A Port of Refuge.
The natural advantages of Wilmington at the time of the War between the States made it an ideal port for blockade runners, there being two entrances to the river—New Inlet on the north and Western or Main Bar on the south of Cape Fear.
The slope of our beach is very gradual to deep water. The soundings along the coast are regular, and the floor of the ocean is remarkably even. A steamer hard pressed by the enemy could run along the outer edge of the breakers without great risk of grounding; the pursuer, being usually of deeper draft, was obliged to keep farther off shore.
The "Lilian."
The Confederate steamer Lilian, of which I was then purser, was chased for nearly a hundred miles from Cape Lookout by the U.S. steamer Shenandoah, which sailed a parallel course within half a mile of her and forced the Lilian at times into the breakers. This was probably the narrowest escape ever made by a blockade runner in a chase. The Shenandoah began firing her broadside guns at three o'clock in the afternoon, her gunners and the commanding officers of the batteries being distinctly visible to the Lilian's crew. A heavy sea was running, which deflected the aim of the man-of-war, and this alone saved the Lilian from destruction. A furious bombardment by the Shenandoah, aggravated by the display of the Lilian's Confederate flag, was continued until nightfall, when, by a clever ruse, the Lilian, guided by the flash of her pursuer's guns, stopped for a few minutes; then, putting her helm hard over, ran across the wake of the warship straight out to sea, and, on the following morning, passed the fleet off Fort Fisher in such a crippled condition that several weeks were spent in Wilmington for repairs.
The "Lynx" and Her Pilot.
He is now the Rev. James William Craig,[4] Methodist preacher, but I like to think of him as Jim Billy, the Cape Fear pilot of war times, on the bridge of the swift Confederate blockade runner Lynx, commanded by the intrepid Captain Reed, as she races through the blackness of night on her course west nor'west, straight and true for the Federal fleet off New Inlet, in utter silence, the salt spray of the sea smiting the faces of the watches as they gaze ahead for the first sign of imminent danger.
Soon there is added to the incessant noise of wind and waves the ominous roar of the breakers, as the surf complains to the shore, and the deep sea lead gives warning of shoaling water. "Half-speed" is muttered through the speaking tube; a hurried parley; a recognized landfall, for Reed is a fine navigator, and "Are you ready to take her, Pilot?" "Ready, sir," comes from Jim Billy in the darkness. Then the whispered orders through the tube: "Slow down," as there looms ahead the first of the dread monsters of destruction; "Starboard," "Steady." And the little ship glides past like a phantom, unseen as yet. Then "Port," "Port," "Hard a'port," in quick succession, as she almost touches the second cruiser. She is now in the thick of the blockading squadron; and suddenly, out of the darkness, close aboard, comes the hoarse hail, "Heave to, or I'll sink you," followed by a blinding glare of rockets and the roar of heavy guns. The devoted little Confederate is now naked to her enemies, as the glare of rockets and Drummond lights from many men-of-war illuminate the chase. Under a pitiless hail of shot and shell from every quarter, she bounds forward full speed ahead, every joint and rivet straining, while Jim Billy dodges her in and out through a maze of smoke and flame and bursting shells. The range of Fort Fisher's guns is yet a mile away. Will she make it? Onward speeds the little ship, for neither Reed nor Jim Billy has a thought of surrender. A shell explodes above them, smashing the wheelhouse; another shell tears away the starboard paddle box; and, as she flies like lightning past the nearest cruiser, a sullen roar from Colonel Lamb's artillery warns her pursuers that they have reached their limitations, and in a few minutes the gallant little ship crosses the bar and anchors under the Confederate guns. The captain and his trusty pilot shake hands and go below, "to take the oath," as Reed described it—for the strain must be relaxed by sleep or stimulation. "A close shave, Jim," was all the captain said. "It was, sir, for a fact," was the equally laconic answer.
The "Ranger" and the "Vesta."