P.G. Nagle - GALVESTON

Excerpt from RED RIVER by P.G. Nagle
Published by Forge Books. Copyright © 2003 by P.G. Nagle. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the Publisher. Exceptions are made for downloading a single copy of this file to a computer for personal use for the sole purpose of reading its content.

We captured on her 5 captains, 2 lieutenants, and a number of civilians, among them 7 or 8 ladies. . . . On reaching Red River I stopped at a plantation to put ashore the ladies, who did not wish to go any farther.

--Charles Rivers Ellet, Colonel, Commanding Ram Fleet

    "That's her," Nat murmured, looking through his spyglass at the woman standing on the landing. "It has to be."
    "Eh?" Sperry asked him, blowing sawdust off a plug he was filing.
    "Nothing." Nat put his glass in his pocket and reached for another plug. Having gone back to work once all the excitement of capturing two Rebel boats was over, they had finished repairing the major damage and were now filling in the holes made by rifle-fire from the Vicksburg's sharpshooters. He glanced at the negro. "Adams, you're from hereabouts, you said."
    "That's right." Adams kept working.
    "What house is that?"
    Adams looked at him, then glanced out the porthole in a way that suggested he hardly needed to confirm their location. "Rosehall," he said. "Belle View Plantation. Colonel Hawkland's house."
    Rosehall. Yes, that had been the name. Nat glanced out again at the mansion with its huge white pillars and the long, wide drive that Quincy had described in his letter. Quincy had been here last summer, and had written that it was the most elegant house he had ever entered. Thanks to him, Nat knew that Rosehall's owner seemed friendly and loyal, that the house was furnished without any regard to expense, and that the front parlor boasted a full-length portrait of the mistress of the house and all of Colonel Hawkland's plantations, the lady Nat believed now stood at the dock awaiting Colonel Ellet's boat.
    How he wished he were in that boat! He would gladly have pulled an oar for a chance at hearing their conversation. He was curious to make Mrs. Hawkland's acquaintance, but as it was unlikely that he would have any business ashore at Belle View, he resigned himself to glancing out of the porthole now and then and wondering what Colonel Ellet was saying to the lady of Rosehall.

    "I sincerely regret the necessity of inconveniencing you, madam. Please extend my apologies to your husband when he returns."
    Marie gazed at the young man before her, hoping her surprise did not show in her face. He had introduced himself as Colonel Ellet, and every Yankee present showed him unwavering deference. She smiled at him, watchful for his reaction.
    "Thank you for explaining the situation, Colonel. I do not mind sheltering these people for a short while. Indeed, I am glad to know you are patrolling our river. But when did you come down? We knew nothing of your presence until now."
    "We passed down quite early this morning. No doubt your household was asleep."
    "No doubt," she agreed, thinking that in future the household would be more watchful. She drew a breath, making sure to keep her voice steady. "Has Vicksburg fallen, then?"
    Colonel Ellet's gaze, already rather serious for a man so young, sharpened. "No. We succeeded in passing the batteries, however, and will hope for a speedy victory there."
    Marie nodded. "And a return to commerce, I hope."
    Colonel Ellet continued to gaze at her, his expression now thoughtful. Marie kept her face schooled into open pleasantness. If she could captivate him, so much the better. He was a handsome boy, with his arched brow and carefully trimmed mustache--paler than his hair and not yet filled in, but a passable mark of manhood. He was younger than she (he could be no more than twenty, and she would soon be twenty-five) but to gain his admiration could do no harm, and might even be useful.
    "Have you cotton awaiting sale, ma'am?" he finally asked.
    "Yes, indeed." Marie put as much enthusiasm as she could into her voice. "Would you like to purchase some? We have a permit from General Butler--"
    "Not on this trip, I fear," Ellet said. "Perhaps we will send someone down from St. Louis to treat with you."
    "He will be most welcome." She glanced down at her tightly-clasped hands and forced herself to relax them. "One mustn't complain, of course, but--oh, I shall be glad when this conflict is ended!"
    "Indeed. Tell me, Mrs. Hawkland, do you see many vessels coming and going from the Old River?" He nodded toward the mouth of the Red on the far shore.
    "Yes, quite often," she replied, feeling a little flutter at the memory of bidding Theodore farewell. "Sometimes they use our landing without even asking leave."
    He met her gaze, then, and his own eyes seemed alight with righteousness. "I trust you will soon be free from such annoyance," he said.
    She forced herself to smile yet more warmly. "Thank you, Colonel. I trust you are right."
    An explosion rent the quiet air, making Marie start. She looked toward the gunboat, from which a puff of smoke rose.
