by Daniel Wyatt
Carlisle advanced toward Denning, who met him halfway. It was Carlisle who made the first move, lunging at Denning. Denning caught Carlisle’s arm with his left hand and tried to throw him backwards. Carlisle lost his balance, wavered, then recovered, and Denning, with a swift move, swiped at Carlisle, cutting into his uniform and chest. Carlisle returned with a slice of his own, catching the Virginian deep in his neck and shoulder. Denning’s knife dropped into the water, leaving him defenseless and staggering. Carlisle had him now. He knifed Denning solidly in the right shoulder, then pulled the blade out.
Denning’s gushing blood goaded Carlisle to greater savagery. “How was that, Denning? Want some more?”
Denning staggered. He started to fall, slowly. His vision blurred. Everything began to go dark. Cogswell’s yelling was far off, muffled. Denning tried to stay upright but fell to his knees in the water. He could not hold his own. The water was now up to his neck. He wanted to raise himself but couldn’t. No strength in his lifeless arms. He was slowly going under and could do nothing about it. Too weak. Carlisle was set to thrust the knife again.
Then a pistol shot rang out.
Nearly delirious, Denning looked up. In the water only a few feet away, a Union officer stood on the underwater sandbar, his hand gun smoking. A Fed had come to his aid. He had to be hallucinating. But he wasn’t. Carlisle fell to his knees. He tried to utter a last breath, then dropped head first into the water. And didn’t come up.
Denning was dimly aware of Cogswell paddling to him.
“Here, lend me a hand,” the pilot ordered the others with him.
They pulled Denning aboard, careful not to swamp the boat, in front of the mesmerized Union officer still holding the gun. Cogswell slowly, cautiously, stripped the officer of the weapon. “Here, give me that.”
The officer, Stephen Farley, turned to him, stunned, saying nothing.
Cogswell ignored the fact they were on opposite sides in the war. “Get in the boat, Yank! Move!” Cogswell pushed Farley in. One of the stokers and Cogswell paddled frantically to the shore. “We’d better get the hell outta here before the ammo and gunpowder goes!”
They paddled away like madmen.
Within two minutes, both ships blew up in a ball of fire. A concussion containing three mighty explosions echoed across the sunlit water, bringing with it a wide blanket of eye-stinging sulfur from the ammunition and gunpowder. Pieces of wreckage quickly littered the water. Cogswell could taste the sulfur in the air as he looked down at the unconscious Captain Denning lying face up in the boat. “Thanks, Yank,” he said to Farley, spread out in the middle of the boat. “We’ll get you to safety somehow. Don’t worry. You’re not facing any prison. You have my word on that.”
“I believe you, Reb. Thanks,” Farley said, exhausted, finally emerging from his trance. “I’ve always known Southerners to be gentlemen.”
Cogswell shook hands with him. “I have a name, you know. I’m Homer Cogswell. I’m — I was the Silver Sally pilot. You?”
“Commander Stephen Farley, first mate of the USS Annapolis. The Sally was a good ship,” the officer said cautiously. He looked over his shoulder to see more lifeboats in the water, full of gray-uniformed men. He was the only Yankee. He could see a few Union men swimming for shore. It was a queer feeling being in the same lifeboat with Rebs, but comforting at the same time. He trusted the Reb, this Cogswell.
“These are two of the engineers,” Cogswell said.
The blackened faces of the stokers gave evidence to their trade in the depths of the runner. They nodded at him. The one at the oars shook his hand. The other, suffering from burns he had received in the engine room during the collision, leaned back, staring doggedly.
“You sure as hell gave us a damn good run for the money, Yank. Now, let’s get moving. We’re going to have to hide you out a spell.” Cogswell looked at Farley curiously. “What you did had to be a first. A man shooting his own commanding officer.”
“I had my reasons.”
Chapter thirty-one
Smithville, North Carolina
Mrs. Cogswell had been out of bed for more than an hour. As she watched her black maid scurry about in the kitchen, she heard someone stumbling in the front hall.
“Victoria!”
