“Ready?” said Dixon. His voice was husky, his breathing ragged.
“NO!” They shouted it because they could.
The boat shifted. Was it the gentle rocking, like a cradle, that was a soporific?
Effectively blind, they noticed the motion more than they should have, and the sounds of high-pitched pings and low-pitched creaks and groans were omnipresent.
They couldn’t see Dixon twist the twisted gold coin in his pocket but they could hear the low whisper of skin on heavy cotton.
They could hear the breathing of the man to either side and it was becoming increasingly ragged.
It was more difficult to focus, to remember what they were doing and why. They closed their eyes, though it made no difference, and dreamed of sleep.
They could only remember to turn. And turn again and again and again and again.
Breathing became near impossible. Each man gasped like a beached fish taking in huge gulps of worthless air.
Black spots swam before their eyes in a see of bright colors. The world seemed to tilt crazily so that one man or another twisted or shifted suddenly in his seat though he was perfectly balanced.
It became louder, the sound of breathing and gasping, and soon they could hear (but would not think of it until later) that they were breathing in rhythm the way they turned in rhythm.
And then as if they were a single man they cried, “UP! For the love of God, up!”
Dixon and Alexander began to pump the bellows, pushing out the water from the tanks. Dixon’s was fine and the nose began to rise but the stern remained stubbornly on the bottom. There was a great crying and banging against the metal and cries that they were going to die oh god I’m going to die Jesus save me just save me Lord and I will do all that you have ever asked and please God let me see my wife my daughter my son my mother my father once more just once more I can’t die this way oh God this is a cursed thing this boat and I am going to Hell for ever having been a part of her …
The stern began to rise. Alexander said later that a bit of seaweed was stuck in the valve of the pump. “If I had not cleared it so many times,” he told them later, “We would surely have died.”
The boat rose to the surface like a breaching whale. When fresh air flooded the compartment Collins said it was better than the sweetest woman he had ever kissed.
When Simkins stuck his head through the hatch, he was certain he was dead for the world was still black speckled with dots. It took him a very long time to realize that it was only night and the stars were out.
They hadn’t seen stars in so long with the clouds perpetually overhead; it was a sight nearly as sweet as the taste of fresh air.
A single soldier still stood on the dock, shivering violently with his gun cradled in his arms. He’d been certain they were dead.
December 1855
Caleb no longer believed though his dad still forced him into those itchy black clothes and made him kneel on the hard wooden boards and sit on the hard wooden pews. After that his father would drink more that day than ever. Caleb would have to escape to the water or risk being beaten black as a Negro.
February, 1864
The cold weather continued, the heavy wind sending enormous white-topped waves against the beach; the heavy ironsides rocked slowly. Further out, the wooden hulls rocked more violently still. Now and then shells from the blockade were launched into the city. Fires were uncommon, but not fancy dress balls to raise money for the widows and children. At night, the sound of music and laughter stopped momentarily when a cannonball or hotshot arced over the water. When whatever damage was done, the laughter and music continued. Simkins thought that if Hell did indeed exist, perhaps this was it: a world in which people ignored the horrors of war for the finer things, where the lunacy of meaningless death was fought with fancy clothes, joyous music, bad jokes and flirting, spiteful gossip.
They were standing on the dock in the violent wind that day, leaning against barrels, drinking coffee and smoking. The wind was too much for the boat to be in the open water and the iron too confusing for the compass so Dixon made them practice in the calmer waterways behind Sullivan’s Island until their hands were raw.
“My mother said idle hands are the devil’s tools,” he said. “So when your hands are idle, I want them too sore to do more than hold a tin cup.”
Alexander had been called back to work on a new breach-loading gun and Dillingham the spy had been sent to some other location. Simkins thought it was high time that a supposed spy be sent spying rather than doing what any well-muscled man could do. He still thought the man was a fraud but at least he had developed a mild respect for him. The two new men were uncertain but brave, having to bear the double burden of learning the ropes (only figuratively) while replacing two men in a crew that held themselves closer than brothers.
