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Here is a an excerpt from Part Four, Chapter Thirty-One
North Eastern Railway Depot
Pier No. #2
Smith & Broadfoot's Navy Salvage Barge
Cooper River
Charleston, South Carolina
Saturday, November 7, 1863
7:50 p.m.
"We're ready Lieutenant,” one of the engineers offered.
A massive hush had settled over the barge, pier, and the wharf above them. Hundreds of spectators unmoved for almost two hours, stretched their necks in anticipation of what would be unmasked behind that manhole-cover. All the senior officers from the Navy and Army had remained at a respectful distance quietly talking. When they heard the engineer, they broke apart and gravitated towards the wrecked submarine. Dixon turned to look at their faces and felt as if the entire world was standing on his shoulders, watching him.
"Open it,” he ordered.
The engineer took a firm grip on a breaker-bar and gave it a solid pull. The muscles in his arms were wiry and defined, as they strained with the latch. Suddenly there was an ear splitting squeal that spread out across the silence producing a foreboding banshee-like sound.
"Turn it to the stops,” Dixon ordered.
Like cattle piling into a watering hole, the crowd pushed forward past the guard, who gave way and allowed them to mass around the salvaged vessel. When the latch hit the stops, it exploded open with a foul disgorgement of trapped gas that flung the engineer back. Loosing his balance, he went reeling off the hull with a thump.
"Christ!" he screamed, crossing himself while still prone on the deck.
The mob jumped back two steps when the hatch erupted. The compressed air inside spewed out an awful stench that spread over everyone like an oily, putrid fog. The corpses inside had severely decomposed over the last three weeks, leaving the crowd covering their faces with arms, rags, and handkerchiefs. Everyone but George Dixon. He stood there with his eyes watering, his heart pounding, and an excruciating lump lodged in the back of his throat. After all the gas had scattered, he pulled a torch from its post and climbed up on the hull. The torch-light was flickering all over his features, and the hush of the crowd settled down to a whisper, as he peered inside the forward conning tower. The only sound was the snapping and crackling of the flaming torch, while Dixon's grey eyes flashed like thunderbolts of lightning. They could be seen as far away as the wharf. Savanna was in the crowd watching his every move.
Horace Lawson Hunley, Dixon's mentor and friend, inventor of the ill-fated submarine, was frozen in place. He was lodged tightly inside the forward hatch looking straight up at Dixon. Dixon looked down into his friend’s lifeless cloudy eyes and was momentarily mesmerized. In one of Hunley's hands was a candle. It hung there in his swollen fist, never having been lit, and due to the decomposition, appeared to be part of his hand. His other hand was on his head, palm-up, elbow at a right angle, as if trying to push with all his might to somehow force open the hatch. His features were horribly repulsive, from both the contorted expression and the decay. What was his final thought? Bewilderment; mixed with agony, frustration, and torment? The skin was bluish-black, swollen, and splitting. To Dixon, Hunley’s corpse appeared to be screaming, like some earthly being, trapped in the pits of Hell.
Beneath Hunley was Dixon's crew. They were trapped in a black hole of horrors yet to be discovered. Dixon turned and dropped back down onto the barge with a heavy thump. He stood there wiping his eyes, speechless, trying to swallow. He was looking at the little submarine, his torch beginning to sway and sag, and it slowly drooped toward the deck.
Lieutenant Alexander stepped from the shadows and took the torch from Dixon's wavering hand, hung it back on a post and turned to his friend.
"My God William,” said Dixon, "Hunley's pinned tightly in the hatch swollen and mortifying." His voice was choked and crackling. He began wiping his eyes. "I don't see how we're going to get them out."
"We'll get 'em out, George." Alexander looked at the expression on his young commander’s face. "Jesus Christ , what a mess."
He looked at all the people gathered, chattering wildly, pointing and shaking their heads. He looked back at the boat they'd built and offered, "George, this truth must be confessed." He placed both hands on Dixon's shoulders, continuing, "The sea has no generosity. It will display no show of compassion, and its faithfulness is to no one."
Dixon just looked at Alexander, still speechless. He hung his head and said, "It looks like my crew and Hunley have endured all the violence the sea could offer.” He looked up at all the people, frozen and waiting for his next move. Feeling weak at the knees, the ache of his wound burning his hip fiercely, he slightly staggered and Alexander took hold of him. Tenderly he started to walk him off the barge, and he could feel Dixon trembling so he said,
"Listen, there's nothing more to be done today, you've had enough. You don't look like you've slept in a month, nor eaten. I need to get you out of here. Let the burial detail do their jobs. They'll get the bodies out, you need not be here for that."
"How are they going to get them out?" he asked.
“Don't worry about it, they'll do it..”
"But it's my crew, William."
"And they'll be taken care of George, I promise you."
Nightfall had descended over the city plunging it into a damp, rapidly dropping fifty degrees. The creep of winter barked on the wind, and with it came the smell of wood-smoke and rot, floating in layers over everyone’s’ heads. Torches and lanterns were casting shadows over the submarine leaving the rest of the barge shadowed in inky darkness. Dixon stopped and stared at Alexander and the pain was evident. "Those men were some of the finest I've ever had the pleasure to command".
"Well said, Lieutenant."
Turning toward two new voices approaching, Dixon saw Chief of Staff, Thomas Jordan flanked by Commodore Duncan Ingraham. They were accompanied by several other officers who stood at a respectful distance.
General Jordan began, "Lieutenant…you’re Dixon, correct?"
Saluting, coolly Dixon said, "I'm afraid I am, sir."
"Now is not the time nor the place but out of respect for your fallen crew, General Beauregard's headquarters would like to extend its sympathies and offer what ever support you may need for those men. I believe he would also like to speak with you at you convenience."
"Is there a reason Mr. Hunley was at the helm and not yourself?" interrupted Commodore Ingraham.
The Chief-of-Staff cut off any answer by gently holding back his counterpart. "Lieutenant," began Jordan, "I believe I understand the reasons for your absence. I'll pass them along to the Commodore, after we've had a chance to attend to this business."
"Thank you, general."
"There will be an investigation into this accident, and the General and I expect you'll want to testify, as to your knowledge of what likely happened. You will report to us once this has run its course. I've always believed in your mission here, as has General Beauregard. Sadly though, he has taken on a more superstitious view of this vessel. He's leaning toward the boat being better suited sitting here on this barge, than placing another brave crew inside. He had such high expectations for its success." Pausing to look at the stricken submarine, finishing, "As we all have had."
Dixon reached inside his soul and found some reserves of strength, upon which he'd always been able to call. "General", he began, "I respected Mr. Hunley to no end but….well sir, he had no right to jeopardize this mission. The consequences of these actions, of his own ego, confirm my suspicions. He was a civilian inventor, and fundamentally unfit for this type of command." Growing frustrated and boiling over with three weeks of anger he went on, "This should've never happened! Nor would it have, had I been at the boat’s helm!" Dixon cast his eyes at the ground, and meekly said, "Forgive my outburst, sir."
General Jordan and Commodore Ingraham looked at each other. Then the Commodore said, "That's a mighty bold statement seeing how this craft has claimed what, 14, or is it 15 of our fellow countrymen Lieutenant."
Alexander watched Dixon stand up a little straighter, took a guarded step a little closer and eyed them both. "With all due respect to both of you, I helped build this boat, then tested it, then trained that crew stuck inside that hull. We were a competent team, and in the hands of an experienced commander these events are highly unlikely to be repeated. We came here to sink ships, we've proven we can effectively do this. It is my understanding that you've yet to see this vessel in action under the conditions I just described."
Dixon stood his ground and took a breath. General Jordan regarded Dixon and with a gentle smile, looked to Commodore Ingraham, and then back toward the people inching their way closer to the wreck. "What are you suggesting, Lieutenant?"
Dixon turned to look at the submarine, then at all the officious gawkers. In disgust he said, "I don't exactly know, General. The boat needs re-fitting again." He looked back at the Commodore and then the General. "But I need to complete my mission."
"I agree," said General Jordan. "However, we don't know what caused this accident." He eyed the young lieutenant a moment. "I will not risk the lives of brave men needlessly. Even yours, young man."
"But sir..."
"No buts, lieutenant. We will wait until a board of inquiry has determined the cause of this accident. When they issue their findings in a report, then General Beauregard and I will evaluate those findings and proceed from there. For now, you two may lend assistance in whatever way seems appropriate. Then please report to General Beauregard's headquarters. We’ll be expecting you in the next couple days."
Dixon wanted to put up a fight, then thought better of it. He slowed his breathing and hung his head. Looking back at the Hunley sitting forsaken on the barge, he asked, "General, my crew needs a Christian burial. I don't know anyone here…I spoke to a sergeant earlier, who said he might procure a minister for funeral rites but…. they need, something… do you know of a Churchyard where my friends can be interred?"
"Lieutenant, we'll take care of your crew. I can assure you of that. I personally know of an Episcopal Church downtown, which will hold a mass funeral. General Beauregard will issue a company of soldiers to provide a military escort out to Magnolia Cemetery, where they can be laid to rest. Again you have our deepest sympathies. Now if you will excuse us, it's been a long and trying day. See us in a few days---sooner if possible."
"Very well, sir." Dixon and Alexander both gave them a tired but firm salute, holding it steady.
"Carry on gentlemen", Jordan replied, returning the salute.
When the senior officers had departed, Alexander could see that Dixon was near the end. Exhaustion was climbing all over him. Turning, they watched a burial detail struggle to remove Horace Hunley from the forward conning tower. They laid him on a canvas tarp while one of them stumbled to the edge of the pier and violently vomited. “That’s the inventor” murmured a bystander. “I hear that boat is cursed,” whispered another.
A team of mules began making their way down the pier, causing a loud rickety-racket of tromping hooves. On each side marched a military squad of tired but serious cadets from the Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina. As they made their way closer, the spectators parted and Dixon looked into the crowd at all the faces. He again found a set of dark and bewitching eyes, deeply focused upon him. Their eyes locked, and they stared for a long time at each other, before she started to stroll away, speaking to another gentleman while pointing. He turned and looked at Dixon and nodded. They were both inordinately interested in him. With a slightly seductive smile Dixon’s direction, Savanna wormed her way through the mob and vanished. But not before they’d again made eye contact.
Savanna Simmons was bold and abrasive. The kind of woman who knew how to get what she wanted. The kind of woman who wanted to live in a distant city. Paris or London maybe. Even San Francisco would be better than the ravaged town in which she grew up. Charleston was fast becoming a pit she despised. When war broke out, her father abandoned all she'd known to seek refuge in New York City. Of course, the house in Summerville was kept running smoothly, and Savanna and her sisters could come and go as they pleased. It was during one of those trips back from the north that she'd been offered the chance to help her brother Donny. He'd been captured at Manassas, and held in the Fort Delaware Prison Camp. Starving.
As she stood on the wharf looking down as Horace Hunley's body was removed from the tiny submarine, she plotted and assessed just how much she was going to help that Yankee piece of horse manure. Allen Pinkerton had sent her back on the first train to determine if in fact Hunley's death was some kind of trickery on the part of General Beauregard.
If in fact he was dead, and the crew had perished, what was going to happen with the underwater boat? The invention intrigued Pinkerton. He couldn't help but wonder what was Commander Dixon's next move going to be with no crew? Agents had reported to Pinkerton the moment they intercepted the telegraph to Mobile informing the Parks and Lyons facility the submarine had sunk. Having been alerted, they shadowed the lieutenant all the way back to Charleston.
A chill was moving in off the water, and torches had the pier dancing in flickering shadows. The team of mules made their way off the planks making a rickety tromping noise, closely followed by a military squad of tired cadets. Having determined that Hunley was the body removed, Savanna turned her attention over to Commander George Dixon. She could make out his smoky eyes from where she was standing. They seemed to glow like beacons as he spoke to another lieutenant. Then, without warning they turned on her and zeroed in. She stood there boring a hole into him and he never wavered once. Both of them held stark and intense stares until with a slight seductive smile she turned away and walked down the wharf. Dixon watched her stroll past the other onlookers and give a careful glance at the burial detail. He watched her stop and speak to one of the men standing there, and then she turned to look back at Dixon once. The man she was speaking with turned and nodded.
On Sunday, the eighth day of November, 1863, at 4 o'clock P.M. Horace Lawson Hunley was lowered into the Carolina ground with the rest of his noble and brave crew. In full military fashion, General Beauregard had provided a squad of proud cadets, immaculately uniformed, to escort his coffin to Magnolia Cemetery, nestled along the Cooper River. It was a shady, quiet resting place for the inventor and his brave crew from Mobile.
Nothing stirred, and nothing was heard with the exception of a final and solemn prayer. Even the horses at their carriages, had become still and hushed. As the Bible was closed and the coffin lowered, everyone felt God's divine glory in all its splendor and grace, present among them. One of the lone cadets looked out to the brewing storm and imagined the Almighty Himself had spoken, “Be still,” holding off the fury until the distinguished and honorable man known as Captain Hunley, was buried.
265 King Street
Ashley River Boardinghouse
Saturday morning
November 14, 1863
Lieutenant William Alexander was sitting and reading over an old newspaper in George Dixon's room. He'd brought in a pot of coffee for the two while waiting for Dixon to get himself together. He'd had his face in a bowl of tepid water and was just finishing up shaving. With tired but determined eyes, a gnawing dull pain in his hip, and his hair looking like a snake pit, he looked into the mirror, then turned and tossed a towel over the chair, glancing toward his friend from Mobile.
