More exploding shells. The air was full of a snow of bits of flame and burning debris. The Zouave had not been hit, but there was a lot of blood on her deck. Harry shook his fist at the Virginia and began shouting at it, at Mills, at all of them, at Jeff Davis back in Richmond. The words he used would have caused his sister to blanche.
Someone pulled him down. He returned to his rope coil, wrapping his arms around his knees and closing his eyes.
The din at once evaporated. There was still some firing, but not near. The Virginia had halted its attack again. Harry looked up. The Congress had struck her colors.
Its deck now crowded with men from the two frigates, the Zouave bore off, as though making room for two boats that now set out from the idled southern ironclad. Harry assumed that they’d been sent to secure the formal surrender of the ship—and to scuttle it.
A boat from the Congress, amazingly still intact, came forth to meet the others. The ensuing colloquy could only be imagined, but appeared unsuccessful. Instead of taking the Congress’s officer prisoner, the Virginia’s boats sat where they were as the officer was rowed back to his dying vessel. He scurried back onto his burning deck, then disappeared below.
Looking to the ironclad, Harry saw that it was continuing to receive hits. Sporadically, heavy shot still struck its plating. The fire was not coming from the helpless Congress, but from soldiers on the shore.
Abruptly, the Virginia let loose a broadside in angry retaliation. The shells roared across the intervening space of water and seemed to strike the Congress everywhere. There were more explosions, more leaping wounded and hurled bodies.
Harry heard shouting from the Zouave’s wheelhouse. The tug’s engine coughed and chuffed, and the craft began pulling away, lest it, too, become a victim of this barbarity.
“Bastards,” someone said.
The tug headed northeast, toward a line of other Union warships. Harry kept his eyes on the Virginia, surprised that it did not pursue. Making another of its slow circles, it disdainfully put its stern to them, making for Norfolk across Hampton Roads.
As Harry had not noticed, it was growing dark.
The Zouave took them to a wharf just shoreward of the line of Union warships. The injured were debarked first. One Zouave crewman, seeing the blood on Harry’s leg, helped him to his feet.
“No,” said Harry. “I’m all right. But I need to speak to an officer.”
“What?”
“Your captain. I have information about the Virginia.”
“Wait here.”
He remained where he was as the last of the crews of the Cumberland and the Congress were taken off. Finally, an ensign and two armed sailors came up to him.
“You wanted to talk to an officer?” the ensign said.
“Yes, sir. I have …”
He was yanked to his feet.
“You’ll get to see plenty,” the ensign said. “They’re taking you to Fortress Monroe, Reb—with all the other prisoners.”
Chapter 25
There were only five other prisoners. Two from a smaller Confederate vessel named the Teaser that had been bested in a fight with one of the Union gunboats and three cavalry troopers who had strayed too close to the federal lines west of Newport News. Tied together, they were marched from the wharf along a rough dirt road that led along the river toward Hampton and the Union Army post called Camp Hamilton. It was a long and hard trek. Harry’s bare feet suffered more than a little and when they reached their destination he asked again to see an officer.
There was no immediate response to his request. He and the others were put in a shed with straw on the floor, but no other comfort. Everyone but Harry went immediately to sleep. Instead, he found a place near the drafty door that the others shunned, somehow keeping awake as he waited.
His patience was rewarded, though it took a very long time. A sentry with a lantern opened the door, peered within, then summoned Harry.
“I need shoes,” Harry said to his erstwhile companion.
“All you Rebels need shoes,” was the reply.
The officer he was brought to was only a lieutenant, and a young one at that. Harry worried that the man might well ignore what he had to tell him for fear of annoying a superior.
He listened, politely. “You claim you’re with the intelligence section?”
“I am with the Secret Service. A scout. If you want to verify this, telegraph Washington. A Major A. E. Allen. Telegraph him at either the War Department, the President’s House, or General McClellan’s headquarters on H Street. Tell him you have Harrison Raines in custody. That I am off the Confederate ironclad Virginia and have information.”
