Josephine set the box next to her pages and the soldier’s letter and used her sleeve to dry out the moisture at the bottom of the satchel. “How did you get this?”
“They almost let the rowboat drift downstream with the rest of the debris coming down from the barrier,” Franklin said, “but an alert sailor hauled it in. They discovered the satchel wedged beneath the seat. Did you have any other possessions? We couldn’t find anything.”
“I don’t care about them, only the satchel. I was going to jump overboard when we got too close to the fire raft. I thought if the boat didn’t burn, someone might find it downriver. It’s a miracle it wasn’t dislodged or destroyed when the shell hit.”
And what of the other three men who had been aboard with them: The engineer from the fort, the officer, and the sailor? She asked Franklin if anyone else had been pulled out of the river.
His face darkened. “Only the man Fein identified as a Confederate deserter. Or what was left of him. Nobody else.”
“I see.”
“Was he a friend of yours?”
“I only met him at the fort. But in those few days . . . connections were made.” Something ached deep in her belly. “He didn’t deserve to die.”
“I understand. And I’m sorry.”
What vagaries life held—that her writing had emerged unscathed, while a man was cut in two, and several others went missing, presumed dead. Also saved had been that cursed Oriental box. She couldn’t understand it.
“Are you ready?” Franklin asked.
Josephine took a moment to collect her wits; then she gathered up her pages. She verified the satchel was dry enough not to cause further damage before she put the papers inside. She took out the turtle comb and used it to rake out her hair and then pin it back from her face. She handed Franklin the pocket watch.
“I believe this is yours,” she said. “Safe and sound, through fire and water.”
The Union sloop Hartford emerged from the early-morning mist as the sailors rowed Josephine and Franklin across to it. The mighty warship wallowed in the middle of the river like a sea monster that had come swimming up the river from the Gulf. It had three masts, plus a stack in the middle for the boiler when under steam power. Cannons bristled from her side. All around, lesser ships seemed to give homage with their posture.
A bell sounded on the deck of Hartford, and a voice shouted a challenge. The officer at the head of the launch answered with a watchword, and a rope came flying over to haul them in. Once on board, Josephine and Franklin were issued into the officers’ mess, where Flag Officer Farragut was drinking coffee and going over reports with several of his officers. The men rose when she entered.
Farragut came over. “You must be Miss Breaux. I would be honored if I could shake your hand.”
Surprised at the offer, Josephine took his hand, returning his firm grip with her own.
Farragut was an older man, perhaps in his early sixties, clean-shaven and with a high, bald forehead. Gray hair curled over his ears. His clothing looked freshly laundered, and his gold epaulets, cuffs, and the brass buttons of his double-breasted jacket all gleamed. In spite of his age, she sensed a man of determination and energy as he seemed to size her up in turn.
“I hope my dispatches have been helpful, sir.”
“Indispensable.” Farragut indicated an officer with a full, bushy beard who stood by his side. “This is Commander Porter, whose chowderpots have been raining down on you these past several days.”
Porter had a gruff look about him, and the bags under his eyes spoke to the exhaustion of maintaining the continuous bombardment from his mortar schooners. On the way over, Franklin had told Josephine in a low voice that there was disagreement between the two officers as to the effectiveness of Porter’s bombing, and whether they should continue to reduce the enemy position, or make an attempt to run the two forts. Porter wanted to keep bombing, while Farragut was not convinced the mortars were making any noticeable difference. To make matters more interesting, she knew that Porter was the younger adopted brother of Farragut, and an intensely ambitious man in his own right.
Josephine and Franklin took a seat at the end of the table, opposite Farragut, Porter, and three other officers, two of whom appeared to be captains of ships in the navy, and the remaining man Farragut’s staff officer.
To her surprise, Farragut didn’t immediately grill her about the condition of the forts, but instead had a servant bring her fresh coffee while he shared more information than he took.
