William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

entire coastline of the South, right from Virginia around to Texas. They speculated as to whether it would succeed, and there was talk of gun-running through the Bahamas or other such neutral islands.
    But on the second day Trace returned to say he had found passage, and they would leave with the tide the following evening.
    The journey back across the Atlantic took only thirteen days, and they seemed to have a fair wind almost all the way. In every physical aspect, it was a pleasure to walk on the deck in the sun with a blue sky around them and a vivid blue sea in every direction, unbroken to the horizon. Merrit was barely recognizable as the girl she had been before the battle and its loss. The determination was still there and the passion, but a joy in her had been destroyed, at least for a time. The heroism of reality had been nothing like that of her dreams. If she had also seen a vulnerability in Breeland, even a flaw, she was too loyal to betray it even in the meeting of a glance.
    Emotionally, however, it was quite different.
    When Breeland had recovered from his exhaustion of body and the pain in his shoulder was considerably eased, he demanded to speak with Monk. The cabin arrangements had been made so that Trace could keep a reasonable watch upon Breeland. No more was necessary, since escape was obviously impossible. Breeland refused to say anything except if Monk should see him alone.
    Monk would have refused him, but his own curiosity was piqued, and he was moved in spite of himself by an urgency in Breeland, as if what he wished to impart was not merely the expected justification of his actions or an offer of some bargain in exchange for his freedom.
    They stood on the deck, a little apart from the other passengers, of whom there were far fewer than on the outward voyage. There were no return immigrants, no one coming back from the new world to the old, hoping for better opportunities, greater freedoms. It seemed either no one wished to, or if they did, they were unable to flee the war.
    “What is it?” Monk asked a little ungraciously, staring at Breeland as he leaned over the rail watching the blue water churn away to the side and behind them.
    Breeland did not move or turn to face him. “Mrs. Monk told Merrit that my watch was found in the warehouse yard where Daniel Alberton was killed,” he said.
    “It was,” Monk replied. “I found it myself.”
    “I gave it to Merrit, for a keepsake.” He was still staring at the water.
    “How gallant of you,” Monk said sarcastically.
    “Not particularly.” Breeland was dismissive. “It was a good watch, given to me by my grandfather as a gift on my graduation. I intended to marry Merrit … I thought then that I would be free to do so.”
    “I meant how gallant of you to mention the fact, now that it has been found at the scene of her father’s murder,” Monk corrected him.
    Breeland turned slowly, his face cold, contempt in his gray eyes. “You can’t possibly imagine she could have murdered her father—shot him, apparently. That is despicable. Even Philo Trace would not stoop to suggesting that.”
    “No, I don’t believe it,” Monk agreed. “I think you did, with her there, either helping you or as a hostage.” He smiled grimly. “Although I did consider the possibility that you were alone, and you dropped the watch there on purpose, knowing we knew she had it, in order to stop us from following you.”
    Breeland was startled. “You thought I’d do that! In God’s name—” He stopped abruptly, shaking his head, his eyes wide. “You have no idea … have you? Your mind, your aspirations are so … so low, you think of abominations. You have no concept of the nobility of the struggle for the freedom of others. I pity you.”
    Monk was surprised he was not angrier, but there was a cold passion in Breeland’s face too alien to stir such a familiar emotion in him.
    “We have different ideas of nobility,” he replied quite calmly. “I saw nothing to admire in the three dead bodies in the warehouse yard, bound hand and foot and shot in the back of the head. Whose freedom were they limiting, apartfrom yours to steal the guns they weren’t willing to sell you?”
    Breeland frowned. “I did not kill Alberton. I never saw him again after I left the evening you were there.” It seemed to puzzle him. “He sent me a message that night that he had changed his mind and was willing to sell the guns to me after all, at the full