Occupy Savannah Sequel to Coffee Bluff, Page 3

artillery in the fort could fire into downtown Charleston, and they would do so about once every hour or so. The guns were on the parapet just above us and the crews would reload immediately after they fired. As a result, when the gun fired I would jump half out of my skin.

  "We had rigged a little walk-way on the port side so I'd have a place to stand while I worked. I couldn't help noticing that the tide was really ripping by about ten feet below me while I worked. I thought about what would likely happen if I jumped into the bay when the tide was halfway in. The likely outcome was that troops would shoot me with rifles from the top of the wall. The Captain had posted a sentry on our deck also, but if it were dark, however, and if I swam away underwater for a ways, perhaps I could get away. I was headed for a prison up north, I figured I was dead anyway.

  "The sun was already down and it would soon be too dark to work. I began to beg for more time. "Almost done here!" I'd say and I'd lean heavily on my brace-and-bit, and they'd let me carry on. Eventually it got dark enough and I had to decide; either I was going to jump and swim for my life, or I was going to likely die a slow death in a cold northern prison. I had no plan really, just a hope, a wish even, that the tide would deliver me to the Charleston Battery in a few hours.

  "I left the brace-and-bit hanging in its hole and jumped.

  "The water was so cold it took my breath away. Even under water I could hear the shout and the report as the guard fired his rifle. Where the ball went I have no idea. I could feel balls hitting the water nearby, but I couldn't hold my breath any longer, I had to surface.

  "When I broke the surface there was quite a bit of shouting and shooting on the wall. In a full panic, I got myself oriented, took a breath and dove underwater. I attempted to swim underwater but soon lost my orientation -I couldn't tell up from down. I had to stop swimming and wait while my body floated to the surface.

  "The fort was a satisfying distance away, so that I no longer feared being shot. Unfortunately, the tide wasn't moving me inland as rapidly as I thought. I was in a race; I needed to get to land before the exposure to cold water brought me down.

  "After a while I got so tired I just put my hands over my head and floated with the waves breaking over my face. There wasn't much time left to me when my hand bumped into something in the dark. I turned and treaded water to investigate and discovered it was a plank, perhaps a plank off a barn or a house. Even from several miles away I'd been able to see that the artillery fire had devastated the waterfront section of the city; this little bit of flotsam was my salvation.

  James had finished trimming his customer's hair, but the gentleman didn't leave, rather he took a seat in a chair beside me to hear Chester's tale.

  "I draped my arms over the plank and was able to hold my head up for a while," Chester went on. "When my head got too heavy I worked the plank through my shirt and belt and floated on my back just a little bit higher in the water. My ears were uncovered between waves and I thought I could hear voices. I could see the outline of the city skyline against the sky; it was close but well beyond my reach. I thought the voices were a figment of my imagination until a paddle struck my face.

  "To shorten the story, I was rescued by fishermen. I'd never thought about it, but after dark, men put out into the bay in small boats to fish without fear of being used for targets by the artillerymen at Fort Wagner.

  We thought Chester had ended his chronicle.

  "Now here's the joke," he continued after a pause. "The next day my crew all signed the parole and were freed and put ashore."

  We all took a few minutes to digest Chester's story. I was the first to recover. "May I now tell a story? This is a story I heard only yesterday morning." I looked around the room and saw no dissention. "Because of my injury, I'm in what's called a Casual Company; it's composed of disabled officers and men nobody knows what to do with. So I work primarily with the Quartermaster, but recently I've been involved in interviewing our POWs from the Savannah Prison Pen. One sailor named Sam told me a most interesting story.

  Chester emerged from behind the curtain and moved into the barber's empty chair, his beard and his hair glistened with dampness.

  "Sam was a helmsman on the Water Witch when it was captured," I resumed. "He was shot during the assault, and he told me a tale of being sent in a cattle car on a train to Andersonville. He said it was the worst place in the history of the world. By August, he said, rumors were circulating in the stockade that Sherman's army was coming to rescue them. About that time the Johnnies began to evacuate Andersonville, which seemed to authenticate the rumors. Sam said he was put on a cattle car and shipped back to Savannah, then after a few days he was shipped north to a place called Fort Lawton, a stockade near Millen Crossing, Georgia. He said by September there were rumors that Sherman's army was coming to Fort Lawton to free the POWs. Sam was put on a rail car and shipped back to Savannah. He was here in the Prison Pen when we arrived.

