The Trouble With Misbehaving

by Victoria Hanlen

  “Bar up ahead,” George whispered in his ear.

  Beau strode to the pilothouse where he clamped his hands around the voice tube. “Slow to one third,” he rasped down to the engineer. “But be ready.”

  The moon peeked through the murk. In the distance he could barely make out the sixty-foot pile of sand—the Mound—the most noticeable feature on the low, flat shoreline at the base of Fort Fisher.

  Suddenly, rockets hissed through the air and exploded overhead.

  The sound set his ears ringing. Beau’s breath caught in his throat. The rockets’ trajectory would alert other Yankee vessels to his ship’s course. Dread sent everything into a dizzying spin.

  He shoved a stiff hand through his oilskins into his trouser pocket to grasp C.C.’s pen, while his heart thundered in his chest. More Yankee ships would soon be upon them.

  The pen’s jewels bit into his skin. Grinding his teeth, he tried to concentrate on long, slow breaths. He planted his feet wide and threw one arm up to a crewman. Redemption’s rockets shot into the sky, the opposite direction of the Yanks’ rockets, in an attempt to confuse them.

  George stepped to his side and squeezed his arm, pointing. Two dim signal lights flashed through the gloom—the lights Fort Fisher used to guide blockade-runners into the narrow, shallow New Inlet. Miraculously, the Redemption was in line with them. The fog thinned further. Two Yankee gunboats sat at the edge of the bar, blocking their path.

  A disembodied voice barked over a voice trumpet. “We have you in our sights! Heave to or we’ll blow you out of the water!”

  Beau knew that contemptuous voice. For a year he’d heard it in his nightmares. He clenched his fists and imagined Rives’s throat locked between them.

  Two more vessels emerged astern. The whole squadron must have seen the rockets.

  The Redemption had almost reached the point where sailing over the shallow bar into New Inlet was more dangerous than enemy fire. If he didn’t get the ship past the bar and under Fort Fisher’s guns, they’d soon be locked in.

  He had to make a decision…a decision…a decision.

  Beau fumbled with C.C.’s pen. Three Yankee cruisers idled to port, the other two were coming up fast astern, two gunboats sat almost abreast of one another in front of New Inlet’s entrance. He worked the pen between his fingers, thinking, calculating. No vessels sat starboard next to the shallow coast. He could beach her and hope for the best.

  He made a sign to his first mate to quietly pass the word, “Take cover.”

  Beau took the helm and quickly looked around. Everyone had disappeared except for George, Oley and himself. The gunboats in front of the bar waited, letting the other cruisers hem them in. Only yards lay between the two blockaders sitting at the edge of the bar. He whispered down the voice tube to his engineer. “Give her all she’s got.”

  The Redemption shot forward.

  “I SAID, HEAVE TO!” Rives screamed through his voice trumpet.

  Beau kept his eyes on the two signal lights guiding them in.

  The mist exploded with a blinding glare. Brilliant calcium lights flashed from the gunboats, lighting the Redemption up like a stage. Commander Rives shouted into his trumpet, “BLOW THEM OUT OF THE WATER!”

  Guns and rifles began pounding the ship. Grapeshot bounced and skittered around the deck. Shells barely missed the vessel, exploded underwater and shot geysers high into the air. Their impact reverberated off the steel hull and rang through the vessel like a church bell.

  Beau took the Redemption right down the middle between the two Yankee boats sitting in front of New Inlet’s bar. Mere feet separated them from the two gunboats.

  Rives stood on his vessel, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. He smoothly drew his revolver, leveled it on Beau and fired.

  Chapter 15

  Beau barely noticed the burst of air fly past his ear, so intent was he on Fort Fisher’s guiding signal lights. Within moments, the Redemption slid between the two gunboats and dashed over the bar into New Inlet, leaving the deeper draft blockaders on the other side.

  All at once the murky sky came alive, eerily whirring and whining. Fort Fisher had begun firing their heavy long-range guns. A shell hit one of the gunboats and exploded, flaring brightly through the darkness. Beau’s crew broke into cheers. More thunderous volleys forced the blockaders back. The Yankee vessels fired a few parting shots and headed back out to sea.

