Bitters before breakfast--An old Crimean
acquaintance--Earthworks and batteries--Estimate of
cannons--Magazines--Hospitality--English and American
introductions and leave-takings--Fort Pickens; its
interior--Return towards Mobile--Pursued by a strange
sail--Running the blockade--Landing at Mobile.
_May 16th._--The réveillé of the Zouaves, note for note the same
as that which, in the Crimea, so often woke up poor fellows who
slept the long sleep ere nightfall, roused us this morning early,
and then the clang of trumpets and the roll of drums beating
French calls summoned the volunteers to early parade. As there was
a heavy dew, and many winged things about last night, I turned
in to my berth below, where four human beings were supposed to
lie in layers, like mummies beneath a pyramid, and there, after
contention with cockroaches, sank to rest. No wonder I was rather
puzzled to know where I was now; for in addition to the music and
the familiar sounds outside, I was somewhat perturbed in my mental
calculations by bringing my head sharply in contact with a beam of
the deck which had the best of it; but, at last, facts accomplished
themselves and got into place, much aided by the appearance of the
negro cook with a cup of coffee in his hand, who asked, “Mosieu!
Capitaine vant to ax vedder you take some bitter, sar! Lisbon
bitter, sar.” I saw the captain on deck busily engaged in the
manufacture of a liquid which I was adjured by all the party on
deck to take, if I wished to make a Redan or a Malakhoff of my
stomach, and accordingly I swallowed a _petit verre_ of a very
strong, intensely bitter preparation of brandy and tonic roots,
sweetened with sugar, for which Mobile is famous.
The noise of our arrival had gone abroad; haply the report of the
good things with which the men of Mobile had laden the craft, for
a few officers came aboard even at that early hour, and we asked
two who were known to our friends to stay for breakfast. That
meal, to which the negro cook applied his whole mind and all the
galley, consisted of an ugly-looking but well-flavoured fish from
the waters outside us, fried ham and onions, biscuit, coffee,
iced water and Bordeaux, served with charming simplicity, and no
way calculated to move the ire of Horace by a display of Persic
apparatus.
A more greasy, oniony meal was never better enjoyed. One of our
guests was a jolly Yorkshire farmer-looking man, up to about 16
stone weight, with any hounds, dressed in a tunic of green baize
or frieze, with scarlet worsted braid down the front, gold lace
on the cuffs and collar, and a felt wide-awake, with a bunch of
feathers in it. He wiped the sweat off his brow, and swore that he
would never give in, and that the whole of the company of riflemen
whom he commanded, if not as heavy, were quite as patriotic. He
was evidently a kindly affectionate man, without a trace of malice
in his composition, but his sentiments were quite ferocious when
he came to speak of the Yankees. He was a large slave-owner, and
therefore a man of fortune, and he spoke with all the fervour of a
capitalist menaced by a set of Red Republicans.
His companion, who wore a plain blue uniform, spoke sensibly
about a matter with which sense has rarely anything to do--namely
uniform. Many of the United States volunteers adopt the same grey
colours so much in vogue among the Confederates. The officers of
both armies wear similar distinguishing marks of rank, and he was
quite right in supposing that in night marches, or in serious
actions on a large scale, much confusion and loss would be caused
by men of the same army firing on each other, or mistaking enemies
for friends.
Whilst we were talking, large shoals of mullet and other fish were
flying before the porpoises, red fish, and other enemies, in the
tideway astern of the schooner. Once, as a large white fish came
leaping up to the surface, a gleam of something still whiter shot
through the waves, and a boiling whirl, tinged with crimson, which
gradually melted off in the tide, marked where the fish had been.
“There’s a ground sheark as has got his breakfast,” quoth the
Skipper. “There’s quite a many of them about here.” Now and then
a turtle showed his head, exciting _desiderium tam cari capitis_,
above the envied flood which he honoured with his presence.
