Chapter 60

Over the turret, shut in his ironclad tower,Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame;Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour.Now was the time for a charge to end the game.There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim,A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign;There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swimThe flag was flying, and he was head of the line.The fleet behind was jamming: the monitor hungBeating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed;Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung;Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushedInto the narrowing channel, between the shoreAnd the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank;She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar,A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank.Over the manhole, up in the ironclad tower,Pilot and captain met as they turned to fly:The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour,For one could pass to be saved, and one must die.They stood like men in a dream; Craven spoke,—Spoke as he lived and fought, with a captain's pride:"After you, Pilot." The pilot woke,Down the ladder he went, and Craven died.All men praise the deed and the manner; but we—We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud,The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free,The grace of the empty hands and promises loud;Sidneythirsting a humbler need to slake,Nelsonwaiting his turn for the surgeon's hand,Lucascrushed with chains for a comrade's sake,Outramcoveting right before command,These were paladins, these were Craven's peers,These with him shall be crowned in story and song,Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears,Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong.Henry Newbolt.

Over the turret, shut in his ironclad tower,Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame;Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour.Now was the time for a charge to end the game.

There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim,A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign;There lay the enemy's ships, and sink or swimThe flag was flying, and he was head of the line.

The fleet behind was jamming: the monitor hungBeating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed;Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung;Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed

Into the narrowing channel, between the shoreAnd the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank;She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar,A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank.

Over the manhole, up in the ironclad tower,Pilot and captain met as they turned to fly:The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour,For one could pass to be saved, and one must die.

They stood like men in a dream; Craven spoke,—Spoke as he lived and fought, with a captain's pride:"After you, Pilot." The pilot woke,Down the ladder he went, and Craven died.

All men praise the deed and the manner; but we—We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud,The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free,The grace of the empty hands and promises loud;

Sidneythirsting a humbler need to slake,Nelsonwaiting his turn for the surgeon's hand,Lucascrushed with chains for a comrade's sake,Outramcoveting right before command,

These were paladins, these were Craven's peers,These with him shall be crowned in story and song,Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears,Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong.

Henry Newbolt.

Farragut, who had lashed himself to the shrouds of his flagship, the Hartford, observed the Brooklyn, which preceded him, recoil as the Tecumseh sank. "What's the trouble?" he signalled. "Torpedoes!" answered the Brooklyn. "Damn the torpedoes!" shouted Farragut. "Go ahead, Captain Drayton! Four bells!" and the Hartford cleared the Brooklyn and took the lead.

FARRAGUT

(Mobile Bay, August 5, 1864)

Farragut, Farragut,Old Heart of Oak,Daring Dave Farragut,Thunderbolt stroke,Watches the hoary mistLift from the bay,Till his flag, glory-kissed,Greets the young day.Far, by gray Morgan's walls,Looms the black fleet.Hark, deck to rampart callsWith the drums' beat!Buoy your chains overboard,While the steam hums;Men! to the battlement,Farragut comes.See, as the hurricaneHurtles in wrathSquadrons of clouds amainBack from its path!Back to the parapet,To the guns' lips,Thunderbolt FarragutHurls the black ships.Now through the battle's roarClear the boy sings,"By the mark fathoms four,"While his lead swings.Steady the wheelmen five"Nor' by East keep her,""Steady," but two alive:How the shells sweep her!Lashed to the mast that swaysOver red decks,Over the flame that playsRound the torn wrecks,Over the dying lipsFramed for a cheer,Farragut leads his ships,Guides the line clear.On by heights cannon-browed,While the spars quiver;Onward still flames the cloudWhere the hulks shiver.See, yon fort's star is set,Storm and fire past.Cheer him, lads—Farragut,Lashed to the mast!Oh! while Atlantic's breastBears a white sail,While the Gulf's towering crestTops a green vale,Men thy bold deeds shall tell,Old Heart of Oak,Daring Dave Farragut,Thunderbolt stroke!William Tuckey Meredith.

Farragut, Farragut,Old Heart of Oak,Daring Dave Farragut,Thunderbolt stroke,Watches the hoary mistLift from the bay,Till his flag, glory-kissed,Greets the young day.

Far, by gray Morgan's walls,Looms the black fleet.Hark, deck to rampart callsWith the drums' beat!Buoy your chains overboard,While the steam hums;Men! to the battlement,Farragut comes.

See, as the hurricaneHurtles in wrathSquadrons of clouds amainBack from its path!Back to the parapet,To the guns' lips,Thunderbolt FarragutHurls the black ships.

Now through the battle's roarClear the boy sings,"By the mark fathoms four,"While his lead swings.Steady the wheelmen five"Nor' by East keep her,""Steady," but two alive:How the shells sweep her!

Lashed to the mast that swaysOver red decks,Over the flame that playsRound the torn wrecks,Over the dying lipsFramed for a cheer,Farragut leads his ships,Guides the line clear.

On by heights cannon-browed,While the spars quiver;Onward still flames the cloudWhere the hulks shiver.See, yon fort's star is set,Storm and fire past.Cheer him, lads—Farragut,Lashed to the mast!

Oh! while Atlantic's breastBears a white sail,While the Gulf's towering crestTops a green vale,Men thy bold deeds shall tell,Old Heart of Oak,Daring Dave Farragut,Thunderbolt stroke!

William Tuckey Meredith.

On went the flagship across the line of torpedoes, but not one of them exploded, and a moment later one of the most daring feats in the naval history of the world had been safely accomplished. The line of battle was re-formed, the forts and Confederate fleet savagely attacked, and by nine o'clock the Union fleet was in the bay.

