: Continental Monthly Vol. 6 No. 1 July 1864 Devoted to Literature and National Policy. by Various - Literature Modern 19th century Periodicals; United States Politics and government 19th century Periodicals Continental Monthly

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the south of the cape, and an opening into the side of the river, north of the cape called New Inlet. Perhaps more seek entrance by this inlet than the mouth, which is guarded by Fort Caswell, a strong, regularly built fort, once in Union hands, mounting some long-range English Whitworth guns. One other fort has been built here since the commencement of the war. This inlet is guarded by a long line of earthworks, mounted by Whitworth and other guns of heavy caliber. Wilmington lies some twenty miles from the mouth, and fifteen north of New Inlet.

One great characteristic of this coast is the columns of smoke, which every few miles shoot up from its forests and lowlands. All along the coasts may be seen mounds where pitch, tar, and turpentine are being made. These primitive manufactories for the staple of North Carolina are in many places close down to the water's edge, whence their products may easily be shipped on schooners or light-draft vessels, with little danger of being caught by the blockaders, who draw too much water to make a very near approach to shore. So much for the coast we guard; now for ourselves.

Our vessel, of some thirteen hundred tons, and manned by a crew of about 200 all told, reached blockade ground the early part of March. Our voyage down the coast had been unmarked by any special incident, and when at dusk, one spring afternoon, we descried a faint blue line of land in the distance, and knew it as the enemy's territory, speculation was rife as to the prospect of prizes. About 11 P. M. a vessel hove in sight, which, as it neared, proved to be a steamer of about half our tonnage. Our guns were trained upon the craft, but, instead of running, she steamed up toward us. We struck a light, but it was as loth to show its brightness as the ancient bushel-hidden candle. A rope was turpentined, and touched with burning match, but the flame spread up and down the whole spiral length of the rope torch, to the infinite vexation of the lighter. Fierce stampings and fiercer execrations swiftly terrorized the trembling quartermaster, who, good fellow, did his best, and then, frightened into doing something desperate, made this blaze. We hailed them while waiting for fire to throw signals, letting them know who we were; but the wind carried away our shoutings, and the vessel actually seemed inclined to run us down. Worse yet--what could the little vixen mean?--a bright light, flashed across her decks, showed gathering round her guns a swift-moving band of men. Her crew were training their guns upon us for our swift capture or destruction: she could not see our heavy weight of metal, for our ports were closed. She might be a friend, for so her signal lights seemed to indicate; but if of our fleet, how should we let her know in time to save the loss of life and irreparable harm a single ball from her might do? She had waited long enough for friendly signals from us, and the wind, which swept our shouts from hearing, brought to us from them, first, questions as to who we were, then threats to fire if we did not quickly tell, and then orders passed to the men at the foremost gun: 'One point to the starboard train her!'--words which made their aim on us more sure and fatal. 'Bear a hand with that fire and torch! Be quick, for God's sake, or we'll have a shot through us, and that from a friend, unless we blaze away like lightning with our rockets.' The crew were stepping from the gun to get out of the way as it was fired; the captain of the gun held the lock string in his hand; but the instant had not been lost, and our rockets, springing high in air, told our story. Danger is past: we learn they are not only friends, but to be neighbors, and steam in together to our post rather nearer the shore than other vessels here.

Days pass on in watching, and as yet no foreign sail. We study the line of our western horizon, and find it well filled in with forts, embrazures, earthworks, black-nosed dogs of war, and busy traitors. As time goes on, a new thing opens to the view: a short week ago it seemed but a molehill: now it has risen to the height of a man, and hourly increases in size. Two weeks, and now its summit is far above the reach of spade or shovel throw, and crowned by a platform firmly knit and held together by well-spliced timbers. As to its object we are somewhat dubious, but think it the beginning of an earthwork fortress, built high in order that guns may be depressed and brought to bear on the turrets of any Monitors which might possibly come down upon this place or Wilmington.

