Stars & Stripes Forever (12 page)

They pulled up chairs next to the boy and sat in silence. There was nothing that they could say, nothing that they could do. The doctor came and looked at the silent child, touched his forehead—then shook his head. This was more expressive than words could ever be.

It was a good hour before Lincoln returned to his desk. He dropped wearily into his armchair, turned at the sound of a voice.

"He has done it, Mr. Lincoln, Grant has done it again!"

The Secretary of War hurried into the room waving the dispatch like a battle flag. So excited was he that he did not notice the President's drawn face, his expression of blank despair. Cameron turned to the map of the United States on the wall and tapped his finger on the state of Tennessee.

"FortDonelson has fallen and it is indeed a mighty victory." He read from the paper in his hand. " 'February 16th... the Confederate army has surrendered... fifteen thousand of them captured.' And here is the best—proof that we have a mighty fighting general in Grant. When General Buckner asked Grant for terms, you know what Grant said?" He found the quote on the paper, raised his finger dramatically as he spoke.

" 'No terms except unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted. I propose to move immediately upon your works'." He was jubilant. "I do believe, if I have your permission, that we should promote Grant to Major General."

Lincoln nodded slowly. Cameron turned back to the map.

"First the fall of FortHenry, now FortDonelson in turn, a catastrophe for the enemy. The Cumberland and the Tennessee, the two most important rivers in the southwest are in our hands. The state of Tennessee is now ours while Kentucky is wide open before us. The South can only despair. They are surrounded and under attack." He addressed the map again, stabbing at it.

"Our armies are here in Virginia, near Washington, and here at Harper's Ferry. On the Peninsula at FortMonroe as well—ready to strike at Richmond and Norfolk. A ring of steel, that is what it is! Our men are at Port Royal aiming at Savannah and Charleston. Down on the GulfCoast we are poised at the gates of Mobile and New Orleans. And here on the Mississippi, on the Cumberland and the Tennessee."

Exhausted and elated he dropped into a chair. "And all along the rebel coast the blockade is now no longer just a nuisance to Johnny Reb but a fully developed danger. I will be surprised if the war lasts until the end of this year. Eighteen sixty-two will be our
annusmimbilis,
our year of victory."

"I pray it will be so, Cameron. I pray that all the death and destruction will finally come to an end and that this beleaguered country will be one again. But a wounded beast will turn and rend—and the South has been well wounded. We must keep ever-watchful guard. And most important of all is the blockade. It must be maintained and strengthened. We must cut off all source of outside supplies. Without supplies and the military wherewithal the South cannot succeed in the field. In the end their armies will be defeated."

Although the words were optimistic they were spoken in tones of leaden gloom. So sorrowing were they that Cameron for the first time noticed the President's obvious distress.

"Sir—you are not ill?"

"No, I am not. But the one I love is. My son, little Willie, just twelve years old. Mortally ill the doctors say. The typhoid. They doubt he will live out the day."

Stricken by the President's pain and suffering, Cameron could not speak. He rose, head shaking with remorse, and slowly left the room.

The James River cuts through Virginia, the heart of the Confederacy. After leaving Richmond, the Confederate capital, it rolls slowly through the rich countryside toward the sea. It is joined by the ElizabethRiver just before it flows into the wide estuary known as Hampton Roads.

A chill mist rose from the surface of the ElizabethRiver this March morning, the first light of dawn barely penetrating. Gaunt trees lined the riverbanks; a bluejay sat on a limb overhanging the water, singing coarsely—then was suddenly silent. Disturbed by the dark form that had appeared out of the mist below he took fright and flew off. Birdsong was replaced by a gasping sound, like the breath of some water monster. The monster itself slid slowly into sight, its breath the puffing of a steam engine, dark smoke roiling up from a single, tall funnel.

