An Unexpected Preacher—Andrew Hull Foote—His Character and Early Career—His Brilliant Services in the War for the Union.
One Sunday morning early in the Civil War a large assemblage had gathered in a prominent church in a Western city for the purpose of worship. But the hour for opening the services came and passed and the preacher, the one indispensable individual, did not appear. The auditors became uneasy. No one knew the cause of his absence and no word came from the parsonage, which was at some distance from the church. When the congregation were about to break up and pass out a stranger, sitting near the front, quietly arose, walked up the pulpit steps, gave out the opening hymn, led in prayer and preached a sermon which impressed all by its plain, practical truths. He held the attention of the people from the opening to the close, and among the listeners were more than one who felt that the unexplained absence of the regular pastor had resulted in a gain, though a brief one, for them.
Naturally there was no little curiosity to learn the name of the stranger. When approached by some of the leading brethren at the close of the services, he modestly said he was Captain Foote of the United States navy. He occasionally preached, when there seemed to be a call for such work on his part, but preaching was not his profession, and he would not have thought of entering the pulpit had he not seen that it was a choice between doing so and allowing the congregation to go home.
Andrew Hull Foote was born in New Haven, Conn., September 12, 1806. He belonged to a prominent family, his father, Samuel A. Foote, having served in Congress for several terms, as United States Senator, and as Governor of his State. The son received the best educational training and was subjected to the strict religious discipline characteristic of the Puritan families of old New England. His romantic nature was deeply stirred by the accounts of the naval exploits of his countrymen in the War of 1812, and he set his heart upon entering the navy. His mother opposed, but, when she saw it was useless, wisely yielded. His father's influence readily procured him the appointment of midshipman, and he was directed to report on the schooner Grampus, under the command of Lieutenant (afterward Admiral) Gregory.
ANDREW HULL FOOTE.
The Grampus went to the West Indies in quest of pirates, but never found any. Young Foote was then transferred to the sloop of war Peacock, which had made such a glorious record in the last war with Great Britain, his next transfer being to the frigate United States, the flagship of Commodore Isaac Hull, who won the famous victory over the Guerriere in August, 1812.
The cruise lasted three years, and Foote returned to New York in the spring of 1837. He made a visit to his home, when he was once more ordered to the West Indies.
About this time he was brought under religious influence. He read his Bible and spent many hours in prayer, and finally yielded completely to God. He made his mother inexpressibly happy by sending her the glad news, and thenceforward throughout his stirring life he was one of the most humble, devout and consecrated of Christians.
Like Havelock, he did an amount of good among those placed under his charge, the full extent of which can never be known in this world. While on duty at the Naval Asylum in Philadelphia he persuaded the men to give up their grog rations and sign a pledge of total abstinence, and when executive officer on the Cumberland he did the same thing with its crew. He was a voluntary chaplain and gave a religious address on the berth deck every Sunday evening to those who wished to listen.
Disease of the eyes incapacitated him for duty for a long time, and he was much disappointed that he was not permitted to take any part in the Mexican war. One of his most practical temperance addresses was that, while engaged off the coast of Africa in suppressing the slave trade, he persuaded the men under him on the Perry, of which he was the commander, to give up the use of liquor. Although exposed to one of the most pestilential climates in the world, he did not lose a man.
At the breaking out of the Civil War he was in command of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. He was overwhelmed with work for a time, and was glad when, early in the autumn of 1861, he was ordered to the West to help in the building of an inland navy on the Mississippi.
Captain Foote worked with the tremendous energy which he threw into every task, and succeeded in getting together seven boats, four of which were partly protected by armor. At the beginning of February, 1862, he started from Cairo to ascend the Tennessee, his objective point being Fort Henry, though the Confederates were deceived into thinking it was Columbus, on the Mississippi. He asked the Government for more men with which to man additional boats, but they were not furnished, and he went forward with such as he could get.
On the night preceding the attack on Fort Henry the little fleet anchored abreast of the army under General Grant, which was encamped on the bank. The night was cold and tempestuous, but the morning dawned keen and clear, and no time was lost in preparing the flotilla for the attack on the fort. He intimated to General Grant that he must not linger if he wished to cut off the retreat of the enemy. Grant assured him he would be on time to put his army in motion.
