Glory In The Name sb-1

by James L. Nelson

  “New-cast, fully rifled. Come right out of the dockyard at Norfolk,” the man said, as if he was the proprietor of a store. Paine looked at the barrel, awestruck by the potential power of the thing.

  “Lessard didn’t say nothin’ about carriages,” the man said. “Carriages you got to get on your own. See here.” The man led Paine to the second wagon, and once again his partner jumped in the back, pulled the cover off two six-pound smoothbores, just as Lessard had promised. Paine shook his head in wonder.

  “Where did these come from?” he asked.

  The greasy man exchanged a smile with his partner. “Oh, we know people. Railroad people. Things gets diverted, you understand.” He was grinning.

  Paine squinted at the man. The light from the lantern, held at his waist, threw deep shadows over his face, making him look even more evil. “You stole these…” Paine said at last. “This is Confederate property, and you stole it and now you are reselling it.”

  “You watch what you say, hear?” the man said. “Stole it? I’m a Confederate soldier, and you calling me a thief…”

  Robley Paine felt a deep loathing in his gut. Confederate soldier? His boys had been Confederate soldiers, not this pig. His boys were dead, killed for the Confederacy, and this filth was profiteering from the cause, the cause for which his boys died.

  “See here,” the greasy man said in a more conciliatory tone, “the Confederate Army gots no idea who needs what or where. We gonna lose the war, waiting for them politicians in Richmond to figure where supplies should be. So you think of me as like a private supply officer. It’s my business to see gentlemen like you gets what they need to fight proper.”

  Paine’s hand moved for his gun, a practiced move; the muscles of his arm and hand had not lost the motion from his army days, even after all those years. His palm hit the butt, his fingers wrapped around the grip, found the trigger as he pulled the weapon free, his eyes on the startled face of the greasy man who was flailing for his own weapon.

  The Starr came up, right in the man’s face, hammer back. The gun banged out and Robley let his arm absorb the strong, satisfying kickback. He turned, found the second man in the light of the fallen lantern, and from four feet away put a bullet neatly through his forehead.

  Robley Paine looked down at the man at his feet, flung back, one arm stretched behind his head, the other still reaching for his holstered pistol.

  A private supply officer… “I disagree, sir,” he said.

  25

  On Tuesday afternoon, the 27th of August, about 4 o’clock, I discovered a large fleet in sight off Hatteras… On the morning of the 28th, between 8 and 9 o’clock, a heavy fire was opened from the steamers Minnesota, Wabash, Susquehanna, and other war vessels…Being a fire of shells only, it might well be spoken of as a flood of shells.

  – Report of Colonel William F. Martin, 7th Regiment Infantry, North Carolina Volunteers

  The Cape Fears fired five shells from the ten-pound Parrott rifle, at maximum elevation, before they decided with absolute certainty that they could not reach the anchored Yankee fleet. Their gunfire did, however, attract the Yankees’ notice, and soon shells were falling all around them, sending plumes of water as high as the boat deck as they dropped in Pamlico Sound.

  Hieronymus Taylor clumped up the ladder to the wheelhouse. He was in shirtsleeves, the wet patches of sweat radiating out from under his arms and under the straps of his braces, turning his otherwise brilliant white shirt gray. In his mouth, the ubiquitous cigar. He paused, squinting around, the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement.

  Samuel Bowater, in the middle of issuing his orders to Lieutenant Harwell, paused, turned his head, as the spray from a shell, landing no more than thirty feet away, lashed across himself and the lieutenant and Taylor.

  “Damn,” Taylor said.

  “They are getting the range on us, I perceive,” Bowater said, changing the course of his orders. “Once I am away, please shift the anchorage, say, one hundred yards north. That should put us out of most of their line of sight. No need to expose ourselves to fire if we cannot return it.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “We’ll keep steam up, then, Cap’n?” Taylor asked.

  “I think so, Chief.”

  “Pity the fort can’t shift one hundred yards off,” Taylor said.

  Fort Hatteras did not seem to be returning fire. Bowater wondered if the garrison was out of ammunition, or if the fleet was out of range. With a small garrison and an enemy pounding them mercilessly, it did not seem a very hopeful situation.

