by Daniel Wyatt
“Hello again, Captain Denning,” the clerk said. “I’ll be right with you.” He returned with a small cardboard box. “Complimentary, sir, to all skippers. Cuban cigars.”
“Thank you.”
Denning never refused a good cigar. He slit open the package with his nails. The cigar he removed was thick and smelled different from the Virginia brands he was used to.
The clerk lit a match and put the flame to the cigar end. “What do you think?”
Denning puffed. They were tasty, stronger than Virginia cigars. “Not bad at all. Well, what do you have for me today, Freeman?”
“Right this way,” Freeman replied.
The clerk gestured for the three of them to proceed down the first row. “The latest ladies fashions from Paris. Hats and dresses. They just came in yesterday.”
Denning pulled out one of the hats. It was made of brown suede with a wide chin ribbon. The other bonnets in the crate were the same style but different colors. Paris fashions were highly sought after by the Southern well-to-do who could still afford them. Such non-military goods always had the highest markup in Wilmington, more than six or seven times what he paid for them here in Nassau. “It’s not exactly anything that Bobby Lee could use. How much?”
Freeman answered, “Eleven dollars per dozen.”
“I’ll take ten cases.”
The delighted clerk wrote the figure down on his board. The ten cases were only the beginning. By the time the sun had gone down, he had filled the sheet with a tally of numbers. Army shoes. Lead bars. Small arms. Gunpowder. Dresses. It was another full load, worth thousands of dollars.
“I want everything loaded up tomorrow,” Denning said, after the clerk read out the final quantities.
Freeman cleared his throat. He saw that Denning was serious. “Good grief. So soon? You just arrived.”
“There’s a quarter moon for a few days. I’ve got to return while I can still take advantage of it.”
“Certainly. First thing then.” Freeman looked to the clerk for confirmation.
“We have two other orders tomorrow, sir. But we can fit it in by mid-afternoon, providing the cotton’s unloaded.”
Denning blew out a rich cloud of cigar smoke. “It’ll be off, I guarantee it. My thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way. Good evening. And thank you for the cigars.”
“You are quite welcome.”
Denning spun around to leave, then turned back. “Oh... one other thing. Three, no, make it four cases of these,” he said, eying the cigar in his hand. “They just might go over quite well in Wilmington.”
Chapter seven
Chancellorsville, Virginia
Franklin Taylor climbed the telegraph pole effortlessly. At the peak, he wound his arm over the top wire and scanned the horizon in every direction. The dense wilderness lay before him, far to his left. There, in that mass of forest only a few miles away, were the two greatest armies on the continent, perhaps the world, separated only by timber and ground soon to be spotted with blood.
He hoped this line of telegraph wires was within distance of Hooker’s army.
Would they receive the message of the sneak attack in time?
Taylor reached inside the pouch slung over his shoulder and clutched the pocket telegraph relay in his hand. He opened it and placed it carefully on the flat top of the pole. His hands moved deftly, as he removed the rest of his equipment, a rubber insulated telegraph wire, an encoding disc, and a pocket knife. He held his wire along the pole wire, then gently cut into it and wound the metal together, thus connecting his wire to the relay. He wrote on a piece of paper what he wanted to send. Using the preselected secret cipher code, he turned the disc for each letter and tapped the corresponding letter on the key. When he completed the message, he sweated out the long seconds.
The seconds became minutes.
He looked around nervously, saw no one, and sent the same message again, quicker this time. He waited. Nothing.
Had the lines gone dead? Had they been cut?
* * * *
Major Luke Keating didn’t know what the hell was going on.
Since breaking camp in the morning, he and twenty-eight thousand men of Jackson’s II Corps complete with ambulances had taken to a rough dirt way called the Plank Road, on a loose-formation march through the western end of the Wilderness to position themselves behind Hooker’s army in the woods. Jackson had never marched in a loose formation before. Keating wondered if it was to simulate a retreat. They had been marching for several hours and had covered more than ten miles. They needed a rest. Now, only a few short hours of daylight remained. Would they make camp? What if the Union pickets saw them? Was Union General Hooker laying an ambush in the meantime?
