The Cotton Run Read online

  Denning strolled toward the ship’s stern, Balsinger by his side. The breeze filled the sails and stiffened the Bars and Stars Rebel flag. The feint smell of burning coal drifted down from the smokestacks. Beneath them, the engines rumbled a mechanical beat of a smooth sixteen knots.

  A hard-working seaman with a rich bass voice, Balsinger was as tall as his captain, but thicker around the waist. Earlier in the evening, Balsinger’s glassy dark eyes and exhausted expression had given him away again. He had been out on another drunk the night before, but that never bothered Denning as long as Balsinger made sure his in-port flair for the opposite sex and stiff liquor didn’t get in the way of his obligation as the Sally’s first mate.

  “You play much chess, Matt?”

  Balsinger shrugged. He thought he caught the captain smiling. “A few times, skipper. Why?”

  Denning clenched his cigar between his teeth, the red fire lighting his face on an inhale. “I think I’d call that a checkmate. Wouldn’t you?”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “I’m going to sack out for a spell. Fetch me if you have to.”

  “Aye, sir. We’ll look after things.”

  * * * *

  Denning lay on his bunk inside the plush cabin in the rear quarter-deck of the Silver Sally.

  Joshua Denning’s naval career had been a chain of ups and downs, much like his disposition of late. He had never been that interested in the Navy, per se. When he grew up, he had just wanted to get away from the farm and those damn chickens. He wanted to see the rest of his country, sail the oceans, and set foot on other countries. His father had the good sense to see that his son had no aspirations to be a Virginia chicken farmer and packed him off to the Navy academy at Annapolis where Joshua could fulfill his dreams of adventure on the high seas. At school, Denning had risen from an intelligent country boy to a bright young officer fascinated by politics and business.

  After graduation in 1852, Denning had spent nine years on active service with the United States Navy. By February 1861, a frustrated Denning asked for a leave of absence. He felt he had spent a long enough time commanding an antiquated frigate. Three years as her skipper seemed like eternity. He was tired of navy life. He saw no future in it, except for a moderate officer’s pension once he retired. He was irked by pompous, overbearing superiors who couldn’t envision the changing nature of naval defense, with modern guns and metal hulls.

  Where was the adventure he sought?

  With his savings, he had sailed to Europe. It was an extended vacation to observe the world, to ponder his future as an unmarried modern man, closing in on forty years, with no definite plans in sight. He left behind him a splintered nation, states seceding and a harsh line drawn between North and South. He had been in Paris not even two months when the stunning news broke of the firing on Fort Sumter. Hostilities had begun. The news in the same week of a Union blockade on Southern ports and of Virginia seceding caught his attention.

  Virginia separating! How could they?

  Thousands of miles away, he had pondered the situation over. Coming out of Annapolis, he was one youngster in a throng of eager newly-commissioned officers. He had high hopes. The future was his. He had sworn allegiance to the United States of America, to defend her at all costs. Not anymore. Now his loyalties were to his native state of Virginia. Although his father had owned slaves for a time, slavery was never an issue with Denning. The blacks should be freed eventually, he had always felt. He was no abolitionist, either. The matter needed time, that’s all. But for Virginia to leave the Union in support of slavery was absurd. If slavery was the reason.

  Virginia seceding? Virginia had been the home state of seven presidents, such founders as George Washington and Andrew Jackson. The other states — North Carolina, South Carolina, Texas, Florida and the rest of them — what did they need independence for?

  Independence from what? What was the matter with people?

  Denning had remained in Europe until the spring of 1862, then sailed across the English Channel for Great Britain, where the shipbuilding yards of Clydeside in Scotland, and Liverpool in England, had finally opened Denning’s eyes to an opportunity he couldn’t ignore. The industrial dry docks were swarming with Confederate government agents supervising the construction of a fleet of new and radical ships called blockade runners. Denning pictured himself commanding a runner. Not only could he help his fledgling country by running cotton through the blockade, but he could also make a profit, far more than his navy pay could provide. It was the law of supply and demand in wartime. His country was threatened by an enemy, regardless of the fact they were fellow Americans from the North. There was a civil war across the ocean, and it was his duty as a Virginian to fight in it in the way he could. Of course, he sided with the South. He could not comprehend raising his hand against his relatives, his friends, his home. Never mind his Navy oath.

