Glory In The Name

at Yazoo City, a bend of nearly 170 degrees, as if the river had been rushing right for the town and had deflected off the waterfront, bounced back in the direction from which it came.

It was a dead time. February in Yazoo County had never been a bustle. Too cold for Southern blood to do much, nothing to be done in the cotton fields, no bales piling up on the wharf for transport to the cotton mills of the North, and England.

It was even more dead now. Most of Yazoo County’s young men were off to war, commerce quashed by the blockade.

The Anaconda was circling, Robley could feel it, as if it was breathing down his neck. New Orleans would be next. Farragut was in command of the Western Gulf Blockading Squadron. He had big steam frigates. He had mortar scows.

The forts to the north, Fort Henry, now Fort Donelson, on the Tennessee River, fallen to Grant. The Union gunboats would push down the Mississippi River, and Farragut would hit New Orleans, and the head and the tail of the serpent would move toward one another, down the Father of Waters.

Robley Paine shook his head. Can’t think on that, can’t think on that… He let his mind wander down that route and it would dead-end in a brilliant red rage. The Anaconda closing in, and he was sitting on a river gunboat-just the thing that the Confederates needed to hold the snake off-and he could get no help in running the thing. Letter after letter with no response, gold sent out with an utter lack of discretion, but neither patriotism nor greed seemed to move anyone to help him in his quest.

He climbed down from the hurricane deck, down to the side deck and down the brow to the dock. It was a Tuesday morning, but there seemed to be no one around. He unhitched his horse and led it over to a step from which he could mount. His old wound ached too much now to allow him to put a foot in the stirrup and swing himself up.

He rode slowly into town, and as he approached he began to see people, who waved to him, bid him good day. Yazoo City was not the paradise he had dreamed of; there were no mechanics and carpenters and engineers and sailors who swarmed to help him, to fight the Yankee. But neither was it New Orleans, den of iniquity. He was known here. Respected. The people of Yazoo City thought he was mad-he could see that, he was not delusional-but still they treated him with the deference and respect that the name Paine warranted in that county.

He rode down the main street, stopped at the post office, and slid off his horse. With teeth clenched against the pain he climbed the granite steps, pushed the door open.

“Mr. Paine, good day,” the postmaster called out.

The first time Robley had shown up there, six weeks before, he had seen the fear in the man’s eyes. Robley seemed to inspire fear these days, but he did not care.

The postmaster told him then, coughing, hemming, stammering, that they had run out of room in the box, that he had sent all of the Paines’ mail down to Paine Plantation.

Robley did not care about that. That was before he began writing to Secretary Mallory, before he had begun shipping gold for railroad iron and guns and shells, before his real work had commenced. That mail was the detritus of the dead, something that had relevance once, when he was alive, but it meant nothing now, like Katherine’s dresses, which, he imagined, still hung in her wardrobe.

He had not returned to Paine Plantation to retrieve the mail, had not gone back to that place at all. He did not think he could bear it. He had steamed past, on his way to Yazoo City, looked at the hideous gargoyle he had made of the old oak, wondered what he had been thinking. Had he thought that was enough? Painting a tree? He did not understand then, as he did now, the sacrifice that needed to be made.

“I’ve got a letter for you, Mr. Paine,” the postmaster said. It took a moment for the words to register. A letter? Paine had been coming in every other day for a month and a half, and nothing had arrived for him. He had come to expect that, and the postmaster’s words caught him by surprise.

The postmaster held the letter out and Robley took it, stepped away, staring at the envelope. It was addressed to Captain Robley Paine, Yazoo City. In the upper left hand corner, preprinted, it read “Department of the Navy, Richmond, Virginia, Confederate States of America.”

For a long moment Robley just stared until his hands were trembling too much for him to read the return address any longer. He tore at the envelope, dropped it, retrieved it, tore it open. He pulled the letter out and unfolded it.

Dear Captain Paine:

I beg you to forgive my long delay in replying to yours of January 16th, but I am certain you can appreciate that matters of the service have me much diverted and in many different directions.

Your offer of the ironclad gunboat Yazoo River is a generous and patriotic one, and much in keeping with the grand spirit of the South and the magnanimous spirit of her people. It is a particularly timely offer, as it has become clear to me, by recent events, particularly those on the Tennessee River, that ironclad gunboats will be the deciding factor to winning the war on the Western Rivers, which, in turn, will be integral to winning the war overall.

On behalf of the Confederate States Navy I enthusiastically accept your offer to make the Yazoo River a commissioned vessel of the Confederate States Navy, and your offer to act as her pilot, as our experience has shown that skilled pilots are very difficult to come by.

As to the manning of the Yazoo River, I am currently reviewing the names and qualifications of those men currently available, but I am in no doubt that the kind of men you seek will be found and transferred to the Yazoo River as expediently as possible.

Once again, allow me to commend you on your patriotism and selflessness as displayed by this act. I remain,

Your humble and obedient servant,

S. R. Mallory

Secretary of the Navy, Richmond

Robley read the letter, fast. He was breathing shallowly. He forced himself to breathe normally, read it again, then read it again. Thoughts crowded his head, fought for attention, the emotions swirled like smoke.

Confederate States Naval Vessel Yazoo River…The words sounded like music in his head. At last, at last…

Then the darker thoughts clawed their way up. He had exaggerated some in his description of the vessel. He had called her an ironclad. And if he had his way, so she would be. He had written, sent orders, money, to iron foundries throughout the South, had written follow-up letters, had his attorneys write follow-up letters. So far, nothing. Not a scrap of iron had arrived. The Yazoo River was still a cotton-clad.

He had overstated his own qualifications as well. Mallory called him “Captain.” Naturally, the Secretary would assume an experienced river pilot would merit that title. Not a big problem-he could get around that one. Take a real pilot at gunpoint if he had to, so long as he was aboard when the CSS Yazoo River got underway.

He read the letter again. He had to get back to his office in the Yazoo River’s wheelhouse. He had to write follow-up letters, find out where his gunboat iron was.

Jonathan Paine pushed open the back door of Miss Sally Tompkins’s house, clomped down the back steps. He held a big basket crammed full of filthy sheets and bloody bandages. The wind plucked at the red-and-white strips, pulled them out, set them flapping like banners. Jonathan turned a shoulder into the wind, hurried across the yard, along the path worn down to dirt and fringed with brown grass.

Bobby stood at a cauldron hanging from a tripod over a blazing fire. He agitated the contents with a big stick, like one of Shakespeare’s witches.

Othello plays in Macbeth, Paine thought, and the thought made him smile. He stepped quickly across the yard. He was moving well with his prosthetic leg now, walking more like a man with a hurt leg than a man with no leg at all. The limp reminded him of his father. Of the three boys, he had always favored his father’s looks the most. Now the effect was even greater.

He moved within the radius of the fire, caught what warmth he could. He and Bobby dumped the bloody bandages into the water and Bobby began stirring again.