Kitabı oku: «Pike & Cutlass: Hero Tales of Our Navy», sayfa 10
The “Pennsylvania” cost the government, in 1837, nearly seven hundred thousand dollars; a fabulous sum for a battle-ship in those days. The “Indiana” cost three millions and a half, – only two hundred and fifty thousand dollars less than the sum paid for that vast territory bought from Napoleon, and known as the “Louisiana Purchase,” and about half the sum paid for the acquisition of Alaska from Russia.
The statistics are interesting. According to official authority, in putting this vessel together seven hundred tons of rivets alone were used. About four hundred plans were made for the hull and about two hundred and fifty plans and drawings were made for the engines. These would take a force of one hundred men a year to complete.
The engines and machinery alone weigh about nine hundred tons. The smoke-stacks are about sixteen feet in diameter. Each of the main engines is so enormous that under the great frames, in the economy of space and construction, are two smaller engines, the sole mission of which is to start the big ones. There are about sixty-six separate engines for various purposes. The condensing-tubes, placed end to end, would cover a distance of twelve miles. Thirty tons of water fill her boilers, which would stand a pressure of one hundred and sixty pounds to the square inch. Three dynamos provide the electricity, – a plant which would light a town of five thousand inhabitants. There are twenty-one complete sets of speaking-tubes and twenty-four telephone stations.
The two great turrets are clad with nineteen inches of toughened steel. In each of these turrets are two 13-inch guns. Each of these guns is about fifty feet long and weighs sixty-one tons. There are eight 8-inch guns on the superstructure, in sets of twos, and amidships on the main-deck are four 6-inch rifles. In ten minutes, firing each 13-inch gun once in two minutes, and using all the other guns at their full power, the “Indiana” could fire about sixty tons of death-dealing metal.
The millennium has not yet been reached, but such awful force makes universal peace a possibility. What the immediate future holds forth in naval architecture and gunnery is a matter which excites some curiosity, for it almost seems as though perfection, according to the standard of the end of the century, has been reached. And yet we already know of certain changes, improvements, and inventions, the direct outcome of the Spanish war, which are to be made on the vessels now contracted for, which affect importantly the government of the ship; and so it may be that the next twenty years will show as great an evolution as have the two decades just past.
But whatever the future may bring, it has been a marvellous and momentous change from the old navy to the new. Since the “Monitor”–“Merrimac” fight no country has been quicker to profit by the lessons of the victory of iron over wood and steel over iron than the United States.
But the navy that is, however glorious its achievements, can never dim the glory of the navy that was, though sailor-men, old and new, know that in a test of ship and ship, and man and man, the flag of this country will continue to fly triumphant.
FARRAGUT IN MOBILE BAY
It was Friday, the 5th of August, 1864. The first violet streaks of dawn stole through the purple clouds that the wind had tossed up during the night. Admiral Farragut sat in his cabin, quietly sipping his tea, his fleet-captain, Drayton, by his side. Through the open ports they could see the dim masses of the ships of the fleet as, lashed two and two, they stretched in a long line to seaward. The wind no longer blew, and the shrill pipes and the creaking of the blocks as the light yards came down echoed clearly across the silent water.
“How is the wind, Drayton?” said the admiral, at last.
Drayton walked to the port.
“About west-sou’west, sir, I should say.”
The admiral smiled.
“A good omen. Our smoke will blow over their batteries.”
He raised his cup, drained it, and set it back on its saucer. Then he rose to his feet and walked slowly up and down the cabin, looking first at his watch and then out through the starboard gallery, where the fleet lay. He turned, his genial face all aglow in the cool light of the morning, and reached to the table for his side-arms.
The moment had arrived.
“Well, Drayton,” he said, “we might as well get under weigh.”
Drayton knew, and Farragut knew, that the momentous day before them would decide the fate of the West Gulf and of the nation in the South. It was the supreme moment in the admiral’s career. But as he clasped his sword-belt his hands were as firm as though on inspection.
With a cheery “Aye, aye, sir,” Drayton went out of the door and up the companion, and soon the deck above resounded with the nimble feet as the men sprang joyfully to quarters. Old Knowles, the quartermaster, deftly sent his little ball of bunting, ready for an hour, to the yard-arm, and in a moment the row of multi-colored flags, tipped with the glow of the brightened east, fluttered proudly out into the morning breeze.
