Bowater drifted back into the wheelhouse. “Get ready, Tanner.” Tanner nodded. Bowater walked over to the speaking tube. “Get ready, Mr. Taylor, about half a minute.”
“I’m ready!” Taylor shouted and muttered something else that Bowater could not hear.
Bowater’s eyes were locked on the enemy ram. His hand reached up and grabbed the bell cord. He waited a second, another second, and then every nerve in his body screamed now, now, NOW!
He jerked the cord, four quick bells, and in an instant the deck rumbled underfoot as down below Taylor let it all go, let all the steam he had rush into the cylinder, drive the piston with full force. The walking beam creaked as it began to move, the sound of gushing water came from the wheel boxes as the buckets dug in.
Bowater stepped out onto the side deck. The Yankee was one hundred yards away, but Bowater had timed it perfectly, he could see that. They would swing right out from under the ram’s bows, circle up and hit her as she flew by.
Come on, come on… The Page was starting to move, starting to turn.
“Yeeeehaaaa! Here we come, you rutting bastards!” Mississippi Mike Sullivan shouted, then gasped for breath. He stood straighter, pulled his pistol, and fired, the shot loud in Bowater’s ear. There was blood on the deck at his feet.
And then, even through the blast of Sullivan’s.44, they heard the walking beam make an unearthly sound, a screech like something being horribly killed, but much, much louder than any living thing could produce. Their heads jerked around and looked up just as the shaft on which the walking beam pivoted snapped clean in two and the entire eight tons of wood and iron dropped and twisted and lodged itself in the A-frame, snapping bearings and connecting rods as it fell.
For a second the two men just stood there, dumbfounded, looking at the destruction. The General Page would not be twisting out of anyone’s way.
Sullivan was the first to speak. “Son of a bitch Guthrie, he’s killed us all! Right from the damned grave he’s killed us all!”
They turned back. The Yankee was twenty yards away. Sullivan began blasting away with his pistol. Bowater ran into the wheelhouse. He was three feet from the speaking tube, just beginning to shout a warning, when the Yankee struck.
The Federal ram hit them square in the wheel box. The entire half-round housing, thirty feet high, folded over the Yankee’s bow, crushing under the impact, showering the Yankee with debris as the General Page was pushed sideways through the water. Sullivan was doubled over the rail, and only Bowater’s staggering out of the wheelhouse, grabbing his collar, and pulling him back kept him from going over.
“Tanner! Abandon ship! We were towing the long boat! If it’s still floating, get the men in it!” Bowater shouted. There was no need to assess the damage.
Tanner raced from the wheelhouse, forward and down, calling the order as he went.
“How are you, Sullivan?” Bowater asked.
“Been better. You go an get the boys in the boat, I’ll see if they’s any stragglers,” he said.
“You’d better come,” Bowater said. “Come with me.” The vessel shifted under them. They looked up. The Yankee had reversed her paddle wheels and was backing out of the General Page, and Bowater imagined that her ram had been the only thing holding them up.
The Yankee’s wheelhouse was only about fifty feet away. They could see the captain in his blue coat looking at them as they looked back.
“Go on now, Cap’n,” Sullivan said. His voice was not strong and Bowater knew he could not argue. Whatever Sullivan had in mind-attack the Yankees single-handed, go down with the ship- he had to let him do it.
“Very well,” Bowater said. “Don’t miss the last boat.”
“I won’t. An thanks, Cap’n, for puttin up with me all that time.”
Bowater paused. The Page heeled a bit. “You’re welcome.” He held out his hand. They shook. Then Bowater headed for the hurricane deck.
Taylor stood by the throttle, tapped his fingers on his leg. When I ring four bells, let her go! What did that peckerwood have in mind? It was the waiting Taylor could not tolerate.
He could feel a vibration in the deck plates, even through the water that was sloshing back and forth. There was another ship out there, coming close, and the vibration was made by her paddle wheels. That would be the Yankee, comin to ram us, Taylor thought. Put that together with Bowater’s order and he could form a fairly good picture of what was about to happen.
“Hey, Burgoyne, what we got for steam, there?”
