Iron Ships, Iron Men

by Christopher Nicole

  Then she did smile. ‘On so brief an acquaintance, Lieutenant McGann?’

  ‘Ah, but I have known you for more than a year, through Rod’s letters.’

  The smile faded. ‘As I have known you,’ she said. ‘But I do not wish to talk about Rod, now.’ She turned her face up, and he kissed her on the mouth. Her lips parted, and her anxious personality flowed into his mouth. He realised that he had lifted her from the floor, with no difficulty as she carried little weight, and that her arms were round his neck. He could feel her against him, from mouth to knee, and even her toes against his shins.

  He looked into her eyes. ‘I must tell you that early next year I am to be assigned to a ship. On foreign station. I could be away for as long as a year. Will you wait that long?’

  ‘Only as your wife. Marry me, and I will wait for you forever.’

  He kissed her on the nose. ‘I will be the master in my house, Meg,’ he said. ‘I would not have you make a mistake about that.’

  ‘And I will be your slave,’ she promised him, ‘commencing here and now, if you so choose.’

  She was seething with passion, perhaps in her anxiety to commit some irrevocable act which would confirm her decision for all time. The temptation to take her now, as she so obviously wanted, was immense. But still he wondered how much she understood of what was involved, how much of her ardour had been aroused by sheer curiosity as a result of Claudine’s sobbing tale. How strange, he thought, that first Rod and I should have been thrown together, and then that we should encounter two such sisters. But he did love her. If she had been a vaguely attractive figure as presented in Rod’s letters, he had been captivated by her from the moment of their first meeting, when she had shaken his hand so demurely, left the compliments to her sister, and devoured him with her eyes. He supposed he never would know whether or not she had determined to settle for the next best thing to Rod, or whether she was merely out for revenge ... or even whether she was simply determined to secure her rightful place as mistress of Martine’s Plantation on the death of her father. He did not really want to find those things out, just as he did not really wish to know that he would not, one day, come here to be master of this magnificent place. That was for the future, and no one could foretell what the future held, for slavery, or for the United States Navy. Indeed, for the United States themselves. For the moment, he held the most perfect of women, at least physically, in his arms. It was something to savour.

  But not to abuse. ‘I will go and speak with your father,’ he told her, kissed her again, and set her on her feet.

  *

  ‘Jerry is arriving on theBelle,’ Rod said. ‘I think it would be best if we both met him.’ Claudine Bascom raised her head from her needlework. ‘I am sure you can do it by yourself, Mr Bascom.’

  ‘I would like us both to be there,’ Rod said again. ‘He is my best friend, and he is here to marry your sister.’

  Claudine bit her lip, hesitated, then put down her sewing and rang the bell for her maid. She knew better than to oppose her husband in too many things. She made his life as miserable as she could, but at the back of it all was the fact that shewas his wife, that he did have the power to whip her, or worse, to carry her up the stairs to their bedroom, and there ... the very thought made her shudder. That it was not a right he any longer exercised very often was the only blessing in her life. But even once a year would have been once too often; she could not remember the endless torture of her honeymoon without a shudder.

  She considered that she had been betrayed by both her mother and her father, and no less by Marguerite. She had knelt at Papa’s feet and begged him not to make her undergo such a painful, shameful, horrifying ordeal again, and he had told her to grow up. She had begged her mother in turn, and been told that sexual abuse by the husband was a cross all women had to bear. She had begged Marguerite to help her, because by then Marguerite had already become betrothed to that great Yankee lout. Which was the greatest betrayal of all, as if Marguerite did not know what she had suffered, and was pouring scorn on her. Nor had Marguerite been willing to help. ‘You threw yourself at Rod,’ she had pointed out. ‘Now you must accept the consequences.’ As if Marguerite had any idea what those consequences were. Well, she thought with satisfaction, Marguerite will soon be suffering as well.

  The black girl was waiting. Claudine got up. ‘If you will give me time to arrange my hair, Mr Bascom,’ she said.

  ‘Whenever you are ready, Claudine.’

