Nevertheless, after looking at the scene, Bragg believed that he was outnumbered two to one and cancelled the planned attack in spite of the remonstrance of General Hoke and Bragg’s own staff.
General Whiting waited for hours on the northwest corner of the fort for Bragg’s attack on the Union rear but it never came.
Later in the day a Confederate supply ship approached and tried to dock at Craig’s Landing, a tiny village north of the fort. It was captured there by a party of Terry’s soldiers concealed in the buildings. A Confederate ironclad gunboat that accompanied the supply vessel then took the supply vessel under fire and sank it alongside the pier.
The main Union Army force continued to dig itself into the sand half a mile from the fort. A skirmish line approached to within a few hundred yards to do the same thing. There were only three Southern cannon left on the “land face” of Fort Fisher and the riflemen watching from the fort’s walls were too far from the skirmish line to inflict much loss.
After nightfall Terry went to Porter’s flagship. Terry was determined that there would be no failure of army cooperation with the navy in this second attempt to capture the fort.
Devereux was present in the admiral’s stateroom while the next day’s business was discussed.
There were a few navy officers present as well as a colonel named Curtis whose brigade would lead the main army attack against the fort in the area of a gate next to the Cape Fear River. The advance would begin at three in the afternoon.
Porter announced that the bombardment would be carried on in a random but reduced fashion during the night but that it would start again in full force around ten in the morning and build in intensity until the army began its assault on the northern side of the fortress.
They agreed that signal flags from the army would indicate the beginning of the main effort and that the flagship and all other units would sound their steam whistles to instruct the ships to stop firing during the attack.
Admiral Porter declared that a naval “brigade” of sixteen hundred sailors and four hundred marines from the fleet would land beginning at two o’clock and would attack the seaward side of the fort just south of the bend in the walls.
The army officers present said nothing.
Devereux asked how the sailors would be armed. He knew that the marines would have their rifles.
Porter looked annoyed. He turned to a young officer standing at this side. “Commander Kidder Breese, my fleet captain will lead the naval brigade…” He waited for Breese to answer Devereux’s question.
“Pistols and cutlasses” was the answer. Breese seemed content with that.
The ship rocked at her mooring in the light swell. A bell sounded the change of watch.
“Not enough for you, Devereux?” Admiral Porter asked. The mocking tone had returned. “I suppose that kind of work is not done in the War Department.”
You son of a bitch. Claude raged behind the mask. He had doubted that it would be a good idea to wear his medal on this voyage, but after Porter’s insult, he felt in a pocket of his frock coat and drew forth the bronze cross with its red, white and blue ribbon. “Here you are, Breese, take this. By the day after tomorrow you will either own one of these or you will be dead.” He handed the Medal of Honor to the young man.
“I will accompany you ashore, sir.” He announced to Alfred Terry.
The general bowed slightly.
Devereux went to his cabin to gather his possessions.
After Claude’s departure from the meeting, Terry said that his main effort would begin at three in the afternoon and that he was no longer worried about an attack from his rear. The Confederates were fortified along a line south of Wilmington, but prisoners and deserters had informed his people that Braxton Bragg was known to be in a panic and unable to bring himself to attack.
— 15 January —
Claude spent the night curled up in a corner of a dugout that was one of several that made up Alfred Terry’s forward headquarters. He brought his standard field bedroll ashore. His blanket and rubber ground sheet kept him reasonably warm and dry. He woke at dawn to find Terry drinking coffee from a tin mug while seated at a rough table that his headquarters people had made. It was another bright, cold day. Devereux went outside to relieve himself at a slit trench behind the shelter. When he returned he found another mug of coffee steaming on the table for him.
Terry asked him to sit down. For a man facing the most important day of his life Terry looked remarkably at peace with himself. He smiled broadly behind his neatly trimmed brown beard. “Do you always speak to people like Porter in that way?” he asked. He was still smiling.
