They banged away for another hour and a half. Harwell shot off the last rounds, and then they were spectators, like watching a play, like sitting through hours of Hamlet, fully aware that the Prince of Denmark has no hope to live past the curtain.
Five o’clock and the light was fading fast and the Union ships retired. Fort Bartow was a near wreck, the mosquito fleet battered. Coal was running low, there was not above a dozen shells left among all the Confederate fleet.
With the winter night coming on fast, they stripped Curlew of anything worth having. Sea Bird took Forrest, her propeller disabled, in tow, and the little ships steamed north, forty miles to Elizabeth City.
It was a black night, and the ships had no lights showing, because they did not know what the Union fleet was about. Bowater paced the wheelhouse, peered out into the dark, gave orders to the helmsman, the engine room. Nervous work.
And so it was with a lovely sensation of relief that the first gray light of dawn showed the fleet in relatively good order, steaming line ahead, and the mouth of the Pasquotank River opening up before them.
They anchored up at Elizabeth City, hauled the Forrest up on the ways. They could hear gunfire from Roanoke Island, artillery and small-arms fire. It was a horrible thing to hear, but there was nothing they could do. The Yankees were ashore; it was a land fight now. And even if it was not, they had no ammunition, and they were finding there was none to be had at Elizabeth City.
Lynch sent Hunter to Norfolk to retrieve ammunition. He appointed William Parker to organize the town’s defenses. Parker organized the local militia to man the pathetic fort at Cobb’s Point, pressed an old schooner into service as a makeshift battery.
Around noon the firing at Roanoke Island slackened and then stopped, like a dying man taking his last breath, and everyone in the mosquito fleet knew that the Yankee machine had rolled over the Southern defenses. Bowater could not shake the feeling that they had not done enough, but in his most honest, most private analysis, he could not imagine what more they could have done.
The Yankees’ next step would be Elizabeth City and the mosquito fleet, the last ember of resistance. The men on Roanoke Island had stood and fought to the last, until they were absolutely overrun. Now it was the navy’s turn.
They waited through the next day, sent boats down sound to reconnoiter the Yankees, preparing to get underway. That night the captains met. They agreed to fight until the ammunition was gone, then try to escape. Failing that, they would run their vessels ashore, burn them, destroy the signal books, save their men. The fleet was arranged in line abreast, bows pointing downriver. They divided up what ammunition they had.
It was 3:00 a.m. when Samuel Bowater returned to the Cape Fear, staggered into his cabin, fell facedown on his bunk. He did not take off his coat or his shoes, or his sword or pistol. Even in sleep he was careful not to put his shoes on the bed.
Jacob roused him before dawn. He staggered into the wheelhouse. It was bitter cold. The steam pipes were popping and crackling as Hieronymus Taylor got up a head of steam in the boiler and the first wafts of hot vapor blew through.
Men moved about the deck like clumsy shadows, clearing for action, ready to greet the dawn at quarters, as men-of-war in times of conflict had done for a century or more. They cleared away the bow gun and the howitzers, loaded and ran them out, then retreated to the warmth of the galley, with the old man’s permission, to wait for what would happen next. They huddled against the bulkheads, scarfing toasted bread with cheese, sun-dried-tomato-and-chive omelettes, and deviled partridge, cold.
Bowater ate his omelette standing in the wheelhouse, and though his concentration was taken up with the gathering dawn, the slow revelation of the mosquito fleet at anchor, the riverbanks on either hand, he could not help but notice the extraordinary lightness of the eggs, the perfect blend of savory cheese and sharp chive, the subtlety of the tomatoes that St. Laurent had dried himself. Samuel had seen them, months before, spread out on racks on the boat deck, had nearly ordered them struck below. They were very unseamanlike and disorderly. But he held his tongue, guessing he would be glad for it. And he was.
More and more of the river revealed itself: tangled shoreline, rippled gray water, stubby oak and pine along the shores. And downriver, rising above a western bend, columns of dark smoke, bending in the offshore breeze. The Union squadron, underway.
Harwell appeared for orders. “Luff, I imagine they will employ their former tactics, steam in circles around the fort, pound it to rubble. I hope those militiamen will stand up to it.”
