The Cotton Run

by Daniel Wyatt

  “All right,” Baker said. Stanton had him.

  Chapter twenty-two

  Wilmington

  Word of Joshua Denning’s daring daylight run to bring gunpowder to Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia spread through the town like a fire fanned by a westerly. Denning was a celebrity. No Rebel or British skipper had done what he did. He basked in his newfound status as the most courageous of blockade running skippers. The mayor congratulated him before hundreds of well-wishers on the steps of City Hall. Newspapermen interviewed him. Men bought him drinks in taverns. And now the young and inexperienced Charles Bishop had his story ready for The Times of London, and it was sent out on the next two runners. Both Denning and Bishop were about to make a name for themselves in Great Britain.

  Denning left the dock riding a chestnut Arabian horse, a gift from the City of Wilmington the day before. Cigar in mouth and a large flat package under his arm, he rode the mare through the assembly of workers and past the giant flagpole. Draped high on top was the largest Bars and Stars Confederate flag Denning had ever seen, and he had laid his eyes on a few flags in his career. The height and length of it made it a symbol of protection over the dock. Bright and glorious in the morning sunshine, it could be seen from a mile away or more.

  Denning rode slowly through Market Street, enjoying the balmy and breezy afternoon. Several people greeted him. Arriving at the old print shop, the captain saw Eli Jacoby coming down the plank steps.

  “Captain Denning.”

  “Mr. Jacoby. What brings you here?”

  “A friendly, yet not so friendly matter. Giving my condolences to Mrs. Keating. I have to hand it to her, still working and all. But this is war. Every person counts in the effort. And you?” asked Jacoby.

  “The same thing,” Denning said. In all that had happened in the last forty-eight hours, he had forgotten that Marie was now a widow.

  “Oh, yes. You know her, I’m told. Running cotton cloth for The Lads of Liberty.”

  “How is she?”

  Jacoby shrugged. “As well as can be expected in these circumstances.” He moved up to Denning and lowered his voice. “Captain. Someday, maybe we can make some transactions of our own. You and me, without auctions. Perhaps rifles? I have an excellent supplier.”

  Denning dismounted and tied the reins to the post in front of him. “You don’t give up, do you? I already have a good supplier from whom I get guns that work.”

  Jacoby backed off. “I see. By the way, my congratulations to you. I didn’t think running the Cape in daylight was possible.”

  “Neither did I until I was forced to try it.”

  “That must have been quite an exhibition you put on. You own the town. A good day to you, captain.” Jacoby smiled and trotted off, in a hurry as usual.

  Denning took the stairs to the back entrance to Marie’s office. He debated for a moment whether to go further, for she was a widow in mourning, according to Southern ways, and he was to keep his distance. He stomped his cigar into the ground, thought about it, then continued. The window shutters were open. A woman was seated at a desk, her side to him. Her long hair was tied in a matronly bun and she wore a long, black mourning dress, buttoned to her neck. He poked his head and upper body through the high, wide window and leaned on the sill, removing his hat. The room was warm and sticky.

  “Marie?”

  The woman jumped and turned about. It was her.

  “Oh... you scared me.” She looked strangely at him. “Captain Denning. What are you doing here?” Her voice was cold and formal.

  Denning was confused. Why hadn’t she worn her all-black apparel on the beach at Smithville? Why now? Then again, she was widowed. So, what did he expect? He had ridden off to see her like a schoolboy, and he had a present for her. He felt so stupid. What was he thinking?

  “You still did not answer me. What are you doing here?”

  “My name is Joshua. At Oak Island you called me by my first name. Remember? I heard you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.” Tears filled her eyes. “Please, Joshua... captain. I’m asking you to leave the premises.” She held back, then blurted out the words that were painful to say. “And don’t come back.”

  “Surely you don’t mean that?”

  “I do, monsieur.”

  “Why? What have I done?”

