In the story of the capture of New Orleans, early in the year 1862, the name of David Glasgow Farragut first appears in the annals of the Civil War. When the war began Farragut was a captain, and was awaiting orders at his home in Norfolk, Virginia. He was a Southern man by birth, and his family were of the South. A most determined effort was made by the Southern leaders to enlist him on their side; but Farragut was a man who could not forget his oath to support the Constitution of the United States. His only recorded reply to them was, “Mind what I tell you: You fellows will catch the devil before you get through with this business.”

Removing his family to a home on the Hudson River, he reported himself “ready for duty,” and felt some relief when he was made a member of the naval retiring board, created by a new law passed to get rid of superannuated officers. This appointment was at least a show of confidence in his loyalty. And there he was trying his official peers on a charge of old age when the expedition against New Orleans was planned.

The idea of attacking New Orleans originated with Commander David D. Porter, when in charge of the blockading steamer Powhatan, that, during the summer of 1861, was lying off the Southwest Pass of the Mississippi. Porter made it a point to collect all the information possible about the river and the defences, and he found the fishermen from New Orleans very good spies. Returning North, Porter went to the Secretary of the Navy. He had a knack of getting the ears of the leaders in those days, as well as some luck, as one may say, and the expedition was decided on. Of course, Porter’s rank was too low for the command of such a force, but he was permitted to suggest the name of a suitable captain, and Farragut was promptly named. As the reader will remember, Farragut was reared in the old Essex under Commodore David Porter, and David Porter was the father of David D. Porter. It was, perhaps, what may be called log-rolling for one of the family, but David D. Porter never did the nation a better service than when he spoke for Farragut.

The offer of the leadership of this expedition was eagerly accepted, and David Glasgow Farragut, whose form and features are more familiar to the eyes of the American people than those of any other naval hero, had the first opportunity of his life.

Making the Hartford his flagship, he sailed from Hampton Roads on February 2, 1862, and on the 20th arrived at Ship Island, near the mouth of the Mississippi. Here he gathered the following squadron:

Screw sloops: Hartford, twenty-four guns, Flag Officer David G. Farragut, Fleet Captain Henry H. Bell, Commander Richard Wainwright; Pensacola, twenty-three guns, Capt. Henry W. Morris; Brooklyn, twenty-two guns, Capt. Thomas T. Craven; Richmond, twenty-four guns, Commander James Alden.

Side-wheel steamer: Mississippi, seventeen guns, Commander Melancthon Smith.

Screw corvettes: Oneida, nine guns, Commander S. Phillips Lee; Varuna, ten guns, Commander Charles S. Boggs; Iroquois, seven guns, Commander John De Camp.

Screw gunboats: Cayuga, two guns, Lieut. Napoleon B. Harrison; Itasca, two guns, Lieut. C. H. B. Caldwell; Katahdin, two guns, Lieut. George H. Preble; Kennebec, two guns, Lieut. John H. Russell; Kineo, two guns, Lieut. George M. Ransom; Pinola, two guns, Lieut. Pierce Crosby; Sciota, two guns, Lieut. Edward Donaldson; Winona, two guns, Lieut. Edward T. Nichols; Wissahickon, two guns, Lieutenant Albert N. Smith.

Of the guns on this squadron ninety-three could be fired in broadside, but none could be fired directly ahead; the pivots, however, could be fired within a point or two of the line of the keel, and were practically bow guns. More than half these guns were nine-inch smooth-bores or better.

In addition to these ships, there were twenty schooners carrying one thirteen-inch mortar each, and six gunboats (among them three ferryboats), carrying heavy guns, were assigned to handle and protect them. The mortar flotilla was placed under Porter.

It was an easy matter to get the gunboats up the river, but the big ships stuck on the bar. The Pensacola had to unload all of her guns as well as other weights before she could pass, and even then her bottom cut the channel a foot deeper when she was dragged through on April 7th, and the Mississippi had a like experience. An attempt made to drag the Colorado over failed altogether; but the attempt had to be made in order to please the officials at Washington, even though two weeks of precious time were wasted.

