(Full story written so far can be found at….https://www.wattpad.com/story/351701551-1861 )
Charleston. South Carolina. Confederate States of America. 1861
CSS Nashville escapes to Charleston.
Misters of rank, masters of man black, dark, tanned…James Mason and John Slidell, tasked with a mission of great urge and import for the breakaway Confederate States, disembarked promptly at Charleston Harbour, South Carolina. Safe deliverance been freshly made on the good steamer CSS Nashville; Still panting thick black bellows of angry smoke from a roaring engine fuelled on coal and coke, having made good speed and haste after such dramatic escape from a heavy Union Navy blockade.
Making long strides, fair pace, the two men needed neither nights shadow nor hooded cloaks to hide form or face; For a foul storm raged this very night, adverting the prying eyes of the curious, Northern sympathises or spies on the take inwards towards hearth, home, harlot…Affording the men safe allowance to swiftly reboard the planks of CSS Nashville’s berthed neighbour, the sleek, fast Privateer…Theodora.
No sooner had said man trod Theodora’s deck, welcomed with silent glares from a tired Captain and crew whose plans of drinking and loving were well earnt and long overdue, now cut short on a President’s orders writ, urgent matters of war and state making the Privateer already late: When moorings were quickly slipped, for ship to silently disappear into the night and a howling gales dark smothering delight.
Mason and Slidell meet the President.
A week prior to day and almost same hour late, Mason and Slidell had made acquaintance in Richmond, Virginia at the White House of the Southern Confederacy. Slidell, a Louisianian Senator fading in age and past loyalty to Unionism had arrived first to the Chambers of President Jefferson Davis. Mason, a Virginian Senator passionate for freedoms of all man on keeping slaves, followed close to hand. Both keen to know, but not outwardly show, on what conditions they have been so hastily summoned, at a time mutually agreed, better suited for a prowl, prance or better still clandestine romance.
Kept in wait they paced the antechamber. Shackled dogs of war salivating, anticipating, the chance to snap the hand of Abraham, to crunch the back bone of Unionism, to bite the bloated belly of Federalism, and like all good dogs, happiest with a task to do, owner to please, lick, paw, defend the master that feeds.
They did not have to wait long, the Nation was in dire need…The door opened, they were summoned.
“Have we been given Commission?” Enquired Slidell. “I do fancy command of a ship if I may, my seamanship is worthy of any regatta.”
“A battery of cannon would do me!” Mason said, just as eager to please. “I’ve done my readings on Napoleon and Von Clausewitz, I’m ready to inflict bombarding hits, outfox, outwit the enemy.”
“Relax gentleman…Relax! Your commitment is just and true, but General Lee has enough cannon fodder conscripts due, walking dead is not what I need of you. Here take a chair my friends, have a drink, then we shall begin…”
Jefferson paused before delivering the words that would cut as sharp as any sword.
“The eternal glory of gut and gun are for other men this war. The gravity and precariousness of our situation before us is great and severe with outcomes clouded and unclear…You have indeed now been called to serve…But to Europe you must go, without delay or rebuke. Do I make myself quite clear?!”
A reluctant leader, Jefferson was waning weary under burden heavy moving letters, paper and quill. A quick flurried tick, slaying Regiments, a squirrelled swirling signature, advancing Battalions, a heavy cross, ink splodged, retreating Divisions. Jefferson had hoped to face destiny as General of Arms, in the field of battle, leading the charge, dancing the two step between frying pan, shooting flames, rapid fire, not being a glorified clerk. Oh! Woe! Alas! Poor thee! Blood and valour will not be his or he, no medals of bravery pinned puffed chest, nor Southern belles to swoon at fame, kiss cheek, lapel caress, for that cumbersome yoke of duty a heavy weight shoulder borne, even a President is not free to do as pleased in times of war.
That irony not lost on Jefferson fighting at all cost for the freedom of Southern ways, as fate had chosen his path and a desk he must sit, now he too shall choose Mason and Slidell’s…And they too must make the best of it!
“But! I thought we had the North licked, we have won every battle of consequence up to now…Have we not Mister President?” Asked Slidell, not happy at losing a commission, which in entitled imagination was by rights, his!
