CHAPTER VI
THE COAST AND THE RIVER
At the opening of the Civil War, the United States had proclaimed a blockade of all Southern ports. But places like Pamlico Sound and Port Royal had so many outlets that they could not be blockaded effectually, and finally, in November, 1861, a combined sea and land attack captured the latter place and gave the Union fleet a good harbor in the South.
AT PORT ROYAL
[November 7, 1861]
The tent-lights glimmer on the land,
The ship-lights on the sea;
The night-wind smooths with drifting sand
Our track on lone Tybee.
At last our grating keels outslide,
Our good boats forward swing;
And while we ride the land-locked tide,
Our negroes row and sing.
For dear the bondman holds his gifts
Of music and of song:
The gold that kindly Nature sifts
Among his sands of wrong;
The power to make his toiling days
And poor home-comforts please;
The quaint relief of mirth that plays
With sorrow's minor keys.
Another glow than sunset's fire
Has filled the west with light,
Where field and garner, barn and byre,
Are blazing through the night.
The land is wild with fear and hate,
The rout runs mad and fast;
From hand to hand, from gate to gate
The flaming brand is passed.
The lurid glow falls strong across
Dark faces broad with smiles:
Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss
That fire yon blazing piles.
With oar-strokes timing to their song,
They weave in simple lays
The pathos of remembered wrong,
The hope of better days,—
The triumph-note that Miriam sung,
The joy of uncaged birds:
Softening with Afric's mellow tongue
Their broken Saxon words.
John Greenleaf Whittier.
The campaign along the North Carolina coast was vigorously pressed, and fort after fort was captured, until the Northern troops were so firmly in possession that their control of that portion of the coast was never afterwards seriously threatened.
Loaded with gallant soldiers,
A boat shot in to the land,
And lay at the right of Rodman's Point,
With her keel upon the sand.
Lightly, gayly, they came to shore,
And never a man afraid;
When sudden the enemy opened fire,
From his deadly ambuscade.
Each man fell flat on the bottom
Of the boat; and the captain said:
"If we lie here, we all are captured,
And the first who moves is dead!"
Then out spoke a negro sailor,
No slavish soul had he:
"Somebody's got to die, boys,
And it might as well be me!"
Firmly he rose, and fearlessly
Stepped out into the tide;
He pushed the vessel safely off,
Then fell across her side:
Fell, pierced by a dozen bullets,
As the boat swung clear and free;—
But there wasn't a man of them that day
Who was fitter to die than he!
Phœbe Cary.
Especially important was the capture of Newberne, on the Neuse River, where the Confederates were strongly intrenched. The Union forces under Burnside advanced to the attack on the morning of March 14, 1862, and succeeded in carrying the works. The loss on both sides was heavy, and would have been heavier still on the Union side, but for the quick wit of Kady Brownell.
THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT
(FIFTH RHODE ISLAND)
[March 14, 1862]
Who with the soldiers was stanch danger-sharer,—
Marched in the ranks through the shriek of the shell?
Who was their comrade, their brave color-bearer?
Who but the resolute [Kady Brownell]!
Over the marshland and over the highland,
Where'er the columns wound, meadow or dell,
Fared she, this daughter of little Rhode Island,—
She, the intrepid one, Kady Brownell!
While the mad rout at Manassas was surging,
When those around her fled wildly, or fell,
And the bold Beauregard onward was urging,
Who so undaunted as Kady Brownell!
When gallant Burnside made dash upon Newberne,
Sailing the Neuse 'gainst the sweep of the swell,
Watching the flag on the heaven's broad blue burn,
Who higher hearted than Kady Brownell?
In the deep slough of the springtide debarking,
Toiling o'er leagues that are weary to tell,
Time with the sturdiest soldiery marking,
Forward, straight forward, strode Kady Brownell.
Reaching the lines where the army was forming,
Forming to charge on those ramparts of hell,
When from the wood came her regiment swarming,
What did she see there—this Kady Brownell?
See! why she saw that their friends thought them foemen;
Muskets were levelled, and cannon as well!
Save them from direful destruction would no men?
Nay, but this woman would,—Kady Brownell!
Waving her banner she raced for the clearing;
Fronted them all, with her flag as a spell;
Ah, what a volley—a volley of cheering—
Greeted the heroine, Kady Brownell!
Gone (and thank God!) are those red days of slaughter!
Brethren again we in amity dwell;
Just one more cheer for the Regiment's Daughter!—
Just one more cheer for her, Kady Brownell!
Clinton Scollard.
The Federals had succeeded in partially destroying the navy yard at Norfolk at the outbreak of the war, but the Confederates succeeded in raising one vessel, the Merrimac. This they rebuilt, converted into an iron-clad, armed with ten rifled guns, and named the Virginia. A cast-iron ram was fitted to the bow. The vessel was completed in March, 1862, and on the 8th cast loose and steamed down the river.
THE TURTLE
[March 8, 1862]
Cæsar, afloat with his fortunes!
And all the world agog
Straining its eyes
At a thing that lies
In the water, like a log!
It's a weasel! a whale!
I see its tail!
It's a porpoise! a pollywog!
Tarnation! it's a turtle!
And blast my bones and skin,
My hearties, sink her,
Or else you'll think her
A regular terror-pin!
The frigate poured a broadside!
The bombs they whistled well,
But—hit old Nick
With a sugar stick!
It didn't phase her shell!
Piff, from the creature's larboard—
And dipping along the water
A bullet hissed
From a wreath of mist
Into a Doodle's quarter!
Raff, from the creature's starboard—
Rip, from his ugly snorter,
And the Congress and
The Cumberland
Sunk, and nothing—shorter.
Now, here's to you, Virginia,
And you are bound to win!
By your rate of bobbing round
And your way of pitchin' in—
For you are a cross
Of the old sea-hoss
And a regular terror-pin.
