Two For the South:
Yankees on the River and the Captain
By Larry Brasington
2011 © Smashwords Edition
Yankees on the River
The crowded room stunk of cigars, sweat, whiskey and smoke. “Gentlemen, if those damn Secessionists can steal a gunboat, by God so can we!” Admiral Porter, commander of the Mississippi squadron, said slamming his fist down on the campaign table in his cabin. The noise startled the assembled brass. None of the assemblage Federal officers wanted to speak first less they be scorched by the admiral’s zeal.
When the room finally sank back into quiet, a young lean man with the bars of a captain and the white cross bands of a marine ventured where the naval officers feared to tread, “Sir, you mean you want to hijack the CSS Arkansas?”
“Why damn right I do Captain Lawrence. It would set those arrogant Secessionists on their collective heels. If we can get her, the Mississippi will open up all the way down river from Memphis to New Orleans. We’d cut the Rebels in two!” This suggestion had the naval officers sagely nodding their agreement. But it was true, capture or destroy the big Confederate casement—ironclad--with her heavy naval guns and their lives would be easier. Still there was Vicksburg and her guns, but no one wanted to argue with an admiral.
Undaunted Captain Lawrence pressed on, “Sir, how do you propose we capture her?”
“What?” Porter said. “Why, catching her sleeping like that damn Forrest did one of my paddle wheelers! He just rode his band of devils up on her and took it.”
Though true, no one wanted to point out to the admiral that General Nathan Bedford Forrest made a habit of surprising them or his trophy was anchored along the shore while the crew was having supper. No, a Confederate Ironclad wouldn’t be caught so unawares, the Rebels knew how valuable the ship was to their cause. Never-the-less Admiral Porter was in a foul mood from his dressing down by General US Grant and he had a full head of steam up. Scuttlebutt said Grant told Porter “Get the Navy off its collective Asses and knock Vicksburg and the CSS Arkansas out of the war. Porter couldn’t do it or he would find someone who could.”
The admiral pressed on, “Now Lewis, I want your Marmora and you, Thomas, your Signal. Each of you will carry the boarding parties. Every ship in the squadron is sending you marines and sailors. Got that? And Commander Harris” Porter said. When no response came back he blew out a bellow of cigar smoke and twisted his head left and right till he found the miscreant officer idly gazing out at the river.
“Sir, if you can tear yourself away from watching the river. I would like a word,” the admiral snarled. “I want your ironclad to lead the attack. My scouts tell me the Rebels have a battery at the mouth of the Yazoo Creek. You, Sir will have silence those guns so the cotton-clad’s (paddle wheelers using cotton bales for protection) can get down the creek. Think you can do that Harris?” Porter left out the younger man’s rank as a sign of his displeasure. He had about had it with this ‘know it all’ from Minnesota no matter who he was related to. Damn politics Porter thought.
Turning back to the marine officer Admiral Porter continued, “Captain Lawrence, you’ll command the landing parties.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Well, at least one of these jokers appears to know what is going on Admiral Porter thought. “Gentlemen, we attack tonight, under the full moon. I’m not risking the Rebel spy network learning of our plans. Understood?”
“It’s 1:00pm. See to your ships. Bring me the CSS Arkansas.” With that the admiral took out a fresh cigar, lit it from oil lamp hanging nearby, and puffed. Damn Rebels know how to grow good tobacco, Porter thought.
Outside the Admiral wardroom the three naval officers spoke briefly before their respective launches pulled along side. “Well, Thomas seems we have an adventure,” Lewis of the Marmora said. “I’d offer a toast, but if we are going to take on the CSS Arkansas, I need to attend to my vessel.” Lieutenant Harris and Thomas nodded in agreement. Each was thinking the same thing.
From the shadow of a canopy Captain Lawrence shook his head and watched the naval officer rush off. All they thought about was their ships and glory. Their lives seemed simple while he had a company of men to worry about. Flesh and blood verses cannons and iron plate. Lawrence saw his first sergeant and walked out to him. “You heard Admiral?”
“Yes, sir I did.”
“Good, cuts down on me repeating myself.” Lawrence said. He took out his cigarette pack and began to roll. “I want you with Ensign Harris on Marmo. He is green. You’re going to have to guide him. His idea of action is finding a willing young thing in Saint Louis.”
