The Cotton Run

by Daniel Wyatt

  * * * *

  Carlisle was occupied with the ship’s log when Farley arrived and stood at attention. Carlisle flipped through the pages as if no one else were in the room. He ignored his subordinate for a solid minute, then he snapped the log closed and wiped his spectacles with a handkerchief.

  “Mr. Farley, you embarrassed me out there. I want you to answer a question for me. Who is in command of this ship?” Carlisle looked up and slipped his spectacles on, his hands shaking.

  “You are, sir.” Farley avoided the captain, fixing his gaze on the wall.

  “I’m glad we’ve established that. Look at me, damn you! I administer the punishment on this ship and I say when it stops. Not you! I find your conduct unseamanlike and un-American. This ship must submit to my authority. Any rebellious spirit aboard this ship must be broken.” Carlisle stopped shouting to gulp for air. “You have a lot to learn about commanding a ship, Farley. Half these men couldn’t pour piss out of a boot without directions on the heel. They need discipline, instruction. Understand?”

  Farley clenched his fists tightly, then unclenched them. He had never felt so insulted. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “If you want to run the ship, go ahead.” Carlisle jumped to his feet. “It will be considered mutiny and I’ll have you behind bars for the rest of your life.”

  Farley swallowed his anger and said as politely as he could, “Begging your pardon, captain. I should advise you that if Britts had choked to death, you, sir, would have been charged with murder and you’d be the one behind bars for the rest of your life. I only said what I did to protect you, sir, from any such legal complications.”

  Carlisle knew there was a certain amount of truth to what Farley had said. The two men stared at each other, while several cold seconds passed. “Dismiss, Commander Farley.”

  “Aye, sir.” Farley saluted and left.

  The salty air of the bridge was a relief for the Annapolis’s first mate. He had stood up to the captain, and he felt he was within his rights to do so. He hated the captain’s rages. They were so childish, and so utterly stupid. Carlisle was a changed man since his wife died in the winter. And he was getting worse. His attitude. His drinking. Where would it stop? He used to be such a good officer. Not the best of leaders, but fair. No more. Farley had hoped that the capture of the Princess Ann would have made the captain easier to deal with.

  But it hadn’t.

  Chapter nineteen

  Nassau, Bahamas

  “Anything wrong, skipper?” Matthew Balsinger asked, downing a brandy, a barmaid in his lap.

  “I’m fine,” Denning answered, his reply clipped.

  “You say so.”

  For Joshua Denning everything was not fine. He couldn’t concentrate the way he used to. Outside of sitting at the tavern table with his first mate, who was becoming more intoxicated by the minute, Denning had been keeping to himself for days. Everything once familiar to him was now strange and distant. Food and liquor were tasteless. He couldn’t sleep at night. The last few days his mind kept wandering back to Wilmington... and Marie. He thought for the hundredth time of how he had held her. He had been thrilled by the magic of her soft touch, the feel of her tumbling long hair in his hands. He hadn’t thought it would ever happen again in his life. Damn! He was in love... with her. Or he thought he was. He had told her he was. But he doubted himself after saying it and he had been doubting it ever since. Was it a mistake? Could he love again? A week had passed since the kiss and the embrace. Up to now, he had been thinking only of himself. What about her? How was she feeling back in Wilmington? Did she love him? How could she? She was a widow.

  Denning watched as the barmaid left Balsinger. Balsinger’s hair seemed to have grayed in just a few months, and he was already doing honor to the bottle. His red eyes, shaky hands, flushed cheeks and slurred speech were the signals to Denning. Balsinger’s steady diet of shore-leave liquor had often made him a mean drunk. The crew used to enjoy whooping it up with him, but those days were fewer and fewer.

  Denning looked down at the opened New York Times on the scratched table. He leaned back in his chair, a glass of sherry in his hand. Earlier, a right-hand column on the front page had caught his eye. The Reb spy Dixie Blair had been captured aboard a blockade runner off Cape Fear, and by Captain Robert Carlisle of all people! Blair’s exploits were already legendary. She was a Virginian, like himself, and an undercover informer for Stonewall Jackson, feeding him information on Yankee troop movements during the Valley Campaign. She had been caught by the Yankees once before and had escaped. Now she was in Northern hands for the second time. And Carlisle was responsible.

