Bulloch again wrote to Mallory six weeks later. He was proud of the accomplishment given the difficulties but did not think it wise to attempt a similar adventure until excitement over this one had “somewhat subsided.” However, if the war continued until the next summer (of 1865), he was convinced that “a formidable naval expedition can be fitted out.” On the same day Bulloch wrote this letter, Mallory penned one to him—not having received reports from Liverpool, the secretary was anxious. Northern newspapers had already headlined the departure of Sea King, speaking of her as a new Confederate raider. Mallory expressed concerns for the safety of men, ship, and mission. “I trust that it has been in your power to carry out what I have long had so much at heart. The success of this measure would be such an effective blow upon a vital interest as would be felt throughout New England.”23
Soon after leaving Madeira, Lieutenant Whittle opened his personal cruise journal and started daily entries with Shenandoah’s position, progress, course, and weather, adding his thoughts and observations. “Thank God we have a fine set of men and officers, and although we have an immense deal to contend with, all are industrious and alive to the emergency.” On the other hand, “never I suppose did a ship go to sea so miserably prepared.” They were afloat in a vessel constructed for peaceful pursuits that was to be transformed in midocean into an active cruiser carrying a battery for which she was not constructed and with no hope of defense or friendly port for shelter.1
Midshipman Mason found it difficult to maintain his journal or to read or study while everyone from the first lieutenant on down worked about the deck making sail, taking it in, stowing the hold, and doing everything else that was needed. Back in the spring of 1861, John Thomson Mason of Virginia had been planning to take up his appointment to the Naval Academy, but instead joined the 17th Virginia Volunteer Infantry Regiment, fought at First Manassas, and then transferred to the new navy. (He was a distant nephew of founding father George Mason and cousin to James Murray Mason, Confederate commissioner in England and victim of the Trent Affair.)2
The midshipman intended to record every detail of the last few weeks, which he considered the most eventful of his young life, but he was at a loss where to commence with a description of “confusion worse confounded.” The junior officers’ quarters in the steerage were uncomfortable—full of rope, iron bread tanks and “all sorts of stuff that smelt bad.” But they strung their hammocks and made the most of it. The first task was to discover what they had and where it was. Cargo invoices from Laurel were worthless; many pieces of equipment were missing. To locate the smallest item required extensive searching, and before stowing anything in the hold men had to sort out and restow what already was there. The running gear, used to manage the yards and sails, was so worn it became necessary to rig all new lines. John O’Shea, the ship’s carpenter, hurt his foot badly and had no trained assistants. The bulwarks required reinforcement to absorb gun recoil and gun ports were to be cut. Several officer cabins had no berths while buckets were used as washbasins.
Officers worked aft while crewmen worked forward, shifting coal from the fore hold and berth deck to bunkers so men could sling hammocks and clearing the spar deck for mounting the battery. Clean mattresses were issued. The royal yards—the highest on each mast—were sent up and crossed, quite an undertaking as spars, sails, and rigging were scattered all over the ship. In the absence of a magazine, gun powder was stored under a tarp in the captain’s day cabin and then moved to the small space in the steerage underneath his cabin. It was like cutting down a mountain to put things in order, recalled Lieutenant Grimball, “but there was always so much good humor prevailing that not until after we finished our task could we fully appreciate what we had gone through.”
Despite heavy swells, the big guns were lifted from their crates, swayed up by the halyard winches and tackles from the masthead, and mounted in carriages: two Whitworth 32-pound rifles and four 8-inch, 68-pound smoothbores. Warrant Officer John L. Guy, ship’s gunner, attempted to assemble the gear; there was plenty of rope for the gun tackles, but no suitable blocks and without them the battery was useless. He cut gun ports anyway. “At a distance Shenandoah presented quite a warlike appearance with guns looking out on each side,” noted Lieutenant Francis Chew in his personal journal, but if a Yankee man-of-war should appear, they would have to “depend on their heels.”3
Furniture in the captain’s cabin consisted of one broken, plush velvet-bottomed armchair—no berth, no bureau, no clothing lockers, no washstand, pitcher, or basin. A half-worn carpet, which reeked of dogs or something worse, covered the deck. “It was the most cheerless and offensive spot I had ever occupied,” recalled Waddell. A problem with the engines was corrected in a few hours, but left the captain uneasy about their condition. “It would be too great a labor to enumerate the variety of work which was done . . . and those who have undertaken the work on a wide and friendless ocean can only appreciate the anxieties accompanying such an expedition.”
Waddell ran Shenandoah away from the rendezvous, seeking invisibility, lighter winds, and smoother seas. With only four men per watch, sail handling was difficult. No one knew the lead of the ropes, and whenever a brace or a sheet was to be hauled, crewmen wasted minutes just finding the right one. The few coal heavers quickly became exhausted in the stifling boiler room. The captain used the engine during daylight as work continued, then after darkness put the vessel under easy sail while most men rested. “The wind was free; my course was to southward, and as the breeze freshened after night the ship made nearly as much per hour under sail as she did during the day under steam.”
Waddell had promised to wait six weeks before capturing a Yankee, but after a few days, he worried that the heavy work and chaos would dishearten the crew and discourage potential recruits. Applying a common term for sailors, he noted: “Work is not congenial to Jack’s nature; he is essentially a loafer.” The captain decided to take the first enemy vessel encountered. Dr. Lining continued his journal: “I never saw any set of men work better or harder than ours, for the officers set them the example & were always foremost in all work. . . . I am sleeping my mattress right on the deck, not very comfortably.” They sighted ships from neutral nations, but did not speak to them. Whittle thought a great deal was being accomplished under the circumstances, and the men seemed—with one exception—in good spirits. He would trust in God’s aid for the future. “No indeed I never shall regret the advice I gave [to Waddell], which advice, I flatter myself, kept us at sea.” They sighted the first Yankee sail that afternoon but much to their disgust were unable to come up with her before sundown and lost her in the night.
The exception to the mood of cheerfulness was the captain. Waddell himself recalled being somber and withdrawn, weighed down with problems and possible emergencies: “I have no doubt I very often appeared to those with me an unsocial and peculiar man.” He appreciated encouraging remarks from the officers that were intended to lighten his mood, but they had no effect. Command was a new experience. The lieutenants were accountable for the ship only during a four-hour watch as officer of the deck, but the outcome of so vast an enterprise depended on his judgment alone. Success would be shared by everyone, but who would share failure? “The former has friends;