Orphan Hero

by John Babb

  McCorkle explained Todd’s absence. “Captain Todd been made Colonel Lane’s Aide, and lit out with the army to Meridian, Mississippi. He says to keep them supplies a coming. Joe Hudspeth already left Brownsville, headed for South Carolina.”

  Anderson spoke up: “Mistuh Windes, I understand you been a good friend of the South. Probably done as much good for our cause as any brigade commander. We’re much obliged for the food supplies, but our boys is desperate for arms. We come up against a troop of Sherman’s cavalry that was using repeating rifles. Our boys couldn’t stand up to them weapons. We took a couple off dead Yanks, and the rifles were stamped with the name of Spencer. They fire a cartridge like a Henry.

  “Sherman and Grant are burning our cotton wherever they find it—in warehouses or even standing in the fields. What silver we got left we’re stealing off of Yank paymasters. So from now on, we can only use that silver to buy what we got to have to keep fighting—Spencers and cartridges. If ye can deliver them, we’ll be ready to buy all ye can get.”

  B. F. had been dreading the day when this would be the supply order. So far he had been able to look himself in the mirror and believe he was not engaged in trading true war materiel. Up to this point, it had strictly been clothes and food—no weapons, no ammunition, and no nitroglycerin. He realized he didn’t even know how he felt about it—let alone how Gali might react.

  Anderson was sizing him up, trying to gauge his reaction. “Mistuh Windes, unless you’re ready to try your luck with the blockade around Mobile, we’re all you got. If you’re as loyal as I hear, I expect you’ll find them guns in Cuba or the Virgin Islands.”

  B. F. made up his mind. “Let me suggest that you be in Galveston City the third week of April. My ship will put me ashore on the island, and I’ll meet you at the Belle of the Bay Hotel. We’ll make arrangements for the trade at that time. I’ll be trying to bring in fifteen hundred rifles and three hundred thousand cartridges.”

  “Make it five hundred thousand rounds.”

  “I’ll try.”

  The big man stood up, looked at B. F., and replied in a voice without any trace of emotion. “Do that.”

  B. F. found Gali in their small warehouse in Tampico. “Hello, my friend. Another good trip. After expenses, we’re bringing in another twenty thousand dollars in silver and three hundred bales of cotton. By the way, what would you think of holding on to the cotton for a few months?”

  “But why would we do that?”

  “The buyer told me the Mississippi River is now completely controlled by the Union, and that they are burning cotton storehouses as well as cotton in the fields. It could be that the price is going to go up again in England and France once this new shortage takes hold.”

  “Well, I think we have just enough space to hold your new shipment. That will mean we are storing six hundred bales. At today’s price, that is ninety thousand dollars. I would be happy to hold out for another ten or fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “Gali, we need to talk about something else. Our friend, Captain Todd, is now with the Rebel Army in Mississippi. The new buyer, a man named Anderson, says they will not be able to find more cotton for payment. He says they’ll use silver, but that they will only buy weapons and ammunition from now on. I know you’ve been against that until now. How do you feel about this?”

  “B. F., I just cannot be a party to selling weapons to them. I have a hard time selling them anything. After all, this is an Army that would not think twice about putting me in the chains of a slave. I have spent the last three years justifying to myself the boots and socks and food, but I must draw the line at weapons.”

  “We could look for another buyer and another landing site, but according to what I’m hearing, the Union blockade is pretty heavy from New Orleans to Florida. I understand the average survival of a blockade runner to the east is only about three trips. We’ve been extremely lucky—perhaps because we have a fast ship and a fine crew, but more likely because we have used lightly blockaded ports.”

  Gali shrugged. “This is not worth losing our ship and our crew. We have plenty of money. Why do we not stop?”

  B. F. frowned. “Including these six hundred bales, we have just over two hundred twenty thousand dollars. I had hoped to walk away with at least one hundred fifty thousand dollars as my share.”

