During the afternoon of the twenty-third, General Lovell met with Commodore William Whittle, Confederate naval commander for the New Orleans area. Lovell begged Whittle to order Captain Mitchell, commander of the Confederate naval forces on the river, to move the Louisiana farther downriver, and anchor her between the forts, where she might serve the more useful purpose of joining the guns in the forts in preventing the Union ships from passing the now breached obstruction. The two men argued over the advisability of endangering the Louisiana until she was able to move under her own power, but Whittle finally agreed to telegraph Mitchell with Lovell’s request. Lovell’s efforts were fruitless. Mitchell refused to move the vessel. He claimed that to move her within range of the Union mortar boats was too risky, for a single mortar shell dropping onto her thinly plated flat decks would pass directly through her, and she would sink.
As darkness settled around the Union fleet, and the ships and boats found their assigned positions as quietly as they could, Farragut paced the quarterdeck of the Hartford. Joining him was his clerk, B. S. Osbon, who was also a correspondent for the New York Herald. Farragut asked Osbon his opinion of the number of casualties the fleet would suffer in the coming fight with the forts and the rebel vessels. Osbon replied that he believed “we will lose a hundred” of the 4,000 men in the squadron. Farragut was surprised at the extremely low estimate. “No more than that?” he asked. “How do you calculate so small a number?” Osbon then explained that he thought the dark night, the dense smoke that would be produced by the guns, and the fact that most ships in the fleet sat low in the water would all contribute to reducing the number of men who would be killed in the action. Farragut’s expression was sad as he stared at Osbon, perhaps hoping to find in his clerk’s face evidence that his estimate was correct. After a few moments, he reflected, “I wish I could think so. I wish I could be as sure of it as you are.” Farragut then turned and walked away, alone with his own thoughts of the number of his men who would die or be permanently crippled during the early-morning hours ahead of them.
Aboard Farragut’s ships, crews were told that they could sleep until midnight, when they would be awakened in silence, and begin last-minute preparations for passing the forts. Officers retired to their quarters to write what many suspected might be a last few lines to a loved one or close friend. There was no jubilant feeling about the task ahead; most sailors and officers on the Union vessels anticipated that the morning would bring death and destruction to them and their ships.
Inside Fort Jackson, General Duncan, expecting the enemy fleet to move at any time now that the mortar bombardment had ceased, made a final appeal to Captain Mitchell to bring the Louisiana farther downriver so she could aid the forts in halting the Union advance. Mitchell replied that he could have the ironclad ready to move by the following evening. Duncan knew that by then the battle would have been decided, and it would be too late. Bringing the floating battery between the forts would permit it to fire directly at the mortar boats, and into the enemy fleet as it steamed upriver. His reply to Mitchell was that “there would be no tomorrow” if he did not move the Louisiana into the requested position immediately. The ironclad remained where she was, upriver of Fort St. Philip.
At two in the morning of April 24, 1862, the darkness surrounding the Union squadron anchored in the Mississippi River revealed two red lanterns as they slowly rose up the mizzenmast of the flagship Hartford. Quickly, and as quietly as possible, anchors were weighed. Their chains rattled a signal of their movement to the waiting enemy. On board the ships of both fleets, and inside the forts and the water batteries, men’s hearts pumped faster as a mixture of excitement and fear swept all those waiting for the fight to begin.
On the second anniversary of the passing of the forts, Farragut wrote of that night to his son, describing it as “the most anxious night of my life.”
Farragut had originally intended to pass the forts in two columns, but the width of the opening in the river obstruction altered his plan. Dangerous as it was, he was forced to order his ships to pass the forts in single file. As was his custom, he spent long hours reviewing every detail and preparing for every possibility.
The lead division, under Captain Bailey, who was aboard the gunboat Cayuga, which served as his flag, had some difficulty in weighing all anchors, so it was not until almost 3:00 a.m. that the fleet began to move. Behind the Cayuga came the sloop Pensacola, the side-wheeler Mississippi, then, in order, the Oneida, the Varuna, the Katahdin, the Kineo, and finally, the Wissahickon. At three-thirty, the Cayuga was the first to pass through the obstacle. Ten minutes later, both forts opened fire with every gun they could train on the enemy ships. Almost simultaneously, the Union mortar boats opened fire, driving many of the rebel gunners away from their guns and into safety.
