by Tom McCarthy
The Blackfeet were much more numerous than the whites and, confident of their strength, began to bluster and to assert that whatever they did would be dictated by their own wishes and not by any fear of their visitors. Whether they desired to avoid a fight or not can only be conjectured, but they finally sent back to where the horses were tethered and caused five of the worst to be picked out and brought forward.
When the trappers inquired the meaning of this proceeding, the Indians said that it was the best they could do, and the hunters must be content.
This last insult was the spark which exploded the magazine. Instantly every white man ran for his gun, and the Blackfeet did the same. A few seconds after, they wheeled about, and the sanguinary fight began.
Kit Carson and a companion were the first to obtain their guns, and as a consequence they led the advance. Each selected a warrior who was partially hidden by the trunk of a tree. Carson was in the act of firing, when he observed that his friend was examining the lock of his gun all unmindful of the fact that one of the Blackfeet had leveled his weapon directly at his breast. On the instant, Kit changed his aim and shot the Blackfoot dead, thereby saving the life of his friend, who could not have escaped had the weapon of his adversary been discharged.
This act of chivalry on the part of Carson simply transferred the peril of his friend to himself, for the Indian whom he had selected for his target was carefully sighting at him, at the very moment the gun was discharged. Kit saw what was coming and bounded to one side in the hope of dodging the bullet. Quick as he was, however, he did not entirely succeed, though the act doubtless saved his life. The ball from the rifle of his adversary grazed his neck and buried itself in his shoulder, shattering the head of one of the bones.
Carson, though badly hurt, did not fall or retreat. On the contrary, he tried desperately to reload his gun but found it impossible to raise his arm. He was hors de combat beyond all question and bleeding so fast that his weakness compelled him to lie down on the ground while the conflict went on about him. The fight was very hot for a time, the result being what may be called a drawn battle, with the advantage inclining to the side of the Indians. The trappers fell back to the safest place that presented itself and went into camp. They dared not start a fire, for they knew it would bring an attack from the Indians, but wrapping their saddle blankets around them, they bore the intense cold as best they could.
The sufferings of Carson were great. His wounds continued bleeding and froze upon the dressings, which were of the most primitive character. And yet not once through those hours of anguish did he utter a word of complaint. Many a strong man would have cried out in his agony, but one might have sat within arm’s length of the mountaineer without knowing he was hurt at all.
More than that, Carson took his part in the council which was held in the cold and darkness. The conclusion reached was that the party of trappers were not strong enough to pursue the Blackfeet, and the proper course to pursue was to rejoin the main body and report what had been done. It would then be time enough to decide upon their future action.
When this program was carried out, a larger party of hunters under the lead of an experienced mountaineer resumed the pursuit, but nothing could be found of the Blackfeet. They had utilized the grace allowed them so well that it was impossible to overtake or trace them, and the indignant trappers were obliged to submit to their loss.
The severe cold moderated, and as spring was close at hand, the hunters pushed their trapping operations along the Green and Snake Rivers, meeting with unbounded success. They gathered more peltries than they had dared to hope for and, when warm weather approached, went into quarters, where they remained until the following fall, a party of traders having brought them all the supplies they needed.
The rugged constitution of Carson and his temperate habits caused him speedily to recover from his severe wound. He again became the active, vigilant, keen-witted guide and hunter who was looked up to by all as the most consummate master of woodcraft that had ever been known in the west.
Such a large party as were gathered at the summer rendezvous was certain to include many varieties of people. The frank, brave, and open-hearted; the sly and treacherous; the considerate and courteous; the quarrelsome and overbearing—indeed the temperaments of the individuals composing the company were as varied as it is possible to imagine.
Among them was a powerful Frenchman known as Captain Shunan. He had won his title by hard fighting, possessed a magnificent physique, was brave and skilled in the use of arms, and was the most quarrelsome individual in camp. It is impossible to picture a more irascible and disagreeable personage than Captain Shunan, who appeared to spend all his spare time in trying to provoke quarrels with those around him. Sometimes he succeeded, but more often his insolence was submitted to by men as brave as he but who wished to avoid trouble with him.
