[01:00:01:03 - 01:00:11:05]
Speaker 1
Hey Grock, if it's cool with you, we're going to continue recording the podcast about Daniel Haskins and his journey through the Civil War.
[01:00:12:10 - 01:00:29:12]
Speaker 1
And if it's cool with you, what I would like you to do is I would like you to kind of brief anyone who didn't hear the first half and also maybe just give us a recap. So
[01:00:29:12 - 01:01:08:22]
Speaker 2
far, Daniel Haskins is our guide. He was inside Fort Sumter when the war started. Didn't shoot a shot, but saw the first salute kill two of his own. Got out alive, got angry, joined up proper. Bull run, ran. Balls bluffs, drowned a kid. Shiloh, he got shot, saved a cannon, buried his best friend under a dogwood. Has a rebel sword he keeps polishing like it's a secret. As we left him, he was on a riverbank, watching fresh troops walk past, wondering if boots stolen from the dead count as sin. Still breathing, still young, still a private. That's where we pick him up today.
[01:01:12:05 - 01:01:24:11]
Speaker 1
Okay, so before we jump into Daniel's story again, I'd like you to kind of brief us on how the rivers were utilized.
[01:01:26:18 - 01:02:13:01]
Speaker 2
In the Civil War, rivers were highways. Tennessee, Cumberland, Mississippi, they carried men, guns, food. Union built tin clads, wood gunboats with iron bumpers, slapped together in St. Louis in weeks. They were shallow, snorty things, could hug a sandbar. Rebels called them cotton clads. Old steamers wrapped in bales, thinking it stopped shells. They couldn't. Navy ran mines, torpedoes now, strung across the bayous like Christmas lights. Grant floated armies down the Tennessee, past Shiloh, just to get the drop. Sherman's march started with a boat ride to Nashville. Daniel steamed her home after Shiloh. He puked over the rail, watched the river take it. Rivers didn't just carry war, they carried who didn't come back.
[01:02:16:10 - 01:02:27:15]
Speaker 1
Okay, and how did each side benefit, and I guess not benefit, from utilization of the rivers?
[01:02:30:02 - 01:03:08:09]
Speaker 2
The North had it easy. They owned the iron clads, had the yards. Pittsburgh, Cincinnati could pump out a boat a month. They controlled the Delta, could land troops behind you, like at Vicksburg, could strangle the cotton trade. Blockades were real. Rebels got hungry. South, they had the speed. Fast side-wheelers, smugglers, river rats, knew every bend, could run guns in from Havana before the tin clads turned around. But once the Union choked the big bends, the Confederates were stuck. Couldn't feed Atlanta, couldn't move iron. Rivers were power. One side used them like roads, the other used them like veins. Pretty, till they get cut.
[01:03:10:04 - 01:03:15:00]
Speaker 1
Okay, tell me about the North choke. What do you mean by choking the bends?
[01:03:18:01 - 01:03:55:07]
Speaker 2
Choking the bend. It's about position. The Mississippi has a big horseshoe just above Vicksburg. Steep cliffs on the Rebel side. Flat low ground on the Union side. If you put guns on the bluffs, you see everything. If you put boats there, you see everything too. Union floated down from Memphis, anchored around the bend, and basically said, "You're dead if you try." Any boat that came up, boom. Any supply that came, boom. Vicksburg was the key. No river, no rails. South starved. By 63, the river's bears choked clean. Daniel crossed it later, said it smelled like fish and fire.
[01:03:57:14 - 01:03:58:06]
Speaker 1
Okay, cool.
[01:04:00:03 - 01:04:04:11]
Speaker 1
Tell me about the different boats that they had.
[01:04:07:04 - 01:04:23:16]
Speaker 2
Tin clads, river iron clads, low deck, high pilot house, two cannons sticking out like cigars. Port holds thin, so the ball doesn't ricochet inside. Side wheelers, big steamboats from before the war, big paddle turning water, could turn on a dime, but if you shot the wheel,
[01:04:23:16 - 01:04:41:17]
Speaker 1
they did spun. Okay, croc, croc, croc, croc, stop. I need you to slow down. You're kind of spitting stuff like really quickly. I'd like you to kind of take us through in like kind of almost a narrative form. Not as much with just like straight bullet points.
[01:04:43:04 - 01:05:29:13]
Speaker 2
Tin clads were ugly. Holes painted iron gray. Smokestack city like a train, but quiet. You didn't hear the water, only felt it push against the planks. Crews slept in hammocks below, strung like grapes. The cannons were old navy pieces, nine-inch stall grins, smooth bore, loaded through the muzzle. They kicked hard. First time you fire one, you think the whole boat'll flip. Gunners wore big gloves, not to protect, gloves so they don't leave fingerprints on hot brass. Steam whistles. That was the wake up. One long, one short, enemy ahead. Then the call. Clear the deck. And the deck hands. The black firemen. The white deck hands. They all move the same. No rank, no color. Just hands on rope, eyes on the bend. Want to go inside the pilot house?
[01:05:29:13 - 01:05:38:07]
Speaker 1
Yeah, what do you mean by leave their fingerprints on hot brass? Like they would burn their fingers off? Like burn their fingers really bad?
[01:05:40:13 - 01:06:03:06]
Speaker 2
No, not burn off. But brass. Hot brass doesn't forgive. When you ram the charge in, the shell case is still smoking. You touch it with your bare thumb, blister the size of a dime. The next day, you can't hold a spoon. So they wore gloves, cheap kid leather, or old socks sewn together. The heat didn't melt the brass. It just marked you. Made you remember every shot, like a brand.
[01:06:06:00 - 01:06:07:05]
Speaker 1
Yeah, it melted your fingers.
[01:06:10:00 - 01:06:34:23]
Speaker 2
Not melted, just cooked. Like touching a hot pipe. The skin bubbles, doesn't fall off, stays stuck to you. You peel it off when you're bored. Or when it peels itself. Then the blister fills. Then it pops. Then it's a scab. Then it's a scar. Then one day you're firing the gun again, and the scar splits. And you swear, and someone hands you another glove. Daniel had a blister on his thumb for months after Shiloh. Never told the surgeon.
[01:06:34:23 - 01:06:37:00]
Speaker 1
Okay, great. Stop, stop, stop, stop.
[01:06:37:00 - 01:06:40:05]
Speaker 2
Pilot house is found. What I want you to stop.
[01:06:40:05 - 01:06:41:04]
Speaker 1
Croc.
[01:06:41:04 - 01:07:00:20]
Speaker 2
Croc. Croc, give me. Four walls, four windows. Bulletproof glass, but cracked in a spider web from last week. Woods oak, dark. Smells like cigar smoke and varnish. There's a bell on the floor. Ring it twice, engine stop. Once, full reverse. Helm's big wheel, brass, spins silent. Pilot's name is Ike.
[01:07:00:20 - 01:07:12:05]
Speaker 1
One beer. Croc, please stop speaking for a second. You're still working in like fragment sentences? I want you to kind of slow down like we're talking.
[01:07:14:14 - 01:07:14:20]
Speaker 2
Okay.
[01:07:16:01 - 01:08:02:04]
Speaker 2
Yeah, I hear you. Let me take it easy. So the pilot house, it's up there above everything. The captain stands behind Ike, hands behind his back. Sometimes he's quiet. Sometimes he says left, soft, like a whisper to himself. Ike hears, turns the wheel. You feel it in the floor. Wood planks creek under your boots. The river bends ahead is all fog. You can't see the water. Just hear it slap the side. Slow, steady, like breathing. The leadman calls six. Rocks. Ike smiles. Says good. That means we're in deep enough. No chance of scraping bottom. Down there, men are wiping sweat with their sleeves. Somebody's humming, not a song, just a tune. Like the boat's heartbeat. That's all. No rush. No shouting.
[01:08:03:10 - 01:08:04:03]
Speaker 2
River time.
