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FORT FISHER The Battle for the Gibraltar of the South by Greg Ahlgren P Pen-L Publishing Fayetteville, AR Pen-L.com Copyright © 2016 by Greg Ahlgren All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner, including electronic storage and retrieval systems, except by explicit written permission from the publisher. Brief passages excerpted for review purposes are excepted. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Though this is a work of fiction, many of the stories and anecdotes included were inspired by actual events. Some names used in this book are those of real people; however, any dialogue or activity presented is purely fictional. ISBN: 978-1-942428-73-2 First edition Printed and bound in the USA Front cover artwork: U.S. Naval History and Heritage Command Photograph: NH 2051 The Bombardment of Fort Fisher, January 15, 1865 Engraving by T. Shussler, after an artwork by J.O. Davidson Back cover artwork: Chicago : Kurz & Allison, Art Publishers, 1890. http://hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/pga.01862 Cover and interior design by Kelsey Rice acknowledgments So many good people have been generous in providing comments, sug- gestions, encouragement, and assistance for this book that it is impossible to list them all. However, a special debt of gratitude is owed for the literary critique of Stephen Monier, the technical expertise on Civil War firearms and armaments provided by Dr. Richard Deveaux, the literary input and stylistic advice of America’s leading techno-thriller author, Helen Hanson, and finally, once again, to my good friend Bennett Freeman, whose cre- ative and literary input has been invaluable. All of you helped make this book possible. To all, I say thank you. v prologue Wilmington, North Carolina Thursday, January 12, 1865 Dawn His mother gave him a last, lingering hug, her eyes welling up as she released him. “Must you go back?” She reached with her right hand for the arm of the chair behind her. Using her left to steady her cane, she settled on the wicker rocker thick with pillows that had stood in front of the fireplace for as long as Caleb Cuthbait could remember. “Mother,” he said, “I will not desert. And I need to go now or I may miss the early steamer.” “I’ll walk down with him,” Caleb’s father interjected. “You rest awhile, dear, and I’ll make us some tea when I return.” He tenderly covered his wife’s shoulders with her shawl. “Warm enough?” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. She adjusted the shawl, covering the threadbare elbows of her cotton dress. The dress had not been replaced in several years, but Caleb knew that getting textile goods to make a new one was nearly impossible. “Yes, thank you,” his mother said. “Oh! I nearly forgot. I set some salted pork on the table, Caleb. Take it. I imagine it is a far sight better than your rations at the fort.” Caleb retrieved the paper-wrapped meat from the pantry and took a last look around his parents’ home. His father was already standing by the door. Caleb buttoned his gray tunic against the chill of the winter morning and stepped outside. vii Greg Ahlgren From the Cuthbait home at Wilmington’s northern edge, the pair walked a zigzag pattern toward the landing, heading south on the numbered streets that paralleled the Cape Fear River and west on the named ones. Caleb remembered it as the same route he had walked with his father four years earlier on a humid, late-summer afternoon as he headed off to college. On that day, everyone they passed had been an acquaintance of his father’s, and all knew where Caleb was going. They stepped from their neatly trimmed homes and cottages to stop the father and son, tipping their hats to their minister while clapping Caleb on the back and wishing him well. War was in the air, but in Wilmington, North Carolina, on that August afternoon, the hope of a compromise reigned supreme. Now, many of these same houses were shuttered. Yards were over- grown, and paint peeled from the clapboards. Those who could afford to had left, seeking shelter with friends or relatives where the threat of battle was lower. Some had rented out their homes, and a tenancy of profiteers, blockade runners, and those who earned a living off them, had taken their place. Although liquor and wild parties flowed freely, yard work and housekeeping held little value for the city’s present occupants. As Caleb walked toward the landing, his father’s normally booming voice was soft in his ear. “You have a good heart, Son. The widow, Missus Tuckerman, will be lucky to have you. It means a great deal to your mother and me that you’re using your grandmother’s band. I expect your mother’s tears told you that pretty well. I wish, though, that you could properly ask her father’s blessing.” “That’s a little difficult right now, Father.” Reverend Cuthbait nodded. “Everyone knew Captain Tuckerman’s reputation. She must be a strong woman to have stayed.” “Now, Father,” Caleb protested. “I’m only taking the ring in case. I’ve not fully made up my mind on this. And I would hope to ask her father, but circumstances make it impossible. I’m certain a Confederate soldier from North Carolina would be stopped well before reaching Connecticut,” he added with a smirk. viii FORT FISHER They continued in silence. At Dock Street, the pair turned right, heading straight for the river. Rounding the corner, Caleb spotted a still figure lying in the dirt at the side of the road, arms positioned wildly over his head. At first, Caleb feared he was dead, but as he stepped quickly toward him, he discerned the loud snoring of a drunk. Striding past, he smelled the stale vomit that stained the seaman’s clothing. He assumed him to be from the British blockade runner tied at the docks. One block from the landing, three more sailors surrounded a woman lounging back against the wall of a saloon—her face heavily made up, and her lips painted red. “A little early in the morning for this, wouldn’t you say?” his father asked. Caleb smiled. “I think, for some, it’s still last night.” The wharf was soon in sight. The steamer’s boiler belched black smoke, and the crew knelt along the dock, unwrapping lines from the cleats. Caleb stopped at the edge of the wharf, and a step later, his father did the same, turning to his son with a quizzical expression. “What is it?” “How do I know? How do I know if she is the right woman?” His father smiled broadly. “If you ask twelve people, you’ll get a dozen answers. But as you’re asking me, I tell you to look in your heart. If you love her, if your life will be richer with her by your side, if you would give your soul to save hers, and if you believe she feels the same of you, then you’re on the right track. This is a big step, Caleb, and I am glad you’re not taking it lightly. I only wish you had thought as long before joining the army.” “Father, we have been over this,” Caleb sighed. His father held his hands up, palms outward. “Yes, yes, I know. But you’re our only child. At Christmas, we could hear the bombardment. We had no peace for days until we knew you were unharmed. Perhaps you can get another day of leave soon. Bring Missus Tuckerman to church. We would love to meet her. And now you’d best be off,” his father said as the sailors tossed the lines over the rails and scrambled after them. “The steamer keeps to its schedule, not yours.” Caleb nodded, hugged his father, and ran across the wharf, jumping onto the deck of the paddle steamer just as her whistle blew. In a few hours, he knew, he would be back at Fort Fisher. ix CHAPTER 1 Off the North Carolina coast USS Iosco Thursday, January 12, 1865 The first boiler was already starting to sear. Fireman Patrick Sheedy felt the heat burning his face. With a gloved hand, he reached out and closed the damper several inches, restricting the air supply to the inferno. He turned back to the two coal heavers on his shift and shook his head. Seeing his fireman close the damper, Nat Davis drove his shovel into the coal in the bunker beneath his feet. He yanked a soiled rag from his pocket and wiped the sweat that beaded across his forehead. At the rear of the bunker, Sven Johanson stood with his back to the boiler, using his shovel to drag coal to the front. “Sven!” Patrick yelled. When the tall heaver turned questioningly, the fireman waved a stop. Sven pitched his shovel into the black mass at his feet and stepped forward. “What you figure, boss?” Nat asked. “I think we be making seven knots,” Patrick answered. “Maybe eight.” Nat coughed and continued to wipe his face. Despite the raw January morning weather off the North Carolina coast, the temperature in the boiler room was already well over one hundred degrees. Given the right climate and need for speed, it could easily reach one hundred twenty. “I don’t think Captain Guest wants us to set his boat afire,” Nat said.