Fort Henry stood on a bend in the river, which it commanded for a long distance up and down stream. Foote placed his boats behind an island a mile below the fort, with a view of avoiding the long range rifles of the Confederates, which were liable to cripple the gunboats before they could get into close action. The wooden vessels halted upon coming in view of the fort, and the ironclads, as they were called, moved slowly up stream abreast of one another, firing their bow guns in answer to the shots of the rebels. The latter had had the time to practice to acquire the exact range, while the boats had yet to find it. They fired slowly and with such accuracy that the infantry stationed outside of the works hastily fled, though the gunners bravely remained at their posts.
Foote opened fire when not quite a mile from the fort. His instructions were to fire slowly and with care, the result of which was that guns were continually dismounted and the earth and sandbags sent flying in every direction. It was while the attack was being pressed in this vigorous fashion that a shell pierced the boiler of the Essex, commanded by Lieutenant Porter, and caused so many deaths, as has been related in a preceding chapter.
This appalling accident was a serious loss to Captain Foote, for Porter was doing inestimable service when thus driven out of action, but the daring commander pressed forward in the face of the murderous fire, encouraged by the visible results of his shots, which were playing frightful havoc against the defences of the fort. Tilghman, the Confederate commander, displayed great bravery, fighting until every one of his guns was dismounted. Then, finding himself powerless to offer further resistance, he hauled down his flag. Firing immediately ceased on the part of the Union flotilla, and Foote sent a boat ashore to take possession.
Despite General Grant's usual promptness, he did not arrive in time to intercept the flight of the garrison. As a consequence the prisoners surrendered, including General Tilghman and his staff, numbered less than a hundred. The others fled overland to Fort Donelson, only to be compelled to surrender shortly afterward to Grant in what proved to be the first great Union victory of the war.
The severity of this battle is shown by the fact that Foote's ship was struck 31 times, the Essex 15, and the Carondelet 6. The total number of killed, wounded and missing was 48. The success was so decisive that Foote was applauded throughout the North, sharing the well-earned honors with General Grant, whose successful career is known to every boy in the land.
Foote now steamed down the river to Cairo and began the ascent of the Cumberland, to assist General Grant, who was marching overland to the attack on Fort Donelson. Dauntless as was the courage of the naval leader, he knew his task was a hopeless one. He had not only lost the Essex, but Fort Donelson was greatly superior in strength to Fort Henry. The water assault, however, was deemed a military necessity, and he did not hesitate.
On February 14 he advanced resolutely to the attack with his two wooden gunboats and four partial ironclads. The tremendous land batteries opened on this weak force the moment it came within range, and the results were of the most destructive nature. As usual, the chief attention was given to the flagship, which was struck again and again by the flying shot and shell. Undismayed by the awful tempest, Foote pushed steadily onward, cool, calm, hopeful and prepared for the worst.
His pilot was a brave man, but under the frightful fire he began to show a nervousness that caught the eye of Foote. Walking up to him, he placed his hand in a kindly manner on his shoulder and spoke encouragingly to him. While he was doing so, the poor fellow was torn into pieces by a shot, and the captain himself was badly wounded in the foot by a flying splinter. Paying no heed to the bleeding member, he limped about the boat, swept by the iron hail, and gave his orders as coolly as before. But the shot that killed the pilot also smashed the wheel, and the unmanageable boat began drifting down stream. The tiller ropes of another boat were also cut about the same time, and she also floated helplessly with the current. The Confederates increased their fire, and the other two boats, also greatly damaged, followed the flagship, and the ferocious fight that had lasted more than an hour was over, with the Union flotilla badly repulsed.
The flagship had been struck 59 times, and 54 had been killed and wounded on the different ships; but Foote would have maintained the fight, with a fair probability of success, but for the destruction of his steering gear.
Grant and Foote now formed a plan for the capture of Nashville, but on the eve of starting were stopped by a telegraphic order from General Halleck not to allow the gunboats to go further up the river than Clarksville. Foote was greatly disappointed, and, absolutely certain of capturing the city, telegraphed for permission to do so, but it was refused. Thus he was left no alternative but to return to Cairo.
While there, he learned that the Confederate force occupying Columbus had evacuated the town and fortified themselves on Island No. 10. They numbered about 8,000 and were under the command of General Mackall, from Beauregard's army. Foote transferred his flag to the ironclad Benton and advanced against the powerful works that had been erected on the island. The bombardment was continued for three weeks, without inflicting serious damage, and there was little prospect of capturing the place from the river, when General Pope arrived with a large land force; but to reach the fort it was necessary for him to get his troops across the river, and he had not a single transport to use for that purpose.
