Iron Ships, Iron Men

by Christopher Nicole

  He walked up the wide steps to the front terrace, looking at the door, wondering who would be the first through it, to welcome him, watched it open with a pleasantly beating heart ... and gazed at Marguerite McGann.

  *

  For a moment he thought he was seeing a vision. But the vision had changed sufficiently from his memory of her to be reality. The red-gold hair, worn loose and fluttering in the slight breeze, was the same, but the figure beneath had filled out — from a girl Marguerite had become a woman. The face, too, had changed, and had assumed a somewhat defiant expression — but that too only enhanced its beauty.

  ‘Marguerite?’ he asked.

  ‘I wondered if I should ever see you again,’ she confessed. ‘How splendid you look in uniform.’

  ‘Rod!’ Claudine screamed, and came rushing past her sister to throw herself into his arms, so totally unexpected a gesture that he nearly dropped her. Then he had to kiss her, as she was kissing him so enthusiastically. But above her head he looked at Marguerite, who returned his gaze; he could not decide what her expression indicated. Or what she had intended to convey by the compliment.

  Or was he afraid to decide?

  Wilbur Grahame arrived from the fields, to shake his hand, and he was escorted in to Antoinette ... with whom was a baby boy, fifteen months old, with a pretty face, which indicated his mother, and already a size which suggested his father.

  Once again he looked at Marguerite, his brain unwilling to accept what his eyes were telling him, and once again she returned his gaze, her expression one of defiance. But explanations had to wait; Wilbur wanted to hear all about what he had been doing. The women were less interested in that, but even their attention was caught by the story of the brief cruise of theVirginia. ‘Two ships sunk, just like that!’ Wilbur snapped his fingers. ‘That must have given the Yankees something to think about.’

  ‘It did,’ Rod agreed. ‘But they thought too well. And now, down here ...’

  ‘Marguerite brought the news of the Federal plans,’ Antoinette said proudly.

  Rod looked at her, and now she flushed. ‘I learned them from Jerry.’

  ‘And then ran away to come here?’

  Her chin came up. ‘Yes.’

  ‘She had to take a ship to Havana,’ Wilbur explained, no less proudly than his wife. ‘And then another to New Orleans. Through the blockade. It was quite an adventure.’

  Rod looked at the little boy crawling across the floor.

  ‘He is my son,’ Marguerite said. ‘Jerry has never seen him. He has been too busy fighting his war.’

  ‘She came home, to where she belonged,’ Wilbur asserted. ‘Where my grandson belongs, too.’

  ‘If you heard how they treated her,’ Claudine put in. ‘Like a servant.’

  Their anxiety to defend her, to him of all people, revealed their acceptance of her guilt. But now her flush deepened. ‘That’s not quite true,’ she said. ‘They all work like slaves up there. I did not enjoy it.’

  ‘You can’t condemn her,’ Wilbur begged.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing so,’ Rod agreed. ‘But Jerry most certainly will.’

  ‘She’ll never see that Yankee lout again,’ Wilbur declared.

  ‘I hope not,’ Marguerite whispered. ‘Oh, I hope not.’

  Rod made no comment. If he could understand some of the powerful forces which had drawn her towards her home, he could also understand how Jerry would feel when he learned the news, as he must already have done, no matter where he was. ‘What are your plans for when the Yankees arrive?’ he asked.

  ‘Plans?’

  ‘Well ... they could well take New Orleans.’

  ‘No chance of that,’ Wilbur declared. ‘We have the forts ...’

  ‘And the booms, and the gunboats, and theLouisiana, and the soldiers,’ Rod interrupted. ‘They have the muscle. They are more resourceful than you can possibly imagine, and they do not know when they are beat. If they do take New Orleans, and find Marguerite here, and find out what she has done ... she could be hanged as a spy.’ Marguerite clasped both hands round her throat; perhaps she had not truly realised what she was risking.

  ‘I think you should all move upriver, to at least Natchez,’ Rod continued.

  ‘Leave my house?’ Antoinette cried in distress. ‘Leave Martine’s?’

