THE BATTLE OF NANTICOKE RIVER
The morning after Artie Jenkins was shipped away across the Chesapeake,
Haley’s bug-eye lay in Hooper strait, discharging her cargo of oysters
into another craft alongside. Four other craft waited near by; and, when
the Brandt had finished, they, likewise, unloaded the oysters they had,
aboard the carrying vessel.
“What’s Haley unloading now for?” asked Wallace Brooks of the sailor,
Jeff, as they were swinging a basket of the oysters outboard. “He’s got
only half a cargo, anyway.”
“How do I know?” was the somewhat gruff reply. “Reckon we’ll see when the
time comes. There’s something up, though, like as not,” he added; “I
heard Haley ask Jim Adams how he thought the Brandt sailed best—with a
quarter of a cargo in her, or a little more. That’s just so much more
ballast, you know. So I guess that when Haley wants to sail his best, he
expects someone to follow; and if someone follows, I reckon he’ll want to
get away as slick as he can. Do you see?”
Wallace Brooks nodded.
“Going to dredge some more at night, eh?” he said.
“Well, you know as much as I do about it,” replied the sailor. “All I
wish is, that I was bullet-proof,” and he shrugged his shoulders.
The surmise of the seaman was perhaps correct; for, as soon as the last
bug-eye had cast loose from the carrying vessel, the four swung in
together, drifted along, and the four captains gathered in Haley’s cabin.
There were, besides Haley, Tom Noyes, Captain Bill and another whom Haley
addressed as Captain Shute. The latter bore in one hand a chart which he
spread out on the cabin table before them. It was a large sheet, covering
a wide area of that part of the bay, much worn, and marked by many lines
where cross-bearings had been taken and partly erased.
“There’s Nanticoke,” he said, laying a thick, stubby finger on the chart.
“It’s buoyed out for some ten miles, and there’s good water clear to
Vienna; that’s twenty odd miles up.”
“Stow the chart, Shute,” said Haley, impatiently. “I tell you Jim Adams
knows the river better than any figuring can cover it. He ran it for
three years, canoeing and tonging in the fog”—Haley winked significantly.
“He’ll put us up there. The question is, will you go?”
“I’ve said as how I would go, once, and I sticks by my word,” answered
Captain Bill forcibly. “The others will go, too. I’d follow Jim Adams’s
wake and be sure of good water, anywhere.”
“And we stick it out, steamer or no steamer,” said Haley, looking at the
others, earnestly. The captains nodded. Haley leered, as though gratified
at the decision. “There’s no police tub can hurt us, if we stick together
and fight,” he exclaimed; “and like as not we’ll get clear without it.”
There was some further conference, following which the three visiting
captains returned to their vessels and the lines that held them together
were cast off.
The day passed easily for the crews. There was but little dredging,
though Haley and the others would not have them wholly idle. They worked
in desultory fashion along the foot of Hooper island throughout the day,
and toward evening sailed in slowly through the strait.
There had been no definite orders given to anybody aboard the Brandt, yet
it was known to all that there was something on foot for the night. The
let-up in the work of the day indicated that; furthermore, there was an
air of mystery, of something impending, throughout the craft, that was
felt and understood.
With the coming of night there rose up a mist from the surface of the
water that dimmed the vision, though the stars showed clear in the sky. A
thin fog gave an indefiniteness to the shore lines and made distant
lights here and there twinkle vaguely.
The four vessels, the Brandt leading, sailed eastward as night fell,
passing through the strait across the head of Tangier Sound. Jim Adams
held the wheel and Haley gave orders to the crew, trimming the sails or
easing off as the course varied.
Jim Adams, evidently glorying in the adventure, which defied the law that
he despised, noted the points along the course with a series of chuckles.
“There’s old Sharkfin,” he called jubilantly, as the gleam from the
lighthouse on the shoal of that name showed ahead. “We just goes
east-no’th-east, sah, after we leave old Sharkfin Shoal a half mile to
the eastward, and then we goes up between Nanticoke Point Spit and Clay
Island Shoal like walkin’ up a meetin’ house aisle.”
Haley gazed ahead through the light mist.
