Love and War

by John Jakes

  Light rain began to fall. Vesey shoved a foul-smelling gag in Billy’s mouth and secured it with a second rag tied around his head. While he worked, Vesey hummed “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”

  By the time Vesey was finished, the rain was falling hard. Cold rain, freezing rain, Billy realized. He sneezed. Corporal Vesey ran back up to the shelter of the doorway.

  “I shall return as soon as I find my overcoat, Hazard. It’s nippy out here, but I must watch you undergo your punishment for while. If we can’t break your spirit, perhaps we can break you spine.”

  That night, miles away in Charleston, Judith said, “I don’t understand you any longer, Cooper.”

  He frowned from the other end of the dining table. Wearing a loose silk shirt, he hunched forward in his customary tense posture. His untouched plate had been pushed aside.

  “If this is another of your complaints about my failure to perform my husbandly duties—”

  “No, blast you.” Her eyes glistened, but she fought herself back to control. “I know you’re tired all the time—although it would be nice if you treated me like a wife at least occasionally. That was not the reason I said what I did, however.”

  A breeze from the walled garden fluttered the candles and played with the curtains of the open French windows. “Then it’s the test,” Cooper said suddenly. “Damn Lucius for drinking too much claret.”

  “Don’t blame poor Lucius. You invited him again this evening, you poured all that wine. For him and for yourself as well.”

  He answered that with unintelligible sounds. Out of sight in the parlor, Marie-Louise began to play “The Bonnie Blue Flag” on the pianoforte. At Judith’s urging, she had taken the Mains’ frequent guest into the other room after he inadvertently blurted a remark about the test now scheduled for Monday of next week. Cooper had withheld all mention of it from Judith, hoping to avoid tiresome reactions—bathetic tears, moralizing—which would in turn require him to waste energy dealing with them.

  Looking hostile, he asked, “What did you mean about not understanding me?”

  “The sentence was plain English. Is it so difficult to decipher? You’re not the man I married. Not even the man with whom I went to England.”

  His face seemed to jerk with a spastic fury. He locked his hands together, elbows pressing the table so hard it creaked. “And I remind you that this is no longer the world in which either of those events occurred. The Confederacy is in desperate straits. Desperate measures are required. It’s my duty to involve myself in this test. My duty. If you lack the wit to appreciate that or the courage to endure it, you’re not the woman I married, either.”

  “Hurrah! Hurrah! For Southern rights—hurrah!” sang the adolescent girl and the guest in the parlor. “Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!”

  Judith brushed back the dark blond curls on her forehead. “Oh,” she said, with a small bitter twist to her mouth, “how you misunderstand. It isn’t the risk to yourself that’s upsetting me now, though God knows that kind of upset has become a constant of life here. I object to the callous way you’ve pushed this infernal fish-boat project. I object to your insistence on another test. I object to your forcing seven innocent men to submerge that iron coffin once more because you think it must be done. There was a time when you hated this war with all your soul. Now, you’ve become some—some barbarian I don’t even recognize.”

  Icy, he asked, “Are you finished?”

  “I am not. Cancel the test. Don’t gamble with human lives to fulfill your own warped purpose.”

  “So now my purpose is warped, is it?”

  “Yes.” She struck the table.

  “Patriotism is warped, is it? Defending my native state warped? Or preventing this city from being burned and leveled? That’s what the Yankees want, you know—nothing left of Charleston but rubble. That’s what they want,” he shouted.

  “I don’t care—I don’t care!” She was on her feet, weeping. The patriotic anthem had ended in mid-phrase. “You are not the sole savior of the Confederacy, despite your attempt to act like it. Well, go ahead, kill yourself in your holy cause if you want. But it’s hateful and immoral of you to demand that other lives be sacrificed to appease your anger. The old Cooper would have understood. The Cooper I loved—I loved so very—”

  The broken words faded into silence. Out in the garden, palmetto fronds rattled in the wind. Like some long snake uncoiling, Cooper rose from his chair. His face blank, he said, “The test will proceed as scheduled.”

