The Sea Hunters Part 11

"I want all hands who can still stand to carry off the dead and wounded," Brown ordered Lieutenant Stevens.

"I will see to it directly," Stevens acknowledged with a tired salute.

Within minutes, those of the crew who could still walk, many heavily bandaged, began to carry off their dead and near dead.

Like spectators at a grotesque carnival, the crowd on sh.o.r.e pressed close to the badly damaged ironclad and peered through the open gunports. Blood covered almost every inch of the gun deck. Severed limbs and body parts from the fallen crew were littered around the stillsmoking guns. They stared in awe at the gaping holes gouged in the armor by Union sh.e.l.ls. The brown paint was cracked loose in spots, revealing a coating of rust on the railroad armor.

Suddenly frozen in horror at the sight of the slaughter, the spectators stood silent as the hospital and morgue wagons began to pull away with their pitiful cargo. The men who had carried off the bodies and the injured immediately returned on board, and without even a pause, they began to repair the damage.

"Ask the army for help in transporting coal to the dock," Brown ordered Lieutenant Harris. "I want the bunkers refilled as soon as possible."

Below Vicksburg, a small blockading force of Union gunboats began firing at Arkansas. They stayed far off, fearing the potent sh.o.r.e batteries, one of which was commanded by David Todd, President Lincoln's brother-in-law. The unenthusiastic barrage did little more than throw water on the coal dust that was coating the deck of the Confederate ironclad as her bunkers were loaded.

The mortified officers of the Union fleet, enraged by the death and destruction caused by the lone Rebel warship, pulled up their anchors and headed to Vicksburg to continue the fight. Their anger was well founded. Shot and sh.e.l.l from Arkansas's guns had struck Union ships seventy-three times, killing forty-two men and wounding sixty-nine.

At seven that evening, they came within range of the docked ironclad.

As the fleet pa.s.sed by in formation, heading down river, a hundred guns blasted away at the already trashed casemate of Arkansas.

The evening sky was ablaze from the furious bombardment, and sparks flew from the impact of Union iron against the Rebel's shielded walls.

The inferno of cannon fire lasted throughout the night. In the morning light, Admiral Farragut and Commodore Porter stared anxiously through their binoculars, hoping to see that Arkansas was beneath the murky water of the Mississippi.

They were stunned to see that she was still floating stubbornly beside her dock and defiantly firing back.

"The Yankees don't know when to quit," Brown said with a smug grin.

Not a man to shirk from a fight, he ordered his crew to take Arkansas on the offensive.

She was in no way fit for another battle against overwhelming odds, but she steamed toward the Union fleet as a storm of shot from the Confederate batteries on the hills thundered overhead in support.

The besieged citizens of Vicksburg watched in rapt fascination as the battlewom ironclad advanced to fight the entire fleet of Union ships for the second time in twenty-four hours.

Before she could strike a blow, Arkansas was struck by a 225-pound wrought-iron bolt from a big Union gun. In the shape of a dumbbell, the gigantic missile pierced the lower section of the casemate, pa.s.sed through the armor, shredded the heavy timbers behind, and caused havoc in the engine room. Chief Engineer City was thrown against a bulkhead and knocked senseless.

"Help me get City above deck!" one of the firemen shouted.

Another stoker, barely visible in the cloud of steam that was filling the engine room, grabbed City by the feet. Together, they carried him UP to the gun deck.

After the bolt had smashed into the engine room, disabling one engine, killing two firemen, and wounding several others, it then continued on through the dispensary, spreading a hail of fragments and splinters.

In its wake it left a dead pilot, William Gilmore, who had volunteered to come aboard as replacement for the two pilots lost fore lodging in the wood backing just during battle with Carondelet, be e pilot who had heroically short of the iron shield. James Brady, the brav as wounded manned the wheel during the run through the gauntlet, w and knocked overboard into the watered back to As the sun set, Arkansas, one engine barely turning, limp .

unloaded her dead and her dock below Vicksburg and once again wounded.