It was while they took a breather (literally, with the submarine staying under so much) that they watched a new ship, the Housatonic, move into the bay. She was only two miles, maybe three, from where they were. She was a big ship but bore a wooden hull.
Dixon took out a pocket spyglass and counted: “One eleven inch Dahlgreen smoothbore; one one-hundred pound and three thirty pound Parrotts; two thirty-two pounders, three howitzers of varying size and one twelve pound rifle. She’s a big one,” he said. “And look where she is.”
Collins said, “It’s like a ten point buck walked under our blind.”
Simkins laughed. “Can’t you count? She’s an eleven point.”
Collins punched him lightly and said, “I ain’t got that many fingers. I heard that Ridgeway used to, ’fore the doctor lopped it off.”
Everyone, Dixon included, laughed. “Looks like our mission has changed.”
They nodded.
“When?” Becker said.
“As soon as the wind dies.”
Ridgeway let out a wild rebel yell. “And then they do.”
It wasn’t until mid-February that the wind dropped off. Dixon decided that though the moon was out, they couldn’t take the chance that the wind would return. Beauregard and the other generals were becoming increasingly impatient; Dixon knew only a single blow to the enemy would turn the generals and they would order more of these boats. They could end the blockaded in Charleston and then Mobile and New Orleans and elsewhere. But first they had to sink a ship.
Reverend Johnson said a special prayer that night ending in, “And may God grant you some Yankee dead.”
“Amen.”
The moon cast a wan light on the gentle breakers. The smell of gunpowder was strong, wafting from the hot guns of the ironsides. Tonight, they would kill.
Dixon carried a calcium light covered with blue paper. They left the hatches open while they slowly entered the bay. Dixon checked the compass and heading, ordered the hatches closed, the tanks filled. He pushed forward on the diving planes so that they dove beneath where the strange sounds of the water penetrated the hull and the candle was the only light.
Ice rimed the walls. The sound of the crankshaft in its braces was steady, monotonous, and comforting. Easy breathing turned labored. Twice Dixon rose to the surface, checked the compass and adjusted the tiller.
“What’s the light for?” Collins said.
Dixon said, “Signal. When we sink her, all of the other gun boats are gonna come down on us like the wrath of God. We’ll signal to the shore, who will signal to us and we will crank as hard as we can for that light.”
Becker muttered something like, “God help us.”
Wicks said, “No one else can.”
Two hours had passed by Dixon’s watch. The candle flickered. He ordered the tanks emptied and pulled back on the planes. The hatch broke the surface. When he looked through the glass, the Housatonic was no more than a hundred yards away.
“Dive!” he cried. “And forward with all your might!”
They couldn’t hear the commotion aboard the big boat, but they could hear the occasional ping of bullets against the hull.
They shouldn’t be able to do much damage, but what if they got those guns turned on them? The sweat ran cold on each man as he thought of a hundred pound shot tearing the submarine in half. There were muttered scattered prayers. Except, no one noted, from Simkins.
They cranked hard. Dixon lowered the torpedo to its lowest point. They were going to sink her and not one damn thing could be done.
Except maybe a cannonball through her side.
At that thought, the men cranked harder driving the tiny boat to speeds she had never before achieved.
There was a moment when Simkins thought they might be too deep, simply passing beneath the hull and then he heard the solid thunk when the torpedo struck home. And stuck.
“Reverse!” cried Dixon. “Hard!”
They did. He counted to some number, a number the men couldn’t hear over their own labored gasps, and Dixon pulled the lanyard.
They were too close: the concussion from the explosion rocked the tiny boat, pitching her wildly. The candle went out; the darkness was absolute. Dixon couldn’t see the compass. The boat was likely off course from the blow. Pops and pings, some from the rivets and some from wild shots from the deck, sounded through the hull.
“Up!” he said.
The boat rose to the surface shakily. He looked through the porthole. “She’s listing to port and she is afire!” He yelled again.
