The war maker

I  WAS born on May 1, 1842, on Fifth Avenue, New York, not a long way north of Washington Square. My father was a distinguished surgeon and owned a large estate on Lake Champlain, where most of my youthful summers were spent. I had three brothers and two sisters; but not for many years have I known where they are, or whether alive or dead. After having had a private tutor at home I was educated by jumps at the Hinesburgh, Vermont, Academy; at the old Troy Conference Academy at Poultney, Vermont, and at the Burlington, Vermont, Academy, where, young as I was, I became deeply interested in the study of medicine, for which I had inherited a pronounced liking; that was the one point on which I seemed to fit in with the family. I did not stay a great while at any institution because of my success in leading the other students into all sorts of dare-devil pranks, to the detriment of discipline and the despair of the dominies. As an evidence of the inclining twig I remember, with still some feeling of pride, that during one of my last summers on Lake Champlain I organized fifteen boys of the neighborhood into an expedition against the Indians of the far West. We were equipped with blankets stolen from our beds, three flasks of powder, and nearly one hundred pounds of lead, which was to be moulded into bullets for the extermination of the redskins of the world. As Commander-in-Chief I carried the only pistol in the party but we expected to seize additional arms on the way to the battlefields. I had scouts ahead of us and on both flanks and by avoiding the roads and the bank of the lake we managed to evade capture until the third day, although the whole countryside was searching for us, in rather hysterical fashion.

After a somewhat scattered series of escapades, which increased the ire of the family and intensified my dislike of their prosaic protestations, my father solemnly declared his intention of sending me to the United States Naval Academy. It was his idea, as he expressed it, that the discipline which prevailed there would be sufficient to restrain me and at the same time my active imagination would find a vent in my inborn love of the sea. I was delighted with this promised realization of my boyhood dream, for it seemed to me that the career of a naval officer presented greater possibilities of adventure than any other. Former Congressman George P. Marsh, of Burlington, Vermont, an old friend of the family, who afterward was sent to Italy as American Minister and died there, arranged to secure my appointment to Annapolis, and I entered a preparatory school to brush up on the studies required by the entrance examination. The machinery to procure my appointment had been set in motion and I was ready to take the examination when the opening gun of the Civil War was fired at Fort Sumter, on April 12, 1861.

I was immediately seized with a wild desire to be in the fight, but my father would not consent to it, on account of my age. He would not hear to my going into the army as a private but promised that if I would wait a year, and was still of the same mind, he would try to get me a commission. As I have said, my sympathies were with the South but it was more convenient for me to take the other side, and at that moment I was not particular about principles. The family were duly horrified one evening when I went home, after some things I needed, and told them I had enlisted. The next day my father bought my discharge and hustled me out to the little town of Woodstock, Illinois, where I was placed in charge of an uncle who was abjured to keep me from going to war, without regard to anything else that might happen. He prevented me from joining an infantry regiment which was then forming but I got away with a cavalry regiment which was raised in that section some months later, and was made one of its officers. We went to Cairo, Illinois, and from there by transport to Pittsburg Landing, where we arrived just in time to take part in the battle which was fought on April 6 and 7, 1862. My regiment was pitted against the famous Black Horse Cavalry of Mississippi and we came together at the gallop. I was riding a demon of a black horse and, with the bit in his teeth, he charged into the line two or three lengths ahead of the rest. A Confederate officer came at me with his sabre raised. I ducked my head behind my horse’s neck and shot him between the eyes, but just as my pistol cracked his sword cut through my horse’s head to the brain and the point of it laid open my right cheek, from the ear almost to the chin. The horse fell on my leg and held me there, unconscious. In the evening I was picked up and sent to the general hospital, where I stayed for three weeks.

When I was discharged from the hospital I was too weak for active service so I was sent into the Tennessee mountains in charge of a detachment to intercept contraband which was being sent into the South from Cincinnati. We had been there about ten days when, early in the morning, one of the patrols brought in a fine-looking young man, who had been arrested as a spy. There was a refinement about the prisoner that aroused my suspicions, and during the day I satisfied myself that “he” was a woman. While she would not acknowledge her identity, I had reason to believe, and always have been sure in my own mind, that she was none other than Belle Boyd, the famous Confederate spy. I was born with a fondness for women, which then was strong within me, and besides, my heart was with her cause. Therefore it is without apology that I say I arranged things so that she escaped the next night through a window in the shed in which she was confined.

