North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  Cooper and his family were in Charleston, sent there the preceding fall by Secretary Mallory. Lucius Chickering had accompanied his superior.

  The city to which Cooper had come home was no longer the charming seaport of lamplight, good manners, and chiming church bells with which he had fallen in love after his father exiled him there. Charleston was still scarred from the great fire of ’61, exhausted by blockade and siege, menaced by the enemy on water and on land. The graceful old town was hated throughout the North like no other. Above all, the Yankees wanted to recapture Fort Sumter or obliterate it, for purposes more symbolic than military.

  Cooper found that the old waterfront complex of the Main family firm, the Carolina Shipping Company, no longer existed as such. The military had taken it over, enlarging the warehouses and permitting the piers to sag and rot because Charleston could not be supplied by sea. The cool, high house on Tradd Street had escaped the fire, although Cooper and Lucius were forced to arm themselves to drive out half a dozen white squatters. It then took brooms, paint, and fumigation to restore the house to something like its former condition. Not that the effort was really worth it, Judith thought scarcely a week after their arrival. Her husband spent every day and a good part of each night in his office or that of General Beauregard, in both places trying to lend needed direction and confidence to the testing and launching of the submersible boat Hunley.

  A central fact of existence in Charleston was the federal blockade, which took the form of an inner ring of ironclad monitors, a chain barrier, and an outer perimeter of wooden ships. Here, as everywhere, the blockade was proving cruelly effective, and not merely because it continued to isolate the South from sources of essential goods. With the Yankees in virtual control of the Atlantic from the Chesapeake to Florida, it was deemed necessary to spread troops thinly along the entire coast, to cover all points that might be subject to attack. Scott’s Anaconda was no longer a theory to be mocked. The coils were crushing the South to death.

  A second nerve-wearing reality in the new Charleston was the continuing Yankee pressure to reduce or capture the city. Since coming home, Cooper had heard the terrible story again and again. The preceding spring, Du Pont had tried to take Charleston with a naval assault and failed. After that, the Union had adopted a mixed strategy. Early in July, Federals under Brigadier Quincy Gillmore had established beachheads on Morris Island and begun installation of their batteries among the dunes. Then, on July 18, some six thousand Union infantry had surged forward and surmounted the parapets of Battery Wagner, a Cummings Point fortification whose guns commanded the harbor entrance.

  By evening the Yanks had been driven back to their lines, and with particular fury because Shaw’s Fifty-fourth Massachusetts Colored infantry had been in the van of the attack. Black faces swarming over bastions held by white soldiers made the whole town remember old names: Nat Turner; Denmark Vesey.

  The failure to keep Battery Wagner galled the Yanks, but it had no significant effect on the siege campaign or the speed with which it took shape. Union artillerists kept working, in scorching sunlight all day and beneath calcium flares all night, to place siege mortars and great breeching guns in their sand batteries. Charleston lived in special dread of one eight-inch, two-hundred-pound Parrott nicknamed “the Swamp Angel.” The great monster of a gun was intended to send incendiary shells on a low trajectory of eight thousand yards—right into the city. Cooper had read of the Swamp Angel in Richmond, thinking what an irony it would be if Hazard’s had any part in its manufacture.

  After days of practice firing, the massed guns opened the bombardment in mid-August. Since that time there had been three periods of heavy shelling, each lasting several days. Sumter now resembled a stone heap, though a garrison of five hundred, manning thirty-eight guns, still held on in the ruins. As for the Swamp Angel, it had done hardly any damage, had in fact blown up soon after discharging its first rounds.

  The city withstood the bombardments and took relatively little damage. Sumter still flew the Confederate and state flags. Yet the enemy had neither given up nor gone away; the Yanks were out there in the haze beyond James Island, where Cooper had started his fledgling shipyard. To boost morale, President Davis had visited the city last November, on his way back to Richmond from the endangered West. Crowds gave Mr. Davis loud and friendly welcomes at each of his appearances. Cooper chose not to attend any of them. Only deeds, not patriotic homilies, could help now. His job was Hunley.