The activity and strength of the Frenchman were so great that a skillful pugilist would have found difficulty in handling him. The only ground upon which he could be met with anything like fairness was where firearms were used.
On one of these occasions, the bully became unbearable in his behavior. He knocked down several weak and inoffensive persons and swaggered back and forth through camp, boasting that he could trounce any one there. In the midst of his bluster, Carson walked up in front of him and said in a voice loud enough to be heard by those around, “Captain Shunan, there are plenty here who can easily chastise you, but they prefer to submit to your impudence for the sake of peace; however, we have had enough, and now I notify you to stop at once, or I shall kill you!”
These were astounding words, and as may be supposed, when uttered by a man six inches shorter and many pounds lighter than the blustering captain, they fairly took away his breath. Carson spoke in his quiet, soft voice as though there was not the least cause for excitement, but those who knew him noted the flash of his clear, gray eye and understood his deadly earnestness.
Captain Shunan was infuriated by the words of Carson. As soon as he could recover himself, he turned about, and without speaking a word, walked to his quarters. Kit did not need be told what that meant. He did the same, walking to his own lodge, from which he speedily emerged holding a single-barrel pistol. He was so anxious to be on the ground in time that he caught up the first weapon that presented itself.
Almost at the same moment, Captain Shunan appeared with his rifle. Carson observed him, and though he could have secured without difficulty a similar weapon, he did not do so. He was willing to give his burly antagonist the advantage, if it should prove such. The other trappers, as may be supposed, watched the actions of the two men with breathless interest. The quarrel had taken such a course that they were convinced that one or the other of the combatants would be killed. Captain Shunan had been so loud in his boasts that he did not dare swallow the insult put on him by the fragile Kit Carson. Had he done so, he would have been hooted out of camp and probably lynched.
As for Kit, his courage was beyond suspicion. He feared no man and was sure to acquit himself creditably no matter in what circumstances he was placed. He was the most popular member of the large company, while his antagonist was the most detested, but the love of fair play was such that no one would interfere, no matter how great the need for doing so.
The duelists, as they may be called, mounted each his horse and, circling about the plain, speedily headed toward each other and dashed forward on a dead run. As they approached, they reined up and halted face to face within arm’s length.
Looking his antagonist straight in the eye, Carson demanded, “Are you looking for me? Have you any business with me?”
“No,” growled the savage Frenchman but, while the words were in his mouth, brought his rifle to his shoulder and, pointing it at the breast of Carson, pulled the trigger; but Kit expected some such treacherous act, and before the gun could be fired, he threw up his pistol and discharged it, as may be s
aid, across the barrel of the leveled weapon.
The ball broke the forearm of Captain Shunan at the very moment he discharged his gun. The shock diverted the aim so that the bullet grazed his scalp, inflicting a trifling wound, but the combatants were so close that the powder of the rifle scorched the face of the mountaineer.
Captain Shunan had been badly worsted and was disabled for weeks afterward. He accepted his fate without complaint and was effectually cured of his overbearing manner toward his associates.
12
Running the Blockade
The Banshee’s First Battle
By Thomas E. Taylor
It was nearly impossible to get through the tight net set up by the ships of the Union Navy. Their blockade of southern ports was strangling the Confederacy, slowly and as surely as the battles on land. There was little hope unless rebel ships could somehow get through.
Wilmington was the first port I attempted; in fact, with the exception of one run to Galveston, it was always our destination. It had many advantages. Though farthest from Nassau, it was nearest to headquarters at Richmond and from its situation was very difficult to watch effectively. It was here, moreover, that my firm had established its agency as soon as they had resolved to take up the blockade-running business. The town itself lies some sixteen miles up the Cape Fear River, which falls into the ocean at a point where the coast forms the sharp salient angle from which the river takes its name. Off its mouth lies a delta, known as Smith’s Island, which not only emphasizes the obnoxious formation of the coast but also divides the approach to the port into two widely separated channels, so that in order to guard the approach to it, a blockading force is compelled to divide into two squadrons.