  ‘It would be the safest thing to do, for all of you. You can always come back, if the Yankees get driven off.’

  ‘Never,’ Antoinette Grahame declared.

  *

  ‘You should not have frightened Mother so,’ Claudine said severely, after dinner, when they ascended to their bedroom together, and her maid, having undressed her, had been dismissed. ‘You know how upset she gets. And poor Marguerite was terrified.’ Antoinette Grahame had been removed to bed during the meal, having had far too much to drink; Marguerite, by contrast, had hardly eaten or drunk anything at all.

  Rod didn’t want an argument, not tonight. He had forgotten what it was like to live in total luxury, and he had also almost forgotten what a beautiful woman his wife was. Not so beautiful as her sister, in any way, now. But he was not going to make the mistake of thinking about Marguerite now, not when they were again under the same roof and she had cut loose from her husband. Claudine, for all her slender girl beauty, was his wife and sufficiently compelling, and it was a year since he had known any woman at all. Yet he had to make her understand the gravity of the situation, if he could.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset either your mother or Marguerite,’ he protested. ‘But there are times when you simply have to look facts in the face.’

  ‘No Yankee bluebelly is ever going to set foot on this plantation,’ Claudine declared fiercely.

  ‘And we all hope you are right. Now, my darling ...’ he took her in his arms, and she turned her face up to be kissed.

  ‘Oh, Rod,’ she said. ‘I am so glad to have you back. You won’t have to go away again, will you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I will, and probably quite soon. So let’s make the best of what we have.’ He slipped the shoulder strap of her nightgown down and slid his hand inside, but she caught his wrist.

  ‘Rod, please. Don’t start that again.’

  He gazed at her in consternation. Had nothing changed?

  She kissed him. ‘Won’t you promise me?’

  ‘Promise you what?’

  ‘That you won’t ... well ... can’t we be friends?’

  ‘Of course we’re friends. We’re man and wife.’ Although even as he spoke he realised that wasn’t necessarily the same thing.

  ‘Yes. I mean, we can’t be friends if you’re going to want to be disgusting all the time, can we?’ She had clearly also done some thinking in his absence, and had her speech all planned. ‘I’ve been so happy, just dreaming of you, thinking of you ... I managed to forget all the bad times. I just don’t want them ever to happen again.’

  He continued to stare at her. ‘I would like to love you,’ he said. Perhaps he was trying to convince himself.

  ‘As I love you.’

  ‘But I cannot love you if I cannot touch you.’

  She frowned. ‘That’s not love. That’s lust. Mama has explained it to me. I hate being touched. I do. It’s ... it’s horrible. You are a disgusting man, really. But I so want to be your wife. If you want to ... if you absolutely must ... then I must permit you, as Iam your wife. But Rod, please ... just do it, quickly. And don’t ... finger me. Please!’

  He released her arm and got up. If he remained there a moment longer he would have hit her. ‘I have a war to fight,’ he said, stuffed his clothes into his carpet bag, and went to the door. His whole body seethed with anger, and disappointment ... and with frustration. To come home, to this absurd little girl!

  ‘Rod,’ she begged, kneeling on the bed, the very picture of appealing womanhood. But now the sight of her was hateful to him.

  ‘I shan’t trouble you again,’ he said, and closed the door behind him. The house was dark and silent. He
went down the stairs, into the library, hesitated, and then got dressed. He was just as tired as he was aroused, would dearly have liked to lie down and sleep, but he knew he couldn’t stay another moment in this house. His good resolutions had been thrown in his face, and there was only angry sexuality left. Besides, therewas a war to be fought, a war which was coming closer every day. He hefted his bag, strode to the door, opened it, and faced Marguerite.

  ‘Rod,’ she said. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  He gazed at her. She wore a peignoir over her nightgown, and looked what she was, the most beautiful and the most desirable woman he had ever seen. Jerry’s wife, who had shamefully wronged her husband, and become a traitress into the bargain. And who he wanted, so very desperately. And who he no longer doubled wanted him, just as badly. He wondered whatshe was like in bed; he could not imagine Jerry McGann putting up with what he had suffered. But she was still the wife of his best friend, and had become a mother, of a child she had stolen from his father.

