The Cotton Run

by Daniel Wyatt

  “She’s... the same. But you, Joshua. What are you doing out of bed? Please, don’t stand for me. Sit down.” He looked weak to her, and thin, although his shoulders were as square and strong as she remembered.

  “I can’t. Not yet. Not until I say something.”

  “What is it?” Marie asked. She looked into his face and detected a peace in him that she had not seen there before. “Go ahead, Joshua.”

  He took a breath. His mouth curved into a curious smile. “Will you marry me?”

  Marie made a muffled noise in her throat. She didn’t know if she should reach for his arms or faint or collapse from the shock.

  “Will you?”

  “We don’t know each other. Without proper courting?” Her lips trembled. “It’s so—”

  “Unexpected.” He finished the sentence. He shrugged and winced. It hurt to shrug. “It is, I know. That’s the way I work. I’m impulsive. But so are you, and you know it. I think we do know each other. Listen to me. We can forget the Confederacy. Forget the South. King Cotton is one big damn lie. It never existed. It was a figment of some politician’s imagination. We can forget war. Forget rotten men like Eli Jacoby and Bobby Carlisle. Let’s go to Europe. England or, better yet, France. I’m sure you’d like to see your family. How long’s it been?”

  It took her several moments to finally reply. “Five years,” she said softly.

  “We’re from the same mold, Marie. The South isn’t our country. It won’t be anybody’s country for too much longer. It’ll barely survive another year. Two at most. I for one don’t wish to stick around and see its demise.”

  Marie was overwhelmed. “I thought you weren’t the marrying kind.”

  “Never you mind what I said before. That was in the past.”

  “But Joshua, I am so... flawed.”

  “As if I’m not. Wait till you see my imperfections.”

  “We’re both so headstrong, so stubborn.”

  “Go on,” he said, smiling slowly.

  “What if we should fight?”

  “God forbid. But it might be fun making up afterwards.”

  “Oui. It might,” she agreed, holding back a smile.

  “Is there anything else I must know?”

  “I like to get my own way.”

  “Are you through?” Denning asked.

  “I believe I am.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I love you, Marie, like I’ve loved no other woman. Ever. I’ve never met a woman quite like you. I love everything about you. Your energy, your drive to be your own person.” He moved toward her. Denning forgot about his bandaged shoulder and kissed her with such fervor that Marie thought she was going to pass out. His hands were clumsy on this occasion, lacking some of his previous grace. She didn’t care. It would come back to him. She pulled her lips away to gasp for air.

  “Of course I’ll marry you,” she managed to say between breaths, as they held each other.

  “You’re sure now?”

  “Oui.” As Denning had said, she was impulsive. “Let’s leave the South far behind.”

  “Let’s do that. Wilmington can’t stop talking about us, anyway.”

  All of a sudden, she asked, “Who’s Clara? You were calling out her name.”

  “I was?”

  “The Cogswells said you were.”

  “Clara was... someone I knew many years ago, Marie,” Denning replied, looking deeply into her eyes. “But that was then. This is now. You’re here... now.”

  “Was she like me?”

  “Yes... and no. You’re prettier.”

  She cradled her head between his shoulder and neck, her body pressed to his. “Where is she now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me about her,” she said, without looking at him.

  “I’d like to forget her, if you don’t mind. Please.” Then he thought about it. It was only fair to tell her, someday. “I’ll tell you the story. Perhaps, when we’re old and gray.”

  Then their lips met again.

  Chapter thirty-three

  Cape Fear River — August 1863

  Captain Clement Sullivan invited Denning and Marie to the crowded deck of the Hickory Hill. At twenty-four, Sullivan was the youngest Rebel skipper to command a blockade runner, and he was on his fifth run with the ship credited with eight successful runs so far.