It was a man’s voice. A familiar voice. Her husband’s.
Mrs. Cogswell hurried to the entrance, and froze at the sight of the five men standing before her. At first she thought they were all drunken beggars. One man, unconscious and bleeding from the chest, was held up by two others. The house suddenly reeked of salt water and sweaty, unwashed bodies.
“It’s me, Victoria,” one of them said. His face was black from soot and he was cut on his cheek.
“Homer?” She embraced her husband, in spite of his appearance.
“Hello, my dear.” Homer hugged his pretty, light-haired, steadfast wife of fourteen years, kissing her on the lips in front of the men.
“Good gosh, Homer. You’re soaking wet!” She flicked her hands.
“Victoria. We need a doctor. For one of our men, here,” he gestured to the stoker beside him, “and Captain Denning.”
She suddenly didn’t seem to mind that the men were dripping water on the varnished floor and the carpet. She stared at the stoker and saw his wounds, which didn’t appear that serious, then at the unconscious Captain Denning, his arms slung over his comrades’ shoulders. His face was a sickly gray with dark circles around his closed eyes. He needed immediate attention. “This man, in the parlor,” she said, taking command. “Around the corner. As for the captain, give him the guest room. Up the stairs and second door on the right.”
Homer’s daughters ran out to greet their father. “Katie! Jessica! How’s my girls?” He bent down and put his muscular arms around them.
Victoria called for Silas, the manservant of the house. “Go fetch Dr. Griffith. Right away.”
“Yessum.” Silas scurried down the hall toward the entrance, then stopped and turned to the master of the house. “Oh, good mornin’, Mr. Homer.”
“Good morning, Silas.”
Then he left.
Victoria realized that the remaining man at the door wore a Union Navy uniform. “My God, a Yankee!”
“He’s a friend. Farley, my wife, Victoria.”
“Commander Stephen Farley, madam, of the United States Navy. Pleased to meet you.” He bowed his head, crossing his hands in front of him.
“What the devil is a Yankee doing in our house?” she said to Homer.
Homer took each daughter by the hand. “Never mind the uniform. He saved the captain’s life. It’s a long story.”
She backed off. “How did you get him here?”
“It wasn’t easy. We had to take the back roads. The Silver Sally blew up after a collision with a Union gunboat off New Inlet.”
“Oh my word.” She put her hand to her mouth. She recalled the sounds early in the morning, at dawn. Three distinct booms in the distance had wakened her, the last one the loudest. After twenty minutes she had fallen back to sleep.
“Anyway, I’ll explain it all later. I promised to hide Farley till nightfall, then release him to his own side. I gave my word, Victoria. Without his help, the captain would be a dead man, sure.”
Victoria looked upon the kind face of the Union officer. “Captain Denning is a good man,” she said, changing her tone of voice. “Welcome to our home, Commander Farley.”
Farley smiled and said, “Thank you, madam.”
She smiled back. “I’m sure you’d like to remove those wet clothes and have something to eat.” She looked him over from head to toe. “Hmm... Homer isn’t exactly your size, but we’ll find something for you to wear. However, you both could use a little clean-up. Now, get off the floor, you two, before you stain it even worse.”
* * * *
Oak Island
That night, Farley and Cogswell made their way to the beach.
“In you go, commander,” Cogswell said to Farley,
inviting the Union officer into the Silver Sally lifeboat as he held it steady in the choppy water.
Miles away on the horizon floated a row of Union warships. There were more and more these past few months, with no letup. There were so many cruisers now that Cogswell was sure Farley could jump from one ship to another without getting his feet wet. A mile and a half to his left was the lighthouse at Bald Head Point, the western part of Smith Island. To his right were the inner-line cruisers, one of them steaming in closer than the others, less than one mile off shore. Cogswell made it plain to Farley that he should try for that one.
“Now this is what you do, commander. It’s low tide for several more hours. Stay to the right. This is the Western Bar Channel right here, the deepest part of Old Inlet. Stick to it and you can’t go wrong. The left has all the shoals. Good luck.” Cogswell held out his hand across the boat. “And thanks. You realize that if we should ever meet again in this war, I won’t show any favoritism.”
