Naval operations in the American Civil War were particularly
distinguished by the active building of iron-clads. The
North built and employed them with marked success; the
South, with marked failure. With praiseworthy energy and at
great cost the Confederates produced iron-clad vessels of
war in Norfolk Harbor, on Roanoke River, in the Mississippi,
and elsewhere, yet, with the exception of the one day's raid
of ruin of the Merrimac in Hampton Roads, their labor was
almost in vain, their expensive war-vessels went down in the
engulfing waters or went up in flame and smoke. Their
efforts in this direction were simply conspicuous examples
of non-success. We propose here to tell the tale of disaster
of the Albemarle, one of these iron-clads, and the great
deed of heroism which brought her career to an untimely end.
The Albemarle was built on the Roanoke River in 1863. She
was of light draught, but of considerable length and width,
her hull above the water-line being covered with four inches
of iron bars. Such an armor would be like paper against the
great guns of to-day; then it served its purpose well. The
competition for effectiveness between rifled cannon and
armor plates had not yet begun.
April, 1864, had arrived before this formidable opponent of
the Union blockading fleet was ready for service. Then, one
misty morning, down the river she went, on her mission of
death and destruction. The opening of her career was
promising. She attacked the Union gunboats and fort at
Plymouth, near the mouth of the river, captured one of the
boats, sunk another, and aided in forcing the fort to
surrender, its garrison being taken prisoners. It had been
assailed at the same time by a strong land force, and the
next day Plymouth itself was taken by the Confederate
troops, with a heavy Union loss in men and material.
So far favoring fortune had attended the Albemarle.
Enlivened with success, on a morning in May she steamed out
into the deeper waters of Albemarle Bay, confident on
playing the same rôle with the wooden vessels there that the
Merrimac had played in Hampton Roads. She failed in this
laudable enterprise. The Albemarle was not so formidable as
the Merrimac. The steamers of war which she was to meet were
more formidable than the Congress and the Cumberland. She
first encountered the Sassacus, a vessel of powerful
armament. More agile than the iron-clad, the Sassacus played
round her, exchanging shots, and seeking a vulnerable point.
At length, under a full head of steam, she dashed on the
monster, striking a blow which drove it bodily half under
the water. Recovering from the blow, the two vessels, almost
side by side, hurled 100-pound balls upon each other. Most
of those of the Sassacus bounded from the mailed sides of
her antagonist, like hail from stone walls. But three of
them entered a port, and did sad work within. In reply the
Albemarle sent one of her great bolts through a boiler of
the Sassacus, filling her with steam. So far the iron-clad
had the best of the game; but others of the fleet were now
near at hand; the balls which had entered her port had done
serious injury; she was no longer in fighting trim; she
turned and made the best of her way back to Plymouth, firing
as she fled.
This ended her career for that summer. But repairs were
made, and she was put in fighting trim again; another
gunboat was building as a consort; unless something were
quickly done she would soon be in Albemarle Sound again,
with possibly a different tale to tell from that of her
first assault.
At this critical juncture Lieutenant William B. Cushing, a
very young but a very bold officer, proposed a daring plan;
no less a one than to attack the Albemarle at her wharf,
explode a torpedo under her hull, and send her, if possible,
to the bottom of the Roanoke. He proposed to use a swift
steam-launch, run up the stream at night, and assail the
iron-clad where she lay in fancied security. From the bow of
the launch protruded a long spar, loaded at its end with a
100-pound dynamite cartridge. The spar could be lowered by
pulling one rope, the cartridge detached by pulling another,
and the dynamite exploded by pulling a third.
The proposed exploit was a highly perilous one. The
Albemarle lay eight miles up the river. Plymouth was
garrisoned by several thousand soldiers, and the banks of
the stream were patrolled by sentinels all the way down to
the bay. It was more than likely that none of the
adventurers would live to return. Yet Cushing and the crew
of seven daring men whom he selected were willing to take
the risk, and the naval commanders, to whom success in such
an enterprise promised the most valuable results, agreed to
let them go.
