Finally, she recalled the return of the Louisiana, steaming back against the chop, the mid-morning sun throwing flares of light from its bright brass cannons. Its decks were alive with busy crewmen, their pride on display in their firm stance at the railings.
The Battle of Cockle Creek had ended for all of Chincoteague Island but Anna Daisey. The spectacle that had fed her eyes in the early morning had only begun to uncoil itself in her mind. The sights were sharpening and focusing, the unfamiliar objects taking their places in the all-too-familiar landscape that was her life. This evening she would draw them, as she drew the things she loved, and the things she wished to remember. In her trunk were drawings of the wild creatures of her beloved Assateague: white geese on the marsh packed as tightly together as pebbles on a river bottom, a winter storm gathering over the ocean, a foal searching for its mother’s milk. This was something new altogether. She would make at least three drawings, she thought. At least three; perhaps more than that.
There was little more for the crowd to see, and a great deal more for each of them to do, as there always was. In clusters of two and three they fell back from their vantage points on the wharves and headed back to their work. The uproar that had called them away was over. Each one’s pace quickened as he took inventory of the tasks that awaited him in a shortened day. The talk among them was mainly of security, and an elusive prosperity. Perhaps oyster shipping would continue without interruption, and prices would hold steady. Perhaps they would even increase. A man could hope! Their faith in the Union had been justified, at least for the time being. They had trusted Edmund Bagwell with the fate of Chincoteague partly because he talked sense and partly because they had little choice. In this, too, they had done well; Bagwell had kept his promises, and today’s outcome had been good. They had hitched their wagons to the right horse.
Now they could get back to their farms, their fishing grounds, and their oyster beds. It was about time. Ten o’clock was no hour to be starting work.
CHAPTER TWO
Troops on the Island
Captain Henry D. Sharpe stood at the powerful telescope in his cabin on the Louisiana. His hands were clasped behind his double-breasted blue coat, its nine rows of brass buttons undone. He made a careful survey of Chincoteague channel. Mid-October, and it was hot and dead calm, the hottest and calmest of all the days since his arrival in the channel just a short time ago. He pictured the fast-approaching autumn in his native Providence. The fresh breezes would slap at the waters of Narragansett Bay. The cool evenings would invite a blazing fire at his marble hearth on Waterman Street, the carved mahogany sailing ships on the mantelpiece reflecting its glow. This was a very different climate—not unlike Veracruz, a place he did not wish to recall. October, and the pests of summer were still near the peak of their strength. A green-headed fly landed on his temple. He slapped at it with a rolled-up chart. The fly buzzed away over the water, leaving the Captain with a painful little welt. It was not the first of the day. “Blast,” he cursed to himself. “When do these creatures retreat?”
Sharpe had served the Navy for fifteen years. Since his graduation from the Naval Academy, duty had taken him almost exclusively to northern waters, after his brief initial command in the Mexican War. He preferred northern waters; for the Captain, the lure of the sea was less when the sea took on the smell of the southern latitudes. Off the coasts of his native New England, the waves washed clean against the pebbled beaches. Glossy black mussels clung to the cliffs, and sea oats bloomed on the dunes. The cedar-shake cottages of the fishermen were cloaked in a weathered grey that spoke to him of home.
How different this Eastern shore of Virginia was. The channel was treacherous with shallows and sandbars, and surrounded by the dreariest sort of marshland. At flood tide it was more or less a proper sort of channel, but as the tide fell, the creeks and marshes all around him spat the seawater back laden with a thick black muck, offensive to the nose and the spirit. The channel and its shores seemed to be made entirely of it. It stank. As a breeder of flies and mosquitoes it had no equal.
Fish were abundant here. He observed the fishing boats coming into port full. The cod and mackerel of New England were absent, replaced by flat, bottom-dwelling flounder and others unfamiliar to him. Shellfish were plentiful, too; small groups of men waded about, bent double in the muddy water, filling floating baskets with large pale-gray clams. Others, leaning over the low rails of the sharpies in teams of two and four, used dredges and tongs to bring up quantities of good-sized oysters. From sunup to last light, Captain Sharpe’s telescope revealed watermen at work.
