The Cotton Run

by Daniel Wyatt

  Denning pointed at Jacoby on the ground. “I have your... widow killer. Eli Jacoby.”

  “What!”

  “He admitted it, at least to accosting Marie Keating this afternoon. I have the proof.”

  Toland looked down at the stumbling Jacoby rising to his feet, steadying himself against the wall. Finally, he fell back to the ground. There was no way he was going anywhere.

  “What I can’t understand, Toland,” Denning said, as he held a handkerchief hard to his bleeding knuckles, “is his motive for murder.”

  Toland was still reeling from the shock, when he said, “The Chief of Police will find out. He has his ways.” He shook his head. “This is crazy. Jacoby?”

  “By the way, your chief of police can look into someone else, a sidekick of Jacoby,” Denning sighed. “You never know what you might get out of him.”

  Chapter twenty-six

  Wilmington

  The Monday, July 6 copy of the New York Times reported the battle details of Robert E. Lee and his Army of Northern Virginia. Denning knew by past experience that he’d read a clearer and less biased view of the Gettysburg battle in the Times than he would in any propaganda-filled Southern paper. He chuckled to himself, in the privacy of his top-floor room in the Prince Hotel. He knew that interested parties, including military officers on both sides, would read each other’s papers for news of the political scene and battle fronts in Virginia and elsewhere. Censorship was nonexistent, which suited Denning fine.

  He always sought the truth.

  The first page announced the South’s misfortunes. Off to the left in bold print was — SPLENDID TRIUMPH OF THE ARMY OF THE POTOMAC and ROUT OF LEE’S FORCES ON FRIDAY. Northern correspondents were enthusiastic in their telegraph accounts of the three-day Gettysburg battle which claimed tens of thousands of lives from both armies. It was obviously a great victory for Lincoln. Denning flipped to the back page to catch the Postscript section where he could read the latest dispatch from Gettysburg.

  ...OFFICIAL INFORMATION LEAVES NO DOUBT THAT LEE’S ARMY IS IN FULL RETREAT. THE LINE OF RETREAT IS NOT DEFINITELY KNOWN. IT IS EITHER THROUGH CASHTOWN OR FAIRFIELD...

  Back to the front page, he read that Vicksburg, Mississippi, after a two-month siege, had finally fallen victim to General Grant’s forces. With the great shipping waters of the Mississippi River in the hands of the Union, the South had been split in two, the worst possible position for her to be in.

  Denning whipped the paper closed and threw it on the desk. The Confederacy had reached its high-water mark after Chancellorsville and was now falling apart. This was a rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight. He thought of his own situation. The next cotton run would be his last, his thirteenth trip. He knew that now. After that, the crew would have to fend for themselves.

  A few minutes later, Maxwell Toland knocked at the door. Denning let him in.

  “How’s Marie?”

  “I saw her earlier this morning,” Denning answered, closing the door. “She was... better. She’s perked up since she knows you weren’t involved.”

  “Good. Captain, I have some information for you about Jacoby. It’s taken two days, but we put some of the pieces together, thanks to our Chief of Police. It’s strange what you don’t know about someone. My father still can’t believe it was Jacoby. They used to dine and drink and play cards together. Well, after some... persuasive interrogation, Jacoby did admit to the four widow murders and attacking Marie Keating. All the four widows were young, under thirty, handsome, well-off, which made them—”

  “Desirable,” Denning said.

  “Exactly, captain. And they’d all been widowed since the war began which left them somewhat vulnerable. From the details squeezed out of him, Jacoby was heavily in debt from his poker playing. Big stakes. Thousands of dollars in gold. It’s not hard to read between the lines. Jacoby began by courting these women, undoubtedly after a part of their family fortune. Each woman rejected Jacoby’s advances and he killed them. Remarrying so soon is not our custom here in the Carolinas, as you know. The women didn’t want any part of that. Honor, you know.”

  “Why Marie? He wasn’t courting her. Was he after the family money?”

  “Eventually, maybe he was. He was after her and her alone, and wanted her bad. He’s a womanizer. Since all this happened, the chief has heard some previously unreported complaints from the brothel owners in town of Jacoby’s brutality towards some prostitutes. Personally, I think the man is sick.”