"The Charleston Daily Courier's October 16th story is rather vague don't you think?" remarked Alexander with a curious expression. "Melancholy occurrence to a small boat in the Cooper River, containing eight persons, all of whom were drowned,” he finished, while sipping his coffee.
Dixon limped over to the bureau and picked up his pocket watch, a diamond cravat pin he carried, and his lucky gold coin. After a final inspection of his dress and running a comb through his hair, he retrieved his shell jacket, saying, "After that blundering fiasco with the Augusta newspaper man I ran into, I imagine the Army has put a tight lid on what is published these days. I can't imagine anything getting to print without it first going through General Beauregard's headquarters. I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of his wrath. That being said, I'm not particularly looking forward to hashing it out with that fiery Creole this morning." He looked back into the mirror and pulled down on his red eye lids and grimaced. "We simply have no choice but to face him head on, William," Dixon added while turning to sit down on an ottoman and slip on his boots. He watched Alexander settle the paper down and pick up the other one, then walk to the window and lean against the sill reading it.
"It looks as though the Charleston Mercury has written a fine article about Hunley. We should get this to his sister," Alexander offered with sad eyes. It reads, “The remains of Captain Horace L. Hunley were interred in Magnolia Cemetery. His body was followed to the grave by a military escort, and a large number of citizens. The deceased was a native of Tennessee, but for many years past has been a resident of New Orleans. Possessed of an ample fortune, in the prime of manhood--for he was only thirty-six at the time of his death--with everything before him to make life attractive, he came to Charleston, and voluntarily joined in a patriotic enterprise which promised success, but which was attended with great peril. Though feeling, as appears from the last letter, which he wrote to his friends, a presentiment that he would perish in the adventure, he gave his whole heart, undeterred by the foreboding, to the undertaking, declaring that he would gladly sacrifice his life in the cause. That presentiment has been mournfully fulfilled. Yet who shall call that fate a sad one, which associates the name of its victim with those of his country's most unselfish martyrs”
"Christ in Heaven, what a waste. What are we going to do George?" Alexander asked, as he folded the newspaper and peered through the curtains down onto King Street.
Dixon poured himself a cup from the pot and without looking up said, "I'm going to march in there and tell General Beauregard the truth and you are going to back me. He may not like it, and I'm certain he will not be expecting, nor be accustomed to junior officers speaking in such bold fashion but he needs to know where the fault lies."
"Yes but what are we really doing George? What do you hope to accomplish here?" After a moment he turned from the window with a grim expression. "Perhaps we should return home; there's work to be done there." He softly added, "We have no crew, our boat is a wreck, and we've lost…we've lost all the confidence of the department commander and our own credibility."
"Who has lost any credibility?" Dixon asked astonished. He stood there with his mouth opened wide, like the entrance to a cave. Then he blurted, "Have you lost all confidence? Christ Alexander, you understand what's happened here don't you? It was not the boat’s fault, nor the crews! That danged arrogant Hunley forgot to close the forward sea cock. The imbecile flooded the boat and…and KILLED EVERYONE!" Dixon dropped his cup down with a crash, he was so enraged. Spinning he said, "His problem was he was too smart for his own darn good and must have become disoriented somehow. No one and I repeat no one has yet to see this vessel in action under the command of a skilled commander and a well-trained crew. Ever since that boat arrived, there has been nothing but rabble-rousers and know-it-alls circling like vultures. All of this could have been prevented!" Dixon finished, nearly choking with emotion.
Alexander turned back to the window and took a deep breath. Knowing this was as close to the truth as any other explanation. He and Dixon alone had examined the boat after the bodies were removed. They knew what had happened within the first few minutes, It was plainly obvious to them. Essentially, they knew every fundamental feature inherent to the safe operation of their boat, and they understood how every nut, bolt, lever and valve functioned. Not only had they built the submarine, they'd helped design most of the systems on board, then tested them, proving the submarine's lethal capabilities over and over again.
After a few moments of silence, Alexander looked at Dixon. "Is that what you plan on telling the General?" he asked.
"Yes."
They both stood there in the quiet of the room and stared at each other solemnly. There was nothing left to say. It was lay it on the line, or go home. Dixon snatched up his kepi saying, "Lets get this over with."
General Beauregard's Headquarters
114 Broad St.
Charleston, SC
Saturday, November 14, 1863
10:00 a.m.
General Beauregard was sitting behind his new desk listening to an onslaught of heated discussions, being bombarded back and forth across the room. His new location had yet to be organized as he'd have preferred. His battle map was not pinned to a wall but stretched out on a table, and he had stacks of reports and files scattered to the four corners of the room.
He had mustered together an assemblage of experts and trusted advisors consisting of his Chief of Staff, who himself was none to happy with the new location. Also present was the station commander of all Naval forces in Charleston, Commander Ingraham, heavy-set, and fierce. With him was Ingraham's nominal deputy, Squadron Commander John Randolph Tucker, as tough a fighter as they come, where the defense of Charleston was concerned. The final members of the morning’s meeting had yet to arrive. Beauregard knew a feud was broiling just under the surface, mostly in support of submarine warfare, and was hopeful when Major Francis Lee, also of his staff arrived, a sense of order could be restored. Of them all, Beauregard liked him the most; he was also the same age as the two lieutenants who were due to arrive momentarily. None of this really mattered though: he'd made up his mind. Submarines were more dangerous to their crews than they were to the enemy. They could bicker all they liked, however, he would not send more men into the cold confines of these iron death traps. A firm knock on his door quieted the arguments, as Corporal Simms entered announcing the major.
"Thank you corporal," said Major Lee sauntering in with a swagger.
General Beauregard stood and extended his hand smiling, "Come on in Francis, and join the party. Perhaps you can add a little levity to our discussion."
Looking around at the gathered group and feeling the tension in the room, he removed his kepi saying, "Gentlemen."
"Sit, sit. Can Simms get you some coffee or something to eat?"
"How are you Major?" General Jordan asked.
"For the moment, I'm fine General, and sir, some coffee would be splendid”.
"Good, very good", Beauregard replied. Turning towards the door he shouted, "Simms! Bring us a tray of coffee please. Have a seat Francis, we are expecting those two lieutenants from Mobile, who arrived to handle the Fish Boat. We were just hashing over the merits of underwater weapons, while waiting on the boat’s commander, a Lieutenant Dixon. Have you met him?"
Major Lee placed his cap on his lap and looked around the cluttered new office saying, "I'm afraid I've not had that pleasure, sir."
"Well I asked you here today to advise and listen to their petition. Your opinion is highly valued in this matter”.
"Indeed", chimed Commander Duncan. "How are things progressing at the shop on those new detonators you've been testing?"
Turning to face the naval commander he replied, "They seem to be functioning impressively, sir. Charles Sprague was a devastating loss to our operation. I've been trying to carry on his vision, and his designs are what we've managed to expand upon. The results are truly amazing. These new torpedoes will sink any ship afloat, I'm confident of that. It's the execution and deployment of these weapons that causes tactical concerns", turning to look at them all, he added, "Sirs."
The office became quiet as the door opened again with Simms leading Lieutenants Dixon and Alexander into the crowded room. Corporal Simms set the tray down on the corner of the General's desk and announced, "General Beauregard may I present Lieutenant George E. Dixon and Lieutenant William Alexander of the 21st Alabama, on temporary assignment to Charleston." Gracefully Simms backed out of the room.
Everyone stared at the tall elegant officer in a well-tailored uniform, looking as confident as the day is long.
"Sir!" he snapped. "Thank you for granting us the opportunity to address this panel. Please allow me to introduce my second in command, Lieutenant Alexander."
General Beauregard stood again and gestured for the two officers to take a seat. Walking around from his desk his motioned to his guests, "I've asked my deputy chief, General Jordan to join us, along with my naval counterparts, Commander Duncan and Squadron Commander Tucker. The young major there is Major Lee. An engineer in my ordnance and munitions division in whom I have great confidence." Beauregard looked his young guests over and then offered again, "Please gentlemen, take a seat."
Dixon stood his ground and faced the group, then turned back to General Beauregard. "Sir, with all due respect I'd…we'd prefer to stand and state our cause. We consider this matter to be of grave importance, and not one to be cast asunder by casual or informal conversation, as another misfortune of this war."
General Beauregard evaluated this tall, articulate, and handsome lieutenant, then leaned back against his desk, shrugging his shoulders, while looking at his seated guests.
"Very well Lieutenant, you may remain standing but please, ‘at ease’. The floor is yours but mind you, I will not entertain lofty notions of these vessels you are advocating, as anything but dangerous iron coffins. I had high hopes of your success after its arrival here in Charleston. So much so, that I've done my fair share of investigating these types of weapon platforms. Therefore, before you state your case, let me share something with you both." He regarded the Lieutenant with admiration, and with regret. He walked back and sat down, looking over some reports until he found what he was searching for. Looking briefly up at the room’s assemblage, he settled in and read. Everyone watched his eyes scan the document. Dixon and Alexander's mouths had become parched making it hard to swallow. Patiently they waited.
General Beauregard began to read, "At 11:00 a.m. on the morning of June 19, 1862, the United States Navy's first combat submarine, designed by a French engineer, Brutus de Villeroi, parted her moorings at the Philadelphia Navy Yard, towed by the steam tug, Fred Kopp down the Delaware River. She was soon designated the U.S.S. Alligator." He let that sit a moment and stew in their minds. "The Confederate Secret Service has been fortunate enough to capture several documents from this launching of this Yankee vessel. One of them states, ‘To Samuel Eakins: You are placed in command of the submarine propeller boat designated, U.S.S. Alligator. It is a trust of considerable importance, requiring skill and good judgment on your part. So as soon as you have fully tested the boat, you will report to the Secretary of the Navy her description. The length, breadth, depth, amount of ballast, what apparatus you have on and in her, of all kinds, how she moves submerged, and at what speed, how she steers, how long it takes to depress her in five fathoms of water, and how long to elevate her, how far and with what distinctness an object can be seen through the glass globe on the top of the boat, how the divers operate outside the boat at a depth of forty feet, and how well they are supplied with air from the boat, and generally, her completeness for service against the enemy. This submarine boat as I understand it was to possess the following properties: 1st. Facilities of emulsion and immersion. 2nd. Self-propulsion above and below the water of up to 1 and 1/2 knots. 3rd. Capability of remaining with her crew a long time underwater by purifying the air contained in her. You will of course act under orders of Flag-Officer Goldsborough.’”
Looking up, General Beauregard passed the paper to Jordan, saying, “Gentlemen, you may read the conclusion yourselves.
"Acting Master John F. Winchester, who then commanded the U.S. Sumpter, was ordered to tow the submarine to Port Royal, South Carolina. The odd pair got underway on 31 March. The next day, the two ships encountered bad weather, which, on 2 April, forced Sumpter to cut Alligator adrift off Cape Hatteras. She either immediately sank or drifted for a while before sinking, ending the career of the United States Navy's first submarine at approximately 6 p.m., Latitude of 34.43 degrees, and Longitude of 75.20."
Beauregard picked up another paper, and his seated guests scooted forward in apt attention to this news, while Dixon and Alexander just looked at each other.
"Coastal defense examining committee upon my request has issued this report, ‘The history of the submarine machine is simply this: The United States Navy has been actively engaged in developing a working submarine that would prove effective in its design to remove or sink ships, the Tredegar Iron Works in Richmond has developed two underwater boats to date. Undoubtedly, these inventions are some of the most extraordinary discoveries of the age, but simply not practical. For the most part everyone who has entered one of these infernal machines has either smothered to death or drowned. This committee considers these vessels to be a failure and a monument to badly expended talent.’"
General Beauregard set the brief down and gazed over at his guests, then toward the two brave lieutenants standing before him. "Let me also add gentlemen that you have been here in Charleston only a short time, and since then, have managed to effectively bring about the deaths of two brave crews along with the original inventor himself, by the accidental sinking of the boat. If I'm not mistaken, thirteen men have forfeited their lives, and not one single attack on our blockade has taken place." Leaning back he asked, "Well, what have you to say Lieutenants?"
Dixon looked at Alexander and a brief, angry spark was just beneath the surface. Dixon glanced at the gathered guests who were surveying him, then back to the General. "With all due respect to your command here General Beauregard, this is a weapon of destruction. It's as simple as that. In the wrong hands, it's a stone cold killer of its own ilk. You yourself have witnessed the diving capabilities and potential of such a weapon. The fact that reckless attempts at showing off this vessel, using untrained personnel, permitted the first mishap, the second was due to absent-minded carelessness of Mr. Hunley himself. His thoughtlessness while in control of my vessel, killed everyone on board. His own ego is at fault here. In an effort to feed it, his need for popularity while demonstrating to the mass of gathering crowds taking place at the wharf, resulted in his untimely death and the brave men aboard. This attempt at glory-seeking, was against my standing orders to my first officer. They were to make repairs to some minor details, while I returned to Mobile to have my leave extended. They were not to take the boat anyplace. He'd blurted it all out in one massive breath, and Alexander was looking at him through the corner of his eye
Briefly pausing for emphasis, and to breath, he continued, “There has been a total lack of security involved with the testing and familiarization with these waters, and I was only days away from our first mission to sink one of those Yankee ships, sir."
It became so quiet in the room you could hear hooves clattering on the street. Before anyone could interject, Dixon pushed on, "We've inspected the boat and uncovered the cause of the accident."
