CHAPTER XI
WINSLOW AND FARRAGUT
During the Civil War, the Confederates commissioned a large number of privateers to prey upon Northern commerce, the most famous of which was the Alabama, commanded by Raphael Semmes. Semmes had orders to sink, burn, and destroy everything flying the Stars and Stripes, and carried them out in the most thorough-going way. On June 11, 1864, the Alabama entered the harbor of Cherbourg, France. Three days later, the United States sloop-of-war Kearsarge, Captain John A. Winslow, appeared in the offing, and both ships prepared for battle. The Alabama steamed out of the harbor on the morning of Sunday, June 19, and was soon reduced to a wreck by the deadly fire from the Kearsarge. She sank while trying to run inshore.
THE EAGLE AND VULTURE
[June, 1864]
In Cherbourg Roads the pirate lay
One morn in June, like a beast at bay,
Feeling secure in the neutral port,
Under the guns of the Frenchman's fort;
A thieving vulture; a coward thing;
Sheltered beneath a despot's wing.
But there outside, in the calm blue bay,
Our ocean-eagle, the Kearsarge, lay;
Lay at her ease on the Sunday morn,
Holding the Corsair ship in scorn;
With captain and crew in the might of their right,
Willing to pray, but more eager to fight.
Four bells are struck, and this thing of night,
Like a panther, crouching with fierce affright,
Must leap from his cover, and, come what may,
Must fight for his life, or steal away!
So, out of the port with his braggart air,
With flaunting flags, sailed the proud Corsair.
[The Cherbourg cliffs were all alive]
With lookers-on, like a swarming hive;
While compelled to do what he dared not shirk,
The pirate went to his desperate work;
And Europe's tyrants looked on in glee,
As they thought of our Kearsarge sunk in the sea.
But our little bark smiled back at them
A smile of contempt, with that Union gem,
The American banner, far floating and free,
Proclaiming her champions were out on the sea;
Were out on the sea, and abroad on the land,
Determined to win under God's command.
Down came the vulture; our eagle sat still,
Waiting to strike with her iron-clad bill;
Convinced by the glow of his glorious cause,
He could crumple his foe in the grasp of his claws.
"Clear the decks," then said Winslow, words measured and slow;
"Point the guns, and prepare for the terrible blow;
And whatever the fate to ourselves may be,
We will sink in the ocean this pest of the sea."
The decks were all cleared, and the guns were all manned,
Awaiting to meet this Atlantic brigand;
[When, lo! roared a broadside]; the ship of the thief
Was torn, and wept blood in that moment of grief.
Another! another! another! And still
The broadsides went in with a hearty good will,
Till the pirate reeled wildly, as staggering and drunk,
And down to his own native regions he sunk.
Down, down, forty fathoms beneath the blue wave,
And the hopes of old Europe lie in the same grave;
While Freedom, more firm, stands upon her own sod,
And for heroes like Winslow is shouting, "Thank God!"
Thomas Buchanan Read.
KEARSARGE AND ALABAMA
[June 19, 1864]
It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four,
The Alabama she steam'd out along the Frenchman's shore.
Long time she cruised about,
Long time she held her sway,
But now beneath the Frenchman's shore she lies off Cherbourg Bay.
Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave
Over the Union, the home of the brave.
Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,
God bless America, the home of the brave!
The Yankee cruiser hove in view, the Kearsarge was her name,
It ought to be engraved in full upon the scroll of fame;
Her timbers made of Yankee oak,
And her crew of Yankee tars.
And o'er her mizzen peak she floats the glorious stripes and stars.
A challenge unto Captain Semmes, bold Winslow he did send!
"Bring on your Alabama, and to her we will attend,
For we think your boasting privateer
Is not so hard to whip;
And we'll show you that the Kearsarge is not a merchant ship."
It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four,
The Alabama she stood out and cannons loud did roar;
The Kearsarge stood undaunted, and quickly she replied
And let a Yankee 'leven-inch shell go tearing through her side.
The Kearsarge then she wore around and broadside on did bear,
With shot and shell and right good-will, her timbers she did tear;
When they found that they were sinking, down came the stars and bars,
For the rebel gunners could not stand the glorious stripes and stars.
The Alabama she is gone, she'll cruise the seas no more,
She met the fate she well deserved along the Frenchman's shore;
Then here is luck to the Kearsarge, we know what she can do,
Likewise to Captain Winslow and his brave and gallant crew.
Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave
Over the Union, the home of the brave!
Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,
God bless America, the home of the brave!
[June 19, 1864]
Sunday in Old England:
In gray churches everywhere
The calm of low responses,
The sacred hush of prayer.
Sunday in Old England:
And summer winds that went
O'er the pleasant fields of Sussex,
The garden lands of Kent,
Stole into dim church windows
And passed the oaken door,
And fluttered open prayer-books
With the cannon's awful roar.
Sunday in New England:
Upon a mountain gray
The wind-bent pines are swaying
Like giants at their play;
Across the barren lowlands,
Where men find scanty food,
The north wind brings its vigor
To homesteads plain and rude.
Ho, land of pine and granite!
Ho, hardy northland breeze!
Well have you trained the manhood
That shook the Channel seas,
When o'er those storied waters
The iron war-bolts flew,
And through Old England's churches
The summer breezes blew;
While in our other England
Stirred one gaunt rocky steep,
When rode her sons as victors,
Lords of the lonely deep.
S. Weir Mitchell.
London, July 20, 1864.
THE ALABAMA
She has gone to the bottom! the wrath of the tide
Now breaks in vain insolence o'er her;
No more the rough seas like a queen shall she ride,
While the foe flies in terror before her!
Now captive or exiled, or silent in death,
The forms that so bravely did man her;
Her deck is untrod, and the gale's stirring breath
Flouts no more the red cross of her banner!
She is down 'neath the waters, but still her bright name
Is in death, as in life, ever glorious,
And a sceptre all barren the conqueror must claim,
Though he boasts the proud title "Victorious."
Her country's lone champion, she shunned not the fight,
[Though unequal in strength], bold and fearless;
And proved in her fate, though not matchless in might,
In daring at least she was peerless.
No trophy hung high in the foe's hated hall
Shall speak of her final disaster,
Nor tell of the danger that could not appall,
Nor the spirit that nothing could master!
The death-shot has sped—she has grimly gone down,
But left her destroyer no token,
And the mythical wand of her mystic renown,
Though the waters o'erwhelm, is unbroken.
For lo! ere she settles beneath the dark wave
On her enemies' cheeks spreads a pallor,
As another deck summons the swords of the brave
To gild a new name with their valor.
Her phantom will yet haunt the wild roaring breeze,
Causing foemen to start and to shudder,
While their commerce still steals like a thief o'er the seas,
And trembles from bowsprit to rudder.
The spirit that shed on the wave's gleaming crest
The light of a legend romantic
Shall live while a sail flutters over the breast
Of thy far-bounding billows, Atlantic!
And as long as one swift keel the strong surges stems,
Or "poor Jack" loves his song and his story,
[Shall shine in tradition the valor of Semmes]
And the brave ship that bore him to glory!
Maurice Bell.
Mobile and Wilmington were the only important Confederate ports still open, and early in August, 1864, Admiral Farragut appeared off Mobile with a fleet of eighteen vessels. The entrance to the harbor was strongly defended by forts on both sides, but Farragut determined to run past them. On August 5 the fleet advanced, but the Tecumseh, leading the fleet, struck a torpedo and sank instantly, carrying down nearly all her crew, including T. A. M. Craven, her commander, who drew aside from the ladder that the pilot might pass first.
[August 5, 1864]
Over the turret, shut in his ironclad tower,
Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame;
Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour.
Now was the time for a charge to end the game.
There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim,
A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign;
There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swim
The flag was flying, and he was head of the line.
The fleet behind was jamming: the monitor hung
Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed;
Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung;
Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed
Into the narrowing channel, between the shore
And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank;
She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar,
A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank.
Over the manhole, up in the ironclad tower,
Pilot and captain met as they turned to fly:
The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour,
For one could pass to be saved, and one must die.
They stood like men in a dream; Craven spoke,—
Spoke as he lived and fought, with a captain's pride:
"After you, Pilot." The pilot woke,
Down the ladder he went, and Craven died.
All men praise the deed and the manner; but we—
We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud,
The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free,
The grace of the empty hands and promises loud;
[Sidney] thirsting a humbler need to slake,
[Nelson] waiting his turn for the surgeon's hand,
[Lucas] crushed with chains for a comrade's sake,
[Outram] coveting right before command,
These were paladins, these were Craven's peers,
These with him shall be crowned in story and song,
Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears,
Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong.
