Hoel suddenly yelled, "Hard aport!" and furiously twisted the wheel. With only three feet to spare he had saved the boat from running aground on an obstruction the rebels had secretly constructed in the river channel. But in doing so, he had brought Carondelet directly abreast of the island just as she was fully revealed by a nearby lightning strike. Seeing the Union gunboat suddenly materialize from the darkness, the Confederates rushed to their guns.
A sporadic storm of shot and shell was unleashed across the water, aimed at the protective coal barge the Confederates thought was the side of the Union vessel. The barrage produced no effect. Not one piece of iron struck the gunboat's casemate.
With sparks still shooting from her stacks, paddle wheels whipping the water in a frenzy, and a jubilant Walke yanking the chain on her steam whistle in a defiant gesture, Carondelet steamed around a bend into the clear and vanished in the night.
A few miles below Island Ten, the lucky gunboat eased along the shore to the cheers of Union troops, elated that her big guns would soon support their assault on the Confederate works.
TWo nights later, encouraged by the success of Walke and Carondelet, a second gunboat, Pittsburgh, made the hazardous passage.
Soon, General Pope's troops were ferried across the river to attack the Rebels' back door. On April 7, surrounded by overwhelming ground and river forces, Island Ten surrendered.
Three months later, Commander Walke was summoned on board Admiral Farragut's flagship, Hartford, recently arrived after running his fleet upriver from New Orleans past the Confederate works at Port Hudson.
After offering him a glass of port, Farragut said, " Walke, our spies report that the ram the Confederates have been building up the yazoo River is nearly completed. I'm told she is armored with railroad iron. i would like you to take your boat up the Yazoo and investigate."
"Am I to engage her?" asked Walke.
"Destroy her if you can."
"Hard to believe the rebels found enough materials to build a warship."
"Queen of the West and Tyler will accompany you," Farragut continued. A permanent little grin seemed fixed on his congenial features.
David Farragut was every naval officer's ideal. He also looked like everyone's grandfather.
"What do the Rebels call the ram?"
"They say it goes by the name Arkansas.
"Any information, on who her commander might be?" inquired Walke.
Farragut nodded. "A former United States naval officer, Lieutenant Isaac Brown. I understand he's an old friend of yours."
"Isaac Brown is no stranger to me. We were very close before the war.
"if you cannot sink Arkansas, give me ample warning to prepare the fleet to meet her should she make an attempt to reach Vicksburg."
"You can count on Carondelet, admiral."
Farragut shook Walke's hand. "Good luck to you, commander." As Walke was rowed back to his gunboat, he could not imagine just how formidable the Confederate would be.
"Bow guns fire," Walke ordered his chief gunnery officer from the pilothouse. He stared through the viewing slits in the armor at the sudden appearance of Arkansas. The rebel ironclad had rounded the far bend and was steaming directly toward Carondelet. "She looks like the work of desperate men, Walke muttered at the unholy sight of his former friend's gunboat. "Leave it to old Isaac Brown to paint his boat brown.
"Brown or gray, she means business," said Pilot Hoel at the helm.
"Is there enough room in the river to pass and catch her in a crossfire between us and Tyler?" Walke asked.
"The width of the river is not the problem, sir," his pilot answered.
"If we try, she'll ram us for sure."
Walke turned and saw that Queen of the West had already turned and was heading down the Yazoo River for the Mississippi. "It seems we have no choice but to show the Rebel our stern and fight a running battle.
After his intentions were shouted across to Captain Gwin of Tyler, and the two Union gunboats made reverse turns, Walke instructed his stern guns to commence firing. Within seconds, the two thirty-twopounders at the aft end of the casemate opened up on the rapidly approaching Confederate ironclad.
"That should give old Isaac a jolt," Walke said excitedly as a shot from Carondelet slammed into Arkansas's Pilothouse.
"Our guns are right on the mark," said Hoel as a second Union shell slammed into the Rebel boat's pilothouse.
On the stern gun deck of Carondelet, the gunners were firing their cannon as fast as they could reload and torch the fuse. Arkansas had drawn so close they couldn't miss, but the ironclad relentlessly came on, taking hits but showing little damage.
"Port guns prepare to fire," Walke shouted down onto the gun deck at seeing the Arkansas's superior speed closing the distance between them. "Can you give us more speed," he called through the speaking tube to his Chief Engineer, Samuel Garrett.
"Steam Pressure is in the red now," Garrett's disembodied voice replied through the tube.
Ominously, Arkansas pulled alongside until they were blasting away at each other hull to hull. The two ironclads were so near one another that Walke thought he caught a glimpse of Isaac Brown. His old friend looked to be standing beside a shell-torn opening on the side of his Pilothouse, directing the fight. It appeared as though he had a bandage around his head.
With a thunderous roar across the narrow gap of water, Arkansas launched a wall of solid shot into Carondelet's casemate.
"I've lost the wheel!" Hoel shouted. "She doesn't respond."
A midshipman burst into the Pilothouse, his face white as a sheet.
