Читать книгу Civil War Live - Charles Carleton Coffin - Страница 9

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Tennessee joined the Southern Confederacy, but Kentucky resisted all the coaxing, threatening, and planning of the leaders of the Rebellion. Some Kentuckians talked of remaining neutral, of taking no part in the great contest; but that was not possible. The Rebels invaded the State, by sailing up the Mississippi and taking possession of Columbus, — a town twenty miles below the mouth of the Ohio. They also advanced from Nashville to Bowling Green. Then the State decided for the Union, — to stand by the old flag till the Rebellion should be crushed.

The Rebels erected two forts on the northern line of Tennessee. Looking at your map, you see that the Cumberland and Tennessee Rivers are near together where they enter the State of Kentucky. They are not more than twelve miles apart. The fort on the Tennessee River was named Fort Henry, the one on the Cumberland, Fort Donelson. A good road was cut through the woods between them, so that troops and supplies could be readily removed from one to the other. Fort Henry was on the eastern bank of the Tennessee, and Fort Donelson on the western bank of the Cumberland. They were very important places to the Rebels, for at high water in the winter the rivers are navigable for the largest steamboats, — the Cumberland to Nashville and the Tennessee to Florence, in Northern Alabama, — and it would be very easy to transport an army from the Ohio River to the very heart of the Southern Confederacy. The forts were built to prevent any such movement of the Union troops.

The Forts.

The bluffs of the Mississippi River at Columbus are two hundred feet high. There the Rebels erected strong batteries, planting heavy guns, with which they could sweep the Mississippi far up stream, and pour plunging shots with unobstructed aim upon any descending gunboat. They called it a Gibraltar, because of its strength. They said it could not be taken, and that the Mississippi was closed to navigation till the independence of the Southern Confederacy was acknowledged.

Early in the war it was seen that a fleet of gunboats would be needed on the Western rivers, and Captain Andrew H. Foote of the navy was placed in charge of their construction. They were built at Cincinnati and St. Louis, and taken to Cairo, where they received their armament, crews, and outfit.

You have heard of Cairo. I do not mean the ancient city on the banks of the Nile, but the modern town on the tongue of land at the mouth of the Ohio. Charles Dickens has given a description of the place in one of his delightful books, — Martin Chuzzlewit. It was a forest, with a few log-huts, when Mark Tapley resided there, and all the people were smitten with fever and ague. It is a town now, with several thousand inhabitants. In the spring the town is sometimes overflowed, and the people navigate the streets with boats and rafts. Pigs look out of the chamber windows, and dogs, cats, and chickens live on the roofs of houses at such times.

Let us take a look at the place as it appeared the first day of February, 1862. Stand with me on the levee, and look up the broad Ohio, — the “la belle rivière,” as the French called it. There are from fifty to a hundred steamboats lying along the bank, with volumes of black smoke rolling up from their tall chimneys, and puffs of steam vanishing in the air. Among them are the gunboats, — a cross between a floating fort, a dredging-machine, and a mud-scow. The sailors, who have been tossed upon the ocean in stately ships, call them mud-turkles. There are thousands of soldiers on the steamboats and on the shore, waiting for the sailing of the expedition which is to make an opening in the line of Rebel defences. There are thousands of people busy as bees, loading and unloading the steamboats, rolling barrels and boxes.

When Mark Tapley and Martin Chuzzlewit were here it was muddy, and it is muddy now. There is fine, thin, sticky, slimy, splashy, thick, heavy, dirty mud. Thousands of men and thousands of mules and horses are treading it to mortar. It is mixed with slops from the houses and straw from the stables. You are reminded of the Slough of Despond described by Bunyan in the Pilgrim’s Progress, — a place for all the filth, sin, and slime of this world. Christian was mired there, and Pliable nearly lost his life. If Bunyan had seen Cairo, he might have made the picture still more graphic. There are old houses, shanties, sheds, stables, pig-sties, wood-piles, carts, wagons, barrels, boxes, and all the old things you can imagine. Pigs live in the streets, and there are irrepressible conflicts between them and the hundreds of dogs. Water-carts, drays, army-wagons, and artillery go hub deep in the mud. Horses tug and strive, rear, kick, and flounder. Teamsters lose their footing. Soldiers wade leg deep in the street. There are sidewalks, but they are slippery, dangerous, and deceptive.