  The fish-ship had been transported from Mobile last summer and since then had been plagued by misfortune. Docked with one hatch left open, she had been swamped when a much larger vessel passed nearby. All of her eight-man crew, including the skipper, Lieutenant Payne, were aboard. Only Payne escaped drowning.

  During a test of the submersible with a replacement crew, five more men lost their lives. Old Bory gave up on Hunley, but changed his mind when Mallory reaffirmed his faith in the design, pleaded for patience, and promised that two of his trusted aides would be sent to supervise her testing and operation.

  Meanwhile, on October 5, the torpedo boat David scored a hit on U.S.S. New Ironsides, a bark-rigged steamer with armor plating on her sides. David’s spar torpedo successfully detonated six feet below the enemy’s waterline, and although the sixty-pound charge was not enough to sink her, it did enough damage to force her to retire to Port Royal for repairs.

  Cooper and Lucius arrived then. They pointed out to Beauregard that Hunley offered one advantage that David did not: silence. The official reports showed that David’s engine had alerted New Ironsides to danger before the torpedo boat struck. Beauregard protested that he had had no time to scrutinize the reports, else he would have drawn the same conclusion. Cooper suspected the pompous little Creole was lying but settled for the general’s promise of encouragement and cooperation. It was needed, he discovered. Hunley had already been nicknamed “the Peripatetic Coffin.”

  Hunley himself reached Charleston a few days later to take charge of the next test, on October 15. He and the entire replacement crew brought from Mobile lost their lives. “She was buried bow first, nine fathoms down, at an angle of roughly thirty-five degrees,” Cooper said the night afterward. He hunched before a plate from which he had eaten nothing.

  His daughter asked, “How deep is nine fathoms, Papa?”

  “Forty-five feet.”

  “Brrr. Nothing but sharks in the dark down there.”

  And that Peripatetic Coffin.

  “But you’ve already raised her—” Judith began.

  “Raised her and opened her. The bodies were twisted into horrible postures.”

  “Marie-Louise,” her mother said, “you are excused.”

  “But, Mama, I want to hear more about—”

  “Go.”

  After their daughter left the room, Judith briefly covered her mouth with her napkin. “Really, Cooper, must you be so graphic in front of her?”

  “Why should I sugar-coat the truth? She’s practically a young woman. The disaster happened, and it needn’t have.” He thumped the table. “It needn’t have! We studied the bodies carefully. Hunley’s, now—his face was black and his right hand was over his head. Near the forward hatch, which he was clearly trying to open when he died. Two others had candles clasped in their hands. They were down by the bolts that secure the iron bars to the bottom of the hull. The bars are extra ballast, unfastened and dropped when the captain wants to come up. But not a single bolt had been removed, though the poor wretches had clearly been trying. It was all a puzzle till we made the important discovery: the seacock for the ballast tank at the bow was still open.”

  “Telling you what?” Her tone and look said she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  “How she went down! Another crewman was manning the pump that empties the tanks. Panic must have ensued. Perhaps they used up the air, and the candles went out. In that confined space, that would do it. They were trying to bring her up, don’t you see? But the seacock was open, and in
the dark, with the panic, Hunley failed to order it closed. Or the man responsible was incapable of doing it. That’s why they died. Operated properly, the vessel is seaworthy. She can kill plenty of Yankee sailors, and we’re going to test her and train a crew until she’s ready.”

  Judith gave him a strange look: sad, yet not submissive. “I’m frankly tired of hearing about your holy crusade to take human lives.”

  He glared. “Judah means nothing to you?”

  “Judah died because of the actions of people on our side. Including your sister.”

  Cooper shoved his chair away from the table. “Spare me your mealy-mouthed pacifism. I’m going back to the office.”

  “Tonight? Again? You’ve been there every—”

  “You act as if I go larking off to some bordello or gaming house.” He was shouting now. “I go to do work that’s urgent and vital. General Beauregard will not, I repeat to you, he will not put Hunley into service unless we prove her seaworthy and equip her with a bow spar sturdy enough to hold a charge capable of sinking an ironclad, not merely damaging her. The spar must carry at least ninety pounds of powder. We’re evaluating materials and designs.”