It was steel-plated, slant-sided, slow and ungainly, its forward motion barely able to stir ripples from the river's glassy surface. As it slipped by it could be seen that its gray armored flanks were pierced with gun ports, now shut and sealed; an immense ram was fixed to the ship's bow. An armored pilot house was on the foredeck just above the four-foot iron beak. Inside the pilot house the ship's commanding officer, Flag Officer Franklin Buchanan, stood behind the helmsman at the wheel.

He was not a happy man. His ship was a clobbered together collection of compromises. Her wooden hull was the burnt shell of the USS
Merrimack,
fired by the Yankees when they had retreated from Norfolk and the great naval yard there. That sodden hull was supposed to be the salvation of the Confederacy. The burnt strakes and hull had been cut away until sound wood was reached. Onto this hull had been constructed an armored superstructure of pine and oak, covered with iron cladding, to shield the ten large guns that she carried. Now the
Merrimack,
renamed the CSS
Virginia,
was going into battle for the first time. And painfully slowly. The single-cylinder engine, always feeble and under-powered, had been under water for a long time before the hull was raised and it was salvaged. The engine was old and badly maintained to begin with, it had suffered no good during its immersion. Nor was the engine equal to the task of moving the heavy craft at more than the feeble speed of five knots.

But they were at least under way at last and the ship would soon taste battle. They would have attacked earlier but severe spring storms had lashed the coast for days, sending mountainous seas rolling across the bay and crashing into the shore. The shallow draft
Virginia
would never have survived. But now the storm had ended, the waves died down during the night—and the ironclad could finally be put to the test.

Flag Officer Buchanan turned and clambered partway down the steps to the engine room, called out loudly above the clanking and hiss of steam.

"Too slow, Lieutenant Jones, too slow by far. Can we not raise more steam?" The grease-covered officer shouted back.

"No, sir. This is the most we can do. I have too much pressure as it is—any more and something will blow."

Buchanan went back to his station. As they clanked slowly out into the James River they were joined by four small wooden sidewheel gunboats. The
Patrick Henry
was the largest, mounting a total of six guns, but the tiny
Teaser
had only a single gun.

This was the force that was to challenge the might of the warships of the United States Navy.

The mist was gone now as they slowly chugged out into the open waters of Hampton Roads. Once past Norfolk they would be in the open sea.

Where they would face the blockading Yankee warships, for here was where the throttling blockade began. So vital was this entrance to the heart of the Confederacy that a small fleet of Union ships was stationed here. Buchanan had never seen them, but he had received daily reports of their strength and condition.

Here were the 40-gun steam frigates
Roanoke
and
Minnesota.
Accompanying them were the sailing frigates the 50-gun
Congress
and
Cumberland
with 24 guns. Over 150 cannon in complete control of the entrance to the Charles River. He knew that it would take at least another small fleet to defeat them. The South did not have a fleet.

All that they had was this single, botched together and untried ironclad. And four tiny, unarmored steamboats.

Never tested in battle, ludicrous and rumbling, almost leisurely, the CSS
Virginia
steered for the blockading ships.

"Ports open," Buchanan shouted. "Prepare for action!"

The lookout on the USS
Mount Vernon,
the ship closest to shore, saw smoke appear above Sewall's Point and thought a fire had been lit. He was about to report it when the dark shape emerged into view. A ship, but what kind of a ship? Its length shortened as the bow swung toward him and he raised the alarm. He may not have seen a vessel like this before—but he could recognize the Confederate flag at her stern. This could very well be the armorclad craft they had all been expecting, the ship that was supposed to bring victory to the South.

The
Mount Vernon
raised a signal flag to alert the fleet. It was not noticed. Her captain ordered a gun to be fired at the approaching ironclad. This single shot was the first shot fired in the Battle of Hampton Roads.

Puffing leisurely up the South Channel toward the anchored warships the
Virginia
looked more ridiculous than menacing. Until her gun ports opened and the black muzzles of her guns appeared. Buchanan singled out
Cumberland
for his first attack. Still a mile away she opened fire with the bow gun loaded with grape shot that killed or wounded the crew at the pivot gun.