At night we draw nearer to the shore, watching narrowly for blockade runners, which evade us occasionally, but oftener scud away disappointed. One night or early morning, 3 A. M. by the clock, we tried to heave up anchor; the pin slipped from the shackles, and the anchor, with forty fathoms of chain attached, slipped and sank to the bottom in some eight fathoms of water.

The next day we steamed into our moorings of the previous night and sought to drag for it. While arranging to do so, we saw a puff of smoke from the shore. Bang! and a massive cannon ball tore whizzing over our heads. The shore batteries had us in their range, and the firing from the far-reaching Whitworth guns grows more rapid. Puff after puff rolls up from the long line of battery-covered hillocks, under the bastard flag, and the rolling thunder peals on our ears with the whizzing of death-threatening balls. Oh! the excitement of watching and wondering where the next ball will strike, and whether it will crush a hole right through us, wasting rich human life, and scattering our decks with torn-off limbs and running pools of blood. Quickly as possible we up anchor and away, and soon are out of reach of balls, which splash the water not a ship's length from us. Even then we involuntarily dodge behind some pine board or other equally serviceable screen; and a newspaper, if that were nearest, would be used for the same purpose--so say those who have tasted many a naval fight. In fact, the dodge is as often after the ball has hit as before, as this story of one of our brave quartermasters will prove: Under fire from rebel batteries, he noted the cloud of smoke which burst from one of the fort's embrazures--watched sharply for the ball--heard the distant roar and its cutting whiz overhead--watched still further, saw it fall into the sea beyond, and then sang out to the captain, 'There it fell, sir!' and like lightning dodged behind a mast, as though the necessity had but just occurred to him.

Various criticisms might be made on officers and men: there are characters enough among them to furnish material for a volume. Some are moderately patriotic, but would have been as much so on the other side, had as strong inducements been held out in the way of 'loaves and fishes.' Others love the cause for itself, and hold life cheap if its sacrifice may in any way advance it. Blockade duty is perhaps a harder test of this love than actual field service; and as months pass on, it becomes almost unendurable. The first few days can be taken up in sight seeing on board, and the most novel of these said sights is the drill which follows the daily call to quarters. The rapid roll of the drum is the signal: here, there, everywhere, on berth deck, spar deck, quarter deck, men spring to their feet, jump from their hammocks, and every door and passage way is blocked up by the crowd, who rush to their respective quarters, and about the armory, each seeking to be the first, who, fully equipped with cutlass, gun, and sabre-bayonet affixed, shall be in his place. Another instant, and all stand about their several guns in rows, awaiting orders from their officers, who sing out in clear commanding tones, as though a real fight were impending: 'Pass 9-inch shell and load!' They drive it home. 'Now run out! train her two points off port quarter; elevate for five hundred yards! Fire! Run her in! Run out starboard gun! Run her home! Train her three points off starboard quarter! Fire!'

High up on the bridge of the hurricane deck, stands the first lieutenant, overlooking the men as they work the guns, train, load, run out, and mimic fire. Suddenly he shouts through the trumpet: 'Boarders and pikemen at port quarter! First boarders advance! Second boarders advance! Repel boarders! Retreat boarders! Pikemen cover cutlass division! Fire! Repel boarders!' The second hand scarcely sweeps over a quarter of its dial before the men have crowded around the port bulwarks, and are slashing the air with a most Quixotic fury--then crouch on bent knee, to make ready their pistols, while in their rear, marines and pikemen, musket and rifle armed, snap their pieces, and pour into an imaginary foe a vast volley of imaginary balls; then pierce the air with savage bayonet thrusts. The farce, and yet a most useful farce, is gone through with. The retreat is ordered to be beat, and all retire; refill the armory with their deadly rifles and side arms, and then return to their respective watches, work, or recreation--some gathering round a canvas checker board; some polishing up bright work; others making pants, shirts, or coats, or braiding light straw hats. Some are aloft, and watching with eager eyes to catch the first glimpse of a sail on the distant horizon; and this he must do from his loftly outlook before the officer of the deck or quartermaster espies one, as they sweep the sky with their long-reaching glasses--else he may suffer reprimand and prison fare.

