The Ironclad Officer
The ironclad warship Keokuk was like a giant tomb. In the summer, when I first came aboard, it was hot as an oven. I imagined, the first time I went below and the ship made steam and the engine started turning her screw propeller, that this must be exactly what it is like to find yourself in hell.
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How did I go from a farm in Indiana to this rolling, stinking, clanging hell off the coast of South Carolina? To come out on deck for my short respite in fresh air was a deliverance like a reprieve from the inferno. The seasickness, from which I had suffered terribly since we left Philadelphia aboard the warship Avenger, had begun to subside in me. I no longer wretched at the rail as the crew laughed. Now I just felt a misery deep in my bones, and it was all I could do to focus some small bit of strength on my duties. I gasped desperately at the steaming, hot air. I looked across the oily, grey swells to the beach and dunes along the shore, toward the hideous pile of sand and logs, bristling with artillery, that was Fort Wagner.
We suffered in the heat throughout the fall, really. I despaired whether winter would ever come to this part of the world. But by December, it had come, and we gladly sheltered below in that stifling ironclad from the wind and spray of the first winter gales.
We had spent late summer, fall, and the beginning of winter on station off Charleston, forming the blockade. Except for our occasional, usually pointless pursuit of blockade runners in the dark, we lay at anchor, rolling in the seas, keeping on a head of steam, for day after endless day. We scraped. We chipped. We painted. Once a week we fired the guns. Firing those guns inside that tomb was like sticking your head in a cauldron and setting off a stick of dynamite in your teeth.
Our coaling and watering calls in Port Royal were a welcome relief. We occasionally got a day of liberty there, which allowed us nothing more than a stroll and a visit to a storefront or two in the little port of Beaufort. The town at that time was full of Negro camp followers. The local whites had fled. Soldiers and sailors had to be fed and supplied, and some of the sharpest Negroes looked to it.
That's where I first saw Mr. Smalls. He was working at his dry goods store when a fellow officer and I went in looking for tobacco. It was strange to see a colored man standing behind his own store counter. I'd never seen such before. But Mr. Smalls was a pleasant, straightforward man, it seemed to me then.
We knew an attack was coming by Thanksgiving. You could see the number of ironclads in the area growing. And you could see the earnestness in higher ranking officers. Mr. Smalls had come aboard before Thanksgiving as a pilot. He had formerly been a pilot for the Confederates. The word on the ship was that he knew the waters of Charleston Harbor better than any man.
We all took a liking to Mr. Smalls. He was a man of good humor. He had a kind word for everyone he met. He treated the officers almost as equals, but not in a way that would offend. He treated the sailors as equals, too, but not in the way that would encourage them to take him lightly. He was quick to laugh and quick with a joke himself, which he would share with an officer or sailor. After he told a joke, he would break out in the biggest belly laugh, his white teeth flashing.
The morning of the attack, the officers were in a fine state of tension. We were assembled on deck, and we knew we were steaming in to battle. We could see our fleet of ironclads rolling around us in the grey, December swells, black smoke rising from their stacks as they made steam.
I was the most scared I've ever been in my life. I can't even describe my fear.
I remember the pitching deck and the cold spray as the anchor chain clanked aboard. I remember the boatswain calling a cadence and the fear in his voice as he did.
We could see the other ironclads steaming into a line ahead of us. The rebels could see the attack forming up, too. There would be no surprise in this, no trying to sneak through like the blockade runners in the night. I remember those columns of black smoke arcing off in the breeze, terrible black smoke as the ironclads arranged themselves into a line and headed towards the bar.
If Mr. Smalls knew the harbor better than any man in the Navy, why did they have him in the last ship in line? I remember thinking that.
We were below, with the hatches bolted shut, and the gun ports opened, when I heard the first gunfire. It rolled across the water like thunder. Boom... Boom... Boom... Spaced apart at first, and then coming thicker and thicker, like a thunderstorm gathers and strengthens as it nears you. Through our gun port, I could see Fort Wagner, built of sand and logs. I could see the guns fire before I heard the boom. First a spout of flame, then a cloud of smoke, then the sound of the gun, then the splash of the ball just short of us.
