Derelicts

The “Lilian’s” Last Successful Run

The four years of blockade running, from 1861 to 1865, were so crowded with incidents and adventures of an extraordinary and startling nature that each day brought a new and novel experience.

I recall my first day under fire, the trembling knees, the terrifying scream of the approaching shells, the dread of instant death. Again, the notable storm at sea in which our ship was buffetted and lashed by the waves until the straining steel plates cut the rivets and the fireroom was flooded and the engines stopped, while the tempest tossed us helpless upon the mountainous waves and all hope of our lives was gone, until we were mercifully cast upon a reef which extends about thirty miles from Bermuda. Again, when our party of five persons, endeavoring to reach the Confederacy in a small launch after the fall of Fort Fisher, was cast away the second day upon Green Turtle Cay, an obscure island of the Bahamas, where we dwelt in a negro’s hut for three weeks, and then foolishly risked our lives again for two weeks at sea in a small boat which landed us in the surf among the man-eating sharks off Cape Canaveral, in Florida.

In the narration of these reminiscences of war times on the Cape Fear, I have adhered to facts, supported, when in doubt, by official records. In the following story of my personal adventures, I have written some extraordinary incidents which came under my observation, although not in the sequence described; and the romantic features are based on a true incident of the war, the hero of which, Captain M——, still lives in an honored old age. For uniformity, I have changed the text as it appeared in the Charlotte Observer many years ago, by the substitution of real names.

Abstract Log of U.S.S. “Shenandoah.”

“Saturday, July 30, 1864. At meridian, latitude (D.R.) 33 50 N.; longitude (D.R.) 76 16 W., latitude (observed) 34 01 N., longitude (by chronometer) 76 10 W. At 3.45 p.m. sighted a steamer burning black smoke to the eastward; made all sail in chase. At 4.30 p.m. made stranger out to be a double smokestack, side-wheel steamer, apparently a blockade runner, standing to the northward and westward. At 5.45 he showed rebel colors. Called the first division and powder division to quarters and began to fire at her with the 30 and 150 pounder rifle Parrott. At 6 p.m. boat to quarters and fired all the divisions. At 7 p.m. took in fore-topgallant sail and foresail. At 7.30 took in fore-topsail. During the chase fired 70 rounds from 30-pounder Parrott, 18 rounds from 11-inch guns, and one round from 24-pounder howitzer. At 8 p.m. stopped firing, gave up the chase, stopped engines. At 9.20 Cape Lookout Light bore N.E. by N., 14 miles distant. Sounded in 12 fathoms of water. First saw the steamer in latitude 33 34, N., longitude 76 33 W. At midnight Cape Lookout Light bore N.E. by N. ½ N., distant seventeen miles.

“(Signed) Acting Master, U.S. Navy.”

This matter-of-fact entry, read at random from the official records of the war, stirs my blood, because I, then seventeen years of age, was purser of that blockade runner, and it was I who hoisted those “rebel” colors on that eventful day fifty-five years ago; and thereby hangs a tale.

The steamer Lilian was one of the most successful examples of a Clyde-built blockade runner of 1864 in design and equipment. Of 500 tons net register, with two rakish funnels, the finest marine oscillating engines, a battery of boilers which drove her fifteen knots an hour, and loaded to her marks, she presented to the critical eye the graceful appearance of a racing yacht. A thing of beauty and a joy forever she was to all of us on board, and our beloved chief, the celebrated John Newland Maffitt, no less, was, we thought, the man of all men to command her. Unluckily for us he was ordered to take charge of the ram Albemarle, which the intrepid Cushing later destroyed—the most conspicuous example of personal daring recorded in the history of the war.

Another Southern man succeeded him, and, we having received from the Confederate agent a cargo of mysterious packages, which was most carefully handled, proceeded from St. George, Bermuda, bound for the port of Wilmington, N.C. This desired haven of these fugitives of the sea was preferred to the more difficult blockaded ports farther south. There were two inlets, Main Bar or Western Channel, commanded by Fort Caswell, and New Inlet, guarded by that Malakoff of the South, Fort Fisher.