However, Capt. Theodorus Bailey and nearly all of the crew of the Colorado were taken along if the ship was left behind, and on reaching the head of the Passes the work of preparing the ships for the task before them began.

Howitzers were placed in the tops (i.e., on platforms at the tops of the lower masts), and there protected by boiler iron from musket fire. Each ship was made to draw more water forward than aft so that she would have a better chance to get off in case of grounding. As the ships were to fight at point-blank range care was taken to secure the guns so their elevation should not increase under the shock of firing. The rigging was stripped down to the topmasts, and the spars, etc., sent ashore, while some of the gunboats took their masts out altogether. Chain cables were secured up and down the sides of the ship to ward off shot, and “bags of coal or sand or ashes, or whatever else came to hand,” were piled to keep the shot from the boilers and engines. Nets were hung inside to stop the flying splinters in case of shot piercing the wooden walls. Decks and gun carriages were whitewashed to help the light for the night battle, and the outsides of the ships were smeared with mud to make them less easily visible.

The mortar schooners were disguised by lashing tree limbs to the masts in such fashion that they could not be distinguished from the trees along the banks. In short, no precaution was omitted.

As for the Confederates, they rested in perfect confidence behind the forts that had been erected to defend the river. As a glance at the map will show, there was some reason in the location, if not in the armament of these forts, for the confidence they felt. As will be seen, the river comes down in a southerly direction until within twenty miles of the head of the Passes. There it suddenly turns to the northeast for nearly two miles, when it makes a sharp bend to the south once more. It was right on this sharp, knee-like bend that the forts were built. Fort St. Philip stood on top of the knee-bend, so to speak, and from its walls a fair view was had for a long way down the river. On the under side of the knee lay Fort Jackson. By the compass it was about due south of Fort St. Philip and but 800 yards away. Its guns pointed all over the bend of the river and away to the south, the timber on the west side of the river having been cut away to allow an unobstructed view of the stream almost to the uttermost range of the guns.

But when the guns of these forts are considered, one must say they were very poor. The Confederates made a mistake there. In all there were 109 cannon that might be used on passing ships at one point or another, but of these, fifty-six were twenty-four-pounders—excellent guns in 1812, but very small fifty years later. More than half of the others were thirty-twos and forty-twos—in fact, but fifteen of them were really guns of the day, and but two—the seven-inch rifles—could be called first-class.

Doubtless the Confederates depended too much on what nature had done for the defence, but they tried to add to the forces of nature by stretching a barrier from Fort Jackson to the east across the river. Barriers appeal to the unlearned mind, but they have never obstructed a fleet that was commanded by a determined man. Rafts of big cypress logs were built and anchored in line, and then chain cables taken from the Pensacola Navy Yard were stretched from trees on the Fort Jackson side over these supporting rafts to heavy anchors buried on the east side. Before Farragut arrived the floods of spring and the accumulation of driftwood had broken the barrier, but it was renewed by substituting schooners in place of the rafts where the current was heaviest.

In addition to the forts and barrier chain, the Confederates had the support of eleven steamers and a floating battery. This battery was built as an ironclad steamer to carry sixteen heavy guns behind plenty of armor, but there were so many strikes in the shipyard where she was built that she barely got afloat, and she was towed to a place at the forts. Her engines were never used. Had Farragut been delayed ten days more, she would have been a formidable ship, and she would have had a still more formidable consort in another and larger ship of her class that never got afloat. She was called the Louisiana, and was commanded by Capt. John K. Mitchell. Another of this squadron was the ram Manassas, that under Lieutenant Warley had created a Manassas-like panic in the blockading squadron some months before. Two of the squadron belonged to the State of Louisiana. They were called the Moore, Capt. Beverly Kennon, and the McRae, Capt. Thomas B. Huger. These were cotton-clads—ocean-going steamers protected with cotton bales—very inferior as fighting ships, and yet the able Kennon made a name for himself with the Moore. Of the remainder of the squadron it may be said that six were of the “River Defence Squadron”—the guerrillas afloat—and that one of the captains said just before the battle that they were there “to show the naval officers how to fight.”