  By this time, Denning was out of money. Fired by a combination of patriotism, profit, and adventure, he convinced a large British bank that had invested heavily in the cotton industry to finance the purchase of one of these light, slender, pencil-shaped paddle-steamers. And he would be the ship’s commander. He demanded one of the longest and fastest runners ever built, with a beefed-up keel, and a new, revolutionary steel hull which was lighter and stronger than all the other hulls. He knew that any strong magnetic compass aboard the ship would give inaccurate readings over long distances and would have to be compensated for. A good navigator worth his salt would take care of that and make the adjustments. Denning’s ship had to have the most powerful of engines. Eighteen knots under a full load was an absolute necessity.

  The finished product was a seven-hundred ton rakish runner measuring two hundred and seventy-seven feet by thirty-six feet by fifteen feet with three telescope smokestacks, one more stack than considered normal. The Sally was one of the newest ships — a super runner. Under the cloud of war, Denning had entered the newfangled world of paddle-wheeled, steam and steel ships.

  Denning’s investors were impressed with his leadership experience on frigates and his five-year expedition surveying and mapping the Atlantic coast for the United States Navy, including the first detailed excursion to Cape Cod. As part of the agreement, the English bank had its own demand for collateral. Half the crew had to be English until the ship was paid for. Denning wasn’t certain whether British sailors would accept orders from a Southerner. The bankers insisted. After some hesitation, Denning agreed. He knew they had him by the short hairs.

  It took only three successful return trips through the Union blockade for Denning to open his own foreign bank accounts in both Hamilton, Bermuda, and Nassau in the Bahamas. From his profits, he reimbursed the forty-five thousand pounds he owed the banking firm for the ship. He immediately replaced the English crew members with Southerners, mostly locals from Cape Fear who knew every channel, beach, swamp, and submarine sandbar in the area. The crew was thirty-three in all, from seventeen to fifty in age, all well-paid, splitting over twenty thousand dollars in gold per trip.

  With his full Southern complement, he also demanded that the officers and enlisted men all be armed and ready to fire their weapons with accuracy when ordered, something the English sailors couldn’t do. It had annoyed Denning that the British had faced the fewest risks. The Union policy of the war at sea assured them of that. When blockade-runners were captured, the foreigners were set free. The Southerners aboard became prisoners of war and were banished to a Northern prison where the chances of living beyond a year were slim to none. Denning simply wanted to provide his fellow Southerners with the incentive to succeed, as well as being able to defend themselves. He was glad to see the British off his ship. They were risks he couldn’t afford. Once they were gone, Denning was in total control.

  The only way he wanted it.

  Captain Joshua Denning blew the oil lamp out and looked up to the ceiling. He was going to play this game through for what it was worth. What was to become of him? He didn�
��t know. His mind drifted. The academy came to mind.

  Then he thought of him. Again. Damn. Why? How many times was it that week? Carlisle. That son-of-a-bitch Bobby Carlisle. Where was he? Still in the navy? And did it matter? To hell with him.

  Denning closed his eyes and listened to the beat of the engines.

  And he fell asleep in minutes.

  Chapter two

  Hatteras Inlet, North Carolina

  Less than two hundred miles up the coast from Wilmington rests Hatteras, a long, low sandbar of an island forty miles in length, split in half by an inlet on one end and a bulging cape in the middle. The region is home to sharp reefs and thousands of shipwrecks dating back to the middle 1500s. Early in the nineteenth century, Hatteras had been claimed by a gang of ship wreckers who would snuff out the Cape’s lighthouse flame to lure ships to the reefs and the nearby Diamond Shoals in order to commit acts of plunder, murder, and illegal salvaging. By 1851, an east coast naval captain had summed up Hatteras by saying that “she was cursed by both God and Satan by mutual consent.”

