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396 Chronicles of the Cape Fear River

Siren, John Hill; Calypso, C. G. Smith; Ella, John Savage;
Condor, Thomas Brinkman; Coquette, E. T. Daniels; Mary
Celeste, J. W. Anderson; Susan Bierne, Richard Dosher.
Many other steamers might be named, among them the
Britanmc, Emma, Dee, Antonica, Victory, Granite City, Stone-
wall Jackson, Flora, Havelock, Hero, Hagle, Duoro, Thistle,
Scotia, Gertrude, Charleston, Colonel Lamb, Dolphin, and
Dream, the names of whose pilots may or may not be among

those already recalled. These are noted here because there is
no other record of their exploits extant.

Some of the steamers which were run ashore by the block-
aders may still be seen: The Ella on Bald Head, the Spunky
and the Georgiana McCall on Caswell Beach, the Hebe and
the Dee between Wrightsville and Masonboro. The Beauregard
and the Venus lie stranded on Carolina Beach; the Modern
Greece, near New Inlet; the Antonica, on Frying Pan Shoals.
Two others lie near Lockwood’s Folly Bar; and others whose

names are forgotten lie half-buried in sands, where they may
remain for centuries to come.

JaMES WiniiaM Craig, A VETERAN Pinot.

He is now the Rev. James William Craig, Methodist
preacher, but I like to think of him as Jim Billy, the Cape
Fear pilot of war times, on the bridge of the swift Confederate
blockade runner Lynx, commanded by the intrepid Captain
Reed, as she races through the blackness of night on her course
west nor’west, straight and true for the Federal fleet off New
Inlet, in utter silence, the salt spray of the sea smiting the faces
of the watch as they gaze ahead for the first sign of imminent
danger.

Soon there is added to the incessant noise of wind and waves
the ominous roar of the breakers, as the surf complains to the
shore, and the deep-sea lead gives warning of shoaling water.
“‘Half-speed,” is muttered through the speaking tube; a hurried

parley; a recognized landfall—for Reed is a fine navigator—
and “Are you ready to take her, Pilot?” ‘Ready, sir,” comes

from Jim Billy in the darkness. Then the whispered orders
through the tube: “Slow down,” as there looms ahead the first
of the dread monsters of destruction. “Starboard,” “Steady,”
and the little ship glides past like a phantom, unseen as yet.
Then “Port,” “Port,” “Hard a’port,” in quick succession, as

7

Blockade Running 397

she almost touches the second cruiser. She is now in the thick of
the blockading squadron; and suddenly, out of the darkness and
close aboard, comes the hoarse hail, ““Heave to, or I’ll sink you,

followed by a blinding glare of rockets and the roar of heavy
guns. The devoted little Confederate is now naked to her
enemies, as the glare of rockets and Drummond lights from
many men-of-war illuminate the chase. Under a pitiless hail
of shot and shell from every quarter, she bounds full speed
ahead, every joint and rivet straining, while Jim Billy dodges
her in and out through a maze of smoke and flame and burst-
ing shells. The range of Fort Fisher’s guns is yet a mile
away. Will she make it? Onward speeds the little ship, for
neither Reed nor Jim Billy has a thought of surrender. A
shell explodes above them, smashing the wheelhouse ; another
shell tears away the starboard paddle-box; and as she flies like
lightning past the nearest cruiser, a sullen roar from Colonel
Lamb’s artillery warns her pursuers that they have reached
their limitations; and in a few minutes the gallant little ship
crosses the bar and anchors under the Confederate guns. The
captain and his trusty pilot shake hands and go below, “to take
the oath,” as Reed described it—for the strain must be relaxed
by sleep or stimulation. “A close shave, Jim,” was all the

captain said. “It was, sir, for a fact,” was the equally laconic

answer.

My shipmate, Jim Billy, is growing old, and so am I. Our
lives have been united all these years in a bond which death
only can divide; and as we talk, as we often do, about old
times and those who took part with us in the stress of war, all
of whom have gone out upon the boundless tide, we are thank-
ful that we are in the convoy of Him who walked upon the sea,

and that we will be guided to our desired haven by His good
hand upon us. Some days ago I drew out of Jim Billy the

following narrative, which I have set down as nearly as may
be in his own words, and I trust it may serve to interest and
instruct some readers who do not often hear a true sailor's
yarn:

“T was born in May, 1840, and piloted my first vessel into
the Cape Fear River when I was seventeen years of age. At
that time Mr. P. W. Fanning, of Wilmington, was chairman
of the Board of Commissioners of Navigation and Pilotage,
and the present custom of issuing branches, or licenses, was not

in vogue.

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