The Last Heiress (22 page)

Nine

August

L
eaning back in his chair, Jackson sipped a heady cup of West Indian tea. The view from his office window revealed exactly what he loved to see: ships entering and exiting the Wilmington harbor with astounding frequency. As soon as dockworkers loaded a steamer with cotton or tobacco, the captain navigated into the current of the Cape Fear River toward the sound and the ocean beyond. The Union navy had done little to stem commerce thanks to the brave men manning the guns at Fort Fisher.

His relationship with the dubious Elias Hornsby had become amiable camaraderie. After all, who could remain aloof when both men were growing rich from the enormous profits to be made? And forming a partnership with Robert Peterson and his brother had been his best decision yet after taking control away from his father. Jackson's social contacts and resources guaranteed that the majority of the goods left port on ships he contracted, while Peterson maintained a steady flow of cotton and tobacco
to refill warehouses. Jackson hired managers, dock supervisors, bookkeepers to maintain ledgers, and clerks to handle the daily minutiae. He had cleared the debts of Henthorne and Sons and was amassing money to help his parents. He gave little thought to the future of the Confederacy, and even less to what his sister-in-law was doing with the local grocer. It was simply more entertaining to watch the hubbub along the waterfront while his account books improved day after day.

“Mr. Henthorne, sir?”

Jackson peered up at his new, sour-faced secretary. Miss Todd wasn't much to look at, but she possessed an uncanny ability to weed requests for an audience with him. Some wished to renegotiate existing contracts, others were old friends trying to borrow money, and a few sought employment or political influence. She had a gift for redirecting visitors to the correct underling, assuring that the only appointments Jackson took were ones that fattened his coffers.

“What is it, Miss Todd?”

“Mr. Peterson is here, sir. He begs your indulgence in not announcing his visit before now, but he insists he has a matter of upmost urgency.” Her bland face offered the tiniest of smiles.

“Then let's not keep him waiting. Show him in and bring us a fresh pot of tea.”

Jackson stood, straightened his cravat, and strode toward the fireplace. He wished to appear exactly what he was—the savviest and most successful factor in town. He greeted his business partner with one elbow resting on the marble mantel.

“Mr. Henthorne, good of you to see me this morning, sir.” Peterson spoke from the doorway.

“You and I stand on no ceremony, sir. I always have time for you. Please have a seat.” Pointing to the most comfortable upholstered chair, Jackson noticed Peterson's complexion had taken on
an unhealthy pallor. The man appeared thinner, almost dissipated since his last visit.

“Thank you. I rode in from Whiteville last night and barely slept. I couldn't wait to discuss a unique opportunity with you.”

“Are you feeling well, sir?” Jackson asked. Indeed, the short walk across the room brought a flush and beads of sweat to Peterson's face.

“Fair-to-middlin', but nothing to concern yourself with. There's plenty of fever in the interior this time of year. Most of the slaves that hadn't run off are sick with the chills. I had a bout of ague myself, but I'm on the mend now.” He dabbed his brow with his handkerchief.

“Ah, here's Miss Todd with tea. That should go down easily.”

Peterson accepted a cup from the secretary with a shaky hand. “Has much news reached the coast? General Sherman wreaks havoc in Georgia. Atlanta is besieged. The Yankees are leaving a path of destruction wherever they go.”

“Is Sherman fighting Joe Johnson's army? He's the best general we got other than Marse Robert.”

“Yes, sir, but Sherman is waging war on farmers and townsfolk—men, women, and children—burning houses and barns and slaughtering livestock. Whatever he doesn't need to feed his soldiers, he leaves to rot under the summer sun. His soldiers are nothing but a pack of thieves—filling their knapsacks with silver, porcelain, and anything they can resell up north.”

Jackson made the appropriate murmurs of disgust, but he failed to deduce how reports about a Yankee tyrant could be described as urgent. “I've been rather busy to keep abreast of news of the war. Besides, not everything that gets printed in newspapers can be trusted.”

Peterson downed his tea and refilled the cup. “You have done an exemplary job of moving cotton and tobacco out of Wilmington.
Truly commendable. But the time has come to strike while the iron is hot. I've recently heard of two side-wheelers available for sale. They left Nassau harbor and are headed here as we speak. The ships could be ours for the right price.”

Jackson shifted in his chair. “Someone actually built two ships without a commissioned buyer? By all means I wish to hear more.”

“Another factor in town ordered the steamers. I prefer not to mention his name so that social obligations won't prevent us from making the purchase.” Peterson inched forward to the edge of his chair. “If we buy these ships, and I assure you they're magnificent side-wheelers—the
Lady Adelaine
and the
Roanoke
—we can double our profits. We can hire our own captains and not have to contract passage.”

Jackson rubbed his jawline. Double their profits? He could turn the Henthorne plantation around with paid workers and set money aside for the future. “I gather this unnamed factor cannot make good on his monetary pledge?”

“That is correct, sir. He has leveraged everything but the braces holding up his trousers.” Peterson released a raspy laugh.