Soon after my return to headquarters I contracted a bad case of malaria and was sent home, which meant back to Woodstock, where I had eloped with a banker’s daughter just before going to the front. I was disgusted with the war and I expressed myself so freely, and was so outspoken in my sympathy for the South, that I made myself extremely unpopular in a very short time. It probably is true, too, as was charged against me, that I swaggered around a lot and presumed on the reputation I had made. At any rate the people set their hearts on hanging me for being a “damned copperhead,” and they might have done it if old man Wellburn, the proprietor of the hotel at which my wife and I were staying, had not helped me to stand off a mob that came after me. I met them at the door with a revolver in each hand and Wellburn was right behind me with quite an arsenal. They suggested that I come out and renounce my principles and make certain promises, or be hanged at the liberty pole. I told them I would renounce nothing and promise less.

“If I am a copperhead,” I told them, “I am a fighting copperhead, while you are neither kind. If you want a fight why don’t you go to the front and get it, instead of staying home and making trouble for a better man, who has fought and bled for the cause you are shouting about? If you prefer a fight here, come on and get it. I’ve got twelve shots here and there will be just thirteen of us in hell or heaven if you try to make good your threat.”

Old Wellburn was known as a fighter and the sight of his weapons added weight to my words, so the crowd concluded to let me have my way about it, and dispersed. That experience intensified my dissatisfaction with the whole business and I sent in my resignation. It was accepted, and when I had thought it all over I considered that I was lucky to have escaped a court-martial. It was fortunate for me that Governor “Dick” Yates and my father were warm friends. The Governor was thoroughly disgusted with the way I had conducted myself, but he stood by me.

I then moved to Chicago, with my wife. She had a small fortune and I had come into considerable money on my twentieth birthday, so we were in easy circumstances. I bought a vinegar works on Kinzie Street; but the dull routine of business was repulsive to me and I sold it in less than a year, after having operated it at a handsome profit, and went on to New York. We stopped at the old St. Nicholas, at Broadway and Spring Street, which was the fashionable hotel in those days.

I was looking for anything that promised excitement. I had heard that Carlos Manuel de Cespedes was fomenting a revolt in Cuba,—afterward known as the “Ten Years’ War,”—and had conceived the idea of taking a hand in it. To my disappointment, I found that no Junta had been established in this country, nor, so far as I could discover, were there any responsible men in New York who were connected with the revolution. While I was wondering how I could get into communication with Cespedes my interest was aroused by a newspaper story of the new blockade runner “Letter B,” which had made one round trip from Bermuda to Beaufort, North Carolina, and was being looked for again by the Federal fleet. The “Letter B”—its name a play on words—was a long, low, powerful, schooner-rigged steamship, built by Laird on the Mersey. Though classed as a fifteen-knot ship she could do sixteen or seventeen, fast going at that time. The story which attracted my attention told all about her and said there was so much money in blockade running that the owners could well afford to lose her after she had made three successful trips.

In five minutes I decided to become a blockade runner and to buy the new and already famous ship, if she was to be had at any price within reason. I bought a letter of credit and took the next ship for Bermuda. On my arrival there I found that the “Letter B” had been expected in for several days from her second trip and that there was considerable anxiety about her. I also learned that her owner was building a second ship on the same lines and for the same trade. A fresh cargo of munitions of war was awaiting the “Letter B,” and a ship was ready to take to England the cotton she would bring. I got acquainted with the agent for the blockade runner and, after making sure that he had an ample power of attorney from her owner, offered to buy her and take the chance that she might never come in. He was not disposed to sell, at first, and wanted me to wait until the arrival of her owner, Joseph Berry, who was daily expected from England.

