Crash Dive

by Martin H. Greenberg

  “Damnedest thing ever made,” Miller whistled appreciatively, as he started scrubbing the floor. “Damnedest thing, this submarine.”

  Miller had trouble reading, but he’d saved every newspaper clipping about the Hunley and her predecessors, fascinated by the Confederate submarines. Some of the stories he’d practically memorized, and his favorites he carried carefully folded in his back pocket. First came the steam-driven Davids. Actually, Miller knew only one had been named David, this after her contracting engineer—David Chenowith Ebaugh, or perhaps after the David in David versus Goliath. In any event, everyone just called all of them David after that. The three-man Pioneer was born going on two years ago, christened in Louisiana’s Lake Pontchartrain, and sunk to keep out of the Union’s clutches. The American Diver came right after that, and it unfortunately sunk during a storm at the mouth of Mobile Bay early this past February.

  They and the Davids were smaller than the Hunley, and none of them had been very useful to this point from what Miller could tell. They hadn’t sunk anything, which he considered the entire purpose of building such a thing as a submarine, though they had damaged a few Union boats. And the Davids couldn’t wholly submerge because of their smokestacks and breathing tubes, which always stuck above the water.

  From what Miller had read, the Hunley was privately built in Alabama and brought by rail to Charleston. And it seemed the Hunley was not so much an improvement on the army-built David, as it had been an improvement on something built almost ninety years ago. That had been the Turtle, a one-man bulb-shaped boat that was hand-cranked like the Hunley. The Turtle hadn’t done anything to the English back in 1776, but without it, perhaps the Confederates wouldn’t have built the Davids or the Pioneer, the American Diver, or the Hunley.

  And had that been the case, Miller would have stayed out of the war and not risked suffocation in the belly of an iron boiler in his effort to be a part of the South’s history.

  When they were testing the very first David, it sank and suffocated its crew. The first crew had likewise died in earlier trials of the Hunley, and the submarine was hauled back up, inspected and fiddled with, and sent back down. The second crew died, too—even old H. L. himself died in the thing he had helped to finance and had named after him. All those deaths and his father’s sharp words almost kept Miller from dogging Lieutenant Dixon into accepting him in this crew.

  “Almost. But not quite.” Miller shook his head and increased his efforts, rubbing at the seats now and deciding he’d clean the propeller crank next. He started humming “Stonewall Jackson’s Way,” unable to get Becker’s tune out of his head. An hour later he was lightly polishing the mercury gauge, which would show how deep they were. The gauge went to ten fathoms, but Lieutenant Dixon claimed the submarine could go deeper than that.

  “War makes men geniuses,” Miller mused. It was only when times were dark, such as now between the North and the South, did men toil so hard to create such wonders as the Hunley. “And it makes boys like me foolish.”

  And just how deep could this wonder go with him inside it? Would Dixon take them all to the bottom of the ocean? Or would he simply try to exceed two hours and thirty-one minutes today?

  Miller shuddered as he gathered his cleaning supplies and squeezed out the aft hatch, rubbing at a few spots on the small windows and checking the watertight rubber gaskets before he pronounced his morning project done. He spotted Lieutenant Dixon near the tents, talking to a handful of army men. Wicks was there, too, and Simkins was approaching from behind the big red oak. As Miller hurried toward them, he saw Becker appear, in uniform save for a very Stonewall-like slouch hat. Becker scowled and dug the ball of his foot into the dirt, and Miller listened hard as he ran, trying to pick up on what the men were saying.

  “Come back when the sun’s setting, gentlemen,” Dixon said. “Pass the word to the others. We’ll be going out then, and it will be a late night. Make sure you get plenty of rest first.”

  “Where are we going?” Miller asked, his eyes falling on a dozen candles the lieutenant had stuffed in his pockets.

  Dixon narrowed his eyes.

  “Where are we going . . . sir?” Miller amended.

  “Out,” Dixon said after a fashion. The lieutenant’s gaze drifted past the men and to the Hunley, seeing something very far beyond the submarine and the Cooper River.

