III

Close in the shadow of a warehouse lay The blockade-runner with her smokestacks gray, Back-raking like her masts, and up her hatches Came voices, and the furnace-light in patches

Beat on the sails, and there alone was life — The stevedores sang muffled snatches, and a strife Of bales and barrels streamed down her yawning hold; Cotton more valuable than money,

And barrels of the St. Louis sorghum and molasses, Honey to lure the bees of English gold. Three days she lay, this arrow-pointed boat, With a light gold necklace, beaded at her throat,

Something there was about her like a stoat That lies in wait to make a silent rush, And there was something in her like a thrush, For she had paddle-wheels, each like a wing.

She had a long hornet stern that seemed to hold a sting. Sometimes her paddles slowly turned, For they kept steam up, waiting for a gale. It seemed as if the slim boat chafed and yearned

To go hell-tearing under steam and sail. The oily water churned And made a slap-slap to the paddles’ stroke; And a high painted canvas screen cut off

The blue haze of the lightwood smoke. On the third evening, just at sunset, came A scud of driving cloud; the lightning's flame; The sun glared from a vicious, misty socket,

And in the moaning twilight curved a rocket While a blue flame blurred and frayed At Castle Pinckney; thus we knew the storm Had shifted the blockade.