“Aye, that it is. I’ll watch out for the lad.”
“And Sergeant McMillan, don’t take chances. I’d like to have your sorry ass back in one piece.” Lawrence said smiling.
“Oh, you cannot get rid of me,” McMillan said in a thick Irish accent, then added “Sir.”
By 11:00pm the full moon’s illuminated the muddy river. Each ship’s boiler was fired and ready—clouds of black smoke rose skyward. The smell of wood burning drifted in the slight breeze. From the USS Benton, the flagship, a signal flare rose, its sparkling tail resembled a comet. Slowly, from the lead ship, a squat boxy shape dark smoke poured out with patches of golden sparks. The USS Rapid Falls looked like a crossed between a Mississippi river boat and a flat iron box--box with gun ports. The city class boats were ugly, but they worked. Four huge black barrels protruded from her bow gun ports. Next came Marmo, her great stern wheel churning a white wake behind her in the moonlight. Her two hundred foot deck made for freight packed with cotton bales and men crouching down behind them. Only their fixed bayonets sparked as they headed down river. Last came the Signal--a side-wheeler. She had her wheels turning pushing her through the dark river. On her bow sat a dark shape, a 32pdr gun.
Captain Lawrence stood by the gun and studied the black river bank. He knew eyes were watched him. But he heard no challenges, and saw no fires. Have we surprised them? Lawrence hoped. Surprise was the key. If the Rebels were ready and waiting it would be bad. Their shore battery would wreck havoc on the wooden ships with their men. Lawrence strained to see the ironclad ahead, but the smoke obscured his vision. He glanced at his watch. Midnight. I hope those Rebels are sleeping, he thought.
At that moment, hidden at the mouth of Yazoo Creek, a sleepy sentry noted three shapes coming down river. What the heck? Nearly falling out of the tree he rested in the corporal climber down and picked his way among the sleeping men to where his officer lay. “Major,” Corporal James Lewis said and shook him. “Major. Somethin’ coming down the river.”
“What?” Major Charles said. The major smelled of bourbon gunpowder. Charles tried to shake the drug of sleep off.
“Three boats coming down the river. Yankees.” Lewis repeated.
Major Charles Pulnot, late of the Nashville Artillery, sat up at the mention of Yankees. “The hell you say. Help me up.” The major grabbed the corporal
S arm and stood. The he flounder in the dark for his hat. Not finding it readily he gave up. Stepping up on the carriage of one of the CSS Arkansas ship-killing 6.5” Brookes rifles he glared at the river.
Corporal Lewis pointed and said, “There.” Three boats came down river with a boxy shape in the lead.
A city class, Major Charles thought. “Corporal by God the Yankees are coming to play. And there is only one thing of interest here--the CSS Arkansas. Let’s give them a hot reception. Rouse the men!”
While Lewis kicked and shook the sleeping gunners, Major Pulnot fumbled around for his boots. Dressed with his telescope he studied the river. “Load your guns--quietly. Maybe we can trick those Yankees into thinking we’re taking a snooze.” Though sleep the crews began to load. First, the power monkeys brought forward the six sacks of black powder for each gun. Next the rammer pushed the sacks in. Gunners check and recheck their sights, Finally, the gun captain stood with the lanyard ready.
Major Pulnot said to Corporal Lewis, “Corporal, your alertness has done you credit.”
“Thank u’ sir.”
“Lewis, I want to surprise them Yankees. So I’m waiting tell they turn. Take my horse. Ride like hell for the CSS Arkansas. Tell ‘em the Yankees are coming.” Corporal Lewis saluted and set off.
“Gun captains, wait till the lead ship turns into the channel. Keep low. Make ‘em think we’re asleep. Beau gets on those torpedo (mines) lines. When they cross the sighting sticks yank a line. That ought take the starch out of them.”
“Yes sir,” came back Beau’s reply. Major Pulnot smiled as the Union ironclad swung toward the mouth of the creek. For a moment it appeared her pilot had misjudged the mouth to the Creek. He had turned to late, but at the very last second her stern wheel dug in and the ironclad straightened out.