THROUGH FIRE IN MOBILE BAY

[August 5, 1864]

I'd weave a wreath for those who foughtIn blue upon the waves,I drop a tear for all who sleepDown in the coral caves,And proudly do I touch my capWhene'er I meet to-dayA man who sail'd with FarragutThro' fire in Mobile Bay.Oh, what a gallant sight it wasAs toward the foe we bore!Lashed to the mast, unflinching, stoodOur grand old Commodore.I see him now above the deck,Though time has cleared awayThe battle smoke that densely hungAbove old Mobile Bay.Torpedoes to the right and left,Torpedoes straight ahead!The stanch Tecumseh sinks from sight,The waves receive her dead.But on we press, thro' lead and iron,On, on with pennons gay,Whilst glory holds her wreath aboveImmortal Mobile Bay.The rebel forts belch fire and death,But what care we for them?Our onward course, with FarragutTo guide us, nought can stem.The Hartford works her dreaded guns,The Brooklyn pounds away,And proudly flies the flag of starsAloft o'er Mobile Bay.Behold yon moving mass of ironBeyond the Ossipee;To fight the fleet with courage grimSteams forth the Tennessee.We hem her in with battle fire—How furious grows the fray,Until Surrender's flag she fliesAbove red Mobile Bay.We count our dead, we count our scars,The proudest ever won;We cheer the flag that gayly fliesVictorious in the sun.No longer in the rigging standsThe hero of the day,For he has linked his name fore'erTo deathless Mobile Bay.Thus I would weave a wreath for allWho fought with us that time,And I'd embalm that glorious dayForevermore in rhyme.The stars above will rise and set,The years will pass away,But brighter all the time shall growThe fame of Mobile Bay.He sleeps, the bluff old CommodoreWho led with hearty will;But ah! methinks I see him now,Lashed to the rigging still.I know that just beyond the tide,In God's own glorious day,He waits to greet the gallant tarsWho fought in Mobile Bay.

Oh, what a gallant sight it wasAs toward the foe we bore!Lashed to the mast, unflinching, stoodOur grand old Commodore.I see him now above the deck,Though time has cleared awayThe battle smoke that densely hungAbove old Mobile Bay.

Torpedoes to the right and left,Torpedoes straight ahead!The stanch Tecumseh sinks from sight,The waves receive her dead.But on we press, thro' lead and iron,On, on with pennons gay,Whilst glory holds her wreath aboveImmortal Mobile Bay.

The rebel forts belch fire and death,But what care we for them?Our onward course, with FarragutTo guide us, nought can stem.The Hartford works her dreaded guns,The Brooklyn pounds away,And proudly flies the flag of starsAloft o'er Mobile Bay.

Behold yon moving mass of ironBeyond the Ossipee;To fight the fleet with courage grimSteams forth the Tennessee.We hem her in with battle fire—How furious grows the fray,Until Surrender's flag she fliesAbove red Mobile Bay.

We count our dead, we count our scars,The proudest ever won;We cheer the flag that gayly fliesVictorious in the sun.No longer in the rigging standsThe hero of the day,For he has linked his name fore'erTo deathless Mobile Bay.

Thus I would weave a wreath for allWho fought with us that time,And I'd embalm that glorious dayForevermore in rhyme.The stars above will rise and set,The years will pass away,But brighter all the time shall growThe fame of Mobile Bay.

He sleeps, the bluff old CommodoreWho led with hearty will;But ah! methinks I see him now,Lashed to the rigging still.I know that just beyond the tide,In God's own glorious day,He waits to greet the gallant tarsWho fought in Mobile Bay.

The ships were brought to anchor and breakfast was being served, when the great Confederate ram, Tennessee, was seen advancing at full speed, to attack the whole fleet. A terrific struggle followed, in which nearly every one of the Union ships was badly damaged; but the Tennessee at last became unmanageable and was forced to surrender. The task of reducing the forts remained. This was completed in a few days and the port of Mobile was effectually closed.

THE BAY FIGHT

(Mobile Harbor, August 5, 1864)