  The Hickory Hill was in the same class as the Sally, one of the new super runners — three stacks, more than two hundred and seventy-five feet long, and built of strong, lightweight steel. Her cargo tonight was six hundred and fifty bales of the all-purpose Georgia Bowed cotton, one hundred and thirty-five barrels of turpentine, and one hundred and ten one-hundred-pound bags of corn seed. While the crew and Denning took for granted the degree to which the ship was loaded, Marie was amazed to find that the deck, the halls, and the cabins fore and aft were tightly stacked with cargo. And piled so high. It was a chore to move or even turn about in her newly purchased gray dress without catching a bale, or a barrel, or a bag in the face.

  “Captain Denning.” Sullivan nodded to Denning in the darkness. He tipped his officer’s cap at Marie. “We just passed Reeve’s Point, two miles from New Inlet. I thought you might want to have a look at the proceedings.”

  “Much obliged,” Denning said. “And I’m grateful to you for bringing us aboard on short notice.”

  “My pleasure. To tell you the truth, I’m honored by your presence.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We’re fortunate to be let away,” Sullivan said.

  “Why?”

  “I managed to work around the latest Richmond War Department directives. I had to show a complete crew and cargo list. I put you down as Joshua and Andy. You are both listed as cabin boys.” Sullivan smiled, his mustache widening. “Therefore you might have to confine yourself to those duties. You have separate cabins for the night.”

  Denning laughed. “We will comply with your orders, for the first night.”

  “The other directive, I couldn’t avoid. Richmond now has the authority to commandeer half of all inbound and outbound cargo. This shipment is under those rules. Had I not agreed to the new measures, the ship would have been seized.”

  “Wise move on your part,” Denning replied.With the Rebel government poking their nose into blockade running, Denning knew he had got out of the business at the right time.

  Sullivan turned into the moderate easterly breeze. “I’ve decided to take the New Inlet.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t have the opportunity before, so now I want to wish you both all the happiness in the world. Congratulations.”

  Denning put his arm around his fiancée. “Thank you.” In less than twenty-four hours he and Marie would be married at sea.

  “Paris will be lovely this time of year. Have you made a decision on whether your fiancée will join you tonight? As long as the rules are obeyed, I won’t object.”

  “I’ll ask her.”

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to attend to a matter. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Of course.”

  “What rules?” Marie asked, watching Sullivan withdraw to the pilot house. The couple leaned on the rail, looking down at the black waters of the river.

  “Either you can go to your cabin or stay here with me.”

  “The cabin! I’ll go crazy by myself. I want to stay here with you.”

  Denning smiled in the night. “In that case, when the order is given, I have to caution you to not make a sound. This is serious business. Stay in one spot. Right here is probably one of the best places. We’d be in no one’s way. Your dress is the perfect color, the same hue as the ship. It blends in with the surroundings. Nevertheless, keep low behind the rail. Any movement could be detected by the other side. House rules.”

  “I’m worried, Joshua.”

  “What about?”

  “Getting through.”

  He put his hand on
hers. “No need to worry. Sullivan is young, I know, but he has plenty of experience in blockade running. It’s a cloudy night. The wind’s light, blowing across from the sea. I’ve heard tell that since my ship went down the Fed cruisers are keeping their distance from the mouth of the inlet for fear of hitting a shoal. So, you see, everything is in our favor. I just hope they have a good pilot aboard.”

  Hickory Hill was beginning to make the turn to port. To starboard, Denning saw the Marsh Islands. Dead ahead was Zeke Island, which the pilot scooted around with an easy style. Now they were only a half-mile from the mouth of the shallow New Inlet. Denning’s eyes penetrated the night. He knew what to look for. Six deadly gunboats took shape out to sea. The smell in the air was a mixture of the pungent swamp lands off Buzzard’s Bay and the salty spray of the ocean to the ship’s bow. The waves were choppy. They heard the anchor splash into the water.

  Sullivan found his way past the high row of bales to the rail. “Your decision, sir?”

  “She’s with me, Captain Sullivan.”

  “Very well. You’ve explained the rules.”

  “Yes. I hope you have a good pilot, captain,’’ Denning asked. “The Caroline Shoal can shift.”

  “I have an excellent man at the helm. While we’re waiting for the signal from Fort Buchanan, would you like to meet him? Just to put your mind at ease. He does know the area quite well.”

