Chapter Eleven
Foul Weather
October 24, 1861
Confederate Navy Department, Richmond, Virginia.
Secretary of the Navy Stephen Mallory leans back in his chair, feet propped on his desk, eating persimmons while reading the Richmond Whig. He reads slowly, quietly pronouncing each word. This morning is particularly dreary, and Mallory struggles to read in the dim light. He doesn’t burn the lamp; whale oil is getting far too dear.
Yet he persists. Here is an article about Old Tom Moore — that conniving Governor of Louisiana. He has banned shipments of cotton from New Orleans to Europe — no doubt trying to strong-arm the British and French into recognizing the Confederacy. And here is an article about Professor Thaddeus Lowe and his demonstration of a hot-air balloon ascent for Abraham Lincoln and the Washington brass. They’ve got money to spend. And here is a brief article about the Pony Express, recently bankrupt after only eighteen months of service, replaced by the telegraph. Another soon-to-be-forgotten moment in the quickening march of time.
“I have to say,” mumbles Mallory, “that news travels particularly fast these days.” This is an understatement— ten years ago it would take two months to get word across the continent, now it takes only a few hours. And only another hour or two before it hits the press, and then it’s out on the street. Astonishing.
All of this has become a double-edged sword for Mallory. Spies are everywhere and everything is exposed to the prying eyes of the public. At times Mallory has greatly benefited, and he has gleaned much from his agents and the blabbermouth Northern press. However, as it turns out, Mallory has a secret that he desperately needs keeping. At least until it is ready. Then, he doesn’t give a damn who knows.
Mallory mumbles, “No guarantees.”
He turns to the Whig’s editorial page. He reads in small phrases, methodically mouthing the words. “The best joke of the season … is the arrest in New York … of a stalwart … son of Africa … for delivering a vehement … speech in favor of Secession … and offered to prove … that the Yankees were guilty of a … monstrous crime and folly in--”
Mallory pauses. He inhales deeply, and resumes. “--in insurrecting … against their legitimate masters … As gentlemen of the South … we have long been convinced … that the negroes … are a far superior … race than the Yankees … and if the North country … was fit for a civilized … being to dwell … all should be in favor of … driving the present inhabitants … into the Atlantic … and giving it over bodily to the negroes.”
Mallory tosses the newspaper across the room. “What a load of crap,” he barks.
He stands and stretches his stout limbs. He walks to the window.
The Virginia creeper vines climbing the garden wall are decked out in their Autumn color, brilliant scarlet, providing a counterpoint to the dull grey morning. Overhead, the sky is filled with skeins of geese and ducks heading south. Changing leaves. Changing patterns in the sky. Everything is always changing. Bad weather is moving in.
Mallory sighs. The last two months have been rough. The Federal Navy is tightening the screws, no doubt about that. In early August, the Alvarado was captured off Florida and was burned along with its cargo. Two weeks later the Jefferson Davis was run aground off St. Augustine, ending her brief career. Then, in late August, an armada of Federal warships rendezvoused at Hampton Roads, then sailed for North Carolina, where they overwhelmed Fort Hatteras and captured thirty-five prized cannons while sealing off Albemarle Sound. ¡Carumba!
And that’s not the end of it. During September, the Colonel Long was sunk off Georgia and the Alabama went down at the mouth of the Potomac. Then, two weeks ago, the blockade-runners Ezilda and the Joseph H. Toon were taken on the same day by the USS South Carolina. Mallory is keenly aware of the irony.
Meanwhile, Federal Marines from the USS Colorado raided the Pensacola Navy Yard and burned the privateer Judah. And, to add insult to injury, the Federals have captured Ship Island and are converting it into a fortified supply base for their Gulf Coast Squadron, sitting squarely in the middle of the shipping lanes between New Orleans and Mobile. ¡Carumba en efecto!