He looked to them all, slowly panning the group, then continued, "The forward seacock that permits water into the boat for ballast while diving, was wide open. That is a manual valve that must be operated by screwing in the valve-stem handle, and then giving the pump a few turns. My crew are dead as a result of this not being done. It was not the boat’s fault." Dixon's eyes locked with General Beauregard, and the two men stared each other down. The other army and navy representatives looked to each other, nodding at the discovery of this extraordinarily interesting news.
"I see", said Beauregard. "That's quite a story, lieutenant. That took some nerve for you to come in here and tell it. What would you have me do?"
"Return the boat back to me, sir, and provide what I need to make it operational once again. Then advise me on where I can obtain another crew."
"Out of the question, Lt. Dixon."
"Sir, again with all due respect, you've yet to see this weapon under the command of a well-trained crew and an experienced commander. Not only did I help construct her", he turned to look at William Alexander, "We both did, sir. We know how to manage her effectively. We can do the impossible; we can sink those ships out there, sir."
General Beauregard sat there unnerved but without it registering on his countenance. He admired the young men before him--Dixon's air of confidence and dedication to see this mission through was commendable but uncanny. "You seem to carry an unyielding faith in your vessel, and your command abilities, Lieutenant," Still eyeing the two men, he looked over at his Chief of Staff. "What say you Thomas? Are you inclined to purchase a pig in the proverbial poke?”
"General, I've always been a supporter of this vessel, it's the diving of the boat that always gave me the jitters. Perhaps you can use the Hunley like the Davids? Just attach a torpedo under the prow."
"Sir, if I may intervene," said Major Lee turning a tinge of scarlet, "I'm not thrilled at that idea. We are arming, a partially submerged vessel with a spar torpedo attached to her bow that is steam powered. Effectively a guided ram with a charge. Having all our hard work and state of the art invention, attached to a hand cranked iron coffin, is nothing in which I care to partake."
"Noted, Major." Beauregard's eyebrows had raised a notch as he considered the possibilities. “What do you think? Can it be done on such a small vessel that's hand propelled?”
They all looked at Major Lee as he considered his options. With a casual nod, he indicated it could, but it was obvious he was reluctant to try, short of a direct order.
"What would you need Lieutenant, in order to make effective repairs on your vessel?" asked Beauregard.
"Well sir there is a terrible, lingering, rotting stench clinging to the interior hull. I will need scrub brushes, lime, and soap, as well as some Negroes to effectively clean and sanitize the inside. Then I need it, that is, the Hunley, moved to a discrete location, away from prying eyes and busybodies... Sir!"
Looking over to his Chief of Staff, Beauregard nodded.
"I'm already drafting an order General, to the Quartermaster and Engineering departments, having anticipated the outcome.”
Standing, Beauregard walked to the window, finding himself deep in thought. When he turned to face the room, he walked over and stood in front of Dixon and took a good look at the commander. "You understand that I must put several restrictions on the boat's use. First of all you will not dive the boat under the surface of the water. Second, you will make arrangements with Major Lee here to have a spar torpedo attached to the bow, and third, you will inform any recruits who wish to volunteer for this duty all that has happened to the previous crews. They are to understand and know the inherent dangers this duty involves. I'm sure the Commodore can provide able-bodied seamen from the Indian Chief , should you choose to use sailors. If you can agree to these requirements—make that ‘orders’, Lieutenant, I will have the vessel moved, and would be pleased if you begin the necessary repairs, and refitting for action at your earliest convenience."
Dixon and Alexander stood stunned, exhilaration churning their insides but remained silent. Everyone in the room observed the fire building behind their eyes, and then Dixon nodded affirmatively.
Flag Officer Tucker had remained silent and observant, throughout the discussions. With conviction he now spoke, "You two men are either very brave, or hold a deep sense of loyalty to duty, after all these previous failures."
Dixon and Alexander turned to look at the old weathered Navy officer. He finished with, "Every soldier knows that courage and foolhardiness are close companions, that discretion is often the better part of valor, in most wartime situations." He allowed that to settle a moment. "Let us hope that the courage you two displayed here today, will be followed by positive results." Turning to look at General Beauregard he said, "Pierre, I'll have a tug and a barge available to assist in moving that vessel off the wharf, and place it wherever it is best suited. Suggestions anyone?"
"I'll contact General Thomas Lanier over at Sullivan's Island", replied Jordan,. "Dixon you will report to him for your new base of operations. Get a list together for the Quartermaster and be ready to commence repairs on Monday morning. You two officers appear to be supremely confident, and by your own account these accidents seem an unlikely event to be repeated, so as long as the vessel is in the hands of a competent commander."
"Very well said, Thomas", interrupted General Beauregard, "but let me impress upon you two men, again, my desire; no, my mandate and imperative, that you stay within the restrictions I've placed. Both as to the recruitment of volunteers, and keeping that vessel afloat. No diving the boat, ever. Are we absolutely clear on this?"
"Yes sir!" Dixon and Alexander replied in unison.
“Breach Inlet is a discreet and deep water inlet facing the Atlantic. It is nestled next to Battery Marshall on Sullivan's Island’s northern shore. Security will be tight, and you will have a clear shot at the Union ships patrolling our waters." Standing, General Beauregard faced Dixon and said, "Good luck and good hunting."
Dixon and Alexander snapped off a firm salute, followed by, "Sir! Yes, sir. By your leave General."
"Gentlemen, you are dismissed."
The room settled into a quiet hush and General Beauregard had his doubts. "Where do we get these kind of men?" he asked no one in particular. "What do you think, John?"
"I think they’re as crazy as a bedbug. You'd never get me to crawl inside that infernal death trap. You have to admire that kind of courage, though."
"Indeed,” replied Beauregard, "You think they'll succeed?"
The room erupted in some stifled sneers and light chuckling, then Thomas Jordan said, "I think he'll sink the whole danged fleet, Pierre."
Headquarters, Admiral Dahlgren
South Atlantic Fleet
Hilton Head Island, South Carolina
Friday, November 20, 1863
7:35 a.m.
"Admiral, dispatch from Washington has just arrived."
"Thank you Yeoman. Stand by please." After a few moments of silence, Admiral Dahlgren rose to look out the windows of the old plantation house, the main signal station at Hilton Head. The harbor was booming with ships and activity. Turning back to his desk, he scribbled out some orders and handed them over.
"Please send this on to Otter Island at once. This is a priority dispatch."
"Very well Admiral, anything else? May I get you something to eat, sir?"
"I don't think so Yeoman, I just need those orders sent out to the Wabash immediately. My stomach is still not used to being on dry land." After a moment's pause, he thought better. "On second thought, perhaps some toast and a little of that jam might suffice. Maybe some orange juice it you can manage some. Let's try that shall we."
"Right away sir, I'm sure that I can."
"Thank you. I much appreciate your concern. You've been a great help while I've been here."
"It's been my pleasure, sir. By your leave then Admiral."
"Very well then, carry on."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Otter Island was a signal station near Hilton Head Island consisting of a 142-foot tower, and Fort Drayton to protect it from any perceived danger from Confederate raiders. There were dozens of similar signal stations, stretching along the coast between Port Royal Sound and Folly Island. A corpsman spelled out letters of the alphabet with two simple flag movements. Within a few minutes, Admiral Dahlgren's orders had traveled the 55 miles up the coast to Folly
Otter Island Signal Tower
Dahlgren’s Headquarters, Hilton Head
Beach. From there they were sent out to the bridge of the USS Wabash on station in the outer rim of Charleston Harbor.
U.S.S. Wabash
South Atlantic Fleet
Charleston Blockade
Charleston, South Carolina
Wednesday, December 2, 1863
4:00 p.m.
Eight years ago the heavily fortified steam frigate, USS Wabash was launched from her berth out of a Boston shipyard. She was 301 feet, 6 inches in length, with a draft of 23 feet. She weighed 4,808 tons and mounted 40 guns. She had a top speed of around 9 knots and maintained a crew of about 600 officers and sailors as her complement. She was the biggest frigate-class ship in the fleet and a formidable adversary on the high seas. She was also the command and flagship of the South Atlantic blockading Squadron. The key word being: was.
When Admiral Dahlgren took command of the South Atlantic Blockading Squadron back on July 6th, he'd transferred his flag off the spacious and comfortable Wabash to the USS Catskill. The Catskill was a monitor, one that was cramped, smelly, and hot, and provided no luxuries whatsoever. She was strictly a fighting vessel, one who was heavily armored, layered in a thick skin of sweltering iron. He would soon come to regret the transferring of his flag to this vessel but pride and determination kept him on station. Even to the point of near-death. If the broiling Carolina heat didn't kill you, he'd complained, the seasickness from the turbulent Fall weather would.
To be sure, the Admiral had no sea legs, truth be known he was not even a navy man. One of the driving forces behind his stubbornness to remain on a small and confining ship such as a monitor, was because of his critics. They claimed he was the president's fair-haired boy, that he'd received a special appointment to become an Admiral, that it never should have happened, and that he was nothing but an ordnance specialist. The trashy talk from the backbiters of Washington's power circle, claimed this kind of favoritism was in complete disregard to the traditions of seafaring men.
Not to be discredited or sneered at, the newly appointed Admiral chose to disregard the hardships he imposed upon himself. He continued to silence the backbiters prancing all over Washington, by his sufferings, which he issued in daily reports to Secretary of the Navy, Gideon Welles, referencing the conditions with which he struggled.
Back in July when Army Maj. General, Quincy Adams Gillmore suggested the two men combine their forces to silence the batteries defending Charleston harbor, Admiral Dahlgren jumped on the bandwagon. He lined his monitors up and prepared a combined assault on Cummings Point. What no one realized, was that General Beauregard had anticipated the assaults on Fort Wagner and knew that given the opportunity with his massive artillery emplacements all around his city and protecting the harbor, he could bottle up the Union forces on those narrow strips of sandy islands. At least that was the plan.
At first, it was touch and go. Dahlgren’s monitors moved in tandem with the ground forces, providing support with their 11-and 15-inch guns as the Union soldiers swept across Lighthouse Inlet. His monitors were in action every day against Charleston's massive fortifications. For the first time in American history, a true and effective partnership was established between army and navy to achieve an objective. It was the longest siege ever to assail Charleston. It was also the bloodiest. There were thousands of bodies scattered from the northern tip of Cummings Point all the way to the southern dunes of Folly Beach. All for nothing. The batteries defending Charleston's inner harbor were intact. The combined army and naval forces were trapped out on the sand-flea infested beaches, surrounded by dunes covered in wormy and rotting corpses. Arms and legs stuck out in every direction for 2000 yards. Conditions were no better out in the choppy Atlantic guarding the entrance to Charleston. The duty had been sweltering in 100-degree temperatures, the monitors’ sun-heated, iron-hot decks unbearable. It felt like they were walking out on an open frying pan as the sailors wallowed back and forth. There was nothing else they could do.
Under General Beauregard's leadership, Charleston remained defiant under the massive military might of both, the army and naval forces of the United States. Admiral Dahlgren's monitors were all shot through with ragged holes from Charleston's crack gunners. Their rudders, propellers, and propulsion gears were either rusting through and failing, or completely covered in thick hordes of marine growth and barnacles. They were fortunate to reach speeds of 3 knots, some less half that amount.
When the Admiral felt his command had suffered enough, he retired the Catskill and her escorts to Port Royal Sound for a complete overhaul and refit. It was a much-needed break from the choppy swells, which had kept him bed-ridden and vomiting. He established his headquarters at an abandoned plantation near Fort Mitchel, unoccupied since the island was captured in November of 1861 by Admiral DuPont and General Thomas W. Sherman. The Department of the South had been established soon after, and Hilton Head was fortified and became a military supply depot and official Army headquarters. At the time of the Admiral’s arrival, the Department was still under the command of Maj. General Gillmore.
A top watch in the forward crows-nest was monitoring the shore through a scope when he suddenly set it to the side and started writing on a pad. He then picked up his signal flags and returned the ship to shore communication. He then signaled the bridge through a bullhorn and dropped his message into a dispatch case connected to a guide-wire that stretched down to the quarterdeck.
"Lieutenant, signal coming in."
"Very well. Secure that forge and tell those engineers that's enough for today. Galley will be calling for chow at the top of the hour.
"Very well, sir." The young 2nd lieutenant reached over and pulled the dispatch from its case and sent it back. Within seconds, it was whisked away, high up into the mainsails crow's nest.
"Message, sir."
"Thank you Mr. Cushing. Please take the helm. Maintain course, note the ships log of the received signal, and clear the quarterdeck for evening chow. Keep watches on station, I'll…," Lieutenant J. J. Slusher, Officer of the Deck, started reading the dispatch in preparation of informing the skipper of the communication, when he stopped dead in his tracks. Looking at the helmsmen, then back at Mr. Cushing.
"Sir? You OK?"
Lieutenant Slusher dropped the dispatch down by his side and said, "I'll be... I've got to go see the captain. It appears we're being pulled off station. Effective immediately. A new ship will be taking up our duties in this quadrant. They're ordering the Housatonic to pull off station and report here. We're to be relieved at dawn."
The USS Housatonic was an auxiliary steamer. A three-masted sloop of war, her design called for using canvas on her main masts to capture the wind, while traversing the open sea. In addition to that, she was fitted with a boiler for steam propulsion when in calmer waters. She carried a unique invention where she could detach and pull her propeller out of the water when using her main sails. This reduced drag and allowed her to glide along un-restrained by the propeller and shaft.
