one to the deck behind it. Take all together, the three guns and the vital sounding line used up everyone in the eighteen-man crew who wasn’t required to stay below and keep the diesel running.
The hatch behind Kimball was open. From it wafted the reek with which he had become intimately familiar in three years aboard submersibles, a reek made up of oil and sweat and heads that never quite worked in the manner in which they’d been designed. Here, at least, as opposed to out on the open sea, he didn’t have to keep the hatch dogged if he didn’t want to flood the narrow steel tube inside which he and his men did their job.
“Three fathoms twain!” the sailor with the lead sang out again.
“Three fathoms twain,” Kimball repeated. His eyes flicked back and forth, back and forth, from one side of the Pee Dee to the other. Most places, forest—or maybe jungle was a better word—came right down to the riverbank. He didn’t like that. Anything could be hiding in there. He felt eyes on him, though he couldn’t see anyone. He didn’t like that, either.
Here and there, plantations had been carved out of the forest. He didn’t know what they grew in these parts—maybe rice, maybe indigo, maybe cotton. He was from the hills of northeastern Arkansas himself. The farm where he’d grown up turned out a little wheat, a little tobacco, a few hogs, and a lot of strapping sons. Some Confederate officers looked down their noses at him because of his back-country accent. If you were good enough at what you did, though, how you talked mattered less.
But that wasn’t why he growled whenever they passed a plantation. The mansions in which the Low Country bluebloods had made their homes were one and all burnt-out shells of their former selves. “I wonder if that happened to Marshlands, too,” he muttered.
“Sir?” Tom Brearley said.
“Never mind.” Kimball knew how to keep his mouth shut. It was none of Brearley’s business that he’d been in the sack with the mistress of Marshlands at a cheap hotel when the Negro uprising broke out. He hoped Anne Colleton was all right. Like him, she had a way of running straight toward trouble. That was probably a good part of what had attracted the two of them to each other. It made for a good submarine commander. In a civilian, though, in what might as well have been the middle of a war…
A rifle cracked in the thick undergrowth. A bullet ricocheted off the side of the conning tower, a yard from Kimball’s feet. He felt the vibration through the soles of his shoes. The rifle cracked again—or maybe it was another one. The round slapped past his ear.
“Hose ’em down!” he shouted to the men at the machine guns. Both guns started hammering away in the general direction from which the shots had come. The greenery by the riverbank whipped back and forth, as if in a hailstorm rather than a hail of bullets. Whether that hail of bullets was doing anything about getting rid of the uprisen Negroes who’d fired on the
Bonefish
was another matter. Kimball didn’t know enough about fighting on land to guess one way or the other. He suspected he would acquire more of an education in that regard than he really wanted.
“Wouldn’t it be fine, Tom, if we could land a company of Marines and let them do the dirty work for us?” he said.
“It surely would, sir,” Brearley answered. He looked up and down the length of the
Bonefish
. “It would be nice if this boat could hold a company of Marines. For that matter, it would be nice if this boat would hold all of us.”
“Hey, don’t talk like that. You’re an officer, so you’ve got a bunk to call your own, and a good foot of room between the edge of it and the main corridor,” Kimball said. “You sleep in a hammock or triple-decked in five and a half feet of space and you’ll find out all about crowded.”
“Yes, sir,” Brearley said. “I know about that from training.”
“You’d better remember it,” Kimball told
The hatch behind Kimball was open. From it wafted the reek with which he had become intimately familiar in three years aboard submersibles, a reek made up of oil and sweat and heads that never quite worked in the manner in which they’d been designed. Here, at least, as opposed to out on the open sea, he didn’t have to keep the hatch dogged if he didn’t want to flood the narrow steel tube inside which he and his men did their job.
“Three fathoms twain!” the sailor with the lead sang out again.
“Three fathoms twain,” Kimball repeated. His eyes flicked back and forth, back and forth, from one side of the Pee Dee to the other. Most places, forest—or maybe jungle was a better word—came right down to the riverbank. He didn’t like that. Anything could be hiding in there. He felt eyes on him, though he couldn’t see anyone. He didn’t like that, either.
Here and there, plantations had been carved out of the forest. He didn’t know what they grew in these parts—maybe rice, maybe indigo, maybe cotton. He was from the hills of northeastern Arkansas himself. The farm where he’d grown up turned out a little wheat, a little tobacco, a few hogs, and a lot of strapping sons. Some Confederate officers looked down their noses at him because of his back-country accent. If you were good enough at what you did, though, how you talked mattered less.
But that wasn’t why he growled whenever they passed a plantation. The mansions in which the Low Country bluebloods had made their homes were one and all burnt-out shells of their former selves. “I wonder if that happened to Marshlands, too,” he muttered.
“Sir?” Tom Brearley said.
“Never mind.” Kimball knew how to keep his mouth shut. It was none of Brearley’s business that he’d been in the sack with the mistress of Marshlands at a cheap hotel when the Negro uprising broke out. He hoped Anne Colleton was all right. Like him, she had a way of running straight toward trouble. That was probably a good part of what had attracted the two of them to each other. It made for a good submarine commander. In a civilian, though, in what might as well have been the middle of a war…
A rifle cracked in the thick undergrowth. A bullet ricocheted off the side of the conning tower, a yard from Kimball’s feet. He felt the vibration through the soles of his shoes. The rifle cracked again—or maybe it was another one. The round slapped past his ear.
“Hose ’em down!” he shouted to the men at the machine guns. Both guns started hammering away in the general direction from which the shots had come. The greenery by the riverbank whipped back and forth, as if in a hailstorm rather than a hail of bullets. Whether that hail of bullets was doing anything about getting rid of the uprisen Negroes who’d fired on the
Bonefish
was another matter. Kimball didn’t know enough about fighting on land to guess one way or the other. He suspected he would acquire more of an education in that regard than he really wanted.
“Wouldn’t it be fine, Tom, if we could land a company of Marines and let them do the dirty work for us?” he said.
“It surely would, sir,” Brearley answered. He looked up and down the length of the
Bonefish
. “It would be nice if this boat could hold a company of Marines. For that matter, it would be nice if this boat would hold all of us.”
“Hey, don’t talk like that. You’re an officer, so you’ve got a bunk to call your own, and a good foot of room between the edge of it and the main corridor,” Kimball said. “You sleep in a hammock or triple-decked in five and a half feet of space and you’ll find out all about crowded.”
“Yes, sir,” Brearley said. “I know about that from training.”
“You’d better remember it,” Kimball told
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