every few miles shoot up from its forests and lowlands. All along the
coasts may be seen mounds where pitch, tar, and turpentine are being
made. These primitive manufactories for the staple of North Carolina are
in many places close down to the water's edge, whence their products may
easily be shipped on schooners or light-draft vessels, with little
danger of being caught by the blockaders, who draw too much water to
make a very near approach to shore. So much for the coast we guard; now
for ourselves.
Our vessel, of some thirteen hundred tons, and manned by a crew of about
200 all told, reached blockade ground the early part of March. Our
voyage down the coast had been unmarked by any special incident, and
when at dusk, one spring afternoon, we descried a faint blue line of
land in the distance, and knew it as the enemy's territory, speculation
was rife as to the prospect of prizes. About 11 P. M. a vessel
hove in sight, which, as it neared, proved to be a steamer of about half
our tonnage. Our guns were trained upon the craft, but, instead of
running, she steamed up toward us. We struck a light, but it was as loth
to show its brightness as the ancient bushel-hidden candle. A rope was
turpentined, and touched with burning match, but the flame spread up and
down the whole spiral length of the rope torch, to the infinite vexation
of the lighter. Fierce stampings and fiercer execrations swiftly
terrorized the trembling quartermaster, who, good fellow, did his best,
and then, frightened into doing something desperate, made this blaze. We
hailed them while waiting for fire to throw signals, letting them know
who we were; but the wind carried away our shoutings, and the vessel
actually seemed inclined to run us down. Worse yet--what could the
little vixen mean?--a bright light, flashed across her decks, showed
gathering round her guns a swift-moving band of men. Her crew were
training their guns upon us for our swift capture or destruction: she
could not see our heavy weight of metal, for our ports were closed. She
might be a friend, for so her signal lights seemed to indicate; but if
of our fleet, how should we let her know in time to save the loss of
life and irreparable harm a single ball from her might do? She had
waited long enough for friendly signals from us, and the wind, which
swept our shouts from hearing, brought to us from them, first, questions
as to who we were, then threats to fire if we did not quickly tell, and
then orders passed to the men at the foremost gun: 'One point to the
starboard train her!'--words which made their aim on us more sure and
fatal. 'Bear a hand with that fire and torch! Be quick, for God's sake,
or we'll have a shot through us, and that from a friend, unless we blaze
away like lightning with our rockets.' The crew were stepping from the
gun to get out of the way as it was fired; the captain of the gun held
the lock string in his hand; but the instant had not been lost, and our
rockets, springing high in air, told our story. Danger is past: we learn
they are not only friends, but to be neighbors, and steam in together to
our post rather nearer the shore than other vessels here.
Days pass on in watching, and as yet no foreign sail. We study the line
of our western horizon, and find it well filled in with forts,
embrazures, earthworks, black-nosed dogs of war, and busy traitors. As
time goes on, a new thing opens to the view: a short week ago it seemed
but a molehill: now it has risen to the height of a man, and hourly
increases in size. Two weeks, and now its summit is far above the reach
of spade or shovel throw, and crowned by a platform firmly knit and held
together by well-spliced timbers. As to its object we are somewhat
dubious, but think it the beginning of an earthwork fortress, built high
in order that guns may be depressed and brought to bear on the turrets
of any Monitors which might possibly come down upon this place or
Wilmington.
At night we draw nearer to the shore, watching narrowly for blockade
runners, which evade us occasionally, but oftener scud away
disappointed. One night or early morning, 3 A. M. by the clock,
we tried to heave up anchor; the pin slipped from the shackles, and the
anchor, with forty fathoms of chain attached, slipped and sank to the
bottom in some eight fathoms of water.