“Indeed!… Indeed! Mister Slidell that is most correct, fortunes of war have been most kind, and yes, the Confederacy has drawn much Northern blood, cut deep that Yankee line. Southern spirits soar high, morale is good and every day, I give thanks that the good Lord has blessed our army with the finest General since Wellington…For surely Lee is that, if not more…”
The President let out a sad tired sigh, bemoaning the heavy hanging weight of war on a leader’s slender neck, sleepless nights wondering if the hangman’s noose to choke, or medal at throat awaits conflict end.
“But this war my friends, will be like no other that has gone before, and I so pray ever after. Brother upon brother, cousin on cousin, son upon father…No conflict is as bloodthirsty, violent, hateful or most ungodly uncivil…Then that of a Civil…War!”
“What do you ask of us, Mister President? I stand ready and willing to serve the great cause and give my body as need be. I pledge my life; I surrender my liberty.” Mason said, biting the bit to enter the fray, even if in Europe, faraway. “
“As am I, Sir…As am I.” Slidell said standing proudly prone next to Mason, shoulders touching, brothers in cause, thither unknown.
“Good, good, for I need your past experiences in Governance for a mission of a different kind, but rest assured it still requires bravery, strong heart, shrewd mind, and have no fear, for danger will still find you in kind. But most importantly and hear me true and well…You must not sought nor seek danger…Nor fail!…For that matter…”
Jefferson opened an ornate carved box, sitting proudly on his old desk, passing the men fresh cob pipes and flakes of Virginian tobacco seeped in rum and wine that rested within. The President then packed his own pipe true, a gothic affair sporting curved etched stem with talon and three great claws gripping tight the cup…And lit, match blew, puffed, one, two, then bid the men, come, sit.
“Please let me explain my friends. We can fight the Union and hold them in strategic defence, arm’s length, for good time, but not long time. We can even invade the North, capture home, town, roam unheeded county, state, burn, pillage and yes…Yes! Sadly, some will plunder and rape.”
“But what we take, we cannot make ours, nor hold for long. We are one to four against, they have the factories, gold, railroads, iron and many ships to blockade our ports, starving the South of munitions, goods and more…We will fight the good fight, but we will lose in due cause.”
The President downed his glass, taking comfort from the soothing embrace of good whiskey warming head, blood, flushing red face.
“Every rebel solider is equal to ten of those Yankees, they have no backbone, no fight, and we have God and right on our side.” Protested Mason.
“Indeed, indeed, but they will find more men, and more men will come, and every brave southern boy that falls, will leave another empty gap in our thin grey line. Gentleman…Heed my words, heed them well!
“Brave young Privates win the skirmish.”
“Tough old Sergeants hold firm the line.”
“Wise cunning Commanders master the battlefield.”
“But!…But it is the fat lazy cooks with bulging stores, ample beer, dried meat, hard bread.”
“Tight arsed quartermasters overstocked with boot, blanket, gun and shot.”
“Paymaster Generals, proud, puffed chest, pockets full with gold and coin, regular to pay the forlorn…”
“Now they win the wars!”
Picking up the crystal carafe the President refilled the gentlemen’s glasses.
“I don’t understand.” Murmured Slidell into a quickly emptied glass.
“Gentlemen let me explain, we need supplies, food, ammunition, guns uniforms and plenty of them, we need the naval blockades lifted, we need monies, we need trade, we need international recognition and support, and for that gentleman, we must have England, France, or better yet!…Both!”
More drinks poured and pause given, for the ritual of smoking giving good time for contemplation and thought, the Chambers filled with aromas hinting of pepper, nut, oak, smells of home and hope.
“Cotton…Cotton it is what we fight for and what will be our saving grace. King Cotton diplomacy I call it. Your task I give before you is this…Remind England and France, and the rest of Europe for that matter, that a blockade of our ports ends all trade. The factories of England will come to a standstill, the weavers and mill workers of rural Europe will be ruined! Why only last year the old continent purchased almost four million bales of our cotton…Four million I say!”
