The Cotton Run

by Daniel Wyatt

  A fierce battle was coming. He knew it. He could smell it.

  Taylor also differed from his comrades in another way. When ordered to send coded messages along the telegraph wires and flag signals between units, he did so. But when he had the chance, he also sent what he felt were essential messages to a Union telegraph office based in northern Virginia. The latter was his all-absorbing job. Thousands of Union lives were depending on his dispatches. Taylor’s employer was not the Army of Northern Virginia, but the National Detective Police headquartered in Washington. His code name was Yankee. Once a month one thousand dollars in gold would be deposited by a high-ranking detective into a secret account opened under Taylor’s assumed name. The account had been growing for many months. Taylor would be filthy rich by war’s end.

  While his southern friends were fighting their hearts out for the Confederacy, Lieutenant Franklin Taylor was a Union informant inside Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia. And he had been getting away with it for a year.

  Chapter five

  Hatteras Inlet, North Carolina

  The Connecticut should have put out to sea that morning, but it didn’t look anywhere near ready to go. Now, Robert Carlisle was concerned about morale — his crew’s as well as his own. He wanted the ship out and hunting pirates.

  One of the engine mechanics, smothered in grease from his face down to the rolled cuffs of his blue coveralls, stepped from the ship to the pier. Carlisle approached him.

  “How much longer?”

  The mechanic shook his head. “Not today, sir. Not for a few days. We need some parts from the mainland.”

  Carlisle turned in the direction of the officers’ quarters on the rise and pounded away on his stump. “What a piss-poor way to run a navy,” he said to himself.

  * * * *

  The Bahamas

  Navigator Ben Woodson rested his leg on the frame below the window glass. Pointing ahead, he confirmed for pilot Homer Cogswell a small palm-tree-dotted island one nautical mile off port and reconfirmed it on Homer’s chart. Cogswell nodded. They were on course. Cogswell and Woodson were a polished partnership, crucial for any successful cotton run. They were the heart of the Silver Sally.

  Woodson scratched his free hand through his receding short gray hair and his white beard. In the summer of middle age, he looked at least ten years older than his fifty-one years. His jowly face was brown, lined, and haggard. A native Georgian from the seaport of Savannah, he was a man of great marine skill who took a fierce pride in his work. Another officer who met Denning’s high standards, Woodson was a seasoned elder of east-coast mapping expeditions, two battle cruisers, and overseas duty before jumping ship and country to run the blockade for the Confederacy. Where the money was.

  Smoldering pipe in mouth, Cogswell enjoyed the taste of his favorite tobacco, Georgia Navy Gold, the most expensive money could buy. The sweet sting lingered in the cabin as he stared down at the charts on the table. He was directing the ship southward through the Northwest Providence Channel toward the capital of Nassau, steering south by east. His mind drifted back to his earliest days at sea, on sailboats. He recalled how by gripping the two helm spokes, he could actually feel the breeze in the sails. Now, years later, he was feeling the engine rumble on the spokes, vibrant and humming. The modern steamships were certainly faster, but not as challenging and romantic as sail. He thought it would be great to own a sailboat, just for fun. Maybe when the war was over, when things calmed down and life returned to normal.

  Cogswell knew these waters nearly as well as he knew the beaches and sandbars of Cape Fear. He noticed that the water was changing from a dark green-blue to a richer, softer green. It was a sign they were drawing near to the shore. Ahead, the sun caught the white, cylinder-shaped lighthouse outside Nassau. Only ten miles divided the crew from another good time before they had to make the return run to Wilmington.

  Joshua Denning stood on the bridge across from the pilot house, in white shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. He lit a fresh Virginia cigar and made his customary check of the channel, propping himself against a stack of cotton bales. His ship was surrounded by small fragments of land. He drank in the pleasant, hot weather. The steamy sun hung in the sky. Wispy clouds floated by and a slight breeze helped to keep the heat at least bearable. About four hours of daylight remained.

  At that very moment, caught in the violent world of war, he felt at peace. He glanced over the rail at the calm, sparkling water rushing past the steel hull. The sea had a pulse of its own and for a few moments he allowed himself the luxury of relaxing. The subtropical waters off the coast of Florida were never more attractive than they were in these late daylight hours. And they were never more dangerous, due to the long underwater shadows cast on them. These were unforgiving waters with canyons and coral reefs that would rise and fall in fathom lengths in the space of a few feet. The stark underwater changes in depth had been responsible for the destruction of many a ship, along with the careers of a few inexperienced and overconfident pilots who had contested the Bahamas channels.

  The sun’s deep yellow rays brought out the glittering colors of plant life below the water line, the red, brown, blue, green growth. Looking aft, Denning saw a barracuda and a three-foot-long turtle bobbing to the surface. Bright-colored fish darted everywhere. The deep canyons drifted by.

  High tide had passed. As a precaution, Denning posted extra lookouts to guide the approach to port. He blew out a cone of cigar smoke and marveled at Cogswell’s wizardry. Cogswell was the highest-paid man on the crew, and he was worth every sovereign he received for his nautical skills, all twenty thousand dollars in gold per trip.