Pope's arrival below made it necessary to send a gunboat down to him, for until that was done he could make no movement against the rebel force there. The all-important question was whether any one of the gunboats could run the terrific gauntlet of the batteries that lined the shore. It looked as if the attempt must result in the inevitable destruction of any craft before half the distance could be accomplished. At a council of the officers it was agreed that it was too hazardous to try to run one of the gunboats past the batteries. Such was the opinion of every man except Henry Walke, commander of the Carondelet, who volunteered to try the seemingly impossible task. Captain Foote reluctantly gave his consent.
It was understood that Walke was to make the attempt on the first rainy or foggy night. In the event of success, he was to coöperate with Pope, and, when he moved, to assist in the attack on the fortifications. Captain Foote closed his instructions to his faithful aide with the following impressive words:
On this delicate and somewhat hazardous service to which I assign you I must enjoin upon you the importance of keeping your lights secreted in the hold or put out, keeping your officers and men from speaking at all, when passing the forts, above a whisper, and then only on duty, and of using every other precaution to prevent the rebels suspecting that you are dropping below their batteries.
If you successfully perform this duty assigned to you, which you so willingly undertake, it will reflect the highest credit upon you and all belonging to your vessel, and I doubt not but that the government will fully appreciate and reward you for a service which, I trust, will enable the army to cross the river and make a successful attack in the rear, while we storm the batteries in front of this stronghold of the rebels.
Commending you and all who compose your command to the care and protection of God, who rules the world and directs all things, I am, respectfully, your obedient servant,
A.H. Foote.
P.S.—Should you meet with disaster, you will, as a last resort, destroy the steam machinery, and, if possible, to escape, set fire to your gunboat, or sink her, and prevent her falling into the hands of the rebels.
The night selected—April 4—was rainy and of inky blackness, relieved by vivid flashes of lightning. No precaution that could be thought of was neglected. Chains were twisted around the pilot-house and other vulnerable parts, and wood was piled against the boilers, with which the hose was connected, to make the jets of steam available to repel boarders. On one side was lashed a boat loaded with pressed hay, while a barge of coal was fastened on the side furthest from the dangerous batteries, and the escape steam was led into the paddle-wheel house in order to muffle the sound. Among the fully armed crew were twenty of the most expert sharpshooters in the army.
It was about ten o'clock when the Carondelet swung round in the stream and started on its fearful race. The fleet fairly held its breath, as officers and men listened and peered down the river in the tempestuous darkness. Now and then the zigzagging lightning gave a momentary glimpse of the craft moving away, but the straining eye and ear caught no sight or sound.
But when the Carondelet was close to the batteries a blaze suddenly shot up several feet above the chimneys. The soot had caught fire and the reflection was thrown far out on the water. The engineer immediately opened the flue caps and all was darkness again. So quickly did this singular glow come and vanish that it must have been mistaken by the sentinels for a part of the lightning display, for it caused no alarm; but the turning of the escape steam into the paddle-box had allowed the soot to get dry, and they flamed up a second time. Though extinguished as promptly as before, the sentinels knew something was wrong and signalled to the batteries below that one of the boats of the enemy was approaching.
It was useless to attempt concealment any longer. Walke ordered the engine ahead at full speed and ran close to the shore nearest the batteries, that their shot might pass over him. Aside from the enemy, this was dangerous work, for there was no telling into what obstruction the boat would dash. A man stood at the front with lead and line, quietly calling out in a guarded voice the soundings, which were repeated by a second man on deck, who forwarded the report aft to Walke, standing beside the pilot.
All the time the rain was falling in torrents. Suddenly a dazzling gleam showed the pilot he was speeding straight for a shoal under the guns of the Confederate battery.
"Hard aport!" commanded the captain, and the heavy craft barely missed the island, past which it shot at the highest speed. The lightning flashes helped the Carondelet in more than one way. It not only gave the pilot the necessary knowledge to avoid running aground, but confused the Confederate gunners, who sent most of their shots over the boat, which was not struck once during its remarkable run down the Mississippi. Two shots had entered the barge at her side, but not a man was hurt. The boat was received with wild cheers by the expectant soldiers, who, while hoping for the best, feared the worst.