Mason and Slidell smiled as they enjoyed their smoke, late to game, but quick to see a master’s stroke. The threat of economic ruin sure to win favourable vote within the powers of old, even alliance was not so remote, all cards to be played with a game of such high stakes, to win all or all go broke.
“Perhaps even remind England that they have some old scores to settle with the Union, that 1814 war being not so long ago, after all I am sure there will be a few old soldiers with faded redcoats and smarting rumps itching for revenge, to give Washington another thump, and of course the South would form a natural and strong alliance against the land hungry Federalists, who are most certainly eyeing up that Northwest frontier, and who knows, perhaps even Canada itself…And does not France plan a venture in Mexico, something the Union would have no patience for?”
The President continued…
“I have secured you both passage on the CSS Nashville, a paddle steamer of some speed, make due for England, make haste, avoid heed…From there company must be parted. Slidell make for Paris, your French language skills will put you in good stead, Mason you must go to Liverpool and London, you are expected…Gentleman this mission holds as much import to me and our just and virtuous cause as being given ten fresh divisions of the finest Kentuckians. We must seek and gain support from England or France, for without diplomatic recognition and military support our great quest for freedom will not succeed, but flounder and die like those poor Northern boys on the banks of the Bull when they tested and tasted our brave Rebel resolve.”
Mason and Slidell escape the Union blockade.
Those grand plans and wise words of Jefferson now sunk, however, as sure as they themselves would be. Word of the Diplomatic endeavour reaching the long ears of another President…Lincoln, quick to see the threat of European intervention, despatched all Union ships to task, due haste, forcing the Nashville to divert to nearest Port, and now with five Northern Warships blockading the Main Channel from Charleston Harbour to Atlantic Sea, escape was anything but certain, a most unlikely impossibility.
But in 1861 the gods of war was shining southwards. Blackburn’s Ford, Bulls Run, Wilson’s Creek, and now Charleston Chase. At one in the morning a Thor’s thunderstorm rolled in from the Atlantic, a divine tempest heard twenty miles away, if not more. With Mason and Slidell now quickly and quietly stowed on the sleek, fast Theodora… The Captain, T. J. Lockwood quickly gave the embarkation order!
Captain Lockwood a pirate commissioned, rogue in rank, reckless in ambition, brave to many, dark and dashing rough to Charleston’s ladies of society and occasional harlot, had ran Northern gauntlets twenty times and then some. His plan tonight no change, take the Theodora, fine of line, small of draught through the narrow and shallow of river and mouth, avoid the main waterway of deep Charleston Channel, outfox the larger ships of the North, with speed, cunning, stealth.
Poor weather helped Lockwood’s cause, theheavy hammer of Thor breaking the silent sea asunder, exploding dark clouds roared angry thunder, horizon flickered between day and night after each lightning strike, musket balls of ice hailed down in vicious salvos between sheets of sleet curtaining Theodora’s nautical dance of escape.
The five Northern ships in blockade did their best, late to spot or make haste, fat old Captains tripping over there aiguillettes and gold braids as they rolled out of bed still drunk from dinner ordering…
“Fire shot, make turn, head west, with all pace, sink the scoundrels they must not escape!”
“It is to late! It is to late! The experienced seaman would say.
Shallow draught led one ship aground, remaining four kept caution to wind and stayed course in the deep sound, firing salvo short or wide, too far and away to catch the Theodora she soon madeopen sea, a ghost disappearing, into night free.
Another hero and victory to the South remembered by few, footnotes to a brief mention of forgotten memories…Lockwood and the great Charleston Chase. It is said not often but still remains true, that history is written with the victor’s quill dipped deeply in the blood red ink of the fallen few, but history is not a timeline of fact, just a way to ease the mind of war, death and genocide after the fact.
Havana welcomes the Diplomats.
The following morn broke, good winds and fine sea, no enemy ship in sight that the watchmen could see. Noon marked the passing of a Sloop, Spanish flagged, far to starboard and of little concern, late in the day a fisher boat or two just within sight, before making north on the turn and lost to the twilight .
Mason and Slidell marked time well, played card, wrote letters, read, drank heavy on rum and stories of daring and do…Both in and out of bed from Captain Lockwood, tail long, tales tall too, and some claimed could almost be true…
The next day…“Land Ho!…Land Ho!”
