Twenty minutes of instructing, bullying, pointing, twenty minutes of ignoring Holling, who kept muttering and rolling his eyes until Paine threatened to dismiss him, to order him to the recruiter’s office, and finally the tree was alive with men, hacking and sawing at the branches.
Billy was as nimble as Paine had remembered, clambering up as high as the branches would bear, going after one and another with a bucksaw until the branches, with their great bursts of green, were raining down around the base of the oak, where those men still on the ground carted them off.
In short order the tree grew thinner and thinner, and Robley could see through the branches in a way that he normally could only in winter. Soon the upper branches were gone, and then the lower branches, too thick for the bucksaws, so the men went after them with axes, chopping them off and chopping the trunk as well.
The task went quickly, with so many men being driven by Holling, now anxious to please. The sun moved to the west and the towering oak was rendered shorter and shorter, like a sugar loaf, sliced off again and again until there was only the wide base left.
The virtual rain of greenery slowed as the men reached the lowest of the branches, as big around as trees in their own right, and they hacked at them and the wood chips flew like dull sparks in the last of the sun. Finally, with the sun down and the light fading fast, the trunk was cut for the last time. With flailing axes the Negroes hacked it through, thirty feet from the base, ten feet above the only remaining branches, those two that had formed the welcoming arms, now bare and spindly things, stripped of their leaves and smaller branches.
“I want a fire, right here.” Robley pointed to the ground twenty feet in front of the tree. “A big damned fire.” The Negroes’ work was done, but he still had to labor on, and he would need light for his task.
Holling dispatched men to gather up firewood, and soon there was a great bonfire burning, leaping ten feet in the air, the red-and-orange light dancing off the thing that the oak had become, thirty feet of massive trunk and two great arms reaching out into the dark.
“Good,” Robley said, his eyes never leaving the tree. “You all can turn in now. Leave the tools.”
The slaves murmured something as they tramped off wearily to their tiny shacks, and Holling disappeared as well. For a long time Robley stared at the tree, trying to see what was beneath the bark, the thing that was in there that he was trying to let free.
At last he picked up an ax, held it over his shoulder, and climbed the ladder up the trunk to a place six feet above where the branches reached out from the body. He steadied himself, brought the ax back, and swung at the tree, felt the sharp blade bite. He jerked it free, brought it back again, swung once more.
For an hour and a half he stood on the ladder, hacking away, and when he was done he had cut a great horizontal gash in the trunk, a slice a foot wide in the living oak. He looked at it, grunted, climbed down from the ladder.
His arms and legs ached, he felt weariness clawing at him, but he pressed on, because he had to have this thing done by dawn. There could not be another day without his dire warning, his Colossus of Rhodes there to frighten off the Northern hordes. He picked up a lantern, lit the candle from the massive bonfire, tramped around the side of the house and across the open area to the barn.
He opened the big door and stamped down the length of the barn. In their stables, the horses shifted nervously, made quiet whinnying sounds. They were not accustomed to visitors at that hour.
Paine stopped at a storeroom at the far end, pulled the door open. Along with various tools and equipment waiting repair were can after can of paint, paint for the plantation house and the stalls, for the carriages, for all the myriad things that required it. Robley held the lantern up, snatched up the cans he needed, stuck a few paintbrushes into the waist-band of his pants, carried the whole lot back to the oak.
Again he stood before the tree like an artist before his canvas, looking it up and down, wanting not to impose his will on the thing but rather to reveal that which was already there. Then, with paint cans dangling from a short length of rope, he climbed the ladder again.
Bright red splashed into the notch he had cut, and white for teeth around the edge. No whites for eyes, but rather red-this was an angry god. Robley moved from the top of the stunted trunk to the base, slathering it with paint, until at last it was not a tree at all, but a hideous gargoyle, a pagan edifice, a frightening vision of death that would attend any who tried to cross the Yazoo River and pollute the perfection of the Paine home.
Horror, remain at bay, it cried. Stay on the northern shore, do not visit my home!
Finished at last, Robley Paine stood before his creation. In the dancing firelight it was a horrible thing to behold, but that was as it was supposed to be. He would fight horror with horror. And before he knew it, he was lying before the tree, fast asleep.
The chill of the predawn mist woke him. He shuddered with the cold, stretched aching limbs, pushed himself to a sitting position. He felt the great weight of anguish on him, but he could not recall, for an instant, what the anguish was for. And then it came back.
He looked up at the oak, at what he had done. The low-lying fog swirled around the thing, making it look like some mythical beast, the red eyes, the gaping red mouth and white teeth, the branches painted with claws dripping blood, the gray coat, an approximation of the Confederate uniform. It was a horror indeed, and Paine nodded his satisfaction.
That will do, that will do, he thought.
But would it? He had slept, and his mind was clear now. It was a good thing he had done with that tree, let the vandals to the north know that there was no welcome there. But would it be enough?
He looked at the river and thought of the great water barriers in history. He was old enough to recall the French Wars, Napoleon’s massive army, poised on the edge of the English Channel, ready to swarm over the water and spread its poison throughout England. The water had stopped them.