Sharpe squinted into the glass at the hulk of the Venus, trapped in the mud of Cockle Creek three miles to the south. A boatful of men, tiny as fleas at this distance, clambered up the planking of the hull in pursuit of some useful bit of hardware. Already the privateer had been stripped of most anything of value by the industrious islanders. That’s a fine spot for a strategic blockade, Sharpe thought: ships sailing into the Chincoteague Bay would be forced to pass the guns of any vessel anchored there. The rebels must have calculated that they could hold the island by striking the first blow. They hadn’t counted on the personal intervention of the Commander at Hampton Roads, who had quite a lot to tell Sharpe about the virtues of Chincoteague oysters and duck before handing him his current orders.
It was already warm below deck; the iron hull magnified the heat. Angling his telescope down the narrow channel, he scanned the marshy island that formed its southern border. It showed no sign of habitation, though he thought he saw cattle, or perhaps horses, along its shore. Heat rose in waves off the sparkling water as a flock of slow, long-legged white seabirds rowed their way across his field of view. Wallops Island, his charts called it. If actual Wallops were living on it, they kept well out of sight.
Swinging the lens east brought the town of Chincoteague into clear view, with its narrow piers and plain, square frame buildings. Such a contrast to the grand wharves of Providence that had greeted him as a boy, when he returned from his first sea voyage with his grandfather. He could see townspeople in the Chincoteague streets, but their livestock often outnumbered them. The cottages were small and lacked decoration. There were just a few larger structures, most of those, it seemed, warehouses or the like. Only the Atlantic Hotel, as its long signboard proclaimed it, made any sort of appearance, and that was homespun at best.
This sad and primitive little place was now his to protect. He would do his duty. Neither the tasty duck, nor the delectable oyster, nor the good people of Chincoteague Island would suffer harm on Henry D. Sharpe’s watch. His orders were clear: “closely blockade” the channel. No time limit was specified. He was floating in the middle of a watery alleyway in a cast-iron bathtub, with a crew of ninety at his disposal and no threat on the horizon. After the quick and easy triumph of October 5th, no vessel would be foolish enough to provoke him.
Sweat trickled down the Captain’s stiff collar. In a few moments, just before the noontime meal, he would issue fresh orders to his crew.
Louisiana was shipshape. Every sailor under Henry D. Sharpe’s command was keenly aware of his Captain’s emphasis on naval discipline and regulation. The U.S. Navy Operations Manual was their Bible, and each moment of the day was lived according to its procedures. His veteran boatswain Benjamin Harvey saw to it with a heavy fist and a threatening growl. He had no difficulty giving orders, and assumed that all of them would be executed on the spot. He was seldom wrong. Every object on board operated exactly as the manual dictated. Every button on every uniform was placed precisely where the manual specified. The cannon were polished, the decks were scrubbed, and the coal hoppers were full to bursting. Captain Sharpe would have it no other way. It was not for nothing that he had graduated from the very first class at Annapolis.
Her Captain’s meticulous regimen ensured that Louisiana stayed perfectly trim without much fuss. Each sailor knew his part, and performed it from reveille at five in the morning until tattoo soun
ded at nine p.m., allowing most of the tired crew to retire to their hammocks below deck. Every man knew that if he and his mates followed the Navy manual to the letter, the Captain would take little issue with anything else they did. Sharpe’s command was pleasant duty for those who met his very particular demands.
The greatest secret on board was his nickname: Captain Dull. The seamen, the firemen, the coal heavers, and even the lowest-ranking boys all knew it. Some of the officer corps surely knew it. Boatswain Benjamin Harvey may have known it, though he didn’t let on for a moment. Only Sharpe himself could never be allowed to know it, and thus far he definitely did not. He had earned his nickname not only for his devotion to naval procedure, but also because of the indisputable fact that no ship under his command had seen the slightest military action in the fourteen years since the Mexican War. The Battle of Cockle Creek had broken that lengthy string, and its outcome had put the Captain in a splendid frame of mind. Within a day, every line and cleat had been cleaned and made ready for the next encounter. Now it seemed certain that any such encounter would be distant.
