The great sharks of the Great Lakes

William Chambers could sing Union Army songs in his sleep. He knew every word to “Battle Hymn of the Republic” and "Always Stand on the Union Side.” He enjoyed singing them in his hearty baritone voice. His fellow infantrymen liked it too, although they’d never admit it. And best of all, singing made it difficult for an American to realize that Will had an accent.

But today, as he guarded the Confederate prisoners on Johnson’s Island, there was only one song on his mind: “Paddy’s Lamentations.”

Oh it's by the hush, me boys, and sure that's to hold your noise

And listen to poor Paddy’s lamentation

Oh, I was by hunger pressed, and in poverty distressed

So I took a thought I'd leave the Irish nation.

Will’s service often went unappreciated by the Americans who’d started this war—Northerners and Southerners alike. Some days, Will himself couldn’t fathom why he reenlisted voluntarily. Today was one of those days.

“Hey, Paddy!” the sergeant of his company, a foul and corpulent Clevelander, shouted at him. He dropped a stack of battered navy blue jackets into Will's arms. “Fix the holes in these uniforms.”

“Firstly, my name’s William,” Will replied. “Second, sewing garments like a little woman is not what I signed up for.”

The sergeant scoffed. “What did you sign up for?” he spat. “You had a brush with death, as you remind us daily, and got reassigned to a leisurely job. Now sew those jackets, before I blind you in your other eye.”

Will rued the day he told the other infantrymen he came from a family of tailors. He had an innate talent for sewing, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. This was a humiliating job—a big, strapping man forced to do women’s work. He also regretted telling his war stories from down South. He had no need to exaggerate: some coward who hit him had shot him in the back, but Will’s large frame and heavy bones had saved his life. The bullet lodged in a rib. Will bragged that it didn’t even hurt when the Army doctor extracted it. He would have re-enlisted that same day—except he fell ill with a mysterious, terrifying condition that paralyzed half his body, including his face. He reenlisted as soon as he could move again, but he still wore a patch over one eye to keep it shut.

He had no doubt many of these men resented his warrior ethic, having enlisted with the 128th Ohio Volunteer Army to avoid fighting the fierce battles down South. Still, he smothered the urge to throttle any man who mentioned his eye.

“What occasion requires that I fix these jackets with such urgency?” Will mumbled to himself, unaware that his sergeant was listening.

“We are attending a dinner party tonight aboard the Michigan,” the sergeant said, his nose in the air. “Charles Cole, the oilman, invited us. It would be insulting to arrive in ragged uniforms."

“Ah, Mr. Cole,” Will said. “You don’t find it strange that a Pennsylvania businessman has such intense interest in this island prison, do ya?”

Will had seen Charles Cole once, when he visited Johnson’s Island. The wealthy New England businessman even took time to powwow with the prisoners. What this alleged Pennsylvanian had to discuss with a group of Southern officers was anyone’s guess. But Cole had charmed the important people in the town of Sandusky, so he came and went as he pleased. He had even befriended the officers aboard the Michigan, the only Union warship in Lake Erie.

“A dinner party in the midst of a war,” Will said as the sergeant walked away. “And you say my job is leisurely.”

The sergeant whipped around. “You keep your good eye on that sewing and know your place, big man.”

Well meself and a hundred more to America sailed o'er

Our fortunes to be made we were thinking

When we got to Yankee land they shoved a gun into our hands

Saying "Paddy, you must go and fight for Lincoln."

Will’s friend John Doyle, the only other Irishman in his company, sat beside Will and picked up a needle. “Ignore him,” he said. “And pass me a coat. Together we’ll have it done twice as fast.”

“What day is it?” Will asked.

“Not sure,” John replied. “’Tis late September, I believe.”

It felt like summer had gone on forever with its oppressive heat. Will wiped his brow, swearing under his breath at these jackets and the men who would wear them tonight.

"Don’t lose heart, Chambers,” John said. “The war is almost over. We captured Atlanta. Richmond can’t be far off. Once the fighting is over and we go home, we’ll get the respect we deserve.”

Will wiped away a droplet of blood from where he’d pricked himself with the needle. “That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”

That night, Will received orders to guard the island perimeter. It was a useless job. Will couldn’t imagine even the hardiest Confederate officer trying to escape at this time of year. The only time prisoners had successfully escaped was in the winter, when Lake Erie froze and they could cross on the ice. But the escapees quickly succumbed to the Northern cold, and they were back in custody within days. Escape attempts in the summer were senseless. If the prisoners could swim at all, which most couldn’t, the shore was too far for one man to reach. Only one man had escaped Johnson's Island and never been captured.

Then, as he circled the prison barracks, Will remembered: The escaped prisoner. His name was Cole.

Suddenly, another sergeant tore through the camp, hollering, “I need my best men!”

This man’s name was Sergeant Strong, but at this moment he looked weak--white as a sheet. Men started emerging from the barracks, all asking the same questions: “What happened? What’s going on?”

Sergeant Strong grabbed Will’s arm. “You,” he said. “You’re one of my strongest men. I need you.”

“Is it too much to ask why?”

