Bowater led his crew up the sloping shore. A young army lieutenant—he introduced himself as Lieutenant Evans—let them in through the thick oak door set in a rough wooden frame embedded in earthen walls. The Cape Fears huddled under the parapet with the rest of the garrison, while the lieutenant led Bowater up to the ramparts.
The Yankees were hitting the fort hard. With a relatively calm sea, and anchored ships firing on a fixed target, it was not too difficult for the invaders to hone their aim until nearly every one of their shells found its mark.
Bowater walked through the storm of iron, amazed at the amount of ordnance dropping on the fort, amazed that he had not yet been blown away. He moved with a strange calm, as if he was encased in ice.
He was not afraid, despite the shelling, despite the fact that any rational person would be terrified, cowering under whatever might offer some protection. It was a phenomenon he had experienced before. It was what they called bravery under fire, but he knew it had nothing to do with bravery. It was more a trick that the mind played on itself, a turning off of the machinery of fear, in the face of insupportable terror.
When he thought of it, he imagined a Stephenson link and reversing lever, the long iron bar that shifted an engine from forward to reverse. But in his mind the link shifted from fear to fight. The real courage, Bowater knew, was in getting yourself to the place where your mind could shut off.
Bowater mused on these things as he followed Lieutenant Evans up the rough wooden stairs, past craters of brown dirt where the shells had landed, past guns that stared silent and impotent out at the Union fleet.
Fort Hatteras was no marvel of engineering. It was mostly wood-frame, dirt-filled walls, the work of slaves who had been ferried out to the low island to throw up some defense against the inevitable arrival of the Yankees. Albemarle Sound was the gateway to the rivers that ran deep into Confederate country, and Pamlico Sound served as a base for privateers to race out and snatch up Yankee prizes as they labored around Cape Hatteras. Hatteras Inlet was too important for the Yankees to leave alone.
“Colonel?” Lieutenant Evans stopped and addressed an officer, sitting on the top of a small barrel and slumped against the earthen wall of the fort, one arm resting on the top of the parapet. “Colonel Martin, this is…”
“Captain Samuel Bowater, Confederate States Navy, sir, at your service.”
Martin looked from the lieutenant to Bowater, his head turning slowly from one to the other, as if it was a great weight that needed to build momentum. His eyes looked sunken and his face pale. Colonel Martin was very tired.
“Captain,” he said and made to stand, but Bowater said, “Please, sir, don’t stand on my account,” and Martin, without protest, remained seated.
“It has not been a good day for us, Captain,” Martin said, staring over the low wall at the Union ships. “The firing has gone on like this since daybreak. We were forced to abandon Fort Clark this afternoon. No ammunition for the guns, Union troops landing on the beach…spiked the guns as best we could. Had to use nails, didn’t even have proper spikes. Got most of the boys over here, but we still didn’t have enough to man the guns proper.”
Bowater nodded. It was a hopeless situation that Martin found himself in, and he had done what he could.
“Shelling’s slackened,” Lieutenant Evans noted.
Bowater and Martin looked around, as if they could see the absence of shells. The lieutenant was right. The artillery was coming in sporadically now, shells exploding once a minute, perhaps, or less, the fall of shot tapering off like the rain at the end of a quick-moving squall.
“It’s getting a bit dark for naval gunnery,” Bowater noted. The fleet was getting underway; some of the ships had already moved out to sea, where they could spend the night away from the beach and the guns of Hatteras.
“Well, it is some relief to see the Yankee navy is not immune to the laws of nature,” Martin said. “They are damn near immune to everything else. Hardly a shell has missed, and nothing we could do but take cover and endure it. I don’t know what more we can do.”
Bowater nodded and looked out at the anchored fleet, the big men-of-war washed in the evening light. They mounted nine-, ten-, and eleven-inch guns that could easily hurl shells from a distance that the fort’s eclectic artillery could never match. If they so chose, they could batter Fort Hatteras until it was indistinguishable from the sand dunes on which it sat. Samuel felt a bit of Martin’s despair play over him.
Damn, he thought, I am too damned late… And then he corrected that notion. The moment that the Union navy sailed for Hatteras, it was too damned late.
“Sir,” said Bowater, “I do believe Commodore Barron, who is in command of naval forces here in the sound, is underway and will arrive in an hour or so. Perhaps he has news of reinforcement.”
Martin seemed to brighten at that, just a bit. “Perhaps. Lieutenant Evans, please send word to the commodore that I would like a conference with him, at the earliest possible convenience.”
“Yes sir,” the lieutenant said, and he saluted and hurried off.
The shelling tapered away and then stopped as the evening settled down on the ocean and the tortured sands of Hatteras Island. Bowater sat on the parapet, looked out over the water, at his old navy, looked down the length of Hatteras Island, his old flag now flying over Fort Clark. The few stands of trees on the island looked like black patches on gray as the day faded to night, and lights like low-lying stars began to appear on the distant ships. Colonel Martin slept where he sat, his breathing sometimes rhythmic, sometimes labored.
It was full dark when Commodore Barron arrived, tramping up the wooden steps, led by Lieutenant Evans, who brought a lantern with him, and trailed by three other men, who turned out to be Colonel Bradford, colonel of artillery and engineers and chief of ordnance of North Carolina, and Lieutenants Murdaugh and Sharp, C.S. Navy.
Barron was a trim and energetic man, with thick white hair swept back over his head. Bowater guessed him to be in his sixties. They had crossed paths on a few occasions during their time in the old navy. He knew that Barron had entered the United States Navy on the first day of the year 1812, had been aboard the Brandywine when she conveyed General Lafayette to France in 1825.
“Commodore Barron,” Martin was saying, and it seemed a great effort for him to speak. “Our fort is armed with naval guns, as you can see, and my men are strangers to such ordnance, and I am played out, sir, I will freely admit it. Allow me to formally request that you take command here, Commodore, and do what you can.”
Barron made some grunting noise, looked up at the string of lights on the water where the fleet lay at anchor. He could refuse. He was a naval commander; forts were not his affair. He would put himself in the way of no glory by accepting responsibility for an effort that was certainly bound for failure. But for all that, Barron said, “I will accept command, sir, and do what I am able.”
Colonel Martin’s relief was evident, and he said nothing as Barron began to issue orders. “Captain Bowater, what have you brought down with you?”
“We have powder in barrels, sir, shell for the Columbiad and for the other guns, fuses, round shot, and some cartridges. We have not yet landed any of it, not knowing the state of things here.”
Barron looked around the fort, which, with the moon now rising, was all dark shadows and deep blue light. He pointed to the gun that looked out over Pamlico Sound. “No point in leaving that there. Yankees aren’t going to pass through the inlet till they’ve beaten us into the sand. We’ll shift that gun around so it can do us some good. Bowater, detail some of your men to get the ordnance you brought ashore, and whoever is left, get them on shifting that gun. Lieutenant Murdaugh, Sharp, same for you. We’ll take whatever men your ships can spare. We’ll fill out the gun crews with navy men. We have to make every effort, be ready for them when they open up on us at first light.”