  Balsinger tugged at his skipper’s sleeve. “That’s him, captain. At the door. The Englishman. The one who was asking for you at the hotel.”

  Balsinger waved the Englishman over to the table. Denning looked up at a man in a brownish-yellow checkered suit, brown tie and bowler hat. He seemed a boy really, with a shy smile and a sparkle in his eye.

  “We meet again,” said Balsinger.

  The Englishman politely removed his hat. “Yes. Quite right.” He turned to the captain. “Captain Denning?”

  Denning put his glass of sherry down and folded the newspaper off to the side. “Yes, I am.”

  “How do you do, sir? I’m Charles Bishop of The Times of London.”

  “A newspaperman.” Denning smiled. “Sit down, Mr. Bishop.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Bishop pulled up a chair and lowered his slim body into it.

  “Care for a drink?”

  “Don’t mind if I do, captain.”

  Denning ordered a brandy for the Englishman although he seemed too young to handle any strong liquor.

  After the barmaid brought the drinks, Denning leaned forward. “Now, sonny, what’s on your mind?”

  Bishop grinned. “Well, sir, I’m on assignment actually. The Civil War is big news in our country.”

  “Is it really?”

  “There’s been a lot of coverage of the battles. But, so far, very little has been written about blockade running. As you know, blockade running is very close to our hearts because the ships are built in Great Britain. Many of the shipmates are British. The coal you use comes from Wales. British aristocracy is in favor of your cause up to a point, although—”

  Denning interrupted, “Hold on. Do you have anything against the English language, lad?”

  “Why, no, I don’t, sir. Why?”

  “Speak plainly then.” Denning drank his sherry. “I have no doubt in my mind you are a wealth of information that I already know. Before you go any further, will you please kindly get to the point.”

  Bishop drew a breath. “I wish to take a run through the blockade with you.”

  “So, that’s it,” Balsinger said, slapping his knee.

  “I guess that’s plain enough. Then write about it, I take it?”

  “Precisely, captain.”

  “I see. You realize it will probably make you famous.”

  Bishop smiled. “I should only hope it will. I’ll gladly pay you for the privilege to come aboard, sir.”

  “Forget that. I don’t want your money.” Denning sighed. “Was this your idea or the paper’s?”

  “Mine.”

  “Are you sure you want to sail with us?”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “It could be dangerous.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  The more Denning talked to Bishop, the more he liked him. The youngster had the same innocent, adventurous spirit that he had possessed so many years ago when he left the farm in Virginia. “Tell me, how long have you been with the Times?”

  “About a year now, sir. This is my first assignment outside the country. If I do well, then I will stay on in a new capacity, quite possibly as a correspondent covering the war.”

  “Starting off with a bang, aren’t you?” Denning took a moment to think about it. “All right, you can sail with us.”

  “Splendid. You’re not shoot
ing me a line now, are you?”

  Denning remembered the slang term commonly used in Great Britain. “No,” he said. “I’m not shooting you a line.”

  “But, captain. He might get in the way,” Balsinger complained, downing his brandy.

  Denning faced Bishop and said, “You don’t aim to get in the way, do you?”

  “Oh, no. I won’t. Promise.”

  “Well, be sure you don’t. We’re leaving day after tomorrow, at noon. Be at the dock on time. We don’t want to come looking for you.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “A toast,” Denning declared, holding up the last drop of liquid in his glass. “To another safe cotton run.”

  “Hear hear,” said Bishop. The brandy stung his throat. “Whew! What is this?”

  Balsinger and Denning laughed. The local rum had struck again.

  “Nassau Navy Rum,” Balsinger said. “My favorite. Puts a curl in yer tail, don’t it?”

  Denning handed out Cuban cigars and the three lit up. “How is England these days?”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “How badly are they hurting for our cotton now?” Denning wanted to know. He never avoided a political conversation, no matter the place.

