16 - Word Comes Too Late

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In the wake of the explosion aboard the gunboat Chattahoochee, attention along the river returned to the battlefields inching closer to Columbus. In September 1863, there was the tight at Chickamauga in north Georgia where Henry Benning displayed so much valor. Despite the engagement's many casualties, people near the Chattahoochee River and elsewhere in the South considered Chickamauga a triumph because Union soldiers were forced to retreat. Many thought that the Confederacy was again headed toward victory.

Southern forces, for a brief while, held the heights around the strategic city of Chattanooga, Tennessee, with an entire Union army pinned down inside. Then in November 1863, soldiers led by General Ulysses S. Grant, after fierce fighting, shoved Confederate troops off the peaks of Lookout Mountain and Missionary Ridge overlooking Chattanooga. The Union was now firmly in control of the area, opening a gateway into Georgia. It was just a matter of time before General William Tecumseh Sherman would launch an invasion into the deep South.

In the interim, there was still talk along the Chattahoochee River of prying loose the blockade's grip. By the winter of 1863, hope centered on two Confederate navy ships, both undergoing work in Columbus. One was the old gun ship Chattahoochee, resurrected from its watery grave after the boiler explosion and towed to Columbus for reconstruction.

An even more menacing ship was being built from scratch. First called the Muscogee, and later renamed the Jackson, the vessel was unlike any ever seen in the region. The Jackson would be a floating fortress that could conceivably alter the entire strategic balance along the river. More than 200 feet long, the ship was covered above the waterline in iron four inches thick. When completed, the Jackson would boast six, possibly eight, heavy guns. The armor and weapons would make the vessel virtually impregnable to any known weapons, except bad luck and poor timing.

Lieutenant Augustus McLaughlin and Chief Engineer James Warner supervised construction of the two ships and the machinery to propel them. Their work at the Columbus Naval Yard and nearby Naval Iron Works (now the location of the Columbus Trade and Convention Center) became increasingly vital to Confederate naval operations as Union forces drove deeper into the South, capturing key ports and construction sites. As the war neared the end, McLaughlin and Warner proved to be adept improvisors, masters of efficiency, and skilled administrators, battling government bureaucracy and fighting for scarce supplies.

In the words of historian Maxine Turner, McLaughlin and Warner "wrought a miracle, not of military strategy or naval design, but of management." They were helped by some highly skilled contractors, including Horace King, a former slave and respected bridge builder, granted his freedom by a special act of the Alabama legislature.

The ironclad Jackson, after about a year of round-the-clock work, was ready for launching in the Chattahoochee by December 1863. All that was required was higher water. Hopes soared on New Year's Day, 1864 as the river crept upward, then rose rapidly. The water climbed ten feet over night, ascending so high that there was concern it might sweep away some of the dams and equipment funneling water into local mills. Worried managers shut the cotton mills until they were sure the river had crested.

The river rose so fast that it quickly submerged blocks holding the Jackson in a construction frame, preventing workers from removing them to allow the ship to float free. The only option was to wait and hope that the river rose enough to lift the boat up and out of the frame.

And the water did continue to rise, and part of the Jackson did begin to float, but the frame still held the vessel in place. The steamboat Marianna arrived to help set the ironclad free. The steamboat crew attached ropes from their vessel onto the Jackson, then the steamboat engine roared at a full throttle, pulling on the lines. But it was no use. A mere steamboat could not dislodge a warship sheathed in heavy iron.

By the next day, the river began to drop, and hopes of a launch sank with it. If the Chattahoochee had risen only a few more inches, the warship could have been freed. Now workers would have to wait until the water was low enough for them to remove the blocks holding the Jackson in place.

On Monday, January 4, workers were finally able to move in to dislodge the blocks, but as they did the river began dropping rapidly, about a foot per hour. By the time the blocks were out of the way, the water was too low to allow the launch. In the days that followed, the water rose at times, but the overall trend was downward. The Jackson 's first voyage would have to be postponed indefinitely.

