by Jerri Hines
Grief-driven determination gripped her tightly. She would not fail Wade. She would fight as he had done to maintain his legacy for his children.
Magnolia Bluff would survive.
Chapter One
Battle of New Orleans
April 24, 1862
Boom. Boom. Boom. The Western Blockading Squadron had taken relentless fire from Fort Jackson and Fort St. Philip for five days. Seventy-five miles downriver from New Orleans, the Confederate forts served as the city’s major southern defense from a Union attack.
Heavily fortified, the Rebels were determined that the Union squadron would be unable to maneuver up the Mississippi River. The commander of the squadron, Union Flag Officer David G. Farragut, was just as determined to break through their barrier.
Over the last couple of weeks, Lieutenant Cullen Smythe had slept little in preparation for this naval assault. He had overseen escorting the Coast Survey unit along the river’s passages. The indomitable task of surveying and marking the Mississippi’s outlets had been fraught with danger.
Following direct orders from Farragut, the squad had been under constant fire from the forts and snipers as they charted every aspect of the locale. Surveying took time under the best conditions. Cullen had made certain that the unit performed their jobs safely under cover by marksmen.
Unlike most rivers, the muddy Mississippi didn’t dump into the Gulf by one main outlet but five channels. Because of the war, the dredging that had once been tended to had been almost nonexistent. Farragut needed at least sixteen feet of water to pass through safely without fear of grounding a ship.
Farragut had become impatient at the impasse. The Western Squadron’s mission was to take New Orleans and control of the lower Mississippi. The fleet waited on Farragut’s orders to begin their assault at the highly valued prize.
From the intelligence gathered, the Confederates expected the threat to come from the north and held confident with their position of strength from their two strong deterrents south of the city: Fort St. Philip and Fort Jackson. Fort St. Philip sat slightly north of Fort Jackson and directly across the river.
Using that information and the precise charts that the Coast Survey prepared, Farragut had used every means available to take the forts by surprise. He had tree branches and bushes tied to the mast to camouflage the ships from a distance. Mortar boats began the assault and opened fire, hidden from view from the forts by a dense stand of large trees.
The ships had been equipped with chains suspended from the hull a few feet above the waterline to serve as armor against enemy shells. Sacks of sand had been heaped into the engine room to protect the engines. Yet, despite their surprise attack and constant bombardment of the forts, the Union squadron efforts had done little damage to the heavily fortified outposts. The Southern forts had held for over five days.
On deck, Cullen stood in his position as executive officer in front of the wheel. He watched one of the rowboats used to communicate between ships pull alongside of the Kennebee. As of late, there had been many such boats.
The light of the day would soon fade into night and fog would settle over the water. Cullen caught sight of the boatswain in his flare-legged blues, neckerchief, and black straw hat walk toward him. The bearded sailor acknowledged Cullen. “Sir, Commander Bell requests your immediate presence in his cabin. I am to take over your watch.”
Despite Cullen’s surprise at the request, he relinquished his post and made his way down below deck to the commander’s cabin. After one knock, Commander Henry Bell responded and Cullen entered, closing the door behind him.
Cullen stood at attention. “You called for me, sir?”
The clean-shaven commander looked up from his desk and gestured for Cullen to sit. The gray-haired officer was a lifer, having joined the Navy in the early 1820s and had once served on the Board of Examiners at the Naval Academy. Cullen had been unfamiliar with him before becoming part of the Western Blockade Squadron, but the man had a reputation as a damn good seaman.
“Lieutenant Smythe, we don’t have time to mince words. I have only just returned from the Hartford with new orders. The fleet is preparing to move.”
Straight away, Cullen read Bell’s expression. Although it came as no surprise, his commander wasn’t happy with the news. The ramblings among the crew held truth to them. It had been rumored that Flag Officer Farragut wanted to race by the forts without taking them in an unheard of manner. Commander David Porter had been the one who had promised to take the forts with mortar fire…it hadn’t worked.
“The Kennebee is in readiness, sir,” Cullen stated confidently.