  “See that there?” Taylor said, nodding south, and Bowater turned and looked.

  “What?”

  “Ocracoke Island. That’s where Lieutenant Maynard come and ambushed Blackbeard the pirate. Cut his head right off, hung it from the bowsprit. Another case of them damned Yankees comin down here and givin grief to a good Southern boy, just lookin for his fun.”

  “Hmm. I’m not certain your history is entirely correct there, Chief Taylor.”

  “No, I…” A shell whistled by, passing close, and plunged into the sound right astern of Cape Fear. “No, I’m sure it happened right there.”

  “I mean about Maynard being a Yankee. Or Blackbeard being a Southerner, for that matter.”

  “You sure? Blackbeard spent a power of time in the South. Spent some time in Charleston, I do recall. Where you’re from. Hell, he may be your great-great-granddaddy. They say he had fourteen wives.”

  “He most certainly…” Another shell came in, screaming down on the starboard side, exploding inches above the water, and Bowater’s comment was drowned in the rat-tat-tat of shell fragments hitting the Cape Fear’s side and shrieking past their heads.

  “Sir?” Ordinary Seaman Dick Merrow was standing on the wheelhouse roof, scanning around with the big telescope.

  “Yes?” Bowater said, happy for a distraction from the silly conversation into which Taylor had drawn him.

  “Small side-wheeler coming down sound…I reckon she’s about three miles off.”

  “Let me see.” Merrow handed the glass down and Bowater focused it in the direction the sailor pointed. He could see the side-wheeler, smoke belching from her stack, could see the dot of white under her bow as she drove hard. From her masthead flew a flag, and though it was blowing straight aft, it appeared to be the broad pennant of a commodore, which made Bowater smile despite himself.

  “This would be Barron in Winslow,” he said to Harwell. “Let us hope he comes with some plan for salvation.”

  The Cape Fear’s boat was lowered and Bowater climbed down to the stern sheets, with Eustis Babcock as bow man and Tanner at stroke oar. They pulled for the beach, ground up on the barrier island, splashed out, and pulled the boat up on the sand.

  Bowater tramped up the beach, stopped, and looked around. Extraordinary. Shells were falling in a nonstop hail, exploding on the ramparts, within the fort, on the beach around the fort. With the sun heading toward the west, the fort and the sprays of dirt from the exploding shells were washed in an orange light. The noise was constant-the scream of the shells, the blast of exploding ordnance. And then every so often, by coincidence, there would be no firing, just silence, which was strangest of all. But it never lasted above ten seconds, and then the next shell, and the next, was hurled at the fort.

  Bowater led his crew up the sloping shore. A young army lieutenant-he introduced himself as Lieutenant Evans-let them in through the thick oak door set in a rough wooden frame embedded in earthen walls. The Cape Fears huddled under the parapet with the rest of the garrison, while the lieutenant led Bowater up to the ramparts.

  The Yankees were hitting the fort hard. With a relatively calm sea, and anchored ships firing on a fixed target, it was not too difficult for the invaders to hone their aim until nearly every one of their shells found its mark.

  Bowater walked through the storm of iron, amazed at the amount of ordnance dropping on the fort, amazed that he had not yet been blown a
way. He moved with a strange calm, as if he was encased in ice.

  He was not afraid, despite the shelling, despite the fact that any rational person would be terrified, cowering under whatever might offer some protection. It was a phenomenon he had experienced before. It was what they called bravery under fire, but he knew it had nothing to do with bravery. It was more a trick that the mind played on itself, a turning off of the machinery of fear, in the face of insupportable terror.

  When he thought of it, he imagined a Stephenson link and reversing lever, the long iron bar that shifted an engine from forward to reverse. But in his mind the link shifted from fear to fight. The real courage, Bowater knew, was in getting yourself to the place where your mind could shut off.

  Bowater mused on these things as he followed Lieutenant Evans up the rough wooden stairs, past craters of brown dirt where the shells had landed, past guns that stared silent and impotent out at the Union fleet.