  With slow, elaborate movements, he rose. Bowed. “Now if I have once again explained my behavior and motivation to your satisfaction, and if there are no further trivial questions for which you require answers, may I have your permission to leave?”

  “Oh, Cooper—”

  He pivoted and walked out.

  After the Tradd Street door slammed, she continued to sit motionless. His bolting off reminded her of his behavior when he had been struggling to build Star of Carolina. But then, living and working in a state of perpetual exhaustion, he had been gentle and affectionate. The man she had married. Now she lived with a vengeful stranger she hardly knew.

  Those had been Judith’s thoughts last October following the fatal test. As the holidays neared, nothing changed—unless you considered worsening to be a change. Worsening of matters at. Tradd Street, worsening of matters in Charleston.

  The city continued to resound and shake from enemy shell fire. Pieces of china had to be set well back on a shelf lest the tremors tumble them off. The Parrotts sometimes boomed all night long, and reflected red light on the bedroom ceiling frequently woke her. She wanted to turn and hold her husband, but he usually wasn’t there. He seldom stayed in bed longer than two hours.

  Curtness became Cooper’s way of life. Just before Christmas she suggested that it might be well for them to travel up the Ashley to check on matters at the plantation. “Why? The enemy is here. Let the place rot.” One night he brought Lucius Chickering home to supper—the purpose was additional time to work, not hospitality—and twelve-year-old Marie-Louise watched the young man adoringly all through the meal. She uttered several sighs impossible to miss or misinterpret.

  When she and Judith left the men alone with brandy, Lucius said, “I think your charming daughter’s in love with me.”

  “I am not in the mood to waste time on cheap witticisms.”

  Nor are you ever, Lucius thought. He found himself possessed of surprising courage as he cleared his throat. “See here, Mr. Main. I know I’m only your assistant. Younger than you, far less experienced. Still, I know how I feel. And I feel a little lightness isn’t out of order even in time of war. May help, in fact.”

  “In your war, perhaps. Not in mine. Finish your brandy so we can get to work.”

  Now it was January. Old Bory’s flagging faith in Hunley had been kept alive by Cooper’s pleading and by the enthusiasm of the new captain and crew. The former was another army officer, Lieutenant George Dixon, late of the Twenty-first Alabama Volunteers. The crew had been recruited from the receiving ship Indian Chief, and each man had been told Hunley’s history. General Beauregard insisted.

  Cooper knew, absolutely, that the submersible could be effective against enemy vessels blockading the harbor. Beyond that, and more important, if she could operate as designed, she could generate fear out of all proportion to her size. This was Mallory to the letter. Innovation, surprise—the sea route to victory or, barring that, an honorable negotiated peace for the nation whose military adventures were failures.

  Thus, morning after morning, Cooper and Lucius stepped into their rowboat at the battery for the long pull out past the fallen casemates of Sumter, within sight of Catskill and Nahant and the other monitors, to the inlet on the back side of Sullivan’s Island where the fish-ship tied up. The trip was hard, but easier than that of Captain Dixon and crew, who marched seven miles from their barracks just to start the day.

  The creaky dock jutting from the sandy beach was pleasant in the winter sunshine. The two Navy Department men and Mr. Alexander, the gnarled British machinist who had helped build the vessel, repeatedly watched the crew submerge Hunley for short periods, with no mishaps.

  Finally, late in January, there came a mellow afternoon when Dixon announced: “We are ready, Mr. Main. Will General Beauregard authorize an attack?”

  Cooper’s thinning hair fluttered in the wind. His face, normally pale, was the color of pond ice. “I doubt it. Not yet. You’ve only stayed down a few minutes each time. We must demonstrate that she can stay down much longer.”

  “Well, sir, how long is much longer?” Alexander asked.

  “Till the air runs out. Till the crew has reached the absolute limit of endurance. We must find that limit, Dixon. In fact, I want you to choose one man and put him ashore for the next test. I’ll replace him—I got Old Bory’s permission yesterday. I did it because it will help banish his doubt. I must prove the Navy Department trusts this vessel, that all the deaths have been the result of human error, not faulty design.”

