by John Jakes
“A few minutes before the candle went out, approximately forty-five minutes.”
“The air is still quite breathable,” Dixon said. Someone’s grumble disputed that.
Without sight, Cooper couldn’t judge the passage of time. Nothing remained but a mounting pressure on his temples and devils in the mind, persuading him that he was suffocating, persuading him that he heard the iron plates cracking, persuading him that one thing after another was going wrong. He passed rapidly through dizziness, sleepiness, extreme confidence, the certainty of the imminence of his own death.
He ripped off his cravat, tore loose his collar button. He was strangling—
“Up!”
Laughter then, a rush of conversation. For a moment, wiping his sweaty neck, Cooper nearly convinced himself he had been the one to cry out. Calm, Dixon said, “Mr. Alexander, man the stern pump, if you please. I’ll handle this one. Mr. Fawkes, Mr. Billings, unbolt the ballast bars.”
Cooper rested his head against the hull, anticipating the sweet night air waiting up above. He heard the squeak and hiss of the pumps, the ring of an iron nut falling to the deck. The sound was repeated several times.
“Ballast bars unfastened, sir.”
“The bow’s coming up,” Dixon grunted, working the pump handle. “We should be lifting momentarily.”
Everyone felt the bow rise. The men laughed and whistled, but that didn’t last long. One exclaimed, “What’s wrong, Alexander? Why ain’t the stern coming up, too?”
“Captain Dixon?” The little Englishman sounded frightened. “The tank is still full. It’s the pump.”
“We’ll die,” said the man immediately behind Cooper.
Dixon: “What’s wrong with it?”
“Fouled, I should suspect. Damn bloody seaweed, probably.”
“If we can’t fix it, we can’t return to the surface.” Dixon’s words, blurted like a command to Alexander, had a bad effect on the crewman who had spoken a moment before.
“We’re going to suffocate. Oh, God, oh, God—I don’t want to die that way.” His baritone voice ascended to a high register, the words punctuated by the hiccups of his crying. “We’re going to die. I know we’re going to—”
Cooper twisted and reached into the dark. The watch fell; he heard the crystal smash as he seized the hysterical man’s arm. With his free hand he struck the man’s face twice.
“Stop that. It will do no one any good.”
“Damn you, let go—all of us—we’re—”
“I said stop.” He struck a third time, so hard the man’s head thudded on the hull. Cooper released his arm. The man kept crying, muffling it with his hands. At least he wasn’t screaming.
“Thank you, Mr. Main,” Dixon said.
Alexander spoke. “Sir? I am going to dismantle the pump a section at a time. I think I can do it in the dark—I know exactly how she’s put together. It may be that I can reach and remove whatever’s fouling her.”
“If you do, the water will rush in.”
“Give me another idea, then!”
More softly, Dixon said, “I’m sorry. I have none. Take whatever measures you think will help, Mr. Alexander.”
So the nightmare continued, more intense than before. Cooper imagined he couldn’t breathe. Not at all. Yet somehow he did: thin breaths, each costing him pain. Or was the pain imagined, too? A silence that was almost sharp settled in the submersible, every man listening for the squeak or chink of a metal part being unscrewed or removed and wondering, What does that noise mean? That one?
Cooper groped near his feet for his broken watch. Just as he touched it, he heard a bubbly roar. A man screamed, “God preserve us,” and water gushed from the pump, filling the vessel with spray, sloshing along the deck.
Alexander exclaimed, “One minute more—now—there. I have a big handful of seaweed, sir. I think that’s all of it. Now I must force the pump back together against the pressure—”
The water continued to rush in. Cooper lifted his left foot and tapped it down. Splash. The man he had struck was moaning again. Cooper reached behind and shoved the man’s head against the hull. That shut him up.
Almost at once, he felt bad about treating the fellow so brutally. The man was right; they would all die soon. He had a swift and sure sense of that. He fought to draw a little of the malodorous air into his lungs and, with doubt about the outcome removed, settled down to wait for the end.