  “Sounds like it. I’m glad he’s locked up.”

  “That’s not all,” Toland went on. “He’s part of a Yankee spy organization. We found a cipher-code book in his hotel room. He was engaged in cotton scheming and gun-running along a line to Washington. Yes, sir, plenty.”

  Denning nodded. He had played poker with Jacoby twice and won. He knew he was gun-running, but the other things were still a shock. Spying! Murder! Toland had said it best; it’s funny what you don’t know about someone.

  “As for his fancy-dressed friend, the one you had the hunch about,” Toland continued, “he’s a spy too. Franklin Taylor is his name. We raided his room at the Fountain and found a pocket telegraph, an encoding disk, rubber insulated wire, and coding books.”

  “So what’s going to happen to them?”

  “Taylor,” he said, “I don’t know. But Jacoby wants to cut a deal. If we let him go free, he promises to expose all the spies in the South he knows, along with the crooked government officials and all his contacts on his Washington supply line.”

  “Are you going to do it?”

  “Yes,” replied Toland.

  “I can see why, I guess. You let one go to bag several more.”

  “Yes,” Toland agreed.

  “Why don’t you let me have one last crack at him before you send him off?”

  Toland laughed. “Sorry. I can’t let you do that. Unless, of course, he doesn’t come through with his end of the bargain. Then he’s all yours. And I’ll tell him that.”

  “Yes. Please do.”

  * * * *

  Later that day, Denning rode his mare down the dirt road past the Keating house to the stable beyond. He tied the animal to the fence and looked inside. No sign of life. Marie’s horse was out. He made his way to the trail behind the stable, and heard hooves. Marie rode her horse through the trees towards him.

  Marie smiled at Denning and brought Lavender to a smooth, square stop. She was wearing her present, the new riding dress and breeches. No sun hat. There was a light in her eyes, her dark hair was shiny and her skin glowed the color he best remembered.

  “What are you doing out of bed?” He scolded her. “Aren’t you afraid to be out here, by yourself?”

  “No.” She removed a pistol from a holster at her waist. “I have a friend with me.”

  “That’s a Colt dragoon,” Denning said, astonished. “Do you know how to load and fire that thing?”

  “Oui.” She returned the gun to its holster.

  “I guess I shouldn’t doubt it.”

  “I’m doing what you told me,” she said, looking down at him as he patted Lavender’s withers.

  “What is that?”

  “Continue my riding, in spite of what happened. I had to get over the fear of going to the stable.”

  “But so soon!” Denning said. “I guess I’d better help you down? Come along.”

  Marie tingled when Denning gripped her around the waist. It didn’t matter that she could still feel the slight burning of the healing cuts and bruises to her body. He put her on the ground softly. Denning was as smooth and strong as ever in the way he handled her.

  Unable to restrain herself, she dropped her crop to the ground and kissed Denning tenderly on the lips, her body pressed to his. This time she would not pull back out of fear or guilt. She was free to be herself on this path, hidden from the house and stable. He returned with a harder kiss. She moved her arms up to his powerful shoulders. As he seized her, the inhibition of their first emb
race was gone.

  “Joshua, I love you,” she said, trembling between breaths. “I love you.”

  His hands moved up from her waist.

  She closed her eyes and braced herself. Nothing would stop her... except her upbringing... ethics... morality. His face was on her breasts now. Stepping back, she lost her balance. She fell, taking Joshua with her to the ground with a thud. She laughed, unexpectedly, like a child. A silly laugh, giddy and high, a laugh free of tension.

  Denning picked her up and propped her gently against the tree. “Are you all right?” He smiled into her eyes.

  “I’m fine. I think.”

  “You’re still in some pain. You crazy woman. Go back to bed and rest up.”

  “I got a little carried away.”

  “Yes. So did I.”

  She put her arms around him and squeezed. “Oh, Joshua. I didn’t mind.”

  It was his turn to pull back. He suddenly appeared to be afraid of the woman. “I know.”