Months passed. Then, in the Spring, John L. Porter, the ship's designer, arrived in Columbus and abruptly ordered a complete overhaul. Instead of a paddle wheel in the center, there were now to be two propellers to push the vessel forward, making it more maneuverable. Also, the Jackson would be rebuilt so it wouldn't float so deep beneath the water surface, making foundering in the shallows less likely. Because of these changes and others, the powerful warship would likely not set sail for another year.

But the Confederates were unwilling to wait so long without the necessities and luxuries that the Union blockade was keeping from them. They devised yet another, seemingly desperate plan for breaking the stranglehold on supplies. A cluster of small boats loaded with soldiers would cross the Florida waters outside Apalachicola harbor to capture a Union blockade ship, which they would then use to seize the rest of the blockaders.

The plan called for two steamboats bearing supplies and troops to rendezvous at Eufaula, Alabama, south of the Fort Benning area. The repaired gun ship, the Chattahoochee, launched April 20, 1864, also floated down river to Eufaula, carrying supplies for the mission. Once again, however, the ill-fated Chattahoochee encountered problems, running aground about six miles south of Columbus at a landing near present-day Fort Benning. Rains fell and the river rose, eventually setting the warship free, but four days later the vessel became stuck again.

Finally, the gun ship reached Eufaula. A trip of 85 miles had taken two weeks. The Chattahoochee was left behind to wait for rising waters while the expedition headed south.

Lieutenant George W. Gift, who had just married, commanded the force of about 100 men. After a round of parties in Columbus to celebrate the wedding, Gift set out on the first leg of the expedition accompanied by his bride, Ellen Shackleford. As the newlyweds traveled south on the steamboat Marianna, at least one Confederate official criticized Gift for talking too much about the venture and risking alerting spies to the Confederate plan.

The Marianna halted briefly at Saffold, Georgia, near the Florida border, to allow Mrs. Gift to disembark so she could travel to her nearby plantation home, "The Pines." Back underway, Gift wrote his wife: "I felt lonely last night. I retired early, and the little room seemed a vast and desolate waste. There was no Ellen to welcome me, as she did on our honeymoon trip... But won't we be blithe and gay when I return? Won't I tell of the hairbreadth escapes by land and sea, won't I build castles in the air?"

Gift and his soldiers crowded onto seven small boats for the final passage to Apalachicola. Near the town, they waited until nightfall before crossing the open bay to reach St. George's Island. There they hid the boats and camped, waiting for ideal conditions to launch their attack - a pitch-black night with rough seas to shield their moves. Shrouded in darkness, they planned to sneak up on the Union blockade ship, the Adela, and then use it to force the surrender of the other blockade vessel, the Somerset.

But the dark, rolling seas they hoped for never materialized until it was too late. Midshipman J. T. Scharf, later recalled, "The sea was smooth and the dipping of the oars in the phosphorescent water emitted a luminous light which shown brightly some distance beyond."

Gift and his soldiers waited and waited. Almost a week passed. Their food was running short until scouts brought supplies from Apalachicola - and bad news. Union blockaders knew about their plans to attack. Gift decided they should all escape while they could.

Late on the night of May 12, 1864, the seven boats shoved off from the island. As luck would have it, the hoped-for rough seas arrived as they set sail. The wind picked up rapidly and began churning the waves. The Confederates split their forces, perhaps to increase the likelihood of survival. Gift's boat, with 17 aboard, and another boat, carrying ten men, charted a course straight for Apalachicola, across the open water. The other boats hugged the shore, taking the longer, but safer route around St. George's sound until they reached the mainland.

Gift's decision to brave the wide expanse of water between St. George's Island and Apalachicola proved unfortunate. Blustery winds howled in from the north, and the waves grew taller and angrier. Minutes turned into hours as the two small boats battled the ferocious wind and waves. The smallest boat took on so much water that it sank. Cast into the raging sea, the ten soldiers swam for Gift's boat. Every man somehow reached the vessel and clung to its sides.

