"Saturday, July 30, 1864. At meridian, latitude (D.R.) 33 50 N.;
longitude (D.R.) 76 16 W., latitude (observed) 34 01 N., longitude (by
chronometer) 76 10 W. At 3.45 p.m. sighted a steamer burning black
smoke to the eastward; made all sail in chase. At 4.30 p.m. made
stranger out to be a double smokestack, side-wheel steamer, apparently
a blockade runner, standing to the northward and westward. At 5.45 he
showed rebel colors. Called the first division and powder division to
quarters and began to fire at her with the 30 and 150 pounder rifle
Parrott. At 6 p.m. boat to quarters and fired all the divisions. At
7 p.m. took in fore-topgallant sail and foresail. At 7.30 took in
fore-topsail. During the chase fired 70 rounds from 30-pounder Parrott,
18 rounds from 11-inch guns, and one round from 24-pounder howitzer. At
8 p.m. stopped firing, gave up the chase, stopped engines. At 9.20 Cape
Lookout Light bore N.E. by N., 14 miles distant. Sounded in 12 fathoms
of water. First saw the steamer in latitude 33 34, N., longitude 76
33 W. At midnight Cape Lookout Light bore N.E. by N. 1/2 N., distant
seventeen miles.
"(Signed) Acting Master, _U.S. Navy_."
This matter-of-fact entry, read at random from the official records of
the war, stirs my blood, because I, then seventeen years of age, was
purser of that blockade runner, and it was I who hoisted those "rebel"
colors on that eventful day fifty-five years ago; and thereby hangs a
tale.
The steamer _Lilian_ was one of the most successful examples of a
Clyde-built blockade runner of 1864 in design and equipment. Of
500 tons net register, with two rakish funnels, the finest marine
oscillating engines, a battery of boilers which drove her fifteen
knots an hour, and loaded to her marks, she presented to the critical
eye the graceful appearance of a racing yacht. A thing of beauty and a
joy forever she was to all of us on board, and our beloved chief, the
celebrated John Newland Maffitt, no less, was, we thought, the man of
all men to command her. Unluckily for us he was ordered to take charge
of the ram _Albemarle_, which the intrepid Cushing later destroyed--the
most conspicuous example of personal daring recorded in the history of
the war.
Another Southern man succeeded him, and, we having received from the
Confederate agent a cargo of mysterious packages, which was most
carefully handled, proceeded from St. George, Bermuda, bound for the
port of Wilmington, N.C. This desired haven of these fugitives of the
sea was preferred to the more difficult blockaded ports farther south.
There were two inlets, Main Bar or Western Channel, commanded by Fort
Caswell, and New Inlet, guarded by that Malakoff of the South, Fort
Fisher.
Many fine ships were lost in sight of these defenses when daylight
overtook a belated landfall, and it was pitiful to watch the desperate
efforts of the little greyhounds to run the gauntlet of the fleet,
whose concentrated fire at close range sometimes drove them among the
breakers, where many wrecks may still be seen after all these years.
There were many more fortunate, whose daring roused to the highest
pitch of enthusiasm the brave fellows of the Confederate garrison
who manned the protecting guns which kept the fleet at a respectful
distance.
As we passed the ships which lined the docks of the friendly islands
of Bermuda, their crews were mustered and cheer after cheer greeted us
from lusty throats in unison. Beyond the bar we sailed upon a tranquil
sea, without a sail in sight, and then I paid each man his bounty
of $40 gold, an earnest of the greater sum which he would get for a
successful run.
Upon our ship the discipline was rigorous and unrelenting. To each
was given in few words his orders for the run; sobriety, silence, and
civility were enforced. Our Chief Engineer Lockhart, Chief Officer
Vogel, Pilot Jim Billy Craig, our Signal Officer Fred Gregory and I
were served at the captain's table; the other officers messed together.
Our crew numbered 48 men.
When night drew on the finest Welsh coal was picked and piled upon
the boiler-room plates, for use in an emergency, and the dexterous
handling of the dampers prevented the telltale sparks from betraying
our dangerous course across the line of the ever-watchful cruisers,
which formed their cordon around the Bermudas, upon the edge of the
Gulf Stream, and across the most dangerous approaches to the Cape Fear
River. No lights were permitted, smoking was inhibited, as, through
impenetrable darkness, we ran full speed for Dixie's land.
A double watch was kept aloft, and upon the turtleback well forward,
and the keenest eyes were fixed upon the course to guard against a
collision with watchful cruisers, which also masked their lights.