At Newport News lay the United States 50-gun frigate Congress, the 24-gun sloop Cumberland, and the frigates St. Lawrence, Roanoke, and Minnesota. In command of the Cumberland was Lieutenant George Upham Morris, and at noon the Merrimac was seen from the Cumberland's deck advancing to the attack. Shot and shell were poured upon her without effect. She steamed straight on and plunged her ram into the Cumberland's side. Morris fought his ship until she sank under him.
THE ATTACK
[March 8, 1862]
In Hampton Roads, the airs of March were bland,
Peace on the deck and in the fortress sleeping,
Till, in the look-out of the Cumberland,
The sailor, with his well-poised glass in hand,
Descried the iron island downward creeping.
A sudden wonder seized on land and bay,
And Tumult, with her train, was there to follow;
For still the stranger kept its seaward way,
Looking a great leviathan blowing spray,
Seeking with steady course his ocean wallow.
And still it came, and largened on the sight;
A floating monster; ugly and gigantic;
In shape, a wave, with long and shelving height,
As if a mighty billow, heaved at night,
Should turn to iron in the mid-Atlantic.
Then ship and fortress gazed with anxious stare,
Until the Cumberland's cannon, silence breaking,
Thundered its guardian challenge, "Who comes there?"
But, like a rock-flung echo in the air,
The shot rebounded, no impression making.
Then roared a broadside; though directed well,
On, like a nightmare, moved the shape defiant;
The tempest of our pounding shot and shell
Crumbled to harmless nothing, thickly fell
From off the sounding armor of the giant!
Unchecked, still onward through the storm it broke,
With beak directed at the vessel's centre;
Then through the constant cloud of sulphurous smoke
Drove, till it struck the warrior's wall of oak,
Making a gateway for the waves to enter.
Struck, and to note the mischief done, withdrew,
And then, with all a murderer's impatience,
Rushed on again, crushing her ribs anew,
Cleaving the noble hull well-nigh in two,
And on it sped its fiery imprecations.
Swift through the vessel swept the drowning swell,
With splash, and rush, and guilty rise appalling;
While sinking cannon rung their own loud knell.
Then, cried the traitor, from his sulphurous cell,
"Do you surrender?" Oh, those words were galling!
How spake our captain to his comrades then?
It was a shout from out a soul of splendor,
Echoed from lofty maintop, and again
Between-decks, from the lips of dying men,
"Sink! sink, boys, sink! but never say surrender!"
Down went the ship! Down, down; but never down
Her sacred flag to insolent dictator.
Weep for the patriot heroes, doomed to drown;
Pledge to the sunken Cumberland's renown.
She sank, thank God! unsoiled by foot of traitor!
Thomas Buchanan Read.
THE CUMBERLAND
[March 8, 1862]
At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,
On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war;
And at times from the fortress across the bay
The alarum of drums swept past,
Or a bugle blast
From the camp on the shore.
Then far away to the south uprose
A little feather of snow-white smoke,
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes
Was steadily steering its course
To try the force
Of our ribs of oak.
Down upon us heavily runs,
Silent and sullen, the floating fort;
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,
And leaps the terrible death,
With fiery breath,
From each open port.
We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail
From each iron scale
Of the monster's hide.
"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries
In his arrogant old plantation strain.
"Never!" our gallant Morris replies:
"It is better to sink than to yield!"
And the whole air pealed
With the cheers of our men.
Then, like a kraken huge and black,
She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp!
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack,
With a sudden shudder of death,
And the cannon's breath
For her dying gasp.
Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,
Still floated our flag at the mainmast head.
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day!
Every waft of the air
Was a whisper of prayer,
Or a dirge for the dead.
Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas!
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream;
Ho! brave land! with hearts like these,
Thy flag, that is rent in twain,
Shall be one again,
And without a seam!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND
[March 8, 1862]
"Stand to your guns, men!" Morris cried.
Small need to pass the word;
Our men at quarters ranged themselves,
Before the drum was heard.
And then began the sailors' jests:
"What thing is that, I say?"
"A long-shore meeting-house adrift
Is standing down the bay!"
A frown came over Morris' face;
The strange, dark craft he knew;
"That is the iron Merrimac,
Manned by a rebel crew.
"So shot your guns, and point them straight;
Before this day goes by,
We'll try of what her metal's made."
A cheer was our reply.
"Remember, boys, this flag of ours
Has seldom left its place;
And where it falls, the deck it strikes
Is covered with disgrace.
"I ask but this: or sink or swim,
Or live or nobly die,
My last sight upon earth may be
To see that ensign fly!"
Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass
Came moving o'er the wave,
As gloomy as a passing hearse,
As silent as the grave.
Her ports were closed, from stem to stern
No sign of life appeared.
We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes,
Joked,—everything but feared.
She reached our range. Our broadside rang,
Our heavy pivots roared;
And shot and shell, a fire of hell,
Against her sides we poured.
God's mercy! from her sloping roof
The iron tempest glanced,
As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch,
And round her leaped and danced;
Or, when against her dusky hull
We struck a fair, full blow,
The mighty, solid iron globes
Were crumbled up like snow.
On, on, with fast increasing speed,
The silent monster came;
Though all our starboard battery
Was one long line of flame.
She heeded not, nor gun she fired,
Straight on our bow she bore;
Through riving plank and crashing frame
Her furious way she tore.
Alas! our beautiful, keen bow,
That in the fiercest blast
So gently folded back the seas,
They hardly felt we passed!
Alas! Alas! My Cumberland,
That ne'er knew grief before,
To be so gored, to feel so deep
The tusk of that sea-boar!
Once more she backward drew a space,
Once more our side she rent;
Then, in the wantonness of hate,
Her broadside through us sent.
The dead and dying round us lay,
But our foeman lay abeam;
Her open portholes maddened us;
We fired with shout and scream.
We felt our vessel settling fast,
We knew our time was brief;
"The pumps, the pumps!" But they who pumped,
And fought not, wept with grief.
"Oh, keep us but an hour afloat!
Oh, give us only time
To be the instruments of heaven
Against the traitors' crime!"
From captain down to powder-boy,
No hand was idle then;
Two soldiers, but by chance aboard,
Fought on like sailor-men.