The next day we steamed into our moorings of the previous night and
sought to drag for it. While arranging to do so, we saw a puff of smoke
from the shore. Bang! and a massive cannon ball tore whizzing over our
heads. The shore batteries had us in their range, and the firing from
the far-reaching Whitworth guns grows more rapid. Puff after puff rolls
up from the long line of battery-covered hillocks, under the bastard
flag, and the rolling thunder peals on our ears with the whizzing of
death-threatening balls. Oh! the excitement of watching and wondering
where the next ball will strike, and whether it will crush a hole right
through us, wasting rich human life, and scattering our decks with
torn-off limbs and running pools of blood. Quickly as possible we up
anchor and away, and soon are out of reach of balls, which splash the
water not a ship's length from us. Even then we involuntarily dodge
behind some pine board or other equally serviceable screen; and a
newspaper, if that were nearest, would be used for the same purpose--so
say those who have tasted many a naval fight. In fact, the dodge is as
often after the ball has hit as before, as this story of one of our
brave quartermasters will prove: Under fire from rebel batteries, he
noted the cloud of smoke which burst from one of the fort's
embrazures--watched sharply for the ball--heard the distant roar and its
cutting whiz overhead--watched still further, saw it fall into the sea
beyond, and then sang out to the captain, 'There it fell, sir!' and like
lightning dodged behind a mast, as though the necessity had but just
occurred to him.
As our rebel friends see their shot falling short of us, the firing
ceases, and thus harmlessly ends the action which for a few moments
threatened so much, teaching us the folly of too near approaches to
land, or attempts to batter down, to which we have often been tempted,
the earthworks daily erecting. It is folly to attempt it, because the
disabling of these few blockade steamers would open the port to all who
choose to barter with our Southern foes; and, _en passant_, this will
explain why here and elsewhere the rebels build their works under the
very noses of our men-of-war. Thus a vessel runs the blockade, and takes
into them English Whitworth guns, which send balls flying through the
air a good five miles, and whose range is longer than our far-famed
Parrott rifled cannon. These Whitworths they place concealed in
hillsides, or in forests back of the places where they build the regular
fort to protect them. If our vessels approach to batter down these germs
of forts, fire is opened on us from these long rangers, and nine chances
out of ten we are disabled before we can so much as touch them with our
guns; so that for ourselves we accomplish nothing, thereby benefiting
them.
Week days and Sundays pass on alike as far as outside incident is
concerned, but new features in each other open to view as time goes on.
Naval discipline develops the bump of reverence, or at any rate fosters
it for a time, and to the volunteer in his first days or weeks passed on
board a man-of-war, the dignified captain in the retirement of his cabin
is an object of veneration, and the slight peculiarities of some other
officers, merely ornamental additions to shining characters. On a
Sunday, for instance, in the early part of the cruise, the said bump
receives as it were a strengthening plaster, at the sight of officers
and men in full dress--the first resplendent in gold-banded
caps--multiplied buttons--shining sword hilts, et cetera, et cetera, and
the men in white ducks, blue shirts, et cetera, scattered about the
decks in picturesque groups. The captain, from the fact of his occupying
a private cabin, and seeing the officers merely to give orders or
receive reports in the line of their duty, comes but little in contact
with them, and, as there is a certain idea of grandeur in isolation,
obliges a degree of reverence not accorded to those with whom one is in
constant intercourse. A slight feeling of superiority always exists in
the minds of those of the regular navy over the volunteer officers, and
though at first the ward-room mess all seemed 'hail fellow, well met,'
familiarity develops various traits and tendencies, which, in a mess of
eight or nine, will not be persuaded to form a harmonious whole. Our
lieutenant, for instance, who, in the first days of the cruise, appeared
a compound of all the Christian graces, and a 'pattern of a gentleman,'
develops a pleasant little tendency to swear viciously on slight
provocation, and, though, rather afraid to indulge his propensities to
the full, lest the rules of naval service be violated, and disgrace
follow, still recreates himself privately, by pinching the little
messenger boys till they dance, and gritting his teeth, as if he longed
to do more, but didn't dare. It is wonderful how salt water develops
character. Our (on land) _debonnaire_, chivalrous executive, is merged
in the swearing blackguard as far as he can be; and yet strange as it
may seem, no man can be braver in time of danger, or apparently more
forgetful of self. Our paymaster, too, has suffered a sea change: the
gentleman is put away with his Sunday uniform, and taken out to air only
when it is politic to do so: wine and cigars, owned by somebody else,
occasion its instant appearance. No man on ship can show more deference
for another's feelings where the captain is concerned; no man more
thorough disregard where the sailors come into question. Yet this man
has also his redeeming points or point, made perceptible by a solitary
remark, remembered in his favor at times when the inclination has been
to call him a hypocritical scoundrel. One of the mess, rather given to
profanity, said to him one day: 'Paymaster, what's the reason you never
swear?' 'Because,' was the answer, 'I never set an example at home which
I would not wish my children to follow, and so I've got out of the way
of it.'