Then the bright answering pennants flew up from all the vessels of the fleet, and the black smoke poured from their dusky funnels as the white water churned up behind them on their way into line.
The admiral, on the quarter-deck, glass in hand, saw the black turrets of the monitors, with their grim, shiny muzzles, drift slowly inland towards the batteries, not a ripple showing behind them as they moved on their deadly mission towards the frowning battlements of Fort Morgan. Ahead of the “Hartford” was the broad stern of the “Brooklyn,” as she churned her way slowly onward, her smoke drifting in great clouds over her starboard bow towards the water-batteries. Beside the admiral, one hand on the rail, was Drayton, cool as though on a practice drill, and as he looked over the swarthy backs that shone bare in the morning sun he knew well that the flagship would give a good account of herself.
Behind him stood Watson, Gates, McKinley, and Brownell, watching the progress of the monitors. The calmness of the scene was sublime. Only an occasional order to the tacklemen, given in a quiet voice by the gun-captains, showed the deadly work ahead.
As the “Hartford” drew into range, the admiral walked over to the main rigging and clambered up into the shrouds; and his men below him at the batteries lovingly watched their “old man” as step by step he mounted to get a clearer view. They knew him for a gallant old sea-dog. They had seen him steam past the batteries at Vicksburg and Port Hudson, and they smiled at his sternness at the capture of New Orleans, for they loved him. But at Mobile they learned that he feared nothing above the ocean or under it, if it stood in the way of the cause of his country. At this point Farragut stood a few feet above Jouett, on the wheel-house of the “Metacomet” alongside, and could hail the top above him, where Freeman, his trusty pilot, gave him his soundings and bearings.
At length the battle opened. A great puff of white smoke rolled along the water from the turret of the “Tecumseh,” and a yellow cloud of dust above the water-batteries marked where the shot had struck. Fort Morgan immediately replied, and, as the gunners got the range, the angry splash of the shots as they skipped across the water came clearly to the crew of the “Hartford,” who stood at their guns silent and motionless. As the shots rained about them and great white splinters were torn from the nettings and flew across the decks, they only looked up at their admiral, who, leaning slightly forward, was slowly scanning the breastworks. In his face there was no impatience, no irritation, no sign of anxiety, and while he could calmly wait, they could. The courage of the leader was reflected in his men. It was the very perfection of human discipline.
Would the order to fire never come? Already a fragment of shell had struck a gun-captain in the breast, and they saw him carried past them, moaning piteously. A shot had struck the foremast, and a jagged splinter from the mainmast flew up and lodged in the rigging below where the admiral stood. They saw him take the glass from his eyes, and, turning towards Captain Drayton, hold up his hand.
The guns, already trained, belched forth their iron greeting to the gunboats, and the battle was on in earnest. Calm before, the men were calmer now, and they went about their work as though at target practice. The powder-boys flew like sprites, and the gunners sponged and loaded with rapidity. It was as if each gun and its crew were parts of one mechanism.
“Steady, boys, steady. Left tackle a little. So! so!”
And then came another broadside, followed by an eager cheer as the enemy were driven away from their water-battery.
As the smoke from the broadsides increased and obscured his view, the admiral, ratline by ratline, ascended the rigging until he found himself partly above the futtock bands and holding on to the futtock shrouds. The watchful eye of Drayton saw him perched high up, all unconscious of himself, thinking only of the great movements about him. A shock, and he would be thrown into the sea. The captain gave an order to Knowles, the quartermaster, who lay aloft briskly with a piece of lead-line. The admiral did not even see him, and only when Knowles passed the line around him did Farragut take his glasses down. “Never mind,” said he, with a smile, “I’m all right.” But the quartermaster lashed him, nevertheless, and lay below.
Then from his lofty position the admiral saw a magnificent but terrible thing. The monitor “Tecumseh” was up well with the fort, and drawing slowly on, when, without a warning, a great column of water shot up under her starboard bow. She heeled over to port and went down with every soul on board. She had struck a torpedo. Captain Craven, in his eagerness to engage the “Tennessee” in battle, had passed to the west of the fatal buoy.