Three days through sapphire seas we sailed,The steady Trade blew strong and free,The Northern Light his banners paled,The Ocean Stream our channels wet,We rounded low Canaveral's lee,And passed the isles of emerald setIn blue Bahama's turquoise sea.By reef and shoal obscurely mapped,The hauntings of the gray sea-wolf,The palmy Western Key lay lappedIn the warm washing of the Gulf.But weary to the hearts of allThe burning glare, the barren reachOf Santa Rosa's withered beach,And Pensacola's ruined wall.And weary was the long patrol,The thousand miles of shapeless strand,From Brazos to San Blas that rollTheir drifting dunes of desert sand.Yet coastwise as we cruised or lay,The land-breeze still at nightfall bore,By beach and fortress-guarded bay,Sweet odors from the enemy's shore,Fresh from the forest solitudes,Unchallenged of his sentry lines,—The bursting of his cypress buds,And the warm fragrance of his pines.Ah, never braver bark and crew,Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare,Had left a wake on ocean blueSince Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer!But little gain by that dark groundWas ours, save, sometime, freer breathFor friend or brother strangely found,'Scaped from the drear domain of death.And little venture for the bold,Or laurel for our valiant Chief,Save some blockaded British thief,Full fraught with murder in his hold,Caught unawares at ebb or flood,Or dull bombardment, day by day,With fort and earthwork, far away,Low couched in sullen leagues of mud.A weary time,—but to the strongThe day at last, as ever, came;And the volcano, laid so long,Leaped forth in thunder and in flame!"Man your starboard battery!"Kimberly shouted;—The ship, with her hearts of oak,Was going, 'mid roar and smoke,On to victory;None of us doubted,No, not our dying—Farragut's Flag was flying!Gaines growled low on our left,Morgan roared on our right;Before us, gloomy and fell,With breath like the fume of hell,Lay the dragon of iron shell,Driven at last to the fight!Ha, old ship! do they thrill,The brave two hundred scarsYou got in the River-Wars?That were leeched with clamorous skill(Surgery savage and hard),Splinted with bolt and beam,Probed in scarfing and seam,Rudely linted and tarredWith oakum and boiling pitch,And sutured with splice and hitch,At the Brooklyn Navy Yard!Our lofty spars were down,To bide the battle's frown(Wont of old renown)—But every ship was drestIn her bravest and her best,As if for a July day;Sixty flags and three,As we floated up the bay—At every peak and mast-head flewThe brave Red, White, and Blue,—We were eighteen ships that day.With hawsers strong and taut,The weaker lashed to port,On we sailed two by two—That if either a bolt should feelCrash through caldron or wheel,Fin of bronze, or sinew of steel,Her mate might bear her through.Forging boldly ahead,The great Flag-Ship led,Grandest of sights!On her lofty mizzen flewOur leader's dauntless Blue,That had waved o'er twenty fights.So we went with the first of the tide,Slowly, 'mid the roarOf the rebel guns ashoreAnd the thunder of each full broadside.Ah, how poor the prateOf statute and stateWe once held these fellows!Here on the flood's pale green,Hark how he bellows,Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer!Talk to them, Dahlgren,Parrott, and Sawyer!On, in the whirling shadeOf the cannon's sulphury breath,We drew to the Line of DeathThat our devilish Foe had laid,—Meshed in a horrible net,And baited villainous well,Right in our path were setThree hundred traps of hell!And there, O sight forlorn!There, while the cannonHurtled and thundered(Ah, what ill ravenFlapped o'er the ship that morn!),—Caught by the under-death,In the drawing of a breathDown went dauntless Craven,He and his hundred!A moment we saw her turret,A little heel she gave,And a thin white spray went o'er her,Like the crest of a breaking wave;—In that great iron coffin,The channel for their grave,The fort their monument(Seen afar in the offing),Ten fathom deep lie CravenAnd the bravest of our brave.Then in that deadly trackA little the ships held back,Closing up in their stations;—There are minutes that fix the fateOf battles and of nations(Christening the generations),When valor were all too late.If a moment's doubt be harbored;—From the main-top, bold and brief,Came the word of our grand old chief:"Go on!"—'twas all he said,—Our helm was put to starboard,And the Hartford passed ahead.Ahead lay the Tennessee,On our starboard bow he lay,With his mail-clad consorts three(The rest had run up the bay):There he was, belching flame from his bow,And the steam from his throat's abyssWas a Dragon's maddened hiss;In sooth a most cursed craft!—In a sullen ring, at bay,By the Middle-Ground they lay,Raking us fore and aft.Trust me, our berth was hot,Ah, wickedly well they shot—How their death-bolts howled and stung!And the water-batteries playedWith their deadly cannonadeTill the air around us rung;So the battle raged and roared;—Ah, had you been aboardTo have seen the fight we made!How they leapt, the tongues of flame,From the cannon's fiery lip!How the broadsides, deck and frame,Shook the great ship!And how the enemy's shellCame crashing, heavy and oft,Clouds of splinters flying aloftAnd falling in oaken showers;—But ah, the pluck of the crew!Had you stood on that deck of ours,You had seen what men may do.Still, as the fray grew louder,Boldly they worked and well—Steadily came the powder,Steadily came the shell.And if tackle or truck found hurt,Quickly they cleared the wreck—And the dead were laid to port,All a-row, on our deck.Never a nerve that failed,Never a cheek that paled,Not a tinge of gloom or pallor;—There was bold Kentucky's grit,And the old Virginian valor,And the daring Yankee wit.There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon,There were black orbs from palmy Niger,—But there alongside the cannon,Each man fought like a tiger!A little, once, it looked ill,Our consort began to burn—They quenched the flames with a will,But our men were falling still,And still the fleet were astern.Right abreast of the FortIn an awful shroud they lay,Broadsides thundering away,And lightning from every port;Scene of glory and dread!A storm-cloud all aglowWith flashes of fiery red,The thunder raging below,And the forest of flags o'erhead!So grand the hurly and roar,So fiercely their broadsides blazed,The regiments fighting ashoreForgot to fire as they gazed.There, to silence the foe,Moving grimly and slow,They loomed in that deadly wreath,Where the darkest batteries frowned,—Death in the air all round,And the black torpedoes beneath!And now, as we looked ahead,All for'ard, the long white deckWas growing a strange dull red,—But soon, as once and againFore and aft we sped(The firing to guide or check),You could hardly choose but treadOn the ghastly human wreck(Dreadful gobbet and shredThat a minute ago were men!)Red, from mainmast to bitts!Red, on bulwark and wale,Red, by combing and hatch,Red, o'er netting and vail!And ever, with steady con,The ship forged slowly by,—And ever the crew fought on,And their cheers rang loud and high.Grand was the sight to seeHow by their guns they stood,Right in front of our dead,Fighting square abreast—Each brawny arm and chestAll spotted with black and red,Chrism of fire and blood!Worth our watch, dull and sterile,Worth all the weary time,Worth the woe and the peril,To stand in that strait sublime!Fear? A forgotten form!Death? A dream of the eyes!We were atoms in God's great stormThat roared through the angry skies.One only doubt was ours,One only dread we knew,—Could the day that dawned so wellGo down for the Darker Powers?Wouldthe fleet get through?And ever the shot and shellCame with the howl of hell,The splinter-clouds rose and fell,And the long line of corpses grew,—Wouldthe fleet win through?They are men that never will fail(How aforetime they've fought!),But Murder may yet prevail,—They may sink as Craven sank.Therewith one hard fierce thought,Burning on heart and lip,Ran like fire through the ship;Fighther, to the last plank!A dimmer renown might strikeIf Death lay square alongside,—But the old Flag has no like,She must