Glory In The Name

by James L. Nelson

  – Lieutenant Isaac N. Brown, CSN, to General Daniel Ruggles, C.S. Army

  Two days after Wilson’s visit, the wagons returned from Jackson with their sorry load of iron. The horses and men looked played out, as if they had been wandering in the wilderness for forty years.

  None of them looked as tired as Robley Paine. Bowater physically helped him down from the driver’s seat of his wagon, leaned him back against the big wheel, not sure if the man could stand on his own. “We’re getting there, Mr. Paine, bit by bit,” he said with a concern he had not felt before. Paine looked up sharp. He heard the change in tone.

  “It is not enough,” Paine said. Exhaustion stripped the words of their bite.

  “It will be enough. Let me help you to your bed. You must rest.”

  Paine nodded, put his arm over Bowater’s shoulder, and let himself be led away. They would leave again in the morning. But half a day of rest between trips was not enough, not enough for Paine or the other men or the horses. They could not keep this up.

  The iron was unloaded, stacked, the horses tended. That night Bowater lay in his bunk in the makeshift barracks in the old carpenter’s shop, stared at the dark. He read and reread Wendy’s letter, five pages long. Tales of nursing, conditions in Norfolk. She had a flawless sense for how newsy a letter should be, and how sentimental and how serious and how lighthearted, the ingredients tossed together to form a perfect confection.

  He loved it, he loved her, but it was not enough to pull him from his black mood. He fell asleep at last, woke with head pounding, joints aching, as if he had slept tensed on the edge of a cliff.

  He woke to the sounds of wagons on packed dirt, the jangling of traces, voices loud in the early morning. He woke thinking that the wagon train was ready to roll out again, that they had organized and prepared while he slept.

  He climbed out of bed, wearing only the sailor’s slop trousers he had taken to wearing, now that the bulk of his work involved manual labor. He pulled on his pullover, and looking like a hungover Jolly Jack Tar stumbled out of a whorehouse.

  There were wagons there, but not the wagon train. These were different wagons, bigger, with fresh teams of draft animals, black men sitting on the driver’s seats, long whips held lazily across their laps, waiting. He could see none of his own men abroad. Bowater did not know what was happening, but he realized that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with him.

  “Captain!” Theodore Wilson stepped up, and again gave Bowater’s clothes a half-amused glance up and down, and if Bowater had not been so groggy he would have been angry with himself for having not worn his frock coat and gray pants.

  “Mr. Wilson…”

  “I have a confession, Captain. When I came down the other day, it was not simply to deliver the mail.”

  “Really?”

  “No, sir. I was curious. Curious to see if this thing, this ironclad, was really a viable enterprise. Not going to back a loser, sir. Never have. But I am impressed by what I see. And in truth, Captain, and I mean this with all humility, when I am impressed, I see to it that others are impressed.”

  “I am impressed with your due humility.”

  “Laugh if you will. I can get things done in this county. Behold, sir. Wagons.”

  Bowater looked out over the wagons. Twenty that he could count, and more coming down the road. Big, sturdy vehicles. Suddenly the Yazoo River was a real possibility.

  Robley Paine approached, limping but moving fast. “Wilson, what’s happening here?”

  “Good morning, Robley.” Wilson smiled, but the warmth and concern in his voice was a cover, a sham. Beneath it, Bowater could hear only discomfort and fear. “I have spoken with the others, and we have decided we must help you in building your boat.”

  Robley squinted at him. The old man was not fooled by any of it. Robley Paine, mad as he might be, understood the entire situation in an instant. “Captain Bowater is in charge here, you understand? His orders are final, and neither he nor I give a goddamn how much land you have, or how many darkies or how much money. You understand that, then your help is welcome.”

  Wilson shifted uncomfortably. “Of course, Robley, of course…”

  “Good,” Robley said, and then, as if forgetting his caveat of a second before, said, “See your men and horses fed. We leave for Jackson in one hour.”

  It was pandemonium for an hour, with the teamsters and the horses and the shipwrights all getting their breakfast and their coffee and then getting horses and wagons ready, and the first screeching of nails as boards were pried from the side of the Yazoo River. And then the wagons rolled off and the noise dropped off to a fraction of what it had been and a sort of peace seemed to settle over the boatyard.