Henry Newbolt.
Farragut, who had lashed himself to the shrouds of his flagship, the Hartford, observed the Brooklyn, which preceded him, recoil as the Tecumseh sank. "What's the trouble?" he signalled. "Torpedoes!" answered the Brooklyn. "Damn the torpedoes!" shouted Farragut. "Go ahead, Captain Drayton! Four bells!" and the Hartford cleared the Brooklyn and took the lead.
FARRAGUT
(Mobile Bay, August 5, 1864)
Farragut, Farragut,
Old Heart of Oak,
Daring Dave Farragut,
Thunderbolt stroke,
Watches the hoary mist
Lift from the bay,
Till his flag, glory-kissed,
Greets the young day.
Far, by gray Morgan's walls,
Looms the black fleet.
Hark, deck to rampart calls
With the drums' beat!
Buoy your chains overboard,
While the steam hums;
Men! to the battlement,
Farragut comes.
See, as the hurricane
Hurtles in wrath
Squadrons of clouds amain
Back from its path!
Back to the parapet,
To the guns' lips,
Thunderbolt Farragut
Hurls the black ships.
Now through the battle's roar
Clear the boy sings,
"By the mark fathoms four,"
While his lead swings.
Steady the wheelmen five
"Nor' by East keep her,"
"Steady," but two alive:
How the shells sweep her!
Lashed to the mast that sways
Over red decks,
Over the flame that plays
Round the torn wrecks,
Over the dying lips
Framed for a cheer,
Farragut leads his ships,
Guides the line clear.
On by heights cannon-browed,
While the spars quiver;
Onward still flames the cloud
Where the hulks shiver.
See, yon fort's star is set,
Storm and fire past.
Cheer him, lads—Farragut,
Lashed to the mast!
Oh! while Atlantic's breast
Bears a white sail,
While the Gulf's towering crest
Tops a green vale,
Men thy bold deeds shall tell,
Old Heart of Oak,
Daring Dave Farragut,
Thunderbolt stroke!
William Tuckey Meredith.
On went the flagship across the line of torpedoes, but not one of them exploded, and a moment later one of the most daring feats in the naval history of the world had been safely accomplished. The line of battle was re-formed, the forts and Confederate fleet savagely attacked, and by nine o'clock the Union fleet was in the bay.
THROUGH FIRE IN MOBILE BAY
[August 5, 1864]
I'd weave a wreath for those who fought
In blue upon the waves,
I drop a tear for all who sleep
Down in the coral caves,
And proudly do I touch my cap
Whene'er I meet to-day
A man who sail'd with Farragut
Thro' fire in Mobile Bay.
Oh, what a gallant sight it was
As toward the foe we bore!
Lashed to the mast, unflinching, stood
Our grand old Commodore.
I see him now above the deck,
Though time has cleared away
The battle smoke that densely hung
Above old Mobile Bay.
Torpedoes to the right and left,
Torpedoes straight ahead!
The stanch Tecumseh sinks from sight,
The waves receive her dead.
But on we press, thro' lead and iron,
On, on with pennons gay,
Whilst glory holds her wreath above
Immortal Mobile Bay.
The rebel forts belch fire and death,
But what care we for them?
Our onward course, with Farragut
To guide us, nought can stem.
The Hartford works her dreaded guns,
The Brooklyn pounds away,
And proudly flies the flag of stars
Aloft o'er Mobile Bay.
Behold yon moving mass of iron
Beyond the Ossipee;
To fight the fleet with courage grim
Steams forth the Tennessee.
We hem her in with battle fire—
How furious grows the fray,
Until Surrender's flag she flies
Above red Mobile Bay.
We count our dead, we count our scars,
The proudest ever won;
We cheer the flag that gayly flies
Victorious in the sun.
No longer in the rigging stands
The hero of the day,
For he has linked his name fore'er
To deathless Mobile Bay.
Thus I would weave a wreath for all
Who fought with us that time,
And I'd embalm that glorious day
Forevermore in rhyme.
The stars above will rise and set,
The years will pass away,
But brighter all the time shall grow
The fame of Mobile Bay.
He sleeps, the bluff old Commodore
Who led with hearty will;
But ah! methinks I see him now,
Lashed to the rigging still.
I know that just beyond the tide,
In God's own glorious day,
He waits to greet the gallant tars
Who fought in Mobile Bay.