  “Captain, if you please, do as I say. If you don’t, people will talk about me more than they ever did. I don’t want any further disgrace to fall upon my husband’s family. We cannot see each... other... again...” She swallowed hard and turned her back to him.

  It was useless for Denning to continue. “I see. Well, then, I must bow to the Southern code of honor and respect your widowhood,” he said, betraying a hint of disrespect to the ways of the South he had grown up with. “As you wish, ma’am. Goodbye.” His voice snapped like a whip. He shrank away and left the window.

  Marie listened to the sound of Denning’s boots until she could hear them no more. For two days she had battled within herself to put the words together to tell him that she didn’t want to see him again, although her arms ached for him, despite her mourning attire and his rambling sea-faring reputation. She couldn’t help recalling how passionately Denning had kissed her on the veranda. Never in her life had she felt like that. But she knew that if she struck up a relationship with him people would talk and she would be ruined, just as Aunt Mae had said. This was awful.

  She dropped her head into her hands.

  Chapter twenty-three

  Maryland, near the Pennsylvania Border

  Lieutenant Franklin Taylor was in a deep sleep on his ground cot when he felt someone poke him in the shoulder.

  “Rise and shine, lieutenant.”

  Taylor opened his eyes, slowly. It was pitch dark. He looked up.

  “Taylor, we have to talk,” a man standing over him whispered, smelling of horseflesh and leather. “In private somewhere.”

  “Who are you?” Taylor asked, his throat dry.

  “Never you mind, mister. Where can we go?”

  Taylor rubbed his mouth and eyes, and threw off his blanket. “By the creek, yonder.”

  The two men slid away from the camp and found a path through some bushes to the creek bank.

  Taylor stumbled and looked back. “This should be good enough.”

  “Keep your voice low. We safe here?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “Washington sent me. Give me your code name.”

  Taylor hesitated. “Yankee. Yours?”

  “Chief.”

  “Colonel Baker?”

  “In the flesh.”

  “We finally meet.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you doing here? How did you get through the lines? How did you get past the pickets?”

  “Easy, boy. I have the right uniform and the right papers. The Rebs think I’m spying for them.”

  “They do? Since when?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Was my last message received?”

  “Destination Gettysburg? Yeah, it was.” Baker muffled a cough. “Washington has the situation in check. We’re watching Lee. But we can’t locate Jeb Stuart and his cavalry. Any word there?”

  “Nothing. He’s out foraging. That’s all I know. Where? I couldn’t tell you. Even Lee doesn’t know and he’s hotter than a skinned bear about it. Lee needs every man he can get.”

  “We’ll find him.”

  “There’s a battle a-brewing, maybe the biggest of the war. Lee has more men now than he’s had in over a year.”

  “I know.” Baker licked his lips, before going on. “Taylor, you’re being discharged.”

  “Discharged?”

  “Not so loud. Yes, you are, boy.”

  “How can I just walk out of here?”

  “Don’t worry. We have a high-ranking agent in Richmond who will arrange for you to leave with the best forged papers going. Your superior will receive them by tomorro
w.”

  “Then what do you want me to do?” asked Taylor.

  “Your next stop is Wilmington, North Carolina. Your orders are to take on the disguise of a Southern cotton dealer and work with an agent based in the town.”

  “A cotton dealer? You must be kidding? What do I know about cotton dealing?”

  “You’ll learn. Fast. Your job is to help put a stop to the blockade-running trade. Wilmington is the number one port, the biggest supplier for Lee. Once you leave here and you’re through the lines — you’ll find the pass cards in with the forged papers — get yourself a haircut. Fix yourself up. I can’t see you well enough, but I sure as hell can smell you. You’ll have to dress the part. Be ready to leave after sunup. Your orders should come through by then.”

  “How do I get clothes and everything else?”

  “Here.” Baker handed the spy a thick envelope. “There’s some Rebel money in there. Your man in Wilmington will fix you up with the rest. He resides at the Fountain Hotel. His code name is Banker.”