Burgoyne leaned toward the gauge. “Twenty-three pounds.”
Taylor nodded. That was about as good as they would get. Not extraordinary, but it would do. Damned good thing we got a walking beam engine, he thought. A direct acting engine would have been knocked galley-west by now, but walking beams were more forgiving when the hull was wrenched around. It’s got limits, though, Taylor thought. He had not been very happy with the shaft bearings from the start. He was less happy now.
He wiped his sweating hand on his pants leg, double-checked the reversing lever, then wrapped his fingers around the throttle valve.
Son of a bitch is gettin close. Taylor could hear the other boat’s paddle wheels, transmitted through the water and the fabric of the General Page.
Then the bell rang, four quick bells, so sharp and quick it made Taylor jump. He twisted the throttle open, spinning it around, letting the full brunt of the steam shoot down the pipes and into the cylinder. With a satisfying huff the steam drove the piston that pushed the crank that moved the walking beam connected to the crank on the paddle-wheel shaft. Taylor looked up, exalted, as the whole thing, towering over his head, began to move, to drive the General Page forward.
The crank went up and down and the water began to run over the deck plates as the ship gained headway, and Taylor smiled, because it was all holding together and turning the wheels.
And then from the top of the A-frame came a sound as terrible as any he had ever heard, a sound so wrenching it seemed it could only come from the mouth of some living thing-something that could feel pain, and express it.
Taylor looked up sharp, right through the hurricane deck overhead to the top of the A-frame. For an instant he thought some dumb-ass had got himself caught in the works, but he realized it was not that. It was the screech of metal fatigue.
“Uh-oh,” Taylor said out loud. Then he heard a snap, and the whole walking beam shifted and dropped. The crank bent in a big bow and then snapped. A section of the wooden arm was hurled forward as if shot from a cannon.
“Blow off that steam! Shut the boiler down! Let’s get the hell out of here!” he shouted, limping forward. No sense in remaining in the engine room. All that machinery was so much ballast now. Burgoyne slammed the damper shut and twisted the blow-off valves and with a whoosh the steam exhausted up what was left of the chimney. Half the black gang was already up the ladder and out the fidley door.
Burgoyne turned and looked around. “That all, Chief?”
“Yes, yes, git the hell out of here!” Taylor waved his arms toward the ladder and Burgoyne splashed across the deck plates, Taylor limping right behind.
Burgoyne took the ladder two rungs at a time. He flung open the door. The daylight flooded into the fidley, sunshine filling the place. In an instant the second engineer disappeared down the main deck. Taylor grabbed the ladder, swung his splinted leg around, and then the Yankee struck.
Taylor knew what it was-even as he was tumbling back, he knew it was the Yankee ram. He hit the deck with a splash and slid. The General Page heeled over under the impact, and in the bright light from the open door and the shadow of the engine room he could see the side of the General Page cave in as her own paddle wheel was literally pushed through the deckhouse.
The Yankee’s iron-reinforced bow tore right into the engine room, right at the waterline. The deck plates parted as if a knife were cleaving them in two. The condenser toppled over and the main steam pipe shattered, and that alone would have been
the death of him if they had not blown off the steam.
“Oh, hell!” Taylor shouted. He began to crawl up the sloping deck toward the ladder, splashing like a seal through the rising water. He heard the high-pitched whine of metal under enormous stress, then a crack, then something fell across his legs, pinning him down.
“Oh, hell! Damn it!” he shouted again, with more enthusiasm. He clawed at the deck plates, tried to get hold of something to pull himself free, but there was only iron plate and water. He tried to move his good leg to kick off whatever was on top of him, but both legs were pinned tight.
Son of a bitch! He twisted around. The starboard crank had broken off the paddle wheel shaft and fallen across his legs. Had it not also fallen on top of other debris scattered on the deck, it would have crushed his legs under its weight.
Now, ain’t that a stroke of luck… I mighta been hurt… “Hey! Topside! Anyone up there? Halloa, you sons of bitches, come get this goddamned crank off my legs!”
