by John Babb
“I’d rather do business with you, if possible. But the blockade has gotten much worse in the last few months.”
“I’m painfully aware of that. We’re lucky to see one ship get through every two weeks now on the Texas coast. You’ve got a good route to come overland from Tampico, but coming straight into Brownsville might be too chancy. What if we set up a rendezvous about fifteen miles above town on the Rio Grande? That’ll keep us east of Feathers.”
They agreed to a delivery in thirty days of similar size, and a price of two dollars per pair of boots and fifty cents per pair of wool socks. B. F. took the precaution of reminding him, “We only deal in gold or silver—no paper.”
“I understand. It’ll take some time to get that.”
“Perhaps I can help with that problem. Do you have any cotton for sale, Mr. Hudspeth?”
“I got three warehouses full, but no way of getting it out until we can get a ship in here.”
“If you’ll take fifty-five dollars in silver a bale, I’ll take my chances on getting three hundred bales past the blockade.”
“When do you want it?”
B. F. turned to look at the Seth Thomas mantel clock on the cabinet. “In one hour and five minutes.”
The two of them were standing on the Red Lantern Dock at nine o’clock that evening when the Rei slid out of the dark and lightly bumped the dock footings. The sloop didn’t even come to a stop as B. F. and Mr. Hudspeth stepped on board.
Hudspeth had located five men who needed work, and assisted by Captain Pesca’s crew, the cotton and $16,500 in silver changed hands before eleven o’clock.
There was a first quarter moon, but with the partial cloud cover, it provided very little illumination. Probably a good thing, in that they had a long run down the river, then a quick move to the south before running into the Gulf. It was unlikely a union gunboat would be in the river at night, as their heavily armed ships generally required a bit more draft than the sloops, so they probably would not risk the river except during daylight. But it was very possible that they would be sitting out in the gulf, at the mouth of the Rio Grande.
The moon was already gone, but there was just enough starlight interspersed between the clouds to reflect off the ocean’s surface. Sure enough, a union steamer was there. It was almost impossible to see until Captain Pesca pointed it out, just barely visible on the dark night and sitting less than a mile off shore, beyond Brazos Island. They furled the sails of the Rei and released her anchor before they were so close to the mouth of the river that they might be spotted by the steamer.
Captain Pesca pulled Gali and B. F. aside. “Señors, we have limited options. The wind does not favor a fast run to the south. If they see us, we will not escape. They outgun us perhaps three or four to one, and they probably have twenty-four pounders against our twelves.”
“What do you recommend, Captain?” Gali spoke up.
“I see three choices. We can move back upstream and hide as best we can before dawn. If we are fortunate, they will not come up the river, but if they do, they may see us and we will be forced to fight a losing battle. Another choice is to put two men ashore on the north shore of Brazos Island, and have them set up a diversion on the beach at least a half mile above the mouth of the river—perhaps a large fire. That may keep their attention long enough that we can escape. It is very risky.”
“What else is there?”
“We lower a lifeboat into the water here, loaded with your treasure. The two of you go with the boat and two of my men. You will need to buy two wagons and horses and head back overland to Tampico. We will hide as best we can on the river, and wait for a better wind on another night. But if they find us, we will lose the Rei and your cotton.”
B. F. put his hand on the captain’s arm and whispered, “This is my fault, Captain. I didn’t want to go back overland, so I asked you to bring the boat here to pick us up. I am sorry to have put us all in this position.”
“I hate to lose this ship.” Pesca glanced at the sky back up the river. “The clouds are getting thicker off to the west, but it will be good daylight in no more than three hours. We must make our move now.”
Gali looked at B. F. “I vote for a diversion. That sounds like the best chance for the Rei.”
B. F. gave an inquiring look at Pesca. “Can it work?”
“Let’s give our two men a bag of black powder. They should start the fire with whale oil poured on a pile of driftwood up against some trees. The driftwood must be piled high. They will hang the bag of black powder about eight or ten feet up in the trees so that it will ignite when the fire is blazing high. The brightness of the fire and the explosion might make them think the fire is coming from a ship close to the shoreline.”