It had been agreed between Walke and Captain Foote that in case the former was successful, he was to make it known by firing minute guns. The captain was listening intently, when through the rain and darkness the welcome signals reached his ears, and he thanked God that all had come out so well.
Now that General Pope had received the transport for which he longed, Captain Foote breathed freely and prepared to give what help he could in the attack upon the rebel fortifications; but, to his surprise, Pope sent an urgent request that a second boat should be sent to him on the next night, adding that the success of the whole movement depended upon a compliance with this request.
Foote replied that it would be as safe to run the batteries at midday as on a clear night; for a vessel had to pass not only seven batteries, but be kept "head on" to a battery of eleven guns, at the upper part of Island No. 10, and to pass within 300 yards of it. In deference to Pope's earnest request, Captain Foote consented to prepare another boat, but would not permit it to start until the night was favorable.
The second night was similar to the one described, and Lieutenant Thompson, in charge of the Pittsburg, started down the river at two o'clock in the morning. Although exposed to the same fire as the Carondelet, he was equally fortunate, and ran the gauntlet with the same good fortune.
The passage of these two ironclads sealed the fate of Island No. 10, for Pope could now cross the river, and, by taking position in the rear of the Confederate works, cut off the supplies of the garrison. The crossing was made and the enemy's batteries silenced. On the 8th the island was surrendered to Captain Foote and General Pope, including the garrison of 5,000 men.
Captain Foote's next move was to Fort Pillow. All this time he was suffering so severely from the wound in his foot that it affected his spirits, usually buoyant and hopeful. Another disturbing cause was the continual interference of General Halleck, who prevented several movements that Foote knew must have resulted in important successes.
His health continued to decline till finally the day came when he was compelled to ask for a leave of absence. He went to his brother's home in Cleveland, where his condition caused great solicitude throughout the country. Afflictions crowded upon him. He returned to his home, which was shadowed by the death of his bright boy at the age of fourteen years. A few months later two of his daughters died. How hollow sounded the praises of his countrymen when his head was bowed with such overwhelming sorrow! He had been made rear admiral, and, though still weak, was by his own request assigned to the command of the North Atlantic squadron. He went to New York to complete his preparations, but while there succumbed to his illness, and died at the Astor House, June 26, 1863.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A Man Devoid of Fear—William Barker Cushing—Some of His Exploits—The Blowing Up of the Albemarle—His Sad Death.
If ever man lived who knew not the meaning of fear, he was William Barker Cushing, born in Wisconsin in 1842. He entered the Naval Academy in 1857, remained four years, received his appointment from the State of New York, but claiming Pennsylvania as his residence. He was wild and reckless, and resigned in March, 1861, when even his closest friends saw little hope of his success in life.
Many heroes are referred to as fearless, but that man is reckoned brave who knows the full extent of the danger facing him, and yet does not hesitate to meet it; but Cushing was a youth who really seemed to love danger for its own sake, and never flinched while death was on every hand, but went unhesitatingly forward, when it would have been no reflection upon his courage had he turned about and run.
The breaking out of the Civil War offered so fascinating a field for him that he could not resist the temptation. The Secretary of the Navy always had a tender spot in his heart for the daring fellow, and when Cushing promised that if he would give him a chance he would prove himself worthy of the Secretary's confidence, that official consented and attached him to the North Atlantic Blockading Squadron. At the very first opportunity Cushing displayed the wonderful personal intrepidity which was soon to make him the most famous naval officer of his age.
In the expedition against Franklin, Va., in the autumn of the year, he was placed in command of the gunboat Ellis, and showed such skill and bravery that he was recommended by the acting admiral to the Navy Department. Some weeks later he steamed into New River Inlet, with the object of capturing Jacksonville and destroying the salt works. He was successful, secured three vessels and drove the enemy from two pieces of artillery with which they were firing on him at short range. All was going well, but while still close to the abandoned works Cushing's little steamer ran aground, and, despite every effort, he could not work her free.
He saw it was useless to try to get the boat off. He therefore took everything out of her, excepting the pivot gun and ammunition, and, placing them on board one of the captured schooners, ordered the crew to leave. Knowing the enemy would soon return in overwhelming numbers, he asked for six volunteers to stay with him and fight with the single gun to the last. The response was prompt, for his daring spirit was infectious, and he instructed the others, in the event of him and his comrades being attacked, to make no attempt to help them.
