The Sea Hunters II: More True Adventures with Famous Shipwrecks

I A Magnificent End 1863

On the heights of Port Hudson overlooking the Mississippi River, the Confederate batteries had managed to withstand the daylong bombardment by the Federal fleet, and now the night of March 14, 1863, was curiously quiet. Twenty miles above the state capital at Baton Rouge, Louisiana, the small riverboat landing was perched on a steep eighty-foot-high bluff at a point where the river made a sharp turn to the west. A narrow beach ran along the precipice, overgrown with willows and cottonwoods that provided cover for a two-gun battery.

Major General Franklin Gardner stared through the blackness of night at the stars reflected on the fast-flowing river. A native New Yorker, he had seen service in the Mexican War and fought Indians on the frontier. He had offered his services to the Confederacy because of his love for his wife, the daughter of Louisiana governor Alexandre Mouton, and his affection for his friends and neighbors that had come after many years of living in Baton Rouge.

Port Hudson had great strategic value. The Confederates had fortified the bluffs and thrown up earthworks on the land side because it gave them control of the Red River, as well as the Mississippi. As long as they held the Red River, supplies and troops could be brought into the Confederacy from Mexico through Texas. Gardner’s orders were to hold at all cost against the assault by Union General Nathaniel Banks and his troops. He would hold out for forty-eight days before surrendering during the first week of July.

In his early forties, Gardner was of medium height and slender, with sparse reddish hair. He peered into the darkness through a pair of binoculars for a few moments before lowering them. “I have a feeling Farragut will come before dawn.”

Lieutenant Wilfred Pratt of Company K, in command of the nearby gun, its muzzle pointed down to fire in the middle of the river, nodded in agreement. “I wouldn’t put it past them sneaky Yanks to make a try in the wee hours while it’s still dark.”

“It should be an interesting battle,” murmured Gardner, satisfied that his eighteen guns were well concealed in their emplacements and ready for action.

He and his seven-thousand-man force would soon be surrounded and besieged by a Union army, the same as their comrades at Vicksburg 110 miles upstream. Both positions were of vital importance to the Confederacy. As long as they controlled their positions above the Mississippi, it was too hazardous and costly in ships and men for the Union gunboats and transports to risk passage.

Gardner lifted his glasses again. “What time do you have?”

Lieutenant Pratt pulled a watch from a breast pocket by a gold chain, lit a match, and peered at the dial. “I have three minutes to eleven o’clock, sir.”

The words were barely uttered when two red rockets soared into the night sky, breaking the stillness of the air as they burst above the river. Captain Whitfield Youngblood of Gardner’s signal corps had ordered the rockets launched upon seeing the red light on the masthead of Farragut’s flagship Hartford, as the vessel passed his station. The Confederates were neither deceived nor surprised. Their eighteen big guns roared and flashed in a deafening crescendo of thunderclaps that never seemed to end.

Gardner and Pratt watched mesmerized as the Union fleet steadily moved up the river, their black hulls blending in with the dark river. The bedlam mushroomed as the combined 112 guns of the Union fleet, those of the ironclad Essex, and the mortar boats tied along the east bank blasted back in reply. The great thirteen-inch mortar shells with their burning fuses rose and fell like meteors within the Confederate fortifications. The sky became a giant fireworks display. The ground shuttered and vibrated as if rolled by an earthquake. The fiery spurts from the gun muzzles blazed and then blinked dark as their crews rammed new charges and shot down their smoking barrels.

Soon the smoke was so thick that gunners on both sides could only sight their guns on the enemy’s flashes. Confederate sharpshooters in rifle pits added to the maelstrom clatter as they fired at ships, hoping to bring down the crewmen.

“It won’t be easy swinging around the bend,” said Farragut’s pilot on board Hartford. George Alder stared down into the black water surging past the frigate’s hull. Then he glanced woefully at the gunboat Albatross that was lashed along the frigate’s port side. “Not with two ships tied side by side against a four-knot current.”

“The current is the least of my concern,” came the staunch reply. “Just keep us in the center of the river.”

Admiral David Glasgow Farragut, a tough Scot with a perennial smile, stood imperturbable. He was as unstirred as a rock assaulted by heavy surf — an image he’d displayed in the battle for New Orleans, as well as one for which he would become famous later, at the battle of Mobile Bay, when he’d ignore the Confederate minefield after losing one of his monitors and shout, “Damn the torpedoes! Full steam ahead!”

