Smugglers' Gold by Lyle Brandt Page A

ashore at Galveston.
    Beyond that, only time would tell.
    *   *   *
    L unch service aboard the
Southern Belle
began at noon, five hours after leaving port and six hours before the steamer’s stop at Norfolk. Ryder’s stomach was protesting volubly by then, which might have been embarrassing except for all the talk and clatter in the dining hall, accompanied by steady rumbling from the engine room below. There was no system for assigning seats at any of the round tables designed to serve four diners each, so Ryder took one in a corner of the room, his back against the nearest wall—or bulkhead, as they called it on a sailing vessel—with three empty seats around his table when he first arrived.
    The dining hall began to fill up shortly after Ryder took his corner seat, couples and larger parties fanning out to empty tables, leaving Ryder on his own. He didn’t mind the solitude—in fact, preferred to eat alone if possible—but soon the other seats were taken and his luck ran out. A portly fellow crossed to stand before his table, nodding to the empty chair directly opposite and asking, “May I?”
    â€œGo ahead,” Ryder replied.
    The new arrival had a drummer’s look about him: thinning hair slicked back, a waxed mustache and easy smile, ruddy gin blossoms on his cheeks and bulbous nose. He wore a broadcloth coat over a silver satin vest and white shirt with a black string tie. His hands, atop the table, looked like hair spiders. Underneath his jacket, on the left side near the armpit, a small pistol in some kind of a shoulder holster bulged against the fabric.
    â€œArnie Cagle. I’m in ladies’ corsets,” he announced and snorted laughter at his own bon mot. Ryder obliged him with a smile and introduced himself as George Revere, the alias he and Director Wood had finally agreed upon in Washington.
    â€œYou kin to Paul Revere?”
    â€œNot that I ever heard.”
    â€œNow, when I say that I’m in ladies’ corsets—”
    â€œLet me guess. You sell them?”
    â€œYou got it right in one. Other foundation garments too, of course. Your basic camisoles and crinolines, garters and drawers, the latest—”
    â€œMay I join you gentlemen?”
    Ryder glanced up to find a well-dressed woman of about his own age standing several paces from their table, studying the drummer with a look of mild amusement on her heart-shaped face. It was a good face, somewhere short of beautiful, but certainly attractive, underneath a small green feathered hat that rode atop a frothy pile of auburn hair. She wore a blue silk dress, high-necked, with wide pagoda sleeves, the hem of her wide paneled skirt grazing the carpet of the dining hall. Ryder had no idea if she was wearing anything from Cagle’s stock beneath the dress but gave his mind freedom to speculate.
    Cagle was first to rise, wearing an unctuous smile and saying, “Please, by all means, grace our lonely company.”
    Ryder kept quiet, trying not to roll his eyes.
    Cagle stepped back to help the lady with her chair, adjusting it until she thanked him, granting leave for them to sit. “I’m Irene McGowan,” she announced. “And you are . . . ?”
    â€œArnie Cagle,” said the drummer.
    â€œHe’s in ladies’ corsets,” Ryder interjected.
    Cagle shot a glare at him, while Irene said, “We’ll keep that to ourselves, shall we, mister . . . ?”
    â€œRevere,” he told her. “George Revere.”
    â€œNo relation to Paul,” Cagle added.
    She blinked at Cagle. “Paul?”
    â€œIt’s not important.”
    â€œI would not have pegged you for a George,” she said.
    â€œOh, no?”
    â€œSomething a trifle more adventurous, I think. Perhaps Gerard, or Graham.”
    â€œSorry. Just plain George.”
    â€œI wouldn’t go that far, Mr. Revere.”
    Cagle frowned,