Amid the wildly tumbling and tossing waves, Gift became seriously ill. He was so sick that he was unable to function and relinquished command to midshipman J. T. Scharf.

The craft, carrying 17 passengers and with ten others in the water desperately holding on, took on a dangerous amount of water. As Scharf later recalled, "The boat was about two miles from shore and all expected every moment would be the last."

Scharf reasoned that their only hope of survival was to turn the boat and ride with the waves, with the squall at their backs. Shouting across the storm noise, he told Gift of his plans. Gift, still terribly sick, shouted back that Scharf should do whatever he thought best.

Scharf ordered the men to toss overboard any extra weight they could possibly spare. Guns, ammunition, water casks, lanterns, and other supplies were thrown into the sea. Then the men prepared to turn the ship sideways before the raging waves.

Before they turned the boat, however, something had to be done about the men hanging onto the sides. Six were so exhausted that they might loosen their grip and drown. Soldiers in the boat grabbed the six who were the weakest and pulled them inside. That left four others still in the water.

Scharf shouted orders, and the crew began turning the craft. They plunged into a deep valley of water, then a huge wave rolled underneath the boat, nearly lifting it out of the ocean. Somehow, when they were most vulnerable, they didn't capsize. The crew successfully maneuvered the boat around to ride the waves straight toward St. George's Island. But they were not out of danger. The boat, weighed down by so many men, was barely afloat, yet the soldiers still in the water couldn't last much longer. Fearing they would drown, Scharf decided to risk the extra weight and hoist them inside.

The men crouched helplessly in the boat as the waves pushed them faster and faster toward shore. Then they heard a fearful sound above the storm's noise, the sound of waves crashing against the beach. The terrible force of the water would surely smash their small craft to bits. They had no choice but to abandon ship. Everyone dove into the water and began to swim.

The rest of the expedition force, between 70 and 80 soldiers, eventually reached Apalachicola. Greeted by friendly residents, they delayed their departure by about 24 hours, waiting for Gift and the rest of the men to appear. They were preparing their boats to leave at dawn on May 13 when a Union raiding party from one of the blockade ships approached the harbor and spotted them.

The Confederate soldiers had no choice but to flee. Abandoning their boats and all supplies, keeping only their rifles, they ran wildly through Apalachicola streets, trying to get away. The Union sailors fired at least two rounds at the fleeing Confederates, but hit none of them, and, apparently, none of the town civilians either.

Thinking they were out of harm's way, the Confederates slowed their pace and walked north of the town along a road paralleling the Apalachicola River where they headed almost directly into the path of another Union landing party. But their luck held, and once again they managed to escape. In the early morning light, the Union lieutenant heading the landing party mistook the Confederates for Union troops and allowed them to pass unchallenged. By the time Union forces realized they had let the enemy slip away, the Confederates had plunged into a nearby swamp and were running for cover in the thick underbrush. The Union soldiers pursued, but after splashing and slashing their way through the thick vegetation for about two miles gave up the chase.

Back on St. George's Island, all 27 men in the group commanded by Gift and Scharf managed to swim safely ashore. As the storm ended, they faced the grim reality of surviving on the deserted island without the food and fresh water they had thrown overboard. They scavenged about and found palmetto cabbage and oysters and also killed and ate at least one alligator. Finally, after they hid for two days on the island, sympathizers from Apalachicola found them and ferried them across to the town.

From Apalachicola, Gift and his soldiers traveled up river a short distance, then sunk their boat in a bayou and walked the rest of the way to safety. The entire doomed effort resulted in no deaths, but four men were captured by Union forces, although one claimed he had actually deserted. Three Apalachicola sympathizers, who scouted for the expedition, also fell into Union hands.