There were also a number of unarmed vessels present, whose duty it was to handle the fireboats that had been prepared—huge coal barges loaded with fat pine knots that might have made serious trouble had they all been turned loose together at the right time. And one of these unarmed boats was the Mosher, with a crew of six men under Captain Sherman—the bravest man in the Confederate squadron; but because he was only a tug captain no record was made of his first name, nor is anything said in history of his antecedents. Of the armament of the Confederate squadron little need be said. The Louisiana was well armed, and the rest poorly. The Moore, under Beverly Kennon, had two thirty-two-pounders, and she was about as well off as any.

While Farragut prepared his fleet a coast survey party under F. H. Gerdes triangulated the river, under fire at times, and set flags on the banks where the mortar schooners were to be moored. One division of these was placed on the west bank, under shelter of forest trees, and at an average distance of about 3,500 yards from the fort. The other division was on the east bank. The exact range was given to each schooner captain, and at ten o’clock in the morning on April 18, 1862, the bombardment of Fort Jackson began. The mortars were fired once in ten minutes, and the fire was continued for six days.

Meantime Lieut. C. H. B. Caldwell had requested permission to break the chain barrier, and on the night of the 20th he was sent with his boat, the Itasca, and the Pinola, Lieut. Pierce Crosby commanding, to do so. While the mortar schooners dropped their shells in a shower on Fort Jackson to keep down the fire as much as possible, two of the barrier hulks were boarded, and on one of them it was found possible to slip her anchor chain. This was done, and she drifted away, leaving the barrier chain to sag down under water. Then Caldwell got above the barrier with his shoal-draft Itasca, passing through a narrow space between the hulks and what remained of the old raft barrier. Running up far enough for good headway, he turned back at full speed with the current to aid him, and headed for the place where the released hulk had been. As the Itasca struck the sagging chain with her curved bow, she rose more than three feet out of water, and then the chain snapped under her weight, and away she went. The barrier was effectually broken, and the route to New Orleans was open. All this was done under heavy fire, but there was no picket boat guarding the chain.

At this time the British frigate Mersey, Captain Preedy, and a Frenchman were lying with Farragut’s fleet. These two foreigners steamed up the river to examine the barrier, and on coming back were at great pains to inform the Union forces that the forts were in perfect order and the barrier absolutely impassable. The French were at that time planning to establish an emperor on a throne in Mexico.

As said, for six days the mortar flotilla hurled shells high in air to drop in and around Fort Jackson. By day each mortar threw a shell every ten minutes—the flotilla of twenty threw 120 per hour—and at night they threw one every half-hour each. On the 19th one of the schooners was sunk by a shot from the fort, and another was thrown out of the fight later on; but on an average about 1,900 shells were thrown each day. The effect of these shells was to destroy all the buildings in the fort, and, by cutting the levee, to flood the floors of the bomb-proofs. They kept the men under cover, and rendered them so uncomfortable that in the end they became desperate. What they did then will be told further on. The garrison lost fourteen killed and thirty-nine wounded in the course of the fighting.

Having the way clear, Farragut, on the 23d of April, 1862, issued his orders for an advance that night. The squadron was divided into two divisions, and Capt. Theodorus Bailey had the honor of commanding the first division. His division flag was hoisted on the Cayuga, that was to lead the line in what was supposed to be the post of real danger. A ship’s cutter under Caldwell rowed up to the break in the barrier and found it still open. The Confederates had a big wood-fire burning, and the cutter crossed its light, but was not attacked. It was a dark, still night—not the best for the work—but at 2 o’clock in the morning of the 24th two red lanterns were hoisted at the peak of the flagship Hartford, and a moment later the shrill piping of the boatswain’s whistle was heard throughout the squadron with the call “All hands up anchor!”

