"I knew that. Well, commune with yourself about it from now on."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you may take your meals in this house, but don't expect me to be present when you do. It means you may sleep in the extra bedroom. I don't want you in mine."
They stared at each other. Then Cooper walked out.
Judith's facade gave way. Voices reached her from the parlor, the first one — her husband's — curt:
"Lucius, get your coat. We can still accomplish a good deal tonight."
Marie-Louise, vexed: "Oh, Papa, Mama said we'd all gather and sing —"
"Keep quiet."
Judith put her head down, pressed her hands to her eyes, and silently cried.
91
For days after his ordeal — Billy had been kept kneeling in the sleet storm till morning — he hobbled rather than walked. Most of the time he curled on the floor, hands locked below his pulled-up knees in a futile effort to stave off chills that would abruptly change to fever and set him raving. And every night Vesey was there — to insult him, to prod with a musket, to lift his boot and nudge the hand that would be forever nail-scarred.
Vesey, a farm boy from Goochland County who had achieved sudden and unexpected importance because of his absolute power over prisoners, reminded Billy of an Academy upperclassman George had mentioned a few times. Some fat fellow from Ohio who had pitilessly deviled his brother and Orry Main and all the other plebes in their class. Billy had never been much for contemplation of philosophic issues, but the fat cadet and Clyde Vesey convinced him that there was indeed such a thing in the world as the person with no redeeming qualities.
On the credit side of the ledger he placed the Tim Wanns.
The Massachusetts boy, though not sturdy, was quick-witted. Under Billy's instruction he rapidly learned the tricks of survival. Because Billy had gone to his rescue, Tim became Billy's devoted friend, eager to share anything he possessed. One thing he possessed, which Billy didn't, was greenback dollars. About twenty of them. The money was in his pocket when he was captured, and two of the dollars had persuaded the check-in guard to let him keep the rest.
With money, little luxuries could be obtained from the more cooperative guards. Frequently, Tim urged Billy to let him buy him something, whatever he wanted. Tim said it was small payment for the bravery that had earned Billy punishment and a persistent influenza that left him feeble and frequently dizzy.
Billy said no to the offers until one longing grew too strong.
"All right, Tim — a little writing paper, then. And a pencil. So I can start a new journal."
Tim put in the order ten minutes later. Delivery was made at nine that night. Tim objected.
"This is wallpaper! Look at all these bilious blue flowers. How is anyone supposed to write on this side?"
"Ain't," said the guard selling the goods. "But if you do want to write some'pin, you write it on that or nothin'. Jeffy Davis hisself can't get anythin' better these days."
So Billy began.
Jan. 12 — Libby Pris. I vow to survive this place. My next, most immed. aim is to send a letter to my dear wife.
He wanted to add that he had been asked to join the escape that was currently being plotted but decided he had better not commit that to paper in case the journal was found. Besides, he had so little to write upon — three sheets a foot square cost Tim three dollars — he must hoard the empty space.
Every night that Vesey was on duty, he continued to show up to harass his favorite prisoner. But Billy managed to endure the pokes with a bayonet, the kicks with a hobnailed boot, the nasty remarks about his friendship with the Harvard boy — he endured it all until he wrote the letter to Brett.
Tim insisted he be allowed to buy an envelope to hold the letter. What was supplied was greasy butcher's paper, folded and held together with paste. Billy addressed it for maximum legibility and enclosed a small square of wallpaper carrying a brief, affectionate message: He was in fine health, he loved her, she shouldn't worry.
The envelope, left open for the censor, was handed to the proper guard at noon. Vesey brought it back that night.
"I am afraid the censor refused to pass this letter." Smiling, he opened his right hand. The envelope and its contents, all in small pieces, fluttered to the floor.
Weak, dizzy, hating the feel and stench of the filthy clothes he removed each morning for the required lice inspection, Billy pushed up from his small section of floor, slowly gained his feet, and stood eye to eye with the corporal.
"There was nothing illegal in that letter."
"Oh, that is for the censor to determine. The censor is a chum of mine. Some weeks ago, I asked him to watch for any letter you might write. I'm afraid none will ever gain his approval for mailing. Your dear wife will just have to go on suffering and grieving —" he winked, smiling "— thinking you dead in a heathen's grave."
"The rules —"
Vesey's hand flew to the back of Billy's head; twisted in his long, matted hair. "I told you — I told you," he whispered. "There are no rules here except mine. I hope your wife's grief grows unsupportable. I hope she develops a violent aching in her female parts. A desire so fierce, so insistent —"
He leaned closer, face huge, china-blue eyes gleeful.
"— she'll be driven to fornicate madly to relieve it. Maybe she'll fornicate with some white tramp. Maybe she'll pick a buck nigger."
Billy was shaking, trying to hold back, not see the looming face or hear the whispering.
"Just imagine one of those big coons — your equals, aren't they? Old Abe says they are. Think of him humping and sliding all over your wife's white body. Pushing his blackness into her tender orifice so hard she bleeds. Think of that along with what you'd like to say in all those letters you'll never get past these walls, you heathen, godless —"
With a cry, Billy struck. When three other guards with lanterns rushed in to pull him off, he had Vesey on the floor, pounding his head with both hands. One of the guards hauled Billy up by his jacket. A second kicked him in the crotch, twice. Coughing, he pitched sideways and crumpled. The third guard said, "You all are in for it now, Yank."
92
Although light remained in the west, Cooper saw only darkness and winter stars out toward the Atlantic. Would he see the sight again? His daughter? Judith? The moment the questions came, he drove them out as unworthy sentimentalities.
Lucius Chickering had come down to the dock along with Alexander, the machinist. The young man shook Cooper's hand. "Best of luck, sir. We'll be waiting for your return."
With a brief nod, Cooper glanced at the small crowd of soldiers who had gotten wind of the test and gathered to observe it. Mingled with them were a few villagers from Mount Pleasant. One stared at Cooper in a manner that could only be characterized as pitying.
Alexander went down through Hunley's forward hatch. Once Cooper had secured Bory's permission for the test, the machinist had insisted on taking part. It was his right, he said; it was his submersible.
Stepping from the pier to the hull, Cooper bent over the hatch. "Ready for me to come down, George?"
"Ready, Mr. Main," Lieutenant Dixon replied in his customary drawl. Cooper lifted a long leg over the coaming with its quartet of small, round windows set ninety degrees apart. He lowered himself into the dark interior while a crewman reached up to close the rear hatch with a clang, screwing it down tight. He squeezed past Dixon, who remained at the instruments: a mercury depth gauge and a compass for steering underwater. In a niche between these, in a cup, stood the lighted candle that measured the air supply and provided the sole illumination.