Though chances of ever breaking the blockade now seemed minuscule, some Confederates still placed their hopes on the ironclad warship, the Jackson. Work on the vessel continued in Columbus at a furious pace, but time was running out. Within days of the failed expedition to Apalachicola, frightening news spread throughout the region on May 15, 1864 - the town of Dalton in northwest Georgia was being evacuated. General William Tecumseh Sherman's troops had begun their drive toward Atlanta. Ten days earlier, Grant had launched his campaign against General Robert E. Lee's army. In the almost impenetrable wilderness of Virginia, the two armies grappled, confusion rampant on both sides. Henry Benning, shot in the shoulder, was among the many wounded.

Combat resumed a few days later at Spottsylvania Court House as Lee continued his skillful maneuvers and Grant relentlessly hammered away at his foe. Then at Cold Harbor in early June the battle dissolved into brutal trench warfare, a precursor of what was to come in World War I. The combat degenerated into the costliest and most futile engagement of the war as Grant launched attacks across the entire length of Lee's army. Waves of Union troops swarmed toward the Confederate trenches.

So many bullets flew that they seemed like swarming insects, making it nearly impossible to avoid being shot. Cannon fire was also incessant, sending showers of dirt and hot metal everywhere. Union soldiers, sure they were about to die, pinned pieces of paper on their backs with their names and addresses in hope that their corpses would be identified. 8,000 to 9,000 men were killed in only a few hours.

For ten days, the trench warfare continued. Many of the wounded, stranded in the no-man's land between the lines, died of thirst, starvation, infection, and loss of blood. At night, soldiers in the trenches helplessly listened to their moans.

Lee's army suffered about 30,000 casualties in one month, while Grant lost some 60,000 soldiers. Grant, however, continued to receive replacements, while Lee did not. As the two armies settled into nine months of siege warfare around Petersburg, Virginia, the Confederate army was running short of both men and supplies. Many of the Confederates' uniforms were in tatters, with the men patching together outfits with garments taken from killed Union foes. More than a few were barefoot.

Sherman, meanwhile, continued his methodical march through Georgia, burning nearly everything in his path that might help the South prolong the war. By September, Atlanta had fallen. By Christmas, Savannah was under Union control.

The next year brought more bad news for the Confederacy. By April 1865, Grant's army had grown to more than 100,000 strong, while Lee's had shrunk to about 30,000. The Confederates abandoned Petersburg and Richmond, trying to escape the vise tightening around them. The army was starving, going without sleep for days at a time, yet continued to fight. Henry Benning, recovered from his wounds, had resumed command.

Finally, with the enemy to his front and rear, Lee concluded that to continue the struggle was hopeless. He surrendered to Grant April 9 at Appomattox Courthouse in Virginia. As the defeated general rode back to his lines, a cheer of triumph began spreading through the Union ranks, but Grant hurriedly ordered silence.

Lee, flawlessly outfitted in a new, full-dress uniform, continued his slow ride on his horse Traveler back through his own troops. Historian Douglas Southall Freeman described the scene:

"On any other day, even a glimpse of him on a battlefield in that martial garb would have sent the rebel yell running through the ranks.... Now, it was different. Dignity and loftiness remained on his countenance but anguish was deeply cut in the angles of his mouth. He, supreme master of his emotions, was battling with tears.

"Each soldier seemed to have the same question in his throat: 'General, are we surrendered, are we surrendered?' His face gave the answer, but they followed him and thronged him and tried to touch him. This man at his side wept unabashed. Starving soldiers seemed to feel more acutely his distress than their own. Sensitive boys choked as they sought to comfort him. The defiant shouted that if he said the word, they would 'go after them again."'

The formal laying down of arms for most troops took place several days later, on April 12, signaling the final dissolution of Lee's army. The rain, falling virtually nonstop since Lee's surrender, finally stopped, but the sky was still heavily overcast, and there was a chill in the air. The long line of Confederate soldiers marched down a hill on a road leading up to and between formations of Union soldiers. In their muddy boots and disheveled uniforms, the Confederates moved forward. There was a deathly silence.

Leading them on horseback was General John B. Gordon. Georgia born, Gordon gained renown early in the war for his courage and the valor of the Alabama soldiers he led.

