There was so much he wished to convey to her. He wanted to tell her about the monster that he and his men were able to conjure up, like wizards in storybooks. How they made this monster rise in the boiler, how they drove it under pressure through the pipes, made it work for them, contained it, dangerous beast that it was.
He wanted to tell her how the monster-invisible, deadly hot-was forced into the trunk, made to push the piston, and there it died. He wanted to tell her how the watery remains of the beast were pumped back into the boiler and the thing was raised again from the dead, how they performed this miracle in a continual circuit, again and again, drove this gunboat along in that manner.
It was just like the fellow said, “What immortal hand or eye, could frame thy fearful symmetry…” Except it wasn’t an immortal hand at all, just a man, an engineer. That was the miracle of the thing.
He wanted to tell her because he thought she would understand. He had never shared that vision with anyone, never tried. The beats that haunted engine rooms would have looked at him as if he had two heads. The general run of mechanics and engineers could never see the poetry in the machine. They saw pipes and valves and condensers and such, but they could not see the magic, the absolute beauty, in such mechanical perfection. There were times when Hieronymus Taylor would look on his engine, with all its parts running with interlocking grace, knowing that inside those pipes and trunks and hot wells and condensers the beast was living and dying, and he would tear up-actually cry-for the sheer beauty of the thing.
That was not something you shared with the black gang.
But Wendy, she was a different matter. Women by their very nature were more attuned to such things, more able to recognize beauty where men could see only function. And a girl with the imagination to paint as well as she did, and the grit to dress as a sailor and sneak aboard a man-of-war going into battle, she, of all people, should have the ability to see in the engine the elegance of mathematical grace. If anyone could get it, Wendy should.
But Wendy did not get it. She nodded as Taylor pointed out the steam dome and traced the main steam line aft, said “Indeed?” as the chief showed her the throttle and Stevenson links, looked politely at the things Taylor pointed out. But there was no passion there, only politeness. She asked intelligent questions until somewhere around the hot well pump her eyes began to look as if they were encased in thin glass. For all her imagination, she could not see in the machine what Hieronymus Taylor saw. She was not interested.
Taylor stopped his tour of the engine before coming to the part where the water returns to the boiler, and Wendy did not even notice. “Reckon if you want to see somethin, you best get topside,” Taylor said, a muttered, taciturn admission of defeat.
“Topside? On deck?” Wendy looked by parts elated and afraid. “But sure I’ll be discovered there.”
Taylor shook his head. “More’n half the hands we got aboard are shippin the first time today. Doubled our crew for this here excursion. Ain’t no one knows everyone aboard. Jest keep out of the way, act busy if you can. Won’t be no problem.”
Wendy smiled, and the look nearly compensated Taylor for his disappointment. “Thanks, Chief!” she said and scrambled up the ladder, left him alone, as he usually was, with his passions.
Now things were heating up, and he was not sure about it. He had been below before during times of great excitement-steamboat races, violent storms, collisions with other vessels-and still he preferred his engine room above all things.
But this was different. This was fighting, killing Yankees. Arrogant damn Yankees, like used to swagger around the docks at New Orleans, off their Boston-built ships, loading cotton for England, treating them all like they were field hands, white men and black.
Bowater. He was not much better. Just the fancy Dan that Taylor had expected, prim as Queen fucking Victoria, but now he was driving this little boat into combat, going to kill Yankees with unprecedented boldness, and Taylor wanted to be part of it. Not down below, not this time, but up on deck. This time he wanted to see the fun, because there had never been this much fun before.
It was crowded now in the engine room. Normally, there would only have been one fireman, Burgess or O’Malley, and one of the coal heavers, along with Chief Taylor. But now, at quarters, both firemen and all three coal heavers were down there, standing by for an emergency.
Navy fashion… Taylor thought. Six men to do the work of two. “What the hell you starin at, Moses?”
“Well, Massa Taylor, I ain’t ever seen you in sich a state. You ain’t afraid of dem Yankees, is you?”