The watchman cried with great excite! Shooting his bolt at the hope of forty-eight hours leave in a Cuban port, brown sugar flesh, cigars rolled sweet, rum dark or white, mother of pearls to pawn, booty to swipe.
Mason and Slidell safely delivered parted Theodora’s way, with a crew who barely noticed there trudge down the gangway, having just received the Captains standing orders…No man to be sober, able to stand by end of day, ten Dollar fine if instructions disobeyed.
The gentleman made for Havana, and the offices of the Confederacies clandestine affairs, the backroom of a back building in a back alley between neither known about nor cared. There they found waiting, fresh despatch from the President…
“With the enemy in knowledge of our intent, stealth can no longer be considered friend, shadows no longer provides hide, clandestine in movement gives late arrive. Now you must make great noise of this endeavour, a good deal of fuss, let all man know you are here, together. Shout loud your design to passage to England, safety now rests with the world sharing this secret, the Union will not dare touch you on foreign soil, they will not wish diplomatic turmoil.”
It was well and good that clandestine cloaks were cast aside, for by now every and all knew of their arrive. The Spanish papers making great press of the Diplomats dramatic escape from the Union blockade.
Invited to every grand ball and lavish reception, wined, dined with Havana’s elite of rich, powerful they were a sensation. Mason and Slidell made great show and tell, a symbolic two fingers to the Union, a punch to Lincoln’s grandiose nose, almost as if they had commanded the Theodora themselves, I suppose.
The Unionist Consulate General in Havana were most aggrieved, blood boiling raging face, tongues whipping remarks hate…” Arrest these men, traitors to a core, treasonous scum death to them all…!” Fists pounding desk, door, wall but Cuba had no intent to give them up, with polite rebuttal and smirking rebuff. The Civil War far from decided, Spain’s allegiance kept closely guarded.
A week of entertainments passed when news broke, the leading Cuban paper Diario De La Marina wrote…
“Misters Mason and Slidell after attending tonight’s grand ball as guest of honour in the presence of Cuba’s Governor General Francisco Serrano Domínguez Cuenca y Pérez de Vargas, will make short their stay in Havana, having obtained tickets to travel on the British Royal Mail Ship RMS Trent for departure tomorrow to England.”
With many other pages and passage given to column and editorial speculation, will the Southern Diplomats meet with treaty and accord or trial and tribulation?
Captain Wilkes is not amused.
History writ often large the tale of coincidence, fortune, luck. Devine wind, wooden horse, moonlit dark, Russian winter, drunken generals, knights stuck in mud and muck have all played piece and part in deciding a countries fate and path.
And so by design or not this day before the Trent was due to depart a pawn is played by the gods of chance, laughing above with the Union Frigate USS San Jacinto recent from the hunt, stalking Confederate Privateers in the Atlantic just so happened to arrive off the coast of Cuba.
With fresh supplies, meats, vegetables and the latest in word and affairs rowed in from shore Captain Charles Wilkes, the Commander of the San Jacinto was looking forward to a meal other than salted pork and hard tack, a newspaper, strong drink, smooth tabac, all being what a civilised man needs or wants.
“Lieutenant Fairfax! Lieutenant Fairfax!… God damn you man, where are you?” Shouted Wilkes from the Captain’s cabin. “Fairfax!”
Lieutenant Fairfax was soon present, a tall, fair young man, aging quickly under the presence of a Captain who left all pleasure and polite on shore.
“Reporting as called, Sir.”
Lieutenant Fairfax had not spent some time, nor good time in service under Wilkes, but the Navy considered him a talent, a brave explorer and able Captain who got the job done, whose rank was hindered from advancement only due to a few minor transgressions, namely massacring ninety Fijians natives on the Island of Malolo for reason little, and on occasion being court-martialled for mistreatment of the lower ranks. “Flog the fuckers!” Being his favourite mantrum.
Wilkes looking over his newspaper gave the young officer…The stare!
“Confederates spies mean to travel to Europe and enlist the services of foreign powers in the Southern cause…This cannot do, this cannot do at all!”
