by Hines, Jerri
* * * *
Shrouded in the cover of the night, preparations had been finalized. The constant firings had ceased on orders from Farragut and the ships had fallen back out of range of the forts, but the still and quiet did little to ease the tension-filled air.
A stiff wind brought a driving rain, which only served to further camouflage the operation. Readied, Cullen had his orders—provide the necessary cover for the Pinola to set the explosives and afterwards secure the open passage.
Cullen had once served under Commander Lane Graham of the Pinola, having been assigned to his ship shortly after the academy. Graham was an arrogant, egotistic man, who made commander at an early age, not much older than Cullen. He would do whatever necessary to ensure victory.
After meeting him again while serving under the Western Squadron, the years had done little to diminish the friction between the two officers, but the mission came before any irrelevant rivalry. The war gave little time for petty grievances. Moreover, with the greatest reluctance, Cullen had to agree that Graham was an excellent choice for this mission.
It was time. Flag Officer Farragut had come to see the mortar boats off on their quest. He sought out Cullen. “Lieutenant Smythe, we need this to be successful. Abide the result—conquer or be conquered.”
“Rest assured, sir,” Cullen affirmed. “The mission will be carried out.”
The gunboats readied, Cullen took his place on board the Itasca. If the crew held any qualms of his newly acquired position, none were acknowledged. Each sailor understood the importance of their task and the need to have a commander who would show no hesitation if the need arose.
Stealthily, the Itasca rowed through the water under cover of darkness and rain. There would be no engines until the mission was complete. The longer the Confederates were unaware of their actions, the better chance for success.
Cullen stood before the wheel and monitored any activity from either fort. All was quiet as he watched the Pinola secured to one of the wrecked schooners attached to the barrier.
“Close the gap,” Cullen ordered. “We may not have explosives, but we can work on the chains!”
The Itasca silently pulled alongside of the next stranded schooner. The crew began to use hammers and chisels to break the chains that held the barrier in place.
A sudden flame lit up the dark rain. A second flash roared and exploded. Fort Jackson had awakened. The Rebs had spotted the gunboats and began a heavy fire bursting forth across the water.
“Heads up, men!” Cullen cried against the wind. “Hold steady!”
Almost immediately, Fort St. Philip entered the barrage and the pace of bombardment stepped up. Cullen held back the command to withdraw, waiting until the last notch in the chain to that schooner was broken.
“Sir, the Pinola! The signal.” The helmsman pointed toward the gunboat.
As he peered out over the water toward the Pinola, Cullen caught sight of the signal. The explosives had been set…but in the same moment, he saw the Pinola fall back.
Cullen looked back at the boatswain. “Fire up the engines, Mr. Collins. Prepare to be on our way.”
“Aye, sir, but the men aren’t finished with the chain.”
A bright glow flickered in the rain-filled sky, followed closely by another one. The crew was working furiously, but they didn’t have much time. The explosives would be lit in moments. Cullen had only seconds to make a decision.
Rampant thoughts ran swiftly through his mind. The chain wasn’t broken, but it would be weakened enough to break after the explosion…the Pinola needed cover.
“Fall back,” Cullen commanded. “We need to shield the Pinola.”
No sooner than the order was given than Cullen watched the Pinola flounder and be pulled back into the flow of the river. Despite fighting futilely against a surge of wind, the Pinola was being swept away by the current.
Still flying under the sail, the Pinola’s engines hadn’t fired up…neither had the explosives gone off. A shell exploded off their broadside. Cullen had no more time to waste. “Stand ready! We are going alongside. Mr. Collins, when we get close enough, toss the Pinola a line.”
The thudding engines came up to speed. Guided in reverse, the stern shook. Through the midst of rain and smoke, the Itasca cut through the rough water toward the Pinola.
“Lieutenant!” the helmsman called from the starboard. “The Pinola is rowing back to the squad.”
Cullen stared in disbelief. The barrier hadn’t been broken…Damn it! Cullen cursed under his breath with the realization there had to be a problem with the explosives. They weren’t going to be going off! Then it hit him…Graham was scrambling back to Farragut to make him the scapegoat in this fiasco!
