He swept off his tall hat, leaned over the rail, and watched the harbor and the town rise up. These islands had been Spanish first, then British since Stuart times, and always a haunt of pirates. Nassau itself, a colonial capital with a population of a few thousand, had been thrust into sudden prominence by the war.
Gulls hunting garbage began to form a noisy cloud at the stern. The air smelled of salt and peculiar but pleasing spices. Within an hour, Isle of Guernsey dropped anchor and a lighter bore the Mains and their trunks and portmanteaus to crowded Prince George wharf.
The wharf swarmed with white sailors, black stevedores with gold earrings, colorfully dressed women of no discernible occupation, seedy vendors hawking pearls amid heaps of sponges and bananas, sparkling mountains of Cardiff coal, and cotton — bales of it, each steam-pressed to half its original volume.
Cooper had never seen so much cotton or heard such polyglot clamor as that surrounding the hired carriage that took them along Bay Street to their hotel. He heard the familiar accents of home; clipped British; and a bastardized English, odd and musical, spoken principally by the blacks. The cobbled waterfront could barely accommodate all the people and traffic. The war might be starving the South, but it had clearly brought wild prosperity to this island off the Floridas.
After installing the family in their suite, Cooper went to the office of the harbor master, where he explained his needs in vague and guarded language. The bewhiskered official bluntly cut through the circumlocutions.
"No runners in port at present. I am expecting Phantom tomorrow. She will not transport passengers, however. Just that cargo from Guernsey."
"Why no passengers?"
The harbor master peered at him as if he were mentally defective. "Phantom is owned and operated by the Ordnance Department of your government, sir."
"Ah, yes. There are four such ships. I'd forgotten the names. I'm an official of the Navy Department. Perhaps Phantom will make an exception."
"You're welcome to speak to her captain, but it's fair to warn you that other diplomatic gentlemen from the Confederacy have attempted to obtain passage on the government runners without success. When Phantom weighs anchor, she'll have every inch of deck and cabin space filled with guns and garments."
Next morning, in a steamy drizzle that reminded him of the low country, Cooper and his son proceeded through Rawson Square to the harborside and its yelling vendors, strolling whores, idling journalists, gambling sailors, strutting soldiers from the island's West Indian regiment. Judith still objected to their son's being exposed to the sights and language of a seaport, but Cooper had given Judah a couple of fatherly lectures in Liverpool on the theory that knowledge was a stronger defense against the world's wickedness than was ignorance. Striding beside his father and whistling a chanty, Judah didn't even turn when a seaman lost at toss-penny and cried, "Fucking bloody son-of-a-bitching bad luck." Sometimes Cooper's heart felt ready to burst with love and pride in his fine, tall son.
Phantom had slipped in during the night, flying British colors. Cooper had a short, unsatisfactory talk with her captain. The harbor master was right; even a deputy of Secretary Mallory would not be accommodated as a passenger on an Ordnance Department ship.
"I am responsible for precious cargo," the captain said. "I'll not add responsibility for human lives."
The drizzle stopped, and the sun shone. Two languorous days passed. Phantom put out to sea — again at night — and the Yankee cruiser disappeared, no doubt pursuing the smaller vessel. By the end of the week Cooper was sick of waiting and reading old newspapers, even the one that informed him of the stunning Union defeat at Fredericksburg.
The children quickly tired of the sights of the port. The changing of the guard at Government House was diverting once but not twice; the novelty of flamingos vanished after twenty minutes. Hiring a buggy and taking a picnic to the countryside didn't improve the situation. Judith resigned herself to mediating a quarrel between her son and daughter approximately once an hour. Cooper found the dispositions of the children influencing his; he was short-tempered and prone to strike out with the flat of his hand, as he did when Judah took a spoonful of local conch chowder, crossed his eyes, and gagged.
At last, after they had been in town almost a week, the Monday maritime column of the Nassau Guardian listed the weekend's arrivals, including "Water Witch of New Providence Is., cargo entirely of cotton from St. George's Is., Bermuda."
"She must be a runner," Cooper exclaimed at breakfast. "Cotton isn't exactly a major industry in Bermuda, and Bulloch told me those in the trade pretend to cruise exclusively between neutral islands." So they went off to the harbor again, he and Judah, held up for five minutes by the funeral procession of another of Nassau's numerous yellow jack victims.
They reached the runner's berth. "Strike me," Judah said, back in his Liverpool phase. "Look at all that bleeding cotton."
"Don't use that kind of language," Cooper snapped. But he was equally fascinated. Water Witch was a remarkable sight. An iron-plated paddle steamer, she was, by his best estimate, about two hundred feet long and something like three hundred tons. Her masts were short and raked, her forecastle built to resemble a turtle's back, so she could more easily plow straight through a heavy sea. Every inch of her — hull, paddle boxes, stubby masts — was painted lead gray.
Every inch he could see, that is. Above the gunwales she looked brown and square because every available deck space held cotton bales piled two and three high. Except for slits to allow visibility, her pilothouse was barricaded behind them.
Cooper and his son dodged aboard, avoiding bales heaved from one pair of black hands to the next. Cooper asked for the captain but found only the mate.
"Captain Ballantyne's ashore. Went first thing. I expect he's already got his nose buried in some chippy's —" He spied Judah behind his father. "You won't find him on board until tomorrow morning when we start loading." A suspicious pause. "Why d'you want him, anyway?"
"I am Mr. Main, of the Navy Department. I'm urgently in need of passage to the mainland for myself, my son here, and my wife and daughter."
The mate scratched his beard. "We'll be bound for Wilmington again. The run's damn dangerous till we're safely under the guns of Fort Fisher. Shouldn't think the captain would want to carry civilians, 'specially young'uns."
The man spoke with the heavy accent Cooper equated with the impoverished farmers of the Georgia coast. Did the mate mean what he said, or was this merely the start of fare negotiations?
"I am under orders to report to Secretary Mallory in Richmond as soon as practicable. I've been waiting nearly a week to find a ship. I'll pay whatever price you ask."
The mate scratched his armpit. "Space is precious on the old Witch. We have one cabin, but she's usually stowed full of cut nails, things like that."
"Nails?" Cooper repeated, astonished.
"Sure. They sold at four dollars a keg right after the war started. Then one of the owners of this ship and a few other gentlemen cornered the import market, and now they fetch ten." He grinned, but Cooper's eyes had narrowed with dislike.
"Tell me, Mr. —"
"Soapes. Like the stuff you wash with, but add an e."
"Where's your home, Mr. Soapes?"