As I’ve noted previously, some of the time I would normally devote to this blog has been taken up with research and other work related to an unidentified shipwreck discovered in the cleanup after Hurricane Ike. One possible identification of that wreck (still) under consideration is that it might be the blockade runner Carolina (or alternately, Caroline) destroyed while running out of Galveston in July 1864. My friend/colleague/boss Steve Hoyt at the Texas Historical Commission made a brief reference to this in a Houston Chronicle article earlier this year, and that in turn caught the attention of a gentleman living in another state, whose ancestor commanded a blockade runner called Caroline. Is it possible, the gentleman inquired, that our suspected Carolina/Caroline and his were the same vessel?

Relatively little detail is known about the Carolina/Caroline wrecked here, so the prospect of learning more about that vessel from one of its captain’s descendants was like a bolt out of the blue. Based on material the descendant provided, we were able to substantially reconstruct the career of his forebear’s Caroline, and — unfortunately — simultaneously establish that vessel was almost certainly not the one wrecked here at Galveston. Such is both the promise and disappointment of historical research; Clio can be a tease sometimes.

Nonetheless, the story of the other, not-wrecked-here Caroline is a great one, that needs to be told. So herewith is the narrative of that other Caroline.

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An iron-hulled ship under construction at Dumbarton, 1855, by Samuel Bough (BHC1792). UK National Maritime Museum.

Caroline was built in 1864 by Peter Denny at his North Yard shipyard at Dumbarton on the Clyde. She was contracted by Captain James Carlin, agent for the Importing & Exporting Company of South Carolina , by February 1864. Her date of ownership is listed in Eric Graham’s Clydebuilt as July 1864, which likely reflected her delivery date. She was a large steamer, measuring 225 feet long, 28 feet in beam and with a depth of hold of 13 feet. Her “light” displacement was 1,165 tons, while her gross registered tonnage – a measure of enclosed volume, rather than weight – was 404 tons. A contemporary watercolor sketch of her sister ship Ella (see below) shows Caroline to have been a classic Clyde-built blockade runner, long, low and narrow, with minimal rigging, a straight stem and two funnels in tandem, fore and aft of the sidewheel engines. The two engines themselves were of the oscillating type, built by Robert Napier & Co., the preeminent engine builders on the Clyde at the time. They produced a nominal 200 horsepower each, operating under 40 pounds steam pressure.

Peter Denny, 1868, by Sir Daniel Macnee. UK National Maritime Museum (BHC2654).

Peter Denny (left, 1821-95) was the sixth son of William Denny, a promising shipbuilder at Dumbarton on the Clyde. The elder Denny died in 1833, and several of his sons followed him into the business, eventually forming the business William Denny & Brothers, with multiple small yards clustered around the small harbor at Dumbarton. The eldest son, William, served briefly as manager of one of Robert Napier’s shipyards in the early 1840s, cementing a business and personal link between Napier and the Dennys that would extend through the years. In fact, the Dennys focused almost exclusively on the construction of steam vessels; by the turn of the century they had constructed over 700 ships, only four of which were sailing craft. Peter Denny established the North Yard at Dumbarton in 1859, operating it until 1868. In aggregate, the Dennys constructed at least twenty-one ships that were put into the blockade- running enterprise.

Caroline was built for the Importing & Exporting Company of South Carolina. Her original owner of record was James Carlin, who had served as the company’s senior captain early in the war, and later became the Importing & Exporting Company’s agent on the Clyde, based at Carrickfergus. The company had been founded by a group of South Carolinians, mainly from Charleston, specifically for the purpose of running the Federal blockade of the Confederacy. The company operated under the direction of two prominent Charleston cotton factors, William Catell Bee and Charles Tunis Mitchell. The company purchased and operated a number of vessels during the war, but commissioned four specifically to be built for the purpose, Ella, Caroline, Imogene and Emily, all at Denny’s North Yard. Captain Carlin reportedly gave Denny exact specifications for the ships’ dimensions and machinery. Ella, Caroline and Imogene were identical sister ships, while Emily was much larger, 255 feet long and 736 registered tons. The three smaller ships were contracted for £22,000 each, while Emily would be contracted for £35,000.

Two men, Lewis M. Hudgins and Thomas B. Skinner, are identified in various sources as being Caroline’s master. Hudgins is identified as captain of that ship in late March 1865, upon her arrival at Nassau from Havana. Hudgins was a well-known mariner (to both sides in the conflict) on the mid-Atlantic coast, and both he and one Thomas Skinner are listed as attached to the Richmond station of the Confederate Navy early in the war.

U.S.S. Malvern was originally used as a runner by the Importing & Exporting Company of South Carolina, as Ella and Annie. Captured by the Union navy and renamed Malvern, she later served as Admiral David Dixon Porter’s flagship. U.S. Naval Historical Center.

