THE ATTACK UPON THE FORT
The Confederate officer was evidently of French descent; at any rate, he
was very polite. He expressed his obligations to the supposed physician
for the service he had rendered in very earnest terms. Mr. Pennant had
been able to see that there were no guns in the casemates of the fort,
and this was really all he wanted to know.
"All your guns seem to be mounted outside," said the naval officer as he
halted on the parade.
"Yes, sir; most of the guns have been removed to points where they can
be used to greater advantage than here. The few we have are twenty-four
pounders, mounted _en barbette_," replied Lieutenant Fourchon. "The fort
is practically abandoned; and in a short time will be entirely so, for
the enemy's ships of war can do no harm here, and there is not water
enough above to permit their passage into the Mississippi."
"But the fort can protect your vessels in the bay," suggested the
lieutenant of the Bronx.
"The shoal water is the best protection for the small steamers that ply
on these inside waters; and the Yankee gunboats can take all others as
they come out. The entrance to the bay has not been regularly blockaded,
for there has been little occasion to do so thus far."
Mr. Pennant had learned all he wanted to know, and from the parade he
could see even in the darkness that only four guns were mounted on the
works. He began to feel in a hurry to carry out the remainder of the
programme assigned to him. He took the hand of the Confederate officer
when he reached the point where Uncle Job was waiting for him, bade him
good-morning, and left the fort.
"How's de sick man, Massa Gumboat?" asked the old negro, chuckling as
though he appreciated the stroke of strategy made by his companion.
"He is better; in fact, he was about well when I left him," replied
the practitioner. "But I have no more time to waste," added he, as he
quickened his pace, moving in the direction of the shore.
The day was beginning to break in the east, and he was afraid the
commander of the Bronx would become uneasy in regard to him. The
quarters of the soldiers were passed, though they were not in use, and
the shore reached. The lieutenant thanked the guide for the service he
had rendered, and told him he could go back to his cabin, and finish his
night's sleep.
"No, sar; see you frou, Massa Gumboat," replied Job.
"Do you wish to leave this place, Uncle Job?" asked the officer.
"No, sar; I want to be free, but I'm not gwine away, I want to see de
gumboat."
"You shall see it, and go on board of it if you wish; but we may have a
battle with the fort."
"Don't care for de fight, sar; Job isn't 'feered o' noffin'."
It was less than halt a mile to the cutter, and they soon reached it.
The Russian was standing on the shore, and most of the men were asleep
on the thwarts, though Vincent was wide awake. Mike recognized the form
of the old negro, and reported that the lieutenant was coming.
"Now burn your roman candle, and let us get off as soon as possible,"
said Mr. Pennant. "Bowman, help this man to a seat in the stern sheets;"
and he assisted Uncle Job to get in himself.
The men passed him along over the thwarts, and seated him in the stern.
Vincent burned the red candle himself, and it cast a fiery glare over
the scene, which must have astonished the occupants of the fort if they
saw it. As soon as it had burned out, the quartermaster leaped over the
stem of the cutter, and made his way to the stern, where he jumped over
the backboard, and took his place at the tiller ropes. The cutter was
backed off the ground, and out into the deeper water.
"Up oars! Let fall!" said Mr. Pennant. "Stern, all! Give way!"
The cutter backed rapidly from the shore, and was then brought about.
The lieutenant stood up in his place, and could just distinguish the
Bronx, a mile and a half distant, in the gloom of the early morning. He
watched her a few minutes and soon saw her swing around, and head to the
south-east.
"Make the course about south, Vincent," said the officer, as soon as he
discovered that the steamer was in motion.
"South, sir," replied the quartermaster.
"Now, give way with a will, my men!" called Mr. Pennant in brisk tones,
"for we shall soon have a twenty-four pound shot chasing us out."
When the cutter was about half a mile from the shore, making it about
three-quarters of a mile from the fort, the peal of a cannon was heard,
and a puff of smoke could be seen as it rose on the clear, starred sky,
for the clouds had rolled away during the night. The shot dropped into
the water a short distance abreast of the cutter.
"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Pennant; and this was the first time he had ever
been under fire, though he had imagined it enough to feel entirely at
home.
Another shot followed the first, and dropped into the water; and if it
had gone fifty feet farther, it would have struck the boat.
"Good again!" exclaimed the lieutenant. "I think that is about the range
of those guns."
A third shot fell a little nearer the cutter; but it was evident enough
that it was out of the reach of the feeble guns of the fort. The firing
continued but a few minutes longer, for it was as plain to Lieutenant
Fourchon as to Lieutenant Pennant that the shots were harmless to the
boat. The commander on shore could see by this time, if he had not
before, that a gunboat was in the offing, and that he might soon have
a better use for his powder than wasting it upon the boat.
The lieutenant had closely watched the movements of the Bronx. He had
made the signal that the fort was not very dangerous to the well-being
of the gunboat, and he understood her present movement. The light was
increasing, and the Bronx could be distinctly seen, headed to the
south-east, or in other words, making for the deep water outside the
bar. Mr. Pennant still kept the cutter headed to the south.