  “They stopped chasing us?” C.C. appeared in front of Beau.

  “Yes, madam,” he said sternly. “Fort Fisher has crack marksmen and the Yanks know better.” Dear Lord, when had she come above? She could have been killed. His blood still sang from the narrow escape. “Is everyone all right? Report!” he barked.

  Men’s voices called out through the darkness. The first mate soon marched forward. “Everyone’s accounted for. Only two minor injuries, Captain.”

  Relief surged through him. All the tremendous highs put together after successful runs could not match the jubilation now racing through him. In the past few minutes they’d steamed past seven Yankee vessels while drawing heavy fire. They’d eluded his nemesis, Rives, made it safely over the bar and under Fort Fisher’s guns.

  “We made it through the blockade!” C.C. cried, clapping her hands, laughing, giddy as a child. She threw her arms around Beau’s neck and planted kisses all around his face.

  Subverting his terror and stubbornly holding to a madman’s course paid off. If his sea legs were even a bit weaker, he might topple to the deck. The combination of supreme tension and intense relief hit him tenfold.

  C.C.’s voice quavered. “You did it, Captain. You got us through.”

  Overwhelmed by the firestorm of emotions, all he could say was, “Aye,” and let his arms curl around her. Suddenly her lips were under his, her enthusiasm sending him skyward into weightless euphoria.

  His heart, still pounding with excruciating excitement, gradually worked into a lighter beat. C.C. was in his arms and the heady taste and feel of her reinvigorated every sinew in his body. Never had he felt so grateful to be alive, grateful that C.C. had overcome yellow fever, grateful the ship and everyone on it was safe, and a hundred other gratefuls.

  Everything around him and C.C. faded, except for the warmth of her body and the fervency of her kisses. Gasping, he finally released her. His men now stood around them, grinning, enjoying the show. Heat rushed to his face. When had they collected the audience? He grabbed his first mate’s hand and shook it. Then clapped George on the shoulder and shook the rest of his crew’s hands. “We did it men! Hallelujah!”

  He’d begun this voyage wishing it were already over. Now happiness threatened to burst him wide open. Throwing back his head, he let out a triumphant howl. “Eeeeehaw! Break out the champagne, men. It’s time to celebrate!”

  ***

  Within minutes, a small lighter pulled alongside the Redemption. A young lieutenant called out, “Welcome to North Carolina and Fort Fisher.”

  Beau invited the soldiers aboard, and led the crew in three hip-hip-hoorays for the fort’s excellent work covering the ship and driving off the Yanks. Hands were shaken, backs were slapped, then ten cases of expensive French champagne went back with the soldiers to Colonel Lamb at Fort Fisher with Captain Tollier’s thanks.

  By sunup, they’d anchored off Fort Anderson. An armed detail came aboard with the Port of Wilmington’s medical officer. After the doctor examined the crew, he took C.C. into her cabin. He soon emerged and announced, “This ship will remain here at Fort Anderson for a thirty-day quarantine.”

  “Thirty days!” C.C. cried from her cabin door. “That is unacceptable.”

  The doctor’s posture stiffened. He slowly turned toward her. “Every ship must undergo at least the mandatory fifteen-day quarantine. When one arrives from a suspect port during yellow fever months, the City of Wilmington has strict rules that must be followed.”

  C.C. quickly approached him. “Christmas is less than a week away. Yellow fever months end in
November. There has never been an outbreak once cool weather sets in and Cape Fear is decidedly cold. Plus, no one is sick!”

  The doctor slowly removed his glasses and made a show of folding them and placing them in his coat pocket. “Miss Collins. My eyes are not as young as they once were. Even I can see the powder you’ve applied does not completely hide the signs of illness. Maybe I should put this ship under a fifty-day quarantine to make sure you are not contagious.”

  Puffed up and imperious, the doctor glared at both C.C. and Beau, daring them to say another word. Clearly, the man enjoyed his power and wouldn’t hesitate to make their lives difficult.

  C.C.’s expression went from pinched sour-lemon to blank hard marble.

  Apparently satisfied at how he’d intimidated them, the medical officer gave each a final look of disdain, and left.