At the mention of McClellan, the captain had made a notation on a piece of paper. When Harry spoke the name of the Virginia, he made another. Then he sat back.
“You were on the Merrimack?”
“Now styled the Virginia by the Rebels. Yes, sir.”
“How’d you get aboard her?”
“I slipped aboard when she was leaving her mooring at Portsmouth.”
“How’d they let you get into the Gosport Navy Yard?”
“Sir, if you will just telegraph Major Allen, then I’m sure everything will be explained to your satisfaction.”
“Why not explain now?”
“I’m not sure how much Major Allen wants me to say.”
The lieutenant pondered that, then nodded, as though in approval.
“I have things I need to report about the Virginia—er, the Merrimack,” Harry added.
“She killed a lot of our boys today.”
“Yes. Sadly, she did.”
The lieutenant called to the soldier who had brought Harry to him, then scribbled a note.
“I want you to take this prisoner up to Fortress Monroe,” he said, when done. “And get him a coat and some shoes.”
“Yes, sir. Should he be manacled?”
The lieutenant pondered this as well.
“Yes,” he said.
He was provided with a pair of too-large boots, a private’s rough wool jacket, and a cavalry trooper’s breeches with yellow stripes on the side of the legs. Harry wondered if the trooper’s garb had been prompted by his telling them he was a scout. No matter, he was greatly appreciative.
Bound at the wrists, he was put in the back of a small supply wagon, so crowded with boxes to make the ride extremely uncomfortable. The route ran along the shore to Hampton, and then down the long peninsula that led to Point Comfort. Two mounted soldiers, bored with their duty and unhappy in the cold, rode escort to either side of the wagon. There was no need for them. Given the opportunity to escape, Harry would only have looked for a place to sleep.
He managed somehow to doze as they bumped along, until jolted awake by the sudden thunder of an enormous explosion and a flare of brilliant light out on the water. Harry thought at first that the ironclad had returned to finish the bloody work it had begun that morning, but quickly realized they would not dare take it out in the darkness, with so many shoals waiting to trap it.
“It’s the Congress,” said one of the soldiers to the other. “It’s the end of her.”
The captain had thought to save the ship from sinking by running her aground, but that failed to halt the spread of the fires to its powder magazines. Harry was amazed she hadn’t blown up earlier.
Two of the Union’s finest warships were now just debris, yet the Virginia had steamed blithely away, dented, singed, but essentially unscathed. What havoc might she wreak on the morrow? On all the morrows? The panic she had generated in the North wasn’t so unreasonable after all.
The flames illuminated the entirety of Hampton Roads with an eerie orange glow. Off to the south, lying in waters not far from the hulking walls of the fort, was a strange, low shape. For a moment, Harry took it for the bottom of some foundered, capsized vessel. But then he noted the high, dark cylindrical silhouette that rose from its deck.
“You see that?” Harry asked one of the soldiers, pointin
g toward the apparition.
“Looks like something broke loose from someplace,” was the reply.
“What do you suppose it is?”
The man shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe one of those floating batteries.”
He turned his horse. The wagon driver resumed their progress. Harry sat back unhappily. Shakespeare had written no tragedy as sad as this.
They gave him a room within the fort’s casement walls. It had a small shuttered window, a decent cot with two blankets, and a lantern hanging from a hook on the stone wall. Harry was provided with a meal of cold beef, bread, and excellent coffee.
When he was done, he lay back on the bunk, abruptly recoiling from a sharp prick of pain below his hip. Standing, he reached into his pocket. His captors had taken his wallet and other possessions, but left him the two little African figures. Lying back again and pulling the blanket over him, he held them up to the light, admiring once more their remarkable craftsmanship.
Squinting, he brought the female figure very close, studying something he had not noticed before.
She had a large, round, protruding belly.
The door slammed open. Raising his head, Harry saw two soldiers stride in and come right to his bunk.
“You’re to come with us, at the double quick.”