    "Do not be alarmed, ma'am," the young colonel hastened to say. "It is only a signal." He turned toward the gunboat, watching a man who had come out on the upper deck and was waving a flag. The message, whatever it was, was unnecessary; Marie could see smoke from beyond Turnbull's Island. A steamer was descending from the Red.
    It was not Theodore's boat. She knew it could not be; he had gone down the Atchafalaya, yet still her pulse quickened.
    "I must go," Colonel Ellet said, looking at her with earnest eyes. "Please return to your home at once, Mrs. Hawkland."
    Marie gave him a tremulous smile that she had no need of feigning, and watched him hurry back to his boat. The gunboat was hauling up its anchor, and the crew of the launch strained to row their colonel back to his vessel. Marie wanted to keep watching but she knew every man of her acquaintance, present or not, Yankee or Southron, would object. She hastened to the sulky and found that Old William appeared to have gone to sleep. She woke him and drove smartly to the house, slowing only to pass her unexpected guests. At the door the groom took charge of Old William and led him away.
    Marie turned and saw that the new boat was now visible, smaller than the others; another supply ship. The Yankee gunboat was charging across the river toward it. Not wishing to watch the inevitable capture, she turned away and went into the house to prepare to receive her visitors.

    Jamie blinked against the dimness of General Sibley's tent. "You sent for me, General?"
    Sibley sat at his camp desk, frowning at a paper in his hand. A lantern's feeble light exaggerated the lines carved in his face and bled the color from his graying side whiskers. Jamie knew he was weary, and probably ill as well.
    The general was at war with everyone. His brigade had no faith in him after their disastrous defeat in New Mexico; they wanted a new commander. Sibley had hoped to take them to Richmond or at least to Vicksburg, and instead was stuck here in Louisiana, lucky to have kept his command at all. After months defending himself for New Mexico he had only recently been authorized to relieve General Mouton of command at Rosedale, a tiny village on the railroad between Baton Rouge and Opelousas, held by a small Confederate force consisting only of the Valverde Battery--Jamie's unit--and three companies of cavalry.
    "Ah, Russell. Good. Read this."
    Sibley thrust the page at Jamie. Scrawled in haste and dated that morning, the dispatch was from an officer posted near the mouth of the Red River and warned that a Federal gunboat had appeared there, captured and placed prize crews on three boats, and proceeded up the Red. Jamie glanced up at the general.
    "Take your section up there at once and try to recapture those boats. The Gossamer will carry you up to the Red. I'm sending one of Freret's cavalry companies along with you."
    "Yes, sir." Jamie handed him the dispatch and turned to go. At the door he glanced back and saw Sibley removing the cork from a whiskey bottle. He turned away, hiding sadness and disgust.
    Outside the afternoon was scarcely brighter than morning had been. It was a gray day, and Rosedale had a soggy air overall; recent rains had caused the bayou just to the east to flood, and the land was flat as could be, so everything was equally wet. Jamie glanced up at Live Oaks, the home of Mr. Dickinson who had graciously permitted the Valverde Battery to camp on one of his fallow fields. The gigantic old live oak out in front of the plantation house was the largest Jamie had ever seen. He strode past it on the muddy track lined with the wild rosebushes that gave the village its name, then jogged the rest of the way to the battery's camp. He found his tentmate, Lt. John Foster, the battery's chief of caissons, taking inventory of spare harness with the help of several privates, some from Jamie's section.
    "Hey, John. I'm taking my section up to the Red."
    A private holding an armful of leather glanced up. Jamie nodded to him.
    "Willis, go tell Sergeants Schroeder and O'Niell we've got marching orders, then start rounding up the boys, double-quick."
    Willis happily dumped his burden into an open chest and hurried off. Foster glared at Jamie over his spectacles. "Thanks. I was just wishing I could start over."
    "Sorry," Jamie said, grinning. "Sibley's orders. We're off to catch boats."
    "Hope you fall in the river." Foster pushed the spectacles up on his nose and flapped a hand in farewell before returning to his inventory.
    Jamie hurried to the picket rope where the horses were tied. Cocoa tossed her head and whickered a greeting. He ran a hand along her flank--warm and soft, though a bit thin--and gave her a pat before ducking under the rope to fetch her saddle blanket.
    "That's right, girl. We're going for a ride."
    Cocoa wasn't that much to look at: a liver chestnut mare with a white star on her forehead, a little smaller than average and therefore suited to the ranch work she'd been bred for. She had been his from the moment she was born, and she was his chief consolation in the field. He had ridden her to New Mexico, lost her at Glorieta Pass, mourned all through the hellish retreat and then by a stroke of luck taken her back from a Yankee Irishman in a skirmish in some godforsaken arroyo west of the Rio Grandé.
