The three boats, one from each schooner, each loaded with a dozen men, made their way swiftly on the flood tide into the river mouth, around the first curve to starboard and up the narrowing stream. Rork and Young stood in the bows of the first boat, the Englishman still guiding the operation with his local knowledge.
The men in the boats were silent; even those grunting and gasping at the oars tried to be as quiet as possible. Ears straining to hear any alarm on shore, the sailors brought the boats past some crudely built houses that jutted out of the scrub oaks and palms. Some of the homes had thatched roofs, and none had any refinements such as glass or ornamental trim. A few rickety docks, undulating in height from several feet to more than ten feet off the water leaned out from the shoreline. Small sailing punts bobbed on lines to the docks. The smell of fish and seaweed came from nets hung over tree limbs between the houses. Obviously the place was a poor frontier village that had been thrust into prominence during recent years by its ability to assist in the Confederate war effort.
It was two hours until dawn, and there was no sign of sentry or fisherman or passerby. Wake couldn’t believe their luck. Except for the grounding off the mouth of the river, everything had gone according to plan.
Then the dog started barking.
At first it was a startled bark, transforming into a low growl, then frenzied barking. In the misty gloom the precise location of the animal was not at first apparent. Then on the left bank a large dog could be seen running on a dock close by. Soon a half dozen other dogs were barking, awakening their owners, who could be heard yelling into the night with questioning tones.
In an effort to lesson the noise of their approach, Rork had his men rest easy on the oars as his boat glided forward on the flood tide. Wake’s craft and the last boat did the same. They slowed and let the current take them up around a bend to the left, a trail of cacophony rising from the bank twenty feet away. Wake saw Rork, standing tall in the bow of the lead boat, point to something further around the bend. His gestures seemed to indicate two ships just ahead. Soon Wake’s boat came up to that spot, and he could see the objective of the entire endeavor looming up out of the darkness.
As he surveyed the sight ahead of him, angry yells from downriver behind him gave notice that the inhabitants of the village had paid heed to their dogs and were aware that boats were in their river. The one distinguishable word from them was “Yankees!”
No shots had been fired, but Wake knew that was only a matter of minutes, if not seconds, away. It was no longer time for stealth. Hesitation now could be fatal to them all. Wake spoke loudly into the still night air to the men in the three ships’ boats.
“Forward, Saints! Forward, Annies! Pull to the ships at the dock!”
All three boats gained speed rapidly toward the dock a hundred feet away. With muskets and pistols cocked and cutlasses drawn, the men in the bows clambered up and perched on the gunwales ready to leap. At the last minute the oarsmen tossed their blades up and then folded them aft as the boats came up to the two sailing vessels moored to the dock.
Rork’s boat arrived first, careening into the stern quarter of a schooner on the right side of a frail dock built thirty feet perpendicular out from the shore. At the base of the dock on the shore stood a large open-sided pole barn with a thatched roof, stacks of cotton bales and barrels of turpentine piled underneath. Wake’s boat came alongside the large sloop on the opposite side of the dock, as the Annie’s boat landed at the head of the dock.
Barely controlled mass chaos burst out on the boats as the sailors rushed up and over the Rebel vessels like ants, yelling curses and waving their cutlasses and bayonets. Confused locals on shore responded with their own yells, while the crews of the Rebel ships came up from below to find cold steel aimed closely at their throats. It was all over in seconds, and Wake put a petty officer in charge of each captured vessel with orders to get them ready to get under way immediately.
Eight seamen were put out as a picket guard around the depot as Wake and Rork formed up a dozen other sailors to march back down the riverbank and into the village they had just passed by. Young, shaking with terror, was propelled along by Rork. The miniature column started out on the hundred-yard march with Wake leading, followed by Rork and Young and the other bluejackets.
Moving over the land was far more difficult in the night for, unlike at sea, there was no starlight reflection from the ground. Stumbling along, with curses issued whenever someone lost his footing, was taking far too long for Wake. He could hear men talking in angry voices up ahead where the dogs were still barking incessantly. Words became more understandable as they got closer.
“Bastard thievin’ Yankees’ve got our cotton an’ turp’. We gotta take it back afore they get away!”
“That gunboat out there will blow us all to hell if we try to fight ’em.”
“How many a ’em are there? Can we run ’em off?”
Wake could hear no indications of pro-Union sentiments and wondered about Young’s earlier presentations. Judging by Young’s information and the size of the village they had passed, there might be around two dozen men in the place. It was time to use