  “I knew that. Well, commune with yourself about it from now on.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you may take your meals in this house, but don’t expect me to be present when you do. It means you may sleep in the extra bedroom. I don’t want you in mine.”

  They stared at each other. Then Cooper walked out.

  Judith’s façade gave way. Voices reached her from the parlor: the first one—her husband’s—curt:

  “Lucius, get your coat. We can still accomplish a good deal tonight.”

  Marie-Louise, vexed: “Oh, Papa, Mama said we’d all gather and sing—”

  “Keep quiet.”

  Judith put her head down, pressed her hands to her eyes, and silently cried.

  91

  FOR DAYS AFTER HIS ordeal—Billy had been kept kneeling in the sleet storm till morning—he hobbled rather than walked. Most of he time he curled on the floor, hands locked below his pulled-up knees in a futile effort to stave off chills that would abruptly change to fever and set him raving. And every night Vesey was here—to insult him, to prod with a musket, to lift his boot and nudge the hand that would be forever nail-scarred.

  Vesey, a farm boy from Goochland County who had achieved sudden and unexpected importance because of his absolute power over prisoners, reminded Billy of an Academy upperclassman George had mentioned a few times. Some fat fellow from Ohio who had pitilessly deviled his brother and Orry Main and all the other plebes in their class. Billy had never been much for contemplation of philosophic issues, but the fat cadet and Clyde Vesey convinced him that there was indeed such a thing in the world as the person with no redeeming qualities.

  On the credit side of the ledger he placed the Tim Wanns.

  The Massachusetts boy, though not sturdy, was quick-witted. Under Billy’s instruction he rapidly learned the tricks of survival. Because Billy had gone to his rescue, Tim became Billy’s devoted friend, eager to share anything he possessed. One thing he possessed, which Billy didn’t, was greenback dollars. About twenty of them. The money was in his pocket when he was captured, and two of the dollars had persuaded the check-in guard to let him keep the rest.

  With money, little luxuries could be obtained from the more cooperative guards. Frequently, Tim urged. Billy to let him buy him something, whatever he wanted. Tim said it was small payment for the bravery that had earned Billy punishment and a persistent influenza that left him feeble and frequently dizzy.

  Billy said no to the offers until one longing grew too strong.

  “All right, Tim—a little writing paper, then. And a pencil. So I can start a new journal.”

  Tim put in the order ten minutes later. Delivery was made at nine that night. Tim objected.

  “This is wallpaper! Look at all these bilious blue flowers. How is anyone supposed to write on this side?”

  “Ain’t,” said the guard selling the goods. “But if you do want to write some’pin, you write it on that or nothin’. Jeffy Davis hisself can’t get anythin’ better these days.”

  So Billy began.

  Jan. 12—Libby Pris. I vow to survive this place. My next, most immed. aim is to send a letter to my dear wife.

  He wanted to add that he had been asked to join the escape that was currently being plotted but decided he had better not commit that to paper in case the journal was found. Besides, he had so little to write upon—three sheets a foot square cost Tim three dollars—he must hoard the empty spa
ce.

  Every night that Vesey was on duty, he continued to show up to harass his favorite prisoner. But Billy managed to endure the pokes with a bayonet, the kicks with a hobnailed boot, the nasty remarks about his friendship with the Harvard boy—he endured it all until he wrote the letter to Brett.

  Tim insisted he be allowed to buy an envelope to hold the letter. What was supplied was greasy butcher’s paper, folded and held together with paste. Billy addressed it for maximum legibility and enclosed a small square of wallpaper carrying a brief, affectionate message: He was in fine health, he loved her, she shouldn’t worry.

  The envelope, left open for the censor, was handed to the proper guard at noon. Vesey brought it back that night.

  “I am afraid the censor refused to pass this letter.” Smiling, he opened his right hand. The envelope and its contents, all in small pieces, fluttered to the floor.

  Weak, dizzy, hating the feel and stench of the filthy clothes he removed each morning for the required lice inspection, Billy pushed up from his small section of floor, slowly gained his feet, and stood eye to eye with the corporal.

  “There was nothing illegal in that letter.”

