The Last Heiress by Mary Ellis Page B

of clipper ships and fishing boats. Obviously, ships were getting through the Union naval blockade despite his father’s erroneous assumptions. Jackson wasted no time making his way up the gangway of a large side-wheeler.
    â€œSay there, my good man, may I have a word with you?” Jackson addressed a motley-looking crewman in the filthiest clothes he had ever seen.
    â€œWhat can I do fer ya, guv’na?” The sailor spoke with an almost incomprehensible Cockney accent—one so divergent from his wife’s or Miss Dunn’s that he felt they couldn’t possibly share a country of origin.
    â€œMay I board and speak with your captain?” Jackson extracted his business card from a silver case. “If you would be so kind to say Jackson Henthorne of Henthorne and Sons—”
    â€œSave your breath, guv’na.” The sailor spat over the railing into the Cape Fear River. “You can come aboard all you like, but the captain ain’t here.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve.
    Jackson struggled not to betray his revulsion. “May I know his name and his whereabouts?”
    â€œI could be persuaded to tell ya that.” The sailor mimicked his accent with derision.
    It took Jackson several moments to deduce the implication before he flipped the man a gold coin.
    Catching the money in midair, the cretin slipped it into a pocket within the blink of an eye. “Captain Elias Hornsby. You’ll find him at Flannigan’s. He ain’t no Irishman, but he does like a good stout.” He pointed toward a row of buildings that never would have garnered much attention.
    Jackson turned on his heel and marched down the gangway, the coin being his only expression of gratitude. When he located the pub called Flannigan’s by way of a badly lettered sign, his hand caressed the pistol with a wave of relief. Dimly lit and hazy from whale oil lamps, the establishment reeked of unwashed bodies, cigar smoke, and fish entrails. Entering the tavern, he strode purposely toward the bar lest he appear as out of place as he felt.
    The barkeep approached with a dirty apron and a dirtier rag over his shoulder. “What’ll it be?” His heavy brogue indicated he most likely was Mr. Flannigan.
    â€œWhiskey—the best you’ve got—for you, me, and my friends.” Jackson nodded to the men on his left and right.
    Once drinks were poured, toasts made, and the fiery spirits downed, Jackson queried in a soft voice. “Could either of you gentlemen point out Captain Elias Hornsby of the Countess Marie ?”
    The sailor on his right squinted at him with watery eyes. “Maybe we can, maybe we can’t. What’s your business? You ain’t here for the boiled beef and cabbage.”
    The barkeep and nearby patrons broke into raucous laughter.
    â€œI’m the most successful factor in these parts, representing resin producers from all over North Carolina. Cotton and tobacco fills my warehouses as well, since the blockade closed the Savanah cotton exchange for all practical purposes. My name is Jackson Henthorne.” He offered his hand.
    His soliloquy met with a second, more subdued round of guffaws.
    The man stared at his hand and then shrugged his shoulders. “Where you been, Mr. Henthorne? Away at college studying up on history or philosophy? If you was the largest factor in these parts, I would’ve met ya by now.”
    Jackson felt a flush climb his neck into his face, but considering the smoke and poor light, his embarrassment probably wentunnoticed. “I did go away to college for a year but didn’t care for it—too much memorizing worthless information.” With a gesture, he indicated a refill of everyone’s glasses. “I recently took over management of my father’s company. Since he’s…trapped in the old ways…he hasn’t kept abreast of changes in the economic climate of the South. I intend to