"Perkins went into the fight in his shirt-sleeves and a straw hat, and
as he passed the Hartford, he was on top of the turret waving his hat
and dancing around with delight and excitement."--"The ironclads," said
Perkins, "were ordered to follow inside the fleet, between fleet and
fort. I had orders to be reserve force and remain with wooden vessels
after passing obstructions. Our course was between a certain buoy and
the shore. This passage was known to be free from torpedoes, and was
left for the blockade runners. All the vessels had orders to keep
between that buoy and the shore, but in other respects the ironclads had
separate orders from the wooden vessels. In the confusion resulting from
the destruction of the Tecumseh and the movements of the Brooklyn, the
monitors received _no_ orders and followed in the line of the other
vessels." Be it said in passing, that Perkins had no pilot, and at sight
of the Tecumseh's doom, one of the men in the pilot-house fainted,
leaving only Perkins and one man to steer the vessel until the vigorous
methods applied brought the man to, and freshened his pluck! The
pilot-house was abaft the forward turret, not on top, as in the case of
the Tecumseh class, and was entered through a trap-door which was kept
open during the fight, for the vessel being unfinished, there was no way
of opening it from inside when closed.
"I pushed forward as rapidly as possible, but my ship anyway was
stationed last of the ironclads, as I was youngest in command. We fired
at the fort to keep down its fire till the wooden ships had passed. When
the Tennessee passed, it was on my port side; she then steamed toward
Fort Morgan. Some of our vessels anchored, others kept under weigh, and
when the Tennessee approached the fleet again, she was at once attacked
by the wooden vessels, but they made no impression upon her. An order
was now brought to the ironclads by Fleet-Surgeon Palmer for them to
attack the ram, but as they stood for her, she seemed again to move as
if retiring toward the fort, but the Chickasaw overtook her, and after a
short engagement, succeeded in forcing her to surrender, having shot
away her smoke-stack, destroyed her steering gear, and jammed her
afterparts so that her stern guns were rendered useless. As she could
not steer she drifted down the bay, head on, and I followed her close,
firing as fast as I could, my guns and turrets, in spite of the strain
upon them, continuing in perfect order. When Johnston came on the roof
of the Tennessee and showed the white flag as signal of surrender, no
vessel of the fleet was as near as a quarter of a mile, but the Ossipee
was approaching, and her captain was much older than myself. I was wet
with perspiration, begrimed with powder, and exhausted by long-continued
exertion. I drew back and allowed Captain Le Roy to receive the
surrender, though my first lieutenant, Hamilton, said to me at the time:
'Captain, you are making a mistake.'"
Knowing full well that the Chickasaw's eleven-inch shot would not
penetrate the stout side-armor of the Tennessee, Perkins made for the
weakest part of the vessel--her stern, and hung there close aboard,
pouring solid shot of iron and steel into that vital part with the
accuracy of pistol-shooting, until the ram surrendered; then taking her
in tow, carried her near the flagship. He had fired fifty-two shots,
and, says the officer of the Hartford already quoted: "The guns of the
Chickasaw jammed the steering gear of the ram, also the port stopper of
the after port disabling the after gun, and a shot from the Chickasaw
broke Admiral Buchanan's leg."
But said Commander Nicholson of the Manhattan, in his official report:
"Of the six fifteen-inch projectiles fired from this vessel at the rebel
ironclad Tennessee, I claim four as having struck, doing most of the
real injuries that she has sustained"; then enumerating the injuries
inflicted, which included most of those claimed for the Chickasaw. Upon
which claim put forth by the Manhattan, the writer ventures the opinion:
First, that four hits out of six shots was poor shooting for a monitor
at a target like the Tennessee, and suggestive of considerable distance
between the vessels; second, that eye-witnesses have affirmed that only
one of the Manhattan's shot took effect, a solid shot that struck the
ram on the port beam, crushing her armor and splintering the backing,
but not entering the casemate, though leaving a clean hole through;
third, that the effect of that one shot showed what the Manhattan might
have accomplished had she taken as favorable a position as that chosen
by the Chickasaw; fourth, that it is believed the report of a board of
survey confirmed the opinion as to that one shot; fifth, that, as
between the great difference of sound in the firing of the fifteen-inch
gun and an eleven-inch, and the greater destructive effect of the larger
projectiles which could not but be felt by those receiving it, the enemy
would best be likely to know from what source they sustained the most
vital damage; sixth, that the concurrent opinions of the day, as given
by press correspondents, eye-witnesses to the conflict, magazine
summaries, official reports, the praise of Perkins on every lip, the
talk of his promotion by distinguished officers, and the testimony of
the enemy themselves, including Admiral Buchanan and Captain Johnston,
all go to show that the surrender of the Tennessee was due more to the
dogged and unrelenting effort and skilful management of Perkins of the
Chickasaw than from any other cause.