Far away, towards Pensacola, floated three British ensigns, from as
many merchantmen, which as yet had fifteen days to clear out from
the blockaded port. Fort Pickens had hoisted the stars and stripes
to the wind, and Fort M‘Rae, as if to irritate its neighbour,
displayed a flag almost identical, but for the “lone star,” which
the glass detected instead of the ordinary galaxy--the star of
Florida.
Lieutenant Ellis, General Bragg’s aide-de-camp, came on board at
an early hour, in order to take me round the works, and I was soon
on the back of the General’s charger, safely ensconced between
the raised pummel and cantle of a great brass-bound saddle, with
emblazoned saddle-cloth and mighty stirrups of brass, fit for the
fattest marshal that ever led an array of France to victory; but
General Bragg is longer in the leg than the Duke of Malakoff or
Marshal Canrobert, and all my efforts to touch with my toe the
wonderful supports which, in consonance with the American idea,
dangled far beneath, were ineffectual.
As our road lay by head-quarters, the aide-de-camp took me into
the court and called out “Orderly;” and at the summons a smart
soldier-like young fellow came to the front, took me three holes
up, and as I was riding away touched his cap and said, “I beg your
pardon, sir, but I often saw you in the Crimea.” He had been in the
11th Hussars, and on the day of Balaklava he was following close
to Lord Cardigan and Captain Nolan, when his horse was killed by a
round shot. As he was endeavouring to escape on foot the Cossacks
took him prisoner, and he remained for eleven months in captivity
in Russia, till he was exchanged at Odessa, towards the close of
the war; then, being one of two sergeants who were permitted to get
their discharge, he left the service. “But here you are again,”
said I, “soldiering once more, and merely acting as an orderly!”
“Well, that’s true enough, but I came over here, thinking to better
myself as some of our fellows did, and then the war broke out, and
I entered one of what they called their cavalry regiments--Lord
bless you, sir, it would just break your heart to see them--and
here I am now, and the general has made me an orderly. He is a
kind man, sir, and the pay is good, but they are not like the old
lot; I do not know what my lord would think of them.” The man’s
name was Montague, and he told me his father lived “at a place
called Windsor,” twenty-one miles from London. Lieutenant Ellis
said he was a very clean, smart, well-conducted soldier.
From head-quarters we started on our little tour of inspection
of the batteries. Certainly, anything more calculated to shake
confidence in American journalism could not be seen; for I had
been led to believe that the works were of the most formidable
description, mounting hundreds of guns. Where hundreds was written,
tens would have been nearer the truth.
I visited ten out of the thirteen batteries which General Bragg has
erected against Fort Pickens. I saw but five heavy siege guns in
the whole of the works among the fifty or fifty-five pieces with
which they were armed. There may be about eighty altogether on the
lines, which describe an arc of 135 degrees for about three miles
round Pickens, at an average distance of a mile and one-third. I
was rather interested with Fort Barrancas, built by the Spaniards
long ago--an old work on the old plan, weakly armed, but possessing
a tolerable command from the face of fire.
In all the batteries there were covered galleries in the rear,
connected with the magazines, and called “rat-holes,” intended by
the constructors as a refuge for the men whenever a shell from
Pickens dropped in. The rush to the rat-hole does not impress
one as being very conducive to a sustained and heavy fire, or at
all likely to improve the _morale_ of the gunners. The working
parties, as they were called--volunteers from Mississippi and
Alabama, great long-bearded fellows in flannel shirts and slouched
hats, uniformless in all save brightly burnished arms and resolute
purpose--were lying about among the works, or contributing
languidly to their completion.
Considerable improvements were in the course of execution; but the
officers were not always agreed as to the work to be done. Captain
A., at the wheel-barrows: “Now then, you men, wheel up these
sand-bags, and range them just at this corner,” Major B.: “My good
Captain A., what do you want the bags there for? Did I not tell
you, these merlons were not to be finished till we had completed
the parapet on the front?” Captain A.: “Well, Major, so you did,
and your order made me think you knew darned little about your
business; and so I am going to do a little engineering of my own.”