The ships were brought to anchor and breakfast was being served, when the great Confederate ram, Tennessee, was seen advancing at full speed, to attack the whole fleet. A terrific struggle followed, in which nearly every one of the Union ships was badly damaged; but the Tennessee at last became unmanageable and was forced to surrender. The task of reducing the forts remained. This was completed in a few days and the port of Mobile was effectually closed.
(Mobile Harbor, August 5, 1864)
Three days through sapphire seas we sailed,
The steady Trade blew strong and free,
The Northern Light his banners paled,
The Ocean Stream our channels wet,
We rounded low Canaveral's lee,
And passed the isles of emerald set
In blue Bahama's turquoise sea.
By reef and shoal obscurely mapped,
The hauntings of the gray sea-wolf,
The palmy Western Key lay lapped
In the warm washing of the Gulf.
But weary to the hearts of all
The burning glare, the barren reach
Of Santa Rosa's withered beach,
And Pensacola's ruined wall.
And weary was the long patrol,
The thousand miles of shapeless strand,
From Brazos to San Blas that roll
Their drifting dunes of desert sand.
Yet coastwise as we cruised or lay,
The land-breeze still at nightfall bore,
By beach and fortress-guarded bay,
Sweet odors from the enemy's shore,
Fresh from the forest solitudes,
Unchallenged of his sentry lines,—
The bursting of his cypress buds,
And the warm fragrance of his pines.
Ah, never braver bark and crew,
Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare,
Had left a wake on ocean blue
Since Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer!
But little gain by that dark ground
Was ours, save, sometime, freer breath
For friend or brother strangely found,
'Scaped from the drear domain of death.
And little venture for the bold,
Or laurel for our valiant Chief,
Save some blockaded British thief,
Full fraught with murder in his hold,
Caught unawares at ebb or flood,
Or dull bombardment, day by day,
With fort and earthwork, far away,
Low couched in sullen leagues of mud.
A weary time,—but to the strong
The day at last, as ever, came;
And the volcano, laid so long,
Leaped forth in thunder and in flame!
"Man your starboard battery!"
Kimberly shouted;—
The ship, with her hearts of oak,
Was going, 'mid roar and smoke,
On to victory;
None of us doubted,
No, not our dying—
Farragut's Flag was flying!
Gaines growled low on our left,
Morgan roared on our right;
Before us, gloomy and fell,
With breath like the fume of hell,
Lay the dragon of iron shell,
Driven at last to the fight!
Ha, old ship! do they thrill,
The brave two hundred scars
You got in the River-Wars?
That were leeched with clamorous skill
(Surgery savage and hard),
Splinted with bolt and beam,
Probed in scarfing and seam,
Rudely linted and tarred
With oakum and boiling pitch,
And sutured with splice and hitch,
At the Brooklyn Navy Yard!
Our lofty spars were down,
To bide the battle's frown
(Wont of old renown)—
But every ship was drest
In her bravest and her best,
As if for a July day;
Sixty flags and three,
As we floated up the bay—
At every peak and mast-head flew
The brave Red, White, and Blue,—
We were eighteen ships that day.
With hawsers strong and taut,
The weaker lashed to port,
On we sailed two by two—
That if either a bolt should feel
Crash through caldron or wheel,
Fin of bronze, or sinew of steel,
Her mate might bear her through.
Forging boldly ahead,
The great Flag-Ship led,
Grandest of sights!
On her lofty mizzen flew
Our leader's dauntless Blue,
That had waved o'er twenty fights.
So we went with the first of the tide,
Slowly, 'mid the roar
Of the rebel guns ashore
And the thunder of each full broadside.
Ah, how poor the prate
Of statute and state
We once held these fellows!
Here on the flood's pale green,
Hark how he bellows,
Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer!
Talk to them, Dahlgren,
Parrott, and Sawyer!
On, in the whirling shade
Of the cannon's sulphury breath,
We drew to the Line of Death
That our devilish Foe had laid,—
Meshed in a horrible net,
And baited villainous well,
Right in our path were set
Three hundred traps of hell!
And there, O sight forlorn!
There, while the cannon
Hurtled and thundered
(Ah, what ill raven
Flapped o'er the ship that morn!),—
Caught by the under-death,
In the drawing of a breath
Down went dauntless Craven,
He and his hundred!
A moment we saw her turret,
A little heel she gave,
And a thin white spray went o'er her,
Like the crest of a breaking wave;—
In that great iron coffin,
The channel for their grave,
The fort their monument
(Seen afar in the offing),
Ten fathom deep lie Craven
And the bravest of our brave.