The merry click of the pawls as the men walked around the great capstans soon rose on the still air—rose so high that it reached up to the sentinels on Fort Jackson and roused the garrison to a knowledge that an important action impended. It was a long task to get the anchors of the largest ships, for they were breasting a three-knot current, but soon after 3 o’clock they all got under way, and Porter’s mortars, firing as fast as the men could tong the shells into them, began drawing an almost unbroken arch of fiery bombs from the schooners to Fort Jackson. The nation had never seen such a display of fireworks as that. At 3.30 o’clock precisely the division leader Cayuga passed in silence through the barrier, followed by the huge Pensacola, and then a flaming storm broke loose from the forts. Huge piles of wood were lighted on the shore to illuminate the river, and away upstream the blaze of fire-rafts opened the murk of night to reveal the Confederate ships, weird and indistinct of outline, scattered along the shores. The Union gunboats dashed ahead at full speed, but the Pensacola and Mississippi steamed slowly, their black hulls at regular intervals sheeting the air with lurid fire as they replied to the forts. Abreast of St. Philip, where the Confederate fire was hottest, they drew in so close that the gunners afloat and those ashore heartily cursed each other as they worked. With fierce energy the men ashore drove shot and shell into the wooden ships, while those afloat dusted the rampart with hurtling showers of grape and canister. And these were showers that no man could face, and the garrison fled to cover for a moment, but they returned again as the blasts ceased with the passing of each ship.

For the first division it was at first but a simple journey. They were through the barrier and away before the Confederates fully realized what was upon them. But for Farragut, at the head of the second division, it was another matter. The clouds of smoke from the batteries settled low upon the water to blind the pilots, and then came the blazing fire-rafts to add to the confusion and the danger. As it happened, it was the Hartford that caught the first of these rafts. She had grounded in the smoke and was trying to back off, when the Confederate tug Mosher shoved the flaming barge against her. In an instant the paint on the whole side of the ship was flaming up almost to the lower yards.

As the flames rose, the men at the guns on that side drew back, but they faced the danger again as Farragut shouted:

“Don’t flinch from that fire, boys; there’s a hotter fire than that for those who don’t do their duty.”

But in a moment the case seemed desperate even to Farragut’s courageous soul, for he raised his hands above his head and exclaimed, “My God, is it to end in this way?” Just then Master’s Mate Allen, in charge of the ship’s fire-brigade, climbed into the mizzen rigging with the nozzle of a hose in his hand, and a moment later the spurting water of the hose had drowned the soaring flames.

Meantime the tug Mosher had held the raft faithfully against the Hartford, although under the very muzzles of the ship’s big guns and in the brilliant light of the blazing fire. But a half dozen shells were fired at her, and drifting away, she sank in the black water, carrying down every one of the heroic men upon her. And that was not the last case where men were found to face certain death in this fashion.

The accounts of what was done by other vessels of the fleets are as confused as were their movements as seen by the various spectators. It appears, however, that while the last division of the squadron struggled through the pass in the barrier the Cayuga, at the head of the first, suddenly found herself among the Confederate gunboats and the guerrillas that were going to show the naval officers how to fight. She had passed, perhaps without seeing her, the dread ironclad Louisiana, moored above Fort St. Philip, but the rest of the Confederate ships were lively enough. The guerrillas were lively in their haste to escape, those that had steam up flying for life, and the crews of those without steam setting them on fire and scrambling ashore in haste, while the Cayuga fired right and left at everything in sight. The Moore was close beside the Cayuga on one side, and the McRae on the other. Both received a severe pounding as the Cayuga passed on. The Oneida was not far in the wake, and she, too, gave broadsides to the Confederates. The Varuna, swiftest of the government squadron, ran past everything and continued up the river, followed by the Confederate steamer Moore with the Union signals aloft. Captain Kennon, seeing that the Confederates were being whelmed by the Union forces, determined to escape up the river.

