Ridgeway said, “What do you suppose is with him?”
Dillingham, the supposed spy, said, “It’s obvious: he wants to sink a ship and all we’ve done is drive the boat out and back. How many times have we missed the tide? How many times have we beached ourselves?”
“Ain’t our fault,” Wicks said.
“No, it isn’t. Nor is it his fault. But he takes it as a personal failure. If we could sink just one boat then Beauregard would have to listen, and we would soon have the harbors full of submarines.”
The men said nothing, which is what men say when there is nothing to be said.
The men soon tired of the worn cards and the worn currency and retired beneath thick, scratchy wool blankets. Morning was only a few hours away. They had only just returned an hour ago.
November 1863
Only a few months ago (which seemed like years) Lieutenant Dixon boarded the C.S.S. Indian Chief following by Alexander.
The crew was assembled, the unshaven, barefoot sailors standing proud before a man they respected and feared.
Dixon said, “You’ve seen the Hunley dive beneath this ship how many times? More than any of you can count, I think. She drowned her last crew. She needs a new crew. Thirteen men,” he said, pacing, “have given their lives for the Confederacy. She even took her namesake and creator to the grave. Thirteen! A number that doesn’t sit right with any of us.”
The sailors glanced at one another uneasily.
“But men die. Sometimes futilely. Men have died there,” he said pointing to Fort Sumter. “And there!” That was Fort Moultrie. “And this very deck!” He stomped his boots, mud flakes scattered across the freshly swabbed boards. “But has anyone ever considered not manning Sumter or Moultrie or any ship for fear that they too would die? Of course not! We count the men who have died behind the stone walls or on the wooden decks as heroes and we count their replacements as heroes as well.
“No one hates the Yankees more than myself. No one hates the chokehold they have on our fine harbors. Those damned ironsides keep our munitions from us. We must break this blockade. You know that as well as I. You know this blockade will destroy the Confederacy. Do you wish that? I said, DO YOU WISH THAT?”
“NO!”
“They say this is the cradle of secession! Here, where the first shot was fired. They will say this is where the war was won! You’ve seen the dummy torpedo against your side; now imagine it against those ships! The explosion. The smoke. The ship sinking. The Yankees leap from the rigging. See them die. And see Charleston free and whole and without oppression! Your families are there, your children. See the ironsides sink like the stones they are and see yourself as the hero that does it! I need strong men, brave men, men who love the South and all that she means and together we will crush the North!” He slammed his fist into a palm, raised it, and then let out a wild rebel yell that could be heard echoing from the very ironsides of which he just spoke.
The sailors stepped forward as one thing, the sound of their feet a war drum against the deck. They too lifted their fist to the sky and whooped.
Five men were chosen: Wicks, Becker, Ridgeway, Collins, Simkins.
July 1850
He was only six when his brother died. (When he killed him.) His father put his arm around him saying, “Good boy. Men don’t cry.” No one knew he didn’t cry because he had no reason to.
Looking around at the women in black and the men wearing their white, starched shirts, he wondered how many cried not because they had reason to but because it was expected. It filled him with an anger so that his fists clenched; and when they did, one woman far from him pointed, saying, “How angry he must be. I don’t blame him in the least.” He almost laughed.
He realized, in a child’s way, that they mourned not for his brother’s qualities (good or bad) or deeds (good or bad) he had done. They mourned because a child had died, a generic child, who stood for their children. There but for the Grace of God … God was supposed to judge, on Judgment Day, an individual based on his actions alone. But man was also in the image of God; and so if man judged men based on some ideal version of man (at least when they were dead, ignoring that live men were judged daily and nearly always found wanting, especially by the gossips) then would not God judge based on the same reasoning? There would be no difference between his brother and any of the saints. If there was no sorting of men, then there could be neither Heaven nor Hell. There was no afterlife. But there must be power that gave the world order, and they must be the things that drove the winds and the waves and forced the corn to grow. There was still a morality, but it was a cold and harsh morality. Mercy was not something these gods knew or cared to know.
(Did he think these thoughts at that age? No; he knew that he couldn’t have articulated so well then, and probably not that well even now.)
November 1863
The Hunley sat on blocks on the dock. This was their first glimpse. Negroes swarmed around her like black flies. They carried buckets of lime and rough cloth and rope and material for the stuffing boxes.
She had just drowned a crew of eight with Horace Hunley commanding her. After weeks in the water she smelled of death, which was why there was so much lime.
“There she is,” Dixon said. “Thirty-four feet of three quarter inch iron.”
A man carrying a compass had to twist to get down the forward hatch.
Dixon took them below. He showed each how the compass worked, how to operate the ballast tanks with the bellows to clear the tanks; he showed them how the diving planes took her up or down and how he could tell by looking at the tube of mercury just how deep she went. “A half inch of quicksilver for every foot,” he said. “And if something fails that half-inch represents an eternity. There’s no escape. When she rolled, there were a lucky few, but that was because the hatches were already open. Imagine if they had been closed.” He put a hand on Simkins’ shoulder, the man with him now. “Look up, look down, look forward and aft. This may very well be your coffin.” He let the silence settle like snow.