Many fine ships were lost in sight of these defenses when daylight overtook a belated landfall, and it was pitiful to watch the desperate efforts of the little greyhounds to run the gauntlet of the fleet, whose concentrated fire at close range sometimes drove them among the breakers, where many wrecks may still be seen after all these years. There were many more fortunate, whose daring roused to the highest pitch of enthusiasm the brave fellows of the Confederate garrison who manned the protecting guns which kept the fleet at a respectful distance.

As we passed the ships which lined the docks of the friendly islands of Bermuda, their crews were mustered and cheer after cheer greeted us from lusty throats in unison. Beyond the bar we sailed upon a tranquil sea, without a sail in sight, and then I paid each man his bounty of $40 gold, an earnest of the greater sum which he would get for a successful run.

Upon our ship the discipline was rigorous and unrelenting. To each was given in few words his orders for the run; sobriety, silence, and civility were enforced. Our Chief Engineer Lockhart, Chief Officer Vogel, Pilot Jim Billy Craig, our Signal Officer Fred Gregory and I were served at the captain’s table; the other officers messed together. Our crew numbered 48 men.

When night drew on the finest Welsh coal was picked and piled upon the boiler-room plates, for use in an emergency, and the dexterous handling of the dampers prevented the telltale sparks from betraying our dangerous course across the line of the ever-watchful cruisers, which formed their cordon around the Bermudas, upon the edge of the Gulf Stream, and across the most dangerous approaches to the Cape Fear River. No lights were permitted, smoking was inhibited, as, through impenetrable darkness, we ran full speed for Dixie’s land.

A double watch was kept aloft, and upon the turtleback well forward, and the keenest eyes were fixed upon the course to guard against a collision with watchful cruisers, which also masked their lights.

Next in importance to the Wilmington pilot, Jim Billy Craig, who was a man of great ability, was a long thin fellow, a landsman, a nondescript known as “the watchman,” who held himself in readiness day and night for service as a special lookout. This person’s vision was wonderfully clear and far-reaching. He could see an object on the darkest night quite invisible to the rest of us, and his most efficient service was in the hour before daylight, when proximity to Uncle Sam’s gunboats was most undesirable. Several easy captures had been made in the first streak of dawn by the accidental meeting of a casual cruiser and his unhappy quarry, when escape by speed was simply impossible. It was for this reason that our Long Tom was retained at high wages, which he squandered with other prodigals in playing crackaloo with double gold eagles. It was a simple game; two or more persons each threw up a gold piece, the one falling upon a joint or crack in the deck winning the others which fell between the lines. This was forbidden at sea, but such discipline was relaxed in port.

