Читать книгу Case of the Dixie Ghosts - A. A. Glynn - Страница 4

PROLOGUE

THE LAST CONFEDERATE BATTLE FLAG

On an August morning in 1865, sailors on the deck of the merchantman Barracouta, of Liverpool, stared open-mouthed across the sun-smitten waters off the coast of California at the flag fluttering from the high masts of the sleek vessel that had recently come into view and was now drawing closer to their own ship. “She’s built for fast travel and she’s armed,” rumbled the Barracouta’s grizzled bo’sun. “She has guns fore and aft—but look at her flag and where’s she been all these months? Better call the captain.”

When the ship’s master appeared on deck, his astonishment matched that of his crew.

“Damned rum business, encountering the like of her,” he exclaimed. “She’s like a ghost out of the recent past. I hope she has no intention of using those guns on us before we parley. She looks uncommon dangerous.”

Soon, the British captain’s voice, amplified by a brass speaking trumpet, boomed over the water: “Ahoy, there! We’re the Barracouta, out of Liverpool. What ship are you? Your colours intrigue us!”

A tall man among a cluster of uniformed officers aboard the other vessel raised his own trumpet to his lips and answered in a firm voice: “We’re the commerce raider Shenandoah. I am Commander James I. Waddell, Navy of the Confederate States of America. I have the honour to command this craft on the active service of that nation.”

The English captain’s astonishment echoed in his answer: “Are you not aware, Commander, that the war between the American states is over? It finished a good three months ago. Have you been off the face of the earth that you do not know it?”

“We have been in arctic waters, destroying Yankee whalers, for a long spell,” replied the American. “We had word the war was going badly with us some time ago. I trust you are not jesting and it has indeed ended, sir. If so, with what result?”

“I regret to report that the Southern Confederacy was defeated. The North’s Mr. Lincoln is dead—assassinated. The old union of states has been restored,” the British captain shouted. “My nation kept aloof from your internal affairs, but I think it right to tell you that the present government of America is calling you people who raided United States’ merchant shipping on the high seas a set of pirates. There’s every danger of your being executed if you give yourselves up in an American port. For myself, I’d hate to see skilled and brave sailors swinging from the gallows when they believed they were serving their country.”

There was a brief interval of heavy silence, then Commander James Waddell replied:

“We’re aware of what the Yankees think of us, Captain, and I’m obliged to you for your kindly sentiments and for the news, dreadful though it is. You may tell the world that when you met us we were contemplating a bold attack on San Francisco which we heard is poorly defended, but we altered course to sail well away from an America where the Union has triumphed at the heavy cost of Southern lives.”

“Where are you bound?” asked the master of the Barracouta.

“That’s a matter for consultation between my officers and myself, but I have a notion your own pleasant land, where I once spent a goodly spell, will be mooted as a good choice.”

“Will you strike your colours, sir?” asked the British captain.

“Never, sir! We doubtless have a long voyage before us, but we carry what must be the last Confederate battle flag to fly in the breeze and, by thunder, we’ll bear it proudly to whatever port we finally come to rest in.”

The captain of the Barracouta gave an appreciative chuckle. “Your courage does you credit, Commander. May you have a good voyage—and may you not meet any hostile Yankee warships.”

Exactly three months later, after an arduous journey, navigated by her young sailing master, Lieutenant Irvine Bulloch, and cautiously putting in at several ports for a modicum of supplies, the Shenandoah approached the mouth of the River Mersey, wreathed by the first of November’s fogs.

Off the estuary stood a British warship, HMS Donegal. Waddell signalled her and, through her captain, formally surrendered to the British government.

The following morning, escorted by the Donegal, the Shenandoah docked at Liverpool. It was a kind of homecoming for the vessel. For it was in Liverpool that she started her life as a Confederate raider.

Created for the fast tea run, to bring tea to the British Isles, she was originally named the Sea King.Through a combination of finances from wealthy British supporters of the rebel Southern government and that government’s most effective and remarkable secret agent, who happened to be the half-brother of Lieutenant Irvine Bulloch, the Shenandoah’s sailing master, she was secretly acquired in Liverpool and refitted for the warlike role in which she distinguished herself.

British customs officers came aboard as Waddell retired to his cabin to write to Lord Russell, Queen Victoria’s Foreign Minister, surrendering the vessel, with all her supplies and armaments, to the British authorities. A short time later the ship’s company gathered on deck for a last time and, in a brief ceremony, the last active Confederate battle flag of the American Civil War was lowered not on the American continent but in Liverpool, half a year after hostilities ceased

Among the ship’s officers, keeping low behind a group of taller men was the mysterious little hunchback known only as Mr. Fortune. No one knew anything definite about his background except that he was supposed to be some kind of Confederate official who had slipped away from the capital, Richmond, Virginia, on the fall of the Southern government. He somehow made his way to the Azores and came aboard the Shenandoah when she put in there to resupply. He was suddenly there one morning, visible with the officers among whom he was quartered and who seemed to give him some special respect. He never mingled with the common seamen.

He was not a prepossessing presence, small with his back burdened by a marked hump. His civilian clothing was travel-stained but respectable, and such as a modest businessman might wear. His face was lean, lantern-jawed, and that of one used to hard living. Under bushy brows, he had remarkable, glittering eyes. He said little but, when overheard in conversation with the officers, his accent was notably Southern.

Commander Waddell appeared on deck, walking with his characteristic limp caused by a wound received in a duel over an affair of the heart when a young cadet at the U.S. Naval Academy. He was accompanied by his steward who bore a large wooden box out of which the necks of several bottles protruded.

The half dozen British customs officers, who had boarded to check the ship’s contents, stood in a row close to the companionway in order to guard against any of the crew slipping ashore and illegally entering the country before being officially recorded.

Waddell gave them a genial nod. “Gentlemen, we have a small quantity of choice port picked up on our travels,” he announced. “I trust it will not be seized as contraband.”

The heavily-bearded senior customs man matched his geniality.

“Not at all, Commander. It’s accepted that a captain may have a quantity of bottled cheer in his keeping for hospitality’s sake.”

“Then let hospitality be the word,” said Waddell heartily. “Will you and your officers join us in a glass to mark such a favourable end to our voyage?”

The customs man shook his head. “Alas, no, sir. It’s against regulations when we’re on duty,” he said dolefully.

“Then my officers and the ship’s company will drink a toast to your queen, who has graciously granted us sanctuary,” Waddell responded. “Steward, break out the port and the glasses.”

The customs officers snapped rigidly to attention when Waddell raised a full glass and, in the accent of his native North Carolina but as solemnly as any president of a British military mess, intoned: “Her Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria!”

The non-drinking customs men chorused: “Queen Victoria, God bless her!”

They failed to see hunchbacked little Mr. Fortune hastily slip out from the group of officers behind whom he lurked and move under the cover of a deckhouse. Behind their very backs, he nimbly and noiselessly descended the companionway. He disappeared into the dank river mist creeping over the cobbles of Liverpool’s cargo cluttered docks.