by Daniel Wyatt
“Over thataway, sir.” Parkens pointed over the high weeds along the beach, beyond the swamp’s inlet. He gave his telescope to Denning. “Keep your eye on that spot in around there. A thousand yards. There’s a ship moving back and forth as if she’s looking for something. By the outline of its stacks and masts, sir, I’d say it’s our old friend, Captain Carlisle. The Annapolis. And I bet yuh a horse’s ass that he’s looking for us.”
It took several seconds for Denning to confirm the image of the converted runner in the lens, a trail of low mist surrounding her darkened hull. “There she is. Good eye, Jimmy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Yeah, it looks like she might be Carlisle’s ship.”
“He might not suspect we’re in here and is trying to figure out where we went,” Parkens said.
“Maybe.” Denning had another idea. “Or he could be decoying, hoping that we move first. He’s probably alone, though.”
“If he sends up flares, we’re dead, sir.”
“No. He won’t. Leastwise, not yet. He wants me bad enough that he doesn’t want help. He’ll signal for reinforcements as a last resort only. Jimmy, I’ll be counting on you to pass some orders along.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Put the men on alert and remain here as a lookout until further notice.”
“Yes, sir.”
Denning slid down to the pilot house to give Woodson and Cogswell the news. “Let’s take for granted that Carlisle knows we’re here,” he said. “But there’s nothing he can do about it. He can’t fire at us until he’s sure. He won’t go anywhere near those shoals. He doesn’t know these waters like you do, Homer. However, if the mist thickens, we’re heading out.”
“Still planning on New Inlet?”
“Damn right.”
“We’re losing the tide, sir.”
“I know. I know.”
The mist thickened inside of an hour and clung low to the water surface, only a few feet above the hull of the Sally. With the masts and smokestacks down, the crew had the advantage of peering over the mist with less fear of being spotted themselves.
“Start up the engines,” Denning murmured to a midshipman on deck. “Hold on.” The midshipman stopped. To Parkens on the pilot house, he said, “Jimmy?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Where’s the Annapolis now?”
“Can’t see her no more. I think she skedaddled.”
“Or it’s too thick out there for us to see each other. If we can’t see them, then they can’t see us.” He turned back to the midshipman. “Bring the anchor and chains up. Start the engines. Leave the masts and smokestacks down. I want only five knots. And stand by,” he said.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The orders speeded to the proper men in seconds. Denning rushed to the pilot house. The engines sparked to life and rumbled at his feet. The Sally was moving out to sea. “She’s all yours, Homer. You know what to do.”
Hands clenched on the wheel, Cogswell steered the ship into the pounding surf of the Atlantic. He crossed himself and swung to port. He felt a sandbar underneath. But the Sally slid over it.
Denning climbed the ladder partway to the pilot roof, a good position from which to whisper orders without moving from his perch. “See anything, Jimmy?”
“Nothing, sir. Only the outer ships on the horizon.”
“Eight knots.”
“Eight knots. Aye, sir,” a sailor acknowledged.
The ship speeded up. Cogswell kept the sandy shoreline to his left between one hundred and fifty and two hundred yards.
After three miles, Parkens thought he saw a dark image on the water, through a gap in the mist. “Captain?”
“Yes.”
“We’re being followed!”
“Where?” Denning asked.
“Off the starboard stern. Eight... nine hundred yards. I can see the top of her pilot house. Her masts and stacks are down.”
That meant one of two things to Denning. Ordinary Union gunboats didn’t have telescope smokestacks, so either she was another Rebel runner making a dash for it, or she was Carlisle’s converted runner. “Stop engines!” He waved to a sailor. “Let’s see what she does,” he said to Parkens.
The ship steamed by abeam to the Sally on a parallel course. Now Parkens caught a dim glimpse of whom they were really dealing with. “He’s a devil, he is, that one, Carlisle. She’s the Annapolis.”