Altogether, I was quite satisfied General Bragg was perfectly
correct in refusing to open his fire on Fort Pickens and on the
fleet, which ought certainly to have knocked his works about
his ears, in spite of his advantages of position, and of some
well-placed mortar batteries among the brushwood, at distances from
Pickens of 2500 and 2800 yards. The magazines of the batteries I
visited did not contain ammunition for more than one day’s ordinary
firing. The shot were badly cast, with projecting flanges from the
mould, which would be very injurious to soft metal guns in firing.
As to men, as in guns, the Southern papers had lied consumedly.
I could not say how many were in Pensacola itself, for I did not
visit the camp: at the outside guess of the numbers there was 2000.
I saw, however, all the camps here, and I doubt exceedingly if
General Bragg--who at this time is represented to have any number
from 30,000 to 50,000 men under his command--has 8000 troops to
support his batteries, or 10,000, including Pensacola, all told.
If hospitality consists in the most liberal participation of all
the owner has with his visitors, here, indeed, Philemon has his
type in every tent. As we rode along through every battery, by
every officer’s quarters, some great Mississippian or Alabamian
came forward with “Captain Ellis, I am glad to see you.” “Colonel,”
to me, “won’t you get down and have a drink?” Mr. Ellis duly
introduces me. The Colonel with effusion grasps my hand and says,
as if he had just gained the particular object of his existence,
“Sir, I am very glad indeed to know you. I hope you have been
pretty well since you have been in our country, sir. Here, Pompey,
take the colonel’s horse. Step in, sir, and have a drink.” Then
comes out the great big whisky bottle, and an immense amount of
adhesion to the first law of nature is required to get you off with
less than half-a-pint of “Bourbon;” but the most trying thing to a
stranger is the fact that when he is going away, the officer, who
has been so delighted to see him, does not seem to care a farthing
for his guest or his health.
The truth is, these introductions are ceremonial observances, and
compliances with the universal curiosity of Americans to know
people they meet. The Englishman bows frigidly to his acquaintance
on the first introduction, and if he likes him shakes hands with
him on leaving--a much more sensible and justifiable proceeding.
The American’s warmth at the first interview must be artificial,
and the indifference at parting is ill-bred and in bad taste. I had
already observed this on many occasions, especially at Montgomery,
where I noticed it to Colonel Wigfall, but the custom is not
incompatible with the most profuse hospitality, nor with the desire
to render service.
On my return to head-quarters I found General Bragg in his room,
engaged writing an official letter in reply to my request to
be permitted to visit Fort Pickens, in which he gave me full
permission to do as I pleased. Not only this, but he had prepared
a number of letters of introduction to the military authorities,
and to his personal friends at New Orleans, requesting them to
give me every facility and friendly assistance in their power. He
asked me my opinion about the batteries and their armament, which
I freely gave him _quantum valeat_. “Well,” he said, “I think your
conclusions are pretty just; but, nevertheless, some fine day I
shall be forced to try the mettle of our friends on the opposite
side.” All I could say was, “May God defend the right.” “A good
saying, to which I say. Amen. And drink with you to it.”
There was a room outside, full of generals and colonels, to whom
I was duly introduced, but the time for departure had come, and
I bade good-by to the general and rode down to the wharf. I had
always heard, during my brief sojourn in the North, that the
Southern people were exceedingly illiterate and ignorant. It may
be so, but I am bound to say that I observed a large proportion of
the soldiers, on their way to the navy yard, engaged in reading
newspapers, though they did not neglect the various drinking bars
and exchanges, which were only too numerous in the vicinity of the
camps.