He began to review his past life quickly, by-passing the shameful moments and dwelling on those of intense pleasure—as when he had first seen Miss Judith Stafford on the deck of the coastal steamer bringing them both to Charleston long ago. He composed a little farewell speech to tell her how grateful he was that she had married hi—
“Done,” Alexander shouted. Cooper automatically looked toward the stern, though he could see nothing. He heard the drawn-out squeal of the pump piston. Then Alexander again.
“She’s working!”
“Hurrah,” Dixon cried. The crew applauded. Tears spilled from Cooper’s eyes as he labored to breathe. He thought he felt the stern lift. Dixon confirmed it.
“There she comes!”
Minutes later, Hunley broke into the moonlight.
Dixon and Alexander attacked the fore and aft hatch bolts like madmen seeking escape from an asylum. Suddenly Cooper glimpsed stars, felt and inhaled sweet, cold air. In no time, the crewmen were briskly turning the crank as if nothing had happened.
Dixon climbed up to peer over the forward coaming. “Only one person left. Can’t see who it is.”
Slowly, the submersible nosed back to the pier, where Lucius Chickering jumped up and down and clapped and spun round and round with his arms at shoulder level, like some happy bird. Dixon ordered him to stop capering and help tie up the vessel.
“I’m not capering, I’m celebrating,” Lucius exclaimed as Dixon worked his way to the bow and flung a line. “The soldiers and townspeople went home after forty minutes. They all said you were dead, but I had this crazy idea that if I stayed—if I didn’t give up—that would prove everybody else was wrong and presently the boat would come up. But Lord Almighty, Lieutenant, you surely tested my faith. Do you realize what time it is?”
Climbing out after Cooper, Alexander asked, “How long were we down?”
Cooper raised his watch to his ear. Good heavens. Still ticking. He jumped to the pier, tilted the watch toward the moon, shook bits of shattered glass from the white face. He thought he had misread the hands, but he hadn’t.
“It’s fifteen minutes before ten. We were submerged two hours and thirty-five minutes.”
“I told you, I told you,” Lucius cried, grabbing Cooper’s shoulders and whirling him. “Isn’t it incredible? You were right. She works.” Alexander muttered something; Dixon shushed him. “She can sneak out and kill Yankees any time now—Oh.” Lucius stopped his gyrations. “I forgot, Mr. Main. One soldier said he was going to General Beauregard’s headquarters to report Hunley sunk again. With all hands lost. I’ll bet your wife’s heard it by now.”
“Oh, God. Lieutenant Dixon, well done. I take my leave.”
He had begun to do so before the end of the sentence. He rushed toward the rowboat, resembling some great gangly shore bird scurrying on the sand. Lucius jammed his plug hat on his head. “Wait for me, Mr. Main!”
When Cooper reached Tradd Street after his incredible adventure, Judith wept with relief, even though Lucius Chickering’s prediction had been incorrect; she had heard no news.
She hugged her husband long and hard. But she still chose to sleep alone that night.
93
“WARDEN,” VESEY SAID, “THAT Yank turned on me like a ravening animal. He did so with no provocation but the prompting of his evil disposition. It is your duty, if I may be so bold—your duty as a responsible commander and Christian gentleman to grant me the right to punish him.”
Dubious, young Turner thought a while. “I would, but I can’t allow that kind of thing insid
e Libby, for several reasons. One, we’ve too blasted many Philadelphia lawyers among the inmates. Two, we’re getting close scrutiny from that damn busybody who works for Seddon.”
“You referring to that one-armed colonel, Warden?”
“That’s right. Main. The self-appointed conscience of our prisons. You’ve seen him nosing around without so much as a by-your-leave from this office.” Vesey nodded. “Recently we’ve been spared his visits—I understand he contracted a bad flux and is confined to his bed. But sure as I say go ahead, he’ll recover and pop in here the very day you do.”
Vesey looked glum. Then he noticed the slow beginnings of a smile. “Of course, if you could find some way to conduct the, ah, disciplinary lesson away from this building, I could issue a temporary release order, which you could destroy afterward with no one the wiser.”
Vesey leaned forward, his smile twice as broad as Turner’s.