“I’ve only been up the Nanticoke twice,” he said. “There’s buoys, I know,
for some ten miles up, and then it takes a native born to find the rest
of the way.”
Jim Adams chuckled. “I don’ need ’em,” he said, “not ’round this river. I
can feel my way up; an’ they can paint the spars all black and it
wouldn’t fool me, not a bit.”
Passing the lighthouse and leaving it astern some miles, the four
bug-eyes took a more northerly course, entering the river. They carried
no lights, and the cabin and forecastle lamps had been put out, so that
no gleam showed from the ports. A fresh breeze from the west, blowing
almost directly across the river, carried them up at a fair clip.
“There’s land close aboard, off the starboard,” said Haley, after they
had gone some three miles up.
“Yessah,” responded the mate; “that’s Roaring Point, for shuah. You look
sharp, Mister Haley, and you’ll see the buoy, a red spar when the sun
shines, but I reckon it’s pretty black to-night. Couple of miles above
that, and I specs there’s some pow’ful nice oysters a-sittin’ up and
waitin’ for us to call.”
Jim Adams pointed, as he spoke, to where there showed the low sand spit
of Roaring Point on the right as they sailed, with some trees growing,
back from the shore. A landing made out from the south bank of the point,
and a thin sprinkling of houses was scattered here and there in the
vicinity. The vessels sailed noiselessly and darkly past these, and went
up the river, turning the point.
Not long after, the order given by Haley for all hands to make ready told
that the business of the night was about to be begun in earnest. On the
eastern bank of the river were extensive oyster beds, private property,
carefully planted and nursed, and rich in their yield.
Hamilton Haley, engaged in his favourite pursuit of poaching, was in rare
good humour. Moreover, he had cause for self congratulation in that he
had regained his man, Sam Black, from Captain Bill’s bug-eye, and yet
another man, Captain Bill having taken on two men from Hooper island.
Soon the cry of the winch and the clank of the dredging chain broke the
stillness of the night, as the Brandt, with sheets started, drifted
slowly in a zig-zag course along the river bank. The other vessels worked
likewise. There was no rest for anyone then. They worked like galley
slaves under the whip. The dredge was hardly down before the command came
to wind. It came up heavy with the ill-gotten spoil from the beds. Henry
Burns found no favour in the eyes of Haley this night. He toiled with the
others, now turning wearily at the winch, now helping to drag aboard the
dredge, now sweating in the foul hold, stowing away the plunder.
Some time in the night, as he turned, with back and arms aching, at the
handle of the winder, a strange humming, singing sound filled his ears.
It was like an angry wasp darting about his head. Then a sharp report
came from the neighbouring bank. It was followed by others. The sound as
of wasps filled the air as a dozen bullets passed harmlessly over the
heads of the crew of the Brandt.
Haley gave a cry of surprise and anger.
“They’ve found us,” he said, and ran for the cabin. He reappeared
quickly, carrying a rifle in either hand.
“Here, you, Sam Black,” he called, “take this wheel, smart now. Let those
sheets run way off there—no skulking into the forecastle, you men, or
you’ll get a shot from me. Jim, here’s a gun; you’re a good shot. Give
’em an answer. Let her go along easy, Sam. We’ll show ’em we can play at
shooting as well as they.”
Haley, issuing his commands in short, angry sentences, and seeing the
vessel running as he wished, called to the crew to lie flat on the deck,
but to be ready to jump at his word. Then he and the mate, reinforced by
the cook, likewise armed with a rifle, proceeded to return the fire from
the shore from the shelter of the after-house.
The other craft had swung into line of battle, similarly, and one of
them, Captain Bill’s bug-eye, had already opened fire on the party
ashore.
A running fight now ensued. The dredgers, emboldened by their numerical
strength, had no thought of quitting the reefs. The attacking party, on
the other hand, seemed to be constantly recruited in numbers, and the
fire from the river bank grew in volume. The dredgers, with booms far
out, kept barely under steerage way, following one another closely.
Coming up under the lee of a promontory of the river bank called Ragged
Point, the leading vessel headed into the wind; the sheets were hauled
aft and the craft came about, heading down stream once more, to return
into better range of the enemy. The others followed, in turn.