The ironclad warship Keokuk was like a giant tomb. In the summer, when I first came aboard, it was hot as an oven. I imagined, the first time I went below and the ship made steam and the engine started turning her screw propeller, that this must be exactly what it is like to find yourself in hell. How did I go from a farm in Indiana to this rolling, stinking, clanging hell off the coast of South Carolina? To come out on deck for my short respite in fresh air was a deliverance like a reprieve from the inferno. The seasickness, from which I had suffered terribly since we left Philadelphia aboard the warship Avenger, had begun to subside in me. I no longer wretched at the rail as the crew laughed. Now I just felt a misery deep in my bones, and it was all I could do to focus some small bit of strength on my duties. I gasped desperately at the steaming, hot air. I looked across the oily, grey swells to the beach and dunes along the shore, toward the hideous pile of sand and logs, bristling with artillery, that was Fort Wagner.
We suffered in the heat throughout the fall, really. I despaired whether winter would ever come to this part of the world. But by December, it had come, and we gladly sheltered below in that stifling ironclad from the wind and spray of the first winter gales.
We had spent late summer, fall, and the beginning of winter on station off Charleston, forming the blockade. Except for our occasional, usually pointless pursuit of blockade runners in the dark, we lay at anchor, rolling in the seas, keeping on a head of steam, for day after endless day. We scraped. We chipped. We painted. Once a week we fired the guns. Firing those guns inside that tomb was like sticking your head in a cauldron and setting off a stick of dynamite in your teeth.
Our coaling and watering calls in Port Royal were a welcome relief. We occasionally got a day of liberty there, which allowed us nothing more than a stroll and a visit to a storefront or two in the little port of Beaufort. The town at that time was full of Negro camp followers. The local whites had fled. Soldiers and sailors had to be fed and supplied, and some of the sharpest Negroes looked to it.
That's where I first saw Mr. Smalls. He was working at his dry goods store when a fellow officer and I went in looking for tobacco. It was strange to see a colored man standing behind his own store counter. I'd never seen such before. But Mr. Smalls was a pleasant, straightforward man, it seemed to me then.
We knew an attack was coming by Thanksgiving. You could see the number of ironclads in the area growing. And you could see the earnestness in higher ranking officers. Mr. Smalls had come aboard before Thanksgiving as a pilot. He had formerly been a pilot for the Confederates. The word on the ship was that he knew the waters of Charleston Harbor better than any man.
We all took a liking to Mr. Smalls. He was a man of good humor. He had a kind word for everyone he met. He treated the officers almost as equals, but not in a way that would offend. He treated the sailors as equals, too, but not in the way that would encourage them to take him lightly. He was quick to laugh and quick with a joke himself, which he would share with an officer or sailor. After he told a joke, he would break out in the biggest belly laugh, his white teeth flashing.
The morning of the attack, the officers were in a fine state of tension. We were assembled on deck, and we knew we were steaming in to battle. We could see our fleet of ironclads rolling around us in the grey, December swells, black smoke rising from their stacks as they made steam.
I was the most scared I've ever been in my life. I can't even describe my fear.
I remember the pitching deck and the cold spray as the anchor chain clanked aboard. I remember the boatswain calling a cadence and the fear in his voice as he did.
We could see the other ironclads steaming into a line ahead of us. The rebels could see the attack forming up, too. There would be no surprise in this, no trying to sneak through like the blockade runners in the night. I remember those columns of black smoke arcing off in the breeze, terrible black smoke as the ironclads arranged themselves into a line and headed towards the bar.
If Mr. Smalls knew the harbor better than any man in the Navy, why did they have him in the last ship in line? I remember thinking that.
We were below, with the hatches bolted shut, and the gun ports opened, when I heard the first gunfire. It rolled across the water like thunder. Boom... Boom... Boom... Spaced apart at first, and then coming thicker and thicker, like a thunderstorm gathers and strengthens as it nears you. Through our gun port, I could see Fort Wagner, built of sand and logs. I could see the guns fire before I heard the boom. First a spout of flame, then a cloud of smoke, then the sound of the gun, then the splash of the ball just short of us.