Keating rode upright in the saddle. He coughed hard. Autumn leaves of the previous year crackled under his horse’s hooves. Even though his field glasses were powerful, his view failed to penetrate the gloomy pine and oak undergrowth. No snipers, at least.
They stopped. He saw a gray river of men with shouldered rifles directly ahead, being herded in formation, a potent combination of infantry and cavalry. A low mutter of voices swept the woods. Metal clanged.
The word came to him. Fix bayonets.
* * * *
Supper sparked hot on the campfires this clear evening for the XI Corps Union soldiers in the trenches and breastworks at the edge of the Wilderness. The men were relaxing and playing cards between the baggage wagons, others drinking coffee, eating their meals. Suddenly, birds, deer, rabbits, and squirrels sprang from the woods. And right behind the animals came the sound of high-pitched bugles piercing the air, along with a mighty roar of men.
“Charge!”
Nearly thirty thousand of Stonewall Jackson’s men descended on the Union soldiers like a huge ocean wave, guns and gleaming swords drawn, bayonets fixed, battle flags flapping, screaming the frightening Rebel yell.
Keating sensed the horrifying sight of panic written on the faces of the enemy. Suddenly, the war became very personal. He felt for a moment that it was almost unfair. But Jackson was never fair. Outnumbered as he was today, he had decided to use surprise to his favor. He had outflanked the flankers. Near the forefront of the thunderbolt, Keating and hundreds of others in the cavalry shot and slashed through the supper line before the Union men could run for their guns. Some men were caught in their tents, their camp kettles still red hot, warm meals in their bellies.
Keating shot one bluecoat in the heart with his Colt pistol. He shot another in the shoulder. A gush of blood speckled Keating’s uniform. He had to shoot a third man — a big man — twice to bring him down. The first ball got him below the neck, the second in the stomach. Keating turned and saw a Union carbine aimed right at him. Twenty feet away! He saw the smoke, and winced, but in the overwhelming thunder of noise didn’t hear the gun fire. The shot had gone wide. Keating removed his saber, ran up, and laid open the Union man’s scalp.
Keating flowed with the human Rebel storm towards the center of the clearing beyond the breastworks and trenches. Line after line ran forward, sweeping over the bluecoats, mowing them down like a tornado in a forest.
Chapter eight
Wilmington, North Carolina
The Silver Sally slipped through the new inlet shoals without incident on her return run, and steamed the twenty-five miles north to port under the cover of darkness and a constant light rain.
It was still raining at eleven o’clock the next morning when Captain Denning left his ship following his best rest since leaving Nassau. He hailed a carriage driver who took him to the Prince Hotel. The rain was beginning to let up. Outside the lobby, Denning bought a freshly printed Wilmington Daily News and buried himself in the reading of it, leaning against one of the hotel’s great stone pillars. The front-page headlines exploded at him. A lot had transpired in his absence. The murder of a Wilmington widow, the second widow in three weeks. Wilmington was becoming a wild town. Far away, Vicksburg, Mississippi, was under
siege by Union general Ulysses Grant. Closer to North Carolina, Robert E. Lee had crushed Joe Hooker with a lightning flank assault at a junction called Chancellorsville, Virginia.
Denning pushed himself away from the pillar. Chancellorsville. General Stonewall Jackson had been seriously wounded. Although the majority of businessmen snapping up the papers most likely had never heard of Chancellorsville, Denning could picture the place in an instant. He had been brought up in the surrounding countryside. His father still farmed near there. The crowd gathered about the newsboy, buying up his papers until they were all gone. Under the hotel canopy, Denning took out one of his Cuban cigars and eyed the murky street as the sky began to clear to the west.
A tall lanky man strode up and struck the match for him. “Captain Denning?” The man removed his hat and flicked the water off it.
