Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 26 (15 page)

He would look through the porthole at their target, which today was the
Indian Chief
for practice, look at the compass and then order the men to begin cranking.

The shaft was always cold, and sometimes Simkins wondered if his hand could freeze to the metal. There was a creaking sound from the shaft in its stuffing box, some popping and other odd noises. The boat would move slowly at first, gathering speed. The crankshaft stuck sometimes; and sometimes his arms felt unyielding. But after a time both the shaft and his arms always warmed to the task.

The sound of the hatches closing vibrated in his chest. All light was gone except for the single candle at Dixon’s side. He would order the ballast tanks opened to the sea and simultaneously adjust the diving planes. Once below the surface, his focus was on the compass. They had a new one, purchased from the divers who lifted her from her last temporary gravesite, but the same problems continued. The compass was too slow and the iron hull interfered so that when they cruised toward the
Indian Chief
they would often miss. But there were many times when the torpedo stuck true, and the sailors watching from the deck would cheer loud enough to be heard underwater.

Real patrols were much more difficult and much colder. Ice would often form on the inside of the boat while they cruised a few feet below the surface. Negroes were requisitioned to defrost the walls each morning but the ice only seemed more determined after that. Leaning against the hull on occasion, when the boat was not in motion, Simkins could feel the cold water lapping at the outside, eager to gain entrance. He knew, though, that its intention was never to drown them but to join him.

Anderson had spoken to Dixon on behalf of the men, saying the nightly efforts were too much. Perhaps it would be better if they could be towed out from the dock?

Dixon asked and received permission to be towed by the
David
.

Dixon was envious of the
David
, one of two torpedo boats patrolling, for she had actually landed a blow. She rode low in the water and was driven by steam. Her torpedo was mounted on a spar on the front. Not long ago she had touched it to the
Ironsides
. Not enough to sink her, but a success. The resulting explosion sent up a geyser of water, damping the engine. Her captain was captured but she drifted away with two of her crew aboard.

Her new captain was proud of her and said so.

Dixon said, “We have no engine to damp and can’t be seen beneath the water.”

“Perhaps, but they have rigged chain boom around the ironsides.”

This was a concern, for although the booms were intended to stop the
David
and her sister, they would be equally effective against the
Hunley
. Still, Dixon insisted that they patrol when the weather permitted.

Unfortunately, the ironsides also carried calcium lights: bright lights that swept the water in search of a darkness that might have been more than driftwood. When they swept toward the
David
and
Hunley
the boats were forced to drift. And so was the torpedo behind the submarine.

One night the torpedo line became tangled in the rudder of the
David
. Her captain saw the torpedo drift straight towards him, ninety pounds of explosive set to detonate with only a touch. The calcium lights swept over, forcing him to hold still while he was suddenly caught in the beam. He counted his heartbeats until the beam swept away: about a hundred beats and less than a minute the beam had rested on them. He flinched.

He waited another moment, then tapped the other boat. He pointed to the torpedo drifting no more than a yard away from her.

Dixon went below and said, “Someone has to untangle her lines.” He said it with calmness and they knew that he would, if necessary, do so himself; but he was an officer and should not have to.

Simkins volunteered.

Once on the gently pitching outer hull, he watched the calcium lights sweep over portions of the water far out. He removed most of his clothes, bobbed for a moment, caught a breath, and dove.

The lines were badly tangled. He pulled on a couple of the coils, stopping when he realized the torpedo was drifting towards the submarine. He took great gulps of frigid air when he rose. When he ran a hand through his hair, rime flaked off.

Dixon watched in horror as the torpedo drifted towards him. Then, amazed, he watched as the wind shifted and the waves moved her slowly but clearly away from the iron hull.

Simkins dove many times. The torpedo continued to drift but each time, the waves pulled or pushed it away. He saw Dixon finger the bent gold coin in his pocket.

Done, he clambered onto the hull and lay on his back. He breathed deeply. The cold uncaring stars wheeled overhead.

