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"Iron plates and rivets of what looks like the pilothouse."
Pitt shoved the chopper to a higher altitude so he wouldn't disturb more sand. The cloud had finally drifted away and settled, exposing the ironclad's pilothouse and about 2 square meters of deck over the casemate. It seemed, so unnatural for a ship to be lying under a desert, it materialized like a giant sand monster out of a science fiction movie.
Less than ten minutes later, after Pitt landed the helicopter, and he and Giordino heaved a laboring Perlmutter up the sides of the dune, they found themselves standing on the Texas. The pilothouse rose clear, and they half expected to find eyes peering back at them through the observation slits.
There was only a light coating of rust on the thick iron that shielded the wood of the casemate. Gouges and dents from the Union navy's guns were still evident on the armor.
The entry hatch on the rear of the small structure was frozen shut, but it was no match for P
itt's wiry strength, Giordino's thick muscles, and Perlmutter's weight as it squeaked in protest at being forced open. They stared at the ladder that dropped into the darkness, then stared at each other.
"I think the honor should go to you, Dirk. You put us here."
Giordino removed a backpack slung over his shoulders and passed out maximum optic flashlights that could illuminate a basketball court. The interior beckoned, and Pitt licked on his light and stepped down the ladder.
The sand that had sifted through the eye slits covered the deck almost to the tops of Pitt's hiking boots. The wheel stood frozen in time as if patiently waiting for a ghostly helmsman. The only other objects he could see were a set of speaking tubes and a high stool lying on its side in a sand-filled corner. Pitt hesitated at the open hatch leading down to the gun deck for a moment, inhaled deeply, and dropped into the darkness below.
The instant his feet touched the wooden deck he crouched and turned completely in a circle, beaming his light into every corner of the immense enclosure. The great 100-pound Blakely guns and the two 9-inch, 64-pounders sat half immersed in sand that had flowed past the shutters of their open gun-ports. He walked over and stood beside one of the Blakelys, still solidly mounted on its huge wooden carriage. He had seen old Mathew Brady photographs of Civil War naval cannon, but had never conceived their monumental size. He could only marvel at the strength of the men who once manned them.
The atmosphere of the gun deck was oppressive but surprisingly cool. It was also eerily empty but for the guns. No fire buckets, no ramrods or shot and shell. Nothing littered the floor. It was as though it had been stripped clean for a dockyard refit. Pitt turned as Perlmutter awkwardly climbed down the ladder followed by Giordino.
"How odd," said Perlmutter, gazing around. "Are my eyes failing or is this deck as bare as a mausoleum?"
Pitt smiled. "Your eyes are fine."
"You'd think the crew might have given it a lived-in look," Giordino mused.
"The men on this deck and these guns battered half the Union fleet," exclaimed Perlmutter. "Many of them died in here. It doesn't figure there isn't a scrap of their existence."
"Kitty Mannock mentioned seeing bodies," Giordino reminded him.
"They must be below," said Pitt. He aimed his light beam at a stairwell leading down into the ship's hull. "I suggest we begin with the crew's quarters forward and then work back through the engine room toward the stem and the officers' quarters."
Giordino nodded. "Sounds good."
So they moved on, numbed by an awe of the unknown. The knowledge that she was the only completely intact ironclad from the Civil War with remains of her crew still on board only deepened an almost superstitious reverence. Pitt felt as if he was walking through a haunted house.
They slowly moved into the crew's quarters and came to an abrupt halt. The compartment was a tomb of the dead. There were over fifty of them frozen in their final posture when overtaken by death. Most had died while lying in their bunks. Although there was water to drink from the dwindling flow of the river, the shrunken stomachs of their mummified corpses told of the disease and starvation after their food ran out. A few were sitting slumped around a mess table, some crumpled on the deck. Much of their clothing was stripped off their bodies. No sign of their shoes or a trace of their sea chests or personal belongings could be seen.
"They've been picked clean," murmured Giordino.
"The Tuaregs," Perlmutter concluded wearily. "Beecher said that desert bandits, as he called them, had attacked the ship."
"They must have had a death wish to attack an armored ship with old muskets and spears," said Giordino.
"They were after the gold. Beecher said the Captain used the Confederate treasury gold to buy food from the desert tribes. Once the word spread, the Tuaregs probably made a couple of futile assaults against the ship before getting smart and laying siege by cutting off all food and supplies. Then they waited until the crew starved or died off from typhoid and malaria. When all signs of resistance disappeared, the Tuaregs simply walked on board and pillaged the ship of the gold and everything else they could carry. After years of scrounging by every nomad tribe that wandered by, nothing is left but the crew's bodies and the cannon that were too huge to haul away:"
"So we can forget about the gold," said Pitt thoughtfully. "It's long gone."
Perlmutter nodded. "We won't get rich this day."
There was no temptation to linger in the compartment of the dead. They moved aft and into the engine room. Coal was still heaped in the bins and shovels hung beside the scuttles. Without moisture to cause corrosion, the brass on gauges and fittings still had a faint gleam under the bright glare of the max optic flashlights. But for the dust, the engines and boilers looked to be in first-class operating condition.
One of their light beams caught the figure of a man sitting hunched over a small desk. A yellowed paper lay under one hand next to an inkwell that had spilled when he had slumped into death.
Pitt gently removed the paper and read it under his flashlight.
I have done my duty to the last of my strength. I leave my sweet, faithful engines in prime condition. They beautifully carried us across the ocean without missing a stroke and are as strong as the day they were installed in Richmond. I bequeath them to the next engineer to move this good ship against the hated Yankees. God, save the Confederacy.
