Free Blockade Runner by Gilbert L. Morris Page A

the
Greyhound?”
    Captain Bier gave Pollard a direct look. “Aye, I’m afraid she is, John. And she’s heavily armed. We’re in for it this time.”
    Belle and Mr. Pollard met at the bow.
    “We’d better make plans, Belle,” Pollard said, a worried look on his face. “I don’t think we’ve got much of a chance this time.”
    “The only plan I have is to get rid of the papers President Davis entrusted to me. If they found those, we’d be in real trouble.”
    “You know it’ll probably be prison for you—perhaps for me, as well,” Mr. Pollard said.
    “Not for you. They’d never dare do that.”
    “For you it’s worse.”
    “I know. They’ve been looking for an excuse to lock me up again.” But Belle tossed her head, a rebellious light in her eyes. She stared at the warship, which was drawing closer by the moment. “Don’t worry about me, John. I’ll be all right.”
    The
Greyhound
was a three-masted, propeller steamer of four hundred tons. She was painted lead gray with a red streak along her hull. She was a shallow-draft ship, which meant that she could hug the shoreline closer than the Yankee gunboats—but that also meant she was not as fast in open water. The approaching ship was new and obviously very fast.
    Captain Bier looked tense. He glanced up at the masts, then at the enemy vessel. “We’ll put up the sails, Lieutenant,” he said sharply. “We’re going to need all the leverage we can get. Put every square inch of canvas on!”
    The
Greyhound
, like many other ships of her time, was caught between the age of sail and the age of steam. Many shipowners—and captains as well—did not entirely trust the new steam engines. They were in fact sometimes unreliable, and it was considered insurance to be able to catch the winds if the engines failed.
    Soon the sails were billowing out overhead, and Leah stared at them, asking, “Captain, do you think that’ll be enough?”
    “I don’t know, Leah—it’s doubtful.”
    Half an hour later, the cruiser had pulled within firing range. A thin, white curl of smoke rose high in the air as the
Connecticut
turned and launched a broadside. Leah heard a hissing, and then in the sea a few yards from the
Greyhound
a geyser spouted up, along with an explosion underwater.
    “That’s too close!”
    Leah turned to see Jeff. His face was anxious, and he gripped the rail tightly.
    “Jeff, don’t let the officers on that ship find out you’re in the Confederate army!”
    “I already thought of that. But most of the crew know it—some of them, anyway.”
    “We’ve got to tell them to keep it to themselves.”
    Jeff stared at her. “How can we do that?”
    “We’ll just go to them and tell them. Come on!”
    Leah whirled, and for the next half hour the pair moved along the upper and lower decks, speaking to the hands. All agreed, most of them saying, “Right! None of their business, anyway!”
    Finally they had spoken to all the crew, and Jeff said awkwardly, “Thanks, Leah. I’d never have thought of that.” He hesitated, then said, “I’ve been a real grouch lately. Never did thank you proper for sponging me down when I got so hot.”
    Leah flushed. “Oh, that was nothing!”
    “It was something—and I won’t forget it—” He seemed about to say more, but at that instant a cannonball struck the sail over their heads, breaking the spar. Jeff grabbed Leah and shoved her to one side. They fell to the deck as canvas and riggingcame crashing down. And then the heavy sail covered them.
    “Leah—are you all right?” Jeff cried.
    “Yes—how about you?”
    Jeff sighed with relief. “I’m OK—but let’s get out from under this thing. Some more rigging might fall on us.”
    Scrambling out from under the canvas, Leah could hear the cruiser firing rapidly.
    “We can’t stand that!” Jeff said and clenched his teeth. Then he ran toward the ladder to the galley.
    The
Connecticut
sent volley after volley at the
Greyhound
, some shells