The opposite of General Gardner, Farragut came from the South. Though he’d been born in Tennessee, was raised in Louisiana, and lived in Virginia, he was devoted to the United States. After moving his family north, he’d joined the Union and was named flag officer in command of the West Gulf’s blockading squadron.

After his great victory at New Orleans, he was determined to run this fleet upriver to Vicksburg to try to aid General Grant in his siege of the city. Farragut turned and surveyed the ships lined up behind Hartford. The frigate Richmond, with the gunboat Genesee alongside, was directly astern. Then came the frigate Monongahela, tied to the gunboat Kineo. And finally the “old spinning wheel,” as the frigate Mississippi was affectionately called because of her antiquated paddle wheels.

Bullets whizzed through the riggings as the rebel riflemen aimed high through the smoke, causing few casualties among Hartford’s crew. The forty-two-gun sloop of war pushed through the smoke and was almost clear of the worst of the fire when the current caught her and swept her bow toward the Port Hudson batteries.

“The damned current!” shouted Alder. “I can’t hold her.”

A signal was quickly shouted across the bulwarks to the captain of Albatross to reverse his engines while Hartford’s engineer poured on the coal full steam ahead. Slowly, the two ships swung on a ninety-degree angle upriver and steamed out of range of the deadly guns.

Farragut was wise enough to know that Hartford and Albatross were lucky. The Confederates had not depressed their guns low enough to do damage to the Union ships, but they were not about to make the same mistake as the next ships in line came within range.

“I’m afraid the rest of the fleet is in for the worst of it,” he said apprehensively, as he saw a fire erupt from an old house on the west bank. The Confederates had obviously ignited it to light up the river and reveal the Union fleet.

Farragut was especially concerned about the last ship in line. Mississippi was the oldest steamer in naval service. A hardened battle veteran, she had proved her worth in the run past the forts below New Orleans. By the time it was her turn to run the gauntlet, the Confederate gunners would have had time to zero in on her with deadly accuracy. She was about to find herself in the most exposed position of the entire fleet.

Throughout the nearly 250 years of its existence, the U.S. Navy has been blessed with any number of ships that contributed proud and illustrious service. Some benefit from household names like Bonhomme Richard, Monitor, Arizona, and Enterprise. But many others, with careers no less distinguished, are neglected and forgotten by all but a few naval historians. One such ship was the U.S.S. Mississippi.

The second to be built of the Navy’s oceangoing armed steamships, Mississippi was commissioned on December 22, 1841, shortly before her sister ship, Missouri. Commodore Matthew C. Perry personally supervised her construction, and she was named after the mighty river that flowed through the heart of the country.

Mississippi was a side-wheel steamer 229 feet in length with a beam of 40 feet and a depth of 19 feet. Her original gun battery consisted of two 10-inch and eight 8-inch guns. She had a respectable top speed of 8 knots, and she carried a crew of 280.

Unlike her virtual twin, Missouri, which sailed for only two years before accidentally catching on fire and exploding off of Gibraltar in 1843, Mississippi enjoyed a long and glorious existence before she, too, burned and exploded.

She spent her first few years performing research and demonstrations vital to the evolution of steam-powered warships, before sailing to the West Indies, where she became the flagship of her construction overseer, Commodore Perry. In the right place at the right time during the war with Mexico, Mississippi engaged in actions against Tampico, Panuco, Alarado, and several other coastal ports, blockading incoming commerce. She was also heavily involved with the amphibious operations at Veracruz, where she landed vital military matériel for Winfield Scott’s army. She also supplied heavy guns, and the crews who fought them, all the way to Mexico City, where they bombarded fortifications and helped bring about the city’s surrender in only four days. Throughout much of the war, Mississippi conducted a series of raids on coastal towns before helping to capture the important town of Tobasco.

After the war, she cruised with the American fleet in the Mediterranean for two years before returning to America in preparation for Commodore Perry’s celebrated voyage to Japan. Mississippi was his flagship on most of the expedition to open Japan to Western trade. In one of the most studied and admired naval and diplomatic operations in history, Perry negotiated a treaty with the emperor, and the nation that had been utterly opposed to outside influence opened its ports to international trade.

Mississippi sailed for New York and later returned as Commodore Josiah Tatnall’s flagship. Commodore Tatnall “went south” at the beginning of the Civil War and was in command of Merrimack/Virginia during her lengthy battle with Monitor.

