The Cotton Run

by Daniel Wyatt

  Denning brought the loaded carbine-version Spencer to bear on the six-foot target across the high grass.

  “Ready when you are,” Burns said, stepping back several feet to the captain’s right.

  Denning squinted over the barrel sight, his open eye intent on the outline. He fired and pumped the lever each time for the next shell, until the chamber was empty. He had reeled off the full seven fifty-caliber shells in eighteen seconds without even trying to reload as fast as he could. The barrel was hardly warm. Denning was impressed. Its capabilities made it a gun to be reckoned with. Denning and Burns walked to the target to discover five holes in the chest and head area, two in the right leg.

  “Pretty good shooting, captain.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The repeating rifle version is even more accurate. What do you think of her?”

  “Quite the peashooter. When they said it could be loaded on Sunday and fired all week, they weren’t kidding.”

  “Then you’re happy with it.”

  “Naturally. I think this will be my personal one. How many others can we deal for?”

  “Six thousand one hundred and twenty-four. That’s the entire lot. If you’re interested?”

  “I am. Cartridge boxes for them too?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Denning knew that Bobby Lee could use them. Spencers would make the other rifles, especially the muzzle-loaders, obsolete.

  In the harbor, during the next day or two, he’d have to supervise how the ship would be packed. Bermuda was a hundred and twenty miles farther from Wilmington than Nassau, and that meant more coal aboard to make the trip, and fewer guns and other supplies. He’d have to balance things. That was the trouble with Bermuda. Too far.

  “Why?” Denning suddenly asked.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Why are you dealing with me? You know damn well the guns are headed for Bobby Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia.”

  “Pure economics, captain. The Rebs pay more for military items than any Northern agent would.”

  “But Spencers?” Denning hoisted the gun up and whipped the breech back with a click. “These things can end the war for the Union. Unless some people in high places don’t want to end the war just yet.”

  Burns grinned and his eyes flashed. “I oftentimes get the feeling that certain people in Washington want the war prolonged.”

  “The ones who profit from this little North-South skirmish.”

  “That’s only part of it. The North is a hard sell, captain. Many Union army traditionalists still believe that such guns will tempt soldiers to waste ammunition.”

  “I’ve experienced the traditionalists myself in the Navy,” Denning observed, recalling his old-fashioned naval superiors and their battle tactics.

  “But once they see what they have, they’ll change their minds,” said Burns. “I heard tell that Lincoln himself tested the gun this year during a demonstration probably much like this and had recommended it strongly for mass production. The South, in their situation, is a little more open because, you must admit, it’s only a matter of time before the Union wins,” Burns said slowly, bracing himself for Denning’s reaction.

  Denning was not offended. “I’ve been seeing the light on that matter for some time. The Confederacy is on its last legs. Vicksburg has fallen. Lee’s retreated from Gettysburg. Leastwise, these Spencers can give Lee a fighting chance.”

  “I’ll say this for Bobby Lee. If he would’ve had Stonewall Jackson and these guns at Gettysburg, the outcome might have been different. The Union would be the ones in full retreat. And all Washington would be running scared.”

  “You might have something there, Burns,” Denning said, aiming the gun barrel toward the Silver Sally down in the harbor.

  “By the way, captain. How is my friend, Mr. Jacoby?”

  Denning dropped the gun to his side. “Oh... he’s... tied up at the moment.”

  * * * *

  Denning pounded on the hotel room door. “Matt! Open up, Matt!”

  “Yeah... yeah. Keep your shirt on.”

  Denning heard a loud bang in the room, as if someone had fallen to the floor. “Hurry up!”

  When the door opened, Matthew Balsinger stood there staggering, much the worse for drink. Over his shoulder Denning could see a woman asleep in the bed, her arms and large, bare breasts outside the covers. A strong smell of brandy hung in the hall. Denning stared at his first mate. He was unshaven, stripped to the waist, his massive biceps and muscular chest heaving. His messy premature gray hair made him look like an old man.

