“Which I say we should do,” said the captain.
“Now you’ve got it,” I said.
“Then Mr. Landry,” said Sandy, “if he had a skiff, if he brought one down on a tether, if he hauled it into the bushes and had it there tonight, he could fill it with powder, couldn’t he? And start it drifting down? To explode it against our dam?”
“That danger,” said the Captain, “occurred to me.”
“At least he could try,” I said.
“Still,” said Sandy, “where would he get powder?”
“Out of his store!” I yelped, jumping up.
And as they both stared, I told them: “Out of stock that he kept on hand to sell for blasting stumps! Now we know who died! It was as many kegs of powder as would fit in a nailed-up coffin. Captain, have I your permission to scout these woods with Sandy?”
“I’ll scout them with you, Cresap.”
Chapter 27
HE BELTED HIMSELF FOR DUTY with a Colt sidearm he had, a .44 six in a holster. Then, so I needn’t carry a musket, he called a lieutenant and borrowed a sidearm for me, another Colt in a holster. Then he called the supply sergeant and had a lantern brought, the regular Army bull’s-eye, but didn’t light it yet. All that took a half-hour or so, and it was half past eight at least, when he, Sandy, and I started out to look for our skiff. By that time, we each knew the woods like the back of our hand, yet it was suddenly strange, especially in the light of the fire, which made everything a glare of dancing light or else a dancing shadow. But what got Sandy was the few sentries we met. “It makes my blood run cold,” he said one time; “bivouacs everywhere, thousands of men around putting this dam in, and hardly one on duty to guard it from destruction.” But the captain wasn’t impressed. “You know what a sentry means?” he asked Sandy sourly. “He’s not like a fencepost or mailbox that you put there and then forget about. He’s a man, who does a two and six, and it takes a guard to post him, four men and a corporal, a special place to sleep him, and a mess squad to feed him. Who has that many men, and who takes that much trouble?”
They both had a case, I thought, but it was too dark and the going much too rough for me to get into the discussion. We pressed on to the place where the skiff had been seen, a spot across from the Neosho, which was lit, with banjos banging on deck, to the wreck of the steamer Woodford. We saw nothing, not even the ghost of a skiff, and had to start on back. We went several hundred yards and then had to cross a bridge over a little stream called, I believe, Rock Creek, that ran down to the river from the high ground known as Spanish Hill. And as we started over, my nose caught something I couldn’t mistake. It was the sweetish, heavy smell of perique smoking tobacco, and I knew of course who used that. I whispered to Captain Seymour to stay where he was but to get his lantern lit. Then I told Sandy to take one side of the stream while I took the other, and comb it down to the river. But the captain, being armed, reversed me, taking one bank of the stream while Sandy handled the light. We crept along, having perhaps two hundred feet to cover from the bridge to the river. Up in the trees it was light, as the glare from the fire flickered, but down in the stream bed, in under the bank, it was dark as pitch. And then all of a sudden, sounding almost in my ear, he said very quietly: “Skiff’s here. I can hear the water slapping her.”
“River’s right there,” I said.
“Gregg! Bring your lantern! Now!”
“Aye, sir!” called Sandy. “Coming, lit.”
He must have already lit it, because now he shot its beam, and there was the skiff on a sandbank, her painter made fast to a bush. But there too, staring at me, were two tremendous eyes in a pale, beautiful face. In a thicket nearby Mr. Landry and Burke were crouching, but what froze the blood in my veins was the realization that here with this fatal evidence was Mignon.
“Well there it is, a floating torpedo.”
The captain almost whispered it, at the same time covering the prisoners; then, as Sandy held the light, we all three crept closer to look. It was the usual square-end joeboat, with four kegs up near one end, held with wire two-and-two. Each had a cork in the bung, with a copper cap in the cork. Leading out over the end, set in a screwed-on oarlock, was an outrigger thing made of fishing pole, and wired to that were four prongs, thin rods made of iron, that led to the copper caps. Controlling the pole was a spring, also bound on with wire, of the kind used in store scales. In the other end of the boat was a pile of chain attached by a heavy staple, apparently meant as a drag once the craft was started down, to hold it on its course, and especially to keep the business end pointed to the dam. “Quite a contrivance,” said the captain. “No wonder they took all night getting it wired up.” And then: “Lieutenant Gregg, I’m not organized to guard this bunch tonight—and besides it could happen that if something goes wrong at the dam I’ll need every man I have. Could you take them up to your boat?”