Just as he anticipated, the Confederates opened upon the doomed steamer at daylight, firing from so many different points that the defenders were helpless. As fast as the gun could be loaded, it was pointed here, there and everywhere, for, no matter in what direction it was aimed, it was pretty sure to hit some of the enemy; but a single gun against a score could accomplish nothing, and the lieutenant had to decide whether to remain, with the certainty of every man being shot to pieces, of surrendering, or of rowing in an open boat for more than a mile through the murderous fire. With scarcely a moment's hesitation, he resolved upon the last plan, which looked as suicidal as remaining on the steamer.
The gun was loaded to the muzzle and trained upon the enemy, so as to go off when heated, the steamer set on fire in several places, and, dropping into the smaller boat, the men pulled with might and main for the schooner. Fortune favors the brave, and they reached it in safety, and soon after arrived at Beaufort.
This exploit won for Cushing the commendation of the Navy Department for "his courage, coolness and gallantry."
His restless spirit would not allow him to remain idle. He was continually engaging in some daring enterprise, in which it must not be supposed he displayed nothing more than headlong recklessness. That quality was supplemented by coolness and skill, without which he never could have attained the remarkable success that attended his career.
Among the numerous achievements the following will serve as an illustration of the young man's disposition:
Lieutenants Lamson and Cushing had command of a number of gunboats that were sent to the aid of General Peck, stationed at Norfolk. In the latter part of April it was learned that a Union boat had been decoyed ashore by the display of a white handkerchief and then fired upon. The angered Cushing asked for and received the privilege of retaliating for this treacherous act. In charge of seven boats, manned by ninety sailors, he set out and landed under the protection of the fire of the vessels. Leaving a part of his force to protect the boats, he started inland, taking a 12-pounder howitzer with him.
His objective point was a village three miles away, where several hundred cavalry were stationed. Advancing boldly, he drove in the pickets, and coming across a span of mules hitched to a cart, he tied the rope of the howitzer to the rear, lashed the animals to a gallop and went clattering into the village to the loud shouts of "Forward, double quick!"
Just as they entered the formidable body of cavalry were discerned, galloping down the street toward them, swinging their sabres and shouting at the top of their voices. In a twinkling the howitzer was unlimbered, and the charge of grape which was poured into the approaching horsemen was supplemented by a volley of musketry. The racket terrified the mules, which broke into a gallop, dragging the cart and ammunition after them, and never paused until they were among the ranks of the enemy. With a shout, Cushing was after them, followed by his men, and mules and ammunition were recovered in a twinkling. By this time the demoralized cavalry had fled, and Cushing, after retaining possession of the village until dusk, leisurely made his way back to the boats.
The war having proven the immeasurable value of ironclads of the Merrimac type, the Confederates strained every nerve to build them, often succeeding under the most trying conditions. One of the most formidable of these craft was the Albemarle, upon which work was begun early in 1863, at Edward's Ferry, several miles up the Roanoke River. Iron was so scarce that the country was scoured for miles in every direction for bolts, bars and metal. As stated by Maclay, the keel was laid in an open cornfield, and an ordinary blacksmith's outfit formed the plant for building; but the makers persevered and completed a craft 122 feet over all, with 45 feet beam and drawing 8 feet of water. The casemate was 60 feet long, constructed of massive timbers, covered with 4-inch planking, over which were placed two layers of 2-inch iron. The motive power was furnished by twin screws operated by engines of 200 horse-power each. Her armament consisted of an Armstrong 100-pounder in the bow and another in the stern, the casemate being so pierced that the guns could be used at broadside or quarter.
At midnight, April 19, 1864, the Albemarle gave a proof of her prodigious power of destruction. On the preceding two days the Confederates had made a determined attack on Plymouth, held by the Union forces, and the ironclad now set out to render assistance. The wooden gunboats Miami and Southfield offered just the sort of targets the monster fancied. Under a full head of steam, the Albemarle rammed her iron beak clean into the fire room of the Southfield. The latter was skewered upon the projection and began slowly sinking. The snout was so entangled with the Southfield that the victim could not be shaken off, and as she sank she carried her foe with her. The bow of the ironclad dipped below the surface, and a most extraordinary and inglorious end seemed inevitable, when the Southfield touched bottom, rolled over and freed itself from the bow of the ram, which popped up again.