“Beau, give ‘em number one line! Gun captains commence fire.” At this range the side of the Union ironclad looked enormous. Number one gun roared, a great ball of flame leaped out followed by a heavy clang as the ball struck home. Pulnot saw metal and wood sail skyward. I’ll be damn, Brookes was right. They work.
Number two’s shot was high. It cut one of twin smoke stacks in half, causing a black cloud of smoke. It began to envelop the stern of the ironclad. “Hot damn smoked Yankees,” laughed the major. “Guns reload.” The southern crews raced to see who could reload first.
As they did flashes of fire bellowed from the side of the Union ship followed by a great rolling booms like summer thunder across the water toward the confederate battery. Every man behind the emplacement ducked as the heavy shells whined overhead and exploded in the trees. A heavy smell of cordite filled the air.
“Well, boys those Yankees still can’t shoot,” the major said. His remark brought laughter from his men. As they loaded, one or two gunners, hazard a glance at the three ships bearing down on them. In front of the battery the creek’s mouth was wide, wide enough for two ships to move side by side. The Union ironclad hugged the bank next to the battery, and tried to shield a paddle wheeler as it raced by. The Yankee ironclad fired again this time it spewed out hundreds of musket balls, grape shot, which rattled off the trees, tore holes in the Rebel flag, sent dirt flying, tore branches off showering splinters into the crews. Several men fell screaming.
“Beau! Try number five.” Beau pulled on the line. Beside the ironclad towering pillar water leaped skyward, spraying the deck. Miss.
Next to him the major heard, “Stand clear. Number one, fire.” The Brookes rifle slammed back on its carriage. Another round hammered the side of the union vessel penetrating its the iron skin. Number two fired, hitting the ironclad’s side throwing one of her guns backward, a cheer erupting from the Rebel gunners.
“Gun captains try seven bags.” Major Pulnot ordered.
Just then another mine exploded and lifted the ironclad’s bow out of the water. For a moment the ship hung in the air, then plunged back down her bow breaking in two pieces. “By God we’ve hurt her boys. Hit ‘em again!” Pulnot shouted then ducked behind the earthworks as the Union broadside roared across. Multiple impacts knocked both crews off their feet with number two gun rolling back over one man 6000-pound gun crushed him. It was chaos.
Though stricken and dead in the water the ironclad had done its job; the shore battery was out of action. Around her the paddle wheelers raced toward the CSS Arkansas.
“Damn.” Pulnot struck his fist on the rampart now helpless to stop them. Just then the ironclad fired blasting the Confederates with grape shot. This time the major watched an unlucky gunner decapitated. It sickened him. It would take awhile to get a gun back up.
From the deck of the Marmo Captain Lawrence had watched the duel between ironclad and battery. It looked like a draw to him. But the ironclad had opened the door. Signal slipped by the boxy ship and headed up stream. Its stern-wheel a white blur now. Marmo maneuvered to follow her. Suddenly, a towering ball of fire, followed by a concussion wave washed over him. In that instant Signal was gone--a mine. All manner of debris, wood, body parts, brass and canvas rained down Lawrence and his men forcing them to seek cover. “Damn mines!”
In the silence Marmo raced on, skirting the sinking remains Signal. God one minute it was there, the next gone. Sergeant McMillan? Thought Lawrence. Running to the side he scanned the water for his friend. There were a few swimmers and more bodies, but he could not make out their faces. Then they were by. The revolutions of the side wheels shaking the boat as the captain poured it on. Captain Lawrence made a silent prayer, “Hope you made it Mac.”
Captain Lawrence didn’t know if continuing this mad assault was bravery or foolhardiness. His thoughts did not matter the Marmo steam on through the wreckage. It was now or never. Do or die.
He cursed. There was no surprise now. Not after the explosions, no way. He looked at marines and sailors hunkered down below the railing hoping the wood might somehow protect them.
Coming around a small bend he saw next to a pier was a long shape covered in iron--the CSS Arkansas. Seeing that Marmo’s pilot made straight for the confederate ship Lawrence yelled, “BRACE for collision.” A jarring smash and a cracking sound as timbers snapped filled the air. Recovering he steadied himself on the rail, “Boarders away” and leaped over the rail. He landed on the iron-plated bow of the CSS Arkansas.
