In half an hour the schooner lay under the guns of the Powhatan, which is a stumpy, thick-set, powerful steamer of the old paddle-wheel kind, something like the Leopard. We proceeded alongside in the cutter’s boat, and were ushered into the cabin, where the officer commanding, Lieutenant David Porter, received us, begged us to be seated, and then inquired into the object of our visit, which he communicated to the flag-ship by signal, in order to get instructions as to our disposal. Nothing could exceed his courtesy; and I was most favourably impressed by himself, his officers, and crew. He took me over the ship, which is armed with 10-inch Dahlgrens and an 11-inch pivot gun, with rifled field-pieces and howitzers on the sponsons. Her boarding nettings were triced up, bows and weak portions padded with dead wood and old sails, and everything ready for action.
Lieutenant Porter has been in and out of the harbour examining the enemy’s works at all hours of the night, and he has marked off on the chart, as he showed me, the bearings of the various spots where he can sweep or enfilade their works. The crew, all things considered, were very clean, and their personnel exceedingly fine.
We were not the only prize that was made by the Oriental this morning. A ragged little schooner lay at the other side of the Powhatan, the master of which stood rubbing his knuckles into his eyes, and uttering dolorous expressions in broken English and Italian, for he was a noble Roman of Civita Vecchia. Lieutenant Porter let me into the secret. These small traders at Mobile, pretending great zeal for the Confederate cause, load their vessels with fruit, vegetables, and things of which they know the squadron is much in want, as well as the garrison of the Confederate forts. They set out with the most valiant intention of running the blockade, and are duly captured by the squadron, the officers of which are only too glad to pay fair prices for the cargoes. They return to Mobile, keep their money in their pockets, and declare they have been plundered by the Yankees. If they get in, they demand still higher prices from the Confederates, and lay claim to the most exalted patriotism.
By signal from the flag-ship Sabine, we were ordered to repair on board to see the senior officer, Captain Adams; and for the first time since I trod the deck of the old Leander in Balaklava harbour, I stood on board a 50-gun sailing frigate. Captain Adams, a grey-haired veteran of very gentle manners and great urbanity received us in his cabin, and listened to my explanation of the cause of my visit with interest. About myself there was no difficulty; but he very justly observed he did not think it would be right to let the gentlemen from Mobile examine Fort Pickens, and then go among the Confederate camps. I am bound to say these gentlemen scarcely seemed to desire or anticipate such a favour.
Major Vogdes, an engineer officer from the fort, who happened to be on board, volunteered to take a letter from me to Colonel Harvey Browne, requesting permission to visit it; and I finally arranged with Captain Adams that the Diana was to be permitted to pass the blockade into Pensacola harbour, and thence to return to Mobile, my visit to Pickens depending on the pleasure of the Commandant of the place. “I fear, Mr. Russell,” said Captain Adams, “in giving you this permission, I expose myself to misrepresentation and unfounded attacks. Gentlemen of the press in our country care little about private character, and are, I fear, rather unscrupulous in what they say; but I rely upon your character that no improper use shall be made of this permission. You must hoist a flag of truce, as General Bragg, who commands over there, has sent me word he considers our blockade a declaration of war, and will fire upon any vessel which approaches him from our fleet.”
In the course of conversation, whilst treating me to such man-of-war luxuries as the friendly officer had at his disposal, he gave me an illustration of the miseries of this cruel conflict—of the unspeakable desolation of homes, of the bitterness of feeling engendered in families. A Pennsylvanian by birth, he married long ago a lady of Louisiana, where he resided on his plantation till his ship was commissioned. He was absent on foreign service when the feud first began, and received orders at sea, on the South American station, to repair direct to blockade Pensacola. He has just heard that one of his sons is enlisted in the Confederate army, and that two others have joined the forces in Virginia; and as he said sadly, “God knows, when I open my broadside, but that I may be killing my own children.” But that was not all. One of the Mobile gentlemen brought him a letter from his daughter, in which she informs him that she has been elected vivandière to a New Orleans regiment, with which she intends to push on to Washington, and get a lock of old Abe Lincoln’s hair; and the letter concluded with the charitable wish that her father might starve to death if he persisted in his wicked blockade. But not the less determined was the gallant old sailor to do his duty.
Mr. Ward, one of my companions, had sailed in the Sabine in the Paraguay expedition, and I availed myself of his acquaintance with his old comrades to take a glance round the ship. Wherever they came from, four hundred more sailor-like, strong, handy young fellows could not be seen than the crew; and the officers were as hospitable as their limited resources in whisky grog, cheese, and junk allowed them to be.
With thanks for his kindness and courtesy, I parted from Captain Adams, feeling more than ever the terrible and earnest nature of the impending conflict. May the kindly good old man be shielded on the day of battle!
A ten-oared barge conveyed us to the Oriental, which, with flowing sheet, ran down to the Powhatan. There I saw Captain Porter, and told him that Captain Adams had given me permission to visit the Confederate camp, and that I had written for leave to go on shore at Port Pickens. An officer was in his cabin, to whom I was introduced as Captain Poore, of the Brooklyn. “You don’t mean to say, Mr. Russell,” said he, “that these editors of Southern newspapers who are with you have leave to go on shore?” This was rather a fishing question. “I assure you, Captain Poore, that there is no editor of a Southern newspaper in my company.”