He set aside his Steyr-Mannlicher carbine and raised the binoculars. None of the crew was visible behind the barricade of cotton bales. Even the sieved pilothouse looked deserted. The gold letters of the smashed nameplate were visible, but all he could make out was the name JACKSON.
The flat bow was pointed square for the towboat’s port side. It was a stupid, futile gesture, he reasoned, a stalling technique, nothing more. In spite of its superior size, the wooden paddle steamer could not expect to damage the towboat’s steel hull.
He retrieved the Steyr-Mannlicher, inserted another ammo clip and concentrated his fire into the pilothouse in an attempt to damage the helm.
Sandecker and Metcalf watched too.
They sat captivated by the hopeless, irresistible magnificence of it all. Radio contact was attempted with the steamboat, but there was no response. Captain Belcheron had been too busy to answer, and the old river rat didn’t think he had anything worth saying anyway.
Metcalf called Lieutenant Grant. “Spiral in closer,” he ordered.
Grant acknowledged and made a series of tight banks over the vessels below. The detail of the towboat was quite sharp. They could pick out nearly thirty men blasting away across the water. The steamboat, however, was obscured by the smoke shooting from her stacks and great clouds of exhaust steam spurting out of the “scape pipes” aft of the pilothouse.
“She’ll bash herself to bits when she strikes,” said Sandecker.
“It’s glorious but meaningless,” Metcalf muttered.
“Give them credit. They’re doing more than we can.”
Metcalf nodded slowly. “Yes, we can’t take that away from them.”
Sandecker came out of his chair and pointed. “Look there, on the steamboat where the wind has blown the smoke off to the side.”
“What is it?”
“Isn’t that a pair of cannon?”
Metcalf came alert. “By God, you’re right. They look like old monuments from a town park.”
At two hundred yards Laroche raised his sword and yelled, “Batteries one and two, train and prime your guns.”
“Battery one primed and aimed,” shouted back a man in antique wire spectacles.
“Battery two ready, Major.”
“Then fire!”
The lanyards were jerked and the two antique cannon belched their loads of ballbearing grapeshot from their muzzles in earsplitting claps. The first shot actually penetrated the side of the tow-boat, crashing into the galley and mangling the ovens. The second soared into the pilothouse, taking off Captain Pujon’s head and carrying away the wheel. Dazed by the unexpected barrage, Lee Tong’s men slackened their fire for several seconds, recovered and opened up with renewed ferocity, concentrating on the narrow slits between the cotton bales where the cannon barrels protruded.
Now the smoothbores were run back while the artillery men quickly rammed home the sponges and began reloading. Bullets whined over their heads and shoulders, and one man was struck in the neck. But in less than a minute the old Napoleons were ready to blast again.
“Aim for the cables!” Pitt shouted. “Cut the barge away!”
Laroche nodded and relayed Pitt’s orders. The guns were run out and the next broadside swept the tow-boat’s bow, causing an explosion of coiled rope and cable, but die tenacious grip on the barge remained unbroken.
Coldly, almost contemptuous of the deadly blitz that swept the Stonewall Jackson, the make-believe soldiers lined up the sights on their single-shot muskets and waited for the command to tire.
Only two hundred yards separated the vessels when Laroche raised his sword again. “Firing rank, take aim. Okay, boys, give ‘em hell. Fire!”
The front of the steamboat exploded in a tremendous torrent of fire and smoke. The towboat was raked with a seemingly solid wall of minie bullets. The effect was devastating. Glass dissolved in every port and window, paint chips flew off the bulkheads and bodies began falling, deluging the decks with blood.
Before Lee Tong’s gunners could recover, Pitt stitched the towboat from bow to stern with a steady stream of fire from the Thompson. Giordino hunched against the cotton barricade, waiting for the range to close to fire the revolver, watching in rapt interest as the second and third ranks ran through the dozen cumbersome procedures of rearming a muzzle-loading musket.
The Confederates laid down a killing fire. Volley after volley followed in succession, almost every other shot striking flesh and bone. The smoke and shattering sounds were punctuated by the cries of the wounded. Laroche, swept away by the carnage and commotion, thundered and swore at the top of his lungs, prodding his sharpshooters to aim true, exhorting the loaders to move more rapidly.
One minute passed, two, then three, as the fighting reached a savage pitch. Fire broke out on the Jackson and flames soared up her wooden sides. In the pilothouse, Captain Belcheron yanked on the whistle cord and shouted into the voice tube leading to McGeen in the engine area. The riflemen ceased their fire and everyone braced themselves for the approaching collision.
A strange, unearthly silence fell over the steamboat as the crack of the guns faded and the haunting wail of the calliope died away. She was like a boxer who had taken a fearful beating from a far stronger adversary and could take no more, but had somehow reached deep into her exhausted reserves for one last knockout punch.
She struck the towboat square amidships with a rumbling crunch that knocked over the cotton-bale barricade, crushing back her bow by six feet as planks and beams gave way like laths. Both stacks fell forward, throwing sparks and smoke over the battle that rapidly resumed its intensity. Guns fired at point-blank range. The support ropes burned through and the landing stages dropped onto the towboat’s decks like great claws gripping the two vessels fast together.
“Fix bayonets!” Laroche boomed.
Someone broke out the regiment’s battle flag and began waving it wildly in the air. Muskets were reloaded and bayonets attached. The calliope player had returned to his post and was pounding out “Dixie” once again. Pitt was amazed that no one showed any sign of fear. Instead, there was a general feeling of uncontrolled delirium. He couldn’t help thinking he’d somehow crossed a time barrier into the past.
Laroche whipped off his officer’s hat, hung it on the tip of his sword and raised it into the air. “Sixth Louisiana!” he cried. “Go git ‘em!”
Screaming the rebel yell like demons emerging from the center of the earth, the men in gray stormed on board the towboat. Laroche was struck in the chin and one knee, but hobbled and pressed on. Pitt laid down a covering fire until the last cartridge poured from the Thompson. Then he laid the gun on a cotton bale and charged after Giordino, who hopped across a landing stage, favoring his injured leg and firing the revolver like a wild man. McGeen and his boiler crew followed, wielding their shovels like clubs.
Bougainville’s men bore no resemblance to their attackers. They were hired killers, ruthless men who offered no mercy nor expected it, but they were not prepared for the incredible onslaught of the Southerners and made the mistake of leaping from the protected steel bulkheads and meeting the surge head-on.
The Stonewall Jackson was wreathed in fire. The artillery men fired one last volley at the towboat, aiming forward of the men fighting amidships, their shot sweeping away the cables attached to the barge. Shoved sideways by the continued momentum of the steamboat, the two steel vessels jackknifed around her crushed bow.
The Sixth Louisiana overran the decks, lunging with their bayonets, but keeping up a deadly rate of fire. There were a score of individual hand-to-hand struggles, the five-foot Springfield musket and two-foot bayonet making a nasty close-in weapon. None of the weekend soldiers paused; they fought with a strange kind of recklessness, too caught up in the unimaginable din and excitement to be afraid.