  The captain leaped onto a row of bales as if he were years younger and saw the Nassau dock coming into view. A flight of squawking pelicans flew over, circled, and teased the crew before heading back for shore. Concluding a survey of the horizon, Denning glanced up. “Keep a sharp lookout,” he called to the sailor high on the foremast before returning to his cabin. Matthew Balsinger was waiting for him.

  It was payday for the crew. Denning dug out two heavy metal-and-wood cash boxes from the safe and opened them. Balsinger, who doubled as the ship’s paymaster, hungrily eyed the contents — hundreds of gold sovereigns in Nassau currency. He was looking forward to docking and spending his own generous share.

  Denning remained on his feet, gazing through the open cabin porthole at an island in the distance. He turned and said, “Matt, let me ask you a personal question.”

  Balsinger looked up in response from his chair, folding his arms across his strong chest. “Sure, skipper.”

  “What do you aim to do after the war?”

  “Don’t rightly know. Never really gave it any honest attention. Why do you ask?”

  Denning puffed on his cigar, turning back to the porthole. “I heard some gossip back in Wilmington.”

  “What kind of gossip?”

  “They’re saying the Davis government is going to commandeer the blockade-running business, either partially or totally. Maybe even the ships.”

  “Will it finally come to that?”

  “To be sure. It hinges on whether Davis can enforce it over states’ rights,” Denning said. “But it’s inevitable.” He moved around the cabin slowly. “The president wants his share. His whole plan would shift the profits from our pockets to his. What I’m trying to say is that everything is stacked against us. If it ever does come down to commandeering the runners, we have to be prepared to retire the Sally on short notice, and look at that retirement some of us are considering. With less profit, the ship’s wage scale would surely drop. It wouldn’t be worth it anymore.” He paused. “I feel I should tell you that Morehardt Steamship Company has approached me with an offer.”

  Startled, Balsinger said, “They have?”

  “One hundred thousand dollars. In gold.”

  “Good price. Damn good price!”

  “I’ll say. About what I paid for it once you convert the gold to English currenc
y. I’ll trouble you to not let any of this go beyond this room just yet. Let’s keep a lid on it.”

  “I gathered that. My lips are sealed, skipper.”

  Balsinger was surprised by the information but had no reason to doubt the captain. Balsinger had barely saved anything for the future, preferring to always spend what Denning paid him — two thousand dollars in gold on every return trip. He was in no position to consider retirement. “At any rate, I guess you can’t blame Davis,” Denning continued. “He has to cash in. And to think the price of cotton was ten cents a pound before the war.” He shook his head. “By the middle of next year, it’ll more than likely reach a dollar.”

  “That works out to about seven hundred dollars a bale!”

  Denning nodded. “Look what cotton has done for us. For everybody.”

  “It’s made us damn rich. That’s what. We’ve never seen such money.”

  A shrill whistle came down the voice tube. Denning reached for the extension, and stuck it to his ear.

  “Captain, we’re coming into port.”

  “Thanks, Willy. Ring the bell.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Denning returned the tube to the wall bracket and smiled at Balsinger. “Take it easy this time, Matt,” he said. “Don’t blow your whole pay again.”

  Chapter six

  Nassau, Bahamas

  A tall, muscular, black man waited for the skipper at the end of the gangplank. “Captain Denning, suh?”

  “Yes. I’m Captain Denning.”

  “I have a message for yuh, suh.”

  Denning snatched the envelope, read the contents, and frowned.

  As instructed in the note, he found his way to the White Light Tavern, an all-green, gabled establishment hastily built during the war. On entering through the elbow-to-elbow crowd near the door, Denning caught the strong whiff of fresh liquor. They were starting early. Some of his crew were mixing with the bar women. A group of British speculators at the counter were engaged in some chatter. Another cluster, this one British and Southern naval officers, were proposing toasts in the corner.

  An Englishwoman approached Denning from behind the bar. “Why, if it isn’t Captain Denning. I heard the Sally came in. Looking for a little fun tonight?”

  Denning knew the part-time maid, part-time prostitute. “Not now, Mame. I’m looking for someone.”

  “Don’t I know it, love.” She winked. “In the corner. He’s been waiting for yuh.” She nudged Denning with her shoulder. “Brandy, Jack!” she called out, over the throng of voices.

  Denning took his brandy, strolled deep into the crowd, and came upon a white-faced, squat of a man. His two rings and gold chain left Denning with the impression of one quite well off.

  The man stood, his palm out. “Good day, Captain Denning. Jason Litchfield, representing the firm of Litchfield-Deats Manufacturing.”

  Denning forced himself to extend his hand. “Good day to you, sir.”

  “I trust you had a good trip?”

  “I did, thank you. What can I do for you?”

  “Have a seat, captain.”

  The accent was unmistakable to Denning. New York, for sure. “Northerner, eh? Looking for cotton?” He pulled up a chair.

  “Why, yes. As a matter of fact, I am. How ever did you know?”

  “Intuition.”