And when a gun's crew lost a hand,
Some bold marine stepped out,
And jerked his braided jacket off,
And hauled the gun about.
Our forward magazine was drowned;
And up from the sick-bay
Crawled out the wounded, red with blood,
And round us gasping lay.
Yes, cheering, calling us by name,
Struggling with failing breath,
To keep their shipmates at the port,
While glory strove with death.
With decks afloat, and powder gone,
The last broadside we gave
From the guns' heated iron lips
Burst out beneath the wave.
So sponges, rammers, and handspikes—
As men-of-war's men should—
We placed within their proper racks,
And at our quarters stood.
"Up to the spar-deck! Save yourselves!"
Cried Selfridge. "Up, my men!
God grant that some of us may live
To fight yon ship again!"
We turned—we did not like to go;
Yet staying seemed but vain,
Knee-deep in water; so we left;
Some swore, some groaned with pain.
We reached the deck. Here Randall stood:
"Another turn, men—so!"
Calmly he aimed his pivot-gun:
"Now, Tenney, let her go!"
It did our sore hearts good to hear
The song our pivot sang,
As rushing on, from wave to wave,
The whirring bomb-shell sprang.
Brave Randall leaped upon the gun,
And waved his cap in sport;
"Well done! well aimed! I saw that shell
Go through an open port."
It was our last, our deadliest shot;
The deck was overflown;
The poor ship staggered, lurched to port,
And gave a living groan.
Down, down, as headlong through the waves
Our gallant vessel rushed,
A thousand gurgling, watery sounds
Around my senses gushed.
Then I remember little more;
One look to heaven I gave,
Where, like an angel's wing, I saw
Our spotless ensign wave.
I tried to cheer, I cannot say
Whether I swam or sank;
A blue mist closed around my eyes,
And everything was blank.
When I awoke, a soldier-lad,
All dripping from the sea,
With two great tears upon his cheeks,
Was bending over me.
I tried to speak. He understood
The wish I could not speak.
He turned me. There, thank God! the flag
Still fluttered at the peak!
And there, while thread shall hang to thread,
O let that ensign fly!
The noblest constellation set
Against our northern sky.
A sign that we who live may claim
The peerage of the brave;
A monument, that needs no scroll,
For those beneath the wave!
George Henry Boker.
THE CUMBERLAND
Some names there are of telling sound,
Whose vowelled syllables free
Are pledge that they shall ever live renowned;
Such seems to be
A Frigate's name (by present glory spanned)—
The Cumberland.
Sounding name as e'er was sung,
Flowing, rolling on the tongue—
Cumberland! Cumberland!
She warred and sunk. There's no denying
That she was ended—quelled;
And yet her flag above her fate is flying,
As when it swelled
Unswallowed by the swallowing sea: so grand—
The Cumberland.
Goodly name as e'er was sung,
Roundly rolling on the tongue—
Cumberland! Cumberland!
What need to tell how she was fought—
The sinking flaming gun—
The gunner leaping out the port—
Washed back, undone!
Her dead unconquerably manned
The Cumberland.
Noble name as e'er was sung,
Slowly roll it on the tongue—
Cumberland! Cumberland!
Long as hearts shall share the flame
Which burned in that brave crew,
Her fame shall live—outlive the victor's name;
For this is due.
Your flag and flag-staff shall in story stand—
Cumberland!
Sounding name as e'er was sung,
Long they'll roll it on the tongue—
Cumberland! Cumberland!
Herman Melville.
The Merrimac then drew off and subjected the Congress to such a terrific fire that the frigate was forced to surrender. After heavily damaging the other vessels of the fleet, the Merrimac withdrew, intending to complete their destruction in the morning.
HOW THE CUMBERLAND WENT DOWN
[March 8, 1862]
Gray swept the angry waves
O'er the gallant and the true,
Rolled high in mounded graves
O'er the stately frigate's crew—
Over cannon, over deck,
Over all that ghastly wreck,—
When the Cumberland went down.
Such a roar the waters rent
As though a giant died,
When the wailing billows went
Above those heroes tried;
And the sheeted foam leaped high,
Like white ghosts against the sky,—
As the Cumberland went down.
O shrieking waves that gushed
Above that loyal band,
Your cold, cold burial rushed
O'er many a heart on land!
And from all the startled North
A cry of pain broke forth,
When the Cumberland went down.
And forests old, that gave
A thousand years of power
To her lordship of the wave
And her beauty's regal dower,
Bent, as though before a blast,
When plunged her pennoned mast,
And the Cumberland went down.
And grimy mines that sent
To her their virgin strength,
And iron vigor lent
To knit her lordly length,
Wildly stirred with throbs of life,
Echoes of that fatal strife,
As the Cumberland went down.
Beneath the ocean vast,
Full many a captain bold,
By many a rotting mast,
And admiral of old,
Rolled restless in his grave
As he felt the sobbing wave,
When the Cumberland went down.
And stern Vikings that lay
A thousand years at rest,
In many a deep blue bay
Beneath the Baltic's breast,
Leaped on the silver sands,
And shook their rusty brands,
As the Cumberland went down.
S. Weir Mitchell.
But when, on the morning of March 9, 1862, the Merrimac steamed out again into Hampton Roads, a new antagonist confronted her—the Monitor, Ericsson's eccentric boat, which had arrived from New York the night before. The ships approached each other, like David and Goliath. A battle followed, unique in naval warfare, the first duel of ironclads the world had ever seen. It ended in the Merrimac retreating to Norfolk, badly damaged.
[March 9, 1862]
Out of a Northern city's bay,
'Neath lowering clouds, one bleak March day,
Glided a craft—the like, I ween,
On ocean's crest was never seen
Since Noah's float, that ancient boat,
Could o'er a conquered deluge gloat.
No raking masts, with clouds of sail,
Bent to the breeze, or braved the gale;
No towering chimney's wreaths of smoke
Betrayed the mighty engine's stroke;
But low and dark, like the crafty shark,
Moved in the waters this novel bark.
