Commodore Farragut Wins Renown

THE HERO OF MOBILE BAY LASHES HIMSELF TO THE MAST





AN old friend of ours is David G. Farragut. We met him, you may

remember, years ago, on the old Essex, under Captain Porter, when he

was a boy of only about ten years of age. Young as he was, he did good

work on that fine ship during her cruise in the Pacific and her last

great fight.



When the Civil War began Farragut had got to be quite an old boy. He was

sixty years of age and a captain in the navy. He had been born in the

South and now lived in Virginia, and the Confederates very much wanted

him to fight on their side.



"Not after fighting fifty years for the old flag," he said. "And mind

what I tell you; you fellows will catch much more than you want before

you get through with this business."



And so Farragut reported for duty under the old flag.



Very soon the ships of the government were busy all along the coast,

blockading ports and chasing blockade runners, and fighting wherever

they saw a chance.



One such chance, a big one, came away down South. For there was the

large City of New Orleans, which the British had tried to take nearly

fifty years before; and there was the Mississippi River that led

straight to it. But strong forts had been built along that river and

armed boats were on its waters, and the Yankees of the North might find

it as hard to get there as the British did.



Now I have to speak of another brave man and good seaman, David D.

Porter. He was a son of the captain of the old Essex, and a life-long

friend of David G. Farragut.



Porter was sent down to help blockade the Mississippi in the summer of

1861, and while there he found out all about the forts and the ships on

the river. Then he went to Washington and told the Secretary of the Navy

all he had learned, and asked him to send down a fleet to try to

capture the city.



"Where can I find the right man for a big job like that?" asked the

Secretary.



"Captain Farragut is your man," said Porter. "You have him now on

committee work, where a man like him is just wasted, for you have not

half as good a seaman on any of your ships."



And in that way the gallant Farragut was chosen to command the fleet to

be sent to capture the great city of the South. Porter, you see, did not

ask for a command for himself, but for his friend.



When the fleet was got ready it numbered nearly twenty vessels, but most

of them were gunboats, and none of them were very large. The Mississippi

was not the place for very large ships. Farragut chose the sloop-of-war

Hartford for his flagship and sailed merrily away for the mighty

river. He did not forget his friend Porter. For twenty mortar boats were

added to the fleet, and Porter was given command of these.



A mortar, you should know, is a kind of a short cannon made to throw

large shells or balls. It is pointed upward so as to throw them high up

into the air and then let them fall straight down on a fort. Porter's

mortar boats were schooners that carried cannons of this kind.



When Farragut had sailed his fleet into the river, he made ready for the

great fight before him. Of course, he had no iron-clads, for the

Monitor had just fought its great battle and no other iron-clads had

been built. So he stretched iron chains up and down the sides of his

ships to stop cannon balls. Then bags of coal and sand were piled round

the boilers and engines to keep them safe, and nets were hung to catch

flying splinters, which, in a fight at sea, are often worse than

bullets.



But the most interesting thing done was to the mortar boats. These were

to be anchored down the stream below the forts, and limbs of trees full

of green leaves were tied on their masts, so they could not be told from

the trees on the river-bank. As they went up the river they looked like

a green grove afloat.



Now let us take a look at what the Confederates were doing. They were

not asleep, you may be sure. They had built two strong forts, one on

each side of the river, just where it made a sharp bend. One of these

was named Fort Jackson and the other Fort St. Philip. There were more

than a hundred cannon in these forts, but most of them were small ones.



They had also stretched iron cables across the river, with rafts and

small vessels to hold them up. These were to stop the fleet from going

up the river, and to hold it fast while the forts could pour shot and

shell into it. They had also many steamboats with cannon on them. One of

these, the Louisiana, was covered with iron. Another was a ram, called

the Manassas. This had a sharp iron beak, to ram and sink other

vessels. And there were great coal barges, filled with fat pine knots.

These were meant for fire-ships. You will learn farther on how these

were to be used.



You may see from this that Farragut had some hard work before him. Even

if he got past the chains and the forts, all his ships might be set on

fire by the fire-ships. But the bold captain was not one of the kind

that mind things like that. Now let us go on to the story of the

terrible river fight, which has long been one of the most famous

battles of the war.



Porter's mortar boats were anchored under the trees on the river-bank,

two miles below the forts. With their green-clad masts they looked like

trees themselves. At ten o'clock in the morning of April 18, 1862, the

first mortar sent its big shell whizzing through the air. And for six

days this was kept up, each of the mortars booming out once every ten

minutes. That made one shot for every half-minute.