Asked the Tennessee's pilot of "Metacomet" Jouett: "Who commanded the
monitor that got under our stern?" adding, "D----n him! he stuck to us
like a leech; we could not get away from him. It was he who cut away the
steering gear, jammed the stern port shutters, and wounded Admiral
Buchanan."
Said Captain Johnston, in the same vein: "If it had not been for that
d----d black hulk hanging on our stern we would have got along well
enough; she did us more damage than all the rest of the Federal fleet."
"The praise of Commander Perkins," wrote a son of Concord, himself an
active participant in the fight, "on the superb management of his
command, and the most admirable and efficient working of his ship, was
upon the lips of all."
Pages of similar commendation might be quoted, but what need multiply
testimony so direct and conclusive as to Perkins's gallantry and
achievement, questioned only in quarters where the discretion of silence
and suggestion of modesty had best been observed!
It only remains to add, in this connection, that so long as the
Tennessee continued to flaunt her flag in face of the fleet, so long the
work of that glorious day was of naught; that her capture, due in
greatest part to the efforts of the Chickasaw, completed the work and
ensured, without embarrassment, the continued operations against Fort
Morgan and other defences in the bay.
Perkins, not content with laurels already won, got under weigh after
dinner, and steamed up to Fort Powell, taking that work in rear. The
shots from the Chickasaw destroyed the water-tanks, and Captain Anderson
reported that, believing it to be impossible to drive the ironclad from
its position, and fearing that a shell from the Chickasaw would explode
the magazine, he decided to save his command and blow up the fort, which
was done that night at 10.30. In the afternoon, the Chickasaw had seized
a barge loaded with stores, from under the guns of Fort Powell, and
towed it to the fleet.
The next afternoon, the ever-ready and alert Chickasaw, under her
indefatigable commander, went down to Fort Gaines and shelled that work
until dusk with such telling effect, that, coupled with the fact that
the landforce under General Granger, investing its rear, was now ready
to open fire in conjunction with the fleet, the rebel commander
capitulated the next morning.
Morgan was now the only remaining work of the outer line of Mobile's
defences to be "possessed and occupied," and General Granger, after
throwing a sufficient garrison into Gaines, transferred his army and
siege-train to the other side of the bay, and landing at Navy Cove, some
four miles from Morgan, began its investment.
While this was going on, the Chickasaw was not idle, but continually
using her guns at one point and another, with occasional exchanges of
shotted compliments with the rams and batteries across the obstructions
in Dog River, forming the inner line of defence of the city, some four
miles distant.
On the twenty-second of August, the approaches having been completed,
the land and naval forces opened a terrific fire on devoted Morgan, and
continued it throughout the day with such effect that General Page,
commanding the garrison, struck his colors and surrendered the next day.
The Chickasaw was as conspicuous in the bombardment as she had been in
all her work since entering the bay. It was not in Perkins's temperament
to be otherwise, and said an eye-witness at the time: "It was a glorious
sight to see the gallant Perkins in the Chickasaw, nearly all the
morning almost touching the wharf, and pouring in his terrible missiles,
two at a time, making bricks and mortar fly in all directions, then
moving ahead or astern a little to get a fresh place. He stayed there
till nearly noon, when he hauled off to cool his guns and give his men
some refreshment. In the afternoon, he took his ship in again, and
turret after turret was emptied at the poor fort."
Perkins sent home the flag that had flown over the fort during the
bombardment he obtained it in this wise: "The sailors from this ship,"
said he, "hauled down the flag, and one of them seized it and hid it in
his bosom; there was not much left of it; it was riddled and torn. He
brought it to me, declaring that no one had a right to it but the
captain of the Chickasaw. I hardly knew what to do about it, but the man
seemed so earnest I could not refuse to take it from him."
