George Gibbs

It was Friday, the 5th of August, 1864. The first violet streaks of dawn stole through the purple clouds that the wind had tossed up during the night. Admiral Farragut sat in his cabin, quietly sipping his tea, his fleet-captain, Drayton, by his side. Through the open ports they could see the dim masses of the ships of the fleet as, lashed two and two, they stretched in a long line to seaward. The wind no longer blew, and the shrill pipes and the creaking of the blocks as the light yards came down echoed clearly across the silent water.

“How is the wind, Drayton?” said the admiral, at last.

Drayton walked to the port.

“About west-sou’west, sir, I should say.”

The admiral smiled.

“A good omen. Our smoke will blow over their batteries.”

He raised his cup, drained it, and set it back on its saucer. Then he rose to his feet and walked slowly up and down the cabin, looking first at his watch and then out through the starboard gallery, where the fleet lay. He turned, his genial face all aglow in the cool light of the morning, and reached to the table for his side-arms.

The moment had arrived.

“Well, Drayton,” he said, “we might as well get under weigh.”

Drayton knew, and Farragut knew, that the momentous day before them would decide the fate of the West Gulf and of the nation in the South. It was the supreme moment in the admiral’s career. But as he clasped his sword-belt his hands were as firm as though on inspection.

With a cheery “Aye, aye, sir,” Drayton went out of the door and up the companion, and soon the deck above resounded with the nimble feet as the men sprang joyfully to quarters. Old Knowles, the quartermaster, deftly sent his little ball of bunting, ready for an hour, to the yard-arm, and in a moment the row of multi-colored flags, tipped with the glow of the brightened east, fluttered proudly out into the morning breeze.

Then the bright answering pennants flew up from all the vessels of the fleet, and the black smoke poured from their dusky funnels as the white water churned up behind them on their way into line.

The admiral, on the quarter-deck, glass in hand, saw the black turrets of the monitors, with their grim, shiny muzzles, drift slowly inland towards the batteries, not a ripple showing behind them as they moved on their deadly mission towards the frowning battlements of Fort Morgan. Ahead of the “Hartford” was the broad stern of the “Brooklyn,” as she churned her way slowly onward, her smoke drifting in great clouds over her starboard bow towards the water-batteries. Beside the admiral, one hand on the rail, was Drayton, cool as though on a practice drill, and as he looked over the swarthy backs that shone bare in the morning sun he knew well that the flagship would give a good account of herself.

Behind him stood Watson, Gates, McKinley, and Brownell, watching the progress of the monitors. The calmness of the scene was sublime. Only an occasional order to the tacklemen, given in a quiet voice by the gun-captains, showed the deadly work ahead.

As the “Hartford” drew into range, the admiral walked over to the main rigging and clambered up into the shrouds; and his men below him at the batteries lovingly watched their “old man” as step by step he mounted to get a clearer view. They knew him for a gallant old sea-dog. They had seen him steam past the batteries at Vicksburg and Port Hudson, and they smiled at his sternness at the capture of New Orleans, for they loved him. But at Mobile they learned that he feared nothing above the ocean or under it, if it stood in the way of the cause of his country. At this point Farragut stood a few feet above Jouett, on the wheel-house of the “Metacomet” alongside, and could hail the top above him, where Freeman, his trusty pilot, gave him his soundings and bearings.

At length the battle opened. A great puff of white smoke rolled along the water from the turret of the “Tecumseh,” and a yellow cloud of dust above the water-batteries marked where the shot had struck. Fort Morgan immediately replied, and, as the gunners got the range, the angry splash of the shots as they skipped across the water came clearly to the crew of the “Hartford,” who stood at their guns silent and motionless. As the shots rained about them and great white splinters were torn from the nettings and flew across the decks, they only looked up at their admiral, who, leaning slightly forward, was slowly scanning the breastworks. In his face there was no impatience, no irritation, no sign of anxiety, and while he could calmly wait, they could. The courage of the leader was reflected in his men. It was the very perfection of human discipline.

Would the order to fire never come? Already a fragment of shell had struck a gun-captain in the breast, and they saw him carried past them, moaning piteously. A shot had struck the foremast, and a jagged splinter from the mainmast flew up and lodged in the rigging below where the admiral stood. They saw him take the glass from his eyes, and, turning towards Captain Drayton, hold up his hand.

The guns, already trained, belched forth their iron greeting to the gunboats, and the battle was on in earnest. Calm before, the men were calmer now, and they went about their work as though at target practice. The powder-boys flew like sprites, and the gunners sponged and loaded with rapidity. It was as if each gun and its crew were parts of one mechanism.

“Steady, boys, steady. Left tackle a little. So! so!”

And then came another broadside, followed by an eager cheer as the enemy were driven away from their water-battery.

THE ADMIRAL LASHED TO THE RIGGING

As the smoke from the broadsides increased and obscured his view, the admiral, ratline by ratline, ascended the rigging until he found himself partly above the futtock bands and holding on to the futtock shrouds. The watchful eye of Drayton saw him perched high up, all unconscious of himself, thinking only of the great movements about him. A shock, and he would be thrown into the sea. The captain gave an order to Knowles, the quartermaster, who lay aloft briskly with a piece of lead-line. The admiral did not even see him, and only when Knowles passed the line around him did Farragut take his glasses down. “Never mind,” said he, with a smile, “I’m all right.” But the quartermaster lashed him, nevertheless, and lay below.