  When the war began, the ship wreckers vanished without a trace.

  As he sat impatiently outside the office of his superior, Captain Robert Carlisle agreed silently with those good men who sailed the “Graveyard of the Atlantic” before him. He was familiar with the Cape’s reputation as an inhospitable land. The place was indeed cursed, a miserable place for a Union port.

  Carlisle snapped his officer’s cap under his arm and made a weak attempt to fix his wiry, untamed hair this muggy evening after being summoned to the headquarters of the 514th Blockading Squadron of the United States Navy. For twenty minutes, now, he had been contemplating the reason for the meeting. It had better be good because he was in a foul mood, suffering from another migraine headache, the third one of the week.

  Carlisle heard muffled conversation beyond the closed door to the private office. Hearing his name mentioned, he leaned forward as much as he dared, but he couldn’t distinguish the rest. Out of the corner of his eye, to his right, he saw the waterway through the window. USS Connecticut, his ship, named after his home state, was in dock. It had been undergoing an engine overhaul for the last eight days, allowing Carlisle and his crew some time off. There wasn’t a lot to do on leave except drink. They were slated to head out to sea in two days on another patrol. Since joining the competitive squadron in January 1862, their patrols had not netted them a single blockade runner. This irritated Carlisle, as it did his stiff and starchy navy-man father, according to his once-a-week letters from Washington. The two other ships that Captain Carlisle could see in the inlet had each caught two blockade runners in the same space of time. Perhaps the squadron leader was going to relieve him of command or demote him. Or both. The Connecticut was his first sea command. He didn’t want to lose her. It would look bad on the family. He licked his dry lips. He thought longingly of the flask under his coat. What he wouldn’t give for a drink right now.

  Five minutes later the door slowly slid open and a tight-mouthed adjutant appeared, flowing with an air of contrived importance. He faced Carlisle, taking in his flat nose, droopy moustache, and unruly hair. “Captain Carlisle. Squadron Leader Baines is free now.”

  Carlisle snapped to attention. Conscious of his bothersome limp, he stumped bow-legged to the wide office opening and stopped near the adjutant. Carlisle reminded himself to speak clearly. Don’t mumble. Be confident. Be a Carlisle.

  “Captain Carlisle to see you, sir,” the adjutant announced.

  “Fine. Send him in.”

  Carlisle entered the room and cracked off an excessive, perfectly performed salute. The adjutant clicked the door closed.

  “At ease, Carlisle.” Squadron Leader Baines sprang up from his chair behind his plain wooden desk and folded his arms. “Sit down.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Carlisle found a chair in the small office. He did not feel intimidated by the imposing presence of his superior. From past encounters, he knew the methodical Baines to be a strict but fair man. “You wished to see me, sir.”

  Baines stood by his desk, stroking his bushy white sideburns. He wore his uniform as if he had been born into it. “Yes. You have new orders. A special assignment. You’ll be kind of a roamer on the high seas, for lack of a better word. You’ll be on different patrol routes, for example, not stuck to one assignment. You’re to be somewhat of an experiment. If this works out, then who knows what?” He smiled. “Sorry. I realize you’re probably confused.”

  “Yes, sir, I am,” Carlisle admitted.

  “Carlisle, we’re discovering by experience that the two squadrons patrolling Cape Fear can’t support each other. It’s almost as though they’re... well... they’re working against each other. Some ships, like yours, might have to be more... mobile. And cover more of the sea. Become a little more free to hunt. Are you understanding me now?”

  “Yes, sir. I do believe I am.”