  “What do you think you’re doing? We’re sailing in two hours. You’re drunk as a skunk!”

  Balsinger belched. “Is that so?” he said. His eyes were bloodshot, his speech raspy. “Dealing with Bluebellies. Why did you do it?”

  “Is that what’s been eating you? Lee needs those rifles and medical supplies.”

  “Sure. Captain Joshua Denning will win the war for the South, all by himself.”

  “I never said that.”

  “The Sally won’t make it. You should have... have given up sooner. You won’t make it.”

  “After all we’ve been through. How can you say we won’t make it?”

  “You won’t make it. You... you’re going to get everybody killed. This is our thirteenth trip.”

  “So?”

  “You can’t quit after thirteen. Twelve or fourteen, maybe. Never thirteen.”

  “I don’t run my ship according to silly superstitions.”

  “You’re playing with our lives. What’s the matter with you? It’s that woman... and Carlisle. They’re doing this to you.”

  “That’s enough.”

  “It’s a game to you, ain’t it? Matching wits with Carlisle, so you can show off to that Gypsy woman. That damn spy!”

  “Shut up, Matt. You’re not making sense.”

  Balsinger swore at Denning and took a wild, awkward swing at his superior. Denning ducked easily and pushed Balsinger to the floor. Balsinger stayed there, unable to move. Although he outweighed his captain, Balsinger was in no condition to retaliate.

  Denning shook his head, disgusted. Balsinger had finally gone too far. In peace time, he would have been court-martialed for such rebellion. Denning had seen the gradual change in the last few months and had ignored it, hoping that Balsinger would snap out of it. It was a shame that such a good officer had succumbed to drink. Denning didn’t know whether to be angry at Balsinger or to feel sorry for him.

  “I’ll give you a second chance, Matt. Are you coming?” Denning said, waiting.

  “No. I quit!”

  “Suit yourself. We part company then.”

  “You won’t make it. You’ve reached your limit. Your number’s up.”

  Denning threw a handful of gold sovereigns on the wood floor. “There you go. Your pay in full for the trip. Don’t spend them all in one place. You’re a damn fool, Matthew Balsinger.”

  Denning left, knowing he would probably never see Balsinger again.

  “You’re the fool. I’ll do just fine,” Balsinger roared, kicking the door closed with an unsteady leg. “Don’t worry about me!”

  His bed creaked.

  “Keep the racket down,” the woman muttered, rubbing her eyes, placing the covers over her bare breasts.

  “Ah, shut up!” Balsinger yelled at her.

  Chapter twenty-nine

  Atlantic Ocean east of New Inlet

  “Strange, isn’t it?” Denning said, after three days at sea during which he hardly uttered a word to his crew outside of the regular orders.

  Cogswell was looking through the pilot house window in the last few minutes of light. “What, sir?”

  “Our last trip together. We’ve been through a lot.”

  “That we have, skipper.”

  Woodson nodded in agreement, saying nothing. He and Cogswell had observed a change in the skipper and were talking about it before Denning entered the cabin. He was jittery, a
nd his eyes seemed remote and glassy. He was not the Joshua Denning they were used to. And now Balsinger was gone. They wondered how his absence would affect the run to port.

  Denning removed his Panama hat. “What are you going to do after this, Homer?”

  “Well, sir, I was thinking of catching on with another skipper for a few more runs, then calling it quits. Then take my family to Canada, or maybe Mexico.”

  “Mexico?”

  “Yes, sir. Buy a villa or a farm and stock it with cattle. And I’d buy a sailboat, so I could sail the Gulf.”

  “Sounds fine.” Denning turned to Woodson and said, “You, Ben?”

  “Ah, maybe join the Royal Navy, providin’ they’ll take me,” Woodson replied. He had two sons in the Confederate Navy, both officers on the commerce raider, Baton Rouge, which was wreaking havoc on Union shipping in the Atlantic. “I’m sure they could use someone with my experience. Since Savannah fell to the Yankees, my wife’s been in Atlanta with her parents. But she hates it there. The kids, well, they can look after themselves. They’re big boys. What about you, sir?”