The fishers stared as the flitting sprite
Passed their huts in the misty light,
Bearing a turret huge and black,
And said, "The old sea-serpent's back,
Carting away by light of day,
Uncle Sam's fort from New York Bay."
Forth from a Southern city's dock,
Our frigates' strong blockade to mock,
Crept a monster of rugged build,
The work of crafty hands, well skilled—
Old Merrimac, with an iron back
Wooden ships would find hard to crack.
Straight to where the Cumberland lay,
The mail-clad monster made its way;
Its deadly prow struck deep and sure,
And the hero's fighting days were o'er.
Ah! many the braves who found their graves,
With that good ship, beneath the waves!
But with their fate is glory wrought,
Those hearts of oak like heroes fought
With desperate hope to win the day,
And crush the foe that 'fore them lay.
Our flag up run, the last-fired gun,
Tokens how bravely duty was done.
Flushed with success, the victor flew,
Furious, the startled squadron through:
Sinking, burning, driving ashore,
Until that Sabbath day was o'er,
Resting at night to renew the fight
With vengeful ire by morning's light.
Out of its den it burst anew,
When the gray mist the sun broke through,
Steaming to where, in clinging sands,
The frigate Minnesota stands,
A sturdy foe to overthrow,
But in woful plight to receive a blow.
But see! Beneath her bow appears
A champion no danger fears;
A pigmy craft, that seems to be
To this new lord who rules the sea,
Like David of old to Goliath bold—
Youth and giant, by Scripture told.
Round the roaring despot playing,
With willing spirit, helm obeying,
Spurning the iron against it hurled,
While belching turret rapid whirled,
And swift shot's seethe, with smoky wreath,
Told that the shark was showing his teeth—
The Monitor fought. In grim amaze
The Merrimacs upon it gaze,
Cowering 'neath the iron hail,
Crashing into their coat of mail;
They swore "this craft, the devil's shaft,
Looked like a cheese-box on a raft."
Hurrah! little giant of '62!
[Bold Worden] with his gallant crew
Forces the fight; the day is won;
Back to his den the monster's gone
With crippled claws and broken jaws,
Defeated in a reckless cause.
Hurrah for the master mind that wrought,
With iron hand, this iron thought!
Strength and safety with speed combined,
Ericsson's gift to all mankind;
To curb abuse, and chains to loose,
Hurrah for the Monitor's famous cruise!
George Henry Boker.
The reign of terror created by the Merrimac was at an end, and the ship herself did not last long. On May 10, 1862, the Confederates were forced to abandon Norfolk, and the Merrimac was blown up. On December 30 the Monitor foundered in a gale off Hatteras.
THE SINKING OF THE MERRIMACK
[May, 1862]
Gone down in the flood, and gone out in the flame!
What else could she do, with her fair Northern name?
Her font was a river whose last drop is free:
That river ran boiling with wrath to the sea,
To hear of her baptismal blessing profaned;
A name that was Freedom's, by treachery stained.
'Twas the voice of our free Northern mountains that broke
In the sound of her guns, from her stout ribs of oak:
'Twas the might of the free Northern hand you could feel
In her sweep and her moulding, from topmast to keel:
When they made her speak treason (does Hell know of worse?),
How her strong timbers shook with the shame of her curse!
Let her go! Should a deck so polluted again
Ever ring to the tread of our true Northern men?
Let the suicide-ship thunder forth, to the air
And the sea she has blotted, her groan of despair!
Let her last heat of anguish throb out into flame!
Then sink them together,—the ship and the name!
Lucy Larcom.
The work of the gunboats on the Mississippi at the investment of Fort Henry and Fort Donelson has been already mentioned. In April, 1862, a blow was aimed at the very heart of the Confederacy, when a fleet under command of David Glasgow Farragut advanced up the river against the formidable forts below New Orleans. After five days' bombardment, the fleet ran past the forts and attacked the Confederate ships before the city.
[April 18, 1862]
Do you know of the dreary land,
If land such region may seem,
Where 'tis neither sea nor strand,
Ocean, nor good, dry land,
But the nightmare marsh of a dream?
Where the Mighty River his death-road takes,
'Mid pools and windings that coil like snakes,
A hundred leagues of bayous and lakes,
To die in the great Gulf Stream?
No coast-line clear and true,
Granite and deep-sea blue,
On that dismal shore you pass,
Surf-worn boulder or sandy beach,—
But ooze-flats as far as the eye can reach,
With shallows of water-grass;
Reedy Savannahs, vast and dun,
Lying dead in the dim March sun;
Huge, rotting trunks and roots that lie
Like the blackened bones of shapes gone by,
And miles of sunken morass.
No lovely, delicate thing
Of life o'er the waste is seen
But the cayman couched by his weedy spring,
And the pelican, bird unclean,
Or the buzzard, flapping with heavy wing,
Like an evil ghost o'er the desolate scene.
Ah! many a weary day
With our Leader there we lay.
In the sultry haze and smoke,
Tugging our ships o'er the bar,
Till the spring was wasted far,
Till his brave heart almost broke.
For the sullen river seemed
As if our intent he dreamed,—
All his sallow mouths did spew and choke.
But ere April fully passed
All ground over at last
And we knew the die was cast,—
Knew the day drew nigh
To dare to the end one stormy deed,
Might save the land at her sorest need,
Or on the old deck to die!
Anchored we lay,—and a morn the more,
To his captains and all his men
Thus wrote our old commodore
(He wasn't Admiral then):—
"General Orders:
Send your to'gallant masts down,
Rig in each flying jib-boom!
Clear all ahead for the loom
Of traitor fortress and town,
Or traitor fleet bearing down.
"In with your canvas high;
We shall want no sail to fly!
Topsail, foresail, spanker, and jib
(With the heart of oak in the oaken rib),
Shall serve us to win or die!
"Trim every sail by the head
(So shall you spare the lead),
Lest if she ground, your ship swing round,
Bows in shore, for a wreck.