Various criticisms might be made on officers and men: there are
characters enough among them to furnish material for a volume. Some are
moderately patriotic, but would have been as much so on the other side,
had as strong inducements been held out in the way of 'loaves and
fishes.' Others love the cause for itself, and hold life cheap if its
sacrifice may in any way advance it. Blockade duty is perhaps a harder
test of this love than actual field service; and as months pass on, it
becomes almost unendurable. The first few days can be taken up in sight
seeing on board, and the most novel of these said sights is the drill
which follows the daily call to quarters. The rapid roll of the drum is
the signal: here, there, everywhere, on berth deck, spar deck, quarter
deck, men spring to their feet, jump from their hammocks, and every door
and passage way is blocked up by the crowd, who rush to their respective
quarters, and about the armory, each seeking to be the first, who, fully
equipped with cutlass, gun, and sabre-bayonet affixed, shall be in his
place. Another instant, and all stand about their several guns in rows,
awaiting orders from their officers, who sing out in clear commanding
tones, as though a real fight were impending: 'Pass 9-inch shell and
load!' They drive it home. 'Now run out! train her two points off port
quarter; elevate for five hundred yards! Fire! Run her in! Run out
starboard gun! Run her home! Train her three points off starboard
quarter! Fire!'
High up on the bridge of the hurricane deck, stands the first
lieutenant, overlooking the men as they work the guns, train, load, run
out, and mimic fire. Suddenly he shouts through the trumpet: 'Boarders
and pikemen at port quarter! First boarders advance! Second boarders
advance! Repel boarders! Retreat boarders! Pikemen cover cutlass
division! Fire! Repel boarders!' The second hand scarcely sweeps over a
quarter of its dial before the men have crowded around the port
bulwarks, and are slashing the air with a most Quixotic fury--then
crouch on bent knee, to make ready their pistols, while in their rear,
marines and pikemen, musket and rifle armed, snap their pieces, and pour
into an imaginary foe a vast volley of imaginary balls; then pierce the
air with savage bayonet thrusts. The farce, and yet a most useful farce,
is gone through with. The retreat is ordered to be beat, and all retire;
refill the armory with their deadly rifles and side arms, and then
return to their respective watches, work, or recreation--some gathering
round a canvas checker board; some polishing up bright work; others
making pants, shirts, or coats, or braiding light straw hats. Some are
aloft, and watching with eager eyes to catch the first glimpse of a sail
on the distant horizon; and this he must do from his loftly outlook
before the officer of the deck or quartermaster espies one, as they
sweep the sky with their long-reaching glasses--else he may suffer
reprimand and prison fare.
These and our meals are epochs which measure out the time, between which
the minutes and hours pass most wearily, and are filled with longings
for home or some welcome words from there, the next meal, or the drum
beat to quarters. Said one to me whose time is not used up as is that of
the watch officers, by four-hour watches twice in the twenty-four hours:
'When breakfast's done, the next thing I look forward to is dinner, and
when that's done, I look for supper time, and then wait in patience till
the clock strikes ten, and the 'master at arms' knocks at our several
doors, saying: 'Four bells, gentlemen; lights out, sirs.'' So time drags
often for weeks together. No new excitement fills the head with thought,
and more or less of _ennui_ takes hold on all. In fact, some consider
life on shipboard not many removes from prison life; and a man
overflowing with the sap of life, whose muscles from head to foot tingle
for a good mile run across some open field, a tramp through a grand
forest, or climb of some mountain crag, and who loves the freedom of
good solid _terra firma_--he, I say, feels like a close-caged lion.