Within minutes, the river was covered in smoke and a constant deafening roar, as both forts, their batteries, the mortar boats, and the approaching divisions of the squadron fired every available gun.
Hundreds of guns were now firing at the same time. Farragut had issued orders to his captains to control their gunners to prevent the accidental firing of their own ships, and at this they were successful.
Piloting the Cayuga, as she passed between the schooner hulks chained in the river, was Lieutenant George H. Perkins. Describing the scene, Perkins later wrote, “the air was filled with shells and explosives which almost blinded me as I stood on the forecastle trying to see my way.” The gunboat was struck forty-two times by rebel shells, but little actual damage was done to her hull.
After successfully maneuvering through the obstruction, Perkins looked back to see how the second ship, the Pensacola, and those that followed her were faring. “My heart jumped up into my mouth when I found I could not see a single one.”
As it happened, the Pensacola was experiencing some engine trouble as she passed the hulks. Because she had been slowed by this difficulty, Captain Morris had stopped in mid-crossing and fired a complete broadside into Fort Jackson in a successful effort to drive even more rebel crews away from their guns. Once through the obstruction, he stopped again and loosed another deadly broadside. Continuing on, Morris was surprised to discover the infamous ram Manassas suddenly speeding out of the darkness toward him. With the skillful maneuvering of her pilot, Lieutenant Francis A. Roe, the sloop was able to avoid being struck by the ram’s long nose, and was able to assault the metal turtle with her eleven-gun starboard broadside. The Manassas suffered seriously from this attack but remained at her station in the river.
Passing closely behind the Pensacola was the side-wheeler Mississippi, Lieutenant George Dewey controlling her helm. Because Captain Melancton Smith suffered from poor eyesight, especially at night, he instructed his young executive officer to take command with the words, “I cannot see at night. I am going to leave that to you, Dewey.” Smith went below to the gun deck to take personal control of the firing from the ship’s batteries. After returning the fire from Fort Jackson, the Mississippi followed her predecessors under the guns of Fort St. Philip, only to become the second ship to face the potentially fatal encounter with the ram Manassas.
Aboard the Mississippi was Alfred Waud, an artist and correspondent for Harper’s Weekly. From his vantage point on the foretop, Waud was the first to spot what he called “a queer-looking customer” approaching the Mississippi’s port bow. He pointed it out to Dewey. The future admiral and hero of Manila Bay peered into the darkness and, as he later recalled, “saw what appeared like the back of an enormous turtle painted lead color, which I identified as the ram Manassas.” Seeking to take advantage of his ship’s great weight in comparison to the ram, Dewey turned the side-wheeler directly at Manassas. Unfortunately, the ram’s commander, Captain Alexander F. Warley, had served on a round-the-world cruise aboard the Mississippi and knew the ship suffered from a lack of maneuverability. By quickly turning his boat aside, Warley was able to both avoid the intended collision and swing around for a counterattack. Manassas hit M
ississippi a glancing blow just behind the ship’s port paddle wheel. Although the attack did open up a large hole in her side, the powerfully built Federal warship resumed her progress upriver. The Manassas turned and headed for other prey among the enemy fleet.
Farther upriver, Bailey’s little flagship, the Cayuga, was encountering a new enemy, the Confederate and Louisiana gunboats. Mostly converted river steamers, they had been lined up along the eastern bank of the river behind the Louisiana and the Manassas. Eleven of the enemy boats attempted to surround the Cayuga, but Captain Bailey raked them all with a continuous firing of his guns. Fortunately for the Cayuga, the rebel attack was disorganized, owing partly to the split command structure and the absence of the River Defense Fleet, which for the most part had turned and run upriver when the Union gunboats approached. Many of the boats of the River Defense Fleet, which was part of the Confederate Army and not answerable to local Confederate Navy authorities, were destroyed by Union fire as they fled. Few, if any, returned that fire. Hampered by the fact that their boats had not been designed for warfare, three of the rebel navy captains tried to compensate by closing on the Cayuga with the intention of boarding her. Morris successfully drove off all three, setting one ablaze. The latter limped away and grounded on the riverbank, where its crew abandoned it to the flames.
