Part 4 (1/2)

”We will then fight behind the ruins,” said the stubborn patriot, ”and prevent their men from landing.”

The British plan of attack, to judge from all military rules, should have been successful. First, the redcoat regulars were to land upon Long Island, lying to the north, and wade across the inlet which separates it from Sullivan's Island. Then, after the war s.h.i.+ps had silenced the guns in the fort, the land troops were to storm the position, and thus leave the channel clear for the combined forces to sail up and capture the city.

If a great naval captain like Nelson or Farragut had been in command, probably the s.h.i.+ps would not have waited a month, but would at once have made a bold dash past the fort, and straightway captured Charleston. Sir Peter, however, was slow, and felt sure of success.

For over three weeks he delayed the attack, thus giving the patriots more time for completing their defenses.

Friday morning, June 28, was hot, but bright and beautiful. Early in the day, Colonel Moultrie rode to the northern end of the island to see Colonel Thompson. The latter had charge of a little fort manned by sharpshooters, and it was his duty to prevent Clinton's troops from getting across the inlet.

Suddenly the men-of-war begin to spread their topsails and raise their anchors. The tide is coming in. {42} The wind is fair. One after another, the war s.h.i.+ps get under way and come proudly up the harbor, under full sail. The all-important moment of Moultrie's life is at hand. He puts spurs to his horse and gallops back to the palmetto fort.

”Beat the long roll!” he shouts to his officers, Colonel Motte and Captain Marion.

The drums beat, and each man hurries to his chosen place beside the cannon. The supreme test for the little cob-house fort has come. The men shout, as a blue flag with a crescent, the colors of South Carolina, is flung to the breeze.

Just as a year before, the people of Boston crowded the roofs and the belfries, to watch the outcome of Bunker Hill; so now, the old men and the women and children of Charleston cl.u.s.ter on the wharves, the church towers, and the roofs, all that hot day, to watch the duel between the palmetto fort and the British fleet.

Sir Peter Parker has a powerful fleet. He is ready to do his work.

Two of his s.h.i.+ps carry fifty guns each, and four carry twenty-eight guns each. With a strong flood tide and a favorable southwest wind, the stately men-of-war sweep gracefully to their positions.

Moultrie's fighting blood is up, and his dark eyes flash with delight. The men of South Carolina, eager to fight for their homes, train their cannon upon the war s.h.i.+ps.

”Fire! fire!” shouts Moultrie, as the men-of-war come within point-blank shot. The low palmetto cob house begins to thunder with its heavy guns.

{43} A bomb vessel casts anchor about a mile from the fort. Puff!

bang! a thirteen-inch sh.e.l.l rises in the air with a fine curve and falls into the fort. It bursts and hurls up cart loads of sand, but hurts n.o.body. Four of the largest war s.h.i.+ps are now within easy range. Down go the anchors, with spring ropes fastened to the cables, to keep the vessels broadside to the fort. The smaller men-of-war take their positions in a second line, in the rear. Fast and furious, more than one hundred and fifty cannon bang away at the little inclosure.

But, even from the first, things did not turn out as the British expected. After firing some fifty sh.e.l.ls, which buried themselves in the loose sand and did not explode, the bomb vessel broke down.

About noon, the flags.h.i.+p signaled to three of the men-of-war, ”Move down and take position southwest of the fort.”

Once there, the platforms inside the fort could be raked from end to end. As good fortune would have it, two of these vessels, in attempting to carry out their orders, ran afoul of each other, and all three stuck fast on the shoal on which is now the famed Fort Sumter.

How goes the battle inside the fort? The men, stripped to the waist and with handkerchiefs bound round their heads, stand at the guns all that sweltering day, with the coolness and the courage of old soldiers. The supply of powder is scant. They take careful aim, fire slowly, and make almost every shot tell. The twenty-six-pound b.a.l.l.s {44} splinter the masts, and make sad havoc on the decks. Cras.h.!.+

cras.h.!.+ strike the enemy's cannon b.a.l.l.s against the palmetto logs. The wood is soft and spongy, and the huge shot either bury themselves without making splinters, or else bound off like rubber b.a.l.l.s.

Meanwhile, where was Sir Henry Clinton? For nearly three weeks he had been encamped with some two thousand men on the sand bar known as Long Island. The men had suffered fearfully from the heat, from lack of water, and from the mosquitoes.

During the bombardment of Fort Sullivan, Sir Henry marched his men down to the end of the sand island, but could not cross; for the water in the inlet proved to be seven feet deep even at low tide.

Somebody had blundered about the ford. The redcoats, however, were paraded on the sandy sh.o.r.e while some armed boats made ready to cross the inlet. The grapeshot from two cannon, and the bullets of Colonel Thompson's riflemen, so raked the decks that the men could not stay at their posts. Memories of Bunker Hill, perhaps, made the British officers a trifle timid about crossing the inlet, and marching over the sandy sh.o.r.e, to attack intrenched sharpshooters. Thus it happened that Clinton and his men, through stupidity, were kept prisoners on the sand island, mere spectators of the thrilling scene. They had to content themselves with fighting mosquitoes, under the sweltering rays of a Southern sun.

{45} [Ill.u.s.tration: Defending the Palmetto Fort]

All this time, Sir Peter was doing his best to pound the fort down.

The fort trembled and shook, but it stood. Moultrie and his men, with perfect coolness and with steady aim, made havoc of the war s.h.i.+ps.

Colonel Moultrie prepared grog by the pailful, which, with a negro as helper, he dipped out to the tired men at the guns.

”Take good aim, boys,” he said, as he pa.s.sed from gun to gun, ”mind the big s.h.i.+ps, and don't waste the powder.”