Clive Cussler; Craig Dirgo (19 page)

WEEHAWKEN
IS BURIED deep, more than ten feet, a mile or so north of
Keokuk
Her bow points on an angle toward Morris Island, not far from where Fort Wagner once stood. The remains of the fort, famous for the attack against it by black soldiers from a Massachusetts fighting regiment, depicted in the movie Glory, now lie a hundred feet out into the water. This vast erosion came after the long rock jetties were laid along the channel into Charleston Harbor shortly before the twentieth century.

Because of
Weehawken’s
fame as the only ironclad to capture another ironclad in battle, I hope that someday archaeologists will excavate her as a historic treasure.

We spent half a day dragging the gradiometer all around the seascape before we passed her tomb in the silt. Hers was a tale so gripping, it shocked the world. Unfortunately, the crew slept through most of it.

It was a hot, humid, miserable day without a breath of wind on the water, a day that made me wonder what the local temperature would be in the next life. Then a voice came over the boat’s radio and announced that the temperature was 96 degrees and the humidity pegged at 100 percent. I gazed up into a totally cloudless sky. Dumb westerner that I was, I couldn’t fathom how the humidity could be 100 percent when it wasn’t raining.

To pass time during the search, I asked Ralph, “Did you know Shakespeare wrote Hamlet and Macbeth?”

Ralph looked thoughtful for a moment, then replied, “Oh really, did they ever answer his letters?”

This business requires patience sometimes—a whole lot of patience.

FINDING
PATAPSCO
CAME as a surprise. Unlike the other vessels that rest under a thick blanket of silt, she rests upright and exposed on the bottom of the channel off Fort Moultrie. We gambled that part of her might be protruding from the bottom and engaged the sidescan sonar. The search took less than twenty minutes, and we found her on the first pass.

Harold anchored the boat. No one wanted to remain on board when we had an honest-to-gosh wreck to investigate—especially one standing up proud out of the mud. The whole crew went over and swam down forty feet to the hulk. There were artifacts galore, from ship’s hardware to cannonballs. None was retrieved. We had to maintain our squeaky-clean NUMA image of searching for history and leaving salvage to others. Besides, the U.S. Navy considers
Patapsco
a tomb, since the bones of sixty-two of her crew remain inside. Still, she is a historical treasure that should be studied in the future.

Though she was extensively salvaged by Mallifert’s divers, he made no mention in his diaries of finding any remains of the crew.

WE WENT ON that summer to find several blockade runners that had been run ashore and destroyed. We also looked for the Confederate ironclads
Chicora, Palmetto State,
and
Charleston,
destroyed when Sherman marched into Charleston, but found no sign of wreckage. Benjamin Mallifert also salvaged these wrecks, and whatever was left when he finished was dredged out of existence by the Army Corps of Engineers when they deepened the ship’s channel to the navy base up the Cooper River. Some people just don’t have a love for history.

I am reminded of personal loss in my past. I hate to belittle my poor old mother, but I find it hard to forgive her for throwing my comic book collection in the trash after I enlisted in the air force. Many years later, I found a list of my comics in my old Boy Scout manual. I asked an expert to appraise the first Superman, Batman,
Torch,
and a hundred others I’d owned. The results hurt badly. According to the appraisal, if I still owned them today, they would be worth three million dollars to collectors.

My mother also sneaked stamps out of my collection and mailed letters with them. I wish I could have seen the face of the postal worker when she handed over a letter with a two hundred-year-old stamp worth $500. I suppose most men have the same stories about their mothers.

IN FEBRUARY 2001, I asked Ralph to go back and correct the positions of the wrecks we had located with the Motorola Mini Ranger system using the newer differential global positioning system. He also completed a magnetic contour map of the wreck sites. All neat and tidy.

Keokuk
was relocated and now found to have 6 feet of silt covering her. The water depth was only 16 feet, and her contour indicated a mass at least 130 feet long, so much of her lower hull had to be intact.

Weehawken was also pinpointed and found to be resting northwest to southeast in twenty-two feet of water under twelve feet of silt. Ralph also located a magnetic target about a hundred feet from the suspected bow. This could well be
Weehawken’
s anchor and chain, since the mag contour runs in a straight line.

Ralph’s report brought down the curtain on the Siege of Charleston shipwreck hunt. My fondest wish is that once the
Hunley
is finally conserved and mounted for public viewing, the museum building will be large enough to accept and display hundreds, perhaps thousands, of artifacts from Charleston’s glorious maritime history that wait in the silt to be retrieved and preserved.

