Iron Ships, Iron Men

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t allow that,’ the gaoler said, shaking his head. ‘You have to have a court order to do that.’

  ‘I will be personally responsible for her,’ Rod told him. ‘I will see that she appears for trial when and where is required.’

  ‘No, sir,’ the gaoler said, still shaking his head. ‘Can’t be done without a court order.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ Rod said, ‘I have a court order right here.’ He hit him on the chin with all his force. Totally surprised, the gaoler went over without a sound, his head striking the bars to lay him out long before he reached the floor.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Marguerite clasped her throat. ‘Rod ... they’ll lock you up as well.’

  ‘That’s my problem.’ He seized her hand. ‘Come on.’ He pulled her through the door and along the corridor. Instantly there was a chorus of shouts and appeals from the other prisoners, who were beginning to wake up. Hands stretched through the bars trying to grab hold of them. Rod evaded the clutching fingers, and ignored the appeals, reached the office, Marguerite at his heels. The office was deserted at this time of night, as the gaoler had been alone on duty. Rod led Marguerite up the stair to the courtroom level, opened the street door, cautiously, looked out, and hastily slammed it shut again, while from the street there came a shout. ‘They’re there already,’ he said.

  Marguerite said nothing; her legs seemed to be turning to water.

  ‘But it’s starting to drizzle again,’ he said, slipping the bolt. ‘Maybe that’ll send them home again. But just in case ...’ he ran back down the steps, looked left and right, saw the shotgun in the rack behind the desk, reached across and seized it, checked the chambers. It was loaded, but with only two cartridges. Hastily he pulled open the desk drawers, found an unopened box, tore the lid off and crammed half a dozen into his pocket.

  Marguerite had also returned down the stairs, but now her head jerked as there came a banging on the street door above them. ‘Open up in there, Harry,’ someone called. ‘You know we’re coming in, and we don’t want to have to hurt no one.’

  ‘Save for that Yankee bitch,’ said someone else, and there was a roar of laughter.

  Marguerite thought she was going to be sick.

  ‘Sounds like they’re not going to be dispersed,’ Rod said. ‘Is there a back door to this place?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’ Her voice seemed to be coming from very far away.

  Thump, thump, sounded the blows on the street door, and they could hear the timbers starting to crack.

  Rod hesitated, then grasped Marguerite’s hand and led her back into the corridor, to face a barrage of screamed obscenities from the prisoners. He took her back to her cell and pushed her inside. He knew now that he had a real crisis on his hands; there was no other way out and the street door would last only a few moments longer. The noise from the prisoners, all now awake, was deafening. For a moment he toyed with the idea of doing as they wished, and releasing them, in order to cause as much confusion as possible. But he decided against it; there was no way of ensuring they would not themselves turn against Marguerite.

  ‘Stand away from me,’ Marguerite gasped. ‘Stand away. They won’t harm an officer in uniform. It’s me they want.’

  She was standing in the cell doorway; behind her, the gaoler was sitting up and rubbing both his jaw and the back of his head with a bemused expression. Rod pushed Marguerite back inside, slammed and locked the grill door, and handed her the keys through the bars. ‘Hang on to those,’ he told her, and listened to the whoops of triumph as the upper door finally gave way with a crackling crash. Men flooded down the stairs and into the office, then into the corridor behind, to be greeted by another chorus of shouts from the prisoners. Rod faced them, the shotgun thrown forward. ‘Hold it right there,’ he shouted.

  The men hesitated.

  ‘I am Lieutenant Rodney Bascom, of the CSSAlabama,’ he told them. ‘Maybe you’ve heard of me, or my ship. Now you listen to me; I’ll kill the first man who tries to lay a finger on this lady. Understood?’ He stood with his back against the bars, the shotgun to his shoulder.

  ‘Now, Lieutenant,’ said the leader of the mob, from his voice the man who had first demanded entry from Harry the gaoler. ‘Maybe you don’t understand. That bitch in there is a Federal spy.’

  ‘Thatlady in there is my sister-in-law,’ Rod said. ‘And I am here to see she gets a fair trial. Now you people go on home to bed, or I am going to start shooting.’