The bay was now sealed to blockade runners, and Mobile, measured as to
its commercial importance to the Confederacy, might as well have been
located among the mountains of northern Alabama as on the Gulf; and
owing to strategic reasons, operations for its immediate reduction came
to a halt. But on the twenty-seventh of March, 1865, the land and naval
forces began a joint movement against the defences surrounding the city,
and on the twelfth of April the Union forces were in full possession. In
these last operations, which cost the loss of two light draught
ironclads, a gunboat, and several other smaller vessels by torpedoes, we
may know that the Chickasaw was never in the background.
In July, Perkins was relieved from the command and ordered home. He had
volunteered for the Mobile fight but had been detained on board the
Chickasaw nearly thirteen months.
On his arrival home, he was overwhelmed with congratulations upon his
gallantry and achievements in Mobile Bay; but his friends felt indignant
that no promotion had followed them, believing that at least the thirty
numbers authorized by statute, "for eminent and conspicuous conduct in
battle," could not be reasonably denied him. But he would not work
personally toward that end, nor pull political wires to attain it. With
him, the promotion must come unasked or not at all. It never came, and
others disputed, with unblushing effrontery, the laurels he had won. Not
only that, but he has seen, as well as others, those who did the least
service during the war, given recognition and place over those who "bore
the heat and burden of the day," during those four years so momentous in
the annals of the Republic.
The following winter he was stationed at New Orleans, in charge of
ironclads, and in May, 1866, was ordered as executive officer of the
Lackawanna, for a cruise of three years in the North Pacific. The
"piping times of peace" had come, and officers who had had important
commands, now had to take a step back to the regular duties of their
grade. Returning from the Pacific in the early spring of 1869, he was
ordered to the Boston Navy Yard on ordnance duty, and in March, 1871,
received his commission as commander. Two months later, he was selected
to command the storeship Relief, to carry provisions to the suffering
French of the Franco-German war. On his return, after a lapse of six
months, he resumed his duties at the Boston yard, until appointed
lighthouse inspector of the Boston district, which position he held
until January, 1876.
Meanwhile he had taken to himself a wife, having, in 1870, married Miss
Anna Minot Weld, daughter of Mr. William F. Weld, of Boston. The issue
of the marriage has been one child, a daughter, born in 1877.
From March, 1877, until May, 1879, he was in command of the United
States steamer Ashuelot on the Asiatic station, making a most
interesting cruise, and having, for a time, the pleasure of General
Grant's company on board, as a guest.
Since his return from that cruise he has been on "waiting orders,"
varied by occasional duty as member of courts-martial, boards of
examination, and the like.
In March, 1882, he was promoted to a post-captaincy, as the grade of
captain in the navy was styled in the olden time, which grade
corresponds with that of colonel in the army.
Captain Perkins has a house in Boston, where he makes his home in
winter, but nothing has ever weakened his affection for the old Granite
State, and nothing delights him more, when possible to do so, than to
put behind him the whirl and distraction of the city for the quiet
enjoyment of the fresh, exhilarating air, unpretentious, wholesome life,
and substantial ways that await him among his dear native hills.
In glancing over the "Portraits for Posterity," the writer notes the
conspicuous absence of naval representation among the "counterfeit
presentments" that adorn the walls of the Capitol at Concord and the
halls of Dartmouth, and ventures to suggest to Governor Prescott, the
distinguished and indefatigable collector of most of the pictures, that
portraits of Thornton of the Kearsarge, and Perkins of the Cayuga and
Chickasaw, might fittingly be given place among those who, in the varied
walks of life, have lent distinction and added lustre to the Province
and State of New Hampshire from Colonial times to this. Let not the men
of the sea be forgotten!
* * * * *
FROM THE WHITE HORSE TO LITTLE RHODY.
BY CHARLES M. BARROWS.
Were other means lacking, the progress of the human race might be pretty
accurately gauged by its modes of locomotion. On such a basis of
classification there might be a pedestrian period, a pilgrim period, a
saddle period, a road-wain period, a stage-coach period, and a railway
period.
