RUNNING THE BLOCKADE (1861)
North _v._ South--A new President hates slavery--Fort Sumter is
bombarded--Ladies on the house-top--Niggers don’t mind shells--A
blockade-runner comes to Oxford--The _Banshee_ strips for the
race--Wilmington--High pay--Lights out--Cast the lead--A stern
chase--The run home--Lying _perdu_--The _Night-hawk_ saved by Irish
humour--Southern need at the end of the war--Negro dignity waxes
big.
In November, 1860, Abraham Lincoln was elected President of the United
States. As the new President was in sympathy with those who wished to
abolish slavery, and as the Southern States were mostly inhabited by
large landholders possessing thousands of slaves, this election was
felt to doom their ascendancy unless they could resist the will of the
North. Therefore, on the 17th of December a convention of the State of
South Carolina was held at Charleston, which formally repealed their
acceptance of the United States Constitution.
Neither side at first foresaw the results of secession. Each thought
the other would offer little resistance. The North were totally
unprepared for war; the South were weakened by internal dissensions,
but they fought as long as they had any soldiers left, and at last
“robbed the cradle and the grave.” The South were in the end quite
exhausted, while the North seemed to gather new strength every month.
As the war went on the soldiers of the South, or Confederates, wore
out their clothes, and could not replace them. Things were so scarce
and dear that it became a proverb, “In going to market, you take your
money in your basket and bring your purchases home in your pocket.”
Planters in the South had to borrow money to support their hordes of
negroes in idleness while they themselves were away at the front.
On the 4th of March Lincoln formally entered on office. Secession,
he said, meant rebellion. The Constitution must be preserved, if
necessary, even by force.
Major Anderson, who held a small fort in Charleston Harbour for the
North, spiked his guns and moved into Fort Sumter, also in the harbour.
This was considered an act of war, and Fort Sumter was bombarded and
taken. The little town was full of excited soldiers, singing and
shouting. We have a peep of what was going on and what it felt like in
Mrs. Chestnut’s diary for the 12th of April:
“I do not pretend to go to sleep. How can I? If Anderson does not
accept terms at four the orders are he shall be fired upon. I count
four. St. Michael’s bells chime out, and I begin to hope. At half-past
four the heavy booming of a cannon! I sprang out of bed, and on my
knees prostrate I prayed as I never prayed before. There was a sound of
stir all over the house, pattering of feet in the corridors. All seemed
hurrying one way. I put on my double gown and went on the house-top.
The shells were bursting. The roar of the cannon had begun. The women
were wild there on the house-top. Prayers came from the women and
imprecations from the men. Then a shell would light up the scene, and
we all wondered why Fort Sumter did not reply.”
On the next day Fort Sumter was on fire. The warships of the North were
outside the bar, and could not enter for want of depth of water. On
the 15th Anderson had to give the fort up to the South.
The slaves were taking it all very quietly, seemed not much moved by
the thought of being free--rather preferred to be slaves and be well
fed.
A negro was rowing in the bay towards Charleston during the bombardment
with some supplies from a plantation. He was met and asked: “Are you
not afraid of Colonel Anderson’s cannon?”
“No, sar. Mars Anderson ain’t daresn’t hit me. He knows marster
wouldn’t ’low it.”
The next step taken by the President was to declare all the Southern
ports in a state of blockade, in order that the seceding States might
be starved out. The coast-line was some 3,000 miles in length, and the
whole fleet of the United States did not reach 150 ships, of which many
were unseaworthy. But the energy of the North increased this fleet to
nearly 700 vessels. Thus any attempt to run in through the blockading
squadron was very dangerous.
A royal proclamation in England admonished all loyal subjects to
respect the Federal blockade; but the high profits to be made tempted
many Liverpool firms to adventure their argosies. A ship taken while
running the blockade is treated as an enemy, and if she resists she is
treated as a pirate.
During the first year of the war many captures were made, and stories
came to England of hairbreadth escapes which set many young men longing
to join in the exciting game.