Then in that deadly track
A little the ships held back,
Closing up in their stations;—
There are minutes that fix the fate
Of battles and of nations
(Christening the generations),
When valor were all too late.
If a moment's doubt be harbored;—
From the main-top, bold and brief,
Came the word of our grand old chief:
"Go on!"—'twas all he said,—
Our helm was put to starboard,
And the Hartford passed ahead.
Ahead lay the Tennessee,
On our starboard bow he lay,
With his mail-clad consorts three
(The rest had run up the bay):
There he was, belching flame from his bow,
And the steam from his throat's abyss
Was a Dragon's maddened hiss;
In sooth a most cursed craft!—
In a sullen ring, at bay,
By the Middle-Ground they lay,
Raking us fore and aft.
Trust me, our berth was hot,
Ah, wickedly well they shot—
How their death-bolts howled and stung!
And the water-batteries played
With their deadly cannonade
Till the air around us rung;
So the battle raged and roared;—
Ah, had you been aboard
To have seen the fight we made!
How they leapt, the tongues of flame,
From the cannon's fiery lip!
How the broadsides, deck and frame,
Shook the great ship!
And how the enemy's shell
Came crashing, heavy and oft,
Clouds of splinters flying aloft
And falling in oaken showers;—
But ah, the pluck of the crew!
Had you stood on that deck of ours,
You had seen what men may do.
Still, as the fray grew louder,
Boldly they worked and well—
Steadily came the powder,
Steadily came the shell.
And if tackle or truck found hurt,
Quickly they cleared the wreck—
And the dead were laid to port,
All a-row, on our deck.
Never a nerve that failed,
Never a cheek that paled,
Not a tinge of gloom or pallor;—
There was bold Kentucky's grit,
And the old Virginian valor,
And the daring Yankee wit.
There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon,
There were black orbs from palmy Niger,—
But there alongside the cannon,
Each man fought like a tiger!
A little, once, it looked ill,
Our consort began to burn—
They quenched the flames with a will,
But our men were falling still,
And still the fleet were astern.
Right abreast of the Fort
In an awful shroud they lay,
Broadsides thundering away,
And lightning from every port;
Scene of glory and dread!
A storm-cloud all aglow
With flashes of fiery red,
The thunder raging below,
And the forest of flags o'erhead!
So grand the hurly and roar,
So fiercely their broadsides blazed,
The regiments fighting ashore
Forgot to fire as they gazed.
There, to silence the foe,
Moving grimly and slow,
They loomed in that deadly wreath,
Where the darkest batteries frowned,—
Death in the air all round,
And the black torpedoes beneath!
And now, as we looked ahead,
All for'ard, the long white deck
Was growing a strange dull red,—
But soon, as once and again
Fore and aft we sped
(The firing to guide or check),
You could hardly choose but tread
On the ghastly human wreck
(Dreadful gobbet and shred
That a minute ago were men!)
Red, from mainmast to bitts!
Red, on bulwark and wale,
Red, by combing and hatch,
Red, o'er netting and vail!
And ever, with steady con,
The ship forged slowly by,—
And ever the crew fought on,
And their cheers rang loud and high.
Grand was the sight to see
How by their guns they stood,
Right in front of our dead,
Fighting square abreast—
Each brawny arm and chest
All spotted with black and red,
Chrism of fire and blood!
Worth our watch, dull and sterile,
Worth all the weary time,
Worth the woe and the peril,
To stand in that strait sublime!
Fear? A forgotten form!
Death? A dream of the eyes!
We were atoms in God's great storm
That roared through the angry skies.
One only doubt was ours,
One only dread we knew,—
Could the day that dawned so well
Go down for the Darker Powers?
Would the fleet get through?
And ever the shot and shell
Came with the howl of hell,
The splinter-clouds rose and fell,
And the long line of corpses grew,—
Would the fleet win through?
They are men that never will fail
(How aforetime they've fought!),
But Murder may yet prevail,—
They may sink as Craven sank.
Therewith one hard fierce thought,
Burning on heart and lip,
Ran like fire through the ship;
Fight her, to the last plank!
A dimmer renown might strike
If Death lay square alongside,—
But the old Flag has no like,
She must fight, whatever betide;—
When the War is a tale of old,
And this day's story is told,
They shall hear how the Hartford died!
