigar maker..."

Aaron wagged his head. Arnau was Aaron's own bird keeper. He sought the keeper of his enemy's pigeons.

Curry thought harder and came up with an alternative. "Sandy Cornish. A free man of color. Down off the end of Whitehead Street, in the colored quarter. Look for the best vegetable garden in town. That's Sandy's place."

Aaron made a mental note, shook Curry's hand, and headed for the door. He had another idea and stopped. "And if I wanted to know about setting a false light on just the right beach at just the right time, who would I ask?"

To his credit, Curry resisted the urge to quip, "Anybody on the island." Instead he said, "Captain John Geiger. Retired. Does nothing but tend his flowers and watch the reefs. He has seen a trick or two in his time, I'll wager. I'll not say he done 'em, but he surely seen 'em. And he has no love for the Confederates nor the Yanks. Key West Conch through and through he is. Big white house straight up Whitehead Street, that way."

...

Behind the white picket fence at Geiger's house the rainbow colors of a carefully kept flower garden ran riot. A lush green moat of plant life surrounded wide verandas front and rear of the three-story white house. Aaron stepped up to the front gate.

"Ahoy! State your business!" boomed a voice.

Aaron looked to all points of the compass and finally upward. There in the rooftop widow's walk was a doughy septuagenarian whose white hair billowed in the sea breeze. Aaron knew this must be John Geiger.

"Ahoy, yourself!" Aaron called, smiling. "My name is Matthews, I— "

"You came in the St. Gertrude!" Geiger announced.

"That's right. Can we talk about it?"

"The St. Gertrude?" teased Geiger, "Or the bonfire that made an ass of her captain?"

Aaron's smile turned ironic. "The St. Gertrude is a lost cause, I'm afraid, but perhaps we can still save the ass of her captain."

Geiger liked this. He laughed, and waves of glee rippled head to toe through his hefty frame. He motioned to Aaron to come up onto the roof. Aaron mounted the front steps, entered the house, and climbed the interior staircase.

Aaron Matthews and John Geiger talked as easily as old friends, and in the silences they each lounged against the railings of the widow's walk and enjoyed the sight, sound, and smell of the sea.

They had been together for some time, and Aaron was idly studying the streets of town with Geiger's spyglass.

Geiger was saying, "So, whoever he was, he loves money enough to perform the unethical, the unforgiveable, and the illegal to get it. Any man who loves it that much won't be able to wait long to spend it. You watch for a man with low morals and high expenditures. He's your fire-starter."

Something on the street arrested Aaron's attention and caused him to focus more carefully with the spyglass. After getting a thorough look for himself, Aaron handed the glass to Captain Geiger and moved to exit the widow's walk.

"Excuse me," Aaron said, "I believe I have an appointment." He was halfway down the interior stairs when he called back, "Thank you, Captain. You've been a great help."

John Geiger registered mild surprise at Aaron's abrupt departure. He turned the spyglass in the direction Aaron had been looking, and he saw what had caused the sudden activity. Geiger smiled broadly and murmured, "If you'll take my advice, you won't let her mother catch you!"

Minutes later, on the beach, Josephine Marie sat propped against a tree near the spot where Aaron had intercepted her once before. She wore her turtling clothes, and her poking stick leaned on the tree behind her.

While Joe watched the surf, a hand snaked from behind the foliage and stole her poking stick. The poking stick—sharply pointed and dangerous-looking—moved ominously toward a spot between her shoulder blades. At the last instant, instead of stabbing her in the back, the stick flicked upward, catching the brim of Joe's sunhat and tumbling it into her lap.

Accustomed to holding her own against an older brother, Joe whipped around, knife in hand, to find Aaron's grin waiting for her. She settled back onto the sand, slipping her knife back into her boot. Aaron emerged from the plants and sat beside her.

"I had decided you weren't coming," she said.

"I didn't really believe you would come until I saw you leave the house. Thought maybe my hint at Curry's was too subtle.  When I saw you from Captain Geiger's rooftop, I nearly broke my neck getting here," said Aaron.

After a short, thoughtful silence, Joe said, "Why, do you think?"

"Because you had a good head start on me, that's why," Aaron quipped. Why indeed? He refused to try to answer that question.

"No," she said, "I mean, why do you think either of us came at all? Two unmarried people, alone, in the middle of the day when anybody might see us. This is the worst idea ever, and yet I was caught in it like a fly in honey the minute you said something about turtling this afternoon. My reputation would be ruined forever, and you would at least lose your lodgings—if not some blood."

"It isn't my intention to compromise you." He surprised himself, realizing it was true. He had never been concerned about such a thing before today. Of course, the women with whom he dealt were older, worldly, sophisticated.

"I know that."

She absolutely trusted him, and he found that absolutely frightening. "Do you want me to leave?" He didn't know how he would force himself to do so, but he had to make the offer.

"No," she said. "I want you to tell me everything's fine, and nobody knows or cares what we do."

She looked to him for an answer. He looked back with a weak smile and a tiny side-to-side movement of his head. He didn't have an answer that would satisfy. Or, if he did, he had no idea how to say it.

Their gaze held for a moment, then both resorted to studying the reefs beyond the shore. Aaron made designs in the sand with Joe's stick.

They shared some quiet minutes, then Joe said, "Your ship is English registry."