And that is scarcely the worst of it. Mallory is not only fighting an uphill battle against the enemy, but he is continuously stymied by his own government — a disorderly coalition, an inept fledgling bureaucracy with inadequate resources other than cotton, coupled with the inability to get anything accomplished. This is particularly woeful at the War Department, where Secretary Benjamin is hopelessly overwhelmed. Mallory has testified before the Confederate Congress: “I am swimming with stones in my pockets.”
The Confederate Navy needs iron, which is in short supply. Mallory has repeatedly asked Secretary Benjamin to rip up the railroad tracks of the Portsmouth and Weldon, as well as the Norfolk and Petersburg, and melt them down. Union ships have effectively sealed off Hampton Roads, so the rails to these ports are essentially useless. Secretary Benjamin replied that the orders have been given, although it is “impossible to accomplish at the moment” — whatever that might mean — but he assures that it will be soon.
Mallory shrugs his shoulders. “Es lo que es,” he says. Yet he can’t help chuckling under his breath. Despite such incredible obstacles, he is oddly optimistic. He believes that with a little luck — he raps his knuckles on his wooden desk — the Confederacy could possibly win this war.
Insanity?
Not quite.
For one thing, Mallory has been apprised that two Confederate agents, the former U.S. Senators John Slidell and James Mason, have slipped through the Charleston blockade and are on their way to Europe. If England and France will recognize the Confederacy as a legitimate government, it could very well be checkmate. There is no love lost between the British Crown and their bastard child, particularly regarding all those New England textile factories now competing so successfully with those of Manchester and Lancashire. In addition, Mallory has been assured by some sources that the French will soon raise the blockade, with or without the British.
However, Mallory does not readily swallow such assurances. “No guarantees,” he mumbles.
Regardless, he can’t keep from grinning because he has another reason for hope, although much more speculative. This is Lieutenant Brooke’s doomsday machine.
It is indeed a freakish concept — naval construction pushed to the limits, untried, its powers unknown. Quite simply, there is no way to determine whether it will actually work. Countless engineering difficulties must be overcome as they abruptly present themselves. Mallory chuckles, “We might as well try to fly to the moon.” But, so far so good. And if successful, the Federal Navy will have absolutely no adequate response. There is nothing that can save them. Nothing.
Mallory begins humming a lively tune, a Cuban song that he learned from Angela. He savors the thought that the entrenched, tradition-bound potentates in the Federal Navy Department — the same blowhards who had refused to heed his suggestions about ironclad vessels — still hold sway in Washington. Hopefully, he can get this damned thing launched before they realize their mistake.
There is a knock at the door.
“Enter,” says Mallory.
Lieutenant John Taylor Wood steps into the room, snaps to attention, and delivers a crisp salute.
Mallory returns the salute. “At ease, Lieutenant.”
Lying on Mallory’s desk is Wood’s dossier. Wood’s service record is beyond extraordinary. Not only is he a natural leader known for his calm in the midst of deadly chaos, but he is an expert on modern artillery who is also skilled in hand-to-hand combat. And, a man of great honor and sense of duty. Et cetera.
However, Stephen Mallory has delved even deeper than the official record. Mallory’s wife, Angela, certainly a woman with mysterious ways, has learned that Lieutenant Wood secretly despises the barnacled old mossbacks in the Navy Department, having spent years at the top of the list of Lieutenants, waiting for promotion. Additionally, Angela has also learned that Wood’s wife, Lola, from a wealthy Maryland family near Annapolis, has been selling off the slaves that she inherited, after freeing those of whom she was fond. Mallory is not sure what this indicates, but he is willing to take the chance.
Mallory glances up. “Bad weather is moving in,” he says.
“Yes, sir,” replies Wood. “Coming in from the northeast. Going to get cold, wet, windy, and wicked.”
“Yes,” says Mallory, “Quite wicked.” He studies Wood for a moment. “Yes,” he says again. “Yes indeed.”
Mallory has the perfect job for Lieutenant Wood.
* * *
That same morning, Washington, DC.
Union Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles stands in the chilly mist falling on the Congressional Cemetery, remembering that bright sunny morning just three days ago when he had settled back to read the newspaper while nibbling on a tray of chestnuts. Gustavus Fox, his Assistant Secretary of the Navy, had knocked on his door.