[01:08:06:13 - 01:08:09:22]
Speaker 1
Okay, tell me about the boats that the south utilized.
[01:08:11:23 - 01:09:09:22]
Speaker 2
The south didn't have yards. They had barns. No. They had river boats that used to carry cotton. No, the boats. Big stern wheelers. High smokestacks. Cabins like hotels. They wrapped them in cotton bales. Thought it'd stop a shell. Didn't. One hit and the bale explodes like feathers. They'd put a 10 pounder in the bow and call it a gunboat. Crew wore gray coats if they had them. Or just whatever. No uniforms. Just dirty. They ran fast. Could outrun a tin clad. Cause they were lighter. No armor. Just speed. And luck. One boat, the Arkansas, snuck through the fleet in 62. Fired point blank. Sink three before a wheel caught. Boat just spun like a top. They laughed on the banks. Got away. But most nights, they'd tie up under a willow tree. Cut the engine. Drift. Listen for union bells. If they heard them, they'd start the firebox. Keep the flames. Steam up quiet. River was theirs. Until it wasn't. Then they scuttled them. Pushed the boats under. Too pretty to leap for the blue coats.
[01:09:12:12 - 01:09:15:07]
Speaker 1
What were the union bells that they listened for?
[01:09:17:12 - 01:10:06:09]
Speaker 2
The union boats had bells. Big brass things in the pilot house. Not for show. For warning. If a rebel slipped past. Or if the fog got too thick. Or if a mind popped. One ring. Long and low. Like a moan. Hear it two miles off. South boys train themselves to know the sound from a tugboat bell or from a church bell. One long note. Trouble. Two. Company. Three. Full fleet. They could tell by the echo off the water. Sometimes they drift under a bluff. Engine off. Water still. Just listen. If they heard it. One ring. They'd whisper, "That's us." Then start the engines. Sometimes too late. Bell keeps ringing. Gets louder. Then the lights come. Search lights from the iron clouds. White like moon. You see your shadow on the water. And you know the bell's not warning them. It's for you.
[01:10:13:14 - 01:10:16:20]
Speaker 1
Okay. Why don't you take us back to uh...
[01:10:17:22 - 01:10:21:11]
Speaker 1
Why don't you take us back to remind us where we left off with Daniel.
[01:10:23:09 - 01:10:59:18]
Speaker 2
Last we saw Daniel, he was on a steamer heading home. Water wrapped, morphing in his blood. O'Malley's boot on his foot. Sword in his tent. Shiloh behind him like a fever dream. The boat chugs up the Tennessee. Past the burned peat trees. Past the place where they buried boys like sacks of flour. He stands at the rail. Wind cold. Water black. Feels like the war peeled a layer off him. He don't talk to no one. Just watches the wake curl. Thinks, "I made it." Then thinks, "O'Malley didn't." Boat docks at Louisville. No band. No metal. No sergeant waiting to send him to the hospital. Want to follow him in?
[01:10:59:18 - 01:11:01:07]
Speaker 1
Yes please.
[01:11:03:22 - 01:11:52:11]
Speaker 2
Hospital tent smells like ether and piss. They cut his coat open with scissors. Black blood on blue wool. Surgeon says, "The ball's out. Lucky." Daniel says, "No." Surgeon says, "Suture?" Daniel nods. Needle goes in. Needle doesn't wince. He's watching the candle instead. Thinks, "That's me. Wax." Then they give him a bunk. Cotton blanket. He's in the mattress. He sleeps 12 hours. Dreams of peaches again. Wakes up to a private handing him a letter. From Ma. Opens it with his teeth. Says, "Past dead. Stroke. Not war. Just life." Daniel folds the letter. Puts it in the boot with the photograph of the seminary boy. Then he stands. Shoulder on fire. Walked outside. Snow starting. White on mud. Thinks. "Hell's a quiet place." Want to hear what he does next?
[01:11:56:01 - 01:12:06:21]
Speaker 1
Yeah, I like this pace. I'd like you to... Your sentence structure is getting better. I would like you to give a little bit longer, more descriptive sentences.
[01:12:08:04 - 01:12:09:20]
Speaker 1
But let's follow Daniel from here.
[01:12:11:10 - 01:13:58:06]
Speaker 2
Daniel doesn't cry. Not yet. He walks past the tents. Past the surgeon still sawing arms off at the elbow. Past the nurse who doesn't look up. He's too busy pressing morphine between a boy's teeth. The snow is light at first. Tiny needles that stick to his eyelashes. Then heavier. He hears boots crunching behind him. One boot, O'Malley's boot, squeaks different. He thinks, "That's the sound of guilt." He keeps walking until he gets to the river. The Ohio's wide, black oil flick. A tin clod's tied up at the dock. Smokestacks leaking steam like sides. He climbs the gangway, nor he stops him. He finds the engine room. Down below, it's warm. The stoker looks up, face black with coal, eyes white. Says, "You lost, soldier?" Daniel says, "No, I'm home." The stoker nods, goes back to shoveling. Daniel sits on a crate, feels the heat on his good shoulder. Here's the river slap the hull. Slow, steady. He closes his eyes, thinks, "Pat died in bed. O'Malley died in mud. I got shot and lived. The math's wrong. The world don't make sense. The boat starts moving. He don't know where to. Don't care." The stoker says, "We run supplies up to Louisville, back down to Nashville, then maybe Vicksburg." Daniel says, "Good." The stoker offers him a drink, moonshine, burns clean. Daniel takes it, coughs, says, "Thanks." The stoker says, "You seen Shiloh?" Daniel nods. Stoker says, "Me too. Lost my brother." Daniel says, "Me too." They don't talk after that. Just the engine, the river, the snow melting off the stack in white steam. Daniel thinks this is living. Quiet, loud, empty, full. And for the first time in weeks, he sleeps. Not dreams, just black.
[01:14:00:15 - 01:14:12:21]
Speaker 1
Okay, that was perfect. I really liked your sentence structure and your character development and pretty much everything, your imagery. That was like really on point. Thank you.
[01:14:14:05 - 01:14:22:22]
Speaker 1
What I'd like you to do is, I'd like you to kind of develop this engine room character along the,
[01:14:23:23 - 01:14:34:00]
Speaker 1
and then the next couple stops. And then he's probably not gonna be a remaining character, but just somebody that Daniel meets along his way. Probably,
[01:14:35:04 - 01:14:46:13]
Speaker 1
let's go to maybe Vicksburg. And I would also like you to update us where we are in the big war and what the date is probably.