An unexpected thing happened, however, just as the Brandt was swinging
into the wind, with Haley hauling on the main sheet. A chance bullet,
whistling across the stern, clipped the sheet fairly in two; Haley,
straining at the rope as it parted, was sent sprawling on the deck,
rolling over and over.
He sprang up in a great fury, but equal to the emergency. Still holding
the end of the sheet in one hand, he darted to the stern, untied the
painter of the skiff that was towing and drew the skiff alongside.
“Here you, youngster,” he called to Henry Burns, who happened to be
nearest, “jump in there! Take this sheet and make it fast around the end
of that boom. Lively now!”
Henry Burns obeyed, in lively fashion, as ordered. Making the end of the
rope fast to the thwart in front of him, he sculled the skiff a few
strokes, seized hold of the swinging boom, loosed the sheet again, took a
clove hitch around the boom and was back on deck in a twinkling. Haley
growled an approval, as he hauled the boom aft and the bug-eye went off
the wind a little to make headway so as to come about.
The accident, however, had caused the vessels to separate for the time,
the three other bug-eyes having already gone down stream some little
distance. With this a new peril confronted the Brandt. Seeing the craft
thus cut off from its allies, the party ashore had resolved on a bold
venture. A half-dozen small boats suddenly darted out from the shadow of
the bank, making straight for the Brandt, rowed by strong arms.
The situation was one of danger to the Brandt. The leading row-boat,
propelled by two oarsmen, and with two other men crouched in the bottom,
armed with rifles, were already near. Yet the Brandt must keep on its
course for a minute longer, to enable it to come about, and not mis-stay.
To do so, brought it still nearer the approaching boat.
Hamilton Haley, leaping down into the cabin and emerging with a horn in
one hand, gave several blasts with it. Then he sprang to the wheel and
took it from the hands of Sam Black. His eyes twinkled with cunning, as
he threw the bug-eye still further off the wind, directing it now full
against the approaching boat. The manœuvre was all unexpected. The rowers
vainly tried to swing their boat out of the way. They were too late.
Striking the small craft with its sharp bow, the bug-eye smashed it clean
in two, riding over the halves and submerging the occupants. The next
moment, the Brandt had swung into the wind, come about and headed down
stream.
The fleet of row-boats paused to rescue the struggling and half-drowned
men from the icy water; the other bug-eyes, alarmed by Haley’s signal,
had turned and come up to meet the Brandt. The four vessels opened fire
on the row-boat fleet, even as they were engaged in the work of rescue.
Defeated in their plan to cut off the single bug-eye, the rowboats put
back to shore and the party scrambled into hiding.
Warned by this attempt, however, the captains of the poaching fleet now
resolved to make sure against any similar boarding party. Taking a
position in the river where the fire was hottest, and the owners of the
oyster beds seemed to be gathered in greatest numbers, judging by the
fire, the bug-eyes drew close together, side by side; an anchor was
dropped from the one farthest down-stream, Captain Bill’s vessel, and
lashings were passed to hold them together. This position, as the decks
were flush, would allow the united crews of the four to concentrate on
any single deck to resist boarders.
Hitherto, the dredgers had escaped serious harm; but now a rifle bullet,
landing in a number of men bunched on the second dredger, wounded two of
them and they fell to the deck, uttering cries of pain. Another bullet
cut the cheek of Sam Black, who had resumed the wheel of the Brandt; but
he held to his post, with a handkerchief bound about his head. The party
on shore gave no evidence of the injuries they may have received.
That the attacking owners were being driven from their position by the
concentrated fire from all four vessels was apparent, however. Gradually
the fire from shore grew less and less. The dredgers, after discharging a
few more volleys and waiting for a quarter of an hour, without being
fired on, cast loose once more and resumed their dredging.
But they were not suffered to work unmolested for more than an hour. At
the end of about that time, the river bank was illumined again with a
line of flashes, and the crack of rifles smote upon the air. But now the
fight was even more uncertain and the firing still more a matter of
chance. For the wind was drawing around to the southward and a fog was
slowly drifting up the river, blown at first in detached patches which
blotted out the shore one moment, then left it partly cleared.