“Afraid? Shut up, ya damned darkie.”
Moses smiled at that, which just further infuriated Taylor. “Clean the ash out of that damned boiler, you lazy son of a bitch,” he said and stamped off.
Taylor stood by the wheelhouse bell, peered up through the fidley. The sky beyond the skylight in the deckhouse roof was clear blue, as if the glass was painted that color. Behind him, he heard Moses’s shovel scraping up the ashes, heard the black man singing, just loud enough so that Taylor could hear, a song to the tune of “Dixie.”
O, I wish I was clear of ol’ Chief Taylor
Lock you down like a mean ol’ jailer
And the other stokers joined in, soft,
Heave away, heave away, heave away, Taylor-man.
Well the engine room, it’s his frustration,
Thinks he’s on a fine plantation
Heave away, heave away, heave away…
Taylor turned, ready to put a stop to their nonsense. He was in no mood for it. Then, overhead and forward, the ten-pound Parrott fired with a roar that sounded through the vessel like the end of the earth. The deck below their feet shuddered and the blast of the gun echoed and died and suddenly it seemed very quiet below, despite the roar of the fire and the hissing and clanking of engine and pumps. Everyone stopped and stared up at the roof overhead, as if they could divine something from looking at it.
For a long time they stood like that, staring up at the deckhouse roof. The Parrott went off again, with its visceral roar. It was more than just sound. It was sound and reverberation down to the ship’s fiber, a shudder in the deck, the smell of spent powder in the air, sucked below by the boiler’s air intake, mixing with coal dust and oil, a full sensory experience as up in the sunshine the gun crew blasted away at the Yankees.
“Goddamned…” Taylor muttered, not certain who or what he was damning. He pulled his eyes from the overhead, paced back and forth, paused in his pacing. “Burgess, ya Scots ape, get some oil on them drive gears, they’re squealing like a couple of rutting pigs,” he shouted-a problem the Scotsman was well aware of-then set in pacing again.
The gun crew, raw as they were, were getting their shots off every two minutes. Taylor kept count without realizing he was doing so-three, four, five; he wondered if they had found their target, if he was justified in going topside to see.
Gettin’ to be like a damned old woman… Taylor thought, and then a crash from above, the shattering of wood, an explosion as some part of their ship was blasted apart.
The Cape Fear shuddered again, an entirely different sensation, and Hieronymus Taylor was on the ladder, racing topside, shouting, “Burgess, you’re in charge here! Look to the bells!” as he burst through the fidley door and onto the deck.
Taylor stepped into a scene of confusion. He looked forward. Men were crowded on the side decks, staring around. No one moved.
He looked aft. Wendy was there, by the door. She looked frightened. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could Taylor said, “What happened?”
“A…bomb…of some sort hit. Up there.” She pointed to the wheelhouse.
“All right. Come with me.” He turned and ran forward, heard a few hesitant steps before Wendy caught up. He did not know why he had told her to come along. He would figure that out later.
A quarter mile ahead, a paddle wheeler was bearing down on them, pushing aside the smoke from her bow gu
n, churning the water white under her bows and her paddle wheels. One of the ad hoc Yankee river fleet, slapped together to combat the ad hoc Confederate fleet. The Yankee fired again, flame and smoke shooting from her forward gun, the shell screaming so close overhead that Taylor flinched and ducked, involuntarily.
Where the hell is Bowater? Taylor pushed through the stunned and stupid men toward the bow and the ladder to the top of the deckhouse. Could the vaunted Samuel Bowater be frozen in terror, unable to issue orders, stammering with indecision?
Son of a bitch patrician son of a bitch… Taylor raced up the ladder and when his head cleared the deckhouse roof he paused. The entire after end of the wheelhouse-the master’s cabin-was blown to splinters. There was nothing more than jagged bits of bright-painted wood sticking out at odd angles, and the cabin roof, caved in in the middle and draped like a shroud over the wreckage
Taylor took the last few steps slower. What was left of Able-Bodied Seaman Littlefield was flung half out of the wheelhouse and was hanging on the window frame, shredded clothing and skin draped over a spreading pool of blood on the deck below him. Lieutenant Harwell was lying toward the starboard side, a pool of blood spreading around his head. The blue-gray heap to port was Bowater, apparently. There was no one moving on the upper deck.
