The Cotton Run

by Daniel Wyatt

  “Easy, friend. That’s my horse.” Taylor saw that he was a cavalry major, quite possibly searching for Reb deserters.

  The officer aimed his pistol directly at Taylor. “And who are you?”

  “Lieutenant Franklin Taylor.” Taylor rubbed his shoulder patch. “Signal Corps. You?”

  “Major Luke Keating.” Keating looked curiously at the young soldier with the uniform nearly as tattered as his own. “Signal Corps? Out here?”

  Taylor pointed in the direction of the telegraph wires on the other side of the trees. “Keeping in communication with Richmond.”

  “Then you don’t mind none if I check your knapsack?”

  “No, not at all.”

  Without taking his eyes off the lieutenant, Keating fumbled inside Taylor’s baggage strapped to the saddle. He pulled out the pocket telegraph relay and coding disk, looked at them, then put them back. “Empty your pockets.”

  “My pockets?”

  “Yes, lieutenant. Your pockets. And be mighty quick about it.”

  Taylor threw to the ground what he had in his possession, a pouch of chewing tobacco and some Reb money in small bills.

  “Now your boots, lieutenant.”

  “My boots?”

  “Yes, your boots! Take off your boots!”

  It was what Taylor did not want to hear. He cursed himselffor not burning the message or burying it immediately after he was done. He sat on the ground and tugged at his boots one at a time, throwing them at the major’s feet. To Taylor’s horror, a piece of paper dropped out, the same message he had sent to Baker.

  The major read it. At first he just stood there, looking at the sheet, then down at Taylor, as if the words were not intelligible. “Get up!” The major’s voice cracked like a whip.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I said, get up!”

  A fire burned in the cavalry officer’s eyes. “I’m getting awfully tired of having to repeat myself, lieutenant.” He kicked Taylor hard in the ribs. “Get up, spy! General Lee would like to speak to you!”

  Taylor tried to stand, but fell down to a crouched position, the pain in his ribs too great.

  “Get up, I say!”

  Taylor had to do something. Fast. With a rapid movement, he went for his Colt revolver and fired before the major could react. Both horses jumped. Keating tumbled backwards, his head smacking the ground. Taylor crawled over. The Rebel officer’s face was an open wound of gaping flesh and black gunpowder burns. There was no movement from him.

  Taylor crouched, his eyes darting, searching the woods. Were there any more?

  * * * *

  Wilmington

  Five days later in the peace of the morning, Marie Keating casually thumbed through the mail after returning from one of her rides. Under the shadow of the veranda, still in her riding dress and gear, she threw her hat on the white table and sat down. One of the letters was from the War Department in Richmond.

  She feared the worst. Without opening the envelope, she imagined what she would do if it turned out to be what she expected. Would she burst out crying? Would she pass out? She clutched the letter in her shaking hands. She opened the letter. While she was reading it, Captain Denning surprised her by driving up in a carriage. She did not focus on Denning as he ascended the wood steps. Instead, she was far off in a blood-stained battlefield, strewn with dead and dying men.

  Denning removed his Panama hat. “Mrs. Keating?” He looked down at the piece of paper Marie had dropped to the floor and saw the War Department letterhead.

  She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. He knew now.

  “I’m sorry... Mrs. Keating.” He bent to pick the letter up. “Your husband?”

  She nodded at him with a heavy, drawn face and he didn’t know what to do. He slipped the letter onto the table. She lowered her head, got up from her chair and began to make her way to the door. Then the unexpected happened. She tripped on one of the boards. Falling forward, she reached for his arms and he reached out and caught her. His grip was strong. She struggled to free herself. But Denning wouldn’t release her and she eventually gave up. There, on the veranda, they held each other in a strong embrace, while she finally sobbed.

  After a few moments, she wiped her tears with her hand. Marie hadn’t held a man in over a year, not since Luke on his last furlough. Then she started to pull back, realizing what she was doing. “Mon Dieu! I don’t know what you must think of me? Let me go, please,” she gasped.