The Housatonic
She was 207 feet in length. At her beam, she stood 38 feet from her gunwales to the water, and she weighed in at 1,240 tons with a crew of 150 men. The Housatonic had distinguished herself as a formidable platform from which to fight. Not only was she fast, she was highly maneuverable having an arsenal of some of the Navy's best guns, like the 100-pound Parrott rifle, a highly accurate, rapid-fire weapon. Those were complimented with three smaller 30-pound Parrott rifles, hurling a 29-pound shell, 6900 yards at a 25-degree elevation, in 27 seconds! One 11-inch Dahlgren smoothbore, and a pair of 32-pound smoothbores on her stern, completed her heavy weaponry. She'd become well recognized to the gunnery crews manning the ring of forts protecting Charleston's inner harbor in the last year, swooping in from the blockade's picket-line, shelling the forts and city in swift maneuvers. Captain Pickering would then turn about and dash out of range, taunting the Confederate gunners.
While on station, her crew had on numerous occasion, chased away attempts to run the blockade. The ship even managed to capture a couple, laying claim to their bounty, with the crew splitting up the shares. The Housatonic bragged a crack crew, teeming with confidence. A crew begging for a fight.
"Lieutenant Crosby, flash traffic coming in from Folly Island."
"Very well Chief. Please inform Mr. Higginson he's needed on the bridge."
"Aye, aye, sir."
The sun was settling over the city to the west and all was quiet. The wind had died down, leaving the entrance to the harbor silky smooth. Nothing but gentle swells as a southern twilight of pink and purple settled on the evening’s watches.
Captain Charles Pickering and his executive officer, F. J. Higginson made their way across the quarterdeck with laughter dancing in their eyes. When they reached the bridge, the captain snatched the dispatch from its basket and sent the case skyward.
"Well let us see what we have, shall we?"
"Lieutenant go ahead and mark the ships log, the captain and executive officer received flash traffic at…" he checked his watch. Then continued, "5:50 p.m."
"Aye, aye, Mr. Higginson."
"Well Lieutenant Crosby, Mr. Higginson," said the skipper, "we've been re-assigned. Fleet is moving us to another quadrant. The Wabash is being pulled off station for a refit. We're to take up her position and await further instructions. It seems there are some new concerns about Rebel torpedo boats as well. Further orders are to follow once we relieve her."
"Torpedo boats?" inquired the executive officer.
"Yes. It appears Washington is concerned for our safety." Captain Pickering smiled at his officers then stepped over to a sound tube.
"ATTENTION ENGINE ROOM! ATTENTION ENGINE ROOM? THIS IS THE CAPTAIN. KEEP BOILERS HOT, MAINTAIN TWENTY-FIVE POUNDS OF STEAM UNTIL SUNRISE. THAT IS ALL."
His executive officer and Lieutenant Crosby just stared at him.
"We are not to drop anchor in deep water as well. They feel we should be able to evade at a moments notice should we encounter one of these torpedo boats", the Captain explained.
"Captain, we've seen those odd-looking little boats," said Lieutenant Crosby. "Why they're no bigger than a canoe. We'll blow them out of the water. Be like swatting a gnat."
The captain chuckled, then looked to his executive in command. "Yes, yes, I agree. I can't believe all this myself. Orders are orders though. See they're carried out tonight, Mr. Higginson."
"Very well skipper."
Captain Pickering looked out over the water towards Charleston. The air was still, as night settled but there was something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Maybe just a feeling, one he couldn't shake. Dismissing it, he returned to his cabin without another thought.
North Eastern Railway Depot
Pier No. #2
Smith & Broadfoot's Navy Salvage Barge
Cooper River
Charleston, South Carolina
Saturday, November 7, 1863
7:50 p.m.
"We're ready Lieutenant,” one of the engineers offered.
A massive hush had settled over the barge, pier, and the wharf above them. Hundreds of spectators unmoved for almost two hours, stretched their necks in anticipation of what would be unmasked behind that manhole-cover. All the senior officers from the Navy and Army had remained at a respectful distance quietly talking. When they heard the engineer, they broke apart and gravitated towards the wrecked submarine. Dixon turned to look at their faces and felt as if the entire world was standing on his shoulders, watching him.
"Open it,” he ordered.
The engineer took a firm grip on a breaker-bar and gave it a solid pull. The muscles in his arms were wiry and defined, as they strained with the latch. Suddenly there was an ear splitting squeal that spread out across the silence producing a foreboding banshee-like sound.
"Turn it to the stops,” Dixon ordered.
Like cattle piling into a watering hole, the crowd pushed forward past the guard, who gave way and allowed them to mass around the salvaged vessel. When the latch hit the stops, it exploded open with a foul disgorgement of trapped gas that flung the engineer back. Loosing his balance, he went reeling off the hull with a thump.
"Christ!" he screamed, crossing himself while still prone on the deck.
The mob jumped back two steps when the hatch erupted. The compressed air inside spewed out an awful stench that spread over everyone like an oily, putrid fog. The corpses inside had severely decomposed over the last three weeks, leaving the crowd covering their faces with arms, rags, and handkerchiefs. Everyone but George Dixon. He stood there with his eyes watering, his heart pounding, and an excruciating lump lodged in the back of his throat. After all the gas had scattered, he pulled a torch from its post and climbed up on the hull. The torch-light was flickering all over his features, and the hush of the crowd settled down to a whisper, as he peered inside the forward conning tower. The only sound was the snapping and crackling of the flaming torch, while Dixon's grey eyes flashed like thunderbolts of lightning. They could be seen as far away as the wharf. Savanna was in the crowd watching his every move.
Horace Lawson Hunley, Dixon's mentor and friend, inventor of the ill-fated submarine, was frozen in place. He was lodged tightly inside the forward hatch looking straight up at Dixon. Dixon looked down into his friend’s lifeless cloudy eyes and was momentarily mesmerized. In one of Hunley's hands was a candle. It hung there in his swollen fist, never having been lit, and due to the decomposition, appeared to be part of his hand. His other hand was on his head, palm-up, elbow at a right angle, as if trying to push with all his might to somehow force open the hatch. His features were horribly repulsive, from both the contorted expression and the decay. What was his final thought? Bewilderment; mixed with agony, frustration, and torment? The skin was bluish-black, swollen, and splitting. To Dixon, Hunley’s corpse appeared to be screaming, like some earthly being, trapped in the pits of Hell.
Beneath Hunley was Dixon's crew. They were trapped in a black hole of horrors yet to be discovered. Dixon turned and dropped back down onto the barge with a heavy thump. He stood there wiping his eyes, speechless, trying to swallow. He was looking at the little submarine, his torch beginning to sway and sag, and it slowly drooped toward the deck.
Lieutenant Alexander stepped from the shadows and took the torch from Dixon's wavering hand, hung it back on a post and turned to his friend.
"My God William,” said Dixon, "Hunley's pinned tightly in the hatch swollen and mortifying." His voice was choked and crackling. He began wiping his eyes. "I don't see how we're going to get them out."
"We'll get 'em out, George." Alexander looked at the expression on his young commander’s face. "Jesus Christ , what a mess."
He looked at all the people gathered, chattering wildly, pointing and shaking their heads. He looked back at the boat they'd built and offered, "George, this truth must be confessed." He placed both hands on Dixon's shoulders, continuing, "The sea has no generosity. It will display no show of compassion, and its faithfulness is to no one."
Dixon just looked at Alexander, still speechless. He hung his head and said, "It looks like my crew and Hunley have endured all the violence the sea could offer.” He looked up at all the people, frozen and waiting for his next move. Feeling weak at the knees, the ache of his wound burning his hip fiercely, he slightly staggered and Alexander took hold of him. Tenderly he started to walk him off the barge, and he could feel Dixon trembling so he said,
"Listen, there's nothing more to be done today, you've had enough. You don't look like you've slept in a month, nor eaten. I need to get you out of here. Let the burial detail do their jobs. They'll get the bodies out, you need not be here for that."
"How are they going to get them out?" he asked.
“Don't worry about it, they'll do it..”
"But it's my crew, William."
"And they'll be taken care of George, I promise you."
Nightfall had descended over the city plunging it into a damp, rapidly dropping fifty degrees. The creep of winter barked on the wind, and with it came the smell of wood-smoke and rot, floating in layers over everyone’s’ heads. Torches and lanterns were casting shadows over the submarine leaving the rest of the barge shadowed in inky darkness. Dixon stopped and stared at Alexander and the pain was evident. "Those men were some of the finest I've ever had the pleasure to command".
"Well said, Lieutenant."
Turning toward two new voices approaching, Dixon saw Chief of Staff, Thomas Jordan flanked by Commodore Duncan Ingraham. They were accompanied by several other officers who stood at a respectful distance.
General Jordan began, "Lieutenant…you’re Dixon, correct?"
Saluting, coolly Dixon said, "I'm afraid I am, sir."
"Now is not the time nor the place but out of respect for your fallen crew, General Beauregard's headquarters would like to extend its sympathies and offer what ever support you may need for those men. I believe he would also like to speak with you at you convenience."
"Is there a reason Mr. Hunley was at the helm and not yourself?" interrupted Commodore Ingraham.
The Chief-of-Staff cut off any answer by gently holding back his counterpart. "Lieutenant," began Jordan, "I believe I understand the reasons for your absence. I'll pass them along to the Commodore, after we've had a chance to attend to this business."
"Thank you, general."
"There will be an investigation into this accident, and the General and I expect you'll want to testify, as to your knowledge of what likely happened. You will report to us once this has run its course. I've always believed in your mission here, as has General Beauregard. Sadly though, he has taken on a more superstitious view of this vessel. He's leaning toward the boat being better suited sitting here on this barge, than placing another brave crew inside. He had such high expectations for its success." Pausing to look at the stricken submarine, finishing, "As we all have had."
Dixon reached inside his soul and found some reserves of strength, upon which he'd always been able to call. "General", he began, "I respected Mr. Hunley to no end but….well sir, he had no right to jeopardize this mission. The consequences of these actions, of his own ego, confirm my suspicions. He was a civilian inventor, and fundamentally unfit for this type of command." Growing frustrated and boiling over with three weeks of anger he went on, "This should've never happened! Nor would it have, had I been at the boat’s helm!" Dixon cast his eyes at the ground, and meekly said, "Forgive my outburst, sir."
General Jordan and Commodore Ingraham looked at each other. Then the Commodore said, "That's a mighty bold statement seeing how this craft has claimed what, 14, or is it 15 of our fellow countrymen Lieutenant."
Alexander watched Dixon stand up a little straighter, took a guarded step a little closer and eyed them both. "With all due respect to both of you, I helped build this boat, then tested it, then trained that crew stuck inside that hull. We were a competent team, and in the hands of an experienced commander these events are highly unlikely to be repeated. We came here to sink ships, we've proven we can effectively do this. It is my understanding that you've yet to see this vessel in action under the conditions I just described."
Dixon stood his ground and took a breath. General Jordan regarded Dixon and with a gentle smile, looked to Commodore Ingraham, and then back toward the people inching their way closer to the wreck. "What are you suggesting, Lieutenant?"
Dixon turned to look at the submarine, then at all the officious gawkers. In disgust he said, "I don't exactly know, General. The boat needs re-fitting again." He looked back at the Commodore and then the General. "But I need to complete my mission."
"I agree," said General Jordan. "However, we don't know what caused this accident." He eyed the young lieutenant a moment. "I will not risk the lives of brave men needlessly. Even yours, young man."
"But sir..."
"No buts, lieutenant. We will wait until a board of inquiry has determined the cause of this accident. When they issue their findings in a report, then General Beauregard and I will evaluate those findings and proceed from there. For now, you two may lend assistance in whatever way seems appropriate. Then please report to General Beauregard's headquarters. We’ll be expecting you in the next couple days."
Dixon wanted to put up a fight, then thought better of it. He slowed his breathing and hung his head. Looking back at the Hunley sitting forsaken on the barge, he asked, "General, my crew needs a Christian burial. I don't know anyone here…I spoke to a sergeant earlier, who said he might procure a minister for funeral rites but…. they need, something… do you know of a Churchyard where my friends can be interred?"
"Lieutenant, we'll take care of your crew. I can assure you of that. I personally know of an Episcopal Church downtown, which will hold a mass funeral. General Beauregard will issue a company of soldiers to provide a military escort out to Magnolia Cemetery, where they can be laid to rest. Again you have our deepest sympathies. Now if you will excuse us, it's been a long and trying day. See us in a few days---sooner if possible."
"Very well, sir." Dixon and Alexander both gave them a tired but firm salute, holding it steady.
"Carry on gentlemen", Jordan replied, returning the salute.
When the senior officers had departed, Alexander could see that Dixon was near the end. Exhaustion was climbing all over him. Turning, they watched a burial detail struggle to remove Horace Hunley from the forward conning tower. They laid him on a canvas tarp while one of them stumbled to the edge of the pier and violently vomited. “That’s the inventor” murmured a bystander. “I hear that boat is cursed,” whispered another.