Gordon sat erectly in the saddle, his chin on his breast, eyes downcast. When the Confederate reached the Union general in command, Joshua Chamberlain, Gordon stiffened. As he turned his horse to face Chamberlain, he brought down his sword in salute.

Chamberlain later recalled the moment, "On our part not a sound of trumpet more, nor roll of drum; not a cheer, nor word, nor whisper of vain-glorying... but an awed silence rather, and breath-holding, as if it were the passing of the dead."

The Confederates then passed by, unit after unit, and stacked their rifles and other arms. Sergeants in charge of the colors folded regimental flags and also piled them on the ground. On and on, the Confederates came, laying down their weapons. Henry Benning, near the end of the long procession, was among the last to surrender.

The war was over. Or, at least it should have been. Because of poor communications, word didn't reach Columbus about the surrender until there was another battle right in the city, the last major Civil War clash east of the Mississippi River.

Leading up to the battle in Columbus was the arrival in Alabama of 13,000 cavalry soldiers led by Union Major General James Wilson. Wilson overwhelmed forces commanded by Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest who were defending the manufacturing town of Selma. The Union troops next advanced on Montgomery, Alabama, which surrendered without a shot being fired because it had no defenses. After a brief rest, the cavalry rode on toward Columbus.

Compared to Wilson's 13,000 men, there were only about 3,000 soldiers to defend Columbus, and they were woefully inadequate. Many were factory workers who served as part-time militia, their only training consisting of Saturday drills. A number had been summoned to help defend Atlanta and Savannah from Sherman, but they couldn't by any measure be called experienced troops.

Others ready to defend Columbus were either men too old for regular military service or boys deemed too young to leave home. There was also a smattering of regular troops on hand, but from the beginning, the battle of Columbus was a hopeless mismatch.

As Wilson's cavalry thundered toward the Chattahoochee, some Columbus residents began evacuating. Walking and riding, they hurried away on roads leading east through land now part of Fort Benning. The roads became clogged with refugees, carrying a few hurriedly gathered possessions on their backs or in wagons, desperate to get away.

The Confederate forces decided to make a stand on the Alabama side of the river in the small community of Girard. Earlier called Sodom when Alabama was inhabited by rough-hewn frontiersmen, Girard had become a small factory town. Many residents regularly crossed the river to work in Columbus. Eventually, Girard would be enveloped by Phenix City.

The Confederates didn't have enough soldiers to defend all three major bridges across the river so they concentrated their defenses around the center crossing, the covered Brodnax Street Bridge (later known as the 14th Street Bridge). They placed artillery pieces atop two hills guarding the approach to the bridge and dug trenches and erected fortifications to block access. The Confederates also stacked bales of cotton on the bridges spanning the river and soaked the cotton in highly flammable kerosene.

The Union cavalry galloped into the outskirts of Girard about two in the afternoon on Easter Sunday, April 16. They first tried to cross the bridge at Clapp's Factory, about three miles north of Columbus, but as they approached, Confederates set the bridge on fire, destroying it.

Almost simultaneously, Union soldiers charged toward the lightly defended southernmost passageway, the Dillingham Street Bridge. But C. C. McGehee, a factory worker stationed on the Georgia side, torched the bridge, making it impassable as well.

Now, as the Confederates had hoped, the Union forces were lured into a confrontation with them around the approach to the Brodnax Bridge. The attack didn't come immediately, however. First, Union officers scrambled to locate key personnel and organize the assault. Because it was late in the day, Wilson opted to attack after dark. The resulting battle is still studied today at Fort Benning as an example of what can go wrong in night combat.

It was pitch black by about eight that night, with no visible moon to provide light. About 300 Union soldiers from Iowa crept forward toward the Confederates' outer defenses. When they were within about 50 yards, they were detected. The Confederates opened fire with rifles and artillery. In the darkness, however, the Confederate aim was too high and did little damage. Union forces were able to push the Southern defenders back.