"Captain, they've hit the boilers!" he gasped breathlessly.
"Some of the steam pipes are destroyed! The chief engineer says our steam is dropping fast!" "Run back to the gun deck and report to Lieutenant Donaldson," Walke said calmly. "Tell him the steering gear is disabled, and I need him to tie the rudders to port. We're going to run the boat onto the bank." Helpless while his gunboat was pounded unmercifully by the heavy Confederate cannon, Walke waited patiently until his orders were carried out. Already, the casemate looked as if it had been assaulted by a giant can opener.
"She's coming around," announced Hoel.
"Run the bow squarely into the mud, Mr. Hoel. Our anchors are shot away."
As Arkansas began pulling ahead, Walke saw Isaac Brown standing his hands and shouting across the on the roof of his casemate, cupping water. "Better luck next time, Henry!" Brown yelled.
The bastard has nerve, thought Walke. He made to shout a reply, but instinctively ducked as a broadside from Arkansas smashed into Carondelet and rolled her over on a twenty-degree angle that allowed water to rush through the gunports onto the deck. At the same time, the Union gunboat's bow slid up on the bank, coming to a stop as the mud gripped her hull. Walke was thrown against the wall of the pilothouse, badly bruising his shoulder.
After he struggled to his feet and stepped out of the pilothouse to answer Brown, it was too late. Arkansas was already pulling away, locked in a fight with the brave little Tyler Walke could only shake his fist in frustration. she had taken Carondelet's famed fight with Arkansas was over, and the worst of it.
"Carondelet, " Rear Admiral Henry Walke recalled many years later, 6 6 was a most successful craft." Under seven different skippers throughout the war, U.S.S. Carondelet fought in more battles against the enemy (over fifteen engagements) and came under more fire than any other vessel in the Union Navy. From Fort Henry through her battering at Fort Donelson, her incredible run past Island Ten through the siege of Vicksburg and the fight with the durable Arkansas, and to the battle of Memphis, the defense of Nashville, and the Union campaign up the Red River, Carondelet ran up a battle record that would not be surpassed until World War U.
During continuous service from early 1862 until the end of the war, she was struck by enemy shot and shell over 300 times, 37 of her crew were killed and 63 wounded. She suffered 35 casualties from her drubbing by Arkansas alone.
 
; A week ere close of the w aft the Carondelet cast off on her final voyage and steamed up the Mississippi River to Mound City, Illinois, where she was decommissioned. A few days later, all her guns and stores were removed, her crew was paid off, and her officers transferred to other commands. The career of the grand old fighting lady of the western rivers was finished. In November of 1865, she was auctioned off to Daniel Jacobs of St. Louis for $3,600.
For the next few years, Carondelet's fate is shrouded in mystery.
It was presumed she was sold by Jacobs and taken to Cincinnati, where it was rumored she was to be demolished for scrap. But for some reason she managed to survive. Her whereabouts from 1865 until 1872 are unknown.
Late in 1872, she was recognized as a wharfboat at Gallipolis, Ohio.
Her owner was a Captain John Hamilton. A photo taken at the time shows her much modified, but still afloat.
At Gallipolis the old gunboat deteriorated until Hamilton decided to burn and scrap her for what iron remained in her hull, estimated at $3,000. But, before he could tear her apart, the spring flood of 1873 snapped her mooring lines and washed her 130 miles down the Ohio River. Carondelet finally came to rest at the head of Manchester Island, where she eventually settled into the soft silt and disappeared.
After twelve years of hard service and undying fame, Carondelet was no more.
Some Days You Can't Win
April 1982 smart person once wrote, "An object lost and hidden, waits and whispers." I'm remiss for not recalling the author. I hope he or she forgives me, but the phrase comes to mind because of the many lost shipwrecks that have whispered to me through the years.
Carondelet, it seemed to my imaginative mind, whispered the loudest.
It was as though she called out through the mists of time, 110 years in the past, begging to be found. Sadly, like the cavalry troop that arrives after the wagon train has been burned by marauding Indians, I rode on the scene too late.
I've always had a soft touch for Civil War ironclads because their design was so radically different from that Of any ships that came before and after. The rough, often crude vessels constructed by the South were marvels of expedience and improvisation. Some built in ironworks, some knocked together in cornfields, their trademark sloping sides were a necessity, owing to lack of heavy-metal-forming machinery and the shortage of iron, a commodity that went mainly to build cannons for the Confederate Armies. Their armor plate was often train rails slotted together to form a shield.
The United States Navy ironclads, predominantly based on the monitor design, revolutionized naval warfare with their revolving gun turrets, flush decks, and total lack of sails and rigging. So successful were the monitor-class vessels, the U.S. Navy built and commissioned fifty up until 1903. The last monitor was not stricken from navy rolls until 1937.