“Should you need helpers in this—I mean to say, if there are witnesses,” the warden continued, “they must be absolutely trustworthy.”
“No problem there, sir.”
“If you mark him, it must appear to have happened accidentally.”
“I guarantee it.”
“Then I’ll prepare the pass. Before I hand it to you, I’ll want to know your plan in detail.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!” Vesey said, fairly clicking his heels as he saluted. “You’ll have the information practically right away, I promise. Thank you again, sir.”
“Pleasure to help out.” Turner was still smiling. “You’re an exemplary soldier, Vesey. Wish I had more like you.”
That conversation took place on the thirtieth of January. On the first, Vesey returned, glowing with excitement. Catching the corporal’s mood, Turner asked, “Well? How are you going to do it?”
“With a caisson borrowed through my cousin in the artillery of the Department of Henrico. A caisson and the roughest road we can find. My cousin’s the one who suggested the idea. He told me the Yanks use it on serious offenders all the time. Good enough for them, good enough for us, I say.”
He continued speaking for more than a minute. At the end, Turner laughed loudly. “First rate! You’ll have the release order in an hour. It will be best if you take him out late at night. Fewer people awake then. We’ll say he’s being removed to General Winder’s office for an urgent interrogation.”
“That’s perfect, sir.” Vesey couldn’t suppress his glee. “I must tell you this in candor. We will have a small group at the event—my cousin, some of his pals. But I pledge, Warden, every man can be trusted.”
“I’m holding you responsible for that,” Turner said with a genial smile. “I wish I could go with you. Get in a few licks for me.”
“Yes, sir. We surely will.”
“This is General Winder’s office?” After the question, Billy spat, but it only dripped down on the spokes because of the awkward angle of his head.
“Shut your face, Yank,” said Clyde Vesey’s cousin. He pulled Billy’s head back, then pushed it forward against the wheel. The horses pranced and snorted. It was a bright, breezy morning, warm for February. Bare trees soughed along both sides of the deserted, heavily rutted road that ran over a succession of little hills.
Billy was spread-eagled against the spare wheel mounted on the rear of the artillery caisson at an angle of about forty-five degrees. His bare back stippled with goose bumps, he lay with the wheel hub jammed into his gut. Normally, six horses pulled the caisson, but taking so many for this kind of excursion might have caused suspicion, so only two had been harnessed. They could handle it; the caisson had been considerably lightened by removal of the ammunition chests.
While four soldiers watched, Vesey inspected the knots of the ropes holding Billy’s wrists and ankles to the fellies of the wheel. His body was vertical though tilted forward by the wheel’s angle. After brief scrutiny, Vesey said, “Quarter turn, lads. I hear the trip’s even better that way.”
Snickering, they put their shoulders to it and with effort turned the wheel on its tight hub mount. Vesey called for extra ropes to secure the wheel in that position. Billy’s head was now at three o’clock, his feet at nine.
“Crawford?” Vesey’s cousin stepped forward. “To you falls the honor of riding postilion.” The oafish fellow eagerly mounted the near horse. Cheeks pink in the winter sunshine, Vesey stepped to one side, where the prisoner could see him.
“Gentlemen, are we ready to commence?” Nods, grins. “Ought we to start by singing a hymn? Better still, maybe we should pray for the soul of one about to depart—whether to the nether regions, where all good Yankees go, or merely to the land of the cripples, it is not ours to know just yet.”
Following his cousin’s example, he seized Billy’s hair, yanking his head far back, till he saw Billy grimace. Vesey bent to within three inches of Billy’s face.
“One thing sure, boy. You’ll never forget the ride.”
Billy poked his tongue out between cracked lips and blew spit. This time he didn’t miss.
Vesey slammed his head against the spoke, then ran around to the near horse. “Two miles down the road and back, Crawford.” He whipped off his cap and lashed the horse, spooking it to greater effort with a long rebel yell that wailed against the noise of the caisson gathering speed.
No matter how determined Billy was, no matter how he braced himself, his body was yanked away from the hub, then hurls back against it as the caisson went over each hump in the road. Being tied horizontally created disorientation; his left eye saw the sky, his right the brown road flying by beneath.