Our first night at sea was clear and beautiful, the air, cool and grateful, contrasted with the severe and at times almost suffocating warmth of the limestone islands. After the evening meal, Gregory and I, snugly ensconced in the lee of the cabin, which was on deck, sat far into the night gazing with wonder upon the tranquil glory of the stars, which shone with exceeding splendor, and talking with sad hearts of the waning light of the star of the Confederacy, which had reached its zenith at Chancellorsville and which sank so disastrously at the later battle of Gettysburg. The wind was light, but the rush of the staunch little ship at full speed brought to our listening ears the faint sound of a bell, not that of a ship striking the change of the watch, but a continuous peal of irregular strokes. In a few moments it ceased, and I have often wondered what it meant, for no sail was visible that night. Alert and eager for its repetition, which came not, our wonderment was increased by the cry of a human voice in the darkness ahead, which was also observed by the lookouts aloft and alow, and, while Long Tom was rapidly climbing the ratlines of the foremast to the crosstrees, our captain appeared on the bridge and brought the ship to a full stop. In painful silence all eyes and ears were strained to catch a sight or sound from the mysterious object ahead. Again and again the long-drawn, wailing cry. Could it be a castaway? The sailor’s instinct and sympathy is never so much aroused as by such an incident. Shifting our course a point or two, we proceeded slowly ahead; the cry grew clearer, with despairful lamentations; again our course was changed, the paddles slowly turning. Ignoring the usual precaution of silence on board at night, the captain ordered the officer of the deck to answer with a hail. Immediately the voice responded, and in a few moments Long Tom reported to the commander on the bridge, “A nigger in a ship’s boat, sir.” “What,” said the captain, “can he be doing out here in a boat 160 miles from land?” “I’m blessed if I know, sir, but I’m telling you the truth.” “Cast-away, sir, close aboard,” was the second officer’s report a few moments later. “Heave him a line,” said the commander. The falls of the davits were soon hooked on and the boat, with its lonesome occupant, hoisted to the deck. The next morning, when I was dressing, the chief steward knocked at my door and gravely asked if I would see the man whom we had rescued the night before, “for,” said he, “there is something mysterious about his plight which he refuses to make known to me.” On going forward I found a negro man of about fifty years of age, apparently in deep distress; mutual recognition was instantaneous; the poor fellow fell at my feet and embraced my knees, with broken sobs of “Oh, Marse Jeems, Marse Jeems, Marse Jeems!” His story was soon told in the homely and pathetic vernacular of the old-time Southern darkey. He had long been the butler and body servant of my friend at Orton plantation, whose lovely daughter had given her heart to a manly young neighbor before he went away to the war which had desolated many Southern homes. The fearful news of disaster had come from Gettysburg, in which her lover was engaged with his company on Culp’s Hill. He had been shot through the lungs and was left dying on the field, which was later occupied by the enemy. Then a veil was drawn, for all subsequent inquiries as to his death and the disposal of his body were unavailing. The poor girl at Orton, grief stricken, haunted by fears of the worst, and mocked by her efforts to seek him beyond the lines, slowly faded to a shadow of her former self. Again and again my friend returned from a hopeless search among the living and the dead, when, he, too, began to pine away, for the war had robbed him of all but the child whom he adored, and now she was slipping away from him. It was then that this Nature’s nobleman in a black skin came forward and desired his liberty to go through the lines in Virginia and never return until he brought the body dead, or news of his young master living, to the dear mistress whom he loved more than his own life. In vain my friend refused. How could he, a slave, overcome obstacles which the master, with all his influence, had failed to overcome? At last he gave the desired pass to proceed to the missing boy’s command upon this mission of mercy, which was countersigned by the proper authority, and the faithful fellow proceeded on foot toward his destination. What followed, “in weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness,” would fill a volume. He reached the regiment at last, and carried to many hungry hearts the news of their loved ones at home, but he was told that his quest was in vain; the captain was dead, a Federal surgeon who approached him on the field had found his wounds mortal, had received from him his sword, to be sent home to the young mistress, with fond words of his devotion to the last; he had better return home. But no, he attempted that night to slip through the lines toward the Federal Army; he was caught, brought back, and sentenced to be shot at sunrise. How he was saved, as by a miracle, through the recognition of the officer of the firing squad, and sent back to Wilmington need not be told.