  “Another test, sir?” Simkins risked.

  Dixon slowly nodded. “You could say that, I suppose.”

  “What’s it about . . . sir?” Miller cut in. He was afraid Lieutenant Dixon would be sending them down at night to go past two hours and thirty-one minutes—when no one would be watching and no one would know they’d all suffocated.

  “Guns, Too Tall. It’s about General P. T. Beauregard and guns.”

  “I don’t have a gun, sir.”

  “You won’t be needing one, Too Tall. If things go well, none of us will. But you can all bring full canteens, and a spare shirt and socks if you’ve a mind to.”

  Lieutenant Dixon had a pepperbox strapped to his hip, as did Becker and Wicks and Simkins by the time the first rays of the setting sun hit the Cooper River. The water sparkled orange and gold like a tawdry lady’s dress, with flashes of silver looking like glass beads. Miller always liked to stare at the river this time of the day, watching for jumping fish to set the colors to stirring. But Miller gave the Cooper only a passing glance now as he squeezed through the aft hatch of the submarine, a second shirt folded tight under his arm. He and Lieutenant Dixon were the last two in this time, Dixon telling Miller he could work the ballast tanks tonight.

  There was only a handful of army men on the shore when the Hunley eased away from the dock and headed past Drum Island and toward Castle Pinckney across from Charleston proper. Becker started singing again, the song’s rhythm setting the pace for the men to crank the propeller.

  He’s in the saddle now! Fall in!

  Steady! The whole brigade!

  Hill’s at the ford, cut off—we’ll win

  His way out, ball and blade!

  What matter if out shoes are worn?

  What matter if our feet are tom?

  “Quick-step! We’re with him before dawn!”

  That’s Stonewall Jackson’s way.

  They submerged before they pulled even with the castle, Becker softly speculating that Dixon didn’t want anyone in town to see the Hunley heading out. They surfaced again when they were beyond the city and steering roughly between Fort Moultrie on the northern shore and Fort Johnson to the south.

  “Maybe whatever test General P. T. Beauregard has in mind tonight is a secret,” Becker wondered aloud. “Maybe General Beauregard don’t want no Northern sympathizers watching us and telling their kin.” Already quite a bit of word had leaked out about the Hunley and the Davids, and there were reports the Union ships blockading the harbor were keeping a close watch for the submarines.

  Becker wriggled himself a few more inches of space and made a show of managing to wedge his Stonewall slouch hat behind his neck. He’d been making sure everyone saw his hat, and was clearly disappointed that no one had spoken of it. “Maybe Beauregard is done testing the Hunley. Maybe he’s given us something to do.”

  The crew knew Beauregard had been cautiously overseeing the Hunley, not sure if the submarine was a good idea, but listening to Dixon’s and his men’s arguments that the H L. Hunley could make a difference in the war.

  “Maybe we’re going to finally use the torpedo,” Becker pressed. A pause. “Are we, Lieutenant?” It was always Becker who asked the questions everyone else was thinking. No use more than one man provoking Dixon’s ire.

  Miller and the others looked to Lieutenant Dixon, waiting for an answer. The submarine had been fitted with the torpedo sometime during the afternoon. This consisted of a barrel-like copper cylinder filled with powder explosives. It was attached to the rear of the submarine by a twenty-foot long thin line, and through the windows of the aft hatch Simkins nervously rep
orted seeing it bob along. Becker had asked Dixon about the torpedo before climbing into the submarine, but Dixon hadn’t answered then.

  In the light of the candle, Lieutenant Dixon’s face displayed a faint sheen of sweat. He was staring at a small map spread across his knees.

  “Are we, Lieutenant?” Becker repeated with a little more volume—just in case Dixon hadn’t heard him the first two times. “Are we going to use the torpedo against the Union?”

  After a few moments Dixon raised his head. His eyes looked like dark pits and his face took on an uncharacteristically pensive expression that made Becker swallow the rest of his questions. Dixon tugged two candles from his pocket and set them on the narrow shelf next to the burning one. Then he folded the map and placed it in his front pocket.