I remember a man coming to Oxford when I was an undergraduate with a
letter of introduction from a friend. He was running into Charleston,
and had brought from that port a store of watches and jewellery, which
he persuaded us to take in exchange for a quantity of discarded
clothing. The lady’s gold watch which I got is, I hear, still going
strong, and belies the suspicion with which I took it. At this time
there were no mills, and almost no manufactories in the Southern
States, so that they soon began to feel the want of clothes, buttons,
boots, socks, medicines, and chemicals. Nassau, a little island in the
Bahamas, was the chief base for the steamers that were running the
blockade. It is about 560 miles from Charleston and 640 from Wilmington.
The Bahama group afforded neutral water to within fifty miles of the
American coast, but it required a very fast vessel to succeed in
evading the chain of cruisers which soon patrolled the coast. These
fast vessels were being built in England and elsewhere. Let us follow
the fortunes of one of them--the _Banshee_.
She arrived safely across the Atlantic and put into Nassau. There she
was stripped for the work that lay before her. Everything aloft was
taken down, and nothing was left standing but the two lower masts, with
cross-trees for a look-out man. The ship was painted a dull white,
and the crew wore a grey uniform. As the success of a blockade-runner
depends much on her speed, the qualities of the engineer are important.
The _Banshee_ possessed a model chief engineer in Mr. Erskine, a man
cool in danger and full of resource. In her pilot, Tom Burroughs,
she had a man who knew the waters thoroughly, and was a genius in
smelling out a blockader on the darkest night. A good pilot received
about £800 for the trip there and back, for there was some risk in the
service, and if they were captured they went to prison. The pay of the
seamen was from £50 to £60 for the trip. So the _Banshee_ stole out of
Nassau Harbour on a dark night, laden with arms, gunpowder, boots, and
clothing, on her way to Wilmington.
Wilmington lies to the north of Charleston, some sixteen miles up the
Cape Fear River. Off the mouth of this river lies Smith’s Island, which
divides the approach to the port into two widely different channels.
Fort Fisher, placed at the northern point, obliged the blockaders
to lie far out, beyond the range of the guns. Further out still was
a cordon of cruisers, and outside these were gunboats always on the
move; so that it required speed and a good look-out to elude the three
lines of blockaders. They crept as noiselessly as possible along the
shores of the Bahamas, and ran on safely for the first two days out,
though as often as they saw a sail on the horizon they had to turn the
_Banshee’s_ stern to it till it vanished. The look-out man had a dollar
for every sail he sighted, and was fined five dollars if it were seen
first from the deck. On the third day they found they had only just
time to run under cover of Fort Fisher before dawn, and they tried to
do it.
“Now the real excitement began,” says Mr. Taylor, who was in charge
of the cargo, “and nothing I have ever experienced can compare with
it. Hunting, pig-sticking, big-game shooting, polo--all have their
thrilling moments, but none can approach ‘running a blockade.’ Consider
the dangers to be encountered, after three days of constant anxiety and
little sleep, in threading our way through a swarm of blockaders, and
the accuracy required to hit in the nick of time the mouth of a river
only half a mile wide, without lights, and with a coast-line so low
that as a rule the first intimation we had of its nearness was the dim
white line of the surf.”
They steamed along cautiously until nightfall. Though the night was
dark it was dangerously clear. No lights, not even a cigar. The
hatchways of the engine-room were covered with tarpaulins, and the poor
stokers had to breathe as best they could.
All hands were on deck, crouching down behind the bulwarks. On the
bridge were Taylor, the captain, Mr. Steele, and the pilot, all
straining their eyes into the “vasty deep.”
Presently the pilot muttered: “Better cast the lead, captain.”
Steele murmured down the tube that led to the engine-room, and the
vessel slowed down and then stopped. A weird figure crept into the
fore-chains and dropped the leaded line, while the crew listened to
see if the engines would seize the opportunity to blow off steam and
so advertise their presence for miles around. In two minutes came the
seaman, saying: “Sixteen fathoms, sir. Sandy bottom, with black specks.”
“We are not so far in as I thought,” said the pilot. “Port two points
and go a little faster.”
He knew by the speckled bottom where they were. They had to be north of
that before it was safe to head for the shore.