But as we ranged ahead,
And the leading ships worked in,
Losing their hope to win,
The enemy turned and fled—
And one seeks a shallow reach!
And another, winged in her flight,
Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in;—
And one, all torn in the fight,
Runs for a wreck on the beach,
Where her flames soon fire the night.
And the Ram, when well up the Bay,
And we looked that our stems should meet
(He had us fair for a prey),
Shifting his helm midway,
Sheered off, and ran for the fleet;
There, without skulking or sham,
He fought them gun for gun;
And ever he sought to ram,
But could finish never a one.
From the first of the iron shower
Till we sent our parting shell,
'Twas just one savage hour
Of the roar and the rage of hell.
With the lessening smoke and thunder,
Our glasses around we aim,—
What is that burning yonder?
Our Philippi—aground and in flame!
Below, 'twas still all a-roar,
As the ships went by the shore,
But the fire of the Fort had slacked
(So fierce their volleys had been),—
And now with a mighty din,
The whole fleet came grandly in,
Though sorely battered and wracked.
So, up the Bay we ran,
The Flag to port and ahead,—
And a pitying rain began
To wash the lips of our dead.
A league from the Fort we lay,
And deemed that the end must lag,—
When lo! looking down the Bay,
There flaunted the Rebel Rag;—
The Ram is again under way
And heading dead for the Flag!
Steering up with the stream,
Boldly his course he lay,
Though the fleet all answered his fire,
And, as he still drew nigher,
Ever on bow and beam
Our Monitors pounded away;
How the Chickasaw hammered away!
Quickly breasting the wave,
Eager the prize to win,
First of us all the brave
Monongahela went in
Under full head of steam;—
Twice she struck him abeam,
Till her stem was a sorry work
(She might have run on a crag!),
The Lackawanna hit fair,
He flung her aside like cork,
And still he held for the Flag.
High in the mizzen shroud
(Lest the smoke his sight o'erwhelm),
Our Admiral's voice rang loud;
"Hard-a-starboard your helm!
Starboard, and run him down!"
Starboard it was,—and so,
Like a black squall's lifting frown,
Our mighty bow bore down
On the iron beak of the Foe.
We stood on the deck together,
Men that had looked on death
In battle and stormy weather;
Yet a little we held our breath,
When, with the hush of death,
The great ships drew together.
Our Captain strode to the bow,
Drayton, courtly and wise,
Kindly cynic, and wise
(You hardly had known him now,
The flame of fight in his eyes!),—
His brave heart eager to feel
How the oak would tell on the steel!
But, as the space grew short,
A little he seemed to shun us;
Out peered a form grim and lanky,
And a voice yelled, "Hard-a-port!
Hard-a-port!—here's the damned Yankee
Coming right down on us!"
He sheered, but the ships ran foul
With a gnarring shudder and growl;
He gave us a deadly gun;
But as he passed in his pride
(Rasping right alongside!),
The old Flag, in thunder-tones
Poured in her port broadside,
Rattling his iron hide
And cracking his timber-bones!
Just then, at speed on the Foe,
With her bow all weathered and brown,
The great Lackawanna came down
Full tilt, for another blow;—
We were forging ahead,
She reversed—but, for all our pains,
Rammed the old Hartford, instead,
Just for'ard the mizzen chains!
Ah! how the masts did buckle and bend,
And the stout hull ring and reel,
As she took us right on end!
(Vain were engine and wheel,
She was under full steam)—
With the roar of a thunder-stroke
Her two thousand tons of oak
Brought up on us, right abeam!
A wreck, as it looked, we lay
(Rib and plank-sheer gave way
To the stroke of that giant wedge!)—
Here, after all, we go—
The old ship is gone!—ah, no,
But cut to the water's edge.
Never mind then,—at him again!
His flurry now can't last long;
He'll never again see land,—
Try that on him, Marchand!
On him again, brave Strong!
Heading square at the hulk,
Full on his beam we bore;
But the spine of the huge Sea-Hog
Lay on the tide like a log,
He vomited flame no more.
By this, he had found it hot;—
Half the fleet, in an angry ring,
Closed round the hideous thing,
Hammering with solid shot,
And bearing down, bow on bow;
He has but a minute to choose,—
Life or renown?—which now
Will the Rebel Admiral lose?
Cruel, haughty, and cold,
He ever was strong and bold;
Shall he shrink from a wooden stem?