Caroline appears to have sailed from the Clyde in the first half of September 1864, as she was reported to have arrived at Halifax, Nova Scotia on October 4. In a circular – a sort of maritime wanted poster — issued from his flagship Malvern (the former Importing & Exporting Company runner Ella and Annie), Admiral David Dixon Porter noted that

the British side-wheel iron steamer Caroline arrived at Halifax October 4, en route to Wilmington, with a valuable cargo, including a large quantity of important machinery for the Confederates. The Caroline is new, schooner-rigged, two smokestacks, painted white, long, low, and rakish.

Caroline’s sister ship Ella at Cork, July 1864. From the Civil War Naval Chronology, 1861-1865 (Washington: Navy History Division, 1971), VI-342.

From Halifax Caroline continued on to Bermuda, where the U.S. consul reported her taking on cargo on October 24. From Bermuda Caroline steamed to Nassau, arriving at an unknown date, the U.S. consul there mentioning her in a report dated November 7, 1864.

Although one history of the Importing & Exporting Company credits Caroline with a single round trip through the blockade, and Graham’s Clydebuilt says she was “too late” to make any trips through the blockade to Wilmington or Charleston, Stephen Wise’s Lifeline of the Confederacy identifies three round voyages:

Round Voyage 1: Arrived at Wilmington from Nassau, date unclear; returned to Nassau; sailed November 7, 1864 for Nassau
Round Voyage 2: Arrived at Wilmington December 2, 1864 from Nassau; sailed December 15, 1864 for Nassau
Round Voyage 3: Arrived at Georgetown, South Carolina from Nassau, January 1865; sailed January 1865 for Nassau.

There is an additional contemporary reference to Caroline being present at Nassau on November 12, having been “chased back.” This would seem to suggest that she had been pursued on the return leg of her first round voyage.

A partial cargo manifest exists for Caroline’s second trip through the blockade. During the latter part of the war, private runners like Caroline were required to give over to the Confederate government a proportion of their cargo space on trips into Southern ports. In many cases, it is the record of these government-owned shipments that has survived, while the manifests of private cargoes have become lost and scattered along with the records of the businesses themselves.

In December 1864, Lieutenant Colonel Thomas L. Bayne, at Wilmington, prepared a listed of government cargoes received at that port between October 25 and December 6, 1864. After her arrival on December 2, Bayne reported, Caroline discharged a large quantity of government stores, mostly raw materials, and mostly consigned to the C.S. Navy:

2 cases of merchandise, consigned to the Navy
5 bundles of sheet iron, consigned to the Navy
18 casks of L [leaf?] copper, consigned to the Navy
4 bundles of copper bolts, consigned to the Navy
8 casks of L tin, consigned to the Navy
7 casks of pig lead, consigned to the Navy
8 casks of saltpeter, consigned to the Navy
7 cases of zinc, consigned to the Navy
6 casks of metal, consigned to the Navy
10 rolls of lead, consigned to the Navy
10 bales of blankets, consigned to the Navy
100 bundles of iron ties, consigned to John Seixas [C.S. War Department agent at Wilmington]

By first weeks of 1865, it was clear that large-scale blockade running was coming rapidly to an end, even as the Confederacy’s need for both civilian goods and war materiel became more desperate. Charleston had fallen to Sherman’s army, and Fort Fisher, at the entrance to Wilmington, had been captured as well, closing off access to that port of entry. Galveston, Texas remained the only Confederate port open to blockade runners, but that refuge was small and geographically isolated from the main theater of war in the east. Wise reports that Caroline went to Havana, the primary neutral port in the Gulf of Mexico, in February 1865 with the intention to run the blockade into Galveston, but that she never did so. There is no other indication that Caroline attempted to run into Galveston during the closing weeks of the war. The entrance to Galveston was relatively shallow, with numerous shifting bars and shoals. Caroline was a large runner, and even in ideal conditions would have had difficulty getting into the harbor. Several smaller blockade runners were wrecked trying to get into Galveston during the final months of the war, including Acadia, Will o’ the Wisp and Denbigh.
Caroline appears next in the public record on March 23, 1865, arriving again at Nassau. Captain Hudgins is identified as master at this time, along with the ship’s port of registry, Liverpool. It would appear that by this time the decision had been taken to return Caroline to the United Kingdom.

Entrance to Nassau Harbor, several years after the end of the war. Harper’s New Monthly
Magazine.

It appears that Caroline returned to Liverpool, where James Carlin set about liquidating his small fleet of runners, including Caroline and Imogene. By then, of course, there was a glut of former (and newly-built, would-have-been) blockade runners on the market, and prices had collapsed. The ships were ultimately sold the following year to a consortium of old blockade-running investors, including Peter Denny, for a new venture in Brazil. The ships were sold for £15,000 each, far below the cost of their original construction.