As the sun goes down, the horizon is lit up with bonfires stretching along the coast for miles. 'These fires mean something,' we say knowingly; 'depend upon it, the rebs expect some vessel in to-night.' Nothing came of it, however, though the following afternoon we saw a steamer with two smoke stacks come down the river and take a look, perhaps to see as to her chances of getting out that night. The twilight darkened into night, and night wore on into the small hours, and now we gazed into the gloom anxiously, for at this time, if any, she would seek to run out. With straining eyes and the most intense quiet, we listen for the sound of paddle wheels. A stranger passing along our decks, seeing in the darkness the shadowy forms of men crouched in listening attitudes, would have fancied himself among a body of Indians watching stealthily some savage prey. The night passes on; gray dawn tells of the sun's approach, and soon his streaming splendor lights up sea and land. We look to see if our hoped for prize still waits in the river, but no--she is not there. The day wears on and still no signs of her. If she has slipped by us, it is through the mouth and not the inlet, we feel sure, but still are chagrined, and, doubting the possibility of ever catching one, go to bed with the blues.

The next day we brighten up a little, to be saddened the more, for the Massachusetts on her return trip tells us that, so far from there being good news from Charleston, we have only the worst to hear. The brave little Keokuk is riddled with balls and sunk, and the fleet of ironclads have retired from before the city. It is a costly experience, though it may yet bear precious fruit, for they tell us it has revealed what was necessary to make our next attack successful. What it is, we cannot learn, the authorities meaning in the future, doubtless, to wait till deeds have won them praise, before they make promises of great work.

Night draws on again, and we move in toward shore. Signal lights are burning, and huge bonfires, built behind the forests, that their glare may not light up the water, but their reflection against the background of the sky shows blockade runners the lay and bearings of the land. Something will surely be done to-night, and we keep vigilant watch. Two o'clock A. M., and a sound is heard, whether of paddle wheels, surf on the beach, or blowing off of steam, we cannot tell. 'It's paddle wheels,' says our ensign, and reports quickly to the captain. The first lieutenant springs on deck, a steam whistle is heard, so faint that only steam-taught ears know the sound, and word is passed to slip our chain and anchor, and make chase in the direction of the sound. They spring to the chain and work with a will to unshackle it quickly, but things are not as they should be; the hammer is not at hand, and the pins not fixed for speedy slipping out, even when struck a sharp, heavy blow. 'I think I see a dark object off the direction of the sound we heard, sir,' says some one. 'Confound the chain! will it never unshackle?' they exclaim, as they seek to unloose it. At last it slips, we steam up, and are off in pursuit, but which way shall we turn, and where shall we chase? There is no guiding sound now, and we paddle cautiously on, spending the balance of the night in this blind work, feeling for the prize which has slipped from our fingers, for, as day dawns, we see a large steamer, safe under the walls of the fort. If disappointments make philosophers, we ought to rank with Diogenes.

As we are on the point of letting go our anchor, the distant boom of cannon is heard, and the flagship orders us to repair to the seat of danger with all speed. We haste away, and as we go, hear a third gun fired. It comes from the direction of the brig Perry, and we cut through the water toward it, at a twelve-knot rate, for a good half hour, but hearing no more firing, put in near the shore to watch for the rebel vessel, as we think those guns were intended to put us on our guard. It soon grows dark; lights are ordered out, and each man blinds his port. No talking above a whisper must be heard; we are to be still as an arctic night. Midnight passes, and lights still flicker along the shore. It is so dark we cannot see the land, though not more than a mile from it, and only know what it is by our compass and bearings, and the fires which lighten up the clouds in spots right over them. One, two, and three o'clock have passed; no sail or sound yet, and the night so dark we cannot see a ship's length away. Half past three, and we begin to heave anchor. The rattle of the chains is just enough to drown the sound of paddle wheels should a steamer approach, and the sound of her own wheels would in turn drown our noise; so if one does run in to land, it may be over us, for any warning we should have of its whereabout.

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