This disaster was not immediately realized by the men. Some supposed the “Tennessee” had been sunk, and cheer after cheer was taken up and echoed along the line.
But the admiral knew the danger that was coming. His anxiety was not decreased when the “Brooklyn,” just ahead of him, suddenly stopped. The frown on his brows deepened, and loudly he hailed his pilot, Freeman, in the top, a few feet above him, —
“What’s the matter with the Brooklyn?” he shouted. “She must have plenty of water there.”
Freeman’s head appeared promptly at the lubber’s hole.
“Plenty and to spare, admiral,” he answered.
Then the admiral knew. Captain Alden had seen the “Tecumseh” go down, and the heavy line of torpedoes across the channel made him pause. The backing screw churned up the water, and the “Hartford” every moment was bearing down on her. The vessels in the rear, pressing on those in the van, created a terrible confusion, and in the uncertainty the batteries of Farragut’s ships ceased fire, while the whole of Mobile Point was a living flame. Disaster was imminent.
But not a second did Farragut pause. A harsh voice from the “Hartford” broke the brief but ominous silence.
“What’s the trouble?”
Then Alden’s voice from the “Brooklyn” answered, —
“Torpedoes.”
“Damn the torpedoes!” shouted the admiral. “Four bells. Captain Drayton, go ahead. Jouett, full speed.”
And the “Hartford” dashed forward, passed the “Brooklyn,” and assumed the head of the column.
Over the line of mines they flew at full speed, and the men below could hear them as they scraped along the hull. It was the one way out of the difficulty, and a second’s hesitation would have closed even this escape from a frightful calamity. The admiral looked astern at the manœuvring of his vessels with a smile of satisfaction. It was a magnificent sight. At first they appeared to be fouling each other in dire confusion, at the mercy of the guns which still belched forth a merciless fire. But as the “Hartford” dashed forward, one by one, as if by magic, they took their places. And he knew a grand tactical movement had been accomplished.
Nor did he forget the poor men of the “Tecumseh,” struggling in the water where their ship had gone down, but, going down the rigging, ordered Jouett to lower a boat immediately and pick up the survivors.
The “Hartford” was nearly a mile ahead before the line could be straightened, and single-handed she fought the batteries and the gunboats, making straight for Buchanan’s invincible ram, the “Tennessee.” Amid the fire of shot and bursting shell the admiral walked calmly back to his quarter-deck, giving a word of advice here and an order there. But soon the other vessels were able to pour in a storm of shot and shell that completely silenced the batteries.
One by one he saw the gunboats sink, until only the “Tennessee” had to be accounted for. The admiral tried to ram her, and the solid shot of his broadsides rolled down her iron sides; but she slipped away, pouring in a terrific fire at close range. She riddled the “Brooklyn,” “Richmond,” and “Monongahela,” all three of which dashed at her, bows on, at fearful speed. The admiral again struck her a fearful blow, but apparently with no effect whatever.
The ram had one great advantage: she was surrounded by enemies and could fire continually, while the Union vessels had to use the utmost care not to fire into or collide with one another. An accident of this kind now happened to Farragut’s ship. The “Hartford” and the “Lackawanna” were both making at full speed for the ram. The “Hartford” had the better position; and the “Lackawanna,” sheering off to avoid another ship, ran into the quarter of the flagship, just where the admiral was standing, cutting her down nearly to the water’s edge. The shock of the impact nearly took him off his feet, but in a moment he was climbing over the side to see what damage had been done.
His crew thought he was looking out for himself. Immediately there was a cry, “Get the admiral out of the ship.” The whole thought of his crew, unmindful of themselves, was to get him to a place of safety. It was a mere sudden impulse. But Farragut was not the man to look to himself. Having satisfied himself that the “Hartford” could last, he again gave the order, “Full speed,” and set his prow again for the “Tennessee.”
But in the meanwhile the monitors had been hammering away at her with their heavy shot. Her rudder and smoke-stack were shot away, and her shutters jammed, and as the “Hartford” bore down upon her for the third time she showed her white flag and surrendered.