fight, whatever betide;—When the War is a tale of old,And this day's story is told,They shall hear how the Hartford died!But as we ranged ahead,And the leading ships worked in,Losing their hope to win,The enemy turned and fled—And one seeks a shallow reach!And another, winged in her flight,Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in;—And one, all torn in the fight,Runs for a wreck on the beach,Where her flames soon fire the night.And the Ram, when well up the Bay,And we looked that our stems should meet(He had us fair for a prey),Shifting his helm midway,Sheered off, and ran for the fleet;There, without skulking or sham,He fought them gun for gun;And ever he sought to ram,But could finish never a one.From the first of the iron showerTill we sent our parting shell,'Twas just one savage hourOf the roar and the rage of hell.With the lessening smoke and thunder,Our glasses around we aim,—What is that burning yonder?Our Philippi—aground and in flame!Below, 'twas still all a-roar,As the ships went by the shore,But the fire of the Fort had slacked(So fierce their volleys had been),—And now with a mighty din,The whole fleet came grandly in,Though sorely battered and wracked.So, up the Bay we ran,The Flag to port and ahead,—And a pitying rain beganTo wash the lips of our dead.A league from the Fort we lay,And deemed that the end must lag,—When lo! looking down the Bay,There flaunted the Rebel Rag;—The Ram is again under wayAnd heading dead for the Flag!Steering up with the stream,Boldly his course he lay,Though the fleet all answered his fire,And, as he still drew nigher,Ever on bow and beamOur Monitors pounded away;How the Chickasaw hammered away!Quickly breasting the wave,Eager the prize to win,First of us all the braveMonongahela went inUnder full head of steam;—Twice she struck him abeam,Till her stem was a sorry work(She might have run on a crag!),The Lackawanna hit fair,He flung her aside like cork,And still he held for the Flag.High in the mizzen shroud(Lest the smoke his sight o'erwhelm),Our Admiral's voice rang loud;"Hard-a-starboard your helm!Starboard, and run him down!"Starboard it was,—and so,Like a black squall's lifting frown,Our mighty bow bore downOn the iron beak of the Foe.We stood on the deck together,Men that had looked on deathIn battle and stormy weather;Yet a little we held our breath,When, with the hush of death,The great ships drew together.Our Captain strode to the bow,Drayton, courtly and wise,Kindly cynic, and wise(You hardly had known him now,The flame of fight in his eyes!),—His brave heart eager to feelHow the oak would tell on the steel!But, as the space grew short,A little he seemed to shun us;Out peered a form grim and lanky,And a voice yelled, "Hard-a-port!Hard-a-port!—here's the damned YankeeComing right down on us!"He sheered, but the ships ran foulWith a gnarring shudder and growl;He gave us a deadly gun;But as he passed in his pride(Rasping right alongside!),The old Flag, in thunder-tonesPoured in her port broadside,Rattling his iron hideAnd cracking his timber-bones!Just then, at speed on the Foe,With her bow all weathered and brown,The great Lackawanna came downFull tilt, for another blow;—We were forging ahead,She reversed—but, for all our pains,Rammed the old Hartford, instead,Just for'ard the mizzen chains!Ah! how the masts did buckle and bend,And the stout hull ring and reel,As she took us right on end!(Vain were engine and wheel,She was under full steam)—With the roar of a thunder-strokeHer two thousand tons of oakBrought up on us, right abeam!A wreck, as it looked, we lay(Rib and plank-sheer gave wayTo the stroke of that giant wedge!)—Here, after all, we go—The old ship is gone!—ah, no,But cut to the water's edge.Never mind then,—at him again!His flurry now can't last long;He'll never again see land,—Try that onhim, Marchand!On him again, brave Strong!Heading square at the hulk,Full on his beam we bore;But the spine of the huge Sea-HogLay on the tide like a log,He vomited flame no more.By this, he had found it hot;—Half the fleet, in an angry ring,Closed round the hideous thing,Hammering with solid shot,And bearing down, bow on bow;He has but a minute to choose,—Life or renown?—which nowWill the Rebel Admiral lose?Cruel, haughty, and cold,He ever was strong and bold;Shall he shrink from a wooden stem?He will think of that brave bandHe sank in the Cumberland;Ay, he will sink like them.Nothing left but to fightBoldly his last sea-fight!Can he strike? By Heaven, 'tis true!Down comes the traitor Blue,And up goes the captive White!Up went the White! Ah, thenThe hurrahs that once and againRang from three thousand menAll flushed and savage with fight!Our dead lay cold and stark;But our dying, down in the dark,Answered as best they might,Lifting their poor lost arms,And cheering for God and Right!Ended the mighty noise,Thunder of forts and ships.Down we went to the hold,Oh, our dear dying boys!How we pressed their poor brave lips(Ah, so pallid and cold!)And held their hands to the last(Those who had hands to hold).Still thee, O woman heart!(So strong an hour ago);If the idle tears must start,'Tis not in vain they flow.They died, our children dear.On the drear berth-deck they died,—Do not think of them here—Even now their footsteps nearThe immortal, tender sphere(Land of love and cheer!Home of the Crucified!).And the glorious deed survives;Our threescore, quiet and cold,Lie thus, for a myriad livesAnd treasure-millions untold(Labor of poor men's lives,Hunger of weans and wives,Such is war-wasted gold).Our ship and her fame to-dayShall float on the storied StreamWhen mast and shroud have crumbled away,And her long white deck is a dream.One daring leap in the dark,Three mortal hours, at the most,—And hell lies stiff and starkOn a hundred leagues of coast.For the mighty Gulf is ours,—The bay is lost and won,An Empire is lost and won!Land, if thou yet hast flowers,Twine them in one more wreathOf tenderest white and red(Twin buds of glory and death!),For the brows of our brave dead,For thy Navy's noblest son.Joy, O Land, for thy sons,Victors by flood and field!The traitor walls and gunsHave nothing left but to yield(Even now they surrender!).And the ships shall sail once more,And the cloud of war sweep onTo break on the cruel shore;—But Craven is gone,He and his hundred are gone.The flags flutter up and downAt sunrise and twilight dim,The cannons menace and frown,—But never again for him,Him and the hundred.The Dahlgrens are dumb,Dumb are the mortars;Never more shall the drumBeat to colors and quarters,—The great guns are silent.O brave heart and loyal!Let all your colors dip;—Mourn him proud ship!From main deck to royal.God rest our Captain,Rest our lost hundred!Droop, flag and pennant!What is your pride for?Heaven, that he died for,Rest our Lieutenant,Rest our brave threescore!*****O Mother Land! this weary lifeWe led, we lead, is 'long of thee;Thine the strong agony of strife,And thine the lonely sea.Thine the long decks all slaughter-sprent,The weary rows of cots that lieWith wrecks of strong men, marred and rent,'Neath Pensacola's sky.And thine the iron caves and densWherein the flame our war-fleet drives;The fiery vaults, whose breath is men'sMost dear and precious lives!Ah, ever when with storm sublimeDread Nature clears our murky air,Thus in the crash of falling crimeSome lesser guilt must share.Full red the furnace fires must glowThat melt the ore of mortal kind;The mills of God are grinding slow,But ah, how close they grind!To-day the Dahlgren and the drumAre dread Apostles of His Name;His kingdom here can only comeBy chrism of blood and flame.Be strong: already slants the goldAthwart these wild and stormy skies:From out this blackened waste, beholdWhat happy homes shall rise!But see thou well no traitor gloze,No striking hands with Death and Shame,Betray the sacred blood that flowsSo freely for thy name.And never fear a victor foe—Thy children's hearts are strong and high;Nor mourn too fondly; well they knowOn deck or field to die.Nor shalt thou want one willing breath,Though, ever smiling round the brave,The blue sea bear us on to death,The green were one wide grave.Henry Howard Brownell.