From 1857 to 1860, the now-aging ship supported and protected America’s booming trade in China and Japan. She was also with the British and French ships during the attack on Taku and landed her marines at Shanghai when the American consul requested Tatnall’s help in quelling the rioting in the city.

The veteran steamer sailed back to Boston and was laid up until it was reactivated at the beginning of the Civil War. Now under the command of Melancthon Smith, she was employed in blockading Pensacola, Florida. After capturing two Confederate blockade runners off Key West in late 1861, she joined Admiral David Farragut for the assault on New Orleans. When she passed over the bar at the South Pass, she became the largest ship ever to enter the Mississippi River.

As previously related, during the battle, as Farragut’s fleet ran the gauntlet between Forts St. Philip and Jackson, Mississippi battered the Confederate ironclad Manassas after it made an unsuccessful attempt to ram and sink her. Surviving the hail of shot and shell from the forts, Mississippi triumphantly entered New Orleans with the rest of the fleet and aimed her guns on the buildings along the shore until the city capitulated.

Nearly a year after, Farragut ordered Smith to take Mississippi and join the ships that would attempt to pass the Confederate guns of Port Hudson to Vicksburg to help General Grant in his siege of the city. The battle of the bluffs would prove to be her final moment of glory.

Just as Richmond, the second ship in line, was turning the bend and within a hundred yards of safety, a shot ripped into her engine room and shattered her steam valves and pipes. Unable to maintain pressure and make headway with Genesee tied to her port side, her captain had no choice but to reverse course and retreat back down the river out of the range of Confederate guns.

Monongahela fared no better. A shell struck the rudderpost of Kineo, the gunboat making the run at the frigate’s side, and jammed it. Unable to steer against the current while maneuvering both ships, Monongahela ran aground. The sudden stop tore away the lines gripping the ships together. While under a devastating fire, Kineo struggled valiantly to get a hawser to the big frigate before pulling Monongahela free of the bottom mud.

The two ships endeavored to resume their course upriver, but shots incapacitated the frigate’s engines, and both ships had to drift helplessly back down the river while sustaining heavy fire from the enemy gun batteries.

Alone and bringing up the rear, Mississippi now became the prime target. Concentrating their fire on the lone warship, the Confederates poured shell after shell into the old frigate. She soon became enveloped in a pall of swirling smoke.

Captain Melancthon Smith paced the bridge, calmly smoking a cigar, seemingly oblivious to the hail of shot and shell bursting on and around his ship. Mississippi’s paddle wheels were beating the water, propelling her past the bluffs alive with cannon fire. Her top speed of eight knots was cut to four from the equally fast speed of the current, and it seemed to the crew who were working their guns in furious haste that the passage was taking an eternity.

They were moving slowly, the pilot feeling his way through the heavy smoke. Believing that they were safely past the jutting point of the west bank and its shoals, the pilot called out, “Starboard helm! Full speed ahead!”

In the words of the Mississippi’s executive officer, George Dewey, “As it turned out, we were anything but past the point. We starboarded the helm right into it and struck just as we developed a powerful momentum. We were hard aground and listing.”

Dewey would later become the hero of Manila Bay, where his fleet of warships decimated the Spanish fleet, and he would utter words that have come down through naval history, along with John Paul Jones’s “I have not yet begun to fight,” Oliver Hazard Perry’s “We have met the enemy and they are ours,” and James Lawrence’s “Don’t give up the ship.” As the great Spanish-American War sea battle was about to commence, Dewey turned to the captain of his flagship, Olympia, and calmly said, “You may fire when ready, Gridley.”

Dewey was a handsome man with black straight hair, bushy sideburns, and a great mustache that he kept until his death in 1917.

With guns blasting, engines pounding with every ounce of steam the chief engineer could coax from them, and paddle wheels thrashing the water, old Mississippi refused to budge. The Confederates took happy advantage of the stationary target lit up by the nearby burning house, pouring in shells and a swarm of bullets from the rifle pits. As the ship struggled helplessly to back off the shoal, the number of dead and wounded climbed appallingly.

Dewey hunted for Captain Smith and found him lighting a cigar as coolly as if he were standing at a garden party. “Well, it doesn’t look as if we could get her off,” said Smith, almost indifferently.

“No, it does not,” Dewey replied.