See your grapnels all clear with pains,
And a solid kedge in your port main-chains,
With a whip to the main yard:
Drop it heavy and hard
When you grapple a traitor deck!
"On forecastle and on poop
Mount guns, as best you may deem.
If possible, rouse them up
(For still you must bow the stream).
Also hoist and secure with stops
Howitzers firmly in your tops,
To fire on the foe abeam.
"Look well to your pumps and hose;
Have water tubs fore and aft,
For quenching flame in your craft,
And the gun crew's fiery thirst.
See planks with felt fitted close,
To plug every shot-hole tight.
Stand ready to meet the worst!
For, if I have reckoned aright,
They will serve us shot,
Both cold and hot,
Freely enough to-night.
"Mark well each signal I make
(Our life-long service at stake,
And honor that must not lag!),—
Whate'er the peril and awe,
In the battle's fieriest flaw,
Let never one ship withdraw
Till the orders come from the flag!"
* * * * *
Would you hear of the river fight?
It was two of a soft spring night;
God's stars looked down on all;
And all was clear and bright
But the low fog's clinging breath;
Up the River of Death
Sailed the great Admiral.
On our high poop-deck he stood,
And round him ranged the men
Who have made their birthright good
Of manhood once and again,—
Lords of helm and of sail,
Tried in tempest and gale,
Bronzed in battle and wreck.
Bell and Bailey grandly led
Each his line of the Blue and Red;
Wainwright stood by our starboard rail;
Thornton fought the deck.
And I mind me of more than they,
Of the youthful, steadfast ones,
That have shown them worthy sons
Of the seamen passed away.
Tyson conned our helm that day;
Watson stood by his guns.
What thought our Admiral then,
Looking down on his men?
Since the terrible day
(Day of renown and tears!),—
When at anchor the Essex lay,—
Holding her foes at bay,—
When a boy by Porter's side he stood,
Till deck and plank-sheer were dyed with blood;
'Tis half a hundred years,—
Half a hundred years to a day!
Who could fail with him?
Who reckon of life or limb?
Not a pulse but beat the higher!
There had you seen, by the starlight dim,
Five hundred faces strong and grim:
The Flag is going under fire!
Right up by the fort,
With her helm hard aport,
The Hartford is going under fire!
The way to our work was plain.
Caldwell had broken the chain
(Two hulks swung down amain
Soon as 'twas sundered).
Under the night's dark blue,
Steering steady and true,
Ship after ship went through,
Till, as we hove in view,
"Jackson" out-thundered!
Back echoed "Philip!" ah! then
Could you have seen our men.
How they sprung in the dim night haze,
To their work of toil and of clamor!
How the boarders, with sponge and rammer
And their captains, with cord and hammer,
Kept every muzzle ablaze.
How the guns, as with cheer and shout—
Our tackle-men hurled them out—
Brought up on the water-ways!
First, as we fired at their flash,
'Twas lightning and black eclipse,
With a bellowing roll and crash.
But soon, upon either bow,
What with forts and fire-rafts and ships
(The whole fleet was hard at it now),
All pounding away!—and Porter
Still thundering with shell and mortar,—
'T was the mighty sound and form!
(Such you see in the far South,
After long heat and drought,
As day draws nigh to even,
Arching from north to south,
Blinding the tropic sun,
The great black bow comes on,
Till the thunder-veil is riven,—
When all is crash and levin,
And the cannonade of heaven
Rolls down the Amazon!)
But, as we worked along higher,
Just where the river enlarges,
Down came a pyramid of fire,—
It was one of your long coal barges.
(We had often had the like before.)
'T was coming down on us to larboard,
Well in with the eastern shore;
And our pilot, to let it pass round
(You may guess we never stopped to sound),
Giving us a rank sheer to starboard,
Ran the Flag hard and fast aground!
'T was nigh abreast of the Upper Fort,
And straightway a rascal ram
(She was shaped like the Devil's dam)
Puffed away for us, with a snort,
And shoved it, with spiteful strength,
Right alongside of us to port.
It was all of our ship's length,—
A huge, crackling Cradle of the Pit!
Pitch-pine knots to the brim,
Belching flame red and grim,
What a roar came up from it!
Well, for a little it looked bad:
But these things are, somehow, shorter,
In the acting than in the telling;
There was no singing out or yelling,
Or any fussing and fretting,
No stampede, in short;
But there we were, my lad,
All afire on our port quarter,
Hammocks ablaze in the netting,
Flames spouting in at every port,
Our fourth cutter burning at the davit
(No chance to lower away and save it).
In a twinkling, the flames had risen
Halfway to maintop and mizzen,
Darting up the shrouds like snakes!
Ah, how we clanked at the brakes,
And the deep, steaming pumps throbbed under,
Sending a ceaseless flow.
Our topmen, a dauntless crowd,
Swarmed in rigging and shroud:
There ('twas a wonder!)
The burning ratlines and strands
They quenched with their bare, hard hands;
But the great guns below
Never silenced their thunder.
At last, by backing and sounding,
When we were clear of grounding,
And under headway once more,
The whole rebel fleet came rounding
The point. If we had it hot before,
'Twas now from shore to shore,
One long, loud, thundering roar,—
Such crashing, splintering, and pounding,
And smashing as you never heard before!
But that we fought foul wrong to wreck,
And to save the land we loved so well,
You might have deemed our long gun-deck
Two hundred feet of hell!
For above all was battle,
Broadside, and blaze, and rattle,
Smoke and thunder alone
(But, down in the sick-bay,
Where our wounded and dying lay,
There was scarce a sob or a moan).
And at last, when the dim day broke,
And the sullen sun awoke,
Drearily blinking
O'er the haze and the cannon smoke,
That ever such morning dulls,—
There were thirteen traitor hulls
On fire and sinking!
Now, up the river!—though mad Chalmette
Sputters a vain resistance yet,
Small helm we gave her our course to steer,—
'Twas nicer work than you well would dream,
With cant and sheer to keep her clear
Of the burning wrecks that cumbered the stream.
The Louisiana, hurled on high,
Mounts in thunder to meet the sky!