In front of him a gun port flew opened and a man came out. No more time to think, he raised his pistol and fired. The man dropped and he ducked into the port. Inside men rushed everywhere in various stages of undress. Some tried to fight the boarders in blue with whatever weapons were at hand. Bayonets verse rammers, belaying pins, and even a bucket. It was desperate.
I must take the pilothouse; Lawrence thought and pushed his way forward. Out of nowhere an ax came. He barely caught it with his sword. Its impact numbed his arm. He shot the man. Around him blue fought gray, but numbers favored the Rebs.
Outside a cannons fired, grape shot hammering the iron-plated side like hail. Reinforcements. Lawrence pressed on. From the midst of the melee a gray clad man charge him with a cutlass. There was no more time to think, only parry, strike and dodge. The Rebel drove him backwards across the CSS Arkansas’s gun deck now slick with blood. It was a nightmare of smoke. A rifle discharged beside his head, it blinded him and he fell hard on the deck.
Suddenly, a roar filled the gun deck, its concussion made him feel weak—sick. Had the Rebels fired a gun? He thought. Lawrence tried to rise. He touched his ear had felt hot liquid on his face. Blood. I’m hurt. Then from out of the smoke a bayonet drove into his shoulder. A brute of a man with a demonic expression frozen on his face pushed him backwards until he banged against the side. The pain was awful. Lawrence threw up.
Satisfied his victim was out of the fight the man ripped the bayonet free and set off in search for another foe. Pain filled the marines body as he collapsed. He heard a long whistle blast—recall. Using his good arm he tried to push up, but the pain was slowed him. The smoke around him thinned and revealed a portly man standing beside him. A sword hovered before his face.
“Sir. Will you yield?”
Yield? Surrender. It was over. Captain Lawrence nodded his head. He had failed. Failed to capture the CSS Arkansas. Now, the horror of Andersonville would be his reward. “Yes I will yield.” He said and sunk to the deck.
His captor called back over his shoulder. “See that this man is cared for,” and moved on. The rattle of musket fire continued outside.
The End
The Captain
“Damn. Those blue bellies is still chasing us Captain,” old Tom said reloading.
“Think you can hold them Tom?”
Shaking the dust from his floppy hat and putting back on, the trooper said, “Captain, I reckon I can hold them. Been doing it for three years. No reason to stop now.” Tom pulled his six shot rifle from his saddle. He carefully checked it. Each chamber was capped and primed. Glancing at the man’s mount, the Captain kicked free of his stirrups and dismounted. “Then at least let me leave you my horse, Thomas. Yours looks a might winded.”
Thomas shook his head and said, “Nope. Sir, if them papers you are carrying iz important to the general as I think they are, you’ll need your horse. Now go on. I been looking out for you for three years Captain Johnson and ain’t goin’ to stop now.” Thomas smiled and continued watching the road.
“Ok, old friend, then take an extra pistol. That’s an order, Sergeant.” Thomas took the heavy Lematte with the 60 cal barrel underneath the others and smiled.
“Don’t be going all mushy on me Captain. Just git on your horse and ride, it ain’t me they’re chasing. It’s you. Best be gittin’, sir. I can hear them blue bellies working up their courage to come on again.” Thomas said. Though Johnson’s elder by twenty years, old Tom, stood straight and saluted.
Without another word the captain mounted up, returned the salute crisply and spurred his mount. The big horse lunged down the hill. Behind him he could heard the blast of Thomas’ carbine. It had started.
Johnson knew his companion would hold his pursuers off as long as he could and that was a good thing. Those Illinois’ boys could actually ride. They were not like those damn easterners who had only seen horses and never ridden one. But his horse was good Kentucky stock, even tried; he knew it could out run those Yankee nags.
Branches whipping past him and one took his hat, but he did not stop. It was make the picket line or risk capture and that was not an option. Yet, riding into a picket line at twilight was dangerous. Sentries from both sides tended to be jumpy when things moved around in the half-light. They were funny that way. It might be an attack. So he would have to be careful first, through the Yankee line, and then to his own.
Behind him the sound of shooting faded. He broke out of the forest into a farmer’s field. The cornstalks weren’t quite ripe but they would hide him from view. He slowed. Walking his horse. He rubbed its neck. Off to the left he saw smoke. A campfire? With gentle pressure he guided the big horse toward it.
