The Sea Hunters Part 9

Having proven with little doubt the ship of Pier C was indeed the c.u.mberland, Warner, Nargolin, & Company moved six hundred yards upriver to the site we had surveyed two years before off the Home Brothers Shipyard Dock. A section of hull, 121 feet, was found and recorded.

The length of wreckage that showed above the silt was 135 feet, with a width of 23 feet. A large number of artifacts were retrieved, including boxes of Enfield bullets, champagne bottles in their original box, ship's hardware, fuses for cannonb.a.l.l.s, a shoe, rigging blocks and spikes, and a tall, ornate pewter pitcher.

The divers apparently came down on the ship's hospital and dispensary, and brought up an a.s.sortment of apothecary jars and bottles. One bottle, with its gla.s.s stopper firmly set, still contained the yellow liquid contents that had remained undisturbed for 120 years. A white ceramic pharmaceutical bowl displayed a red serpent curled around a palm tree.

The inscription advertised a pharmacy in Brest, France, the port where Maffitt turned over command of the Florida.

With the wreck sites now proven to be the two famous Civil War ships, at least to me if not to certified, card-carrying archaeologists, who insist on finding an engraved plaque giving the name, serial number, blood type, and DNA, we dropped the curtain on our field activities and concentrated on the preservation of the artifacts.

For the time being, we rented a small garage and placed the recovered antiquities in holding tanks containing that good old James River water to keep them stabilized and prevent them from crumbling into dust. Not ones to squander their budget on hot dogs and beer, the U.A.J.V team bought a dozen vinyl kiddie pools to immerse the goods.

Originally, the Virginia Historical Landmarks Department offered to take on the job of preservation. But after the artifacts were raised and stabilized, they backed out, claiming they had run out of funds for the year. Their solution? Throw the precious antiquities back into the river.

I looked up to G.o.d, and I asked him, "G.o.d, why am I fleeced and inconvenienced at every Turn?" And he looked down upon me, and he said, "If you're not happy, why don't you take up stamp collecting?"

He finally sympathized with me. Enter Anne Garland of the Conservation Center at the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg, who offered to split the cost of chemically treating the recovered objects for eventual display at the Newport News Mariners' Museum. The deal was struck, and they did a remarkable job on over thirty different pieces. I've always had a soft spot for William and Mary, especially since when all was said and done they only charged me a fraction of the final cost.

Then the rug was pulled out from under everyone again.

John Sands, the curator at the museum, built a magnificent exhibit around the c.u.mberland and Florida artifacts. They were on display for nearly six months, when some Navy admiral and the curator of the Norfolk Naval Museum walked in, asked to see Sands, and contemptuously demanded he Turn over, as @ they charitably put it, "our artifacts."

It seems the Judge Advocate of the Navy had a dream. He envisioned that my two years of research, the small fortune I spent on the project, and the indefatigable efforts of the U.A.J.V guys were for the navy's sole benefit. He sanctimoniously claimed the Department of the Navy owned both ships and all bits and pieces thereof. In the case of the c.u.mberland, he maintained that whoever sold it for salvage after the Civil War did not have the proper authority. Normally the Florida, he conceded, as Confederate property belonged to the General Services Administration. However, naval research showed that Florida had been captured as a blockade runner and was appropriated into the Union Navy.

Demonstrating a definite lack of style and sophistication, the navy threatened to go to court in order to claim the antiquities, to whose recovery they contributed zilch. And because they stoke the economy of the Virginia tidewater area with nearly 30,000 jobs, the Commonwealth of Virginia rolled over and threw in the towel. John Sands's exhibit was dismantled and the artifacts trucked to the Norfolk Naval Museum, where they are now on display.

I could have called their bluff, fought, and easily won in Admiralty COurt- The navy did not have a pegleg to stand on. I have copies of correspondence from the original c.u.mberland salvors, who were sold the rights by Gideon Welles, Secretary of the U.S. Navy. If Welles didn't have the right to sell the wreck for salvage, who did?

The navy's claim on the Florida was equally ludicrous. They had the wrong ship.

The vessel they referred to was not the famous Sea Devil raider, captamed by the redoubtable John Maffitt, but a garden-variety commercial blockade runner that was captured and appropriated into the navy as a warship they named Florida.

it is times like this I'm tempted to take up psychedelic eyelid painting. Through the years I've had many dealings with the U.S. Navy, mostly beneficial to both sides. But there have been times when I wondered how in h.e.l.l they ever won the war in the Pacific. So long as the artifacts went on display to the public at the navy's Norfolk museum, I decided not to create a fuss. If they had hidden them away in the bas.e.m.e.nt, the U.S. Navy would have cursed the name of Clive Cussler, something they probably do anyway.

What thanks did NUMA and U.A.J.V receive for their struggle to preserve our country's maritime heritage?

