With everything progressing according to plan Beall wandered from the pilothouse in search of solitude to gather his thoughts. He tugged his hat down to his brows to shield his eyes from the orange sun’s glare and drew his coat tightly up to his neck to insulate his body from the dropping temperatures. He stared into Lake Erie’s shimmering water as the engine’s rhythmic thumping stroke harmonized with the thrust of the huge side-wheel splashing into the sea. The image of his beloved Martha gradually ascended from the depths to rest upon the water’s surface. She lifted her head from prayer, looked up, and smiled. When her eyes met his, she gently pressed her lips against her clasped hands and tenderly blew him a kiss. If only she could be at his side this evening, albeit out of harms way. Together they would witness the beginning of the end of the Lincoln government and the end of the beginning of Virginia’s march to freedom. Knowing her spirit accompanied him sufficed.
He gazed beneath the sea’s calm surface while visualizing the turbulent scene about to unfold. By 7:00 darkness enveloped Ohio’s northern coast. Beams from the lighthouses on either side of the channel shone brightly. The eastern finger of land jutting into the channel partially obscured Sandusky’s lights. The Michigan’s silhouetted masts remained stationary.
After thirty minutes of idling in the lake the Philo Parsons glided peacefully into the channel as she churned toward her 7:30 rendezvous with Major Cole. Visible to the west above the stockade fence, candles dimly illuminated second story windows in the prisoners’ barracks. Bright light radiated from oil lamps inside the Yankees’ quarters. When the Parsons neared to within five hundred yards of the Union warship Beall peered across the Michigan’s deck for signs of activity. Nothing. Should he halt? Should he advance? Without the designated signal most would consider the latter action foolhardy; Beall viewed such a response as the fulfillment of his duty. He pondered his options when a light blinked twice from the Michigan. The signal mirror from the enemy ship! He pressed his hands against his chest to contain his rapidly beating heart. He stared intently. Two flashes again, a minute’s pause, and two more flashes. A subtle smile curled his lips upward. Cole controlled the ship.
Beall spun around to search for Burley only to bump into him. “Two flashes, Benny! The ship’s ours. Order Mr. Campbell to move slowly to the starboard side of the warship.” While patting his revolver he added, “Remind him that a careless maneuver, intentional or not, shall be his last.”
As they approached the Michigan, Beall noticed one of his men standing twenty feet to his left. He called for the crewman to follow. “We have a pleasant but necessary task before us.” From the open trunk he solemnly removed a cloth bag. With a smile he removed the Confederacy’s battle flag and turned to his companion. “Your name again, Son?”
“Barkley, Captain Beall, Henry Barkley.”
“Mr. Barkley, you receive the honor of raising the colors of the first Confederate vessel to sail the Great Lakes. Something to tell your grandchildren.”
The lad grasped the halyard. The stars and stripes dropped unceremoniously. Barkley efficiently removed the hasps connecting the U.S. flag and raced to the rail to pitch the contemptible rag overboard only to be halted by his leader. “Not so fast sailor, we may need that later.” The young man tossed the American flag back on the deck and hoisted the stars and bars. Beall immediately subdued the erupting cheers. He reminded his men that over nine hundred Yankee soldiers awaited them on nearby Johnson’s Island.
Soon the Michigan and Philo Parsons floated side by side. With revolver drawn Beall hopped over the rails onto the Michigan’s deck. Eight men from the Parsons followed. Four lifeless seamen, sprawled in pools of coagulating blood, lay scattered about the deck. “What happened to them?” Beall asked the first of man he encountered. The short grizzled man pulled a Bowie knife stained with fresh blood and grinned, “Yanks didn’t followed orders; you might say we disciplined ‘em.”
The comment brought a chorus of laughter from several other men apparently involved in the takeover. John momentarily yearned for bygone days when a life, even the life of a damned Yankee, possessed value.
Charlie strutted onto the deck with revolver in hand and greeted his visitors with a pompous bow. “Captain Beall, so good of you to join us this evening. I would offer you a glass of fine imported wine but unfortunately my Yankee guests discovered several cases were, shall we say a bit tainted?” More laughter ensued.
“It appears your plan proceeded as designed, Major. Did we suffer casualties?”
“No, but the Yankees lacked our good fortune. We dispatched five uncooperative seamen after we drugged the officers. Unfortunately Captain Carter and his two ensigns drank very little. For a brief moment our operation appeared in doubt. The Union seamen we hired proved especially reliable. I must say there is more value to gold than greenbacks. Unfortunately one of the chaps possessed a strong dislike for Ensign Hunter. The poor officer took a step to escape and his former seamen placed a bullet in the ensign’s back without so much as a warning. The regrettable incident did improve the others’ cooperation. Those who attended my banquet find themselves confined in the dining hall while the balance of the Yankee crew remains below decks. As too…”
Beall grew impatient. He learned from Bennet Young the ease with which Charlie became distracted. “With all due respect, Major, we must coordinate our next phase. Providence has been kind but we must hold up our end too.”
“Of course. How do we proceed?”
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