Confederate blockade-runner, and she immediately gave chase. But, much
to the surprise of the officers, this blockade-runner did not run away,
as they generally did. She was much larger than the _Alleghany_, and
well manned and armed, and she preferred to stay and fight. Almost
before he knew it Jack was in the midst of a hot naval battle. The
two vessels were soon close together, and there was such a thunder
of guns and such a smother of smoke that he does not pretend to
remember exactly what happened. But after it was all over, and the
blockade-runner was a prize, with the stars and stripes flying from
her stern, Jack walked as straight as anybody down to the little
hospital where he had spent so many weeks.
His mother would hardly have known him as he stepped into the hospital
and waited till the surgeon had time to take a big splinter from his
left arm.
“Where’s your cane, young man?” the surgeon asked, when Jack’s turn
came.
“I don’t know, sir!” Jack replied, surprised to find himself standing
without it. “I must have forgotten all about it. I saw one of the
gunners fall, and I took his place, and that’s all I remember, sir,
except seeing the enemy strike her colors.”
That action made Jack a Midshipman in the United States navy, and gave
him a share in the prize-money, and a year later he was an Ensign. For
special gallantry in action in Mobile Bay he was made a Lieutenant
before the close of the war, and in the long years since then he has
risen more slowly to the rank of Lieutenant-Commander.
IV
CAPTAIN BILLY
_Aid and Comfort to the Enemy_
When the General invited the Fortescue girls and their friends to spend
an evening in the house on the Square, it was always understood that
part of the entertainment was to be a “war story,” and, on the special
evening I refer to, a barrel of apples, sent from the “northern part of
the State,” gave the subject.
“Oh yes, Molly,” said the General to the girl, whom the old nurse now
called “the eldest Miss Fortescue,” “you can put the apples out; and
they’ve just made me remember I never told you about ‘Tobacco Billy,’”
and as his eager auditors settled themselves comfortably about the
fire, the General, with his peculiar quiet smile, began.
“Just hand me down that old photograph in the little black frame; there
you are--poor old Tobacco Billy!”
“_Old!_” exclaimed Tom Fortescue, in surprise, for the picture was
that of a plain-looking, rather gawky lad of only nineteen--a “boy
in blue”--with honesty and fearlessness in every line of his homely,
gentle face.
“Well, I don’t say in years, perhaps,” said the General, “but in
wisdom. Anyway, here’s his story. Give that coal a stir, will you. Now,
then, here we are:
“We were in camp, not very far from Charleston, and it was a pretty
serious business with us. You see, we hadn’t the least idea what
the enemy were up to. My particular friend, Captain Kard, of the
Confederate army, and I were talking about it not long ago, and he said
he well remembered how, on their side, they were chuckling over our
perplexity. Well, I must tell you that at the extreme end of our camp
we had a bridge, and it was regularly patrolled by two of the men I
picked out for the purpose, and the ‘other side’ had a place beyond
similarly patrolled. If any message had to be sent over, the sentries
reversed their guns as a signal of truce, and word was exchanged.
“Now although we were pretty badly off for provisions, and even
ammunition, it wasn’t a circumstance to the condition of the
‘Johnnies,’ as we called the gentlemen over the way, and, worst of
all, the poor chaps hadn’t the comfort of a ‘smoke’ even, which, as
all soldiers will tell you, keeps the gnawing feeling of hunger away
for a time at least. No, sir! they hadn’t five pounds of tobacco in
their camp. But never mind! I’ll tell you what they did have. They
had regularly every day a copy of their own Charleston paper, which,
of course, was printed for Confederate eyes alone. I was sitting in
my tent one night smoking and thinking and wondering how I could lay
hands on one or two of those papers. You must know, my dear children,
stratagem is always allowed and understood to be used on both sides
in war. It is as much a part of the whole unhappy business as loading
guns and firing them, and far better if it leads to peace and an end
of cruel feeling. Now, if I could only get a copy or two of those
papers, do you see, the key to the enemy’s next movements might be
in our hands, and I suddenly struck a bright idea. I sent a man to
replace Billy Forbes on the bridge, and presently that lad appeared in
my doorway. He saluted, and I motioned him to come inside. Then, after
warning him of the need of secrecy and caution, I told him my dilemma.
Billy rubbed his head, whistled softly, looked up and down anxiously,
and finally, after a moment’s star-gazing, ‘Lieutenant,’ says he, in
his slow, Connecticut voice, ‘I’ve hit on a way--if you don’t mind.’
“‘Go ahead, Billy,’ I rejoined.