Several years later, I was visiting friends in Portsmouth, just across the Elizabeth River from Norfolk. I visited the naval museum one day and was admiring the fruits of our labor when a navy lieutenant came out of an office and pa.s.sed by the exhibit.

"Odd that they didn't recognize the people who found the wrecks and recovered the artifacts with a token placard," I remarked aloud to no one in particular.

He stopped and stared at me. "Who are you referring to?"

"The team from the National Underwater and Marine Agency along with the Underwater Joint Venture Archaeologists."

his face reddened. "Do you know Clive Cussler?" he brusquely asked.

"Cussler, yes, I've seen him," I replied, alluding to the million times I've looked in a mirror.

"Well, you can take it from me," the lieutenant snapped, "that son of a b.i.t.c.h and his gang of thieves didn't have a d.a.m.ned thing to do with what you see here. A navy SEAL team salvaged all this."

"No foolin'?"

"Those a.s.sholes made false claims. This was an all-navy show."

Ingrat.i.tude, rejection, antipathy.

Well, that's life, right? No skyrockets. No parades. You just wind up thinking that stamp collecting might not be so dull after all.

The end of the story has yet to be written. A navy dive-salvage team has made several attempts at finding the Virginia's ram, but until now they have been unsuccessful.

In March of 1990, the FBI raided a small Civil War museum in Virginia and a relic dealer. Armed with federal search and seizure warrants, agents seized an enon-nous number of artifacts that were stolen from the sites of the Florida and the c.u.mberland. The stolen objects included pieces of timbers, bilge pumps, cannonb.a.l.l.s, musket ammunition, and a.s.sorted bra.s.s and leather items. Indictments were handed up, but no one was given jail time and fines were minimal.

If nothing else, knowing that the wrecks are monitored and any antiquity stolen from their hulls can be easily traced will make looters think twice before raping the sites. In time, we can but hope that funding will be found and proper archaeological excavation will take place. Who knows? Perhaps someday your grandchildren can look in awe at the big ram from the Virginia.

The stolen cache was appraised at over $60,000. If Captain Charles Frisbee of Jacob Bell had lived to the ripe old age of 165, he might have been happy to learn that a collector paid $3,000 for a spoon from his ship.

Part 4 The Gauntlet-July 1862 HERE along the meandering course of the Yazoo River, the banks were lined with thick, tangled growth, a visible legacy from the rich delta soil. A succession of farms, now lying fallow, lined the banks.

Their crops of cotton rotted in the fields, the men needed to oversee the picking off to fight for the Confederacy.

SANK Near Satartia, Mississippi, Ephram Pettigrew sat on the tumbledown HERE front porch of his home. He was old and weathered, in his late sixties, and he scratched out a living through sharecropping and fishing the river from his small wooden rowboat.

LEVEE The few teeth he had remaining in his gums were stained brown from the plugs of tobacco he habitually chewed, and his thinning hair was stark white against his red scalp. He rocked slowly in his crudely crafted rocking chair and stroked a yellow tabby cat that purred in his lap.

He had heard the throb from the approaching boat's steam engine some minutes before it rounded a distant bend in the winding river.

Scratching the cat's ears, he waited patiently until the vessel came into view.

Instead of the more common paddle-wheeled riverboats that pa.s.sed by his front porch over the years, this was the strangest vessel he'd ever laid eyes on.

For a Confederate ironclad the hull rode high out of the water, its huge iron ram mounted on the bow spreading a white wake in the murky river. Rising in the center of the main deck was a rectangular casemate with sloping ends and uncharacteristic straight up-and-down sides, heavily armored with iron rails. A pilothouse, similar to a pyramid with the upper half cut off, protruded from the forward roof of the casemate.

A total of ten guns poked their sinister muzzles through the armored walls, three in the squared openings on each sidewall. The four guns in the forward and aft sections of the casemate fired through ports that were cut round. They were a strange mixture of 9-inch smoothbores, 8-inch 64-pounders, 6-inch rifled, and 32-pound smoothbores.

Unlike most other ironclads in the Confederate Navy, which were painted gray, this ugly vessel sported a dirty brown color scheme that almost exactly matched the exposed riverbanks. Drawing thirteen feet of water, C.S.S. Arkansas was as fierce and dangerous as any ironclad built by the Confederates, and she was heading down the Yazoo River, primed and ready for battle.

farmer Pettigrew ceased stroking the cat as he saw a wiry man with a thick black beard standing beside the pilothouse with arms crossed over his chest, staring down river. Spitting a stream of tobacco juice into a tomato plant alongside the porch, he rose from the rocking chair and went inside to skin the squirrel he had shot for supper.

He turned for a last look at Arkansas before it disappeared around the next river bend. "That's one bodacious boat," he murmured to his uninterested cat.

