The H.L. Hunley is still the most intriguing—and daunting—tool ever constructed for war. Its history is equal parts invention, desperation, and lasting enigma, all under the dark cloud of the American Civil War. More diabolical than a deadly gamble, the Hunley was a dream of what naval warfare might look like, a device born of imagination as well as necessity.
The idea of underwater warfare did not originate in Charleston Harbor. For a thousand years, craftsmen had dabbled with a ship that might one day attack from beneath the waves undetected. In the 1620s, Cornelis Drebbel propelled a leather-covered wooden boat with oars. In the American Revolution, David Bushnell’s submersible one-man Turtle attempted to attach an explosive to a British warship. Robert Fulton’s Nautilus of 1800 featured a hand-cranked propeller and a copper hull, but it was still unrealistic. During the mid-19th century, engineers on both sides of the Atlantic were experimenting with air systems, engines, and new types of hulls, all in the quest for the elusive middle ground between reliability and deadliness.
The Civil War was what finally ushered the submarine into the realm of fact. The Union blockade strangling Southern ports forced the Confederacy to search out non-traditional munitions. Alabama entrepreneur Horace Lawson Hunley sponsored a group of engineers under James McClintock, and their determination produced three models. The first, Pioneer, was destroyed to keep it from falling into enemy hands. The second, American Diver, was destroyed while being tested. Their third attempt, a 40-foot iron tube driven by a propeller rotated by hand, would see the name of their machine remain forever in history.
The Hunley was cleverly simple. It accommodated eight men—seven turning a crankshaft which powered the propeller, one who manned the helm. There were pump and ballast tanks to enable it to surface and dive, with small hatches giving restricted vision. Its armament consisted of a copper torpedo attached to a 22-foot spar attached to the bow. Its scheme was simple: ram the spar into an intended enemy ship, pull back, and release the charge.
Innovation had a cost. The Hunley was drilled and submerged twice, killing both crews—including Horace Hunley himself. Both times, the boat was recovered, rebuilt, and returned to duty. On the night of February 17, 1864, with Captain George E. Dixon in command, the submarine set out on a dangerous mission against the USS Housatonic, a Union war vessel patrolling Charleston Harbor.
Sneaking in under the cover of darkness, the Hunley plowed its spar torpedo into the hull of the Housatonic. The ship went down in a matter of minutes—the first time that a submarine had sunk an enemy ship. But the Hunley never returned. It disappeared into the depths of the harbor, gone to everyone for over one hundred years.
Hunters searched for the submarine for centuries. Diver E. Lee Spence said he found it in 1970, yet it was not until 1995 that Clive Cussler’s team officially verified the wreck, hidden under sand just 30 feet below sea level. On August 8, 2000, after 136 years submerged, the Hunley was gingerly lifted and transported to the Warren Lasch Conservation Center in North Charleston.
Recovery was just the first step. Conservators initiated a slow and laborious process of desalting the iron, studying the structure, and restoring artifacts. Clemson scientists utilized high-tech equipment such as 3D scanning and electron microscopes to study the submarine and attempt to understand what transpired in its last few hours.
The human side of the story was the most heartbreaking. When the bodies of the crewmen were searched, they did not show any sign of flooding or escape efforts. Each man was slumped in his station. Scientists determined that the shockwave of the explosion would have instantly destroyed their lungs, killing them before their submarine sank. Lieutenant Dixon and his crew of seven were buried with full military rites in Magnolia Cemetery in April 2004, their bravery not overlooked by the thousands filling the funeral.
The Hunley that exists today is more than an artifact. It’s a working laboratory and a testament to the determination of the human spirit. Personal belongings discovered within—a gold pocket watch, boots, etc.—provide a poignant reminder of the men who bet everything on a radical concept. Through scientists, historians, and conservators, the submarine continues to teach us much about the razor-thin line between innovation and disaster.
The Hunley’s legacy is not merely the craft it sank, but what it represented: irrepressible curiosity, daring to attempt the impossible, and the inextricable link between experiments of the past and current naval warfare.