PART SIX

The Cannon of San Jacinto

I

The Twin Sisters
1835, 1865, 1905

“DAMN THEM,” HENRY GRAVES SAID, “DAMN THEM straight to hell.”

“What is it, Hank?” Sol Thomas asked.

Graves wiped the sweat from his brow and motioned with his head for Thomas and the others in their party to follow. The afternoon was sweltering, the land covered with a blanket of wet, oppressive heat. August in Houston is never temperate, and this, the fifteenth day of August 1865, was no exception. Climbing off the Galveston, Houston & Harrisburg Railroad platform, Graves led his party around the back of the wood-framed whitewashed building until they were out of earshot of any Union sympathizers.

“You see that pile of cannon?” Graves whispered.

“Sure,” Jack Taylor noted, “damn Yankees are probably shipping them north to the smelter.”

“Well,” Graves said, “two of them are the Twin Sisters.”

“You sure?” Ira Pruitt asked. “You sure those are Sam Houston’s San Jacinto guns?”

“Positive,” Graves said. “I read the plaques mounted on the carriages.”

Sick with measles, John Barnett crouched in the dirt before he fell over. “Lord,” he said.

The men were standing in a semicircle on the packed dirt. Off to the side was Dan, Henry Graves’s friend and servant. It was four months after Lee’s surrender at Appomattox, and other than a few skirmishes in Texas, the long War Between the States was finally over. The five soldiers were dressed in the Confederate butternut-colored wool uniforms used in the last years of the war. The uniforms were tattered, dirty, and soaked with sweat. The men didn’t look much better.

Thomas had a swollen jaw, the result of a rotting rear molar he had been unable to have extracted. Pruitt looked like a walking skeleton. The scant rations available to a common soldier on the losing side of the war had caused him to shed nearly fifteen pounds. His uniform hung on his frame like coveralls on a scarecrow. Taylor was limping. The soles of his boots had worn through in several places, and he had stepped on the bent end of a rusty nail while aboard the railroad cattle car.

And then there was Barnett, a proud citizen of Gonzales, Texas. Barnett had emerged from the war relatively unscathed, only to be infected with measles upon mustering out. His face was splotchy and covered with tiny spots. The skin that was unaffected was a pale white. Bamett had a temperature of 101 degrees—not much higher than the temperature outdoors. Only Graves looked reasonably healthy.

Graves stared to the west at the sun, a glowing red orb clouded in haze hanging low near the horizon.

“Be dark in a few hours,” he noted, “and the train north doesn’t leave tomorrow until midmorning.”

Thomas reached into his pocket and removed a tattered piece of paper. “My commanding officer said there was a hotel here that was supportive of Confederate soldiers.” He handed the paper to Graves, the de facto leader of the defeated soldiers.

“Harris House,” Graves read. “Let’s make our way there and talk this over.”

The Confederates walked down Magnolia and into the town of Harrisburg. Dan followed a short distance behind.

1835: THIRTY YEARS BEFORE

“You need to sign that you are accepting,” the clerk said.

Inside the shipping office along the levee in New Orleans, Dr. C. C. Rice checked the receipt and initialed it. Then he walked up the gangplank and joined his family on the deck of the steamboat. The United States had a policy of neutrality concerning the war between Texas and Mexico, so the two cannon in his control had been listed on the manifest as Hollow Ware.

The pair of cannon had been forged at the Cincinnati foundry of Greenwood & Webb in secrecy, paid for by funds donated by the citizens of Ohio who were sympathetic to the Texas cause. Lacking foundry marks, ammunition, caissons, or limber chests, they weighed around 350 pounds each.

Two metal tubes—700 pounds aggregate weight—were destined to free a nation.

“They’re raising that big board,” Eleanor Rice said.

“That’s called the gangplank,” Mrs. Rice said sweetly. “It means the trip has started.”

Eleanor’s twin sister, Elizabeth, smiled. “That means we’ll soon be in Texas,” she said to her father, who clutched her hand, “and then me and Ellie get our horses, right?”

“Yes, dear,” Dr. Rice said, “soon we’ll be at our new home.”

The trip of 100 miles down the Mississippi River to the Gulf of Mexico, combined with the 350 miles across the Gulf to Galveston, took ten full days. It was just past 9 P.M. when the boilers were stoked and the boat made her way into the Mississippi River current.