He had formed another desperate resolve—he would go to Orton in the night, and in a frail bateau attempt to pass the picket boats at Fort Anderson and Fort Fisher, and reach the blockading fleet beyond the bar. Perhaps when they heard his story they would take pity and send him North, when he might resume his search. He had crossed the river by the Market Street ferry and was passing through the cotton yard, where several blockade runners were loading their outward cargoes, when a new idea came to him; why could he not go as a steward on a steamer, and, with his wages, reach the North by way of the West Indies? With deferential humility he approached the captain of a steamer, which shall be nameless. He was not an American, neither was he a man in the sense of the noblest work of God; he was the embodiment of a personal devil; he laughed the old man to scorn; he had carried away on previous voyages runaway niggers, who, he said, had stowed away, and he had been obliged to pay for them on his return; the next one he caught at sea on board his ship would wish he had never been born; he didn’t need a steward, and he did not doubt his tale of the young master was a lie. As the poor man turned away he was drawn aside by a kindly steward who had overheard the conversation, and, after much discussion and apprehension, he agreed to arrange a secret passage to Bermuda. That night he was stowed away, where it was hoped that the cruel process of fumigation for the discovery of fugitive slaves and deserters from the army, then in vogue before sailing, would not reach him. Cramped by the narrow space which forbade lying down, and deathly seasick, on the second night he crawled out for fresh air, was detected and seized by a passing sailor and reported to the captain. Infuriated by his recognition of the stowaway, he actually stopped the ship and set the poor wretch adrift in a leaky boat, without oars or food or water. It was on the second night after that he heard the mysterious bell and shrieked aloud for deliverance.

Although these qualities were not a common possession, this remarkable instance of a slave’s devotion to his owner was not exceptional. There were hundreds and perhaps thousands of such examples, especially on the part of those whose duties were of a domestic nature. It was not the evolution of gentle traits of character, for this man’s grandfather had lived and died a savage in the wilds of Africa. It was the result of daily contact with refined and kindly people whom he served, whose characteristic urbanity was unconsciously imitated, and whose consideration for others, which constitutes true politeness, was reflected in their servitor’s devotion. I have a pensioner at Orton who is ninety-four years of age. He was the personal servant in his youth of Doctor Porcher, of Charleston. He is as polite as a cultivated Frenchman might be, but he is sincere in speech. He uses at times French phrases. He can tell you in polished language, and with becoming deference, of the grand people of the exclusive set of Charleston of long ago, and his solicitude for your health and for that of everyone connected with you whom he has never heard of is shown in expressions of old-time gentility, but he belongs to a class that is passing away.

I have up to this time refrained from mentioning the fact that we had on board, as passengers, three important personages of the old Navy, whose duty, as they saw it, impelled them to resign their commissions in a service which was dear to them, and to cast in their lot for weal or woe with the fortunes of their native State, which had seceded from the Union. They had served with distinction afloat and around the world upon a noted Confederate war vessel, and they were under orders to report to Secretary Mallory at Richmond. At the time of which I write there were in Nassau and in Bermuda certain spies said to have been in the pay of the Federal Government, and they sometimes succeeded in passing themselves, disguised and under assumed names, as sailors and firemen, but more frequently as stewards on the blockade runners that were not careful enough in the selection of their crew. By this means much valuable information was communicated to the authorities at Washington, and the mysterious loss of several fine blockade runners was attributed to the seditious influence of such persons in time of peril. There were also in each of our foreign ports of refuge a few fanatics, who, contrary to the usages of war, and upon their own initiative and responsibility, attempted the destruction of Confederate steamers at sea by secretly hiding in their bunkers imitation lumps of coal, containing explosives of sufficient power to sink a vessel when this object was shoveled into the furnaces under the boilers. Several such attempts had been frustrated because the deception was clumsy and easily detected in time by the coal passers, and I remember that these nefarious undertakings were frequently discussed by the engineers of our ship.

Meanwhile, I observed with some curiosity that we were off our regular course, and also, with feelings of dismay, that we were approaching a long, low, rakish-looking war vessel, barque-rigged and under steam, which was evidently lying to and awaiting us, but my apprehension was changed to wonder and amazement as I beheld flying apeak the new white flag of the Confederacy. It was a sight I shall never forget; alone upon the wide sea, hunted by a hundred adversaries, the corvette Florida, under the gallant Maffitt, had circumnavigated the globe and spread consternation among the merchant marine of the Stars and Stripes without the loss of a man. She was a beautiful vessel and had been handled with consummate skill and daring. There was something pathetic in the object of our meeting, which had been secretly prearranged, for a boat was immediately lowered, into which were placed sundry parcels of opium for the hospital service of the Southern Army, probably from the hold of one of her prizes; and this sympathetic offering from these homeless fellows on the high sea to their sick and wounded comrades in the field hospitals, for the mitigation of their sufferings, appealed strongly to our hearts.