20
SIR: I deem it proper to bring to the notice of the Department the inefficiency of the battery of this ship…as was clearly shown in the attack…by a very small steam propeller, armed only with one large rifled gun.
– Captain J. B. Hull, USS Savannah, to Hon. Gideon Welles
For a second, Taylor did not move either. He had dealt with any number of emergencies-fire, taking on water, boilers on the edge of exploding-but this, fighting a ship, was something new to him, and he knew no more about it than he did about celestial navigation or requisitioning barrels of beef.
On the port side of the boat deck, Wendy was kneeling and vomiting, and that did not help his concentration.
Just stop…got to just stop and sort this here mess out… They were steaming head on toward the Yankee gunboat, and that did not seem like a very good idea. Taylor reached through the wreckage of the wheelhouse windows and grabbed the bell cord, jerked it for one bell, slow ahead.
First time I ever pulled that damned thing… Hieronymus mused. From ahead, another shot, and the shell screamed by so close he felt he could have caught it like a baseball.
What the hell now? And then he heard a voice, Bowater’s voice. It lacked that clear and commanding tone that Taylor associated with Bowater and all those who felt they ruled by birthright, but it was strong enough, and Taylor was glad to hear it.
“You men!” Bowater shouted down to the men on the deck below. “Do you want to be blown out of the water? Quarters! Load and run out!”
Bowater had pulled himself to his feet, was leaning heavy on the rail, but even as he shouted his strength seemed to come back to him. He stood straighter, then pushed himself off the rail, took a step toward the wheelhouse, moving carefully, as if the tug was rolling hard, and not in a near dead calm.
He noticed Taylor for the first time. “Chief, what in hell are you doing here?”
“Reckoned someone had to run the damned boat.”
“Where’s Harwell?”
“Starboard side. He’s out, don’t know if he’s dead. I’ll check.”
“No, leave him, no time for that.” Bowater was standing straighter now, the strength and presence of mind returning. He stepped into the wheelhouse, seemed not to notice the wreckage. He laid a hand on the big polished wheel, miraculously preserved, and gave a half turn to starboard. “What is the state of the engine?”
“All’s well. I rung slow ahead.”
Bowater said nothing. He grabbed the shredded jacket of Seaman Littlefield and jerked the body off the windowsill. He spun the corpse around, and as he did Taylor was presented with the full view of the horror of what had happened to the man and he thought he might be sick. Then Bowater tossed the body aside as if it was so much dunnage, rang up full ahead.
The Cape Fear began gathering way. Taylor could see the water slipping by as the big prop churned a wake under her counter. One, two, three knots, they were building speed, running straight toward their attacker.
“You gonna run her right up to the Yankee fleet, Cap’n?” Taylor asked, genuinely curious. He was feeling chastened by his own inability to think tactically. He wondered if Bowater would do any better.
“Got two shells left. We’ll make the best use of them.”
The Yankee fired again, but the shell flew clear. Bowater grabbed the wheel, looked over at Wendy for the first time. “Who is that, Chief?”
“Coal passer. Brought him with me, case we needed a hand.”
“You there!” Bowater called, and Wendy looked up. Her face was streaked with soot, her eyes red. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
Least she sure as hell don’t look like a woman, Taylor thought.
“Take the helm! Chief, go forward and see the gun crew ready to fire. Williams is captain of the gun, if he’s still alive. We have two shells. That’s all.” Bowater issued the orders clear and calm, as if he was calling for the tug to be washed and the brass polished.
“Hell, Cap’n, I don’t know nothing about cannons.”