  “Who is he? What’s his name?” Taylor asked, tucking the envelope under his belt.

  “Eli Jacoby.”

  “How good is he?”

  “The best. Listen to him. One other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t mess up. There’s more at stake here than you realize. That’s from the Secretary of War.”

  “Stanton?”

  “Right you are.”

  Taylor took it at face value. Mess up and no money in the bank account. “I understand, perfectly.”

  * * * *

  Wilmington

  Denning came into Marie’s thoughts during the night. Two o’clock came and went and she couldn’t sleep. Three o’clock. Still nothing. She shifted from one side to the other. To her front, then onto her back. No position seemed comfortable. Four o’clock. She lay awake until near dawn, then finally drifted off.

  A few hours later, in the heat of the morning, Marie changed the direction of her carriage from the route to her office to that of the city’s docks. Along the way, on Water Street, Maxwell Toland greeted her. He politely gave her his condolences. His was a good face for her to see. She always found him a gentleman. The two were on friendly first name terms, having first met at one of the mayor’s political rallies when he was running for office.

  “What good wind brings you out this way, Marie?” Toland gave his horse a pat as he regarded the dark-haired woman in mourning clothing.

  “I thought I might ride down to the dock.”

  He was taken aback that a widow was driving around without accompaniment. “And what do you plan to do there?”

  “I really must have a look at the Silver Sally.” She smiled.

  “You’re not the only one this last little while.” He adjusted his glasses. “May I escort you?”

  “Yes, you may. That’s kind of you, Maxwell.”

  Toland tied his horse to the rear of the carriage and jumped up beside her, taking the reins. “How is Captain Denning these days?”

  Did the town know of her and Joshua? Then she caught the innocent intent of the question. “He’s been a big help,” she smiled. “Every time he’s been through the blockade, he’s brought something back that we can use. We’re grateful. Why do you ask?”

  “It was my idea to ask Denning, you know, once you and my father thought up the idea in the first place.” Toland looked proud. “I just wanted to see how things were coming along.”

  “You made a good choice,” she said.

  “You know, Marie, you should not be riding your own carriage around the city dressed in black. It’s not proper for a widow woman. People will talk.”

  “What other way is there for me, monsieur?”

  “Hire someone. It’s too dangerous alone. Don’t you know about the murders?”

  “Of course, I do.”

  “There was another one last night.”

  “Oh? Another widow?”

  “Yes. That’s four in two months. Please, you must promise me to never ride at night.”

  “I won’t. I’m not supposed to talk to men, either, Maxwell, nor ride with them.”

  “That’s right. You’re not.”

  “People are looking at us right now.”

  He smiled. “We can’t help it, can we? I’m your driver.” He snapped the horse into a slow trot.

  Marie looked down the street and saw Eli Jacoby. As they rode closer, he crossed directly in front of the carriage, and tipped his hat at her. She nodded, then turned the other way.

  “What does Mr. Jacoby do?” she asked casually, noticing that Toland had seen him too.

  “No one seems to know for sure. But I’ll tell you one thing. He plays a lot of poker.”

  The mayor’s son guided the carriage around a long row of cotton bales piled high. Then a view of the busy waterfront opened up to them. “There she is. There.” He pointed to one of the blockade runners. They came to a halt alongside the ship a few moments later. Toland pulled on the horse’s reins as dock workers and sailors busied themselves up and down the waterfront.

  Marie examined the rakish, slate-gray runner, from her slanted smokestacks and hinged masts down to the port paddle-wheel. So this was the ship that had aroused so much attention. She seemed larger up close, and showed a few marks from her many dangerous voyages through the Union blockade.

  “That’s her,” Toland said, relaxing the reins. “She’s proved herself to be a good one. Never a more handsome craft in the Confederate fleet, I dare say.”