After waiting and talking with the agent for several days I said to him one morning: “It looks as though your ship has been captured or sunk. I’ll take a gambler’s chance that she hasn’t and will give you fifty thousand dollars for her and twenty-five thousand dollars for the cargo that is waiting for her; you to take the cargo she brings in. I’ll give you three hours to think it over.”

I figured that the waiting cargo of arms was worth a couple of thousand dollars more than my offer but it looked as though I was taking a long chance with my offer for the ship. However, I had a “hunch,” or whatever you want to call it, that she was all right, and I never have had a well-defined “hunch” steer me in anything but a safe course, wherefore I invariably heed them. At the expiration of the time limit there was not a sign of smoke in any direction and the agent accepted my proposition. In half an hour I had a bill of sale for the ship and the warehouse receipts for the cargo of war supplies. At sunset that day a ship came in from England with the former owner. He criticised his agent sharply at first, but found some consolation in the fact that the vessel he was building would soon go into commission. When two more days passed with no sign of the anxiously looked for ship Mr. Berry concluded that he had all the best of the bargain and complimented his agent on his shrewdness.

On the third day the “Letter B” came tearing in, pursued at long range by the U. S. S. “Powhatan,” which proceeded to stand guard over the harbor, keeping well offshore on account of the reefs and shoals that were under her lee. The “Letter B” discharged a full cargo of cotton and was turned over to me. While her cargo of arms was going in I went over her carefully and found her in excellent condition and ready to go right back. She was unloaded in twelve hours and all of her cargo was safely stowed in another forty-eight hours. I took command of her, with John B. Williams, her old captain, as sailing master, and determined to put to sea at once. I knew the “Powhatan” would not be looking for us so soon and planned to catch her off her guard.

There was then no man-of-war entrance to the harbor and it was necessary to enter and leave by daylight. With the sun just high enough to let us get clear of the reefs before dark, and with the “Powhatan” well offshore and at the farthest end of the course she was lazily patrolling, we put to sea. The “Powhatan” saw us sooner than I had expected she would and started to head us off, but she was not quick enough. The moment she swung around I increased our speed to a point which the pilot loudly swore would pile us up on the rocks, but it didn’t, and when we cleared the passage we were all of four miles in the lead. As I had figured, the “Powhatan” did not suppose we would come out for at least a week and was cruising slowly about with fires banked, so it took her some time to get up a full head of steam. She fired three or four shots at us but they fell far short. As soon as it was dark, with all of our lights doused, we turned and headed a little south of west so as to come up to Charleston, South Carolina, which was my objective point, from the south. At sunrise we had the ocean to ourselves.

I started in at once to master practical navigation, the theory of which I knew, and to familiarize myself with the handling of a ship. I stood at the wheel for hours at a time and almost wore out the instruments taking reckonings by the sun and the stars. Navigation came to me naturally, for I loved it, and in three days I would have been willing to undertake a cruise around the world with a Chinese crew.

We arrived off Charleston late in the afternoon and steamed up close inshore until we could make out the smoke of the blockading fleet, standing well out, in a semicircle. Then we dropped back a bit and anchored. All of the conditions shaped themselves to favor us. It was a murky night with a hard blow, which came up late in the afternoon, and when we got under way at midnight a good bit of a sea was running. With the engines held down to about half speed, but ready to do their best in a twinkling, we headed for the harbor, standing as close inshore as we dared go. We passed so close to the blockading ship stationed at the lower end of the crescent that she could not have depressed her guns enough to hit us even if we had been discovered in time, but she did not see us until we had passed her. Then she let go at us with her bow guns and while they did no damage, we were at such close quarters that their flash gave the other ships a glimpse of us as we darted away at full speed. They immediately opened on us but, after the first minute or two, it was a case of haphazard shooting with all of them. They knew how they bore from the channel and, making a guess at the proper allowance for our speed, they blazed away, hoping for the best but fearing the worst. The first shells exploded close around us and some of the fragments came aboard but no one was injured. When I saw where they were firing I threw my ship farther over toward Sullivan’s Island, where she could go on account of her light draft, and sailed quietly along into the harbor at reduced speed. At daylight we went up to the dock and were warmly welcomed.