The fight among the gunboats increased as the Oneida and the Varuna soon joined the Cayuga. As additional Federal boats appeared, and the odds increased rapidly in the enemy’s favor, the rebel commanders became more desperate and reckless in their efforts to halt the Union fleet. A victim of that desperation was the Union gunboat Varuna. She had attacked and set ablaze the rebel gunboat General Quitman, which drifted to the bank, where she remained, burning to the waterline. Then it was the Varuna’s, turn, as the Louisiana State gunboat Governor Moore, commanded by the able and talented Captain Beverly Kennon, closed on her, forcing the Union boat toward the shore. Unable to bring his bow gun to bear on the enemy, Kennon, whose ship was already badly damaged by enemy shells, fired the big gun through his own bow and into the Varuna below her waterline. He then rammed her into the bank. As the Governor Moore attempted to back away from her victim, the Union sloop Pensacola passed behind and fired a broadside into her, wrecking the gunboat and driving her onto the shore. Kennon set what remained of his boat aflame and surrendered to a party from the Pensacola. The sloop also lowered a boat to rescue the remaining crewmen of the Varuna.
With the first division, minus the gunboat Varuna, safely through the obstacle, the second division, comprising the Hartford, the Brooklyn, and the Richmond, began their passage. Farragut was unable to see clearly because of the dark and the increasingly thick smoke from the numerous guns firing continuously. He was concerned that one of his ships might be damaged by a broadside from his own. To prevent this, he climbed up into the Hartford’s mizzen rigging, from where he yelled orders down to the gun crews. The noise of the guns and exploding shells was so great that his shouted instructions had to be relayed to the gun crews. Farragut remained where he was until Mr. Osbon, his clerk, finally persuaded him to return to the deck. It was evidently none too soon, for a few minutes later an enemy shell exploded near the point where he had been perched.
As the three sloops of the second division approached the obstacle, they fired devastating broadsides at Fort Jackson. While the captains knew their shells would cause little physical damage, they sought to keep the rebel gunners away from their stations as long as possible. For the most part, they succeeded, although many of the fort’s gun crews worked their weapons with skill under horrendous conditions.
The Harford made it through the obstacle, but the Brooklyn lost sight of her in the dark and smoke, and drifted off course, becoming entangled in the hulks and logs that made up the obstacle. As Captain Craven struggled to free his ship, it swung around, and her bow scraped the eastern riverbank, leaving her in a vulnerable position. Gunners on Fort St. Philip caught sight of her and opened a terrible fire on the ship. Finally able to free herself, the Brooklyn steamed upriver, but not before suffering an attack from the ram Manassas, which, however, did little damage. Coming within a hundred yards of the second fort, she exacted revenge for the pounding she had taken by firing broadsides of grapeshot and canister into the fort. The Richmond was luckier, following her lead ship through the breach in the obstruction safely, with only minor damage.
Once above the forts, the Brooklyn again became the center of enemy attention. Gunners aboard the Louisiana found their range and put a shell into her bow above the waterline, but it failed to explode. The Union sloop returned fire to the stationary ironclad in vain. Meanwhile, the Manassas made another attempt at ramming her, but accomplished nothing except to create a loud noise when she came in contact with the chain hanging over the sloop’s side as armor against just such an attack. The ram slid away and once again looked elsewhere for a victim.
Aboard the Hartford, Farragut caught sight of the Manassas prowling the river. He told his signalman to “signal the Mississippi to sink that damned thing.” The steam frigate responded to the flag officer’s order by steaming toward the ram and firing so many shells into her that her commander, Captain Warley, said she was “shot through as though she had been made of thin plank.” Unable to continue the fight, Warley ran his boat up on the riverbank to allow his crew to get off, then permitted her to fill with water and slowly slip into the brown river and disappear from view. Warley and his crew vanished into the nearby swamps. Before the ram went down, Captain Smith of the Mississippi sent a boat to board her and report on her condition with the hope of saving her. But the officer in charge of the boarding party returned with news that the ram was too far gone to rescue. He did, however, manage to recover Warley’s diary and signal book.