  “You tripped. You couldn’t help it,” said Denning, still holding her.

  “I know. But—”

  But Denning didn’t want to release her. With one arm around her waist and his other hand on her neck, he kissed her with such passion that Marie felt a brief twinge of pain in her shoulders and back.

  Marie had never been kissed like that in her life. Not by Luke. Not by any man. She was stunned by a feeling of fearful elation... an unexpected... pleasure. She had the urge to push him away, but she didn’t. She had no willpower. Instead, she went limp in his arms then responded with short kisses on his lips, while she swept her fingers across his face, over his jaw, and down his strong neck. His hold on her tightened. She tried to bring her breathing under control. In a sudden reverse, her flesh revolted.

  What was she doing?

  She finally struggled away from Denning’s tense grip and lowered herself into a veranda chair, her head in her hands, her legs trembling.

  What had she done?

  Denning stood over her. “I love you Marie Keating. I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  Marie shot a menacing stare at the daring blockade skipper. The sincerity in his gray-blue eyes left her with the impression that he had meant those words. Did he really love her? But how could he? They hardly knew each other.

  “Please, Captain Denning,” she choked, as she tried to gather herself together. She was suddenly worried that the servants could see them. “You must forget this ever happened. It’s all my fault. Everything happened too suddenly. My husband—”

  “No, it’s not your fault,” he said gently, before she could speak about her husband. “And I shan’t think the worse of you or myself for it.”

  Denning looked back at the wagon-full of blockade supplies he had snuck through the Cape for her. Marie saw that the wagon was full of cloth and canvas. The supplies must’ve been for her. Marie dropped her head and did not look up. She found she didn’t have the strength. She didn’t look up again until she heard the captain’s boots pounding on the wood steps. He was leaving.

  She suddenly felt cheated. The news of Luke’s death made her feel she had lost her youth. Suddenly widowed at twenty-two, she didn’t even have children as a solace. She hated the sound of the word widow and knew her life would change because of it. Southern custom dictated that she must wear a black mourning dress, a black veil, and black boots for years. She must never smile, or laugh, or talk, or flirt with men in public.

  She pictured Luke... and Denning... She closed her eyes.

  This was awful.

  Chapter seventeen

  Hatteras Inlet, North Carolina

  Captain Carlisle crawled out of bed on the fourth day in port, dizzy from a wicked hangover. He managed to focus his blurry eyes on the framed picture of his wife and son on the dresser, while his vision cleared. Jonathan was just a baby then. And Clara was so pretty.

  Carlisle stumbled to the second-story bedroom window of the officer quarters overlooking the sun-drenched Cape and watched his new ship, the old Princess Ann,with fascination. She was receiving the final coat of dark blue paint, one of the last stages of its conversion to Union gunboat duty. Carlisle and the crew of the USS Connecticut had returned to Hatteras with their prize, the Princess Ann, in tow. They were compensated by Squadron Leader Baines with a prompt, well-deserved leave. And they took advantage of it by celebrating for three days.

  Carlisle had finally been rewarded. Eighteen months of grueling patrol du
ty in freezing winters and deathly hot summers had netted him his first seizure. He had to admit it was better than fighting in a stinking hell-hole like the Chancellorsville battle he had read stories about. His thirty-dollars-a-month pay was now a pittance compared to his share of the booty after the cargo had been quickly auctioned away by his government. By the rules, the Union government skimmed half the money right off. The commander of the squadron received five percent. Baines, the local squadron commander, took one percent. The rest was sliced into twenty equal shares. Carlisle happily took three shares. The officers and midshipmen divided up ten. The remaining crew took the rest. Carlisle was now nearly three thousand dollars richer for it, and some of it had already been spent on the best liquor money could buy.

  Carlisle also received special commendation from Squadron Leader Baines for the capture of the Confederate spy Beatrice “Dixie” Blair, a woman as well known in the North as she was in the South. The arrangements she had made to meet with members of the British government in Nassau had been spoiled by Carlisle, according to Baines, who had her interrogated.