In an hour or less the pilot asked for another sounding. No more specks
this time. “Starboard and go ahead easy” was the order now.
The paddle-floats were flapping the water softly, but to the crew the
noise they made was terrifying. They could be heard a long way.
Suddenly the pilot said: “There’s one of them, Mr. Taylor, on the
starboard bow.”
Presently straining eyes could see a long, low, black object lying
quite still. Would she see the _Banshee_?
They passed within a hundred yards of her and were not heard.
Soon after Burroughs whispered: “Steamer on the port bow.”
A second cruiser was made out close to them.
“Hard a port,” said the captain, and the steamer swung round, bringing
the enemy upon her beam. No sound! The enemy slept! Then suddenly
a third cruiser came out of the gloom and steamed slowly across the
_Banshee’s_ bows.
“Stop her,” said Captain Steele down the tube, and the blockade-runner
gurgled to a standstill, while the cruiser moved across and was lost in
the darkness.
Then “Slow ahead” was the order, until the low-lying coast and the grey
surf came dim to the eye. But it was getting near dawn, and there was
no trace of the river mouth.
They knew not quite where they were, and thoughts of prison and prison
fare would come uppermost.
At length the pilot said: “All right, boys. I can see the big hill
yonder.”
The only hill on the coast was near Fort Fisher. Now they knew where
they were; so did six or seven gunboats, which, in the silver light of
early dawn, catching sight of their prey, steamed hard and fast towards
the _Banshee_, with angry shots from the bow gun. The balls were
dropping all around and churning up the sea. It was mighty unpleasant
to men who knew they had several tons of gunpowder in the hold; and
just then they were obliged to steer out to avoid the North Breaker
shoal, so that the gunboats crept ever nearer and nearer, barking like
disappointed puppies.
The pilot looked at the captain and the captain at the supercargo.
Their lips tightened and their breath came faster as they eyed the
gunboats askance.
“One good shot into the paddle will end this trip,” thought Mr. Taylor;
“and it is my first run in, too!”
Then came a welcome sound overhead. A shell from the fort whirred its
way towards the gunboats and warned them off.
With a parting broadside they sheered off out of range, and after half
an hour’s run the _Banshee_ was over the bar and in quiet waters. They
soon sped up the sixteen miles to Wilmington, and found a large posse
of willing slaves ready to discharge their cargo.
The poor folk at Wilmington were then very much pinched for want of
good food and drink, and the advent of the _Banshee_ restored smiles
all round. Living on corn-bread, bacon, and water grows monotonous, and
invitations to lunch on board the _Banshee_ were never declined--in
fact, many friends did not even wait for an invitation.
Within a very few days the _Banshee_ was again ready for sea, ballasted
with tobacco and laden with cotton--three tiers even on deck! High
profit tempted them to pile up their vessels like hay-waggons, and put
to sea in a condition quite unfit to meet a boisterous wind.
It was fortunately more easy to run out than to run in, as there was no
harbour mouth to find in the dark, and the open sea lay before them.
They learnt that the Admiral’s ship remained at anchor during the
night, while the other vessels moved slowly to and fro across the mouth
of the river; so they formed a bold plan, thinking that security lay in
a startling impudence. They hid the _Banshee_ behind Fort Fisher till
nightfall, rowing ashore to get the latest news from Colonel Lamb, who
commanded the fort.
“Which, sir, is the Admiral’s flag-ship?”
“The _Minnesota_, a sixty-gun frigate. Don’t go too near her.”
“That is just what we mean to do, Colonel; but first we will take her
bearings exactly. We don’t want to bump into her.”
The Colonel was very kind and helpful, and they often enjoyed his
society and that of his wife, who lived in a cottage not far off.
As soon as night fell over the sea the _Banshee_ slipped quietly
from her secret anchorage, crossed the river bar, and following the
observations they had taken, ran close by the flagship, and so out to
sea, clear of the first cordon. But in trying to pass the second they
ran across a gunboat, which at once opened fire. The men lay down on
the deck, and the engines throbbed and thumped. Luckily the gunboat was
very slow, and they soon lost one another; but as they could hear her
pounding along behind, they attempted a ruse. The helm was put hard
over, so that they steamed in a direction at right angles to their
former course, and in a few minutes their engines were stopped. The
_Banshee_ lay perfectly still. The crew rose on their elbows and peeped
over the bulwarks, following the course of the gunboat by the flashes
of her guns and by the rockets she was sending up madly to attract or
warn her consorts. So they saw her go plunging past them and firing
madly into the dark abyss of the night.