Next in importance to the Wilmington pilot, Jim Billy Craig, who was a
man of great ability, was a long thin fellow, a landsman, a nondescript
known as "the watchman," who held himself in readiness day and night
for service as a special lookout. This person's vision was wonderfully
clear and far-reaching. He could see an object on the darkest night
quite invisible to the rest of us, and his most efficient service was
in the hour before daylight, when proximity to Uncle Sam's gunboats
was most undesirable. Several easy captures had been made in the first
streak of dawn by the accidental meeting of a casual cruiser and his
unhappy quarry, when escape by speed was simply impossible. It was for
this reason that our Long Tom was retained at high wages, which he
squandered with other prodigals in playing crackaloo with double gold
eagles. It was a simple game; two or more persons each threw up a gold
piece, the one falling upon a joint or crack in the deck winning the
others which fell between the lines. This was forbidden at sea, but
such discipline was relaxed in port.
Our first night at sea was clear and beautiful, the air, cool and
grateful, contrasted with the severe and at times almost suffocating
warmth of the limestone islands. After the evening meal, Gregory and
I, snugly ensconced in the lee of the cabin, which was on deck, sat
far into the night gazing with wonder upon the tranquil glory of the
stars, which shone with exceeding splendor, and talking with sad hearts
of the waning light of the star of the Confederacy, which had reached
its zenith at Chancellorsville and which sank so disastrously at the
later battle of Gettysburg. The wind was light, but the rush of the
staunch little ship at full speed brought to our listening ears the
faint sound of a bell, not that of a ship striking the change of the
watch, but a continuous peal of irregular strokes. In a few moments
it ceased, and I have often wondered what it meant, for no sail was
visible that night. Alert and eager for its repetition, which came
not, our wonderment was increased by the cry of a human voice in the
darkness ahead, which was also observed by the lookouts aloft and alow,
and, while Long Tom was rapidly climbing the ratlines of the foremast
to the crosstrees, our captain appeared on the bridge and brought the
ship to a full stop. In painful silence all eyes and ears were strained
to catch a sight or sound from the mysterious object ahead. Again and
again the long-drawn, wailing cry. Could it be a castaway? The sailor's
instinct and sympathy is never so much aroused as by such an incident.
Shifting our course a point or two, we proceeded slowly ahead; the
cry grew clearer, with despairful lamentations; again our course was
changed, the paddles slowly turning. Ignoring the usual precaution
of silence on board at night, the captain ordered the officer of the
deck to answer with a hail. Immediately the voice responded, and in
a few moments Long Tom reported to the commander on the bridge, "A
nigger in a ship's boat, sir." "What," said the captain, "can he be
doing out here in a boat 160 miles from land?" "I'm blessed if I know,
sir, but I'm telling you the truth." "Cast-away, sir, close aboard,"
was the second officer's report a few moments later. "Heave him a
line," said the commander. The falls of the davits were soon hooked
on and the boat, with its lonesome occupant, hoisted to the deck. The
next morning, when I was dressing, the chief steward knocked at my
door and gravely asked if I would see the man whom we had rescued the
night before, "for," said he, "there is something mysterious about
his plight which he refuses to make known to me." On going forward
I found a negro man of about fifty years of age, apparently in deep
distress; mutual recognition was instantaneous; the poor fellow fell at
my feet and embraced my knees, with broken sobs of "Oh, Marse Jeems,
Marse Jeems, Marse Jeems!" His story was soon told in the homely and
pathetic vernacular of the old-time Southern darkey. He had long been
the butler and body servant of my friend at Orton plantation, whose
lovely daughter had given her heart to a manly young neighbor before
he went away to the war which had desolated many Southern homes. The
fearful news of disaster had come from Gettysburg, in which her lover
was engaged with his company on Culp's Hill. He had been shot through
the lungs and was left dying on the field, which was later occupied by
the enemy. Then a veil was drawn, for all subsequent inquiries as to
his death and the disposal of his body were unavailing. The poor girl
at Orton, grief stricken, haunted by fears of the worst, and mocked by
her efforts to seek him beyond the lines, slowly faded to a shadow of
her former self. Again and again my friend returned from a hopeless
search among the living and the dead, when, he, too, began to pine
away, for the war had robbed him of all but the child whom he adored,
and now she was slipping away from him. It was then that this Nature's
nobleman in a black skin came forward and desired his liberty to go
through the lines in Virginia and never return until he brought the
body dead, or news of his young master living, to the dear mistress
whom he loved more than his own life. In vain my friend refused. How
could he, a slave, overcome obstacles which the master, with all his
influence, had failed to overcome? At last he gave the desired pass to
proceed to the missing boy's command upon this mission of mercy, which
was countersigned by the proper authority, and the faithful fellow
proceeded on foot toward his destination. What followed, "in weariness
and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings
often, in cold and nakedness," would fill a volume. He reached the
regiment at last, and carried to many hungry hearts the news of their
loved ones at home, but he was told that his quest was in vain; the
captain was dead, a Federal surgeon who approached him on the field
had found his wounds mortal, had received from him his sword, to be
sent home to the young mistress, with fond words of his devotion to the
last; he had better return home. But no, he attempted that night to
slip through the lines toward the Federal Army; he was caught, brought
back, and sentenced to be shot at sunrise. How he was saved, as by a
miracle, through the recognition of the officer of the firing squad,
and sent back to Wilmington need not be told.
