Iron Ships, Iron Men

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘The devil,’ Kell commented.

  ‘Ingeniously, you say,’ Semmes remarked. ‘Well, monsieur, I would call that a low down Yankee trick. Will it make any difference, Mr Bascom? Cannot your Blakeley punch its way through iron chain?’

  ‘If our powder will give full value, sir, then there is no doubt of it. But ... could we not do the same? I am sure monsieur here would allow us to purchase iron chain.’

  ‘But of course,’ the French officer agreed.

  ‘I’ll not stoop to any such tricks,’ Semmes declared.

  The Port Admiral shook his head. ‘The Federals have strengthened their vessel, unfairly, as you say, Captain Semmes.’ He might have been the manager of a prize fight, Rod thought, determined to have the two protagonists evenly matched. ‘If you will not do the same, then I think it is my duty to offer you an extension of our hospitality, say until midnight tonight.’

  Semmes frowned at him. ‘To what purpose?’

  ‘So that you may leave under cover of darkness, sir, and thus evade your enemy. You are undoubtedly the faster ship under steam.’

  ‘I issued a challenge, monsieur, which I understand has been accepted. I’ll not backslide now. Indeed ...’he looked at the sun, just rising above the hills to the east of the port. ‘I think it is time we were under way. My thanks for your offer, monsieur.’

  The French officer saluted. ‘Then I will offer you my best wishes for the coming combat, Captain. Gentlemen.’ He bowed to each of them in turn, and went to the gangway.

  ‘Iron chains, by God,’ Semmes growled. ‘You’ll stand by to drop moorings, Mr Bascom. Summon the men to arms, Mr Kell.’

  The drums beat, and the crew fell in; every man was eagerly excited. Rod took his place with the mooring squad on the foredeck, and steam began to puff from the funnel; the sails would remain furled today, to avoid the risk of them being holed or set on fire.

  The order came, and the mooring was let go. TheAlabamabegan to move through the water, her flag now fluttering at her stern, and the crowd cheered loudly. There was now a huge mass of boats, large and small, just outside the breakwater, and as theAlabama emerged they began to toot their sirens and fire signal cannon, while to complete the carnival atmosphere, on the breakwater a band began to play.

  One of the spectator boats, a sleek three-masted schooner, approached the Confederate ship under shortened sail.

  ‘What is that fellow playing at?’ Semmes demanded.

  Rod studied the stranger through his glasses. ‘She is called theDeerhound, and she flies the red ensign.’

  The schooner came still closer, and her master, or owner, for it could now be made out that she was actually a yacht, climbed into the shrouds to wave at them. ‘God speed you,’ he called.

  Rod saluted. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s nice to know one Englishman is on our side.’

  ‘He’d better not get in our way,’ Semmes growled, for the British yacht was showing every sign of accompanying them right up to theKearsage. ‘You’ll take your station, Mr Bascom, and open fire the moment you consider the range to be adequate. My intention is to engage the enemy until his ship is sinking or he strikes his colours. Is that understood?’

  ‘Aye-aye, sir,’ Rod said, and went forward, where he peered down the barrel of the Blakeley at theKearsage.

  It was a superb morning, with only scattered white cloud overhead, and the sun, early as it was, already beginning to grow warm, but even in these perfect conditions there was a swell in the Channel, and the ship was rising and falling. The Federal sloop was also under way, now, smoke puffing from her funnels, and her guns run out. The range was closing every second. When he estimated it as two thousand yards — one sea mile — he gave the command, and the big gun boomed. The shot struck the sea, but close by the sloop; that powder charge had not been defective, anyway.

  Still theAlabamaheld her course, closing all the time, while theKearsageturned away from her, beginning a circling movement. So theAlabama turned in unison to lower the range still further, and Rod was able to fire the broadside guns. These were truly aimed, but as the French Port Admiral had warned, nearly all the balls struck the iron chains draped along the Kearsage's topsides, and dropped back into the sea.

  ‘Goddamned Yankee trickster,’ Semmes bawled, while his men booed — and the Yankee sailors cheered.

  ‘Then we’ll just have to cripple her,’ Rod told his gunners. ‘Raise your elevations.’