Wilkes threw the paper over and taking several angry slurps of brandy he watched his second in command read, much to slowly for his like.
“I mean to intercept the Trent and apprehend these brazen bastards.” Wilkes shouted angrily.
The Captain drinking from the bottle of impulse fortified with self-entitled opinion never wrong, slammed a clenched fist on the table for added dramatic determination of cause, reinforcing lubricated thoughts becoming words before being thoroughly thought through.
“I believe that would be illegal, Sir!” Fairfax although of youth was a man of more level head, better education and quite detested by his superior.
“Rubbish!”
“They travel on a neutral ship, Britain would be outraged at the affront, it could even be perceived as an act of war!” Fairfax as often his want, did his best to curtail the Captain’s worst propositions.
“Hmmmmm, maybe you are…Technically correct, but they simply cannot reach England, it would be a disaster for the Union if England or France recognized the legitimacy of the Confederacy.”
Wilkes could not help but look at his subordinate without a drop of contentment, slip of sneer. Raising a right eyebrow arched accusingly…
“Tell me, as I recall, and recall I do… Are you not the only one in your family fighting for the Union, is that not so Mister Fairfax?”
“My loyalty and honour is unshakable Sir, I can only counsel you on the dangers of stopping a neutral ship in open waters, perhaps we should consult the Law of the Sea or send enquiry to Washington?”
“We have no time for advice, the Trent sails first light, fetch the Law Book’s.”
The two officers spent some time reading passage and verse, jousting in legal battle, brandy fuelled debating interpretation. But the words of law, statute and precedent the mysterious crafted spells of the learned and learnt, and not the safe islands of inebriated seaman looking for rule bend, to serve or break.
“Contraband.” The Captain shouted, thumb on a page of obscure legality.
“Contraband… Sir?”
“Contraband!…By God!…Contraband, we can detain the Ambassadors and seize the RMS Trent as contraband of war!”
Fairfax protested little and worried much, the Captain had found his mission, and would stop not, will this be Fiji all over again, will this foolery bring war with England? Fairfax slept little that night.
The RMS Trent is apprehended.
Morn came, fine, warm, still Havana waters blue, a sky with just a wisp of a cloud, one, two. RMS Trent left promptly after breakfast on time, on que. Mason and Slidell two of many passengers to board this day and of little concern or consequence to ship and crew, having paid full fare they got their due, first-class passage to England, they knew not their cause, them they, them who?
The paddle steamer was soon making good passage through the straights of the Old Bahama Channel, gulls above, porpoises at bow, a good head of steam, passengers aloft still waving farewell.
Captain Moir, a Scots Scotsman holding the helm, happy to be at sea, ocean bound, freedom for a while from wife number three, who wanted more than occasional child making and boxes of spice or tea, but a Scotsman’s pocket has many holes where all coins and note hide, no monies to spare while wife one and two waited in Glasgow and Southampton with open hands and leg, and brats aplenty bringing no cheer, needing and wanting his earning for the month and year.
“Ship to bow!” The watch shouted. Pointing towards a large ship of war at lay mid water of the Straight dividing the Islands of Cuba and Bahamas.
“What flag does she fly under?” The Captain yelled aloft.
“I see no flag or pennant fluttering from mast.” The watched replied.
“Hoist our flags.” Captain Moir commanded. “Main mast and fore, the Mail flag and Union Jack on both, quickly now lad, quick lad.”
“Are they pirates?” A lady passenger asked, babe in arm standing near the wheel, part in jest, but fearing the unreal
“No lass, we have no need to fear, a buccaneer would never be so fool hardy as to attack a ship of Her Royal Majesties, probably a Spaniard or Frenchie on patrol, but it is always prudent to take care.”
No sooner had the Captain belayed fright and fear, calming frightened folk who gathered near when thunder roared in clear skies, a puff of smoke from yonder ship and a splash landing near and rear of the startled passengers and crew of the Trent, the attack a rude surprise.
“Good God they are firing at us the bastards.” The Captain shouted. “Do they not see the Jack? We fly under England’s protection! They must be mad”
“I think they mean business, Sir!” A sailor said as the large ship moved to block the passage, coming ever closer.