He had formed another desperate resolve--he would go to Orton in the
night, and in a frail bateau attempt to pass the picket boats at Fort
Anderson and Fort Fisher, and reach the blockading fleet beyond the
bar. Perhaps when they heard his story they would take pity and send
him North, when he might resume his search. He had crossed the river by
the Market Street ferry and was passing through the cotton yard, where
several blockade runners were loading their outward cargoes, when a
new idea came to him; why could he not go as a steward on a steamer,
and, with his wages, reach the North by way of the West Indies? With
deferential humility he approached the captain of a steamer, which
shall be nameless. He was not an American, neither was he a man in the
sense of the noblest work of God; he was the embodiment of a personal
devil; he laughed the old man to scorn; he had carried away on previous
voyages runaway niggers, who, he said, had stowed away, and he had been
obliged to pay for them on his return; the next one he caught at sea
on board his ship would wish he had never been born; he didn't need a
steward, and he did not doubt his tale of the young master was a lie.
As the poor man turned away he was drawn aside by a kindly steward
who had overheard the conversation, and, after much discussion and
apprehension, he agreed to arrange a secret passage to Bermuda. That
night he was stowed away, where it was hoped that the cruel process
of fumigation for the discovery of fugitive slaves and deserters from
the army, then in vogue before sailing, would not reach him. Cramped
by the narrow space which forbade lying down, and deathly seasick, on
the second night he crawled out for fresh air, was detected and seized
by a passing sailor and reported to the captain. Infuriated by his
recognition of the stowaway, he actually stopped the ship and set the
poor wretch adrift in a leaky boat, without oars or food or water. It
was on the second night after that he heard the mysterious bell and
shrieked aloud for deliverance.
Although these qualities were not a common possession, this remarkable
instance of a slave's devotion to his owner was not exceptional. There
were hundreds and perhaps thousands of such examples, especially on the
part of those whose duties were of a domestic nature. It was not the
evolution of gentle traits of character, for this man's grandfather
had lived and died a savage in the wilds of Africa. It was the result
of daily contact with refined and kindly people whom he served,
whose characteristic urbanity was unconsciously imitated, and whose
consideration for others, which constitutes true politeness, was
reflected in their servitor's devotion. I have a pensioner at Orton
who is ninety-four years of age. He was the personal servant in his
youth of Doctor Porcher, of Charleston. He is as polite as a cultivated
Frenchman might be, but he is sincere in speech. He uses at times
French phrases. He can tell you in polished language, and with becoming
deference, of the grand people of the exclusive set of Charleston of
long ago, and his solicitude for your health and for that of everyone
connected with you whom he has never heard of is shown in expressions
of old-time gentility, but he belongs to a class that is passing away.
I have up to this time refrained from mentioning the fact that we had
on board, as passengers, three important personages of the old Navy,
whose duty, as they saw it, impelled them to resign their commissions
in a service which was dear to them, and to cast in their lot for weal
or woe with the fortunes of their native State, which had seceded from
the Union. They had served with distinction afloat and around the world
upon a noted Confederate war vessel, and they were under orders to
report to Secretary Mallory at Richmond. At the time of which I write
there were in Nassau and in Bermuda certain spies said to have been
in the pay of the Federal Government, and they sometimes succeeded
in passing themselves, disguised and under assumed names, as sailors
and firemen, but more frequently as stewards on the blockade runners
that were not careful enough in the selection of their crew. By this
means much valuable information was communicated to the authorities at
Washington, and the mysterious loss of several fine blockade runners
was attributed to the seditious influence of such persons in time
of peril. There were also in each of our foreign ports of refuge a
few fanatics, who, contrary to the usages of war, and upon their own
initiative and responsibility, attempted the destruction of Confederate
steamers at sea by secretly hiding in their bunkers imitation lumps of
coal, containing explosives of sufficient power to sink a vessel when
this object was shoveled into the furnaces under the boilers. Several
such attempts had been frustrated because the deception was clumsy and
easily detected in time by the coal passers, and I remember that these
nefarious undertakings were frequently discussed by the engineers of
our ship.