Nor did the Union ships escape unscathed. Several were shot fire and badly damaged. The dead and up by the Confederate's accurate e of Arkansas.

wounded more than equaled thos v s pa.s.sed slowly as much-needed repairs were comThe next few day great delight in hara.s.sing Admiral Farra pleted- Captain Brown took times, he would order the boilers lit.

gut,s crews. Every day at different stack, the entire Union As soon as smoke began to flow from her nii fleet, believing Arkansas was coming out again, would get up steam ai summer heat, the heated s already sweltering in the Engine-room crew ature on board their ships to an uncomboilers would raise the temper fortably high level. another a.s.sault. At daylight on the 22nd Undaunted, Farragut ordered force. The ironclad Ess.e.x took the of july, the Federal ships returned in es directly for lead and ran through the fire from Confederate batten Arkansas. A more opportune time could not have been selected, as all but twenty-eight Officers and crew members of her normal complement of two hundred were in hospitals from wounds or sickness.

muzzles of their guns only a few yards apart, the two vessels traded point-blank fire. The shots from Ess.e.x's guns crashed through the armor and nearly split the barrel of the starboard after gun, plating in the stern six, fully half the remaining killing eight Confederates and wounding , Arkansas's gunners disabled crew. Still, firing for all she was worth the Union ship and drove her away.

As the badly damaged Ess.e.x drifted down river, her stack riddled and gaping holes showing in her with holes, steam pipes shot away, hull, the Confederate sh.o.r.e batteries found their mark and shredded cutting away her sh.o.r.e boats and anchor before wounding her decks, her captain.

The fast ram Queen of the West came charging out of the smoke and de.

Arkansas shuddered from the impact, struck the Rebel warship's si 11 would give way. But she and for a moment it seemed as if her hu shook off the blow, righted herself, and poured a withering fire into Queen of the West, chasing her away as well.

To the frustrated Union fleet, it seemed the incredible Confederate vessel could not be bested. Admiral Farragut wisely called off the attack.

"You must have bed rest or suffer the consequences." The army surgeon who examined Isaac Brown spoke in a way that would harbor no objection.

"I have a ship and crew who need me," Brown protested weakly.

"You are of little use to them dead," admonished the surgeon, "and that's what you'll be if you don't follow my instructions."

Finally, after a futile argument, Brown was carried by wagon to Grenade, Mississippi. There, at an old friend's house, he was ordered to rest and recuperate from fatigue and his wounds. Unfortunately, any respite was short-lived.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned if my ship will sail without me," Brown argued upon hearing that Arkansas had been ordered to a.s.sist in the battle for Baton Rouge. "Engineer City is in the hospital, and without him overseeing the engines, there is no telling what disaster will occur."

He had left orders for Lieutenant Stevens not to move the ship.

But under pressure and given orders by the ranking naval officer in the region, Stevens had no choice but to obey and cast off for the 300-mile journey down river to Baton Rouge.

If there was one thing that Isaac Newton Brown was never short of, it was guts. Rising from his sickbed, he climbed aboard the first train toward Vicksburg. Barely able to move, he made the 180-mile trip aboard a pile of mail bags. Still racked with sickness, he hired a wagon to take him the rest of the way.

He arrived four hours too late. Arkansas had sailed on her final voyage without him.

The boat's executive officer, Lieutenant Henry Stevens, was now in command of the ironclad. Standing on the bow as the boat steamed down river toward Baton Rouge, he stared at the muddy water with great apprehension. Although all damage had been repaired and Arkansas was as formidable as when she took on the entire Union fleet, without Brown the crew felt unlucky. And without Engineer City, any Problem with the engines meant real trouble. The new man in charge of the engine room was a young army officer with no experience in marine steam engines.

Already, before they were halfway to their destination, the ship had to halt while repairs were hastily made.

By the next morning, as the undefeated Arkansas steamed down the silt-swirled expanse of water, smoke lazily trailing from her crudely patched stack, Stevens could hear the faint rumble of thunder. He recognized the sound of battle as field artillery rocked the Louisiana countryside, and he realized the ground a.s.sault by the Confederate troops to retake Baton Rouge from the Union Army had already been launched.

Dropping through an open port to the gun deck, he descended the ladder to the engine room. "How are the engines holding up?" he asked.

"Not good, sir," the engineer answered truthfully. "They're thoroughly unreliable." ' Predictably, five minutes later, the port engine inexplicably stopped.

"I have called this meeting to determine your feelings about continuing on to Baton Rouge," Lieutenant Stevens said to the group of officers a.s.sembled around the officer's messroom. "I've been a.s.sured the engines can be repaired and put back into running order. But for how long there is no guarantee."

"We could make better time if the crew took to oars," Lieutenant Charles Read muttered sarcastically.