Then from his lofty position the admiral saw a magnificent but terrible thing. The monitor “Tecumseh” was up well with the fort, and drawing slowly on, when, without a warning, a great column of water shot up under her starboard bow. She heeled over to port and went down with every soul on board. She had struck a torpedo. Captain Craven, in his eagerness to engage the “Tennessee” in battle, had passed to the west of the fatal buoy.

This disaster was not immediately realized by the men. Some supposed the “Tennessee” had been sunk, and cheer after cheer was taken up and echoed along the line.

But the admiral knew the danger that was coming. His anxiety was not decreased when the “Brooklyn,” just ahead of him, suddenly stopped. The frown on his brows deepened, and loudly he hailed his pilot, Freeman, in the top, a few feet above him,—

“What’s the matter with the Brooklyn?” he shouted. “She must have plenty of water there.”

Freeman’s head appeared promptly at the lubber’s hole.

“Plenty and to spare, admiral,” he answered.

Then the admiral knew. Captain Alden had seen the “Tecumseh” go down, and the heavy line of torpedoes across the channel made him pause. The backing screw churned up the water, and the “Hartford” every moment was bearing down on her. The vessels in the rear, pressing on those in the van, created a terrible confusion, and in the uncertainty the batteries of Farragut’s ships ceased fire, while the whole of Mobile Point was a living flame. Disaster was imminent.

But not a second did Farragut pause. A harsh voice from the “Hartford” broke the brief but ominous silence.

“What’s the trouble?”

Then Alden’s voice from the “Brooklyn” answered,—

“Torpedoes.”

“Damn the torpedoes!” shouted the admiral. “Four bells. Captain Drayton, go ahead. Jouett, full speed.”

And the “Hartford” dashed forward, passed the “Brooklyn,” and assumed the head of the column.

Over the line of mines they flew at full speed, and the men below could hear them as they scraped along the hull. It was the one way out of the difficulty, and a second’s hesitation would have closed even this escape from a frightful calamity. The admiral looked astern at the manoeuvring of his vessels with a smile of satisfaction. It was a magnificent sight. At first they appeared to be fouling each other in dire confusion, at the mercy of the guns which still belched forth a merciless fire. But as the “Hartford” dashed forward, one by one, as if by magic, they took their places. And he knew a grand tactical movement had been accomplished.

Nor did he forget the poor men of the “Tecumseh,” struggling in the water where their ship had gone down, but, going down the rigging, ordered Jouett to lower a boat immediately and pick up the survivors.

The “Hartford” was nearly a mile ahead before the line could be straightened, and single-handed she fought the batteries and the gunboats, making straight for Buchanan’s invincible ram, the “Tennessee.” Amid the fire of shot and bursting shell the admiral walked calmly back to his quarter-deck, giving a word of advice here and an order there. But soon the other vessels were able to pour in a storm of shot and shell that completely silenced the batteries.

One by one he saw the gunboats sink, until only the “Tennessee” had to be accounted for. The admiral tried to ram her, and the solid shot of his broadsides rolled down her iron sides; but she slipped away, pouring in a terrific fire at close range. She riddled the “Brooklyn,” “Richmond,” and “Monongahela,” all three of which dashed at her, bows on, at fearful speed. The admiral again struck her a fearful blow, but apparently with no effect whatever.

The ram had one great advantage: she was surrounded by enemies and could fire continually, while the Union vessels had to use the utmost care not to fire into or collide with one another. An accident of this kind now happened to Farragut’s ship. The “Hartford” and the “Lackawanna” were both making at full speed for the ram. The “Hartford” had the better position; and the “Lackawanna,” sheering off to avoid another ship, ran into the quarter of the flagship, just where the admiral was standing, cutting her down nearly to the water’s edge. The shock of the impact nearly took him off his feet, but in a moment he was climbing over the side to see what damage had been done.

His crew thought he was looking out for himself. Immediately there was a cry, “Get the admiral out of the ship.” The whole thought of his crew, unmindful of themselves, was to get him to a place of safety. It was a mere sudden impulse. But Farragut was not the man to look to himself. Having satisfied himself that the “Hartford” could last, he again gave the order, “Full speed,” and set his prow again for the “Tennessee.”

But in the meanwhile the monitors had been hammering away at her with their heavy shot. Her rudder and smoke-stack were shot away, and her shutters jammed, and as the “Hartford” bore down upon her for the third time she showed her white flag and surrendered.

The “Hartford” was greatly cut up,—twenty-five killed and twenty-eight wounded,—but the admiral had not a scratch to show for his deadly encounters. He came on deck just as the poor fellows who had been killed were being carefully laid out on the port side of the quarter-deck.

“It was a great victory, Drayton,” said he, sadly, “but——”

And the men saw him turn aside, tears coursing down his cheeks.

In truth, “there is nothing half so melancholy as a battle lost, except a battle won.”