It is Sunday. A sweet day of rest in peaceful times, but in war there is not much observance of the Sabbath. It is midwinter, but a south-wind sweeps up the Mississippi, so mild and balmy that the blue-birds and robins are out. The steamboats are crowded with troops, who are waiting for orders to sail, they know not where. Groups stand upon the topmost deck. Some lie at full length in the warm sunshine. The bands are playing, the drums beating. Tug-boats are dancing, wheezing, and puffing in the stream, flitting from gunboat to gunboat.

The shops are open, and the soldiers are purchasing knickknacks, — tobacco, pipes, paper, and pens, to send letters to loved ones far away. At a gingerbread stall, a half-dozen are taking a lunch. The oyster-saloons are crowded. Boys are crying their newspapers. There are laughable and solemn scenes. Yonder is the hospital. A file of soldiers stand waiting in the street. A coffin is brought out. The fife begins its mournful air, the drum its muffled beat. The procession moves away, bearing the dead soldier to his silent home.

A few months ago he was a citizen, cultivating his farm upon the prairies, ploughing, sowing, reaping. But now the great reaper, Death, has gathered him in. He had no thought of being a soldier; but he was a patriot, and when his country called him he sprang to her aid. He yielded to disease, but not to the enemy. He was far from home and friends, with none but strangers to minister to his wants, to comfort him, to tell him of a better world than this. He gave his life to his country.

Although there is the busy note of preparation for the sailing of the fleet, there are some who remember that it is Sunday, and who find time to worship. The church-bells toll the hour. You tuck your pants into your boots, and pick your way along the slippery, slimy streets. There are a few ladies who brave the mud, wearing boots suited to the walking. Boots which have not been blacked for a fortnight are just as shiny as those cleaned but an hour ago. At the door of the church you do as everybody else does, — take a chip and scrape off the mud.

Half of the congregation are from the army and navy. Commodore Foote is there, a devout worshipper. Before coming to church he visited each gunboat of his fleet, called the crews together, read to them his general orders, that no unnecessary work should be done on the Sabbath, and enjoining upon the commanders the duty of having worship, and of maintaining a high moral character before the men.

Let us on Monday accept the kind invitation of Commodore Foote, and go on board the Benton, his flag-ship, and make an inspection of the strange-looking craft. It is unlike anything you ever saw at Boston or New York. It is like a great box on a raft. The sides are inclined, made of stout oak timbers and plated with iron. You enter through a porthole, where you may lay your hand upon the iron lips of a great gun, which throws a ball nine inches in diameter. There are fourteen guns, with stout oaken carriages. The men are moving about, exercising the guns, — going through the motions of loading and firing. How clean the floor! It is as white as soap and sand can make it. You must not spit tobacco-juice here, if you do, the courteous officer will say you are violating the rules. In the centre of the boat, down beneath the gun-deck in the hull, are the engines and the boilers, partly protected from any shot which may happen to come in at a porthole, or which may tear through the sides, — through the iron and the oak. Near the centre is the wheel. The top of the box, or the casemate, as it is called, is of oak timbers, and forms the upper deck. The pilot-house is on this upper deck, forward of the centre. In shape it is like a tunnel turned down. It is plated with thick iron. There, in the hour of battle, the pilot will be, peeping out through narrow holes, his hands grasping the wheel and steering the vessel.

Its guns, which the sailors call its battery, are very powerful. There are two nine-inch guns, and also two sixty-four-pounders, rifled, at the bow. There are two forty-two-pounders at the stern, and those upon the side are thirty-twos and twenty-fours. There are rooms for the officers, but the men sleep in hammocks. They take their meals sitting on the gun-carriages, or cross-legged, like Turks, on the floor.

Captain Foote is the Commodore of the fleet. He points out to you the Sacred Place of the ship, — a secluded corner, where any one of the crew who loves to read his Bible and hold secret devotion may do so, and not be disturbed. He has given a library of good books to the crew, and he has persuaded them that it will be better for them to give up their allowance of grog than to drink it. He walks among the men, and has a kind word for all, and they look upon him as their father. They have confidence in him. How lustily they cheer him! Will they not fight bravely under such a commander?