“I hope so, sir. They may be militia, but they are Southern militia, and I would warrant them for standing as tall as any abolitionist regular.”
“Let us hope you are right. Now please assemble the gun crews and have them stand ready. We’ll wait for what presents itself.”
“Aye, sir,” Harwell said, saluted, hurried off.
Such enthusiasm, such patriotism… Bowater thought. Is Harwell a naive romantic, or am I a cynical, unsentimental cad? Or is it both?
Samuel Bowater watched the young luff get the men to quarters. He was giving them some words of encouragement, he could tell.
Morituri te salutamus, Bowater thought.
Lieutenant Thadeous Harwell stood behind the breech of the big Parrott gun, hands clasped behind his back, looking down river.
Gladly do I lay down this life for my beloved Southern home, and only regret that I shall not live to fight on…
No…
Happy am I to lay down my life for my…for this, my beloved Southern…beloved Confederacy…
There, that has more of a classical sound…
Happy am I to lay down my life for this, my beloved Confederacy, and only regret that I shall not live to fight on…
Good.
He ran it over, again and again, in his head. Said it out loud, but softly, like a prayer, so no one would hear. The trick with dying words, he imagined, was to commit them to memory so well that one could not forget them when the time came. He could not imagine what must go through a man’s mind at the time. Probably a lot. If he wanted to go out with some noble words on his lips, he had best be ready.
“Happy am I…”
By eight-thirty the Union fleet was in sight. The ships came steaming around the bend, trailing their black plumes of smoke. Through field glasses Bowater could see the churning white water around their bows. They were coming on fast, fourteen Yankee gunboats stretched across the river, a waterborne cavalry charge. The Confederates were as ready as they were going to get.
Waiting, waiting… Once again. Bowater could feel his stomach twisting like a fish on a hook. He regretted the second helping of omelette.
Wait for it, wait for it… Bowater found himself thinking, over and over. Just a handful of minutes and the Union fleet would be under the fort’s guns, and it would be a three-way exchange of fire-Union fleet, mosquito fleet, Fort Cobb. Roanoke once more.
Line ahead now, they came up with Fort Cobb and the fort opened up on them, the thirty-two-pounders blasting away with their flat, echoing report, kicking up spouts in the river. The Union ships returned fire, rifled shells and spherical case shot. One by one they blasted the fort as they passed.
Bowater waited, waited for the lead Yankee to turn, to start the big circling maneuver that would take the ships by the fort again and again until they had reduced it to nothing. Just as they had done at Hatteras. Just as they had done at Roanoke Island. So fixed was this idea in his mind that nearly the entire enemy fleet was past the fort, and was coming on, before he realized they were not going to do it again.
They were bypassing the fort, giving it one good shot and then ignoring it, giving it the attention it deserved, which was very little. It was the mosquito fleet they wanted, and they were coming straight on, full-speed, right for their quarry. It would be ship to ship this time. It would be Trafalgar in miniature, not Roanoke Island. It would be the Yankees’ advantage, three to one.
35
The desertion of Elizabeth City situated near the head of the Dismal Swamp Canal, would have been unseemly and discouraging, more particularly as I had urged the inhabitants to defend it to the last extremity.
– Flag Officer William F. Lynch to Stephen R. Mallory
“That stern-wheeler, there…” Bowater stood in the wheelhouse, pointed to the onrushing Yankee, three hundred yards downriver. “Right for him. We’ll go in shooting.”
“Aye, sir.” Tanner at the wheel looked grim. Bowater grabbed the engine-room bell, gave three bells, full ahead.
Sons of bitches…It made Bowater mad, in a way he had not been mad before. The arrogance of the damned Yankees, bypass the fort, sweep forward as if they were brushing aside an annoyance. It was the entire Yankee way of thinking; brush aside anything that was in their way, any tradition, any sacred right, anything that prevented their building more factories, more railroads, unleashing more mechanical horror on the world.
Suddenly this fight seemed personal. uddenly Captain Samuel Bowater, detached and professional navy man, a man who followed orders, felt himself a wild-eyed patriot.
He stepped out of the wheelhouse, ent forward. “Mr. Harwell, we are going for that stern-wheeler that seems to be coming for us. Let’s shoot him in the nose as we approach!”