  Carlisle bent down stiffly and picked up the Philadelphia newspaper on the floor. The story of the capture graced the front page and had caused quite a commotion throughout the continent. Dixie Blair was behind bars! And he had put her there. What a stroke of luck she was aboard — all the more reason for Carlisle to go on a seventy-two-hour bender. The Princess Ann, renamed the USS Annapolis, was the reward for a job well done. And it would be ready to sail in forty-eight hours.

  “Proud of me now, Daddy,” Carlisle grunted to himself.

  * * * *

  Smithville, North Carolina

  Mae Keating opened the front door of her two-story clapboard house and browsed through the side flower garden. Her flowers were the largest, the brightest, and the neatest in the neighborhood. As she looked on them with pride, a covered carriage jolted to a halt in the dusty street. To her astonishment, she saw her nephew’s wife step out with a piece of luggage in her hand.

  Luke’s spinster Aunt Mae was considered an odd sort. In her fifties, barely five feet tall, she was round in body, face, and eyes. She had very few friends, but somehow seemed to know everyone in town, and the everyday gossip about every one of them.

  When Marie saw Mae, she knew that a few days with the spinster was probably enough to send her back to Wilmington with a different, maybe even a cheerful, attitude. Marie had not been able to bring herself to wear black. At least not immediately. She couldn’t stand to act the way the South expected her to act; the black clothes and all that went with appropriate Southern widowhood. She was French. She just couldn’t wear black, not after what had happened with Captain Denning, although she promised herself she would hold that secret deep in her heart.

  “Oh, my word, look who it is. Marie! Oh, my!” said Aunt Mae rapidly in her shrill tone. “Oh, what a treat. Dear girl, come into the house and I’ll put on some tea. I don’t get too many visitors, you know. At least not from Wilmington, anyway. Tell me all about Wilmington these days,” she gabbled on. “These murders. Three widows in one month and they were from such well-to-do families. All stabbed, I hear. How dreadful.” She held her hand to her chest. “You must be careful. No woman is safe anymore. I watch the blockade runners sail by every so often in the twilight. There really isn’t much else to do here. Except, I was invited to a wedding. Last week. Priscilla Blackford. I don’t believe you know the family. She was married off to a navy blockade officer. They sure marry quickly nowadays, with no proper courting and all.”

  Marie remembered what annoyed her most about Mae. She had the curse of the mouth. Once she started with her chitter-chatter she wouldn’t shut up. Marie smiled suitably for the occasion, remembering that Luke had always treated Mae with the deepest respect. Marie needed some extra strength now.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Aunt Mae.”

  Mae’s baby face warmed. “Oh, dear me. I am so excited. You look... so...” She stopped.

  “So, what?”

  Mae noticed Marie’s rich skin color. “What have you been doing? You’ve been in the sun. You look like some darkie field worker!”

  “Horseback riding, Auntie. Just riding.”

  “Riding without a hat, I bet. Mercy.”

  “I confess. Oui.”

  “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here,” said Mae.

  Marie held onto Mae’s arm, listening to the woman prattle on about no one visiting her. They took the stone steps together up to the front entrance. Before they arrived at the porch, Marie suddenly interrupted the one-sided conversation. “Aunt Mae, I have something to tell you. About Luke.” She paused to see Aunt Mae’s smile shrink away.

  “And what’s that? How is he?”

  “I’m afraid the news isn’t good.” She grimaced, shaking her head, trying to prepare the woman.

  “Is he not well?”

  “I wish it were that.”

  “I don’t understand. What is it? What is it?”

  “You see, auntie... he’s dead.” Before Marie could explain why she wore her favorite pale-blue dress instead of mourning clothes, her aunt fainted.

  “I was afraid this would happen,” Marie said to herself, catching the woman before she fell.

  Chapter eighteen

  Hatteras Inlet, North Carolina

  Carlisle stood on the bridge of his new Union warship, the converted USS Annapolis, as the crew in navy blues were preparing for their first firing exercise. According to the chief engineer, the English engines were stronger and more reliable than her American counterparts, capable of fifteen or sixteen knots given the right conditions, even with the massive weight of deck guns. Carlisle had smiled at that. The best way to catch a blockade runner was with another blockade runner.