“‘Well, sir, you see those poor devils have scarcely a chew or a smoke
of ’baccy among them.’
“‘How do you know?’
“‘Johnny on the other side made signs, sir, and mate and I weren’t slow
to understand.’
“‘Well. Go on.’
“‘Now, if I could sneak over a bit from those great packages in the
Quartermaster’s department, and make him know what we were after, sure
as guns, Lieutenant, you’d have the papers.’
“‘Billy,’ said I, ‘you are a credit to your regiment, to say nothing
of your Yankee mother. Come here in an hour, and I’ll see you have the
tobacco.’
“Some enterprising dealer in the North had received a contract for that
lot of stuff, and we had really, for the time being, an overabundance,
so that it was by no means a difficult matter for me to secure two
half-pound packets, done up in blue paper, and in about as short a time
as it takes to tell the story, Billy Forbes had it tucked away, and
went whistling back to his post.
“It was a clear, soft, starlit night. I sat up attending to various
duties--listening to the fussy complaints and talk of one of my
colleagues in command, who had it on the brain, and felt we were
disgraced not knowing how to get in there. Somehow, I relied on my
friend Billy to win the day by his fair ‘exchange,’ and he didn’t fail
me.
“Towards morning I went down to the bridge, having sent a relief for
the lad, who came back simply grinning.
“‘Easy as could be,’ he whispered. ‘Here you are, sir.’
“And from the depths of his trousers he produced the coveted little
sheets.
“‘Billy,’ said I, ‘when the war is over you are likely to be a great
man.’
“And I turned in to read the news.
“About ten o’clock I received an awful message, in answer to which I
started post-haste for the guard-house, meeting my anxious comrade
Captain Hubert on the way.
“‘A nice mess your _protégé_ is in, Lieutenant!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve
had to put him under arrest, and he’s doomed, sir, doomed. Will no
doubt be shot, and a good warning to all like him.’
“As the Captain--in temporary command--marched on, I stood rooted
to the ground. What had happened! Well, I soon found out. Billy,
white to the lips, but with his head well up, told me the story. His
companion, cherishing some old grudge, had watched him making the
exchange--tobacco for the journals--and had made haste to report him.
Billy well knew the penalty. A court-martial had to be held at once.
“Billy, poor lad, for violating the law which forbids absolutely giving
aid or comfort to the enemy, must be shot! That was the law, and you
must bear in mind that the well-being of a whole nation, especially
in time of war, depends upon the strict discipline of the army being
maintained. There were important reasons why I could not at that moment
say I had, through Billy, procured the papers, and relieve him of
the extreme penalty. Yet something must be done, and I must try and
think it out, even though in discharging my duty I must sit in the
court-martial which would undoubtedly condemn him.
“‘Billy,’ said I, with my hand on the lad’s shoulder, and looking at
his white and haggard young face, ‘I’ll do my best. Unless compelled
to, don’t mention the papers. That can’t be known just yet.’
“‘God bless you, sir,’ said Billy, with tears rolling down his cheeks.
‘You see, mother’d be proud if I had to die in battle; but shot down,
Lieutenant, for treason--’
“Well, I can tell you, I couldn’t stand it much longer, and I went
dismally enough to the court-martial. You needn’t imagine it was in
any fine court-room. Dignified and often tragic as were the cases, the
court sat in an old tool-shed; planks on barrels formed the tables, and
for seats we had empty provision boxes turned upside down. But there
was about it the solemnity of such an occasion--of a death charge,
perhaps, and all the grave formality of the promptest law known. When
in the paltry place the court-martial began I knew that my colleague,
Captain Hubert, was in a great state of excitement, and determined, if
possible, to ‘put down’ such recklessness as had been Billy Forbes’s.
We had some minor cases first quickly disposed of, and then my poor
fellow was led up.
[Illustration: MEAN AS WERE THE SURROUNDINGS IT MADE A TRAGIC SCENE]
“Mean as were the surroundings, I assure you it made a tragic scene.
And there the Connecticut lad stood--thinking of the mother who
could never bear to hear of shame upon her soldier boy, nor care to
hear after where they had made his grave.
“The Captain began the formal questioning; and Billy, in a clear, low
voice, answered. Asked if he knew what it meant to converse with the
enemy, he said:
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘Had he reversed his gun?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘Had he handed the enemy a package?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘What did it contain?’
“‘Tobacco, sir.’