Strong turned to him, still out of breath. “We have saboteurs on this island,” he said. “Some of the infantrymen—and we’re not sure who—are Confederate spies posing as Union soldiers. That Charles Cole character was leading a prison break.”

For once in his life, Will was speechless.

“Cole is under arrest aboard the Michigan,” Sergeant Strong continued. “But do you see that steamship out there in Sandusky Harbor, the Philo Parsons? That ship was seized by a cabal of Confederate soldiers. They are on their way to provide backup. They dumped the passengers on Kelley’s Island and commandeered the ship.”

“Good God, man,” Will said, unable to offer anything else.

“And our job is to chase that steamship down and confront them,” Strong said. “We’re borrowing a civilian boat from Marblehead. I know you are a true Irishman and not a Southerner in disguise, William Chambers.”

“I take that with great pride,” Will said, acknowledging it was not the time to joke. He was just glad Strong knew his name.

As Sergeant Strong’s group of men steered toward the Philo Parsons, they got quieter and quieter. They couldn’t see the Confederates yet, but they sensed that they were outnumbered and outgunned.

“Maybe we should say a prayer before we go aboard,” Sergeant Strong suggested half-heartedly, his voice filled with dread. He glanced at Will. “Chambers, I know you’re Catholic, but…”

“I will lead a prayer,” Will snapped before another man could volunteer. “Just repeat after me. Hail Mary, full of grace…”

If this were an ordinary night in the mess hall on Johnson’s Island, Will would delight in making the Protestant infantrymen to recite a Catholic prayer. Hell, he would force them to recite the whole rosary in retribution for their relentless Irish-bashing and Catholic-hating. But his fellow soldiers' heads were bowed in prayer, and this was no time for petty revenge.

As Will closed the Hail Mary, he felt a surge of strength coming from some unknown place. It was time to seize the Philo Parsons from those greyback traitors. Will was up to the task.

“What have we got here?” the Southerner, wearing civilian dress, said as the Union infantrymen barged into the steamship’s bridge. Sure enough, a flank of several dozen saboteurs surrounded him.

“What have we 'got'? A warrant for your arrest,” Sergeant Strong said, mocking his Southern grammar. “The jig is up, Captain Beall. Charles Cole is under arrest, and your plot is foiled.”

Captain Beall smiled as he raised a pistol, aiming it at the sergeant’s heart. “The plot is over when I surrender, and I have no intention of doing that,” he said.

Will’s mouth got the better of him. He couldn’t bite his tongue—not for this man wielding a gun.

“You won’t make it to the next port on this penny-ante passenger steamer,” Will said. “'Twas made to travel a short distance with civilian passengers, not to sustain gunfire at the Port of Cleveland. And you won’t be getting your grimy hands on the Michigan.”

As expected, Beall took his eyes—and his aim—off Sergeant Strong.

“A goddamn Mick in the Federal Army, eh?” Beall said. “You stand back, boy. I don’t want your pestilence dirtying these clean Southern hands.”

Will drew back and stared at him.

“What’re you looking at, you feckin’ peasant?” the bushwhacker said. Then he sucked back a wad of spit and hurled it at Will.

Will pushed Sergeant Strong out of the way, letting him fall. He wound back his arm and smashed Captain Beall in the face. He grabbed Beall’s pistol and it spun on the deck, then used it to beat him over the head. The other Confederates began darting and running, screaming like girls. They clung to the railing of the Philo Parsons, looking down at Lake Erie.

“It’s not too far to swim!” one of the Southerners said. “We’re less than a mile offshore, if that. Now jump!”

“Oh no, you won’t,” Will said, letting the dazed Captain Beall crumple on the deck, half-conscious. “The sharks will get you.”

The Southerners all turned to stare at him. “Sharks?”

“You heard me,” Will said. “Those Lake Erie sharks—they’re real Biblical beasts. Five of your kind tried to escape last year and became dinner.”

“You’re lying,” one of the Confederates replied, spitting in the general direction of Will’s army-issued boots. “How come Captain Cole never mentioned sharks?”

“Because the lily-livered Cole is from the landlocked state of West Virginia, that’s why,” Will said. “I spent time in West Virginia. It’s a terrible place. But not as terrible as jumping into that water, trying to outswim the sharks.”

He was making it up as he went along. Lake Erie was a body of fresh water—a big one, but still fresh water. It had no more sharks than the ponds where these plantation people went for Sunday rowboat rides.

But having never encountered the Great Lakes, these men didn’t know that.

He was now engaged in a staring contest with a row of Confederate pirates in plain clothes. “But don’t take my word,” he said with a shrug. “Jump in and find out. I bet no one would miss ya.”

The Southerners exchanged confused glances, murmuring to each other. Finally, one stepped away from the railing.

“You know what, damn this plan,” he said. “And damn you, Beall. I'm through.”

“I second that,” another one said.

Captain Beall raised his face from the deck, blood streaming out of his nose. “How dare you stage a mutiny!” he said. “I will make sure Jefferson Davis hangs you for treason. This cowardly behavior is a shame to the South!”

The man leading the defectors glanced nervously at Will, who stood with his arms crossed.

“Well then, Captain, tell President Davis that you failed to warn us about the sharks.”