Glory In The Name

and how serious and how lighthearted, the ingredients tossed together to form a perfect confection.

He loved it, he loved her, but it was not enough to pull him from his black mood. He fell asleep at last, woke with head pounding, joints aching, as if he had slept tensed on the edge of a cliff.

He woke to the sounds of wagons on packed dirt, the jangling of traces, voices loud in the early morning. He woke thinking that the wagon train was ready to roll out again, that they had organized and prepared while he slept.

He climbed out of bed, wearing only the sailor’s slop trousers he had taken to wearing, now that the bulk of his work involved manual labor. He pulled on his pullover, and looking like a hungover Jolly Jack Tar stumbled out of a whorehouse.

There were wagons there, but not the wagon train. These were different wagons, bigger, with fresh teams of draft animals, black men sitting on the driver’s seats, long whips held lazily across their laps, waiting. He could see none of his own men abroad. Bowater did not know what was happening, but he realized that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with him.

“Captain!” Theodore Wilson stepped up, and again gave Bowater’s clothes a half-amused glance up and down, and if Bowater had not been so groggy he would have been angry with himself for having not worn his frock coat and gray pants.

“Mr. Wilson…”

“I have a confession, Captain. When I came down the other day, it was not simply to deliver the mail.”

“Really?”

“No, sir. I was curious. Curious to see if this thing, this ironclad, was really a viable enterprise. Not going to back a loser, sir. Never have. But I am impressed by what I see. And in truth, Captain, and I mean this with all humility, when I am impressed, I see to it that others are impressed.”

“I am impressed with your due humility.”

“Laugh if you will. I can get things done in this county. Behold, sir. Wagons.”

Bowater looked out over the wagons. Twenty that he could count, and more coming down the road. Big, sturdy vehicles. Suddenly the Yazoo River was a real possibility.

Robley Paine approached, limping but moving fast. “Wilson, what’s happening here?”

“Good morning, Robley.” Wilson smiled, but the warmth and concern in his voice was a cover, a sham. Beneath it, Bowater could hear only discomfort and fear. “I have spoken with the others, and we have decided we must help you in building your boat.”

Robley squinted at him. The old man was not fooled by any of it. Robley Paine, mad as he might be, understood the entire situation in an instant. “Captain Bowater is in charge here, you understand? His orders are final, and neither he nor I give a goddamn how much land you have, or how many darkies or how much money. You understand that, then your help is welcome.”

Wilson shifted uncomfortably. “Of course, Robley, of course…”

“Good,” Robley said, and then, as if forgetting his caveat of a second before, said, “See your men and horses fed. We leave for Jackson in one hour.”

It was pandemonium for an hour, with the teamsters and the horses and the shipwrights all getting their breakfast and their coffee and then getting horses and wagons ready, and the first screeching of nails as boards were pried from the side of the Yazoo River. And then the wagons rolled off and the noise dropped off to a fraction of what it had been and a sort of peace seemed to settle over the boatyard.

Samuel Bowater found himself in such good spirits that he was able to face the ream of paper needing his attention.

“Cap’n Bowater?” Hieronymus Taylor stuck his head in the door, interrupted beef requisitions.

“Come in, Chief.”

Bowater had seen little of Taylor in the past week. The chief and Burgess and Moses had disappeared down into the engine room and mostly remained there, like bats, or some other nocturnal animals. They would appear at mealtimes, and after work, filthy, drenched in their own sweat. They would tear off their clothes and plunge into the Yazoo River, and sometimes some of the others would join them. Beyond that, they were absent, down in their own underworld of steam pipes and boilers and condensers and pumps and cylinders and pistons.

“I do hope you are not here to report some insurmountable problem,” Bowater said, wondering if this was the end of his buoyant mood.

“No, no…ain’t nothin like that. We havin’ some problems with the damned valve linkage on the starboard engine. We don’t get it squared away, we like to do nothin’ but steam in circles.”

“It is something you can fix?”

“Oh sure, sure…but, well, fact is, I need to head on down to Vicksburg. I know a shop down there, can make me what I need. Ain’t a damn thing ’round here, ’cept some country blacksmiths, and what I need’s a bit more refined, ya understand? So if it ain’t a problem, reckon I’ll take the packet on down to Vicksburg.”

Bowater nodded. He did not doubt Taylor’s veracity, but there was something the chief was not saying. He considered probing deeper, but did not.

He did not like Taylor, but he trusted the man enough now that he would take him on his word. Whatever it was he sought in Vicksburg-reversing gears, a good drunk, a fancy girl-whatever Taylor felt he needed, Bowater was ready to let him have it. He did not ask what it was. He imagined he would find the answer repugnant.

“Very well, Chief. When will you be back?”

“Next Wednesday, reckon. Burgess and Jones gots their jobs, they’ll carry on without me.”

“Very well. And since you are venturing into civilization, please ask Polkey and Johnny St. Laurent if there is anything they need.”

“Aye, sir,” Taylor said, with the most respect and relief that Bowater had ever heard from the man, and disappeared.

Samuel turned back to his beef requisition, then set the letter aside. Time to start tearing into the Yazoo River. He felt more ready than he had since arriving.

They worked all that day until the sunlight was gone, and the next day, being Sunday, Samuel Bowater gave the men the day off, because he still could and because the men needed a break, and so did he.

He took easel, canvas, and paints and wandered a bit down the riverbank, to a place one hundred yards from the ship. The weather had turned warm with the first appearance of spring, and with his back to the shore Samuel looked up the winding length of the Yazoo River, the bursts of new green on the trees, the dots of color that represented the early spring flowers, the old black paint and fresh-cut wood of the Yazoo River. It was lovely. He pulled a pencil from his paint kit, made thin lines across the canvas.

The hours melted away as the canvas was crisscrossed with fine gray lines, the outline of the riverbank and the stands of trees, the sandbars and reeds like underwater obstructions laid down to stop a tiny armada, and far away, the building ironclad. He mixed paint on his palette, dabbed away at the canvas, filling in the lines, making the colors before him reappear on the canvas.

He was happy for a while, lost, and then he heard footsteps behind. He turned and looked. An older couple, around his parents’ age, wandering down along the riverbank, looking as if they were out for a stroll. Locals come down to see the ship being built. Sometimes Bowater felt like Noah, with all of the town coming down to watch the madmen building their boat.

He turned back to the painting, which he was liking less and less. He hoped the couple would leave him alone, but he knew they would not. He knew they would approach, look over his shoulder, make some comment that would reveal their absolute ignorance of art.

He made fine green lines where the reeds emerged from the river, heard the sounds of the couple’s feet on the gravel behind him.

“Captain Bowater?” the man asked. Bowater put his brush down, turned around.

“I am he. How may I help you?”

“Good day, Captain. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. We have followed your actions in the papers with great interest.” The man was red-faced, with a grand white mustache. He wore a black frock coat, a tall silk hat, walked with a gold-headed cane. His wife wore broad hoops, kept the sun at bay with a silk parasol. The man’s voice was soft, dignified, educated.

“Please,” the man continued, “allow me to introduce ourselves. My name is Eli Taylor. This is my wife, Veronica.”