It was a dark night in which the expedition set out,--that
of October 27, 1864. Up the stream headed the little launch,
with her crew of seven, and towing two boats, each
containing ten men, armed with cutlasses, grenades, and
revolvers. Silently they proceeded, keeping to mid-stream,
so as to avoid alarming the sentinels on the banks. In this
success was attained; the eight miles were passed and the
front of the town reached without the Confederates having an
inkling of the disaster in store for them.
Reaching Plymouth, Lieutenant Cushing came to a quick
decision as to what had best be done. He knew the town well.
No alarm had been given. He might land a party and take the
Albemarle by surprise. He could land his men on the lower
wharf, lead them stealthily through the dark streets, leap
with them upon the iron-clad, surprise the officers and
crew, and capture the vessel at her moorings. It was an
enterprise of frightful risk, yet Cushing was just the man
for it, and his men would follow wherever he should lead. A
low order was given. The launch turned and glided almost
noiselessly towards the wharf. But she was now only a short
distance from the Albemarle, on whose deck the lookout was
wide-awake.
"What boat is that?" came a loud hail.
No reply. The launch glided on.
"What boat is that?" came the hail again, sharper than
before.
"Cast off!" said Cushing, in a low tone. The two boats were
loosened and drifted away. The plan of surprise was at an
end. The vigilance of the lookout had made it impossible.
That of destruction remained. The launch was turned again,
and moved once more towards the Albemarle.
They were quickly so close that the hull of the iron-clad
loomed darkly above them. Upon that vessel all was
commotion. The unanswered hail was followed by the springing
of rattles, ringing of bells, running of men, and shouting
of orders. Muskets were fired at random at the dimly seen
black object. Bullets whizzed past the devoted crew. Lights
began to flash here and there. A minute before all had been
rest and silence; now all was noise, alarm, and commotion.
[Illustration: SINKING OF THE ALBEMARLE.]
All this did not disconcert the intrepid commander of the
launch. His main concern at that moment was an unexpected
obstacle he had discovered, and which threatened to defeat
his enterprise. A raft of logs had been placed around the
iron-clad to protect her from any such attack. There she
lay, not fifty feet away; but this seemingly insuperable
obstacle intervened.
What was to be done? In emergencies like that men think
quickly and to the point. The raft must be passed, or all
was at an end. The logs had been long in the water, and
doubtless were slippery with river slime. The launch might
be run upon and over them. Once inside the raft, it could
never return. No matter for that. He was there to sink the
Albemarle. The smaller contingency of losing his own life
was a matter to be left for an after-thought.
This decision was reached in a moment's thought. The noise
above them increased. Men were running and shouting, lights
flashing, landsmen, startled by the noise, hurrying to the
river-bank. Without an instant's delay the launch was
wheeled round, steamed rapidly into the stream until a good
offing was gained, turned again, and now drove straight
forward for the Albemarle with all the power of her engines.
As she came near bullets poured like hail across her decks.
One tore off the sole of Cushing's shoe; another went
through the back of his coat; it was perilously close and
hot work. The hail came again:
"What boat is that?"
This time Lieutenant Cushing replied. His reply was not in
words, however, but in a howitzer load of canister which
drove across the Albemarle's deck. The next minute the bow
of the launch struck the logs. As had been expected, the
light craft slid up on their slippery surfaces, forcing
them down into the water. The end of the spar almost touched
the iron hull of the destined victim.
The first rope was loosened. The spar, with its load,
dropped under water. The launch was still gliding onward,
and carrying the spar forward. The second cord was pulled;
the torpedo dropped from the spar. At this moment a bullet
cut across the left palm of the gallant Cushing. As it did
so he pulled the third cord. The next instant a surging
column of water was raised, lifting the Albemarle as though
the great iron-clad were of feather weight. At the same
instant a cannon, its muzzle not fifteen feet away, sent its
charge rending through the timbers of the launch.