An iron gunship blockading a channel offered its crew only so much work to do. Not too many years before, attention to sails and rigging took up much of a sailor’s day. That had changed. Louisiana carried sails mainly as a backup should her boilers fail, and her pampered boilers were the picture of health. When she took on coal, the choking black dust blanketed the entire ship, but it was quickly scrubbed away under Harvey’s watchful eye. Bobbing at anchor, no more coal would be needed for some time. That left spotless decks to be re-cleaned, coiled line to be re-coiled, and gleaming brass to be re-polished. There were ninety mouths to feed, but Navy food was as simple as simple could be, and the ship's cooks and stewards were old salts who knew their way around the tiny galley blindfolded.
Knowing all this, Captain Sharpe had formulated a plan.
New ideas were not his forte; in fact, he avoided them as some men avoided venomous snakes. To Sharpe they were similar: dangerous, unpredictable, and likely to cause him regret. If a procedure could not be found within the multiple pages of the U.S. Navy Operations Manual, Henry D. Sharpe took no interest in it. This, however, was a different sort of idea, with much to recommend it.
In the first place, it had sprung fresh from his own mind, not from that of a rash young midshipman or Lieutenant. Such men were full of untested enthusiasm and a desire to improve the Navy. They terrified Sharpe. When they were assigned to his command, their time on his ships was short. However, when a seasoned commander made a careful decision to depart very slightly from standard shipboard practice, motivated by sound judgment, then such an idea might, after proper consideration, be given a try.
And so the Captain had pondered it, for several days in fact, while he surveyed the Chincoteague channel through his glass. After long reflection, he still favored the plan.
He would deploy his crew onto the island.
His idea solved two problems, and thus showed double merit. First, an idle crew brewed trouble, and this crew would be idle. Many of his sailors were young and away from their boyhood homes for the first time. Young men confined in a small space could barely avoid trouble under the best of circumstances. These circumstances were far from the best. The situation offered little danger to keep them vigilant and even less useful work to do. An ingenious Captain might fashion training exercises to keep them busy and reduce their natural inclination to misbehave, but Sharpe was not an ingenious Captain. In time, incidents would take place. There would be drinking to excess of their daily ration. Where sailors found intoxicating spirits, the Captain never knew, but somehow they always did. Games of cards or dice, though strictly forbidden, would take place in the evening. Soon money would be lost and fists would fly. Grudges would result, and nasty accidents would happen to occur. Seamen would find their hammocks cut while they slept, or heavy objects dropped on their toes as they worked. Soon Benjamin Harvey would spend his days settling disputes and meting out punishments. That was no way to run a ship during wartime.
The second problem had taken root in Captain Sharpe’s mind as he observed the comings and goings of the people of Chincoteague. They appeared innocent enough as they went about their daily business. Rough and simple as they were, he imagined them to be pleasant, industrious people. A large crowd had gathered to witness his victory over the Venus and then quickly dispersed. The few men he had sent ashore for provisions had reported no ill feelings. The people of the island were grateful for the presence of his gunboat, or so he had been told. Still, he wondered. In some sense, the islanders were citizens of a conquered nation. They were southerners and Virginians. Virginia, oldest of the colonies and proudest of her heritage, was in open revolt on the mainland, not five miles distant. Though a few representatives had travelled to Hampton Roads in search of Union support, there must be others on the island whose loyalties lay with their Rebel brethren. What was their opinion of the gunship in their harbor? Were they even now plotting some maneuver against him? The questions disturbed his sleep, and spurred him to action.
He would send his crew to assist them, and thus to befriend them. In doing so, he would ensure the safety of his men and his vessel.