B. F. turned to Gali. “Find two volunteers and give both men a hundred dollars in gold, with a hundred more waiting on them when they return to Tampico—if it works.”
Gali answered by speaking to Pesca. “Tell the rest of your men that they can leave if they wish. They need only go over the side and swim to shore to get away, but this will be their only chance to get away.”
Pesca spoke briefly to his sailors, then turned back to B. F. and Gali. “They choose to stay, Señors.”
The moon had disappeared. All eyes stared into the blackness to where the men had swum off to the north, beyond the mouth of the river. Two sailors stood by the anchor chain, and six more were ready to raise the sails. It was taking too long. Perhaps the volunteers had dropped the whale oil. Maybe there was no driftwood. Had the powder gotten wet in the oiled sealskin bag? Had the men not reached their destination?
B. F. thought he saw a flicker of light, then there seemed to be nothing—was he simply imagining things? Then all of them saw it almost at once. Even at over a mile and a half, the fire was easily visible. In fact, it looked like they had set three or four fires at once along a fifty-foot wide area.
Pesca spoke to his men. “Let’s move. We have no room for delay.” As soon as the anchor was hauled up so that it was visible at the water line, but made no loud noise, Pesca spoke again. “Unfurl the sails. We head for the mouth of the river.”
The Rei was nearing the spot where the Rio Grande emptied into the Gulf when one of the crew spoke to Gali, and he relayed the information to B. F. “See the sparks on the horizon. That is probably the smokestack on the Yankee gunboat, beginning to build up steam. I hope they are getting underway in order to see about the fire, and not because they have seen us.”
They had just begun a turn to starboard to run south along the Mexican coastline when they heard a loud popping behind them. The fire had apparently reached the gunpowder, and it had blown into the trees above the fire. Now the fire appeared to be every bit as large as a ship. Could it have fooled them? The Union steamer was no longer visible. Perhaps the fire was so bright now that the sparks from the ship could not be seen. Then again, it could be headed their way, but in deeper water.
Pesca spoke to his crew. “Fire up the boiler. We will use both the steam engine and this cursed wind. I hope they will not see the sparks from our ship because the fire is so bright. Load the cannons on the port side. We may have little time to react.” The sailors quickly fed coal into the furnace, then prepared the three small cannons for firing.
There was no doubt in anyone’s mind they would be pitifully outgunned if they had to face the gunboat. B. F. and Gali stood at the stern, staring behind them for an indication they were being pursued. Within twenty minutes, the only sign of the fire off to the north was an orange glow on the horizon, and try as they might, neither could see anything resembling a ship behind them. But it was not until daybreak that they could look behind, as well as out to the east, and confirm that there was no sign of a pursuing steamer.
Gali shouted something to the sailors, and they responded in kind. Relief washed over all of them, with pats on the back, great cheering, and much laughter. He put his hand on B. F.’s shoulder. “My friend, we have seen brave men here tonight.�
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Thirty-Six
Them Boys Is Awful Hungry
Gulf of Mexico 1862
Journal Entry—April 10, 1862
On my third trip into Brownsville, I again found Joe Hudspeth in Brown’s Law Office, but he had company. He introduced me to a Captain George Todd and his scout, John McCorkle, from the Third Texas Cavalry. I admit, I’m not fond of too many people knowing about my business. I’ll take no chance with subterfuge. Captain Todd was there for two reasons—to pick up the delivery and take it north to his troops, and also to see if we can deliver further north of here.
Captain Todd and his scout seem to lack what I would describe as an expected level of military decorum. Perhaps they have had a hard time of it. Todd is a wiry, scruffy looking man of no more than thirty years old. McCorkle kept his mouth shut the entire time, so I don’t really have an impression of him except that he almost reminded me of a watch spring that was wound too tightly, and appeared to be on the verge of breaking loose as we sat there.
Captain Todd made a convincing case that a delivery on the Rio Grande is too far from his troops, who are fighting eight hundred miles north in Arkansas and Missouri. He called the northern troops “Yankee Doodles,” and talked about how they were probably going to have to start fighting them up and down the Mississippi River before long, as a sizable Yankee force departed Cairo, Illinois in February, headed south along the river.