  “I saw your blockade runner come into port. I inspected the quality of your Sea Island cotton. Excellent. The best. Maybe we can cut a deal that will be to your advantage. I need cotton, the Sea Island and Georgia Bowed variety, and I’m willing to pay handsomely for it. What do you say?”

  Denning was suspicious. “I suggest you take the official route. Cotton passes through the Mason-Dixon line are easy to obtain if you know the right people. Why come all the way out here to Nassau? I thought the Davis and Lincoln governments had come to an understanding. You need cotton. Lee needs meat. I don’t think I need to explain more. You do know what I’m talking about?”

  “Of course, sir. I am well aware of the cotton passes. I’ve been using them up until recently, with the help of a Wall Street cotton broker.”

  “Well, then. I don’t understand. What is it you want from me?”

  “Let me explain. Since last month millions of dollars of meat and other foods and goods have been hoarded by the National Detective Police in Washington and Maryland. They are being seized as contraband Rebel commodities. Some high-ups in Washington are engaged in some black market activity.”

  “Hoarding, you say?”

  “Yes, captain.” Litchfield bobbed his head like a bird drinking water. “And we have reason to believe it’s being perpetrated by Baker.”

  “Who?”

  “The NDP chief. Colonel Lafayette Baker. With the help of radical businessmen in Washington and New York. Baker and his friends also run guns into the Confederacy.”

  “I’ve known about some gun-running. So... Washington’s behind it, are they?”

  “They are, but nothing has been moving. Because the Northerners refuse to deal, the South won’t ship their cotton to us. And now both armies are smack in the middle of Virginia. On the move and with the snipers and all, it’s too dangerous. No rail line north is safe.”

  “So,” Denning assumed, “you want me to take care of your own cotton needs as long as the seizure is in place.”

  “Yes. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Denning laughed. “Oh, you will, will you?”

  “Certainly, my good man.”

  Denning was aware of the irony of the situation. It was the way of Nassau, the center for under-the-table Civil War commerce. Here were the two of them, enemies, sitting in a smelly tavern on a sun-baked tropical island, making a business transaction that was highly irregular, while their two armies were fighting it out on American soil.

  “I’m not interested.” Denning got up.

  Litchfield jumped up to stop him leaving. “But I’m willing to pay five percent above what the British agents are paying.”

  “So that’s it. You must take me for an idiot.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I deal with the British,” Denning replied. “How can I sell them out? You get the cotton and I suddenly leave the British empty-handed. Not likely. If word got around these islands, I’d be finished. Tell me, how do you expect to ship the cotton out of here?”

  “I already have a contact in the harbor.”

  Denning had dealt with con men before. They always wanted something. He had chosen not to deal with the enemy for that reason. There were too many more people he had to trust, too many new deals, handshakes, agreements in bars. Too many risks. “I told you I’m not interested. Now, if you’ll kindly step aside, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Ten percent, then. Tops!”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Denning said. “I don’t deal with Northerners.” He ignored Litchfield and began to move slowly toward the front entrance.

  “You will!”

  Denning stopped some few feet away and swung around. “Would you kindly repeat that?”

  “Oh, come, now. You’re a blockade runner,” Litchfield said, as if to sway Denning. “Anything for profit, right? Money, that’s what runs the world. Money and cotton right now.”

  Denning lunged at Litchfield and grabbed him around his collar with both hands, lifting him several inches off the ground. “I said I don’t deal with Northerners. It’s a policy of mine.” Their faces were only inches apart. “I’m a Southerner with an all Southern crew.”

  “Stop! You’re choking... me,” Litchfield protested, looking to the crowd for support. But his pleas fell on unconcerned ears. They didn’t care. He was a Yankee. Yankees weren’t welcome in Nassau.

  Denning finally dropped Litchfield in a heap. The man gripped his throat, gasping to catch his breath. He wobbled on one knee and dusted himself off, then disappeared through the entrance door.

  “What are you looking at?” Denning asked, a sly grin forming, his eyes hitting on Cogswell,
Woodson and Balsinger, who quickly looked away to continue nursing their liquid refreshments.

  The crowd parted for him as he too left the tavern.

  * * * *

  Denning’s attention focused on business as he took an alleyway shortcut to the warehouse district. He stopped, paused, and looked up at the swinging sign over a long, open sliding door. L. LOCKERBIE AND COMPANY, LONDON, ENGLAND was printed in neat white letters several feet long and three feet high on a black background.

  “Ah, Captain Denning.”

  Denning saw British cotton agent William Freeman in the shadows. This time the captain extended his hand more readily. “Freeman,” he said.

  “How are you this fine evening?”

  “As well as can be expected,” Denning answered sharply. He stepped inside. Spread out before him were hundreds of wood crates, in organized rows, piled to the high ceiling. Southern and English customers in naval uniforms and local clerks with clipboards were all over the open crates, examining the contents.

  Freeman waved for a clerk. “Captain Denning will need some help.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Freeman.”

  Denning remembered the young English clerk from the last transaction in Nassau, and nodded at him.