Caroline’s career after her 1866 sale is unknown.

Galveston Daily News, February 28, 1865:

Galveston, February 25, 1865:

Editor News: The steamer Banshee arrived yesterday morning from Havana. About 25 shots were fired at her, while running in by the Yankee fleet, but without effect.

‘PS Banshee‘ by Samuel Walters, Accession number 1968.5.2, National Museums, Liverpool.

In his book Running the Blockade: A Personal Narrative of Adventures, Risks, and Escapes During the American Civil War, Tom Taylor devotes one of his latter chapters to his last run into the Confederacy, aboard the big runner Banshee No. 2.  This steel-hulled paddle steamer, one of the best-known runners of the war, was built Aitken and Mansell of Glasgow, measuring 252 feet x 31 feet x 11 feet, and 627 gross registered tons. (By way of comparison, Will o’ the Wisp was 209.5 x 23.2 x 9.7, and 117 grt.) She made a total of four round voyages into Confederate ports — three into Wilmington, North Carolina, and one into Galveston. Banshee No. 2 survived the war and returned to the U.K.

Interestingly, in this last run Banshee followed the identical path that William Watson would about a month later, while serving as navigator for a screw steamer he called “Phoenix” in his book, but was probably Pelican. Banshee even grounded at about the same spot in the swash channel, although Taylor’s big steamer finally pushed over by wave while making the dash in daylight, while Watson had to wait silently, in darkness, while the tide rose enough to refloat his ship.

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When Wilmington was on the point of falling [January 1865] there was nothing for it but to transfer our operations to Galveston, and to accomplish this I took the Banshee No 2 over to Havana with a valuable cargo accompanied by Frank Hurst, in order to make an attempt to run into Galveston: this proved to be my last trip, but it was far from being the least exciting. When all was ready we experienced the greatest difficulty in finding a Galveston pilot. Though, owing to the high rate of pay, numbers of men were to be found ready to offer their services, it was extremely hard to obtain competent men. After considerable delay, we had to content ourselves at last with a man who said he knew all about the port but who turned out to be absolutely worthless. We then made a start, and with the exception of meeting with the most violent thunderstorm, in which the lightning was something awful, nothing extraordinary occurred on our passage across the Gulf of Mexico, and we scarcely saw a sail — very different from our experiences between Nassau and Wilmington, when it was generally a case of “sail on the port bow,” or “steamer right ahead,” at all hours of the day.

The third evening after leaving Havana we had run our distance and, on heaving the lead, and finding that we were within a few miles of the shore, we steamed cautiously on in order to try and make out the blockading squadron or the land. It was a comparatively calm and very dark night, just the one for the purpose, but within an hour all had changed and it commenced to blow a regular “Norther,” a wind which is very prevalent on that coast. Until then I had no idea what a “Norther” meant; first rain came down in torrents, then out of the inky blackness of clouds and rain came furious gusts, until a hurricane was blowing against which, notwithstanding that we were steaming at full speed, we made little or no way, and although the sea was smooth our decks were swept by white foam and spray Suddenly we made out some dark objects all round us, and found ourselves drifting helplessly among the ships of the blockading squadron, which were steaming hard to their anchors, and at one moment we were almost jostling two of them; whether they knew what we were, or mistook us for one of themselves, matters not; they were too much occupied about their own safety to attempt to interfere

As to attempt to get into Galveston that night would have been madness, we let the Banshee drift and, when we thought we were clear of the fleet we steamed slowly seaward, after a while shaping a course so as to make the land about thirty miles to the south west at daylight. We succeeded in doing this, and quietly dropped our anchor in perfectly calm water, the Norther having subsided almost as quickly as it had risen. Having seen enough of our pilot to realise that he was no good whatever, we decided after a conference to lie all day, where we were keeping a sharp look-out, and steam handy and determined as evening came on to creep slowly up the coast until we made out the blockading fleet, then to anchor again and make a bold dash at daylight for our port. All went well; we were unmolested during the day, and got under weigh towards evening, passing close to a wreck which we recognised as our old friend the Will o’ the Wisp, which had been driven ashore and lost on the very first trip she made after I had sold her. Immediately afterwards we very nearly lost our own ship too. Seeing a post of Confederate soldiers close by on the beach, we determined to steam close in and communicate with them, in order to learn all about the tactics of the blockaders and our exact distance from Galveston. We backed her close in to the breakers in order to speak, but when the order was given to go ahead she declined to move, and the chief engineer reported that something had gone wrong with the cylinder valve, and that she must heave to for repairs. It was an anxious moment: the Banshee had barely three fathoms beneath her, and her stern was almost in the white water. We let go the anchor, but in the heavy swell it failed to hold; the pilot was in a helpless state of flurry when he found that we were drifting slowly but steadily towards the shore, but [Captain Jonathan W.] Steele’s presence of mind never for one moment deserted him. The comparatively few minutes which occupied the engineers in temporarily remedying the defect seemed like hours in the presence of the danger momentarily threatening us. When at length the engineers managed to turn her ahead, we on the bridge were greatly relieved to see her point seawards and clear the breakers. I have often thought since, if a disaster had happened and we had lost the ship, how stupid we should have been thought by people at home.