The steamer went off till she looked very much smaller, and then changed
her course to the south-west. The lieutenant in the cutter ordered the
bowman to sound with the small hand lead, after he had brought the boat
to a full stop. The man reported eight feet. The head of the boat was
then turned to the west, and the crew ordered to give way. In a quarter
of an hour more the course was checked, and the bowman directed to sound
again. Sixteen feet was reported.
Mr. Pennant stood up in the stern sheets, and gazed in the direction of
the fort. On the shore of the Grand Pass, above the fort, were three
buildings, formerly occupied by mechanics and laborers. The sailing
directions for entering the bay were to bring the fronts of these
structures in range, and proceed for a time on the course indicated.
Mr. Pennant had obtained this bearing after he had backed the boat a few
feet. The depth of water then informed him that he was in the channel.
But he had no intention of again approaching the fort, and he headed the
boat to the south-east, or nearly so, and then ordered the men to give
way. He called the attention of the coxswain to the range, and directed
him to keep it. The bowman was required to keep the lead going all the
time.
"Ten and a half feet!" reported the bowman.
"That is the shoalest we shall get," added the officer.
The crew had been ordered to ease off, and the cutter moved very slowly.
A quarter of an hour later the sounding was ten and three-quarters feet.
The next report was fourteen feet, and then no bottom at twenty feet.
The Bronx was approaching the boat with full steam, and stopped her
screw a short distance from the cutter. In a few moments more the boat
was at the davits, and the commander of the expedition reported to
Captain Passford.
"What have you here, Mr. Pennant?" asked the commander with a smile,
as he pointed to Uncle Job, who seemed to be as bashful as a young girl,
and utterly confounded by what he saw on the deck of the Bronx.
"That is Uncle Job, Captain Passford," replied the lieutenant. "He has
been of very great service to me, and he enables me to make a very full
report to you, sir. This is the captain of the gunboat, Uncle Job," he
added to the negro.
The old man had no hat to touch or take off, for the mass of hair was a
sufficient protection to his head; but he bowed almost to the deck, and
was too timid to say a single word.
"I am very glad to see you, Uncle Job," said Christy, taking the hand of
the venerable colored person. "I thank you for the service rendered to
my officer. Now, Mr. Pennant, you will come to my cabin and make your
report. Bring Uncle Job with you."
As soon as he reached the cabin, Christy brought from his stateroom
twenty dollars in gold, which he presented to the old negro, who
accepted the gift with many thanks.
"Dave," called the captain.
"Here, sir," replied the steward, coming into the cabin and gazing with
astonishment at the negro. "This man has done a good work; take care of
him, give him a good breakfast, and see that no one insults him."
As soon as the steward had taken him to the steerage, Mr. Pennant
made his report in full, even to the number and calibre of the guns at
the fort, and including the cure he had wrought upon the Confederate
soldier. Christy was amused at this last part of the narrative; but he
had no time to waste in conversation.
The screw of the Bronx was started again. Though the Russian was a pilot
over the bar, his services were not needed as such. The first cutter had
kept the range of the buildings on the island, and Mr. Flint had already
picked it up. The steamer proceeded at less than half speed, but the
tide was at its highest. By this time it was seven o'clock in the
morning, for a great deal of the time had been used up in moving the
cutter and the steamer. Breakfast had been served to all hands, and
Christy had fortified his stomach for a busy forenoon. As the Bronx
proceeded on her course, the lead going all the time, making not more
than two knots an hour, the report of a gun was heard from the fort.
"They are awake there," said Christy with a smile to the first
lieutenant, and both of them watched for the fall of the shot, which
struck the water at least a quarter of a mile ahead of the vessel. "Beat
to quarters, Mr. Flint."
The strength of the Bronx was mainly in her heavy midship gun. The
commander had ascertained the range of the twenty-four pounder barbette
guns of the fort, and made his calculations accordingly. He could batter
down the masonry of the works at his leisure, if he chose to waste his
time and ammunition in that way; but the Confederates proposed to
abandon the fort, and it would not pay to destroy it.
"Fourteen and a half feet!" shouted the leadsman.
"That will do, Mr. Flint; stop her, and let go the anchor. Get out a
spring astern and make it fast to that buoy," said the commander.
In ten minutes more the Bronx quivered under the discharge of the great
midship gun, and a cloud of smoke rose above her deck.
"Good for you, Mr. Ambleton!" exclaimed Christy, a few seconds later,
when he saw the wreck of one of the twenty-four pounders on the fort.
This result was followed by emphatic cheers from the forty-five men on
deck.
"I can do that again, Captain Passford," replied the gunner, who was in
charge of the piece.
"Do it, then," added Christy.
He did not do quite as well every time, but in two hours there was not a
gun in place on the barbette of the fort.