“No…” The water had not stopped them. They could have crossed the water, just as the Yankees could cross the Yazoo River. It was not water that stopped the French. It was Lord St. Vincent, Horatio Nelson. It was England ’s mighty Channel Fleet.
The realization came to him, a flash, a divine inspiration, and he spoke it out loud.
“I need a ship.”
Book Three
ON BLUE WATER AND BROWN
22
CSS Cape Fear
Gosport
Naval Shipyard
Portsmouth, Virginia
July 25, 1861
Dear Father,
You have no doubt heard by now of our Army’s glorious victory at Manassas this weekend past. It gives me great joy, as I am sure it does you and all true Southern gentlemen.
I am pleased to say that my crew and I, with our small tug, were able to act some small part in our present fight for independence. We peppered the enemy very well at Newport News, and even disabled one of their steamers. It was no Trafalgar, to be sure, but I was pleased with what we were able to do with our little boat.
Our casualties were not terribly bad, though any loss of life is to be regretted. And though I would never hold material goods in the same esteem as the lives of my men, I must say that the loss to me in personal effects was quite complete, as a shell burst apparently right in the middle of my cabin. I am able to replace most of what I lost here in Norfolk, but I would ask you to compel M. LeGrande to run up a half-dozen shirts for me, white linen, and ditto pants. I should ask for navy blue, but I have heard of late that the navy will be setting gray as the uniform color for naval officers, which is absurd. Blue is the standard the world over-who ever heard of a navy man in gray? Also, please apply to Mr. Scribner, the cobbler, for a new pair of dress shoes and a pair of boots. He should have the particulars of my size…
Samuel Bowater
To: Mr. William Cornell 42 Water Street
Charleston, North Carolina
Sir:
In April of this year, you hired out a Negro in your possession, name of Billy Jefferson, as coal heaver aboard the Confederate States Ship Cape Fear. As chief engineer of the vessel, Billy has been under my supervision. I regret to inform you that, during action with the Yankee navy, Billy was badly burned on his hands, rendering him unfit for duty. As I am sure you have no use for a Negro who is no longer capable of labor, I have enclosed a bank draft for $500 which I think you will agree is a reasonable price for a Negro who can’t work. Please fill out a bill of sale and a receipt for the money and send it to me at the address below.
Respectfully,
Hieronymus M. Taylor,
Chief Engineer, CSS Cape Fear
Naval Dockyard
Gosport, Virginia
From the Diary of Wendy Atkins:
I have seen the elephant, as the soldiers say, and it is a horrible, horrible beast. I have been in combat, as sure as any man in the service. Indeed, I would venture that now I have seen worse than many. I was frightened to death by the sights around me, the blood and the carnage. And then soon, I found myself frightened more by my reaction to it, the casual disregard I soon had for death, including my own. I understand now something I had always wondered about: how soldiers and sailors can face such things and not go mad. Or perhaps they do, and I have as well. I don’t know.
Before this cruise I had seen my Two Gentlemen, Samuel and Hieronymus, in one light, and now I have seen them, and myself, in another. I believe I will go to Richmond for some time to visit friends. I must get away from here and from my memories for a while and sort them out. I want to be with Samuel and I want to be with Hieronymus and I cannot bear to be with either, so I must leave and see how it falls out.
Office of Ship Maintenance
Gosport Naval Shipyard
Sir:
Per your orders I have completed a thorough inspection of the tug CSS Cape Fear and submit the following report:
Hull and Machinery: Despite the severe fire that the vessel received, it appears that no shot struck her between wind and water, and none below the waterline, leaving her hull and machinery in generally good shape.
Superstructure: A majority of the damage done to the vessel appears to have occurred in her superstructure, due no doubt to the enemy’s tendency to aim high. A direct hit was made on the forward bulkhead of the deckhouse and the shell apparently exploded within the confines of the galley, resulting in the total destruction of that area, save for the icebox, which is located on the after side of the steel bulkhead which separates the galley from the fidley. (Incidentally, I am told that at the moment the shell hit, the boat’s cook, a freedman named St. Laurent, was completely within the icebox, searching for a bottle of heavy cream. Had he not been, he would surely have ended up the consistency of heavy cream himself.) The forward bulkhead and all of the galley’s structures and equipment will require repair or replacement. The crew is currently cooking all meals ashore.
An additional shell exploded in the master’s cabin right abaft the wheelhouse, destroying the master’s cabin and its contents completely and doing significant damage to the wheelhouse, including the total destruction of the chart table and all of the charts, and the destruction of all windows and frames and the collapse of the roof. There is but a small section of the wheelhouse and cabin that may be salvaged.
Conclusion: Despite the ferocious mauling that the Cape Fear received at the hands of the Yankees, she emerged with little damage to her hull. The preponderance of the damage was to her superstructure, which is much more easily repaired, and at lesser expense. It is my estimate that she might be restored to her former condition in a week or less, and at a cost of approximately $300.