  This was done, and when next the sloop came into their sights, they sent a broadside through the Union rigging, cutting it in several places, which raised a cheer. ‘Keep it like that,’ Rod told them, and returned to the Blakeley; with both ships under steam, cutting the rigging or even dismasting the enemy would not prove decisive, however good it might be for morale. This was the weapon which would win the fight.

  Thus far theKearsagehad not replied with a single shot, remaining clearly etched in the now brilliant sunlight, while the Confederate ship was wreathed in smoke. But now that the range had closed to fifteen hundred yards she did send a broadside, very well aimed; several of the balls struck the hull of the raider, although without apparently causing any casualties — nor could any be seen on board the sloop, either. Rod wondered if this was going to be another bloodless contest, as when theVirginiahad fought theMonitor. Not if he could help it.

  The two ships were still steaming in steadily decreasing circles, and the range was down to little more than a thousand yards when Rod suddenly found theKearsage’sstern in his sight. There were no iron chains over the stern. ‘Fire,’ he shouted, and the crew of theAlabama cheered as the ball smashed through the sloop’s stern windows, and they could see men sprawling on the deck, while a gun had been dismounted.

  ‘First blood,’ Semmes shouted. ‘Hurrah and again, hurrah. There’s your target, Mr Bascom. Concentrate on her stern.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Rod muttered to himself, waiting impatiently as the Blakeley reloaded. Round came the ships again, still exchanging broadsides. Time and again theAlabama was hulled, to tremble and shake herself. But Rod knew that no matter how bad the damage they were suffering to their topsides, if he could land one destructive shot low on the sloop’s stern, the day was theirs. To make sure of it he loaded with explosive shell rather than solid ball, lined up the enemy in his sights, and shouted, ‘Fire!’

  It was the most perfectly aimed shot of the battle; the shell struck the ship’s sternpost, penetrated the wood, as it had been designed to do ... and lodged. The resulting explosion should have torn the entire stern out of theKearsageand sent her to the bottom in seconds. But to the consternation of theAlabama's crew, nothing happened; the shell had failed to detonate.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Rod said. They had after all been let down by their powder.

  ‘Never mind, Mr Bascom,’ Semmes called. ‘We will try again.’

  Round came theAlabama, to be struck both by another broadside and by a shot from the Union Parrott cannon, and the carpenter came on deck to report that they were taking water. ‘Those timbers have been at sea too long, Captain Semmes,’ he said. ‘They won’t take too much more of this.’

  ‘Can you pump her?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. Just as long as I have steam.’

  ‘Then do so,’ Semmes told him. ‘We will soon be in position again, Mr Bascom.’

  Rod loaded with shell again, muttering a prayer under his breath that this one would detonate. The entire morning around the two ships was now a vast cloud of smoke; he doubted the watchers on the shore were seeing much of the action — but occasionally he caught a glimpse of the yachtDeerhound, lying dangerously close to the flying cannonballs, her rigging crowded with eager men. Then he concentrated again. The stern of theKearsage was slowly coming back into his sights, inch by inch, and he raised his hand to give the order which might win them the day ... when there was a sudden silence from behind him, followed by a gigantic hissing noise. Even as he turned to look aft, he remembered that dreadful day off Cuba, and knew tha
t the same catastrophe had overtaken him here. Not through mismanagement or carelessness on this occasion, however; sea water entering the Alabama's hull had reached the engine room and the boiler — clouds of steam were issuing through the hatch, out of which Freeman, McNair and their stokers were hurriedly climbing. But the ship had already lost way, rolling in the gentle swell.

  ‘Set sail, Mr Kell,’ Semmes commanded. ‘Smartly now.’

  ‘Aye-aye, sir,’ Kell agreed, but there was little to be hoped for from that — there was almost no wind. Nevertheless, with their indomitable support for their captain, the men swarmed aloft, and the canvas came down from the yards.

  While round came theKearsage, her men cheering now as they realised their adversary was crippled. Choosing their position on theAlabama’squarter, where the Union ship could not be struck by the Blakeley’s shells, they poured broadside after broadside into the helpless vessel, as theAlabamavery slowly gathered way. Rod could only watch in impotent fury, as wood crackled and splintered, and men screamed as they were struck by flying splinters. Yet the masts still stood; theKearsagewas concentrating entirely on the hull of her victim, as she sought the destruction rather than the capture of the raider. And now it was easy to see that theAlabama had received a mortal blow; without steam to work the main pumps the carpenter was having to rely on muscle power, and that was simply inadequate; the ship was low in the water, and her roll was sluggish, while now she was hardly moving at all.