The “Hartford” was greatly cut up, – twenty-five killed and twenty-eight wounded, – but the admiral had not a scratch to show for his deadly encounters. He came on deck just as the poor fellows who had been killed were being carefully laid out on the port side of the quarter-deck.
“It was a great victory, Drayton,” said he, sadly, “but – ”
And the men saw him turn aside, tears coursing down his cheeks.
In truth, “there is nothing half so melancholy as a battle lost, except a battle won.”
AT THE NAVAL ACADEMY
In times like those we have but recently passed through, when the theories and studies of thirty years are being put to tests of fire and the sword, it is interesting to turn for a moment to our naval school at Annapolis, where the officers who planned our campaigns, directed our battles and our blockades, and commanded our ships were first trained to the serious business of war. Though the years which have passed since 1861 have made changes in the personnel system and appearance of the Naval Academy, the city of Annapolis itself is the same sleepy, careless, happy-go-lucky town of earlier days.
Once a year, and only once, it rouses itself from its lethargy and assumes an air of gayety and importance which it may not even have shown when it earned for itself the title of “The Gayest Colonial Capital.” During the latter part of May and the first of June each train that pulls into the ramshackle station bears a load of pretty young women, – sisters, cousins, sweethearts, – who come for the two-weeks’ exercises, when the naval cadets are graduated, and for the June ball. It has been so since the founding of the Naval Academy, and will be so as long as youngsters in brass buttons are brought up to be professional heroes.
In the old colonial days Annapolis was rich. There was an English governor, and grouped about him were some of the oldest English families. In the middle of the eighteenth century Annapolis had become refined, gay, elegant, and even dissipated.
Not only was Annapolis in these old days the most lucrative place in the colonies for the practice of law, but it was the birthplace of such lawyers as Daniel Dulaney, William Pinckney, Charles Carroll, and Reverdy Johnson. In those days, too, after the Revolution, Charles Carroll of Carrollton, the richest man in America, was one of the citizens. To-day, while the descendants of some of these families are still in possession of the homes of their forefathers, the seat of power and money of Maryland has changed to the commercial capital, Baltimore. The centre of social gayety, therefore, is to be found in the Naval Academy.
The social feature of the life of the cadet must not be underestimated. The youngsters who present themselves as candidates for admission, appointed politically, come from all parts of the country, and represent every shade of opinion and training in the United States. They are a smaller image of the large mass of our people. The problem of bringing these different natures into accord with the conditions which they must face is no easy one; and the weeding-out process, which immediately begins, is conducted by the superintendent – usually a captain in the navy – and the officers under his command, under rules which have been adopted after sixty years of previous administrations.
There is an indefinable something in the organization of the place that makes an indelible impression upon the mind of the candidate, and as he enters upon his duties it does not take long to discover whether he is mentally and personally fitted for the long task before him. It was said in the old days that a seaman was born and not made. But modern warfare has so changed the conditions that, while the officers of the navy must always command men and have the instincts of the sailor, high mental attainments are also the requisite, and those instincts can be formed by experience and association.
The course, then, in brief, is the training of the mind and the body, the school of the soldier and sailor, and the school of the gentleman. Here, then, is where the social influences of the Naval Academy are felt. Politics, like misfortune, makes strange bedfellows, and the scion of your Eastern banker may soon find himself detailed as the room-mate of the most impecunious and unpretentious of Uncle Sam’s younger sons. It is the democracy of military training, in which every man’s standing is governed alone by his professional qualifications. Money or position can in no way affect his life. His rise or fall depends entirely upon his own worth.
To the young man fortunate enough to secure an early appointment from his representative in Congress, his new home, in the month of May, presents every attraction. From the moment he passes the gate, passes the marine guards, his eye meets the beautifully kept lawns of the campus and drill-ground, sweeping gradually down to the sea-wall on the north and east sides, where the Severn River flows, stretching out to the blue waters of Chesapeake Bay, only three miles from old Fort Severn. To the left, as he enters, are the New Quarters and hospital. To the right, the sacred precincts of “Lovers’ Lane,” into which he cannot go, under pain of displeasure of his upper classmen, until he has passed through the first, or “plebe,” year, and this rule is stringent.