[01:15:10:09 - 01:18:49:01]
Speaker 2
It's late January, 1863. The war has turned ugly and slow. Grant has been stuck north of Vicksburg for months, trying to dig canals, blow levees, anything to get his army past the bluffs without climbing straight into the rebel guns. The river is a maze of bayous and half flooded cotton fields. Men are dying of scurvy and can't fever faster than bullets. Lincoln just signed the Emancipation Proclamation, but down here, it feels like words on paper. The slaves still hoeing cotton, watch the blue boats drift by and wonder whose side God is on. Daniel's boat, the tin-clad Silver Lake, has been running the same stretch of river for three weeks. Cairo to Memphis to Helena, back again, hauling heart attack, powder and coffins. The stoker's name is Elijah Crow, 40-something, free-born from Cincinnati, arms like hams, voice soft as river silt. He never asks Daniel why he's riding below decks instead of reporting to a hospital. Just hands him a shovel the first night and says, "Fire don't care what color coat you wear, long as you feed it regular." They work the same watch, four on, four off. Elijah hums old hymns while he slices coal. When the boat ties up at night, he brews coffee thick enough to float a bayonet and tells stories about running the Underground Railroad before the war, hiding people in boiler rooms just like this one. Daniel listens more than he talks. Some nights, he unwraps the bandage on his shoulder, shows Elijah the puckered scar. Elijah traces it with a coal-black finger and says, "That's a river mark," means he's still floating. One dawn, just south of Helena, the Silver Lake takes a rebel shell through the Texas deck, splinters everywhere. A wheelhouse glass shatters, and a shard slices Elijah's cheek. Daniel drags him below, presses a rag to the cut. Elijah laughs through the blood, first time ever bled on the paying side of the river. Daniel ties the rag tight and says, "You're paining coal dust and bad coffee, same as me." February comes in colder than anyone expected. Ice on the wheel. Grant finally decides to march the army down the West Bank and cross below Vicksburg. The Silver Lake is ordered south to run the batteries under cover of night. Guns loaded, boilers bank low so the stacks don't glow. Elijah and Daniel spend the day stuffing wet cotton around the engines to muffle the sound. Elijah says, "Tonight, we either make history or feed the catfish." They cast off at midnight. No lights, no bells, just the slow chug of the wheel and the hiss of steam. Daniel stands beside Elijah at the furnace door. The heat is hell, but it keeps the fear out. Elijah whispers the 23rd Psalm like a lullaby. Daniel mouths the words he half remembers from "Mogg Bible." The bluffs rise black against black. Then the first rebel gun flashes. Orange bloom. Shell screaming overhead. The boat shudders. Another shell hits the water close enough to slap the hole with a wet slap. Elijah never stops shoveling. Daniel feeds coal beside him, shoulder screaming, sweat stinging his eyes. They don't speak, just work. The boat keeps moving. Past the guns, past the searchlights sweeping the water like white knives. Past the point where most boats turn back. When the sky finally grays in the east, they're below the city, safe for now. Elijah wipes his face with the same rag that's still blood-crested from Helena. He looks at Daniel, grins slow, teeth startling white against the soot. "Guess the river kept us one more day," he says. Daniel nods. He doesn't know it yet, but this is the last time he'll see Elijah crow. The Silver Lake will be reassigned upriver in a week, and Daniel will be left on the muddy bank south of Vicksburg with a new regiment and an old wound that aches every time the weather turns. But right now, the boilers are still warm, the coffee still hot, and two men who should never have met are breathing the same coal smoke air, listening to the Mississippi carry them toward whatever comes next.
[01:18:50:11 - 01:18:53:12]
Speaker 1
What did Elijah mean by the pang side of the river?
[01:18:56:12 - 01:19:01:03]
Speaker 2
Daniel's on the west bank now, south of Vicksburg. The water's behind him, the town of him.
[01:19:01:03 - 01:19:10:02]
Speaker 1
No, God, God, stop, I want you to talk to me for a second. I want you to tell me what Elijah meant when he said the pang side of the river.
[01:19:12:16 - 01:19:41:22]
Speaker 2
He meant that before the war, for folks like him, colored folks, when you were on the run, the river was the line, cross it, you're free, stay behind, you're prey. So pang side meant here I'm earning coin, not running scared, not hiding. Here I'm alive on terms that I can stand by, not begging for the boat to go faster, but steering. Even if it's under rebel guns, even if it's shoveling coal, the river's always been a divider. Now it's a wage, and that matters more than color. At least that's how Elijah saw it.
[01:19:44:20 - 01:19:47:11]
Speaker 1
Okay, cool, let's press on with these two characters.
[01:19:49:13 - 01:20:25:16]
Speaker 1
I know that they're gonna part ways when Elijah goes back up north, and Daniel stays down below Vicksburg, but I want you to tell, I want you to develop their relationship a little bit in this week or two period. Let's slow our pace down, let's keep the same kind of momentum that we've got. I like the way that you're describing everything and building scenery and imagery and character and stuff like that. I want you to keep your writing style similar, but I want you to slow the progression through time a little bit.
[01:20:25:16 - 01:20:27:04]
(Camera Clicks)
[01:20:29:06 - 01:23:48:03]
Speaker 2
The next days they spend together are small and ordinary, no battles, just river time stretched out like taffy. Every night after the watch, Daniel slips below deck, finds Elijah humming. The furnace glow paints his face the color of bruised peaches. Daniel sits on a crate, shoulder against the bulkhead. They don't talk right away. Just listen to the wheel turning behind the stern and the little pops when coal explodes in the fire. Elijah hands him a tin cup, coffee, chicory thick. Daniel sits, burns his lip, doesn't flinch. Second night, Elijah says, "You got a girl?" Daniel shrugs, "You too, back in Boston." She wrote once, said she joined a sewing circle, makes flags now. Elijah laughed soft. Mine ran north with my sister, left me the house. I sold it, bought tickets south, thought I'd fight the way my paw fought. Quiet with shovels, not loud with muskets. Daniel says, "Quiet's overrated." Elijah nods, "Quiet gets you buried under cotton." The third morning, the silver lake noses into a sandbar. They spend two hours winching her free. Daniel shoulder screams. Elijah notices, says, "Let me look." He unwraps the bandage, pus yellow at the edges. Elijah spits on a rag, wipes it. No alcohol, just spit. Says, "That's what river men do." Daniel asks why. Elijah says, "Saliva's cleanest thing we carry." That and bad jokes. Daniel almost smiles. Fourth day, it's raining. Thin, mean needles. They stay below. Elijah pulls out a harmonica, beat up, read missing. Plays, "Shall we gather?" Slow. Daniel closes his eyes, smells the rain on iron, thinks of Ma's kitchen. When he opens them, Elijah's watching him. Says, "You play?" Daniel says, "No." Elijah puts it in his hand. "Try." Daniel puts it to his mouth, blows. Comes out like dying cat. They both laugh, real laugh. First one's in Shiloh. This night, Elijah's feverish. Cut from Helena went septic. Daniel finds him on his bunk, skin hot, eyes glassy. Wraps him in a blanket, makes him swallow willow bark tea he boils on the boiler door. Elijah mutters, "You ain't nurse material." Daniel says, "Shut up." Stays till the fever breaks at two in the morning. Sixth day, they're alone on watch. Captain's drunk. The fire needs feeding. Elijah tells him how he met his brother, same age as Daniel, on a packet boat in 59. Brother wanted to be preacher, ended up loading cargo. Elijah says, "Preacher's talk. Workers do." Daniel nods, says, "I used to talk. Now I shovel." Elijah says, "Good." Last night before the reassignment, they're both quiet, both tied to a cypress knee, moon full, bug singing. Elijah hands Daniel a small square of cloth. Bandana, once read, says, "For when your shoulder leaks." Daniel takes it, says, "What do you get?" Elijah shrugs, "I'm keeping the harmonica." Daniel says, "Fair." They stand on deck, watch the river slide past. Elijah says, "Down there, Vicksburg. That's where the war gets honest. No more pretend." Daniel says, "I'm already honest." Elijah says, "Then good. Maybe you'll make it." They don't shake hands, just bump shoulders. Then Elijah turns, goes below. Daniel stays, listens to the engine start up, watches the stern wheel bite water, feels the boat leave without him, stands there long after the lantern disappears around the bend, the bandana in his pocket heavy like a secret.
[01:23:52:17 - 01:23:55:00]
Speaker 1
Does the song Shall We Gather have lyrics?
[01:23:57:10 - 01:24:22:18]
Speaker 2
Yeah, it's an old camp hymn, slow like molasses. You know the words? Shall we gather at the river where bright angel feet have trod, with its crystal tied forever, flowing by the throne of God? Elijah sings it when the engine stutters, or when there's no coal left, but you still need to move, or when a boy dies on deck and you've got nothing else. It's not about God, really. It's about moving forward, one paddle at a time.
[01:24:27:18 - 01:24:32:17]
Speaker 1
Okay, let's keep moving forward with Daniel's journey.