“Here is where you will sit.” He showed him a small wooden seat. “Here’s the handle. It’s cold now now but after a night of hard cranking it’ll be warm and your hands’ll be bloody. That’s how we drive her, eight men to turn the crank and myself to steer her.”
“She stinks of death; can you smell it? If you’re afraid, say so. There’ll be no shame in saying so; no one will think any less of you.”
None had been chosen because they were cowards.
August 1850
It was difficult to escape the watchful eyes of his parents, for they were stuck to him like flies to shit whenever he went more than a shadow’s length beyond the house. But a six-year-old is resourceful and he soon made his way to the pond.
He had never learned to swim. His brother was supposed to have shown him, but all he ever did was swing out on the old rope, fall in and laugh. He would gesture to his little brother and when the boy pissed his pants he would only laugh harder.
Today he rolled up his legs and waded in. The water was cold, but quickly enough warmed around his ankles. He took another step noticing that the edge sloped gently. Another step, a fourth and suddenly he found himself in water much deeper than he was tall. He splashed and spluttered.
But something buoyed him, gave him the time to learn a few crude strokes and he made his way back to the shelf. He stood and looked out over the water where the wind caused gentle ripples. He patted the water as one would a dog; and he laughed when the current changed and lapped at his feet.
January 1864
Each morning, they knelt in a plain church with Reverend Johnson. Dixon had acceded, deciding that though he carried the bent gold coin it was ultimately God’s power that would save or kill them; and Reverend Johnson was as good as any other reverend.
Simkins knew that it was pointless to pray to something that did not exist. But still, he prayed with them knowing that most of the men believed and he found it a comfort t
o think that perhaps someone, if not the God they prayed to then at least a god who heard, might be watching over them. He could sense something in the church. They all could.
For the other men, whatever it was they felt sent shivers down the spine, but not the shivers that speaks to a man of comfort but the kind that tells him there is a vicious man or beast just behind him, just behind that tree or building or hidden in the deep shade there.
Entering the submarine was difficult at best: the holes were small so that Simkins had to shrug his shoulders towards. There was always a moment where he felt as if he might become stuck, and then he sucked in his chest and dropped to the floor with the heavy, hollow sound of boots on iron. He was one of the last in, seated next to Alexander.
He would look through the porthole at their target, which today was the Indian Chief for practice, look at the compass and then order the men to begin cranking.
The shaft was always cold, and sometimes Simkins wondered if his hand could freeze to the metal. There was a creaking sound from the shaft in its stuffing box, some popping and other odd noises. The boat would move slowly at first, gathering speed. The crankshaft stuck sometimes; and sometimes his arms felt unyielding. But after a time both the shaft and his arms always warmed to the task.
The sound of the hatches closing vibrated in his chest. All light was gone except for the single candle at Dixon’s side. He would order the ballast tanks opened to the sea and simultaneously adjust the diving planes. Once below the surface, his focus was on the compass. They had a new one, purchased from the divers who lifted her from her last temporary gravesite, but the same problems continued. The compass was too slow and the iron hull interfered so that when they cruised toward the Indian Chief they would often miss. But there were many times when the torpedo stuck true, and the sailors watching from the deck would cheer loud enough to be heard underwater.
Real patrols were much more difficult and much colder. Ice would often form on the inside of the boat while they cruised a few feet below the surface. Negroes were requisitioned to defrost the walls each morning but the ice only seemed more determined after that. Leaning against the hull on occasion, when the boat was not in motion, Simkins could feel the cold water lapping at the outside, eager to gain entrance. He knew, though, that its intention was never to drown them but to join him.
Anderson had spoken to Dixon on behalf of the men, saying the nightly efforts were too much. Perhaps it would be better if they could be towed out from the dock?
Dixon asked and received permission to be towed by the David.
Dixon was envious of the David, one of two torpedo boats patrolling, for she had actually landed a blow. She rode low in the water and was driven by steam. Her torpedo was mounted on a spar on the front. Not long ago she had touched it to the Ironsides. Not enough to sink her, but a success. The resulting explosion sent up a geyser of water, damping the engine. Her captain was captured but she drifted away with two of her crew aboard.
Her new captain was proud of her and said so.
Dixon said, “We have no engine to damp and can’t be seen beneath the water.”
“Perhaps, but they have rigged chain boom around the ironsides.”
This was a concern, for although the booms were intended to stop the David and her sister, they would be equally effective against the Hunley. Still, Dixon insisted that they patrol when the weather permitted.
Unfortunately, the ironsides also carried calcium lights: bright lights that swept the water in search of a darkness that might have been more than driftwood. When they swept toward the David and Hunley the boats were forced to drift. And so was the torpedo behind the submarine.
One night the torpedo line became tangled in the rudder of the David. Her captain saw the torpedo drift straight towards him, ninety pounds of explosive set to detonate with only a touch. The calcium lights swept over, forcing him to hold still while he was suddenly caught in the beam. He counted his heartbeats until the beam swept away: about a hundred beats and less than a minute the beam had rested on them. He flinched.
