Stories of Our Naval Heroes Part 24

Now, no more need be said about Banks and his army, except that the whole expedition was only a waste of time, for it did no good; and there would be nothing to say about Porter and his fleet, if they had not gotten into a bad sc.r.a.pe which gave them hard work to get out.

The boats went up the river easily enough, but when they tried to come down they found themselves in a trap. For after they had gone up, the river began to fall and the water came to be very low.

There are two rapids, or small falls, on this part of the Red River, which show only at low water. They showed plainly enough now; and there were twelve of the boats above them, caught fast.

What was to be done? If they tried to run down the falls they would be smashed into kindling wood. It looked very much as if they would have to be left for the Confederates, or set on fire and burned.

By good luck there was one man there who knew what to do. He was a lieutenant-colonel from Wisconsin, named Joseph Baily. He had been a log-driver before the war and knew what was done when logs got jammed in a stream.

When he told his plan he was laughed at by some who thought it very foolish, but Porter told him to go ahead. So, with 2,000 soldiers from Maine, who knew all about logging, he went into the woods, chopped down trees, and built a dam below the falls.

The men worked so hard that it took them only eight days to build the dam; which was wonderfully quick work. A place was left open in the center, and there four barges loaded with brick were sunk.

When the dam was finished it lifted the water six feet higher, and down in safety went three of the steamers, while the army shouted and cheered. But just then two of the sunken barges were carried away, and the water poured through the break in a flood.

The gunboat _Lexington_ was just ready to start. Admiral Porter stood on the bank watching.

"Go ahead!" he shouted.

At once the engines were started and the _Lexington_ shot down the foaming rapid. There were no cheers now; everybody was still.

Down she went, rolling and leaping on the wild waters; but soon she shot safe into the still pool below. All the other vessels were also safely taken down.

CHAPTER XXV

THE SINKING OF THE "ALBEMARLE"

LIEUTENANT CUSHING PERFORMS THE MOST GALLANT DEED OF THE CIVIL WAR

NOW I am going to tell you about one of the most gallant deeds done in the navy during the whole Civil War. The man who did it was brave enough to be made admiral of the fleet, yet he did not get even a gold medal for his deed. But he is one of our heroes. It is all about an iron-clad steamer, and how it was sent to rest in the mud of a river-bottom.

The Confederate government had very bad luck with its iron-clads. It was busy enough building them, but they did not pay for their cost. The _Merrimac_ did the most harm, but it soon went up in fire and smoke.

Then there were the _Louisiana_ at New Orleans, and the _Tennessee_ at Mobile. Farragut made short work of them. Two were built at Charleston which were of little use. The last of them all was the _Albemarle_, whose story I am about to tell.

The Roanoke River, in North Carolina, was a fine stream for blockade-runners. There was a long line of ships and gunboats outside, but in spite of them these swift runaways kept dashing in, loaded with goods for the people. Poor people! they needed them badly enough, for they had little of anything except what they could raise in their fields.

But the gunboats kept pushing farther into the river, and gave the Confederates no end of trouble. So they began to build an iron-clad which they thought could drive these wooden wasps away.

This iron-clad was a queer ship. Its keel was laid in a cornfield; its bolts and bars were hammered out in a blacksmith shop. Iron for its engines was picked up from the sc.r.a.p heaps of the iron works at Richmond. Some of the Confederates laughed at it themselves; but they deserved great credit for building a ship under such difficulties as these.

It was finished in April, 1864, and n.o.body laughed at it when they saw it afloat. It was like the _Merrimac_ in shape, and was covered with iron four inches thick. They named it the _Albemarle_.

Very soon the _Albemarle_ showed that it was no laughing matter. It sunk one gunboat and made another run away in great haste. Then it had a fight with four of them at once and drove one of these lame and limping away. The others did not come too near. After that it went back to the town of Plymouth and was tied up at the wharf.

There was another iron-clad being built, and the _Albemarle_ was kept waiting, so that the two could work together. That was a bad thing for the _Albemarle_, for she never went out again.

This brings us back to the gallant deed I spoke of, and the gallant fellow who did the deed. His name was William B. Cushing. He was little more than a boy, just twenty-one years old, but he did not know what it meant to be afraid, and he had done so many daring things already that he had been made a lieutenant.

He wanted to try to destroy the _Albemarle_, and his captain, who knew how bold a fellow he was, told him to go ahead and do his best.

So on a dark night in October, 1864, brave young Cushing started up the river in a steam launch, with men and guns. At the bow of this launch was a long spar, and at the end of this spar was a torpedo holding a hundred pounds of dynamite. There was a trigger and a cap to set this off, a string to lower the spar and another to pull the trigger. But it was a poor affair to send on such an expedition as that.

And this was not the worst. Some of the newspapers had found out what Cushing was going to do, and printed the whole story. And some of these newspapers got down South and let out the secret. That is what is called "newspaper enterprise." It is very good in its right place, but it was a sort of enterprise that nearly spoiled Cushing's plans.

For the Confederates put lines of sentries along the river, and stationed a lookout down the stream, and placed a whole regiment of soldiers near the wharf. And logs were chained fast around the vessel so that no torpedo spar could reach her. And the men on board were sharply on the watch. That is what the newspapers did for Lieutenant Cushing.

Of course, the young lieutenant did not know all this, and he felt full of hope as his boat went up stream without being seen or heard. The night was very dark and there were no lights on board, and the engines were new and made no noise.

So he pa.s.sed the lookout in the river and the sentries on the banks without an eye seeing him or his boat.

But when he came up to the iron-clad his hopes went down. For there was the boom of logs so far out that his spar could not reach her.

What was he to do? Should he land at the wharf and take his men on board, and try to capture her where she lay?

Before he had time to think it was too late for that. A sentry on board saw the launch and called out:

"Boat ahoy!" There was no answer.

"What boat is that?" Still no answer.

Then came a musket shot, and then a rattle of musketry from the river bank. A minute after lights flashed out and men came running down the wharf. The ship's crew tumbled up from below. All was haste and confusion.

Almost any man would have given it up for lost and run for safety. But Cushing was not of that kind. It did not take him a second to decide. He ran the launch out into the stream, turned her round, and dashed at full speed straight for the boom.

A storm of bullets came from the deck of the _Albemarle_, but he heeded them no more than if they had been snowflakes. In a minute the bow of the launch struck the logs.

They were slippery with river slime and the light boat climbed up on them, driving them down under the water. Over she went, and slid into the water inside the boom.

Cushing stood in the bow, with the trigger-string in his hand. He lowered the torpedo under the hull of the iron-clad, lifted it till he felt it touch her bottom, and then pulled the string.

There came two loud reports. A hundred-pounder gun was being fired from the ship's side right over his head. Along with it came a dull roar from under the water. The dynamite torpedo had gone off, tearing a great hole in the wooden bottom. In a minute the ill-fated _Albemarle_ began to sink.

The launch was fast inside the boom, and the wave from her torpedo was rushing over her, carrying her down.

"Surrender," came a voice from above.

"Never! Swim for your lives, men," cried Cushing, and he sprang into the flowing stream.

Two or three bullets had gone through his clothing, but he was unhurt, and swam swiftly away, his men after him.

Only Cushing and one of the men got away. The others were captured, except one who was drowned. Boats were quickly out, a fire of logs was made on the wharf, which threw its light far out over the stream, but he reached the sh.o.r.e unseen, chilled to the bone and completely worn out.

A sentry was pacing on the wall of a fort over his head, men pa.s.sed looking for him, but he managed to creep to the swamp nearby and hide in the mud and reeds.