“IT TOOK us longer than scheduled,” Mrs. Rice said, as the steamboat passed over the bar into Galveston Harbor. “Will there be someone to meet us?”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Rice said. “We’ll just have to see.”

“There she is,” Josh Bartlett shouted.

The ship was several hours overdue, and his hastily assembled band had grown more and more drunk as each minute had passed. Bartlett reached over to support a tuba player as he struggled into his instrument. The fife player was laughing hysterically.

“Get ready, girls,” Dr. Rice said, as the ship was tied fast to the pier.

The crate carrying the cannon was rolled out of the hold and down the plank, followed by Dr. Rice, his wife, and the twin girls. The makeshift band was playing a crude medley of Texas revolution songs as Dr. Rice set foot on the wood-planked pier. Bartlett, dressed in an ill-fitting suit covered by a red sash denoting his largely ceremonial position in the Republic of Texas government, walked forward and shook Rice’s hand.

“Welcome to Texas,” he said, over the noise from the band.

“Thank you,” Dr. Rice said.

Rice opened the top of the crate to show off the two guns, then nodded to his twin daughters, who stood next to him on the pier.

“On behalf of the citizens of Cincinnati,” Eleanor said.

“We present you these two cannon,” Elizabeth finished.

The drunken fife player stopped playing for a moment and yelled over the heads of the small crowd of people assembled. “Looks like we have two sets of twins here.”

“Twin sisters for freedom,” Bartlett said, laughing.

A STRAW-HAIRED LAD of sixteen climbed from a mare flecked with sweat.

“Mr. Houston,” he said breathlessly, “the guns have arrived.”

Houston was crouching in front of his tent, sketching out battle plans on the dirt with a stick. He smiled broadly, then turned to his aide.

“Make sure they are brought forward immediately,” he said to the aide, Tommy Kent.

“Right away,” Kent said.

“This changes everything,” Houston said, rubbing the dirt clear with his boot.

The odds were against the Texans. Houston commanded an army of 783 troops. The invading Mexican forces, capably led by General Santa Anna, numbered 7,500. The Mexican soldiers had uniforms, regular rations, and numerous field pieces to lend them support. The Texan troops were ill equipped, underfed, and, until now, lacking even a single cannon. Most of the Texans had little or no combat experience. The Mexican troops had been drilled and honed into a cohesive fighting force.

Until now, Houston had been content to retreat. Three months prior, when Santa Anna’s troops had poured across the Rio Grande, the Texan army consisted of a small garrison located at the Alamo at San Antonio, another at the fort at Goliad, and a small contingent of troops that had assembled at Gonzales.

The Texans were outnumbered and outgunned.

“SIR,” KENT REPORTED, “we have no shot for the guns.”

“I was afraid that might happen,” Houston said. “I’ve had the men scrounge around. We managed to locate enough scrap metal and broken glass to give Santa Anna something to think about.”

“Scrap metal?” Kent said in surprise.

“Nails, broken horseshoes, and metal chain,” Houston said.

Kent smiled. “I’d hate to be hit by that,” he said quietly.

“In that case, Mr. Kent,” Houston said, “I’d stay to the rear of the sisters.”

WHEN THE SUN rose on the morning of April 21, 1836, it was tinged a blood red. Afternoon brought with it a haze, making the light dim and the mood sleepy. The temperature was in the low seventies, and a light breeze blew the smoke from the fires at the Mexican encampment at San Jacinto toward Houston, who was camped less than a mile away. There had been a few small skirmishes earlier in the day, but for the most part it was quiet.

“The smoke has lessened,” Houston noted. “They have finished their afternoon meal.”

“Is that what you have been waiting for?” Kent asked.

“No, Mr. Kent,” Houston said, “I’m waiting for them to bed down. We will attack at siesta time.”

“Make sure guards are posted, then relieve the men,” Santa Anna ordered.

SANTA ANNA WAVED his hand at a horsefly, then opened the flap of his tent and walked inside. The heavy noon meal and three glasses of wine had made him sleepy. His quartermasters had liberated several pigs from the Texas countryside, and he and the troops had enjoyed fresh meat for the first time in a week.

Standing by his cot, he removed his uniform and folded it over a wooden chair. Dressed in slightly dingy long underwear, he scratched a bug bite under his arm, then climbed under his smooth silk sheets and embraced his mistress.