    By the time Jamie had Cocoa saddled his section was beginning to assemble in the part of the field the battery used for drilling. The two cannon were ready: a 6-pounder field gun and a 12-pound mountain howitzer, with the limbers that would haul them. This mismatched pair was not the usual complement of a field section, but they were special guns, trophy guns, guns men had bled over and died for and sweated to haul out of New Mexico. The names of the officers who had died in their capture were engraved on the tubes. Jamie couldn't have been more proud of them if they had been brand new rifled cannon.
    The caissons that carried the spare ammunition chests were pulling into line as he arrived. The drivers were ahead of the game; most of the cannoneers were still finding their places in the column, shrugging into packs snatched up in haste. There were horses enough to haul the guns, but the battery never had been able to get enough to mount the men. At least they wouldn't have to march far, only to the Atchafalaya. From there the transport Gossamer would take them up to the Red River.
    Jamie felt a flutter in his gut at the prospect of action. So far he had never commanded his guns in a fight. They were capable of killing many men at once; he had seen these very guns do so. Would that haunt him, he wondered, as the unknown Yankee he had killed with a shotgun at Valverde still haunted him? Perhaps he would find out today.

    Evening was coming on by the time the Queen returned to the Mississippi. They had gone fifteen miles up the Red without encountering any more boats, and would have continued but for the fact that they were running short of coal. Nat and Sperry had come up to the hurricane deck after supper to watch the last of the sunset, a feeble, gray affair. By that time the Queen was making her way up the Mississippi at a painfully dawdling pace. The three prizes could not keep up with her normal speed. Their shapes were already distant and dim in the evening haze. Nat looked up at the early stars, remembering how Charlie had taught him their names.
    There's a bright star shining for you, boy. You're a born pilot.
    Nat's throat tightened all at once. He had loved Charlie--laughing Charlie, devil-may-care Charlie--who had taught him more about life in one carefree summer than he had ever learned from his father. He wondered if Wheat, Sr. knew it, and if that was what made him so hateful.
    First Master Thompson came up the companionway and looked around until he spotted Nat. "Mr. Wheat, Colonel Ellet wants to see you in his quarters."
    Nat looked up in surprise at Thompson's formality. Usually the first master called him "Chips." He glanced at Sperry, then followed the officer below.
    Oil lamps lit the cabin outside the colonel's quarters. Thompson knocked on the door, which was opened by Ellet himself.
    "Thank you, Mr. Thompson," he said, and beckoned Nat inside.
    The room was spare of furnishings and as tidy as the superabundance of correspondence on the desk would allow. The only things approaching ornaments were a framed daguerrotype of the colonel's late father on the wall and his plumed hat, embellished with the infantry bugle of the Mississippi Marine Brigade, hanging on a hook above the bed.
    Ellet sat down behind the desk and waved Nat to a cane chair. "I want to thank you for helping with the incendiary charges we used against the Vicksburg. It seems to me that they were quite effective."
    "Thank you, sir."
    "I have had word that she was irreparably damaged in the fight. The Rebels have taken her machinery ashore."
    Nat sat a little straighter. "Good news."
    "Yes. Have you a good supply of turpentine remaining? Enough to spare more of it?"
    "Yes," Nat said slowly. "How much more do you need?"
    Ellet picked up a pencil from the desk and toyed with it briefly, then set it down with a snap. "Enough to ensure that the three boats we captured today burn."
    Nat felt a moment's dismay. "Why?" he blurted.
    "We cannot afford to wait for them. Our coal is too low."
    Three perfectly good boats, Nat thought. Fifty tons of pork on the Moro, thirteen of flour on the Berwick Bay, plus sugar, molasses, cotton. All that potential prize money, burned and sunk. What a waste.
    "The Berwick will be easiest," Ellet said. "That cotton will burn right enough." He gave a wry chuckle, and Nat glanced up to see him looking amused. Remembering their recent adventure with burning cotton, Nat gave a reluctant grin. Since Vicksburg the colonel had ordered that the bales be wetted down before going into action.
    Nat tried to think of a way to avoid firing the boats, but there was none. To cast them adrift would be giving them back to the Rebels, whom the colonel wanted to deprive of the supplies as well as the transportation. They couldn't even save the supplies; the Queen was fully stocked except for coal, and crowded to boot, with the handful of officers taken prisoner from the Moro. Ellet was right. They would have to be burned.
    "We can do it," he said, stifling a sigh.