Two days after the mortars began, a bold thing was done. The gunboat

Itasca set out in the darkness of the night and managed to get between

the shore and the chain. Then it ran up stream above the chain till it

got a good headway. It now turned round and came down at full speed

before the strong current.



Fort Jackson was firing, and balls were rattling all about the bold

Itasca, but she rushed on through them all. Plump against the chain

she came, with a thud that lifted her three feet out of the water. Then

the chain snapped in two and away went the Itasca down stream. The

barrier was broken and the way to New Orleans lay open before the

fleet.



On the 23d of April Farragut gave his orders to the captains of the

fleet. That night they were to try to pass the forts and fight their way

to New Orleans. At two o'clock in the morning came the welcome order,

"All hands up anchor!" and at three o'clock all was ready for the start.



The night was dark, but on the banks near Fort Jackson there was a

blazing wood fire, that threw its light across the stream. And Porter's

bombs were being fired as fast as the men could drop the balls into

them, so that there was a great arch of fiery shells between the mortar

boats and the forts.



The gunboat Cayuga led the way through the broken barrier. After her

came the Pensacola, one of the large vessels. All this time the forts

had kept still, but now they blazed out with all their guns, and the air

was full of the booming of cannon and the screeching of shells from

forts and ships.



Great piles of wood were kindled on the banks, and the fire-ships up

stream were sent blazing down the river as the steam vessels came

rushing up into the fire of the forts. Never had the Mississippi seen so

terrible a night. The blazing wood and flashing guns made it as light

as day, and the roar was like ten thunderstorms.



Soon the Hartford came on, with Farragut on her deck. So thick was the

smoke that she ran aground, and before she could get off a fire-ship

came blazing down against her side, pushed by a tug-boat straight on to

her. In a minute the paint on the ship's side was in a blaze and the

flames shot up half as high as the masts. The men at the guns drew back

from the scorching heat.



"Don't flinch from that blaze, boys," cried Farragut. "Those who don't

do their duty here will find a hotter fire than that."



For a brief time the good ship was in great danger. But a shower of

shells sent the daring tug-boat to the bottom, and the fire-ship floated

away. Then a hose-pipe spurted water on the flames. The fire was put out

and the Hartford was saved.



That was only the beginning of the great battle. From that time on, fire

and flame, boom and roar, death and destruction, were everywhere. The

great shells from the mortars dropped bursting into the forts. The huge

wood piles blazed high on the banks. Ships and forts hurled a frightful

shower of shells at each other. Blazing fire-ships came drifting down.

The foremost boats were fiercely fighting with the Confederate craft.

The hindmost boats were fighting with the forts. The uproar seemed

enough to drive the very moon from the sky.



But soon victory began to hold out her hand to the Union fleet. For all

the ships passed the forts, some of the Confederate vessels were driven

ashore and others fled up stream; and in a little while only three of

them were left, and these were kept safe under the guns of the fort. The

battle had been fought and won, and the triumphant fleet steamed up the

river to New Orleans. The forts were still there, but what could they

do, with Union forces above and below? Four days after the fight they

were surrendered to Porter and his mortar fleet.



There was one final act to the great Mississippi battle. For as

Commander Porter, in his flagship, lay near Fort Jackson, down on him

came the iron-clad Louisiana, all in a blaze. But just before she

reached his vessel she blew up; and that was the end of the Louisiana

and the fight. The river was open and New Orleans was captured. Thus

ended the greatest naval battle of the Civil War.



Two years and more afterward Farragut fought another great battle. This

was in the Bay of Mobile, then a great place for blockade-runners. These

were swift vessels that brought goods from Europe to the South. The

Union fleet did all it could to stop them, but they could not be stopped

at Mobile from outside, so Farragut was told to fight his way inside the

bay. And that is what he did.



Mobile Bay is like a great bell, thirty miles long and fifteen miles

wide. There are two islands at the mouth, so that the entrance is not

more than a mile wide. And on each of these islands was a strong fort,

which had been built by the government before the war. The Confederates

had taken possession of these forts and had big guns in them.



The first thing to do was to pass the forts. No chain could be put

across the channel here, but there was something worse, for nearly two

hundred torpedoes were planted in the water near the forts. Some of

these were made of beer-kegs and some of tin; and they were planted so

thickly that it was not easy to get in without setting them off. Then,

when the fort and the torpedoes were passed, there were the ships. Three

of these were small gunboats, of not much account. But there was a great

iron-clad ship, the Tennessee, which was twice as strong as the

Merrimac. It was covered with iron five or six inches thick, and

carried a half-dozen big guns.



Franklin Buchanan, who had been captain of the Merrimac, was admiral

of the Tennessee.