  Fort Hatteras was no marvel of engineering. It was mostly wood-frame, dirt-filled walls, the work of slaves who had been ferried out to the low island to throw up some defense against the inevitable arrival of the Yankees. Albemarle Sound was the gateway to the rivers that ran deep into Confederate country, and Pamlico Sound served as a base for privateers to race out and snatch up Yankee prizes as they labored around Cape Hatteras. Hatteras Inlet was too important for the Yankees to leave alone.

  “Colonel?” Lieutenant Evans stopped and addressed an officer, sitting on the top of a small barrel and slumped against the earthen wall of the fort, one arm resting on the top of the parapet. “Colonel Martin, this is…”

  “Captain Samuel Bowater, Confederate States Navy, sir, at your service.”

  Martin looked from the lieutenant to Bowater, his head turning slowly from one to the other, as if it was a great weight that needed to build momentum. His eyes looked sunken and his face pale. Colonel Martin was very tired.

  “Captain,” he said and made to stand, but Bowater said, “Please, sir, don’t stand on my account,” and Martin, without protest, remained seated.

  “It has not been a good day for us, Captain,” Martin said, staring over the low wall at the Union ships. “The firing has gone on like this since daybreak. We were forced to abandon Fort Clark this afternoon. No ammunition for the guns, Union troops landing on the beach…spiked the guns as best we could. Had to use nails, didn’t even have proper spikes. Got most of the boys over here, but we still didn’t have enough to man the guns proper.”

  Bowater nodded. It was a hopeless situation that Martin found himself in, and he had done what he could.

  “Shelling’s slackened,” Lieutenant Evans noted.

  Bowater and Martin looked around, as if they could see the absence of shells. The lieutenant was right. The artillery was coming in sporadically now, shells exploding once a minute, perhaps, or less, the fall of shot tapering off like the rain at the end of a quick-moving squall.

  “It’s getting a bit dark for naval gunnery,” Bowater noted. The fleet was getting underway; some of the ships had already moved out to sea, where they could spend the night away from the beach and the guns of Hatteras.

  “Well, it is some relief to see the Yankee navy is not immune to the laws of nature,” Martin said. “They are damn near immune to everything else. Hardly a shell has missed, and nothing we could do but take cover and endure it. I don’t know what more we can do.”

  Bowater nodded and looked out at the anchored fleet, the big men-of-war washed in the evening light. They mounted nine-, ten-, and eleven-inch guns that could easily hurl shells from a distance that the fort’s eclectic artillery could never match. If they so chose, they could batter Fort Hatteras until it was indistinguishable from the sand dunes on which it sat. Samuel felt a bit of Martin’s despair play over him.

  Damn, he thought, I am too damned late… And then he corrected that notion. The moment that the Union navy sailed for Hatteras, it was too damned late.

  “Sir,” said Bowater, “I do believe Commodore Barron, who is in command of naval forces here in the sound, is underway and will arrive in an hour or so. Perhaps he has news of reinforcement.”

  Martin seemed to brighten at that, just a bit. “Perhaps. Lieutenant Evans, please send word to the commodore that I would like a conference with him, at the earliest possible convenience.”

  “Yes sir,” the lieutenant said, and he saluted and hurried off.

  The shelling tapered away and then stopped as the evening settled down on the ocean and the tortured sands of Hatteras Island. Bowater sat on the parapet, looked out over the water, at his old navy, looked down the length of Hatteras Island, his old flag now flying over Fort Clark. The few stands of trees on the island looked like black patches on gray as the day faded to night, and lights like low-lying stars began to appear on the distant ships. Colonel Martin slept where he sat, his breathing sometimes rhythmic, sometimes labored.

  It was full dark when Commodore Barron arrived, tramping up the wooden steps, led by Lieutenant Evans, who brought a lantern with him, and trailed by three other men, who turned out to be Colonel Bradford, colonel of artillery and engineers and chief of ordnance of North Carolina, and Lieutenants Murdaugh and Sharp, C.S. Navy.

  Barron was a trim and energetic man, with thick white hair swept back over his head. Bowater guessed him to be in his sixties. They had crossed paths on a few occasions during their time in the old navy. He knew that Barron had entered the United States Navy on the first day of the year 1812, had been aboard the Brandywine when she conveyed General Lafayette to France in 1825.