“I know it appears as though we could keep this bombardment for ages,” Farragut said, “but in truth, I’ve been forced to borrow powder, shot, even coal from General Butler’s army, which will raise hell in Washington. Even so, we’re running short. How fare the rebels?”
“General Lovell has begun to ration powder.” Josephine nodded in Franklin’s direction. “Thanks to the attack at the Marine Hospital, Lovell has never recovered his stores. But he has a good week left without resupply.”
“That’s longer than we can carry on,” Farragut said with a glance at Porter, who was scowling from above his thick whiskers. “Yesterday, a ship of English military observers came downstream. Did you see them pass the forts?”
“I didn’t see, but I heard they’d done so.”
“They assured me the forts would never fall unless by ground attack.”
“You’d be hard pressed to get artillery over the swamp,” she said, “and a siege would allow the Confederates to send reinforcements.”
“My thinking precisely. I asked the English fellow if the forts could be run with wooden warships. He said we might get through with a few, but the rest would be sent down to the mud. Those few that made it would be facing rebel ironclads. Louisiana alone could sink half our fleet. Or so they say. Then there’s the ram. What do you think?”
If the flag officer had thought to soften Josephine up by bombarding her with respect, it had worked. She’d entered expecting her opinions to be dismissed because of her age and sex, but instead he spoke to her as if she were an equal. The hot coffee was beginning to wake her up, and she was exhilarated by the thought that she might contribute to Farragut’s plans.
“I wouldn’t worry about the ironclads,” she said. “Louisiana has no working engines, and is nothing more than a floating battery at the moment, and not a very good one. They don’t even dare send her below the barricade to attack the mortar boats.”
“I worked on Louisiana,” Franklin said after clearing his throat. “And I can tell you she looks more intimidating than she is. Yes, she can carry sixteen guns, but nobody at the yard understood how to mount them. Perhaps things have changed since December.”
“Not significantly,” Josephine said. “Of her sixteen guns, I’d say only ten or twelve will serve in a fight. The others have been mounted in the wrong carriages, and another is in the right carriage, but mismounted and useless.”
“You sound quite certain,” Farragut said, and for the first time she detected skepticism in his voice.
“That I am. The guns are manned by the Crescent Regiment, an artillery company with no experience with naval guns. Louisiana is yet another obstacle to run, but not so daunting when compared to the forts.”
Farragut stroked his chin and seemed to give this some thought.
His adopted brother Porter lit a pipe. “What about Fort Jackson? The Englishman said it would never fall. Was he deceived about that as well?”
She remembered what Franklin had warned her in the crossing. She didn’t want the head of the mortar fleet to feel put down in front of his comrades. Not by a twenty-year-old civilian, and a woman, to boot.
“Your fire has been completely demoralizing. The citadel has burned, as have most of the outbuildings, the moat bridge, and the docks. Bombs nearly penetrated the magazines on two separate occasions. There’s barely an unburned scrap of bedding in the entire fort. You’ve dismounted a number of guns.”
“Then it is effective,” Porter sa
id. He turned to the flag officer. “Another week and we’ll turn it to rubble.”
“And do you have a week of powder?” Farragut demanded.
“Not entirely, no. But if you could lend—”
“I have nothing to lend,” the flag officer said. “You forget that I have been slugging it out with the fort. What powder remains is needed for the battle.”
Porter grunted.
During this exchange, three more officers had come into the room. They took coffee, and now servants appeared with plates of eggs and biscuits for the men at the table, who ate as the conversation continued.
“Tell me about St. Philip,” Farragut said to Josephine.
“Nearly unscathed, of course,” she said. “They’ll riddle you with enfilading fire as you pass. But it’s the weaker of the two. Most of its guns are old smoothbores. If you can get past Jackson with the bulk of your fleet, I see no reason why St. Philip would give you trouble. That leaves the Confederate fleet.”
“Yes, what about that?”