Meanwhile, I observed with some curiosity that we were off our regular
course, and also, with feelings of dismay, that we were approaching a
long, low, rakish-looking war vessel, barque-rigged and under steam,
which was evidently lying to and awaiting us, but my apprehension
was changed to wonder and amazement as I beheld flying apeak the new
white flag of the Confederacy. It was a sight I shall never forget;
alone upon the wide sea, hunted by a hundred adversaries, the corvette
_Florida_, under the gallant Maffitt, had circumnavigated the globe and
spread consternation among the merchant marine of the Stars and Stripes
without the loss of a man. She was a beautiful vessel and had been
handled with consummate skill and daring. There was something pathetic
in the object of our meeting, which had been secretly prearranged, for
a boat was immediately lowered, into which were placed sundry parcels
of opium for the hospital service of the Southern Army, probably from
the hold of one of her prizes; and this sympathetic offering from these
homeless fellows on the high sea to their sick and wounded comrades in
the field hospitals, for the mitigation of their sufferings, appealed
strongly to our hearts.
We tarried briefly, dipping in a parting salute to each other our
respective ensigns, probably the first and the last time that the
conquered banner was used to exchange courtesies with the same flag at
sea. The corvette proceeded under her new commander, Capt. Charles M.
Morris, cruising near and far until she reached Bahia, Brazil, in which
neutral port she was attacked while disarmed, and captured at night by
the _Wachusett_, and later, it is said, was conveniently cast away near
the last resting place of her famous commander, Captain Maffitt.
Our third and last day at sea began auspiciously, but we were drawing
toward the coast much farther north than our usual landfall. At about
half past three in the afternoon we were startled by the lookout in the
crow's nest, with a lusty "Sail ho!" "Whereaway?" called the officer
of the watch. "On the port quarter, sir, heading toward us." We were
in a bad position, to the northward of Cape Lookout, but the stranger
had not yet perceived us. In our eagerness for more steam, however, the
telltale smoke was vomited from our funnels, and in a short time it was
evident that we were being overhauled by a faster vessel under crowded
canvas and full steam. The rising wind favored him, because we had but
two sails, fore and aft, which served to steady us in a seaway, but
this added little to our speed. As the stranger drew rapidly nearer,
pushing us toward a lee shore, she opened fire with her rifled cannon,
and for the first time in my life I heard the scream of a hostile shell
as it passed between our funnels and plunged into the sea a half mile
beyond. The sensation was most unpleasant; had we been able to return
the fire, the excitement of battle must have been exhilarating, but
to be hunted like a rabbit and pelted with Parrott shells and 11-inch
projectiles was enough to reduce my backbone to such laxation that my
trembling knees refused to bear it. The cruiser's aim was deadly,
for the 11-inch shells came tumbling end over end with such fearful
accuracy that many of them passed only a few feet from my head. Others
sent the salt spray flying into our faces; and yet there were, up to
six o'clock, no casualties of any importance. The admirable conduct
of our naval passengers soon inspired me with courage--such is the
influence of veterans beside raw troops--and, strangely enough, as the
firing of single batteries was changed to broadsides, my despairful
feelings gave way to hope and confidence. Our pursuer was now fairly
abeam and sailing the same course. Why she did not destroy us utterly
at such short range must have appeared to them incomprehensible,
because we easily distinguished without glasses the movements of their
gunners and the working of their crew at quarters; and our pursuer must
have been surprised at the audacity of our passengers, who tranquilly
measured with their watches the intervals between the firing of his
projectiles and their passage overhead. They also used their sextants
continuously during the chase, and it was doubtless owing to their
superior knowledge and fortitude that our commander held on his course
in the face of imminent destruction, for, be it remembered, we were
loaded to the hatch combings with gunpowder for Lee's army. As the
sun sank lower on the horizon, so sank our hopes of escape, for every
moment seemed to be drawing us nearer to the end. Even our passengers
became disheartened and said at last that it was a useless risk to all
the lives on board. They accordingly proceeded to their cabins and
destroyed their official papers, and threw overboard some valuable side
arms and rifles, and I, by the captain's orders, took the Confederate
mail bag and government dispatches to the furnace and saw them go up
in smoke. Orders were now given to lower the boats to the rail, for
what purpose I do not know, when a strange thing happened. There was a
loud explosion in the forward fireroom, not made by the bursting of a