Then down to the depths of the turbid flood,—
Fifty fathom of rebel mud!
The Mississippi comes floating down,
A mighty bonfire from off the town;
And along the river, on stocks and ways,
A half-hatched devil's brood is ablaze,—
The great Anglo-Norman is all in flames
(Hark to the roar of her trembling frames!),
And the smaller fry that Treason would spawn
Are lighting Algiers like an angry dawn!
From stem to stern, how the pirates burn,
Fired by the furious hands that built!
So to ashes forever turn
The suicide wrecks of wrong and guilt!
But as we neared the city,
By field and vast plantation
(Ah! millstone of our nation!),
With wonder and with pity,
What crowds we there espied
Of dark and wistful faces,
Mute in their toiling places,
Strangely and sadly eyed.
Haply 'mid doubt and fear,
Deeming deliverance near
(One gave the ghost of a cheer!).
And on that dolorous strand,
To greet the victor brave,
One flag did welcome wave—
Raised, ah me! by a wretched hand,
All outworn on our cruel land,—
The withered hand of a slave!
But all along the levee,
In a dark and drenching rain
(By this 'twas pouring heavy),
Stood a fierce and sullen train,
A strange and frenzied time!
There were scowling rage and pain,
Curses, howls, and hisses,
Out of Hate's black abysses,—
Their courage and their crime
All in vain—all in vain!
For from the hour that the Rebel Stream
With the Crescent City lying abeam,
Shuddered under our keel,
Smit to the heart with self-struck sting,
Slavery died in her scorpion-ring
And Murder fell on his steel.
'Tis well to do and dare;
But ever may grateful prayer
Follow, as aye it ought,
When the good fight is fought,
When the true deed is done.
Aloft in heaven's pure light
(Deep azure crossed on white),
[Our fair Church pennant waves]
O'er a thousand thankful braves,
Bareheaded in God's bright sun.
Lord of mercy and frown,
Ruling o'er sea and shore,
Send us such scene once more!
All in line of battle
When the black ships bear down
On tyrant fort and town,
'Mid cannon cloud and rattle;
And the great guns once more
Thunder back the roar
Of the traitor walls ashore,
And the traitor flags come down.
Henry Howard Brownell.
THE BALLAD OF NEW ORLEANS
[April 24, 1862]
Just as the hour was darkest,
Just between night and day,
From the flag-ship shone the signal,
"Get the squadrons under way."
Not a sound but the tramp of sailors,
And the wheeling capstan's creak,
Arose from the busy vessels
As the anchors came apeak.
The men worked on in silence,
With never a shout or cheer,
Till 'twas whispered from bow to quarter:
"Start forward! all is clear."
Then groaned the ponderous engine,
Then floundered the whirling screw;
And as ship joined ship, the comrades
Their lines of battle drew.
The moon through the fog was casting
A blur of lurid light,
As the captain's latest order
Was flashed into the night.
"Steam on! and whatever fortune
May follow the attack,
Sink with your bows still northward
No vessel must turn back!"
'Twas hard when we heard that order
To smother a rising shout;
For it wakened the life within us,
And we burned to give it out.
All wrapped in the foggy darkness,
Brave Bailey moved ahead;
And stem after stern, his gunboats
To the starboard station led.
Next Farragut's stately flag-ship
To port her head inclined;
And midmost, and most in danger,
Bell's squadron closed behind.
Ah! many a prayer was murmured
For the homes we ne'er might see;
And the silence and night grew dreadful
With the thought of what must be.
For many a tall, stout fellow
Who stood at his quarters then,
In the damp and dismal moonlight,
Never saw the sun again.
Close down by the yellow river
In their oozy graves they rot;
Strange vines and strange weeds grow o'er them,
And their far homes know them not.
But short was our time of musing;
For the rebel forts discerned
That the whole great fleet was moving,
And their batteries on us turned.
Then Porter burst out from his mortars,
In jets of fiery spray,
As if a volcano had opened
Where his leaf-clad vessels lay.
Howling and screeching and whizzing
The bomb-shells arched on high,
And then, like gigantic meteors,
Dropped swiftly from the sky.
Dropped down on the low, doomed fortress
A plague of iron death,
Shattering earth and granite to atoms
With their puffs of sulphurous breath.
The whole air quaked and shuddered
As the huge globes rose and fell,
And the blazing shores looked awful
As the open gates of hell.
Fort Jackson and Fort Saint Philip,
And the battery on the right,
By this time were flashing and thundering
Out into the murky night.
Through the hulks and the cables, sundered
By the bold Itasca's crew,
Went Bailey in silence, though round him
The shells and the grape-shot flew.
No answer he made to their welcome,
Till abeam Saint Philip bore,
Then, oh, but he sent them a greeting
In his broadsides' steady roar!
Meanwhile, the old man, in the Hartford,
Had ranged to Fort Jackson's side;
What a sight! he slowed his engines
Till he barely stemmed the tide;
Yes, paused in that deadly tornado
Of case-shot and shell and ball,
Not a cable's length from the fortress,
And he lay there, wood to wall.
Have you any notion, you landsmen,
Who have seen a field-fight won,
Of canister, grape-shot, and shrapnel
Hurled out from a ten-inch gun?
I tell you, the air is nigh solid
With the howling iron flight;
And 'twas such a tempest blew o'er us
Where the Hartford lay that night.
Perched aloft in the forward rigging,
With his restless eyes aglow,
Sat Farragut, shouting his orders
To the men who fought below.
And the fort's huge faces of granite
Were splintered and rent in twain,
And the masses seemed slowly melting,
Like snow in a torrid rain.
Now quicker and quicker we fired,
Till between us and the foe
A torrent of blazing vapor
Was leaping to and fro;
While the fort, like a mighty caldron,
Was boiling with flame and smoke,
And the stone flew aloft in fragments,
And the brick into powder broke.
So thick fell the clouds o'er the river,
You hardly could see your hand;
When we heard, from the foremast rigging,
Old Farragut's sharp command:
"Full ahead! Steam across to Saint Philip!