  He watched her leave the room, his lips tight. You will be miserable, Marguerite had promised him, and I shall laugh at your misery. Oh, undoubtedly she was doing that now, however disconcerted she had been in the beginning. Four months ago he thought he had triumphed. Well, in a purely physical sense he had. He had taken his beautiful wife on their honeymoon, and for two weeks he had sought to charm her, cajole her, educate her, and for two weeks, failing in all those ambitions, he had made her submit, time and again.

  Two weeks had been enough. All of that beauty was still his to take, whenever he chose, and he was still Wilbur Grahame’s son-in-law, if soon to be joined by another; certainly he wanted for nothing money could buy. And how sour it had all become? How could he enjoy sleeping with a woman who hated him, and who sobbed every time he touched her? How could he enjoy spending money on a house in which he was not welcome and on a wife from whom he could not raise a smile of thanks?

  He had relied on pregnancy as a last resort. But it had not happened, and he doubted it ever would, now. He had not touched her in the last three weeks, and had no real desire ever to do so again. When his passion had to be sated he preferred to visit one of the establishments down by the docks, where he was well known and welcomed, and where, for a few dollars, he could have words of endearment whispered into his ears — often he sought nothing more.

  Because he could have nothing more. Marguerite remained coldly aloof whenever they met, which was often enough as Wilbur liked Claudine and himself to visit the plantation at least once a week. Could she tell how much he wantedher, how much he realised his mistake — as he had realised his mistake even before he had married Claudine, and had lacked the courage to do anything about it? No doubt that added tohertriumph, for she had not forgiven him, and she never would. And now she was about to make that triumph complete, by marrying, and thus setting above him, his best friend. That was the most difficult cross of all to bear; almost he felt he had been betrayed. Jerry, who had been so firm against slavery, so critical of Rod’s decision to make his home in Louisiana, was stepping in to scoop the prize. Rod set little store by the letter his friend had written him, explaining his decision, asserting that he had no intention of becoming a rival, and indeed had no intention of himself ever living in Louisiana, certainly as long as slavery was legal there. Undoubtedly Jerry had been writing the truth as he saw it — but he did not understand Marguerite’s determination nor had he looked far enough ahead, to the sonhe would certainly have, and who, in the absence of a cousin, would be the ultimate inheritor.

  And he would also have Marguerite.

  Sometimes he thought he hated the very thought of the name, McGann — and then he would hate himself for that emotion. Jerry, his entire family, had behaved with nothing but kindness and indeed generosity toward him from the moment of their first meeting. Jerry himself was the soul of honour — andhe had invited him here, to meet the Grahame girls. So now he must smile and charm and lie, and say how happy he was, and try to convince himself that those were emotions he would one day genuinely feel, that he and Jerry would one day be joint masters of Martine’s, and that together they would mount from strength to strength. Once he had thought that the most desirable of prospects. Until he had realised it would involve losing Marguerite.

  *

  Despite the fact that it took place in February of 1860, the marriage of Marguerite Grahame to Jeremiah McGann was a much more splendid affair than the marriage of Claudine to Rod. This was not only because Marguerite was Wilbur Gr
ahame’s elder daughter, and he counted Jerry McGann as possibly an even more useful ally than Rod Bascom, or because, Jerry being also a Roman Catholic, there were no restrictions on the ceremony. Principally it was because, unlike Rod, Jerry belonged both to a profession and a clan, and both the McGanns and the Navy had descended on New Orleans in force for this great occasion. Stephen McGann was there, wearing uniform like his son, and Caroline of course, and even Grandmother Felicity had made the long and arduous midwinter journey to see her grandson safely married — and to inspect the family from whom he was drawing his bride. Even Wilbur Grahame was awed by the old lady’s stately presence, while she could not help but be impressed with the Grahame wealth and position in the community, although, like all of her family, she looked down her nose at the slaves with whom she was surrounded.

  That it was midwinter was the only apparent blot on the occasion; even in the bayous it was uncommonly cold. But there had been no other choice available; Jerry’s new ship was due for commissioning in April, and then he would be sailing away, for Europe, and an absence of perhaps a year. Marguerite had insisted the marriage be celebrated with almost indecent haste.

