Cruise and Captures of the Alabama — Reading Companion
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ENGLAND AND THE BLOCKADE.
In the decade preceding the Civil War in America the carrying trade of the United States had grown into a vast industry. The hardy seamen of New England had flung out the stars and stripes to every breeze, and cast anchor in the most remote regions where a paying cargo might be found. Up to October, 1862, they hardly felt that they had more at stake in the war of the Rebellion than any other loyal citizens. But in that month the news swept along the seaboard that the Alabama lay within a few days' sail of their harbors, dealing out swift vengeance upon all Northern vessels which came in her way.
Whether or not the decline of American shipping is principally due to unwise legislation, certain it is that its downfall dates from the appearance in the mid-Atlantic of this awful scourge of the seas. Northern newspapers called the craft a pirate, and no other word seemed to the New England sea captains adequate to describe the ruthless destroyer. Although regularly commissioned by the Confederate government, she never entered a Confederate port from the time she left the stocks until she tried conclusions with the Kearsarge off the coast of France; and this, together with the further fact that her crew was chiefly of European origin--largely English--was used as an argument that she could not be considered as a legitimate vessel of war. None of the great nations of the world adopted this view, however, and she was everywhere accorded the same treatment that was extended to war vessels of the United States.
Early in 1861 there sprang up in England a thriving trade in arms and munitions of war. While the cotton spinners of Lancashire were suffering from the loss of their usual supply of raw material, owing to the blockade of the ports of the Confederacy, the merchants of Liverpool were turning their attention to supplying the belligerants with the equipment necessary for the continuance of the conflict. Sales were made directly or indirectly to the Federal government, but the higher prices offered in the South tempted many to engage in the more hazardous traffic with the government at Richmond.
As the blockade gradually became more efficient, insurance companies refused longer to take the risk of loss on Southern commerce. But it still went on. The owners of a blockade runner were certain of enormous profits if they could succeed in getting through the lines, but, if captured, both vessel and cargo were confiscated by the Federal prize courts. The sleepy little village of Nassau in the Bahama islands awoke to find itself a great commercial emporium, and immense quantities of goods were soon collected there, awaiting transshipment within the Confederate lines.
According to the law of nations, vessels of neutral countries were not subject to seizure, unless actually attempting to run the blockade. Consequently, ocean steamers could land their cargoes at the English port of Nassau without danger, while smaller vessels, having less draught than the Federal war ships, could make the short run to the coast with better chances of escape. Liverpool was the principal European depot for this traffic, as Nassau was its principal depot on this side of the Atlantic.
In the spring of 1862 Confederate agents in England were still talking about the "paper blockade," but English merchants whose goods were piled up at Nassau found the blockade much more real than it had been represented to be. Their anxiety was somewhat lessened by the circulation of rumors that the blockade was shortly to be raised. Confederate vessels of war were to make an opening in the encircling fleets, and the blockade was to become so lax that it would no longer be recognized by European governments. Eventually these prophecies became tangible enough to connect themselves with a certain mysterious vessel which was at that very time lying in the Mersey awaiting her masts and rigging.
Charles Francis Adams was the United States minister to England, residing at London. The suspected character of the vessel was communicated to him by Thomas H. Dudley, the United States consul at Liverpool, and a strict watch was kept upon her.
Goodrich opens his account of the CSS Alabama not with the ship's launch but with the economic context: the pre-Civil War American carrying trade, which he claims was devastated by the raider's appearance in October 1862. He immediately establishes a documentary approach, citing naval records, Captain Semmes's diary, and the Geneva Tribunal report as sources. The preface promises a “trustworthy” and “readable” synthesis, and the opening chapter frames the Alabama as a “scourge of the seas” that Northern newspapers called a pirate—though Goodrich notes she was regularly commissioned by the Confederacy.
A Documentary Foundation
Goodrich’s preface lists his sources: Union and Confederate naval records, Semmes’s expanded memoir, officers’ diaries, and the Geneva Tribunal report. This is not a memoir but a compiled history. The narrative voice is detached, letting documents drive the story. For instance, the description of the Hatteras sinking—lasting “less than fifteen minutes”—relies on precise timing and the detail that the Hatteras threw its port battery overboard to stay afloat. Goodrich also includes Semmes’s own account of entering Port Royal, Jamaica, where he was welcomed by the British flag-ship. The author weaves these sources into a single timeline, but the reader can sense the seams where diary entries and official reports meet.
The <em>Alabama</em> as a Moving Target
Goodrich emphasizes the Alabama’s elusiveness. Chapter XIII details her escape from the Gulf of Mexico: she slipped through the Yucatan Channel at night, avoiding Union ships like the Sonoma and Santiago de Cuba. The author notes that Admiral Wilkes and his captains were “as ignorant of Captain Semmes’ presence in the gulf as he was of theirs in the channel.” This mutual blindness becomes a structural motif. Goodrich tracks the Alabama’s movements through dates and coordinates—January 21st, 1863, off Port Royal—creating a cat-and-mouse geography. The reader follows the ship’s path as much as its battles.
Voice and Verdict in the Narrative
Though Goodrich maintains a factual tone, his word choices betray a perspective. He calls the Alabama an “awful scourge” and describes its effect on Northern shipping as “swift vengeance.” Yet he also includes Semmes’s own language, such as calling the captured Union crew “pretty substantial credentials” of his ship’s legitimacy. The author does not resolve the tension between “pirate” and “commissioned cruiser”; he presents both labels. In the Hatteras action, he notes that the Union commander ordered his port battery thrown overboard, “doubtless” keeping the ship afloat long enough for rescue. These small judgments—the word “doubtless”—hint at the author’s interpretive hand.
Reading the Gaps in the Excerpts
The provided excerpts cover only the preface, opening chapter, and two later chapters (XII and XIII). The full book includes twenty-one chapters, from the Alabama’s escape from England as the “290” to its final battle with the Kearsarge. The excerpts show Goodrich’s method: he uses dates, ship names, and coordinates to build a factual scaffold. But they do not reveal how he handles the Alabama’s destruction of whalers, its “Off Duty Amusements,” or its time in the Far East. Readers should expect a similar documentary style throughout, with the narrative arc following the ship’s career from construction to sinking.
Goodrich’s Cruise and Captures of the Alabama is best approached as a work of historical compilation rather than a personal narrative. The author’s reliance on multiple primary sources—Semmes’s diary, officers’ accounts, tribunal records—means the book shifts between first-person excerpts and third-person summary. Readers interested in naval tactics will find detailed accounts of captures and escapes; those curious about the Alabama’s legal status will note how Goodrich presents both Confederate and Union perspectives without fully reconciling them.
There are days I think of the Alabama, that doomed ship logged so carefully by Mr. Goodrich, every capture and cannon-shot weighed like testimony. That sort of dutiful record-keeping has its own quiet power, a brotherhood with the regimental chronicle I’ve shelved beside it. Both simply note what happened, one voyage, one march, trusting the facts to murmur their melancholy truths to anyone patient enough to listen. The Seventh Regiment: A Record — Key Ideas to Explore
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