Relatively considered, each mode of travel thus indicated would be an
index of the necessities and activity of the times. The nomadic peoples
dwelt in a leisurely world, and were content to go a-foot; their wants
were simple, their aspirations temperate; subsistence for themselves and
their flocks was their great care, and only when the grass withered and
the stream dried up did they set forth in quest of fresh pasturage. At
length, however, the dull-thoughted tribular chieftain became curious to
know what lay beyond the narrow horizon of his wilderness, and men bound
on the sandal, girded up their loins, grasped staff, and beat paths up
and down the valleys, trudging behind an ass or a pack-horse that
carried their impedimenta. Another advance, and the man who drove his
beast before him found that the creature was able to carry both his pack
and himself; and training soon enabled the animal to mend his pace and
transport his master rapidly across long stretches of waste country.
Another period elapsed, and ambitious man discovered that, by clearing a
passage for wheels, the load could be shifted from the back of the beast
to a wagon drawn behind him; thus carriages came into use, and the race
went bowling along the great highway of progress at a wonderful rate.
Then vehicles began to be improved, and the restless brain of the
inventor contrived a stage-coach for the convenience of those who had no
private carriages or did not care to use them; though rude at first, it
soon came to be luxurious, with thorough braces, upholstery, and glass
windows. But even this noisy vehicle, that abridged distance and brought
far cities near together, outgrew its usefulness and gave way to its
rival, the steam-car, which could hurry men through the land as on the
wings of a tornado. And now the same race, which in the morning of the
world was content to wander four or five miles between sun and sun, and
had no wish to go faster, can scarcely abide the slowness of a
palace-car sliding over a mile of steel rail each minute, and General
Meigs is importuning the Legislature for leave to construct a railway on
which trains shall run at three times that speed.
It would be too much to ask this hurrying, restless, nineteenth-century
world to retrace its way by rail and turnpike, saddle and sandal, back
to the slow patriarch, who kept his youth a hundred years, and in all
that time might not have traveled as far as a suburban gentleman of
to-day does in going once from his home to his place of business in
Boston. It might halt long enough, however, to enjoy a view of the
stage-coach in which its grandfathers got on so rapidly, rumbling before
a cloud of dust over the straight pike that used to connect the
metropolis with some lesser city.
Such a highway was the Norfolk and Bristol Turnpike, the grand avenue of
public travel between Boston and Providence, and one link of the
continuous thoroughfare connecting New England with New York and
Washington. It was opened during the years of intense activity that
marked the infancy of the nation, and it had a distinct corporate
existence and history, like the railroad that ruined it, and was owned
and operated by a stock company. Though the entire road was not fifty
miles in length, the original enterprise contemplated only a section
thereof, which, in accordance with an act of incorporation passed by the
State Legislature in 1802, was built from the court-house in Dedham, the
shire town of Norfolk County, to the north precinct meeting-house in
Attleborough, then a small border town of Bristol County.
The members of the original corporation that held the franchise of the
road were Fisher Ames, James Richardson, and Timothy Gay, Jr., of
Dedham; Timothy Whitney and John Whiting, of Roxbury; Eliphalet Slack,
Samuel S. Blackinton, William Blackinton, Israel Hatch, Elijah Daggett,
and Joseph Holmes, of Attleborough; Ephraim Starkweather, Oliver
Wilkinson, and Ozias Wilkinson, of Pawtucket, Rhode Island. They were
all enterprising business men in their day, well known throughout
Eastern Massachusetts, and the undertaking for which they combined
seemed as vast to the rural denizens of the towns through which it
passed as did the Pacific Railroad enterprise to capitalists twenty
years ago. To the surprise of the honest farmers, who considered the
crooked county roads good enough for them, it made almost a straight
line from one terminus to the other, and was laid out four rods in
width--a reckless waste of land--as a preventive against snow blockades
in winter Instead of following the windings of valley and stream as
other roads did, this pike mounted directly over all interposing hills,
in accordance with the most approved theories of civil engineers of that
day; and where sections of those old thoroughfares still remain intact,
it is amusing to observe at what steep, straight grades they were made
to climb the most abrupt ascent, curving neither to the right nor to the
left in merciful consideration for the horses.
