by Robin Lloyd
Townsend looked up at Hendricks. The Bahamian again signaled more shallow areas ahead, but Townsend knew from the charts that they were isolated spots, and they should be able to dodge their way around them.
“Lay two points closer to the wind, Red Beard.”
“Aye, Aye, Cap’n.”
“Stand by to work on the wind’s eye with short tacks,” he called out to the crew.
Later that same day, they spotted a billowing column of black smoke from a steamer coming from the west. It was just six miles away. Townsend guessed it was that same gunship from Havana. The big Navy ship had been forced to go around the fort to the west as they were unable to follow them through the shallows away from the deeper channels. Townsend ordered the sails to be dropped, and he pointed the bow of the schooner in the direction of the passing ship. This was a trick Townsend had heard about from some of the blockade runners in the bars of Havana. As long as the steamship did not come toward them, all they would see on the horizon would be a stick in the water. He didn’t think it would work, but amazingly, they were never spotted. In the mauve sky of dusk, the low gray hull and the bare black poles of the Gaviota never stood out enough to catch the attention of the Navy lookouts.
15
Townsend imagined what death would have been like if they had been hit by one of those explosive shells: a blinding flash of light and then nothing. He shook that thought away. Standing with his feet spread wide apart for better balance, he felt the reassuring rolling motion of the deck. The stormy weather had given way to clear skies, and the southeasterly breeze now continued fresh and steady. The darker shade of blue of the sea and the more responsive heel of the ship told him they were in much deeper water. He grabbed one of the windward stays to steady himself, and looked around at the crew.
One of the first things they’d done after leaving the Tortugas was to rebuild a temporary frame over the splintered main cabin roof. He had watched with satisfaction as the crew came together to do what needed to be done. They all knew the “A-Roving” chantey, and sang it as they covered the gaping hole with a canvas covering.
She swore that she’d be true to me
But spent me pay day fast and free.
When they got to the chorus, “I’ll go no more a-roving with you fair maid, no more roving with you,” they pulled the canvas tight and lashed it down to brass fastenings on the deck. He knew they’d been lucky to escape from the Tortugas. He’d been too proud to listen, and he hadn’t shown the men enough respect. His carelessness had put them all in danger. He was trying to learn from his mistakes, but he knew he was still on trial, particularly with Red Beard.
At night they kept the same watches. Townsend and Hendricks both enjoyed the middle watch, the dark shadows and the silence of the night. They sailed with no lights so the Gaviota moved through the water like a ghost ship, invisible from a distance. The only light was the schooner’s frothy wake, the waves alive with silvery phosphorescent stars. With the sextant, Townsend took star sights each night of Sirius, Capella, and Canopus, and then carefully marked those positions on the chart. During the day at first light, he confirmed those star sights, and took another reading at noon to confirm the latitude. He would not make another navigational error like the last one.
He recalled some advice he’d gotten back in Havana from an old veteran in one of the bars. The man had told him how the captain of a blockade-running schooner needed to be a good navigator, but mostly he needed to think more like a rabbit than a fox. “Check your navigation,” the old captain had said, “and stay vigilant.”
As part of that strategy, Townsend insisted that one of the men be up the masthead at all times, looking out for white sails or black smoke on the horizon. To make it comfortable for the man on watch, they furled the fore topsail and arranged the canvas around the shrouds and the spring stay to make a crow’s nest perch. Each time they spotted a suspicious sail or a cloud of wispy black smoke on the horizon, they would change course and move away from it. Townsend had learned his lesson.
It was a blustery afternoon with the winds blowing a steady twenty knots when Townsend faced his next test. They’d been at sea for four days, and the day had started like the one before it. Life on board ship had fallen into a familiar pattern. Before dawn, the crew bathed on deck. Each sailor would stand naked on the foredeck while one of the others threw buckets of cold sea water on him. Olsen got the coals burning in the stove at first light, and with the first blast of the sun, the smoke would be curling up through the stovepipe to the upper deck. Breakfast, usually hard biscuits and the occasional fresh eggs from the shipboard chickens or line-caught fish, was served at sunrise. That afternoon Hendricks had just earned praise from everyone with his line fishing skills by pulling in several beautiful gold and green fish the Cubans called dorado. They were busy scaling and gutting the fish on the deck when Higgins cried out from the masthead.