As soon as we reached deep water the damage was permanently repaired, and we steamed cautiously up the coast, until about sundown we made out the topmasts of the blockading squadron right ahead. We promptly stopped, calculating that, as they were about ten to eleven miles from us, Galveston must lie a little further on our port bow. We let go our anchor and prepared for an anxious night; all hands were on deck and the cable was ready to be unshackled at a moment’s notice, with steam as nearly ready as possible without blowing off, as at any moment a prowler from the squadron patrolling the coast might have made us out. We had not been lying thus very long, when suddenly on the starboard bow we made out a cruiser steaming towards us, evidently on the prowl. It was a critical time; all hands were on deck, a man standing by to knock the shackle out of the chain cable, and the engineers at their stations. Thanks to the backing of the coast, our friend did not discover us, and to our relief disappeared to the southward.

A Federal guard boat on blockade duty, 1864. Harper’s Weekly.

After this, all was quiet during the remainder of the night, which fortunately for us was very dark, and about two hours before daylight [on February 24] we quietly raised our anchor and steamed slowly on, feeling our way cautiously by the lead and hoping, when daylight fairly broke, to find ourselves inside the fleet, opposite Galveston, and able to make a short dash for the bar. We had been under weigh some time, when suddenly we discovered a launch close to us on the port bow, filled with Northern blue jackets and marines. “Full speed ahead!” shouted Steele, and we were within an ace of running her down as we almost grazed her with our port paddle-wheel. Hurst and I looked straight down into the boat, waving them a parting salute. The crew seemed only too thankful at their narrow escape to open fire, but they soon regained their senses, and threw up rocket after rocket in our wake as a warning to the blockading fleet to be on the alert.

Daylight was then slowly breaking, and the first thing we discovered was that we had not taken sufficient account of the effects of the Norther on the current; instead of being opposite the town, with the fleet broad on to our starboard beam, we found ourselves down three or four miles from it, and the most leeward blockader close to us on our bow. It was a moment for immediate decision: the alternatives were to turn tail and stand a chase to seaward by their fastest cruisers, with chance of capture and, in any case, a return to Havana, as we had not sufficient coal for another attempt ;or to make a dash for it and take the fire of the squadron. In an instant we decided to go for it, and orders to turn ahead full speed were given, but the difficulty now to be overcome was that we could not make for the main channel without going through the fleet. This would have been certain destruction, so we had to make for a sort of swash channel along the beach, which however was nothing but a cul-de-sac, and to get from it into the main channel, shoal water and heavy breakers had to be passed, but there was now no other choice open to us.

Banshee No. 2 runs into Galveston under the guns of the Union fleet, February 24, 1865. Original illustration from Taylor’s book.

By this time the fleet had opened fire upon us, and shells were bursting merrily around as we took the fire of each ship which we passed. Fortunately there was a narrow shoal between us, which prevented them from approaching within about half a mile of us; luckily also for us they were in rough water on the windward side of the shoal, and could not lay their guns with precision. And to this we owed our escape, as although our funnels were riddled with shell splinters, we received no damage and had only one man wounded.

But the worst was to come; we saw the white water already ahead, and we knew our only chance was to bump through it, being well aware that if she stuck fast we should lose the ship and all our lives, for no boat, even if it could have been launched, would have lived in such a surf. With two leadsmen in the chains, we approached our fate, taking no notice of the bursting shells and round shot to which the blockaders treated us in their desperation; it was not a question of the fathoms, but of the feet; we were drawing twelve feet, ten, nine, and when we put her at it as you do a horse at a jump, and as her nose was entering the white water, “eight feet” was sung out. A moment afterwards we touched and hung, and I thought all was over when a big wave came rolling along and lifted our stern and the ship bodily with a crack which could be heard a quarter of a mile off, and which we thought meant that her back was broken.

She once more went ahead; the worst was over, and after two or three minor bumps we were in the deep channel, helm hard-a-starboard, and heading for Galveston Bay, leaving the disappointed blockaders astern. It was a reckless undertaking and a narrow escape, but we were safe in, and after an examination by the health officer, we steamed gaily up to the town, the wharves of which were crowded by people who, gazing to seaward, had watched our exploit with much interest, and who cheered us heartily upon its success.