The schooner was all ready for sea, but the Mobile gentlemen had
gone off to Pensacola, and as I did not desire to invite them to
visit Fort Pickens--where, indeed, they would have most likely met
with a refusal--I resolved to sail without them and to return to
the navy yard in the evening, in order to take them back on our
homeward voyage. “Now then, captain, cast loose; we are going to
Fort Pickens.” The worthy seaman had by this time become utterly
at sea, and did not appear to know whether he belonged to the
Confederate States, Abraham Lincoln, or the British navy. But this
order roused him a little, and looking at me with all his eyes, he
exclaimed, “Why, you don’t mean to say you are going to make me
bring the Diana alongside that darned Yankee Fort!” Our tablecloth,
somewhat maculated with gravy, was hoisted once more to the peak,
and, after some formalities between the guardians of the jetty and
ourselves, the schooner canted round in the tideway, and with a
fine light breeze ran down towards the stars and stripes.
What magical power there is in the colours of a piece of bunting!
My companions, I dare say, felt as proud of their flag as if their
ancestors had fought under it at Acre or Jerusalem. And yet how
fictitious its influence! Death, and dishonour worse than death,
to desert it one day! Patriotism and glory to leave it in the
dust, and fight under its rival, the next! How indignant would
George Washington have been, if the Frenchman at Fort Du Quesne
had asked him to abandon the old rag which Braddock held aloft in
the wilderness, and to serve under the very _fleur-de-lys_ which
the same great George hailed with so much joy but a few years
afterwards, when it was advanced to the front at York Town, to win
one of its few victories over the Lions and the Harp. And in this
Confederate flag there is a meaning which cannot die--it marks the
birthplace of a new nationality, and its place must know it for
ever. Even the flag of a rebellion leaves indelible colours in the
political atmosphere. The hopes that sustained it may vanish in the
gloom of night, but the national faith still believes that its sun
will rise on some glorious morrow. Hard must it be for this race,
so arrogant, so great, to see stripe and star torn from the fair
standard with which they would fain have shadowed all the kingdoms
of the world; but their great continent is large enough for many
nations.
“And now,” said the skipper, “I think we’d best lie-to--them cussed
Yankees on the beach is shouting to us.” And so they were. A sentry
on the end of a wooden jetty sung out, “Hallo you there! Stand off
or I’ll fire,” and “drew a bead-line on us.” At the same time, the
skipper hailed, “Please to send a boat off to go ashore.” “No, sir!
Come in your own boat!” cried the officer of the guard. Our own
boat! A very skiff of Charon! Leaky, rotten, lop-sided. We were a
hundred yards from the beach, and it was to be hoped that with all
its burthen, it could not go down in such a short row. As I stepped
in, however, followed by my two companions, the water flew in as if
forced by a pump, and when the sailors came after us the skipper
said, through a mouthful of juice, “Deevid! pull your hardest,
for there an’t a more terrible place for shearks along the whole
coast.” Deevid and his friend pulled like men, and our hopes rose
with the water in the boat and the decreasing distance to shore.
They worked like Doggett’s badgers, and in five minutes we were
out of “sheark” depth and alongside the jetty, where Major Vogdes,
Mr. Brown, of the Oriental, and an officer, introduced as Captain
Barry of the United States artillery, were waiting to receive us.
Major Vogdes said that Colonel Brown would most gladly permit me
to go over the fort, but that he could not receive any of the
other gentlemen of the party; they were permitted to wander about
at their discretion. Some friends whom they picked up amongst the
officers took them on a ride along the island, which is merely a
sand-bank covered with coarse vegetation, a few trees, and pools of
brackish water.
If I were selecting a summer habitation I should certainly not
choose Fort Pickens. It is, like all other American works I have
seen, strong on the sea faces and weak towards the land. The outer
gate was closed, but at a talismanic knock from Captain Barry, the
wicket was thrown open by the guard and we passed through a vaulted
gallery into the parade ground, which was full of men engaged in
strengthening the place, and digging deep pits in the centre as
shell traps. The men were United States regulars, not comparable
in physique to the Southern volunteers, but infinitely superior in
cleanliness and soldierly smartness. The officer on duty led me
to one of the angles of the fort and turned in to a covered way,
which had been ingeniously contrived by tilting up gun platforms
and beams of wood at an angle against the wall, and piling earth
and sand banks against them for several feet in thickness. The
casemates, which otherwise would have been exposed to a plunging
fire in the rear, were thus effectually protected.