“I can hail and ask for orders,” said Sandy.
And then, as he still stared at the skiff: “But it does seem to me that before we talk about them, we ought to dismantle this mine. It’s dangerous, even sitting here.”
“We ought to? They have to, you mean.”
He turned to Landry and Burke, who hadn’t opened their mouths. “Hey you,” he roared, “get in this skiff and uncouple it. Disconnect this outrigger, and especially these prongs that lead to the caps.”
“Then—stand back,” said Mr. Landry.
“Don’t worry, we will.”
Then the captain noticed that Burke hadn’t moved. “You too,” he bellowed, waving the gun. “Get in there and help.”
“Me man, I’m not a mechanic,” said Burke.
“No? Then you’re learning, right now!”
“Disarm him first,” I warned.
“That’s right. I should have done it before.”
He slapped Landry for weapons, didn’t find any, made a half-hearted slap at her. Then he turned to Burke. If Burke made a swipe at his gun I can’t rightly say. It seemed to me that he did, and I opened my mouth to yell. It must have seemed so to the captain, and he fired, and Burke pitched into the stream, lying there in a heap, water rippling over his head. She screamed and started to whisper. “Speak louder!” I snarled. “He can’t hear you!” Then I could have cut my tongue out; she was praying, in French.
“That’s not so good,” growled the captain.
No one said anything, and for some moments the chill settled down, with her still whispering, the river lapping the boat, the stream purling at Burke. And then, in a half-hysterical way, the captain turned on Mr. Landry, yelling: “Didn’t you hear me? Start dismantling, I said!”
“I’m sorry, it can’t be done.”
“You’re telling me what can be done?”
“You want to be blown sky-high?”
Mr. Landry wasn’t fazed at the gun the Captain was waving, and seemed scientifically interested in explaining what must be done: The torpedo couldn’t be touched; it would have to be exploded. “I’ll be glad to show you why,” he said, wading into the stream. But he didn’t point to the kegs, or approach the outrigger end of the skiff. Instead, he picked up the chain, and with a tremendous kick, sent the skiff into Red River. I saw the flash, I heard the report, I suppose I glimpsed Mr. Landry falling over beside Burke. But all I could really think of was that dreadful, destructive thing that was plunging down on our dam, her kegs connected up, her drag chain keeping her headed. I didn’t wait to know who was killed, but went splashing into the river, fighting my way waist-deep, trying to catch up, to grab the chain, to do anything to head off what was coming. Then, to my horror, in the glare of the fire ahead, I saw one end of the skiff rise on a sunken rock, and then I had my hands on the gunnel. Then I was wrestling it, trying to tip it over, to spill those kegs into the water before that outrigger hit something. At last I got a capsize and the danger was over. Then I was spinning, as the current swept me along, and then I broke into ten thousand pieces as my game leg hit a rock that was sticking up. I he
ard screams coming out of my mouth, and then heard nothing but a ringing in my ears. Then bushes touched my face, and the lantern was shining on me. A cutter was there by the bank, so close I could almost touch it, and seamen were standing around. Then I caught the smell of Russian Leather, and she pulled my head against her. “Speak to me, Willie!” she whispered. “Say something!”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m all right.”
“Kiss me. Kiss me!”
“... Kind of public for that, don’t you think?”
“Willie! They’re fixing to do something to me, for what we tried with that boat! You may not see me again! Kiss me, tell me you love me!”
“You know I do, don’t you?”
Then we both kissed, sweet, long, and holy.