They were serious. With one of the men ahead of him and the other just behind, they hurried as best Harry could manage through the stone and brick passageways of the fort, coming to a halt in a large interior court. Harry was made to wait while one of the men went to a door and knocked. It opened, and in a moment, Harry was beckoned forth.
It was the commandant’s quarters, and it was full of officers, Army and Navy. Harry noted two brigadier generals, a colonel, and a Navy lieutenant. They were in the midst of a meal, though it was in the middle of the night.
Harry was told no one’s name and was not invited to share in the feast, but was given a chair, which they turned toward the officers’ table. He felt very much like a criminal in the dock, as perhaps had been the intention.
He was harshly queried about his escape from the Virginia; his explanation was received skeptically. There were several pointed questions about the Secret Service and operations in Richmond, but Harry refused to give any details. Oddly, that seemed to diminish some of the skepticism.
Odder still, when he told them everything he knew about the Virginia—its slow speed, its clumsy turning ability, its dangerously deep draught, its poor ventilation—they seemed little interested. Only the naval lieutenant, a handsome man with full moustache and beard and slicked down hair, asked a question, and it appeared more a schoolmaster’s test of Harry’s knowledge than a request for information.
“You say deep draught. How deep?”
“Two decks below the waterline, sir.”
“You sure? How many feet?”
Harry shrugged. “Two dozen.”
“Twenty-two feet?”
“Could be.”
“Twelve guns?”
“No, sir. Ten. Two Parrots—one fore and one aft. And four smooth bore cannons each side.”
“Is Buchanan still its captain?”
“He was when I ran past him to jump off the ship, sir.”
“Not Catesby ap Jones?”
“No, sir.”
“And the steering’s sluggish?”
“A half hour to turn one hundred eighty degrees, sir.”
The officer nodded. Harry had passed the test. His inquisitors hadn’t learned very much from him, but they didn’t much seem to care.
A few of them lighted cigars. Harry looked at them hungrily. His own smokes had been ruined by the rain, and it had been days since he’d had one.
The brigadier took note of this, but shook his head, as though disapprovingly. Soldiers appeared to either side of Harry again, and he was returned to his stone-walled chamber.
The next time, it was a clank of keys that disturbed his sleep. It was hard to see his caller, as the lantern had gone out and the shuttered window admitted only a few thin shafts of light from what appeared to be a newly rising sun.
“You’re Harrison Raines?” a man asked.
Harry squinted, then reached for his spectacles. His uninvited guest was in uniform—and an officer. Harry had given his name freely and repeatedly to his captors. Why didn’t the fellow know that?
“Yes. I’m Raines. Who are you?”
Without reply, the officer turned on his heel and walked out again. A moment later, another, much taller, very muscular man entered, dressed in civilian clothes that fit him too tightly.
“In the nick once again, eh Harry?”
Harry was suddenly terribly confused. He was certain he was in Fortress Monroe and that he hadn’t succumbed to visions.
“Joseph?” He sat up.
Leahy looked to the officer. “Open that shutter and then leave us be, if you would, sir.” He thought further. “If there’s some coffee, and biscuits, I’d be obliged.”
“Yes, Mr. Leahy.”
When they were alone, the light of day slowly filling the room, Leahy pulled up its only chair close to Harry’s cot.
“They told me there was a man here asking after a Major A. E. Allen,” he said. “I figured it might be you, probably had to be you. But I thought you’d be leaving Richmond the way you went in—west, along the mountains. Not down the peninsula.”
Leahy sat very erect, as always, but was at the same time entirely relaxed. He was the fittest man Harry ever knew. Thrown into a prison, he’d be the last man standing.
“How did you get out of Libby?” Harry asked. “No one gets out of Libby.”
“Only two ways I know of,” said Leahy. “In an exchange for Rebel prisoners, or feet first dead.”
“You’re not dead.”
