Iron Ships, Iron Men

by Christopher Nicole

  And by Marguerite, of course. Because Marguerite clearly liked lechery. She was a lecherous whore herself, who had been wanton enough to take him away from his wife, make him into her lover ... while Papa had watched and said nothing.

  And Papa was now preparing to be the perfect Yankee, should the bluebellies ever come stomping into Mobile.

  She thought she hated the lot of them, as she left the house and walked through the deserted streets of the seaport; it was now late in the evening, but the July twilight lingered, and she had got into the habit of ignoring the curfew. In fact this evening walk, down to the docks to look at the harbour and the bay, was the most enjoyable time of the day for her. Father had disapproved of her going out without a maid servant, in the beginning, and she had told him to mind his own business — she was a married woman. She didn’t want any company when she went walking. When she was alone she could really indulge her hatred.

  Of friends and enemies alike. She could see the lights of the Federal squadron lying outside the harbour, maintaining their blockade. They had apparently been there since the war had begun. Certainly they had been there since the Grahames had come to Mobile, two years ago. But recently the Union fleet had been reinforced, and all manner of rumours had swept the port, that Farragut was preparing an assault — as far back as January some Federal sailors had been observed surveying the shallows and the passages between the forts. That was why theTennesseehad come down the river to take up station in the harbour. TheTennesseewas the latest — as she was the last — of the home-made Confederate ironclad rams, a superior version of theVirginia, capable of destroying a whole Union fleet single handed, it was said. She was just waiting for the Federals to attempt an assault. Then they would see something.

  Except that the Federals always seemed to win, no matter how well prepared the Confederates were. It seemed obvious that was the result of treachery. Whatever the Confederate commanders did, the Federal generals and admirals seemed able to go one better. Because the Confederacy was absolutely riddled with traitors — she was sure of it. Just as her own house was riddled with traitors. Father was a would-be traitor, she had no doubt. As for Marguerite! Maybe she had betrayed a Northern husband, brought news of a Northern attack on New Orleans ... the Federals had succeeded anyway. If that wasn’t treachery, Claudine didn’t know what was. Now Marguerite had betrayed her own sister. And she would go on betraying. Marguerite would betray the Confederacy without hesitation, if she felt it would do her any good. Just like Father.

  She stood in an alleyway which debouched on to the waterfront. Here she could see without being seen — not that there was anyone about; most people respected the curfew, which applied to all civilians, and any soldiers or seamen not on duty or in possession of a pass. From where she stood she could make out the bulk of theTennessee, looking, like her famous sister, just like a barn moored in the middle of the harbour, with the three sailing sloops which composed the remainder of Admiral Buchanan’s squadron moored in line behind her. Out at sea, the lights of the Federal squadron continued to twinkle in the gathering darkness. They were there, waiting for another act of treachery to admit them into the harbour, to gain another victory. Claudine had no doubt of it.

  She heard movement in the alley behind her, turned in alarm, fearing a rat, and saw several men coming down the narrow passage. Presumably they were sailors returning to their ships, having had a good deal to drink. Men who had had too much to drink were disgusting. Rod was always at his worst when he had had too much to drink. She stepped out of their way, gathering her shawl tighter around her shoulders, and they stopped to look at her. ‘Who’s as pretty as a picture, then?’ one asked.

  Claudine gave him a cold stare. ‘You are drunk, sir,’ she pointed out.

  ‘And I’ve a bottle, too,’ he agreed, producing it from the pocket of his pea jacket. ‘Maybe you’d share a drink with me.’

  ‘With you?’ Claudine asked contemptuously.

  ‘Man,’ said one of the other men. ‘You don’t understand the lady’s point of view, Jacko. To her, you are just southern trash. Ain’t that right, lady?’

  Claudine stared at him in turn.

  ‘While you,’ the man said, ‘think you’re a lady. Right?’

  ‘Thinks,’ remarked the third man. ‘If she was a lady she’d have a servant and a parasol. All the ladies I’ve ever seen had servants and parasols. Even at night,’ he explained.