“Just see the gun crew doesn’t panic.” Bowater looked over at Wendy, frozen with fear and uncertainty, and for a sick moment Taylor thought he would see through the clothes and the dirt. But instead, Bowater shouted, “I said, take the helm!” and Taylor, behind his back, pointed at the wheel and jerked his head in that direction.
Bowater followed her with his eyes as she stepped into the wheelhouse, laid her tentative hands on the helm. Her eyes were wide. The vomit was imperfectly wiped away.
“And send up someone who knows what the helm is.”
It was unreal, far worse than any nightmare. Wendy Atkins felt the warm, oiled wood of the wheel under her hand, had absolutely no notion of what to do with it. From the corner of her eye she could see the shoes and legs of the boy who had held the wheel before her, she could see the horrible thing that had once been his face. Her gorge rose again and she focused on other things.
Samuel Bowater! It was too much to believe! It had never occurred to her to ask Hieronymus who the captain of the boat was, had never dawned on her that it could possibly be Bowater. But now, as she made herself concentrate on things remembered, made herself not think of the dead boy or how she would look when the next shell hit, or what she would do if Bowater gave her an order, she could recall they had both said “gunboat,” but since the term was largely meaningless to her, she had ignored it.
Samuel Bowater. Standing at the forward rail, hands clasped behind his back, looking out at the approaching enemy as if he was taking in the view of the gardens at Versailles. How could he be so calm in all this? She thought of the way he had tossed the boy’s body aside. What kind of monster is he?
“Come left, two spokes,” Bowater said. She heard him clearly, as there were no windows left in the wheelhouse. She wondered to whom he was issuing these imperious orders.
He hands down orders like Caesar on the throne! Wendy thought. She had always envisioned naval officers of steely calm, but now, presented with real calm in the face of such carnage, she was not so sure. Surely some sense of humanity was appropriate? She thought perhaps she despised Bowater, so callous with human life.
Then suddenly he turned on her, as if she had done something wrong. “Come left, two spokes, damn it!” he said, his voice near a shout.
“I…I…” Wendy had not even realized he was speaking to her. Then with a sound like disgust in his throat, he stepped into the wheelhouse and grabbed the wheel, turned it, just a bit, said, “Just hold it like that!”
She grabbed the spokes hard to keep her hands from shaking. She had never been so afraid. Bowater had looked her right in the face-how could he not recognize her? But apparently he did not, because he turned
his back on her once more, looked forward.
Somewhere beyond the edge of the deckhouse the big gun fired, so loud that Wendy jumped, let out something like a scream, which was thankfully muffled by the thunderous cannon. She thought she might vomit again, if there was anything left in her to vomit. It was such insanity, such confusion. Noise, bloody death, smoke, shouting, screaming, how could anyone think, how could anyone do anything but cower in a corner and hide?
But she was not cowering, she realized. Frightened as she was, she was not hiding from the gunfire, but rather standing straight in the very spot where another had met brutal death just minutes before. And with that she felt an odd calm come over her.
A sailor came bounding up the steps, paused and saluted Bowater. “Tanner, sir, here to relieve the helm!”
Bowater jerked his thumb over his shoulder, did not look back.
Tanner stepped into the wheelhouse, said in an official tone, “Here to relieve the helm.” He paused, as if waiting for a response, and when Wendy could think of none he said, “What course?”
“Course?”
“Where are we heading?”
Wendy shook her head. “I have no idea.”
Damn, damn, damn… Taylor watched their penultimate shell pass close over the side-wheeler and plunge into the sea three hundred yards astern. Close. Not close enough.
He was standing behind the gun, having raced down the steps from the wheelhouse. Harwell was moving a bit, he noticed, was not dead yet. A gash on his head, blood matting his hair. Taylor could not tell how bad it was and did not pause to investigate. He had grabbed the rails of the ladder and slid down to the deck, pictured Bowater tossing Littlefield’s body aside. Cold son of a bitch…
The gun crew was swabbing out, ramming home, going through the drill which Mr. Harwell had tortured into them.
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