“Over here, sir,” she called. The man’s face brightened and he walked over to her. He was quite young, but he wore the uniform of a naval commander.
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Mackenzie!” he said. But when Mackenzie didn’t answer, he frowned and looked at Becca. “Is he all right?”
“Uh, he’s pretty sick, commander…?”
“Harding, Drew Harding, USS Santa Fe. But what’s wrong with him? The burns weren’t that bad, I didn’t think.”
“They’ve become infected. Are you his commandin’ officer? When did these happen?” She eyed the man closely. He had the same last name as her…
“At Little Rock. I guess it was three, no, almost four weeks ago now. My ship doesn’t have much of a sick bay. No doctor, either. We patched him up as best we could, but there was nothing else we could do for him. The medical services were overwhelmed so we just waited until we got here. But I didn’t think… A few days ago it seemed like he was doing fine!”
“Burns are hard to treat. They can get infected days or weeks later, before the skin can finish healin’. I’m sure you did your best, sir.”
“But he’ll make it, right?”
Becca looked down at the man. No telling how much he was hearing. She got up and led the commander a few yards away. “We’re doin’ all we can do for him. If he’s strong, he should pull through. That’s all I can tell you, Commander.”
The man frowned and chewed on his lower lip. “I see. Well, if there’s anything I can do… Would you be kind enough to keep me informed, Miss…?”
“Uh, Harding, Becca Harding. I’ll try to let you know how he’s doin’. You said you are on the Santa Fe? Is it docked here at Memphis?”
“Yes, but… Harding? Rebecca Harding?” He was looking at her with a strange expression.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Do you, uh, do you know a man named Andrew Comstock?”
“Major Comstock?”
“Well, he’s a colonel now, but yes. You know him? You were the girl he met out west in the first days of the war?”
“Yes, that’s right! You know him?”
“Yes, I knew him back in Washington when he was just a second lieutenant and I was an ensign. Staff duty, y’know. We’ve been friends since then and he, uh, he wrote me about you.”
“About me?”
“He was curious if we were related, us both having the same last name and all. He, uh, he wrote me that your folks were all killed in the war and you might not have any family left that you knew about. He asked me if I could check into it.”
Becca looked at him in shock. A relative? Family? “I… I… did you?”
“I wrote my grandmother, she’s the expert on the family history. She’s back with most of my other family near Albany. She wrote back, but mostly with questions for me to ask you - not that I ever expected to be able to do it in person! She mentioned a cousin… or was it an uncle? - I’ll have to re-read her letter - who moved out west before the Civil War. Colorado, maybe? She said they lost touch with him.”
“My grandfather fought in that war and then settled in New Mexico!” said Becca. “Do you think that could be him?”
“Maybe. Can you give me his full name? Any other details?”
“The name sure, it was….”
“Harding! Stop lollygagging! You’ve got a patient to tend!”
Becca looked and there was Miss Chumley with a stern expression on her face. Commander Harding looked sheepish. “Don’t mean to get you in trouble, miss. Maybe you can write down anything you remember and send it to me? The Santa Fe will be docked for repairs for the next few days.”
“All right. And thank you!”
“No, thank you - for taking care of Mackenzie. You will let me know if I can help in any way?”
“Yes, sir, certainly.” He nodded to her and then left, nodding to Chumley as well as he passed. Becca hastily went back to work on Mackenzie. She got him bandaged up and made sure he had water and that the orderlies would feed him, but her mind was only half on what she was doing. Less than half maybe. The amazing conversation with Commander Harding kept crowding out her other thoughts. Family! She’d pushed the possibility that she still had family left in the world to the far corners of her mind. Her family was dead. And there weren’t any more. None. But perhaps there were. And that Commander Harding seemed like a nice man; not like her aunt and uncle. But then he was from her father’s side of the family, a group she’d never met or knew anything about. Maybe they were different - even if they were from back east. The thought of having someone was… exciting. She wished she could tell Frank about it.
Her shift ended but before she could slip off to the mess hall and then her bunk, Miss Chumley intercepted her. “I need to have a word with you, Miss Harding.” Her formal tone meant she wasn’t happy with something.
“I’m sorry about that, ma’am. The commander was concerned about one of his men and I…”
“That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s about that other preoccupation of yours.”
“What? You mean the sharpshooters?”
“Yes, exactly. With things quiet here for so long I saw no harm in letting you indulge your interests. You worked hard and well and if that was your idea of fun, so be it. But now things are getting serious again. The rumors are that Memphis may be attacked soon. That will make the influx we had from Little Rock seem like nothing. And yet I’ve heard you talking about having a position you are supposed to defend with your sharpshooters. Which is it going to be, Rebecca? Are you going to take your gun and go fight, or are you going to stay here and help the wounded? You can’t do both.”