Jackson failed to find humor in another man's misfortune. “Do you and your brother have sufficient capital to purchase two brand-new vessels?”

Peterson's lips thinned. “That's why I'm here, Mr. Henthorne. I have spent the last month securing all the cotton I can in South Carolina and Georgia before those Yankees turn it into smoke and ash. I have teamsters hauling it to railroad depots as quickly as possible, but many roads are torn up. It will take time to get it to port, but a vast quantity of cotton is coming and we must be ready. That's why we desperately need more ships.”

Despite the early hour, Jackson longed for a beverage stronger than tea. Peterson was taking a circuitous route in reaching his point. “Go on,” he prodded.

“I've had to pay planters for their cotton. My finances are temporarily stretched paper-thin. I'm hoping Henthorne and Sons can produce the necessary capital for the
Lady Adelaine
and the
Roanoke
.”

Jackson sniffed. “How much money are we talking about?”

Peterson murmured a figure so exorbitant Jackson's sole response was laughter. “Who has that kind of money sitting in their bank account?”

“Keep in mind that the price is for both ships. I'm certain we could acquire one if that sort of outlay is beyond your means.” Peterson's expression turned patronizing.

“Beyond my means?” Jackson recoiled at the veiled insult. “Mr. Peterson, Union warships lurk in the Atlantic itching to aim their guns on any vessel flying Confederate colors.”

“Fort Fisher keeps those Yankee gunboats far enough out that new ships can easily outrun them. It's worked that way for more than two years, and we have no reason to believe the situation will change.” Peterson wiped his upper lip before stuffing his damp handkerchief into his pocket. “I intend to send the
Lady Adelaine
to Bermuda for a load of guns and munitions. President Davis will empty the treasury to supply sufficient weapons for our brave soldiers to win. As I began our conversation, this is the time to reap enormous profits, but a venture this bold isn't for the faint of heart.” Peterson stood clumsily. “Would you like the day to consider this opportunity, sir? My stamina still isn't what it should be, so I must return to my hotel. May I call on you tomorrow for your answer?”

Jackson rose to his feet and stretched out his hand. “Because time is of the essence, I won't need a day to consider. Send word to whoever is brokering the sale that Henthorne and Peterson will purchase the
Lady Adelaine
and the
Roanoke.
”

“Bravo, sir. And I'm sure that if we wish to sell when the war
ends, we will find a ready market for those steamers. The eventual lifting of the blockade from Richmond and Charleston will only improve commerce along the seacoast.”

“I'll consult my banker today and should have a cheque within a day or two.”

Peterson nodded energetically. “By the time the ships arrive from Nassau your warehouses should be overflowing. Thanks to this war, we should be able to retire rich men by the time it's over. Shall I join you at your club tonight to celebrate?”

Jackson considered inviting his partner to dinner at the house, but Peterson's tremors and pallor put him off. Better not to expose Abigail should the man still be ill. “Yes, my club tonight. Shall we meet at nine?”

After Peterson bowed and took his leave, Jackson's puffed-up confidence waned. The combined sale price constricted his chest like a lady's corset. He had recently cleared the company's debts but had barely had a chance to save a tenth of the amount. To obtain so large a sum on short notice, he would have to leverage the business assets and perhaps mortgage his home. He needed to talk to Abigail and then visit his father in the country. After all, despite his current leadership role, Randolph still owned Henthorne and Sons. Packing his papers into his leather case, Jackson rehearsed how to approach them in his mind. But it took little time to conclude neither conversation would take place—not today and not in the foreseeable future. Abigail and his father would fail to recognize a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He felt a twinge of apprehension. If he felt this uneasy, he certainly couldn't convince anyone else. He must work harder than ever and keep his head down.

With a little luck this would be the last gamble he would ever have to take.

Nate heard the bell over the door as he hooked the last side of deer meat overhead in the back room. Washing his hands in a bucket of water, he strode to the front to convince a local matron that his produce had no peer in all of Wilmington. But the friendly face was decidedly male. “Well, look who the wind blew in on this lovely September day.”

Mason Hooks marched up the aisle with more swagger than usual for someone from a tiny place like Balsam. “A man can grow old and die waiting for you to mosey into Flannigan's for a beer.”

“No smoky saloons for me. I'm still waiting for a teahouse to open in town.” Nate grinned, not the least bit put off by his friend's challenge.

Mason's guffaws carried through the open window to the street. “I'll keep tryin' till I wear you out, but that's not why I'm making an afternoon social call.”

“Work slowing down on the docks?” Nate asked as he perched on a tall stool.

“Not hardly. Ships are tied up two deep waiting their turn to unload and secure new cargo. I'm here because you might be interested in tonight's meeting.” Mason whispered as though eavesdroppers lurked between the bins of apples.

“What kind of meeting?”

“Just a few men hopin' to see this bloody war come to an end.” Mason's words were barely audible. “With victory for the Union army, that is.”