Harwell waved, turned back to his gun. Bowater could feel the deck vibrate as Taylor poured on the steam. Bowater heard the water boiling under the counter, felt the tug build speed and momentum as the riverbanks slipped past. She was not a quarter horse, she was a knight’s charger-heavy, slow, strong as could be.
They closed fast, bow to bow. The Yankee fired; Bowater felt the wind of the shell as it passed. Harwell fired, took the Yankee’s fore topmast clean off. He spun the elevation screw, lowered the aim. He was not used to firing so close.
The Yankees were charging down on the mosquito fleet, coming on line abreast now, picking their targets. Two of the enemy were falling on Ellis, and she was turning, firing, backing, trying to keep from their grasp. Bowater could see Yankee troops on the ships’ decks-they must have augmented their navy crews, while the Confederates were desperate for anyone who could stand.
One hundred yards separated the Yankee from the Cape Fear . Harwell fired again, blew the upper third off the Yankee’s stack. Smoke poured out in an ugly, disorganized cloud.
But now the Yankee turned, presented her broadside, three big guns, the bulk of her armament. Bowater grabbed the rail hard, clenched his teeth, waited for what would come.
Boom, boom, boom, the big guns opened up right in their face. Bowater felt the deck shudder, saw a plume of splinters burst right in front of him, as a shell hit the deckhouse and kept on going. Another whipped the head off the rammer at the bow gun, neat as an executioner’s ax, tossed his body back onto the foredeck as the shell continued down the side deck. Bowater heard it hit the port howitzer, a terrible clanging, a shattering of wooden carriage, a pause, and then the screaming of the men who were in the way.
“Captain! Captain!” Tanner shouted from the wheelhouse. His course was right for the Yankee, steaming to hit her amidships.
“Steady as she goes!” Would the Cape Fear take the impact? Who knew? This was her last fight in any instance, that much was clear.
Fifty yards, forty yards. “Mr. Harwell, get your men away from the bow!”
Harwell shouted, waved, led his men aft, back toward the deckhouse.
Thirty yards. Bowater could see Yankees scrambling now. The broadside guns were running out again. Too late. Smoke pumping from the broken stack, the side wheels gathered speed, as the Yankee gunboat tried to get out of the path of the suicide Rebel.
Twenty yards. The Yankee’s side wheels churned, kicked water; the Yankee inched forward, tried to turn bow on. Bowater felt some bit of sanity return. It was not time to die, not yet.
“Tanner, take her side wheel out! Glancing blow!”
Tanner nodded, looked relieved. He spun the wheel to starboard, angled in, swung it to port. The Cape Fear was moving fast, carrying a lot of momentum. The ships were side to side, passing on opposite courses. The Cape Fear’s bow struck the wheelbox, blew it apart with the impact, went right on through, spraying paddles, twisting paddle-wheel arms, as the side wheel destroyed itself against the Rebel.
They powered past. Bowater watched running Yankees, shouting Yankees, angry Yankees, so close he could see their faces. Small arms banged away. Bowater could hear the thud of bullets hitting woodwork. The Cape Fears fired back.
On the Yankee’s boat deck, a lone figure, an officer, leaning on the rail. Lieutenant S. P. Quackenbush. Bowater knew him well, had spent long hours on watch with him, in past years. Quackenbush doffed his cap and Bowater doffed his as they passed, as if the entire scene was not bizarre enough.
The Yankee’s forward gun went off, right into the Cape Fear’s deckhouse, the muzzle not ten feet from the bulkhead. The proximity saved them; the shell just made a hole and kept on going.
“Come left, come left!” Bowater shouted, and Tanner spun the wheel and Bowater looked out over the wild melee on the river. Sea Bird was sinking fast, rammed by a Yankee gunboat. Ellis was side by side with a Yankee and they were going at it, hand to hand, but the Yankees carried marines on board, and they outnumbered the Rebels four to one.
The smoke lay like morning fog on the river, the gunfire was nearly continuous, the gunboats moved in and out of the clouds from their own guns. Boats whirled, steamed ahead, fired, slewed around in the wild dance on the water.