We tarried briefly, dipping in a parting salute to each other our respective ensigns, probably the first and the last time that the conquered banner was used to exchange courtesies with the same flag at sea. The corvette proceeded under her new commander, Capt. Charles M. Morris, cruising near and far until she reached Bahia, Brazil, in which neutral port she was attacked while disarmed, and captured at night by the Wachusett, and later, it is said, was conveniently cast away near the last resting place of her famous commander, Captain Maffitt.

Our third and last day at sea began auspiciously, but we were drawing toward the coast much farther north than our usual landfall. At about half past three in the afternoon we were startled by the lookout in the crow’s nest, with a lusty “Sail ho!” “Whereaway?” called the officer of the watch. “On the port quarter, sir, heading toward us.” We were in a bad position, to the northward of Cape Lookout, but the stranger had not yet perceived us. In our eagerness for more steam, however, the telltale smoke was vomited from our funnels, and in a short time it was evident that we were being overhauled by a faster vessel under crowded canvas and full steam. The rising wind favored him, because we had but two sails, fore and aft, which served to steady us in a seaway, but this added little to our speed. As the stranger drew rapidly nearer, pushing us toward a lee shore, she opened fire with her rifled cannon, and for the first time in my life I heard the scream of a hostile shell as it passed between our funnels and plunged into the sea a half mile beyond. The sensation was most unpleasant; had we been able to return the fire, the excitement of battle must have been exhilarating, but to be hunted like a rabbit and pelted with Parrott shells and 11-inch projectiles was enough to reduce my backbone to such laxation that my trembling knees refused to bear it. The cruiser’s aim was deadly, for the 11-inch shells came tumbling end over end with such fearful accuracy that many of them passed only a few feet from my head. Others sent the salt spray flying into our faces; and yet there were, up to six o’clock, no casualties of any importance. The admirable conduct of our naval passengers soon inspired me with courage—such is the influence of veterans beside raw troops—and, strangely enough, as the firing of single batteries was changed to broadsides, my despairful feelings gave way to hope and confidence. Our pursuer was now fairly abeam and sailing the same course. Why she did not destroy us utterly at such short range must have appeared to them incomprehensible, because we easily distinguished without glasses the movements of their gunners and the working of their crew at quarters; and our pursuer must have been surprised at the audacity of our passengers, who tranquilly measured with their watches the intervals between the firing of his projectiles and their passage overhead. They also used their sextants continuously during the chase, and it was doubtless owing to their superior knowledge and fortitude that our commander held on his course in the face of imminent destruction, for, be it remembered, we were loaded to the hatch combings with gunpowder for Lee’s army. As the sun sank lower on the horizon, so sank our hopes of escape, for every moment seemed to be drawing us nearer to the end. Even our passengers became disheartened and said at last that it was a useless risk to all the lives on board. They accordingly proceeded to their cabins and destroyed their official papers, and threw overboard some valuable side arms and rifles, and I, by the captain’s orders, took the Confederate mail bag and government dispatches to the furnace and saw them go up in smoke. Orders were now given to lower the boats to the rail, for what purpose I do not know, when a strange thing happened. There was a loud explosion in the forward fireroom, not made by the bursting of a shell but accompanied by a cloud of steam. Immediately the stokers and firemen swarmed up the iron ladders to the deck, terror-stricken and bewildered. They had been kept at their work for hours at the point of a pistol in the hands of desperate and determined men, but now, panic-stricken, they rushed aft, not knowing what they would do. Our chief engineer quietly reported the collapse of one of our boilers, cause unknown, steam reduced nearly one-half in consequence, but our slackened speed proved to be the means of our salvation. The sun had gone behind a cloud bank, a mist hung over the land to leeward, our ship, painted the dull grey