  Denning gave a quick thought to Marie. “I don’t know. I’ll have to see what happens.” He looked out to the western sky. “For now, let’s just get through that,” he said, pointing to the cloud forming ahead.

  “Some rain coming our way, skipper,” Woodson said.

  Denning walked out to the rail and eyed the horizon. His lookouts were in place. This was enemy gunboat territory. He pondered his shipment, his biggest military shipment. Probably the biggest ever. Six thousand Spencer repeaters and ten thousand ammunition boxes would cause another roar in Wilmington, much the same way the daylight run did. And what about the medical supplies? The boxes of bandages? The bottles of quinine, chloroform, iodine? And the fifty barrels of gunpowder?

  Because it was his last run, he had decided that there would be no high markup domestic items this time. No fancy Paris dresses and hats. No perfumes and other toiletries. No expensive chocolates and dinner mints. The Confederate armies, mainly Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia, were his main objective. Giving the shipment away to the army agents wouldn’t bother Denning either. To hell with auctions! Get the guns and medical supplies directly to the front! He had made his money on the other runs. This would be his last great effort. The Big Run. The war had opened his eyes to the greed and deceit that was everywhere in the South. The British merchants and rich Southerners were to blame for that. By 1863 every food item was so scarce that trading in luxuries had become a public scandal. No wonder the Davis government was threatening to step in on blockade running.

  It was the only decent thing to do.

  * * * *

  Three thousand yards away they were waiting.

  “Ship ahoy, sir,” the Annapolis petty officer called down from the mainmast to Captain Carlisle on the bridge. Battling a stiff westerly wind and the sporadic rain, the petty officer brought his telescope to his eye. Visibility was less than two nautical miles.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the Silver Sally. She’s turning ninety degrees, sir,” the petty officer yelled.

  “Smith Island.” Carlisle made a face at Farley. “The same as the last time. I’m getting to read him like a book.”

  “But last time he beat us.”

  “That was last time,” Carlisle snorted. He didn’t need to be reminded. “He’s planning to hide in the swamps until nightfall, which is,” he pulled out his pocket watch, “less than two hours. It’s almost high tide now. I like it. I like it! Stay on his tail, Farley.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  * * * *

  While the petty officer made the identification for Carlisle, Jimmy Parkens, his eye to his telescope on the Sally’s bow rail, did the same for his skipper.

  “She’s the Annapolis, sir.”

  “How does that bastard Carlisle find me?” Denning asked himself. “We gotta lose him.”

  * * * *

  South of New Inlet

  The sun began to set behind the Cape Fear coast.

  “When’s high tide?” Denning said to Cogswell and Woodson in the pilot house.

  “Eight-ten, sir,” Woodson answered.

  “An hour ago.” Denning heaved a sigh and looked at his pocket watch. “The next high?”

  “Seven-fifteen.”

  Denning pondered the situation. He didn’t want to try a daylight run again. They had wasted too much time eluding Carlisle. High tide was subsiding. He didn’t want this. They had arrived too late.

  Using the Sally’s large compass as the only light, Denning held a council with Cogswell and Woodson. Outside, the rain swept against the pilot house. Denning crouched over between his two officers, a chart in his hands. “You’ll have to be right on the mark this time, Ben.”

  “As near as I can figure, Simon’s Swamp should be... there. Fifteen minutes away.” Woodson’s voice trailed off. He examined the map of the Atlantic-side of Smith Island’s beaches and swamps. “Turn two points to port, Homer.”

  “Turning two points.”

  “The rest is up to fate and God, sir.”

  “And our pilot,” Denning added. “We need you now, Homer. More than ever.”

  “Sir?”

  Denning jumped. “What?”

  “It’s your coffee.” Parkens was back with a steamy metal cup.

  “Thanks, Jimmy.” Denning took it with jittery, eager hands.