  ‘Rod?’ she asked again. ‘What is the matter? Where are you going, at this hour?’

  He held her shoulders, brought her against him, kissed her on the lips as savagely as he could, savoured the taste of her, the feel of her body against his, as he had wanted to do from the very first time they had met, then thrust her aside and left the house.

  *

  ‘Signal fleet to commence operations as instructed, Mr McGann,’ said Commodore Farragut.

  ‘Aye-aye, sir,’ Lieutenant McGann said, and gave the orders to the waiting midshipman. Within seconds the flags climbed the signal halliards, and the Federal squadron was moving into action, as if each vessel was commanded by the same brain. But this was David Farragut’s supreme secret as a commander of ships and men; he possessed an almost Nelsonian touch in his ability to communicate his intentions and requirements to the men who served under him.

  He was one of the very few seamen in the Federal navy who had actually seen action. And what action, for at the age of only twelve he had been given command of a prize during David Porter’s cruise against the British in the War of 1812. He had served again under Porter in operations against West Indian pirates in the 1820s, and also in the Mediterranean, when his remarkable ability for the assimilation of learning had made him fluent in French, Spanish, and Italian. His progress up the ladder of promotion had been steady. Yet this was the first time he had ever commanded anything approaching a fleet, and the command was the more remarkable because not only had he been born no less than sixty-one years before, but it had been in Knoxville, Tennessee. Yet he had never hesitated in his certainty of where his duty lay, and immediately following the bombardment of Fort Sumter, had moved his family into the North and declared his undying allegiance to the Union. Now, hawk-faced and hawk-eyed, he was carrying out a long held dictum of his very own — that ships, properly led, selected and supported, could assault forts with every prospect of success. Certainly his obvious ability, his total confidence, and his single-minded dedication to the task in hand, could not help but inspire those beneath him, Jerry McGann thought.

  And wondered what his commodore thought of his executive officer. Again, reputation and background counted for much; there was no more respected service family in the country than the McGanns, whose roots went back to the very first action ever fought by the infant United States Navy. Commodore Farragut had been pleased to welcome such a man as his close aide. But that had been before the appalling news had been received from Long Island. Jerry himself still had moods when he could not believe it. But these were becoming more rare, and the moods of almost vicious anger were gaining the ascendant. Neither he nor Farragut could have any doubts whence Marguerite had fled ... with Jerry’s son, but only Jerry knew she had also carried with her word of the impending Federal attack upon New Orleans. If he had hoped she might not use that information, he could hardly doubt the evidence of his own eyes that the Confederates were waiting for them. And if Farragut did not know the whole truth, he certainly understood the strain under which his executive officer was labouring. It might, indeed, have been wiser for the Commodore to have relieved Lieutenant McGann of his duties for the coming battle, where so personal a stake was involved. But Farragut believed he knew his man, and was sure that McGann would never let his personal feelings interfere with his duty. Nor would he, Jerry knew; besides, taking New Orleans was as much a personal desire as regaining baby Joseph. And Marguerite? He could not be sure of his feelings there, but he did know that his first destination, after the battle was won, would be Martine’s Plantation House.

  After the battle was won.

  Farragut commanded a motley fleet, but one specially designed for the purpose of conquering the Mississippi. In addition to his eight steam sloops and corvettes, and his transports carrying General Benjamin Butler and ten thousand Union troops, he disposed of twenty boats, each mounting a huge mortar, and also nine river gunboats. Each section of the squadron had its allotted task, explained to the captains during many a conference on board the flagship. Thus while General Butler and his men were put ashore to approach Forts St Philip and Jackson from the landward side, the mortar ships bombarded them from the estuary. The Confederates were entirely occupied with this dual attack, and presumed that the main part of the fleet would await the outcome of this initial battle before venturing into the river itself. Or that if they were so bold as to attempt to run the forts before making sure those were in Union hands, they would be held up by the series of massive wooden booms strung across the water and held together by iron chains, which were in turn anchored on each bank. As the Federal squadron did indeed steam slowly through the Delta, ignoring the storm of noise and fire to either side as the forts fought for their lives, Jerry glanced at the Commodore, to see what he had in mind.

