by Daniel Wyatt
Suddenly, he was stunned by the buzz of a cannon shot that just missed his cabin. The second shot — right behind the first — hit near the starboard bow, sending up a wall of sputtering water against the hull of his ship. He knew by the sound they were shots from two different guns — one light, one heavy. Denning lunged for the porthole and saw a Union warship, the sunlight glinting off her white sails. He had yet to see one in this close to port. A whistle came down the voice tube. Denning grabbed for it.
“Captain!” Matthew Balsinger’s voice boomed.
“I see it,” Denning answered. “How come no one spotted it sooner?”
“It was hiding behind the rock, with her stacks and sails down.”
“Any battle damage?”
“None. But if the first shot was any closer to the smokestacks, we’d be going the rest of the way on one engine. If at all.”
“I’ll be right up.”
On deck, Denning didn’t need his telescope because they were close enough to the well-armed Union gunboat. A deadly foe, she had several howitzers and a formidable eleven-inch Dahlgren. Denning considered the range and decided that the two shells were warning shots. There was no doubt the Union captain could have hit the Sally if he had wanted to.
“We’ve been ambushed. What do we do?” Balsinger asked, his voice tight and high.
Denning cleared his throat as he went to the rail for a closer look. “There’s not much we can do — can’t outrun her.” He looked to the Sally’s stern and saw the flag. “At least we’re flying the British flag. That’s all we have going for us.”
From the gunboat came a clear voice. “Avast! Or I will blast you out of the water!”
Denning quickly looked to his crew up and down the rail. No one had panicked and they now waited on his orders, fearlessly. A damn good crew, they were. “We’ll have to stop the engines,” Denning said to Balsinger.
“Then what?”
“Bluff them.”
As the Silver Sally slowed, the gunboat was able to edge closer. Denning continued to watch as the enemy swiftly decreased the distance between them. He ordered the engines stopped, and he heard a similar order given on the gunboat.
When the two boats were within thirty yards of each other, a second order rang out. “Prepare to be boarded!”
Denning considered the cruiser’s cannon and howitzer barrels pointed in his direction. Capable Union men with hostile expressions stood behind each heavy gun. Denning knew he couldn’t refuse the command. “Steady as she goes, men,” he said in a low voice to Balsinger and those sailors nearest him. “I think I know how to deal with this.”
“I was hoping you might, captain.” Balsinger did not look relieved.
Denning cupped his hands to his mouth. “You have permission to board!”
A small craft was launched beside the gunboat. Six men, three of them officers, climbed down the laid-out Jacob’s ladder ropes and slid into the tossing craft. Two men paddled the craft to the Sally. Denning took a few steps back in a line abreast with his men. He heard the boarding party crawling up the Sally’s ropes and waited.
Over they came.
Denning saw that each of the six Feds was armed with a cutlass and a Navy revolver. The captain stood out from the group, his polished sword gleaming in the sun. His eyes quickly observed Denning’s men at their assigned places. He looked to be taken aback at the armed crew. “Who’s in charge, here?” he demanded.
Denning detached himself from his men. “I am. Who are you?”
“Captain Carlisle, United States Navy.”
Denning looked at the captain with great interest. He knew the man. What a coincidence! The son-of-a-bitch Carlisle had not changed much since their days at Annapolis. He had the same long neck, the same broad nose, and the same untidy hair out the sides of the cap, and the same bow-legged limp. But now he had a stringy moustache and different shaped spectacles that were stronger than Denning remembered, making Carlisle’s eyes seem larger.
“Your name, sir?”
“Old King Cole,” said Denning distinctly, convinced that Carlisle had not recognized him.
A few of his crew laughed.
A flush of red spread across Carlisle’s cheeks. “Very funny. You have quite the sense of humor considering the pickle you’re in.”
“Me?”
“That’s right! You!”
“You’re the one in the pickle. What’s the meaning of boarding my ship?”
“That British flag doesn’t fool me. This is a Rebel blockade runner!”