As the Varuna and the Moore disappeared the McRae turned down toward Fort St. Philip. On the way she ran aground, and then the Union steamer Iroquois came along. The McRae fired a broadside of grape and copper slugs at her, and the Iroquois returned it with grape and canister. The slaughter was great on the McRae, her commander, Thomas B. Huger, being among the mortally hurt. Huger, but a few months before, had been executive officer of the Iroquois, and most of her crew were the men who had served under him. The McRae afterward got under Fort St. Philip.

The Manassas during this time had not been idle. She had, indeed, plunged into the thick of the Union force. The Brooklyn, in coming through the barrier, almost ran down the Kineo. The collision changed her course, and a minute later the Manassas butted her. Her chain cable saved her from a fatal wound.

As the Manassas glanced clear, a man climbed out of her hatch and stood by her smoke-stack a moment to see what damage she had done, and then he suddenly tumbled over into the water and disappeared. An officer of the Brooklyn afterwards asked the quartermaster, who was heaving the lead in the chains of the Brooklyn on that side, if he saw the man fall off the Manassas. “Why, yes, sir,” he replied; “I saw him fall overboard—in fact, I helped him; for I hit him alongside the head with my hand-lead.”

As the Brooklyn passed on, the Manassas turned upstream after the Union ships, watching for an opportunity to strike. She was seen, and the Mississippi and Kineo turned back to crush her, but she eluded them and ran ashore. At that her crew fled to the river bank, and the Mississippi gave her a broadside that knocked her clear of the mud, and she floated down the river. Opposite Fort St. Philip, Lieutenant Read, of the McRae, boarded her. He reported that she was then sound save for a cut pipe, but he must have been mistaken, for when she was passing Porter’s mortar flotilla she was seen to be on fire, and she soon “exploded faintly” and sank.

About the time the Manassas was abandoned, the Moore, under Beverly Kennon, was overtaking the Varuna not far from the quarantine station. The Varuna’s captain was deceived by the Moore’s false lights. So was one of the Confederate fleet—a swift vessel called the Jackson. The Jackson fired with her one gun at both steamers, and then fled to New Orleans, where her captain set her afire and abandoned her. Then one of the guerrilla fleet, the Stonewall Jackson, came up near the two, and Kennon, on seeing her, opened fire on the Varuna. He expected the Stonewall Jackson to come to his help, for the Moore, with only two thirty-two-pounders, was no match for the Varuna. Nevertheless, Kennon had to fight it out alone until victory was won. He was now close on the Varuna’s quarter, where her broadside would not bear on him, but because of the height of his own ship’s bow he could not bring his gun to bear, so he depressed the muzzle of his gun and shot a hole through his own bow to make way for shot to be aimed at the Varuna. The next shot from the Moore raked the Varuna, and to bring his broadside to bear, Captain Boggs, of the Varuna, put her helm over, and turned her across the course of the Moore. And that was a fatal error, for Kennon, instead of turning away, turned toward the Varuna and drove the sharp bow of the Moore, crashing through her side. The Varuna got in a raking broadside that was very destructive, but was herself cut through. The Moore hauled off and kept on upstream, and then came the Stonewall Jackson and rammed the Varuna on the other side. The Varuna was then headed to the easterly bank, where she sank, leaving her bow out of water.

But neither the Moore nor the Stonewall Jackson escaped, for the Oneida and Cayuga came on and drove them both ashore. The Moore was fired, but her crew surrendered when the Pensacola came along.

Of the whole Confederate squadron only the Louisiana, the McRae, and the guerrilla Defiance remained, and they were under the guns of Fort St. Philip. The Defiance had been abandoned, but men from the McRae took possession of her. The Louisiana, even as a floating battery, did nothing but fire a broadside or two at the passing squadron.

The river was clear, save for two batteries of no account, as far as New Orleans, and at 1 o’clock in the afternoon, on April 25, 1862, the triumphant government squadron was before the Crescent City. It had lost only thirty-five killed and 128 wounded.

