Jeff, I don’t know what’s the matter with you!”
Captain Nelson Majors stared across the tent at his son. His skin was darkly tanned, and he had hazel eyes that seemed to penetrate whatever he looked at. He had a black mustache, and his eyebrows matched. He had been called one of the “Black Majorses” back in Kentucky where he grew up.
He stood tall now in his captain’s uniform with the Engineers insignia on his shoulder.
“You’ve been going around like a whipped puppy for a week. I know the army’s not doing very much right now, but these are the times we get ready for the battle that’s to come. Now what’s the matter with you, Jeff?”
“Well …” Jeff hated to admit that he had had another disagreement with Leah—the two had had arguments before, because both of them were very sensitive—but finally he could not bear the weight of his father’s glance. “Oh, Leah and I had a fight,” he finally admitted.
“Can’t you two ever get along? What is it this time?”
Jeff flushed. He refused to tell what had actually happened. He finally mumbled, “Oh, you know how girls are. A fellow can’t get along with them!”
“Well, I know how you are!” the captain said, glaring at his son. “You’re acting like a spoiled brat! I’m downright ashamed of the way you behave sometimes!”
Jeff was ready to end the conversation long before his father was. He loved his father dearly, and, since the loss of his mother, they had been especially close.
The two of them, along with Tom, Jeff’s nineteen-year-old brother, were in the Stonewall Brigade. This was not unusual, for brothers and fathers and sons often tried to stay in the same outfit. But now, with his father still berating him, Jeff wished he would finish.
In the middle of a sentence, a voice called out, “Captain Majors!”
The captain looked toward the tent flap, and a look of pleasure came over his face. “George Bier! What in the world are you doing in Richmond?”
The man who entered, Jeff had never seen before. He was short, had black hair, a short black beard, and a pair of direct gray eyes. He was wearing a naval uniform. He shook hands with Capt. Majors, then turned as the captain introduced his son.
“This is Jeff, my son,” Majors said. “I don’t think you’ve met him.”
“Glad to know you, Jeff.”
“Glad to know you, sir.”
“You’re in the Stonewall Brigade too?”
“Yes, sir. I’m a drummer boy.”
“Fine—fine! I was on Jackson’s staff myself, but now I’m just a humble sailor.”
“Captain Bier’s one of the blockade runners—the best of them, I think,” Jeff’s father explained. “Don’t get him talking about his ship, the Greyhound. He’ll bore you to death!”
Bier laughed roughly. “A captain that’s not proud of his ship isn’t worth much,” he said. “Well, are you going to feed me or not?”
Entertaining Captain Bier turned out to be a pleasure for Jeff. He was one of Nelson Majors’s old friends. The two had been together at West Point, but both had chosen to fight for the South. Bier, indeed, had been a soldier for a brief time but was far more useful to the Confederacy in running the blockade.
Jeff had little to do, and Bier stayed overnight. After Captain Majors had gone to bed, Bier said, “I can’t sleep yet, Jeff. Show me around the camp.”
The two of them strolled through the encampment, then came back to the tent that Bier had been assigned. “Sit down and talk with me awhile.”
Jeff was glad enough to do so, for he was not sleepy either. “Where’s your ship?” he asked.
“In Wilmington.”
“Wilmington? That’s up by the Cape Fear River, isn’t it?”
“Well, you know your geography, I see. That’s the best harbor we’ve got now.”
“Wilmington is?”
“Why, yes. Look here, Jeff …” Captain Bier pulled out a sheet of paper and found a stub of pencil in his pocket. “Wilmington is seventeen miles up the Cape Fear River. See? And that river divides into two channels—both of them protected by the guns of Fort Fisher and Fort Caswell. That means that the Yankees have to use two blockading fleets to cover the coast—almost fifty ships. Well, we’ve got a shallow coast—lots of little islands to dodge around—which makes it pretty nice for us who run the blockade.”
Jeff said, “That makes sense, all right. I sure wish I could go on a ship sometime.”
“Yes, it’s a fine life. Of course, we get criticized for making money.” A humorous light touched the captain’s eyes, and he added, “I really don’t think I’m all that greedy, but I admit there is a great deal of money to be made blockade running.”
“I didn’t know that, Captain. Just how much money is there in running the blockade?”
Captain Bier’s eyes glowed. “Why, Jeff, one blockade runner turned a profit of $425,000 on a single round trip between Wilmington and Nassau!”
“Wow! He must be rich!”
“He retired on that one trip.”
“That’s pretty nice.”
“Not bad for a simple captain.”
“How much do sailors make on blockade runners?”
“Captains can get as much as $5,000 in gold for a round trip to Nassau. My chief engineer gets $2,500, and every member of the crew gets $250.”