Meanwhile the Miami was pounding the iron hide of the monster, which shed the missiles as the Merrimac shed the broadsides from the Cumberland and Congress. When only a few feet from the Albemarle, Lieutenant Flusser, standing directly behind a gun of the Miami, let fly with a heavy shell, which, striking the armor of the Albemarle, was shivered into a thousand fragments, most of which rebounding, instantly killed the officer and wounded a dozen men. The Miami retreated, and the next day Plymouth surrendered to the Confederates.
In May, the Albemarle steamed down into the Sound and attacked the Union gunboats, which made a heroic defence. The monster received broadside after broadside and was repeatedly rammed, but suffered no material damage, while she killed 4, wounded 25 and caused the scalding of 13, through piercing the boiler of one of her assailants.
It will be seen that this ironclad had become a formidable menace to the Union arms, not only in the immediate neighborhood, but further north. It was the intention of her commander to clear out the fleets at the mouth of the river, and then make an excursion up the coast, somewhat like that which Secretary Stanton once believed the Merrimac was about to undertake. General Grant was pressing his final campaign against Richmond, and the Albemarle threatened to interfere with his plans, for if she made the diversion of which she was capable, she was likely to postpone indefinitely the wind up of the war.
Ah, if some daring scheme could be perfected for destroying the Albemarle! What a feat it would be and how vast the good it would accomplish! There was one young officer in the American navy who believed the thing could be done, and he volunteered to undertake it.
Well aware that the Unionists would neglect no means of blowing up the Albemarle, the Confederates used every possible precaution. At the wharf in Plymouth, where she was moored, a thousand soldiers were on guard, and her crew, consisting of sixty men, were alert and vigilant. To prevent the approach of a torpedo boat, the ram was surrounded by a boom of cypress logs, placed a considerable distance from the hull, and a double line of sentries was stationed along the river. What earthly chance was there under such conditions of any possible harm coming to her?
The picket boat in which Lieutenant Cushing undertook to destroy the rebel ram was built at New York under his supervision, and taken to Norfolk by way of the canals, and thence to Albemarle Sound again by canal. He made his preparations with great care, and on the night of October 27, which was dark and stormy, he started in his picket boat. He was accompanied by eight men and the following officers: Acting Ensign William L. Howarth, Acting Master's Mates Thomas S. Gay and John Woodman, Acting Assistant Paymaster Francis H. Swan, Acting Third Assistant Engineers Charles L. Steever and William Stotesbury.
Cushing took in tow a small cutter, in which he intended to capture the Confederate guard, that was in a schooner anchored near the wrecked Southfield, and prevent their sending up an alarm rocket as a warning to the sentinels above of the approach of danger. He stationed himself at the stern, his plan being to land a little way below the ram and board her from the wharf. A sudden dash promised her capture by surprise, when she could be taken down stream. If this scheme could not be carried out, he intended to blow her up with a torpedo as she lay at the dock.
The launch crept along the river bank as silently as an Indian canoe stealing into a hostile camp. The distance to be passed was fully eight miles, and the peril began almost from the moment of starting. The necessary commands were spoken in whispers, and the waiting men scarcely moved as they peered into the deep gloom and listened to the almost inaudible rippling of the water from the bow. Speed was reduced as they drew near Plymouth, in order to lessen the soft clanking of the engine or the motion of the screw.
They were still a mile below Plymouth when the shadowy outlines of the wrecked Southfield loomed dimly to view. The Confederates had raised her so that her hurricane deck was above the surface. Within a few yards of the wreck a schooner was anchored containing a guard of twenty men with a field piece and rocket, provided for precisely such danger as now drew near. But on this night, of all others, the sentinels were dozing, for had they been vigilant they must have seen the little craft whose crew saw theirs and were on the qui vive to board on the instant of discovery.
The good fortune encouraged all hands, and as the schooner and wreck melted into the darkness the launch swept around a bend in the river and caught the glimmer of the camp fires along the banks, partly extinguished by the falling rain. Still creeping cautiously on, the outlines of the prodigious ram gradually assumed form in the gloom. It looked as if the surprise would be complete, when a dog, more watchful than his masters, began barking. He had discovered the approaching danger, and the startled sentinels challenged, but no reply was made. A second challenge bringing no response, several muskets flashed in the night. Other dogs joined in barking, alarm rattles were sprung and wood flung upon the fires, which, flaring up, threw their illumination out on the river and revealed the launch and cutter. The hoarse commands of officers rang out, and the soldiers, springing from sleep, caught up their guns and rushed to quarters.