    "Good. I will send word to Captain Conner to recall the prize crews." He turned back to his desk, signaling dismissal.
    Nat stood up and started toward the door, pausing to glance back at the young colonel, who seemed not quite so very young at the moment. "Good night, sir."
    Ellet nodded once, not looking up. Nat pulled the door quietly closed behind him.

    Jamie stood between his guns on the bow of the Gossamer, watching a skiff row toward them in the falling dark. The stamp and shuffle of confined horses sounded behind him. The cavalry company numbered only thirty, but they and the four teams of Jamie's section did a good job of filling the transport.
    This waterway, the Old River, was the link that connected the Atchafalaya, the Red, and the Mississippi. Jamie didn't quite understand how they all came together, but he knew there was a large island in the middle and that Captain Freret's pickets were stationed on the west bank of the Mississippi below the confluence. Likely it was they who had sent the skiff. If not, there could be trouble in a minute.
    When the skiff was in hailing distance, the Gossamer's first mate, Edwards, called out a challenge. Sign and countersign were traded over the twilit waters, and the small craft come alongside the Gossamer and tied up to her. Two men in civilian dress got out. The newcomers spoke first with Edwards, then came over to Jamie. One of them stepped forward, his face barely visible in the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat, and reached out a hand.
    "Russell? I'm Bill Freret." His handshake was firm but made no challenge. Jamie immediately liked him.
    "Pleased to meet you, Captain. I've brought some of your men up."
    "So I see. We'll land them back at Simmesport, if that's all right with you."
    "What about the gunboat?"
    "It came down again a little while ago and started up the river. I am afraid you have missed your chance to retake the boats. They are still in sight, if you want to have a look."
    Jamie scowled, half frustrated, half relieved that there would not be a fight. "How close are we?"
    For answer Freret gestured eastward, and Jamie saw that the Gossamer was about to enter a vast expanse of water--the Mississippi. He had never seen it. At first glance in the dark it seemed to go on forever.
    Edwards gave hasty orders for the dousing of the Gossamer's lights. The boat slid out into the great river and turned its nose upstream. This slowed its progress considerably; they seemed barely to be moving against the current.
    "Are you going to put on more steam?" Jamie asked Edwards.
    "Not for all your mother's jewels. If we blow any cinders in this dark, that goddamn gunboat'll come after us, too."
    Jamie looked at the three captured boats strung out on the river, dark shapes that seemed small in comparison with a fourth, much larger vessel well above. "So close," he murmured.
    Freret nodded. "Yes, but we're no match for that gunboat. She's got--Whitmore, how many guns did you say she's got?"
    The other man who had come from the skiff stepped forward. He was tall, and before the lights had been put out Jamie had noticed that he wore a black suit and spectacles. "Five guns," he said. "I saw them myself."
    Five guns, Jamie thought. It was a good thing he had arrived too late; his two cannon could not have done much against such a heavily-armed vessel.
    "You were aboard?" he asked Whitmore.
    "I was on the Moro when she was captured. The gunboat came right up beside us." Whitmore turned to Edwards. "May I ask if you are the captain of this vessel, sir?"
    "First mate. Captain's ill."
    "I see. Well, sir, may I inquire whether you can take several passengers up to Alexandria? The Moro was to have brought us there."
    "I'm all full of horses and army mules," Edwards said. "Got to take them back down to Simmesport, eh, Lieutenant?"
    Whitmore spoke before Jamie could answer. "Then perhaps you could carry us there? I would not ask it, but there are several ladies among us, and they would prefer to find some shelter for the night. At the moment we are camped in the drawing room at Rosehall."
    Jamie frowned. He had heard of Rosehall, hadn't he? He glanced toward Freret.
    "It would be better for them not to be at Rosehall," the cavalry captain agreed. "The owner is away, as it happens."
    "Then we should pick up the ladies," Jamie said.
    Edwards chuckled. "Handful of ladies aboard? Won't that be a shame. Better tie up your boys, gentlemen, or there's like to be a riot." He laughed again at his jest, then added, "I'll go make them some room on the upper deck. How many altogether?"
    Instead of answering, Whitmore shouted, "Fire!"
    "Hsst!" Edwards clapped a hand over the man's mouth. The civilian pointed toward the boats upstream, and Jamie saw that one of them was indeed afire. He stared, helplessly watching as the flames climbed the steamboat's structure. Upriver fire blossomed on the second, then the third boat.