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Next post: What exactly was Banshee’s “valuable cargo?”

– Andy Hall

New renders of Will o’ the Wisp on Flickr. Went with the very light grey, almost white, based on descriptions of other runners.

– Andy Hall

The new blockade runner Fox, shown at Cork, Ireland in 1864. By April 1865, she had been repainted white or very light gray.

Several years ago while working on the Denbigh Project, I came across an account in the Galveston Daily News of the blockade runner Fox, running through the Union fleet in broad daylight, in early April 1865. It was a dramatic and compelling story, written in dense and somewhat florid prose, but also apparently slanted, emphasizing the heroics of the runner’s crew and the dangers through which they passed. Too many times, one reads accounts of the same event from opposite sides in the conflict, and it’s hard to see how the authors could possibly have been writing about the same thing.

John Freeman Mackie (1835-1910)

But today I discovered an eyewitness account from a participant on the Union side, by John Freeman Mackie, a Marine sergeant aboard U.S.S. Seminole. And it turns out that the Galveston Daily News account was not only accurate, the actual incident was even more amazing than originally described. Mackie himself was a notable character, being the first U.S. Marine to receive the Medal of Honor, for heroism under fire at the Battle of Drewry’s Bluff on the James River in 1862. Although Mackie’s account appears in a volume dedicated to firsthand accounts by the “men and the women who created the greatest epoch of our nation’s history,” he didn’t write about his own heralded exploits, but about an otherwise little-known incident in a relative backwater of the Union blockade of Confederate ports.

I wish I knew what material Mackie, writing decades after the war, had access to in compiling his account. He gives details he couldn’t have known at the time, including the runner’s cargo and a description of the steamer’s reception in the harbor. My guess is that in the intervening years Mackie had corresponded with someone on the Confederate side, perhaps the pilot, Henry Wachsen. There are several instances of parallel phrasing between the 1865 Galveston News account and Mackie’s, including the quotes from Scott’s The Lady of the Lake, although the latter was a well-known classic in the late 19th century, and an obvious literary analogy.

Fox was a steel-hulled sidewheeler launched by Jones, Quiggin & Co. of Liverpool in 1864. She measured 219 feet between perpendiculars (about 230 feet overall), with a beam of just 22 feet. She made nine round trips through the blockade, mostly on the East Coast; the incident described here represented her only known run to Galveston.

U.S.S. Seminole (left) and U.S.S. Pocahontas, 1861. Both ships were active elements of the Union blockade on the upper Texas coast during the latter part of the war.

Seminole was classed as a third-rate screw sloop, launched in 1859 at Pensacola. Although she was about the same length as Fox, Seminole was much heavier, at 1,235 tons displacement. In June 1863, Seminole was armed with one 11-inch smoothbore gun, one 30-pounder rifle, six 32-pounders smoothbores guns, and one 12-pounder rifle. Several weeks after the events described here, a boat’s crew from Seimnole would board and burn the stranded blockade runner Denbigh on Bird Key, on the edge of the swash channel where Fox would finally elude her pursuers.

The April 16, 1865 Galveston Daily News article is here (PDF). Mackie’s published account, from 1896, is here (PDF).

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Running the Blockade: Escape of the Fox

John F. Mackie

Late of U.S. Marine Corps, U.S.S. Seminole

One of the most magnificent displays of fine seamanship, cool courage, and daring that I ever saw, took place off Galveston Bay, Texas, on the morning of April 1, 1865. Having participated in most of the important naval battles during the entire war, I witnessed many gallant acts of devotion, but none ever exceeded this for heroic conduct.

The Fox, an English Clyde-built [sic., Mersey-built] side wheel steamer commanded by Captain S[impson]. A. Adkins, which had successfully run the blockade several times, left the Bahamas [Havana?] in the latter part of March, with a valuable cargo for the port of Galveston, Texas, expecting to make the port on the evening of April 1st, and run through the Federal fleet which was closely guarding the entrance with twelve large steam sloops-of-war.

The fleet was busily engaged on Saturday morning, April 1st, as usual, when the weather permitted cleaning ship, holystoning the decks, scraping the masts and spars, painting the iron work, scrubbing the paint work ,and performing the thousand and one things necessary to cleaning the ship from keelson to main truck, fore and aft.

About ten a.m., when we were up to our eyes in dirt, sand and water, and the general confusion incident to such occasions, with a fresh breeze blowing from the southeast, with hazy weather, which usually prevails in those latitudes, the sea perfectly smooth except a heavy ground swell setting in from the eastward, the mast head lookout reported “Sail O.”

“Where away?” demanded the officer of the deck.

“Two points off the weather bow, sir.”

