Glory In The Name

beside him.

He turned and counted. The shore party was all there. He marched off toward the burning ship houses, because that seemed the focal point of the growing destruction. He wondered if the yard was still in Federal hands, or if the Confederates had come over the wall. He wondered if they might be shot by their own side.

“Don’t see how hell could be much diff’r’nt than this,” Taylor remarked, stepping up to Bowater’s side. “Reckon we’ll find out, soon enough.”

Hell, indeed, Bowater thought. The fire could be measured in square acres now, and the buildings were mere ghostly outlines in the center of the flames. Fire reached hundreds of feet in the air, arching over in the light breeze, dancing and swirling like yellow-and-red dragons. And under it all, a low and steady roar and the crash of structures collapsing as they burned through.

Fifty yards away, black against the flames, a knot of men moved toward them. Bowater’s hand reached under the wide flap of his holster, pulled his Colt, cocked the hammer back in a motion as familiar as pulling his watch.

“Hold up!” Bowater held up his hand, and the men behind him stopped.

The approaching men grew closer, and as they drew away from the flames Bowater could see the dark blue frock coats and the sky-blue trousers of United States Marines.

“Keep your mouths shut. Don’t do anything unless I tell you to.”

The marines came on at the double quick, rifles held against chests, and then they noticed the band from the Cape Fear. Bowater saw the lieutenant redirect his men.

Brass it out…have to brass it out with this type…

“Lieutenant!” Bowater called in his best quarterdeck voice. “What are you men still doing here? Report!”

The marine lieutenant stopped, and Bowater saw his eyes move up and down his uniform, but the frock coat he wore was the same one he had worn in the Union navy, the same worn by naval officers everywhere, and it did not give Bowater’s secret away.

“We were detailed to protect the men blowing the dry dock, sir.”

“Good. You are the detail I was looking for. Get down to the ordnance building, there, there,” Bowater pointed, “and cover the boat tied up at the seawall. We’ll see to the dry dock and get the men out.”

The lieutenant hesitated. He began to say something, a protest forming, but marines did not protest, it was not a part of them, so finally he said, “Yes, sir!” and led his detail away.

Bowater watched them go, watched the smoke swallow them up, then said, “Come on, men!” and led his people off at a jog.

Blowing the dry dock. That was what the man said.

Samuel knew Gosport, he had been to the naval yard often enough. The dry dock was the most valuable thing there. If the Yankees managed to burn every last inch of the yard, it would still be a godsend to the Confederate Navy if the dry dock was saved.

Blowing the dry dock. That could not be allowed to happen.

They raced along, closing with the ship houses, beside which Bowater knew the dry dock lay. Two hundred yards away, the heat seemed unbearable, but they ran on and Bowater wondered if the heat would discharge the rounds in his pistol. He shifted his holster so the barrel was pointing away from any part of himself.

The smoke from the burning building rolled over them, and they slowed their pace, coughing and staggering forward. Bowater felt as if his skin was on fire, as if it would start peeling and blistering, but they staggered on.

Thirty yards away, a gang of men hurried along, moving in the opposite direction, like specters, barely seen through the smoke, but they did not seem to notice the men from the Cape Fear, or if they did, they did not care who they were or what they were about.

Then, right ahead, Bowater could see gleaming in the light the long line of bollards and the small capstans that ran the length of the dry dock, and beyond them, the black pit of the empty dry dock itself.

“Taylor!” Bowater called, shouting over the roar of the flames, then paused for a fit of coughing. “Take… Babcock and go that way.” He pointed toward the river end of the dry dock. “See if you can see if the dock is mined. McNelly, come with me! The rest of you, station yourselves here, keep a weather eye out.”

Taylor hurried off and soon disappeared into the smoke, and Bowater and McNelly raced off in the opposite direction. They inched toward the edge of the dry dock and peered down. The bottom was in deep shadow; they could not see if there was anything there, powder kegs or such.

“Sir!” McNelly shouted, pounded him on the shoulder. Bowater looked up, looked in the direction that McNelly was pointing. Through the smoke, silhouetted by the burning ship houses, he could see two men, one standing, one kneeling, concentrating on some job at hand.

Bowater stepped forward, waved McNelly after him. He picked up his pace, reached under the flap of his holster, pulled the Colt free.

Then he was up with the two men in the smoke. He tightened his grip on the pistol, held it away from his body, stepped boldly forward.

One of the men, the one standing, noticed him at last. He turned until he was facing Samuel straight on, took a step forward, put a hand on his holster, paused.

Bowater stopped five feet from the man. He was framed against the wall of flame that was the ship building, and Samuel could barely look at him, could see little beyond a black shape against blinding red, yellow, and white.

The man crouching paused in what he was doing, looked up, and for a moment it was a stalemate, like the moment with the marines. And then the standing man took another step and said, “Lieutenant Bowater? Samuel Bowater?”

Bowater coughed, squinted at the man. His eyes were sore and running with tears from the smoke and he brushed them away. “John Rogers? Is that you?”

The man stepped forward, hand outstretched, and he materialized into Lieutenant John Rogers.

“Lieutenant…!” Bowater shook Rogers’s hand, glanced at his shoulder boards. “Forgive me, Commander!” Bowater had been fourth lieutenant and Rogers second aboard Wabash five years before.

“Good to see you, Samuel,” Rogers yelled. Bowater could see the sweat streaking through the grime on his face. “Hell, I thought you’d gone secesh!”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Sure! What are you doing here?”

“Came to see about the dry dock!” This reunion in the smoke only added to the dreamlike, unreal quality of the night.

“She’s set! See there?” Rogers pointed down at the ground. Through the smoke Bowater could see the sparking flames of a powder train, racing toward the edge of the dry dock. Lighting the powder train, that was what the kneeling fellow had been doing.

“Two thousand pounds of powder!” Rogers shouted. “Gonna blow this son of a bitch to Kingdom Come!”

“Then shouldn’t we get the hell out of here?”

“It’d be a good idea. Got five minutes till it blows, maybe less!”

Bowater felt the salty sweat running down his face and burning his eyes. He wiped a sleeve over his forehead. “I have men down there!” He pointed toward the river. “I have to go get them!”

“Be quick about it!” Rogers turned to the other man. “Captain Wright! Let’s go!”

“Which way?” the other shouted. Bowater looked at him for the first time. He wore the uniform of a captain of Army Engineers.

Rogers looked around, unsure. “Boat’s that way!” Rogers shouted, pointing past the burning ship houses. “Don’t know if we’re going to make it through!”

“Best try!” Bowater shouted. “Go on, I’ll follow behind!”

“All right! But get out of here, quick!”

John Rogers gave Samuel Bowater a fraternal slap on the shoulder, and Bowater saw the eyes follow the hand, saw the absence of shoulder boards register on Rogers’s face.

“Let’s go!” Bowater shouted to McNelly and turned away from Rogers, and Rogers let the question go. He and the other man stumbled off into the smoke and the shadows and the brilliant glare of the flames. Bowater watched