  “Yes, I would like to meet him.”

  Denning and Marie followed the captain to the pilot house. The man behind the helm, a husky individual, was waiting by the table with the navigator, their backs to the visitors. A familiar smell came to Denning’s nostrils. Pipe tobacco. Georgia Navy Gold.

  The pilot turned and said, “Captain Denning. Welcome aboard.”

  Denning linked the smell and the voice in the darkness. “Homer?”

  “That’s right, captain.”

  Denning shook hands with his former pilot. “Captain Sullivan. You not only have an excellent man. You have the best.”

  “Thank you, captain,” said Cogswell, tipping his hat at Marie. “Mrs. Keating. Or should I say soon to be... Mrs. Denning.”

  “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Cogswell.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am. How are you feeling, sir?” Cogswell asked his former captain.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  The ship’s first mate tapped Sullivan. “Sir. Fort Buchanan just gave us the all-clear.”

  “Thanks.” Sullivan stood in the doorway smiling at Cogswell and Denning. “Captain Denning. I’m still an amateur by comparison. Seeing that this will be your final run, would you do me the honor of taking command of the ship during the outbound run?”

  “With your qualifications and experience? Captain, you are no rank amateur, I’m sure.”

  But Sullivan persisted. “I might learn a thing or two from the only skipper to succeed at a day run. Your servant, Captain Denning. I bow to a master.” He clicked his heels. “And I insist, sir.”

  Denning was deeply moved. Marie gripped his hand. “In that case, I’d be more than happy to.”

  “Very well then,” said Sullivan. “I will relay your orders. Would you prefer to stay by the pilot house?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “I thought so.”

  The navigator motioned toward the cotton bale against the cabin wall. “Ma’am. Would you care to sit down and observe?”

  “Oui, monsieur. Merci.”

  “Drop the smokestacks and masts,” Denning said, giving his first order. The routine was second nature to him. “Lift the anchor and I don’t want to hear it. Cover the engine room hatches. Snuff out all lights. And no one is to use the voice tubes. All quiet on the deck. Proceed at five knots.”

  Sullivan turned to the first mate. They were the standard orders, easy to remember. “You heard the captain.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Sullivan gave Denning a telescope.

  “Homer?” Denning looked through the eyepiece. He saw only the outer line of ships.

  “Aye, sir?” Cogswell said. Nothing had changed. It was like the Sally all over again.

  “Stick to the shore up to the Mound Battery. And Homer,” he paused.

  “I know, sir,” Cogswell cut in. He had heard it many times before. “Keep a weather-eye open, and get us through.”

  “That’s right,” Denning chuckled. “You remembered.”

  “How could I forget?”

  The engine noise picked up. The Hickory Hill slid away slowly through the channel which in another half-mile would narrow down to only two hundred yards across. A pilot had to know what he was doing here. Cogswell did. To either side were the menacing shoals. The ship came abreast of the Mound, the southernmost battery of Fort Fisher, the largest Reb shore fortification on the continent. Denning thought about the South. He was leaving Wilmington far behind. Wicked Wilmington, home to brothels, drunks, greedy speculators who would continue to bilk the Confederacy to its dying day, which wasn’t far off now. These shore batteries in Fort Fisher would eventually pay the price too. Denning could see he had no choice but to flee with the woman he loved.

  Denning pointed out for Marie where his ship went down weeks before. “Out yonder,” he whispered. “You can see a piece of a hull sticking out.”

  Marie saw a shadow of a ship’s outline on the water. She gulped and cleared her throat. The blackened hull served as a reminder to her of the risks of blockade running. Oh Lord. Don’t let that happen to us, she prayed. She began to wonder if she would be bad luck. She did not belong here. She was an intruder, an alien, a woman. Invited, because of her fiancée’s reputation. She remembered how ill she had become on her last Atlantic voyage with her parents. She was sea-sick, irritable and unable to sleep soundly for the entire trip. She did not want that feeling again. Worst yet, she didn’t want to be sick for her honeymoon. She prayed again, silently, eyes open, for calm water.