  “You are too greedy, my friend. We could sell the Rei for twenty thousand dollars and we would each have over one hundred twenty thousand dollars. That would make you a very wealthy man.”

  B. F. pondered this thought. The appeal of the money to be made in one big run was hard to shake off. He looked at Gali. This was hard to do. “Would you be willing to sell me your half of the Rei?”

  Gali looked at his friend for a long moment, and then shrugged resignedly. “If you must do this, then I want no part of it. We will divide our funds. I will pay you today’s price for the cotton, and you pay me today’s price for the ship.”

  B. F. extended his hand. “You have been a true friend, Gali. I hope you hold no bad feelings for me.”

  “No, Señor. You have made me a rich man. With this money, Maria and I can be married, and finally her family can say nothing.”

  The Rei arrived in Kingston, Jamaica on April 2, and B. F. set about looking for a source of Spencer repeating rifles. The capitol city was full of European sea captains who were either trying to buy or attempting to sell. He took special pains to keep his plans to himself. Captain Pesca had inquired about their cargo, but he had only said he was looking for special goods. He had no desire to have the story circulating around the docks that his ship would be carrying guns when they departed.

  After a week of no luck in finding repeating rifles, he began to think he had made a mistake. He decided to pull Pesca into his confidence to take advantage of his broader group of contacts, but made sure Pesca was advised to keep quiet around the crew.

  Two days later, Pesca found their cargo through a Dutch sea captain, who he introduced to B. F. at their hotel, The Britisher. B. F. was very careful to ensure his purchase was everything it should be. The last thing he wanted to do was deliver defective rifles or ammunition to Major Anderson. He had no doubts that the brooding man would be swift in dealing with anyone who he perceived was cheating him.

  The Spencers were packed in wooden cases, twelve to a crate. He purchased a hundred twenty-five cases—1,500 rifles—for $20 per rifle, and 500,000 rounds of ammunition for $5,000. Before actually taking delivery, he randomly opened five separate cases and retrieved a rifle from each, then pulled random cartridges from ten boxes, loaded each weapon, and fired a full seven rounds from each.

  The Spencer was a seven shot repeater that was loaded through the back end of the stock. In order to fire the gun, the shooter operated a lever under the trigger to load a cartridge into the chamber, then cocked the hammer and fired. This was repeated each time the gun was fired. After shooting the first two rifles, B. F. easily became proficient enough that he could fire off all seven rounds in each of the last three carbines in just over fifteen seconds. The weapon was a bit lighter and shorter than the Henry rifles he had purchased before, and thankfully, unlike the Henry it possessed a wooden forestock, which made rapid firing much more comfortable for the shooter, as there was no direct contact with a heated barrel.

  Still concerned that he was getting exactly what he paid for, he opened ten more cases of rifles to make the hair on the back of his neck lay down. He stood on the deck of the Rei and counted every case of rifles and cartridges that was loaded aboard. He couldn’t help but notice that the serial numbers of the Spencers ran sequentially from 24,001 to 25,500. He wondered if the first 24,000 rifles had already found their way into Union hands, as he had heard that the Union generals had resisted purchasing Spencers because they were again convinced that soldiers would waste too much ammunition.

  What a message to send to troops—that they might shoot too many rounds at a penny apiece in trying to defend their lives. Only after President
Lincoln shot one of the weapons himself in the backyard of the White House in the summer of 1863 did he countermand his generals, and the Union began buying the rifles.

  Finally satisfied, B. F. paid Captain Roos $35,000 in silver, told the man in front of Pesca that they were headed for Mobile, and did not take his eye off the hold until they were out of Kingston Harbor and sailing to the west. He calculated the worth of his load in Texas at $70,000. Perhaps after this run it really would be a good time to quit.

  He sought out Pesca. “Steer a course for Galveston, Captain.”

  Pesca gave him a strange look. “I thought you said we were headed to Mobile?”