  Samuel Bowater found himself in such good spirits that he was able to face the ream of paper needing his attention.

  “Cap’n Bowater?” Hieronymus Taylor stuck his head in the door, interrupted beef requisitions.

  “Come in, Chief.”

  Bowater had seen little of Taylor in the past week. The chief and Burgess and Moses had disappeared down into the engine room and mostly remained there, like bats, or some other nocturnal animals. They would appear at mealtimes, and after work, filthy, drenched in their own sweat. They would tear off their clothes and plunge into the Yazoo River, and sometimes some of the others would join them. Beyond that, they were absent, down in their own underworld of steam pipes and boilers and condensers and pumps and cylinders and pistons.

  “I do hope you are not here to report some insurmountable problem,” Bowater said, wondering if this was the end of his buoyant mood.

  “No, no…ain’t nothin like that. We havin’ some problems with the damned valve linkage on the starboard engine. We don’t get it squared away, we like to do nothin’ but steam in circles.”

  “It is something you can fix?”

  “Oh sure, sure…but, well, fact is, I need to head on down to Vicksburg. I know a shop down there, can make me what I need. Ain’t a damn thing ’round here, ’cept some country blacksmiths, and what I need’s a bit more refined, ya understand? So if it ain’t a problem, reckon I’ll take the packet on down to Vicksburg.”

  Bowater nodded. He did not doubt Taylor’s veracity, but there was something the chief was not saying. He considered probing deeper, but did not.

  He did not like Taylor, but he trusted the man enough now that he would take him on his word. Whatever it was he sought in Vicksburg-reversing gears, a good drunk, a fancy girl-whatever Taylor felt he needed, Bowater was ready to let him have it. He did not ask what it was. He imagined he would find the answer repugnant.

  “Very well, Chief. When will you be back?”

  “Next Wednesday, reckon. Burgess and Jones gots their jobs, they’ll carry on without me.”

  “Very well. And since you are venturing into civilization, please ask Polkey and Johnny St. Laurent if there is anything they need.”

  “Aye, sir,” Taylor said, with the most respect and relief that Bowater had ever heard from the man, and disappeared.

  Samuel turned back to his beef requisition, then set the letter aside. Time to start tearing into the Yazoo River. He felt more ready than he had since arriving.

  They worked all that day until the sunlight was gone, and the next day, being Sunday, Samuel Bowater gave the men the day off, because he still could and because the men needed a break, and so did he.

  He took easel, canvas, and paints and wandered a bit down the riverbank, to a place one hundred yards from the ship. The weather had turned warm with the first appearance of spring, and with his back to the shore Samuel looked up the winding length of the Yazoo River, the bursts of new green on the trees, the dots of color that represented the early spring flowers, the old black paint and fresh-cut wood of the Yazoo River. It was lovely. He pulled a pencil from his paint kit, made thin lines across the canvas.

  The hours melted away as the canvas was crisscrossed with fine gray lines, the outline of the riverbank and the sta
nds of trees, the sandbars and reeds like underwater obstructions laid down to stop a tiny armada, and far away, the building ironclad. He mixed paint on his palette, dabbed away at the canvas, filling in the lines, making the colors before him reappear on the canvas.

  He was happy for a while, lost, and then he heard footsteps behind. He turned and looked. An older couple, around his parents’ age, wandering down along the riverbank, looking as if they were out for a stroll. Locals come down to see the ship being built. Sometimes Bowater felt like Noah, with all of the town coming down to watch the madmen building their boat.

  He turned back to the painting, which he was liking less and less. He hoped the couple would leave him alone, but he knew they would not. He knew they would approach, look over his shoulder, make some comment that would reveal their absolute ignorance of art.

  He made fine green lines where the reeds emerged from the river, heard the sounds of the couple’s feet on the gravel behind him.

  “Captain Bowater?” the man asked. Bowater put his brush down, turned around.

  “I am he. How may I help you?”

