The Housatonic was just one of many Union ships that had been prowling the waters outside Charleston for months, and tonight, like every other night, the silence was punctuated by the sounds of Union artillery.
On the deck of the USS Housatonic, sailors gazed out over a flat sea. To complete its mission the Hunley would need to approach its target closely, then use this spar to press the charge directly against the side of the enemy’s hull. The torpedoes of the time were simple stationary bombs, very different from the modern, independent devices that can propel themselves through the water from a great distance. A spar made of wood and metal was bolted to a pivot on the bottom corner of the boat’s leading edge, and at the far end of this spar was a copper cylinder the size of a keg: the boat’s torpedo. Its bow carried the source of its destructive power. The submarine had been there for months, practicing for its crucial mission and waiting patiently for flat seas. The HL Hunley was lying in wait to the east of Charleston Harbor, off the coast of South Carolina. The deadlights, with their thick, imperfect, handmade glass, were the only sign that there might be a crew within.
The submarine was about 40 feet long, cylindrical down most of its slim length, but with a tapered, wedge-shaped bow and stern that hinted at how quickly it could slice through the water. Pale moonlight glinted off the quiet ocean as small waves lapped against the hull. The dark hull of the submarine rose a few inches above the waterline.
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