A short time later, the ram rose to the surface, with part of her bow sticking out of the water, and was carried downriver about one mile, where she mysteriously exploded and vanished for good.
In the midst of this activity, the one element missing was the large number of fire boats that had been prepared by the Confederate forces. Loaded with dry wood and tar, they were the ultimate weapon for use against an enemy fleet on a river. Released, with their cargoes ablaze, and allowed to drift downriver with the current, they could, at the least, create panic and chaos among crews of wooden ships. At their worst, they could quickly set a large warship afire, requiring her crew to fight the blaze to save their own lives. For some reason, control of these rafts had been passed from the Confederate Navy to the Confederate Army’s River Defense Fleet, and then back again. The resulting confusion over who controlled these rafts meant that only a few were actually used. The first, released soon after the Union fleet began to move, had created enough chaos to cause several of Farragut’s vessels to collide, but only minor damage had resulted.
Suddenly, while the Mississippi was engaged with the Manassas, a large burning raft was swept downstream, carried by the river current with the help of a tiny unarmed tugboat, the Mosher. The Hartford attempted to maneuver out of the raft’s way, but moved too close to the shore and became grounded. The courageous little tug pushed the inferno right up against the flagship, setting it on fire. Flames leaped up her side and halfway up her mainmast. Only the efforts of her well-trained and drilled fire crews saved her from even worse damage. While these crews extinguished the flames, other crewmen trained their guns on the little tug, blowing her apart and sending her crew to the bottom of the river. As the Hartford’s crew fought the flames, Mr. Osbon, the flag officer’s clerk, came up with a novel method for pushing the raft away from the ship, the usual methods having failed. He rolled three twenty-pound shells across the deck toward the flames. The heat was so intense that Osbon covered his head with his coat while he knelt to remove the caps from each shell. Seeing him kneeling there, Farragut called out, “Come, Mr. Osbon, this is no time for prayer.” Osbon replied that the flag officer was about to witness the quickest answer to prayers he had ever seen. H
e then rolled the shells off the side into the burning raft. The resulting explosion blew a large hole in the raft. The river rushed through the hole, reducing the danger from the flames until the raft was completely covered by water and its fire put out.
As daylight began to edge over the horizon, the third and final division of the squadron fought its way up the river. The Scotia, flying the flag of Fleet Captain Bell, led the way through the obstruction and the forts. After passing Fort St. Philip, she encountered two rebel gunboats but made short order of them. Enemy gunners were now better able to see the Union vessels, and the other boats in the third division took a heavy pounding as they made the passage. Three ships in the final division failed to make the run. The Itasca, the same gunboat that had opened the breach in the obstruction, had her engine disabled by a forty-two-pound shot and was forced to float downstream and out of range of the rebel guns. The Kennebec and the Winona, both attempting to race past Fort Jackson in the morning light, became entangled in the chains, logs, and schooners of the obstacle, and their captains prudently decided to steam back downriver rather than make the attempt in full view of enemy gunners.
While the third division was attempting to pass the forts, Captain Bailey’s Cayuga took part in one of the most extraordinary incidents of the campaign. Shortly before 5:00 a.m., as the first light of dawn rose over the river, the speedy gunboat was pushing upriver far ahead of her cohorts, when the lookouts spotted an encampment of Confederate soldiers on the eastern bank. The gunboat pulled close to shore as the soldiers rose from their places and stared in wonder at the approaching enemy vessel. Bailey fired several rounds of canister at the startled troops, killing and wounding about thirty of the 700 men camped there. Dropping anchor when he realized the soldiers were not returning his fire, Bailey ordered Lieutenant Perkins to call to the Confederate officers to surrender or face further assault. Perkins invited the regiment’s commanding officer and his staff aboard the Cayuga to deliver their swords.
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