SAM HOUSTON WAS walking along a line of troops.

“This is for Texas, men,” he said. “Move quietly forward, flanking the twin sisters. When you hear the sisters sing, we go straight to the center.”

Houston stared at his men. They were a ragtag group dressed in fringed buckskin, dirty work clothes, even a few old uniforms left over from the Revolutionary War. For weapons they carried their personal black powder guns, knives, and swords. They were farmers, ranchers, prospectors, and blacksmiths.

But they burned with the fervor of the righteous.

“Yes, sir,” the troops said as one, “for Texas.”

“And let every man remember the Alamo,” Houston added.

The sister to the right sang first. A second later, her sibling cried out as well.

Yelling at the top of their lungs, the Texans lunged into the fray, urged on by a soldier with a flute playing “In the Bower.”

“Remember the Alamo—remember Goliad!” they shouted.

It was three-thirty in the afternoon when the first load of nails shredded two Mexican tents on the far edge of the battlefield. The guns continued to fire until their barrels were cherry-red. Then a swarming horde of screaming Texans charged the Mexicans’ crude barricade. Black powder smoke filled the air, while bayonets and swords flashed through the haze. The Mexican troops tried to rouse themselves from their slumber, but they were unable to assemble before they were inundated by the determined Texans.

“Into the center,” Houston screamed.

As soon as he heard the first cannon fire, Santa Anna stumbled from his tent. All he could see were smoke and chaos. The element of surprise proved a strong equalizer. Eighteen minutes after the first shot was fired, the battle was over. The Mexicans suffered 630 dead, 208 wounded, and the rest were taken prisoner. Nine Texans died that day. Twenty-eight others, including Houston, were wounded.

Santa Anna surrendered his army and any claim to Texas at San Jacinto, thanks in large part to the Twin Sisters.

1865

“Lemonade or whiskey,” Rob Harris, the proprietor of the Harris House, said.

“Whiskey, but we’re a little short,” Graves said. “How much for the bottle?”

Harris lifted the square glass bottle and made sure the cork was loose, then handed it over the front desk to Graves. “It’s on me, soldier.”

“You’re a true Southern gentleman,” Harris said.

“There’s some tin cups in the sideboard,” Harris said. “You boys make yourself comfortable on the porch. You can usually find some breeze there.”

Graves collected the cups, then walked out onto the porch. Barnett was upstairs in his room, felled by the measles. Thomas, Pruitt, and Taylor were out back at the well pump, washing off the dust from the journey. Dan was dozing under the shade of an alder tree.

Graves poured a tin cup of whiskey, then sat in a rocking chair. Taking a sip, he stared at the town and began to plan. Harrisburg was a thriving hamlet. Along with the Harris House were two other hotels, several stores, and a steam mill to hew raw lumber. The railroad depot, located at Magnolia and Manchester, consisted of the station, a machine shop, and yards where a few locomotives were stored. All told, there were a few hundred souls—some friendly, some not.

A whistle from a steamer on Buffalo Bayou broke the silence, and Graves turned his head to the east. Buildings blocked his view, but he could see the trail of smoke from the stack. He watched the smoke travel north, then start east. The vessel was starting up Bray’s Bayou, the smaller stream directly in front of the hotel. She was on her way to Houston.

Graves sipped the burning liquid. His eyes watered, and he wiped them on his sleeve. A skinny dog, little more than bones and fur, rolled in the dirt of Kellogg Street in front of the hotel. At the sound of an approaching wagon, the dog jumped to its feet and ran north along Nueces Street. The sun was down, and the sky was growing darker. To the east, Graves could just make out the first star of the coming night.

“Henry,” Pruitt said, “you seem lost in your own world.” Pruitt was wiping his face with a threadbare cotton hand towel.

“Just thinking,” Graves said, “about the sisters.”

“While you were cleaning up, I reconnoitered,” Pruitt said. “There’s a wooded area north of the train station near Bray’s Bayou.”

“What’s the land like?” Graves asked.

“It’s rough,” Pruitt admitted, “but there’s a crude wagon path.”

Sol Thomas climbed up the front steps. His face was fresh-scrubbed, and that made his swollen jaw more visible. “No dentist in town, but the blacksmith offered to help,” he said. “I declined.”

“Here,” Graves said, pouring a cup of whiskey “this should help.”