  ‘Full speed ahead, Mr McGann,’ Farragut ordered, quietly.

  Jerry peered through the bridge window at the booms, now clearly visible and perhaps a quarter of a mile away. ‘Aye-aye, sir,’ he acknowledged. ‘Full speed,’ he told the engine room.

  The engine revolutions increased, more black smoke gushed from the funnel, brown water churned astern, and the Federal flagship charged at the barrier, while Jerry, and almost everyone else on board, he supposed, with the exception of the Commodore, who looked totally relaxed, held their breaths. The impact was tremendous, and anyone not holding on was thrown to the deck.

  ‘Full astern, Mr McGann.’ Farragut continued to speak quietly, his voice hardly carrying above the banging of the mortars and the cracking of the rifles and the crashes of the heavy guns from the forts.

  The sloop drew astern, her bow scarred by the collision.

  ‘Full speed ahead, Mr McGann.’

  Once again the charge, and the impact — and this time the wooden logs began to splinter, and to sag as the chains were half pulled from the ground. By now Confederate marksmen, hidden in the trees, were blazing away, but with little more than nuisance value, and even that ceased as they saw that the barrier was about to be smashed.

  ‘Once more will do it, Mr McGann,’ Farragut remarked. ‘Signal the fleet to follow us through.’

  ‘Aye-aye, sir,’ Jerry agreed, as the sloop was again hurled against the collapsing booms. No matter that the ship’s bows were now battered perhaps beyond repair — she had completed her task, and the first Confederate defence was breached.

  A few minutes later they were past the beleaguered forts and proceeding up the river, but now they saw a flotilla of eleven Confederate gunboats, bravely determined to stem their advance. ‘Destroy those fellows, Mr McGann,’ the Commodore commanded.

  Jerry passed on the order. The sloops did not carry very heavy metal, but what they had was far superior to the Confederates. At the signal, every Federal ship opened up long before the rebels could even come within adequate range. The guns boomed, black smoke curled into the air to join that belching from the funnels, and in the bayous the alligators roared in unison.

  ‘Aim at th
e waterline, Mr McCann,’ Farragut said. ‘I want those ships dispersed by dusk.’ Which was not far distant.

  The Confederates had already taken a pounding, their masts and upper works shot away, their own guns hardly able to inflict any damage on the Union vessels; now that the deadly balls, fired at point-blank range, began smashing into their hulls, their destruction was swift and complete. The Federal squadron steamed into the midst of a calamity of sinking boats and dying or drowning men, swept on by the remorseless Mississippi current.

  Jerry could not resist moving to the side of the bridge deck to look down, and caught his breath as he saw the face of Rod Bascom, clinging to a piece of timber, which bobbed in the wake-churned water as it drifted by. He turned, and ran to the aft rail of the bridge, watching the man drifting away. Rod? Here, there, and everywhere, in his fight for his adopted country? But here, of all places. Where Marguerite had certainly fled.

  ‘It will be dark in an hour, Mr McGann,’ Farragut said, recalling him to his duty. ‘We will call a halt for the night. That will give General Butler time to regroup his men, and summon the city to surrender. If it refuses, then we will commence our bombardment tomorrow morning. Signal the fleet to anchor.’ He made no comment on the complete destruction of the Confederate squadron; he had never conceived of any other possibility.

  ‘Aye-aye, sir,’ Jerry agreed, mechanically. And permission to leave the ship, he thought? But it was a request he would never make. The navy was his life, and as such was far more important than even his personal feelings. Besides, Rod had been in the river. Whatever the relationship between Marguerite and his friend, whatever the real reason which had impelled his wife to run away with his child ... Rod was probably drowned by now, swept by the current out into the Gulf of Mexico. And Marguerite could wait on the victory which was now certainly in the Federal grasp.