  Carlisle surveyed the sea, then gave his attention to the ship as he took a turn about the deck. The three tall smokestacks and two masts seemed to reach for the sky. The sixteen-thousand pound Big Bear was the only gun transplanted from the Connecticut and would again be the king of the firing fleet. The Big Bear powder monkeys were proud of her. The other gun men were positioned in teams by the smaller and less deadly twenty-pound howitzers.

  “It’s all yours,” he said to Stephen Farley, as the two met near the port rail.

  Farley’s concentration shifted from the youngsters controlling the biggest gun to the three flat wood rafts about three hundred yards off the ship’s bow. The crew would fire first with two shots, quickly followed by the stationary howitzers on the port side, the closest to the distant rafts, followed up by the starboard howitzers.

  “Aim and fire Big Bear!” yelled Farley.

  He plugged his ears as a blast echoed throughout the ship. The high-explosive one-hundred-pound shell flew from the muzzle in a flurry of smoke and flame... and splashed into the water fifty feet beyond the intended targets.

  “Aim and fire two when ready!”

  Farley and Carlisle watched the men racing to the order of a second shot. The smoke cleared. To direct his fire on target, the aimer made his distance and barrel-height adjustment, then he pulled the rope on the firing mechanism. The second missile splashed off to the right, but closer than the first shot. Then the howitzers opened up one at a time. Although some projectiles were closer than the giant Dahlgren smoothbore shell, none found their mark.

  “Stop your firing!” Farley yelled. He was pleased with the men’s work. Their teamwork was the best he had seen to date, although they had not hit a raft. It was not surprising — the rafts were much smaller and flatter than a blockade runner. All in all, it was decent shooting from the men on the port side.

  Carlisle grunted. “Turn the ship around!” he ordered the pilot with a wave.

  By the time the starboard howitzers finished firing, only one crew had managed to hit a raft.

  “Could be better,” Carlisle complained to Farley within earshot of several crews.

  “But sir...”

  “They have to be quicker an
d more accurate.”

  “Stupid ass!” someone said.

  “I heard that!” Carlisle screamed, his face burning red. He saw who said it too. No one spoke as he pounded over to the man, a wiry, dark-haired petty officer named Britts. “For that, you will be doused with water. Farley?”

  “Aye, sir,” Farley answered, taking a deep breath.

  “See to it. I want all available men on deck. I’ll be back.” Carlisle looked hard at Britts. “There’ll be the devil to pay for you, lad.”

  When Carlisle returned from his cabin, reinforced by a flask shot of brandy, he saw the buckets on the deck, dozens of them, filled with water. The offending sailor was tied to the main mast and stripped to his waist exposing an array of vulgar tattoos.

  “Proceed,” Carlisle said.

  Farley nodded at the six sailors to commence with the punishment. The shipmates threw bucket after bucket into Britts’ face. At first the disciplinary action appeared to be quite comical, until Carlisle ordered the men to speed it up, leaving Britts little time to catch his breath between throws.

  “Faster!” Carlisle screamed over Britts’ choking. “Faster!”

  Britts tried to turn away, but the ropes held his shoulders tight. His head rolled from side to side, then didn’t move at all. Carlisle ordered the men to keep throwing, but Farley stepped in, his face betraying deep concern for the petty officer. “That’s enough, men.” The men stopped. “He’s out cold, captain.”

  “I’ll say when it’s enough!” Carlisle bawled. “Keep it up. He could be faking. Three more buckets.”

  Reluctantly, Farley nodded at the sailors to continue. After three more buckets of water, he glanced over at Carlisle. “Is that enough now, captain?”

  Carlisle twisted his mouth into an awkward smile. “Let that be a lesson to you all. Untie him and take him to his bunk. Commander Farley?”

  “Aye, sir?” Farley glared at his skipper.

  “Finish up, and then I want you to report to my cabin on the double.”