To pass the examinations successfully the candidate must be physically sound, and must have a knowledge of arithmetic, geography, United States history, reading, writing, spelling, English grammar, and the first principles of algebra. The number of appointees is limited by law to one naval cadet for every member or delegate of the House of Representatives, one for the District of Columbia, and ten at-large; the District of Columbia and the at-large appointments being made by the President. The course of the naval cadets is six years, – four years at the Naval Academy and two years at sea, – at the expiration of which time the cadet returns for the final graduation.
The fourth-class man who enters in May has a certain advantage over the September appointee, for he has the advantage of four months of practical instruction, which hardens his muscles and gets his mind into excellent shape for the harder work of the year. Having passed his examinations, the youngster goes to the office of the superintendent, where he takes the oath of allegiance which binds him to serve in the United States navy eight years, including his time of probation at the Naval Academy, unless sooner discharged. He deposits a sum of money for his books, and such other amount as may be necessary for his outfit, and is put to no further expense.
His pay is five hundred dollars a year while at the Naval Academy, but, while he acknowledges its receipt to the paymaster by signing the pay-roll, he is furnished with only sufficient pocket-money to get along on. This sum of money is microscopic, and is usually spent as soon as received. Having procured his outfit from the storekeeper, he reports on board the “Santee.” The “Santee” is one of the old sailing-frigates in the navy, and has for years been anchored at the naval dock as quarters for cadets during the summer time and for practical instruction in the drill of the old Dahlgrens. Here, too, is where the fractious cadets are placed in durance.
Until within a very few years the new fourth-class men were sent upon the summer cruise of cadets, first on the “Dale,” then on the “Constellation” and the “Monongahela.” But by a change in the curriculum the May appointees in the fourth class do not take the summer cruise. The “Monongahela,” one summer, carried the line division of the first class, the second class, and the third class. Before this change the life of the “plebe” on the summer cruise was not a bed of roses. The cadets of the third class, until recently “plebes” themselves, were prepared to wreak upon their juniors all of the pent-up exuberance of the previous year.
Hazing, in the old sense, has died away, and even the “running” of ten years ago has been reduced to a minimum through the efforts of Captains Ramsey, Sampson, and Phythian; but the “plebe” was made to step around in a very lively manner, and to do most of the hauling on the heavy gear, while the third-class men did the complaining. On the “Monongahela” the first, second, and third classes are now, as in the old days, considered as sailors, although a number of the blue-jackets are retained on the vessel. The cadets do their share of the work, and perform all the duties of men-of-war’s-men except scrubbing, holy-stoning, and cleaning brass-work. The lower-class men are divided into watches with the regular blue-jackets, side by side with whom they assist in performing all the evolutions in working the ship.
The cruise which follows is usually a pleasant one. There is a lot of hard work to do, and in a short while the hands and muscles get hard, the white suits conveniently tarry, and the skins of the youngsters as brown as leather. But the life has its compensations, for at Fortress Monroe they get into their uniforms again and go ashore to the dances given there at the time of their arrival and departure.
Meanwhile the engineer division of the first class is off on a cruise to visit the various navy-yards and docks of the Atlantic coast. Their course of instruction differs from that of the cadets on the “Monongahela,” and they are shown the practical side of engineering work on sea-going ships. Away down below the water-line of their vessel, in the stoke-hole, engine-room, or boiler-room, covered with grease or coal-dust, they do all the work of oilers, engineers, stokers, and mechanics, so as to be able to know accurately all the duties of those men, and to be able to command them in the years to come.
In October the study-term begins, and the cadets are then given their quarters for winter. Most of them are in the building known as the New Quarters, while the others, cadet officers of the first class, are placed in the Old Quarters. The subtle distinction in the titles of these two sets of buildings is hardly appreciated at the Naval Academy, since they have both been built for thirty or forty years, and are in a frightful state of dilapidation. Two cadets of the same class are quartered in each room, and the discipline of household, as well as of person, begins immediately. Each room is plainly furnished, and contains two beds, two wardrobes, two looking-glasses, two iron wash-stands, a common table, and a broom. The charge of the room is taken by each cadet every other week, and this cadet is responsible for its general order and cleanliness. If the officer in charge should happen to inspect the quarters in his absence, and find anything contrary to regulations, the cadet in charge is the one who is reported at the next morning’s formation, although his room-mate may have been the delinquent.