  “Faster,” Dixon said.

  “Aye, sir!” Wicks said, putting more muscle into the task and starting to sing once more.

  The sun’s bright lances rout the mists Of morning, and, by George!

  Here’s Longstreet struggling in the lists,

  Hemmed in an ugly gorge.

  Pope and his Yankees, whipped before,

  “Bayonets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar;

  “Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score!”

  Is Stonewall Jackson’s way.

  Ah, maiden, wait, and watch, and yearn

  For news of Stonewall’s band!

  Ah, Widow, read, with eyes that burn . . .

  “Faster,” Lieutenant Dixon demanded. “And without that damn caterwauling. I think we’ve all had enough of that song, Mr. Simkins.”

  They continued in relative silence for a while, submerging again when they were at Cummings Point and then beyond Morris Island, cranking the propeller until their arms were numb. The candle provided an eerie light, and at the same time its flame let them know the air was going.

  “Up,” Lieutenant Dixon said. He studied the map again and then consulted the compass. He made a rudder adjustment and stood so he could look out the hatch windows.

  “Dark outside,” Simkins announced. He was looking out the aft windows. The moon was only a sliver, and so there wasn’t much light. But he was using what little there was while craning his neck this way and that until he could see the torpedo. “Still there,” he said, then sneezed.

  Wicks rubbed at his nose and coughed just loud enough to let Simkins know he’d caught the older man’s cold. “This Hunley’s somethin’,” he said to no one in particular. “But give me a real boat where you’re sittin’ up top and can see things. Don’t like this, not seein’ things.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Miller whispered. “Dark up there. Dark down here. What’s the difference?”

  “Difference is,” Wicks cut in, “if we were on a real boat there’d be things we could see.”

  Dixon tucked his head down. “There are several ‘boats’ up there, Wicks.”

  “The blockade.” This from Becker.

  Dixon nodded and took his seat. He used the stub of the first candle to light the next. “Yes, gentlemen, the Union blockade.” A wave of the lieutenant’s hand kept Becker from starting his questions again. “I’ve always contended this submarine could help the war,” he began. “The tests have shown she’s a worthy vessel. And General Beauregard has given us permission to strike a blow for our cause.”

  “We’re going to use the torpedo on one of them Union ships,” Simkins whistled. He finally ducked down from the aft hatch. “I see three of them, Lieutenant.”

  “There are five, gentlemen, one ironclad, four wood. Five Union ships keeping much-needed supplies from entering our fair harbor.” The blockade had been in place for the past two years, since 1861. That first year only about one in a dozen ships attempting to run the blockade had been snared. Last year it was one in eight, as the Union had been building more ships. This year. . . . Dixon told his men it was one in four. The blockade ran along four thousand miles of coastline, and it was because the divided nation’s secretary of state called it a blockade that the Confederate states could be declared belligerent states and could welcome foreign profiteers brave enough to run the Union ships.

  “We only got one torpedo,” Simkins said. He was looking out the aft hatch windows again, eyes on the copper barrel of explosives. “Don’t think that’s going to be enough, sir. Not against five of them.”

  “It’ll have to be enough.”

  “But . . .”

  “And you all will have to keep your voices down. We cannot afford to be heard, gentlemen.”

  “Or spotted,” Wicks said in a hush. “Their canons could sink us.”

  Miller immediately thought of the first David, and the Pioneer, the American Diver, and even two previous crews worth of this Hunley. All sank. His chest started to feel tight, like a mule was slowly easing its weight down on him.

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll see us all right,” Lieutenant Dixon returned, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “After we use our torpedo on one of them. But we don’t want them to see us just yet.” His orders were soft now, the men straining to hear each word and trying ever so hard to keep the rustling of their shirtsleeves and the cranking noise of the propeller to a minimum.

  Dixon’s eyes were moving constantly, from the compass to the map, to the men—all of them sweating now from the heat and their nerves. He looked through the hatch windows at the Union ships, then he slowly and oh so quietly eased the hatch open so he could get his shoulders through it and get a better look.