“That’s right.” Denning puffed on his cigar. “Thanks for the light.”
“You’re welcome, sir. I just missed you at the dock. One of your shipmates said you’d be here.”
“And who are you?”
“Maxwell Toland. From the mayor’s office. My father — the mayor — was wondering if you might be so kind as to help out a group who are doing all they can for the war effort?”
“Goodwill? That sort of thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“For the Cause?”
“You might say that, yes.”
Denning put his arm around the man. “Maxwell, I never like to talk business without a drink. I know it’s early but can I buy you one?”
“Well—”
“What’s your fancy, son? Whiskey? Brandy? Wine?”
Toland stalled. “I reckon I better not.”
“Why not? I’m sure your father won’t mind too terribly. Tell him you were with me. I’ll vouch for you.”
Toland shook his head. “It’s not that. I’m due back. We’re very busy. What with the war on, we’re short of manpower and all. I wrote out the information. Let’s see...” He pulled up his cape clumsily, searched his pockets, then held out a small card with a hand-written name and address on it.
Denning took the card. “The Lads of the Liberty. And who might they be? A veteran’s group?”
“Oh, no. A women’s organization that sends clothing to the boys at the front. They’re working out of an old print shop, not far from here. On Market and Third.”
“What do they want with me?”
“I think you might have to go there to find out.”
“I see.” Denning was amused more than anything. All of a sudden he was in great demand. “Women? Ah, why not? Tell your father I’m on my way.”
“Much obliged, sir. And give my special regards to Marie, would you please?”
“Who’s Marie?” asked Denning.
“You’ll find that out, too.”
* * * *
Denning held his Panama hat and the newspaper in his hand and wiped his boots on the mat inside the old print shop lobby. He stuck his head through the doorway and was met by a flurry of activity. Twenty or so women between the ages of twenty and sixty were busy either sewing by hand or packing and unpacking boxes. And half of them seemed to be talking all at the same time. A few of the ladies were somewhat wide. Three or four were younger and rather charming. Two women in the center of the room were sewing stars on the biggest Confederate flag he had ever seen.
“May I help you, sir?”
Denning turned to one side to see an old woman, her white hair tied in a bun. She was sorting some used socks and did not look overjoyed at doing it. Denning cleared his throat and said, “Begging your pardon, ma’am. I wish to see the woman in charge, Miss Keating.”
The woman huffed. “Oh, her. The Gypsy.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“Across the aisle.” She lowered her voice. “The one in the blue dress. And it’s Mrs. Keating. Not miss, like many of the young men in town would wish.” She went back to her work.
“Sorry,” he whispered back, hiding a grin. “I didn’t know she was married.”
“Go and get yourself in there, if you must.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Denning stepped through the doorway, his eyes on the young woman. She was wearing a hooped, medium-blue dress, her back to him. He cleared his throat for a second time and slowly made his way into the open, the newspaper tucked under his arm. He was the only man in the large room and soon drew the stares of the women. It was obvious to them that he was not a common man, but one of distinction, spotlessly groomed, with a self-assured manner. They looked with appreciation on his wavy reddish-blond hair and bronze skin, firm mouth and curious grin. He nodded at a few of the younger women as he moved along. Denning was conscious of the silence, except for the rain on the roof and his own footsteps on the plank floor. He stopped the instant the woman in the blue dress spun around.
“Good morning, monsieur. May I help you?” Her voice was clear. She pronounced her words perfectly, a slight spark of Carolina drawl mingled with a French accent.
“Mrs. Keating?”
“Yes.” Her eyes locked onto his.
Denning quickly realized that this was a lady of means, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She appeared to be in her early twenties; her clear skin was light brown, almost like a pale Indian. She was tall for a woman — five-foot-seven for sure. Her curly hair was long, in ringlets, and as black as a moonless Cape Fear night. Her high cheek bones and fine features gave her a certain wild beauty that set her apart from other Southern women. She had a slim nose, slightly turned up, with interesting green eyes. She reminded him of someone else at that age, a few years ago. Even the ribbon in her hair and her scent of freshly cut flowers were almost the same. Up close, Denning saw that Mrs. Keating’s dress was slightly faded, a common sight among Southern women now after the two-year blockade. Even metal hairpins were luxuries and hard to find, as evidenced by the thick hand-made wooden pins in her hair.