Each man knew that it took at least a couple of minutes to sink and the Yankees, though dumb, were brave and might yet turn one of the big guns on her. A palpable ear swept through them. Doubt had crept into their minds many times. But now, now it was real and so was the terror. In the tiny cramped hold, the men shivered in their jackets and their blood was ice.
Dixon opened the hatch, braving perhaps a desperate shot, and shone the blue calcium light towards shore. A moment passed and he came down again. He checked the compass, cried, “Dive!” and opened his tanks. He pushed down on the planes and they slid beneath the black water.
Each man pushed himself hard as if his soul and not merely his life depended on speed.
It was then that the crankshaft froze, each man suddenly pushed back against the cold metal by his own strength. Something was tangled in the gears probably, but there was no way to reach them.
Dixon said, “Up! We should be far enough to be safe, and if necessary, we will surrender. But we will sink her lest the Yankees get their hands on her.”
“Surrender?” said Collins. “But—“
“No,” said Dixon. “We have no guns and no means of resistance. We have done what we intended to do. Beauregard will build more even if we can’t man them.”
They had sunk an enemy ship but their victory would be hollow if they were prisoners.
He began to fill his ballast tank. And Wicks, who had taken Alexander’s place at the rear, pumped his bellows. The forward section began to rise but the aft remained beneath. Wicks muttered, “Damn seaweed.” He tried to open the valve but it too was stuck. He turned at it, twisting his fingers until they were bloody and the iron was slick with it. “Damn. It’s stuck.”
Simkins said, “Let me try.” The blood made it slick and hard to twist and it was jammed tight. Someone produced a soiled handkerchief to wipe away the blood but even when they did the valve remained sealed.
Panic began to set in, the memory of the thirteen dead foremost on each mind.
Dixon, calm as ever, a man the South could only be proud of, said, “We’ll open the hatches. She’ll flood but we aren’t that deep. We can swim to the surface, and either cry for rescue or swim for shore, depending on how far we are.”
The panic subsided. If Dixon knew that there was still hope, then they could still escape alive.
The hatches were stuck. Both of them.
Overwhelming panic caused Collins to scramble over the men towards the forward hatch. He reached the hatch and slammed against it with all his strength, then again so they heard bones shatter.
Dixon pulled him down, wrapped his arms around the man. “Help me, damn it!”
Becker grabbed for Dixon saying, “We have to get out. Let him try. I’ll try when he’s done.”
The men took turns yet the iron held fast. The boat bobbed along, the aft end scraping the ocean floor. The sound of metal against sand and rock echoed through the chamber like the sound of heavy chains carried by the damned.
Exhaustion and hypoxia set in. It took longer to recover and turns came before they were rested. Soon everyone sat at one seat or another, tired and dizzy, black spots dancing across their eyes.
Dixon took his lucky bent gold coin and threw it hard against the iron.
Despair is a mortal sin.
Hallucinations set in: men spoke of seeing their dead relatives, grandparents or parents or in some cases a sibling or cousin; they spoke of wild shapes and fearsome beasts and denizens of Hell. Someone pointed towards something white, saying it was like a face made of loose gauze.
It was more like a mourning shroud, worn and aged by time and still wearing clods of earth rubbed into the cloth.
It was like a face too, a childlike and impossibly cruel face; and the face was laughing.
Caleb heard the water crashing against the iron, eager to save him. But the boat’s interior was as dry as bones or a summertime’s gravesite. Though it was poison, Caleb struggled desperately for one more lungful of air before he fell.
His eyes were open and they saw that there was an afterlife; and that afterlife was the harshest of deserts, an arid and terribly unforgiving desert populated by a single cruel and familiar face. He finally knew Hell.
The story of the Hunley is true. It was the first submarine to sink an enemy vessel and all hands were lost. It was recovered in 1995, nearly 150 years after sinking. Currently, tours are shown on the weekend at the Charleston naval base where she is being studied. I went on one such tour and held my one-year-old son (admittedly big for his age) against a false color full-size image of the Hunley. He would have had no more than a foot of headroom standing straight. The full story of the astonishingly brave men of the Hunley can be found in Mark K. Ragan’s excellent book, The Hunley: Submarines, Sacrifice & Success in the Civil War.