By reef and shoal obscurely mapped,The hauntings of the gray sea-wolf,The palmy Western Key lay lappedIn the warm washing of the Gulf.

But weary to the hearts of allThe burning glare, the barren reachOf Santa Rosa's withered beach,And Pensacola's ruined wall.

And weary was the long patrol,The thousand miles of shapeless strand,From Brazos to San Blas that rollTheir drifting dunes of desert sand.

Yet coastwise as we cruised or lay,The land-breeze still at nightfall bore,By beach and fortress-guarded bay,Sweet odors from the enemy's shore,

Fresh from the forest solitudes,Unchallenged of his sentry lines,—The bursting of his cypress buds,And the warm fragrance of his pines.

Ah, never braver bark and crew,Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare,Had left a wake on ocean blueSince Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer!

But little gain by that dark groundWas ours, save, sometime, freer breathFor friend or brother strangely found,'Scaped from the drear domain of death.

And little venture for the bold,Or laurel for our valiant Chief,Save some blockaded British thief,Full fraught with murder in his hold,

Caught unawares at ebb or flood,Or dull bombardment, day by day,With fort and earthwork, far away,Low couched in sullen leagues of mud.

A weary time,—but to the strongThe day at last, as ever, came;And the volcano, laid so long,Leaped forth in thunder and in flame!

"Man your starboard battery!"Kimberly shouted;—The ship, with her hearts of oak,Was going, 'mid roar and smoke,On to victory;None of us doubted,No, not our dying—Farragut's Flag was flying!

Gaines growled low on our left,Morgan roared on our right;Before us, gloomy and fell,With breath like the fume of hell,Lay the dragon of iron shell,Driven at last to the fight!

Ha, old ship! do they thrill,The brave two hundred scarsYou got in the River-Wars?That were leeched with clamorous skill(Surgery savage and hard),Splinted with bolt and beam,Probed in scarfing and seam,Rudely linted and tarredWith oakum and boiling pitch,And sutured with splice and hitch,At the Brooklyn Navy Yard!

Our lofty spars were down,To bide the battle's frown(Wont of old renown)—But every ship was drestIn her bravest and her best,As if for a July day;Sixty flags and three,As we floated up the bay—At every peak and mast-head flewThe brave Red, White, and Blue,—We were eighteen ships that day.

With hawsers strong and taut,The weaker lashed to port,On we sailed two by two—That if either a bolt should feelCrash through caldron or wheel,Fin of bronze, or sinew of steel,Her mate might bear her through.

Forging boldly ahead,The great Flag-Ship led,Grandest of sights!On her lofty mizzen flewOur leader's dauntless Blue,That had waved o'er twenty fights.So we went with the first of the tide,Slowly, 'mid the roarOf the rebel guns ashoreAnd the thunder of each full broadside.

Ah, how poor the prateOf statute and stateWe once held these fellows!Here on the flood's pale green,Hark how he bellows,Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer!Talk to them, Dahlgren,Parrott, and Sawyer!

On, in the whirling shadeOf the cannon's sulphury breath,We drew to the Line of DeathThat our devilish Foe had laid,—Meshed in a horrible net,And baited villainous well,Right in our path were setThree hundred traps of hell!

And there, O sight forlorn!There, while the cannonHurtled and thundered(Ah, what ill ravenFlapped o'er the ship that morn!),—Caught by the under-death,In the drawing of a breathDown went dauntless Craven,He and his hundred!

A moment we saw her turret,A little heel she gave,And a thin white spray went o'er her,Like the crest of a breaking wave;—In that great iron coffin,The channel for their grave,The fort their monument(Seen afar in the offing),Ten fathom deep lie CravenAnd the bravest of our brave.

Then in that deadly trackA little the ships held back,Closing up in their stations;—There are minutes that fix the fateOf battles and of nations(Christening the generations),When valor were all too late.If a moment's doubt be harbored;—From the main-top, bold and brief,Came the word of our grand old chief:"Go on!"—'twas all he said,—Our helm was put to starboard,And the Hartford passed ahead.