The dredgers resumed their position, lashed together and at anchor, so as
not to lose sight of one another in the fog, and directed their fire more
by the sound of the enemy’s firing than by sight. The weird, uncertain
battle made a strange picture, with the streams of rifle fire penetrating
the fog and the smoke of powder arising through the fog banks.
And then, amid a momentary lull in the firing, there came suddenly out of
the fog in the direction of down the river, the unmistakable jingle of a
bell. They knew the sound. It came from an engine-room. Some steamer was
approaching. The captains waited apprehensively. There could be little
doubt of the nature of the craft.
If doubt there was, however, it was soon dispelled. There came a flash in
the mist, a ball from a one-pounder hummed through the rigging and tore
away a main-mast shroud. The report of the piece, mounted in the bow of
the police steamer, followed. Then a voice came through a megaphone,
“Ahoy there! I’ll give you captains just two minutes to launch your
skiffs and come aboard here, or I’ll sink you.”
Captain Hamilton Haley, raising his rifle to his shoulder, aimed
deliberately and fired in the direction of the voice. The bullet must
have gone close to the captain of the steamer, for there came a sound as
of shattered glass. The shot had hit the window of the pilot-house.
There ensued a silence of a moment, and then there came a heavy rifle
fire from the steamer, mingled with the heavier crash of the one-pounder.
The bug-eyes took up the firing; and the air was alive with bullets.
Moreover, the party ashore, jubilant at the reinforcement through the
strong arm of the navy, sent up an exultant shout and poured a volley
from their ambush.
For a half-hour the battle waged, the steamer alternately drawing near
enough to be clearly seen through the fog, and then backing water as it
was met by a staggering fire from the four vessels. It seemed as though
the fight might even be won by the sailing captains, outnumbering as they
did the crew aboard the steamer.
Hamilton Haley, aroused to fury by the desperate position in which he
found himself, no longer sought concealment behind house or mast. His
craft lay farthest up-stream in the line of vessels, but he had crossed
decks to that of the nearest bug-eye and stood boldly erect, firing
steadily whenever a flash from the fog gave indication of a possible
mark.
Again, he was not unmindful of the fate of his own vessel; and, as the
fire slackened for a time, he returned to the deck of the Brandt.
Perceiving his advantage at the end of the line, he ordered the lashings
made ready for easy slipping.
“Here, you youngsters,” he said to Henry Burns and Wallace Brooks, who
were lying flat on the deck, “you get aft there, ready to give Sam Black
a hand if he needs it. He’s hit, and may peter out. You jump on to that
wheel if I call, or I’ll know why. And one of you be ready to tend
sheet.”
Haley brandished his rifle as he spoke, and the two youths made haste to
obey, taking up their positions aft. The captain returned to the side of
Jim Adams on the deck of the bug-eye of Captain Bill.
Again the firing from the steamer ceased abruptly and the sound of the
engines was stilled. The captains and their mates ceased firing also, and
waited for action on the part of the steamer. They were wearied by the
strain of the conflict and were glad of the respite. They were making a
successful fight, however, it seemed, although they had had by this time
six men wounded in some way or another.
“We’re beating him off, I reckon,” said Captain Bill, seating himself on
the deck, with his rifle laid beside him. “We’re too many for him; but it
gravels me how we’re going to get out of this ere river, with him below
us.”
“We’ll get out,” declared Haley, confidently. “Only wait till the wind
blows up a bit more. It’s coming around square to the south’ard, and the
fog’s getting thicker every minute. We’ll slip past him by and by, when
he gets enough of trying to shoot holes through the sky—hello, there’s a
bell. He’s coming up again, I guess.”
A single bell in the engine-room of the police steamer had given the
signal for her to move ahead slowly. They knew the steamer was coming
toward them, although as yet she was not visible. Then, to their
astonishment, there came the jingle of another bell.
Hamilton Haley and Captain Bill called to their men to be ready.
“He means business sure enough this time,” muttered Haley. “He’s given
him the speed bell. He’s coming on the run.”