All during that, the captain held the lantern; he was soaking wet, so I knew who had got me out. When the seamen had put her in the cutter and shoved off for the other side, he half-carried me back to the bivouac and began bellowing for an ambulance to take me to the courthouse, “where you’ll be under a surgeon, who’ll put you in for discharge, unless I miss my guess, as I seriously doubt if you’ll be fit for duty any more.” But no ambulance came, and he stripped off my clothes, did the same for his own, and hung all our things on a line that he stretched between trees, where they’d get the heat of the fire. Then he wrapped me in a blanket, pulled one over himself, and sat there a while thinking. Then: “That girl,” he said, “what is she to you?”
“In all but name, my wife.”
“She’s in damned serious trouble.”
“She damned well knows it.”
“... Or she would be, except for you.”
“What have I got to do with it?”
“You destroyed the evidence against her.”
“Oh—you mean the skiff?”
“And powder and wiring and outrigger.”
“Well, what did you want me to do—let it go sailing downstream to blow the dam up so they’d have a case to hang her? What’s more important to the Navy, their boats or one poor girl’s neck?”
“Hey! I’m trying to cheer you up!”
“I’m sorry. I’m off my usual.”
“I’d say she deserves to be hung, but may not be.”
“It wasn’t her, it was her father, and—”
“Calm down, take it easy.”
So the horrible night wore on, but at least I did have a ray of hope, and it wasn’t so bad as it had been. Once, we all but jumped out of our skins and thought the skiff had made it, in spite of my turning it over, when two barges went out with a noise like cannon shot, when their hawsers parted and they slammed down on the rocks two hundred feet downstream. He cursed and raved and wept, assuming it all would spill out, the depth we’d worked so hard to get. It was my turn to cheer him up. I assured him things were improved, that the pressure would now be eased, “so back-up and outflow will be equalized, without the whole dam going out.” He shook my hand, felt our clothes, and got us dressed. When daylight came, an ambulance pulled in, but he had it wait while he helped me out, crawling along the catwalk, to the second of the two remaining barges, so I could see the show of the boats coming out. “After all you’ve done, you’re certainly entitled to that much,” he said.
We sat on the upstream end, holding on to a cleat, and as far as you could see, on both banks of the river, was blue, because, except for men on duty, the whole army was there to see how the thing came out—no one believing in it. You could see men moving around, but as though in a dumb show; you couldn’t hear a thing from the roar of the torrent beside us, plunging down through the chute between the barge we were on and the cribs on the other side like a young Niagara. Then, along toward seven o’clock, we made out smoke on the falls. Then we could see a hull, with foam under the forefoot. That meant power, and the captain began to scream: “No, no! Cut those engines, man, cut ’em!” Not that the pilot heard him, but once more I cheered him up. “He has to have power!” I yelled in his ear. “He must have steering way!” I don’t know if he even heard me, but the boat came right on, at express-train speed, her own fifteen miles an hour plus at least twelve from the current. That brought her down on us fast, and then here she was, up over our heads, coming into the chute. Then she was roaring by, so close we felt her breeze. Then she was down, and then she crashed into the nearest barge, where it hung below on the rocks. It seemed she must come apart, but then she was caroming off, then spinning around, right in front of the hotel. And then, so help me, she tooted.
The cheer that went up was deafening—I think the most inspiring thing I ever heard in my life. In spite of the strain I was under, I cheered. The captain cheered, hugged me, and—I think—kissed me. Once the joy got started, nothing could stop it, and not even a Niagara could drown it out. Another boat came down, and the men went on dancing, laughing, screaming, and patting each other on the back. And then, all of a sudden, more smoke showed, and another boat came on, low in the water this time, so it had to be the monitor. I strained my eyes, and my heart gave a thump, as something flapped on deck, and I made out a black skirt. I waved like something demented, and it seemed to me she waved back. The boat came close enough for me to make out her face, as she stood by the gun turret, taking everything in. And then suddenly the thing happened. The admiral, so I’ve heard, blamed the pilot for it, as a deliberate act of treachery, but I myself don’t believe it. A monitor’s pilothouse is just aft of the stack, and I would imagine he never saw the chute, to know what it actually looked like, until he was almost on top of it. Then, I think, he just lost his nerve and grabbed his bell-pull in panic. He cut his power just at the crucial moment, and then there the ship was in a yaw. It was swinging broadside onto the current, but that left the water picking up speed, him not picking up speed—in other words, it began going faster than he was. Then the stern wave rose and swept right over her deck, as the cheers turned to a yell of horror. And then, as the boat swept down all under, with everything out of control, there was my love, my life, my beautiful little Mignon, shooting by in the muddy water, gasping for breath, and staring up at me.