Starboard battery, mind your aim!
Forecastle there, shift your pivots! Now,
Give them a taste of the same!"
Saint Philip grew faint in replying,
Its voice of thunder was drowned;
"But ha! what is this? Back the engines!
Back, back, the ship is aground!"
Straight down the swift current came sweeping
A raft, spouting sparks and flame;
Pushed on by an iron-clad rebel,
Under our port side it came.
At once the good Hartford was blazing,
Below, aloft, fore and aft.
"We are lost!" "No, no; we are moving!"
Away whirled the crackling raft.
The fire was soon quenched. One last broadside
We gave to the surly fort;
For above us the rebel gunboats
Were wheeling like devils at sport.
And into our vacant station
Had glided a bulky form;
'Twas Craven's stout Brooklyn, demanding
Her share of the furious storm.
We could hear the shot of Saint Philip
Ring on her armor of chain,
And the crash of her answering broadside,
Taking and giving again.
We could hear the low growl of Craven,
And Lowry's voice clear and calm,
While they swept off the rebel ramparts
As clean as your open palm.
Then ranging close under our quarter,
Out burst from the smoky fogs
The queen of the waves, the Varuna,
The ship of bold Charley Boggs.
He waved his blue cap as he passed us;
The blood of his glorious race,
Of Lawrence, the hero, was burning
Once more in a living face.
Right and left flashed his heavy pieces,
Rams, gunboats—it mattered not;
Wherever a rebel flag floated
Was a target for his shot.
All burning and sinking around him
Lay five of the foe; but he,
The victor, seemed doomed with the vanquished,
When along dashed gallant Lee.
And he took up the bloody conflict,
And so well his part he bore,
That the river ran fire behind him,
And glimmered from shore to shore.
But while powder would burn in a cannon,
Till the water drowned his deck,
Boggs pounded away with his pivots
From his slowly settling wreck.
I think our great captains in Heaven,
As they looked upon those deeds,
Were proud of the flower of that navy,
Of which they planted the seeds.
Paul Jones, the knight-errant of ocean,
Decatur, the lord of the seas,
Hull, Lawrence, and Bainbridge, and Biddle,
And Perry, the peer of all these!
If Porter beheld his descendant,
With some human pride on his lip,
I trust, through the mercy of Heaven,
His soul was forgiven that slip.
And thou, living veteran, Old Ironsides,
The last of the splendid line,
Thou link 'twixt the old and new glory,
I know what feelings were thine!
When the sun looked over the tree-tops,
We found ourselves—Heaven knows how—
Above the grim forts; and that instant
A smoke broke from Farragut's bow.
And over the river came floating
The sound of the morning gun;
And the stars and stripes danced up the halyards,
And glittered against the sun.
Oh, then what a shout from the squadrons!
As flag followed flag, till the day
Was bright with the beautiful standard,
And wild with the victors' huzza!
But three ships were missing. The others
Had passed through that current of flame;
And each scar on their shattered bulwarks
Was touched by the finger of Fame.
Below us, the forts of the rebels
Lay in the trance of despair;
Above us, uncovered and helpless,
New Orleans clouded the air.
Again, in long lines we went steaming
Away towards the city's smoke;
And works were deserted before us,
And columns of soldiers broke.
In vain the town clamored and struggled;
The flag at our peak ruled the hour;
And under its shade, like a lion,
Were resting the will and the power.
George Henry Boker.
The Varuna, after sinking five Confederate vessels, was herself sunk. Every ship of the Federal fleet suffered severely, but on the afternoon of April 25, 1862, the fleet dropped anchor off New Orleans.
THE VARUNA
[Sunk April 24, 1862]
Who has not heard of the dauntless Varuna?
Who has not heard of the deeds she has done?
Who shall not hear, while the brown Mississippi
Rushes along from the snow to the sun?
Crippled and leaking she entered the battle,
Sinking and burning she fought through the fray;
Crushed were her sides and the waves ran across her,
Ere, like a death-wounded lion at bay,
Sternly she closed in the last fatal grapple,
Then in her triumph moved grandly away.
Five of the rebels, like satellites round her,
Burned in her orbit of splendor and fear;
One, like the Pleiad of mystical story,
Shot, terror-stricken, beyond her dread sphere.
We who are waiting with crowns for the victors,
Though we should offer the wealth of our store,
Load the Varuna from deck down to kelson,
Still would be niggard, such tribute to pour
On courage so boundless. It beggars possession,—
It knocks for just payment at heaven's bright door!
Cherish the heroes who fought the Varuna;
Treat them as kings if they honor your way;
Succor and comfort the sick and the wounded;
Oh! for the dead let us all kneel to pray!
George Henry Boker.
New Orleans was panic-stricken. Many of the better class of citizens fled, and the town was given over to the mob. Drums were beaten, soldiers scampered hither and thither, and women ran through the streets demanding that the city be burned. The cotton on the levee was set on fire, and the torch was put to the wharves and shipping. Finally, on April 29, 1862, after a lot of silly rhodomontade, the city surrendered.
THE SURRENDER OF NEW ORLEANS
[April 29, 1862]
All day long the guns at the forts,
With far-off thunders and faint retorts,
Had told the city that down the bay
The fleet of Farragut's war-ships lay;
But now St. Philip and Jackson grim
Were black and silent below the rim
Of the southern sky, where the river sped
Like a war-horse scenting the fight ahead.
And we of the city, the women, and men
Too old for facing the battle then,
Saw all the signs of our weakness there
With a patience born of a great despair.
The river gnawed its neglected bank,
The weeds in the unused streets grew rank,
And flood and famine threatened those
Who stayed there braving greater woes.
Under the raking of shot and shell
The river fortresses fighting fell;
The Chalmette batteries then boomed forth,
But the slim, straight spars of the ships of the North
Moved steadily on in their river-road,
Like a tide that up from the ocean flowed.
Then load after load, and pile upon pile,
Lining the wharves for many a mile,
Out of the cotton-presses and yards,
With a grim industry which naught retards,
The bales were carried and swiftly placed
By those who knew there was need of haste,
And the torch was laid to the cotton so.