She laid out the boats as best she could, the ironclad and cottonclad side-wheel steamers, the converted revenue cutters, and even what she knew about the fire rafts and the small steamer launches. Anything that could carry guns and men, or do damage in any way. Several of the officers took notes.
Josephine took out her own notes from the satchel, but only so they’d know she wasn’t simply making up the numbers. She already held the numbers in her head. “Leaving aside Louisiana, the enemy can put boats into the water holding no more than forty guns and roughly eighteen hundred men. In comparison, Hartford alone has, how many? Twenty-six guns? Twenty-eight if you count howitzers?”
There was dumbfounded surprise at this. At her side, Franklin was beaming.
“Thank God she’s on our side,” one of the ship captains muttered.
Josephine tried to be casual as she lifted her cup to take a sip. Inside, she was swelling with pride. But while she’d been pontificating, a servant had refilled her cup, and the coffee was scalding. She sputtered and spit up coffee as she tried to keep from burning her mouth.
“Only human after all,” Franklin said with a grin, and the men burst into laughter.
Josephine blushed and wanted to slink out of the room. There was no malice in the laughter, though, and soon she found herself smiling along with the rest of them.
Farragut was the first to turn serious again, and in seconds the group of men, now numbering a dozen with recent additions, quieted.
“What about the ram?” Farragut pressed.
“Manassas is up there,” she said, “and may give you some headache. She caused plenty of trouble during the battle at Head of Passes.”
“Ah, yes. Pope’s Run, as they’re calling it. We are better prepared this time. There will be no panic should the turtle show itself. But she concerns me. There will be moments when the entire battle will pivot. If she appears at the wrong time, all may be lost.”
“The weakness of Manassas,” Josephine said, “is that she is underpowered and poorly maneuverable. Coming with the current, she has one dangerous attack, and then she’ll struggle to get back into the fight.”
“Good,” Farragut said. “Then all the pieces are together. Thank you for your service, Miss Breaux. I would not trade you for a dozen warships.”
And with that, Farragut’s staff officer led Josephine and Franklin out of the mess room so the ship captains could plan their attack. She was not happy to be dismissed, but had a hard time staying upset given how well she had been treated.
She and Franklin went out to the deck, where they had more time to share information about how they’d respectively spent the previous few months. Within a few minutes it became clear that Franklin’s ardor for her had been no passing fancy. He stood close to her on the deck, was overly solicitous of her comfort, and found excuses to touch her hand when it rested on the rail.
Josephine didn’t exactly resist the overtures. Her fondness for him had deepened, and she had worried about him every day since seeing him off at the levee. She’d felt such relief at seeing him last night, such warmth when he reappeared holding her precious writing, that she knew that in another time, under other circumstances, it would take little effort at all to fall into his arms.
This was not that time, nor those circumstances.
So when the coffee began to wear off a couple of hours later, she let the yawns come out, and didn’t resist when he offered to find her a stateroom so she could sleep.
In spite of the welcome she’d received, her dismissal from Flag Officer Farragut’s council of war proved a harbinger of the dearth of good information following the initial meeting. The federal sailors were more closedmouthed than their Confederate counterparts, any of whom would have shared everything from the menu of his worm-infested supper to the number of kegs of powder in the magazine. In contrast, each Union man knew little, and was willing to share less.
Even so, over the next two days her persistence yielded information about the size of the fleet, the simmering rivalry between Porter of the mortar fleet and his older brother, the flag officer. She heard about General Butler, waiting downstream with his troops. A political general more than a fighting man, he was less expected to seize New Orleans than to hold it once it had been conquered.
Josephine wrote everything down, from numbers of guns, men, and ships, to personal observations about powder-streaked sailors, their fears of combat and of a hostile reception in New Orleans. She spoke to an idealistic young Rhode Islander with a face so pretty he might have been a girl, whose father was a Unitarian minister and a fierce abolitionist. She talked to a German with broken English who seemed hard pressed to say who they were fighting or why, and an Irishman who had only been in the country three weeks before he joined in order to buy passage for a wife and two children who remained in Ulster. Some sailors were hardened old sea salts, while others were so green that they’d been relieved to get onto the river simply to escape the crippling seasickness suffered on the open ocean.