Inside, the men offering their coats. Becker huddled near him on one side, Collins on the other. Though they were cold too they offered their warmth to him. He had saved them.

Dillingham said, “Thank God for that coin, Dixon.”

Dixon turned sharply. “Thank God for Simkins.”

His lips were blue and his teeth chattered so none of them heard his words. Good luck pieces were one thing; brave men another; but it was the water itself and not God or any god who had saved them. Of this he was certain.

The captain of the
David
refused to tow them again.

March 1855

His mother gave birth to another boy. She called him John and a blessing. When he was two years old, he became Caleb’s shadow. And Caleb, his mother thought, enjoyed having a younger brother. He showed him how to dress and tie his shoes and how to play games. He once hauled him to safety when an errant horse thundered down the street, the hooves only missing his left leg by the barest fraction of an inch. That was what the bystanders said.

And then Caleb had left him for a moment, he said, to get something from his room. In that moment John the blessing discovered the water trough for the horses and drowned.

His mother never recovered from the shock. She stared at the empty room and rocked empty clothes to sleep. Finally his father sent her to live with a spinster aunt. She died within the year.

His father wept openly.

His father took to drinking, letting the house fall to ruin. Caleb left when he was fourteen, finding work in an iron foundry; that was where he had built up the muscle he used to crank the boat. That was the story he gave to the others.

January 1864

With the worsening weather came foul winds that made it nearly impossible to take the submarine out. As well, Dixon had decided that the ironsides, with their chain booms, were an impossible target. Instead they would seek to destroy the wooden hulls further out.

That would require two things: some nine miles of cranking for the men (for which he asked and received much closer accommodations; the seven miles of walking to and from the dock was exhausting) and a refitting of the torpedo. He had decided that the
David
had the better idea. They would put the torpedo on a spar and ram the torpedo into a ship. Barbs like fishhooks would hold it to the hull. When the submarine backed off far enough, he would pull a lanyard to detonate the powder.

Through the cold winter, with thin gloves and thinner patience, he and the others put the spar onto the front and built a system such that it could be raised or lowered beneath the submarine’s hull. Snow fell occasionally though never enough to stick to the ground. The high winds whipped and tossed the white-topped waves.

The nine miles was a lot further than they had ever gone before and the weather made them impotent. Instead of letting his crew fester, perhaps grow bored or lose their conviction, Dixon decided a test was needed.

They would sink the boat a few feet from the dock. Once resting on the ground so that she couldn’t move, they would proceed to crank as if she were. When the air grew foul enough for any man, he would cry, “Up!” and they would rise again. With nine miles of open water, Dixon needed to know their limits.

They laughed and smoked with the soldiers on the dock who stood with their arms wrapped around their sides. They glanced at the sun wondering (as they always did) whether they would ever see it again.

The ship sank through the murky depths. Not far, but far enough. When they felt the hull touch bottom with a slow thump. Each man save for Dixon began to crank. Without a need for a steersman, Dixon was unnecessary. Simkins thought he might offer to relieve one of the men but he did not.

Only the candle offered any light and that cast a strange light Reverend Johnson’s Hellfire. Indeed, it was easy to think they might be in Hell, with only nine men in the sturdiest coffin ever built and strange sounds from the metal itself. They smell of lime and its meaning were overwhelming.

No man spoke; and every man thought: how do I know if I am dead?

The candle flickered, went out. They touched one another for assurance, to remind themselves that living, breathing men still sat beside them. Does a man breathe in Hell? Are there others with him or is he alone? Can there be any more everlasting torment than turning a piece of pipe forever with no hope of going anywhere? Reverend Johnson would know but Reverend Johnson was safe in his church elsewhere.

Dixon said, “Anyone ready yet?”

“No,” they said aloud in stuttered sequence.

They began to count the turns but when one counts ten fingers worth of sets of ten turns, what does a man do? He starts over. It isn’t the number that matters but the fact that time hasn’t ceased.

“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 …