Blood rushed to his face; his fist clenched. Farragut’s words echoed within him—Conquer or be conquered! Conviction and determination surged through his veins. He wasn’t returning without completing his mission. He had one option left.
In that moment, he cast his eyes upon his men. Their eyes, too, fixed upon him. Their mission had been compromised…on the verge of failure. Fort Jackson hadn’t stopped its bombardment; the torrential rainstorm hadn’t lessened…they had no explosives.
“Turn about!” Cullen commanded. “Turn about!”
“Sir,” the helmsman cried over the wind. “The barrier? We’ll hit the chains and be ripped apart!”
“Men, prepare! We are going to break that damn barrier! Ram where we weakened the chain… We will hit it head on!”
Nary a man said another word, but worked in earnest to turn the craft back toward the barrier. Their mission set before them, the brave men bore down and readied for the assault and the wind.
There was no going back once the decision was made. Committed, the gunboat gathered speed, aided by the wind. Smoke burst from the stack and dropped down, encompassing the ship in a haze. The rhythm of the engines steadily increased.
“Full speed ahead!” Cullen directed from the helm. “Hold steady!”
With momentum, the Itasca struck the chain. Immediately, the bow propelled out of the water. The engines grinded with a god-awful noise. Cullen was knocked down against the starboard bulwark. Managing to crawl to his knees, he heard the water rush against the hull and the bulwark trembled beneath him.
Spars and rigging clanged; a jolting crunch shook the ship. The chain caught on her keel, pushing the ship almost entirely out of the water. The Itasca hung in the air! The next moment, the gunboat crashed back down onto the surface, skimming the water twice before it came to a sudden halt.
Intact! The Itasca was completely intact! Cullen hurried back on his feet, desperately surveying the ship.
“Check the men, Mr. Collins!” he commanded, maintaining the elation that swelled within him.
In the pouring rain, shouts erupted from their companion ship, the Pinola, which had seen the whole of maneuver—the barrier was broken. The fleet could make it through.
* * * *
With Lieutenant-Commander Bemis unable to sufficiently recover from his bout with pneumonia, Farragut rewarded Cullen for his daring act and promoted him to captain of the Itasca. The crew supported Farragut’s decision. Cullen’s reputation had garnered him a position where men wanted to follow him into battle—a leader, brave and true…one who had courageously took a seemingly impossible risk and came out victorious.
Farragut offered Cullen one bit of advice. “Put your mission before all else.”
The advice was well accepted. Cullen had a great admiration for Farragut, a man who stood by his convictions despite the possible repercussions. It was widely known that Farragut’s stepbrother, Porter, coveted Farragut’s position. Cullen held no doubt that Porter would see that Farragut was replaced if he failed to capture New Orleans.
In Cullen’s mind, failure was not an option. As he stood on deck, he pulled out his pocket watch. Two o’clock. It was time. The tactical maneuver would begin.
In the darkness, the engines churned and smoke bi
llowed from the stacks, clouding the river as the ships began their voyage through the narrow passage…one at a time. Within minutes, a vociferous roar erupted.
Fort Jackson and Fort St. Philip had been on high alert and wasted no time bombarding the advancing fleet. Guns flashed from the forts; rockets burst in the air. A geyser of a missed shot sprayed the Itasca, drenching Cullen on the helm.
Holding course, the Itasca made it through, as had the ships before it. The Confederate fire had essentially been ineffective.
“Captain, broadside!”
At the helmsman’s cry, Cullen’s gaze broke from the USS Pensacola, which had only just cleared the barrier. Over his shoulder, he watched the dreaded hellish machine materialized out of the smoky haze.
Momentarily, he could only stare. Never in his life had he seen such an intimidating contraption. Ironclad, the CSS Manassas had one smokestack in the middle of its rounded curving hull, looking like a floating cigar. Sitting low in the water did little to conceal its deadly weapon—a pointed iron ram. Its one intent was to stab holes in armor-plated ships
The Manassas paid no mind to Cullen’s gunboat. Its intent lay with the larger Union fleet ships. Cullen had enough worries with the remainder of the Confederate fleet.