U.S.S. Ossipee, with her crew manning the yards, Honolulu, 1867. Ossipee fought in Admiral Farragut’s line at the Battle of Mobile Bay in 1864, and remained on active service until 1889. Ossipee was in the same four-ship class as Housatonic, the first warship to be sunk by a submarine in combat. U.S. Navy Photo.

All eyes were turned in the direction, and a faint line of smoke lay along the eastward horizon, showing a steamer apparently coming toward us. This fact was reported to the flagship Ossipee, Captain [John] Guest, who ordered the Penguin to get under way and interview the stranger. In a few minutes the Penguin was off and steaming rapidly to the eastward. She had not gone more than a couple of miles when the lookout at mast head again reported, “Sail O.”

“Where away?” again demanded the officer of the deck

“Right abeam, sir.”

An officer sprang into the weather with a glass, and, taking a good look at visitor, reported a long low steamer about eight miles to the eastward, burning black smoke, steaming rapidly to the northward and westward. The flag officer ordered the Seminole to get under way at once and overhaul her

Captain [Albert G.] Clary ordered the cables to be slipped, and in less than five minutes we were rapidly steaming four bells to the eastward. “Call all hands to quarters.” Buckets, brooms, holystones, and swabs were quickly thrown down the forehold, and the decks “cleared for action.” The strange steamer, which proved to be the Fox, sighted us at the same time, and instantly changed her course from west to northwest, and steamed directly for the Texan shore, distant about eight miles, which trends rapidly to the northeast above Galveston. By this course the Fox would strike the shore in about an hour, unless prevented by us from so doing. If successful, she could reach an inner channel which runs between the shore and a sand bar, which runs along the Texan coast, distant about a mile from the mainland; but on this bar there is only about six or eight feet of water, while on the inside there is twelve and fifteen feet. But in order to do this she would have to run the gauntlet of the whole fleet, all heavily armed. That she could escape by so doing seemed impossible. As this was the apparent object of the Fox, and as she was going ahead full speed, sailing much faster than we were, Captain Clary sent for the chief engineer, Mr. Stephenson, and asked him:

“Can you get any more speed out of the ship ? The blockade runner is getting way from us.”

“I will do the very best I can, sir.”

In a few minutes the Seminole fairly shook with the throbbing pulsations of the engines, as they were doing the very best that could be got out of them. We were now speeding along at the rate often knots an hour, the best I ever saw her do under steam alone. The Seminole was gaining rapidly on the Fox, when the latter suddenly changed her course to the northward, set her jib and foresail, and was getting away from us again in fine style.

Just as soon as she did this, Captain Clary seized a trumpet from the officer of the deck, sprang into the horse block, and shouted:

“Stand by the fore and main top sail sheets and halliards — lead out the jib sheets and halliards — lead out the fore and main sheets — are you all ready there?”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“Let go, sheet home, hoist away!”

In a minute the Seminole was staggering under a cloud of canvas, trimmed well aft — every rope drawing as tight as a fiddle string — causing the sea to boil like soapsuds under our bows as we fairly flew through the water.

This diagram, overlaid on an 1880s chart of the Galveston entrance, shows (very) roughly the general movements of the vessels as described by Mackie. None of the positions or courses are precisely known, and this diagram is intended only to illustrate the general outline of the action described, for those not familiar with the local geography. Not to be used for real-world navigation. Note: Updated diagram — the original version missed one of the runner’s turns.

Let us board the Fox for a few minutes. When the chase opened, her pursuer was about eight miles astern; after a short consultation with her pilot, Harry Wachsen, Captain Adkins decided to make a run through the fleet for Galveston. But here was the difficulty of running from one foe: she must run through a dozen more, all dogs of war of a most savage breed. Her course was instantly taken for the coast sixteen miles to the eastward [of Galveston] to get as far away from the fleet as possible. She was carrying a very heavy cargo — seventeen hundred barrels of beef and pork, besides a large quantity of miscellaneous articles, such as saltpeter, lead, hardware, and other heavy freight. It was just such a chase as Sir Walter Scott so beautifully describes:

Nor nearer might the dogs attain
Nor further might the quarry strain

But in this case the friends of the Fox might have repeated the advice given the flat boatman by his friend – “Go it, old man, he’s a gaining on you.”

The Fox began to obey the Bible injunction, to lay aside every weight that might retard her progress, and, stripped for the race, made directly for the beach, closely pursued by her fleet antagonist, sanguine of her capture or destruction, which seemed just within his grasp.

The Seminole was overhauling her rapidly. Captain Clary ordered the quartermaster to “heave the log.” “Aye, aye, sir!” “Well, sir, what are we making now?” “Twelve knots, sir.” “Good, good, is that the best we can do?” “Yes, sir, with the present breeze.”