The eyes of the Sally’s crew were on the USS Annapolis, now quite vivid against the backdrop of the choppy Atlantic water. She continued on north at a speed of ten knots for several thousand yards and vanished into another fog bank off to their starboard. Denning looked into the telescope. Guarding the approach to New Inlet were three looming Union cruisers. Damn! He was trapped! High tide had long passed and Carlisle was tailing him.
The plan was falling apart.
* * * *
Carlisle leaned over the port rail of the Annapolis, and cursed. He wiped the condensation from his glasses. “We lost him. Denning must know we’re after him.”
Farley studied the surf and sandy shore as far north as he could see, up to Fort Buchanan and Fort Fisher off the Annapolis’s starboard bow. The mist was patchy, but there was no sign of the blockade runner they had been tracking. “Should we circle back, and try and pick her up again?”
“Of course!” Carlisle exclaimed. “We know where they’re going. It has to be New Inlet.”
“Or maybe it was a feint. She could be heading south for Smith Island right now.”
“No! He’s trying to trick me, and I won’t let him do it.”
* * * *
Parkens stood to see over the mist. “She’s turning out to sea, captain.”
“Get down. Just what I wanted to hear. Start the engines. Ten knots,” Denning ordered a deck sailor.
“Ten knots, aye, sir.”
The mist was growing thicker by the minute. Cogswell knew that New Inlet was now about three miles away, well within the range of Fort Fisher’s powerful breech-loaders and the powder monkeys who operated them. So were the Union gunboats in range. Could he bypass them in the fog? Then... the mist lifted slightly, giving Parkens a view of the land and sea without needing his telescope.
“Captain! Look. Two hundred yards abeam. She’s heading into us!”
Denning had only one option available to him. “Hard port, Homer!”
* * * *
“We got ’er, Farley. We got ’er!” Carlisle couldn’t believe his luck. His pilot had made a sharp starboard turn, approaching the runner head-on. “Prepare to fire Big Bear!” he cried from the bow rail. Then a fog bank smothered them.
“Where’d she go?” Farley said.
“Keep going.”
“But, sir, the fog. We can’t see from one end of the ship to the other. And the shoals. Shouldn’t we back off?”
At the last second, Carlisle took his first mate’s advice, and ordered a turn out to sea.
Chapter thirty
Near New Inlet
Carlisle’s long and tedious search had come up empty. But he was certain the Sally had not gotten by him. He had been blocking the entrance. He knew that the Sally still had more than two miles until she reached her safety zone of Fort Buchanan’s range, the nearest batteries. The cloud cover had lifted. The horizon would start to lighten within the next hour. If he could prevent the Sally from reaching New Inlet before sunrise, he’d have Denning right where he wanted him. The rising sun would probably burn off the fog, leaving Denning exposed in the early morning light. Carlisle smiled at his scheme. He was going to bag the pirate this time.
Carlisle ordered the Annapolis on a southern course through the dense fog. He then motioned for the engines to be cut. The night was calm, except for the flow of the lapping waves. Any sound should carry well. He watched and waited.
Over the starboard rail, he cupped the megaphone to his mouth and yelled, “Give up, Denning. You’re trapped! Denning, can you hear me?”
&nbs
p; * * * *
“Did you hear that?” Denning said, leaning on the pilot house, conferring with Jimmy Parkens.
“Yeah, I did,” Parkens replied. “Someone’s calling you, skipper.”
“It’s got to be Carlisle.”
* * * *
“Captain, what are you doing?” Commander Farley said. “You’ll give our position away.”
“Button your lip. This is between me and Denning.”
“But, sir...”
“Shut up!” Carlisle turned his attention to the area of the beach. “Denning! Can you hear me? You’re done for. It’s too late for the Old Inlet! The sun will be up soon. The fog won’t hide you forever.” He took a deep breath and continued yelling into the megaphone. “Your only choice is the New Inlet and there’s three ships waiting there for you, if you can get past us. You won’t get through! Give up now! Save yourself and your crew!”
* * * *
It was decision time.
Swallowed up by the fog, Denning found it difficult to tell exactly where Carlisle was, but he couldn’t be too far away if he could be heard so clearly. “We’ll see about that,” he said to Cogswell through the pilot house door. “We have an hour till sunup. This is my idea. It’s desperate, but what other choice do we have?”