The Albemarle, lifted for a moment on the boiling surge,
settled down into the mud of her shallow anchorage, never
more to swim, with a great hole torn in her bottom. The
torpedo had done its work. Cushing had earned his fame.
"Surrender!" came a loud shout from Confederate lungs.
"Never!" shouted Cushing in reply. "Save yourselves!" he
said to his men.
In an instant he had thrown off coat, shoes, sword, and
pistols, and plunged into the waters that rolled darkly at
his feet, and in which he had just dug a grave for the
Albemarle. His men sprung beside him, and struck out boldly
for the farther shore.
All this had passed in far less time than it takes to tell
it. Little more than five minutes had passed since the
first hail, and already the Albemarle was a wreck, the
launch destroyed, her crew swimming for their lives, and
bullets from deck and shore pouring thickly across the dark
stream.
The incensed Confederates hastily manned boats and pushed
out into the stream. In a few minutes they had captured most
of the swimming crew. One sank and was drowned. One reached
the shore. The gallant commander of the launch they failed
to find. They called his name,--they had learned it from
their prisoners,--but no answer came, and the darkness
veiled him from view. Had he gone to the bottom? Such most
of the searchers deemed to be his fate.
In a few minutes the light of a blazing fire flashed across
the river from Plymouth wharf. It failed to reveal any
swimming forms. The impression became general that the
daring commander was drowned. After some further search most
of the boats returned, deeming their work at an end.
They had not sought far or fast enough. Cushing had reached
shore--on the Plymouth side--before the fire was kindled. He
was chilled and exhausted, but he dared not stop to rest.
Boats were still patrolling the stream; parties of search
might soon be scouring the river-banks; the moments were
precious, he must hasten on.
He found himself near the walls of a fort. On its parapet,
towering gloomily above him, a sentinel could be seen,
pacing steadily to and fro. The fugitive lay almost under
his eyes. A bushy swamp lay not far beyond, but to reach
its shelter he must cross an open space forty feet wide in
full view of this man. The sentinel walks away. Cushing
makes a dash for life. But not half the space is traversed
when his backward glancing eye sees the sentinel about to
turn. Down he goes on his back in the rushes, trusting to
their friendly shelter and the gloom of the night to keep
him from sight.
As he lies there, slowly gaining breath after his excited
effort, four men--two of them officers--pass so close that
they almost tread on his extended form, seeking him, but
failing to see what lies nearly under their feet. They pass
on, talking of the night's startling event. Cushing dares
not rise again. Yet the swamp must be gained, and speedily.
Still flat on his back, he digs his heels into the soft
earth, and pushes himself inch by inch through the rushes,
until, with a warm heart-throb of hope, he feels the welcome
dampness of the swamp.
It proves to be no pleasant refuge. The mire is too deep to
walk in, while above it grow tangled briers and thorny
shrubs, through which he is able to pass only as before, by
lying on his back, and pushing and pulling himself onward.
The hours of the night passed. Day dawned. He had made some
progress, and was now at a safe distance from the fort, but
found himself still in the midst of peril. Near where he lay
a party of soldiers were at work, engaged in planting
obstructions in the river, lest the Union fleet should
follow its daring pioneers to Plymouth, now that the
Albemarle was sunk, and the chief naval defence of the
place gone.
Just back from the river-bank, and not far from where he
lay, a cornfield lifted its yellowed plumes into the air.
Cushing managed to reach its friendly shelter unobserved,
and now, almost for the first time since his escape, stood
upright, and behind the rustling rows made his way past the
soldiers.
To his alarm, as he came near the opposite side of the
field, he found himself face to face with a man who glared
at him in surprise. Well he might, for the late
trimly-dressed lieutenant was now a sorry sight, covered
from head to foot with swamp mud, his clothes rent, and
blood oozing from a hundred scratches in his skin.
He had no reason for alarm; the man was a negro; the dusky
face showed sympathy under its surprise.
"I am a Union soldier," said Cushing, feeling in his heart
that no slave would betray him.