B. F. was not thrilled at the prospect of seeing more of the Union Navy. “I’ve been into Sabine Pass twice, but that was several months ago. I hear it’s bottled up pretty tight.”
“There’s a ship every now and then that gets in. But we have a safer spot around Galveston. There’s three ways to get in the Bay—the San Luis Pass south of Galveston Island, the main entry into the bay just north of Galveston City, and at Gilchrist Point north of Bolivar Peninsula. That Navy blockade cain’t stop up the whole thing.”
“What kind of success are the blockade runners having?”
“They ain’t many tried getting into the Bay. Most try to unload right at Galveston City. Seems like that’s where the Navy spends all their time. If ya’ll could get into the Bay instead of landin’ here, it’d save us a good six days travel time.”
“Where do I find you and when?”
“They’s a place called Smith’s Point on the northeast side of the Bay. We’ll be there six weeks from tonight. Soon as we take this here load back to the boys.”
“What kind of supplies do you need?”
“Lead, powder, and nitroglycerin. Say, them boys is awful hungry. I believe we done kilt every deer in Missouri, and what squirrels there is left are mighty lonesome. What about coffee, bacon, flour, and some dried apples? Fact, if we cain’t eat, we cain’t fight. Can ya’ll bring in some vittles?”
“I don’t have a good supply for ammunition. But how does fifty thousand pounds of bacon, fifty thousand pounds of flour, five thousand pounds of apples, and twenty thousand pounds of coffee sound?”
Both Todd and McCorkle had grins as wide as their faces. “That’d be mighty fine.”
“One more thing, gentlemen, we don’t take scrip. It’ll need to be gold, silver, cotton, or tobacco. Understood?”
There was no sign of any opposing ship as the Rei glided into the narrow channel of San Luis Pass, overtaking Galveston Island on the starboard, then turning to the northeast up the West Bay. With a southerly wind, in less than an hour they emerged into the huge Galveston Bay, and continued north by northeast until they reached Smith Point at four o’clock in the morning. Captain Pesca found some cover on the north bank of the Point, virtually out of sight from the main body of water. Gali had chosen to stay in Mexico, saying he felt too vulnerable inside Confederate territory. Lieutenant Feathers’ threat had preyed on him for weeks now, and he had no desire to risk his freedom in Texas.
At daybreak, B. F. went ashore with a large ham, a bag of flour, and some coffee to look for Todd and McCorkle. Thankfully, they and their wagons were there—concealed back in the saw grass and appearing to be well loaded.
After spending an hour feeding the grateful wagon crews, B. F. gave an accounting of his load. His price was $45,000. Their wagons held three hundred bales of cotton. At the current blockade price of fifty-five dollars a bale, Todd would need $28,500 to settle the bill. But the desire to negotiate had begun to ebb with the smell of the brewing coffee, and dissipated entirely with the taste of the country ham and biscuits. Captain Todd agreed to the price.
As they waited in the oppressive heat of the day, Todd pulled reflectively at his thin black beard:
“Mistuh Windes, we’ve had ourselves a bad spring. The Yanks purty well run us outa Missouri and Arkansas. In March, our boys done a hard three days march through the mountains from Fayetteville up to Pea Ridge, Arkansas. The weather was miserable. Lots of the boys is barefoot. They say you could track Gen’l Price’s Army by the bloody footprints in the snow. We sure needed considerable more of them boots you brung in. Anyway, we outrun our supplies and had to leave the field after a two-day fight. Now our boys are with Price in Mississip’, tryin’ to help Gen’l Beauregard.
“Then they was a terrible battle in Tennessee two months ago—place the Yanks called Pittsburg Landing. We call it Shiloh. They say it was the bloodiest battle yet—over twenty-three thousand kilt, wounded, or took prisoner on both sides. Gen’l Johnston was killed there, and Beauregard took over. But this mean-fightin’ son of a gun name of Gen’l Ulysses Grant of the Army of the Tennessee won the day. Last I heard, Beauregard was trying to get shut of the Yanks in north Mississippi.