“There are bodies floating in the Potomac,” Fox had said. “Someone just fished out Colonel Baker.”
Colonel Edward Dickinson Baker, a U.S. Senator from Oregon and close personal friend of Abraham Lincoln, was a man larger than life, and now he is dead. Baker had made a reputation for himself in the Mexican War and the California Gold Rush, and he was the primary advocate for the Lincoln Administration in the Far West. Lincoln and Baker had met back when both were young lawyers in Illinois and they befriended instantly, keeping in contact when Baker headed west. Baker rode in the presidential carriage on Inauguration Day, and he introduced Lincoln’s Inaugural Address.
And now this is his funeral. Welles looks around. Everyone is arrayed in black, like a murder of crows. Baker’s widow is completely distraught, wailing like a banshee. Welles notices that Lincoln is awkwardly withdrawn, silent, barely looking up, mostly staring at the ground. Welles has heard that Lincoln was at Army headquarters when the news of Baker’s death came over the wire. The President sat stunned for a moment, then stumbled from the room, tears streaming down his face, barely able to stand. Several people rushed to his side, but he quickly regained his poise, said he would be fine, and walked back to the White House, alone.
The mist is getting heavier, colder. There, on the fringe of the crowd, are Cornelius Bushnell and Cornelius Delamater, mercenaries at a funeral, here to rub elbows with the military purse-strings. And there, uncharacteristically in the background, is His Highness, General George Britton McClellan, the idiot behind this whole fiasco. It was his wishful thinking — that the Rebels were pulling out of Leesburg on the Virginia side of the Potomac — that led to this mess. He wanted to “probe their defenses.” So he wired General Stone, positioned across the Potomac from Leesburg, stating, “A slight demonstration on your part would have the effect to move them.”
Stone complied, ferrying Colonel Baker’s regiment across the Potomac in a flotilla of small boats. There they encountered a steep, two-hundred-foot-high bluff that dominated the southern bank of the river. Baker’s men, after great difficulty, scaled it. Having gained the top of the cliff, they found themselves perfectly boxed into an exposed position, facing a well-armed opponent that was massing for an assault that would sweep them back into the river.
The rebels attacked and the fighting quickly grew murderous. As Baker was valiantly trying to rally his men, he was shot several times in the head, and carried from the field. The Federal line collapsed and Northern soldiers tumbled helplessly down the cliff and into the river, swamping the boats in their panic.
The rebels perched on the bluff and poured round after round into the writhing mass of bodies. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. Several hundred bloated corpses floated down the Potomac, over Great Falls, and past the aghast citizens of the Nation’s Capitol.
~
A light rain is now falling. Gustavus Fox discretely sidles up to Gideon Welles and whispers in his ear. “I’ve just received a communiqué from Commodore Goldsborough that the Rebels are anxious to get Simmons and Bagwell, and are quite willing to give up John Worden in exchange.”
Welles whispers back, “I think that we ought to accommodate them. Promptly.”
Fox nods. “Goldsborough also complained about what he calls our ‘Soapbox Navy.’ He said that it is idle to send ferryboats to sea. He says that they cannot stand the racket. He mentioned that the Commodore Perry came in last night ‘knocked into a cocked-hat.’”
“Tell him it will have to suffice for now. Tell him we have laid five keels this month, with orders for seven more. Philadelphia, Brooklyn, and Boston, they’re all quite busy.”
Fox nods and disappears into the crowd.
Welles glances up as an immense flock of passenger pigeons begins to blacken the sky, migrating southward. In the distance, low on the horizon in the fading light, wedges of ducks and geese drift off into the gloaming. Uncharacteristically, Welles smiles. He muses to himself, “They’re not the only ones heading south,”
Gideon Welles knows that at this very moment, forming up in Hampton Roads, safe under the guns of Union Fortress Monroe, is the largest expeditionary fleet ever assembled in the Western Hemisphere. Admiral Samuel DuPont is amassing an armada of more than seventy warships and transports bound for Port Royal, South Carolina, determined to forcibly establish a blockade base strategically located between the ports of Savannah and Charleston.