On Monday afternoon, February 2d, the gunboats Cincinnati, Essex, St. Louis, Carondelet, Lexington, Tyler, and Conestoga sailed from Cairo, accompanied by several river steamboats with ten regiments of troops. They went up the Ohio to Paducah, and entered the Tennessee River at dark. The next morning, about daylight, they anchored a few miles below Fort Henry. Commodore Foote made the Cincinnati his flag-ship.

A party of scouts went on shore and called at a farm-house. “You never will take Fort Henry,” said the woman living there.

“O yes, we shall; we have a fleet of iron-clad gunboats,” said one of the scouts.

“Your gunboats will be blown sky-high before they get up to the fort.”

“Ah! how so?”

The woman saw that she was letting out a secret, and became silent. The scouts mistrusted that she knew something which might be desirable for them to know, and informed her that, unless she told all she knew, she must go with them a prisoner. She was frightened, and informed them that the river was full of torpedoes, which would blow up the gunboats.

The scouts reported to Commodore Foote. The river was searched with grappling-irons, and six infernal machines were fished up; but they were imperfectly constructed, and not one of them would explode.

Looking up the river from the deck of one of Commodore Foote’s gunboats you see Panther Island, which is a mile from the fort. It is a long, narrow sand-bank, covered with a thicket of willows. There is the fort on the eastern bank. You see an irregular pile of earth, about fifteen feet above the river, with sand-bag embrasures, which at first sight you think are blocks of stone, but they are grain-sacks filled with sand. You count the guns, seventeen in all. One ten-inch columbiad, one sixty-pounder, twelve thirty-two-pounders, one twenty-four-pounder, and two twelve-pounders. They are nearly all pivoted, so that they may be pointed down the river against the boats or inland upon the troops. The river is nearly a half-mile wide, and on the opposite bank is another fort, not yet completed. All around Fort Henry you see rifle-pits and breastworks, enclosing twenty or thirty acres. Above and below the fort are creeks. The tall trees are cut down to obstruct the way, or to form an abatis, as it is called. It will not be an easy matter to take the fort from the land side. Inside these intrenchments is the Rebel camp, — log-huts and tents, with accommodations for several thousand men.

Commodore Foote has planned how to take the fort. He is confident that he can shell the Rebels out just as you can pound rats from a barrel or a box, and if General Grant will get in rear and watch his opportunity, they will all be caught.

General Grant lands two brigades of troops on the west side of the river, and three brigades on the east side, about four miles below the fort. Those on the west side are to look after any Rebels which may be in or around the unfinished fort, while those upon the east side, under General McClernand, work their way through the woods to gain the rear of the fort. This is the order to General McClernand: —

“It will be the special duty of this command to prevent all reinforcements of Fort Henry or escape from it. Also to be held in readiness to charge and take Fort Henry by storm, promptly on receipt of orders.”

General Grant and Commodore Foote agreed that the gunboats should commence the attack at twelve o’clock.

“I shall take the fort in about an hour,” said the Commodore. “I shall commence firing when I reach the head of Panther Island, and it will take me about an hour to reach the fort, for I shall steam up slowly. I am afraid, General, that the roads are so bad the troops will not get round in season to capture the enemy. I shall take the fort before you get into position.”

General Grant thought otherwise; but the roads were very muddy, and when the engagement commenced the troops were far from where they ought to have been.

Commodore Foote had prepared his instructions to the officers and crews of the gunboats several days before. They were brief and plain.

“The four iron-clad boats — the Essex, Carondelet, St. Louis, and Cincinnati — will keep in line. The Conestoga, Lexington, and Tyler will follow the iron-clads, and throw shells over those in advance.”

To the commanders he said: —

“Do just as I do!”

Addressing the crews, he said: —

“Fire slowly, and with deliberate aim. There are three reasons why you should not fire rapidly. With rapid firing there is always a waste of ammunition. Your range is imperfect, and your shots go wide of the mark, and that encourages the enemy; and it is desirable not to heat the guns. If you fire slowly and deliberately, you will keep cool yourselves, and make every shot tell.”