“Sail on the horizon. Looks about seven miles away.” He pointed to the south at a distant white speck, its low-lying hull barely visible, and its sails seeming to touch the water. The distant ship was making good progress with the winds behind her. At times it was hidden from view by the waves.
Townsend climbed halfway up the shrouds and took a look through the glass. It appeared to be a two-masted brigantine, and from the faint line of her raked masts, Townsend suspected he knew the ship. He felt a hot shiver of excitement and anticipation. It was the Leopard. She may have been sent into the center of the Gulf to look for them.
“Hold course, northwest by north, one quarter north,” he called out. “Keep the wind blowing on your shoulder.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Red Beard said.
Two hours later the brigantine was just three miles away and with her skysails and royals set, she was closing fast under full sail. It was clear they had been spotted and would soon be in range of her guns. They tried the old trick of throwing water on the sails to make the canvas more supple to hold the wind, but to little effect. Townsend started doing short tacks, close to windward, forcing the larger square-rigged brigantine to try to follow. From his frequent sightings, he knew they were about one hundred miles due west of Egmont Key on the Florida coast, some 220 miles southeast of Mobile. He believed they could escape at night if they could get close in to shore. If they could stay out of range of the Navy ship’s guns, he thought, they might be able to escape into the shallows as soon as it was dark.
But just before dusk, the wind faded. There was an eerie silence and calm as the two boats floundered in the open Gulf, adrift with their sails limp, floating less than two miles apart. Townsend’s hopes sank as he watched through the glass the Navy sailors drop anchor in what was probably more than sixteen fathoms of water. It was so quiet he could hear the distant clanking of the ship’s anchor chain. With the sun below the horizon, Townsend grimly observed the sailors lower the two launch boats, each one filled with a half-dozen armed men all wearing the Navy’s flat beret-style hats.
The sailors quickly rowed in their direction, and he noticed the commanding officer standing in the lead boat with his billed cap pulled down. Angus Van Cortland’s round head, clean-shaven face, and short round neck were unmistakable. He was standing erect, looking directly at Townsend through his glass with a determined gaze. It was clear he intended to capture them as a prize, and his men seemed eager. The sixteen dollars per month salary paid to Yankee seamen could be handsomely supplemented by the capture of a blockade runner. When a prize court auctioned off a seized ship and cargo, 44 percent of the prize money was distributed to the captain, officers, and the sailors. It could make them rich, all from an afternoon’s work.
“Should we break out the Enfield rifles we got in the cargo hold, Cap’n?” asked Red Beard. “We can fill ’em full of lead in short order.”
Townsend thought about that, but then shook his head.
“Take out the sweeps,” he called out. “L
et’s try to move away from them. Keep the sails up. Maybe an evening breeze will come up and fill ’em. We can hope. Start whistling, Bertrand.”
The men unlashed the four sixteen-foot-long oars tied to the stays and fit them through the holes in the railing. Townsend told Higgins to bring up the two supercargoes from their cabin and put them on one oar. The two Spaniards, still looking fragile and sick, were dragged up to the deck and told to row. They were too weak to protest. All five sailors and Townsend joined together, two men at each oar, as they tried to make some headway and pull the heavy schooner forward.
“Row! They’ll be on us shortly. Put your backs into it.” Townsend felt beads of sweat on his forehead and the burn in his shoulders and back.
The Gaviota’s oarsmen pulled and dipped the oars in the water as the big, heavily laden schooner crept forward. But the two Navy boats kept gaining ground. They were now just a quarter of a mile away. He could hear the shouts of the Navy sailors, the rapid creaking and splashing of their oars. Just then, Townsend felt a nudge. He looked over at Hendricks, who with a simple gesture of his head told him to look over the side. Townsend gazed out over the glossy surface of the water and saw a steady line of ripples quickly moving toward them from the north. The ripples signaled an incoming breeze.
Moments later, he felt the first faint hint of fresh air fanning his cheek. Van Cortland had clearly spotted the ripples as well, and Townsend could hear him urge his men to row harder.