But two or three incidents of the occupation of the city need be mentioned. Captain Bailey and Lieut. George H. Perkins were sent ashore to demand that the mayor haul down the Confederate flags. A howling mob surrounded and insulted and even threw filth upon the two lone officers, who were simply obeying orders. The letter of Farragut was delivered to Mayor Monroe in the presence of Pierre Soulé, who had been a senator and a minister to Spain. Primed by Soulé, the mayor wrote a letter filled with such expressions as “you have a gallant people to administer”; “sensitive to all that can affect its dignity and self-respect”; “order and peace may be preserved without resort to measures which could not fail to wound their susceptibilities and fire up their passions”; “you may trust their honor, though you might not count on their submission to unmerited wrong.” As to the Confederate flags, “nor could I find in my entire constituency so wretched and desperate a renegade as would dare to profane with his hand the sacred emblem of our aspirations.”

The flags came down, however, and the old flag was raised over the Mint. A gambler named Mumford, with three associates, hauled it down, dragged it in the streets, and tore it to pieces. It was a wild town until May 1st, and even for a few days later; but on May 1st came Benjamin F. Butler with his troops from the transports that had accompanied the Union warships, and Butler was the man for the place. If any reader wants to learn how to tame a mob with superabundant “sensibilities” and “passions” and “aspirations” and “honor” mixed in the jumble exhibited by Pierre Soulé and Mayor Monroe, let him read “Butler’s Book.”

To return to Forts St. Philip and Jackson, it must be said that with the government forces above and below them, they were in such a desperate strait that when Porter threatened to renew the bombardment, more than half the garrison mutinied. Most of them were foreigners, anyway. The forts were surrendered to Porter on April 28, 1862. While Porter was opposite Fort Jackson negotiating for the surrender, under a flag of truce hoisted on the fort and on his flagship, Commander John K. Mitchell, of the ironclad Louisiana, set her on fire, and she came drifting down upon the Union squadron lying under the flag of truce. Fortunately, she blew up just before she arrived where she could do any damage. Some Confederate writers like Scharf assert that Mitchell had a perfect right to destroy her, because she was not included in the surrender. This is correct. But when they say Mitchell “took caution that no injury should fall to the enemy’s fleet while under the flag of truce,” they assert somewhat more than the facts warrant, for Mitchell left the ship moored by ropes that he knew would burn off before the fire reached the magazine, and they admit that he did not draw the charges from her heavy guns. They say that he tried to “drown the magazine” and failed, and that he then sent an officer to warn Porter. The officer was sent, but he was sent so long after the fire was started that she blew up before he reached Porter’s ship. Moreover, before the passing of the fleet the Louisiana was moored far up the stream, against the protest of the military authorities, instead of down below, where she could have driven off Porter’s mortars. The Confederate heroes of the fight were Sherman, Kennon, and Huger. Every American thinks of their bravery and skill with pleasure, but Mitchell was another kind of a man.

The capture of New Orleans was of the greatest moment, as the reader will remember. Baton Rouge and Natchez surrendered to Captain Craven, of the Brooklyn, a few days later. Pensacola was evacuated, and the Union forces took possession on May 10th. And because of these gains the French Emperor, who was looking on Texas as well as on Mexico as a good prize, was led to change his mind.

It was Porter’s belief that had Farragut been sent to Mobile immediately, it would have fallen with small resistance, if any, and the great battle later on would have been saved. But the Administration wanted the Mississippi opened immediately, and Farragut went up to try it. He succeeded in passing all the fortifications, including those at Vicksburg, where he met Flag Officer Davis. But at Vicksburg the forts were from 150 to 264 feet above the water, and the ships of that day could not successfully attack such works. And even had Farragut captured the forts, there were not enough soldiers at hand to hold the town.

In fact, Farragut’s bold cruise up the river was practically fruitless because the Administration did not follow it up. This is not said to criticise the Administration. It is the common belief of the American people that no man in the nation could have done better than Abraham Lincoln. But after the batteries were passed at Vicksburg, the Union forces made what Mahan calls a recoil. Vicksburg was more strongly fortified than ever, and so was Port Hudson, while Grand Gulf became a point of no small importance to the Confederates.