  “Good day, Captain. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. We have followed your actions in the papers with great interest.” The man was red-faced, with a grand white mustache. He wore a black frock coat, a tall silk hat, walked with a gold-headed cane. His wife wore broad hoops, kept the sun at bay with a silk parasol. The man’s voice was soft, dignified, educated.

  “Please,” the man continued, “allow me to introduce ourselves. My name is Eli Taylor. This is my wife, Veronica.”

  Taylor…?

  Mrs. Taylor gave a curtsy, which Bowater returned with a shallow bow.

  “We were hoping, Captain, to see our son,” Mrs. Taylor said. “Hieronymus Taylor? We understood he is engineer aboard your ship.”

  Bowater looked at Veronica Taylor. She must have been a beautiful woman in her youth. She was still a beautiful woman, all poise and dignity. “Forgive me, ma’am, I think perhaps you are mistaken,” Bowater said, and even as the words left his mouth he thought, How many Hieronymus Taylors might there be in the navy?

  “It’s no surprise you should think so,” Eli Taylor said, and his voice sounded sad. He held up a little photograph, a tintype in a stamped tin oval frame, such as were produced by the thousands all over the country.

  “This is our son,” the man said, and Bowater took the picture. Staring back at him, in shades of gray, was a younger, cleaner Hieronymus Taylor.

  “I apologize,” Bowater said. “It’s just that…”

  “We understand, Captain,” Eli interrupted him. “Hieronymus can be…difficult, at times.”

  Indeed? Bowater thought.

  “He has simply rejected all of his upbringing,” Veronica said, with a tone of exasperation mixed with disappointment. “His brothers and sisters are not like that, I can assure you.”

  “We live in New Orleans and took ship up,” Eli prompted. “We heard from friends in the Navy Department that he might be here.”

  “Yes, yes he is…no, I mean, I’m sorry, he is assigned to this ship. But he had to go away for a few days. He had business in Vicksburg.”

  Eli frowned and Veronica sighed and said, “I knew we should not have written ahead, Eli.”

  “Yes, dear, perhaps you are right.”

  “I am so sorry you missed him,” Bowater said, and meant it, though he did not know if his disappointment was for the parents or for himself at missing Taylor’s discomfiture.

  “Yes, well…” Eli said, and let the rest die off.

  “He should be back by Wednesday.”

  Eli nodded. “Perhaps it is best we missed him. I fear when he left home there was some…trouble. We have not been as close as I might wish.”

  “I’ll tell him you came,” Bowater suggested, but Eli shook his head.

  “No, no, Captain. If it is all the same, I suppose if Hieronymus does not care to see us, I won’t have him think we are thrusting ourselves on him.”

  It was a very sad scene, and Bowater was looking for something helpful to say when Veronica noticed the painting.

  “You are an artist, Captain?”

  “Oh, no. I dabble. It passes the time.”

  Veronica and Eli Taylor took a closer step, scrutinized the canvas.

  “It is very good,” Veronica said.

  “I do believe I see the influence of the Hudson River School, sir. A Charleston man, you must be familiar with the work of Washington Allston?”

  “I have seen his painting, yes.”

  “We have two Allstons in our collection,” Veronica Taylor said.

  “Your work is reminiscent of Durwood, as well, but not nearly as pretentious. Of course, we have seen only your work in progress. Are you familiar with Fitz Hugh Lane?”

  “Why yes, I am…” Bowater stammered. “You are well versed in painting, I see.”

  “Oh, we are great patrons of the arts, sir. Every bit of it.”

  “All our children were raised to appreciate the finer things, Captain,” Veronica said. “Painting, music. Hieronymus has a great gift for music. They were trained in the classics since childhood.”

  Bowater nodded. He did not know what to say.

  “You might say we’re overboard on the subject,” Eli said. “We named Hieronymus after Hieronymus Bosch, you know, the fifteenth-century Dutch painter.”

  “Did you indeed?”

  “Oh yes. His middle name is Michelangelo.”

  42

  I have spent my life in revolutionary countries and I know the horrors of civil war, and I told the people what I had seen, and what they would experience. They laughed at me and called me “granny” and “croaker.”