“Assuredly.” Bell nodded. “Time is on the side of the Rebels. The longer the delay, the more preparations and help will come to the defense of the forts and New Orleans.”
Bell leaned back in his chair and drew in a deep breath. His stern look left Cullen with the impression he carefully contemplated his next words. “Lieutenant Smythe, you have been commended for your performance as of late, but your behavior gives me pause.”
“You have me confused, Captain. Have you called me here to be reprimanded?”
“No, Lieutenant, your performance has been exemplary. I wanted to talk to you about your time under me. When you volunteered for the Coast Survey venture, I gladly allowed you to participate. I heard nothing but praise for your actions. You maneuvered the men in and out of quite a few precarious situations.
“But I have been begun to notice that you have been quite aggressive in your actions since word came of your cousin’s death. At times, I would venture reckless. I need to know if you have a total disregard for your own life or have always been so brazen.”
A tightness in Cullen’s throat allowed only a direct answer. “I fight for my country and family, sir. I want only to put down this rebellion.”
“Calm yourself, Lieutenant, but I am no fool. I will confess I held a certain hesitation on delivering the news when it came shortly after Shiloh. I realize it was sent as a show of respect to you and your cousin, but I believe it has affected you more than you would care to admit.”
“Sir, I would never allow my personal life to interfere with my duty.”
“Lieutenant, you forget I myself am a Southerner. I, too, have family fighting for the Confederacy. It pains me. Remember, we are only human. This war has torn many a family apart.”
“Sir, I only want this blasted war to be over and I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that fact.”
Commander Bell nodded. “Then we understand each other, Lieutenant. Nothing should come before the mission you have been assigned. It holds too much importance.”
“Mission?”
“Flag Officer Farragut has directed three of our best gunboats to open up the barrier to allow passage for the rest of the fleet: the Itasca, the Pinola and the Onieda. Farragut believes we will be able to make it past the forts without damage from the barrage of fire that will erupt at the forts. We, Lieutenant, are going to open up the way for our ships. Our objective is the obstacle that stands between us and the water passage up to New Orleans—the barrier.”
Cullen remained silent, knowing well the barrier they faced. It outstretched across the river, made up mostly of old schooners chained together at their bows with anchors.
“Farragut has plans for taking two of our gunboats to supply cover for the Pinola, which will carry the explosives to blast our way through the barrier,” Commander Bell continued. “It will be impossible to take out the entire barrier, but the objective is to open it large enough for all our ships to pass safely through.
“You may not be aware that Lieutenant-Commander Bemis of the Itasca has fallen ill. He will be unable to participate in the upcoming mission. A replacement needs to be found. Farragut wants a daring, courageous officer to command the Itasca. I assured him you were that man. Farragut agreed. Lieutenant Smythe, you have been transferred to the Itasca temporarily to captain the ship.”
Astonished, he refrained from r
evealing the exhilaration that surged through him, sensing Commander Bell held reservations. He said simply, “Thank you, sir.”
Bell’s brows drew together in a frown. “Do not take this mission lightly, Smythe. There were objections to your appointment, mainly from Commander Porter. He cited your inexperience in command under fire and what he called your lack of forethought.”
“Sir, I believe I am fully capable…”
“I did not say I had misgivings. In truth, I believe you are quite competent and brave. There were those who felt strongly that you were the right man for the job. High recommendations came from Reids and Kroehl. Kroehl is the explosive expert, so Farragut weighed heavily upon his approval, especially since you have already been working with him on the Coast Survey unit.”
“But you do have your own reservations.”
“Lieutenant, I have stated my concerns. I will say that it was mentioned that perhaps your position here in the Western Squadron was a political appointment. I say this only so you are aware. I believe one needs to know what they are up against.”
The speculation did not shock Cullen. He had heard it before and would have been foolish not to recognize that some would consider his advancement due to his father’s connections and not his own actions. It only fueled his resolve to prove them all wrong.
“When should I prepare?”
Commander Bell’s answer came readily and direct. “Tonight.”
* * * *
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 billowed 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.