  “We had a surplus before the war, which has since run out. Now my country is making do with the little Southern cotton getting through while we establish other markets in the West Indies, India, and Egypt. If the blockade tightens any more, England won’t have to seek any more Southern cotton at all. Where does that put the Confederacy, sir? Cotton is the only negotiable commodity they can use overseas, what with their shrinking dollar.”

  Denning had to admit that despite his youth, the Englishman knew the situation. “Mr. Bishop, how long have you been in town?”

  “Since yesterday, sir.”

  “Do you have a gun on your person?”

  “Why... no. I don’t.”

  Denning reached inside the breast pocket of his jacket and slid the Englishman a loaded one-shot derringer across the table. “In that case, here. You should leastwise have some protection. You might need this, especially if you set foot outside tonight.”

  Bishop touched the small weapon without lifting it. “Gad. I’ve never carried a gun in my life, sir.”

  “Well, this isn’t England. Welcome to the free world, or what’s left of it,” Balsinger said.

  Denning smiled. “Nassau is not that safe of a place.”

  “Really, captain? I think it’s rather kind of fun.”

  “Fun, eh?” Denning snickered. “You won’t feel that way the first time you’re robbed. Stick it in your belt,” he insisted.

  “What about you, sir? Is this your only piece of protection?” he said, taking the derringer and concealing it beneath his coat.

  Denning flipped back his own coat and exposed his holster. He removed his eight-inch-barreled revolver. Bishop’s eyes bulged. “I have another,” said Denning, standing, putting the gun away. “Now, I have an appointment. Would you accompany me?”

  “If you don’t mind me tagging along?”

  “Not at all.”

  The captain left Balsinger to his drinking with a gentle warning to sober up in time for the return run. Then he walked out of the tavern, Bishop at his heels.

  * * * *

  Denning greeted the British cotton agent and his clerk inside the warehouse door. “Did the Paris fashions arrive?”

  “Indeed, they did, captain,” said William Freeman. “Come with me.” The white-haired Englishman recognized Bishop as a fellow countryman by the cut of his clothes. “Is he with you, captain?”

  “Yes, he is. A correspondent with The Times.”

  “How do you do? Charles Bishop is my name.” Bishop held out his hand and Freeman was forced to shake it.

  “William Freeman,” said the older Englishman uncomfortably.

  Freeman took Denning aside and said, “The Times? I don’t like it one bit.”

  “We’re taking him into Wilmington with us.”

  “But why does this... young buck have to come here?” he whispered.

  “What’s the matter, Freeman? Got something to hide?”

  “Me? Well, no. It’s just we don’t want him—”

  “Snooping around,” Denning answered for him. “If you’re running an honest venture here, then you have nothing to worry about. Listen to me, Freeman. This boy is a glory seeker. He wants to do a story on a run through the blockade. What the hell does he care how we make a deal? Now, where are those fashions? I want to see them. Now.”

  “I don’t trust him.”

  “But I do. Do you want me to go elsewhere? To a competitor?”

  “No, captain, I do not.”

  “The fashions then.”

  “Very well. Follow me.”

  On the far side of the wood floor were three open crates. One of them stood out with the gaudiest of dresses, different cuts and shapes but all of them either bright red or pink. Only women of ill repute would dare wear such garments. The two other crates contained hats.

  “I’ll take all three,” Denning said. He knew of two wicked establishments in town that might be interested. “And some more cases of perfume. To go with the dresses,” he chuckled.

  “How many?” Freeman watched Bishop studying the open crates.

  “Six. And that should be it. See you at the dock tomorrow morning. Bright and early.”

  “Yes, sir,” Freeman replied, watching Bishop depart with Denning.

  Outside the sliding door, Bishop pulled out a note pad and a sharp pencil. “What are you hauling on this trip, captain?”

  “Oh... champagne, crystal glasses, rifles, lead bars, pistols, ammunition, percussion caps. I can give you the exact figures on board.”

  “I’d appreciate that, sir.”

  “And don’t forget the dresses, the hats, and the perfume. And last but not least, our main shipment, badly needed in the Confederacy.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Five hundred and fifty barrels of gunpowder.”