Amid the fearful din and peril Cushing cut the tow line and ordered the cutter to hasten down the river and capture the guard near the Southfield. At the same moment he directed the launch to go ahead at full speed. He had changed his plan. Instead of landing he determined to blow up the ram. When close to it he learned for the first time of the cordon of logs which surrounded the Albemarle, but, believing they were slippery enough from remaining long in the water to be passed, he sheered off, made a sweep of a hundred yards and again charged under full steam for the obstruction.
As he drew near the guards fired a volley which riddled Cushing's coat and tore off the sole of his shoe.
At the same moment he heard the vicious snapping of the primers of the huge guns, which showed they had missed fire.
"Leave the ram!" he shouted. "We're going to blow you up!"
The Confederates, however, did not follow the advice and the launch fired her howitzer. Then she glided over the slimy logs and paused in front of the muzzle of a loaded cannon which could be almost reached with the outstretched hand. Still cool and self-possessed amid the horrible perils, Cushing stood erect, lowered the torpedo spar, shoved it under the overhang, waited a moment for it to rise until he felt it touch the bottom of the ram, when he gave a quick, strong pull on the trigger line. A muffled, thunderous explosion followed, an immense column of water rose in the air and the tremendous tipping of the Albemarle showed she had received a mortal hurt.
It was accomplished at the critical second, for the rifled gun, filled with 100 pounds of canister and pointed at the launch ten feet away, was immediately discharged. The careening of the ram deviated the aim just enough to prevent the crew from being blown to fragments, but confident that not a man could escape, the Confederates twice called upon their assailants to surrender, and several did so, but Cushing was not among them. With the same marvelous coolness he had displayed from the first he took off his coat and shoes, flung his sword and revolver aside and shouted:
"Every man save himself!"
Then he leaped into the water and began swimming with might and main down stream, the bullets skipping all about him, but he soon passed beyond sight and was still swimming when he heard a plashing near him. It was made by one of the acting master's mates, John Woodman, who was exhausted. Cushing helped him until he himself had hardly an ounce of strength left, when he was obliged to let go, and the poor fellow, calling good-by, sank from sight.
When unable to struggle longer, Cushing let his feet drop and they touched bottom. He managed to reach land, where he sank down so worn out that he lay motionless until daylight. Then he crawled into a swamp, where he remained hidden until a friendly negro appeared, who extended every possible kindness to him. From him Cushing learned that the Albemarle had been destroyed and was at the bottom of the river. It was thrilling news, and the following night, after he had thoroughly rested and been fed by his dusky friend, he moved down the river, found a skiff and in it made his way to the fleet, bringing the first news of the success of an exploit which it is safe to say has never been surpassed in the history of our navy. Even the captain of the Albemarle declared that "a more gallant thing was not done during the war."
While conceding to Lieutenant Hobson the full credit for his daring achievement in sinking the Merrimac in the channel of Santiago harbor, on June 3, 1898, it was by no means the equal of that of Lieutenant Cushing, thirty-four years before.
For his superb work Cushing received a vote of thanks from Congress and was promoted to the rank of lieutenant commander. He led a division of sailors in the second and what proved to be the successful attack upon Fort Fisher, in January, 1865. It was a desperate fight and none displayed more heroism than the young officer who had destroyed the Albemarle.
Hon. J.T. Headley, the biographer of Cushing, in an article written immediately after the close of the Civil War, used these words: "Still a young man, he has a bright future before him, and if he lives will doubtless reach the highest rank in the navy. Bold, daring and self-collected under the most trying circumstances—equal to any emergency—never unbalanced by an unexpected contingency, he possesses those great qualities always found in a successful commander. No man in our navy, at his age, has ever won so brilliant a reputation, and it will be his own fault if it is not increased until he has no superior."
And yet Commander Cushing's reputation was not increased nor was it through any fault of his own. It was not long after the war that his friends were pained to observe unmistakable signs of mental unsoundness in the young hero. These increased until his brain was all askew, and he died in an insane asylum in 1874.