Ahead lay the Tennessee,On our starboard bow he lay,With his mail-clad consorts three(The rest had run up the bay):There he was, belching flame from his bow,And the steam from his throat's abyssWas a Dragon's maddened hiss;In sooth a most cursed craft!—In a sullen ring, at bay,By the Middle-Ground they lay,Raking us fore and aft.

Trust me, our berth was hot,Ah, wickedly well they shot—How their death-bolts howled and stung!And the water-batteries playedWith their deadly cannonadeTill the air around us rung;So the battle raged and roared;—Ah, had you been aboardTo have seen the fight we made!How they leapt, the tongues of flame,From the cannon's fiery lip!How the broadsides, deck and frame,Shook the great ship!

And how the enemy's shellCame crashing, heavy and oft,Clouds of splinters flying aloftAnd falling in oaken showers;—But ah, the pluck of the crew!Had you stood on that deck of ours,You had seen what men may do.

Still, as the fray grew louder,Boldly they worked and well—Steadily came the powder,Steadily came the shell.And if tackle or truck found hurt,Quickly they cleared the wreck—And the dead were laid to port,All a-row, on our deck.

Never a nerve that failed,Never a cheek that paled,Not a tinge of gloom or pallor;—There was bold Kentucky's grit,And the old Virginian valor,And the daring Yankee wit.There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon,There were black orbs from palmy Niger,—But there alongside the cannon,Each man fought like a tiger!

A little, once, it looked ill,Our consort began to burn—They quenched the flames with a will,But our men were falling still,And still the fleet were astern.

Right abreast of the FortIn an awful shroud they lay,Broadsides thundering away,And lightning from every port;Scene of glory and dread!A storm-cloud all aglowWith flashes of fiery red,The thunder raging below,And the forest of flags o'erhead!

So grand the hurly and roar,So fiercely their broadsides blazed,The regiments fighting ashoreForgot to fire as they gazed.

There, to silence the foe,Moving grimly and slow,They loomed in that deadly wreath,Where the darkest batteries frowned,—Death in the air all round,And the black torpedoes beneath!

And now, as we looked ahead,All for'ard, the long white deckWas growing a strange dull red,—But soon, as once and againFore and aft we sped(The firing to guide or check),You could hardly choose but treadOn the ghastly human wreck(Dreadful gobbet and shredThat a minute ago were men!)

Red, from mainmast to bitts!Red, on bulwark and wale,Red, by combing and hatch,Red, o'er netting and vail!

And ever, with steady con,The ship forged slowly by,—And ever the crew fought on,And their cheers rang loud and high.

Grand was the sight to seeHow by their guns they stood,Right in front of our dead,Fighting square abreast—Each brawny arm and chestAll spotted with black and red,Chrism of fire and blood!

Worth our watch, dull and sterile,Worth all the weary time,Worth the woe and the peril,To stand in that strait sublime!

Fear? A forgotten form!Death? A dream of the eyes!We were atoms in God's great stormThat roared through the angry skies.

One only doubt was ours,One only dread we knew,—Could the day that dawned so wellGo down for the Darker Powers?Wouldthe fleet get through?And ever the shot and shellCame with the howl of hell,The splinter-clouds rose and fell,And the long line of corpses grew,—Wouldthe fleet win through?

They are men that never will fail(How aforetime they've fought!),But Murder may yet prevail,—They may sink as Craven sank.Therewith one hard fierce thought,Burning on heart and lip,Ran like fire through the ship;Fighther, to the last plank!

A dimmer renown might strikeIf Death lay square alongside,—But the old Flag has no like,She must fight, whatever betide;—When the War is a tale of old,And this day's story is told,They shall hear how the Hartford died!

But as we ranged ahead,And the leading ships worked in,Losing their hope to win,The enemy turned and fled—And one seeks a shallow reach!And another, winged in her flight,Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in;—And one, all torn in the fight,Runs for a wreck on the beach,Where her flames soon fire the night.

And the Ram, when well up the Bay,And we looked that our stems should meet(He had us fair for a prey),Shifting his helm midway,Sheered off, and ran for the fleet;There, without skulking or sham,He fought them gun for gun;And ever he sought to ram,But could finish never a one.

From the first of the iron showerTill we sent our parting shell,'Twas just one savage hourOf the roar and the rage of hell.

With the lessening smoke and thunder,Our glasses around we aim,—What is that burning yonder?Our Philippi—aground and in flame!

Below, 'twas still all a-roar,As the ships went by the shore,But the fire of the Fort had slacked(So fierce their volleys had been),—And now with a mighty din,The whole fleet came grandly in,Though sorely battered and wracked.

So, up the Bay we ran,The Flag to port and ahead,—And a pitying rain beganTo wash the lips of our dead.

A league from the Fort we lay,And deemed that the end must lag,—When lo! looking down the Bay,There flaunted the Rebel Rag;—The Ram is again under wayAnd heading dead for the Flag!

Steering up with the stream,Boldly his course he lay,Though the fleet all answered his fire,And, as he still drew nigher,Ever on bow and beamOur Monitors pounded away;How the Chickasaw hammered away!

Quickly breasting the wave,Eager the prize to win,First of us all the braveMonongahela went inUnder full head of steam;—Twice she struck him abeam,Till her stem was a sorry work(She might have run on a crag!),The Lackawanna hit fair,He flung her aside like cork,And still he held for the Flag.

High in the mizzen shroud(Lest the smoke his sight o'erwhelm),Our Admiral's voice rang loud;"Hard-a-starboard your helm!Starboard, and run him down!"Starboard it was,—and so,Like a black squall's lifting frown,Our mighty bow bore downOn the iron beak of the Foe.

We stood on the deck together,Men that had looked on deathIn battle and stormy weather;Yet a little we held our breath,When, with the hush of death,The great ships drew together.