color of the sand dunes along the shore line, was obscured from the view of the enemy, which was quite visible to us, forging ahead and firing wildly. Our engines were stopped and sails lowered, every eye was upon the cruiser. Would she discover our desperate expedient? Had she done so, I believe our crew would have been ordered to the boats and the Lilian abandoned, with a lighted fuse for her destruction. But the cruiser drew farther away, firing his broadsides at an invisible foe. Cautiously and slowly we limped to windward, crossing the wake of our discomfited antagonist, and laying our course straight and true for Wilmington. It was now eight o’clock in the evening, a hundred miles between us and our dangerous destination, and daylight comes early in the summer months. By the closest calculation we might, without accidents, reach the Cape Fear by sunrise, and then in our disabled condition how could we hope to run the gauntlet of the blockading fleet? It was resolved to do it or die. Fortune had favored us in an extremity, perhaps she would still be kind. We had an anxious night; sleep, even after the excitement and exhaustion of the previous day, was impossible. We saw the first faint streaks of day off Masonboro Sound, where our watchful Gregory picked up the signal lights ashore and passed the word along the beach for our protection by the fort. It was a cloudy morning; on and on we drove the little ship; she seemed to feel the crisis while she labored like a sentient being to meet her fate as speedily as possible. At last, in the friendly haze of dawn, we were among them; blockaders to the right of us, blockaders to the left of us, blockaders ahead of us loomed up like monsters of the deep. Craig coolly but anxiously peered ahead. Long Tom, well forward on the turtleback, whispered the words which a line of picked men reported to the bridge. Again and again we stopped for the passage of a picket barge or gunboat in the darkness ahead, who saw us not, and for the bearings, which in our devious course we had lost in confusion. Once more we slowly proceeded, when suddenly, out of the darkness and close aboard, flashed the fiery train of a rocket, and a deep, commanding voice, just over the side, shouted “Heave to, or I’ll sink you.” Quickly our bridge responded “Aye, aye, sir, we stop the engines.” “Back your engines, sir, and stand by for my boats,” called the lusty man-of-war. But our paddles were not reversed. Lockhart said he never heeded such an order with the bar at hand; on the contrary our engines were evidently running away with the ship, and, while the confident blockader, diverted from his guns, was engaged in lowering his boats, the Lilian was gliding away toward the bar. A trail of rockets and Drummond lights and bombshells from the rest of the fleet followed in our wake, but the friendly flash of signals from the fort encouraged us, while Gregory, with his masked lights, revealed to them our steady progress until we anchored under the Confederate guns. It was now broad daylight and the blockading fleet had sullenly withdrawn to a safe distance. We proceeded toward Fort Anderson and came to anchor at quarantine. The clouds had passed away, revealing in the brightness of the morning light the stately white columns of Orton House in the distance. Accompanied by our faithful Scipio and escorted beyond the fort by its courteous Colonel Hedrick, we proceeded in silence through St. Philip’s churchyard and the dead colonial town of Brunswick, past Russellboro, where Governor Tryon met the first armed colonists (the cradle of American independence), through the long avenue of oaks, where, looking ahead, we beheld a sight which cheered our hearts; my friend and his daughter surrounded by the yelping hounds returning from a chase, for reynard’s brush was at her saddlebow. With mutual exclamations of astonishment and delight we learned that the young captain had written by a flag of truce of his convalescence in a Northern hospital. I will not say the touching words that Scipio heard, as, with hands clasped by master and mistress, and with bowed head, he received their tearful benedictions. My friend has long since gone to his eternal rest and Scipio’s white soul soon followed him. They are buried at Orton in a grove where the mocking bird builds its nest and sings; where, above the murmur of the tree tops, which bend to the soft south wind, is heard the distant booming of the sea, and in their death they were not divided.

Footnotes

⁷ Stranded blockade runners are indexed in this book as derelict blockade runners.