He will think of that brave band
He sank in the Cumberland;
Ay, he will sink like them.
Nothing left but to fight
Boldly his last sea-fight!
Can he strike? By Heaven, 'tis true!
Down comes the traitor Blue,
And up goes the captive White!
Up went the White! Ah, then
The hurrahs that once and again
Rang from three thousand men
All flushed and savage with fight!
Our dead lay cold and stark;
But our dying, down in the dark,
Answered as best they might,
Lifting their poor lost arms,
And cheering for God and Right!
Ended the mighty noise,
Thunder of forts and ships.
Down we went to the hold,
Oh, our dear dying boys!
How we pressed their poor brave lips
(Ah, so pallid and cold!)
And held their hands to the last
(Those who had hands to hold).
Still thee, O woman heart!
(So strong an hour ago);
If the idle tears must start,
'Tis not in vain they flow.
They died, our children dear.
On the drear berth-deck they died,—
Do not think of them here—
Even now their footsteps near
The immortal, tender sphere
(Land of love and cheer!
Home of the Crucified!).
And the glorious deed survives;
Our threescore, quiet and cold,
Lie thus, for a myriad lives
And treasure-millions untold
(Labor of poor men's lives,
Hunger of weans and wives,
Such is war-wasted gold).
Our ship and her fame to-day
Shall float on the storied Stream
When mast and shroud have crumbled away,
And her long white deck is a dream.
One daring leap in the dark,
Three mortal hours, at the most,—
And hell lies stiff and stark
On a hundred leagues of coast.
For the mighty Gulf is ours,—
The bay is lost and won,
An Empire is lost and won!
Land, if thou yet hast flowers,
Twine them in one more wreath
Of tenderest white and red
(Twin buds of glory and death!),
For the brows of our brave dead,
For thy Navy's noblest son.
Joy, O Land, for thy sons,
Victors by flood and field!
The traitor walls and guns
Have nothing left but to yield
(Even now they surrender!).
And the ships shall sail once more,
And the cloud of war sweep on
To break on the cruel shore;—
But Craven is gone,
He and his hundred are gone.
The flags flutter up and down
At sunrise and twilight dim,
The cannons menace and frown,—
But never again for him,
Him and the hundred.
The Dahlgrens are dumb,
Dumb are the mortars;
Never more shall the drum
Beat to colors and quarters,—
The great guns are silent.
O brave heart and loyal!
Let all your colors dip;—
Mourn him proud ship!
From main deck to royal.
God rest our Captain,
Rest our lost hundred!
Droop, flag and pennant!
What is your pride for?
Heaven, that he died for,
Rest our Lieutenant,
Rest our brave threescore!
* * * * *
O Mother Land! this weary life
We led, we lead, is 'long of thee;
Thine the strong agony of strife,
And thine the lonely sea.
Thine the long decks all slaughter-sprent,
The weary rows of cots that lie
With wrecks of strong men, marred and rent,
'Neath Pensacola's sky.
And thine the iron caves and dens
Wherein the flame our war-fleet drives;
The fiery vaults, whose breath is men's
Most dear and precious lives!
Ah, ever when with storm sublime
Dread Nature clears our murky air,
Thus in the crash of falling crime
Some lesser guilt must share.
Full red the furnace fires must glow
That melt the ore of mortal kind;
The mills of God are grinding slow,
But ah, how close they grind!
To-day the Dahlgren and the drum
Are dread Apostles of His Name;
His kingdom here can only come
By chrism of blood and flame.
Be strong: already slants the gold
Athwart these wild and stormy skies:
From out this blackened waste, behold
What happy homes shall rise!
But see thou well no traitor gloze,
No striking hands with Death and Shame,
Betray the sacred blood that flows
So freely for thy name.
And never fear a victor foe—
Thy children's hearts are strong and high;
Nor mourn too fondly; well they know
On deck or field to die.
Nor shalt thou want one willing breath,
Though, ever smiling round the brave,
The blue sea bear us on to death,
The green were one wide grave.
Henry Howard Brownell.
One more naval action remains to be recorded. The blockading fleet on the Carolina coast had been constantly threatened by the Confederate ram Albemarle. Finally, late in October, 1864, Lieutenant William B. Cushing undertook to destroy it. On the night of October 27, he entered Plymouth harbor in a small boat, with a crew of thirteen men, approached the ram, and despite a hail of bullets, exploded a torpedo under its bow, sinking it. Cushing and most of his men escaped by leaping into the water.
