Patapsco was taking a drubbing. The guns of Fort Moultrie were pounding her starboard side. The pilot was doing his best to position his ironclad so the guns could not find their range, but he could barely see through the smoke, and Union ships were everywhere. With the line of attack in deterioration and fully half the Union ironclads in retreat, only the chaos of an action gone wrong was visible out of the viewing port.

Smoke rolled across the water. Plumes of water shot into the air like just-spouted fountains, as missed shots plunged into the water. The few Union ironclads still engaged were trying to return fire to the forts, but that merely added to the noise and confusion. Along with the scream of shells flying seaward and back to the forts was the din of steam engines, boilers, and chains. There was no quiet on an ironclad. The metal hulls reverberated with the smallest sound and echoed like the tolling gates of hell. When the hull or deck armor was struck by Confederate shot, the sound for the crew was akin to having their head inside a church bell being rung.

Along with constant noise was constant heat. Even though the temperature outside was mild, in battle all ports were closed and battened down. With no breeze coming inside, the air became superheated.

Then the smells. Gunpowder, fuses, metal, and grease. Paint and cotton batting. Food from the galley, odors from the head compartment, unwashed sailors. Fear. It was a cacophony of sights and sounds, a sensory overload for the captain and crew.

Disabled and battered, the pilot steered Patapsco from the line.

On the deck of New Ironsides, Rear Admiral DuPont could see that it was hopeless. The battle was three hours old, and the Union fleet had not managed to accomplish much. Keokuk was battered and barely moving.

Weehawken and Patapsco had been hit many times.

The Union monitors Nahant, Nantucket, Montauk, Passaic, and Catskill had all taken numerous blows. DuPont’s flotilla was in disarray and deteriorating minute by minute.

DuPont gave the order to withdraw.

The Union fleet retreated the way they arrived, south down the ship channel past Morris Island. But it was a different picture from when they had steamed north to engage the rebels. The monitors showed spots where the paint had been jarred loose, and their armor was dented like a tin can hit by a golf club. Uneven streams of smoke trailed from their stacks as engineers struggled to keep the battered boilers operating. Two of the seven monitors were leaking. For now, the flow of the water into the hulls was being dissipated overboard by the pumps. Still, the weight of the water before it was discharged was causing both to list slightly. The armada came crawling back past Morris Island resembling a boxer after a losing match. Later, it would be learned that the fleet had suffered a total of 493 hits.

The powerful Union force had been beaten like a borrowed mule. Keokuk had gone from last in line to first and back to last again.

Commander Rhind climbed through the hatch into one of the towers. He could use only one arm — the other was peppered with wooden shards that went inches into his flesh.

Keokuk’s experimental armor had proved a failure. Designed with alternating horizontal rows of wood interspersed with metal strips, the mishmash failed to provide adequate protection. The truth was that the design of the armor was as practical as making a bulletproof vest without sides. When a cannonball struck the iron straps on the hull, it was repelled. But what of the wood hull inches away? That usually exploded in a hail of splinters and wood chips. Rhind’s arm was proof of that.

Staring fore and aft, Rhind assessed Keokuk’s damage.

The forward tower was pounded to pulp — it looked as if a giant had beaten it with a sledgehammer. The crew inside the forward tower were all wounded. The aft tower, where Rhind was standing, was not much better. The gun had been disabled after only five shots, but the crew had fared better. Only a little more than half had been wounded.

Between the two towers stood the remains of Keokuk’s smokestack.

The stack was riddled with so many holes, it looked like a tin shed hit by a shotgun blast. Smoke rose along the outline of the pipe until reaching a hole. Then it puffed out of the holes in rings, like those from the lips of an accomplished smoker.

While Rhind watched, Keokuk rolled over a wave. Just then, part of the ornamental top of the stack broke loose. It struck the deck before being washed overboard.

Rhind’s ship was coming apart.

Nineteen shells had penetrated Keokuk’s armor. Several of those were below the waterline. Rhind knew that the engineering crew was hard at work just keeping the vessel afloat. Thirty-two of his crew were wounded, but thankfully no one had died.

Rhind opened the hatch and climbed back to the main deck. Keokuk was out of range of the Confederate guns; his crew was now concentrating on keeping afloat.

Thirty-two wounded, but no dead. Soon there would be a death, but it would be the death of Keokuk As the sun set in the west, the cigar-shaped craft limped toward her anchorage off Morris Island. Commander Rhind had no illusions about the battle. He and the rest of the Union fleet had been savagely pummeled, and his ship had suffered the worst. Climbing down into the hold, he shouted to Engineer Wheeler, who was near the bow supervising the plugging of a leak.

“How bad is it?” Rhind asked.

Wheeler was covered in grease and sopping wet. Wiping his hands on a grimy rag, he walked closer. “It’s not good, Commander,” Wheeler said. “I count nineteen holes in the hull, and more than half are below waterline. The pumps are keeping up, but just barely. The engines keep cutting out, and the forward turret is useless. To make matters worse, half my engine-room crew is wounded, so we are having trouble keeping up with all of the problems that are cropping up.”

“I’ll send down some of the gun crew and deckhands to help,” Rhind offered.

At that instant, Keokuk rolled over a wave and the hull flexed. A bolt that held the planking to the ribs shot across the hold like a minié ball and stuck in the far wall.

“We need to anchor,” Wheeler shouted, as he ran to inspect the damage.

An hour later, four miles from Fort Sumter and two miles off Morris Island, Rhind ordered the anchor dropped. The engineers mounted a brave defense, but Keokuk’s short life was over. Throughout the night, the weather was calm with fair seas. And for a time it seemed that Wheeler and his crew might save the battered vessel.

Fate, however, had another plan. The winds kicked up at 5 A.M. It was nothing that a healthy ship would even notice, but Keokuk was far from healthy. As the vessel flexed, the cotton batting that Wheeler’s crew had stuffed between the planking became saturated, then worked loose. Keokuk began sinking farther into the water.

Rhind reacted by ordering parts of the damaged towers and smokestack cut loose, but the action did little to stop the inevitable. It was a battle that could not be won.

The sun broke on April 8, and with it came stronger winds.

“Signal for assistance,” Rhind said. “We need tugs to evacuate the wounded.”

Wheeler climbed the ladder to the main deck. From shoes to belt line, he was soaked. He had gone twenty-four hours without sleep, and his face was etched with exhaustion.

“Sir,” he said, saluting Rhind, “the water’s rising faster than we can handle.”

Rhind pointed to a trio of approaching tugs.

“Help is here, just keep her afloat until we off-load the wounded,” he said.

“It will be an honor, sir,” Wheeler said, as he made his way back to the ladder, “but I estimate we have twenty minutes and little more.”