The words were hardly uttered when the steamer rushed forth into view
from the fog. She was, indeed, coming on at full speed, without firing a
gun. Not until she was almost upon them did the bug-eye captains realize
what was intended. They had sent a volley at her, to which she paid no
heed, but was coming silently and swiftly on.
Gathering speed as she came, the smoke pouring in black clouds from her
funnel, the steamer rushed directly at the nearest bug-eye which lay
broadside in her path.
“Get back! Jump, boys! The rascal’s going to ram us!” shouted Haley,
darting back across the decks to his own vessel.
The crews scattered, and the deck of the bug-eye was cleared. They were
not a minute too soon. On came the steamer, tearing through the fog, with
the sparks flying from its stack, lighting up the black smoke. There was
a crash that could be heard far ashore as its iron bow splintered the
side of the bug-eye, buried itself in the yielding planks and cut the
craft half in two.
The bug-eye reeled under the shock and groaned as if in mortal agony. The
steamer’s bell jangled twice and the craft backed away, leaving a great
hole through which the water poured in a torrent. Another bell, and the
steamer was going astern at full speed. Some distance away she reversed
again, and once more came on. Into the same gap she steered; her iron bow
once more rent and tore the planking asunder. Again she backed away.
The vessel, rapidly filling, broke from the lashings that held it to its
companion and sank to the bottom of the river.
Thrown into the utmost confusion and dismay at this unexpected turn of
affairs, the captains now thought only of safety in flight. The seamen of
the foundered vessel scattered through the three remaining ones; there
was a frantic rush to lashings and halyards; knives were drawn and
lashings cut when that was easier and quicker. Sails were run up and
orders shouted hoarsely amid the confusion. The two anchors were slipped,
and left. There was no time to get them aboard.
There seemed to be no escape, however, for at least one other of the
bug-eyes—the one that lay nearest the steamer. The latter craft was even
now manœuvring to reach a point from which to ram the bug-eye, only the
sunken vessel that lay between preventing her from repeating her success
at once. Tom Noyes, in command of the imperiled vessel, was driving his
men to their utmost to get sail on before he should be cut down.
But for the fog he would have had little chance. The steamer worked
cautiously out into the river and turned, heading for Tom Noyes’s bug-eye
just as she began slowly to make headway, under foresail and jib. The
steamer gave the signal to go ahead, slowly, then another for full speed.
The bug-eye was standing slowly in toward the bank, endeavouring to put
the wreck once more between itself and its foe.
At this critical moment, Hamilton Haley, whose craft was already under
weigh and standing across to the opposite shore, could not resist taking
a parting shot at his enemy, even though it might imperil his own
chances. He raised his rifle and fired in the direction of the steamer’s
pilot-house. It was a chance shot, for he was even then losing sight of
the steamer in the fog. Yet, with the report, there came a cry of pain
from the steamer. Haley bawled exultantly. He knew not what he had done,
but the sound told him of some success of his shot. It had, indeed,
struck the arm of the pilot, inflicting a wound that caused him to drop
the wheel and fall back, fainting.
The steamer, now at full speed, veered in its course. Before the captain
could signal for the engines to slow down or could right the steamer on
its course, the police boat had run afoul of the wreck and had become
entangled, its bottom resting on the after-house of the sunken bug-eye.
The next moment, Haley passed exultantly down stream. Tom Noyes, rounding
the wreck inshore, went on his way; the other bug-eye slipped past the
steamer, and the fog hid them from view.
Yet they were not to get off scot free. Even as he stood, chuckling at
their success, a bullet from the farther shore grazed the head of Jim
Adams; and, stunned, he lurched and went overboard. Henry Burns, seeing
him fall, and springing to the side as the negro’s body was swept astern,
caught a hand in his clothing and held on. Haley, running to the rescue,
seized the mate’s arm, and, together, they dragged him aboard. Jim Adams
had had a close call. The bullet had stunned him. An inch more and it had
gone through his head. He came to, a half-hour later as they went down
stream, groping their way in the fog; and, in half an hour more, was able
to “feel” the way, as he called it, out to the mouth of the river.
The escape was made. They were free. But Captain Bill had lost a vessel.