General Sherman.
The department had furnished him with but few new guns. He had been obliged to take those which were at Sackett's Harbor,—old guns far inferior to those with which Commodore Du Pont knocked Tybee and Hilton Head to pieces. He had to get gun-carriages manufactured in Cincinnati, other things at St. Louis, others at Pittsburg; but notwithstanding this, had organized a fleet which would throw a tremendous weight of metal. He was not ready to move, yet would move, whether ready or not, whenever the word was given. He believed in fighting at close quarters.
He spoke freely of the faults of the gunboats. They were too low in the water and the engines of too limited capacity. They would not be able to make much headway against the stream. He considered them an experiment, and, like all experiments, they were of course defective.
He was a close student, devoted to his profession, and bore the marks of severe thought in the wrinkles which were deepening on his brow. Time had begun to silver his hair and whiskers, but he walked with a firm step. He had rare conversational powers, and imparted information as if it were a pleasure. He was thoroughly conscientious, and had a deep sense of his responsibility. He was aware that his own reputation and standing as well as the interests of the public were at stake. He was greatly beloved by his men.
Two of the gunboats—the Essex and Louisville—were lying six or eight miles below Cairo, guarding the river. The Essex! How often in boyhood had I thrilled at the story of her brave fight with the Cherub and Phebe in the harbor of Valparaiso! How often I wished that Captain Porter could have had a fair chance in that terrible fight,—one of the fiercest ones fought on the sea. But there was another Essex commanded by another Captain Porter, son of him who refused to surrender his ship till he had lost all power to defend her.
The new craft was wholly unlike the old. That was a fast sailer, trim, and taut, and graceful as a swan upon the waters; this a black box, once a St. Louis ferry-boat. The sailors who had breathed the salt air of the sea, who had swung in mid-heaven upon the swaying masts, who had rode in glee upon the storm-tost billows,
"Whose home was on the deep."
regarded the new Essex in disgust, and rechristened her the Mud Turtle. But her name, and the glorious record of her deeds, will not fade from remembrance. Coming generations shall read of her exploits with pride and pleasure. We were courteously received by her commander, Captain Wm. D. Porter, a solid man, but little more than five feet high, yet broad-chested, quick and energetic in his movements. He had a long, thick, black beard, and twinkling eyes full of fire. He had the rolling gait of a sailor, and was constantly pacing the deck. He was a rapid talker, and had a great store of adventure and anecdote. We alluded to the part taken by his father in the war of 1812, and the gallant fight against great odds in Valparaiso harbor. The eyes of the son kindled instantly.