Stopped, he gazed up ahead. A glint of steel reflected off the fading sun. Men. Blue coated, Yankees. He angled away, giving the men a wide berth. Slowly, his horse picked his way, and then he saw a second campfire. Instinctively, he reached for his pistol, it was gone, and he had left it with Thomas. He realized he was unarmed, except for his saber.
Before him were more fires surrounded by tents, Union infantry. He was going to have to trust his luck and ride through. It was a poor choice. It seemed foolish to have ridden nearly 100 miles from Atlanta to toss everything to chance, but there it was.
He stopped. To his right was a small gap between the rows of tents, next to a burned-out farmhouse. Soldiers there were busy fixing the evening meal. Their arms were stacked. Out beyond the line of tents he saw sentries at the far edge of the field, there was no way to tell if that was the way to the rebel lines. But it was a good possibility since the Yankees who were facing that way.
He looked at himself. He was covered in dust and hat less. Perhaps in the fading light he could bluff his way through. Perhaps. Dismounting he undid his canteen, gently shaking it poured some in one hand and gave it to his horse. A cavalryman took care of his horse first, always. Besides Torch would be the doing the running.
Holding the reins, he slowly walked forward toward the soldiers. One man looked up from his coffee, waved and went back to staring in the fire. The Captain waved back and continued. He angled for the end of the picket line. He might just make it.
Without warning, a sentry saw him. “Halt.” The Captain stopped. “Advance and be recognized.”
The Captain eyed his saber. No, I would never have time. “Dispatch rider. Fourth Illinois,” the Captain lied. “Could you show me where General Sherman’s Headquarters are?”
The picket relaxed and lowered his rifle. “Well, you’ve missed it. He is over to the right about a mile. This is Smith’s Brigade. Those damn Tennesseans are just across the field. You had best be careful.”
“I thank you. Reckon I’ve been lost.” Even as he said it the Captain knew his southern accent had given him away. In one motion he swung into the saddle and kicked his mount. The startled sentry tried to bring his rifle up, but the Captain grabbed the man as he rode by. The captured sentry dropped his rifle and began screaming. The next man in line yelled, “Rebel!”
It was a race. With one hand the Captain held the screaming soldier with the other he guided his horse. Around him came the whizzing sound of Minnie balls, he heard the distinct thud of one hitting the soldier. He screamed.
Ahead, along the edge of the next tree line were figures, shadows in gray and butternut. Would they shoot? His arm ached with the effort of holding the man and he let go. The soldier tumbled on the ground behind him, shots whizzed by nicking the branches. Leaning over his horse’s neck he urged his mount for one last sprint. Whack. He felt a warm liquid on his leg. I’m hit.”
Just then his big stallion gathered itself to leap over a split rail fence. It felt like an eternity as they sailed over and into the trees. He pulled up and slid off his saddle. Instantly, he was surrounded. Six bayonets were pointed right at him.
“Well son, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but that was some ride.” An older man said stepping out of the shadows. His accent was a deep Georgia drawl.
“Thank God I’ve made it.”
“Now hold on, who might you be?” Asked the big Georgian.
“Captain Robert Johnson, 5h Tennessee Cavalry, at your service, sir.” Said the Captain, straightening. Then as an after thought asked, “Am I hit?”
The man looked him up and down. He had sergeant stripes on his faded grey jacket. “Nah, sir, unless you count your canteen. It looks pretty dead to me. Here, have mine. Bet you could use a drink,” replied the big sergeant. The bayonets lowered around him and there was a chuckle.
Johnson laughed too, and then he looked at his saddle. Sure enough, a Minnie ball had hit his canteen dead center and drained its liquid. Thirsty he took the offered canteen and took a long pull, but it was not water. Instead it was the moonshine and it burned all the way down his throat. Johnson coughed and shook his head. “That’s mighty smooth sergeant. Wow.” The Sergeant and those around him laughed.
“Welcome home, Captain.”
The End
Suggested reading
Campbell, Roger, The CSS, confederate naval history, 2011, Kindle
Campbell, Roger, The Stone Fleet, 2010, Kindle
Shelby, Foote, The Civil War a Narrative, Vintage Books, Random House, 1986
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