“But what is gonna make it hard on us Texicans is that the Yanks is fast takin’ over the Mississip’. This winter the Union Navy come down the Ohio to the Mississip’ and right away took New Madrid. Course it ain’t what most would call a Navy. There’s ironclad steamships and rams that was built for river fighting. Even the Yanks call it the Brown Water Navy—cause it cain’t make it out in big water. But within a month they captured a fort on Island Ten along with a garrison of seven thousand troops. Last month they took Plum Run Bend on the River. Then not but two weeks ago they took Memphis. That battle didn’t last much more’n an hour. They sunk seven Reb ships outa eight on the water.”
B. F. spoke up. “What does that leave in Conferate hands on the Mississippi?”
“Just Vicksburg. And last I heard, that Brown Water Navy was headed south. I’d speculate they’s headed for Vicksburg. So everything you run in here has got to then get across the Mississip’ to do our boys any good.”
At sundown, they transferred the foodstuffs from ship to wagons, and the cotton and silver from wagons to ship. Both of them had a long ride ahead. B. F. shook hands with Todd. “Good luck to you, Captain. Shall we make it here exactly two months from tonight?”
“Sounds about right. We got a long road ahead. If ye can find lead and powder, we need it bad. If ye cain’t, we still need to keep our army fed.” He turned to his teamsters. “Boys, git to yer critters.”
By eleven o’clock, Todd and his wagons were headed to the northeast, toward Louisiana, and the Rei was speeding to the southwest across the Bay. They found the Pass empty again and turned back to the south. However, rather than hugging the coastline, Captain Pesca ordered them to sail fifty to one hundred miles out in the gulf in order to avoid any Navy gunships patrolling along the southern coast of Texas.
Over the next year, the Rei made three more successful runs into Galveston Bay, and B. F. continued to deal directly with Todd and McCorkle. The situation along the Mississippi was deteriorating as General Grant had begun moving his army toward Vicksburg in October of 1862. Captain Todd continued to maintain that he was able to get supplies across the river to the Third Texas Cavalry, and even said they had successfully transported food into the embattled city itself.
Vicksburg represented the last commanding position on the Mississippi, standing on bluffs some 250 feet above the river. Due to the extreme height of the b
luffs, the Union Navy, under Captain David Farragut, was unable to elevate their guns sufficiently to fire into the city. So their responsibility was to simply prevent any enemy traffic on the river. The real fight was left to the armies.
On July 4, 1863, the commanding officer in the city, Major General John Pemberton, surrendered his command of over twenty nine thousand men to Grant. His troops and the civilian population were starving, having received no shipments of food for almost two months. Speculators inside the city had held warehouses full of food, but continued to wait on further price increases, and had not acknowledged that they had any food available. With the surrender of Pemberton, their warehouses were ransacked by the people, and many of the “businessmen” were forced to deny any knowledge or ownership of the contents of the warehouses. Major General Joe Johnston was able to escape with his thirty thousand troops and the Army of Mississippi intact, marching hard to the east toward Jackson.
On July 4, Grant telegraphed to President Lincoln, “Vicksburg is ours. The Mississippi is open all the way to the Gulf.” General Pemberton was afterward commonly referred to as the most cowardly man in the South. A particularly inflammatory point was that he had chosen the most special of days to the Union—Independence Day—for the surrender. The city of Vicksburg would refuse to celebrate the Fourth of July for another eighty-one years.
Thirty-Seven
I Draw The Line At Weapons
Gulf of Mexico 1864
Journal Entry—February 10, 1864
This is our fifth trip into Galveston Bay, exchanging food for cotton and silver. There’s certainly good profit in the run when we mix in the cotton, but this morning, Captain Todd was not the man who met me. To be sure, McCorkle was there as usual, but he was accompanied by a man I’d never seen before, a Major William Anderson.
Anderson is a large man, at least five or six inches taller than me, and well over fifty pounds heavier. The man wore a pair of holstered pistols, and another big Colt stuck in his waistband behind a large silver belt buckle. Several times during our meeting, I caught Anderson staring at me with the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. That look of his made me feel like I was a cornered rabbit and he was a wolf! He has an absolutely wild head of hair that is more than matched by his unruly black beard. There was no way to have a polite conversation with him. He is the kind of man that has very little to say in the way of niceties, seeming to be only interested in all things related to the fighting.