He waited another moment, then tapped the other boat. He pointed to the torpedo drifting no more than a yard away from her.
Dixon went below and said, “Someone has to untangle her lines.” He said it with calmness and they knew that he would, if necessary, do so himself; but he was an officer and should not have to.
Simkins volunteered.
Once on the gently pitching outer hull, he watched the calcium lights sweep over portions of the water far out. He removed most of his clothes, bobbed for a moment, caught a breath, and dove.
The lines were badly tangled. He pulled on a couple of the coils, stopping when he realized the torpedo was drifting towards the submarine. He took great gulps of frigid air when he rose. When he ran a hand through his hair, rime flaked off.
Dixon watched in horror as the torpedo drifted towards him. Then, amazed, he watched as the wind shifted and the waves moved her slowly but clearly away from the iron hull.
Simkins dove many times. The torpedo continued to drift but each time, the waves pulled or pushed it away. He saw Dixon finger the bent gold coin in his pocket.
Done, he clambered onto the hull and lay on his back. He breathed deeply. The cold uncaring stars wheeled overhead.
Inside, the men offering their coats. Becker huddled near him on one side, Collins on the other. Though they were cold too they offered their warmth to him. He had saved them.
Dillingham said, “Thank God for that coin, Dixon.”
Dixon turned sharply. “Thank God for Simkins.”
His lips were blue and his teeth chattered so none of them heard his words. Good luck pieces were one thing; brave men another; but it was the water itself and not God or any god who had saved them. Of this he was certain.
The captain of the David refused to tow them again.
March 1855
His mother gave birth to another boy. She called him John and a blessing. When he was two years old, he became Caleb’s shadow. And Caleb, his mother thought, enjoyed having a younger brother. He showed him how to dress and tie his shoes and how to play games. He once hauled him to safety when an errant horse thundered down the street, the hooves only missing his left leg by the barest fraction of an inch. That was what the bystanders said.
And then Caleb had left him for a moment, he said, to get something from his room. In that moment John the blessing discovered the water trough for the horses and drowned.
His mother never recovered from the shock. She stared at the empty room and rocked empty clothes to sleep. Finally his father sent her to live with a spinster aunt. She died within the year.
His father wept openly.
His father took to drinking, letting the house fall to ruin. Caleb left when he was fourteen, finding work in an iron foundry; that was where he had built up the muscle he used to crank the boat. That was the story he gave to the others.
January 1864
With the worsening weather came foul winds that made it nearly impossible to take the submarine out. As well, Dixon had decided that the ironsides, with their chain booms, were an impossible target. Instead they would seek to destroy the wooden hulls further out.
That would require two things: some nine miles of cranking for the men (for which he asked and received much closer accommodations; the seven miles of walking to and from the dock was exhausting) and a refitting of the torpedo. He had decided that the David had the better idea. They would put the torpedo on a spar and ram the torpedo into a ship. Barbs like fishhooks would hold it to the hull. When the submarine backed off far enough, he would pull a lanyard to detonate the powder.
Through the cold winter, with thin gloves and thinner patience, he and the others put the spar onto the front and built a system such that it could be raised or lowered beneath the submarine’s hull. Snow fell occasionally though never enough to stick to the ground. The high winds whipped and tossed the white-topped waves.
The nine miles
was a lot further than they had ever gone before and the weather made them impotent. Instead of letting his crew fester, perhaps grow bored or lose their conviction, Dixon decided a test was needed.
They would sink the boat a few feet from the dock. Once resting on the ground so that she couldn’t move, they would proceed to crank as if she were. When the air grew foul enough for any man, he would cry, “Up!” and they would rise again. With nine miles of open water, Dixon needed to know their limits.
They laughed and smoked with the soldiers on the dock who stood with their arms wrapped around their sides. They glanced at the sun wondering (as they always did) whether they would ever see it again.
The ship sank through the murky depths. Not far, but far enough. When they felt the hull touch bottom with a slow thump. Each man save for Dixon began to crank. Without a need for a steersman, Dixon was unnecessary. Simkins thought he might offer to relieve one of the men but he did not.
Only the candle offered any light and that cast a strange light Reverend Johnson’s Hellfire. Indeed, it was easy to think they might be in Hell, with only nine men in the sturdiest coffin ever built and strange sounds from the metal itself. They smell of lime and its meaning were overwhelming.
No man spoke; and every man thought: how do I know if I am dead?
The candle flickered, went out. They touched one another for assurance, to remind themselves that living, breathing men still sat beside them. Does a man breathe in Hell? Are there others with him or is he alone? Can there be any more everlasting torment than turning a piece of pipe forever with no hope of going anywhere? Reverend Johnson would know but Reverend Johnson was safe in his church elsewhere.
Dixon said, “Anyone ready yet?”
“No,” they said aloud in stuttered sequence.
They began to count the turns but when one counts ten fingers worth of sets of ten turns, what does a man do? He starts over. It isn’t the number that matters but the fact that time hasn’t ceased.
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