No damned use… Those beats were too busy saving their own damned hides. Black smoke was filling the engine room and swirling up the fidley and Taylor started to cough.
He felt the Page shudder again, heard a grinding and snapping sound behind. The Yankee was backing away, opening up the hole that they had punched, and then stoppered, with their bow. He could see the water rising faster around him.
Well, this is fucking ironic. After being worried sick about a boiler blowing up, he was going to drown.
Guess I wasn’t born to be hanged… the old man was wrong about somethin. Damn, Guthrie, you killed me after all. He pushed with his arms and tried to kick his feet but there was no chance of his moving the cast-iron crank.
The ship rolled and made a wave in the water filling the hold. It splashed into Taylor’s mouth. He could taste mud and oil and coal dust. Damn… reckon I don’t care to drown, either.
The light in the fidley dimmed, as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. Someone was standing in the doorway. Taylor heard them climb down the short ladder.
“Hieronymus Taylor, son of a whore, ain’t this a fix!” Mike Sullivan loomed over him. He was breathing hard, hunched over.
“Didn’t see ya topside, I was wonderin what become of ya.”
“Sullivan, ain’t you dead yet?”
“No, lucky fer you.” The Page took a hard roll, ten degrees, and a ton and a half of coal shifted a foot to larboard. “Not yet.”
He stepped past Taylor, a staggering, painful walk, bent over and grabbed the crank.
“Sullivan, go git someone! You can’t lift that damned thing!”
“Come on, pard. River rats gots to look after their own.” He fixed his fingers around the crank. He was panting, his eyes wide, and Taylor saw the great patch of blood soaked into his shirt.
“All right, Taylor, all right…” Sullivan clenched his teeth, straightened his back, pulled.
“You dumb bastard, yer gut-wounded, you can’t hardly lift your own fat ass!”
Sullivan’s eyes went wider and Taylor saw his jaw tremble. A shout built in Sullivan’s throat, a protracted sound that started like a moan and built to a crescendo scream as he lifted the dead weight of the crank. Taylor felt the weight coming off his legs. He kicked, almost free. “Go on, Sullivan, go on!”
Then Sullivan fell, dropped straight down as if he had been hit on the head. The crank came down on Taylor’s legs again and he shouted in agony, but Sullivan did not say anything. He did not move.
“Sullivan? Sullivan! Goddamn…” The son of a bitch is dead!
“Chief? Chief Taylor?” Now it was Bowater, standing in the door.
“Bowater, goddamn it, git down here!” The water was up to Taylor’s chest and he was having a hard time keeping his head above it.
Bowater scrambled down the ladder. “Sullivan? What the hell?”
“Fainted or dead, Cap’n, don’t know, don’t care!”
Bowater stepped across the deck, arms out to maintain his balance on the tilting deck plates. He rolled Sullivan out of the way, rolled him on his back. Eyes open, dead eyes staring out of his white face.
“You got to git someone to help lift that,” Taylor was shouting but Bowater had a slice bar in his hand. He shoved it under the crank and pulled up and Taylor felt the weight come off his legs once again.
Why didn’t Sullivan think of that? Taylor kicked his way out from under the iron shaft. “I’m out, Cap’n!” he shouted and with a crash Bowater let the crank go. The deck shuddered as the iron hit the deck plates and the Page took a hard roll to larboard.
Bowater offered Taylor a hand and Taylor took it and stood. Together they hobbled to the ladder.
“On the workbench!” Taylor shouted. “The wooden box, grab her!”
Bowater opened his mouth as if to protest, but instead scrambled the ten feet to the bench, grabbed the box, raced back. He grabbed Taylor by the shoulders, pushed him toward the ladder, hefted him halfway up.
“I can climb the damned ladder!” Taylor shouted, though a second before he had been wondering how he would do that very thing. He pulled himself up another rung with his arms and good leg, and from there was able to crawl out onto the boiler deck.
It was brilliant sunshine on the deck, and the planks were warm under his hands. He crawled along a few feet, dragging his splinted leg, which he was pretty certain was broken again. It hurt like hell. Every bit of him hurt like hell.