  “But Mr. Main,” Lucius protested, “it could be extremely dangerous for you—”

  Then, reddening and realizing he was in the presence of someone else who would face danger, he shut his mouth. He avoided his superior’s murderous eye. Dixon’s own reaction surprised Cooper.

  “Mr. Chickering’s right, sir. You are a married man with a family. Is your wife agreeable to—?”

  “I need General Beauregard’s permission, but I don’t need hers. For anything. Keep that in mind, if you please. I want Hunley in service, sinking Yankee ships and drowning Yankee seamen, without further delay. I am going to take part in the test dive. We are going to make it tomorrow night.”

  His hunched posture, compressed lips, furious eyes made argument inadvisable. Seaward, the Parrotts boomed as the day’s bombardment started. A dozen big, black-headed gulls lifted from the beach in fright.

  90

  APPROACHING THE END OF his sixth month in Libby Prison, Billy weighed twenty-eight pounds less than he had the day he walked in. His beard hung to the middle of his chest. His face had a gray, sunken appearance. But he had learned how you survived.

  You poke your food with your finger, hunting for weevils. Then you smelled the food. Better to starve than swallow some of the spoiled slop fed to prisoners. Bad food could induce the flux and force you to run repeatedly to a trough in one of the odorous wooden closets the keepers dignified with the name bathroom. You could die before you stopped running.

  You inserted no angry words or sentiments, no criticism of the prison or its administration, in the letters you were permitted to write. To conserve paper, the allowable length of each letter had been reduced to six lines. Billy took this as a sign of the war going badly for the rebs. You didn’t count on any of the letters reaching the North; Billy suspected some or all were burned or dumped in the James.

  You slept lightly in case prisoners from another part of the building staged a rat raid, hunting for items to steal. To sleep lightly wasn’t difficult. Each of the large rooms of the prison held between three hundred and five hundred men; the place was bursting because exchanges had slowed to a trickle. Billy’s room on the top floor was so crowded that everyone slept spoon fashion. Without blankets. That added to the ease of sleeping lightly now that winter had come.


  You stayed away from the windows. You did so no matter how strong your longing for a whiff of fresh air instead of the stinks of fumigation. Guards outside, and even some civilians, occasionally shot at prisoners who appeared at windows. These marksmen received no reprimand from the warden.

  You broke the tedium by taking an apple or newspaper or small homemade oatmeal cake from the basket of Crazy Betsy, then chatted with her for a bit about matters of no consequence. Crazy Betsy was a tiny, tense, blue-eyed woman, about forty, addressed formally as Miss Van Lew. Boys loitering outside the building shrieked “witch!” when she entered. Occasionally they threw stones at her. But that didn’t deter frequent visits, and the authorities allowed her the run of Libby because she was a lifetime resident of Church Hill and helped keep the inmates pacified with her little gifts.

  You did everything possible to avoid depressive thoughts of your situation. You played checkers. Swapped combat stories, learned French or musical theory in one of the informal classes taught by prisoners. If you had spare paper, you scribbled out an item for the Libby Chronicle and handed it to the editor, who stood up and recited an entire newspaper twice weekly to huge crowds jammed into one of the largest rooms.

  Above all, if you were Billy Hazard, you avoided contact with Corporal Clyde Vesey.

  Throughout the early weeks of Billy’s imprisonment, that wasn’t hard. Vesey was still posted on the ground floor, where he continued to receive new prisoners and maintain records of those already inside. One night right after Christmas, however, in the freezing room where Billy was trying to sleep amid the restless men around him, Vesey appeared, specterlike, carrying a lantern.

  “There you are, Hazard,” said he, smiling. “I was anxious to find you and tell you I’ve been transferred up here, nights. It means half again as much in wages. It also means I shall be able to give you the attention you deserve.”

  Billy coughed into his fist; he had caught a cold. After the spasm, he said, “Wonderful news. I’ll treasure each and every golden moment in your presence, Vesey.”