by Mary Ellis
Despite the early hour, Jackson longed for a beverage stronger than tea. Peterson was taking a circuitous route in reaching his point. “Go on,” he prodded.
“I’ve had to pay planters for their cotton. My finances are temporarily stretched paper-thin. I’m hoping Henthorne and Sons can produce the necessary capital for the Lady Adelaine and the Roanoke.”
Jackson sniffed. “How much money are we talking about?”
Peterson murmured a figure so exorbitant Jackson’s sole response was laughter. “Who has that kind of money sitting in their bank account?”
“Keep in mind that the price is for both ships. I’m certain we could acquire one if that sort of outlay is beyond your means.” Peterson’s expression turned patronizing.
“Beyond my means?” Jackson recoiled at the veiled insult. “Mr. Peterson, Union warships lurk in the Atlantic itching to aim their guns on any vessel flying Confederate colors.”
“Fort Fisher keeps those Yankee gunboats far enough out that new ships can easily outrun them. It’s worked that way for more than two years, and we have no reason to believe the situation will change.” Peterson wiped his upper lip before stuffing his damp handkerchief into his pocket. “I intend to send the Lady Adelaine to Bermuda for a load of guns and munitions. President Davis will empty the treasury to supply sufficient weapons for our brave soldiers to win. As I began our conversation, this is the time to reap enormous profits, but a venture this bold isn’t for the faint of heart.” Peterson stood clumsily. “Would you like the day to consider this opportunity, sir? My stamina still isn’t what it should be, so I must return to my hotel. May I call on you tomorrow for your answer?”
Jackson rose to his feet and stretched out his hand. “Because time is of the essence, I won’t need a day to consider. Send word to whoever is brokering the sale that Henthorne and Peterson will purchase the Lady Adelaine and the Roanoke.”
“Bravo, sir. And I’m sure that if we wish to sell when the war ends, we will find a ready market for those steamers. The eventual lifting of the blockade from Richmond and Charleston will only improve commerce along the seacoast.”
“I’ll consult my banker today and should have a cheque within a day or two.”
Peterson nodded energetically. “By the time the ships arrive from Nassau your warehouses should be overflowing. Thanks to this war, we should be able to retire rich men by the time it’s over. Shall I join you at your club tonight to celebrate?”
Jackson considered inviting his partner to dinner at the house, but Peterson’s tremors and pallor put him off. Better not to expose Abigail should the man still be ill. “Yes, my club tonight. Shall we meet at nine?”
After Peterson bowed and took his leave, Jackson’s puffed-up confidence waned. The combined sale price constricted his chest like a lady’s corset. He had recently cleared the company’s debts but had barely had a chance to save a tenth of the amount. To obtain so large a sum on short notice, he would have to leverage the business assets and perhaps mortgage his home. He needed to talk to Abigail and then visit his father in the country. After all, despite his current leadership role, Randolph still owned Henthorne and Sons. Packing his papers into his leather case, Jackson rehearsed how to approach them in his mind. But it took little time to conclude neither conversation would take place—not today and not in the foreseeable future. Abigail and his father would fail to recognize a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He felt a twinge of apprehension. If he felt this uneasy, he certainly couldn’t convince anyone else. He must work harder than ever and keep his head down.
With a little luck this would be the last gamble he would ever have to take.
Nate heard the bell over the door as he hooked the last side of deer meat overhead in the back room. Washing his hands in a bucket of water, he strode to the front to convince a local matron that his produce had no peer in all of Wilmington. But the friendly face was decidedly male. “Well, look who the wind blew in on this lovely September day.”
Mason Hooks marched up the aisle with more swagger than usual for someone from a tiny place like Balsam. “A man can grow old and die waiting for you to mosey into Flannigan’s for a beer.”
“No smoky saloons for me. I’m still waiting for a teahouse to open in town.” Nate grinned, not the least bit put off by his friend’s challenge.
Mason’s guffaws carried through the open window to the street. “I’ll keep tryin’ till I wear you out, but that’s not why I’m making an afternoon social call.”