  “That was for Captain Roos’ benefit in case his tongue begins to wag.”

  Late in the evening of April 18, Captain Pesca once again guided the Rei through the shallow San Luis Pass and turned his ship to starboard to slide along the west coast of Galveston Island. Some five miles to the southwest of Galveston City, at about four o’clock in the morning, Pesca ordered the anchor down, a small boat to be lowered, and B. F. was rowed ashore.

  He stood on the beach for a few minutes, watching the rowboat being hauled back onboard the Rei. The anchor was winched up, and the sails filled enough to push the ship off on a northwest tack. Standing there by himself, with at least a five-mile walk in the dark ahead of him, and who knew what kind of roadway to guide him, he suddenly felt vulnerable. Instinctively, his hand rested on his pistol.

  The road was little more than a path, and certainly did not consistently run in a straight line toward the city. It was dawn when he began to notice the horse path had turned into a wagon road, and within another half hour he entered the outskirts of Galveston.

  When he asked the clerk at the Belle of the Bay Hotel what time breakfast was served, he was told that meals were only served to residents of the hotel.

  “How much is a room?”

  “Three dollars a night.”

  B. F. slapped the silver dollars on the counter. “Now then, what time is breakfast?”

  “At six thirty, sir. Just a few more minutes.”

  “Do you have guests by the name of Anderson and McCorkle?”

  “Yes sir. We’re proud to have the famous Major Anderson and his aide at the Belle.”

  B. F. looked up at the clerk, and started to ask about his use of the adjective, but noticed Anderson coming down the stairs at that very moment. He walked over to greet him.

  “Beginning to worry about you Mistuh Windes. I trust you’re here with the goods we discussed.”

  “Fought headwinds most of the way across the Gulf, Major. Yes, I have your order as you requested. Shall we wait on McCorkle before we have breakfast?”

  “He won’t be dining with us this morning. He’s out at Smith Point, waiting on your ship.”

  They sat on the veranda facing the bay. Anderson spoke again. “Your friend Todd has got himself a field promotion to lieutenant Colonel. He’s now on his way to Atlanta with Ross’ Brigade in the Army of Mississip. Those boys will see some hard fighting.”

  “Maybe the shipment I brought in will do them some good.”

  Anderson looked at him with expressionless eyes. “Yes, suh—maybe it will.”

  B. F. heard a rumbling sound out to the west. “Is that thunder I hear? I didn’t notice a storm coming in.”

  After two more booming sounds in the distance, Anderson squinted out across the bay. “There ain’t no clouds a’tall. Sorta sounds like cannon to me.”

  There were three lesser sounds in rapid order. B. F. felt like he was in need of more air. “You’re familiar with this, Major. That sounded like the report of three lighter cannons.”

  Again the larger booming sounded. Anderson looked at B. F. “Them sounds like twenty-four pounders to me. Is your ship in that direction?”

  B. F. nodded his head. “That’s where they were headed. With this slight wind they might not have reached cover before daylight. Is there a Union gunboat out in the bay?”

  “Hadn’t heard of it.”

  “I need to find a boat. You want to come with me?”

  “We’d best give it a few hours. If there is a gunboat out yonder, they might just wonder what we’re doing out there. Might just fire on us too.”

  “I need to see about my ship.”

  “If a gunboat found them, they ain’t nothing you can do nohow.” Anderson looked at his pocket watch. “Let’s give it about four hours. I got no desire to face a twenty-four pounder with just a brace of pistols.”

  They spent all afternoon searching the bay on a small steamer. The first place they looked in earnest was the west side of Smith Point. B. F. could see no indication that the ship had been there. No evidence of a ship’s remains floating on the water. Nothing.

  When they made landfall at Smith Point, McCorkle met B. F. on the beach. “Did you see any sign of my ship this morning?”

  “No, suh. We was wonderin’ when you would show up.”

  “Did you hear cannons out on the bay about six hours ago?”