Up from that bonfire the glare and glow
Was seen by the watchers far away,
And weeping and wailing those watchers say,
"The city is lost! O men at the front,
Braving the fortunes of war, and the brunt
Of battle bearing with fearful cost,
The city you loved and left is lost!"
Ah, memories crowding so thick and fast,
Ye were the first; is this the last?
We gave with clamor our first great gift,
With shouts which up to the heavens lift;
We gave with silence our last best yield,
Our last, best gleaning for Shiloh's field.
With mute devotion we saw them go;
But when the banners were furled and low,
And the solid columns were thinned by war,
We wondered what we had given for.
And oh, the day when with muffled drum
We saw our dear, dead Johnston come!
The blood of our slain ones seemed to pour
From the eyes that should see them come no more.
We measured our grief by each gallant deed;
We measured our loss by our direful need;
Our dead dreams rose from the vanquished past,
And across the future their shadows cast.
Our brave young hope, like a fallen tear,
We laid on the grave of our Chevalier.
And that last wild night! the east was red
So long 'fore the day had left its bed.
With white, set faces, and smileless lips,
We fired our vessels, we fired our ships.
We saw the sails of the red flame lift
O'er each fire-cargo we set adrift;
To Farragut's fleet we sent them down,
A warm, warm welcome from the town.
But, alas, how quickly came the end!
For down the river, below the bend,
Like a threatening finger shook each mast
Of the Yankee ships as they steamed up fast.
Grim and terrible, black with men,
Oh, for the Mississippi then!
And—God be merciful!—there she came,
A drifting wreck, a ship of flame.
What a torch to light the stripes and stars
That had braved our forts and harbor bars!
What a light, by which we saw vainly slip
Our hopes to their death in that sinking ship!
We shrieked with rage, and defeat, and dread,
As down the river that phantom sped;
But on the deck of a Yankee ship,
One grim old tar, with a smiling lip,
Patted the big black breech of his gun,
As one who silently says, "Well done!"
To-day the graves that were new are old,
And a story done is a story told;
But we of the city, the women and men,
And boys unfitted for fighting then,
Remember the day when our flag went down,
And the stars and stripes waved over the town.
Ah me! the bitter goes with the sweet,
And a victory means another defeat;
For, bound in Nature's inflexible laws,
A glory for one is another's Lost Cause.
Marion Manville.
The national flag was hoisted over the mint, but was torn down and dragged through the streets in derision by a gang of men led by William B. Mumford. Mumford was captured and hanged for treason.
MUMFORD
THE MARTYR OF NEW ORLEANS
[May, 1862]
Where murdered Mumford lies
Bewailed in bitter sighs,
Low bowed beneath the flag he loved
Martyrs of Liberty,
Defenders of the Free!
Come, humbly nigh,
And learn to die!
Ah, Freedom on that day
Turned fearfully away,
While pitying angels lingered near,
To gaze upon the sod
Red with a martyr's blood;
And woman's tear
Fell on his bier!
Oh, God! that he should die
Beneath a Southern sky!
Upon a felon's gallows swinging,
Murdered by tyrant hand,—
While round a helpless band,
On Butler's name
Poured scorn and shame.
But hark! loud pæans fly
From earth to vaulted sky,
He's crowned at Freedom's holy throne!
List! sweet-voiced Israfel
Tolls for the martyr's knell!
Shout Southrons high,
Our battle cry!
Come all of Southern blood,
Come kneel to Freedom's God!
Here at her crimson altar swear!
Accursed forever more
The flag that Mumford tore,
And o'er his grave
Our colors wave.
Ina M. Porter.
The behavior of the women was especially insulting and culminated when one of them spat in the face of a Union officer. General Butler thereupon issued his famous Order No. 28, providing that any woman who insulted an officer or soldier of the United States should be treated as a woman of the town. The order was received with hysteria throughout the South, but it brought the people of New Orleans to their senses.
BUTLER'S PROCLAMATION
[May 15, 1862]
Ay! drop the treacherous mask! throw by
The cloak that veiled thine instincts fell,
Stand forth, thou base, incarnate Lie,
Stamped with the signet brand of hell!
At last we view thee as thou art,
A trickster with a demon's heart.
Off with disguise! no quarter now
To rebel honor! thou wouldst strike
Hot blushes up the anguished brow,
And murder Fame and Strength alike.
Beware! ten million hearts aflame
Will burn with hate thou canst not tame!
We know thee now! we know thy race!
Thy dreadful purpose stands revealed
Naked, before the nation's face!
Comrades! let Mercy's font be sealed,
While the black banner courts the wind,
And cursed be he who lags behind!
O soldiers, husbands, brothers, sires!
Think that each stalwart blow ye give
Shall quench the rage of lustful fires,
And bid your glorious women live
Pure from a wrong whose tainted breath
Were fouler than the foulest death.
O soldiers, lovers, Christians, men!
Think that each breeze that floats and dies
O'er the red field, from mount or glen,
Is burdened with a maiden's sighs—
And each false soul that turns to flee,
Consigns his love to infamy!
Think! and strike home! the fabled might
Of Titans were a feeble power
To that with which your arms should smite
In the next awful battle-hour!
And deadlier than the bolts of heaven
Should flash your fury's fatal leven!
No pity! let your thirsty bands
Drink their warm fill at caitiff veins;
Dip deep in blood your wrathful hands,
Nor pause to wipe those crimson stains.
Slay! slay! with ruthless sword and will—
The God of vengeance bids you "kill!"
Yes! but there's one who shall not die
In battle harness! One for whom
Lurks in the darkness silently
Another and a sterner doom!
A warrior's end should crown the brave—
For him, swift cord! and felon grave!
As loathsome, charnel vapors melt,
Swept by invisible winds to naught,
So, may this fiend of lust and guilt
Die like nightmare's hideous thought!
Naught left to mark the mother's name,
Save—immortality of shame!
Paul Hamilton Hayne.