  The men exchanged glances, and then one or two of the more faint hearted began shuffling back into the office. Rod knew he had won a victory. They had indeed heard of him, knew he was a naval hero who had seen more action than they had had hot dinners; none of them could doubt he would shoot, and in the confined space of the corridor the shotgun would have the effect of a cannon.

  Then Marguerite screamed. ‘Rod! Look out!’

  He half turned, and was seized round the neck, his head brought back against the bars with a thud which made him see stars. Mentally he cursed, even as the shotgun exploded, splattering buckshot all over the ceiling and bringing down an avalanche of plaster — he had forgotten the gaoler, who was now throttling him against the grill door.

  Before he could attempt to turn right round and deal with the man, the mob was upon him. ‘Don’t hurt him, boys,’ said the leader, wrenching the shotgun from his hands. ‘Not too bad, anyway. Just get him out of the way.’

  Rod was hurled to one side. Dimly he heard Marguerite screaming as the door was wrenched from its socket, and the men flooded into the cell. He found himself on the floor in the corner of the corridor with the grill door propped against the wall above him, and men surging around him and over him, and Marguerite was calling for his help. He tried to get up, and was thrown down again with such force that he banged his head and lost consciousness for a few seconds. When he came to, the corridor was empty, only the shattered door remaining of the catastrophe that had happened.

  They appeared to have taken the shotgun with them. Rod staggered to his feet, fell again, as the walls revolved around him, and the other prisoners hooted and jeered, got to his feet again, gritting his teeth, and heard his name being called. ‘Rod Bascom? Rod Bascom? By God, boy, where are you? If those bastards have harmed you ...’

  Rod stumbled toward the office door, gazed at the chaos within, for the desk had been overturned and Harry the gaoler had apparently left with the mob, and found himself facing Franklin Buchanan. At his back was a file of marines.

  Marguerite saw the men reaching for her, their faces loose with a mixture of drink and passion. It occurred to her, in an abstract way, that she might be about to be raped as well as lynched. She knew she was screaming, even as she felt curiously detached, as if what was about to happen would not necessarily involveher, only her body. And her neck.

  In fact the men were too intent upon their more sinister objective; besides, like most people acting from communicated hysteria, they were still hoping to be able to convince themselves, and others, the next day, that they had acted in defence of the Confederacy, not in the interests of their own lusts. This did not stop them from tearing Marguerite’s gown and petticoats as they reached for her, and she shrank away from them. Their fingers ate into her arms and shoulders, pulled her hair and her breasts. When she tried to dig her feet into the floor to resist them, they simply grabbed her legs and lifted them. She fought them with all the strength at her disposal, screaming and sobbing as she did so, freeing one leg to kick a man in the face, getting an arm free to scratch another’s cheek, praying that Rod would get up from the floor to join in the struggle. But Rod was lost to sight behind the seething bodies; he might even be dead, she thought, with a curious deadening of her own feelings.

  There were too many men. Soon twelve pairs of hands had a share of her, grasping, panting, giggling and cursing as they dragged her arms and legs to each side and carried her between them down the corridor, while the other prisoners alterna
tely cheered and jeered, and called to be released. She was held face uppermost, forced to stare at the slavering faces above her, breathless now and unable even to beg for mercy — as if she would ever have done so from such trash. But it was a horribly humiliating manner in which to be carried, as they trampled through the office and up the steps, bumping her as they did so. Then it was out into the night, where there was a steady downpour, splashing on her face, soaking her tattered clothing, dripping from her hair. Why hadn’t the rain sent them home this time, she wondered? But it had sent no one home. There was an enormous number of people outside the courthouse, women and children as well as men; even all the dogs in Mobile seemed to have assembled, to add their barking to the din. And all soaked by the rain.

  She was going to die. Nothing could stop that now, she knew. But surely she could die with dignity. ‘Please,’ she gasped, having got her breath back. ‘Please let me stand. I’ll walk. I won’t try to escape. Please.’