Emerging from this dark passage I entered one of the bomb-proofs,
fitted up as a bed-room, and thence proceeded to the casemate,
in which Colonel Harvey Browne has his head-quarters. After some
conversation, he took me out upon the parapet and went all over the
defences.
Fort Pickens is an oblique, and somewhat narrow parallelogram, with
one obtuse angle facing the sea and the other towards the land. The
bastion at the acute angle towards Barrancas is the weakest part of
the work, and men were engaged in throwing up an extempore glacis
to cover the wall and the casemates from fire. The guns were of
what is considered small calibre in these days, 32 and 42 pounders,
with four or five heavy columbiads. An immense amount of work has
been done within the last three weeks, but as yet the preparations
are by no means complete. From the walls, which are made of a hard
baked brick, nine feet in thickness, there is a good view of the
enemy’s position. There is a broad ditch round the work, now dry,
and probably not intended for water. The cuvette has lately been
cleared out, and in proof of the agreeable nature of the locality,
the officers told me that sixty very fine rattle-snakes were killed
by the workmen during the operation.
As I was looking at the works from the wall, Captain Vogdes made
a sly remark now and then, blinking his eyes and looking closely
at my face to see if he could extract any information. “There are
the quarters of your friend General Bragg; he pretends, we hear,
that it is an hospital, but we will soon have him out when we
open fire.” “Oh, indeed.” “That’s their best battery beside the
lighthouse; we can’t well make out whether there are ten, eleven,
or twelve guns in it.” Then Captain Vogdes became quite meditative,
and thought aloud, “Well, I’m sure, Colonel, they’ve got a strong
entrenched camp in that wood behind their mortar batteries. I’m
quite sure of it--we must look to that with our long-range guns.”
What the engineer saw, must have been certain absurd little furrows
in the sand, which the Confederates have thrown up about three
feet in front of their tents, but whether to carry off or to hold
rain water, or as cover for rattle-snakes, the best judge cannot
determine.
The Confederates have been greatly delighted with the idea that
Pickens will be almost untenable during the summer for the United
States troops, on account of the heat and mosquitos, not to speak
of yellow fever; but in fact they are far better off than the
troops on shore--the casemates are exceedingly well ventilated,
light and airy. Mosquitos, yellow fever, and dysentery, will
make no distinction between Trojan and Tyrian. On the whole, I
should prefer being inside, to being outside Pickens, in case of
a bombardment; and there can be no doubt the entire destruction
of the navy yard and station by the Federals can be accomplished
whenever they please. Colonel Browne pointed out the tall chimney
at Warrington smoking away, and said, “There, sir, is the whole
reason of Bragg’s forbearance, as it is called. Do you see?--they
are casting shot and shell there as fast as they can. They know
well if they opened a gun on us I could lay that yard and all their
works there in ruin;” and Colonel Harvey Browne seems quite the man
for the work--a resolute, energetic veteran, animated by the utmost
dislike to secession and its leaders, and full of what are called
“Union Principles,” which are rapidly becoming the mere expression
of a desire to destroy life, liberty, property, anything in fact
which opposes itself to the consolidation of the Federal government.
Probably no person has ever been permitted to visit two hostile
camps within sight of each other save myself, I was neither spy,
herald, nor ambassador; and both sides trusted to me fully on the
understanding that I would not make use of any information here,
but that it might be communicated to the world at the other side of
the Atlantic.
_Apropos_ of this, Colonel Browne told me an amusing story, which
shows that ’cuteness is not altogether confined to the Yankees.