At that moment, a fiery hot shot tore into the forward storeroom and set the inflammable supplies and matériel afire. A holocaust soon spread out of control as flames quickly reached the decks above. Looking around at the destruction and his mortally wounded command, Smith had to face the sad prospect of losing his ship.

“Can we save the crew?” he asked Dewey.

“Yes, sir.”

Shells had shattered the three boats on the side facing the enemy, but those on the port side were still seaworthy. Dewey directed a crew of able-bodied men to load the worst of the wounded into the first boat and directed the crew to row to one of the ships downstream.

Dewey supervised the loading of the lesser wounded and some that were unhurt. He was frustrated to see how slowly the boats returned. The oarsmen were decidedly unenthusiastic about making the trip back once they reached the temporary safety of the other ships. Unable to speed up the boats’ return to the burning ship, Dewey swung a line into a boat just as it was about to push off with a load of crewmen.

Though Dewey was reluctant to desert his ship, his decision turned out to be a wise one. He and the acting master, Joseph Chase, had to use their revolvers to make the men row back. If Dewey hadn’t slipped aboard, none of the boats would have been available to rescue the rest of Mississippi’s remaining crew.

Upon returning to the main deck, Dewey approached Smith and hastily explained his temporary absence. He motioned to the two empty lifeboats alongside, indicating that they would not be there save for his initiative and fortitude.

“We must make sure none is left aboard alive,” Smith said evenly.

What began as a compelling search soon turned into a grim nightmare. Dewey quickly selected five men to accompany him throughout the disabled warship. Bodies had to be closely examined in the dark and smoke to see if any of the men were still alive. They were very careful to make certain no spark of life remained, or the poor man might lie there, powerless to move, as the flames crept closer and closer.

They moved belowdecks, shouting that there was little time left to abandon the ship. Luckily, they found a young cabin boy who was still breathing despite being buried under a pile of dead bodies that had been cut down by bursting shells. Satisfied that only the dead remained on board, Dewey was then ordered by Smith to make absolutely certain that old Mississippi would be totally destroyed before falling into Confederate hands.

Dewey ran to his stateroom, snatched off the mattress from his berth, and dragged it to the wardroom, where he sliced it open with a dress sword, piled chairs and tables on top of it, and then threw an old oil lantern into the debris, igniting a roaring fire almost immediately. Only then did he and the few men left on board join Captain Smith in the last lifeboat.

They pushed off from the hull aft of the paddle wheels and immediately were caught in the powerful current and swept downriver. As they looked back, a giant torrent of flame burst through the skylight of the wardroom that Dewey had set ablaze. The Confederate guns fired away at the lifeboat but fortunately failed to score a hit. At the sight of the flaming ship, the entire bluff above the river broke into a rebel yell. The victory was theirs.

Farragut’s fleet had come within an inch of total disaster.

Smith seated himself in the stern of the lifeboat, still puffing nonchalantly on a cigar while Dewey manned the tiller, and the men rowed through the splashing shells until they reached the safety of the battle-scarred Richmond, anchored downriver out of reach of the Confederate guns. During their flight, Smith took off his sword and revolvers and threw them into the river.

“Why did you do that?” Dewey asked him.

“I’m not surrendering them to any rebel,” he said haughtily. It was a hasty decision Smith would come to regret.

A humorous episode occurred when the men of Mississippi boarded Richmond. While Dewey was setting the fire in the wardroom on board the doomed ship, Ensign Dean Batcheller snatched up a dress uniform coat hanging in the cabin he shared with Ensign Francis Shepard. The rest of the crew, including Smith and Dewey, escaped with only the clothes on their backs.

Proudly, Batcheller held up the coat. “At least I’ll have something to wear for the ladies in New Orleans.”

His cabin mate Ensign Shepard leaned over and eyed the coat. Then he looked up and grinned. “Thanks very much, Batcheller, but that’s my coat.”

And so it was.

Dewey was greeted by a close friend from his Naval Academy days at Annapolis, Winfield Scott Schley, who was destined to command the fleet that would destroy the Spanish fleet off Santiago, Cuba, at almost the same time Dewey was making his mark in the Philippines.

Back at the battered Mississippi, the river flowed in through the engine water-delivery pipes that had been cut by the engine-room crew before they abandoned ship. Because the hull was grounded on an angle with the bow slightly raised, the incoming water flowed toward the stern. The added weight lifted the bow, and she slid free off the shoal. The current turned her around so that now she was moving with her bow pointed downstream. The port guns that had been loaded but not fired now faced the Confederates. As the flames reached their primers, they began firing a ragged broadside in a final act of defiance. Dewey solemnly described the sight as “a ship manned by dead men still firing at the enemy.”