  “Pardon me? Did you say gunpowder?”

  “That’s right. One well-aimed shot at us on the open sea and we’ll all be goners. It’ll take hours to put the fire out. You don’t look well, Mr. Bishop. It must be the air.”

  The Englishman put his pad and pencil in his trousers pocket. He looked ill. “I think I could use another of those Nassau Navy brandies.”

  “Now, now, Mr. Bishop. You’re not thinking of backing out, are you?”

  Chapter twenty

  Atlantic Ocean

  The Sally’s navigator stood by the rail. He positioned his sextant to his eye and peered into the telescope, his white beard and heavy jowls pressed to the instrument. He picked out the horizon on the horizon glass. He adjusted the index arm until the sun’s bright image reflected in the index glass and grazed the horizon line. He then read the altitude of the sun off the graduated arc.

  Ben Woodson was doing what he did best, reducing the most difficult aspects of navigation down to the simplest of terms. The sun by day, the stars by night. The readings had to be exact. When it was cloudy, he went by compass. Cloud and fog together posed the biggest problem. Woodson was a patient, organized man, always seeking perfection. Denning did not demand it of Woodson. Woodson expected it of himself.

  He returned with the information he had collected to the pilot house, where he read from his book to compare the sun’s altitude as he had measured it thirty minutes ago. Woodson then bent over his Atlantic charts in the pilot house, plotting his course. The chart sheets were long, made of thick, crisp paper, yellowed and dog-eared with age. Using his own symbols, he penciled in an extension of a crooked line to the left of Nassau which he had started on his plotting sheet three days earlier. He measured the next point with dividers, then called out to Cogswell to turn three points south for a correction. Woodson was already determining the distance to the next point in his mind. Then he double-checked his present position on the compass...
north by northwest. It was crucial now, coming into shore. Relying on instruments offshore from the inlets was the toughest. Often hit or miss.

  “We’re on course, Homer,” he said.

  Cogswell nodded.

  Woodson recorded several figures into a log, already catalogued with speeds, distances, weather conditions, and high and low water marks for the day. The high water mark was coming up. He reached into a shelf below the table and pulled out a map marked with the Cape Fear region, her reefs, her shoals, and her beaches. Now came the tricky part.

  Landfall.

  * * * *

  The first two days at sea for Bishop were the worst. He did not count on rough waters and his own untimely seasickness. It bothered him that the rolling blockade runner was not as stable as the wide ocean liner on which he had sailed to Nassau. By the third day, however, his stomach, along with the weather, had settled down.

  Captain Denning slid up to Bishop at the starboard stern this sunny afternoon, a few hours from the North Carolina coast. The shore was still beyond the horizon. The dying wind was barely measurable, the sparkling waters down to ripples. Denning looked across at the wood float in the water and the connecting rope to the ship. Woodson appeared and waited for the hourglass to empty before he made his measurement on the rope for the ship’s speed.

  Denning slapped the Englishman gently on the back. “Well, how is our landlubber doing?”

  Bishop steadied himself against the roll of the ship. He glanced up at the tall, tanned captain. “Much better, thank you, sir.”

  “I noticed you’re looking chipper today. Couldn’t come at a better time. Now the strategy begins. Got your note pad?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Denning cast a glance fore and aft, then pointed to the western horizon. “Out there is our destination. Cape Fear, North Carolina. Our gateway to Wilmington. Cape Fear has two entrances. New Inlet and Old Inlet. Old Inlet faces south. New Inlet faces west. Each one is unique. Off Old Inlet are the Frying Pan Shoals. They jut out several miles into the ocean. The Feds hate them because they prevent the force from cruising in too close. New Inlet got her name a hundred years ago. She was created by a hurricane in 1761. The winds dug a gorge right through the sand, up to the river. She fills up at high tide. It’s shallow, even then. She’s perfect for blockade runners. The deeper draft Union ships would never make it. What I also like about it is that Fort Fisher is just up the coast from it — the strongest earthwork fortification on the continent. Breech-loading cannons capable of firing seven-thousand yards. That’s four miles. That’s damn good cover. The Feds stay away.”