  Rod made his way aft, while the firing continued, picking his way through the dead and the dying, the overturned cannon and the shattered wood, and joined Semmes and Kell. The Captain’s face was calm, but his voice was toneless; he had not expected to lose this battle — nor would he have, had the powder not deteriorated ... but if he regretted either not taking Rod sufficiently seriously, or not having taken the Port Admiral’s advice to escape by night, he did not reveal it. ‘Cease firing, Mr Bascom,’ he said. ‘The ship is sinking. Mr Kell, shorten sail and haul down the colours. It will never do in this nineteenth century for us to go down and the decks covered with our gallant wounded. You’d best get them off.’

  ‘Aye-aye, sir,’ the two lieutenants acknowledged, and hurried about their duties. The firing stopped, and Rod ordered the one undamaged boat remaining to be swung out, and all the seriously wounded to be placed in it. He worked furiously, anxious not to have the time to stop and think. Once again he had met Jerry McGann in battle, and once again he had been shattered into defeat. His heart seemed to contain slivers of lead.

  He would not take the boat himself, but sent instead the master’s mate, to inform the captain of theKearsagethat theAlabamahad surrendered and was sinking; theKearsage had in fact realised the situation the moment the colours had been hauled down, and had herself ceased firing.

  The sudden silence was deafening, with only the slurping of the water entering the hull, and the moans of the wounded to disturb the tingling in Rod’s ears. The smoke immediately began to lift, and it was possible to see beyond the immediate radius of action. The crowds on the breakwaters and in the boats were cheering and hooting sirens, and the strains of the band drifted across the water, as if it had all been make-believe, he thought bitterly, gazing at the dead being laid out on the deck — the sloping deck now, as theAlabamabegan to settle by the stern. Equally bitterly he watched theKearsage also putting down boats, to take off the rest of the Confederate crew; he was going to be taken prisoner, after all.

  ‘Ahoy,Alabama,’ came a hail, and he turned, to see the yachtDeerhound standing close by. ‘I can take some of you, if you wish,’ the Englishman called.

  Rod looked aft, at Semmes and Kell, and then at theKearsage.

  ‘I am bound for Southampton, England,’ the Englishman called, understanding what was in their minds. They would not be considered prisoners of war in England.

  The boats from theKearsage were now alongside, and Semmes, Kell and Rod supervised their loading with as many more of the crew as could be accommodated. Some seventy men were thus found places for. ‘We’ll be back for you, Captain Semmes,’ said the lieutenant in charge.

  Rod looked at the Union ship, could make out Jerry McGann standing by the rail, with a file of marines, waiting to welcome the prisoners on board. He thought he would drown rather than let himself be taken to such humiliation.

  Semmes saluted his men in the boats. ‘God bless you all,’ he shouted. ‘We shall meet again.’

  ‘Aye, Captain,’ they chorused, and they were pulled away.

  TheAlabamawas now very low in the water, her stern awash, and the pressure proved too much for her mainmast, which with a crackling whoosh now went over the side. While theDeerhound continued to hover some hundred feet away; she was unable to risk indicating her captain’s offer by approaching closer, but she had put down her own boats.

  The last survivors of theAlabama'screw, thirty-nine men in all, had gathered on the foredeck around their captain and officers. Semmes gazed at theKearsageand then at theDeerhound, and Rod could tell what he was thinking. He had surrendered, and therefore was in honour bound to hand his sword to the captain of the Federal cruiser. But his ship was now sinking very fast, and his first duty was to save the lives of as many of his men as possible. That theDeerhound would take them to England could be fortuitous.

  He made his decision. ‘This ship is sinking,’ he told his men. ‘I doubt whether the Union boats can return in time to save us before she goes. If any of you men think you can make it to theDeerhound, then you have my permission to do so.’

  His men obeyed without hesitation, plunging into the grey waters. Rod and Kell waited until last, with Semmes himself. The Captain sat down and stripped off his boots, then he stood up again, and unbuckled his sword belt, having to lean now against the slope of the deck. ‘No Goddamned Yankee will get this sword,’ he muttered, and threw it into the sea. Then he saluted the ship. ‘God bless you,Alabama,’ he said. ‘There was never a finer ship, or a finer crew. Mr Bascom, Mr Kell, abandon ship.’