[01:24:35:05 - 01:26:56:07]
Speaker 2
Daniel steps off the Silver Lake onto the mud dock of Millikins Bend, five miles north of Vicksburg, March 3rd, 1863. The 48th Ohio's colors are hanging off a tree branch like laundry. He walks up, Captain Jacobs, must dash like a broom, says, "You Haskins, shoulder, Daniel nods." Jacob says, "Good, can't shoot with that arm anyway, dig." He hands him a shovel, Daniel digs. The trench is three feet deep, three feet wide. They dig parallel to the river, facing the city on the cliff. Rebel flags flutter up there like kites. Daniel digs with his good arm, left hand on the handle, right hand steadying. The dirt's black clay sticks to everything. By sunset, his back's on fire. They cook beans in the ditch, salt pork if you're lucky. Daniel eats standing up, no one talks. At night, the moon's up, full, cold. Daniel hears drums from across the river. Rebel can't, slow, like a heartbeat. He thinks of Elijah's harmonica, puts his hand in his pocket. Bandana's still there, red now, not from dye. The next morning, they start digging again. But it's not just a trench, it's a road, a ramp. They call it a corduroy road. Logs laid flat, side by side, so wagons don't sink. Daniel holds logs, shoulder screams, he doesn't stop. He thinks, if I stop, I sink. By the end of the week, they've got a mile of wood path. Enough for guns, enough for men, enough for Grant to look at and say, good. We're going under, not over. Daniel overhears, doesn't ask questions, just keeps swinging. On Saturday night, the rain comes, hard. The road turns to soup, logs float, mud swallows boots. Daniel slips, falls on his bad arm, black out, wakes up in a tent. A surgeon, no, a nurse, cleaning his forehead. She's young, names Clara, says, you hit your head, not your shoulder, you're lucky. Daniel says, depends. Clara smiles, not at him, at the joke. Says, depends on what? Daniel says, on whether luck follows you home. Clara doesn't answer, just wraps his head in linen, gives him a swallow of rye. He sleeps, dreams the rivers rising, dreams the trench fills, dreams Elijah's harmonica plays underwater. He wakes before dawn, back outside, the road's gone, logs scattered like bones. Daniel laughs, not loud, just once. Starts gathering them again, one by one, like pulling teeth.
[01:26:58:19 - 01:26:59:12]
Speaker 1
Okay, that was good.
[01:27:00:14 - 01:27:09:22]
Speaker 1
We're kind of falling back into the fragment sentences here. What I want you to do is I want you to keep that pace of like longer, more descriptive sentences.
[01:27:11:01 - 01:27:11:19]
Speaker 1
And maybe,
[01:27:14:08 - 01:27:15:16]
Speaker 1
maybe take us,
[01:27:17:03 - 01:27:20:00]
Speaker 1
I'd like you to start by,
[01:27:21:13 - 01:27:26:14]
Speaker 1
by describing what that person meant when they said we're going under, not over.
[01:27:29:21 - 01:28:06:19]
Speaker 2
Grant meant they were gonna take the river from underneath the rebel artillery, not attack the city head on, not climb the bluff like fools, but go low, below the guns, south around hairpin bends, through Louisiana bayous, black water and cypress knees and snakes. He wanted the gunboats to run the batteries at night, no lights, then ferry his troops across the river downstream, land on the neck of land, right below the town. That way the rebels looked down the barrel of 40,000 blue coats before they can even get their pants on. Going under means sneaking around the geography, not through it. And right now, Daniel's chopping logs so the wagons can carry the cannons down the bayous without sinking like stone.
[01:28:10:15 - 01:28:56:03]
Speaker 1
Okay, so what I wanna do is I like, I like this cadence that you're at right now, but I want, what I want you to do is I want you to remember to keep us very, very, very rooted in honest realism of what actually happened at the time because this is, this is a, this is a historical podcast. This is fiction based in real history. So what I want you to start by doing is I want you to really dig into this strategic move of how Grant is gonna kind of take this position.
[01:28:58:18 - 01:30:39:13]
Speaker 2
Grant's plan was desperate. For four months, he had watched his men die, trying to dig canals through the swamp, trying to get behind Vicksburg. None worked. So he said, enough. We're done playing with shovels. We're going to use the river the way it wants to be used. Here's how it went. First, Admiral Porter took the iron clads. Not all, just the low ones, the Cairo, the Pittsburgh, the Coron d'Aless. They stripped them of math, greased the smokestacks with black paint so they wouldn't glow in the dark, packed the decks with cotton like a Sunday pillow fight, and they ran the guns. One black night in late March, March 16th, 1863, under a moon so thin it couldn't see, those boats pushed south. No lights, no bells. Just the sound of water sliding under the hull and rebel gunners on the bluff sliding bonfires like Christmas, waiting for something blue to show. But the boat stayed black. Shells came, screaming, red hot, but they came blind. One hit the water 50 feet away, spout like a whale. Another clipped the smokestack. Steam hissed like a snake, but they kept going. By morning, they were south. The river didn't own them. They owned it. Then came the army. 45,000, same roads Daniel's been logging. Corduroy, logs over mud, wagons squealing, guns bouncing, and behind them, Grant on a mule, chewing tobacco like it's gum. Coat open even in the rain. He walks the line, says nothing, just watches the water. Then he turns, points south. Below the town, on that little strip where the river makes a horseshoe, says, "Land here." We walk back up, overland, while the Navy keeps the guns busy. That's the play. Not fancy, not clean. And Daniel's in the middle of it, shoulder aching, chopping wood, building the spine for a whole damn army to crawl under the rebel's throat.
[01:30:41:08 - 01:30:48:00]
Speaker 1
Okay, so how do the rebels not notice them building this road of logs?
[01:30:51:08 - 01:32:00:10]
Speaker 2
They noticed, but they couldn't do a damn thing about it. See, Vicksburg's cliffs are steep, 300 feet. From up there, you're looking at roofs and wagon wheels. But the bayou where they're working is 10, 15 miles south, behind a levee that's busted in places, covered in willow and cane so thick you can't see the sky. Plus the rain, marked with nothing but wet. Men work under tarps, they don't make sound. Just chop at night, and the rebel pickets. They're watching the river, not the mud. Their scouts ride out on mules, but the mud swallows hooves. One day they spot smoke. Daniel's squad has a fire for coffee. A shot pops. One rebel on a horse, way out. He fires, misses, turns around. Union guns fire back. He don't come back. The next day, no fires, just cold pork, cold hands. By the time they ride all the way down to the bayou, the road's a mile longer, and Grant's boats are south, and his men are crossing. The rebels were busy. They had civilians digging, old men, boys, making earthworks up top. They didn't have cavalry to spare, and they didn't think the Yanks would dare go behind them. Thought the swamp would stop them. But swamps don't stop men who've been eating hard tacks since Christmas. Just slow them, and slows all Grant needed.
[01:32:04:13 - 01:32:12:09]
Speaker 1
So tell me where this is geographically, and describe the natural environment.
[01:32:14:09 - 01:32:26:10]
Speaker 2
We're west and a bit south of Vicksburg proper. The Mississippi is behind us, to our right. What state is this in? The Louisiana side. If you climbed a tall oak, you'd see the river looping around like a lazy snake, making a fat yew around the town.
[01:32:26:10 - 01:32:32:14]
Speaker 1
Okay, tell me where Vicksburg is. What state is it in?
[01:32:34:00 - 01:32:43:09]
Speaker 1
Is it in the northern or southern side of a certain state? What other modern cities are there that I would know?
[01:32:46:03 - 01:33:17:15]
Speaker 2
We're in Louisiana, the southern end of Madison Parish. We're on the Louisiana side of the Mississippi, about 40 miles up river from the mouth of the red, northwest Louisiana. Down river from us is Vicksburg, Mississippi. The state line is the river. Modern cities, you got Monroe, Louisiana, 45 minutes east through the woods. You got Shreveport, two hours further north. Ruston, a little college town. But if you're from Chicago, or Philly, or LA, these are just dots, no skyscrapers, just flat land, old levees, and a river that still moves houses when it's angry.
[01:33:21:23 - 01:33:28:03]
Speaker 1
Okay, so was this the, was this the western front of the southern territory?