“Sor, would ya like some nice fried fatback and hard tack?” Terry’s orderly asked. The man seemed unconcerned with the interruption he had made.
“Yes, thank you, cook it crisp,” Claude replied. The Irishman made him think of John Quick. He looked at the soldier. They looked so alike that they might have been cousins. “I do,” he replied to Terry. “I would not want to be mistaken for someone else…”
Terry stopped smiling. He looked displeased with the mocking sarcasm.
Devereux saw that he had gone too far. “I’m a business man, a banker, not a regular soldier. I have no intention of maintaining myself in government except as a contributor to political campaigns. Our bank has prospered in the war. Porter will need me after the war and not the other way around.” This was not absolutely true. Devereux had decided that if he had the chance, he would be quite willing to accept all the honors that a victorious Union government and army might bestow.
Similarly, Terry had decided that a return to his civilian life as clerk of the court in New Haven, Connecticut was not his desired future. The announcement of Devereux’s plans caused him to see his “guest” in a favorable light. This showed in his face.
Claude was happy eating his breakfast. Nothing as good as some nice greasy pork belly, he thought. Terry will not be a problem. “Later, I am going to walk to the beach to watch the naval brigade land and then come back to accompany you when you move your headquarters forward. I need to see enough to make a complete report to Stanton.”
The name of the Secretary of War had the desired effect. Terry relapsed into his usual pleasantries. Buried in his banter were a logically connected series of questions about the bank.
At one in the afternoon, Claude bestirred himself from a late morning nap in his corner. Couriers and staff officers had come and gone, but Devereux had the old veteran’s ability to sleep anywhere, anytime and their voices made a comfortable distraction under his blanket.
He walked back across the sandy peninsula to the ocean side. Terry had wanted to send someone with him but the last thing he wanted was a “minder.” His rough-out calf length boots and blue wool fatigue jacket made him warm in the January sun of midday. A black, broad brimmed hat kept the sun from his eyes.
The ground was flat with a few small depressions. There were scattered clumps of palmetto and scrubby trees.
He stopped and used his clasp knife to cut a five foot sapling and shape it into a walking stick. That balanced him nicely as he made his way through the patches of soft sand.
Sedge grass sheltered behind the dunes, and in the depressions behind the dunes.
The distance had not seemed so great in the night but the presence of so many others had made the time pass in walking across the peninsula. He wore his two 32 caliber Navy Colt revolvers. One had been made especially for him at the factory in Connecticut. The other he had acquired from a dead Confederate officer in the Wilderness battle. The situation and his “disguise” as a federal soldier had required him to kill the man. He shot him in the face in the heat of battle. He tried not to think about it.
He had acquired a Spencer repeating carbine from the factory for a “War Department Test.” The little rifle was slung across his back along with a bandolier of its metal cased ammunition.
He passed Union soldiers moving from one shore to the other.
When the man in charge of the detail saw the stars, an exchange of salutes followed. Devereux had become so accustomed to this that the irony of the situation only occasionally occurred to him. He crossed the top of a dune and saw the sea and the fleet spread wide before him. The wind kicked up three foot waves and the ships rolled in the positions in which they were held by their fore and aft anchors. The surf was breaking four feet high with white caps along the crests. He made a depression for his hindquarters and sat to watch. A swig from the big, flat Yankee canteen that he carried was satisfying after the walk. Up the beach to his left Terry’s supply base camp bustled with men unloading and moving crates and barrels. There were enough soldiers guarding this mass of supplies that it was hard to believe a weak commander like Bragg would attempt to take it. Down the beach to his right was Fort Fisher. He could see the land face from his seat. It was much destroyed by the fleet’s cannon and mortar fire. That fire continued and seemed to be increasing as Porter had promised. He settled back on the sand and fell asleep.