    Edwards hastened away, giving orders to retreat into the mouth of the Red River. He need not have bothered, for beyond the flames Jamie saw the gunboat speeding away. He, Freret, and Whitmore watched the abandoned boats become giant, floating bonfires. It was pretty, Jamie thought. Pretty and terribly sad. With a vicious pang, he remembered the loss of his wagon train at Glorieta Pass, that awful day nearly a year ago. It had felt like everything he had labored for was burning to ash and cinder before his eyes.
    Edwards returned once the Gossamer had withdrawn into the Red. Freret went out again in the skiff, and Jamie and the others waited on deck for his signal that the gunboat was out of sight. When it came, the Gossamer--still dark--crossed the Mississippi and glided up to the landing on the opposite bank as gently as a leaf drifting against the shore. Mr. Whitmore, waiting for the stages to be lowered, glanced over at Jamie.
    "Thank you, sir, for rescuing our party."
    Jamie smiled. "Hardly a rescue. Simmesport isn't near as nice as that." He nodded toward the great house set back from the river, its windows glowing with warm light. Above the front door a huge, round window of stained glass gleamed like a jewel.
    "Then you may congratulate yourself on rescuing our hostess. No doubt she will be grateful to have her parlor to herself once more."
    Jamie raised his brows. "I thought the owner was away."
    "He is, but his wife is at home. A very gracious lady--"
    "Go ahead, sir," said one of the men who had lowered one of the stages to the landing.
    Whitmore stepped onto it. "We will not be long."
    Jamie watched him go ashore and stride up a long, arching drive that glowed softly pale in the starlight. He stifled a sigh. It was inconvenient having to collect these stray civilians, but if it had been his own sister or mother who was stranded, he would have wanted the military to help. With that in mind he had vacated the small stateroom that had been made available to him in favor of the stranded ladies. It was only for an hour or so; Simmesport wasn't far. Perhaps the ladies would be pleasant company.
    He laughed softly at himself. They were military wives according to Mr. Whitmore, and their husbands had either been captured or escaped into the river. They were unlikely to be in a pleasant mood.
    A short time later Mr. Whitmore returned. "Our hostess has asked one of the officers to come up to the house. She wants a message carried to her husband, who is on the Atchafalaya."
    "Why didn't she just give it to you to pass along?"
    The civilian gave a slight shrug. "I do not know. Perhaps it involves some military activity--she mentioned the construction of a fort."
    Jamie frowned. Freret had not returned, and he did not see the Gossamer's mate. Very well; he could use a stroll.
    "I will go."
    The night air was brisk ashore, away from the closeness aboard the boat. On his way up the long drive he passed an open carriage filled with ladies and one distempered-looking gentleman on their way down to the boat.
    The mansion was huge. The front porch had giant white pillars--so big he would only have been able to get his arms halfway around one--supporting a second storey that looked twenty feet high. A half dozen white-painted cane chairs did nothing to fill the porch. Windows flanked the tall double doors, and the stained-glass medallion above them glowed in tones of red, green and blue--a large, open rose surrounded by bud-covered vines.
    "Rosehall," he said to himself, frowning. He knew he had heard the place spoken of. Maybe one of Aunt May's friends in Galveston had mentioned it. No matter; he had an errand to discharge, the faster the better. It would be a long night before he had his section camped at Simmesport. Stepping up to the doors, he lifted the heavy brass knocker--rose-shaped--and gave three solid thumps.
    The grizzled negro who opened the doors wore a black suit finer than anything Jamie had ever put on, and moved with a stiffness that came from being old or being over-inclined to grandness, Jamie couldn't tell which. Maybe it was both, he thought, as the slave fixed him with a critical glare.
    "You are?"
    "Lieutenant Russell. I am to take a message--"
    "Very good, sah. This way."
    The butler ushered him in, then proceeded down the main hall of the house. Jamie followed, suddenly conscious of his attire. The hall he was in could have swallowed the Russells' ranch house with room to spare. Its walls were adorned with pastoral murals. Huge, glistening chandeliers illuminated the room.
    They passed an open doorway to a parlor occupied by murmuring civilians and miscellaneous items of luggage. Arriving at a closed door farther back in the hall, the butler knocked twice and then opened it. "The army officer is here, Madame."
    Jamie moved forward as the butler made way for him. The room seemed to be a library; he saw plush velvet furnishings, bookshelves, and a writing desk at which a lady was seated, engaged in folding a paper. A fire glowing on the hearth drew his attention--he longed to kneel down before it--but the lady rose, waving her fresh-sealed note to cool the wax, and turned to him. Whatever she had been about to say died on her lips as her eyes widened in surprise. Equally surprised and a little alarmed, Jamie blurted the name that flashed into his mind.
    "Mrs. Hawkland!"