Commander Farley leaned toward Carlisle and whispered, “It’s the Sally.”
“Eh?” Carlisle whispered back, looking annoyed that he was interrupted.
“The Silver Sally,” the first mate said out of the side of his mouth. “The fastest ship in the Rebel fleet.”
“Is it now?”
Farley nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Carlisle turned back to Denning. “What is your cargo? As if I don’t know. They can’t be implements of war, can they?” Carlisle’s eyes darted here and there, to Denning’s face, then to his own men, and back to Denning.
Denning replied, “None of your damn business.”
“You might be flying the Union Jack, but you’re no Britisher, that’s for hell sure. The only uniforms I see here are Reb gray. We have reason to believe this is the Rebel blockade runner Silver Sally. Under authority of the United States Navy in Washington I have every right to search your ship for contraband material heading for the Confederacy.”
Denning clasped his hands behind his back and firmly planted his legs. “These are neutral waters. This is not the open sea. Neither the United States nor its Navy has any authority here.”
“We’ll see about that, Reb.” Carlisle withdrew his loaded pistol from his holster and swung it at one of the hundreds of long wooden cases on the deck. “I’ll trouble you to open that yonder case there.”
Denning nodded at one of his deck hands. “Do as he says. Let the... esteemed Captain Carlisle get it out of his system.”
A reluctant sailor took a bar to the lid. With a loud creak, the contents were revealed, a stack of long, thick-barreled rifles.
“British Enfields. I knew it,” Carlisle said.
Denning turned behind him. “Show your guns, men.” Across the deck, guns clicked. More than a dozen barrels pointed at the small Union force. Other Rebel armed sailors appeared from below the deck to increase the Rebel squad.
It was a standoff.
Red-faced, Carlisle stared at Denning, taking the pistols into consideration. “I can order my men on ship to open up with a volley.”
Denning shook his head. “But you won’t, Bobby.” He saw the Union captain fidget. “Don’t be a fool. You’ll go down too. You know, you’re not all that smart coming aboard. Still as hot-tempered as ever.”
“You know my first name. Hold on there.” When the Rebel skipper removed his broad-brimmed hat and bowed, Carlisle’s memory journeyed back to Maryland. “Joshua Denning,” he muttered.
“Bobby Carlisle,” Denning replied. “My old friend.”
“So, we meet again. Friend, my eye!”
“Listen to me good, Carlisle. Order your ship to back off, or else...”
“Or else what? You’re in no position—”
“Shut up!” Denning cut him short.
“How dare you!”
“Matt?”
“Aye, sir,” Balsinger replied, caught unaware.
“Start the engines.”
“Aye, sir.” Balsinger yelled across the deck, “Start engines!”
“Here now, what do you think you’re doing!” Carlisle pounded toward Denning. “What’s the meaning of this? My men also own weaponry, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I urge you to keep a civil tongue, Bobby. On this ship you are out-gunned.” On Carlisle’s face he saw a hint of the eleven years of hate the Union officer had for him. “I give the orders now.” The engines started and the ship beg
an to move. “Matt, half-steam.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Balsinger turned. “Half-steam!”
“You heard me, Bobby. I’ll let one of your crew go to inform the rest on your steamer. But he can’t take the boat. Leave it tied up to ours. Let him swim. You!” He gun-pointed at the lowest-ranked Union sailor. “Once you board your ship, your orders are to stay where you are until these five others return. Is that clear?”
The sailor glanced at Carlisle, then back at Denning. “I suppose it is.”
“Well, shove off, lad,” Denning demanded. “Do it!” Denning watched the sailor jump over the side and swim for the cruiser, then he ordered the Silver Sally to turn to port and pull away.
Balsinger approached his skipper and whispered, “This is your plan?”
“Quiet. I’m not finished yet.”
“Oh.”
The Connecticut did nothing. The gap widened to six hundred yards. The ship still remained motionless. The distance stretched to one mile. Two miles. Then three. The silence was profound, as Carlisle and Denning played a waiting game.