  But they were enjoying themselves too much, would not relinquish a single intimate grasp on the pulsing flesh beneath their fingers, as the crowd pressed closer, surrounding her with their obscene remarks, and she was carried across the street and to a lamp post on the far side. Here there was a ladder already in place, and a laughing youth was at the top of it, dangling a rope over the cross bar to the ground. Marguerite was carried beneath the lamp, exposed to its watery glare, while the rope brushed her face. Behind her the crowd pressed closer yet, but at last she was set on her feet, panting and bruised, weeping and yet furiously angry, that this should be happening to her, only then realising that she was virtually naked as well as sopping wet, her clothes hanging in tatters from her waist and shoulders.

  ‘Now, wait a moment, boys,’ shouted the big man who was clearly the mob’s leader. ‘We ain’t going to be indecent, now are we?’

  ‘Why not?’ someone shouted back, and there was a roar of laughter.

  ‘Because it ain’t proper, that’s why not,’ the big man retorted. ‘Hey, you, Clement Jones. You’re a narrow shouldered bastard. Take off your shirt.’

  ‘Me, Mr Roebuck? Why me?’

  ‘Because I said so, that’s why,’ Roebuck bellowed. ‘You want this woman to flutter up there with her all hanging out? Gimme your shirt.’

  The crowd cheered, and Jones took off his shirt. Marguerite shook her head as it was brought to her; it stank, and if they were going to lynch her, what did it matter what she was wearing?

  ‘You do as you’re told, lady,’ Roebuck said, and the shirt was pulled over her arms, dropped over her head, and solemnly buttoned up her front; it came to her knees and certainly restored her to a sort of absurd decency, negated by the fact that as it was very wet, it clung to her like a second skin.

  ‘Now then,’ Roebuck bawled, waving his hands for silence. ‘She has to be able to speak. You want to say something before we hoist you up, Yankee spy?’

  She stared at him in a mixture of amazement and disgust, while she filled her lungs with air. ‘Say?’ she screamed. ‘You piece of walking trash. You are committing murder. So help me God, but I hope the worms eat your belly while you are still alive.’

  Roebuck looked vaguely offended. ‘Well, hell, lady,’ he remarked. ‘That weren’t no proper last speech. But if that’s how you want it to be ... let’s have that rope, boys.’ The rope hit her on the shoulder. Then it was brought round in front of her, and Roebuck himself tied the thick knot. She stared at him as he dropped it over her head, and fluffed out the hair to either side before settling it on the nape of her neck. ‘It don’t take too long,’ he said chattily. ‘You just keep breathing, real deep, and it’ll be over in a jiffy.’

  ‘You have to tie her hands, Jim,’ the man at his side said.

  ‘By God,’ Roebuck agreed. ‘I did forget that. Fetch some cord.’

  There was a moment’s confusion, while Marguerite felt the rope already tightening on her throat as the boy above kept jerking on it, and her knees wanted to give way, but she kept them stiff because she was afraid to die, even voluntarily. Then a length of cord was produced, and her wrists were pulled behind her back, brought together, and secured so tightly all the circulation stopped in her hands. When they took that cord off, she thought, it was going to be very painful. But then she realised that when they took that cord off, she would be dead. Now the tears came very fast, and through them she gazed at Roebuck, who was holding up his hand, and saying something, what she couldn’t hear because of the noise drumming in her ears. But beyond him she looked at the crowd, their cheering and clapping slowly turning to dismay as a file of marines pushed their way through, loaded rifles at the ready. In their midst walked Admiral Franklin Buchanan, and Lieutenant Rodney Bascom.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re playing at, Mr Roebuck,’ the Admiral said. ‘But if a hair on the head of that young lady has been harmed, I propose to hang you in her place.’

  *

  Rod lifted the noose over her head, then released the cord binding her wrists. The blood flooding back into her hands and fingers was every bit as painful as she had supposed it would be — and she wanted to scream with joy. Rod took off the man Jones’ shirt, and instead wrapped her in Buchanan’s own cape; he had to hold her up as her strength finally gave out and she could no longer stand.