“Nine…ten at the most, sir,” Mr. Collins reported as he walked to Cullen’s side. “Your orders?”
“Fire!”
The order rang clear for all to hear. In turn, a continuous thunderclap began. His crew worked vigorously. The shell men rammed home the powder cartridges for the guns to fire; the tackle men swung their guns around to face their targets.
A cry rang out. “They’re trying to board us!”
The efforts of the Confederates were for naught. Only three rebels made it to the deck and were instantly repelled, falling overboard into the dark, murky water.
Cullen’s attention turned once more to the river. The Confederates began reckless efforts to bring down the Union fleet. The Pensacola had turned in time to avoid the Manassas and did an about-face and fired broadside at close range, hitting its mark.
Looming in the fog of smoke, Cullen saw a fiery raft loaded with wood and tar headed toward the USS Mississippi, intent on catching the wooden steamer on fire.
“Turn portside!” Cullen shouted back to Mr. Collins. “Aim and wait for my signal to fire!”
His boatswain stared at Cullen, confused until he saw the intent behind the action.
The raft was escorted by two gunboats. Cullen intended to take out the second one, which would force the raft off course.
“Hold steady…steady…” Then, at the precise moment, Cullen yelled, “Fire, men! Fire!”
Cullen looked across the water. Through the haze, his gun crew worked furiously. Recoiling from the Itasca’s aggressive attack, a flame burst out along the Confederate gunboat. Wounded, the boat lost its course and floundered into the burning raft, which drifted to the riverbank and burnt out without incident.
The morning light brought a halt to the dash through the break in the barrier. The Union fleet had sustained little significant damage. Only three ships did not make it through; one gunboat, the Varuna, had fallen victim to Confederate fire. The two others, Kennebac and Winona, had got caught up in the lines and hadn’t the time to make it through before the light of day.
Conversely, the Confederate navy had suffered greatly. After CSS Manassas had taken a hit from the Pensacola, it rammed the Brooklyn, but not fatally. Next, the CSS Manassas had followed behind the fleet until the Mississippi had had enough. The Union steam frigate turned on the Manassas and fired, hitting her broadside.
The Manassas ran aground. The crew of the Southern sea-bearing vessel evacuated right before the Mississippi turned its full force of the wounded ship. On fire, the Manassas slipped back into the water and floated helplessly down the river.
With no viable information of the defensive between the Fleet and New Orleans, Farragut moved ahead without the ground commander, General Butler, or Commander Porter. Both had stayed to secure Fort St. Philip and Fort Jackson.
But they were not needed. The Union fleet encountered little more Confederate opposition. Only once were they submitted to random Confederate sharpshooters, who found it more prudent to fall back after the USS Hartford fired two batteries of fire in their direction. The skirmish took no more than twenty minutes. It was the last of the resistance between Farragut and New Orleans.
Gathered intelligence from within New Orleans had told of a smug city confident in their strength to repel the Union forces. The New Orleans Tribune had boasted—
Our only fear is that the Northern invaders might not appear. We have made such extensive preparations to receive them, that it would be vexatious if their invincible armada escapes the fate we have in store for them.
The prediction had not been fulfilled. New Orleans had fallen.
Entering the harbor, Cullen was greeted by the sight of a city ablaze. Everything of value had been torched: ships, steamers, cotton, and coal. As the Union fleet rounded Slaughter Point, New Orleans for all intent and purposes was under Union control. The Rebels had withdrawn, leaving only an angry, desolate city.
Chapter Two
A glorious Southern sun shone down at its very hottest. Jo lay upon the settee that had been brought out on the piazza and took in the view on this fine June day. The garden was alive with a multitude of assorted flowers and scents. The arbor was densely covered by climbing ivy. Roses abounded in vibrant colors; fragrant gardenias encompassed the air with full blooming magnolias bordering the landscape.