Carlisle finally broke down and accosted Denning. “What do you aim to do with us? Are we prisoners?” he asked, his eyes full of bitterness.
“We could hang you or make you walk the plank and let the sharks have you for dinner, like in the old days of the Spanish Main. Or we could let you go.” In truth, the last thing Denning wanted was Union prisoners. They were trouble. They’d have to be guarded, fed, looked after, and gagged and tied going into shore at night. He estimated the Sally was five miles away from the Connecticut. He ordered the engines stopped, and they were soon drifting on the open Atlantic Ocean water, the waves lapping against the hull.
Calling to a junior officer, Denning smiled and said, “Launch the boat for our fine men of Lincoln’s Navy.” He walked over to Carlisle. “I hope your boarding party is in good physical condition because now you can row back. Lower away!” Denning ordered, turning to face Carlisle. “So long, Bobby.”
Minutes later, in the boat with his men, Carlisle stared across the open water at the Silver Sally, too incensed to speak. Burned into his memory forever would be the sight of Denning on the Sally’s rail, his face lit with an expression of pleasure that he had embarrassed Carlisle in front of his Union boarding party. But deep down, Carlisle knew Denning had made a fatal error letting him go.
He’d get even with Denning somehow, somewhere.
* * * *
Denning drew on his Havana cigar, licking the end of it, gazing out at the expanse of ocean water. The Silver Sally held a twelve-knot course, heading north by northwest for Cape Fear. The boat containing the six Union Navy men was more than a mile away and the Connecticut was steaming towards the officers. Boulder Island was blending into the mist.
Balsinger walked up. “Now, just who is this Bobby Carlisle? He’s no relation to the famous Navy Carlisles, is he?”
“He is.”
“He is?”
“We were in the same graduating class at Annapolis,” Denning said.
“You were?”
Denning nodded. “His picture is on the wall in my cabin with the other officers.” He shook his head. “Although he’s crossed my mind lately, I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. You know, we had a nickname in college for him.”
“What was it?”
“Four Eyes.”
“Applicable, I’d say,” Balsinger observed with a smile.
“He detested it.”
“No doubt.”
The two laughed.
“It seemed pretty clear to me you weren’t too fond of him.”
Denning nodded. The corner of his mouth quivered. “It’s not surprising. The bastard stole the only woman I ever loved.”
“So that’s it.”
Denning fell silent, thinking of Marie Keating and how she reminded him of the woman from his past. She had brought back bittersweet memories of Clara and now Carlisle had done the same. He didn’t like the odd coincidence. It spooked him. At the academy he had beaten Carlisle at everything, including marks. Denning finished second in the class, Carlisle somewhere in the middle. Classwork was a struggle for Carlisle. Funny thing. He never looked like navy material. Except, in the end he got Clara. And Denning let it happen. He gave in.
Clara was from Annapolis. Her family was steeped in Navy tradition. Pickled in tradition, more like it. Denning bumped into her in a store in the town and helped her carry two bags of flour to her buggy. They struck up a friendship that developed into something that neither of them expected. He never did ask her to marry him. He wanted to, and he thought she wanted him to. Denning was sure Carlisle was jealous that he was courting the prettiest girl in town. And she really was the prettiest.
Then Carlisle got in the way. He used his influence. Her parents never took to Denning. He wasn’t from a Navy family like Clara and Bobby were. It was tough for Denning’s father to even raise the money to send him to the academy, which was something Bobby’s family never had trouble with. In fine fashion, the families arranged the marriage. Denning had heard the two fathers had sailed together in the Mexican War. He often wondered all these years if Bobby and Clara were ever happy. It was a typical marriage, by American standards, he thought, cynically. A self-centered, vain man, living up to the Carlisle name, matched oddly with a decent, probably self-sacrificing, woman.
Denning saw the craft and the gunboat on the horizon. He remembered Clara that last painful day, the day she broke off their relationship. They were looking across the blue waters of Chesapeake Bay. The sun was shining, the birds were singing.