“Same here.”
Farley shook Cogswell’s hand and sat down. The Southerner was indeed a man of his word, and his wife had even washed and pressed his Union Navy uniform. He reached for the oars. “Fair enough. I do hope your Captain Denning pulls through. I would have liked to meet him.”
“He’s in for a rough night with the fever and all.”
“Mr. Cogswell, this has truly been an experience I’ll have to tell my grandchildren.”
“You’re not the only one. You never did tell me why you shot your captain.”
Farley didn’t hesitate. “I had to rid the world of a monster. It was the only way. Justice prevailed.”
“I think I understand.” Cogswell thought of the order to ram the Sally. No skipper in his right mind would resort to such a maneuver.
“And if I get stuck with another skipper the likes of Carlisle, I just might aim to come over to your side.”
“We’ll take you. You best get moving,” Cogswell said to Farley, pushing the boat into the water. “And good luck.”
* * * *
Smithville
Throughout the night, Joshua Denning’s temperature soared. The doctor came and dressed the wounds, giving specific instructions to put cold packs on Denning’s body to break the fever. If infection set in, he was to be called immediately.
While attended to by Victoria Cogswell and the house servants, Denning’s past flashed before him in a series of visions and nightmares over which he had no control. He remembered his father’s farm... then Clara... he saw Robert Carlisle at Annapolis... his mind recreated the knife fight outside the tavern. He saw the daylight run again... he saw Clara... he called out to her and she answered... he saw Marie... he remembered the collision... he saw Marie... now Clara was fading away. He called out to Clara, but she didn’t return. But Marie was there.
By sunup next morning, Denning still had the fever and was sweating profusely. Blisters started to appear on his body.
At noon, Silas answered a knock at the front door. On the steps was a young, dark-haired woman. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Marie Keating. Your master sent for me.”
Cogswell stepped forward. “I’ll take care of it, Silas.”
“Yes, suh.”
“I’m Homer Cogswell, Captain Denning’s pilot. Please, do come in.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cogswell. I heard the news that the Silver Sally went down.” Marie appeared nervous as she stepped inside. Cogswell closed the door. “How is the captain?”
“Not good, I’m afraid. He’s been calling for you for a solid day now. For a while it was another woman, Clara.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know a Clara.”
“At one time, he came to, opened his eyes and asked for you. I thought I should call you. I know your aunt.”
Marie smiled. “May I see him?”
“Brace yourself.”
Marie took to the stairs, alone. She gasped when she saw Denning in the upstairs room. Not long ago, she was the one lying in bed while Denning looked on and comforted her. Now, the scene had switched. She wondered if she had looked as shocking as Denning appeared now. His reddish-blonde hair was stuck flat to his scalp, and one arm was across his heaving, bare chest. She tip-toed closer. His lips were dry and cracked, and his once-bronze skin was the color of death.
“Joshua.”
“Marie,” he mumbled, eyes closed. “Marie,” he said more loudly, his head moving back and forth.
“I’m here, Joshua,” she answered, her voice rising. “Joshua, can you hear me?”
A smile formed on his lips.
* * * *
The fever finally broke that afternoon, and by the early evening Denning had opened his eyes. He had a strange taste of sulfur in his mouth. Victoria Cogswell brought him a tall glass of water.
Denning drank and returned the glass to her hand. “Where am I?”
“You’re in Smithville, Captain Denning.”
“Smithville?” He felt his head, barely able to lift himself. “Who are you?”
“Victoria Cogswell, wife of your pilot.”
“Homer?” Denning swallowed.
“Yes. Homer is my husband. You’re going to make it, Captain Denning. You’ve been unconscious for nearly two days. You had a bad fever.”
“How’s Homer?”
“He’s fine.”
“He’s a good man.”
“Yes, he surely is.”
Denning tried to recall what had happened. His ship was under attack by Carlisle. He remembered the collision. He fell into the water. The knife fight. The pain in his shoulder. It was coming to him in patches only. “Is this your house?”
