The shafts of the oars were covered in rawhide to keep them from knocking in the oarlocks, which were themselves greased with lard for silence. A successful crossing depended upon slipping across the river while no Yankee gunboats were in sight. It also required that no unfriendly ears or eyes noticed them from the United States side of the river.
The river was empty as they first launched onto it from the creek's shelter. Each sweep of the oars carried them closer to the safety of the far shore. They were halfway there when there was a distant flash upriver. It took Percy a moment to realize he was seeing moonlight reflecting on a glistening paddle wheel.
"It's a goddamn gunboat!"
Sure enough, a vessel was rounding the bend upriver, its paddle wheel churning through the water and shattering the stillness of the night.
Fletcher drew his revolver.
"Put that away," Percy snapped. "If you fire a single shot, they'll open up on us with their bow gun and blow us out of the water."
The skiff surged ahead as Hudson and the other oarsmen rowed hard. Flynn found a paddle under his seat.
"Take the tiller, Pettibone," Flynn said, and began to dig frantically at the water. Their only hope was to reach shore before the gunboat came closer. Pettibone scooted back and reached for the tiller, pointing the boat toward the river's edge ahead, which lay deep in shadow.
The river crossing had become a race against time. Speed was everything. If the gunboat passed between them and the Northern shore, they would be spotted and cut off. There was no chance of outrunning a paddle wheeler. If the gunboat passed behind them, they still might be able to hide themselves in the shadows cast across the river by the high banks of the Maryland shore. Unfortunately, the current and paddle wheel were carrying the Yankee gunboat toward them at an alarming rate of speed.
"If they spot us, jump over the side," panted one of the smugglers. "Their gun will turn this skiff into kindling but they can't hit a man in the water."
Percy did not like the thought of taking to the cold water with the opposite shore still so far away. He and Hudson were both strong swimmers, but he wasn't sure about the others. The river had November's chill and the current was swift.
"I can't swim," Fletcher protested.
"I can't, either," Benjamin said quietly.
"Then stay with the boat and get blown to pieces, you damn fools," a smuggler snapped at them.
"We'll all stay with the boat," Percy said. "None of us will make it to shore if we don't stay together."
The gunboat swept toward them, looming larger all the time. At the last possible instant, one of the smugglers hissed, "Get down!" and all the men hunkered in the skiff, hoping that in the darkness the Yankees might mistake the boat for a drifting log.
They were so close they could hear two of the men aboard talking and laughing. The Rebels held their breath and prayed. With luck, the Yankee gunboat would sweep past them.
The laughter aboard the gunboat stopped. "What's that in the water, Bill?" came a Yankee's voice, sounding like it was right on top of them.
"It's a log, I guess."
"Hell, that’s a boat!" The Yankee sailor raised his voice. "You in the boat, what the hell you doin' on this river? Best state your business."
Crouched in the boat, Percy looked at the smuggler whose face was only yards away from his own. He could smell the rich tobacco smoke from the Yankee's pipe.
"Now what?" Percy hissed.
"I reckon we row like hell," the smuggler whispered back. "It ain't far to shore."
"All right," Percy said, and felt for the butt of his pistol. "Now!"
The men in the skiff sat up and grabbed the oars. They were now in a race for their lives.
"They're running'!" came a shout from the gunboat.
"Halt or we'll fire!"
"Aw, hell," the other smuggler said. "Time to go over the side."
"No, goddamnit," Percy barked at him. "Row, you damn coward. We have to get across this river."
Fortunately for the raiders, surprise was on their side. It took maybe thirty seconds for the Yankee crew members to swivel their gun around and prime it. The gun was only a six-pounder, but it was powerful enough to smash them to pieces if the skiff took a direct hit. Hudson and the two smugglers worked the oars like demons, trying to put as much distance as possible between the gunboat and the skiff before the gun was ready.
"Fire!"
A jet of flame rolled across the river's surface, illuminating the night like lightning, with a thunderclap to match. The cannonball passed so close to the skiff that they all felt the rush of air and heat as it hurtled past, then skimmed the river like a skipped stone.
"Row, row!" Pettibone shouted as he steered the skiff. Fletcher was flopping around in the bottom of the boat like a freshly caught fish, trying to pull off his boots in case they had to swim for it. Percy and Benjamin fired their revolvers at the Yankees, although their guns seemed to do about as much harm as flicking pebbles at the gunboat.
A second shot crashed into the river no more than a foot from the skiff's bow. Cold water showered Hudson in the front of the skiff.
"Hud, you all right?" Percy called.
"Never better, Mr. Arthur," Hudson replied, rowing on without so much as breaking his rhythm. The skiff surged ahead with each powerful stroke.
"Bastards have us in range now," Percy growled. Aboard the gunboat, he could see the Yankees silhouetted against the moonlit sky as they scrambled to reload the swivel gun. He held his breath. They wouldn't miss again.
And then the skiff was in shadow, swallowed up by the darkness cast by the cliffs of the Maryland shore, hidden from the Yankee gunners. A third shot spewed flames and thunder across the river's surface, but the ball threw up a gout of spray several yards to their left. The darkness protected them better than any armor, and the gunboat wouldn't dare chase them close to shore for fear of hidden snags and shallow water.
"Looks like we lost them," Percy said, peering back over his shoulder. He could see the gunboat clearly in the starlight, its lamps shining and the water shimmering as it cascaded off the paddle wheel. On deck, men were cursing, throwing taunts at the night. Smugglers and Yankee patrols played a constant, deadly game here on the navigable portion of the Potomac, and this time, the smugglers had won.
"That was terribly close," Fletcher said in a quavering voice.
Percy suppressed a laugh. He almost felt sorry for Fletcher, who had seen no combat in the service of the Confederate Signal Bureau. He supposed Fletcher was trying to master the fear that gripped most men the first time guns were fired at them.
"We'll be lucky if the Yankees let us off as easy as that the next time," Percy said. "Now let's find a place to land this skiff and get moving before some Yankee patrol shows up on shore to see what all the noise was about."
In his office at the Confederate Secret Service, William Norris read the note from Flynn and smiled at the Irishman’s description. Fine group of misfits. He couldn't have said it better himself.
"The Irish do have a way with words," he murmured to the empty room.
A fire crackled in the small fireplace, making shadows dance on the walls. The only other light came from a single candle on the spymaster's desk. Neither the fireplace nor the candle did much to light the room, and they certainly didn't keep off the cold. Norris was bundled in a shawl against the November chill, with only his hands exposed for writing. The only sound besides the shifting coals came from the scratching of his pen. A glass of bourbon was within reach. His cigar had long since gone out, but Norris kept it clenched between his long yellow teeth.