The captain of the ironclad dropped easily through a hatch on the casemate roof down to the lower gun deck. The air was stifling, the breeze created by the movement of the ship barely penetrating the vast interior.

Isaac Brown, no great believer in strict naval decorum, removed his gray uniform jacket to relieve the summer heat. Displaying his longjohns' top and suspenders, he began a tour of the ship's gun batteries.

As he walked toward the stern of the casemate, shielded by three inches of iron rail track and backed by fifteen inches of pine, Brown was met by Lieutenants Alphonso Barbot and A. D. 'ftarton, his officers in charge of the side gun batteries.

"Good morning, captain," Barbot greeted Brown. "You look ready for action."

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be," Brown said, smiling as he snapped his suspenders. "How are the army troops General Thompson sent us from Missouri handling themselves?"

"A fine group of men, sir," N"arton answered.

"They took to the guns like old hands," Barbot agreed.

Brown nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. Stand ready and continue with the drilling. We'll meet the enemy by this time tomorrow."

A veteran of twenty-seven years in the United States Navy, Isaac Brown looked at the two officers through eyes dark with concern. They stood tall and ramrod straight. Both believed devoutly in the cause and bore the optimistic outlook of youth. But they had yet to witness the horrors of war firsthand.

Wharton was twenty and had recently become engaged to a lovely, genteel Southern lady from Nashville, while Barbot, twenty-two, was already married with two small children at home in South Carolina.

Brown glanced again down the gun deck. The newly planked decks were swept and scrubbed with soapstone, the wood now appearing polished.

Near each of the big guns, mounted on wheeled carriages, iron shot was stacked in wooden racks with the swabbing rods and gunpowder to fire them at close hand. He watched with satisfaction as the crews of each gun ran smoothly through the firing drill.

"I'm going below to inspect the engine room. Keep the men working at their guns."

Wiping tiny beads of sweat from his brow with the large handkerchief he kept stuffed in his hip pocket, Brown descended into the h.e.l.lish confines of the engine room. At the captain's approach, Chief Engineer George City rose from his metal desk, which was bolted to a bulkhead.

City was approaching thirty, and his naturally ruddy complexion had turned almost purple red from the heat of the boilers. His hair was the color of mahogany, and unlike most of the crew he was clean-shaven, claiming truthfully it kept him cooler in the fiery atmosphere.

During the rushed construction of the vessel, the engine room had been designed to achieve negative pressure. When the hatches were set just right, they drafted air from the water and cooled the interior of the engine room. The problem today was that the air temperature on the river was close to ninety degrees and the disparity between it and the heat from the boilers was not creating much of a draft. The engines, hastily built in Memphis, were as balky as a team of unmatched mules.

Chief Engineer City's shirt was soaked completely through with sweat, and a large drop of the salty liquid seemed permanently attached to the tip of his nose.

"Morning, City," said Brown.

"And a warm morning it is," City acknowledged.

"How are your engines operating?"

"I've got my fingers crossed. The boiler that drives the starboard screw wasn't vented properly, and when the pressure dropped the beam would disengage. The"bearings, I fear, are going to give problems."

Since the ship's initial trial run, one or the other engine had periodically stopped, causing only one screw to Turn and sending the ship around in circles like a dog chasing its tail.

"I pray they don't fail us when we meet the Yankee fleet."

"I'll see they take us through to Vicksburg," City promised. "Or I'll carry the boat on my back."

Conserving her temperamental engines, Arkansas traveled slowly downstream. As night began to fall, the crickets that crawled over the vessel began a slow, melodious chirping. In the deepening purple haze, men a.s.signed to the forward guns put fire to the metal torches filled with turpentine that lit the muddy water ahead.

At regular intervals, the chief pilot, who went by the name of John Hodges, would call down to the engine room to halt their progress.

Then two lookouts on the bow would take soundings of the river bottom, using a lead-weighted line. Comparing the recorded depths with the landmarks from sh.o.r.e, the pilot would mark the ship's position on a river chart before ordering the engine room to engage the engines again.

Captain Brown sat in the officers' messroom with Executive Officer Henry K. Stevens and Lieutenants John Grimball, George W. Gift, Alphonso Barbot, A. D. Wharton, and Charles Read. The remnants of a breakfast of bacon and mush were cleared from the table by the Chief Steward, Hiram McCeechum. Refilling the coffee cups, McCeechum then exited the messroom, leaving the officers to confer on the approaching battle.

"We'll be on the Mississippi by ten o'clock," said Brown. "And we have every reason to believe the Yankee fleet is expecting us." He paused and emptied his coffee cup, then set it aside. "Reports from our spies on the river claim that three Federal gunboats are already prowling above the entrance to the Yazoo. As soon as we make contact, I mean to ram and sink the lead vessel. Any questions?"