“Billy whitened again, but he did not lie; and I seemed to read in the
depths of his blue eyes a thought of ‘mother.’ There was a brief pause,
and then I knew my moment had come. From my coat-pocket I produced a
packet of the tobacco sent by our Northern contractor.
“‘Forbes.’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘Was the tobacco you gave the enemy like this?’ I spoke, breaking a
deathlike stillness.
“Billy’s lips quivered. His look was like Cæsar’s ‘_Et tu, Brute!_’ But
he did not flinch. Honest eye and proudly uplifted head were there when
he answered, ‘Yes, sir.’
“‘Captain Hubert,’ I observed, turning to my superior, ‘there is a
cart-load of the stuff still unused, for the reason that this tobacco
was condemned as unfit, owing to some poisonous substance in the blue
paper wrappers. I need scarcely point out to you,’ I continued, ‘that
sentence of death could only be passed on Forbes for “carrying aid or
comfort to the enemy.” Now, then, Captain, if you will kindly fill your
pipe from this package, I feel sure you will decide whether Forbes can
be condemned to death for providing the Johnnies with comfort from old
Briggs’s consignment.’
“The tension was too great for even a smile, and Captain Hubert’s
face flushed scarlet. He put out his hand, then drew it back. ‘This
being the case,’ said he, in a stifled voice and rising to his feet,
‘we--we--can consider the case dismissed!’
“I met Billy a moment or two later, standing like a statue near my
quarters. He looked at me piteously; but when I held out my hand, did
not at once take it.
“‘Lieutenant,’ said he, with the queer smile in his honest eyes I
somehow felt he’d learned from his mother, ‘I--I--God bless you, sir;
but did you send me with poison to those poor chaps?’ His voice shook,
but he held up his head proudly. ‘Killing them in battle, sir, would be
fair and square--’
“‘Billy,’ said I, ‘give me your hand, and you’ll get your
shoulder-straps before the week is out! No, my boy! I picked out papers
that hadn’t a speck of white stain on them. No, you’re not a murderer,
my poor Billy; and go to your tent and write to your mother, for we’re
near a battle harder than the one you and I fought this morning, thanks
to the papers from the enemy.’”
“Oh, General!” exclaimed Molly, “and what happened then?”
“Why, my child, Billy went home on a furlough six months later Captain
Forbes, if you please, and at present he owns a fine country grocery,
from which the apples you’re eating this minute have just come, as they
do every year regularly, and not once but he encloses a big packet of
tobacco marked, ‘_Not dangerous, General, even to the enemy!_’”
V
THE BLOCKADE-RUNNER
_A Dangerous Prize_
“Now, Lieutenant, the yarn,” said I, as I settled myself comfortably.
A heavy sea was running; night had fallen; we were off watch, and
snugly stowed between decks, with our legs under the gun-room table,
and--jollier still--Lieutenant Bracetaut had promised a yarn. He looked
musingly at the oscillating lantern above our heads, and then made a
beginning:
“It was not in these days of iron pots, cheese-boxes, and
steam-engines, you must know,” said he; “but on the dear old frigate
_Florida_--requiescat in pace!--without her mate before a stiff breeze,
and with more rats in her hold than in a North Sea whaler. We were the
flag-ship of the African squadron. Prize-money was scarce, and the
days frightfully hot; when just as the day dropped at the close of
September, we were overjoyed to hear tidings of--”
“All hands on deck if you want a share in this prize!” bawled the
boatswain down the companionway; and we ungraciously tumbled up,
snapping Bracetaut’s yarn without compunction.
“Where is she?”
“What is she?”
“I don’t see her.”
“There she is to the sou’west,” said the cockswain, pointing with his
spy-glass.
“By Jove, a steamer, too!” cried Bracetaut, delightedly.
“The _Great Eastern_, stuffed with cotton to her scuppers,” suggested
Jerry Bloom, commencing a hornpipe; and every one else had some guess
as to the character of the strange craft.
[Illustration: CHASING A BLOCKADE-RUNNER
(From a contemporary picture in _Harper’s Weekly_)]
“Bracetaut is right,” said the Captain of the _Petrel_, who had been
studying her intently with his telescope; “she’s a steamer, and a big
’un. But she’s not coming out; she’s making for the Lights with her
best foot foremost.”