  ‘If I had a parasol, I’d break it over your head,’ Claudine told him, and made to push through them. ‘Get out of my way.’

  The man called Jacko held her arm. ‘Not so fast,’ he said. ‘You’re breaking the law, pretty lady. Unless you have a pass.’

  ‘I do not need a pass,’ Claudine told him.

  ‘You gotta have a pass,’ Jacko said. ‘And I’m sure you do have one, some place. Let me find it for you.’ Before she realised what he intended, he had brought her against him, and was fumbling at her clothes. ‘She sure smells like a lady,’ he said. ‘And she sure has tits.’

  ‘You wretch!’ Claudine swung her free arm to hit him, had her wrist seized by the second man, from behind her. She panted in pain as her arm was twisted, and in sudden fear, opened her mouth to scream, and felt something sharp against her throat.

  ‘You scream, little girl,’ said the man with the knife, ‘and I’m going to slit your pretty little throat. You remember that, now. And have a drink,’ he commanded, holding the bottle to her lips.

  Claudine stared at his face while she gulped the liquid, which burned her throat and made her retch. Her legs seemed to have turned to water, and her stomach to have disappeared into a vast void. She nearly choked in horror as her shawl was pulled away, and they tore open the bodice of her gown, popping the buttons as they did so, and began to fondle her breasts. Then she found that she was on the ground, which was cobbled, and both cold and rough, and stretched on her back. Her head banged and she wanted to be sick with the pain. And the humiliation, for they had lifted her skirts and were pulling at her drawers and stockings; she heard the sound of ripping material. She made a sound, halfway between a groan and a whimper, and instantly the knife was back, touching her cheek. ‘You remember,’ the man said.

  Claudine shuddered, and closed her eyes; they were taking off their own pants. She had had nothing to do with any man since Rod had gone to sea for the first time, in April 1861. For all her hatred and jealousy of Marguerite, she had never intended to have anything physical to do with even Rod, again. Now ... this ... she began to weep, tears streaming silently down her face — but they were tears of the purest anger. She was so angry her body was totally relaxed. She felt the men pulling her legs apart, touching her where she hated to be touched, rolling her on her face to do the same from behind. Her face bumped the cobbles and she tasted blood, at the same time as there was pain from her crotch, and laughter, and more surging hatred.

  She had been lying there for a good half an hour before she realised that she was alone. She pushed herself up, looked down at her legs. She rose to her knees by leaning against the wall of the alley, then reached her feet. Her knees trembled and she nearly fell again, but retained her balance with an enormous effort. Her skirts fell into place. Her bodice was still torn open, but she couldn’t do anything about that.

  She left the alley and staggered across the street, staring at the ships. She wondered which of them the men who had raped her had come from. She thought she would like that ship to catch fire, and burn to the water’s edge, with everyone on board being consumed, slowly, so that she could stand there and watch them, and listen to their screams. She would not want to stopthem from screaming. She would want to hear them, hear every note.

  Feet and voices. Instinctively she turned to run, and ran right into them. They were officers, both naval and army. They caught her as she stumbled into their midst, and gazed at her in consternation.

  ‘Why, it’s Mrs Bascom,’ one said, raising his cap. ‘Mrs Bascom?’ He gazed at her torn clo
thing, her dishevelled hair, and hastily took off his uniform jacket to wrap around her shoulders and in an endeavour to conceal her exposed breasts.

  ‘There has been a crime here,’ said one of the navy men. ‘Mrs Bascom? Can you tell us what happened?’

  Claudine stared at him. She hated him. She hated them all. Oh, how she hated them. How she hated Marguerite. Marguerite should have been with her in the alley, to be thrown to the cobbles and have men tear off her drawers and put their hands between her legs. But Marguerite would probably have enjoyed it. Marguerite was a whore. A traitorous whore.

  ‘She cannot speak,’ said a third man. ‘There’s a bench over there.’

  ‘I have a flask of brandy,’ offered a fourth.

  Claudine was half escorted, half carried to the bench, and made to sit down, while the brandy was held to her lips. It did not smell very different to what the seamen had given her an hour earlier, but she drank it, and felt the alcohol racing round her brain. Marguerite would haveenjoyed it, she thought, with increasing hate.