“Anaconda Plan indeed!” Welles mutters. “The strangling has begun!”
~
Cornelius Delamater and Cornelius Bushnell hustle through the drizzle toward the Hawk and Dove Tavern on Pennsylvania Avenue, only minutes after the first shovel of dirt hit the casket.
“What do you think of this new ‘Income Tax’?” Delamater asks, his collar turned up to the wind, trying to keep up the pace.
“It will never last,” says Bushnell, striding forcefully, his vest unbuttoned in the manner of the youth of the day. “The courts will strike it down. And if they don’t, what does it matter? An imaginative man can find ways around it. Or hire someone who can.”
* * *
That same afternoon, on the southern shore of Hampton Roads.
Erasmus and Annabel are standing on the mucky shoreline of Craney Island, looking across the harbor to Sewell’s Point, two miles distant. The wind is picking up, harder and harder, and the sky is starting to spit rain.
Annabel holds a piece of driftwood in her hands. “Momma tells me that this is what we are,” she says. “Her and me, nothing but scraps of debris!” Annabel rears back and feebly hurls the twisted chunk of driftwood, but the wind blows it back at her feet.
The wind is now squalling wildly from the northeast, chopping up whitecaps out in Hampton Roads and tossing sheets of spray into the children’s faces. Nearby, a flock of red-winged blackbirds hunkers down in the marsh grass. Narrow shafts of stark sunlight break through the roiling clouds, momentarily basting the birds and the tall grass with swaths of buttery gold. In the distance, Erasmus can see that the lighthouse has run up the red flag with the black square in the middle, meaning that trouble is on the way. Big trouble.
Erasmus grabs Annabel by the arm and shouts over the howling wind, “They’s a hurricane comin’ ashore!”
She is transfixed, enraptured by the tumultuous panorama, and doesn’t seem to notice him,
“We’s got to stay here!” Erasmus hollers, grabbing her other arm and squaring her up. “We can find haven in mastah’s old house!”
Annabel regards him for a moment, and then pushes him backward, shoving him on his shoulders. “You’re scared,” she scoffs.
“I ain’t as-cart!” He returns the shove. “You be the one as-cart!”
Annabel looks down, staring him eye-to-eye. “Me? Don’t be any stupider than you be already. You be the one who be scared.”
Erasmus shakes his head defiantly. “Not me. No ma-am. No-sir-ee.” He stands on his tip-toes and thrusts his face forward, nose-to-nose with her. “Okay missy. What ifin’ a owl hoots? Miz Auntie Do-Funny says that ifin’ a owl calls you by name--”
Annabel snorts and shoves him backward again. “Then he hoots at you, mister smarty britches.” She claps her hands together twice. “Lead the way!”
~
After considerable grumbling, the children manage to drag their boat onto shore and lash it to a myrtle bush. Then they slog inland through the tall rushes, making their way toward the high ground. At the edge of the marsh, they scramble over a large sand dune and then slide down into a forest of scraggly oaks and stubby pines, all entwined with supplejack vines twisted like crooked snakes.
Erasmus finds a sandy path through the trees and vines. Flurries of dead leaves scatter across the ground. Foxfire glows from rotting logs, and the moon has gotten tangled in the bony branches overhead.
The kids break out into a small clearing. The moon scurries behind a horde of dark, angry clouds. Annabel slips up behind Erasmus and whispers spookily into his ear, “It’s a Spanish galleon… Tossed on a stormy sea…”
“What?”
“The moon. A ghost ship! Come back from the dead!”
Flurries of dark silhouettes dart across the sky — flocks of night-flying birds riding the winds southward, dark masses of sparrows, warblers, and thrushes. Erasmus remembers that Miz Auntie Do-Funny said that birds in the spring are full of they-selves — they got on fancy-colored Easter suits and fly by day — but in the fall they is old and full of fear, and wear grey and brown suits, and they fly at night to hide from the hawks and falcons.