“Let’s hear it, sir,” Cogswell said.
“Let’s go for it all. Straight in. As close to the shore as we can get.”
“What if we run afoul of a shoal or the beach?”
Denning pointed out that the mist had started to lift and that the sky to the east was unveiling signs of dawn. The sun would soon burn away the fog. Denning wrestled with the consequences. They had to go in now. “As long as we can get close enough to the mouth of New Inlet, we can beach her and launch the lifeboats, and hope to salvage the ship later.”
“If at all. I don’t know, captain. We haven’t played it this way before.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Off the top of my head, no, sir,” Cogswell said. “I suppose I don’t. It’s too late for the Old Inlet.”
“Well, then. What are we waiting for?”
Cogswell had a sudden sick feeling. As his seafaring daddy used to say, Something is bad wrong here. Bad wrong. The captain had waited too long to pull out. “Let’s shove off before I lose my nerve.”
Denning spun around to Parkens behind him. “I want a full head of steam on the double. Whip the masts and the smokestacks up!”
“Aye, sir. I’m on my way,” Parkens said, moving off.
* * * *
The Sally raced along the surface of the water, Cogswell feeling his way by the ship’s compass and his own calculated guesswork. The mist was thinning. Cogswell saw the white surf indicating the coastline. They were too close to shore, much too close. The shoals were dead ahead — somewhere. It was hit or miss. To the immediate right were three Union warships, defending the inlet, their smokestacks visible over the gray of the mist. Were they at anchor? He couldn’t tell. On the other side of the enemy was the rise of Big Hill, a bump on the otherwise flat coastline, with its lighthouse and the powerful guns of the southern portion of Fort Fisher. Guns good for four miles. To the left was Fort Buchanan, the other battery. Four more heavy guns, but not with the same range as Fort Fisher. Cogswell could see everything. They were sliding over shoals now, building up speed as they went, faster and faster.
They were almost there. The last run. They were a little more than a mile off the inlet. The Sally was straining to break loose. They were flying. Then... they hit a shoal broadside. Men lost their footing and knocked into one another. The top rows of wood crates fell and split, sending the contents of rifles and medical supplies across the deck, and knocking down several sailors. Below, one of the stokers in the engine room wound up in the furnace and came away with burns on his back.
Denning fell from the pilot house ladder. He felt a jolt to the back of his head and his teeth slammed together. He passed out, then came to, roused by the noises around him.
Jimmy Parkens ran up, shaking him. “Captain? Captain?”
Denning crawled on all fours to the port rail. He had bit into his lip and had the taste of blood in his mouth. Other seamen were rising to their feet. His head whirled as he attempted to consider the situation. The sky was lighter. Shapes of land and man-made structures were clearer. The sandy shore off port loomed five hundred yards distant. The guns at the closer Fort Buchanan and Fort Fisher up the beach to starboard were in range. Then Denning saw some bright flashes on shore, seconds apart. Fort Fisher had opened up with their batteries on the Federal cruisers heading for the runner. Fort Buchanan followed. The shells were falling around the Sally in the path of the warships. The gunners in the forts were giving him time to escape.
“Man the lifeboats!” Denning cried.
He ran for the pilot house and saw Ben Woodson and Homer Cogswell helping each other to the boats. “Get going, men!” Denning saw his Spencer repeater carbine on the floor. Nobody was going to send him to no Yankee prison.
* * * *
“Fire Big Bear!” Carlisle screamed to the crew of the Dahlgren smoothbore, ignoring the inland Rebel shells bursting over his gunboat.
The aimer quickly made his distance and barrel-height adjustment, then pulled the rope of the firing mechanism. A bright red flash and a wall of white smoke followed, sending a heavy shell headed towards what appeared to be a beached Silver Sally.
* * * *
The shell descended with a high-pitched scream and hit the smokestack closest to the Sally’s engine room, raining jagged metal and red sparks onto the deck and the water.