But Admiral Farragut--he was an admiral now--had his iron-clad vessels,

too. Four monitors like the old Monitor of Hampton Roads, had been

built and sent him, and these, with his wooden vessels, made nearly

twenty ships.



Such was the fleet with which Farragut set out for his second great

victory, early in the morning of August 5, 1864. It was six o'clock when

the ships crossed the bar and headed in for Fort Morgan.



On they went, bravely, firing at the fort. But not a shot came back till

the leading ships were in front of its strong stone walls. Then there

began a terrible roar, and a storm of iron balls poured out at the

ships. If the guns had been well aimed, dreadful work might have been

done, but the balls went screaming through the air and hardly touched a

ship. And the fierce fire from the ships drove many of the men in the

fort from their guns.



But now there is a terrible tale to tell, a tale of death and

destruction, of the sinking of a ship with her captain and nearly all

her crew on board.



This was the monitor Tecumseh. It was steered straight out where the

torpedoes lay thick. Suddenly there came a dull roar. The bow of the

iron-clad was lifted like a feather out of the water. Then it sank till

it pointed downward like a boy diving, and the stern was lifted up into

the air. In a second more the good ship went down with a mighty plunge.



But with this there is also one fine story, the story of a gallant man.

This was Captain Craven, of the Tecumseh. He and the pilot were in the

pilot-house and both sprang for the opening. But there was room only for

one. The brave captain drew back.



"After you, pilot," he said.



The pilot escaped, but the noble captain, with ninety-two of his men,

sank to the depths.



A boat was sent to pick up the swimmers, with a gallant young ensign, H.

C. Neilds, in charge. Out they rowed where the waters were being torn

and threshed with shot and shell. The ensign was only a boy, but he had

the spirit of a Perry. He saw that his flag was not flying, and he

coolly raised it in the face of the foe, and then sat down to steer.



Brave men were there by the hundreds, but none were braver than their

admiral, their immortal Farragut. The smoke blinded his eyes on deck, so

he climbed to the top of the mainmast, and there, lashed to the rigging,

he went in through the thick of the fire. Shells screeched past him,

great iron balls hustled by his ears, but not a quiver came over his

noble face. He had to be where he could see, he said. Danger did not

count where duty called.



On past the forts went ships and monitors, heedless of torpedoes or of

the fate of the Tecumseh. Only one captain showed the white feather.

The Brooklyn held back.



"What is the matter?" screamed Farragut.



"Torpedoes," was the only word that reached his ears.



The gallant admiral then used a strong word. It was not a word to be

used in polite society. But we must remember that battle was raging

about him and he was in a fury.



"Damn the torpedoes!" he cried. "Follow me!"



Straight on the good ship sailed, right for the nest of torpedoes, with

the admiral in the shrouds.



In a minute more the Hartford was among them. They could be heard

striking against her bottom. Their percussion caps snapped, but not one

went off. Their tin cases had rusted and they were spoiled. Only one of

them all went off that dreadful day of battle. That saved many of the

ships.



The fort and the torpedoes were passed, but the Confederate ships

remained. It did not take long to settle for the gunboats, but the

iron-clad Tennessee remained. Putting on all steam, this great ship

ran down on the Union fleet. Through the whole line it went and on to

the fort. But it was as slow as a tub and the ships were easily kept out

of its way.



Then, when the men were at breakfast, back again came the Tennessee.

They left their coffee and ran to their guns. It was like the old story

of the Merrimac and the wooden ships in Hampton Roads.



But Farragut did not wait to be rammed by the Tennessee. If ramming

was to be done he wanted to do it himself. So all the large vessels

steamed head on for the iron-clad, butting her right and left. They hit

one another, too, and the Hartford came near being sunk. Then came the

monitors, as the first Monitor had come against the Merrimac. There

were three of these left, but one did the work, the Chickasaw. She

clung like a burr to the Tennessee, pouring in her great iron balls,

and doing so much damage that soon the great ship was like a floating

hulk. It could not be steered nor its guns fired.



For twenty minutes it stood this dreadful hammering, and then its flag

came down. The battle was won.



"It was the most desperate battle I ever fought since the days of the

old Essex," said Farragut.



The figure of the brave admiral in the rigging, fighting his ship amid

a cyclone of shot and shell, made him the hero of the American people.

It was like Dewey on the bridge in Manila Bay in a later war. There was

no rank high enough in the navy to fit the glory he had won, so one was

made for him, the rank of admiral. There was rear-admiral and

vice-admiral, but admiral was new and higher still. Only two men have

held this rank since his day, his good friend and comrade, David D.

Porter, and the brave George Dewey.