“Pick up the stroke, men. Pick up the stroke.”
They were just several hundred yards away. Suddenly he heard Van Cortland’s voice, booming across the water like a cannon shot.
“This is an order to the captain of the Spanish merchant ship, Gaviota! Strike all sails or we will commence firing!”
A darkening ripple of wind was now rapidly moving toward them with an ever-wider swath. It had just reached the schooner when Townsend heard Van Cortland’s next command for them to throw a line or they would fire. The two Navy boats were now almost alongside the Gaviota and several of the sailors were standing with their rifles raised and ready to shoot. Townsend glanced at the guns pointed in their direction and threw up his hands. He nodded to Van Cortland and threw him one of their docking lines.
“Make the line fast and strike your sails, Townsend,” Van Cortland demanded, waving his Navy Colt pistol in his hand. “You and your men are now prisoners. Your ship is a captured prize of the USS Leopard and will be taken to the adjudication court in Key West.”
Townsend did as he was told and tied the line to the stern quarter bitt even as he could feel the wind filling in more briskly, the ship’s hull creaking in response. From the safety of his spot behind the dinghy hanging off the stern, Townsend spun the wheel hard to starboard as the full breeze kicked in and the schooner began to heel over. He shouted for the men to sheet in the sails.
“Move to the lee side. Take cover.”
Then he turned the wheel hard over to port, causing the booms of the two masts to come crashing over with a crack. With all that confusion, the sailors in the launch boat were thrown off balance. Van Cortland fired his Navy Colt pistol at Townsend, but missed. He began screaming to his men to fire their rifles, and a volley of wild, misdirected shots soon peppered the canvas sails. Hendricks and Higgins from their prone position in the bow managed to pull tight some of the sheeting lines of the headsails, helping the boat to pick up headway on its new tack.
With the schooner responding to the freshening breeze and the sails beginning to fill, the Gaviota started to make headway. The Navy launch, which was still attached to the schooner by the tow line, careened along some thirty feet behind, wobbling and tipping from one side to the other. One of Van Cortland’s men managed to hurl a grappling hook that caught onto the Gaviota’s taffrail. Hand over hand, the desperate Navy sailors began pulling their launch close enough to the schooner’s stern so they could board her. A sharp breeze filled in from the east, and the Gaviota heeled over sharply in response, carving its way through the water. With his pistol holstered, Van Cortland scrambled to the bow of his launch boat, bringing his face up to the cap rail of the schooner’s stern. Townsend and Van Cortland were now just several feet apart. For several seconds, their eyes remained locked together.
“You’re my prisoner, Townsend,” Van Cortland shouted. “Surrender now or we will shoot.”
“Then fire away,” Townsend said.
Van Cortland cursed and reached for his holstered pistol with one hand even as he tried to pull himself up on board the Gaviota with the other. Townsend leaned down and grabbed the pistol by the barrel before Van Cortland could react. He stuffed the gun in his belt and then yanked off the emergency ax fastened to the wheelhouse, raising it over his head.
Townsend looked down at his rival, who was struggling to keep his balance. With some satisfaction, he watched the man’s beet red face change in expression from anger to disbelief and then to panic. Townsend wanted revenge, and for a brief second he thought about splitting Van Cortland’s head in two like a coconut. He swung the ax down, but instead of striking his foe, he brought the blade of the ax down on the grappling line. The Navy launch, now free of the grappling line’s restraint, hurtled backwards until the tow line snapped taut like a bow string. The launch boat careened from one side to the other, taking in water over the gunwales. Van Cortland, who had been perched precariously at the bow of the launch, flew into the water. As more sailors fell overboard, Townsend quietly untied the tow line and watched as the swamped Navy boat began to sink, surrounded by the bobbing heads of sailors screaming for help.
In the fading light of dusk, Townsend could see Van Cortland and the others pulled to safety on board the other Navy boat. Darkness soon enveloped them, and the Gaviota disappeared into the quiet of the night with a good sailing breeze astern. Townsend steered by the compass, taking comfort in looking up at the sky to find the North Star, the way north to the Alabama coast. He spotted the Big Dipper in the northern sky and remembered what his father used to tell the runaway slaves about that constellation. Follow the drinking gourd in the sky, he would say. That will take you to the North. Townsend handed the wheel over to Red Beard, who began singing one of his cotton screw gang songs.