  Soft waves rolled up to the ship. Coming around the Mound, Cogswell pointed out a lantern-lit, senior officer’s ship two points off the bow, less than one mile away. Cogswell wasn’t fooled. He knew that between the Hickory Hill and the gunboat lay a shoal that widened out to sea. The officer’s ship was trying to lay a trap for the runners leaving port. The runner was a thousand yards out from the safety of the surf but still within gun range of the Mound if his ship needed help. Cogswell steered the ship through the channel like the artist he was. At the same time, he was using the blackened hull pieces of the Sally as a marker.

  There was no movement by the senior officer’s ship.

  Denning knew he could stop and take a depth reading here, if he wanted to. The shifting shoal had been a problem before. But no, there was no time. He didn’t wish to lose the momentum of the vessel. His main concern was the heavy sound of the engines. “Captain Sullivan, can you tie down the safety valves until we pick up speed?”

  “We could. But why?”

  “The escaping steam can be too noisy at times.”

  “Do that and the engineers will fry.”

  “It’ll only be for a short time. Keep an eye on the temperatures.”

  This strategy was new to Sullivan. “As you wish.” He sent the order along.

  Denning detected his fiancée’s concern for the enemy ship. “He’s not moving anywhere,” he whispered to her. “He can’t. Just pray he doesn’t see us and alert the force.”

  Marie looked through the pilot house glass at the ocean. The darkness of the night, except for the one gunboat, stared back at her. How can they see anything? she wondered. Is this what her fiancée had to face on all his runs? She closed her eyes and concentrated on the calmness of Joshua and the coolness of Cogswell, Captain Sullivan, and the navigator, trying to tap strength from these brave men. She wished she could share in their composure. But she couldn’t.

  She was terrified.

  “Enemy gunboat to starboard, sir,” the first mate said, receiving word from a lookout on the mast.

  “I
see him,” said Denning. “Steady. Wait and see what he does. Maintain the same speed.”

  Marie swallowed to keep her stomach butterflies down. She felt a gentle hand touch her shoulder. It was the navigator. “There’s no need to fuss, ma’am. We’ll get you to Nassau.”

  She smiled.

  The gunship turned away and steamed a course parallel with the shore south of the inlet.

  “All ahead two-thirds,” Denning ordered. “And release the safety valves before your men burn up.”

  “Aye, aye, captain,” Sullivan answered confidently, as he saw the channel line open up to them.

  “Steady as she goes,” Denning ordered.

  Chapter thirty-four

  Atlantic Ocean

  The ship’s crew waited for Marie to appear. She was late, but it didn’t matter. Time had no consequence. Some of the crew were seated in the rows of chairs. The remainder was standing. The smell of hair tonic and cleaned and pressed uniforms predominated. Clad in a white suit, a dark-brown tie, white frilled shirt, and polished boots, Joshua Denning stood with them, his back to the cabin hatchway, the bright sun off to his right side. Standing with him by a makeshift altar made of wood crates were Sullivan and Cogswell.

  “How do you feel, captain?” Cogswell asked, his dark eyes on his old boss. He would be Denning’s best man today. Standing with a military straightness, the pilot was the proud owner of neatly parted hair, and a clean-shaven face, except for a newly snipped and waxed mustache.

  “I’m nervous,” Denning said. “This is a first for me.”

  “You, nervous? I don’t believe it. Ah, nothing to it, skipper,” Cogswell said. “Take it from me.” His dark eyes blinked. He was happy for his captain.

  “Do you have the ring?”

  “Right here, sir. In my pocket.”

  “Look lively! Here she comes!” one of the men in the back row said.

  Denning turned and gawked.

  Never in all his years had he seen a more beautiful woman than Marie in her wedding dress as she slowly came through the hatchway leading to the officers’ quarters. She was stunning. Her white dress reflected the sun. He was so lucky to have her. They were of like mind and like spirit. Denning’s nervousness quickly vanished during the ceremony, as he stood beside Marie, holding her hand in his. Captain Sullivan took them through the vows. Cogswell produced the ring at the right time and gave it to Denning to place on Marie’s finger.