“They sent me out on the very next prisoner exchange to Monroe—that very day. My reward for what they must have considered services rendered. I suppose they also feared my brother federal officers would take unkindly to me.”
“Reward for what services?”
Leahy grinned. “Murderin’ that vexatious darky.”
Harry could not believe a single word. He wished mightily he was hallucinating.
“You killed Caesar Augustus? It was you?”
Leahy kept grinning.
“Damn it, man! Answer me!” He was gripping the edge of the cot so tightly he suddenly realized the sharp edge of the iron frame was cutting into his fingers.
“It was the only way he was going to get out, laddy buck. Feet first. The poor devil was doomed as soon as he stepped inside that infernal place.”
“You killed him to spare him execution?”
Leahy leaned forward, remonstrating with Harry as he might a child. “Harry. The man’s alive. I only wounded him—and not badly. The rest was play acting. He’s got a way with it, that fellow. A regular John Wilkes Booth.”
“Mr. Leahy, I was informed by General Robert E. Lee himself that Caesar Augustus was slain—and by a Union officer.”
“Aye, that was me.” He rose and came over to Harry, reaching to put his finger to Harry’s bare, grimy chest. He drew an invisible line just below the collar bone and then down to the armpit.
“I cut him like that,” he said. “Lightly, then deeper where the chest and shoulder muscles come together. Nasty wound. Looked like hell. Bled all over the place. Sure looked mortal. Must have hurt like damnation. But he survived. And he stayed perfectly still. Doubt I could have done that. You, either.”
“And he’s still alive?”
Leahy frowned, as though something had been misunderstood. “Did not Miss Van Lew tell you, then?”
“Miss Van Lew? I was told she took his body. I didn’t meet with her again.”
“She made everything possible. Raised such a ruckus over your Caesar Augustus that no one much bothered the ‘remains.’ She lit into me like some banshee. That was a great performance, too. ‘Crazy Bet.’”
“She didn’t tell me.”
&
nbsp; “Sorry, laddybuck. Didn’t mean to leave you in such doubt. Happened fast. He’s on the mend, your fellow. Miss Van Lew and her people got him through the lines, such as they are on this boggy peninsula. He’s here—safe—in the contraband camp over by Hampton.”
Harry stood up, his joints aching. “I want to see him.”
“Not just yet, boyo. Is it true you got aboard the ironclad?”
“Got aboard. Got off—in the wrong place.”
“If it got you here, you picked the right place, though I think Major Allen would have been a bloody lot happier if you had remained in Richmond. Did you know that Edgar Allan Poe once stayed here at Fortress Monroe?”
“As a prisoner?”
“No, as a sergeant. Must have been much the same thing, as he left the Army shortly after.”
“Why does Pinkerton want me in Richmond?”
Leahy went to the door, opened it, looked up and down the corridor, then closed it again.
“First thing, he was pleased to learn about the Confederate Congress and conscription. That was fair useful news.”
“But I wasn’t able to get it out of the city.”
“Yes you were. You may not know the how of it, but it got out.”
“Through Miss Van Lew?”
“As I say, you may not know the how of it.”
“Well, I no longer hold the confidence of Mr. Davis, that is for certain.”
“That may not matter, boyo. In a few weeks, Mr. Davis may not matter, either.”
“What fantasy is this?”
“True, it’s hard to believe. But it’s happening at last. McClellan is finally going to move. He’s coming down here, and he’s bringing his army with him.”
“Here where?”
“Here! Fortress Monroe. They’re going to land a hundred thousand men or more here and march up the peninsula all the way to Richmond. Then the war is over. Or so he’s told Mr. Lincoln.”
Harry sank back on his cot, sighing. “I’m afraid I haven’t contributed much to the cause of Union arms. I tried, but …”
“We all do our bit, mate. And it would seem you’ve done yours. But the war is far from over, and we’ve got a terrible lot more to do. Mr. Pinkerton now wants us out of here—as soon as possible. He fears we may have made ourselves too famous.”
The Ironclad Alibi Page 24