The distance was being rapidly closed between the two ships, now about three miles off, running full speed for the shore. For the first time the Seminole’s men got a good look at the Fox, a long, low side wheel steamer, schooner rig, with a fearful rake in the masts and smokestacks, all painted a grayish white, common to all blockade runners, so as to make them undistinguishable against the foggy horizon which prevails in the Gulf. The Fox was now within range of our guns.

“Fo’castle there!” called out Captain Clary, “do you think you can reach her with the rifle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Try it.”

In a few seconds a flash and a puff of smoke announced that a thirty pound Parrott shell was flying toward the Fox, but it went over and exploded in the water beyond.

“Try it again, sir,” and a second shell exploded in the air above her.

“Very good, sir, but try it again,” and a third shell exploded under her bow. But she paid no more attention to these than if she had been going on about her regular every day business, and we were amusing ourselves with a little target practice.

The ships were now within less than two miles distance, when we opened on her with our eleven-inch pivot, exploding a shell right under her bow, nearly deluging the ship with water, but doing no further harm.

While we were reloading the pivot, she suddenly put her helm “hard-a-starboard,” and ran right across our bow, heading directly for the shore, distant about a mile and a half, apparently intending to run herself ashore

While this was being done we were not idle. The change compelled us to “shorten sail.” I have often seen our men do some handsome work in “fleet exercise,” but never before in my life did I ever see such quick work or more splendid seamanship than our officers and men exhibited on this occasion. The fore and main topsails, the fore and main sheets and the jib were hauled down, clewed up and stowed, and the men back to their stations at the guns in less than five minutes, without the least confusion, but amid the most intense excitement

As soon as the last man reached the deck Captain Clary shouted:

“Put your helm hard-a-starboard, sir!”

“Hard-a-starboard, sir,” answered the officer at the wheel, putting the wheel sharply over, and the ship turned on her heel as if she knew what was expected of her, and started directly for the shore with the Fox now right abeam [on the] starboard side, about a mile off. Bringing our whole battery of five guns to bear directly upon her, Captain Clary called out:

“For’ard rifle there, fire as soon and as quickly as you can, without further orders, but don t waste any ammunition. Pivot there, fire carefully; aim at the wheel house; sink her if you can. Go ahead now, and show us what you can do. Quarter deck battery (six 32-pounders), fire as rapidly as you can; aim at the wheel house; don’t let her get away from us.”

An 11-inch smoothbore gun, similar to that on Seminole. (Shown on U.S.S. Kearsarge.)

All this was done in less time than I have taken to describe it, and we were now rapidly nearing the Fox. It seemed impossible that she could escape us. A shell from the rifle exploded over the Fox; a shell from the 11-inch pivot burst close alongside, and the 6-inch guns were sending their compliments thick and fast as hornets when enraged. Yet, strange to say, not a single shot had hit her in a vital spot; she seemed to bear a charmed life. We were only about half-a-mile distant from each other, and about a mile from the shore, when the Fox suddenly changed her course to south-southwest, and started to run down along the beach, running directly across our bow

At this moment the leadsman in our fore chains called out:

“By the deep three fathoms.”

“Hard-a-starboard, quartermaster,” shouted Captain Clary; and as the ship’s head swung to port he remarked, “By God, we d been ashore in another minute!” The Seminole was drawing sixteen feet, and deep at that.

It was now nip-and-tuck. The Fox was going to run for it, and had the bar between us. Our only chance was to sink her, if we could, before she got out of range.

Apparently nothing now could save the Fox. The Penguin and the Ossipee, with all the other vessels of the fleet, had joined us, and opened fire upon her, with no better success than ourselves, all shots flying wide of the mark. The most tremendous excitement prevailed on board each vessel. Captain Clary raved and stamped about in an intense but subdued tone, swore like a pirate, and directed in as cool a manner as if we were having a race for a purse, but all to no effect. Shot after shot went over her and exploded on the beach beyond. Some exploded short of the steamer and covered her with spray; some in the air over her deck; others cut the water just ahead of her; one just grazed her stern, but not one touched her so far as we could see. It seemed impossible to hit her, The men worked the guns as if they were toys; in excitement loading and firing as if their lives depended on the accuracy of each shot. So rapidly did we fire that we had to wait for the smoke to lift before we fired the next shot.

We were now rapidly approaching Galveston harbor, and it seemed as if the Fox going to get away from us in spite of all our efforts. Since changing our course the last time we were sailing, or rather steaming, to windward but the Fox was the lighter draught and was slowly but surely getting from us.