“Right lads! Prepare for some hard jib and tack, we can outrun the bastards.” The Captain ordered.
Although wind of little concern to a Steamer, the Captain had spent youth to prime on sailing Sloop, Clipper and Line, old saying hard to leave behind.
“It is too late; they are almost upon us.“ The watch cried.
“Fuck them pirates, we have to try…”
Before the Captain could finish, a second cannon loosened its load, landing just a few yards left to bow of the Trent.
“Heave too, and make anchor, prepare for board.” Captain Moir cried.
Brave the Captain and crew might be, with two score and ten of women and children on board to worry thee, they could not afford to go down in a blaze of glory. The unmarked warship came within a hundred yards if that, every starboard gun sighted on target, with the Trent at wallow the ship finally hoisted aloft…The flag of the United States Navy.
“It is an American ship, the USS San Jacinto.” The watchman cried. “They are lowering boats, they mean to board.”
“Have they gone insane? That would be an act of piracy…Of war! Signal back they are not permitted to interfere with our passage.”
“I don’t think they care, Sir.”
“Fairfax! Fairfax! Where are you, damn you man! Why are you never here when I want you!” Shouted Captain Wilkes, spittle spraying those stood near.
“Yes, Sir, I am hear.” Reported the Lieutenant.
“There you are, right be a good fellow, I want you to take two cutters and a detachment of marines and board that ship.” Wilkes commanded.
“As you so order, Sir!”
“Now! Once the crew are subdued, and I am sure they will trouble you little. I want you to demand the papers of the Trent, her clearance from the Port of Havana and a full list of all passengers and crew. Should you find Misters Mason and Slidell, or any other Southerner scum onboard for that matter, take them into custody with all possessions and dispatches and take command of the ship and make her our prize!”
“Still mean to capture a British Ship?” Fairfax asked nervously.
“Did I stutter, Lieutenant? Did!…I…Stutter? You really are a buffoon. Yes, take command of the Trent, she will be taken as contraband.”
“As you so order, Sir!”
Lieutenant Fairfax with the detachment of Marines boarded the two cutters, making short row to the Trent, twenty men in all, armed pistol, knife, truncheon, bursting britches for the fight, spoiling for action. Fairfax wore heavy the worry as he approached the British ship, he did not want to be remembered as the catalyst of conflict. England a power to be reckoned with.
“Men, stay here, I will make to board first and see if this situation may be settled, without blood first or thirst.”
“Who commands?” Fairfax ordered once climbing aboard.
“I do, Captain Moir. This is the Mail ship RMS Trent flying under the protection of the Royal Navy, under what right do you stop us?” Moir demanded.
“We suspect you have enemies of war on your vessel, I have been ordered to make search and if found, detain Misters Mason and Slidell, with the intent to send them back as prisoners of war on board the United States war vessel USS San Jacinto!”
“Never heard of them!” Moir replied. “And you are breaking all sea laws.”
Both passengers and crew crowded the Lieutenant with much jeering and shouting and no good to be done or do. Fairfax unarmed, backed towards the side, fearful that this was not going to plan, a serious confrontation was to be had despite best intentions at hand.
The Marines hearing the commotion and ignoring orders boarded the Trent to secure the Lieutenant’s safety. The young Officer having some loyalty and affection among the ranks, and besides, this being the most action to be had in a while.
A standoff ensured, the detachment outnumbered but armed, against several hundred odd passengers and crew fierce of fist and fighting spirit, blood boiling the fighting British.
“Wait! Wait! A man stepped forward…It was Mason. “I will not have blood on my hands, I am who you seek, I am who you want, I am James Mason.”
The man next to him took a step forward. “I am also who you seek, I am John Slidell!”
“Then you will come with us! Peacefully?” Fairfax enquired.
“Make it noted not by our own will, we are free man, gentleman no less on a neutral ship seeking peaceful progress.” Mason retorted. “We only go to avoid bloodshed
“Very good…Take them!” Fairfax commanded to his Marines. “But leave the others and the Ship, if the Captain asks, tell him we were out gunned, out manned, and hopefully that will get us out of this god-awful mess and not start a war of worlds.”
THE SHIP BOMBAY! 