Respectfully submitted,
James Meads, Master Carpenter
To: Flag Officer Forrest
Flag Officer’s Office, Dockyard
Gosport, Virginia, July 25, 1861
To Whom It May Concern:
Know all ye who read this, that the bearer, Billy Jefferson, a Negro, five foot eight inches tall, of dark complexion with burn scars on both hands, is a free man, made free by Hieronymus Taylor, his rightful owner, as of April 25, 1861, and on my direction is traveling to Canada.
Respectfully,
Hieronymus M. Taylor
From the Journal of Lieutenant Thadeous Harwell:
…and then through blood-soaked lashes I opened my eyes to gaze on the noble visage of the Captain. How very concerned he looked! And for me, but a lowly officer! But such is the nobility of the man’s heart.
“Nay, lie here, good man, till you have strength enough to stand,” quoth he, but I struggled to my feet and with barely strength enough I saluted as crisp as I might and reported myself ready for duty.
23
Went to Miss Sally Tompkins’ hospital. There I was rebuked. I deserved it. Me: “Are there any Carolinians here?”
Miss T: “I never ask where the sick and wounded are from.”
– Mary Boykin Chesnut
“Hello, Mississippi.”
Jonathan Paine opened his eyes. There was a young black man looking down at him, about his age, a few years older, perhaps. Black hair cut close. A day’s growth of beard over a deep mahogany face. He was smiling.
Jonathan fixed the face with his stare for half a minute, a minute. It was not like the other faces, from before, not ghostly and indistinct. It seemed real. So did the bed he was lying on, the room around him.
He had been caught in an undertow of nightmare, swirling images, dreams that were not dreams, jarring motion that made him cry out but would not stop, dark and light shadows, faces moving like phantoms in front of his eyes.
But this was not like that.
“Water…” he said. He could barely hear his own voice.
The young man nodded. He reached down and Jonathan could see he wore an apron and the apron was covered with blood. It was an image right from the nightmare, but it was more solid than those ephemeral things had been.
The man lifted Jonathan’s head, pressed a glass to his lips. The water was tepid but clean, and Jonathan sipped it, felt the liquid wash over the dry, raw patches in his mouth and throat, cool them and wet them. He drank some more, and then drained the glass.
“More…”
They repeated the procedure and then Jonathan let his head fall back, exhausted. He closed his eyes for a moment, but this solidness, this new reality, was too intriguing for him to ignore. He could recall coming to a vague and unconscious understanding that he was dead and in hell. He opened his eyes again. The young man was still there, and that was a relief.
“Where am I…?”
“ Richmond. You inna hospital.” The young man seemed to find delight in the questions, as if he had been waiting for Jonathan to ask.
Jonathan turned his head, just a bit. He was in some kind of sitting room, a big one, like the sitting room at the Paine plantation, but beyond the molding and the light fixtures and the fireplace, there was nothing else that suggested a private home. All of the chairs, the tables, the bookcases that one might expect were gone, and in their place were beds, perhaps twenty beds in that one room.
There were men in the beds and others bustling around them, and women, too. Men in tattered uniforms, walking on crutches or sitting on the edges of beds. Sunlight streamed in from big windows, filling the place with brilliant light. Far from hell, this place with its white sheets and brilliant sunlight looked more like heaven. But it was not that. In heaven, Jonathan was sure, he would not be in such agony as he was.
“My name’s Bobby,” the young man offered. “Bobby Pointer. I work for da missus, runs the hospital. I take care a da stables, most times, but now I’s helping out here. Nurse, you might say. We gots more wounded boys den we gots horses, now.”
Then a woman appeared, beside Bobby, seemed to just float into place. A young woman, not thirty. She had dark hair and wore a white apron, spotted here and there with dark brown stains.
“Is o
ur young man awake, at last?” the woman asked. Her voice was musical. Jonathan could not recall the last time he had heard such a voice.
“Yes, ma’am. Jest opened his eyes.”
“Hello, Private. My name is Miss Tompkins. How are you feeling?”
Jonathan tried to nod but could not. He opened his mouth to speak, but there were too many things he wanted to ask, and so he just shook his head.
Miss Tompkins watched his struggle and said nothing. She did not seem impatient or surprised at his inability to speak. After a moment she just smiled again, a lovely smile, patted his arm, and said, “I must go attend to the others, but I’ll be back. You are in good hands here, with Bobby.” And with that she seemed to float away.
Bobby leaned close, and said in a conspiratorial tone, “She call herself ‘Miss,’ but da truth is, she ‘Captain’ Tompkins. Jeff Davis hisself done give her a commission as captain in da army. Imagine dat!”
Jonathan nodded again, still could think of nothing to say.
“You was at da battle at Manassas, you recall?” the young man asked. “You done took a hell of a knock on da head.”
Jonathan tried to think. Battle at Manassas… Yes, he could recall that, but just images. Not like the fleeting nightmare images, but close. He recalled thirst. He recalled noise. He recalled the horror of bullets whizzing past, men screaming and dying.
“Nathaniel…”
“Nathaniel? That your name?”
“No…” He paused for a long moment, felt consciousness slipping away, thought he might pass out, but the lightness faded. “He was my brother…I’m…Jonathan.”
“Well, howdy, Jon’tin. We been waiting to see if you gonna live or not. You be one tough sumbitch…”
Glory In The Name Page 23