Stevens glanced around the table. "In front of you are slips of paper.

I want each man to write his opinion on whether we should continue on or Turn back. Do not add your name. I want you all to give your honest a.s.sessment without fear of reprisal."

One by one, using the stub of a pencil that they pa.s.sed from hand to hand, the officers filled out the slips and tossed them into a hat in the center of the table. Stevens filled his out last and then stirred the pile.

"Now let us see our fate," he said as he removed and unfolded the slips of paper and read them off. "Continue, continue, continue, Baton Rouge, continue, fight, continue . . ." And on it went until the last slip was read and the decision was made unanimous.

Stevens pushed back his chair and rose from his place at the end of the table. "Resume your stations, gentlemen. We have an appointment to keep in Baton Rouge."

Stevens stared at the three Union warships advancing upriver from Baton Rouge. "There's our old friend Ess.e.x, " he said to the new pilot.

"Ram her. Then we'll finish off the other two."

Arkansas was approaching the final bend in the river before entering a strait that ran past the city under siege as Stevens moved outside and stood on the deck of the casemate. He peered through his binoculars into the distance. He could see the Confederate artillery on the western sh.o.r.e making a game attempt at keeping the Union warships from firing on rebel troop positions. He had barely returned to the safety of the pilothouse when a grinding noise carried throughout the ship. The starboard engine suddenly went dead and the port screw swung Arkansas in an arc, running her aground on a shoal.

The replacement engineer reported the problem. "The crankpin shattered," he explained. "We've set up a forge on the gun deck and the blacksmith will hammer out a new one to insert in the rocking shaft."

"How long before we can get underway?" asked Stevens.

"About dawn." The engineer wiped his brow, blackened with grease, on a dirty rag. "That's my best guess."

As promised, the engine was turning over at sunrise, and Arkansas immediately began to heave herself free of the shoal. For fear of running onto a shoal, the Yankee gunboats had not attacked during the night.

"Make for the Ess.e.x," Stevens ordered the pilot.

Arkansas backed out into the river and was about to Turn toward Baton Rouge when suddenly the port engine rattled and came to a dead stop.

Powered only by the hastily repaired starboard engine, she once again swung in a half circle before shoving her ram into the muddy sh.o.r.e.

661, msorry, sir," said the engineer, defeat etched on his face.

"The port engine is beyond repair." "Then it's over," Stevens mu ured desp ngly. With great rerm ain Morse, he gave the order to abandon ship.

As word pa.s.sed among the crew, they headed for their quarters and began removing what little they could carry off. All were cheerless and saddened. They could not believe their beloved warhorse would die without a fight. As if in a funeral procession they solemnly stepped off the bow onto sh.o.r.e.

Stevens motioned to one of his officers. "Lieutenant Wharton."

"Sir?"

"Once everyone is on sh.o.r.e, I want YOu to take command of the men and a.s.semble them in an orderly fashion."

"And what of you, sir?"

"I will torch the ship."

A flowing line of men waded through the shallow water and congregated on dry land. The taller men helped the shorter ones find footing.

They were a ragtag group, half-dressed and dirty. In their arms they carried what few belongings they could save: a rifle, soiled clothes wrapped in a bundle, letters, and pictures from home. Only Stevens and Read remained on board.

"The men have loaded and primed every gun," Read reported.

"Good," said Stevens. "That should give her a rousing send-off.

Is the powder trail laid?"

Read nodded. "Right into the magazine."

"Very well. You'd better head for sh.o.r.e now."

With tears streaming down his face, Stevens set ablaze the gunboat that he had commanded for less than three days.

The crew solemnly stood on sh.o.r.e and stared at their ship. Smoke began rising high in the air above her as fire flashed over her decks and out the gunports. Ess.e.x had moved in closer and was firing sh.e.l.ls across the bend in the river into the sides of Arkansas. Then came a deafening roar as the powder magazine exploded. Water surged in and ran tow,4d her stern. The bow lifted and the ironclad slid off the shoal and began drifting down the river, her casemate an inferno of flames, her guns firing in a final display of defiance. Soon after, she exploded in a mighty blast and sank out of sight.

No enemy ever walked her decks, no Union ship or fleet of ships defeated her. She gave better than she took and fought to the bitter end, defying the best of the best. Few ships in history ever fought against such incredibly high odds and survived. Constructed in haste with shoddy materials that had to be scavenged, during her short life she had accomplished the impossible.