Erasmus looks around nervously, glancing over his shoulder, and says, “Doan you try a scarin’ me, missy! You is wastin’ you breath.” He looks around fearfully. “Annabel, you knows that cottonmouths hunts at night?”
“Shut up!”
“Gators too.”
“Erasmus! Shut up!”
“I seen bobcats twice my size. And bears that can swallow you whole.”
“Erasmus!!!”
“What ifn’ a she-wolf jumped out right now?”
Annabel lunges towards Erasmus’s throat, screaming “I’d kill that bitch with my bare hands!” Erasmus is quick enough, just barely, to evade her grasp. As he springs away, the night air is pierced by the scream of an owl.
The children freeze dead in their tracks.
Erasmus, eyes wide open, whispers, “He hoots at you,”
Annabel, eyes wide open, whispers, “That’s a bunch of African mumbo-jumbo.”
Nearby, a stately blue heron, which has been as still as a statue in the twilight, springs into the air with heavy wing beats, and its deep and throaty call stabs the night. The kids leap into each other’s arms.
~
Eventually, Erasmus and Annabel arrive at the trace of a road, rutted and weedy. Erasmus points to his right. “This way,” he says. Then he looks to his left and scratches his head.
Annabel stares in disbelief. “You don’t remember, do you?”
Before Erasmus can answer, she scampers up the road to the left. He hustles after her as fast as he can go. They quickly break out of the woods into an enormous clearing, revealing an immense, blood-red sky with huge clots of spiraling clouds fleeing overhead like phantoms in the gloaming. In the distance, beyond a vast overgrown cotton field, a mass of deep-scarlet Virginia creeper vines is in the process of swallowing an abandoned mansion.
The kids look at each other and shrug, half-heartedly. They plunge forward, wading through the forlorn cotton bolls that glow faintly in the glimmering moonlight like tiny, will-o-the-wisps, forgotten beneath withered stalks of blackened pigweed. Overhead, flocks of crows rush madly across the sky.
When Erasmus and Annabel reach the mansion, they cautiously climb up onto the rotting porch. With considerable trepidation they stare into the gaping doorway. They stand there for an eternity. Finally, Annabel whispers, “Momma says that if you walked widdershins around a church three times at night, you would see the devil looking out at you from the windows.”
“Irish mumbo jumbo.” says Erasmus. “And this ain’t no church.”
They glance at each other. Hand-in-hand, they step into the darkness.
~
Inside, Erasmus moves through the dark rooms by memory, gathering kindling and a box of friction matches. Soon a fire is crackling in the parlor and Erasmus is ripping apart a wooden chair and feeding broken sticks into the blaze.
Annabel retreats into a remote corner of the room. “Turn around,” she says. “Don’t look.”
“What?”
“Turn around,” she insists. “Don’t look.”
Erasmus is confused. When she returns and sits down next to him, he feels uneasy and embarrassed for reasons that he doesn’t understand.
After a long silence, Annabel says, “Okay, I’ll tell you a story.”
As she spins her tale, she makes hand-shadow-silhouettes on the far wall, like puppets in a fantasy. She begins: “A handsome and dashing highwayman was in love with an innkeeper’s daughter. She was beautiful, with long, flowing, red hair. Sadly, they met an unhappy end. But so romantic! The poets say that on a winter’s eve, that when the wind is in the trees, and the road is a ribbon of darkness…”
~
That night, as the children desperately try to sleep in the master’s moldy bed, they clutch each other tightly. Occasionally, shrieks from the nearby swamp cascade through the broken windows. And, for only the second time in his life, Erasmus hears the distinctive cry of the elusive ivory-billed-woodpecker, calling from deep within the woods. When he was very young, he heard one of these mythical birds with Miz Auntie Do-Funny as they ventured far into the Dismal Swamp. She said that this magnificent voice belonged to the grandest woodpecker that God ever made, and once there were many of them, but now they are almost all gone.
Outside the window, a hunched over night-heron stalks the weedy yard.
​
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