The sound of shouting woke him. Boats were grounding on the sand and shingle shore. There were hundreds of boats in the water. They were spread cross the anchorage area, going and coming on their way to rendezvous points where they formed into “waves” before proceeding to the beach. Boats were rolling around in the troughs and on the crests of the wind waves. Two boats had broached and foundered in the high surf. Sailors were struggling ashore from these accidents. A number of men approached his position. At first they looked hostile, but he laughed and they saw their mistake.
Commander Breese waded out of the sea and onto the sand.
Claude walked to him. “Hello Breese, feeling optimistic today?”
Breese did not seem to appreciate the humor. Perhaps he was pre-occupied. “Good day to you, sir,” he said while looking at the nearly ruined fort close by.
“What are you going to do first,” Claude asked.
“I will send the marines with a party of sailors to dig a ditch that we may shelter in before the charge.”
“Good plan. If it’s all right with you, I will go with them so that I can see…”
Thirty US Marines and fifty sailors moved along the beach to within three hundred yards of the walls.
Devereux followed along behind them. His bad leg hurt like hell. It was the leg that had only half a kneecap, a souvenir of Sharpsburg. All that damned climbing up and down the sides of ships, he thought.
The marines had Sharp’s rifles and in the army only Berdan’s US Sharpshooters had Sharp’s rifles. Devereux pondered that, asking himself if he should do something about it when he returned to Washington.
Confederate sharpshooters began to fire ranging shots, “feeling” for the distance. Sand was “kicked up” around them. The marines and sailors flinched from the sight and the “whizz” sound that passing bullets make. It was clear that none of these men had experienced much real combat.
“Don’t worry boys,” he told them. “They couldn’t hit an elephant at this range.” He looked around to see if any recognized the reference to John Sedgwick’s death in the Wilderness. None did. He could visualize the scene on the walls. The best men would work out settings for the rifle sights, while the others waited to be told what to do. He knew what would come next.
After ten minutes a cannon barked from the wall. The first shot buried itself in a foot of water at the beach. It was a good shot and missed Devereux’s group by twenty yards. The next one was fifty yards closer to the fort but still on the beach. The next was another fifty yards along, and so the process went until the ranging shots reached a wooden palisade that extended from the fort almost to the sea. Ah, they must have some new people on those guns. The regular gun crews would have done this, and months ago… No shots to the left of the end of the palisade. This must be mined and they hope these poor buggers will try to go there when they see where the artillery shoots.
Breese came up behind him at the head of the two thousand man column. It was eight wide and filled the beach. A navy lieutenant was in the front rank carrying Admiral Porter’s command flag. The cloth, gold fringe and white stars rippled in the breeze.
Looking down the column Devereux saw that the marines were in the middle rather than at the front. Odd, he thought, but I am not here to advise them… “Who are you?” he asked the officer with the flag.
“Lieutenant Porter is the admiral’s son and flag secretary,” Breese said. “He wishes to carry his father’s flag.”
Claude shook the hands of all those nearby. “What’s your plan?” He asked Breese. He looked at his watch. “It is two forty five. The army attacks in fifteen minutes. I have been over there and they have nearly ten thousand men and a lot of artillery in position.” He knew this would goad Breese to action. That is what he wanted. He guessed that if these seamen did what he expected them to do, they would fail.
“When the bombardment ends we will run down the beach until we are past the wooden fence and then turn right and charge straight at the crest of the earth wall where it bends inland. What do you think?”
Sweet Jesus. “Good plan, just keep moving forward and you are sure to succeed.” He looked at the sailors. They were capering about in the sand. Some were dancing with their mates and singing. The marines looked worried. “Like a drink?” Devereux asked pulling his engraved silver flask from a pocket.
“We have all had a double issue of medicinal spirits,” Lieutenant Porter replied.
“Ah, good,” Devereux laughed. “It’s cold today.” Yes, splendid. That will keep you moving forward into the abattoir.
The army’s artillery opened fire with the roar of fifty guns. Signal flags fluttered from the top of Terry’s headquarters dugout.