The extraordinary career of Arkansas spanned only twenty-three days.

Strangely, Arkansas never received the historical acclaim awarded her sister ironclads. Merrimack or Virginia, depending on which side your sympathies lie, is far better known. The terrific fight put up by Tennessee before its surrender at Mobile Bay is more widely recorded.

Books have been written on Albemarle but none on Arkansas.

Perhaps her lack of notoriety stems from the fact that she caused so much grief for the Union Navy, and the victors always write the history books.

Arkansas lay buried under the mud of the Mississippi, lost and forgotten, and as far as it can be determined, never salvaged. Her only mention came sixty-five years after her destruction, and then she was misidentified as the Union Navy frigate MississipPi: FROM AN ARTICLE IN THE BATON ROUGE NEWSPAPER, JUNE OF 1927.

A quant.i.ty of sh.e.l.ls and human skeletons believed to be the last remains of the flag ship in command of George Dewey, later the hero of Manila Bay, have been pumped up by the Thompson Gravel Company a few miles north of Baton Rouge on the west side of the river.

A three-inch sh.e.l.l presented to James R. Wooten of the Louisiana Highway Commission by P A. Thompson of the gravel company had been fired from a Confederate gun, according to Major J. C. Long, of the United States Bureau of Public Roads, who has had training in this line of work. He says the appearance makes it evident that the sh.e.l.l was fired and that it was of the type used by the Confederates.

The ship commanded by George Dewey, who was going up the river with Admiral Farragut, was disabled by Confederate guns below Port Hudson.

It drifted down the river and finally came into the bank a few miles above here where it caught fire, the majority of the occupants escaping. It is believed that the human skeletons and sh.e.l.ls were from that ship, the Confederate sh.e.l.l possibly having become lodged in the rigging after it was fired. One of the sh.e.l.ls weighed 102 pounds.

Go Down to the Levee November 1981 I launched our search for Arkansas, I thought I'd make an attempt to find another adventurous soul who would throw caution to the winds, and match my effort and expense. So I took a page from Ernest Shackleton, the renowned British polar explorer. He once ran an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the London Times for volunteers to join his expedition to the South Pole. He received over a thousand replies. I paraphrased his ad and ran my own in the Wall Street Journal: Men wanted to fund search for historic shipwrecks. Some danger.

Much frustration. Long, tedious hours at sea. Failure often possible.

Return on investment unlikely. Great personal satisfaction when successful.

Contact Clive Cussler National Underwater & Marine Agency Austin, Texas I received two replies from people who were only curious and no offers to help with the funding.

Over the years I had learned that begging for bucks was a lost cause and decided it caused less frustration to pay for NUMA's expeditions out of my book royalties-a wise decision I've never regretted. It was either that or leave the money for the kids.

I suppose I could keep a mistress on what I spend in looking for sunken ships, but it wouldn't be fair to my lovely wife of forty-one years. Besides, the satisfaction that comes from discovering a long-lost artifact of historical significance has a more lasting value than mere s.e.x. Granted, there are no few men and a fair number of women who might find fault with my opinion, but then I was never accused of being normal. It's just me against the world, and all too often the world wins.

With only Colonel Walt Schob and the Schonstedt gradiometer, I hunted up and down the Mississippi River in Louisiana on a limited budget and discovered the Confederate ironclads Mana.s.sas; Louisiana, sunk during Admiral Farragut's capture of New Orleans; and the unconquerable Arkansas. The latter was especially satisfying because of its amazing record, mostly unknown to all but dedicated Civil War Navy enthusiasts.

The best piece of advice I can give anyone who is looking for a historic site in a small town is to head directly to the sheriff or police chief's office. Explain what you are hoping to accomplish and ask for his help and blessing. By being straightforward and honest, I have yet to encounter problems and have always received a warm welcome and friendly cooperation. Too often, strangers poking around a small town's river or fields are treated with undisguised suspicion by the local residents, but if you tell them the sheriff is behind your project, you're always greeted like an old friend.

After driving up from New Orleans in a rainstorm, Walt Schob and I arrived in West Baton Rouge Parish to search for the site of the Confederate ironclad Arkansas. We went straight to the parish sheriff's department (Louisiana has parishes instead of counties).

After a short wait, we were called into Sheriff Bergeron's office.

He was a big friendly man who smiled and spoke in a soft southern drawl.