Memoirs of Service Afloat, During the War Between the States — Inside the Classic

A Commander's Voice: Pride, Grievance, and Self-Justification

Semmes frames his memoir as a corrective. In the preface, he dismisses earlier accounts of the Alabama's cruise as "miserable failures," including one produced by a London publisher who had access to his journals. He insists that he "did not write a line" of that earlier book. This bristling defensiveness is not incidental; it shapes the entire narrative. Semmes is acutely aware that his actions—destroying Union commerce without a home port—were controversial, and he writes to justify them.

His tone is that of a man who believes history has been unfair. He describes the Alabama as "the first steamship in the history of the world" to be let loose against a great commercial power, and he emphasizes the novelty and terror of steam-powered raiding. Yet he also presents himself as a gentleman officer, bound by the laws of war. He notes that he treated prisoners humanely and released them when possible. The memoir is as much a legal brief as a sea story.

The Hunter's Craft: Tactics and Patience at Sea

Semmes portrays himself as a careful predator. When he captures the whaler Ocmulgee, he does not burn her immediately. Instead, he waits until morning, reasoning that a night fire would "flush the remainder of the game"—other whalers in the area. He compares himself to an "old hunter" who knows not to rush. This metaphor recurs: the ocean is a hunting ground, and Semmes is the patient stalker.

His descriptions of chase and capture are precise. He notes wind direction, sail configurations, and the timing of signals. When he speaks a French ship, he lies about his identity, claiming to be a "United States cruiser" to avoid alarming her. These small deceptions are part of the craft. Semmes takes evident pride in his ability to outthink his opponents, whether they are Union warships or merchant captains. The reader sees a commander who thinks several moves ahead.

Island Interlude: The Azores as Refuge and Observation Post

After capturing the Ocmulgee, Semmes brings the Alabama to the island of Flores in the Azores. His description of the island is unusually lyrical. He writes of "the bluest and deepest of water," "luxuriant vegetation," and "neat white farm-houses" peeping from dense foliage. The passage stands out because it is one of the few moments when Semmes allows himself to dwell on beauty rather than business.

But the island is also a strategic asset. Whalers use Flores to "correct their chronometers," and Semmes knows this. He lies off the coast, watching. The island serves as both a picturesque backdrop and a hunting blind. Semmes notes that the climate is "genial for three-fourths of the year" but that "almost a perpetual gale howls over it in winter." This blend of aesthetic appreciation and tactical calculation is characteristic of his writing.

The Naturalist's Eye: Whales, Oil, and the Physics of the Sea

In the midst of a war memoir, Semmes devotes a long paragraph to the biology of sperm whales. He explains that a large whale yields "twenty-five barrels of oil from the head alone," and that the oil is "baled out with buckets." He then speculates on the purpose of this oil: it helps the whale ascend rapidly from great depths to breathe, acting "on the principle of the cork." He even adds a sentimental note, calling the whale "a very intelligent fish" with "an affection for its 'calf,' almost human."

This digression reveals something important about Semmes. He is not merely a naval officer; he is a curious observer of the natural world. He treats the whale as a marvel of design, and his explanation is both technical and poetic. The oil, he says, allows the whale to "lay its head on the softest kind of a pillow, an ocean wave, and sleep as unconcernedly as the child does upon the bosom of its mother." This is the voice of a man who has spent years at sea, watching and wondering.

Semmes writes from a specific vantage: that of a Confederate officer who never surrendered his belief in the cause. Readers should expect a narrative that is at once meticulous and partisan, full of technical detail and personal grievance. The memoir rewards those who read slowly, paying attention to the small observations—the way a ship burns, the color of an island's water, the habits of whales—that reveal the author's mind. It is not a neutral history, but it is a vivid one.

Rereading Semmes’s log of the Alabama, I noticed how he anchored vast campaigns to small, precise details—a rope’s strain, a bird’s flight over distant water. It reminded me of another wartime record, one rooted in mud and trenches rather than salt. There, too, the enormity of history is carried by quiet particulars. Somehow, these leather-bound volumes speak the same unhurried language of memory. Canada in Flanders, Volume III — Edition Insights holds that same attentive stillness.