  Beau gazed at C.C. shamefaced, expecting her to say something—complain, curse, hiss words of disappointment. Instead, she marched into her cabin and shut the door. He’d a feeling her sallow color might give the medical examiner pause and felt guilty for not warning her about the mandatory quarantine.

  After yellow fever ravaged Wilmington in 1862, the city instituted tough health ordinances. Beau had haggled with Wilmington’s health officials before and knew they wouldn’t budge on the quarantine. C.C. wasn’t going to be happy about the delay, but part of him rejoiced they’d have more time together before their agreement came to an end.

  Familiar sounds filtered down from above. The stevedores and soldiers from Fort Anderson were bringing their equipment aboard to fumigate the ship with sulfur.

  Within minutes, C.C. handed Beau two letters. “Please see that these go back with the men to Fort Anderson.” One was addressed to General Whiting, the other to James Seixas, the authorizing representative of the War Department in Wilmington.

  Not only did she have the audacity to write such lofty officials, she knew exactly who to contact. He was surprised by her knowledge of the port, and wished her luck. Not many had succeeded in overruling the medical officer.

  The next morning another lighter pulled alongside the Redemption. C.C. must have expected them. As Beau approached the men, she marched foreword and introduced herself to the officials from Fort Anderson. They handed her an envelope. She quickly read the contents and nodded.

  Turning to Beau, she smiled sweetly and nuanced her words with the soldier’s melodious drawl. “Captain, would you be so kind as to direct us to the twenty-five heavy wooden crates identified with the markings ‘Hardware’ and the large letters ‘C.C.’ painted on their sides.”

  Manifests frequently listed crates as ‘Hardware’ or ‘Dry Goods’. Beau rarely inquired about their true contents. Captains knew to plead ignorance. He also knew—when in Nassau—to have the required two hundred dollars so customs officers correctly interpreted shovels and rakes rather than their more likely contents…rifles and munitions.

  Once they located C.C.’s crates, she asked everyone to go above while the soldiers inspected the contents. Afterward, the lieutenant handed Beau paperwork with instructions.

  The ship would undergo another fumigation. He was then instructed to take the Redemption twenty miles upriver to Wilmington. Six soldiers would remain on board to secure the crates and help transport them to a train car.

  When C.C. returned to the main deck, Beau stepped next to her and muttered, “What’s this all about?”

  She smiled at the men and then whispered to him, “The merchandise is very valuable. I am to escort it to its destination.”

  “Why not hire a special messenger?”

  “I am the special messenger. Walk with me, please.” Grabbing his elbow, she steered him to the rail away from the soldiers and crew. “There are too many whys and wherefores to explain now.”

  She smiled back at the men again and spoke softly. “This is the easiest way to limit questions from authorities. I agreed to take merchandise I knew would be so tempting they wouldn’t allow it to languish in quarantine for fifteen, or in this case, thirty days.”

  He straightened, muscles tightening, his body’s response to the challenge to himself and his command. Such mystery usually meant highly lethal merchandise. The woman had run slipshod over his authority, possibly making life-threatening agreements without his knowledge. His jaw tightened uncomfortably. “You agreed? When?”

  “It’s been on the ship since Liverpool.”

  He shoved a hand into his coat pocket and gripped her pen with such force he wondered that it didn’t break in his hand. Even though a cold wind blew off the water, raging heat rose under his collar. So she’d been lying to him all along.

  She’d claimed she wasn’t working for the Confederacy or the Union, yet this tempting shipment of hers sent alarms ringing in every direction. He gazed out across the Cape Fear River to Fort Anderson and then cut back to her for a head-to-toe, none-too-polite examination.

  In the space of seconds, his perception of the woman changed, yet again. He’d seen glimpses of it before, but couldn’t find a category that fit. Never had he met anyone like her—the deceit, the forethought, the guile—all masked in delicate beauty. Clearly, C.C. had to be working for the Confederacy. She’d led him down a merry road while understanding more of the intricate details of this voyage than he’d ever suspected.