It was the worst day of Denning’s life.
“And there he goes,” he said to Balsinger. “He thought he was so clever, pulling a fast one on a Southerner, stealing his woman. How he detested us Southerners. The Southern race, he called us. I really got under his skin.” Especially after the knife fight, Denning remembered.
It was the last year at the academy, only a few days before graduation. A group of cadets were in a tavern, all drinking, naturally. Some of them right heavy, including Denning and Carlisle, who were at opposite ends of the establishment. Carlisle and Clara had already made plans to marry. Denning and Carlisle shouted at each other. They went out into the street. The other cadets followed. They pulled out knives, and by the time it was over, Denning had stabbed Carlisle in the knee. The other cadets pulled them apart. The two sobered up in a hurry.
Their superiors never did find out what happened because it was all hushed up or they both would have been expelled from the academy. Their careers at stake, Carlisle told his superiors that some drunk in town did it. The rest of the cadets confirmed it. After graduation, Carlisle and Denning went their separate ways, Carlisle with a permanent limp. Now the two faced each other on opposite sides in a war.
“I’m glad he’s still around,” Denning finally said after the lengthy silence.
“You are? Why?”
“He’s bound to make things right interesting. Now we’ll see who’s the better man.”
“The better man? What the hell you talking about! With all the ships out there, our side and theirs, you’ll probably never cross paths again.”
Denning disagreed. “I think we’ll meet again. Next time it won’t be as cordial. Give Homer a new order,” Denning said, putting his long telescope to his eye to watch Carlisle and his party boarding the Connecticut. “From now on we’ll take a wide berth around Boulder Island. That channel is off limits.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Chapter twelve
Northern Virginia, off Chesapeake Bay
A cricket chirped. In the moonlight, two sets of footsteps creaked the boards of the narrow old bridge. Off the ocean’s horizon to the south, miles away, lightning flashed, reflecting off the water. Then came the rumble of distant thunder, like a band of bass drums.
Eli Jacoby saw the figure converge towards him on the bridge. He went for his concealed pistol, looked for identifying features
, then relaxed. The figure seemed the right height and build. The same slow walk.
The man stopped four feet away. “Jacoby?”
“Wheeler. I see you made it. It’s almost ten o’clock.” Jacoby stopped too, his arms resting by his sides.
“Sorry we’re late, old boy,” said Wheeler, not sounding that apologetic. “I couldn’t help it. We had to scramble to get the shipment going once we got the all-clear.”
Jacoby looked over the bridge to his right. Three hundred yards away, along the shore, floated four barge loads of cotton bales. Alongside the barges were two large steamboats, bulging with Northern goods, rocking on the water. “Anybody follow you?” he asked.
“Nah. You?”
“Not a chance.”
Lightning flashed and thunder cracked. The storm appeared to be heading their way.
“What a time for a storm.”
“Don’t worry,” Jacoby said. “We’ve been watching it. By the direction of it, it’ll go right by.”
“I hope so, or else we won’t be able to load.”
“We’ll load, no matter what,” Jacoby said firmly. “We can’t be hanging around here at daybreak.”
“No, guess we can’t.”
“How’s the boss in Washington?”
“Lincoln?”
Jacoby chuckled. “You know who I’m talking about.”
“Ah, you mean Baker boy.”
“Yeah, good ol’ Baker boy.”
“Cranky as ever,” Wheeler grunted.
Jacoby laughed. “What’s his problem? Is he not making enough money?”
“Yeah, that’s about it.”
“Nothing’s changed then.”
“Nah. But he’s glad we’re back in business.”
“He ain’t the only one,” Jacoby said.
“Baker boy sends his compliments. The rest of the town isn’t too happy. They could strangle Hooker, the dope. Sonofabitch. Imagine, losing nearly his entire army at Chancellorsville. Word is out. Lincoln will get rid of him and try another commander.”
“Another one! How many idiot generals is that now?”