At one entrance of the river lies Fort Fisher, a work so powerful that the blockaders, instead of lying in the estuary, were obliged to form roughly a semicircle out of range of its guns, and the falling away of the coast on either side of the entrance further increased the extent of ground they had to cover. The system they adopted in order to meet the difficulty was extremely well conceived, and did we not know to the contrary, it would have appeared complete enough to ensure the capture of every vessel so foolhardy as to attempt to enter or come out.
Across either entrance an inshore squadron was stationed at close intervals. In the daytime the steamers composing this squadron anchored, but at night they got underway and patrolled in touch with the flagship, which, as a rule, remained at anchor. Farther out there was a cordon of cruisers, and outside these again, detached gunboats keeping at such a distance from the coast as they calculated a runner coming out would traverse between the time of high water on Wilmington bar and sunrise, so that, if any blockade-runner coming out got through the two inner lines in the dark, she had every chance of being snapped up at daybreak by one of the third division.
Besides these special precautions for Wilmington, there must not be forgotten the ships engaged in the general service of the blockade, consisting, in addition to those detailed to watch Nassau and other bases, of free cruisers that patrolled the Gulf Stream. From this it will be seen readily that, from the moment the Banshee left Nassau harbor till she had passed the protecting forts at the mouth of Cape Fear River, she and those onboard her could never be safe from danger or free for a single hour from anxiety. But, although at this time the system was already fairly well developed, the Northerners had not yet enough ships at work to make it as effective as it afterward became.
The Banshee’s engines proved so unsatisfactory that under ordinary conditions nine or ten knots was all we could get out of her; she was therefore not permitted to run any avoidable risks, and to this I attribute her extraordinary success where better boats failed. As long as daylight lasted, a man was never out of the cross trees, and the moment a sail was seen, the Banshee’s stern was turned to it till it was dropped below the horizon. The lookout man, to quicken his eyes, had a dollar for every sail he sighted, and if it were seen from the deck first, he was fined five. This may appear excessive, but the importance in blockade running of seeing before you are seen is too great for any chance to be neglected, and it must be remembered that the pay of ordinary seamen for each round-trip in and out was from £50 to £60.
Following these tactics we crept noiselessly along the shores of the Bahamas, invisible in the darkness, and ran on unmolested for the first two days out, though our course was often interfered with by the necessity of avoiding hostile vessels; then came the anxious moment on the third, when, her position having been taken at noon to see if she was near enough to run under the guns of Fort Fisher before the following daybreak, it was found there was just time but none to spare for accidents or delay. Still, the danger of lying out another day so close to the blockaded port was very great, and rather than risk it, we resolved to keep straight on our course and chance being overtaken by daylight before we were under the fort.
Now the real excitement began, and nothing I have ever experienced can compare with it. Hunting, pigsticking, steeplechasing, big-game shooting, polo—I have done a little of each—all have their thrilling moments, but none can approach “running a blockade,” and perhaps my readers can sympathize with my enthusiasm when they consider the dangers to be encountered, after three days of constant anxiety and little sleep, in threading our way through a swarm of blockaders and the accuracy required to hit in the nick of time the mouth of a river only half a mile wide, without lights and with a coastline so low and featureless that as a rule the first intimation we had of its nearness was the dim white line of the surf.
There were, of course, many different plans of getting in, but at this time the favorite dodge was to run up some fifteen or twenty miles to the north of Cape Fear, so as to round the northernmost of the blockaders instead of dashing right through the inner squadron, then to creep down close to the surf till the river was reached, and this was the course the Banshee intended to adopt.
We steamed cautiously on until nightfall; the night proved dark but dangerously clear and calm. No lights were allowed—not even a cigar; the engine-room hatchways were covered with tarpaulins at the risk of suffocating the unfortunate engineers and stokers in the almost insufferable atmosphere below. But it was absolutely imperative that not a glimmer of light should appear. Even the binnacle was covered, and the steersman had to see as much of the compass as he could through a conical aperture carried almost up to his eyes.