  ‘But I would not have cared to wait, either,’ Jerry confessed to Rod when they managed to be alone together. ‘Who can say what will happen in a year? This coming year, especially? No one has any idea what sort of situation the election is going to create.’

  ‘There is a good deal of concern about it down here,’ Rod agreed. ‘But I doubt it will really change a great deal. The Republican Party may well nominate Lincoln, but he can hardly carry the country, as no one in the South will vote for him.’ He grinned. ‘Except maybe me, but I’ll do it quietly.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jerry argued. ‘But the Democrats can only win if they stick together. I have heard it said that Stephen Douglas will oppose slavery on every count, and he is certain of the nomination.’

  ‘Now here in the South, we say that John Breckenridge is certain of the nomination, and he is a slavery man through and through.’

  ‘So ...’ Jerry winked. ‘When thieves fall out, eh?’

  ‘Supposing Lincoln is an honest man.’ Rod frowned. ‘What do you think would happen were he to be elected?’

  ‘As you say, not a great deal, immediately. He will have to hurry slowly, especially if you are right and he should be elected entirely on northern votes. Do not suppose all of this wealth of yours would vanish overnight. But I would say the end of it would be in sight. He will certainly seek to prevent the spread of slavery into any of the territories. And having done that, I imagine he will work for some kind of abolitionist law.’

  ‘I don’t see men like Wilbur Grahame standing for that.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see what he will be able to do about it, should it become the law of the land. And it must, in time, as new territories become states and send their legislators to Washington, and thus the majority for abolition grows. So I wouldn’t count on handing over this place to your son, old friend. Best make hay while you can.’

  ‘Am I likely to have a son?’ Rod asked, without thinking.

  Jerry frowned. ‘Have matters not improved? I thought Claudine looked happy enough when we met.’

  Rod shrugged. ‘We play-act, at least in public.’ As I am play-acting now, old friend, he thought; can you not see that? As perhaps you are also play-acting, for were an abolition law to be passed, then you could come here to take control of Martine’s. No doubt a man like Jerry McGann would feel that he could make a success of a sugar plantation even without slave labour. He could not resist asking, ‘How will a Republican victory in the election affect your relationship with your new family?’ Jerry did not appear concerned. ‘As you say, it may not happen. But in any event, I am marrying Meg, not Wilbur.’

  ‘And you will expect your wife to support you, even against her own father?’

  ‘Of course. I will be her husband.’

  Rod sighed. He wished he could possess Jerry’s sublime confidence in himself and in the future.

  ‘What of yourself?’ Jerry asked.

  ‘Oh, I belong to Martine’s. Beware, old friend. They will expect as much of you.’

  *

  Among the many naval officers who had come to New Orleans to attend the wedding of one of their favourite lieutenants, was Franklin Buchanan. This was the first occasion Rod had met the bluff, genial senior captain, and he was impressed. And gratified to discover that Buchanan was not unimpressed with him.

  ‘I have heard a good deal about you, Mr Bascom,’ he said, shaking hands most warmly. ‘From Stephen, of course. And I am deeply sorry that we were unable to find a place for you within our ranks. If I am right in assuming that you saw service in the Crimea, then a man of your experience would be invaluable to us. We have not fought a war at sea since we contested with your own Royal Navy in 1812; that Mexican affair could hardly be called a war, from a seaman’s point of view.’

  ‘Won’t you introduce us, Frank?’ asked the heavy-set man at Buchanan’s elbow.

  ‘Of course. Lieutenant Rodney Bascom, late of Her Majesty’s Navy, Mr Stephen Mallory, United States Senator for the State of Florida.’

  Rod shook hands, and received an impression of immense, if carefully controlled, power.

  ‘Late of Her Majesty’s Navy?’ Mallory inquired.

  ‘I was cashiered, sir, for running my ship on a reef in the West Indies.’

  Mallory nodded. ‘I know those reefs, Mr Bascom. I am a West Indian myself, by birth. Trinidad. Although I left it when I was still a lad. But I can sympathise with your misfortune.’

  ‘You don’t know the truth of it,’ Buchanan put in, ‘that he was attempting to rescue a United States ship, captained by Jerry McGann, when he came to grief.’