  He glared at her. “So this isn’t about your family, after all. Twenty-five cases full of God knows what, so precious you have to escort them yourself! All this time you’ve been leading—”

  “Hush!” She peered around before speaking again. “This is about my family. It always has been. One must have more than a single plan and extra bargaining chips just in case.”

  Beau might not have been happy about her schemes, but when the crew heard the quarantine had been lifted, cheers went up all over the ship. They happily got underway and slowly steamed upriver. When the ship reached the junction of the Brunswick and the Cape Fear’s main channel, he called a full stop.

  C.C. marched up to him, irritated. “Now why are we stopping?”

  A crewman pushed a small glass of whiskey into her hand and rapidly passed glasses to others.

  Beau pointed to the cypress tree in the middle of the channel. Spanish moss clung to its bent, weathered form. “Madam, this is the dram tree. It is custom in these parts to give thanks when your ship reaches this old sentinel. After what we’ve been through, I’m particularly grateful.”

  “Truly? We’re stopping? After everything I’ve done to speed us along and we’re stopping for…a tree?” C.C. said in exasperation.

  “It won’t take long.” Beau waited until everyone had a glass and then gave the signal to raise them in the air. “A wee dram in gratitude and praise. Thanks be to heaven for protecting us against this voyage’s myriad treacheries and for bringing us safely to our journey’s end. All of you men held to the course in the face of heavy seas, heavier gunfire and an unrelenting foe. I thank God for such a crew, and am proud to have been your captain.”

  He turned in a circle saluting. “I toast every one of you. Cheers!” he shouted and tossed the whiskey down his throat.

  “Cheers!” crowed the men and drained their glasses.

  They soon had the ship underway, once again carving furrows through the murky, yellow-brown water. Beau glanced at C.C. standing at the rail. Her bland expression didn’t reveal her inner thoughts. To his surprise and grudging admiration, she’d been prepared for Wilmington’s red tape. Did she also know about this port’s other more undesirable qualities?

  Soon the scent of pine, tar and other odors coated the air. Mountains of lumber lay piled on the riverbanks. Smoke from turpentine distilleries made hazy outlines of barges and vessels floating on the turbid Cape Fear River.

  Large cotton sheds came into view on Eagle Island on the river’s west side. There, a huge cotton press chugged day and night compressing Confederate ambitions into quarter-ton bales of king cotton.

  The ship turned toward the east side doc
ks in the middle of Wilmington’s business district. Water Street followed the river with maritime businesses: importers’ warehouses, commission merchants, chandlers, wood and coal dealers and the customs house.

  Beau gazed about. He’d forgotten this city’s peculiar energy. In the few years he’d sailed in and out of this port, vermin and decay had invaded. The very air festered with a sort of anarchic desperation and nihilism.

  Huge stacks of cotton bales engulfed the wharf. Stevedores scuttled about loading and unloading ships. Soaring through the polluted sky and perched on rooftops sat the ghostly shapes of buzzards.

  Crowds of people began to congregate on the dock as the Redemption neared: men, women, children, even the elderly—some in rags, others as polished as a peacock. Their voices rang out, “What ’r’ yuh carryin’? Got any calico? How about rum? Corsets? Coffin nails?”

  Beau motioned to several of his large crewmen. As they lowered the gangplank into place, the burly deckhands stood guard to keep people from surging onto the ship.

  Port officials and shipping agents soon came aboard. Two hours passed with paperwork, introductions and reunions. When documents arrived for C.C., Beau realized he hadn’t seen her since they’d put into port. Going below, he knocked on her cabin door. A small sound issued from inside. He removed his hat and pushed open the door.

  She sat atop her trunk struggling to secure the straps.

  “I have your documents. May I help you with anything?”

  “Thank you, but no.” She tucked the strap into its notch, and stepped forward for the papers. “Now I need a good dinner, a bath and a comfortable bed. This cot leaves a lot to be desired.” She grasped another valise and turned away from him to set it on her bunk.

  With C.C. and her cargo safely in Wilmington, technically, he’d fulfilled their agreement. This was the end of the line.

  He watched the movement of her shoulders as she folded a shawl. “I’ve heard most of Wilmington’s hotels aren’t what they used to be. A lot of undesirables now fill them.”