People often ask me about my “favorite parts” or “favorite scenes” from some of my books. For me, the best part is right here. This is where I can publically thank and recognize those who’ve helped me with the book.

For BLACK RIVER, a special shout out to Helen Christensen and Darcy Yarosh for their attention to detail. I tip my hat to the production team at Amazon: Carina Petrucci, Kandis Miller and Brianne T. Great job. To Stacy Stablin, thank you for all you do to help promote my books. And finally, to my wife Keri for her creative insight, patience and editing skills, and her sense of humor. Thank you.

And to you, the reader, the person holding this book right now. This story is for you. If you’re a new reader, welcome. And for those who’ve been here for the Sean O’Brien journey, welcome back. I hope you enjoy BLACK RIVER.

Henry Hopkins looked over his shoulder and saw his wife disappear behind the mist rising above the river. The fog couldn’t hide the fear on her face. If he wasn’t killed in the next hour, Henry knew that Angelina would be there for him when he rowed the small fishing boat back across the river, after midnight. She would wave the lantern precisely at 1:00 a.m. for a few seconds to help guide him to the clearing on the shore, to the Confederate-controlled side of the St. Johns River. But now Henry and another man rowed toward the most famous racing sailboat in the world, and Henry felt a knot grow in his stomach.

The river was a half-mile wide at Horseshoe Bend. The weather-beaten boat smelled of dried fish guts, wet burlap, and burnt pipe tobacco. A crescent moon rose over the eastern shoreline and sent a sliver of light bouncing from the surface of the black river — a river filled with alligators, some as long as the boat. And it was filled with Union Navy gunboats.

The men rowed quietly, the only sounds coming from water dripping off the oars and from a great horned owl, its night calls echoing across the river from the top of a large cypress tree near the shore. The moon cast the tree in silhouette, its massive branches holding shadowy beards of Spanish moss hanging straight down. The old cypress tree had been standing since before the first Seminole War with the U.S. government. The tree was a well-known landmark, a visual marker near the secluded entrance to Dunn’s Creek, a deep-water tributary to the St. Johns River. It was in the creek where the Confederates were hiding America, the schooner that beat the British ten years earlier in a race now known as the America’s Cup. The creek was more than seventy feet deep near the place where it flowed into the St. Johns, a few miles downriver from Jacksonville, Florida.

America was recently bought by the Confederate Navy and used as a blockade-runner to outrun the Union Navy blocking southern ports. It had just made a trans-Atlantic voyage from Liverpool, England, and it sailed with a top-secret crew, cargo, and a contract to be delivered directly to the president of the Confederate States of America, Jefferson Davis, and his top general, Robert E. Lee.

Henry wore his wide brim hat pulled low over his eyes. His unshaven face was lean and rawboned. He watched the river, eyes as dark as the water, searching for Union gunboats, listening for steam-fired engines coming from upriver. His nostrils tested the breeze, trying to detect burning coal, the smell of trouble. The two men rowed silently and spoke in whispers as they got closer to America, its mast and stern in a dark profile under the moon rising high above Dunn’s Creek. Henry stopped rowing. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” asked William Kramer, a bull of a man with a thick chest and powerful forearms. He stopped, lifting his paddle from the water and sat erect, listening to the sounds of the night on the river.

Henry looked south. “Sounded like a yank patrol boat.”

“I didn’t hear nothin.’ Just an old hoot owl, that’s all.”

“C’mon. We gotta get into the creek and scuttle the ship before the yanks take her.”

“Who’d you say we’re supposed to meet?”

“Don’t know. Top secret. Maybe General Lee himself. Time’s a wasting. Let’s row.”

They entered the wide mouth of Dunn’s Creek, bordered by towering cypress trees and thick hammocks of palms and live oaks older than the young nation. A weeping willow tree leaned into the creek, its tentacle-like limbs scraping the surface of dark water. Bullfrogs competed in a thick chorus of mating calls. Hungry mosquitoes greeted the men with whines, orbiting their heads, biting at necks and ears.

America, 101 feet in length and more than 170 tons of wood and steel, was anchored in the center of the wide creek. As the men rowed closer to the schooner, they heard the whinny of horses in the foliage on the creek bank. Henry touched his .36 caliber revolver on his side. “Who goes there?”

Two men on horseback stepped into a wedge of moonlight spilling between the limbs of a cypress tree near the creek. Both men were dressed in Confederate uniforms. They dismounted and signaled for Henry and William to row to the shore. Captain John Jackson Dickinson, brown eyes hard as steel, watched the men approach. His gaunt face was unreadable. A shaggy moustache curled over his top lip. He wore a Stetson hat, gray coat and pants, and a saber at his side. He held his horse’s reins and waited.

The other man, a sergeant, wore similar clothes, but disheveled, as if he’d slept in them. Dickinson stepped closer and said, “Good evening, men. I’m Captain Dickinson. This is Sergeant Reese. Which one of you is Henry Hopkins?”

“I am, sir. This is my friend, Corporal William Kramer.”

Dickinson nodded. “What are your plans to scuttle the ship?”

William spoke. “Sir, I have two very sharp augers. I believe I can drill half a dozen holes just below the waterline and she’ll sink in no time.”

Dickinson snorted, releasing a deep breath. He removed the cigar from his mouth, spit out a sliver of tobacco, and looked at the yacht, his eyes softening, following the masts skyward. “Damn shame. America beat fourteen of the fastest yachts in the world from the British Royal Fleet in 1851. Back then the race was called the 100 Guinea Cup. After America took it by finishing eight miles ahead of the nearest yacht, Queen Victoria renamed the race America’s Cup in honor of that yacht anchored in front of us.” He lit a cigar and blew smoke at the mosquitoes in front of his face. “It’s just a matter of days before the yanks bring in the whole damn Union Navy to seize her. We can’t let that happen. They’ll outfit her with canons and aim ‘em down our throats. Orders come from the very top. Commence your drillin’, sir. Looks like you have the arms and shoulders to do it. There’s one final matter.” He looked at William and asked, “Corporal, do you need help with your task?”

“I’m just gonna lean over the edge of the rowboat and bore holes into the yacht right below the waterline. I figure it won’t take too long. Three in the bow and three in the stern.”

Dickinson turned to his sergeant. “Go on and sit in the boat, keep it from flipping over as Corporal Kramer cuts the holes. Lieutenant Hopkins, step ashore. I need to fill you in on your mission, and it’s your mission alone. Are we clear on this?”