With everything thus in readiness, we steamed on in silence except for the stroke of the engines and the beat of the paddle floats, which in the calm of the night seemed distressingly loud; all hands were on deck, crouching behind the bulwarks; and we on the bridge, namely, the captain, the pilot, and I, were straining our eyes into the darkness. Presently, Burroughs made an uneasy movement—“Better get a cast of the lead, Captain,” I heard him whisper. A muttered order down the engine-room tube was Steele’s reply, and the Banshee slowed and then stopped. It was an anxious moment, while a dim figure stole into the forechains, for there is always a danger of steam blowing off when engines are unexpectedly stopped, and that would have been enough to betray our presence for miles around. In a minute or two came back the report, “Sixteen fathoms—sandy bottom with black specks.” “We are not as far in as I thought, Captain,” said Burroughs, “and we are too far to the southward. Port two points and go a little faster.” As he explained, we must be well to the northward of the speckled bottom before it was safe to head for the shore, and away we went again. In about an hour, Burroughs quietly asked for another sounding. Again she was gently stopped, and this time he was satisfied. “Starboard and go ahead easy,” was the order now, and as we crept in, not a sound was heard but that of the regular beat of the paddle floats still dangerously loud in spite of our snail’s pace. Suddenly Burroughs gripped my arm—
“There’s one of them, Mr. Taylor,” he whispered, “on the starboard bow.”
In vain I strained my eyes to where he po
inted; not a thing could I see, but presently I heard Steele say beneath his breath, “All right, Burroughs, I see her. Starboard a little, steady!” was the order passed aft.
A moment afterward I could make out a long, low, black object on our starboard side, lying perfectly still. Would she see us? That was the question, but no, though we passed within a hundred yards of her, we were not discovered, and I breathed again. Not very long after we had dropped her, Burroughs whispered, “Steamer on the port bow.”
And another cruiser was made out close to us.
“Hard-a-port,” said Steele, and round she swung, bringing our friend upon our beam. Still unobserved, we crept quietly on, when all at once a third cruiser shaped herself out of the gloom right ahead and steaming slowly across our bows.
“Stop her,” said Steele in a moment, and as we lay like dead, our enemy went on and disappeared in the darkness. It was clear there was a false reckoning somewhere and that, instead of rounding the head of the blockading line, we were passing through the very center of it. However, Burroughs was now of opinion that we must be inside the squadron and advocated making the land. So “slow ahead” we went again, until the low-lying coast and the surf line became dimly visible. Still we could not tell where we were, and as time was getting on alarmingly near dawn, the only thing to do was to creep down along the surf as close in and as fast as we dared. It was a great relief when we suddenly heard Burroughs say, “It’s all right. I see the ‘Big Hill’!”
The “Big Hill” was a hillock about as high as a full-grown oak tree, but it was the most prominent feature for miles on that dreary coast and served to tell us exactly how far we were from Fort Fisher. And fortunate it was for us, we were so near. Daylight was already breaking, and before we were opposite the fort, we could make out six or seven gunboats, which steamed rapidly toward us and angrily opened fire. Their shots were soon dropping close around us, an unpleasant sensation when you know you have several tons of gunpowder under your feet. To make matters worse, the North Breaker shoal now compelled us to haul off the shore and steam farther out. It began to look ugly for us, when all at once there was a flash from the shore, followed by a sound that came like music to our ears—that of a shell whirring over our heads. It was Fort Fisher, wide awake and warning the gunboats to keep their distance. With a parting broadside, they steamed sulkily out of range, and in half an hour, we were safely over the bar. A boat put off from the fort and then—well, it was the days of champagne cocktails, not whiskies and sodas—and one did not run a blockade every day. For my part, I was mightily proud of my first attempt and my baptism of fire. Blockade running seemed the pleasantest and most exhilarating of pastimes. I did not know then what a very serious business it could be.