With such instructions, with all things ready, — decks cleared for action, guns run out, shot and shell brought up from the magazines and piled on deck, — confident of success, and determined to take the fort or go to the bottom, he waited the appointed hour.

The gunboats steam up slowly against the current, that the troops may have time to get into position in rear of the Rebel intrenchments. They take the channel on the west side of the island. The Essex is on the right of the battle line, nearest the island. Her Commander is William D. Porter, who comes from good stock. It was his father who commanded the Essex in the war with Great Britain in 1813, and who fought most gallantly a superior force, — two British ships, the Phebe and Cherub, — in the harbor of Valparaiso.

Next the Essex is the Carondelet, then the Cincinnati, — the flag-ship, with the brave Commodore on board, — and nearest the western shore the St. Louis. These are all iron-plated at the bows. Astern is the Lexington, the Conestoga, and the Tyler.

The boats reach the head of the island, and the fort is in full view. It is thirty-four minutes past twelve o’clock. There is a flash, and a great creamy cloud of smoke at the bow of the Cincinnati. An eight-inch shell screams through the air. The gunners watch its course. Their practised eyes follow its almost viewless flight. Your watch ticks fifteen seconds before you hear from it. You see a puff of smoke, a cloud of sand thrown up in the fort, and then hear the explosion. The commanders of the other boats remember the instructions, — “Do just as I do!” — and from each vessel a shell is thrown. All fall within the fort, or in the encampment beyond, which is in sight. You can see the tents, the log-huts, the tall flagstaff. The fort accepts the challenge, and instantly the twelve guns which are in position to sweep the river open upon the advancing boats. The shot and shell plough furrows in the stream, and throw columns of water high in air.

Fort Henry.

1	Essex.	5	Lexington.
2	Carondelet.	6	Conestoga.
3	Cincinnati.	7	Tyler.
4	St. Louis.	8 & 9	Rebel intrenchment.

Another round from the fleet. Another from the fort. The air is calm, and the thunder of the cannonade rolls along the valley, reverberating from hill to hill. Louder and deeper and heavier is the booming, till it becomes almost an unbroken peal.

There is a commotion in the Rebel encampment. Men run to and fro. They curl down behind the stumps and the fallen trees, to avoid the shot. Their huts are blown to pieces by the shells. You see the logs tossed like straws into the air. Their tents are torn into paper-rags. The hissing shells sink deep into the earth, and then there are sudden upheavals of sand, with smoke and flames, as if volcanoes were bursting forth. The parapet is cut through. Sand-bags are knocked about. The air is full of strange, hideous, mysterious, terrifying noises.

There are seven or eight thousand Rebel soldiers in the rifle-pits and behind the breastworks of the encampment in line of battle. They are terror-stricken. Officers and men alike lose all self-control. They run to escape the fearful storm. They leave arms, ammunition, tents, blankets, trunks, clothes, books, letters, papers, pictures, — everything. They pour out of the intrenchments into the road leading to Dover, a motley rabble. A small steamboat lies in the creek above the fort. Some rush on board and steam up river with the utmost speed. Others, in their haste and fear, plunge into the creek and sink to rise no more. All fly except a brave little band in the fort.

The gunboats move straight on, slowly and steadily. Their fire is regular and deliberate. Every shot goes into the fort. The gunners are blinded and smothered by clouds of sand. The gun-carriages are crushed, splintered, and overturned. Men are cut to pieces. Something unseen tears them like a thunderbolt. The fort is full of explosions. The heavy rifled gun bursts, crushing and killing those who serve it. The flagstaff is splintered and torn, as by intensest lightning.

Yet the fort replies. The gunners have the range of the boats, and nearly every shot strikes the iron plating. They are like the strokes of sledge-hammers, indenting the sheets, starting the fastenings, breaking the tough bolts. The Cincinnati receives thirty-one shots, the Essex fifteen, the St. Louis seven, and the Carondelet six.

Though struck so often, they move on. The distance lessens. Another gun is knocked from its carriage in the fort, — another, — another. There are signs that the contest is about over, that the Rebels are ready to surrender. But a shot strikes the Essex between the iron plates. It tears through the oaken timbers and into one of the steam-boilers. There is a great puff of steam. It pours from the portholes, and the boat is enveloped in a cloud. She drops out of the line of battle. Her engines stop and she floats with the stream. Twenty-eight of her crew are scalded, among them her brave commander.