The drums sounded beat to quarters on the Northern frigate and the crew ran to their stations. But the attack was so sudden and unexpected that they even had washing suspended from the rigging. They did their best. The crew swarmed aloft to set sail while the guncrews leaned into the tackle. Within scant minutes the
Cumberland's
guns roared their first broadside. The attacker was closer now and the broadside of solid shot crashed into
Virginia's
armor plating, four inches of thick iron that was backed by two feet of pine and oak.

The shot hit—and bounced away. None penetrated the armor nor did they slow in any way her steady and ponderous approach.

"Steady," Buchanan said to the coxswain, "steady." The ironclad's armor rang like a giant bell as the round shot struck and screamed away. "Hold her there—I want to hit the hull midship."

Before the frigate's guns could be loaded again the ram struck
Cumberland
with a tremendous crash, driving into her wooden hull and through it. Water gushed in through the immense opening and the ship commenced to sink—threatening to drag the ironclad down with her.

"Full speed astern!"

The threat was a real one and the
Virginia's
forward deck was already under water. There was the constant crack of lead on iron as marksmen on the
Cumberland
fired their muskets at point-blank range. They were no more effective than the cannon had been.

But the
Virginia
had condemned herself. Her feeble engine could not drag her free of the sinking ship. Water was already flooding onto her deck, splashing through ventilation openings under her armor. The hope of the South was being destroyed in her first ship action.

But the strain on the ram was too much—it broke off and the ironclad was free. As the
Virginia
backed away the ocean poured through the gaping opening in the other ship's hull. The attacker turned its attention toward the rest of the fleet.

But
Cumberland
did not strike her colors—nor did she stop firing. Because of this
Virginia
stayed beside her, firing steadily despite the solid shot that clanged impotently against her armor, fired until the Yankee warship was burning, sinking. Yet the surviving gun crews stayed at their stations, still firing. The crash of iron on steel sounded one last time before she sank.

Then the armorclad was into the Union fleet. During the attack on the
Cumberland, Congress
had set sail and with the aid of the tugboat,
Zouave,
had run ashore. Trapped there she was being pounded by the small Confederate gunboats. Now
Virginia
joined them in the attack. Crossing the frigate's stern
Virginia
sent round after round through her frail wooden hull until it was ablaze from stem to stern.

Hot, exhausted, filthy—the crew of the ironclad still raised a victorious cheer as their ship turned toward the rest of the blockading fleet.

The steam-powered
Minnesota
could have escaped from the slow and ponderous attacker. Her commander and her crew did not see it that way. Using her greater mobility she circled the
Virginia
trying to press any advantage. There was none. Her cannonballs caused no damage, while her own wooden hull was penetrated again and again. By afternoon she was badly damaged and run aground. Only the turn of the tide saved her.
Virginia
had to stay in the deep channel or she would be aground as well.

"Break off the engagement," Buchanan ordered, peering out at the setting sun and the turning tide. "Set course back to the river."

As darkness began to fall the ironclad Confederate steamship, slightly damaged, with few wounded, chugged back into harbor. Buchanan and his crew celebrated, looking forward to the morning when they would bring their ship out again to destroy the beached
Minnesota.
And any other wooden ship of the Union navy. The fleet would be destroyed, the blockade lifted, the South saved.

Iron had triumphed over wood. Sail had given way to steam. Nor was this message lost to the world, for this battle had long been anticipated, the existence of the
Virginia
a badly-kept secret. There were French and British ships standing out to sea that had been waiting for this encounter. They had watched closely the events of the day and fully expected the total destruction of the blockading fleet in the morning.

This was a new kind of war at sea. The sun set on a day of Southern victory.

IRON OF THE NORTH

The same storm that had kept the
Virginia
in port had prevented the
Monitor
from leaving the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Days and weeks of frustrating delays had followed her launching in mid-February. Ericsson's design was magnificent; her construction from keel to completion in 101 days was a mechanical miracle. It was the human factor that could not have been allowed for in the drawings.