Some days ago a gentleman was found wandering about the island,
who stated he was a correspondent of a New York paper. Colonel
Browne was not satisfied with the account he gave of himself, and
sent him on board one of the ships of the fleet, to be confined
as a prisoner. Soon afterwards a flag of truce came over from the
Confederates, carrying a letter from General Bragg, requesting
Colonel Browne to give up the prisoner, as he had escaped to the
island after committing a felony, and enclosing a warrant signed by
a justice of the peace for his arrest. Colonel Browne laughed at
the _ruse_, and keeps his prisoner.
As it was approaching evening and I had seen everything in the
fort, the hospital, casemates, magazines, bakehouses, tasted
the rations, and drank the whisky, I set out for the schooner,
accompanied by Colonel Browne and Captain Barry and other officers,
and picking up my friends at the bakehouse outside.
Having bidden our acquaintances good-by, we get on board the Diana,
which steered towards the Warrington navy yard, to take the rest
of the party on board. The sentries along the beach and on the
batteries grounded arms, and stared with surprise as the Diana,
with her tablecloth flying, crossed over from Fort Pickens, and ran
slowly along the Confederate works. Whilst we were spying for the
Mobile gentlemen, the mate took it into his head to take up the
Confederate bunting, and wave it over the quarter. “Hollo, what’s
that you’re doing?” “It’s only a signal to the gentlemen on shore.”
“Wave some other flag, if you please, when we are in these waters,
with a flag of truce flying.”
After standing off and on for some time, the Mobilians at last
boarded us in a boat. They were full of excitement, quite eager to
stay and see the bombardment which must come off in twenty-four
hours. Before we left Mobile harbour I had made a bet for a small
sum that neither side would attack within the next few days; but
now I could not even shake my head one way or the other, and it
required the utmost self-possession and artifice of which I was
master to evade the acute inquiries and suggestions of my good
friends. I was determined to go--they were equally bent upon
remaining; and so we parted after a short but very pleasant cruise
together.
We had arranged with Mr. Brown that we would look out for him on
leaving the harbour, and a bottle of wine was put in the remnants
of our ice to drink farewell; but it was almost dark as the Diana
shot out seawards between Pickens and M‘Rae; and for some anxious
minutes we were doubtful which would be the first to take a shot
at us. Our tablecloth still fluttered; but the colour might be
invisible. A lantern was hoisted astern by my order as soon as the
schooner was clear of the forts; and with a cool sea breeze we
glided out into the night, the black form of the Powhatan being
just visible, the rest of the squadron lost in the darkness. We
strained our eyes for the Oriental, but in vain; and it occurred
to us that it would scarcely be a very safe proceeding to stand
from the Confederate forts down towards the guardship, unless under
the convoy of the Oriental. It seemed quite certain she must be
cruising some way to the westward, waiting for us.
The wind was from the north, on the best point for our return; and
the Diana, heeling over in the smooth water, proceeded on her way
towards Mobile, running so close to the shore that I could shy a
biscuit on the sand. She seemed to breathe the wind through her
sails, and flew with a crest of flame at her bow, and a bubbling
wake of meteor-like streams flowing astern, as though liquid metal
were flowing from a furnace.
The night was exceedingly lovely, but after the heat of the day
the horizon was somewhat hazy. “No sign of the Oriental on our
lee-bow?” “Nothing at all in sight, sir, ahead or astern.” Sharks
and large fish ran off from the shallows as we passed, and rushed
out seawards in runs of brilliant light. The Perdida was left far
astern.
On sped the Diana, but no Oriental came in view. I felt exceedingly
tired, heated, and fagged; had been up early, ridden in a broiling
sun, gone through batteries, examined forts, sailed backwards and
forwards, so I was glad to turn in out of the night dew and,
leaving injunctions to the captain to keep a bright look out for
the Federal boarding schooner, I went to sleep without the smallest
notion that I had seen my last of Mr. Brown.