Engulfed by a sheet of fire that raged through the pummeled ship, Mississippi was carried downriver by a four-knot current. The shriek of steam escaping from the ship’s safety valve cut through the pandemonium of gunfire. Flames burst from her rigging and erupted into the night sky, casting a flickering orange blaze of light that illuminated both shorelines as bright as day. Looking like a floating, flaming pyramid, Mississippi was a funeral pyre for the dead aboard. It was a sight never forgotten by both the Federals and rebels who watched her fiery passage in the night. Her death would later be described as a grand spectacle.

Several reports from both sides in the battle put the frigate sliding off the shoals at 3 A.M. and drifting down around Profit Island, her flaming hull reflecting in the sky until 5:30, when the fire reached the twenty tons of gunpowder in her magazine and she blew up in a tremendous explosion. The ensuing concussion shook the country for miles around and rocked the Union ships from stem to stern. Such was the end of the brave old paddle steamer.

It was somehow fitting that the river she was named for became her burial shroud.

Perhaps Dewey himself paid Mississippi her greatest tribute when he stood on the deck of Richmond, stony-faced and deeply saddened as he watched her die. He said, “She goes out magnificently.”

II Nothing Stays the Same 1989

This is especially true of rivers and their shorelines. Unless it’s the Colorado flowing through the Grand Canyon on the same course for thousands of years, most rivers, particularly the Mississippi, change their course on a daily basis. The riverboat Sultana, chronicled in the first Sea Hunters book, burned and sank a few miles above Memphis in 1865 with a loss of two thousand lives. Our mag search put the remains two miles from the present course of the river, eighteen feet deep in a farmer’s soybean field in Arkansas.

The final resting place of the gallant old frigate Mississippi, where she has lain ignored and forgotten since that horrendous night in 1863, is not under the present river channel, either. In the approximate area where Mississippi was last seen, the river has moved almost a mile to the west and has become an immense bog.

Because I did not feel it was fitting or proper that “lost in obscurity” be Mississippi’s epitaph, I cleared my desk after finishing another Dirk Pitt adventure book and began the research in preparation for the hunt for Mississippi.

Relying on researcher Bob Fleming in Washington, who combed the archives, we amassed a mountain of material that we eventually sifted to a ten-inch pile. Then began the investigation to estimate a ballpark for Mississippi’s location. One of the first things we had to consider was the possibility that she had been salvaged. Fortunately, a probe through the naval archives revealed no such attempt. Part of the reason was a report that she had exploded in the middle of the channel and sunk in deep water, which would have been between eighty and a hundred feet, a depth that would have made it impractical to undertake a salvage operation 140 years ago.

Since none of the contemporary reports gave a clue to the exact location where she had blasted herself to bits and gone down, and no distances were given to still-existing landmarks, I had to base the search on the time element. With the river running at a known four knots, it didn’t take a great strain of my pitifully inadequate talent for mathematics to figure that Mississippi drifted a distance of ten to eleven miles before she sank.

There were one or two Confederate reports that put the site of her explosion close to the wrecks of the ironclad Arkansas, destroyed by her crew a few months earlier. But we had discovered the ironclad eight years before under a levee sixteen miles below Port Hudson at the bend of the reach before it dropped toward Baton Rouge.

The ten-mile distance was consistent with contemporary references. Spears’s biography of Farragut states that “she reached the foot of Profit Island when the fire reached her magazine and she blew up.”

A. J. C. Kerr, a Confederate veteran from Corsicana, Texas, stated later in his memoirs that “the Mississippi blew up ten miles below Port Hudson.”

The log of the Richmond also stated that “the Mississippi drifted down the river and blew up ten miles astern of us.”

George S. Waterman recounted that “the Mississippi floated down the river a short distance below the fleet when the fire reached her magazine.”

And finally, there is a sketch of the river and gun emplacements at Port Hudson with a notation by William Waud, a war artist who was on board Richmond. “Air very thick with smoke. The Mississippi drifting down in flames, exploding near the land pier.”