"One o' dem as was in de town last night?" asked the negro.
"Yes. Have you been there? Can you tell me anything?"
"No, massa; on'y I's been tole dat dar's pow'ful bad work
dar, an' de sojers is bilin' mad."
Further words passed, in the end the negro agreeing to go to
the town, see for himself what harm had been done, and bring
back word. Cushing would wait for him under shelter of the
corn.
The old negro set out on his errand, glad of the
opportunity to help one of "Massa Linkum's sojers." The
lieutenant secreted himself as well as he could, and waited.
An hour passed. Then steps and the rustling of the dry
leaves of the corn-stalks were heard. The fugitive peeped
from his ambush. To his joy he saw before him the smiling
face of his dusky messenger.
"What news?" he demanded, stepping joyfully forward.
"Mighty good news, massa," said the negro, with a laugh.
"Dat big iron ship's got a hole in her bottom big 'nough to
drive a wagon in. She's deep in de mud, 'longside de wharf,
an' folks say she'll neber git up ag'in."
"Good! She's done for, then? My work is accomplished?--Now,
old man, tell me how I must go to get back to the ships."
The negro gave what directions he could, and the fugitive
took to the swamp again, after a grateful good-by to his
dusky friend and a warm "God-speed" from the latter. It was
into a thicket of tangled shrubs that Lieutenant Cushing now
plunged, so dense that he could not see ten feet in advance.
But the sun was visible overhead and served him as a guide.
Hour by hour he dragged himself painfully onward. At two
o'clock in the afternoon he found himself on the banks of a
narrow creek, a small affluent of the Roanoke.
He crouched in the bushes on the creek-side, peering warily
before him. Voices reached his ears. Across the stream he
saw men. A minute's observation apprised him of the
situation. The men he saw to be a group of soldiers, seven
in number, who had just landed from a boat in the stream. As
he watched, they tied their boat to the root of a tree, and
then turned into a path that led upward. Reaching a point at
some distance from the river, they stopped, sat down, and
began to eat their dinner.
Here was an opportunity, a desperate one, but Cushing had
grown ready for desperate chances. He had had enough of
wandering through mire and thorns. Without hesitation he
lowered himself noiselessly into the water, swam across the
stream, untied the boat, pushed it cautiously from the bank,
and swam with it down the stream until far enough away to be
out of sight of its recent occupants. Then he climbed into
the boat and paddled away as fast as possible.
There was no sign of pursuit. The soldiers kept
unsuspiciously at their mid-day meal. The swamp-lined
creek-sides served well as a shelter from prying eyes. For
hours Cushing pursued his slow course. The sun sank;
darkness gathered; night came on. At the same time the water
widened around him; he was on the surface of the Roanoke.
Onward he paddled; the night crept on till midnight was
reached; for ten hours he had been at that exhausting toil.
But now before his eyes appeared a welcome sight, the dark
hull of a Union gunboat.
"Ship ahoy!" came a loud hail from the exhausted man.
"Who goes there?" answered the lookout on the gunboat.
"A friend. Take me up."
The gunboat was quickly in motion. This might be a
Confederate ruse, possibly a torpedo might have been sent to
blow them up; they were in dangerous waters. Boats were
quickly lowered, and rowed towards the small object on the
stream.
"Who are you?" came the cry, as they drew near.
"Lieutenant Cushing, or what is left of me."
"Cushing!" was the excited answer. "And the Albemarle?"
"Will never trouble a Union fleet again. She rests in her
grave on the muddy bottom of the Roanoke."
Loud cheers followed this stirring announcement. The sailors
bent to their oars, and quickly had the gallant lieutenant
on board. Their cheers were heightened tenfold when the crew
of the Valley City heard what had been done. In truth, the
exploit of Lieutenant Cushing was one that for coolness,
daring, and success in the face of seemingly insuperable
obstacles has rarely been equalled in history, and the
destruction of the Albemarle ranks with the most notable
events in the history of war.