Becca stared at the woman and didn’t know what to say. She’d been afraid that someday it would come to this, but she’d never figured out what she would do when it did. “I… I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Well, you need to make a decision - and soon. If my best nurse is going to run off and play soldier I need to know before the wounded start arriving in truckloads!” She glared at her in her best Chumley fashion and Becca instinctively nodded.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll… I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
* * * * *
May, 1912, Hampton Roads, Virginia
The USLI Albuquerque slipped its moorings and was slowly turned seaward by its towing ship, a freighter called Monodnock. Andrew Comstock held onto the railing of the superstructure to steady himself against the motion and looked back. The other five ironclads of the 1st Squadron were also leaving their docks and heading out. The sun was just peeking over the rim of the world to the east, there was a gentle westerly breeze, and it looked like it would be a fine day.
“Finally on our way,” said Lieutenant Hornbaker, from beside him.
“I surely hope so, Jerry. And it’s certainly about time.”
“That it is, sir. I hope there are no more problems.”
“Amen.”
They had left Philadelphia two week earlier and made it - just barely - to the Norfolk Navy Yard. The voyage was supposed to have taken less than two days, but it ended up taking four. The ironclads with their towing vessels could do eight to ten knots depending on the wind and the seas; maybe two hundred miles a day - in theory. They made it down the Delaware River with no problems, but when they passed Cape Henlopen, at the mouth of Delaware Bay and into the open ocean, they discovered the sea-keeping characteristics of the ironclads with their big flotation modules was about as good as a large rock wrapped in a life jacket. They pitched and rolled, surged and sidled unlike anything ever seen - and the ocean was relatively calm.
The towing vessels struggled to keep their charges under control and on course. Their nice line-ahead formation was soon scattered over twenty miles of ocean and the two escorting destroyers were dashing madly about like overworked sheepdogs trying to keep an eye on everything. By the afternoon of the first day, things were settling down as the crews got used to handling the strange vessels. Then the tow cable on Sioux Fa
lls broke. A few frantic hours followed as the ships tried to get a new cable strung. The others reduced speed to wait for them, and it was well after dark before they were on their way again.
An hour later, Springfield reported a serious leak in one of its floats. A destroyer had to come alongside and lend its pumps to get the flooding under control. It worked, but speed had to be reduced to just a few knots.
By the middle of the second day, all six ironclads were reporting strange and ominous sounds from where the floats were connected to their hulls. Was the motion of the voyage working them loose? If even one of them broke free, an ironclad would be on a quick trip to the bottom. The Baldwin engineers who were aboard scrambled around, inspecting every connection they could get to, and reported no obvious problems. But the naval captain in command reduced speed again and steered the ships as close to the shore as possible. Everyone was on alert and never took off their lifejackets. No one got much sleep that night.
The third day was much the same, although Tulsa began leaking, too; fortunately, not badly enough that its own pumps couldn’t handle it. General Clopton was getting very annoyed and Andrew could scarcely blame him. He remembered the ordeal of getting the first batch of steam tanks to the front in the first year of the war. This was just like that - except then there had been little risk of drowning.
They finally made it into Chesapeake Bay and the safety of Norfolk. Repairs were made, and Clopton - and Andrew - had insisted on a complete inspection of everything involved with keeping the ironclads afloat; adding an extra week. Then a storm had blown up the coast and they hadn’t dared to leave the refuge of the bay.
But it hadn’t all been work and frustration. Victoria had taken a train down from Washington and they had a brief reunion and a last night together before saying goodbye again. Her pregnancy was starting to show a little. Would he see her again before the baby came?
Then, just before the storm arrived, came news of a great victory at St. Louis. The Martians had launched a huge attack there and had been stopped cold. Everyone was celebrating and every ship - and ironclad - in the bay had fired a salute. Good news at last!
Finally they were on their way again. Larger ships to do the towing had been found, heavier cables employed, and every flotation module had been triple checked and secured. Maybe this time there would be no mishaps. Their escort was much larger, too. There was now a destroyer assigned to each ironclad and the protected cruiser, Olympia, Admiral Dewey’s famed flagship from Manila Bay, was leading the squadron, commanded by a commodore. The high command wanted the ironclads at the front and they wanted them there soon. Despite the victory at St. Louis, there were alarming rumors of new threats all along the Mississippi Line.
The squadron moved out into Hampton Roads, and to Andrew’s surprise, they started getting salutes from the other ships anchored there. Mostly just horn blasts, but a few actually fired their tiny saluting guns. Olympia returned the salutes and many sailors came up on deck to wave.
“Are they only being friendly, or are they expecting us to win the war for them?” wondered Andrew aloud.
“Maybe they’re just happy to get our ugly hulks out of their nice harbor,” said Hornbaker.
Andrew laughed. “We’re certainly a batch of ugly ducklings, aren’t we?”
“You can say that again, Colonel.”
Andrew turned at the new voice and saw that Lieutenant - junior grade - Jason Broadt along with Major Stavely, the ironclad’s commander, had joined them. For the sea voyage, a naval officer had been assigned to each ironclad along with a few ratings to help the poor soldiers keep their contraptions afloat. Broadt seemed like he knew his business, but there was no doubt he considered this duty beneath him.
“Morning, Major, Lieutenant. Everything ship-shape today?”
“So far,” replied Broadt. “Which is,” he looked back at the docks, “about three miles. Only one thousand eight hundred and forty more to go to reach New Orleans.”