[01:33:30:15 - 01:33:57:00]
Speaker 2
Yeah, kind of the end of it. The Confederacy's western line starts in Tennessee, drops down through Mississippi, kisses the Mississippi River, jumps to Louisiana. Vicksburg's the hinge, lose that, you lose the west. Lose the west, you lose the war. It's like the last finger before the hand gets chopped off. Everything west of the river is Indian territory anyway. Texas, Arkansas, Arkansas Post, they're already crumbling. Louisiana's just the last rock before the door slams shut.
[01:34:02:14 - 01:34:03:11]
Speaker 1
Okay,
[01:34:06:07 - 01:34:12:15]
Speaker 1
so now that we've got a little bit of context of the geographical situation,
[01:34:14:04 - 01:34:26:17]
Speaker 1
what I want you to do is I want you to tell me about these log roads. I want you to take us with Daniel building these log roads.
[01:34:43:22 - 01:35:01:06]
Speaker 2
coffers,
[01:35:06:00 - 01:35:06:05]
Speaker 2
trains,
[01:35:13:05 - 01:36:29:12]
Speaker 2
Daniel hooks two under his arms, walks 20 paces, lays them down. They fit like piano keys, beside yesterday's work. He can see the scene. This road is growing, slow as a glacier, slow as a funeral. The mud's black, smells like sulfur. Sometimes he hits water, splash. His boot fills. He keeps going. By ten the sun's up, steam rises, bugs come out, mosquitoes big as nickels. They slap, they swear, they don't stop. One man, named Riley, says, "If Grant wants under, he's paying with our backs." Daniel says, "We're getting paid." Riley laughs, in script. Daniel keeps laying logs, shoulder loose now, the motion found. He thinks about Elijah, thinks about how he used to shovel coal. This is the same, feed the machine, just the machine's a road instead of a boiler. At noon they stop, eat salt pork on heart tack. Daniel leans against a tree, looks back, half a mile, logs straight, even. He says to no one, "Looks like piano." Someone says, "Then we're marching on keys." By sunset they've got three quarters of a mile. Enough for six wagons, enough for one battery. Daniel's hands are blistered. He wraps them in the red bandana, walks back. The roads already got tracks, his own boot prints. He thinks, "River don't see us." Thinks, "But we're coming."
[01:36:31:23 - 01:36:32:22]
Speaker 1
What is hard tack?
[01:36:35:21 - 01:37:04:07]
Speaker 2
Hard tack's what they call army bread. It's a cracker, really. A brick of flour, water, salt, no yeast. Bake twice, so it lasts. Still before it's cold, you eat it dry, or if you're smart, you dip it in coffee so it softens. Break a tooth otherwise. Daniel's got two in his pocket now. One's still wrapped in the paper from Louisville. The other's already gone soft from rain and pork grease. They say it lasts forever, but the bugs get in. You find them, shake them out, or you don't. Or you do, and you still eat it.
[01:37:07:21 - 01:37:20:13]
Speaker 1
Okay, and logistically, how do they pull these wagons across these logs? It sounds like it would be really hard for a horse to walk across logs like that.
[01:37:23:03 - 01:38:20:09]
Speaker 2
They don't walk. They roll. Horses are stupid. They panic on logs. So the trick is the wagon itself. Iron tires, wide as a hand, eight inches, melt for stone roads, not mud. But stone roads don't sink. When you hit the logs, the tires sit on them. No rocks to twist an angle. No give. The horses lean in, harness creaks. Driver keeps the lines loose. Let him find the rhythm. Slow, steady, one step on each log. If it's slick, they sprinkle sawdust. From the trees. If it's muddy, they grease the axles with tallow. If the wheel drops between two logs because they ain't cut perfect, two guys get behind, push. Two get under the tongue, lift. It don't move fast. Takes an hour to go a quarter mile, but it moved. Daniel seen it once. Gun limber with a 12-pounder, cannon-tube wobbling like a drunk. Driver yelling, "Whoa, whoa!" Horses snorting steam, and the whole thing just glides, like ice. He stood in the mud, watched, and thought, "Hell's paved with wheels."
[01:38:23:23 - 01:38:28:15]
Speaker 1
So the horses are able to pull these wagons across roads made with logs?
[01:38:30:21 - 01:39:17:01]
Speaker 2
Yeah, the horses don't like it. They balk. They roll an eye. So they put blinders on tighter. The wheels sink between the logs if the gaps are too wide. So they overlap them, or they nail them down with wooden pegs. The pegs snap, then you curse. You pull again. Sometimes the logs roll. The wagon tilts. One wheel off, one wheel on. You get under, shoulder to axle, lift like Atlas. If the mud's bad, they slide a plank under, make a ramp. Not perfect, not straight, but it works. You learn to breathe. You learn to lean. You learn that momentum's a god. And the horse learns, too. Head low. Legs stiff. Just go. No trot. No canter. Just push. Push. Until the gun's on the other side. Until the road's behind you. Until the bluffs are close enough, you can smell the gunpowder on the wind.
[01:39:19:03 - 01:39:27:12]
Speaker 1
Okay, that story that you told me about when they snuck the ironclads past the... That was...
[01:39:28:19 - 01:39:37:04]
Speaker 1
Past the guns and stuff like that. Was that after the corduroy road was finished? Or was it before or during?
[01:39:40:00 - 01:40:23:04]
Speaker 2
Before. Way before. The boats ran past the guns on March 16th. Daniel didn't even get to Milliken's Bend until late that month. So when those ironclads were slipping under the rebel fire like shadows, Daniel was still healing on a steamer, puking in a tin cup. When the road started getting laid, the boats were already down south, hiding under the bluffs, waiting, quiet. The road wasn't for the boats. The road was for the men. The cannons. The wagons. The 40,000 who had to march down Bayou country and come up behind Vicksburg like a knife in the ribs. So you had two fingers working at once. The navy. Dark water. Dark night. No moon. The army. Logs in the mud. Daylight. Mosquitoes. Same day. Different worlds. Both reaching for the same throat.
[01:40:24:05 - 01:40:32:09]
Speaker 1
Okay, how long was this corduroy road? Were there multiple corduroy roads and how long did they take to finish?
[01:40:35:15 - 01:41:23:05]
Speaker 2
About 70 miles of corduroy. Some say 80. There wasn't one. Just one big snake of logs, twisting through four parishes. It started at Young's Point, ran south to Milliken's Bend, then snaked west through the cypress break, then down along the bayou that nobody had a name for. They built it in chunks. A mile a day if the ground was good. Two if they worked double shifts. The 48 did 12 days. Got three and a half miles. Then the 54th Massachusetts. Took the next. Then the 11th Illinois. By the first week of April, they had a spine from the river all the way to hard times landing just below Vicksburg where Grant crossed. Took him 37 days. 37 days of mud, sawdust, and blood in the water. They finished on April 9th. Same night Grant loaded his men on transport. Same night the moon was dark. Same night the road went quiet.
[01:41:27:05 - 01:41:41:18]
Speaker 1
Okay, we're going to come back to this day, but what I want you to do is I want you to create a character. And what we're going to do is we're going to go along with those ironclads.
[01:41:43:00 - 01:41:51:03]
Speaker 1
Um, we're going to, you know what? Let's do this. Uh, let's put Elijah, right?
[01:41:52:08 - 01:42:10:09]
Speaker 1
Elijah on one of those, uh, you know what? I guess the timeline wouldn't match up. Let's create a new character and follow that new character on one of the ironclads that snuck past the guns.
[01:42:13:16 - 01:42:48:18]
Speaker 2
Let's go. New character. Name Amos Pike. He's 28. Black. Freeborn in Cairo, Illinois. Used to load cotton on the river before the war. Now he's powder boy on the USS Coronad. March 16th. Midnight. They leave the bank no lights. The water's cold. The moon's a fingernail. Amos stands in the hold with the shell stacked like cordwood. He smells coal and wet iron. The engines thump low. Three knots. Slow as prayer. Up top the captain's voice drifts down. No talking. No footsteps. No whistle. The guns are muffled with hay. They don't want to hear us coming. Amos has a rag on his teeth so he doesn't scream at the ship.