I had been two or three hours asleep when I was awoke by the negro
cook, who was leaning over the berth, and, with teeth chattering,
said, “Monsieur! nous sommes perdus! un bâtiment de guerre nous
poursuit--il va tirer bientôt. Nous serons coulé! Oh, Mon Dieu! Oh,
Mon Dieu!” I started up and popped my head through the hatchway.
The skipper himself was at the helm, glancing from the compass to
the quivering reef points of the mainsail. “What’s the matter,
captain.” “Waal, sir,” said the captain, speaking very slowly,
“There has been a something a running after us for nigh the last
two hours, but he ain’t a-gaining on us. I don’t think he’ll kitch
us up nohow this time; if the wind holds this pint a leetle, Diana
will beat him.”
The confidence of coasting captains in their own craft is an
hallucination which no risk or danger will ever prevent them from
cherishing most tenderly. There’s not a skipper from Hartlepool
to Whitstable who does not believe his Maryanne Smith or the Two
Grandmothers is able, “on certain pints,” to bump her fat bows, and
drag her coal-scuttle shaped stern faster through the sea than any
clipper afloat. I was once told by the captain of a Margate Billy
Boy he believed he could run to windward of any frigate in Her
Majesty’s service.
“But, good heavens, man, it may be the Oriental--no doubt it is Mr.
Brown who is looking after us.”
“Ah! Waal, may be. Whoever it is, he creeped quite close up on me
in the dark. It give me quite a sterk when I seen him. ‘May be,’
says I, ‘he is a privateering--pirating--chap,’ So I runs in shore
as close as I could; gets my centre board in, and, says I, ‘I’ll
see what you’re made of, my boy,’ And so we goes on. He ain’t
a-gaining on us, I can tell you.”
I looked through the glass, and could just make out, half or
three-quarters of a mile astern, and to leeward, a vessel, looking
quite black, which seemed to be standing on in pursuit of us. The
shore was so close, we could almost have leaped into the surf, for
when the centre board was up the Diana did not draw much more than
four feet water. The skipper held grimly on. “You had better shake
your wind, and see who it is; it may be Mr. Brown.” “No, _sir_, Mr
Brown or no, I can’t help carrying on now; there’s a bank runs all
along outside of us, and if I don’t hold my course I’ll be on it in
one minute.” I confess I was rather annoyed, but the captain was
master of the situation. He said, that if it had been the Oriental
she would have fired a blank gun to bring us to as soon as she saw
us. To my inquiries why he did not awaken me when she was first
made out, he innocently replied, “You was in such a beautiful
sleep, I thought it would be regular cruelty to disturb you.”
By creeping close in shore the Diana was enabled to keep to
windward of the stranger, who was seen once or twice to bump or
strike, for her sails shivered. “There, she’s struck again.” “She’s
off once more,” and the chase is renewed. Every moment I expected
to have my eyes blinded by the flash of her bow gun, but for some
reason or another, possibly because she did not wish to check her
way, the Oriental--privateer, or whatever it was--saved her powder.
A stern chase is a long chase. It is two o’clock in the
morning--the skipper grinned with delight. “I’ll lead him into a
pretty mess if he follows me through the ‘Swash,’ whoever he is.”
We were but ten miles from Fort Morgan. Nearer and nearer to the
shore creeps the Diana.
“Take a cast of the lead, John.” “Nine feet.” “Good. Again.” “Seven
feet.” “Again.” “Five feet.” “Charlie, bring the lantern.” We were
now in the “Swash,” with a boiling tideway.
Just at the moment that the negro uncovered the lantern out
it went, a fact which elicited the most remarkable amount of
imprecations ear ever heard. The captain went dancing mad in
intervals of deadly calmness, and gave his commands to the crew,
and strange oaths to the cook alternately, as the mate sung
out, “Five feet and a-half.” “About she goes! Confound you, you
black scoundrel, I’ll teach you,” &c., &c. “Six feet! Eight feet
and a-half!” “About she comes again.” “Five feet! Four feet and
a-half.” (Oh, Lord! Six inches under our keel!) And so we went,
with a measurement between us and death of inches, not by any means
agreeable, in which the captain showed remarkable coolness and
skill in the management of his craft, combined with a most unseemly
animosity towards his unfortunate cook.