When the smoke cleared, Denning could see that the stack had disintegrated, leaving a huge gaping hole in the center of the ship. The shell had missed the gunpowder, but the Silver Sally was completely disabled. Denning scrambled to his feet. The lower deck of the ship was filling with water.
Denning reached for his gun, his head still reeling from the force of the explosion. He charged from the pilot house, looked aft of the ship, and saw the Annapolis, circling in the morning twilight, at four hundred yards. Denning heard the shouts and the horrifying screams of his sailors, who were making their way to the lifeboats. The stench of burnt flesh stung the air. Men were floundering in the water. The air became saturated with curses. He heard one boat hit the water.
“Get everyone off, including the wounded! I don’t want to see anyone left!” Denning yelled.
He saw the danger. A fire caught hold near the engine room. If they didn’t get off immediately, they would be killed in a more powerful explosion than the enemy’s shell.
“Go, men! Go!” His voice grew more urgent. “Get off the ship before she goes up!”
“Son of a bitch! They’re going to ram us!” a sailor shouted.
Denning turned to the open sea. There was the Annapolis, a glowing red devil lit by the Sally’s fiery glare, heading straight for the Sally! Carlisle had to be a madman. Damn, not with the gunpowder aboard! Denning removed the carbine from the leather case, aimed at the figures on the bow rail, and fired off four quick shots in succession, at different points across the bow.
* * * *
One of the bullets caught an officer beside Carlisle in the shoulder. He went down in a heap. Another took Carlisle’s hat off.
“Go for cover!” Carlisle ordered. “They’re shooting at us.”
What did you expect? thought Commander Farley, dropping behind the wall of the bulwark and using it as a shield. Shells from Fort Fisher and Fort Buchanan fell into the water around them, forming a crossfire. Bullets were pinging off the hull. He knew it was too late to stop the Annapolis now, too late to stop Carlisle from his headlong insane idea to ram the Sally. In the temper he was in, Carlisle was too full of Satan, too intoxicated with hate to reason properly. Farley had learned never to come between a fool and his folly. Carlisle was risking the life of all the good Union seamen aboard just to get even with one man.
The dumb jackas
s.
* * * *
Denning watched in alarm as the Union cruiser raced toward him and... smashed the hull of the Sally.
The forward slam of the Annapolis nearly crushed two of the lifeboats in the water and the men in them. The force propelled Denning over the rail, into the water. He lost his Spencer. He touched bottom, and stood up. The sandbar was barely three feet below the water line. He looked around. One of his lifeboats was twenty feet to his right. Cogswell was aboard with two stokers from the engine room. Carlisle’s ship ground to a halt on the shoal, alongside the Silver Sally. Both vessels were on fire. It was now an all-out scramble for men everywhere, Reb and Fed, to try to save themselves.
“Hurry, captain,” Cogswell cried, “before the gunpowder and boilers blow us all to kingdom come!”
“Denning!”
Denning looked up to the hull of his ship. Carlisle was standing against the rail, silhouetted by the fire behind him, a knife in his fist.
“Carlisle!”
“You’re not going anywhere!” yelled Carlisle.
Denning removed his knife from its sheath. “Step into my office,” he invited him, with a motion of his hand. “Come on. Come on!”
Carlisle jumped feet first into the water, losing his spectacles. He waded toward his long-time enemy. They were eight feet apart. A raging fire burned only a few yards away and they could feel the heat in the water. They stood on the sandbar, knives out in defiance, each waiting for the other to move first.
“Captain! The boilers and powder are going to blow!” Cogswell called out. “Get away!”
“Go! Get the hell out of here!” Denning waved Cogswell off. “Save yourselves!”
Cogswell held back on the oars, looked up at the hull of the ship, then watched the two skippers squaring off. He suddenly realized that the beach guns had ceased their firing.
“So, it’s coming down to another knife fight, Denning.” Carlisle spat in the water. “This time only one of us will walk away. Too bad Clara won’t be around for the winner.”
“Leave Clara out of this. She made her choice, wrong though it may have been. This is between you and me, Four Eyes.”