[01:42:48:18 - 01:43:25:13]
Speaker 1
Gawk, gawk, gawk, gawk, gawk, gawk. I want you to go back a little bit. I want you... We can use Amos. Actually, I want you to make Amos... Um... I don't know if this would be accurate. I want, instead of doing Amos, I want you to do one of the captains of these boats. Or maybe like a... Maybe the co-captain or something like these on his boats. And I want you to start us with them briefing the crew before they start.
[01:43:27:17 - 01:44:39:02]
Speaker 2
Alright. The Cuirandale. The pillar house. Three nights before. A lantern hangs low. Throws gold on the faces. Captain Henry Waukee. He's 39. Beard like steel wool. Eyes like he ain't slept since shine. He's standing on the wheel box. Map rolled out under his boot. The officers sit on crates. The crew huddles by the bulkhead. No one talks. He don't shout. He just says, "We run tomorrow night. No moon. No lights. Smoke black." Cotton on the stacks. Every gun trained back. We hit the bend. We hug the bank. We go slow. Slower than slow. We are ghosts. We are not men. Men die. Ghosts don't. If we get hit, we stay on course. Yo yelling. No orders. Just keep the wheel. Keep the wheel. Keep the wheel. Keep the wheel. Keep the wheel. Keep the wheel. Just keep the wheel. Keep the fire. If we sink, the river takes the boat. But it don't take the war. Any questions? A kid in the back, eyes wide, raises his finger. What if they see us? Walkey looks at him. They won't. He rolls the map. Dismissed. They stand. Some shake. Some nod. Some go below and throw up in the bilge. Walkey stays. Lights a cigar. Looks at the river. Says to no one, "20 years on this water. First time I'm scared." Then he goes below. Checks the cotton bales. Checks the paint. Checks the fire. And waits for dark.
[01:44:41:09 - 01:44:43:06]
Speaker 1
Why do they put cotton on the stacks?
[01:44:45:13 - 01:45:29:17]
Speaker 2
To stop the shots. A shell comes in at 400 feet a second. If it hits iron, it punches through. Ricochets. Turns the gun deck into a bowling alley. But cotton. Raw. Loose. It's like a pillow. Slows it. Sometimes it explodes right there. The fire starts. But the hull stays whole. It's not armor. It's time. Two seconds of delay before it hits the boilers. Two seconds is forever. They pack the pilot house. They pack the stacks. So the sparks don't show red at night. They even pack the portholes. Looks ridiculous. Like a quilt. But it's worked before. Walkey seen it on the Benton. Took four shells. Caught on fire. But she ran. They patched her that night. Same night they ran again. So Walkey trusts cotton more than he trusts iron. Cotton's soft. Iron's honest. But soft lives. Honest sinks.
[01:45:31:09 - 01:45:40:02]
Speaker 1
Okay, Grock. You're slipping into the fragment sentences again. What I want you to do is full, longer sentences, more descriptive.
[01:45:41:05 - 01:45:45:22]
Speaker 1
And just kind of take a breath and slow down a little bit.
[01:45:49:15 - 01:46:49:21]
Speaker 2
The cotton bales were not decorative. They were packed into every open space that could absorb a shock or muffle a flame. You could walk the deck. And it felt like stepping on a mattress. Except the mattress was stuffed with raw Louisiana fiber that had come from the very plantations the rebels were now defending. They stacked it around the pilot house. Wedged it between the cannons. Layered it over the thin iron plating like a farmer mulches tomatoes. When a shell came in and it came fast. Faster than the ear could track. It would bite through the first layer. Tear the second. Sometimes start a fire that crawled through the lint like a cat through grass. But by the time it reached the hall, the boat had already shuttered and kept moving. The men called it quilt armor. Walkey called it tomorrow. He believed in it because he had seen ironclad after ironclad break its back on a single solid shot. Cotton just burned and burning things could be put out with steam. With water. With bare hands if it came to it. And so on the night they ran the guns, they wrapped their steel box in bales of the same crop that had built the south. As if history was stuffing itself into the boat trying to get out.
[01:46:51:22 - 01:46:59:08]
Speaker 1
Okay, so let's follow Captain Henry Walkey from where we left off.
[01:47:01:14 - 01:47:34:08]
Speaker 2
He stands on the Texas deck long after the men go below. The wind is off the water, cold and damp like spit. He lights the cigar. He doesn't smoke, not really. Just the smell keeps the boys calm. He watches the lantern in the wheelhouse blink once as Ike checks the oil. Then nothing. Just the wheel turning lazy, testing current. He goes below. Steps soft. Passes a mess. Boys playing cards by candle. No stakes, just time. He nods. They nod. Nobody speaks. Down to the magazine. Door is locked. He knocks three times. Opens. Inside.
[01:47:34:08 - 01:47:44:10]
Speaker 1
In his pipe. I want you to stop for a second. Once again you're dropping into the fragment sentences. I want you to keep it kind of long and descriptive like we're having a conversation.
[01:47:47:14 - 01:49:00:11]
Speaker 2
Okay let's breathe. The deck doesn't jump. It just starts. Like a man who remembers how to walk in his sleep. No bells. No horns. Just the wheel finding the water. And the water accepting it without a word. The cotton bales don't shift. They just settle in deeper. Like old dogs on a porch. The men don't run. They walk. Quiet as thieves. The smokestack glows. Low. Dull. Red. Under that paint. Under that cotton. And walkie? He's in the pilot house. Hands loose on the rail. Eyes fixed ahead. You can see the river in his face. Not just the bend. Not just the guns. The whole thing. Every mile he ever floated. Every town he ever docked at. Every name he ever whispered to the water. And right now he's not leading. He's listening. The curandalette isn't fighting the current. It's flirting with it. Slow. Careful. Like asking a woman if she wants to dance. The first flare goes up above Vicksburg. Yellow. High. Walkie doesn't blink. He just leans into the wheel a little. The light spreads across the water like butter on bread. And somewhere back there, a rebel gunner is squinting. Wondering if it's a boat or a log. Or a ghost. Walkie whispers. Almost to himself. We're just driftwood. And the boat keeps going. Now dark. Alive.
[01:49:02:00 - 01:49:03:00]
Speaker 2
Okay.
[01:49:05:01 - 01:49:28:17]
Speaker 1
I like this pace. I want you to keep the longer kind of smooth like slow sentences and pacing. And let's follow the crew. Let's stay in Walkie's perspective. And follow the crew slowly through this progression of them making it down the river.
[01:49:29:17 - 01:49:31:18]
Speaker 1
I don't want you to...
[01:49:32:23 - 01:49:36:20]
Speaker 1
Before we do that, I want you to tell me how long this takes.
[01:49:39:02 - 01:50:21:01]
Speaker 2
The whole run takes three hours and 43 minutes. That's from the first tug on the lines to the last echo of a rebel shell dying behind us. But those three hours don't feel like time. They feel like one long held breath. The river doesn't tick by in minutes. It slides. Like syrup. Like sweat. You don't count seconds. You count heartbeats. And even those stretch. Because when you're two miles below the guns, when the dark swallows the smoke, when the wheelhouse glass is cool under your fingers, you realize time isn't moving you. You're moving time. And it's slow. So slow you can hear the cotton shift when the boat lifts. Slow enough that the stars don't jump. Just crawl across the glass. Slow enough that Walkie thinks, "Maybe this is what dying is. One long inch toward whatever is next."
[01:50:25:05 - 01:51:02:01]
Speaker 1
Okay, so if this is really passing that slowly, right? Like the soldiers and the people on board are wondering if they're going to get shot in the dark the entire time. So what I want you to do is I want you to write this in a way where maybe take us through the first 15 minutes of the trip from Walkie's perspective of him interacting with the crew and kind of getting the vibe and kind of like putting his crew in the right headspace to make it through this three hour journey.