“Yes, captain.”
“Nice wallpaper.” Then he looked at her and smiled as if it was difficult. “Now I know why Homer hates being away. You’re very pretty.”
Victoria laughed softly. “Yes, I think you’re going to be just fine. I’ll get Homer for you.” She withdrew in a flurry of skirts.
Homer bounced up the stairs, two at a time, followed slowly by Marie, who preferred to stay in the shadows of the hall as Homer went in.
“Captain,” said Homer, “you’re back with the living.”
“What happened?”
“The Sally exploded, captain,” Homer told him, pulling a chair to the bed. “Don’t yuh remember?”
“Parkens, did he—?”
“Yes, he made it. And Ben. The others,” Cogswell explained with satisfaction. “Everyone, actually.”
“Everyone?”
Cogswell nodded. “The whole crew.”
Denning was astonished. “They all survived?”
“All accounted for and safely in Smithville. Some a little worse for wear, including you, sir. Four in the hospital. That’s a hell of a lot better than the boys of the Annapolis. A third or so were killed during the collision and explosions. If you hadn’t ordered our men to man the lifeboats, we wouldn’t have made it.”
“Carlisle? What happened to him?”
“He’s dead.”
“Good. The bastard.”
“His first mate shot him. He saved your life, captain. Do you remember that?”
Denning coughed and closed his eyes. “Yeah... I think so. I’m kind of bushed... Homer.”
Then Denning fell into a deep contented sleep that lasted more than ten hours.
Chapter thirty-two
Smithville
A weary Joshua Denning, despite doctor’s orders, got out of bed anyway. He was washed up and stripped to the waist, wearing only trousers, exposing the clean, white bandages on his chest and shoulder. It was warm in the room. He sat in a chair by the open window and looked upon the sparkling Cape Fear River, the waterway he had sailed many times. The outdoor air was beginning to revive him. He squinted in the brightness of the crisp, sunny day. By the position of the sun, he knew it had to be about noon. The ebbing tide was beginning to disclose the shore surrounding the islands in Buzzard’s Bay, the weedy and rocky points off Smith Island, and
the beaches of Oak Island. He could see the Western Bar Channel and a half dozen Union gunboats on the open water, all in one sweeping glance.
While he sat and recollected, Denning wondered what he would say to Marie when she arrived. Several things loomed clear to him now. The explosion of the Silver Sally had propelled him into a new world, as if a line had been drawn between then and now. His new world was free of everything before it — Clara, Carlisle, dirty deals, wicked men, a useless war, too much money to squander, and King Cotton. He was tired, with no reserves on the way. Dead tired. Used up. He had been brought kicking and screaming to his senses.
He was relieved his crew had made it. He would see to it they were all paid what he owed them. Double the normal trip, as he had promised. Denning was out of the blockade-running business for good, although not the way he had wanted. But at least he was through with it, without misgivings. He entered that world for patriotic reasons, for adventure and... for money. But times had changed. It was too dangerous, too unfulfilling now that he had something and someone else on his mind. He had been wandering aimlessly for years and hadn’t come to grips with it. That would stop shortly, he hoped.
Denning heard footsteps on the stairs and braced himself. Then he saw Marie at the door. For the first time, he saw her not as Clara’s double, but as Marie Keating. They were two separate people. One sweet and shy; the other more unpredictable, passionate, and outgoing. The latter was here, now, within reach, a living, breathing individual. She was not a vision. She was his reason to exist, to enjoy life again. Marie wore a cheerful smile. Her new green dress extended down to the floor. It had a low-cut neckline exposing the top part of her creamy-white breasts. Never before had she looked so provocative. She was beautiful. Oh God, was she beautiful. He stood for her, slowly, carefully, painfully, using the chair for support. His first thought was to grab her in his arms. No, he couldn’t do that. He had to be more tender with a lady of breeding.
“Thanks for coming, Marie.” He seemed awkward with his words. His throat and neck muscles were tight. “How’s your aunt?” He winced, as she came forward and stopped only a few feet away.