[October 27, 1864]
Joy in rebel Plymouth town, in the spring of sixty-four,
When the Albemarle down on the Yankee frigates bore,
With the saucy Stars and Bars at her main;
When she smote the Southfield dead, and the stout Miami quailed,
And the fleet in terror fled when their mighty cannon hailed
Shot and shell on her iron back in vain,
Till she slowly steamed away to her berth at Plymouth pier,
And their quick eyes saw her sway with her great beak out of gear,
And the color of their courage rose again.
All the summer lay the ram,
Like a wounded beast at bay,
While the watchful squadron swam
In the harbor night and day,
Till the broken beak was mended, and the weary vigil ended,
And her time was come again to smite and slay.
Must they die, and die in vain,
Like a flock of shambled sheep?
Then the Yankee grit and brain
Must be dead or gone to sleep,
And our sailors' gallant story of a hundred years of glory
Let us sell for a song, selling cheap!
Cushing, scarce a man in years,
But a sailor thoroughbred,
"With a dozen volunteers
I will sink the ram," he said.
"At the worst 'tis only dying." And the old commander, sighing,
"'Tis to save the fleet and flag—go ahead!"
* * * * *
Bright the rebel beacons blazed
On the river left and right;
Wide awake their sentries gazed
Through the watches of the night;
Sharp their challenge rang, and fiery came the rifle's quick inquiry,
As the little launch swung into the light.
Listening ears afar had heard;
Ready hands to quarters sprung,
The Albemarle awoke and stirred,
And her howitzers gave tongue;
Till the river and the shore echoed back the mighty roar,
When the portals of her hundred-pounders swung.
Will the swordfish brave the whale,
Doubly girt with boom and chain?
Face the shrapnel's iron hail?
Dare the livid leaden rain?
Ah! that shell has done its duty; it has spoiled the Yankee's beauty;
See her turn and fly with half her madmen slain.
High the victor's taunting yell
Rings above the battle roar,
And they bid her mock farewell
As she seeks the farther shore,
Till they see her sudden swinging, crouching for the leap and springing
Back to boom and chain and bloody fray once more.
Now the Southern captain, stirred
By the spirit of his race,
Stops the firing with a word,
Bids them yield, and offers grace.
Cushing, laughing, answers, "No! we are here to fight!" and so
Swings the dread torpedo spar to its place.
Then the great ship shook and reeled,
With a wounded, gaping side,
But her steady cannon pealed
Ere she settled in the tide,
And the Roanoke's dull flood ran full red with Yankee blood,
When the fighting Albemarle sunk and died.
Woe in rebel Plymouth town when the Albemarle fell,
And the saucy flag went down that had floated long and well,
Nevermore from her stricken deck to wave.
For the fallen flag a sigh, for the fallen foe a tear!
Never shall their glory die while we hold our glory dear,
And the hero's laurels live on his grave.
Link their Cooke's with Cushing's name; proudly call them both our own;
Claim their valor and their fame for America alone—
Joyful mother of the bravest of the brave!
James Jeffrey Roche.
AT THE CANNON'S MOUTH
DESTRUCTION OF THE RAM ALBEMARLE BY THE TORPEDO-LAUNCH, OCTOBER 27, 1864
Palely intent, he urged his keel
Full on the guns, and touched the spring;
Himself involved in the bolt he drove
Timed with the armed hull's shot that stove
His shallop—die or do!
Into the flood his life he threw,
Yet lives—unscathed—a breathing thing
To marvel at.
He has his fame;
But that mad dash at death, how name?
Had Earth no charm to stay the Boy
From the martyr-passion? Could he dare
Disdain the Paradise of opening joy
Which beckons the fresh heart everywhere?
Life has more lures than any girl
For youth and strength; puts forth a share
Of beauty, hinting of yet rarer store;
And ever with unfathomable eyes,
Which bafflingly entice,
Still strangely does Adonis draw.
And life once over, who shall tell the rest?
Life is, of all we know, God's best.
What imps these eagles then, that they
Fling disrespect on life by that proud way
In which they soar above our lower clay.
Pretence of wonderment and doubt unblest:
In Cushing's eager deed was shown
A spirit which brave poets own—
That scorn of life which earns life's crown;
Earns, but not always wins; but he—
The star ascended in his nativity.
Herman Melville.