“Work slowing down on the docks?” Nate asked as he perched on a tall stool.
“Not hardly. Ships are tied up two deep waiting their turn to unload and secure new cargo. I’m here because you might be interested in tonight’s meeting.” Mason whispered as though eavesdroppers lurked between the bins of apples.
“What kind of meeting?”
“Just a few men hopin’ to see this bloody war come to an end.” Mason’s words were barely audible. “With victory for the Union army, that is.”
Nate pulled his stool closer. “I trust this gathering won’t be on the Square or in the mayor’s front yard.”
“We’re meeting out near Greenfield Lake ’round nine o’clock. There’s an old peanut barn there.”
“Greenfield Lake? That’s three or four miles from town. How did you hear about this?”
“Word travels fast on the docks. Most of them boys ain’t too fond of Jeff Davis. All his fancy ideas are for the rich planters. They’re not willing to fight a war they can’t win. The South is done for.”
“Who will be at this gathering? Immigrants just off the boat not eager to die for their new country?”
“Sure, but also plenty of farm boys run off their spreads by one army or the other. Others will be farmers tired of scratching a livin’ from worn-out dirt.”
Nate slicked a hand through his hair. “Is that why you’re going, because you think the Confederacy is licked?”
Mason’s expression turned malevolent as though remembering something he would rather forget. “I’m going ’cause of how those brass-buttoned majors treated us privates, just like we were their slaves back home. They didn’t care how much of our blood got spilt long as it wasn’t theirs. If you know anybody that would rather not have Joe Johnson victorious, bring them along.”
“What about free blacks? Would they be welcome?”
“ ’Course they are. I would say Negroes have the best reasons to see Billy Sherman march his troops into North Carolina too.”
Nate pulled down the shade and turned his window sign to “Closed.” “I’d better lock up and head home. Greenfield Lake is a long ride.”
Mason’s eyes rounded. “So you’ll come? I took you for a lover of flowery words, not a man of action. I won’t lie to you. This could get bloody if those Reb provost marshals get wind of it.”
“I’m showing up to listen. Any flowery words that come to mind I plan to keep to myself.”
Mason pulled a crude map from his breast pocket and set it on the counter. “Take the beach road south. Watch for the big marsh on your right. Then count the farm lanes on your left. Turn down the fifth one.” He tapped the map with his finger. “ ’Bout another mile, watch for a clearing with one lone oak sittin’ by its lonesome. Cut a beeline across the field. Once you find that tree you’ll see the barn roof.” Mason allowed him to study the sketch for another minute. “Wear dark clothes and carry no lantern. They don’t want no uninvited visitors, but you and your friend will be welcome.”
“Providing I don’t fall into the bog, I’ll be there.”
Nate had heard about these meetings in the hills—Carolinians supportive of the Union who didn’t want their state to secede. He never imagined the hotheads would eventually migrate through the vast plantation land to the coast. The local militia, those not already reassigned to Fort Fisher, wouldn’t like a pack of traitors in their midst.
That evening he arrived home so early he was able to eat supper with the Simses. Through
out the meal of rabbit stew and biscuits, he half listened to Rufus’s adventures in the woods outside of town even as his mind churned with ideas. Once Ruth took the boy to the porch to practice arithmetic, Nate told his landlord about his afternoon visitor.
Odom stared into his tea leaves as though their arrangement offered insight into the future. “Are you certain Negroes would be allowed in?”
“According to my friend, several free men from the docks plan to attend.”
“This ain’t no group of rabble fixing to do their own mischief, is it? I want no part of thievery or mayhem.”
“Nor do I. If you would rather not go, I take no exception. I cannot vouch that everything Mason said is the truth.”
“I understand, but this is one meeting I want to see for myself.”
Without further discussion, they scrambled to their feet, provided an ambiguous explanation to Ruth, and saddled their horses. To reach the obscure barn by the appointed hour they would have to ride hard. They would also have to keep their heads down and concentrate on staying astride. But the less time they spent pondering what awaited them at Greenfield Lake the better.