  “Yes, suh. I believe I did.”

  “Did you see any sign of a ship?”

  “The shootin’ was too far away. We did see some smoke—probably off a smoke stack—but no ship.” McCorkle glanced from B. F. to Anderson. “Did you bring the rifles, Mistuh Windes?”

  B. F. looked out across the empty bay. “They’re on my ship—unless some Yankee gunboat found them this morning.”

  The small steamer traveled to the west, then turned and began a zigzag return back to Galveston. They put a man in the rigging with instruction to shout out at the indication of a sail, or debris in the water. All afternoon there was no sound from the rigging.

  Finally, just before sundown the sailor called out. “Small boat in the water, about three hundred yards at eleven o’clock.”

  It was not the Rei’s. Or at least, not the Rei’s B. F. was looking for. Rather, it was the rowboat that had taken him to the beach the night before. It simply had Rei’s “II” lettered on its bow, and was riding low in the water due to what appeared to be a cannonball hole right at the water line. There was no other sign of anyone or anything.

  Anderson looked at the boat. “This come off your ship?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Appears they sunk your ship with all aboard.”

  B. F. didn’t want to think about it. Captain Pesca! The crew he had sailed with all over the Gulf and the Caribbean. The Rei. The seventy thousand dollar cargo! He called to the sailor on the mast. “Keep looking until it’s too dark to see. Maybe there’s somebody out there.”

  There wasn’t. They made it back to the docks at Galveston well after dark. Anderson spoke up before they returned to the hotel. “We still need them rifles, Mistuh Windes.”

  “I just lost a fortune today. I have no ship. I have no crew. I can’t help you.” He couldn’t even think about doing this again.

  “Sometimes you get, and sometimes you get got, Mistuh Windes.” Anderson didn’t say another word, just stepped down on the dock and walked off.

  B. F. spent another day on the bay, looking for any additional sign of the sloop and its crew, but to no avail. He couldn’t even find anyone on the docks who had seen a battle. Everything just vanished without a trace.

  Thirty-Eight

  Will You Stand Up With Me?

  Gulf of Mexico 1864

  He found Gali and Maria in São Luís, preparing for their wedding. When he told them what had happened, they sympathized with his loss, but when they realized their friend, Captain Pesca, was also gone, neither of them could keep from weeping. Pesca had worked for them faithfully for three years and had been in danger many times because of their work. Gali and B. F. had witnessed his bravery firsthand several times over. It was very painful to think about.

  Journal Entry—May 15, 1864

  It’s been over fifteen years since I left home, so last night I wrote letters to Cousin Sue and Aunt Abbie. With no ship, it looks like I’m going to be in one
place for a while, so at least I can give them a return address in São Luís. I don’t put much stock in the letters ever getting from Brazil to Indiana in the middle of a war. But I do know of a Portuguese ship headed to Cuba, and the Captain promised this morning to hand off the letters to any Union Navy vessel he found in port. I guess miracles do happen once in a while.

  In early November, B. F. saw a newspaper that had been printed in New Orleans in October. Hungry for any news of the war, he began to read the paper from front to back, not missing a single detail. But he spent almost his entire morning reading and re-reading an article on the second page that was accompanied by a photograph of an obviously very dead man who had been propped up in a chair to have his picture taken.

  The header was in a bold typeface Bloody Bill Anderson Killed in Missouri. The story described the murderous killing sprees of Bloody Bill that had gone on primarily in Missouri, Kansas and Arkansas, first in cahoots with William Quantrill, and most recently with his own gang of some one hundred guerillas.

  According to the article, neither Quantrill nor Anderson had ever been officers in the Confederate Army, although both often claimed to have been, or at least conferred military rank on themselves. Moreover, they and their gang had never even served side by side with true Confederate troops in any pitched battle of the war. Their activities were always completely independent of Southern forces, and furthermore made no attempt to observe any recognized standards of warfare.