  ‘Now, Mrs Bascom,’ said the army officer who had given her his jacket. ‘Do please try to tell us what happened, so that we may do something about it. Or would you like us to take you home, first?’

  Claudine stared at him. ‘Home?’ she asked. ‘I can’t go home. Don’t you understand? Marguerite is at home.’

  ‘Marguerite?’ The man frowned.

  ‘I think she must mean her sister, Mrs McGann,’ said one of his companions.

  ‘Mrs McGann,’ Claudine sneered. ‘Yes, she’s Mrs McGann. Her husband is a Northerner, you know. He’s in the Federal Navy. He could be right there!’ She flung out her hand to point at the lights of the blockading squadron.

  ‘Are you trying to tell us that Mrs McGann, your sister, is responsible for what happened to you tonight?’ asked one of the navy officers.

  Claudine blinked at him, even as she nodded. Of course Marguerite was responsible for what had happened; Marguerite was responsible for everything unpleasant that had ever happened, throughout her life.

  ‘But why?’ asked another of the officers. ‘She’s your sister.’

  ‘My sister,’ Claudine sneered. ‘What does that matter? She’s married to a Northern officer, but she’s carrying on with ... with Southern officers. She’s a traitor. Oh, she’s a traitor. The things I could tell you ...’

  ‘A traitor?’ the army officer asked, his frown deepening. ‘What do you mean by that, Mrs Bascom?’

  Claudine stared at him.

  ‘Tell us about Mrs McGann’s treachery,’ the officer said.

  Claudine licked her lips. ‘There are letters,’ she said. ‘Always letters. She is always writing letters. Or waiting for them.’

  ‘Letters to whom? About what?’

  ‘Why do you suppose we are always losing battles?’ Claudine shouted at him. ‘It’s her fault. She’s done it all. She. She’s a traitorous whore. She.’

  *

  Marguerite McGann read a bedtime story to little Joey. It was very nearly midnight, long after the time a three-a-half year old boy should have been in bed, but she was always reluctant to put him down, and as she had been waiting up for Claudine in any event, she had kept him with her.

  She wished Claudine wouldn’t go out by herself at night. But usually she was back by eleven. At eleven, in fact, Marguerite had wanted to go looking for her, but Father had said to forget it. ‘I’ve told her time and again not to go out after dark,’ he complained. ‘And she ignores me. What the hell am I supposed to do? Tan her ass? She’s a married woman. It’ll do her good to be arrested for curfew breaking and locked up.’ But Marguerite had stayed up until midnight anyway, and only then had put Joey, already half asleep, to bed. In this collapsing world, only Joey represented any stability, any sanity. It was, as Rod had told her it would be, increasingly impossible to think of the future. No one could argue against the fact that the Confederacy was doomed; only European intervention could now save it from extinction at the hands of the abolitionists. That was a future too horrible to contemplate. And no one set much store by European intervention, any more.

  But for her, the end of the war promised far worse than the mere destruction of a society in which she had grown up, and which she had been taught both to value and to enjoy. It could mean her return to Jerry McGann ... she was determined that would never happen. So she preserved a private dream, that Rod would somehow return, and take her and Joey away, before the Federals got to Mobile. They would go to the West, where there were thousands of miles of unexplored country, where the three of them could make their home together, and find some happiness.

  If Rod could get back to her.

  She listened to sound from downstairs, the banging of doors, the stamping of feet, and Father’s voice raised, shouting as usual. Undoubtedly Claudine had come home and they were quarrelling. She felt a sense of relief, so was the more surprised when the door of the bedroom opened, and she gazed at a Confederate officer, very smart in his grey uniform with its yellow sash, his heavy gauntlets, his revolver holster and his sword. Behind him in the corridor were three soldiers. ‘Mrs Marguerite McGann?’ he asked, his voice stern but controlled.