  “Oh, that is for the censor to determine. The censor is a chum of mine. Some weeks ago, I asked him to watch for any letter you might write. I’m afraid none will ever gain his approval for mailing. Your dear wife will just have to go on suffering and grieving—” he winked, smiling “—thinking you dead in a heathen’s grave.”

  “The rules—”

  Vesey’s hand flew to the back of Billy’s head; twisted in his long, matted hair. “I told you—I told you,” he whispered. “There are no rules here except mine. I hope your wife’s grief grows unsupportable. I hope she develops a violent aching in her female parts. A desire so fierce, so insistent—”

  He leaned closer, face huge, china-blue eyes gleeful.

  “—she’ll be driven to fornicate madly to relieve it. Maybe she’ll fornicate with some white tramp. Maybe she’ll pick a buck nigger.”

  Billy was shaking, trying to hold back, not see the looming face or hear the whispering.

  “Just imagine one of those big coons—your equals, aren’t they? Old Abe says they are. Think of him humping and sliding all over your wife’s white body. Pushing his blackness into her tender orifice so hard she bleeds. Think of that along with what you’d like to say in all those letters you’ll never get past these walls, you heathen, godless—”

  With a cry, Billy struck. When three other guards with lanterns rushed in to pull him off, he had Vesey on the floor, pounding his head with both hands. One of the guards hauled Billy up by his jacket. A second kicked him in the crotch, twice. Coughing, he pitched sideways and crumpled. The third guard said, “You all are in for it now, Yank.”

  92

  ALTHOUGH LIGHT REMAINED IN the west, Cooper saw only darkness and winter stars out toward the Atlantic. Would he see the sight again? His daughter? Judith? The moment the questions came, he drove them out as unworthy sentimentalities.

  Lucius Chickering had come down to the dock along with Alexander, the machinist. The young man shook Cooper’s hand. “Best of luck, sir. We’ll be waiting for your return.”

  With a brief nod, Cooper glanced at the small crowd of soldiers who had gotten wind of the test and gathered to observe it. Mingled with them were a few villagers from Mount Pleasant. One stared at Cooper in a manner that could only be characterized as pitying.

  Alexander went down through Hunley’s forward hatch. Once Cooper had secured Bory’s permission for the test, the machinist had insisted on taking part. It was his right, he said; it was his submersible.

  Stepping from the pier to the hull, Cooper bent over the hatch. “Ready for me to come down, George?”

  “Ready, Mr. Main,” Lieutenant Dixon replied in his customary drawl. Cooper lifted a long leg over the coaming with its quartet of small, round windows set ninety degrees apart. He lowered himself into the dark interior while a crewman reached up to close the rear hatch with a clang, screwing it down tight. He squeezed past Dixon, who remained at the instruments: a mercury depth gauge and a compass for steering underwater. In a niche between these, in a cup, stood the lighted candle that measured the air supply and provided the sole illumination.

  Cooper positioned himself slightly behind and to the side of the skipper, bending and sliding his rear onto a small iron seat attached to the hull. The six crewmen occupied similar seats, three on either side of the fore-to-aft shaft that had been cast with sections offset in the shape of broad, shallow U’s. The crewmen grasped these to turn the shaft and propel the submersible at its maximum speed of four knots.

  “Mr. Main,” said Dixon, “would you be so good as to explain the test procedures to our crew?” As he spoke, he tested two handles. One operated the rudder attached to the propeller housing; the other controlled the angle of port and starboard diving planes.

  “Simple enough,” Cooper said. His back already ached from bending to the curve of the hull. “Tonight we will not use that candle as the sole determiner of how long this vessel can stay underwater. We shall use you gentlemen. We shall remain submerged an hour—an hour and a half—” some apprehensive murmuring at that “—perhaps more. We will not surface until the first man reaches his limit and announces that he can’t continue to function without fresh air. Each man must find that limit for himself, being neither too confident of his own powers of endurance nor too quick to surrender to discomfort.”

  The final words bore a clear note of scorn, causing Dixon to react. But he was facing the instruments; Cooper didn’t see the frown.