After every calm comes a storm, and so, after weeks of listless waiting,
doing nothing, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, a very gale of bustle
comes on. 'Sail ho!' comes from the lookout aloft. 'One point off our
starboard bow!' 'Man the windlass and up anchor!' shouts the officer of
the deck, as the strange sail bears down steadily toward us, finally
showing signals which tell us she's a friend and brings a mail. The
Iroquois steams out to meet her; their anchors drop, and they hold
friendly confab. We, too, soon come up, and hear that letters, papers,
fresh meat, and ice await us, on the good old Bay State steamer
Massachusetts. We prepare to lower boats and get our goodies, when we
are told from the Iroquois that a sail lies far off to the N. N. E., and
are ordered off on chase. 'It never rains but it pours,' think we.
Letters, goodies, and now a chance at a prize! 'Begone dull care!' 'Ay,
ay, sir!' responds swift-vanishing _ennui_, as our eyes are strained in
the direction we were told the vessel was seen. No sign of one yet; but
as we enter on our second mile, our lookout cries for the first time: 'A
sail! dead ahead, sir!' After a five miles' run, we near the vessel
sufficiently to make out that she is the brig Perry, one of Uncle Sam's
swiftest sailing vessels, and so we quit chasing, and return to get our
letters and provisions ere the Massachusetts starts again. An hour from
our first meeting we are back, and find her heaving anchor to be off,
for she runs on time, and may not delay here; so haste away with the
boats, or we lose mails, provisions, and all. The boat returns well
laden with barrels of potatoes, quarter of beef, and chunks of ice, but
no mail. 'Letters and papers all sent on board the Iroquois,' says the
Massachusetts; so if we have any, there they are, but no word of any for
us is sent; so with hearts disappointed, but stomachs rejoicing in the
prospect of ice water and fresh meat, we settle down.
Our tongues, under red-tape discipline, keep mum, but inwardly we
protest against this deprivation, brought about by the wild-goose chase
on which we were ordered. Well, to-morrow the State of Georgia is
expected down from Beaufort, and she will bring us a mail, we hope. The
morrow comes, and at daydawn she heaves in sight, just halting as she
nears the flagship, to report herself returned all right, and then down
toward us--with a mail, we trust. She is hardly ten ship's lengths away,
when she spies a sail to southward, notifies us, and we both make chase.
She is deeply laden, we but lightly, so we soon outstrip her, and
overtake the sail, which is a schooner, and looks suspicious, very. We
order her to 'heave to,' which order is wilfully or unwittingly
misunderstood. At any rate she does not slacken her speed, till she
finds our guns brought to bear, and we nearly running her down. Then she
stops: we send a boat with officers and men to board her and see if we
have really a prize, and all is excitement. One officer offers his share
for ten dollars--another for twenty--a third for a V, and one for fifty
cents; but would-be salesmen of their shares are far more numerous than
buyers. And soon the boat returns, reporting the vessel as bound for
Port Royal, with coffee, sugar, and sutlers' stores. Her papers are all
right, and she may go on without further hinderance. Now back to the
State of Georgia for our mails. 'Our mails! our mails!' is the hungry
cry of our almost home-sick hearts. As we get within hailing distance,
we sing out for our letters, and are answered: 'While you were chasing
the schooner, we left your mail on board the Iroquois.' 'The devil you
did!' say some in bitter disappointment, but red tape demands that we
wait till the flagship sees fit to signal us to come for letters. The
hours pass wearily. We have waited weeks for home news, and, now that it
is here, we must wait again--a day, two days--a week even, if it suits
the flagship's convenience. At last the signals float and read: 'Letters
for the ----; come and get them.'
At last! The seals are broken and we read the news. One tells of a sick
mother, dying, and longing to see her son. Another is from M----'s lady
love: we know by the way he blushes, the fine hand and closely written
pages, and various other symptoms. And our fleet of ironclads are busy
at Charleston. Heaven help the cause they work for! Now we must hasten
with our answers, to have them ready for sending at a moment's notice,
when it is signalled: 'A vessel bound North, and will carry your mails,
if ready.'