Before the second night was half over we had everything out of her and a full cargo of cotton aboard and we steamed out at once. I knew the blockaders would not expect us for at least four days and we surprised them just as we had surprised the “Powhatan” at Bermuda. It was a thick night and we sailed right through the fleet, at half speed so as better to avoid detection, but prepared to break and run for it at the crack of a gun, without a shot being fired or an extra light shown. As soon as we were clear of the line we put on full speed and three days later we were safe at Turk’s Island, the most southerly and easterly of the Bahama Islands, off the coast of Florida, which I had selected as a base of operations. Though these islands ought long ago to have come under the Stars and Stripes, as they eventually must, they are still owned by England, and in those days they were a haven and a clearing house for the outsiders who were actively aiding the Confederacy—for a very substantial consideration. Most of the blockade runners, including the “Banshee,” “Siren,” “Robert E. Lee,” “Lady Stirling” and other famous ships, were operating out of Nassau, which had the advantage of closer proximity to the chief Southern ports, being within six hundred miles of Charleston and Wilmington. Turk’s Island was nine hundred miles away, but I never have believed in following the crowd. It is my rule to do things alone and in my own way, as must be the practice of every man who expects to succeed in any dangerous business. It is no part of my philosophy to become a party to a situation in which I may suffer from the mistakes of others or in which others are likely to get into trouble through any fault of mine. The popularity of Nassau caused it to be closely watched by the Federal cruisers that patrolled the Gulf Stream, while the less important islands to the south and east were practically unguarded.

Though precarious for the men who made them so, those were plenteous days for the Bahamas, compared with which the rich tourist toll since levied on the then hated Yankees is but small change. The fortunes yielded by blockade running seemed made by magic, so quick was the process. Cotton that was bought in Charleston or Wilmington for ten cents a pound sold for ten times as much in the Bahamas and there were enormous profits in the return cargoes of military supplies. The captains and crews shared in the proceeds and the health of the Confederacy was drunk continuously, and often riotously. By the time I projected myself temporarily into this golden atmosphere of abnormal activity, running the blockade had become more of a business and less of a romance than it was in the reckless early days of the war. The fleet was made up of fast ships of light draft, especially built to meet the needs and dangers of the trade, and they were so much faster than the warships which hunted them that the percentage captured was relatively very small.

Before leaving Bermuda I had ordered a cargo of munitions of war sent to Turk’s Island. We had to wait nearly a month for this shipment to arrive but the time was well spent in overhauling the engines and putting the “Letter B” in perfect condition.

My second trip to Charleston furnished a degree of excitement that exalted my soul. While we were held up at Turk’s Island the blockading fleet had been strengthened and supplemented by several small and fast boats which cruised around outside of the line. Without knowing this I had decided—it must have been in response to a “hunch”—to make a dash straight through the line and into the harbor. It was fortunate that we followed this plan for they were expecting us to come up from the south, hugging the shore as we had done before, and if we had taken that course they certainly would have sunk us or forced us aground. We were proceeding cautiously but did not think we were close to the danger zone when suddenly one of the patrol ships picked us up and opened fire. Her guns were no better than peashooters but they gave the signal to the fleet and instantly lights popped up all along the line ahead of us. When caught in such a trap, if I had not been thirsting for thrills, I would have shown them our heels, for we could have gotten away without any trouble; but the demon of dare-deviltry seized and gripped me.