As for what she intended to do with this information, she’d started to contemplate writing a war memoir. Yes, it was hubris to imagine that a twenty-year-old would have cogent thoughts about what was developing into the most deadly and terrible military struggle since the Napoleonic Wars, but it was a story she had to write.
Though it had seemed certain that Farragut would attempt to storm past the forts right away, the mortar bombardment picked up again by late morning and continued throughout the day and into the night. Finally, on the evening of the twenty-third, two men came to Josephine’s cabin, where she’d fallen asleep on her writing desk over an open book of naval strategy. The lamp had burned out. When the two men led her onto the deck, she found sailors setting out buckets of water for dousing flames, and casting handfuls of sand across the deck to keep it from becoming slick with blood when the fighting started. Other sailors slouched against the squat, ugly-looking mortars, drinking coffee from tin cups and gnawing on hardtack. Carpenters worked sawing patches to plug holes from enemy shot. All this work was done by light of hooded lanterns, to hide the scope of Union actions on this moonless night.
Josephine took one glance at the preparations and then spotted servants and other civilians loading into a small launch. She backed away from the two men who’d led her up.
“Oh, no. If you think I’m going ashore now, of all times . . .”
“No, miss,” one of the men said. “Flag Officer Farragut wishes to speak with you.” The man pointed, and she saw Farragut with Franklin and his adjutants.
When she arrived, Farragut was muttering oaths about the captain of Pensacola, who was supposed to fall into position in the vanguard but claimed trouble hauling up anchor. Farragut looked up as she approached.
“You look as exhausted as the rest of us, Miss Breaux,” he said. “Someone get this woman some coffee.”
“Then you’re not sending me ashore?”
“Good Lord, no. Unless you want to, o
f course.”
“You’d have to drag me away.” Her words sounded brave, but her heart was dancing like a flatboat crew to a double-time jig.
Farragut gestured at Franklin. “Mr. Gray predicted as much. Promise me you’ll keep your heads down, the both of you.”
A light flashed over from Pensacola.
“Damn you, Morris,” Farragut grumbled. “Get your anchor up and get in line or the devil take you.”
He stomped off, followed by his staff officers.
Left alone, the two Pinkerton agents made their way to the railing. Moments later, the long black shadow of Pensacola began to move at last. Together with six other ships, and the smaller Cayuga guiding, Captain Morris’s vanguard fleet began to ease slowly upriver. As soon as they had passed, Hartford’s boilers built a head of steam and led the second fleet up the river after them.
“Is it always like this?” Franklin whispered.
“Like what?”
“The tension. My God, I can’t take it.”
“You’re about to see the elephant.”
Her voice sounded hollow, lost in the mist that swirled up from the river to envelop the sides of the boat. The calm she heard in it belied the clenching and unclenching in her stomach, the racing pace of her heartbeat.
“When the arsenal blew up, I had no time to think, I just acted,” he said. “But now . . . I wish I’d put to shore. Damn it all, I’m a coward.”
Josephine reached out in the darkness and squeezed his hand. “You’re not a coward. There isn’t one person on this ship who isn’t terrified, Farragut included.”
He fell silent, and she didn’t know if she’d made him feel better or worse. His hand was trembling in hers, but she wasn’t convinced that she wasn’t the one shaking, and making him shake in turn.
For several minutes they slid silently upriver, not a light visible, only dark shapes, each one following the lead of the ship ahead. For one brief, desperate moment she thought that Farragut’s plan was to sneak by the forts undetected. Inside, the men of the forts might be too exhausted to notice, the watchmen all fallen into slumber. It might work!
The Crescent Spy Page 27