I grabbed the gunnel to dive, but something rapped on my neck, pulling me back in the barge. “You can’t!” the captain screamed. “You’re damned near dead already!”
“Let me go, I got to save her!” I yelled.
“Who do you think you are? Jonah?”
The boat crashed into the barge, caromed, came up, and let go with her whistle, the way the others had done, but all I could do was howl, trying to be heard above the torrent, that it should “forget your damned tooting and start looking for her.” He tried to calm me, saying, “Don’t worry, they’ll put out a boat—they’ll get her, this is the Navy.” But I couldn’t be calmed, and he all but had to fight me to get me ashore again, where the ambulance was, and push me in by main force. Another boat came down, but I never even saw it. I was stretched out in the ambulance bed, where I collapsed at last, so wracked with sobs it seemed I would come apart.
Chapter 28
NEVER MIND MY TWO DAYS AT the courthouse, with my leg swelled twice its size and turning black and blue, while they put the wing dams in to bring down the other boats. Never mind the burning of Alexandria, the Bummers’ grand contribution, or the dreadful trip downriver. I batted from boat to boat, out of my head all the time, partly from the pain and partly from the uncertainty of not being able to find out if Mignon was living or dead. And never mind the trip in an ambulance, to some barracks below New Orleans, or the week I spent there, threshing around in a cot. When I opened my eyes once, Olsen was standing there, to get names of Maine wounded, he said, to send his papers up north. He asked me quite a few questions, but I asked him just one, to find out if he could if Mignon had been saved, and if so, where she was. He said if he found out anything he’d surely let me know, and that was the last I saw of him. And then one day a second lieutenant came, my discharge in his hand, and a St. Charles bellboy was there, helping me dress. He had with him my same old b
ag, the one I’d checked with the hotel before I left, and helped me into clean shirt, fresh balbriggans, and my regular dark suit. When I asked him how come, he said he didn’t know, and it made no sense at all, but I didn’t argue about it. I got in the cab with him and rode with him up to the hotel. And then there I was, back in my same old suite, with no more idea than the Man in the Moon what I was doing there or who I had to thank.
I still had some money, as in all my slamming around I’d clung to my pocketbook, but when I’d send down for my bill no bill would come up. Someone was paying for me, that much was clear, but who I didn’t know. I supposed for a time it was Dan, as he came every day for a visit—the General, by now, was back on headquarters duty, though relieved in the field. But when, in between plaguing for news of Mignon, which he said he hadn’t been able to get, I offered to square things up, he looked perfectly blank and knew no more than I did what I was talking about. Then I began to have my suspicions, but couldn’t do much about them, pending surgery on my leg. It would puff up, be lanced, and then puff up again, until the doctor said to me: “I have to lay it open if it’s ever going to heal. Trouble is, you were stabbed only halfway through, so the wound acts as a pocket to trap the corruption in. We have to drain it out, especially that bruised corruption that the crack in the river caused. I must open your leg from behind, to let the wound drain down, so gravity works for us, ’stead of being our worst enemy.”
I told him do what he had to, and he did, bringing another doctor to help, spreading oilcloth on the bed, and in all ways doing a job. The pain wasn’t so bad, but the laudanum almost finished me. It affected my lungs, somehow, so they seemed to be paralyzed, and wouldn’t draw any air. I lay for hours stifled, fighting for my breath, and when at last the paralysis went, I was completely gone. My leg, I thought, would get well, but all I could do was sleep. And then, one day when I woke up, Sandy was sitting there, in his Vicksburg blues but neatly brushed and clean. He started in, pretty nervous, talking about his transfer to headquarters duty in New Orleans: “The fighting’s pretty much over, here on Western waters.”
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