Bowater came up behind, helped Taylor to his feet. He draped Taylor’s arm over his shoulder and Taylor wanted to object, but he knew he would not be able to walk otherwise, so he did not argue.
Bowater tucked the box under his other arm. “What the hell is this, Chief?” They stepped off, walking aft. “Fiddle. I didn’t reckon you could afford to buy me another, with what they pay you.”
THIRTY-THREE
The battle continued down the river out of sight of Memphis, and it is reported that only two of our boats, the Bragg and Van Dorn , escaped. It is impossible now to report casualties, as we were hurried in our retirement from Memphis, and none but those from the Lovell escaped on the Tennessee side of the river. So soon as more information can be collected, I will report.
BRIGADIER GENERAL M. JEFF THOMPSON TO GENERAL G.T.BEAUREGARD
Wendy Atkins was riding the same emotional seesaw as the thousands of others who crowded the levee and the heights of Memphis and watched the fate of their city being decided on the river in front of them.
It was pure elation to see the River Defense Fleet steam out to the fight, nimble warriors against the overbearing Yankees gunboats, which were hanging on their anchors with bows upstream to facilitate a quick retreat. She had heard enough stories about Plum Point Bend to understand that this was not entirely folly, the wooden boats going up against the ironclads.
The gunnery had started slowly, but soon it was murderous, and the town was in the line of fire. Shells screamed past overhead, and Wendy recalled with horror the time she had clandestinely sailed into battle with Samuel Bowater, and the Union shelling of Sewell’s Point. It was frightening. The ironclads seemed omnipotent, and she felt her faith in the Confederate boats’ ability to stand up to them wavering.
But still the Confederates advanced, boldly advanced right into the storm of shot.
“There, that one.” Shirley, standing beside her on the levee, pointed with a straight arm. “That’s the General Joseph Page. Good likelihood Bowater’s on her.”
Wendy stared at the side-wheeler, hardly distinguishable from the other boats in the River Defense Fleet. She wondered about the captain, this fellow with whom Samuel had become such close friends. She was curious to meet him. She knew already that he must be a fellow of good taste, learned, well read, and erudite.
Four ships of the River Defense Fleet were pressing the attack, but the General Page was not one, for which Wendy was grateful. The ironclads fired and the Confederates fired back and no one moved. For some minutes, nothing seemed to happen. Stalemate. And then f
rom out of the thunder and the smoke surrounding the ironclads came a single Yankee ship, unarmored, and everything began to happen at once.
Like metal filings to a lodestone, the Confederate boats were drawn to the Yankee ship. Then another Yankee came out of the smoke. The Yankees and the Rebels circled, slammed into one another, pandemonium on the water. Wendy saw one of the Confederate ships sink, slip away under the water as if the hand of God had pushed it under.
She felt the mood change on the levee, and a massive groan went up as the Confederate ship disappeared, a sense of despair that touched them all as if they were of one mind. She moved her attention to the General Page, still not in the fight. She began to pray.
Boats were crawling for the shore, including the first Yankee ram, but the second was unhurt, and making for the General Page.
There was another boat between the Yankee and the Page, which Shirley said was the General Bragg, but the Yankee brushed her aside and struck Bowater’s ship bow-on.
A great shout went up from the levee, and everyone held their breath because there was no telling who got the worst of it. And then both boats backed away, began circling.
“Look there!” Shirley pointed upriver.
“What?”
“The gunboats are getting underway! See, they’re turning to come bow-down. Damn, that’ll be an end to it.”
“An end?”
“The River Defense Fleet can’t stand up to them. City can’t stand up to them. It’s over.”
“Over?” Wendy knew she sounded idiotic, but she did not know what else to say. She was stunned.
She looked back at the General Page, which was well south of them now, carried downstream on the current. To her amazement, the Page was stopped dead and the Yankee ram was rushing down on her, as if the Confederates were giving up, allowing themselves to be killed. The Yankee ram slammed into the Page with an audible crash, but the people on the levee had no reaction. It was over. They all knew it. They were too numb to react.
Except Wendy Atkins. “Oh, those bastards!”
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