It was very little short of a miracle that we got past the “Elbow,”
as the most narrow part of the channel is called, for it was just
at the critical moment the binnacle light was extinguished, and
went out with a splutter, and there we were left in darkness in
a channel not one hundred yards wide and only six feet deep.
The centre board also got jammed once or twice when it was most
important to lie as close to the wind as possible; but at last
the captain shouted out, “It’s all right, we’re in deep water,”
and calling the mate to the helm proceeded to relieve his mind
by chasing Charlie into a corner and belabouring him with a dead
shark or dog fish about four feet long, which he picked up from the
deck as the handiest weapon he could find. For the whole morning,
henceforth, the captain found great comfort in making constant
charges on the hapless cook, who at last slyly threw the shark
overboard at a favourable opportunity, and forced his master to
resort to other varieties of Rhadamantine implements. But where
was the Oriental all this time? No one could say; but Charlie, who
seemed an authority as to her movements, averred she put her helm
round as soon as we entered the “Swash,” and disappeared in black
night.
The Diana had thus distinguished herself by running the blockade
of Pensacola, but a new triumph awaited her. As we approached
Fort Morgan a grey streak in the East just offered light enough
to distinguish the outlines of the fort and of the Confederate
flag which waved above it. A fair breeze carried us abreast of the
signal station, one solitary light gleamed from the walls, but
neither guard boat put off to board us, nor did sentry hail, nor
was gun fired--still we stood on. “Captain, had you not better
lie-to? They’ll be sending a round shot after us presently.” “No,
_sir_. They are all asleep in that fort,” replied the indomitable
skipper.
Down went his helm, and away ran the Diana into Mobile Bay, and
was soon safe in the haze beyond shot or shell, running towards the
opposite shore. This was glory enough, for the Diana of Mobile. The
wind blew straight from the North into our teeth, and at bright
sunrise she was only a few miles inside the bay.
All the live-long day was spent in tacking from one low shore to
another low shore, through water which looked like pea soup. We
had to be sure the pleasure of seeing Mobile from every point
of view, east and west, with all the varieties between northing
and southing, and numerous changes in the position of steeples,
sand-hills, and villas, the sun roasting us all the time and boiling
the pitch out of the seams.
The greatest excitement of the day was an encounter with a
young alligator, making an involuntary voyage out to sea in the
tideway. The crew said he was drowning, having lost his way or
being exhausted by struggling with the current. He was about ten
feet long, and appeared to be so utterly done up that he would
willingly have come aboard as he passed within two yards of us; but
desponding as he was, it would have been positive cruelty to have
added him to the number of our party.
The next event of the day was dinner, in which Charlie outrivalled
himself by a tremendous fry of onions and sliced Bologna sausage,
and a piece of pig, which had not decided whether it was to be pork
or bacon.
Having been fourteen hours beating some twenty-seven miles, I was
landed at last at a wharf in the suburbs of the town about five
o’clock in the evening. On my way to the Battle House I met seven
distinct companies marching through the streets to drill, and the
air was filled with sounds of bugling and drumming. In the evening
a number of gentlemen called upon me to inquire what I thought of
Fort Pickens and Pensacola, and I had some difficulty in parrying
their very home questions, but at last adopted a formula which
appeared to please them--I assured my friends I thought it would be
an exceedingly tough business whenever the bombardment took place.
One of the most important steps which I have yet heard of has
excited little attention, namely, the refusal of the officer
commanding Fort MacHenry, at Baltimore, to obey the writ of _habeas
corpus_ issued by a judge of that city for the person of a soldier
of his garrison. This military officer takes upon himself to aver
there is a state of civil war in Baltimore, which he considers
sufficient legal cause for the suspension of the writ.