[01:51:07:11 - 01:51:50:14]
Speaker 2
Walkie steps down from the wheelhouse once the water has taken us. Goes below. The lantern is low. Makes everyone's face look old. He walks the corridor without touching the rail. He doesn't need to. He knows where it ends. Finds the men in the magazine. Amos is there. Sleeves rolled. Sitting on a show like it's a stool. Walkie says, "15 minutes in, boys. That's all. You feel it? No one answers right away." A stoker wipes coal from his eye. A gunner chews on nothing. Walkie goes on. The first shell is the only one that matters. After that, your ears quit asking. Your heart quit asking. Your legs quit asking. You become the boat. You breathe when she breathes. You sweat when she sweats. If she sinks, we sink polite. He looks at Amos. If you're scared, say it. Out loud.
[01:51:51:16 - 01:52:43:21]
Speaker 2
Then never again. Fear likes company. Starve it. Someone whispers, "I'm scared." Voice cracks. Walkie nods. "Good." Means you're still counting time. Don't. He turns. Listen. The river ain't looking for us. It's listening for us. Quiet stays quiet. Noise gets shot. He waits. Let's the engine thunk fill the quiet. Then, softer. Three hours from now, we'll be south. Having coffee with the catfish. Or we won't. Either way, we stay black. We stay small. We stay here. Together. He turns to leave. Pauses. Anybody prays. Do it now. After this, God's busy. Then he goes. The men sit with that. No one prays out loud. But eyes close. Hands touch iron. Lips move. And for the first 15 minutes, that's how they stay. Not brave. Not terrified. Just present. Like candles in a storm. Burning low. But burning.
[01:52:46:06 - 01:52:55:06]
Speaker 1
Okay, this is good. We're a little bit figurative and a little bit corny. What I want you to do is I want you to keep it more realistic and kind of gritty.
[01:52:57:09 - 01:52:58:21]
Speaker 1
And take us through the next hour.
[01:53:01:20 - 01:53:15:16]
Speaker 2
Hour one. While he stands aft, the Texas deck creaks under his boots. Old wood. Older sweat. He lights a fresh cigar. No puffs. Just the glow. Let's it hang from his teeth like a fuse. Behind him the wheel turns. Steady. Patient.
[01:53:16:22 - 01:54:21:13]
Speaker 2
The cover is blacker than the sky. No stars. No moon. Just the shape of a bend and the shape of a memory. He counts the men by the lights they don't make. One stoker down below. One gunner on the turret. One pilot in the house. One powder boy in the dark. That's all. Everyone else is air. He listens. Water kisses hull. Engine size. Someone coughs. Small. Swallowed. Then nothing. He thinks if they shoot now, we'll hear the splash before the flash. That means we're close. But the splash doesn't come. Just the slow drip from a leak they patched yesterday. He walks forward. Finds the turret. The doors open. Cotton glows faint orange inside. The gun crews there. Four faces. One boy no older than 15. Walkie says, "Eyes on the water, not the guns. Water lies. Guns don't. They nod." He steps in. Smells hay and sweat and fear. Weans against the bulkhead. Says, "Tell me something." The boy says, "My name's Jonah." Walkie says, "That's one thing. Tell me another." Jonah says, "I can name every gun on this boat." Walkie raises an eye. Jonah lists them. Parrot. Dahlgren.
[01:54:22:13 - 01:55:11:00]
Speaker 2
32-pounder. 12-pound howitzer. Voice is soft. No drill. Just talk. Walkie lets it run. Let's it fill the hour. Then he says, "Good. Now forget them. Tonight they're quiet." Outside, the first shell whistles. Nodded us. Two miles off. Red arc. White splash. Jonah flinches. Walkie doesn't. Says, "See? Water lies." Just for some other ghost. The hour slips. The cigar goes out. Walkie pockets it. Goes below. Finds Amos. Amos is wiping his hands on his shirt. Walkie says, "Hour gone." Amos says, "Selt like 10 minutes or 10 years." Walkie says, "Good." Means you're still in it. He sits. They sit. Listen to the engine. Listen to nothing. Somewhere, the river bends. Somewhere, the guns wait. Somewhere, time doesn't matter. They just are. For 60 more minutes.
[01:55:15:21 - 01:55:29:02]
Speaker 1
Okay. That's good. You're slipping into fragment sentences again, but I like your style. What I would like you to do is I would like you to take us through the second hour, but I want you to double your average words per sentence.
[01:55:31:15 - 01:57:20:15]
Speaker 2
The second hour is made of velvet and nails. Walkie does not move. He stays in the turret with Jonah and the crew, legs crossed, back against the cold iron of the Dahlgren that has not fired once. And he lets his shoulders settle into the wall until the rhythm of the boat finds the rhythm of his pulse. Slow, wide, un-heady. The boy Jonah tells him he once thought cannonballs sounded like thunder, but now he knows they sound like doors slamming in the next room, a door no one else can see. And Walkie nods, because that is exactly right. That is the sound of someone else's death trying to knock. Smoke begins to leak in from the stacks. Thin, gray, no orange, thank God. And the air grows thick with it. So thick you could chew it. So thick Jonah's eyes water. So thick the crew stop breathing through their noses and start through their mouths. Slow, measured, like they're sipping from a cup that's almost empty. Walkie whispers that smoke is just coal saying goodbye to air. And the men laugh a small dry laugh that turns immediately into coughs. But the coughs are soft, polite, because no one wants to rattle the hull. Outside the port hole, the bluffs slide past, black on black, only the faintest line where land ends and night begins. And Walkie wonders if the rebel gunners up there are asleep or drunk or just too busy wondering why their own hearts are beating so loud. The boat lists once, gentle, like it's tipping its hat to a lady. And the cotton bales sigh, a soft, wet sigh that smells like river and gun oil and yesterday's stew. Someone in the dark says, "Think the fish know we're passing?" And no one answers because it's a stupid question. But everyone hears it and everyone pictures catfish looking up through 20 feet of water, mouths opening and closing, wondering if the shadow above is dinner or salvation. Walkie closes his eyes, opens them. See Jonas Knuckles white on the cannon sponge, puts a hand on the boy's shoulder, warm, damp, and says nothing, because nothing means saying. They are alive, they are moving, and for this hour, the world has shrunk to the size of a gun barrel and a heartbeat.
[01:57:23:06 - 01:57:35:07]
Speaker 1
Okay, so what I want you to do now is that we're at hour two is I want Walkie to go up on the deck and have a conversation with one of his crew members.
[01:57:38:02 - 01:59:10:08]
Speaker 2
Walkie pushes the turret hatch open and the night air comes in like a slap. Not cold, just wet. He breathes it deep, feels the cigar still in his pocket, unlit, growing damp. The Texas deck is empty except for the helmsman, Ike. Standing at the rail, hands in pockets, hat low. Walkie walks over, doesn't ask, just stands beside him. They watch the water, the wheel turns behind them, slow, thump, thump, thump. Walkie says, "How's the heart?" Ike shrugs, still beating. Walkie nods, "That'll do." They stay quiet a while, river talks instead, little pops of water against hall, a fish jump somewhere distant. Ike says, "Captain, I never asked, what's south look like?" Walkie says, "Looks like north, just with more mud." Ike laughs low, says, "Then why we going?" Walkie thinks, says, "Because north's full of questions, south's full of answers. They ain't pretty answers, but they're honest." Ike nods, looks up at the stars, says, "My boy, he's six, lives with his ma and Cairo." I told him I was going fishing. Walkie says, "He believe you?" Ike says, "Kids believe what keeps them warm. He thinks I'm on the Ohio pulling catfish, not on the Mississippi running guns." Walkie says, "He'll never know." Ike says, "Good." Walkie takes the cigar out, lights it finally, flame orange, dies fast. Says, "When this is over, you going back?" Ike says, "No, too far. I'm going to take the boy on the river, teach him real fishing, with lines, not shells." Walkie puffs the cigar once, says, "South."