While the combined squadrons of Farragut and Davis lay above Vicksburg a Confederate ram called the Arkansas, Capt. Isaac N. Brown, was reported as about ready for action at a shipyard up the Yazoo River. “Little apprehension was felt in the Union fleet,” but Captain Walke, with the Carondelet, the Taylor, and Ellet’s ram, Queen of the West, went up for a look at her on July 15, 1862. Very unexpectedly they met her coming down for a look at the Union forces. The Taylor was in the lead, and she immediately turned back for the support of the Carondelet. The Carondelet turned back for the support of the ram, and the ram turned back for the support of the squadron in the Mississippi. Being very swift, the ram ran soon out of sight. The gunboats now had their unarmored sterns toward the Confederate ship, and for an hour she spanked them soundly, as they richly deserved. The Carondelet at this time actually threw 150 pounds of metal from rifled guns in her bow ports to the 106 that the Arkansas threw from her bow ports, while her broadside fire was 170 pounds to 165 on the Arkansas. And yet, although supposably supported by the Taylor, she ran away, hugging the left bank, where the Arkansas, of thirteen feet draft, could not ram her, and there she eventually grounded, leaving the triumphant Arkansas to chase the Taylor and surprise the government squadrons.

Fortunate it was that the Confederates at the Yazoo shipyards were poor mechanics. When the Arkansas reached the Union squadrons her machinery was in such bad order that she was making barely one knot an hour. The captured ram General Bragg had steam up, but her captain waited for orders, and so missed the chance of a lifetime, as Farragut remarked at the time.

Boldly steering through the unprepared squadron, the Arkansas fired right and left and took a position under the Vicksburg batteries. Her crew numbered forty-one. The two Union flag officers were greatly mortified because they were caught napping, and Farragut, to retrieve himself, took his squadron down past the batteries that night, hoping to destroy the Arkansas as he passed, but he failed because she was safely moored. Two days later Farragut and part of his ships went to New Orleans, and the handful of Union troops that had been on the point opposite Vicksburg went to Baton Rouge.

On October 5th Breckenridge attacked the Union forces at Baton Rouge, and the Arkansas went there to help. The Union ironclad Essex, Capt. William Porter, with four other gunboats, were below Vicksburg at the time, three of the others being of Farragut’s fleet. The Katahdin and Kineo were able to give the Union army a good support in a fight against superior numbers. The Arkansas, while trying to come to the aid of Breckenridge, broke down and ran ashore. While she lay in the mud the Essex came up looking for her, and as she could not be moved her crew set her on fire and escaped. She was of the usual form of the river ironclads, and was armored with railroad iron. The design and the material were good for that day, but she was doomed to defeat by her builders before she was launched.

On October 1, 1862, the Mississippi squadron was transferred to the Navy Department, and David D. Porter was promoted and placed in charge. A lot of light-draft steamers clad with half-inch or better iron were added to the squadron and were armed with howitzers. They were called tin-clads, and were of service in carrying transports, and for light work generally.

Another addition to the squadron was a class of heavy boats with their wheels well aft and rectangular casemates forward. They carried some eleven-inch Dahlgrens, and were plated with two and three-inch iron, one carrying as much as six inches on the casemate. But they were built in actual war-time, so the builders took advantage of the haste to rob the nation by scamping the work, and the engines were constantly breaking down.

In November the first of a series of moves against Vicksburg was made by the way of the Yazoo River country. The swamps of the Yazoo had served to keep the Federal forces from turning the north end of the Confederate defences along the Vicksburg side of the river, and an expedition was sent across through the bayous, leaving the Mississippi near Helena, and entering the head-waters of the Yazoo. It failed utterly, and the gunboat Cairo was destroyed by torpedoes made of whiskey demijohns.

Then, in January, 1863, a naval force was sent to help the army capture Arkansas Post, fifty miles up the Arkansas River. The De Kalb (former St. Louis), the Louisville, and the Cincinnati, and all the tin-clads were in the expedition, and on January 9th and 10th they shot the forts to pieces, and disabled all the guns, seventeen in number, including two nine-inch Dahlgrens that had come all the way from the Norfolk Navy Yard. The white flag was raised before the army could make an assault.