A team of mules began making their way down the pier, causing a loud rickety-racket of tromping hooves. On each side marched a military squad of tired but serious cadets from the Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina. As they made their way closer, the spectators parted and Dixon looked into the crowd at all the faces. He again found a set of dark and bewitching eyes, deeply focused upon him. Their eyes locked, and they stared for a long time at each other, before she started to stroll away, speaking to another gentleman while pointing. He turned and looked at Dixon and nodded. They were both inordinately interested in him. With a slightly seductive smile Dixon’s direction, Savanna wormed her way through the mob and vanished. But not before they’d again made eye contact.
Savanna Simmons was bold and abrasive. The kind of woman who knew how to get what she wanted. The kind of woman who wanted to live in a distant city. Paris or London maybe. Even San Francisco would be better than the ravaged town in which she grew up. Charleston was fast becoming a pit she despised. When war broke out, her father abandoned all she'd known to seek refuge in New York City. Of course, the house in Summerville was kept running smoothly, and Savanna and her sisters could come and go as they pleased. It was during one of those trips back from the north that she'd been offered the chance to help her brother Donny. He'd been captured at Manassas, and held in the Fort Delaware Prison Camp. Starving.
As she stood on the wharf looking down as Horace Hunley's body was removed from the tiny submarine, she plotted and assessed just how much she was going to help that Yankee piece of horse manure. Allen Pinkerton had sent her back on the first train to determine if in fact Hunley's death was some kind of trickery on the part of General Beauregard.
If in fact he was dead, and the crew had perished, what was going to happen with the underwater boat? The invention intrigued Pinkerton. He couldn't help but wonder what was Commander Dixon's next move going to be with no crew? Agents had reported to Pinkerton the moment they intercepted the telegraph to Mobile informing the Parks and Lyons facility the submarine had sunk. Having been alerted, they shadowed the lieutenant all the way back to Charleston.
A chill was moving in off the water, and torches had the pier dancing in flickering shadows. The team of mules made their way off the planks making a rickety tromping noise, closely followed by a military squad of tired cadets. Having determined that Hunley was the body removed, Savanna turned her attention over to Commander George Dixon. She could make out his smoky eyes from where she was standing. They seemed to glow like beacons as he spoke to another lieutenant. Then, without warning they turned on her and zeroed in. She stood there boring a hole into him and he never wavered once. Both of them held stark and intense stares until with a slight seductive smile she turned away and walked down the wharf. Dixon watched her stroll past the other onlookers and give a careful glance at the burial detail. He watched her stop and speak to one of the men standing there, and then she turned to look back at Dixon once. The man she was speaking with turned and nodded.
On Sunday, the eighth day of November, 1863, at 4 o'clock P.M. Horace Lawson Hunley was lowered into the Carolina ground with the rest of his noble and brave crew. In full military fashion, General Beauregard had provided a squad of proud cadets, immaculately uniformed, to escort his coffin to Magnolia Cemetery, nestled along the Cooper River. It was a shady, quiet resting place for the inventor and his brave crew from Mobile.
Nothing stirred, and nothing was heard with the exception of a final and solemn prayer. Even the horses at their carriages, had become still and hushed. As the Bible was closed and the coffin lowered, everyone felt God's divine glory in all its splendor and grace, present among them. One of the lone cadets looked out to the brewing storm and imagined the Almighty Himself had spoken, “Be still,” holding off the fury until the distinguished and honorable man known as Captain Hunley, was buried.
265 King Street
Ashley River Boardinghouse
Saturday morning
November 14, 1863
Lieutenant William Alexander was sitting and reading over an old newspaper in George Dixon's room. He'd brought in a pot of coffee for the two while waiting for Dixon to get himself together. He'd had his face in a bowl of tepid water and was just finishing up shaving. With tired but determined eyes, a gnawing dull pain in his hip, and his hair looking like a snake pit, he looked into the mirror, then turned and tossed a towel over the chair, glancing toward his friend from Mobile.
"The Charleston Daily Courier's October 16th story is rather vague don't you think?" remarked Alexander with a curious expression. "Melancholy occurrence to a small boat in the Cooper River, containing eight persons, all of whom were drowned,” he finished, while sipping his coffee.
Dixon limped over to the bureau and picked up his pocket watch, a diamond cravat pin he carried, and his lucky gold coin. After a final inspection of his dress and running a comb through his hair, he retrieved his shell jacket, saying, "After that blundering fiasco with the Augusta newspaper man I ran into, I imagine the Army has put a tight lid on what is published these days. I can't imagine anything getting to print without it first going through General Beauregard's headquarters. I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of his wrath. That being said, I'm not particularly looking forward to hashing it out with that fiery Creole this morning." He looked back into the mirror and pulled down on his red eye lids and grimaced. "We simply have no choice but to face him head on, William," Dixon added while turning to sit down on an ottoman and slip on his boots. He watched Alexander settle the paper down and pick up the other one, then walk to the window and lean against the sill reading it.
"It looks as though the Charleston Mercury has written a fine article about Hunley. We should get this to his sister," Alexander offered with sad eyes. It reads, “The remains of Captain Horace L. Hunley were interred in Magnolia Cemetery. His body was followed to the grave by a military escort, and a large number of citizens. The deceased was a native of Tennessee, but for many years past has been a resident of New Orleans. Possessed of an ample fortune, in the prime of manhood--for he was only thirty-six at the time of his death--with everything before him to make life attractive, he came to Charleston, and voluntarily joined in a patriotic enterprise which promised success, but which was attended with great peril. Though feeling, as appears from the last letter, which he wrote to his friends, a presentiment that he would perish in the adventure, he gave his whole heart, undeterred by the foreboding, to the undertaking, declaring that he would gladly sacrifice his life in the cause. That presentiment has been mournfully fulfilled. Yet who shall call that fate a sad one, which associates the name of its victim with those of his country's most unselfish martyrs”
"Christ in Heaven, what a waste. What are we going to do George?" Alexander asked, as he folded the newspaper and peered through the curtains down onto King Street.
Dixon poured himself a cup from the pot and without looking up said, "I'm going to march in there and tell General Beauregard the truth and you are going to back me. He may not like it, and I'm certain he will not be expecting, nor be accustomed to junior officers speaking in such bold fashion but he needs to know where the fault lies."
"Yes but what are we really doing George? What do you hope to accomplish here?" After a moment he turned from the window with a grim expression. "Perhaps we should return home; there's work to be done there." He softly added, "We have no crew, our boat is a wreck, and we've lost…we've lost all the confidence of the department commander and our own credibility."
"Who has lost any credibility?" Dixon asked astonished. He stood there with his mouth opened wide, like the entrance to a cave. Then he blurted, "Have you lost all confidence? Christ Alexander, you understand what's happened here don't you? It was not the boat’s fault, nor the crews! That danged arrogant Hunley forgot to close the forward sea cock. The imbecile flooded the boat and…and KILLED EVERYONE!" Dixon dropped his cup down with a crash, he was so enraged. Spinning he said, "His problem was he was too smart for his own darn good and must have become disoriented somehow. No one and I repeat no one has yet to see this vessel in action under the command of a skilled commander and a well-trained crew. Ever since that boat arrived, there has been nothing but rabble-rousers and know-it-alls circling like vultures. All of this could have been prevented!" Dixon finished, nearly choking with emotion.
Alexander turned back to the window and took a deep breath. Knowing this was as close to the truth as any other explanation. He and Dixon alone had examined the boat after the bodies were removed. They knew what had happened within the first few minutes, It was plainly obvious to them. Essentially, they knew every fundamental feature inherent to the safe operation of their boat, and they understood how every nut, bolt, lever and valve functioned. Not only had they built the submarine, they'd helped design most of the systems on board, then tested them, proving the submarine's lethal capabilities over and over again.
After a few moments of silence, Alexander looked at Dixon. "Is that what you plan on telling the General?" he asked.
"Yes."
They both stood there in the quiet of the room and stared at each other solemnly. There was nothing left to say. It was lay it on the line, or go home. Dixon snatched up his kepi saying, "Lets get this over with."
General Beauregard's Headquarters
114 Broad St.
Charleston, SC
Saturday, November 14, 1863
10:00 a.m.
General Beauregard was sitting behind his new desk listening to an onslaught of heated discussions, being bombarded back and forth across the room. His new location had yet to be organized as he'd have preferred. His battle map was not pinned to a wall but stretched out on a table, and he had stacks of reports and files scattered to the four corners of the room.
He had mustered together an assemblage of experts and trusted advisors consisting of his Chief of Staff, who himself was none to happy with the new location. Also present was the station commander of all Naval forces in Charleston, Commander Ingraham, heavy-set, and fierce. With him was Ingraham's nominal deputy, Squadron Commander John Randolph Tucker, as tough a fighter as they come, where the defense of Charleston was concerned. The final members of the morning’s meeting had yet to arrive. Beauregard knew a feud was broiling just under the surface, mostly in support of submarine warfare, and was hopeful when Major Francis Lee, also of his staff arrived, a sense of order could be restored. Of them all, Beauregard liked him the most; he was also the same age as the two lieutenants who were due to arrive momentarily. None of this really mattered though: he'd made up his mind. Submarines were more dangerous to their crews than they were to the enemy. They could bicker all they liked, however, he would not send more men into the cold confines of these iron death traps. A firm knock on his door quieted the arguments, as Corporal Simms entered announcing the major.
"Thank you corporal," said Major Lee sauntering in with a swagger.
General Beauregard stood and extended his hand smiling, "Come on in Francis, and join the party. Perhaps you can add a little levity to our discussion."
Looking around at the gathered group and feeling the tension in the room, he removed his kepi saying, "Gentlemen."
"Sit, sit. Can Simms get you some coffee or something to eat?"
"How are you Major?" General Jordan asked.
"For the moment, I'm fine General, and sir, some coffee would be splendid”.
"Good, very good", Beauregard replied. Turning towards the door he shouted, "Simms! Bring us a tray of coffee please. Have a seat Francis, we are expecting those two lieutenants from Mobile, who arrived to handle the Fish Boat. We were just hashing over the merits of underwater weapons, while waiting on the boat’s commander, a Lieutenant Dixon. Have you met him?"
Major Lee placed his cap on his lap and looked around the cluttered new office saying, "I'm afraid I've not had that pleasure, sir."
"Well I asked you here today to advise and listen to their petition. Your opinion is highly valued in this matter”.
"Indeed", chimed Commander Duncan. "How are things progressing at the shop on those new detonators you've been testing?"
Turning to face the naval commander he replied, "They seem to be functioning impressively, sir. Charles Sprague was a devastating loss to our operation. I've been trying to carry on his vision, and his designs are what we've managed to expand upon. The results are truly amazing. These new torpedoes will sink any ship afloat, I'm confident of that. It's the execution and deployment of these weapons that causes tactical concerns", turning to look at them all, he added, "Sirs."
The office became quiet as the door opened again with Simms leading Lieutenants Dixon and Alexander into the crowded room. Corporal Simms set the tray down on the corner of the General's desk and announced, "General Beauregard may I present Lieutenant George E. Dixon and Lieutenant William Alexander of the 21st Alabama, on temporary assignment to Charleston." Gracefully Simms backed out of the room.
Everyone stared at the tall elegant officer in a well-tailored uniform, looking as confident as the day is long.
"Sir!" he snapped. "Thank you for granting us the opportunity to address this panel. Please allow me to introduce my second in command, Lieutenant Alexander."
General Beauregard stood again and gestured for the two officers to take a seat. Walking around from his desk his motioned to his guests, "I've asked my deputy chief, General Jordan to join us, along with my naval counterparts, Commander Duncan and Squadron Commander Tucker. The young major there is Major Lee. An engineer in my ordnance and munitions division in whom I have great confidence." Beauregard looked his young guests over and then offered again, "Please gentlemen, take a seat."
Dixon stood his ground and faced the group, then turned back to General Beauregard. "Sir, with all due respect I'd…we'd prefer to stand and state our cause. We consider this matter to be of grave importance, and not one to be cast asunder by casual or informal conversation, as another misfortune of this war."
General Beauregard evaluated this tall, articulate, and handsome lieutenant, then leaned back against his desk, shrugging his shoulders, while looking at his seated guests.
"Very well Lieutenant, you may remain standing but please, ‘at ease’. The floor is yours but mind you, I will not entertain lofty notions of these vessels you are advocating, as anything but dangerous iron coffins. I had high hopes of your success after its arrival here in Charleston. So much so, that I've done my fair share of investigating these types of weapon platforms. Therefore, before you state your case, let me share something with you both." He regarded the Lieutenant with admiration, and with regret. He walked back and sat down, looking over some reports until he found what he was searching for. Looking briefly up at the room’s assemblage, he settled in and read. Everyone watched his eyes scan the document. Dixon and Alexander's mouths had become parched making it hard to swallow. Patiently they waited.
General Beauregard began to read, "At 11:00 a.m. on the morning of June 19, 1862, the United States Navy's first combat submarine, designed by a French engineer, Brutus de Villeroi, parted her moorings at the Philadelphia Navy Yard, towed by the steam tug, Fred Kopp down the Delaware River. She was soon designated the U.S.S. Alligator." He let that sit a moment and stew in their minds. "The Confederate Secret Service has been fortunate enough to capture several documents from this launching of this Yankee vessel. One of them states, ‘To Samuel Eakins: You are placed in command of the submarine propeller boat designated, U.S.S. Alligator. It is a trust of considerable importance, requiring skill and good judgment on your part. So as soon as you have fully tested the boat, you will report to the Secretary of the Navy her description. The length, breadth, depth, amount of ballast, what apparatus you have on and in her, of all kinds, how she moves submerged, and at what speed, how she steers, how long it takes to depress her in five fathoms of water, and how long to elevate her, how far and with what distinctness an object can be seen through the glass globe on the top of the boat, how the divers operate outside the boat at a depth of forty feet, and how well they are supplied with air from the boat, and generally, her completeness for service against the enemy. This submarine boat as I understand it was to possess the following properties: 1st. Facilities of emulsion and immersion. 2nd. Self-propulsion above and below the water of up to 1 and 1/2 knots. 3rd. Capability of remaining with her crew a long time underwater by purifying the air contained in her. You will of course act under orders of Flag-Officer Goldsborough.’”