  ‘Ah. That explains a lot. But I am interested in your Crimean service, Mr Bascom. Were you by any chance at the siege of Sevastopol?’

  ‘I was, sir.’

  ‘When the Russian batteries, firing red hot shot, even drove away Her Majesty’s Navy?’

  Rod smiled. ‘I’m afraid they did, sir. Wooden ships and red hot shot do not mix.’

  ‘But the French found an answer, did they not?’

  ‘Why, so they did, sir. Armour-clad batteries. Off which the Russian shells bounced like rubber balls.’

  ‘The future of warfare at sea,’ Mallory declared.

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Franklin Buchanan asserted. ‘There will never be an ironclad capable of matching a well found wooden ship, on all points. For shallow draft coastal work, taking on batteries and the like, now there they may be useful — but those can hardly be called ships.’

  ‘Then you have no high opinion of theGloire?’ Mallory inquired. ‘My information is that she represents the very latest opinion in Europe. I should like to hear your opinion on her, Mr Bascom.’

  ‘Well, sir, I know that the French have put a good deal of thought, and money, into her design.’

  ‘And claim that she has made every existing warship in the world obsolete,’ Mallory pointed out. ‘Is it not true that your very own Royal Navy is building an ironclad just as fast as it can?’

  ‘Not my own Royal Navy any longer, unfortunately,’ Rod reminded him. ‘But I have heard of theWarrior, even if I know little of its design. I must say, though, that Captain Buchanan has a point, at least at the present time. My understanding is that Dupuy, the designer of theGloire, has stipulated that she is to be used only in the Mediterranean, or in French coastal waters.’

  ‘Exactly my point,’ Buchanan said. ‘The Frogs are afraid she’d founder in her first full gale.’

  ‘There’s also the matter of coal carrying capacity,’ Rod said. ‘Obviously an iron ship, several times heavier than a comparable wooden vessel, will not get along so well under sail alone.’

  ‘Hm,’ Mallory uttered. ‘Well, perhaps that will be no bad thing. It will make a navy of ironclads entirely defensive in purpose, and unable to carry out long-range manoeuvres. But I think you had
something else to say, Mr Bascom.’

  ‘Only that I believe the drawbacks of iron hulls will be overcome. Fifty years ago, who would have supposed there could be an ironclad warship possible? Fifty years from now, perhaps seamen will be wondering if it could be true we ever fought battles in wooden ships.’

  ‘Never,’ Buchanan insisted.

  ‘Very possible indeed,’ Mallory said. ‘You know ...’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Madame Consuela. ‘Please take your places. The ceremony is about to begin.’

  *

  Predictably, Marguerite Grahame made a most beautiful bride. She dressed as her sister had done the previous year, but Claudine, who was matron of honour, chose green instead of blue. There was a band to provide music, and one of Jerry’s naval friends acted as best man, like the groom in full dress uniform. There was the usual huge assembly of guests and an unbelievable display of food. Wilbur Grahame was now a practised hand at marrying off his daughters, and everything went without a hitch, save that he drank rather more than was good for him, and when the assembly was at luncheon following the ceremony, and the normal speeches of congratulation and thanks had been delivered, insisted on rising to speak himself.

  ‘You see before you today,’ he said, his voice booming across the ballroom, ‘a man who is at once happy, and proud, and yet sad. Sad because now I am childless, within the walls of this house. Happy that my two daughters should both have found themselves strong men.’ He smiled at Marguerite and Claudine in turn; Marguerite returned his smile, Claudine gave a little grimace. ‘And I am proud,’ Wilbur went on, ‘to have accumulated two such strong men as pillars of my own family.’ This time his smile, only briefly bestowed on Jerry and Rod, played over the other male faces as well. ‘So now I look forward to increasing the prosperity of Martine’s, and by doing that, of all Louisiana. For make no mistake, my friends, there are difficult times ahead of us. Not every Yankee possesses the good sense of my friend Captain Stephen McGann and his family.’ Now he gave Stephen a smile, and hurried on, choosing to ignore the fact that Stephen did not return the smile, and was indeed commencing to frown as his host continued.