The Rebels take courage. They spring to their guns, and fire rapidly and wildly, hoping and expecting to disable the rest of the fleet. But the Commodore does not falter; he keeps straight on as if nothing had happened. An eighty-pound shell from the Cincinnati dismounts a gun, killing or wounding every gunner. The boats are so near that every shot is sure to do its work. The fire of the boats increases while the fire of the fort diminishes. Coolness, determination, energy, perseverance, and power win the day. The Rebel flag comes down, and the white flag goes up. They surrender. Cheers ring through the fleet. A boat puts out from the St. Louis. An officer jumps ashore, climbs the torn embankment, stands upon the parapet and waves the Stars and Stripes. “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” You hear it echoing from shore to shore.

General Lloyd Tilghman commanded in the fort. He went on board the flag-ship.

“What terms do you grant me?” he asked.

“Your surrender must be unconditional, sir. I can grant you no other terms.”

“Well, sir, if I must surrender, it gives me pleasure to surrender to so brave an officer as you.”

“You do perfectly right to surrender, sir; but I should not have done it on any condition.”

“Why so? I do not understand you.”

“Because I was fully determined to capture the fort or go to the bottom.”

“I thought I had you, Commodore, but you were too much for me.”

“How could you fight against the old flag, General?”

“Well, it did come hard at first; but if the North had only let us alone, there would have been no trouble. They would not abide by the Constitution.”

“You are mistaken, General, and the whole South is mistaken. The North have always been willing that the South should have all her rights, under the Constitution. The South began the war, and she will be responsible for the blood which has been shed to-day.”

Thus, in an hour and twelve minutes, the fort which the Rebels confidently expected would prevent the gunboats from ascending the river was forced to surrender, and there was unobstructed water communication to the very heart of the Southern Confederacy. Their line of defence was broken.

There was but little loss of life in this engagement, — twenty to thirty killed and wounded on each side. If the Rebel army had not fled almost at the first fire, there would have been terrible slaughter. When Commodore Foote was informed that there were several thousand troops in the fortifications, said he, “I am sorry for it, because if they stand their ground there will be great destruction of life from the heavy shells; for I shall take the fort or sink with the ships.”

If the troops under General Grant had been in position to have intercepted the Rebel force, the whole panic-stricken crowd would have been captured, but being delayed by the mud, the fleet-footed Rebels were far on their way towards Fort Donelson when General Grant reached the rear of the intrenchments. In their haste and terror the Rebels abandoned nine pieces of field artillery on the road, and a large supply of ammunition.

The battle was fought on Thursday. On Friday Commodore Foote returned to Cairo, to send his despatches to Washington, also to repair his gunboats and to see that the poor scalded men on the Essex were well taken care of.

I was writing, at Cairo, the account of the battle. It was past midnight when the Commodore came to my room. He sat down, and told me what I have written of his plan of the battle, and his talk with General Tilghman. He could not sit still. He was weary and exhausted with his labors. “I am afraid, Commodore, that you have overworked. You must have rest and sleep,” I remarked.

“Yes, I have been obliged to work pretty hard, and need rest, but I never slept better in my life than night before last, and I never prayed more fervently than on yesterday morning before going into the battle; but I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking of those poor fellows on board the Essex,” was the reply.

On Sunday morning he was at church as usual. The minister was late. The people thought there would be no meeting, and were about to leave the house. Commodore Foote went to one of the Elders of the church, and urged him to conduct the worship. The Elder declined. But the Commodore never let slip an opportunity for doing good. He was always ready to serve his country and his God. He went into the pulpit, read a chapter, offered a prayer, and preached a short sermon from the words, — “Let not your hearts be troubled. Ye believe in God; believe also in me.” It was an exhortation for all men to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ as the Saviour of the world. Some who heard him, as they went home from church, said that they also believed in Commodore Foote!

To him belongs the credit not only of taking Fort Henry, but of planning the expedition. When the true history of this Rebellion is written, you will see how important a thing it was, how great its results, and you will admire more and more the sterling patriotism and unswerving Christian principles of a man who struck this first great blow, and did so much towards crushing the Rebellion.