General Grant arrived opposite Vicksburg on January 30, 1863, and the plan of attacking Vicksburg by turning the river line on the south was adopted, and that succeeded some months later. Meantime Porter, to control the river between Vicksburg and Port Hudson, sent Col. Charles R. Ellet, with his ram, Queen of the West, down past the Vicksburg batteries. Owing to trouble with her steering gear, she did not get off till daylight on February 2d; but the Ellets were the most recklessly brave family known to the Mississippi. The colonel started in the face of fire, rammed and set fire to a Confederate steamer at the Vicksburg wharf, and passed on without losing a man.

A small ferryboat, called the De Soto, was added to Ellet’s command when below Vicksburg, and then Porter sent down the Indianola, one of the newest armored boats. That seemed to give the Union forces full sway as far as Port Hudson; but within a week Ellet attacked a fort near Gordon’s Landing, on the Red River, got his ship aground, and had to abandon her. He retreated in the De Soto until a prize they had captured was reached, when the De Soto was burned, and in the prize (a steamer called the Era) they reached the Indianola. But the Confederates were still after them, using the abandoned Queen of the West and one of the original Confederate rams, called the Webb, with a couple of ordinary river steamers, the whole fleet being protected with cotton. The Indianola tried to escape up the river, but the rams being swifter, chose their own time, and rammed her to death on the night of the 24th. The Confederates once more held the river.

A curious thing then happened. The Indianola was sunk on the easterly bank, not far below Vicksburg. A Confederate force set to work to raise and repair her. They were getting on well, when, early on the morning of the 26th, a Federal gunboat was reported coming down the river. There was a most furious cannonading at the Vicksburg batteries, and the four steamers that had so gallantly captured the Indianola at once fled militia-fashion. A lieutenant with a hundred men was left on the wreck (she was awash and near shore); but when he saw what a fearsome aspect the coming monster had, he set the Indianola’s two big guns muzzle to muzzle, fired them to destroy them, and then fled. The story of these doings made the government forces laugh and the Confederates curse for many a day after that, for the so-called gunboat was a dummy in the form of a monitor, sent adrift for a lark by Porter’s men.

On the whole, however, the Confederates were plainly having the best of the contest, and Farragut came up from the Gulf to see about matters. He had himself had both good and bad fortune in the Gulf. A number of Texas ports, including Galveston and Corpus Christi, were captured, but Galveston was retaken by the Confederates, who attacked it with a combined land and marine force, the ships being cotton-clads. The Union navy had the Westfield destroyed, and the Harriet Lane captured, after both her captain and executive officer were killed. And a little later the famous Alabama appeared at night off Galveston. An armed merchant steamer was sent to inspect her, and the Alabama opened fire and sank her, escaping before the other blockading steamer could come out to assist.

So Farragut was in a state of mind to take risks, and he ran his squadron past the works at Port Hudson on the 14th of March, 1863, where nineteen heavy guns were mounted. It was a dangerous place naturally on account of the currents in the stream and the shoals. Seven vessels, including the Hartford, tried the passage. The Hartford, with the gunboat Albatross alongside, led the procession. The Monongahela, with the Kineo alongside, were next, with the Richmond and Genesee following, and the Mississippi alone in the rear.

The Hartford with her consort got past the batteries after some little trouble. The Richmond was disabled by a shot, and with her consort’s aid turned back. The Monongahela and consort both grounded, but the Monongahela passed on, while the Mississippi grounded so hard that she was fired and abandoned. It was a pretty serious affair for the government force, but the Red River was blockaded, and it was not opened for traffic until the end of the war. When two of the Ellet rams were sent down past Vicksburg to increase Farragut’s force above Port Hudson, one, the Lancaster, was sunk, and the other got through. Both were commanded by the indomitable Ellet boys.