As the sun goes down, the horizon is lit up with bonfires stretching
along the coast for miles. 'These fires mean something,' we say
knowingly; 'depend upon it, the rebs expect some vessel in to-night.'
Nothing came of it, however, though the following afternoon we saw a
steamer with two smoke stacks come down the river and take a look,
perhaps to see as to her chances of getting out that night. The twilight
darkened into night, and night wore on into the small hours, and now we
gazed into the gloom anxiously, for at this time, if any, she would seek
to run out. With straining eyes and the most intense quiet, we listen
for the sound of paddle wheels. A stranger passing along our decks,
seeing in the darkness the shadowy forms of men crouched in listening
attitudes, would have fancied himself among a body of Indians watching
stealthily some savage prey. The night passes on; gray dawn tells of the
sun's approach, and soon his streaming splendor lights up sea and land.
We look to see if our hoped for prize still waits in the river, but
no--she is not there. The day wears on and still no signs of her. If she
has slipped by us, it is through the mouth and not the inlet, we feel
sure, but still are chagrined, and, doubting the possibility of ever
catching one, go to bed with the blues.
The next day we brighten up a little, to be saddened the more, for the
Massachusetts on her return trip tells us that, so far from there being
good news from Charleston, we have only the worst to hear. The brave
little Keokuk is riddled with balls and sunk, and the fleet of ironclads
have retired from before the city. It is a costly experience, though it
may yet bear precious fruit, for they tell us it has revealed what was
necessary to make our next attack successful. What it is, we cannot
learn, the authorities meaning in the future, doubtless, to wait till
deeds have won them praise, before they make promises of great work.
Night draws on again, and we move in toward shore. Signal lights are
burning, and huge bonfires, built behind the forests, that their glare
may not light up the water, but their reflection against the background
of the sky shows blockade runners the lay and bearings of the land.
Something will surely be done to-night, and we keep vigilant watch. Two
o'clock A. M., and a sound is heard, whether of paddle wheels,
surf on the beach, or blowing off of steam, we cannot tell. 'It's paddle
wheels,' says our ensign, and reports quickly to the captain. The first
lieutenant springs on deck, a steam whistle is heard, so faint that only
steam-taught ears know the sound, and word is passed to slip our chain
and anchor, and make chase in the direction of the sound. They spring to
the chain and work with a will to unshackle it quickly, but things are
not as they should be; the hammer is not at hand, and the pins not fixed
for speedy slipping out, even when struck a sharp, heavy blow. 'I think
I see a dark object off the direction of the sound we heard, sir,' says
some one. 'Confound the chain! will it never unshackle?' they exclaim,
as they seek to unloose it. At last it slips, we steam up, and are off
in pursuit, but which way shall we turn, and where shall we chase? There
is no guiding sound now, and we paddle cautiously on, spending the
balance of the night in this blind work, feeling for the prize which has
slipped from our fingers, for, as day dawns, we see a large steamer,
safe under the walls of the fort. If disappointments make philosophers,
we ought to rank with Diogenes.
The next day is filled with growl and 'ifs' and 'ands,' and 'if _this_
had been so and so,' and 'but for that neglect, which we shall know how
to avoid next time,' etc., etc. The afternoon of another day comes on,
and then a sail is descried, and off we go after it. Seven or eight
miles' run brings us close to it; still it pays no attention, but keeps
straight on. The captain orders a ball to be fired across her bows,
which explodes so near as to splash great jets of water over them. Her
crew and captain strike sail, and let go halliards, while they fly
behind masts, down cockpit, or wherever they can get for safety. Finding
no further harm is meant than to bring them to, they answer back our
hail--say they are going to Beaufort, quite a different direction from
the one they are heading--and seem generally confused. As an excuse they
say their compass is out of order, and as they appear to be wreckers, we
allow them to go on without further molestation, and steam back to our
moorings, consoling ourselves by the fact that these bootless chases are
using up coal, and thereby hastening the time of our going to Beaufort
to coal up, where we shall have a chance to step once more on _terra
firma_.