We were glad to hear it; for even cotton could be foregone for the sake
of English rifles, hospital stores, and army stuffs. We cracked on
more steam, unfurled the top-gallants, and made all preparations for a
short chase. We had been to Philadelphia for coal, and were still fifty
knots from our old blockading station on the North Carolina coast,
to which we were returning. There was a heavy sea from the tempest
of the day before; but the sky was cloudless and the moon unusually
bright, and our craft was the swiftest in the squadron; so that, with
so much sea-room, we had little doubt of overhauling the stranger
before she could reach the protecting guns of Fort Macon. A mere speck
at first, the object of our attention grew rapidly bigger as we sped
on under the extra head of steam and the straining top-gallants. She
enlarged against the sky until she grew as big as a whale, and in a
few moments we distinguished the column of black smoke which her low
chimneys trailed against the sky; but she seemed to have little canvas
stretched. Indeed, the gale was yet so strong that any extensive spread
of sail was imprudent.
“See what you make of her, Bracetaut,” said the Captain, handing his
telescope to the weather-worn seaman. “I would be sure that she’s none
of our own.”
“Clyde-built all over,” mused the Lieutenant, with his eye to the tube.
“No one but a Cockney could have planted her masts; and her jib has the
Bristol cut. She sees you and is doing her best. I doubt if you catch
her.”
“We’ll see about that,” retorted the skipper. “Let out the studdin’
sails! trim the jib!” he roared through his trumpet. “I’ll spread every
rag if we scrape the sky! More head if possible, Jones,” he added; and
the engineer went below to see what could be done.
The gale was strong, and her head of steam was already great; but
we soon seemed to leap from crest to crest under the stimulus of
replenished fires, and the masts fairly bowed beneath their press of
canvas. Everybody was agog with excitement, and half the seamen were
in the rigging gazing ahead and speculating as to the vessel and her
contents.
“Try her with the big bow-chaser, Captain,” suggested the Lieutenant;
and the order was immediately given.
Boom! went the huge piece, as we quivered on the summit of a lofty
wave, and the rushing bolt flashed a phosphorescent light from a dozen
crests ere its course was lost in the distance.
“No, go! it’s a good three miles,” growled Captain Butler, measuring
the interval once more with his glass.
“Let me try,” said Bracetaut, quietly taking his stand behind the gun,
which was now being charged anew, and carefully adjusting the screws.
Again the sullen thunder spouted from the port, and we marked the ball
by its path of fire.
“Gone again,” grumbled the skipper. “We’re paving the floor of the
sea with--Ha!” For an instant the messenger had vanished like its
predecessor; then, far away to the south, there sprang a fountain of
spray--its last dip in the brine--and the mizzen-mast of the stranger
snapped short off at the cross-trees, and dragged a cloud of useless
canvas down her shrouds.
“Brave shot!” exclaimed the Captain. “Try again, Lieutenant.”
“‘Try, try again,’” sang that limb of a middy, Jerry Bloom, renewing
his hornpipe.
But the rigging of the stranger suddenly grew black with men, the
broken spars were cleared away as by magic, another sail puffed out
broadly from her foretop to make up for the vanished mizzen-mast, and
even as we gazed a strain of band-music came floating over the sea,
with the “Bonny blue flag” for its burden.
“She’s telling her name,” said Bracetaut, laughing.
“Yes, but she’s going to kick us,” cried Jerry, as a long tongue of
flame leaped from the stranger’s stern; and the rolling thunder of her
gun came to us almost simultaneously with the ball, which whistled
through our tops, letting down a heavy splinter on the cockswain’s
head, who dropped like a dead man, but was only stunned.
It was evident that the stranger was plucky, and not to be taken alive.
We still worked on her with our bow-gun, seldom doing much damage,
but with the best of intentions; while she kicked off the point of
our bowsprit with provoking ease, and burned an ugly hole through our
maintop-sail.
“By Jingo! she’s growing saucy,” said Captain Butler. “Now let me
have a shy;” and grasping the piece with a practised hand, he swiftly
adjusted it.
“Huzza! I told you so! Clean through her poop!”
Sure enough, the shot struck her after-bulwarks, and must have played
hob with the chandeliers in the cabin.
“Just wait till we can give her a broadside,” added the winger of the
bolt, rubbing his hands good-humoredly.
“We mustn’t wait too long, then,” said the cool Lieutenant, “for I see
the Lookout lights. In half an hour we shall be under the guns of Fort
Macon.”
He pointed over the side as he spoke, far down the western verge, to
a faint, lurid glimmering scarcely brighter than the many stars that
surrounded it, but with the hazy lustre which there was no mistaking.
“The rebels are reported to have destroyed the lanterns,” said I,
suggestively.
“Don’t you believe it, my boy,” replied the old sailor. “They know when
to douse them and when to light a British skipper to their nest.”