Looking up, General Beauregard passed the paper to Jordan, saying, “Gentlemen, you may read the conclusion yourselves.
"Acting Master John F. Winchester, who then commanded the U.S. Sumpter, was ordered to tow the submarine to Port Royal, South Carolina. The odd pair got underway on 31 March. The next day, the two ships encountered bad weather, which, on 2 April, forced Sumpter to cut Alligator adrift off Cape Hatteras. She either immediately sank or drifted for a while before sinking, ending the career of the United States Navy's first submarine at approximately 6 p.m., Latitude of 34.43 degrees, and Longitude of 75.20."
Beauregard picked up another paper, and his seated guests scooted forward in apt attention to this news, while Dixon and Alexander just looked at each other.
"Coastal defense examining committee upon my request has issued this report, ‘The history of the submarine machine is simply this: The United States Navy has been actively engaged in developing a working submarine that would prove effective in its design to remove or sink ships, the Tredegar Iron Works in Richmond has developed two underwater boats to date. Undoubtedly, these inventions are some of the most extraordinary discoveries of the age, but simply not practical. For the most part everyone who has entered one of these infernal machines has either smothered to death or drowned. This committee considers these vessels to be a failure and a monument to badly expended talent.’"
General Beauregard set the brief down and gazed over at his guests, then toward the two brave lieutenants standing before him. "Let me also add gentlemen that you have been here in Charleston only a short time, and since then, have managed to effectively bring about the deaths of two brave crews along with the original inventor himself, by the accidental sinking of the boat. If I'm not mistaken, thirteen men have forfeited their lives, and not one single attack on our blockade has taken place." Leaning back he asked, "Well, what have you to say Lieutenants?"
Dixon looked at Alexander and a brief, angry spark was just beneath the surface. Dixon glanced at the gathered guests who were surveying him, then back to the General. "With all due respect to your command here General Beauregard, this is a weapon of destruction. It's as simple as that. In the wrong hands, it's a stone cold killer of its own ilk. You yourself have witnessed the diving capabilities and potential of such a weapon. The fact that reckless attempts at showing off this vessel, using untrained personnel, permitted the first mishap, the second was due to absent-minded carelessness of Mr. Hunley himself. His thoughtlessness while in control of my vessel, killed everyone on board. His own ego is at fault here. In an effort to feed it, his need for popularity while demonstrating to the mass of gathering crowds taking place at the wharf, resulted in his untimely death and the brave men aboard. This attempt at glory-seeking, was against my standing orders to my first officer. They were to make repairs to some minor details, while I returned to Mobile to have my leave extended. They were not to take the boat anyplace. He'd blurted it all out in one massive breath, and Alexander was looking at him through the corner of his eye
Briefly pausing for emphasis, and to breath, he continued, “There has been a total lack of security involved with the testing and familiarization with these waters, and I was only days away from our first mission to sink one of those Yankee ships, sir."
It became so quiet in the room you could hear hooves clattering on the street. Before anyone could interject, Dixon pushed on, "We've inspected the boat and uncovered the cause of the accident."
He looked to them all, slowly panning the group, then continued, "The forward seacock that permits water into the boat for ballast while diving, was wide open. That is a manual valve that must be operated by screwing in the valve-stem handle, and then giving the pump a few turns. My crew are dead as a result of this not being done. It was not the boat’s fault." Dixon's eyes locked with General Beauregard, and the two men stared each other down. The other army and navy representatives looked to each other, nodding at the discovery of this extraordinarily interesting news.
"I see", said Beauregard. "That's quite a story, lieutenant. That took some nerve for you to come in here and tell it. What would you have me do?"
"Return the boat back to me, sir, and provide what I need to make it operational once again. Then advise me on where I can obtain another crew."
"Out of the question, Lt. Dixon."
"Sir, again with all due respect, you've yet to see this weapon under the command of a well-trained crew and an experienced commander. Not only did I help construct her", he turned to look at William Alexander, "We both did, sir. We know how to manage her effectively. We can do the impossible; we can sink those ships out there, sir."
General Beauregard sat there unnerved but without it registering on his countenance. He admired the young men before him--Dixon's air of confidence and dedication to see this mission through was commendable but uncanny. "You seem to carry an unyielding faith in your vessel, and your command abilities, Lieutenant," Still eyeing the two men, he looked over at his Chief of Staff. "What say you Thomas? Are you inclined to purchase a pig in the proverbial poke?”
"General, I've always been a supporter of this vessel, it's the diving of the boat that always gave me the jitters. Perhaps you can use the Hunley like the Davids? Just attach a torpedo under the prow."
"Sir, if I may intervene," said Major Lee turning a tinge of scarlet, "I'm not thrilled at that idea. We are arming, a partially submerged vessel with a spar torpedo attached to her bow that is steam powered. Effectively a guided ram with a charge. Having all our hard work and state of the art invention, attached to a hand cranked iron coffin, is nothing in which I care to partake."
"Noted, Major." Beauregard's eyebrows had raised a notch as he considered the possibilities. “What do you think? Can it be done on such a small vessel that's hand propelled?”
They all looked at Major Lee as he considered his options. With a casual nod, he indicated it could, but it was obvious he was reluctant to try, short of a direct order.
"What would you need Lieutenant, in order to make effective repairs on your vessel?" asked Beauregard.
"Well sir there is a terrible, lingering, rotting stench clinging to the interior hull. I will need scrub brushes, lime, and soap, as well as some Negroes to effectively clean and sanitize the inside. Then I need it, that is, the Hunley, moved to a discrete location, away from prying eyes and busybodies... Sir!"
Looking over to his Chief of Staff, Beauregard nodded.
"I'm already drafting an order General, to the Quartermaster and Engineering departments, having anticipated the outcome.”
Standing, Beauregard walked to the window, finding himself deep in thought. When he turned to face the room, he walked over and stood in front of Dixon and took a good look at the commander. "You understand that I must put several restrictions on the boat's use. First of all you will not dive the boat under the surface of the water. Second, you will make arrangements with Major Lee here to have a spar torpedo attached to the bow, and third, you will inform any recruits who wish to volunteer for this duty all that has happened to the previous crews. They are to understand and know the inherent dangers this duty involves. I'm sure the Commodore can provide able-bodied seamen from the Indian Chief , should you choose to use sailors. If you can agree to these requirements—make that ‘orders’, Lieutenant, I will have the vessel moved, and would be pleased if you begin the necessary repairs, and refitting for action at your earliest convenience."
Dixon and Alexander stood stunned, exhilaration churning their insides but remained silent. Everyone in the room observed the fire building behind their eyes, and then Dixon nodded affirmatively.
Flag Officer Tucker had remained silent and observant, throughout the discussions. With conviction he now spoke, "You two men are either very brave, or hold a deep sense of loyalty to duty, after all these previous failures."
Dixon and Alexander turned to look at the old weathered Navy officer. He finished with, "Every soldier knows that courage and foolhardiness are close companions, that discretion is often the better part of valor, in most wartime situations." He allowed that to settle a moment. "Let us hope that the courage you two displayed here today, will be followed by positive results." Turning to look at General Beauregard he said, "Pierre, I'll have a tug and a barge available to assist in moving that vessel off the wharf, and place it wherever it is best suited. Suggestions anyone?"
"I'll contact General Thomas Lanier over at Sullivan's Island", replied Jordan,. "Dixon you will report to him for your new base of operations. Get a list together for the Quartermaster and be ready to commence repairs on Monday morning. You two officers appear to be supremely confident, and by your own account these accidents seem an unlikely event to be repeated, so as long as the vessel is in the hands of a competent commander."
"Very well said, Thomas", interrupted General Beauregard, "but let me impress upon you two men, again, my desire; no, my mandate and imperative, that you stay within the restrictions I've placed. Both as to the recruitment of volunteers, and keeping that vessel afloat. No diving the boat, ever. Are we absolutely clear on this?"
"Yes sir!" Dixon and Alexander replied in unison.
“Breach Inlet is a discreet and deep water inlet facing the Atlantic. It is nestled next to Battery Marshall on Sullivan's Island’s northern shore. Security will be tight, and you will have a clear shot at the Union ships patrolling our waters." Standing, General Beauregard faced Dixon and said, "Good luck and good hunting."
Dixon and Alexander snapped off a firm salute, followed by, "Sir! Yes, sir. By your leave General."
"Gentlemen, you are dismissed."
The room settled into a quiet hush and General Beauregard had his doubts. "Where do we get these kind of men?" he asked no one in particular. "What do you think, John?"
"I think they’re as crazy as a bedbug. You'd never get me to crawl inside that infernal death trap. You have to admire that kind of courage, though."
"Indeed,” replied Beauregard, "You think they'll succeed?"
The room erupted in some stifled sneers and light chuckling, then Thomas Jordan said, "I think he'll sink the whole danged fleet, Pierre."
Headquarters, Admiral Dahlgren
South Atlantic Fleet
Hilton Head Island, South Carolina
Friday, November 20, 1863
7:35 a.m.
"Admiral, dispatch from Washington has just arrived."
"Thank you Yeoman. Stand by please." After a few moments of silence, Admiral Dahlgren rose to look out the windows of the old plantation house, the main signal station at Hilton Head. The harbor was booming with ships and activity. Turning back to his desk, he scribbled out some orders and handed them over.
"Please send this on to Otter Island at once. This is a priority dispatch."
"Very well Admiral, anything else? May I get you something to eat, sir?"
"I don't think so Yeoman, I just need those orders sent out to the Wabash immediately. My stomach is still not used to being on dry land." After a moment's pause, he thought better. "On second thought, perhaps some toast and a little of that jam might suffice. Maybe some orange juice it you can manage some. Let's try that shall we."
"Right away sir, I'm sure that I can."
"Thank you. I much appreciate your concern. You've been a great help while I've been here."
"It's been my pleasure, sir. By your leave then Admiral."
"Very well then, carry on."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Otter Island was a signal station near Hilton Head Island consisting of a 142-foot tower, and Fort Drayton to protect it from any perceived danger from Confederate raiders. There were dozens of similar signal stations, stretching along the coast between Port Royal Sound and Folly Island. A corpsman spelled out letters of the alphabet with two simple flag movements. Within a few minutes, Admiral Dahlgren's orders had traveled the 55 miles up the coast to Folly
Otter Island Signal Tower
Dahlgren’s Headquarters, Hilton Head
Beach. From there they were sent out to the bridge of the USS Wabash on station in the outer rim of Charleston Harbor.
U.S.S. Wabash
South Atlantic Fleet
Charleston Blockade
Charleston, South Carolina
Wednesday, December 2, 1863
4:00 p.m.
Eight years ago the heavily fortified steam frigate, USS Wabash was launched from her berth out of a Boston shipyard. She was 301 feet, 6 inches in length, with a draft of 23 feet. She weighed 4,808 tons and mounted 40 guns. She had a top speed of around 9 knots and maintained a crew of about 600 officers and sailors as her complement. She was the biggest frigate-class ship in the fleet and a formidable adversary on the high seas. She was also the command and flagship of the South Atlantic blockading Squadron. The key word being: was.
When Admiral Dahlgren took command of the South Atlantic Blockading Squadron back on July 6th, he'd transferred his flag off the spacious and comfortable Wabash to the USS Catskill. The Catskill was a monitor, one that was cramped, smelly, and hot, and provided no luxuries whatsoever. She was strictly a fighting vessel, one who was heavily armored, layered in a thick skin of sweltering iron. He would soon come to regret the transferring of his flag to this vessel but pride and determination kept him on station. Even to the point of near-death. If the broiling Carolina heat didn't kill you, he'd complained, the seasickness from the turbulent Fall weather would.
To be sure, the Admiral had no sea legs, truth be known he was not even a navy man. One of the driving forces behind his stubbornness to remain on a small and confining ship such as a monitor, was because of his critics. They claimed he was the president's fair-haired boy, that he'd received a special appointment to become an Admiral, that it never should have happened, and that he was nothing but an ordnance specialist. The trashy talk from the backbiters of Washington's power circle, claimed this kind of favoritism was in complete disregard to the traditions of seafaring men.
Not to be discredited or sneered at, the newly appointed Admiral chose to disregard the hardships he imposed upon himself. He continued to silence the backbiters prancing all over Washington, by his sufferings, which he issued in daily reports to Secretary of the Navy, Gideon Welles, referencing the conditions with which he struggled.
Back in July when Army Maj. General, Quincy Adams Gillmore suggested the two men combine their forces to silence the batteries defending Charleston harbor, Admiral Dahlgren jumped on the bandwagon. He lined his monitors up and prepared a combined assault on Cummings Point. What no one realized, was that General Beauregard had anticipated the assaults on Fort Wagner and knew that given the opportunity with his massive artillery emplacements all around his city and protecting the harbor, he could bottle up the Union forces on those narrow strips of sandy islands. At least that was the plan.