  Marguerite put down the book of nursery rhymes and stood up, her fingers twining themselves in her skirt; Joey immediately rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. Because instinctively they both sensed catastrophe. Something must have happened to Claudine, Marguerite thought. Or perhaps this man has come to bring me news of Jerry’s death. Oh, my God; she did not know whether she would weep or not.

  ‘I am Marguerite McGann,’ she said.

  ‘I have a warrant for your arrest.’

  Marguerite stared at him; what he was saying bore no relation to her thoughts — nor did it make any sense.

  Wilbur Grahame pushed his way into the room. ‘I never heard such damned nonsense in my life,’ he declared. ‘My daughter? Under arrest? On what charge?’

  ‘The charge is treason against the Confederate States of America,’ the officer said.

  ‘Treason?’ Marguerite gasped. ‘Treason? Me?’

  She looked at her father; in an instant his face had both paled, and lost all of its habitual confidence. He thinks it could be true, she realised. My God, he thinks it could be true.

  ‘There has been a deposition made,’ the officer said. ‘You’ll accompany me, if you please, Mrs McGann.’ He looked at the little boy. ‘You will have to leave the child behind.’

  *

  Marguerite awoke with a start, for a moment could not understand where she was. She was certainly uncomfortable, and her back ached, as if she had fallen out of bed and had slept most of the night on the floor.

  She gazed at a white painted ceiling, only it was a dirty white, and there were cobwebs. Her nostrils twitched, because of the stench with which she was surrounded, a mixture of disinfectant and human sweat and human excreta, too. She heard noises, voices calling, laughter, swearing. Then she saw the bars on the single window in the room, and memory came flooding back. Or was she only in the middle of a nightmare?

  It had seemed like a nightmare when they had brought her here last night. Upstairs, in the courtroom, she had been formally charged. Then she had been brought down here to the cells, had recoiled in horror as she had looked at the prostitutes and petty thieves, the curfew breakers and the drunks, who filled the iron cages. Mercifully, she had been taken to the very last cell, at the end of the corridor, and left by herself; that had been the sole concession to the fact that she was a lady.

  But she was in gaol ... her head turned, and she gazed at more bars, these occupying the wall from floor to ceiling, for there was no door, only a grill. Thus she could look into the corridor. And those in the corridor could look in at her. She gave a gasp and sat up, reaching for the coverlet to drag to her throat, for there were several men standing there, gazing at her. Gazing at her, in bed!

  But did it matter? She was actually fully dressed; she had not slept in her cloth
es since that wonderfully terrifying flight from Martine’s. And the covers for which she was reaching consisted of a single blanket, just as the bed on which she lay was a steel cot, which in its hardness could easily have been the floor.

  ‘Mornin’, Mis’ McGann,’ said the gaoler, unlocking the grill. She remembered him from last night. He had been neither rude nor unkind, but he had stared at her, all the time. As he was doing now. ‘These gen’lemen want a word.’

  The gentlemen, she now realised, apart from two sheriffs deputies, were her father and a Mr Morris, who was Wilbur Grahame’s Mobile attorney. She let her feet drop over the side of the cot, shuddered as her stockings touched the stone floor, and stood up. Hair drooped to either side of her face and she thrust it back with her fingers.

  ‘Meggy,’ Wilbur Grahame said, using an endearment forgotten since she had been a little girl. ‘Oh, Meggy.’ He embraced her. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Nothing a hot bath won’t fix,’ Marguerite replied, determined not to give way to the anger and outrage which was threatening to engulf her.

  ‘Mrs McGann,’ Morris greeted her. ‘Well, we will have to see what we can do about getting you that hot bath.’

  ‘You mean I can leave here? You’ve come to take me out?’ She looked at him over her father’s shoulder, and Wilbur Grahame released her.

  ‘Well, now,’ he said. ‘We’re working on it.’

  Marguerite’s face fell with her heart. ‘I don’t have to stay here?’

  ‘Well ...’ Morris sat on the cot. ‘It’s a sad business. Oh, don’t worry about a thing, Mrs McGann. We ... well ... we’ve got to the bottom of the matter. There really is no case against you.’ He glanced at Wilbur.