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. She had never seen chaos so marked upon a man’s face. It puzzled and saddened her at the same time. Only a moment ago, she had been ready to let him take her on the spot or in the bushes, despite what had occurred to her only days before in the stable.

  He took her hands away. “It’s just that with what you’ve been through, something isn’t right.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. Don’t you want me?”

  “No. I mean, yes.” He hesitated, then said, “I have to go in a few minutes.”

  “Now? Where?”

  “The Silver Sally sails this evening. I came to tell you this will be my final run.”

  “This evening? Oh, Joshua. Don’t. I fear for you.”

  “I just need to do this last one. Then I’m through with blockade running for good.”

  “Why one more?”

  “I have to. This one is different from all the rest. Different from anybody else’s.”

  “Then what? After the run.”

  “I don’t know.” He took her in his arms, one final time, and kissed her. “I’m not the marrying kind, remember.” He studied her eyes. “You are. I’m not.”

  Something inside Marie wanted to snap. She didn’t know if she should pity him or slap him. “What’s the matter with you? Whose talking marriage, you damn fool?” she said, her voice rising in anger.

  He said nothing. As he retreated to the paddock, she leaned against the tree, bewildered and shattered. She heard horse’s hooves, the stable blocking her view of Denning’s departure. She couldn’t let him go like this. She jumped on Lavender and galloped past the paddock, through the yard, and onto the dusty road.

  “Joshua, wait!”

  This time he wouldn’t get away. She would know what to say to him. Up the road, he turned his head and pulled on the reins. Marie rode up alongside and yanked her horse to a stop.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized, shrugging. “It seems I’m always saying that, aren’t I?”

  “You do seem to be making it a habit.”

  “I lost my head. Forgive me. Kiss me one more time.”

  With that she reached over, holding his face in her hands. He removed his hat and slipped his hands around her shoulders, their horses nearly touching. They kissed long and hard on the road, surrounded by a cloud of dust.

  Then Denning broke it off and left in a gallop, without saying a word.

  She shook her head. Captain Joshua Denning, if I didn’t love you so, I could hate you.

  Chapter twenty-seven

  Wilmington

  Denning climbed a row of cotton bales, lit a Cuban cigar and regarded the rugged faces of his loyal crew assembled on the deck. Thirty-three weathered expressions stared up at him, in small groups of twos and threes.

  Most of the crew had anticipated what was coming from their captain this warm evening before the lines were cast. White-bearded, jowl-faced Ben Woodson, Denning’s conscientious navigator from Savannah, had his head down. He had told Denning only yesterday that he was tired and war-weary. Denning looked to Homer Cogswell, the forty-year-old pilot from Smithville, the chunk of granite on legs, father of two, who knew every Cape Fear underwater sandbar by name. Cogswell was a wise man, experienced in life, fearless, steady, a real rock. He was playing with his moustache, smoking his pipe. He had taken them through many a tight spot. Denning knew that Cogswell had been saving most of his money and was considering his future. He was one of the few sensible ones. Freckled Jimmy Parkens, the able young officer who had clung bravely to the foremast and waved the red dress, looked around slowly. He had come to Denning as a journeyman, the son of a friend, an old Annapolis graduate of 1852. He was devoted to Denning, his first runner captain. The hard-drinking bachelor and first officer Matthew Balsinger, efficient on board, careless on shore, leaned on a stack of cotton bales, a picture of mixed emotion. He was shaking, hung over from the night before. He hadn’t saved a dollar all year, too busy drinking and having a good time to think ahead.

  They were such a varied bunch, Denning thought.

  “Gather round, men, and listen up,” Denning addressed them. “I called you all together here to tell you that the rumors you’ve been hearing in Wilmington are correct. This is our final run.” His words evoked murmuring in the crowd. “Quiet, please. We’re heading for Bermuda this time. I can’t say enough good things about all of you. Some of you go back many years with me, some of you have been here only a short while. But all of you are important. The Silver Sally will be up for sale on our successful return to Wilmington. And you will be paid double for the final run. So, make the most of it. Thank you, men.” Denning cleared his throat. “I couldn’t have asked for a better crew. Dismiss.”