  Together they dived into the still, chilly waters of the English Channel, and swam towards the waiting yacht. They had not yet reached her, when with a long sigh, accompanied by the snapping of her fore topmast, theAlabama slid stern first beneath the waves.

  In Cherbourg, the clock showed exactly twenty-four minutes past twelve noon, and the fight had lasted just over one hour.

  Chapter Twelve: Mobile — 1864

  ‘WELL,’ Wilbur Grahame announced, stamping into the drawing room of the Mobile house. ‘Sherman has crossed the Chatahoochie. Mark my words, he’ll be in Atlanta before another month is out.’

  Antoinette Grahame sipped her rum punch, apparently unaware that her husband was speaking, but Claudine glared at her father. ‘You can laugh at it?’

  Wilbur shrugged. ‘There ain’t too much use in crying, sweetheart. The South sure are in for one hell of a licking now.’

  Claudine pointed, angrily. ‘You are a traitor, Daddy.’

  ‘You reckon so? I’ve supported this Goddamned Confederacy since it began. Just so long as there was a chance of its winning. But now ... I’m converting my cash into gold, wherever I can, and you’ll be damn glad of it. Otherwise you are going to starve. Remember that. Starve. Because when the Yankees have done won this war, they are going to put the damned niggers in control, and you are going to see some high jinks then, I can tell you that.’

  Claudine got up. ‘You are just insufferable,’ she declared. ‘You ... you have no pride. I can just see you licking the boots of those damned bluebellies when they come marching into Mobile. Oh, yes, I can.’ She swept to the door, her skirts rustling, and checked as it opened and Marguerite hurried in.

  ‘There’s been mail?’ Marguerite asked.

  ‘Sure there has, honey,’ Wilbur agreed.

  ‘Oh.’ She stopped, her cheeks pink. Mail was a rare and important occasion, and nearly always disappointing. She had replied to Rod’s Christmas letter a dozen times, sending them to every seapo
rt she could think of at which he might call, from Calcutta to Cherbourg — without knowing if he had ever received one of them. But she had to live in hope.

  Wilbur chuckled. ‘Nothing from theAlabama, though. But she still must be afloat, or we’d have heard. That means Bascom must be afloat too. That boy bears a charmed life, by God he does. You know what? I wouldn’t be surprised to see him walking through that gate down there, one of these fine days. That I wouldn’t.’

  Marguerite sat next to her mother, who smiled at her brightly. ‘If only I could believe that,’ she muttered.

  Claudine looked from one to the other, her brain clouding with hatred. She could not understand how they could be so cruel. Nothing had ever been said, not before her, at any rate, yet it was perfectly obvious that Father did not condemn either Marguerite or Rod for betraying her. Mother did not matter any more; she was never even sure what day it was, most of the time believed she was back on Martine’s Plantation, without a care in the world. But Father ... he had not been the same since he had realised Jacob wasn’t coming back. Up to then, Claudine thought, he might have been on her side, even if he had never openly opposed Marguerite in anything she wanted. But he had never spoken of Rod except as her husband, and treated Marguerite as what she was, an errant elder daughter, although he had never specified exactly whether her errancy was in leaving her Yankee husband, or in seducing her English brother-in-law. Since Jacob’s defection, he seemed to have made up his mind. Marguerite promised more for the future — as if Jerry McGann would want to do anything more than shoot her.

  And now, openly to say that the Confederacy was beaten. That was the height of treachery.

  But it was undoubtedly Marguerite’s fault. Claudine wished she could shoot her herself, and save Jerry the trouble. She had realised more and more over the past two years how much she had always loathed Marguerite. Marguerite had always been the one her parents had respected, and thought highly of; her cousins and their various escorts had always been the same. She had never doubted that Marguerite regardedher with contempt. Thus the triumph of having made a play for Rod Bascom, a man she had known from the beginning Marguerite had in her sights, had been tremendous. Besides, Rod, as an employee of her father’s, could be relied upon to know his place, and keep it — she had supposed. But he had turned out to be a horrible lecher, and had been supported in his lechery by Father. There was treachery for you.