Throughout the year the reveille sounds at six o’clock. At a quarter to seven is morning formation, roll-call, and inspection. The ranks are opened, and the keen-eyed officer in charge, followed by the cadet officer-of-the-day and his ominous scratch-pad, with keen eyes looks for grease spots, specks of dust on blouses, tumbled hair, or unblackened boots. After breakfast the sick-call is sounded, and cadets who are ill, or who think they are, report to the hospital. At eight o’clock the study begins, and lasts until half-past twelve. The cadets of each class are divided into sections of from six to a dozen each, and at the bugle-call are formed by sections and marched to their recitation-rooms for study. The morning is divided into two parts, and each part is divided into two periods, one for study and one for recitation.
Briefly, the course of instruction is as follows: Fourth class, first year: algebra, geometry, English, history of Greece and Rome, French, naval history of the United States, Spanish. Third class, second year: descriptive geometry, trigonometry, the Constitution of the United States, analytical geometry, mechanical drawing, physics, and chemistry. Second class, third year: seamanship, principles of mechanism, differential calculus, integral calculus, physics, chemistry, mechanical drawing, and navigation. First class, line division: seamanship and naval tactics, ordnance and gunnery, theory and practice of navigation, hydrographic surveying, least squares, applied mechanics, naval construction, ballistics, armor, and torpedoes. The engineer division has marine engines, boilers, machinery designing, mechanics, and naval construction.
The first part of the course, it will be seen, deals with the simpler branches of study. The plan is not to burden the mind of the cadet with unnecessary knowledge, yet every branch which will directly, or even indirectly, contribute to his ultimate efficiency has its place in the curriculum. The end – the making of a thoroughly trained seaman – is kept constantly in view. The simpler studies train the mind of the cadet to the technical work which follows in the third and fourth years, and in those two years he gets his principal technical and practical training. Each one of the departments in which he studies has a head, usually a naval officer above the rank of lieutenant-commander. All of these heads of departments, with the superintendent and commandant of cadets, who is also head of the Department of Discipline, form the Academic Board. The afternoon classes begin at two and last till four, after which comes the afternoon drill, which lasts until 5.30 and completes the daily duties.
It does not seem with all this work as though the cadet had very much time to himself, but the cadet is not unhappy. Wednesday and Saturday afternoons are given over as recreation-hours, and football and baseball with neighboring college teams bring crowds of visitors into the Academy. The band plays upon the lawn, and the pathways are filled with fair visitors, who walk with their respective heroes along the shady lanes. Saturday night, too, during the winter, hops are given, sometimes by officers and sometimes by cadets, and a gymnastic entertainment once a year gives the cadets the opportunity to show their prowess in boxing, fencing, and work on the gymnastic paraphernalia.
Towards the end of May the annual exercises begin. The examinations finished, the arrival of the Board of Visitors is announced by the booming of cannons from the sea-wall. The cadets receive them on dress-parade, and the work of showing their progress during the year is at once begun. The Board of Visitors go out on one of the government tugs into Chesapeake Bay, and there they see the upper-class men tack, wear-ship, box, haul, and perform all the evolutions in a seamanlike manner on the old “Monongahela.” Light yards are swung across with the precision of old men-of-war’s-men; sails are reefed, furled, or set in an incomparably short space of time; and the cadets are down from aloft for their target practice. The target is towed out by a launch, anchored, and gun by gun, battery by battery, division by division, or by broadside, the cadets hammer away at it as though it were the vessel of a hostile power, more often than not blowing it entirely to pieces.
Back again at the yard, they go through with their drill as infantry or artillery; and last, but not least, comes the drill by companies for the honor of bearing the Naval Academy flag during the coming year. The judges in this competition are usually army officers, and every movement is carefully watched and marked. The captain of each company, before going to this drill, selects its sponsor, – a very pretty girl, who, the drill over, presents the flag to the victorious company amid loud cheers from the whole battalion.
