Fairfax and Perkins had known each other on the coast of Africa, and it was the meeting of old friends made doubly pleasant by the senior’s hearty appreciation of the laurels so gallantly won by the junior, and self-congratulation in the promised comfort of retaining an executive of so much energy, ability, and reputation.

Rejoining Farragut’s squadron, Perkins saw other gallant and varied service in the Cayuga until November, 1862, when he was transferred to the Pensacola, and the following month commissioned lieutenant-commander, a new grade created by Congress to correspond with that of major in the army.

In June, 1863, General Banks, then besieging Port Hudson, sent word to the now Rear-Admiral Farragut, that he must have more powder or give up the siege, wherefore the Admiral ordered the gunboat New London on the important service of powder transportation and convoy, and assigning Perkins to the command until the officer ordered from the North by the department should arrive.  The enemy had possession at that time of some three hundred miles of the river below Port Hudson, with batteries established at various points and sharpshooters distributed along the banks.

Five times Perkins ran the fiery gauntlet successfully, but on the sixth his vessel was disabled in a sharp fight at Whitehall’s Point.  One shot from the enemy exploded the New London’s boiler, and another disabled her steam chest.  In that critical condition, directly under the guns of the hostile battery, and exposed to the fire of sharpshooters on the bank, and deserted by his consort, the Winona, his position seemed desperate almost beyond remedy; but fertile in expedients and daring to rashness in their execution, he finally succeeded, after almost incredible exertion and perilous personal adventure, in communicating with the fleet below, and the vessel was saved.

Now the commanding officer from the North having arrived, Perkins was transferred to the command of the ninety-day gunboat Sciota, the best command at that time, in the squadron, for an officer of his years, and assigned to duty on the blockade off the coast of Texas.  To one of his social disposition and active temperament, the blockade, ever harassing and monotonous, was, as he wrote, a “living death,” adding that “we are all talked out, and sometimes a week passes and I hardly speak more than a necessary word.”  Venturing ashore several times on hunting excursions, he at last came near being captured by the enemy, and held after that, that “cabin’d confinement was preferable to a rebel prison,” and so kept on board.  Once during that weary nine months, the tedium was broken by the capture of a fat prize—­a schooner loaded with cotton.  Let us hope that the prize-court and its attendant officials did not absorb too big a share of the proceeds!

[Illustration:  The Chickasaw.]