After resting five minutes on the heaving wave, the _Banshee_ started
again as noiselessly as she could. One danger remained--the third
cordon. You may be sure they stared wide-eyed round the horizon as
morning broke. With the _Banshee_ so heavily laden it would be fatal to
meet a cruiser in the daylight.
No smoke visible--no sail! All that day and for two days more they
steamed on with fear beside them. On the evening of the third day they
steamed proudly into Nassau, though a heavy list to starboard made them
present a rather drunken appearance.
The profits of blockade-running may be estimated by the fact that
though the _Banshee_ afterwards became a total loss by capture, she
earned enough on her eight successful trips to pay the shareholders
700 per cent. on their investment. The Northerners turned her into a
gunboat, but she asserted her sympathies for the South by running foul
of the jetty in the naval yard at Washington.
On another run in the _Night Hawk_, after getting safely through the
blockading fleet, they grounded on the bar, and two launches speedily
boarded them. The Northerners were very excited, and evidently expected
to meet with desperate resistance, for firing of revolvers and wild
cutlass blows surprised the crew of the _Night Hawk_, who stood quietly
on the poop waiting to be taken prisoners.
“This roused my wrath,” says Taylor, “and I expostulated with the
Lieutenant upon his firing on unarmed men.”
They then cooled down and began a search for portable valuables; but,
perhaps because they feared Colonel Lamb might come to the rescue, they
made haste about this, and then set fire to the ship fore and aft.
They were quickened in their departure by the humour of an Irish
fireman, who sang out lustily:
“Begorra! begorra! but we shall all be in the air in a minute, with
this ship full of gunpowder!”
The men who were holding Taylor dropped him “like a hot potato,” and
away they rowed, taking some of the crew as prisoners. The gunpowder
existed only in the fancy of the Irishman.
The blockaders opened fire on the _Night Hawk_, which was blazing
merrily, and Colonel Lamb shelled the blockading fleet; then through
the boiling surf the rest of the crew rowed safely, wet through and
exhausted.
With the rising tide she bumped herself over the sandbank, still
burning. They telegraphed to Wilmington for help, and some 300 negroes
came down the river to assist in baling and pumping. So they managed
to save the _Night Hawk_ and make her fit to undertake other voyages,
though to look at she was no beauty, for her sides were all corrugated
with the heat, and her stern twisted, and not a bit of woodwork on her
was left unconsumed by the fire. Yet she managed to stagger across the
Atlantic through some very bad weather.
Such were some of the adventures of the blockade-runners in the Civil
War of the United States. To those who bought the ships it was a
matter of pecuniary profit merely; to the Southerners in Richmond,
Wilmington, and Charleston, and even on the plantations inland, the
arrival of these vessels staved off famine and cold and nakedness. To
the Northerners they meant a prolongation of the unequal struggle, and
it was no wonder that they dealt rather harshly with those whom they
caught.
A rich lady of South Carolina wrote during this war: “I have had an
excellent pair of shoes given me. For more than a year I have had none
but some dreadful things made by our carpenter, and they do hurt my
feet so. Uncle William says the men who went into the war to save their
negroes are abjectly wretched. Neither side now cares a fig for these
beloved negroes, and would send them all to heaven in a hand-basket to
win the fight.”
The negroes on the whole were very faithful to their old masters, for
many of them had been treated with all justice and kindness. Of course,
some of them gave themselves airs on becoming free and independent
voters. One old negro said to his master: “When you all had de power
you was good to me, and I’ll protect you now, massa. No niggers nor
nobody shall tech you. If you want anything, call for Sambo. Ahem! I
mean call for Mr. Samuel: dat my name now.”
From “Running the Blockade,” by T. E. Taylor. By kind permission of
Mr. John Murray.