Vesey’s cousin whipped the team. “Come on, you nags, do your duty!” Billy’s face mashed into a spoke. The inside of his cheek split. Blood began to fill his mouth. A bruise appeared on his temple as it repeatedly hit the wheel. Vesey had known exactly how loosely to tie him, the bastard.
He got a little relief when the team slowed to turn around. But he had been bashed so hard, jerked so violently, that starting up again was twice as bad. His head buzzed. He had a feeling they would break half his bones at least. His emotional control started to slip. He pictured Brett’s face. That helped.
The return trip seemed to last much longer. Billy sailed beneath a few winter clouds, watching them expand, shrink, blur. Blood ran from the lower corner of his mouth. Pain spread from his belly, hit repeatedly by the hub, to skull and toes. The caisson slowed, then, mercifully, stopped.
“Well, cousin, what d’ye think?” asked Crawford, scratching, himself.
Vesey strutted back and forth where his victim could see him “Oh, I think he’s enjoying himself too much. I see not the slightest sign of repentance for his heathenish behavior. Let’s untie him and turn him over with his back next to the hub. And, Crawford this time go all the way to the covered bridge before you turn. That’s at least a mile more each way.”
So it started again, Crawford driving up the road as if charging to battle. Billy’s middle jackknifed out, then back, the hub battering his spine. Wind-whipped blood trailed away from his upper lip, stringing out behind his head like periods in the air. Finally ashamed but powerless to stop, he cried out.
And blacked out.
The doctor, a sixty-year-old hack, heavy tippler, and native Virginian, happened to despise the young warden of Libby Prison He stomped into Turner’s office late next day, informing him that prisoners from the third floor had brought him a man, one Hazard, whose body was cruelly battered. A man who could not stand, or speak coherently; a man lying this moment on a cot in the surgery, his life in the balance.
“His back isn’t broken, but it’s no thanks to whoever beat him.”
“Just return that Yank to decent health, and I’ll root out the person or persons who did it and discipline them,” Turner promised, voice tremoring. “However, Dr. Arnold, we may find it was an accident. A slip on the stairs, a tumble—some of the prisoners get pretty weak, and there isn’t much I can do about it. Yes, sir, I’ll wager a
n accidental fall is the answer.”
“If you believe that, you’re even stupider than I thought. He could have fallen out of one of those reconnaissance balloons and not be hurt this badly.” The doctor laid his hands on the desk and pushed his plum nose toward the warden. “You’d better remember one fact, youngster. We may be at war, but we are not on the staff of the Grand Inquisitor of Spain. These are Americans locked up in this building—and Southern honor still stands for something. Find the culprit or I’ll go to President Davis personally. I’ll see you cashiered.”
That might have been the outcome, except for the commotion caused by the great escape.
The escape took place on the ninth of February. A Pennsylvania colonel named Rose had climbed down a prison chimney and discovered an abandoned room in the cellar. There, he and others worked in shifts for several days to tunnel under the wall of the old warehouse. The tunnel they dug was almost sixty feet long. They broke ground and ran, a hundred and nine of them.
Libby was thrown into an uproar, Turner into dire trouble. Special inspectors from Winder’s office prowled the area at unexpected hours of the day and night, spying on prisoners for signs of suspicious behavior and insuring that the general’s order to double the number of guards on duty had been carried out. Turner, meantime, desperately wrote reports to shift blame for the escape and save himself from charges. All the while, Billy lay on the cot in the surgery, too deep in pain to remember he had been invited to join the escape.
Tim Wann visited at least twice a day. Asked questions of Dr. Arnold, one more than others: “Who did it, Doctor?”
“I can’t find out. I’ve tried like hell, but the guards in this place are a foul breed. They protect one another.”
Tim suspected he knew the ringleader. He said, “Someone carried him off in the middle of the night. I was asleep—I never woke up.” Pale with guilt, the Massachusetts boy looked at the puffed discolored face on the thin gray pillow. Even sleeping, Billy occasionally winced in pain.
“No one else in your room saw anything?”