Jeff swallowed hard. “A private in the army gets only $14 a month.”
“I know—and it’s not right,” Bier answered. “But then I stand the chance of losing my ship—my life savings.”
“I can see that. And I know the Confederacy needs the powder and shot you bring back.”
“Not all ships bring back war supplies, I’m afraid,” the captain said. “The owner of the Don brought back one thousand pairs of corset stays.”
“What!”
“I thought it was wrong, but Captain Hampden likes money. He also brought back a patent medicine from England that was supposed to cure liver ailments. It didn’t, though. He sold the shipment in Nassau, or so I heard.”
“Why would they want so many liver pills in Nassau?”
“Jeff, that place is a madhouse! Packed with sailors on leave, confidence men, cardsharpers—all with lots of money! They’re a reckless lot, I tell you! Determined to eat, drink, and be merry with not a thought for anything else!”
The two talked far on into the night, and finally Captain Bier gave Jeff an odd look. “It’s too bad you’re in the army, in a way, Jeff.”
“Why is that, sir?”
“Because I’m in need of another hand on the Greyhound. I could take you with me.”
“But I’m not a sailor.”
“The hand I need is more of a cabin boy. I need somebody to take care of my personal effects—take care of me, really.”
“Why, I could do that!” Jeff exclaimed. The idea of going on a sea voyage suddenly struck him. “Say, I’d give anything if I could go with you—but it takes a long time to sail to England.”
“Oh, I’m not going to England.”
“You’re not?”
“No, I’m going to Bermuda. Very few of the blockade runners go to England. I’ll take a load of cotton to Bermuda and sell it to British brokers. Then I’ll buy war supplies, medicine, and food and bring them right back to Wilmington.” He gave Jeff another odd look, then said again, “Too bad you’re in the army. It’d be an exciting trip for you—and it pays well.”
Finally Jeff said good night, but he could not sleep. He tossed on his bunk until Charlie Bowers, his fellow drummer, mumbled, “I wish you’d be still, Jeff! Nobody can sleep with you thrashing around like that.”
The next morning Jeff accosted his father at daybreak. “Captain, can I come in?” He remembered to use his father’s military title.
“Well, come on.”
Jeff walked into the tent to see his father shaving.
“What are you doing here this early, Jeff?”
“I talked to Captain Bier last night,” he said carefully. He had thought this all out, and his eyes were gleaming. “He says he could use a cabin boy on his next voyage to Bermuda. I’d like to go with him.”
“Why, you can’t do that! You’re in the army!”
“I know, but there’s nothing to do right now,” Jeff said plaintively. “You know we’re not going anywhere for the next two weeks—not till the replacements get here and get trained. We’d be back long before then, Captain Bier said. We’re just going to the Bahamas and right back.”
Captain Majors brought the gleaming razor down over one cheek, wiped the lather on a cloth on his free arm, then turned to stare at Jeff. “I never heard of such a thing—a soldier going off on a vacation!”
“But it’s for the Confederacy, Pa. You know how much good the blockade runners do.”
“You’re right there. If it weren’t for them, we’d just about starve to death. We sure wouldn’t have any gunpowder.” He continued to stare at his son. “You’d really like to go?”
“Pa, it would be so interesting—and he’d pay me too. I could send some money back to the Carters to take care of Esther.”
Jeff knew this was a sore spot with his father. The captain’s pay was very low, and it was in Confederate money. He was deeply grateful to the Carters for keeping Esther, but for a long time he had wanted to do something to defray their expenses.
“You’d like to do that, would you, Jeff?” he repeated.
“Yes, and we could send all the money back to Kentucky. It would pay for Esther’s clothes and food and—why, everything, Pa.” Excited, he again forgot to use his father’s military title. “Can I go, Pa? Would it be all right?”
“Well, I’ll think on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jeff knew better than to pressure his father, but somehow he thought it would happen.
Later that morning, his father stopped by where Jeff was cleaning his boots and said, “Jeff, I think it might be all right for you to make that trip. It would help financially, and it would be good for the cause too.”
Jeff was overjoyed and went at once to Captain Bier’s tent. “Captain, my father says I can go with you.”
“Why, that’s fine, Jeff. We’ll make a sailor out of you—a short-term one. Wilmington, Greyhound, here we come!” He grinned at the boy, but then said, “People have been known to get hurt on these expeditions, but you’re not afraid of that?”
“No, sir. It won’t be as dangerous as being on a battlefield, and it’ll be a lot more fun.”
Captain Bier rubbed his chin. “Sometimes it’s fun—and sometimes not so much fun. In any case, get your things together, and I’ll show you what it’s like to be a sailor.”