The former peanut barn sat in a moonlit clearing surrounded by swamp willows and sycamores. Despite Mason’s request for no lanterns, two burly men held blazing torches near the barn’s entrance. Several more brandished weapons, everything from squirrel muskets to old muzzleloaders to the new repeating Spencer rifles. More torches burned inside the barn, the yellow light spilling through cracks and missing slats. Nate and Odom tied their reins to a low branch and approached the entrance warily.
“Stop! Who goes there?” A bearded giant of a man stepped from the shadows, his pistol trained on the center of Nate’s chest.
“Nathaniel Cooper and Odom Sims, friends of Mason Hooks.” Nate offered this bit of information uncertain if it bettered his prospects or sealed his fate.
“Hooks is mighty quick to make friends,” said the giant. “Where you from, Cooper?”
“Balsam, in the Blue Ridge Mountains.”
Tilting his torch briefly at Sims, the guard nodded toward the doorway. “Go on in. They’re just about to start.” He didn’t, however, lower his sidearm.
Within the cavernous barn, Nate’s eyes smarted from tar smoke. On the far side of the room, Mason waved his arm at them, but he and Odom found seats in the back row. Nate scanned the assemblage curiously. A strange assortment of humankind filled the rows of crude benches. Young and old, black and white—all talked with great animation. Judging by their attire, the men represented every variety of vocation and financial circumstance except for the rich planter. They were united by a common desire to see the war end and the Union restored without slavery, as mandated by Lincoln’s edict. But as Nate scrutinized more closely, he saw that most wore rough, cast-off clothing. They appeared to live a hand-to-mouth existence on the docks, or perhaps survived by pilferage, robbery, or worse. These weren’t seasoned debaters eager to sway public opinion with logic and reason.
Someone fired a musket into the rafters, curtailing the din of chatter. “Silence!” a voice demanded. “We haven’t come here to socialize like women at a county fair.” A tall, wild-haired man climbed onto a wooden dais. His suit, though not in the current style, was clean and pressed. “We’ve come tonight to take action!” He paused for a thunder of applause.
“As we struggle to earn a living in Wilmington, endless bales of cotton and hogsheads of tobacco flow from the interior counties to the coast. The same goods we load onto steamers bound for Europe. Then we unload food and guns for Bobby Lee’s army in Virginia or Joe Johnson’s out west. We cannot end this war until we cut off the flow of supplies.”
A second roar of approval bolstered the white-haired leader’s bravado. Nate felt a dull ache in the pit of his stomach as he glanced around the room.
“Who’s with me?” shouted the leader. “It’s the tracks of the Wilmington and Weldon railroad that need to be dealt with swiftly and decisively. I say we ride out the next full moon.” Men began shouting and talking all at once. Several began thumping their chests and stomping on the plank floor. Nate saw more than one whiskey bottle passed around to fuel their courage. One glance at Odom, and Nate knew his landlord shared his apprehension. “Real slow-like move toward the door as though you’re looking for somebody.” Nate uttered the words through gritted teeth.
Nodding almost imperceptivity, Odom meandered through the crowd as though in no particular hurry. Outside, the guards paid them no mind, having caught the fever of rebellion. Silently, Nate and Odom mounted their horses and picked their way through the woods to open pasture. Once they spotted the lone oak, bathed in moonlight and standing sentinel, both men released a sigh of relief.
“Don’t think I’ll be attendin’ anymore meetings with you, Nate,” Odom said, reining his horse to an easy gait. “Those boys will likely end up dead soon enough.”
“I’m sorry, Odem. I didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t a mob bent on destruction.”
The men kept their own council as they rode home. What had Nate expected? He should have known it wouldn’t be gentlemen seeking a peaceful solution. Despite the fact he wouldn’t fight to preserve slavery, he couldn’t wage war against North Carolina either.
So where did that leave him? Alone in a country gone mad.