  Cogswell glanced at Woodson. “This’ll be our thirteenth trip,” the pilot said.

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “I dunno,” Woodson said, after a considerable pause. “I wonder if it crossed the skipper’s mind.”

  They didn’t need to elaborate. There was an unwritten superstition in the blockade-running trade. It was unlucky to quit voluntarily after your thirteenth run. Obviously, Denning chose to ignore it.

  * * * *

  In the pilot house, Denning watched Cogswell make the turn to sea, carefully keeping the Marsh Islands and Zeke Island on the Sally’s left. The cool five-knot breeze blowing in from the water off New Inlet was a relief from the stifling heat and humidity earlier in the day.

  “Stop engines,” Denning called down the pilot’s voice tube to the engineer’s room.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Denning put the tube on its hook and turned to Balsinger. “Drop anchor.”

  Denning stood over the rail, threw his cigar in the water and checked his revolver strapped to the holster inside his coat. The Sally was drifting to the wharf off Federal Point, near Fort Buchanan. She was entering the zone where the crew were to go silent. They would wait for the fort’s signal to move out. Denning extended his telescope to the beach off port where he caught an explosion far out to sea, five or six miles distant. The reflection off the water told of a runner in trouble. He saw three vulturous gunboats advancing on the kill. Too bad his men had to see this.

  No one spoke as they waited for the flames to die. “Steady, men,” he said to those who could hear — Balsinger, Woodson, Cogswell, and two petty officers. “It’s not going to happen to us,” he said firmly.

  The tide was starting to ebb.

  It took almost thirty-five minutes for Fort Buchanan to answer.

  Denning spoke first. “There it is, Homer. The all-clear.”

  “We’ll have to move straight out and avoid the beach in front of Fort Fisher, sir,” Cogswell explained. “The shoals at this hour could be trouble.”

  “I agree, Homer. Besides, we’d be too close to the smoking runner.”

  The seamen pulled the anchor up as quietly as they could. The ship began to drift. Denning slapped Homer Cogswe
ll on the shoulder. With the commotion far to port, Cogswell had no other option but to steer starboard.

  “It’s all yours, Homer. Keep your weather-eye open and get us through.”

  Cogswell smiled. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said, as he took the helm, and crossed himself. The Caroline Shoal and a seam in the Union inner line was dead ahead.

  He had been here before.

  Chapter twenty-eight

  Hamilton, Bermuda

  Denning was amazed at the amount of guns packed in wooden crates, strewn across the large warehouse floor. There were breech-loaders and muzzle-loaders. There were regular Army and Navy revolvers, pocket revolvers, dragoons, derringers, hammer pistols, shotguns, carbines, long arm rifles. He noted the company names: Allen & Wheelock, Colt, Remington, Marlin, Smith & Wesson, Whitney, and Spencer. They were all Union makes, from the strong manufacturing states of New Jersey, Massachusetts and New York.

  “Quite the collection,” Denning said to the gun dealer, Douglas Burns, a wiry Northerner in ordinary dock work clothes.

  Burns smiled. “Business is booming, captain.”

  “I’ll bet it is. It’s the Spencers I’m after. Do you mind if I try one of them out?”

  “Which one?”

  “The carbine.”

  “That can be arranged right now.”

  * * * *

  On a breezy rise overlooking the blockade runners in Hamilton harbor, Burns handed Joshua Denning what was now the most controversial weapon of the Civil War, the fast-action, breech-loading Spencer repeater rifle. Thirty yards away was an upright crude wood plank outline of a man attached to a stick pounded into the ground. Denning examined the gun in his hands. He had heard great things about the Spencer repeater, and wanted to see for himself what all the hoopla was about.

  “It’s light,” he said, surprised. “And easy to handle.”

  “Here’s how it works,” Burns said. “A tube is in here, in the butt of the gun. It holds seven self-contained cartridges. Pulling the lever down opens the breech, which pushes a cartridge forward into the barrel by way of the spring-fed tubular magazine. Pull the hammer back and you’re ready to fire. After firing, the lever action also spits the spent casing out.”