But it must not be supposed that public stage-coach travel on the route
here indicated began with the opening of the Norfolk and Bristol
Turnpike. The first conveyance of the kind started on its devious way
over the poor county roads from Boston to Providence in 1767; and the
quaint Jedediah Morse records that twelve years later the "intercourse
of the country barely required two stages and twelve horses on this
line"; but the same authority states that in 1797 twenty stages and one
hundred horses were employed, and that the number of different stages
leaving Boston during the week was twenty.
The first stage-coach that passed over this new turnpike was driven by
William Hodges, familiarly called "Bill," a famous Jehu, whose exploits
with rein and whip, being really of a high order of merit, were
graphically set forth to any passenger who shared the box with him,
after Bill's spirits had been raised and his tongue limbered with the
requisite number of "nippers"; and the increased comfort and rapidity of
the journey were so clearly apparent, that the line was soon after
extended to connect the capitals of the Bay State and Little Rhody.
In those days there was but one way to drive out of Boston, and that a
narrow one known as the "Neck," beyond which was Roxbury. Across this
isthmus all northward, westward, and southward-bound vehicles must pass,
in leaving or entering the city. The narrowest place was at the present
intersection of Dover Street with Washington, or, as it was then called,
Orange, Street. In _ante-bellum_ times this was the southern limit of
the city, and here a gate stood, which opened on to a causeway that
crossed the "salt marish," which at high tide was covered by the water.
To this gateway, then, the turnpike was extended from Dedham
court-house; and when the work was finished a coach, starting from the
White Horse Tavern in Boston, which stood near the site of the Adams
House, just opened by Messrs. Hall and Whipple, bowled along "a smooth
and easy highway" to the bank of the Providence River, making the long
journey within the incredibly short space of six consecutive hours, when
the wheeling was good.
This great work, which was talked about years before it was undertaken,
and then required years to finish, was a triumph of road-building, in
which both owners and contractors took a pardonable pride; and to those
familiar with the region through which it passed, the course will be
sufficiently indicated by noting here and there a way-mark. On leaving
Boston Neck it followed the already well-graded road through the
Highlands, to a point near the present station of the Boston and
Providence Railroad corporation in Roxbury, thence through West Roxbury
to Dedham, and on through Norwood to East Walpole; it left the central
village of Walpole a mile or so to the west, keeping near the Sharon
line, struck into the westerly edge of Foxborough to a point called the
Four Corners, then through Shepardville in Wrentham to North
Attleborough, Attleborough "City," Pawtucket, and Providence. A large
portion of the road is still kept in repair, so that one might take a
carriage and trace the route through its entire length.
To support such an expensive turnpike it was necessary to levy a tax on
those who made use of it, and to that end several toll-gates were
established, at which passengers were compelled to halt and pay their
lawful reckoning. These gates were located at Roxbury, Dedham, East
Walpole, Foxborough Four Corners, North Attleborough, and Pawtucket; and
so great was the patronage of the road, that the annual income derived
from these sources afforded the stockholders a handsome net dividend.
With the disuse of stage-coaches has perished that public convenience,
the country tavern, an institution with which the modern hotel has
little in common. It was suited to the needs and tastes of a former
generation, and to a time, it may be,
"When men lived in a grander way,
With ampler hospitality."
But no hotel of the present day, with its showy furnishings and glitter,
its gongs and bell-calls, its multitude of obsequious waiters, gauging
their attention by your clothes, will bear comparison with the old-time
tavern for homelike comfort and hearty good service. The guest, on his
arrival, tired and hungry, was not put off with the cold recognition of
a clerk who simply wrote after his name the number of his room, and then
with averted face said: "Waiter, show this gentleman to number
ninety-seven." On climbing out of the stage-coach, he was sure to see
mine host, a fat, jolly man, who greeted him, whether friend or
stranger, with a bow of genuine welcome, relieved him of his
hand-luggage, ushered him in before the open fire of the bar-room, and
actually asked what he would have for supper. Nor did this personal
interest cease as soon as the guest had been comfortably bestowed; for
the landlord was sure to have some pleasant words with him in the course
of the evening, and to make him feel, ere he went to rest, that, by
coming at that particular time, he had conferred on the host or some
other guest a special favor, so that he retired in the best of humor
with himself.