  – David Glasgow Farragut

  The mighty USS Hartford, mounting twenty nine-inch Dahlgren smoothbores, two twenty-pounder Parrott rifles, one heavy twelve-pounder, and one light twelve-pounder, flagship of the Western Gulf Blockading Squadron, was stuck in the mud.

  Farragut stood on the quarterdeck, leaning on the rail, looking across the deck, over the brown, slow-moving water, over at the low, marshy shore three hundred feet away. South West Pass, one of five ways into the Mississippi River.

  Black smoke roiled out of the Hartford ’s stack, drifted off to the west. Beyond the bow, Farragut could see another plume, smaller, just as black. The side-wheeler Calhoun, with a towline to Hartford ’s bow. The two ships, Calhoun and Hartford , were stoking up their boilers, building up steam enough to drag the deep Hartford through the mud. They reminded Farragut of bulls pawing the ground in preparation for the charge.

  From the foredeck, over two hundred feet away, the executive officer called back, “Ready, Captain Wainwright!”

  Wainwright, captain of USS Hartford, waved, called to the quartermaster, “Four bells!”

  The quartermaster rang out the bells, and underfoot Farragut could hear the engine room respond, a tremor in the deck as the engines dug in, two horizontal condensing double-piston-rod power plants with thirty-four-inch strokes and cylinders sixty-two inches in diameter. Farragut looked over the side. The river was boiling and the mud was swirling like brown storm clouds.

  He felt a slight jerk as the Calhoun took up on the towline and pulled. He looked across the deck, lined up one of the mizzen shrouds with a stunted tree on shore. The seconds ticked off, and slowly, slowly, the shroud seemed to draw away from the tree. They were moving.

  “I believe it took Brooklyn an hour to tow across, sir,” Wainwright said. “We might go a bit faster, with Brooklyn having dug a trench for us.”

  “Perhaps.” Farragut knew all that, and Wainwright knew he knew it. Saying it was Wainwright’s not too subtle way of pleading for patience, patience for a situation over which none of them had control.

  Patience. It was something Farragut was running out of as quickly as he was running out of coal. They could not begin to attack New Orleans until Porter’s gunboat flotilla arrived, and the last he heard they were in Key West
. They could not attack until they took their big ships over the bar, but it was all they could do to get Hartford and Brooklyn over. How they were going to get Colorado over, with her nearly twenty-three-foot depth, he could not imagine.

  These ships were not built to fight this war… he thought. Most of the ships under his command had been laid down with the thought that they would be fighting the British navy on the high seas. It certainly had not been contemplated that they would be used in an attack on New Orleans.

  From the main topmast crosstrees, now the highest point aboard Hartford, the lookout called, “Boat approaching! Steaming from the south! Looks like one of our dispatch boats, sir!”

  Wainwright turned and looked south, but Farragut did not. With his eyes, he had no hope of seeing the boat until it was almost up with them. Nor was he that curious. He had seen enough dispatch boats in the past month to satisfy him for life.

  With creaks and groans and billowing black smoke and the occasional jerk, the Hartford drove over the mud. Forty minutes after the Calhoun took up the strain, the ship gave a little lurch as she broke free from the last desperate grasp of the river bottom and surged ahead into deep water. Forward, Farragut could see the Calhoun sheer off as the towline was dropped.

  “All stop!” Wainwright said. “Stand by the anchor!” he shouted down the length of the deck.

  The Hartford was just settling on her hook when the dispatch boat pulled up alongside.

  “Admiral, sir!” the lieutenant in command called up.

  “Yes, Lieutenant?” Farragut called down. What news it was that could not wait for the lieutenant to come aboard he did not know, but he could guess.

  “Admiral, sir, Commander Porter’s compliments, sir, and he reports his arrival at Ship Island with his mortar fleet.”

  “Excellent!” Farragut replied. He looked upriver. Brooklyn was lying to her anchor, head to stream, three hundred yards away. “Lieutenant, steam up to Brooklyn and tell Captain Craven, with my compliments, to give his people their dinner and then I will signal to get underway. We’ll anchor at Head of the Passes.”