A steam whistle sounded on USS Vernon. It was repeated across the fleet. Fire ceased or shifted south toward parts of the fort that would not be assaulted.
“Time to go,” Devereux told Lieutenant Commander Breese. “Don’t miss the train.”
“Wish me luck,” Breese said. “Want to come with us?” His youthful enthusiasm was infectious, but not that infectious.
“No, I have done things like this before… If I am there with you, I will steal your glory. You are better off without me.”
Breese raced down the beach toward the wooden palisade. Porter’s son was beside him carrying the flag. The column cheered and ran forward following the officers forward.
Poor bastards, poor stupid bastards.
The Confederates’ remaining three pieces of artillery began firing at the naval column when it had gone half the distance to the palisade by the sea. Great holes were torn in the line of men and boys. Cheering continued until the head of the naval force reached the end of the wooden fence. The officers turned the corner of the fence with most of the sailors still moving forward behind them. At that point Rebel rifle fire from the parapet became effective.
Several hundred veteran riflemen had been brought into the fort overnight from across the Cape Fear River behind the fort. Unable to force himself to attack Terry’s obviously vulnerable rear on the peninsula, he nevertheless managed to send the defenders of Fort Fisher more men. These soldiers had suffered through three years of war. They knew that this might well be their last chance to punish their enemies. On the walls and above the sailors and marines, they stood in three ranks. The best shots were in front. As they fired a rifle they handed it back for a loaded weapon. The rear two ranks loaded as fast as they could. It was an old Confederate “trick.” It had worked well many times in this war. It produced a volume of small arms fire that was much like that of Gatling guns. This fire “chewed” the naval brigade to shreds. Many officers died or were wounded trying to move their men toward the sand ramparts.
Lieutenant Porter fell wounded twice and rose each time to raise his father’s flag. A third wound left him dead in front of Fort Fisher.
Inevitably the valiant sailors realized that no amount of courage would take them to the crest where they would face the “clu
bbed” muskets of men who hated them and who screamed down that they dearly wanted them as visitors. The sailors streamed back around the corner of the fence running for the rear along the beach. The Southern riflemen fired at them as long as they could hit them. Then they took up the task of shooting those still moving on the sandy slope in front of their trenches. The three cannons continued to tear massive holes in the fleeing column of the defeated.
Lieutenant Commander Breese limped by propped up by two seamen.
“Good show, Breese,” Devereux told him. “Too bad, too bad, where is the flag? Where is the admiral’s flag? No? Poor fellow, give my condolences to his father.”
Breese took the medal from his pocket. “I won’t need this…”
“So true, so true,” Claude said and turned from the Yankee officer. “I must see how Terry is doing. Good night.” He walked away into the darkening landscape headed for the concentration area for Terry’s advance.
By six o’clock Colonel Curtis’ assault brigade and all those pressing on their heels had fought their way through the relatively weak part of Fort Fisher’s walls next to the Cape Fear River. The Sally Port Gate of the fort was there. Gates are always weak points in defenses and the point at which the walls met the river was a defect that could not have been overcome without troops that were not available to the defenders. Night fell by six and there was no moon that night. Fires burning in the fort or on the bodies of the fallen illuminated the scene.
Claude waited in Terry’s headquarters for several hours. He did not feel guilty about this delay. Terry waited with him. They played cribbage and other card games and listened to the development of the battle. Couriers came and went. Devereux had another fatback sandwich provided by the generosity of Terry’s orderly. The coffee was excellent. The wind had “picked up” but the stars were still shining in the heavens.
Claude went out, supposedly to answer a call of nature, but in point of fact to walk over to an engineer supply point adjacent to the headquarters. Once there, he looked around. The engineers were busy and he was able to inspect the stacked materiel to find what he wanted.
Down the Sky: Volume Three of the “Strike The Tent” Trilogy Page 19