Were you ever in Mobile Bay
Screwing cotton by the day.
Townsend pulled out one of the Upmann cigars he’d bought from a store in Havana. By now he realized how many types of cigars there were available in Havana. Imperiales, Regalías, Conchas, Brevas, Londres to name just a few. He lit one of the Lucifer matches and with the sudden blast of light looked at the label. These cigars were called Cazadores, or Hunters. How aptly named, he thought to himself. He puffed appreciably on his cigar as he imagined how angry a soggy Van Cortland would be returning to his ship. He would have to suffer the embarrassment of looking his men in the face, acknowledging failure. He smiled contentedly as he flicked some ashes over the side, and then picked up Van Cortland’s pistol. He walked down into the cabin. He held the gun up to the lamp and admired the elegant walnut pistol grip and the engraved scene on the revolver’s cylinder. It was an 1851 Colt Navy six-shooter, a big gun, fourteen inches overall, .36 caliber. It would serve well as the ship’s gun.
Later that night Hendricks knocked on his door. The Bahamian told him he had walked by the Spaniards’ cabin. He had brought them some soup for their supper. He was about to knock on the door of their cabin when he heard them talking. He didn’t understand a word of Spanish, but he did hear them mention Michael Abbott’s name several times, followed by Townsend’s name. Townsend flinched at the unexpected mention of Abbott’s name.
“Abbott? They mentioned Michael Abbott? What in blazes did they say about him?” Townsend felt a shiver run down his back.
Hendricks shook his head, and explained, as he didn’t understand or speak Spanish he had no idea, but when he knocked and opened the door they gave him a menacing sta
re.
“I left the soup, and they told me to get out the cabin. Deh were cussin’ me in Spanish. Deh look like deh were gon’ kill me.”
16
April 13, 1863
The nearly three weeks they spent tied up at the docks in the blockaded port of Mobile Bay were mostly a blur to Townsend. They’d gotten through the blockade without any trouble, coming in at night undetected through the shallows of the eastern approach. Once within the protective reach of the guns of Fort Morgan, they were hailed by a Confederate gunboat and given clearance to sail on. It was a moment to celebrate. It had been more than seven hundred miles from the stone walls of El Morro to the Confederate fortifications at Fort Morgan, close to eleven days at sea. Since then Townsend had mostly stayed on board ship. It was clear that Nolo was under orders to watch him closely. The sharp-nosed Catalan was always nearby, whittling a piece of wood with his double-edged, long-bladed knife.
The Spaniard followed him wherever he went. Any lingering thought Townsend might have had of trying to escape in Mobile, he now quickly dismissed. When he’d been forced to sign that contract with Don Pedro two months ago, he had sworn he would try to run off the first chance he got. Now, he realized, his thinking had changed. He supposed it was the loyalty he felt to the crew that made him want to stay with the boat, or maybe it was the satisfaction he got from outwitting the Navy. Whatever it was, he was not going to try to escape, at least not yet. He wanted to return to Cuba.
Salazar made it clear to the military commander in port that he and Nolo were the sole business agents for Don Pedro Alvarado Cardona. In their talks with the Confederate Quartermaster Corps, the two Spaniards never acknowledged Townsend, dismissing him as nothing more than a hired hand whose only job was to attend to the ship. Townsend swallowed his pride and held his temper in check, but his anger was mounting. Even though he was kept away from all business negotiations, the young captain energized himself by learning about cotton. He watched in one of the work sheds as the huge unwieldy bales were first compressed in cotton presses, squeezing the soft fiber together until a bale was half its original size, almost as hard as iron. The two Spaniards had made sure they only took delivery of pressed bales. The more cotton they could carry, the greater the profits. Cotton cost eight cents a pound on the Mobile docks, but in Havana each bale fetched a hefty price of thirty-six cents per pound. In Europe, the price skyrocketed to double or even triple that.