“May I help you, monsieur?” she repeated curiously. “You do speak, do you not?”
Denning tipped his head. “Mrs. Keating. I’m Captain Joshua Denning. The mayor sent me to see you.”
Her face broke with an alluring smile, her teeth a dazzling white. “Ah, yes. The captain of the Silver Sally.”
He still couldn’t take his eyes off her. “Yes, madam.” He heard a few lowered voices behind him.
Mrs. Keating clapped her hands together. “Ladies! Ladies, please!” She waited for silence. “May I introduce to you Captain Joshua Denning, one of our daring blockade runners,” she said, accenting his profession. “He and his crew of the Silver Sally have graciously offered to help us with our project.”
Denning turned and bowed twice as the women clapped. “Thank you. Good ladies of the Confederacy, my crew and I are at your service. We are ready to do what we can for the Cause.” Whatever that is, he wanted to know.
Mrs. Keating motioned to a far corner of the room. “If you please, captain. I have an office where we can talk in private.”
She gathered up her skirts with a pinch of her slender fingers. Her flat-heeled shoes barely made a sound as she whisked across the floor.
The small, musty-smelling office contained some shelves of boxes from which bulged worn cotton material. She closed the door. They both stood in the room, ignoring the wooden chairs.
“I’m impressed, Mrs. Keating. You have quite the operation here. Keeping the boys warm at the front, and all. Sometimes women don’t receive the credit for their part in the war. Very commendable.”
“Thank you, monsieur. That’s very kind of you.” Her face reddened. “We try.”
“It seems you more than try. By the way, Maxwell Toland sends you his regards.”
“That was nice of him.”
“Now, madam, I would like to know what I’m supposed to help you with, seeing that you have already so boldly volunteered me for it.”
“I’m sorry, captain, I did get carried away.”
“W
hat is it that you need?”
“Raw cotton material from the English factories. We want to buy as much as you can supply us with. The Army of Northern Virginia is badly clothed right now. It’s a disgrace, it is. Naturally, though, price is a consideration. Our means are rather limited.” Her eyes did not waver from him the entire time she spoke.
Denning laughed softly. How ironic. English fabric made from Southern cotton. The South couldn’t do it themselves? He held her gaze. “Why should there be a price? Not all the skippers in my profession are from the same mold. We’re not all a pack of money-grabbing hound-dogs like some local people make us out to be.”
“That’s good to know. I’ll spread the word around.”
“Don’t be too kind, though,” he joked. “I still have to do business around town.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll bring back whatever I can for you. No charge. For the Cause.”
She seemed surprised. “That is very generous of you, monsieur.”
“My pleasure, madam.”
Her eyes focused on the newspaper. “Is there good news, monsieur?”
“Pardon me?”
“Your newspaper. Is there good news from the front?”
Denning tried to be nonchalant. “The town is in a buzz. Lee defeated Hooker at Chancellorsville, Virginia.” He handed her the paper, unfolded the front page for her. “But Jackson was wounded. Shot accidentally by his own pickets.”
Her face went stiff with the news.
Denning saw the wedding ring on her finger. “Do you perhaps have a loved one in Lee’s army?”
“Yes, I do. My husband is in Jackson’s cavalry.”
“Oh. The telegraph office is open, although it’s probably crowded now. I hear the first of the casualty reports are out. I do hope your husband is safe.”
“So do I.” She paused, then said briskly, “I had really best get back to it.”
“And I’d better see to my shipment. Until we meet again.”
“I wish you many safe journeys, monsieur.” She returned the paper to Denning and folded her hands at her waist. “Goodbye, captain. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”