The chase had now lasted between two and three hours, and the fort at
Cape Fear could not be more than twelve miles to our lee. We were still
two miles from the stranger, and the chances were momently lessening
of overhauling her in time, unless we should succeed in materially
disabling her, while our own risk of becoming crippled from her
well-directed stern-shots was very great. If the wind had been light
the shots in our rigging would have checked our speed but slightly;
but the bracing gale that had us in its teeth lent us half our speed,
and an unlucky shot in our cross-trees might be irretrievable.
“There! there! we have it now! Was there ever such luck?” cried the
Captain, despondently. And our main-sail came down with a rush as he
spoke, every one flying from the splinters of the mast, which was
severed like a pipe-stem.
We all looked glum enough at this mishap, and began to consider the
prize as a might-have-been. But the Captain determined on a last
effort, and ordered a broadside volley, though the distance, a mile and
a half at least, made success extremely doubtful. The ship rounded to
handsomely. The ports were open, twenty cannon were already loaded and
manned, and, at the given signal, a long sheet of flame leaped from
the side, and the noble frigate roared and quivered to her keelson.
Another instant and a wild huzza swelled upward from our crowded deck;
for the broadside was a success. The entire rigging of the stranger
seemed in ruins; her bowsprit was trailing in the sea; and we could
distinguish another ugly smash in her stern, which must have come
very near destroying her precious flukes. Of course the prospect was
now far better than before, but still by no means certain, as it
was questionable whether we were not almost equally disabled in the
rigging, and the rapidity with which the damaged tops of the stranger
were mended and cleared away seemed miraculous, though she now gave
over firing, apparently bent on safety only by sharp sailing.
New spars were already up on our own main-mast, and, with a clew or two
on the mizzen-shrouds, and the use of the after-braces, with double
duty on the mizzen-top-gallant spars, our main-sail was again aloft,
with cheering indications that we were gaining fast. In fifteen minutes
we had so sensibly diminished the interval between us and our prey that
we ceased firing. But we were over-confident. The lanterns of Cape
Lookout were now left far away on our starboard quarter, and every
forward furlong we made was so much nearer to the formidable fort. Just
then a faint flash, like the horizon glimmer of summer lightning,
shone above the waters far beyond the ship we were pursuing, and a
hardly heard but ominous boom told us that the old sea-dragon, Fort
Macon, was not sleeping in the moonlight. We now renewed our pelting of
the stranger with further damage to her tops. Whereupon she veered for
Shackleford Shoals, with the evident intention of beaching herself if
unable to get under the fort. Another quarter of an hour and we were
within long range of the heavy coast-guns of the fortress, which seemed
to understand the state of the case perfectly, for shells began to drop
around us briskly. And now the great breakers of the sandy coast were
plainly discernible on the starboard, tossing their white plumes high
above the beach. Here and there a bluff rose from the monotone of sand;
and the Devil’s Skillet--a dangerous reef--was boiling white a little
lower down.
Shackleford Shoals is a low, narrow sand-bank, about twenty miles in
length. Its lower extremity comes within three miles, at a rough
guess, of the Borden Banks, or Shoals, on the easternmost point of
which the fort is situated. The bank is everywhere treacherous, but
especially at this southern point, where the danger of the shoals is
hidden by apparently deep water. And now as we neared our expected
prey, she made a bold push for this inlet; but as we dashed in between
her and the fort, regardless of the latter’s continuous firing, she
altered her course, and steered head-on for the fatal breakers.
“She’s bent on suicide!” said Jerry, who then ran below for his
pistols, as the Captain ordered the boats to be manned.
“Has she struck?”
“No--yes--there she goes!”
Sure enough, she had grounded and slightly heeled over, but in such
deep water that the soft sand of the shoals would not hold her long.
Two of our boats were manned, with our beloved Lieutenant as commander
of the expedition, and I was in his boat. We pushed off with some
difficulty, on account of the heavy sea. As we did so we saw the boats
of the blockade-runner also lowered, and pulling inside for the inlet.
The rats were leaving the crib.
“You can get her off if you try, Bracetaut. Throw over everything to
lighten her,” was the parting injunction of Captain Butler, and as we
pulled away he hauled his ship out of range of the fort. It was rather
uncomfortable the way the shells ducked and plunged around us, or burst
above our heads, but we pulled away for the prize. Our boat was the
last to reach the ship--a first-class iron propeller, of great tonnage,
and clipper-built. As the crew of the advanced boat climbed up her
sides several crashes made us aware that the fort was turning her guns
against the vessel, to deprive us of the plunder.