Jo watched butterflies flit from one bloom to another in sweet serenity. In the midst of the picture, Anna sat on the ground with Percival in her lap. The toddler seemed captivated watching a small rabbit, scampering amid the rose bushes. So beautiful and peaceful, the vision looked like the hand of God had descended and painted upon a living canvas.
Across from Jo, Mother Montgomery sat quietly and darned Anna’s dress. The days of extravagance were behind them. The Yankee blockade had tightened around Charleston. Luxury items had become hard to come by. Proclaiming that the day would come when they would need to make their own clothes, Mother Montgomery had brought the old loom down from the attic.
The dear woman looked up at Jo with her soft, kind eyes. “Do you care for some more tea?”
“I’m fine, Mother Montgomery.” Jo sighed, setting the newspaper she held in her hand down on the table. “I swear, despite the headlines proclaiming our presumed success, my Mercury holds nothing but bad news.”
“I quite agree. Jenna told me she read that Beast Butler’s behavior in New Orleans is worse than those heathen Indians out West.”
“How dreadful and quite unpardonable. To treat women so. Arresting them for laughing!”
“Darling, do you think it’s wise to upset yourself over matters that you have no control?” Mother Montgomery looked over at Jo with a concerned expression. “Maybe it would be for the best if you didn’t read any papers for a while.”
“How else am I to know what is going on? The whole of our Mississippi fleet has been annihilated. It is disastrous…we live upon a river. What if their attention turns to Charleston?”
“Oh, dear! When have you become so faint of heart? My woman’s instinct tells me we are safe here, but if you would feel better, we can move back into Charleston.”
“No,” Jo declared. “We need to be here.”
Jo’s hand went instinctively to her growing stomach. She understood Mother Montgomery’s worry. War had seeped into their world and the blinding truth was undeniable. Everything that had existed in the past seemed so completely and utterly destroyed…buried with Wade.
The past was a distant memory. She had to face the realities of the cruel world she now lived. The proclamations that the war would end with the next victory had become quiet whispers, but no one dare speak against the deadly venture for fear of being called traitorous. Jo’s fears went unspoken—that all the brave, cou
rageous men suffered for a barren endeavor.
“Well, I stopped reading the paper after Mrs. King and Mrs. Langston were openly attacked in the paper for riding up and down the streets with their livery footmen while poor soldiers’ wives sat on the sidewalks,” Mother Montgomery abruptly announced. “I was aghast at the nastiness of the article. What more can they expect of us? Have we not footed the bill for this war? Mrs. Langston said that we get so little enjoyment, what harm is there in a brisk ride?”
“Some have said that the war is a rich man’s venture and a poor man’s fight, Mother.”
Jo cast a glance over her shoulder at the voice. Andrew walked around the corner of the porch, followed closely by a somber Jenna. Frowning, his squared jaw tightened in obvious agitation.
Holding a handkerchief in her hand, Jenna patted her reddened eyes. Then she rushed around her brother and flung herself down at her mother’s feet.
There was no need to know what the two siblings were fighting about. Jo knew readily enough—Derek. Last week, Jenna had received news he had been wounded in a skirmish and was recovering in a Richmond hospital. Jenna had been harping at her brother to let her go to her fiancé. Andrew had steadfastly refused.
“Oh, dearest Mother,” Jenna cried with tears in her beautiful eyes. “Andrew is being unreasonable. It is not fair.”
“What is it now, my dear?” Mother Montgomery gently stroked her daughter’s head lying on her knees.
“Maisy told me that her mother traveled to Richmond and cared for her brother. It is not unheard of in these times. Mrs. Reese is still in the city. If I go now, I could stay in the same boarding house. Derek needs me! I will die if something happens to him!”
“Do not be so dramatic, Jenna.” Andrew scowled darkly. “Since I am committed in my duties at the Charleston hospital, I have no time to travel and you truly cannot believe I will allow you to travel by yourself…a single young woman!”
“It is not unheard of these days! Maisy says that lots of women go nurse their injured loved ones. There are so many of our boys hurt and wounded…I could help the cause…”