American Men of Action

by Burton Egbert Stevenson

The word was given, and, at half past six in the morning, the monitors took their stations, while the wooden ships formed in column, the plan being for the monitors, with their iron sides, to steam in between the wooden ships and the forts, and so protect them as much as possible. The light vessels were lashed each to the left of one of the heavier ones, so that each pair of ships was given a double chance to escape, should one be rendered helpless by a shot in the boiler, or in some other vital portion of her machinery. The Brooklyn was at the head of the column, while the Hartford came second, and the others followed. In this order, the fleet advanced to the attack.

There was an unwonted stillness on the ships as they swung in towards the harbor mouth, for every man felt within him a vague unrest caused by one awful and mysterious peril, the torpedoes. For the forts, the gunboats, even the great ironclad, the men cared nothing—they had met such perils before—but lurking beneath the water was a horror not to be guarded against. They knew that these deadly mines were scattered along the channel through which they must make their way, and that any moment might be the end of some proud vessel.

The ships were all in fighting trim, with spars housed and canvas furled, and decks spread with sawdust so that they would not grow slippery with the blood which was soon to flow. As the fleet came within range of the forts, a terrific cannonade began, in which the Confederate ships, stationed just inside the harbor, soon joined. One of them was the great ram, Tennessee, and the commander of the leading monitor, the Tecumseh, noted her and determined to give her battle. So he swung his ship toward her and ordered full steam ahead; but an instant later, there came a sudden dull roar, an uplifting of the water, the boat quivered from stem to stern, and then plunged, bow first, beneath the waves.

Farragut, from his lofty station, saw the Tecumseh disappear, and then saw the Brooklyn, the ship ahead of him in the battle line, stop and begin to back. It was an awful moment—the crisis of the fight and of Farragut's career as well. The ships were halted in a narrow channel, right beneath the forts; a few moments' delay meant that they would be blown out of the water.

"What's the matter there?" he roared.

"Torpedoes!" came the cry from the Brooklyn's deck, for her captain had perceived a line of little buoys stretching right across her path.

"Damn the torpedoes!" shouted the admiral. "Go ahead, Captain Drayton," he continued, addressing his own captain. "Four bells!" and the Hartford, swinging aside, cleared the Brooklyn and took the lead.

On went the flagship across the line of torpedoes, which could be heard knocking against her bottom as she passed, but not one of them exploded, and a moment later, one of the most daring feats in naval history had been accomplished. Farragut had seen, instantly, that the risk must be taken, and so he took it.

The remainder of the fleet followed the flagship, the forts were passed, and the battle virtually won. The Confederate fleet, and especially the great ram, was still to be reckoned with, but before proceeding to that portion of the task, Farragut steamed up the harbor and served breakfast to his men. Just as this was finished, the Tennessee attacked, and put up a desperate fight, but finally became unmanageable and was forced to surrender.

So ended the battle of Mobile Bay. It left Farragut's fame secure as one of the greatest sea-captains of all time; great in daring, in skill, in foresight, and with a coolness and presence of mind which no peril could shake. Congress created for him the grade of admiral, before unknown in the United States navy, and the whole country joined in honoring him.