  A barouche was waiting, guarded by more marines, and he carried her to this, while the mob, sullenly silent now, at once ashamed of what they had tried to do and resentful at being robbed of their prey, stared at them and stamped their feet in the gathering puddles. Rod and the Admiral took their places on either side of her, and they were driven at speed to the house by the docks which had been given to Buchanan for his use while in Mobile. Here she was taken inside, to where Buchanan’s housekeeper was waiting with a glass of brandy, and then she was taken to the housekeeper’s own quarters, to exchange her wet and torn clothing for a warm dressing-gown.

  When she returned to the drawing room she sat in a comfortable chair, shoulders hunched. Now the events of the night — of the past two days, indeed, as it was just over twenty-four hours since her arrest — seemed more than ever like a nightmare — a nightmare she could hardly believe was actually over.

  ‘There is of course a problem,’ Buchanan explained, taking a glass of brandy himself, and offering one to Rod. ‘You are still charged with a crime, Mrs McGann, and are therefore still technically under arrest, until you have been proved innocent of that crime. I cannot break the laws of the land, and therefore I have not the power merely to release you, however sure I may be that you are totally innocent.’

  Marguerite wrapped her fingers round the stem of the brandy goblet, and looked from the Admiral’s face to Rod. No indeed, her nightmare wasn’t over yet.

  But Buchanan was smiling. ‘However, obviously there is no way I intend to return you to that gaol, where there is inadequate security. I think, as your treachery ...’he held up a finger as she would have protested, ‘supposing it exists, can only be in regard to naval matters, as there is not the slightest suggestion of a Federalarmy appearing before Mobile in the foreseeable future, it is very much my business, as I am Commander-in-Chief of the Confederate Navy. I am also Commander-in-Chief of all the forces gathered for the defence of Mobile. I am therefore going to place you under naval arrest, such arrest to be a confinement in your own home, until such time as you can be cleared of all charges against you. There will have to be a marine sentry on your door, but he will be there as much for your protection as your restraint, and I promise that will be the only inconvenience you will have to suffer. I trust that will satisfy you.’

  Once again she looked from face to face. I don’t want to go home, she thought. Home? To Father, concerned only about the inconvenience she had brought him? To Claudine, her hateful accuser, who had so nearly brought her to the gallows? To Mother, who probably did not even know she had been arrested in the first place?

  But how could she not go home, to little Joey?

  And Rod ... she
looked at him. ‘Will you come with me?’ she asked in a low voice.

  ‘Of course.’ He glanced at Buchanan. ‘Am I allowed to?’

  ‘Indeed. But briefly. To see your sister-in-law settled,’ Buchanan said, determined not to interfere in domestic matters. ‘But you will have to report for duty tomorrow. You have not asked me why I came looking for you.’

  ‘There hasn’t exactly been time,’ Rod reminded him.

  ‘As soon as I learned the news of the sad fate of theAlabama, and the good news that you had managed to join Semmes in his escape, I sent word to Mallory that the moment you were back in the States I wanted you here.’

  Rod nodded. ‘The message was awaiting me when I reached Nassau.’ He smiled at Marguerite. ‘But I was coming anyway.’

  Buchanan nodded. ‘I thought you would be. Then when your arrival was reported to me last evening by the Navy patrol at the river crossing, but you had not yet reported to me, I assumed, correctly, that you had first gone to visit your family, and immediately sent for you. Then it was reported to me that you had gone to the gaol, and that there was a disturbance down there. That was why I took some men myself, and went to find you.’

  ‘And thank God you did, sir, for both our sakes,’ Rod agreed, squeezing Marguerite’s hand. ‘But ... is my presence here that urgent?’

  ‘Indeed it is. There is a Federal fleet out there, Rod, and there can be no doubt that they are preparing an assault. In fact, my observers reported to me yesterday that Farragut has just been joined by two of the new monitors the Federals have been building. They are ocean-going ships, Rod, and, you will scarcely believe this, they are reputed to mount fifteen-inch guns. Fifteen inches, by God; consider the weight of shot those monsters will deliver — supposing they can be fired at all without sinking the vessel carrying them. But it is my belief that Farragut has only been waiting for those two ships to reach him in order to start his assault; he needs that kind of gunpower to oppose our shore batteries. If I am right, the assault will come any moment now. Rod, when that happens, I want you on theTennessee.’