  In her mind she pictured the ship as it was that day off Oak Island with Joshua at the side paddle wheel, sleeves rolled up, shirt open, wet with perspiration.

  “That Denning must be one interesting fellow.”

  It took Marie a long time to think about that and reply. “He is. Leastwise, from what I hear.”

  Why had she come here today, she wondered? Was it the right thing to do? Was it a final goodbye? When she discovered she couldn’t answer her own questions, she took a long, enduring look at the Sally and said to Toland, “Would you take me to the office now, Maxwell?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Toland replied.

  Her eyes were on the throng of sweaty dock workers when she caught sight of a tall man, over six feet in height, in black, wearing a Panama hat. He was fifty feet away, walking away from her. When he turned left alongside a row of cotton bales, she saw his magnificent profile. It was Denning.

  “Wait. Not yet.” She had a sudden impulse and stepped down to the ground. “Stay here, Maxwell.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Marie burrowed her way through the workers. She didn’t want to call out his name. She turned where he had by the end of the line of bales. There were more men on the other side. Dozens of them. He was gone, lost in the workers and row upon row of cotton. Still, under the circumstances, she thought it might be better that she hadn’t caught up to him.

  What would she have said to him?

  Chapter twenty-four

  Wilmington — July 1863

  The sharp shift from the fighting front in Virginia to the blockade-running port in North Carolina was an eye-opener for Franklin Taylor. This was living. Here he was, soaking in a round metal bathtub inside a second-story Fountain Hotel room, his arms slung over the sides, a long, blockade-purchased Cuban cigar in his mouth. It was his second genuine hot bath in over a year. The first had been yesterday, in the same tub. Washing himself in a cold river with other soldiers didn’t count. Those weren’t real baths. But this was.

  For the twenty-four hours since meeting Eli Jacoby, Taylor had been enjoying himself tremendously, eating the best of foods, and sleeping in clean sheets with a roof over his head. He was glad to get away from the starving, ill-clad, sickly Army of Northern Virginia, who were now engaged in the greatest battle of the war to date near a once-quiet little town in Pennsylvania called Gettysburg. This new assignment was going to be all right. What more could a Yankee informant ask for? />
  A knock at the door made Taylor sit upright in the tub. “Who is it?”

  “Jacoby.”

  He relaxed. “Come in. The door’s open.”

  Eli Jacoby entered the room. He was sporting a neatly trimmed beard, and a new dark suit with wide lapels, and he had a large parcel under his arm. “In the water. Again? Haven’t you had enough? You’re going to dry your pores right up,” he joked.

  “I thought I needed another soaking. I got dirty since yesterday.”

  Jacoby threw the package on the bed and opened it. “There you are, Taylor. More clothes. Shirts, neckties, three pairs of trousers, two jackets. All in your size. I left a little room for you to fatten up some.”

  “Much obliged. Any word on Gettysburg?” asked Taylor, leaning back in the tub.

  “Reports are sketchy. Lee took the first day, that appears certain. And I think the second day was a deadlock. There’s been no updates since.”

  “You mean they’re still at it?”

  “That they are.”

  “They might go on for days.”

  “They could,” Jacoby said. “But win or lose, Lee is on his last legs anyway. You know that. By what I’ve been seeing around here lately in Wilmington, the Confederacy will be lucky if she makes it through to next year. The docks are tied up with cotton and other supplies, unable to move. The Union blockade can take the credit for that. One runner should be sold soon. The Silver Sally.”

  “The one that did the daylight run?”

  “That’s her,” Jacoby said. “I got her first mate plenty drunk this afternoon. He told me the captain is planning to sell the Sally off shortly. The Davis government is getting ready to pass legislation to run the blockade-running business with some stringent rules and Joshua Denning, her captain, wants to go out in a blaze of glory.”

  “After a daylight run is one way of doing it,” Taylor laughed.

  “The next run might be her last. Get dressed,” Jacoby ordered. “I’ll see you in the lounge.”