  “When the first man calls out one word—up—that will be our signal to empty the tanks and rise to the surface. Any questions?”

  “I just hope we can come up,” one man declared with a nervous laugh. “Some of the sojers say this fish ought to be named Jonah ’stead of Hunley.”

  “Belay that kind of talk,” Dixon said as he climbed the short ladder and poked his head out the forward hatch. From his cramped position, Cooper could glimpse a small section of the hatch opening: an oval of sky decorated with faint stars.

  “Cast off the bow and stern lines.”

  Dockhands ran noisily to obey Dixon’s order. Cooper could feel Hunley float free all at once. Dixon climbed down again and addressed the mate.

  “Airbox shaft open, Mr. Fawkes?”

  “Open, sir.”

  “Stand by to reverse crank. Half speed.”’

  “Half speed—crank,” the mate repeated. Grunting, the crewmen began to revolve the shaft.

  It was awkward work, but Dixon had drilled the men well and developed smooth timing. The candle flickered. Water lapped the hull with a queer hollow sound.

  Again Dixon went up the ladder, calling down commands to the mate, who had taken the rudder. As soon as they backed from the dock, they reversed direction and picked up speed. Sweat trickled on Cooper’s chin. He felt entombed, wished he were anywhere but here. He fought rising panic.

  Still with his head in the open, Dixon looked all around, three hundred and sixty degrees, then came down, reached overhead and secured the hatch.

  “Stand by to submerge.”

  Cooper’s heart was tripping so fast his chest hurt. He felt a keen respect for these men who had volunteered for this duty and some sense of the agony of those who had perished in the earlier dives. Then he chided himself. He was indulging in sentimentalities again.

  “Close airbox shaft.”

  “Airbox shaft closed,” the mate sang out.

  “Opening bow tank seacock.”

  Cooper heard the gurgle and rush of water. The hull swayed and dipped. He grasped a stanchion mounted above him as Hunley’s bow tilted down. He thought of Judith, Marie-Louise. He couldn’t help it. They did call this the Peripatetic Coffin, after all.

  She settled to the bottom with a shiver and a soft thump. The men relaxed against the hull or leaned on the drive shaft. One fellow said the har
dest half of the voyage was over. No one laughed.

  Dixon studied the mercury tube in the depth gauge. Cooper fought sudden, terrifying fantasies. Someone tightening a metal band around his head. Someone locking him in a lightless closet whose door had no inside knob—

  Alexander patted his waistcoat. “Any of you gents have a timepiece? In the excitement, seems I forgot mine altogether.”

  “I do.” Cooper fumbled for the slim gold watch he always carried. He snapped back the lid. “Ten past seven.” The flame of the candle stood straight. Wax ran down to form tiny mountain chains on the sides.

  At half past the hour, the candle was visibly dimmer. A man muttered, “Air’s growing foul.”

  “Someone let one go,” said another crewman. The snickers were halfhearted. Cooper’s eyes began to smart. Dixon kept stroking his side whiskers with index and middle fingers.

  “How long?” Alexander asked abruptly. Cooper roused. Either his sight was failing or the candle, half gone, had dimmed still more. He had to lift his watch near his chin to see.

  “We’ve been down thirty-three minutes.”

  He kept the watch open in his hand. How loudly it ticked. As the light continued to dim, his mind played pranks. The intervals between ticks grew far apart; he seemed to wait a half hour for the next one. When it came, he heard the sound for a long time.

  Alexander started to sing softly, some Cockney ditty about wheelbarrows and vegetable marrows. Crossly, Dixon asked him to stop. Cooper longed for Liverpool, Tradd Street, even the deck of Water Witch. Thoughts of the blockade-runner led to thoughts of poor Judah, his remains lying somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic. Cooper felt moisture on his cheeks, averted his head so no one would see—

  The candle went out.

  A man inhaled, a panicky hiss. Another cursed. Dixon scraped a match on the iron plating, but it produced no light, only a quick fizzing noise and then a smell.

  Alexander’s voice: “How long, Mr. Main?”