"Was, yes." Mundane conversation. This was a relief. This he knew how to do.

"So, you're from Liverpool?" she guessed.

"Now, how would you know—? Ah, of course, the wrecker's daughter. You probably know more than I do about the shipping business." He sounded proud of her knowledge, and they exchanged a quick smile. "Yes, I sailed from Liverpool," he said. "By way of Havana, of course."

Again they watched the sea. Gulls shrieked overhead. The poking stick swished to and fro in the sugary sand. Dry palm branches scraped as the wind used them to polish the trunks of the trees.

"When do you think your country will officially recognize the Confederacy as a nation?" asked Joe.

Aaron sighed. She meant England, he knew, but England was not his country. "My country," he began, "my country is ... divided on that question for the moment."

War. Business. Friendships. Family. Secrets. Trust. Each other. Thoughts of all these matters whirled through their heads as they sat together, growing more and more aware of the impossibility of it all.

Joe shook off her reverie and came to her feet. She held out a hand to Aaron, who looked up with a question in his eyes.

"I need to walk," she explained.

He took her hand and rose to walk with her down the empty beach. Reluctantly, once he was standing he relinquished the warmth of her small hand in his. They strolled side by side, carefully not touching one another.

The White House – Washington, D.C.

President Lincoln worked at annotating one document after another from the tidy stacks spread across his desk. At the same time, he seemed to be half-listening to one of his trusted advisers. The middle-aged, mustachioed adviser was leaning across the desk as if to force his logic onto the president by weight of proximity. Anxiety caused an involuntary vibrato in the adviser's voice.

"Mister President," the adviser said, "the sooner the proclamation is issued, the better. Every morning I fear I'll wake up to news that the English have granted official diplomatic status to the Confederate States."

"Thank God that you, at least, wake up," said Lincoln. "Thousands of fine young men no longer enjoy that luxury." He continued to work on his papers.

The adviser, unable to stand still, moved about the room as he continued to state his case.

"I know that, sir, and I'm not belittling their sacrifice. I'm merely saying if England recognizes the Confederacy, can France be far behind? And other countries as well? What will it do to our chances of reuniting our nation when the rest of the world formally decrees that two nations, not one, exist on our soil? Issue the proclamation. Declare this a war against slavery, no matter how much the southerners wail about their states' rights and other tripe. Then the Confederacy's politics will be too heinous, too unpopular for the Europeans ever to recognize them."

Lincoln fixed him with a withering stare. "Do you think I don't know that?" he said. "Do you think I postpone freeing the southern slaves on a whim? Yes, the proclamation must be issued. The United States must denounce the Confederates' allegiance to slavery as a way of life. But our indignation must appear to be genuine. To announce such a thing while we continue to lose battle after battle would sound like exactly what it would be—a desperate cry for help."

The adviser returned to the edge of the desk to look the president squarely in the eye. "We can't afford many more battles like Shiloh, sir. We claimed victory on the field, but we lost thirteen thousand men to the Rebels' ten thousand."

"How well I know it."

"Sir, if we don't make this war too dirty for the English, it may be hopeless."

"Agreed," said the president. "Show me a significant Union victory, or even a stalemate that I can call a victory. Then I'll sign the Emancipation."

The Beach – Key West, Florida

Joe and Aaron had walked a long time on the beach. Their footprints stretched behind them into the distance. They seemed content just to be in the same place, together.

"I'm looking for the man who set that light on Boca Chica," Aaron said softly, knowing the culprit might be Joe's friend or relative, or even she herself.  "Besides breaking the law, that scoundrel cost me a ship."

"I know," she said.

"I know you said you had nothing to do with that," he said, "but you can understand how it looks. I mean, clearly you would have done anything to help your brother escape."

Joe stopped him and searched his face. "What would you have done if your brother wanted more than anything to fight for his country?"

Thinking of his own brother, Aaron spoke the absolute truth for once. "I would have done everything in my power to keep him home, safe. Everything."

Joe shook off his words and began walking again. Aaron came even with her and put his arm around her shoulder.

Tears glinted in her eyes as she said, "Richard could've stayed home and done his duty right here if the Secesh had thrown the mudsills out of Fort Taylor when they had the chance."

There was no reply. They simply continued making ambling footprints down the beach.

...

That night inside the fort, Colonel Good was cleaning his sidearm when a quick knock at the door was followed immediately by Aaron Matthews' slipping inside.

"News?" asked the colonel.

Aaron shook his head, moved to the desk, took his own Army Colt from the waistband at his back, and sat down to clean it using the colonel's materials.

The colonel frowned at Aaron's Colt. "Now, how do you expect to explain that, when you're supposed to be a civilian in a town under martial law?"

Aaron put a finger to his lips. "Sh-h-h-h-h." He indicated he didn't expect the gun to be discovered. After a moment he said, "I'll be sending a bird off tomorrow, to let my contact in Jamaica know something's up in Havana, and to tell them they won't be hearing from me for a few days."

"And then?"

"Can you post a marksman to watch the southern coastline for pigeons for the next several days?"

The colonel smiled. "If our friend mails a letter, we'll see it doesn't get delivered."

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AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Hmmm. I wonder if Aaron will find the enemy spy before Joe's mother finds out about Aaron.  Sounds like one is as dangerous as the other.

Thanks for reading, voting, and sharing your comments.  

Iris