In the flashing lights ahead I saw all of the excitement I had been longing for, and with an exultant yell to the helmsman to “tell the engineer to give her hell,” I pushed him aside and seized the wheel. I fondled the spokes lovingly and leaned over them in a tumult of joy. It was the great moment of which I had dreamed from boyhood. I had anticipated that when it came I would be considerably excited and forgetful of all my carefully thought out plans for meeting an emergency, but to my surprise I found that I was as cool as though we were riding at anchor in New York Bay. In the first flash I felt myself grow cold all over and then a gentle current of electricity began running through me, as though my heart had been transformed into a dynamo and my veins into fine wires. The opening gun cleared my mind of all its anxieties and intensified its action. I remember that I took time to analyze my feelings to make sure that I was calm and collected and not stunned and stolid, and that I was silent from choice and not through anything of fear. I counted the blockading ships as their hidden lights flashed out and wondered how their officers and crews enjoyed being dragged out of their first sound sleep by my impertinent little vessel. I measured the distance we would have to go to clear their line and tried to figure out, from a rough calculation as to the number of their guns and the accuracy of their fire, the mathematical probability of our being sunk. Strange though it may seem, the possibility of our capture never occurred to me. We might be sent to the bottom, and would be if it were so decreed by Fate, but otherwise we would get away, and the only other question was as to the nature and extent of our injuries. When we were fairly under their spiteful guns I thought of what great sport it would be if we could only return their fire on something like even terms. I compared the wide, individualistic opportunity of naval warfare with routine battles on land, which are fought by rules laid down for every condition that can arise, and unhesitatingly decided in favor of the sea, with its long-nursed passion for the man who dares its fury, and its despotism over him who fears it.

As though spurred by a human impulse the good little ship sprang forward as she felt the full force of her engines, and never did she make such another race of it as she did that night. In the sea then running and at the speed we were going we would ordinarily have had two men at the wheel, but I found it so easy and so delightful to handle the ship alone that I declined the assistance of Captain Williams, who stood just behind me. Though I am not tall, being not much over five feet and eight inches, nature was kind in giving me a well set up frame and a powerful constitution, devoid of nerves but with muscles of steel,—in those days and for many years after,—and with a reserve supply of strength that made me marvel at its source. Through all of my active life I kept myself in as perfect condition as a trained athlete, despite occasional dissipations ashore, and I never got into a close corner without feeling myself possessed of the strength of half a dozen ordinary men. Consequently the tugs of the wheel as we tore through the water toward Charleston seemed like a child’s pulls on a string.

The widest opening in the already closing line was, luckily, directly in front of us, and I headed for it. The sparks that were streaming from our smokestack and the lights of the patrol which was trying to follow us, gave the blockaders our course as plainly as though it had been noonday, and they closed in from both sides to head us off. Evidently they considered that time was also fleeting for they lost not a moment in getting their guns to going, and shot and shell screamed and sang all around the undaunted “Letter B.” First the mainmast and then the foremast came down with a crash, littering the decks with their gear. A shell carried death into the forecastle. One shot tore away the two forward stanchions of the pilot house and another one smashed through the roof but neither Captain Williams nor I was injured by so much as a splinter. All of our boats and most of our upper works were literally shot to pieces. That we were not sent to the bottom on the run was no tribute to the skill of the Yankee gunners. They could not have been more than half awake when they began firing on us and we were flying so fast that it appeared to disconcert them, even after they got their bearings. If they had taken time to depress their guns the race would have been a short one, but they all wanted to sink us at once, with the result that only one shot struck us below the main deck, and that did very little damage to the ship.

From first to last we must have been under that terrific fire for half an hour but it seemed not more than a few minutes, and it really was with something of regret that I found the shots were falling astern, for I had enjoyed the experience immensely. When we got up to the dock we found that five of our men had been killed and a dozen more or less seriously injured. The ship had not been damaged at all so far as speed and seaworthiness in ordinary weather were concerned, though she looked a wreck. The blockaders thought we were much more seriously injured than was actually the case but their mistake was one that could easily be pardoned. They expected we would be laid up for a month. Consequently when we steamed out on the fourth night, after making only temporary repairs, they were not looking for us and we got through their line without much trouble. A few shots were fired at us when we were almost clear but not one of them came aboard and we were not pursued; they had come to have great respect for our speed. We refitted at Turk’s Island, where we laid up for three weeks.

I made two more trips to Charleston without any very exciting experiences, though we were fired on both times, and then sold the ship to an enterprising Englishman who was waiting for me at Turk’s Island. I had made a comfortable fortune with her and sold her for more than I paid for her. She was in almost as good condition as when I bought her, but I have made it a rule never to overplay my luck, and I knew I had run about as many trips with her as I could expect to make without a change of fortune. I am under the impression that the ship and her new owner were captured on her next trip to Charleston, but am not sure as to that.