At first, it was touch and go. Dahlgren’s monitors moved in tandem with the ground forces, providing support with their 11-and 15-inch guns as the Union soldiers swept across Lighthouse Inlet. His monitors were in action every day against Charleston's massive fortifications. For the first time in American history, a true and effective partnership was established between army and navy to achieve an objective. It was the longest siege ever to assail Charleston. It was also the bloodiest. There were thousands of bodies scattered from the northern tip of Cummings Point all the way to the southern dunes of Folly Beach. All for nothing. The batteries defending Charleston's inner harbor were intact. The combined army and naval forces were trapped out on the sand-flea infested beaches, surrounded by dunes covered in wormy and rotting corpses. Arms and legs stuck out in every direction for 2000 yards. Conditions were no better out in the choppy Atlantic guarding the entrance to Charleston. The duty had been sweltering in 100-degree temperatures, the monitors’ sun-heated, iron-hot decks unbearable. It felt like they were walking out on an open frying pan as the sailors wallowed back and forth. There was nothing else they could do.
Under General Beauregard's leadership, Charleston remained defiant under the massive military might of both, the army and naval forces of the United States. Admiral Dahlgren's monitors were all shot through with ragged holes from Charleston's crack gunners. Their rudders, propellers, and propulsion gears were either rusting through and failing, or completely covered in thick hordes of marine growth and barnacles. They were fortunate to reach speeds of 3 knots, some less half that amount.
When the Admiral felt his command had suffered enough, he retired the Catskill and her escorts to Port Royal Sound for a complete overhaul and refit. It was a much-needed break from the choppy swells, which had kept him bed-ridden and vomiting. He established his headquarters at an abandoned plantation near Fort Mitchel, unoccupied since the island was captured in November of 1861 by Admiral DuPont and General Thomas W. Sherman. The Department of the South had been established soon after, and Hilton Head was fortified and became a military supply depot and official Army headquarters. At the time of the Admiral’s arrival, the Department was still under the command of Maj. General Gillmore.
A top watch in the forward crows-nest was monitoring the shore through a scope when he suddenly set it to the side and started writing on a pad. He then picked up his signal flags and returned the ship to shore communication. He then signaled the bridge through a bullhorn and dropped his message into a dispatch case connected to a guide-wire that stretched down to the quarterdeck.
"Lieutenant, signal coming in."
"Very well. Secure that forge and tell those engineers that's enough for today. Galley will be calling for chow at the top of the hour.
"Very well, sir." The young 2nd lieutenant reached over and pulled the dispatch from its case and sent it back. Within seconds, it was whisked away, high up into the mainsails crow's nest.
"Message, sir."
"Thank you Mr. Cushing. Please take the helm. Maintain course, note the ships log of the received signal, and clear the quarterdeck for evening chow. Keep watches on station, I'll…," Lieutenant J. J. Slusher, Officer of the Deck, started reading the dispatch in preparation of informing the skipper of the communication, when he stopped dead in his tracks. Looking at the helmsmen, then back at Mr. Cushing.
"Sir? You OK?"
Lieutenant Slusher dropped the dispatch down by his side and said, "I'll be... I've got to go see the captain. It appears we're being pulled off station. Effective immediately. A new ship will be taking up our duties in this quadrant. They're ordering the Housatonic to pull off station and report here. We're to be relieved at dawn."
The USS Housatonic was an auxiliary steamer. A three-masted sloop of war, her design called for using canvas on her main masts to capture the wind, while traversing the open sea. In addition to that, she was fitted with a boiler for steam propulsion when in calmer waters. She carried a unique invention where she could detach and pull her propeller out of the water when using her main sails. This reduced drag and allowed her to glide along un-restrained by the propeller and shaft.
The Housatonic
She was 207 feet in length. At her beam, she stood 38 feet from her gunwales to the water, and she weighed in at 1,240 tons with a crew of 150 men. The Housatonic had distinguished herself as a formidable platform from which to fight. Not only was she fast, she was highly maneuverable having an arsenal of some of the Navy's best guns, like the 100-pound Parrott rifle, a highly accurate, rapid-fire weapon. Those were complimented with three smaller 30-pound Parrott rifles, hurling a 29-pound shell, 6900 yards at a 25-degree elevation, in 27 seconds! One 11-inch Dahlgren smoothbore, and a pair of 32-pound smoothbores on her stern, completed her heavy weaponry. She'd become well recognized to the gunnery crews manning the ring of forts protecting Charleston's inner harbor in the last year, swooping in from the blockade's picket-line, shelling the forts and city in swift maneuvers. Captain Pickering would then turn about and dash out of range, taunting the Confederate gunners.
While on station, her crew had on numerous occasion, chased away attempts to run the blockade. The ship even managed to capture a couple, laying claim to their bounty, with the crew splitting up the shares. The Housatonic bragged a crack crew, teeming with confidence. A crew begging for a fight.
"Lieutenant Crosby, flash traffic coming in from Folly Island."
"Very well Chief. Please inform Mr. Higginson he's needed on the bridge."
"Aye, aye, sir."
The sun was settling over the city to the west and all was quiet. The wind had died down, leaving the entrance to the harbor silky smooth. Nothing but gentle swells as a southern twilight of pink and purple settled on the evening’s watches.
Captain Charles Pickering and his executive officer, F. J. Higginson made their way across the quarterdeck with laughter dancing in their eyes. When they reached the bridge, the captain snatched the dispatch from its basket and sent the case skyward.
"Well let us see what we have, shall we?"
"Lieutenant go ahead and mark the ships log, the captain and executive officer received flash traffic at…" he checked his watch. Then continued, "5:50 p.m."
"Aye, aye, Mr. Higginson."
"Well Lieutenant Crosby, Mr. Higginson," said the skipper, "we've been re-assigned. Fleet is moving us to another quadrant. The Wabash is being pulled off station for a refit. We're to take up her position and await further instructions. It seems there are some new concerns about Rebel torpedo boats as well. Further orders are to follow once we relieve her."
"Torpedo boats?" inquired the executive officer.
"Yes. It appears Washington is concerned for our safety." Captain Pickering smiled at his officers then stepped over to a sound tube.
"ATTENTION ENGINE ROOM! ATTENTION ENGINE ROOM? THIS IS THE CAPTAIN. KEEP BOILERS HOT, MAINTAIN TWENTY-FIVE POUNDS OF STEAM UNTIL SUNRISE. THAT IS ALL."
His executive officer and Lieutenant Crosby just stared at him.
"We are not to drop anchor in deep water as well. They feel we should be able to evade at a moments notice should we encounter one of these torpedo boats", the Captain explained.
"Captain, we've seen those odd-looking little boats," said Lieutenant Crosby. "Why they're no bigger than a canoe. We'll blow them out of the water. Be like swatting a gnat."
The captain chuckled, then looked to his executive in command. "Yes, yes, I agree. I can't believe all this myself. Orders are orders though. See they're carried out tonight, Mr. Higginson."
"Very well skipper."
Captain Pickering looked out over the water towards Charleston. The air was still, as night settled but there was something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Maybe just a feeling, one he couldn't shake. Dismissing it, he returned to his cabin without another thought.
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EXCERPT from The Last Confederate Coin
General P.G.T. Beauregard
Desperation, the mother of all invention
5:40 a.m., 22 August 1863, Atlantic Ocean, Lat. 32° 17’ 20” N., Long. 79° 20’ 35” W, Approximately 5.6 Nautical miles east southeast of Castle Pinckney, near entrance to Charleston Harbor, Charleston, South Carolina
On a windless, steamy night, the moon slipped from the inky-black sky plunging the Atlantic into darkness. The dazzling starlight twinkled and shimmered over the deep swells, and other than a heavenly flickering, nothing was lit. Captain Steele had ordered that not even the scintilla of a flame could be revealed. There was no pilothouse light, the compass housings were doused, tarps covered all the hatches and berths, the engine-room ventilation ports were closed, and there was absolutely no smoking. The glow from a cigar’s tip could be seen by an alert watchman for miles, as well as normal speech easily heard from great distances over the water. All commands were brought down from the helm and passed along in gut-wrenching whispers. Tensions were high this morning. Only the pulse of the mighty power plant below decks could be heard throbbing away. Steadily her paddles whipped up the Atlantic pushing the "Banshee" along at 18 knots.
Joseph Steele was an experienced blockade runner who was absolutely fearless as he was bold. As gritty and salty as they come. He knew his business, knew his crew, and knew his ship. Indeed, she was a fine vessel, one of the first steel ships to slip from Liverpool's Birkenhead Shipyards earlier in the year. England would boast loudly, proclaiming her to be one of the fastest designs to ever slice through the Atlantic; an exceptional innovation. From her keel up, she'd been constructed for the sole purpose of Trans-Atlantic Trade with the Confederate States of America.
She was 533 tons (burden), 214 feet in length from bow to stern, and a scant 20 feet wide on her beam. From amidships well beyond her gunwales, her decks were crammed high, supporting bale after bale of cotton, indigo, and tobacco. Like an arrow, she knifed through the grey swells with only eight feet of draft. Not only was she sleek and slender, with her stacks raked back, she was amazingly fast. This was her seventh successful voyage to Nassau bringing about handsome paydays for her and her crew.
She was skirting the coast just down from Wilmington, North Carolina, and making good steerage past the tricky shoals off Charleston's harbor. Once they made it past Lighthouse Inlet on the northern tip of Folly Island, she'd begin a gentle leeward turn to the east leaving the U.S Navy's Blockading Squadron off her port quarter.
Cunning as a fox, Steele had slipped these Yankee gun boats on many a moonless night, yet something had the salty old skipper on edge this morning. Uneasily he kept running his fingers through his hair. It was steely grey and cropped short to his scalp. He pulled his captain's cover down low over his eyes, and you could see them radiating in the dark, like soft, deep blue flames. Attentively they licked the shadows for any tell-tale signs of trouble. They missed nothing.
"Taylor," he muttered firmly, "if you even toy with the notion of bringing a match to that cigar you've been chomping on for the last two hours, your memoirs will read: Buried in boredom, I left the toiling task of being an assistant for the Liverpudlian Firm, and took to the high seas. It was there I didn't follow my captain's orders and he quickly tossed my English ass overboard on a calm, star filled night. It was there, I quickly became fish food! Sir your dreams of adventure, fame, and fortune will follow you to the bottom of the Atlantic somewhere off the Carolina coast."
He turned from the helm to face his newly acquired green guest. With a tempered, determined, and sturdy look, one hardened from years at sea, his eyes never wavered when he added, "Mister, do we understand each other?"
A few moments ticked off, when from the darkness Thomas Taylor whispered, "Indeed we do captain. Indeed we do."
Breaking the spell, Taylor had to look away. The cigar he held had been nearly gnawed down to a soggy stump, when he slowly pulled it from his mouth looking at the soppy end. Violently, he hurled it out the pilothouse window saying, "My deepest apologies sir."
Suddenly the western sky glowed afire with a resounding boom that rolled deep into the Atlantic. The entire horizon seemed to be raining fire down on the city of Charleston. Captain Steele had never seen anything like it before. Six miles out to sea her pilothouse lit up, casting long shadows out over the grey water, and then just as quickly she plunged back into the inkiness of night.
"Yankee gun boat off the port quarter!” a forward watch said.
"All stop!"
The "Banshee" went dead in the water...
General P.G.T. Beauregard
Desperation, the mother of all invention
5:40 a.m., 22 August 1863, Atlantic Ocean, Lat. 32° 17’ 20” N., Long. 79° 20’ 35” W, Approximately 5.6 Nautical miles east southeast of Castle Pinckney, near entrance to Charleston Harbor, Charleston, South Carolina
On a windless, steamy night, the moon slipped from the inky-black sky plunging the Atlantic into darkness. The dazzling starlight twinkled and shimmered over the deep swells, and other than a heavenly flickering, nothing was lit. Captain Steele had ordered that not even the scintilla of a flame could be revealed. There was no pilothouse light, the compass housings were doused, tarps covered all the hatches and berths, the engine-room ventilation ports were closed, and there was absolutely no smoking. The glow from a cigar’s tip could be seen by an alert watchman for miles, as well as normal speech easily heard from great distances over the water. All commands were brought down from the helm and passed along in gut-wrenching whispers. Tensions were high this morning. Only the pulse of the mighty power plant below decks could be heard throbbing away. Steadily her paddles whipped up the Atlantic pushing the "Banshee" along at 18 knots.
Joseph Steele was an experienced blockade runner who was absolutely fearless as he was bold. As gritty and salty as they come. He knew his business, knew his crew, and knew his ship. Indeed, she was a fine vessel, one of the first steel ships to slip from Liverpool's Birkenhead Shipyards earlier in the year. England would boast loudly, proclaiming her to be one of the fastest designs to ever slice through the Atlantic; an exceptional innovation. From her keel up, she'd been constructed for the sole purpose of Trans-Atlantic Trade with the Confederate States of America.
She was 533 tons (burden), 214 feet in length from bow to stern, and a scant 20 feet wide on her beam. From amidships well beyond her gunwales, her decks were crammed high, supporting bale after bale of cotton, indigo, and tobacco. Like an arrow, she knifed through the grey swells with only eight feet of draft. Not only was she sleek and slender, with her stacks raked back, she was amazingly fast. This was her seventh successful voyage to Nassau bringing about handsome paydays for her and her crew.