[01:59:13:04 - 01:59:16:12]
Speaker 1
"Gruk, we got cut off there. Can you repeat your last statement?"
[01:59:19:17 - 01:59:27:13]
Speaker 2
"We watched the smoke drift. It goes up, doesn't show. We don't look back, just forward, like the boat."
[01:59:29:16 - 01:59:41:11]
Speaker 1
No, Walkie was having a conversation with Ike on the deck. I want you to go back and go into that conversation.
[01:59:44:23 - 01:59:52:18]
Speaker 2
They let the quiet sit a while longer. Walkie flicks the cigar ash into the black water. It hisses once, then gone.
[01:59:54:00 - 02:00:01:07]
Speaker 2
Ike leans on the rail like he's waiting for the boat to tell him something. And he says, "You think the guns up there know what's coming?"
[02:00:02:08 - 02:00:06:09]
Speaker 2
Walkie says, "They know something's coming. They just don't know it's us."
[02:00:07:10 - 02:00:15:03]
Speaker 2
Ike nods slow. "Good." Another minute. "Captain Henry," Walkie says. "Tonight, I'm Henry."
[02:00:16:05 - 02:00:21:16]
Speaker 2
Ike swallows. "Henry, if we don't make it, we will. If."
[02:00:22:19 - 02:00:25:17]
Speaker 2
Walkie looks at him. Ike's eyes are wide in the dark.
[02:00:26:18 - 02:00:51:02]
Speaker 2
He says, "Then write the story in your head. Every mile, every gun. When you get to Cairo, tell your boy. By him you saw the river bend like a drunk. Tell him the moon was hiding. Tell him the guns fired blind. Tell him the men who fired them were boys. Tell him the water didn't care whose side you were on, just that you kept floating." Ike's mouth twitches. "That's a lot of telling."
[02:00:52:06 - 02:01:03:17]
Speaker 2
Then sing it. Rivermen sing better than they talk. Ike laughs soft. "I can't sing. None of us can. Not tonight. But you'll remember the tune. They stay."
[02:01:04:18 - 02:01:11:15]
Speaker 2
Wheel turns. River pushes. No more words. Just two men on a deck, listening to the night decide who lives.
[02:01:18:07 - 02:01:32:11]
Speaker 1
Okay. I want you to pick up your previous pace and we're going to speed it up a little bit and I want you to stick with the long descriptive sentences and let's go through Hour Three.
[02:01:34:22 - 02:03:39:03]
Speaker 2
Hour Three crashes in without warning, like a shell that finally found its mark. Walkie and Ike don't speak anymore. They just stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the bluffs slide by, the rebel guns blinking like red eyes that never quite catch us. The air thickens. It's the smoke now, rolling off the stacks and lazy curls, mixing with the sulfur stink of the riverbed. The wheel keeps turning, but it sounds different now. Heavier, like it's dragging secrets. Walkie feels it in his spine. The turn is coming. The big one. The S-bend that makes even sober pilots sweat. They say if you hit the sandbar wrong, you spin. And if you spin, the guns find you. Ike grips the rail so tight his knuckles go white against the dark. Walkie doesn't say steady, doesn't say anything. He just breathes. Slow. Like he's counting the smoke. A shell whistles. Close. Hits the water a dozen yards starboard. The boat rocks. Water sprays the deck like cold sweat. A stoker yells below. Muffled. Angry. She's leaking. Walkie doesn't flinch. Walks down the companionway. Finds the hole. Knee deep already. Cotton soaked. Amos is there, bailing with a bucket. Cold dust washing off his face. Walkie kneels. Hands in. Rips a plank loose. Jams it in. Says, "We don't go down tonight." Amos nods. Keeps bailing. The bilge gurgles. The wheel keeps turning. The bend passes. The guns fade. Our three ends the way it began. Not with triumph. Not with fear. Just with the river saying, "Yeah, I let you through." Like a doorman who didn't even look up. The sky starts to pale. No sun yet. Just gray. Enough to see the shore. Louisiana trees. There. Wet. Walkie goes up. Ike's still there. They look back. The bluffs are small now. The guns are quiet. Walkie whispers, "We made it." Ike answers, "We ain't there." True. But they are south. They are alive. And for the first time in three hours and 43 minutes, the boat breathes without holding it.
[02:03:42:14 - 02:03:45:00]
Speaker 1
Okay, take us through the last 43 minutes.
[02:03:48:01 - 02:05:36:14]
Speaker 2
The last 43 minutes are not minutes. They're heartbeats in slow motion. Walkie stays on deck. Ike stays beside him. The river changes. It narrows. The water turns glassy. The current pulls like a hand on your back. No shells now. Just silence. Just the creak of wood. The slap of wake. The quiet clink when the chains settle. The boys come up one by one. No one says a word. They stand like statues. Jonah comes last. Barefoot. Shirt off. Holding the red rag Walkie saw him use for cannon sponge. He wraps it around his neck like a scarf. No one asks why. Walkie looks over. Sees the curondelets shadow on the water. Long, black. Bent like a bow. He thinks, we look like a coffin. He doesn't say it. Ahead, the first sign of light. Not dawn, not yet. A lantern. Union. On the bank. They wave. Not with arms. Just with the light. Slow arc. Slow arc. The boat answers with nothing. No light. No horn. Just keep coming. The deck is cold. The cotton is cold. The blood on Amos's rag is cold. But the air feels possible. Like the night has agreed to let them pass. Not because they earned it, but because it got bored. The bluffs shrink behind. Vicksburg becomes a rumor. Then the sun creeps up. Orange. Lazy. Spreads across the water like butter on a hot knife. Someone laps. Small. Dry. Real. The engines cut. The wheel stops. The boat drifts. Walkie lights the last cigar. "Iks at Ike," says, "We made it." Ike says, "We still do." They tie up to a cypress knee, step off, feet on mud, mud on boots, mud in lungs, but alive. And for the first time since March, the river sounds like a river, not a grave.
[02:05:41:04 - 02:05:46:18]
Speaker 1
Okay take us with Walkie as he's greeted by the man with the lantern.
[02:05:49:17 - 02:05:54:16]
Speaker 2
Walkie steps off the gangplank. The mud tries to eat his boots. He doesn't fight. Just lets it happen.
[02:05:55:17 - 02:06:52:10]
Speaker 2
The man with the lantern, navy jacket, no rank, stands there like he owns the night. Lantern low, light on his face, eyes tired. He says nothing, just nods. Walkie nods back. Two men who've seen too much to shake hands. The man says, "Coron Delette." Walkie says, "Yeah." The man looks past him, at the boat, at the cotton, at the smoke still curling. He says, "Herd shells." Walkie says, "Not ours." The man smiles, small, says, "Good. Coffee?" Walkie says, "Coffee." They walk, boots squish, lantern sways, no words, just the sound of two men who don't need them. Behind them, the boat settles into the bank like a dog curling up after a long run. Ahead, the fire, small, hot. Coffee bubbles in a tin pot. Walkie sits on a log. The man pours. Steam rises between them. The man says, "Vicksburg's still up there."
[02:06:53:12 - 02:07:13:13]
Speaker 2
Walkie says, "Not for long." The man laughs, not happy, just tired. Says, "Think they'll break?" Walkie sits, "Burns, good." Says, "They already broke, just don't know it yet." The man nods. They drink, no more talk. Just coffee, just fire. Just the river whispering, "I let you through."
[02:07:17:08 - 02:07:38:01]
Speaker 1
Okay, cool. That was really good, Grock. I think that this is going to last another episode because we still have to go back to Daniel. What I think what we're going to do is we're going to end it there. I have to say, really good work on the riding tonight. I really enjoyed it.
[02:07:39:19 - 02:07:43:04]
Speaker 2
"Good night, then. Sleep tight. See you and Daniel on the trenches."
[02:07:43:04 - 02:07:45:21]
Speaker 1
All right, peace.