Our Captain strode to the bow,Drayton, courtly and wise,Kindly cynic, and wise(You hardly had known him now,The flame of fight in his eyes!),—His brave heart eager to feelHow the oak would tell on the steel!

But, as the space grew short,A little he seemed to shun us;Out peered a form grim and lanky,And a voice yelled, "Hard-a-port!Hard-a-port!—here's the damned YankeeComing right down on us!"

He sheered, but the ships ran foulWith a gnarring shudder and growl;He gave us a deadly gun;But as he passed in his pride(Rasping right alongside!),The old Flag, in thunder-tonesPoured in her port broadside,Rattling his iron hideAnd cracking his timber-bones!

Just then, at speed on the Foe,With her bow all weathered and brown,The great Lackawanna came downFull tilt, for another blow;—We were forging ahead,She reversed—but, for all our pains,Rammed the old Hartford, instead,Just for'ard the mizzen chains!

Ah! how the masts did buckle and bend,And the stout hull ring and reel,As she took us right on end!(Vain were engine and wheel,She was under full steam)—With the roar of a thunder-strokeHer two thousand tons of oakBrought up on us, right abeam!

A wreck, as it looked, we lay(Rib and plank-sheer gave wayTo the stroke of that giant wedge!)—Here, after all, we go—The old ship is gone!—ah, no,But cut to the water's edge.

Never mind then,—at him again!His flurry now can't last long;He'll never again see land,—Try that onhim, Marchand!On him again, brave Strong!

Heading square at the hulk,Full on his beam we bore;But the spine of the huge Sea-HogLay on the tide like a log,He vomited flame no more.

By this, he had found it hot;—Half the fleet, in an angry ring,Closed round the hideous thing,Hammering with solid shot,And bearing down, bow on bow;He has but a minute to choose,—Life or renown?—which nowWill the Rebel Admiral lose?

Cruel, haughty, and cold,He ever was strong and bold;Shall he shrink from a wooden stem?He will think of that brave bandHe sank in the Cumberland;Ay, he will sink like them.

Nothing left but to fightBoldly his last sea-fight!Can he strike? By Heaven, 'tis true!Down comes the traitor Blue,And up goes the captive White!

Up went the White! Ah, thenThe hurrahs that once and againRang from three thousand menAll flushed and savage with fight!Our dead lay cold and stark;But our dying, down in the dark,Answered as best they might,Lifting their poor lost arms,And cheering for God and Right!

Ended the mighty noise,Thunder of forts and ships.Down we went to the hold,Oh, our dear dying boys!How we pressed their poor brave lips(Ah, so pallid and cold!)And held their hands to the last(Those who had hands to hold).

Still thee, O woman heart!(So strong an hour ago);If the idle tears must start,'Tis not in vain they flow.

They died, our children dear.On the drear berth-deck they died,—Do not think of them here—Even now their footsteps nearThe immortal, tender sphere(Land of love and cheer!Home of the Crucified!).

And the glorious deed survives;Our threescore, quiet and cold,Lie thus, for a myriad livesAnd treasure-millions untold(Labor of poor men's lives,Hunger of weans and wives,Such is war-wasted gold).

Our ship and her fame to-dayShall float on the storied StreamWhen mast and shroud have crumbled away,And her long white deck is a dream.

One daring leap in the dark,Three mortal hours, at the most,—And hell lies stiff and starkOn a hundred leagues of coast.

For the mighty Gulf is ours,—The bay is lost and won,An Empire is lost and won!Land, if thou yet hast flowers,Twine them in one more wreathOf tenderest white and red(Twin buds of glory and death!),For the brows of our brave dead,For thy Navy's noblest son.

Joy, O Land, for thy sons,Victors by flood and field!The traitor walls and gunsHave nothing left but to yield(Even now they surrender!).

And the ships shall sail once more,And the cloud of war sweep onTo break on the cruel shore;—But Craven is gone,He and his hundred are gone.

The flags flutter up and downAt sunrise and twilight dim,The cannons menace and frown,—But never again for him,Him and the hundred.

The Dahlgrens are dumb,Dumb are the mortars;Never more shall the drumBeat to colors and quarters,—The great guns are silent.

O brave heart and loyal!Let all your colors dip;—Mourn him proud ship!From main deck to royal.God rest our Captain,Rest our lost hundred!

Droop, flag and pennant!What is your pride for?Heaven, that he died for,Rest our Lieutenant,Rest our brave threescore!

*****

O Mother Land! this weary lifeWe led, we lead, is 'long of thee;Thine the strong agony of strife,And thine the lonely sea.

Thine the long decks all slaughter-sprent,The weary rows of cots that lieWith wrecks of strong men, marred and rent,'Neath Pensacola's sky.

And thine the iron caves and densWherein the flame our war-fleet drives;The fiery vaults, whose breath is men'sMost dear and precious lives!

Ah, ever when with storm sublimeDread Nature clears our murky air,Thus in the crash of falling crimeSome lesser guilt must share.

Full red the furnace fires must glowThat melt the ore of mortal kind;The mills of God are grinding slow,But ah, how close they grind!

To-day the Dahlgren and the drumAre dread Apostles of His Name;His kingdom here can only comeBy chrism of blood and flame.

Be strong: already slants the goldAthwart these wild and stormy skies:From out this blackened waste, beholdWhat happy homes shall rise!

But see thou well no traitor gloze,No striking hands with Death and Shame,Betray the sacred blood that flowsSo freely for thy name.

And never fear a victor foe—Thy children's hearts are strong and high;Nor mourn too fondly; well they knowOn deck or field to die.

Nor shalt thou want one willing breath,Though, ever smiling round the brave,The blue sea bear us on to death,The green were one wide grave.

Henry Howard Brownell.