shell but accompanied by a cloud of steam. Immediately the stokers and
firemen swarmed up the iron ladders to the deck, terror-stricken and
bewildered. They had been kept at their work for hours at the point
of a pistol in the hands of desperate and determined men, but now,
panic-stricken, they rushed aft, not knowing what they would do. Our
chief engineer quietly reported the collapse of one of our boilers,
cause unknown, steam reduced nearly one-half in consequence, but our
slackened speed proved to be the means of our salvation. The sun had
gone behind a cloud bank, a mist hung over the land to leeward, our
ship, painted the dull grey color of the sand dunes along the shore
line, was obscured from the view of the enemy, which was quite visible
to us, forging ahead and firing wildly. Our engines were stopped and
sails lowered, every eye was upon the cruiser. Would she discover our
desperate expedient? Had she done so, I believe our crew would have
been ordered to the boats and the _Lilian_ abandoned, with a lighted
fuse for her destruction. But the cruiser drew farther away, firing
his broadsides at an invisible foe. Cautiously and slowly we limped
to windward, crossing the wake of our discomfited antagonist, and
laying our course straight and true for Wilmington. It was now eight
o'clock in the evening, a hundred miles between us and our dangerous
destination, and daylight comes early in the summer months. By the
closest calculation we might, without accidents, reach the Cape Fear
by sunrise, and then in our disabled condition how could we hope to
run the gauntlet of the blockading fleet? It was resolved to do it or
die. Fortune had favored us in an extremity, perhaps she would still
be kind. We had an anxious night; sleep, even after the excitement
and exhaustion of the previous day, was impossible. We saw the first
faint streaks of day off Masonboro Sound, where our watchful Gregory
picked up the signal lights ashore and passed the word along the beach
for our protection by the fort. It was a cloudy morning; on and on we
drove the little ship; she seemed to feel the crisis while she labored
like a sentient being to meet her fate as speedily as possible. At
last, in the friendly haze of dawn, we were among them; blockaders to
the right of us, blockaders to the left of us, blockaders ahead of us
loomed up like monsters of the deep. Craig coolly but anxiously peered
ahead. Long Tom, well forward on the turtleback, whispered the words
which a line of picked men reported to the bridge. Again and again we
stopped for the passage of a picket barge or gunboat in the darkness
ahead, who saw us not, and for the bearings, which in our devious
course we had lost in confusion. Once more we slowly proceeded, when
suddenly, out of the darkness and close aboard, flashed the fiery train
of a rocket, and a deep, commanding voice, just over the side, shouted
"Heave to, or I'll sink you." Quickly our bridge responded "Aye, aye,
sir, we stop the engines." "Back your engines, sir, and stand by for my
boats," called the lusty man-of-war. But our paddles were not reversed.
Lockhart said he never heeded such an order with the bar at hand; on
the contrary our engines were evidently running away with the ship,
and, while the confident blockader, diverted from his guns, was engaged
in lowering his boats, the _Lilian_ was gliding away toward the bar. A
trail of rockets and Drummond lights and bombshells from the rest of
the fleet followed in our wake, but the friendly flash of signals from
the fort encouraged us, while Gregory, with his masked lights, revealed
to them our steady progress until we anchored under the Confederate
guns. It was now broad daylight and the blockading fleet had sullenly
withdrawn to a safe distance. We proceeded toward Fort Anderson and
came to anchor at quarantine. The clouds had passed away, revealing
in the brightness of the morning light the stately white columns of
Orton House in the distance. Accompanied by our faithful Scipio and
escorted beyond the fort by its courteous Colonel Hedrick, we proceeded
in silence through St. Philip's churchyard and the dead colonial town
of Brunswick, past Russellboro, where Governor Tryon met the first
armed colonists (the cradle of American independence), through the long
avenue of oaks, where, looking ahead, we beheld a sight which cheered
our hearts; my friend and his daughter surrounded by the yelping hounds
returning from a chase, for reynard's brush was at her saddlebow. With
mutual exclamations of astonishment and delight we learned that the
young captain had written by a flag of truce of his convalescence in a
Northern hospital. I will not say the touching words that Scipio heard,
as, with hands clasped by master and mistress, and with bowed head, he
received their tearful benedictions. My friend has long since gone to
his eternal rest and Scipio's white soul soon followed him. They are
buried at Orton in a grove where the mocking bird builds its nest and
sings; where, above the murmur of the tree tops, which bend to the soft
south wind, is heard the distant booming of the sea, and in their death
they were not divided.