She was skirting the coast just down from Wilmington, North Carolina, and making good steerage past the tricky shoals off Charleston's harbor. Once they made it past Lighthouse Inlet on the northern tip of Folly Island, she'd begin a gentle leeward turn to the east leaving the U.S Navy's Blockading Squadron off her port quarter.
Cunning as a fox, Steele had slipped these Yankee gun boats on many a moonless night, yet something had the salty old skipper on edge this morning. Uneasily he kept running his fingers through his hair. It was steely grey and cropped short to his scalp. He pulled his captain's cover down low over his eyes, and you could see them radiating in the dark, like soft, deep blue flames. Attentively they licked the shadows for any tell-tale signs of trouble. They missed nothing.
"Taylor," he muttered firmly, "if you even toy with the notion of bringing a match to that cigar you've been chomping on for the last two hours, your memoirs will read: Buried in boredom, I left the toiling task of being an assistant for the Liverpudlian Firm, and took to the high seas. It was there I didn't follow my captain's orders and he quickly tossed my English ass overboard on a calm, star filled night. It was there, I quickly became fish food! Sir your dreams of adventure, fame, and fortune will follow you to the bottom of the Atlantic somewhere off the Carolina coast."
He turned from the helm to face his newly acquired green guest. With a tempered, determined, and sturdy look, one hardened from years at sea, his eyes never wavered when he added, "Mister, do we understand each other?"
A few moments ticked off, when from the darkness Thomas Taylor whispered, "Indeed we do captain. Indeed we do."
Breaking the spell, Taylor had to look away. The cigar he held had been nearly gnawed down to a soggy stump, when he slowly pulled it from his mouth looking at the soppy end. Violently, he hurled it out the pilothouse window saying, "My deepest apologies sir."
Suddenly the western sky glowed afire with a resounding boom that rolled deep into the Atlantic. The entire horizon seemed to be raining fire down on the city of Charleston. Captain Steele had never seen anything like it before. Six miles out to sea her pilothouse lit up, casting long shadows out over the grey water, and then just as quickly she plunged back into the inkiness of night.
"Yankee gun boat off the port quarter!” a forward watch said.
"All stop!"
The "Banshee" went dead in the water...
Excerpt from the soon-to-be published "The Last Confederate Coin"
April 7, 1862, 5:00 AM
Near Duncan Field, Hell's Hollow
Northeast of the Church
Shiloh, Tennessee
Fighting to keep his eyes open and just breathe, Dixon gulped in some sour air with that sickly-sweet taste of death on it. His blood ran cold at the dismal position he woke to find himself in. Screams of agony had wailed all night, eventually wasting away into pitiful moans. A ghoulishness had settled around him and even Mother Nature was filled with loathing at the spring morning drawing closer. What he saw was the ragged edges peeping through the trees like a frightened child. He was shivering so violently that his teeth rattled like woodpeckers on a hollow trunk. Much more of this and he believed he wasn't going to make it. His eyes grew heavy and he closed them recalling the sweet scent of Peach blossoms on the wind yesterday. The air was alive with their aromas, and everything dripped thickly in beautiful colors. Opening his eyes he prayed the gullywashing misery of freezing rain would cease. If he survived the night, he knew the enchanting grace of this southern orchard would never be the same.
Thunderclaps of lightning attacked the sky whipping it into a frenzy of electric discharges. The freezing rain was steady and torrential, and had Dixon soaked to the bone. Lying on his side in three inches of frigid water he shook and trembled uncontrollably. Powerless to sit up and crawl for help, he just laid there in the muck letting the drizzle pound his sooty face.
The rumbling of thunderstorms vibrated the sloshy ground giving the impression of incoming artillery. With each thump Dixon somehow found the strength to give a jittery shudder when the dazzling lightning split the sky. It illuminated the earth in shimmering forks and flickers, and eerie images began to form around him. What he discovered was that he was not alone in the grass.
What was left of Sergeant George Dixon and Company "A" of the 21st Alabama Infantry, CSA, was scattered indiscriminately all over the lower hillside as if tossed from a tornado. They'd literally been chewed up and spewed out with everything imaginable from the military. It littered the entire countryside looking more and more like Hell had unleashed its demons in Tennessee. Hilariously they had visited these armies in a murderous rage and now stood back admiring their work.
Everything in their path lay wasted in death and destruction, and in their wake were bullet-riddled canteens, moaning men, and torn haversacks. Stretched out in every direction were bent and severed rifles next to clumps of ammunition pouches and tattered shards of shredded men. There were pieces of broken swords glimmering in the rain, and bayonets scattered lying stained and crusty. Artillery field pieces were entangled, bent and broken, and every dozen feet or so, wrecked wagons and crushed caissons lay in heaps. On all sides of these were the horses. Hundreds upon hundreds of dead horses. Each of them askew with stiff and pointy legs and bloated bodies.
The gaseous process from decaying flesh left a steamy stench drifting on the morning air. It was clawing at the back of Dixons’s throat with a sickening sensation. All around him the animals and men alike had become stiff and bloated. Like ballooned manikins their tunics became swollen tight, popping and splitting their buttonholes and pants. Sadly, the poor devils looked awkwardly funny.
His whole squad had been decimated. All of them. Over the next few days, their fate would end up in the hands of Union burial details whose callous treatment became brutal and heartless. With no more ceremonial dignity given a stray dog, forty-foot long muddy pits were carved out of the Tennessee turf, then mules would be harnessed and ropes strung throughout the corpses. Five and six at a time were dragged stiff and bloated into the shallow ditches by the hundreds. When the pits were full and overflowing, the Federal soldiers walked along the edges kicking and stomping with cruelty, the jutting arms and feet protruding desperately for some Christian mercy. Some looked up with sightless cloudy eyes like dead fish. They had fish eyes. Others had pools of water filling their sockets and smearing their sooty faces, giving them a snaky demeanor. They were met with shovels and picks, packing them tighter and tighter before tossing upon their sad faces, the soggy Tennessee soil. To know those boys would be laid out wasted like that, all tightly packed together in those gory pits was an abomination. They were sticky and slimy, and looked like the lost souls of the damned.
Struggling against the pull on his eyelids, Dixon blinked trying to clear the cobwebs and stay awake. He didn't know what day it was, or how long he'd been out. He remembered setting his friend, Big Nate down after he'd been harpooned from behind, and then the next moment he was spinning laying flat on his back unable to breathe or move. The world had looked cockeyed when he stared down his drawn out hand. A smoking pistol looked back at him, but it was just beyond his grasp. Within inches of his groping and stretched out fingers, but it might as well been a mile cause he couldn't move a muscle. He felt the coppery taste of his own death creeping down the back of his throat, and he gulped, wincing in agony thinking his back was broken or that he was bleeding out.
Nothing was as it should be or where it was supposed to be. Fumbling helplessly, he swore and tried to sit up but couldn't. Looking towards his frozen legs he was racked with a bone-rattling shiver. Strangely something warm and oozy was spilling out of him. Reaching down it had felt like he'd dipped his hand in a bucket of wet liver. In disbelief his head fell back smacking with a splash. With a calmness that comes from the saving grace of Christ, he prayed a silent prayer, then cried out, "Oh dear God! Sweet Jesus look at me now, what have I done?" In the hushed stillness of the morning with the cruel ice-cold drizzle pelting his face, he knew a hideous sight was waiting to greet him at sunrise, one full of broken bodies; besieged by a rank stench. Blind terror swam in his thoughts and he got a prickly sensation believing he saw steamy patches of his friends’ souls rising on the wind. That's when he let go.
Having felt God's presence, his defenses all but gone, the dam finally burst. All alone he wept on a rainy morning in Tennessee. The sting of remorse was agonizing and perfect and that is...that is when he remembered (in vivid detail) what had happened yesterday, August the 6th, 1862.
April 7, 1862, 5:00 AM
Near Duncan Field, Hell's Hollow
Northeast of the Church
Shiloh, Tennessee
Fighting to keep his eyes open and just breathe, Dixon gulped in some sour air with that sickly-sweet taste of death on it. His blood ran cold at the dismal position he woke to find himself in. Screams of agony had wailed all night, eventually wasting away into pitiful moans. A ghoulishness had settled around him and even Mother Nature was filled with loathing at the spring morning drawing closer. What he saw was the ragged edges peeping through the trees like a frightened child. He was shivering so violently that his teeth rattled like woodpeckers on a hollow trunk. Much more of this and he believed he wasn't going to make it. His eyes grew heavy and he closed them recalling the sweet scent of Peach blossoms on the wind yesterday. The air was alive with their aromas, and everything dripped thickly in beautiful colors. Opening his eyes he prayed the gullywashing misery of freezing rain would cease. If he survived the night, he knew the enchanting grace of this southern orchard would never be the same.
Thunderclaps of lightning attacked the sky whipping it into a frenzy of electric discharges. The freezing rain was steady and torrential, and had Dixon soaked to the bone. Lying on his side in three inches of frigid water he shook and trembled uncontrollably. Powerless to sit up and crawl for help, he just laid there in the muck letting the drizzle pound his sooty face.
The rumbling of thunderstorms vibrated the sloshy ground giving the impression of incoming artillery. With each thump Dixon somehow found the strength to give a jittery shudder when the dazzling lightning split the sky. It illuminated the earth in shimmering forks and flickers, and eerie images began to form around him. What he discovered was that he was not alone in the grass.
What was left of Sergeant George Dixon and Company "A" of the 21st Alabama Infantry, CSA, was scattered indiscriminately all over the lower hillside as if tossed from a tornado. They'd literally been chewed up and spewed out with everything imaginable from the military. It littered the entire countryside looking more and more like Hell had unleashed its demons in Tennessee. Hilariously they had visited these armies in a murderous rage and now stood back admiring their work.
Everything in their path lay wasted in death and destruction, and in their wake were bullet-riddled canteens, moaning men, and torn haversacks. Stretched out in every direction were bent and severed rifles next to clumps of ammunition pouches and tattered shards of shredded men. There were pieces of broken swords glimmering in the rain, and bayonets scattered lying stained and crusty. Artillery field pieces were entangled, bent and broken, and every dozen feet or so, wrecked wagons and crushed caissons lay in heaps. On all sides of these were the horses. Hundreds upon hundreds of dead horses. Each of them askew with stiff and pointy legs and bloated bodies.
The gaseous process from decaying flesh left a steamy stench drifting on the morning air. It was clawing at the back of Dixons’s throat with a sickening sensation. All around him the animals and men alike had become stiff and bloated. Like ballooned manikins their tunics became swollen tight, popping and splitting their buttonholes and pants. Sadly, the poor devils looked awkwardly funny.
His whole squad had been decimated. All of them. Over the next few days, their fate would end up in the hands of Union burial details whose callous treatment became brutal and heartless. With no more ceremonial dignity given a stray dog, forty-foot long muddy pits were carved out of the Tennessee turf, then mules would be harnessed and ropes strung throughout the corpses. Five and six at a time were dragged stiff and bloated into the shallow ditches by the hundreds. When the pits were full and overflowing, the Federal soldiers walked along the edges kicking and stomping with cruelty, the jutting arms and feet protruding desperately for some Christian mercy. Some looked up with sightless cloudy eyes like dead fish. They had fish eyes. Others had pools of water filling their sockets and smearing their sooty faces, giving them a snaky demeanor. They were met with shovels and picks, packing them tighter and tighter before tossing upon their sad faces, the soggy Tennessee soil. To know those boys would be laid out wasted like that, all tightly packed together in those gory pits was an abomination. They were sticky and slimy, and looked like the lost souls of the damned.
Struggling against the pull on his eyelids, Dixon blinked trying to clear the cobwebs and stay awake. He didn't know what day it was, or how long he'd been out. He remembered setting his friend, Big Nate down after he'd been harpooned from behind, and then the next moment he was spinning laying flat on his back unable to breathe or move. The world had looked cockeyed when he stared down his drawn out hand. A smoking pistol looked back at him, but it was just beyond his grasp. Within inches of his groping and stretched out fingers, but it might as well been a mile cause he couldn't move a muscle. He felt the coppery taste of his own death creeping down the back of his throat, and he gulped, wincing in agony thinking his back was broken or that he was bleeding out.
Nothing was as it should be or where it was supposed to be. Fumbling helplessly, he swore and tried to sit up but couldn't. Looking towards his frozen legs he was racked with a bone-rattling shiver. Strangely something warm and oozy was spilling out of him. Reaching down it had felt like he'd dipped his hand in a bucket of wet liver. In disbelief his head fell back smacking with a splash. With a calmness that comes from the saving grace of Christ, he prayed a silent prayer, then cried out, "Oh dear God! Sweet Jesus look at me now, what have I done?" In the hushed stillness of the morning with the cruel ice-cold drizzle pelting his face, he knew a hideous sight was waiting to greet him at sunrise, one full of broken bodies; besieged by a rank stench. Blind terror swam in his thoughts and he got a prickly sensation believing he saw steamy patches of his friends’ souls rising on the wind. That's when he let go.
Having felt God's presence, his defenses all but gone, the dam finally burst. All alone he wept on a rainy morning in Tennessee. The sting of remorse was agonizing and perfect and that is...that is when he remembered (in vivid detail) what had happened yesterday, August the 6th, 1862.
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The coin that saved Lt. Dixon's leg at the Battle of Shiloh, a gift from his sweetheart, Queenie Bennett, in Mobile, Alabama.