running the blockade 7

running the blockade 7

"There's one of them, Mr. Taylor," he whispered, "on the starboard bow."

 

In vain I strained my eyes to where he pointed, not a thing could I see;

but presently I heard Steele say beneath his breath, "All right,

Burroughs, I see her. Starboard a little, steady!" was the order passed

aft.

 

A moment afterwards I could make out a long low black object on our

starboard side, lying perfectly still. Would she see us? that was the

question; but no, though we passed within a hundred yards of her we were

not discovered, and I breathed again. Not very long after we had dropped

her Burroughs whispered,—

 

"Steamer on the port bow."

 

And another cruiser was made out close to us.

 

"Hard-a-port," said Steele, and round she swung, bringing our friend

upon our beam. Still unobserved we crept quietly on, when all at once a

third cruiser shaped herself out of the gloom right ahead and steaming

slowly across our bows.

 

"Stop her," said Steele in a moment, and as we lay like dead our enemy

went on and disappeared in the darkness. It was clear there was a false

reckoning somewhere, and that instead of rounding the head of the

blockading line we were passing through the very centre of it. However,

Burroughs was now of opinion that we must be inside the squadron and

advocated making the land. So "slow ahead" we went again, until the

low-lying coast and the surf line became dimly visible. Still we could

not tell where we were, and, as time was getting on alarmingly near

dawn, the only thing to do was to creep down along the surf as close in

and as fast as we dared. It was a great relief when we suddenly heard

Burroughs say, "It's all right, I see the 'Big Hill'!"

 

The "Big Hill" was a hillock about as high as a full-grown oak tree, but

it was the most prominent feature for miles on that dreary coast, and

served to tell us exactly how far we were from Fort Fisher. And

fortunate it was for us we were so near. Daylight was already breaking,

and before we were opposite the fort we could make out six or seven

gunboats, which steamed rapidly towards us and angrily opened fire.

Their shots were soon dropping close around us: an unpleasant sensation

when you know you have several tons of gunpowder under your feet. To

make matters worse, the North Breaker shoal now compelled us to haul off

the shore and steam further out. It began to look ugly for us, when all

at once there was a flash from the shore followed by a sound that came

like music to our ears—that of a shell whirring over our heads. It was

Fort Fisher, wide awake and warning the gunboats to keep their distance.

With a parting broadside they steamed sulkily out of range, and in half

an hour we were safely over the bar. A boat put off from the fort and

then,—well, it was the days of champagne cocktails, not whiskies and

sodas—and one did not run a blockade every day. For my part, I was

mightily proud of my first attempt and my baptism of fire.

Blockade-running seemed the pleasantest and most exhilarating of

pastimes. I did not know then what a very serious business it could be.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER V

 

FORT FISHER AND WILMINGTON

 

Colonel William Lamb—A battery of Whitworth guns—Mrs. Lamb—A

lovely Puritan maiden—An historical cottage—British naval

officers—The Santa Claus of the war—Admiral Porter's fleet—Visit

of General Curtis and Colonel Lamb to Fort Fisher—Identifying

historic spots—Strict quarantine—Cheerful slaves—Open house on

board the _Banshee_—Reckless loading—An impudent plan—The

_Minnesota_—A simple manœuvre—A triumphant success.

 

 

It was now that I made the acquaintance—soon to ripen into a warm

friendship—of Colonel William Lamb, the Commandant of Fort Fisher,—a man

of whose courtesy, courage, and capacity all the English who knew him

spoke in the highest terms. Originally a Virginian lawyer and afterwards

the editor of a newspaper, he volunteered at the outbreak of the war,

and rising rapidly to the grade of colonel was given the command of Fort

Fisher, a post which he filled with high distinction till its fall in

1865. With the blockade-runners he was immensely popular; always on the

alert and ever ready to reach a helping hand, he seemed to think no

exertion too great to assist their operations, and many a smart vessel

did his skill and activity snatch from the very jaws of the blockaders.

He came to be regarded by the runners as their guardian angel; and it

was no small support in the last trying moments of a run to remember who

was in Fort Fisher.

 

So much did we value his services and so grateful were we for them, that

at my suggestion my firm subsequently presented him with a battery of

six Whitworth guns, of which he was very proud; and good use he made of

them in keeping the blockaders at a respectful distance. They were guns

with a great range, which many a cruiser found to its cost when

venturing too close in chase down the coast. Lamb would gallop them down

behind the sandhills, by aid of mules, and open fire upon the enemy

before he was aware of his danger. Neither must I forget his charming

wife (alas, now numbered among the majority); her hospitality and

kindness were unbounded, and many a pleasant social evening have I and

my brother blockade-runners spent in her little cottage outside the

fort.

 

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF COLONEL LAMB. _To face page 56._]

 

The following extract from _Southern Historical Papers_, written by

Colonel Lamb a few years ago, will doubtless interest my readers; also

the account, copied from the _Wilmington Messenger_, of a meeting which

took place lately between him and General Curtis at Fort Fisher.

 

 

In the fall of 1857 a lovely Puritan maiden, still in her

teens, was married in Grace Church, Providence, Rhode

Island, to a Virginia youth, just passed his majority, who

brought her to his home in Norfolk, a typical ancestral

homestead, where beside the "white folks" there was quite

a colony of family servants, from the pickaninny just able to

crawl to the old gray-headed mammy who had nursed "ole

massa." She soon became enamoured of her surroundings

and charmed with the devotion of her coloured maid, whose

sole duty it was to wait upon her young missis. When

the John Brown raid burst upon the South and her husband

was ordered to Harper's Ferry, there was not a more

indignant matron in all Virginia, and when at last secession

came, the South did not contain a more enthusiastic little

rebel.

 

On the 15th of May 1862, a few days after the surrender

of Norfolk to the Federals, by her father-in-law,

then mayor, amid the excitement attending a captured city,

her son Willie was born. Cut off from her husband and

subjected to the privations and annoyances incident to a

subjugated community, her father insisted upon her coming

with her children to his home in Providence; but, notwithstanding

she was in a luxurious home, with all that paternal

love could do for her, she preferred to leave all these

comforts to share with her husband the dangers and

privations of the South. She vainly tried to persuade

Stanton, Secretary of War, to let her and her three children,

with a nurse, return to the South; finally he consented to

let her go by flag of truce from Washington to City Point,

but without a nurse, and as she was unable to manage

three little ones, she left the youngest with his grandparents,

and with two others bravely set out for Dixie. The generous

outfit of every description which was prepared for the

journey, and which was carried to the place of embarkation,

was ruthlessly cast aside by the inspectors on the wharf,

and no tears or entreaties or offers of reward by the parents

availed to pass anything save a scanty supply of clothing

and other necessaries. Arriving in the South, the brave

young mother refused the proffer of a beautiful home in

Wilmington, the occupancy of the grand old mansion at

"Orton," on the Cape Fear river, but insisted upon taking

up her abode with her children and their coloured nurse in

the upper room of a pilot's house, where they lived until

the soldiers of the garrison built her a cottage one mile

north of Fort Fisher, on the Atlantic beach. In both of

these homes she was occasionally exposed to the shot and

shell fired from blockaders at belated blockade-runners.

 

It was a quaint abode, constructed in most primitive

style, with three rooms around one big chimney, in which