Unable to see clearly what was happening, Union officers wrongly assumed their forces had opened a hole in the Confederate defenses and ordered a cavalry charge. Soldiers from Missouri, riding in four columns, galloped toward the bridge. They passed right through the Confederate defensive perimeter, which was still intact. The Confederate defenders allowed the Union cavalry to pass by, offering no opposition because they mistakenly assumed they were fellow Confederates. Now the Union cavalry was behind enemy lines and in danger of being surrounded and cut off from any support. Confederate cannon fire was aimed in their direction.

One of the Union soldiers later described what he saw: "All of a sudden there was a shot, another, and in a second 10,000 more. The whole country seemed to be alive with demons… the next second brought the balls of the enemy by thousands over our heads and the shells hurried their way in every direction, leaving a fiery streak behind them. This was the first time that I ever saw shelling during the night time. It is a beautiful, but awful spectacle."

The Union soldiers somehow reached the bridge, but seeing they were trapped wheeled their horses around and rode back through the Confederate positions to the relative safety of their own lines.

Other Union soldiers advanced more methodically, pushing toward the Confederate guns on one of the hills. Dense woods and muddy bogs hindered the advance, and in the darkness, the troops became disoriented. Some officers yelled that the troops should veer to the left, while others ordered everyone to move to the right, leading to more confusion. Different companies of soldiers became inadvertently intertwined.

Nonetheless, the Union forces, veterans of previous campaigns, kept moving forward. The inexperienced Confederate defenders were already fleeing in complete disarray. Panic took hold, and many of them began running for the bridge in hopes of escaping the battle.

Tumult reined as both Confederates and Union forces crowded onto the covered bridge. There were no lights on the bridge, so seeing more than a few feet ahead was impossible. Foot soldiers, horsemen, artillery wagons, and ambulances were all jammed together inside the bridge, everyone straining to get to the other side. "How it was that many were not crushed to death in the tumultuous transit… seems incomprehensible," recalled one observer.

Confederate soldiers trained cannons on the bridge but decided not to fire to protect their comrades streaming across. The nightmare ended quickly. As soon as Union troops cleared the bridge, they spread out and began to secure strategic locations throughout Columbus. In all, the battle lasted about an hour. Southern soldiers fled in all directions, many joining the desperate throngs crowding the roads out of town.

Fearing defeat, Confederate naval officers tried to move the ill-fated wooden warship, the Chattahoochee, out of Union reach on the day of the battle. They used a steamship to tow the boat south of the city, but it soon became obvious that the vessel would be captured. Sailors used ten barrels of kerosene to douse the Chattahoochee from stem to stern. They then lit slow fuses, abandoned ship, and headed out overland, trying to escape the oncoming Union army. The boat was meandering down river when it exploded into flames. A tower of light shot high against the night sky. The boat continued to drift down river, eventually sinking for the second time. It settled about 12 miles south of Columbus on the bottom of the river from which it took its name.

The next day, Union soldiers destroyed much of Columbus' industrial might, burning mills, warehouses, and supplies, anything that could be used to support a war which no one in town yet realized was over.

The Union soldiers also set the ironclad warship, the Jackson, ablaze. The massive fortress, more than 200 feet long, was in the water and just weeks from being ready for action. Burning with red-hot flames, the Jackson slowly drifted down river through what would become Fort Benning, one final testament to the war's destructiveness. The Jackson finally ran aground on a sand bar about 25 miles south of Columbus. The fire destroyed most of the ship down to the waterline.

Both the Jackson and the Chattahoochee remained submerged on Fort Benning property until the early 1960's. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, along with volunteer boat owners and divers, recovered major sections from both vessels and floated them to Columbus.

Participating in the salvage operations were soldiers from Fort Benning's 568th Engineer Battalion. Funding for the salvage efforts came from many sources, but was spearheaded by donations from the Woodruff family, heirs to Coca-Cola fortunes. Today the remains from both ship hulls are on display at the Confederate Naval Museum in Columbus.

Chapter 17: Freedom's High Price

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