  “Commodore Barron,” Martin was saying, and it seemed a great effort for him to speak. “Our fort is armed with naval guns, as you can see, and my men are strangers to such ordnance, and I am played out, sir, I will freely admit it. Allow me to formally request that you take command here, Commodore, and do what you can.”

  Barron made some grunting noise, looked up at the string of lights on the water where the fleet lay at anchor. He could refuse. He was a naval commander; forts were not his affair. He would put himself in the way of no glory by accepting responsibility for an effort that was certainly bound for failure. But for all that, Barron said, “I will accept command, sir, and do what I am able.”

  Colonel Martin’s relief was evident, and he said nothing as Barron began to issue orders. “Captain Bowater, what have you brought down with you?”

  “We have powder in barrels, sir, shell for the Columbiad and for the other guns, fuses, round shot, and some cartridges. We have not yet landed any of it, not knowing the state of things here.”

  Barron looked around the fort, which, with the moon now rising, was all dark shadows and deep blue light. He pointed to the gun that looked out over Pamlico Sound. “No point in leaving that there. Yankees aren’t going to pass through the inlet till they’ve beaten us into the sand. We’ll shift that gun around so it can do us some good. Bowater, detail some of your men to get the ordnance you brought ashore, and whoever is left, get them on shifting that gun. Lieutenant Murdaugh, Sharp, same for you. We’ll take whatever men your ships can spare. We’ll fill out the gun crews with navy men. We have to make every effort, be ready for them when they open up on us at first light.”

  Bowater returned to the Cape Fear, issued his orders, led his detail back to the fort. They joined with the others in the onerous task of creating a new gun emplacement and shifting tons of guns and carriages so that every available weapon was bearing on the Yankee fleet.

  Barron was relentless. He drove the men hard and expected as much from the officers, and he got it. Sweating in the cool night, grunting, shouting, cussing, they hauled the big gun from its former position, used levers and block and tackle, staging and brute force to wrestle it to the newly created artillery platforms, one hundred feet away.

  Two hours before dawn the men were stood down, allowed to sleep on the dirt parapets around the guns to which they were assigned. They dropped as if they had been drugged, and were not
easily stirred when the first streaks of light appeared over the ocean, and the bells of the Yankee fleet rang out, two bells in the morning watch, 5:00 a.m.

  They stood, cussed, staggered about, scratched and stretched. They gulped what passed for coffee, ate the porridge served out from the big cast-iron pot.

  The men were still eating when signal flags broke out at the masthead of the flagship Minnesota and Barron, watching through a long telescope, announced, “That’s ‘Prepare to engage and follow my motions.’”

  Bowater nodded. He was standing thirty feet away at the thirty-two-pounder smoothbore that he and the Cape Fears were manning.

  Prepare to engage… It seemed there must be something they should do to prepare the fort for the coming onslaught. But there was nothing. Every gun that would bear was manned, loaded, run out. There was nothing that they could do now but wait.

  Ruffin Tanner sat on the dirt parapet, looked out over the water, and Bowater looked at his face in profile, the morning light falling on him. “Tanner?”

  The sailor turned. “Yessah?”

  “Have we met before?”

  “Yessah. I was the one steerin’ the boat when we fought that Yankee side-wheeler,” he said, but seeing that Bowater was not in a joking mood added, “And I think I seen you once, up to the dockyard in New York, oh, five years back. But we didn’t talk, sir.”

  Bowater nodded. “I suppose not,” he said, but still there was something about Tanner’s face, some vague recognition, almost like that fleeting sensation of having experienced a place before, but more solid than that, more real.

  The morning was quiet, just the sound of the surf on the beach and the scream of the sea birds, and soon the distant clank of chain coming aboard, as steam windlasses hauled up the Yankee fleet’s anchors.

  It took the Union fleet an hour to get underway, and another hour to close with the fort. It was eight o’clock, the day already hot under the brilliant sun, when Susquehanna, leading the big ships, opened up. The shell whistled through the air with a sound that, once heard, was perfectly familiar. It landed on the beach, one hundred feet away, exploded in a spray of sand.