“About two weeks, do you think?”
“If we’re lucky. And luck isn’t something we’ve had in abundance thus far, Colonel.”
“Well, then we are due for a change.”
“Two weeks?” said Stavely. “Oh, God…”
Poor Stavely seemed especially prone to seasickness, and even the four day journey from Philadelphia had nearly done him in.
“Maybe our good luck will include some calm seas.”
“Let’s hope so. Just get me on solid ground and let me fight is all I ask. See you later, Colonel.” The two men went on up the ladder to the observation platform.
Andrew refused to let Broadt’s cynicism infect him. They were going to make, it and when they went into action, they would make a real difference. The ironclads might look ugly and be cantankerous machines, but they packed enormous firepower and were armored heavily enough that even the Martian heat rays would find them a tough nut to crack. And speaking of firepower…
“Let’s go check on how Tesla’s people are making out today.”
Tesla had gotten General Crozier’s permission to replace the forward seven-inch gun on Albuquerque with his new lightning cannon, and a team of his people had been working to get it installed for over a month. They couldn’t get it done before departure so they had come along.
Andrew, followed by Hornbaker, went down the ladder from the superstructure to the main deck, and then around the huge bulk of the twelve-inch turret to the smaller turret just ahead which now housed Tesla’s latest invention. The snout of the device emerged from the front of the turret through the same embrasure the cannon would have normally used. It was a slightly larger version of what he’d seen on Long Island many months earlier: a long tapering cylinder, like a cannon barrel, with thick rings of a white ceramic material at intervals along its length, until at the end they stopped with a white ball where the muzzle should have been. He wondered how resistant it would be to a heat ray. The steel barrel of a large gun could take high temperatures pretty well, but what about this thing? It would be a shame to see it melted or shattered before it could fire a shot. Perhaps they should keep the turret rotated backward as far as it could go until they were ready to fire. He’d have to mention that to Stavely.
The hatch to the turret was open and he could hear men talking inside. He stuck his head in and saw a multitude of wires and cables and all manner of stuff he could scarcely recognize. During the construction of the ironclads he’d become very familiar with the basics of electrical wiring, but Tesla’s devices were as far removed from normal electronics as the Martian devices were from human ones. But Tesla’s assistants seemed to know what they were doing. Or at least he sure hoped so. They had installed some sort of transformer in the engine room attached to the output of the steam turbine generator and then run thick conduits through the ship up to here. Now they were hooking up the gun to its power supply.
“How are you making out?” he asked the foreman, a very young man named Edwin Armstrong.
“Oh, I think we’ve got her worried, Colonel,” said Armstrong with a grin. “Another few days and we should have it all wired up. D’you think we could do some test firings?”
Andrew jerked in surprise. “Out here? But… but from what Doctor Tesla said, you need to have some of that Martian wire as a target or there’s no telling where the lightning will go! Mightn’t we hit one of the other ships - or ourselves?”
“I guess that could be a problem. We did bring a few test targets made with the Martian wire, but putting them on a raft or something might not be that good an idea at that. Maybe the next time we’re near land?”
“I’ll talk to General Clopton, but don’t get your hopes up.”
“All right, but I don’t like the idea of taking this thing into combat without ever having tested it.”
“Hopefully we won’t go straight into a battle once we get wherever they send us,” said Andrew. “Once we’re ashore we can run some tests.”
“I hope so. We still need to trai
n your men on how to fire this beast.”
“Yes, that’s true. Well, I’ll see what the general says. He’s over on the Olympia for this stage of the trip.”
“Better accommodations?” asked Armstrong with a smirk.
“Better chow, too.” They both smiled. The ironclads only had the sketchiest bunk space and galley. For this trip, most of the crews were staying on the towing ships, but Andrew felt duty-bound to stay with the Albuquerque - which made him the ranking officer on board. He could deal with the Spartan accommodations and food - he’d certainly survived worse out in New Mexico - and they were scheduled for short stops in Charleston and Key West, so maybe he could at least a get a few decent meals.
“Well, I’ll leave you to your work.”
They withdrew and went up to the control center on the tall forward mast. Broadt was there and seemed satisfied with the way the vessel - he steadfastly refused to call it a ship - was handling. By mid-morning they rounded Cape Henry and turned south into the Atlantic.
“Well, we are on our way,” said Andrew. “Next stop: the war.”
Chapter Thirteen
June, 1912, Washington, D.C.
General Leonard Wood bought a copy of the Washington Post as he did every morning on his way to his office in the War and Navy Building. It was barely six o’clock, but even at this early hour the streets were bustling with military men, and he was forced to return salute after salute. Not that long ago he could enjoy a few minutes of solitude on this walk from home, but no more.
Matters weren’t helped by the fact that he was now being hailed as the ‘Hero of St. Louis’. Newsboys shouted at him and total strangers stopped him on the street to shake his hand. No matter that Pershing and Foltz - and the tens of thousands of troops under their command - deserved the real credit. They were still out there, while he was here. It was flattering, of course, but he really didn’t need the distraction.
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