One more naval action remains to be recorded. The blockading fleet on the Carolina coast had been constantly threatened by the Confederate ram Albemarle. Finally, late in October, 1864, Lieutenant William B. Cushing undertook to destroy it. On the night of October 27, he entered Plymouth harbor in a small boat, with a crew of thirteen men, approached the ram, and despite a hail of bullets, exploded a torpedo under its bow, sinking it. Cushing and most of his men escaped by leaping into the water.

"ALBEMARLE" CUSHING

[October 27, 1864]

Joy in rebel Plymouth town, in the spring of sixty-four,When the Albemarle down on the Yankee frigates bore,With the saucy Stars and Bars at her main;When she smote the Southfield dead, and the stout Miami quailed,And the fleet in terror fled when their mighty cannon hailedShot and shell on her iron back in vain,Till she slowly steamed away to her berth at Plymouth pier,And their quick eyes saw her sway with her great beak out of gear,And the color of their courage rose again.All the summer lay the ram,Like a wounded beast at bay,While the watchful squadron swamIn the harbor night and day,Till the broken beak was mended, and the weary vigil ended,And her time was come again to smite and slay.Must they die, and die in vain,Like a flock of shambled sheep?Then the Yankee grit and brainMust be dead or gone to sleep,And our sailors' gallant story of a hundred years of gloryLet us sell for a song, selling cheap!Cushing, scarce a man in years,But a sailor thoroughbred,"With a dozen volunteersI will sink the ram," he said."At the worst 'tis only dying." And the old commander, sighing,"'Tis to save the fleet and flag—go ahead!"*****Bright the rebel beacons blazedOn the river left and right;Wide awake their sentries gazedThrough the watches of the night;Sharp their challenge rang, and fiery came the rifle's quick inquiry,As the little launch swung into the light.Listening ears afar had heard;Ready hands to quarters sprung,The Albemarle awoke and stirred,And her howitzers gave tongue;Till the river and the shore echoed back the mighty roar,When the portals of her hundred-pounders swung.Will the swordfish brave the whale,Doubly girt with boom and chain?Face the shrapnel's iron hail?Dare the livid leaden rain?Ah! that shell has done its duty; it has spoiled the Yankee's beauty;See her turn and fly with half her madmen slain.High the victor's taunting yellRings above the battle roar,And they bid her mock farewellAs she seeks the farther shore,Till they see her sudden swinging, crouching for the leap and springingBack to boom and chain and bloody fray once more.Now the Southern captain, stirredBy the spirit of his race,Stops the firing with a word,Bids them yield, and offers grace.Cushing, laughing, answers, "No! we are here to fight!" and soSwings the dread torpedo spar to its place.Then the great ship shook and reeled,With a wounded, gaping side,But her steady cannon pealedEre she settled in the tide,And the Roanoke's dull flood ran full red with Yankee blood,When the fighting Albemarle sunk and died.Woe in rebel Plymouth town when the Albemarle fell,And the saucy flag went down that had floated long and well,Nevermore from her stricken deck to wave.For the fallen flag a sigh, for the fallen foe a tear!Never shall their glory die while we hold our glory dear,And the hero's laurels live on his grave.Link their Cooke's with Cushing's name; proudly call them both our own;Claim their valor and their fame for America alone—Joyful mother of the bravest of the brave!James Jeffrey Roche.

All the summer lay the ram,Like a wounded beast at bay,While the watchful squadron swamIn the harbor night and day,Till the broken beak was mended, and the weary vigil ended,And her time was come again to smite and slay.

Must they die, and die in vain,Like a flock of shambled sheep?Then the Yankee grit and brainMust be dead or gone to sleep,And our sailors' gallant story of a hundred years of gloryLet us sell for a song, selling cheap!

Cushing, scarce a man in years,But a sailor thoroughbred,"With a dozen volunteersI will sink the ram," he said."At the worst 'tis only dying." And the old commander, sighing,"'Tis to save the fleet and flag—go ahead!"

*****

Bright the rebel beacons blazedOn the river left and right;Wide awake their sentries gazedThrough the watches of the night;Sharp their challenge rang, and fiery came the rifle's quick inquiry,As the little launch swung into the light.

Listening ears afar had heard;Ready hands to quarters sprung,The Albemarle awoke and stirred,And her howitzers gave tongue;Till the river and the shore echoed back the mighty roar,When the portals of her hundred-pounders swung.

Will the swordfish brave the whale,Doubly girt with boom and chain?Face the shrapnel's iron hail?Dare the livid leaden rain?Ah! that shell has done its duty; it has spoiled the Yankee's beauty;See her turn and fly with half her madmen slain.

High the victor's taunting yellRings above the battle roar,And they bid her mock farewellAs she seeks the farther shore,Till they see her sudden swinging, crouching for the leap and springingBack to boom and chain and bloody fray once more.

Now the Southern captain, stirredBy the spirit of his race,Stops the firing with a word,Bids them yield, and offers grace.Cushing, laughing, answers, "No! we are here to fight!" and soSwings the dread torpedo spar to its place.

Then the great ship shook and reeled,With a wounded, gaping side,But her steady cannon pealedEre she settled in the tide,And the Roanoke's dull flood ran full red with Yankee blood,When the fighting Albemarle sunk and died.

Woe in rebel Plymouth town when the Albemarle fell,And the saucy flag went down that had floated long and well,Nevermore from her stricken deck to wave.For the fallen flag a sigh, for the fallen foe a tear!Never shall their glory die while we hold our glory dear,And the hero's laurels live on his grave.Link their Cooke's with Cushing's name; proudly call them both our own;Claim their valor and their fame for America alone—Joyful mother of the bravest of the brave!

James Jeffrey Roche.

AT THE CANNON'S MOUTH

DESTRUCTION OF THE RAM ALBEMARLE BY THE TORPEDO-LAUNCH, OCTOBER 27, 1864

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