Her captain for the last hour had been walking the bridge between the wheel houses, both hands in the pockets of his pea jacket, smoking a cigar as unconcernedly as if was nothing going on that should cause any uneasiness on his part. But there was evidently a feeling that their lives and property hung only on a single thread, as was manifest in the way those wheels flew around, leaving a track of boiling, foamy sea far astern; and the thick, huge volumes of black smoke that poured of the funnels told a story that did not need a trumpet to announce it.

The channel now began to widen, and if she could only hold her own for twenty minutes she would escape. What must have been the thoughts of that captain as he walked to and fro on that bridge, with the air full of flying missiles, now hid in their smoke, the next minute drenched with spray, again, in a second or two later, one flying a few feet above his head. He never flinched an inch or changed his manner, but kept quietly on, directing his ship as if it were an every-day affair.

But let us board the Fox and hear what the pilot thinks about it.

The Fox was now in the condition of poor Reynard, as described by the poet’s hero, glorying already in anticipation of his prize, closely followed by his friends, eager to be present at the closing scene:

For the death wound and death halloo,
Mustered his strength his whinyard drew,
The wily quarry shivered the shock,
And turned him from the opposing rock;
And dashing down the darksome glen,,
Soon lost to hounds and hunters ken.

So our Fox, when apparently about to dash herself on the beach, suddenly turned square off to the southwest and made for the pass as if all the fiends who fell from heaven had joined in the chase; and in fact, the whole squadron was belching fire, smoke, steam, shot and shell, as though they would tear the fugitive into more shreds than even poor Reynard was rent into by the largest pack of hounds. The Fox kept close in to the shore, while one or two of her pursuers, forced to remain in deeper water, kept alongside, firing broadsides as fast as they could load, and the whole fleet fired up and joined the chase, trying to intercept the fugitive vessel.

Shot, shell, grape, shrapnel, and every other missile known to mankind were thrown with the rapidity of lightning and the abundance of hail at, around, over, and into the water beneath the doomed victim; elongated shot and shell shrieked before, behind, and over her, or struck the water and ricocheted over her decks like a flock of sheep over a pair of bars. Strange to say, although hundreds of shot were fired at her, but four took effect. An ugly shell about two feet long exploded a few yards from the ship. A portion of it struck a forward sheet plate and burst it in about two feet above the water, but beyond making a rent in the bow did no further damage. A ten-inch shell came over the rail and passed out the other side, doing no harm, while the wind took the breath of two persons who stood near it. The shrouds were cut under another man as he was ascending the rigging, but he suffered no other injury. A piece of shell cut the escape pipe above the deck, but nobody was hurt by it.

There were a number of old veterans on board who had seen service in several closely contested engagements on Confederate vessels, who pronounced the affair a very gallant one, but took it as a matter of course that was to be expected on occasions like this, and paid a high compliment to the officers and crew for the admirable manner in which they handled the ship. As they passed out of danger they were received with three cheers, which they took with the utmost composure, like a man answering a fulsome toast.

As we viewed the scene at this moment from the deck of the Seminole, it was one of the most picturesque that I ever saw. The fleet all around was looking with eager eyes to see us sink the flying steamer, the bay gradually widening with the white sand hills in the distance, the city of Galveston to the south, and its piers filled with sympathetic spectators; the fort in the bay with the Confederate flag flying, and its ramparts crowded with men watching and praying for the success of the flying steamer; the three warships leaping through the water like hounds, oftentimes hid by the smoke of their own guns. But fate decided in favor of the Fox. In spite of every effort that could be made to prevent her, she reached Galveston Bay, which is nearly three miles wide, and, as the channel is very dangerous to vessels drawing more than ten feet of water, we were rapidly getting into less than three fathoms again. So with intense chagrin we were obliged to give up the chase, sending as a parting compliment an eleven-inch shell with our regrets.

As the Fox passed out of range, her captain hoisted the Confederate flag and dipped it three times, at the same time taking off his cap and waving it toward us, bowing gracefully in our direction his adieu, [and] steamed in under the guns of the fort at Galveston, and dropped his anchor safe at last

We returned the salute and returned to anchorage for the night, as it was nearly sundown, after one of the most exciting days ever spent, with less credit to ourselves than could possibly be supposed under the circumstances showing that

The best laid schemes o’ mice and men
Gang aft aglee

at sea as well as on shore. The Fox discharged her cargo, reloaded with cotton, successfully ran the blockade again through the gauntlet of ten warships, at night, and reached Havana in safety. The war by this time had ended, Her pilot, Harry Wachsen, was the commander of the steamer Buckthorn at Galveston for several years and as he passed in and out of the port had no occasion to hurry, as he did on the occasion when his Fox was so harried.

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From Under Both Flags: A Panorama of the Great Civil War (Veteran Publishing Co., 1896), 329-332.

Blockade runner Will o’ the Wisp, wrecked at Galveston in February 1865.

– Andy Hall