  The sound of the waves lapping against the Hunley reached the ears of the men. The sloshing was as rhythmical as their cranking of the propeller. There was something else, too . . . music, they decided after a moment. From somewhere outside the submarine, men were singing.

  Becker cursed under his breath—it was a Union tune, something about sending all the Graybacks and Stonewall Jackson to their graves.

  “A little farther men,” Dixon urged as he climbed back down. “Just a . . .”

  There was a grinding sound, and the Hunley reeled and then stopped, the submarine’s propeller refusing to be cranked. The submarine listed starboard.

  Wicks growled and redoubled his efforts, nudging the men on either side to work their parts of the bar harder. Simkins nearly lost his balance at the aft hatch when the Hunley moved another two feet forward, then listed a little more and stopped again.

  “What?” Dixon quietly demanded.

  Wicks and the rest tried once more to work the propeller. “C’mon,” he whispered. “We can . . .”

  “Stop it,” Dixon said. He held up the candle so he could better see Simkins. “What’s going on out there?”

  The older man drew down and faced Dixon, peering through the poor light. He pulled his lips into a thin line and shook his head. “That wondrous torpedo we been hauling . . . it’s line’s fouled in the propeller, sir. Almost sure of it. Has to be it. Can’t see the torpedo now.” He turned and looked through the aft hatch windows again. “Got to be it, Lieutenant Dixon. We ain’t going anywhere. Maybe I can get out there and cut it loose. If it bumps up against us . . .” Simkins sneezed and drug his shirtsleeve under his nose, shuffled around to face Dixon again.

  The Lieutenant was stroking at his chin, the way a man might who had a beard. Some of the darkness had seeped from his eyes. “I suppose you’ll have to do that,” he said after only a moment’s thought.

  “I’m the better swimmer.” Becker had been quiet for some time, and his voice startled Dixon.

  Dixon offered him a sour grin and a single head shake.

  Becker sat in the middle of the Hunley, and the only way he would get out of the hatch was if three men preceded him.

  “No. I think I am the better swimmer, sir.” Miller looked up at Dixon and dropped his hand to the knife on his belt. “And my Arkansas toothpick’s awfully sharp.”

  Dixon nodded at this notion, and Miller managed to tug off his boots. The lieutenant squeezed back against the submarine wall as with some effort Miller wo
rmed his way past and up the hatch.

  “You be careful, Too Tall,” Wicks offered.

  “I’m always careful,” Miller replied, too soft for Wicks to hear.

  Then Dixon was following Miller up, stopping when his shoulders cleared the hatch and watching the young man crawl along the top of the listing Hunley. “Wait, Miller . . .”

  He turned and tried to read Lieutenant Dixon’s face, fearful the man would call him back and he’d lose a chance to get a page in some history book all to himself.

  Dixon kept his voice low. “You say you can swim well, Too Tall. Can you also swim far?”

  Miller gave a boyish grin and nodded, catching on to Lieutenant Dixon’s cobbled-together plan. “I can do it, sir. It’s not too far after all.”

  “Good man, Miller.”

  Miller crawled to the aft hatch, noting that Simkins had his face pressed against the window. He was careful not to crack his knees against anything and make a noise that might alert the Union soldiers. He could hear them, singing off-key, and he thought that Becker’s voice wasn’t so bad after all.

  The faint breeze was salty and fresh, and it felt cold against his sweat-beaded skin. It was just strong enough to cause the canvas of a lowered sail to flap on the nearest wooden ship.

  Miller could see all of the ships from here, the four wood and the single ironclad, which was thankfully the farthest away and which was definitely not something he wanted to see up close. In the light of the moon sliver the Union ship’s masts looked like blackened sticks, tall pines caught in a forest fire. Picking through the shadows, he could see men moving on the decks of the closest two ships. Maybe a dozen on one, and none of them were walking about with any real purpose as far as he could tell.