It can safely be said that the original Monitor was the grandfather of the giant battlewagons that followed and fought in five wars. learning that the famous old warhorse of the river battles was sold for scrap after the Civil War, and later became a whaleboat on the Ohio River at Gallipolis, it became a simple matter for me to trace her route after the spring floods swept her 130 miles down river to Manchester Island. Even if her owner, John Hamilton, had burned the derelict for whatever iron was left in her bones on Manchester Island, experience taught me that a considerable amount of her lower hull and timbers should still be intact.
There are two islands in the river off the town of Manchester.
The smallest is named Manchester Island Number One, the largest, Number TWo. The dilemma? On whose shore did Carondelet run aground?
The solution came with researcher Bob Fleming's penciled overlay sketch from an atlas of Adams County, Ohio, circa 1875. Before the Turn of the century, the smaller piece of land in the middle of the river was called Tow Head Island. The Manchester Island that held the remains of Carondelet was now called Number TWo.
Enlarging Fleming's sketch to the same scale as the modern chart and performing the old overlay trick, I quickly determined the 1982 head of Manchester Island was now two hundred yards downstream from where it split the river in 1873. This gave me a search grid not much larger than a soccer field.
Armed with enough data to inspire an attempt to find Carondelet, Walt Schob and I flew to Cincinnati, Ohio, along with our Schonstedt gradiometer. We rented a car and drove along the Ohio bank of the river across from Kentucky. The valley carved by millions of years of flowing water is quite scenic. Rolling hills, thickly forested, drop onto picturesque farms, most of them growing tobacco.
Suddenly, I called out to Schob, who was at the wheel. "Stop the car and Turn around."
He looked at me questioningly. "Why, did I run over something?"
"No," I answered excitedly. "There's a barn back up the road. I have to get a closer look at it."
"A barn?"
"A barn." and followed my directions until I Walt dutifully made a U-turn motioned for him to stop. I walked about fifty Yards Feeling as if I were carried back in time, air-sized barn with dark down a small, dusty road until I stood beside a feathered walls. A man was standing on a ladder, painting a large gray, w sign across the vertically laid boards.
"Well done," I said to him. "YOu do nice work."
He turned around, stared down at me, and grinned. "I've been doing it for forty-five years, so I kinda got the hang of it-" I studied his handiwork. "I didn't think they still painted Mail Pouch tobacco signs on the sides of barns. I thought Mail Pouch outdoor advertising went the way of the Burma Shave highway signs."
"Nope, they're still in business, and I'm one of a dozen guys still painting them."
After a short chat, I returned to the car. "What was that all about?" asked Walt.
"When I was a kid in Minnesota, I used to watch for Mail Pouch signs on barns when my dad took the family for drives through the country. I thought they'd become extinct."
"Do they smoke Mail Pouch?"
"They chew it."
Walt made a face. "Nasty habit. Rots your teeth." poor Walt, he just didn't have any romance and sentiment in his soul.
Reaching the town of Manchester late in the afternoon, we stopped at the sheriff's department and asked to see the sheriff. He turned out to be a large, smiling man by the name of Louis Fulton. Although his department didn't have a search-and-rescue boat to work the river, a nice fiberglass outboard for that purpose was owned by the local fire if,s good fishing buddy was Fire Chief department. Naturally, the sheri Frank Tolle, and before you could say, "It PaYs to have influence," we had ourselves a search boat, and early the next morning we were cruising the beautiful Ohio River, with the boat manned by fireman Earl Littleton.
There was a small catch, however. As a favor to Sheriff Fulton, we agreed to use our magnetic search gear to look for a woman who had inexplicably vanished three years previously.
The enigma was classic Unsolved Mysteries material. The story told to us by the sheriff concerned a widow in her late sixties. One afternoon, while she was roasting a chicken in the oven, she left her house and made a quick trip a mile or so into town to buy a few groceries.
After leaving the store, she was never seen again, nor was her car ever found. When investigators learned she was missing, they immediately searched the house. Except for a chicken roasted to a crisp, nothing appeared out of place or missing.
Since the lady's house was situated on a road that sloped down toward the river, the sheriff's investigators speculated that she might have been approaching her house when she either blacked out or suffered a heart attack. A brick-enclosed mailbox appeared damaged at the entrance to her driveway, suggesting the car might have struck it a glancing blow after she became unconscious. Now out of control, the car rolled down the road into the river and sank out of sight, or so the theory went.
Divers swept the river with no luck. The lady and her car remained lost.
A sucker for a good puzzle, I gladly offered to help with a search before tackling the hunt for C
arondelet. With the sheriff and two of his deputies on board, curious to see how we went about searching for a sunken object, Walt and I began running search lanes back and forth in the water below the end of the road. After covering a hundred yards downstream and nearly @ yards out into the channel, we came up empty.
We struck no magnetic anomalies that suggested the mass of an automobile.
I have a strong antipathy to searching for an object when totally unprepared. I suggested we return to the boat ramp and knock off for lunch. This gave me time to check out a few details. I walked the road from the main highway past the lady's former house and down the hill to the edge of the river. Then I asked the sheriff what month the lady went missing.