The story of Caleb Simkins is fictional. The historical record notes that a C. Simkins from the C.S.S. Indian Chief was one of the final crew of the Hunley. History tells us only that he existed. Though there are records of the other men which, in some cases like Dixon’s are quite detailed, Simkin’s life, like the disappearance of the Hunley, is a complete mystery.
The Seamstress
Lindsay Vella
Above all else, I am a spy. The ghost of the seamstress who sewed our grandmother’s wedding dress tells us this each night before we fall asleep. She is gray-haired and weepy, and we believe her. She calls us trinkets as we cover her with our hands, she is so small. She says it’s the lake that is keeping her here. She tells us not to eat the berries we pick near the water, so we don’t. In the lake, there is a city so marvelous we can’t even imagine it. She tells us about this city each night before we fall asleep. It is filled with the ghosts of mermaids and those who died at sea. She tells us her husband is there. All this time, she is sewing our wedding dresses. She is afraid of bridges, so we become afraid of bridges. She doesn’t like fish. She wrings her hands when she’s not sewing. She continues to tell us about the city each night before we fall asleep. We dream about what she is doing while we are sleeping. We dream of sailors and fish bones. We wring our hands in our sleep. When we wake up, we know that she has gone back to the lake. On each of our beds is a pretty white dress.
Three Hats
Jenny Terpsichore Abeles
On the street, his moniker was various: Three Hats, Three-Hat Juan, El Diablo, the Red Man. His favorite drink was chili paste mixed into lukewarm tap water. He wore a black vest with a total of four pockets, one on the inside large enough to hold half a sandwich, one along the left breastbone in which he had long kept one button and one tooth, and two abo
ve his hips, on either side, both of which were torn. Three Hats always misrecollected the deteriorated condition of these pockets, and sometimes put coins there only to discover that his fingers could not withdraw them again. For him, pockets were as much for losing things as for keeping them. The button and the tooth in his breast pocket were different. He kept it in the back of his mind that, as part of some general restoration, the button might someday be put back on the vest and the tooth back in his head.
And the vest itself should never be lost, for it was crucial to the Red Man’s customary attire. He had his red, polyester, long sleeve shirt with the pointy collar tips, and his deep burgundy trousers verging on threadbare. He seldom wore shoes, and his red feet poked out of his trouser legs, hard and calloused from years of pavement passing beneath them. Once a girl had sat with him under the fruit market awning and, for a reason he couldn’t reckon at all, had painted his toenails black. “There you go, Diablo,” she had said. “That’s all you needed to complete the look.” He had to agree it was a nice effect.
The Red Man could sleep in the same position for twenty-four hours at a stretch, which worried passersby on the street sometimes, who would see him curled in a doorway when they left their apartments for an evening and returning seven hours later—after eating, drinking, dancing—to find him in exactly the same position. If they nudged him and gently spoke one of his names, they might be relieved to feel a long exhalation of breath, but he would not wake. And for the Red Man, this was nothing, for as a youth in his native country, he would routinely sleep for days at a time, even weeks, as his family sang and ate and labored and laughed and wept and sometimes slept around him. He often woke to find the circumstances of his life very changed. New people would have arrived in the great house, orphans, long-lost cousins, new wives for his brothers, and familiar people would have left: Grandfather Tobias had died at the dinner table during one of his long sleeps, and his favorite sister, Rosa, had disappeared one unusually foggy night. He had woken to the debate amongst his family about where she had gone, the convent, marriage, or the otherworld. “Your sister has left us without a word,” they told him, and groggy as he was, he found that what he most wanted was to return to bed. She was the eldest daughter in the family, but of all his brothers and sisters, she was the closest to him in temperament. Both of them had lived in dreams, and the world of the great house, the family, the town three miles away were more oneiric than real to them, insubstantial, always on the verge of fading into nothingness. And Juan knew that Rosa had not merely vanished, but had left this dream for another, where he would eventually find her.
Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 26 Page 11