  "But this story isn't about Sam. I think you'll all be interested in what he had to say about the assault on the Water Witch. He was asleep when the alarm sounded and ran on deck with his rifle in his hands, bayonet fixed. He was anxious to shoot a Reb and the deck was covered with fighting men; he said he hesitated to shoot because he couldn't determine friend from foe in the dark. A man emerged from the shadows in front of him; a pistol flamed and he was struck down immediately.

  "Now this is the interesting part. When Sam recovered his awareness he was on his back in the port side scupper. The sun had risen and he was in a line of Yank sailors lying on the deck; some were quiet, some were moaning, and some were screaming bloody murder. When he tried to move, Sam's upper right shoulder paralyzed him with pain. He observed that the engine was running and the wheels were turning but there was no breeze across the deck. He was a little confused but he noticed a similar group of bodies lying in rows on the aft deck, he concluded they were the wounded rebels. One of them was making a considerable fuss. Sam was able to locate him because he was waving his arms and cursing up a storm.

  This reb had a leg sticking out at an impossible angle and screamed half the time about the pain in his leg and the other half of his time begging sailors to stop running the wheels in reverse and to stop throwing things overboard. That's when Sam concluded that the Water Witch was aground.

  "The wheels are just stacking sand and mud around the bow!" this rebel screamed. "The tide is coming in, if you'll just wait a few minutes she'll float and you can tow her off with the boats! Somebody straighten my leg out, I can't do anything with it and it hurts like hell. Whiskey, I need whiskey! Can't somebody help us out with a little whiskey? The Yanks aren't going to come after us anytime soon - give her time to float! That better not be whiskey you're throwing overboard sailor."

  I stopped here and looked at Chester. We all were looking at Chester. He was very still and was trying to watch me out of the corner of his eyes. "Now, who do you suppose that was?" I asked rhetorically.

  I suppose losing his leg was not all that funny to Chester, but James saw the beautiful irony in the story. He began to laugh.

  Chester, who loves irony as much as anyone I'd ever met, crinkled up and began to laugh. "Just to put a period on your story," he said, "I was given the privilege of putting the torch to the Water Witch Monday afternoon so you Yanks couldn't have her."

  Chester climbed out of the barber's chair and checked his appearance in the mirror.

  I felt compelled to comment on his appearance. "We look considerably better now than we did two weeks ago."

  "So which is the real Luke?" he replied, "Is it the worthless cast-off crippled drunk? Or is it the Yankee infantry Captain in a new uniform?"

  The conversation really never got restarted after that. Two hours had elapsed. After a while I began to make motions to get out of my chair and had some difficulty - my knee had gotten quite stiff while we were sitting and it was painful to make it work again.

  Chester watched me with interest, "Where'd you get all that Confederate mo
ney?"

  I shrugged. "I just got two months back pay."

  "All this?" he indicated the barber shop.

  "My objective," I said slowly, "is to die with empty pockets."

  "You must be planning to die soon."

  "Well, if I don't, I expect to get paid again when we get to Charleston or Augusta." That little throw-away statement was the entire purpose of my visit to the barbershop. Could there be a better place to spread disinformation? Having completed my mission, I excused myself collected my cane and shuffled toward the door.

  Chester followed me into the street and I paused while he tediously climbed up onto his wagon.

  "One more thing, Chester."

  He fell into his seat and gave me his attention.

  "Go to the northwest corner of your barn, then go northwest, parallel to the edge of the bluff, about 100 steps. You'll find a fallen pine tree. When the roots pulled out, they left a hole in the ground. Dig into that hole and you'll find a waterproof bag full of Confederate money - a lot of it. I buried it there two weeks ago."

  "I'm not your friend," Chester replied, "why are you doing this?"

  "I have no use for it. Just get the money and spend it."

  Chester took up the reins and looked up and down the street as if looking for reinforcements. Perhaps he was looking for inspiration. Maybe