Late September
“Please, Helene, just fix a simple chignon for the day.” Amanda smiled into the mirror at her maid. “It’s too warm for curls against my neck and shoulders.”
“Do you realize, Miss Amanda, if we were home the days—and especially the nights—would be getting cooler by now?”
“You’re right. Lately I’ve been longing for one of those misty, damp days I used to complain about.”
Helene secured the bun with a few well-placed hairpins. “How goes your late papa’s business affairs? I noticed several recent letters from Mr. Pelton.”
“Our chief foreman is rather shocked by my success as a negotiator. Large amounts of cotton arrive at Dunn Mills from the port on a regular basis. Garment production has not only resumed but surpassed prior quotas for the month. Now Mama won’t have to sell family heirlooms to pay tax obligations to the Queen.”
Helene blanched slightly, distressed by the American penchant to make light of important matters—a habit Amanda had acquired since her arrival in North Carolina.
“You are to be commended then, Miss Amanda, for proving the naysayers wrong.”
“Thank you, but my brother-in-law expedited the shipments on my behalf. I’m not sure why they had lapsed in the first place.” Amanda touched a bit of powder to her shiny nose.
“Will we leave for England soon? I hope we can make the voyage before the seas turn rough.”
Helene couldn’t possibly sound more eager, but Amanda wasn’t ready to leave Wilmington, or Nathaniel, yet. Turning on her dressing table stool, she met Helene’s eye. “Not quite. I haven’t secured long-term contracts with Henthorne and Sons. Jackson doesn’t like discussing business at the dinner table, but he makes excuses when I request an appointment. He is always too busy at the docks and warehouses. If I must, I will show up unannounced at his office and stay until he admits me. Eventually, Miss Todd will tire of my face and show me in.” She smiled, but Helene didn’t appreciate her humor.
“Aren’t you anxious to see your mother and pay your respects at your father’s grave?”
Amanda frowned at her maid, but Josie’s interruption precluded a response.
“Should I put this tray on your gallery, Miz Dunn? Or you gonna eat downstairs? I brung nuff for her too.” Josie angled her head in Helene’s direction.
“On the balcony, Josie. Thank you.”
“Forgive me, Miss Amanda,” said Helene softly. “I spoke out of turn.”
“I understand why you’re not comfortable here, but I must remain until my duties are complete. Who knows when I will come back to America?” She strode through the French doors and plop
ped into a chair. Just the thought of never again seeing Nate had turned her knees to mush. “Sit and have some toast and jam.”
Helene glanced around to make sure the other maid had left. “Are you certain Mrs. Henthorne won’t be angry?”
Amanda snorted. “I’m not allowed to eat in the kitchen and you’re not permitted in the dining room. No one said anything about my balcony.” She sipped the strong, hot coffee.
“The slaves don’t like me. They might tell Mrs. Henthorne if they spot me.”
“You have nothing to fear because you work for me,” she said emphatically as she spread peach preserves across her toast.
Helene didn’t seem convinced, but the appearance of a small boy on the steps distracted their attention.
“Rufus, how are you, child? Would you like a pear?” Amanda held the fruit in the palm of her hand.
The child nodded. “Thank you, Miz Dunn.” Slipping it into his pocket, he stepped closer. “I have a message from Mr. Cooper. My ma said to give it to you straightaway.” Rufus peered at Helene dubiously before pulling out a note. It had been folded many times.
Amanda opened the small square and read while her heart thrummed against her ribs.
My dear Miss Dunn,
I have been arrested by local militia and accused of being a Northern sympathizer and draft dodger. I’m being held in the jail, probably awaiting Confederate provost marshals. If you can exert any influence, perhaps with the town council, I implore you to do so. I dare not involve the Simses for fear of repercussions for them. Forgive me, but I have nowhere else to turn.
Your devoted servant,
Nathaniel
She clutched the sheet to her chest, unable to draw breath for several moments.
“Any answer to take back, Miz Dunn?” Rufus produced a stub of a charcoal pencil. “I ’spose you could write on the back side.”