Every man shook his head in the negative.

Then Brown made the customary lecture. "Gentlemen, in seeking combat as we now do, we must win or perish. Should I fall, whoever succeeds to the command will do so with the resolution to go through the enemy 9 s fleet, or go to the bottom. Should they carry us by boarding, the ship must be blown up. On no account must it fall into the hands of the enemy. Now go to your guns."

One by one the officers quietly set off to their gun stations.

Brown sat for a moment, alone in deep thought, studying his river charts. Then he sighed, pushed back his chair, and walked to the ladder leading to the pilothouse.

Black smoke from the big stack curled low on the water and trailed behind the ship. Along the gra.s.sy slopes of the sh.o.r.e, river birds gripped the limbs of trees dripping moss, while in a clearing on the port side a small herd of milk cows lapped the muddy water and looked up silently as the ironclad steamed past. Brown hesitated before he entered the pilothouse, finding the scene deceptively peaceful.

Hands placed firmly at ten and two o'clock on the polished wooden spoke wheel, Chief Pilot Hodges gazed at the river ahead, his eyes squinting through the slits in the armor plating. He spoke to Brown without turning his attention from the winding river.

"There's smoke rising over the tops of the trees around the next bend."

"Since we're the only Confederate ship on the river this day," said Brown slowly, "they must be Yankees."

Hodges touched a match to the pipe that was clenched in his teeth and puffed the briar bowl to life. "I'll bet my next pay they're planning a reception for us."

At that instant, almost before Hodges finished speaking, the Union ironclad Carondelet steamed slowly into view.

Spies from the Union Navy had watched as Brown built his oddlooking ironclad from sc.r.a.p. They followed Arkansas's construction, from the laying of the keel to the mounting of the guns. When the spies alerted Admiral Farragut to her departure down the Yazoo toward the Mississippi and her eventual destination of Confederate-held Vicksburg, he dispatched a small fleet of three ships to intercept her.

The advance flotilla was comprised of the fast ram Queen of the West, the lightly armed gunboat Tyler, and the ironclad Carondelet, which was under the command of Commander Henry Walke, an old friend of Brown's before the war. They had been messmates on an around-the-world cruise, and at one time were as close as brothers.

The instant the Union ships were spotted, Arkansas came to life.

Stepping smartly back and forth across the enclosed gun deck, the d ready to roll their cannons through the gun ports. The officers at each station pa.s.sed out muskets, pistols, and cutla.s.ses to the men in the possible event they had to repel boarders. Buckets of sand were spread on the deck to soak up spilled blood that was sure to flow from the coming battle. Most of the citw stripped to the waist and tied handkerchiefs around their heads. Like Brown, several of the officers removed their coats and performed their duties in undershirts.

From the pilothouse, Brown peered at the approaching ships.

"They're coming at us three abreast," he announced. "Aim for the middle gunboat, Mr. Hodges, the big one. Try to strike her amidships."

On board Queen of the West, her only advantage, the enormous speed she could pull from her engines, was being reduced by the heavy river currents. She was without gun batteries, and her ability to ram was rendered ineffective. At the sight of the malignant brown Confederate ironclad, the Queen's captain quickly decided to Turn tail and run back downstream.

Staying on course straight up the river, Carondelet and Tyler made ready to fire their bow guns at the enemy. Their shots began to blast out of their gun muzzles but flew high, missing Arkansas as she relentlessly bore down on them.

"Shout across to Tyler, " Walke of Carondelet ordered his first officer. "Tell them we are turning and heading back downstream. The plan is to continue the fight with our stern guns and draw the Confederate ship along with us."

Spinning the helm, the pilot of Carondelet rotated the ship in the water, then called to the engine room for full steam as the stern gunners made ready to fire.

In response to the shouted instructions delivered by a bra.s.s speaking trumpet across the water, Tyler quickly reversed course in unison with her larger sister ship. With her shorter length and lighter tonnage, she quickly completed her Turn and headed away from Arkansas at full steam. Her shots flew wide as she set off after Queen of the West.

Adjusting the wheel slightly, Hodges steered directly toward the Union ironclad bringing up the rear of the small fleet. Standing beside the pilot, Brown was studied the retreating Carondelet with his binoculars.

Squinting through the smoke issuing from the Union guns, he turned to Hodges.

"I can see the white of fresh wood under her armor. Once we come within range, Lieutenant Grimball's sixty-four-pounders should be able to penetrate the casemate and sink her."

Grimball needed no order from his captain. He and his crew began firing, reloading, and firing again and again. In a rhythm of coordinated movement, the @ @orwarc gunners settled into a routine.

Grimball counted the shots as the recoil from his guns sent the bow of Arkansas seesawing from side to side. First one gun, then the other, each getting off one shot every three minutes.