  Simon’s Swamp was a quarter-mile across. It was little known except by a few noted Cape Fear seamen. Simon’s Swamp was not for the faint of heart. The narrow opening to it was guarded by three short, narrow shoals too close to the water surface for some to attempt even at high tide. Another advantage for those who used the swamp lay in the fact that it was halfway between New Inlet and Old Inlet, giving a skipper a chance to plot his strategy on which route to take home.

  Silently drinking his coffee, Denning moved among his men, watching, nodding, admiring, remembering past runs. These were good men, Southern men, proud like him. And they were hard workers. They hadn’t let him down yet. Except Balsinger.

  Denning stood on the pilot house in his rain cape, seeking out the Smith Island shoreline. The rain was letting up to the point that gaps in the cloud to the west revealed the occasional star. He saw the surf line. He tapped on the roof to catch Cogswell’s attention and Cogswell tapped back. He saw the surf too.

  Denning leaped to the deck and waved two sailors over.

  “Keep a sharp lookout for gunboats. Pass the word along.”

  Cogswell guided the Sally through the wind, rain, and choppy seas, as the ship furrowed in and out of the eastern shoals off Smith Island. He knew this area well. He and his father used to hunt and fish off the swamp. During the maneuvers every available hand was on deck to provide extra eyes to spot any enemy gunboats. Five Fed warships were picked out in the night, five too many for Denning’s liking.

  Cogswell took the Sally to the gate of Simon’s Swamp. “Steady as she goes, Homer,” Denning sighed.

  Woodson held his breath. “I... can... feel something.”

  Denning and Cogswell looked at each other as the ship’s bottom grazed the top of a shoal, catching it broadside.

  “Don’t get hung up now,” Denning said to himself, walking out to the rail. The rain had died off. They were at the edge of the swamp.

  With a sharp turn of the wheel, Cogswell spun the ship expertly around so her beam was parallel to the beach. The mosquitoes were thick tonight. The harsh smell of weeds and bulrushes surrounded them.

  “Drop anchor,” Denning whispered to a sailor. “Lower the masts and smokestacks. On the double.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The pounding surf and the ship’s gray camouflage were the stealth items in their favor. Denning watched the cloud disappear above him. It would be a clear night, with only a slice of moon. The wind dropped to four or five knots and blew out from the shore. He knew he had to be careful. A patrolling gun ship would catc
h the slightest sound. The crew were under strict orders to be as silent as possible. From where they were, he saw six gunboats on the horizon.

  Within three minutes, Denning held his second council with Cogswell and Woodson in the darkness of the pilot house.

  “Which way we going, captain?” Cogswell asked, swinging at a bothersome mosquito.

  “I’m open to suggestions. What do you think, Homer?”

  “With this mist coming up, I’d try New Inlet for sure.”

  “Despite the low landmarks?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why? At least the Old Inlet has some trees along the shore to use as bearings.”

  “Too many ships out there to try Old Inlet, sir. I know we have more space to move around the Frying Pans, but we have to go out too far into the outer line of gunboat defense, and we don’t have the surf and shore mist to hide us like we do off Fort Buchanan and Fort Fisher. Out of the swamp, we can hug the coast and slip right in, with the guns on the Mound covering for us.”

  “What do you say, Ben?”

  Woodson nodded. “There’s risks, sure. New Inlet is shallow. But there are always risks.” He looked over at Cogswell but aimed his words at Denning. “I think it can work. I’m in agreement, sir. New Inlet.”

  “The only problem we might encounter will be the shoals before the New Inlet’s mouth,” Cogswell added. “I’ll have to steer out over a mile now with the tide ebbing. Whatever we do, let’s move before we’re too late.”

  “It’s settled then,” Denning said. “New Inlet it is.” He looked through the glass at the rolling mist.

  There was a light tap at the door.

  “Captain,” Jimmy Parkens whispered. “We might have hit a bit of a snag, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  “I have to show you.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Stay low, sir.”

  Parkens and Denning climbed to the top of the pilot house and slipped to their stomachs. The westerly breeze held at four or five knots. Every sound would be magnified now.