Bowater stood in the wheelhouse door. “Make for Ellis-let us see if we can come to her aid.” Full ahead. They were still going full ahead. He looked at Ellis. He did not think they would reach her in time.
Ellis’s crew was being pressed by boarders from two sides. Cutlasses flashed, small arms fired. Hand-to-hand naval combat. It was something from another era, like this entire wild ship-on-ship fleet action.
The Cape Fear staggered, as if shoved from behind, slewed sideways, and the aft end seemed to explode. Bowater turned to see splinters and bits of rail and wood flying as high as the deckhouse.
“Steady as she goes!” he shouted to Tanner, then ran aft, skirted the huge hole that had been the boat deck, stopped at the after rail. Quackenbush! His ship was disabled but his guns would still bear, and he was firing, had hit the Cape Fear square on the stern. The lovely rounded fantail was gone. The vessel ended three feet shorter in a jagged, gaping profusion of broken frames and shattered planks. But it was well above the waterline, and would not stop them.
Quackenbush! There was a sense of betrayal. Before, Bowater had fought anonymous ships, captains who might as well have been foreign enemies. But Quackenbush? They had laughed together. They had traded bottles of wine, for the love of God, and Quackenbush had displayed a surprisingly refined palate!
Both howitzers were knocked out, the guns on the deck, the carriages in half a dozen pieces. Three dead men lay scattered about, as if they had fallen exhausted, except that they were each missing one or more limbs. The rest of the gun crews were gone, forward, Bowater supposed.
Bowater pushed himself off the rail, ran forward again. Another shot, broad on the starboard beam; the deckhouse shook. Bowater stumbled, fell forward, broke his fall with his hands. He used the momentum to scramble back to his feet.
A Yankee gunboat had broken through the bank of smoke, was steaming down on them, a dark cloud roiling up from her stack. A screw steamer, no vulnerable side wheels. A cable length away, coming right at them with malicious intent.
Bowater ran back to the wheelhouse. “Come right, come right!” Tanner spun the wheel. Ellis would have to look after herself. Bowater glanced back at the tug. Too late in any event.
It was a jousting match once again, the Cape Fear and the Yankee, bow to bow and coming straight on.
Bowater stepped to the front of the boat deck. “Mr. Harwell, you see your target!”
“Aye, sir! I only have two m
ore shells, sir!”
Bowater nodded. Two more shells. Howitzers gone. The only weapons left were the men and the Cape Fear herself.
“Use them now! We’ll ram and board her!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Madness! The fight was lost, it was a suicide run, take one of the bastards down with you. Pointless, but Bowater could think of no other option. Run for Norfolk? He could not do that.
“Merrow, run down to the engine room. Tell Chief Taylor I want the throttles open wide, and then all hands out of the engine room. Tell him to arm his black gang with pistols and cutlasses.”
Merrow repeated the basics of the order, hurried off. One hundred yards; the Yankee fired again, missed. Harwell fired and missed as well. Fifty percent of the Cape Fear’s ammunition plunged uselessly into the river.
Samuel Bowater watched the water boiling under the Yankee’s bow, the plume of smoke from the stack, the determined, deadly, relentless onrush of the enemy, and for the first time since the first shot at Fort Sumter, he looked on the enemy and hated him.
Chief Taylor prowled. He looked at steam gauges. Creeping past twenty-five pounds, the boiler was pushing out maximum steam. He examined the fishplate, peered into the firebox. There was clinker on the grates, glass that formed from the melting sand in the coal, and it was impeding the draft of the fire. He frowned. They should wing the fire over to the other side of the firebox, break that clinker out of there. But now was not the time.
He prowled back to the engine, ran his eyes over piping, watched the motion of thrusting and rotating parts. All was well.
He was not so sure that was the case topside. They had taken a shell in the transom; he could see places where daylight shone through the hull. The deckhouse was so punched through there was more hole than bulkhead. They had been going full ahead, weaving, turning. That could not be good.
He lit his cigar, puffed it to life. He looked at the coal bunkers. Coal bunkers, by definition, were not always full of coal. Sometimes, such as now, they were only a quarter full. That made them, by Taylor’s lights, a piss-poor choice for the protection of a fighting vessel. Who ever heard of armoring that might or might not be there during a fight?
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