  “First off, I have asked for and received permission from the Department of the Secretary of the Navy for your ship to sail into neutral waters in search of ships carrying contraband goods bound for the Confederacy. Unofficially, you understand. I know this is usually the area deployed by our naval base at Key West. However... there are no printed orders sent through the chain of authority. This is word of mouth only.”

  Carlisle relaxed. He was not going to be relieved. It also smelled of his father’s influence. “I understand, sir.”

  “Of course, we have to be careful in how you deploy your new assignment. The cargoes have to be ultimately destined for the Confederacy, which means no runner can be overtaken sailing into the close proximity of Bermuda or the Bahamas. Do you understand?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Outbound is another case entirely.”

  “Can we anchor inside their harbors, sir?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “I don’t follow, sir.”

  “If you wish to get that close, then yes. You need not, however. You cannot conduct search and seizure inside neutral waters, only on the open sea. Therefore, you might as well stay out of their harbors.”

  “Of course, sir,” Carlisle said. “I understand.”

  “Remember, under international law, belligerent warships entering neutral ports must leave within twenty-four hours or be interned.”

  “By whom?”

  “The British. So, don’t provoke them.”

  “I see. But I heard tell that they don’t have the forces in the Bahamas and Bermuda to enforce the international policies.”

  “Never you mind,” Baines warned. “Even then, there will be a legal fine line here. The international law of the sea will certainly be bent to the limits. The war will be our excuse if the British decide to file any complaint. We can conduct our business in the name of urgent national interest at a time of crisis. Great Britain does not wish to wage war with us. And we certainly don’t want a war with them.”

  “Carlisle,” Baines went on after a long pause. “I know that you’ve been plagued with some mighty bad luck lately. That’s why I wanted to speak to you personally.” He paused again. “Some new ships will be in service this year. We’ve come a long way from two years ago when we had only ninety ships in the entire national blockading fleet. Now we have hundreds, with more coming. Would you like one when we’ve got one ready and shipshape?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d be much obliged, sir.” Carlisle’s reply was enthusiastic.

  “I’ll see what I can do. Our Navy is growing stronger and more proficient all the time. In the meantime, keep your head up.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. I will,” Carlisle said, noticing that his migraine had lightened up. This was good news, better than he had anticipated. He liked Baines, one of the good navy desk men. Good old Baines.

  “One other thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “Load up with as much coal as you can. You’ll need it.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Dismiss.”

  They
saluted each other.

  Baines turned and sat down behind his desk. He waited until Carlisle thumped to the door frame. “And good hunting, Carlisle.”

  Carlisle smiled, glancing at his superior, who had returned to his paperwork. He wanted to ask if his father was behind this, but didn’t dare. That wasn’t done in the Navy. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”

  * * * *

  Carlisle trudged his way to the gray two-story house commandeered for military use as Union officers’ quarters. The long walk bothered his knee and he swore to himself. From higher ground, Carlisle caught a glimpse of the docks, Fort Hatteras, and the waterways winding back to the Atlantic Ocean on his left, and Pamlico Sound on his right. It was very quiet. A slight breeze. Set before him was a broad view of the United States Navy operation at Hatteras Inlet. Thirty miles beyond the mist and the horizon lay the mainland of North Carolina.

  Carlisle was born into a decorated US Navy family, who had set high goals for themselves, a tradition the youngest Carlisle — Robert — found difficult to live up to. Most of his life his standard identification was that he was the son and grandson of the famous seafaring Carlisle clan. His paternal grandfather, Lindsay Carlisle, was a hero of the War of 1812, during the Battle of Lake Erie, in which he and his gunboat of men had held off three British ships until help arrived. He later retired as Chief of Staff to the Secretary of the Navy. Carlisle’s father, Wilbur, a current advisor in the revamped Navy Department in Washington, had organized and led the American troop landings on the California coast during the Mexican War. Once that had been accomplished, he oversaw the blockade of the Gulf of Mexico until the war ended. Both father and grandfather had climbed the naval ranks faster than the third generation Carlisle — now in his late thirties — had.