Captain Sharpe fitted his dark blue cap onto his head, slipping the strap beneath his chin. It was an excellent plan indeed, he thought, as he buttoned his coat and ascended the ladder to the deck. A superior plan. He emerged into bright sunshine and a breeze that had freshened, driving away most of the biting insects. His crew were neatly arranged in three rows. Each man’s tunic and pantaloons were neat and his boots shone glossy black. Their eyes looked straight ahead, shielded from the glaring sun by their broad, flat caps, set at a uniform angle. The embroidered gold inscriptions filled Sharpe with new pride: Louisiana, they chanted silently. Louisiana. His ship. Victor of the Battle of Cockle Creek, one of the first naval battles of this war. Benjamin Harvey stepped smartly forward, his boatswain’s mate and master-at-arms close behind him, uniforms impeccable. Harvey addressed the assembled crew.
“By order of Captain Henry D. Sharpe of the USS Louisiana, given this day in the year of our Lord 1861, all enlisted seamen and other members of the crew shall modify their duties in this fashion:
“At the hour of eight a.m., watches shall be changed to allow for a number of the crew chosen by the Captain or the boatswain to go ashore for extraordinary duty, returning before tattoo at nine p.m.;
“such duty for the purpose of assisting and rendering service to the residents of Chincoteague Island, that they might more readily welcome the presence of the gunship Louisiana in local waters;
“residents to be chosen by local clergymen according to their need, that is, widows, orphans, the aged and infirm, and so forth;
“no money or other compensation to be received by the crew member, but he is to express his eagerness to be of assistance on behalf the United States Navy and Captain Henry D. Sharpe of the Louisiana;
“those found guilty of laziness or inattention to his assignment, drunkenness, fraternization, or other poor moral example, to be deprived of this privilege and punished as seen fit, by the boatswain.”
Harvey stepped back. The Captain fingered the hilt of his sword with its blue-and-gold tassel. Officially, the use of the tassel was suspended in wartime, but his remained in place. Harvey continued:
“These eight men chosen for today’s service will depart immediately after the meal: Carpenter Dreher. Carpenter’s Mate Platt…” Six more names followed, but Sam Dreher paid no attention. He sneaked a sidelong glance at Ethan Platt, and both indulged in a fleeting smile. Harvey blew his ever-present boatswain’s whistle and saluted the captain crisply, and with that the crew fell out towards the mess. Sharpe proceeded to the officer’s mess, pleased with himself. It was done. A pleasant aroma met him. Beef today, and fresh vegetables.
Sam Dreher ate all his meals quickly; that way, he stayed a step ahead of the boatswain, and out of trouble. When he and Ethan Platt ate toge
ther, it was common for him to elbow his friend, hurrying him along. Ethan liked to linger over his food, simple as it was, but today both men felt the urgent call of the launch that would take them to land. “We’re goin’ ashore, Sam!” Ethan crowed, “and not Port Clinton, either.” He and his longtime friend had enlisted in the Navy for different reasons, but they shared a desire to leave the town of Port Clinton behind them. Sam stood, sopping up the last of the beef drippings with his biscuit. “Aye,” he replied. “I won’t mind leaving this tub for a while. Let’s be off.” They packed their sea bags quickly with tools and fistfuls of hardtack. In minutes they were at the oars of the launch with six companions, headed for the main wharf of Chincoteague.
After a long time at sea, land feels strange to a sailor, but welcome all the same. So it was that Sam Dreher, Ship’s Carpenter, and Ethan Platt, Carpenter’s Mate, happily set foot for the first time on the sandy soil of Chincoteague Island. Many weeks had passed since they left their little Pennsylvania town, where a river and a railroad met and quickly disappeared towards sunnier and more inviting places. Neither was sure where the United States Navy might take them, but both were willing to throw the dice.
The Philadelphia Navy Yard was their first berth: three weeks on a creaking old sailing ship to learn their way around the decks and rigging, then on to Hampton Roads and berths on the Louisiana, one small cog in the great Anaconda Plan intended to blockade Southern ports and strangle the rebel war effort. The ship lingered at various positions in the Chesapeake Bay, always on its guard for a skirmish with the enemy, but none came. One morning, without much notice, all hands scrambled to make her ready to head farther south—and now, not many days later, they were clambering out of the launch onto the dock.
The Sea is a Thief Page 2