The last was a good reference point, except there were at least six piers along that stretch of river in 1863. Then, to muddy the water, Waud never indicated what he meant by “land pier.” Upper Springfield Landing was the closest to the projected site. Also, two contemporary wrecks were marked on the old chart, one on top of the other, on the west bank below the bend in the river. Over the passing of a century or more, the encroaching swamp had covered them and left their remains a good half mile from the present river flow Since they were unnamed and appeared to have run aground, we eliminated them as Mississippi. Also, it seemed likely that if one had been the Union frigate, the chart maker would have labeled her as such.

Next came the important process of overlaying a new chart showing the present course of the river as compared with an 1868 chart. It quickly became apparent that the approximate spot where we computed Mississippi to lie was now nearly a quarter mile west in a huge bog called Solitude Point.

Springfield Bend, as the area that traveled around the point was called, had filled in toward the east. It was encouraging, but we still felt we stood a slim chance.

Having taken it as far as we could go, we decided it was time to gather up the equipment and head for Louisiana to begin our search.

In May of 1989, Craig Dirgo and I arrived in Baton Rouge and arranged with the West Baton Rouge parish sheriff’s department to once again borrow their great little aluminum boat for a river survey. Accompanied by a deputy and his son-in-law, we launched the boat on a hot, humid day under a clear sky. Relying on NUMA’s EG&G sidescan sonar and the Schonstedt gradiometer to find a promising target, we set out hoping for the best, expecting the worse, and willing to settle for anything in between.

We began surveying the river thirteen miles below Port Hudson and ran north past Profit Island, which has changed very little over the past hundred years, to within six miles of where Mississippi grounded and began her drift. I had been told that the Army Corps of Engineers had surveyed part of the river where Mississippi had grounded and had recorded several large anomalies on the riverbed, but we found it as barren as the Mojave Desert. Nothing remotely resembling a wreck was discovered, and no targets worth investigating. There was one wreck depicted on an old 1880s chart against the east bank, but we found no trace of it. Not surprising, since the records show that it was likely dredged out of existence many years ago.

The southern tropical heat, shaken and stirred with 100 percent humidity, nearly did in Craig. With no wind to cool the sweat surging from our pores, the atmosphere was agonizingly oppressive. Many people think it is cooler on the water when the weather is hot — not necessarily so. You have little shade on a small boat, and the steaming water can easily raise humidity off the scale when there is no hint of rain from a cloudless sky.

The Solitude Point swamp is not only huge, it’s impassable. You couldn’t walk, wade, or swim through it, much less penetrate it with a jet ski. Interestingly, the 1836 chart fails to indicate it because it had yet to make its presence known. Oil drilling has since taken place inside the swamp, and pipelines stretch outward like legs on a spider, three of them traveling up the river to the north.

Unable to conduct a mag survey from the surface, I turned to Joe Phillips of World Geoscience, Inc., in Houston, Texas, and arranged for a helicopter geophysical aeromagnetic survey. Using a Bell 206 Ranger equipped with a SCINTREX vapor magnetometer sensor, a Picodaas digital acquisition system, and a GPS navigational system, they launched the survey in August of 1999.

Flying tight ninety-foot lines at an altitude of less than a hundred feet, they found the oil field west of the point without any trouble. Paying special attention to the 1864 course of the river, they easily picked up the magnetic anomalies from the two riverboats aground below the point. Then, almost precisely at the ten-mile drift projection of Mississippi, a large anomaly appeared on the magnetometer recording. It was almost directly in the middle of the old river passage. The target was three quarters of a mile inside the swamp from the river’s west bank. They also determined that it was very close to the long-gone Springfield Landing pier mentioned by the Civil War artist Waud. Another encouraging indication was the computerized profile of Mississippi, showing a large iron mass that would have included guns, shot, anchors, and many tons of ship’s hardware.

Was it Mississippi? Until we could actually touch a piece of it, there would be no uncorking the champagne.

That was about as far as we could go in our search. We reeled in the sensors, packed the equipment, and headed for a Cajun restaurant. We had done our best and would leave it to future archaeologists, historians, and shipwreck hunters to probe the depths of that loathsome swamp.

Mississippi would be a fascinating wreck to excavate since she hadn’t been salvaged, and even despite the damage from the explosion, she had to be relatively intact. Unfortunately, any excavation more than eighty feet deep in the middle of a bog would be extremely difficult, if not impossible.

It seems that Mississippi will remain under Point Solitude for a long time to come, perhaps for eternity. You never know if it’s best that way.