by Avi
“Don’t know,” I said, but I could guess.
“He’d hang you,” he said. “You know that, don’t you? Wouldn’t matter that you were a boy.”
I felt sick.
He said, “So why don’t we just go off somewhere? I’ll get you another nice steak. All you have to do is tell me what you’ve been seeing. Nothing but eat and talk. That’s not going to hurt anyone, is it? I know about the launch tomorrow. It’s what’s inside her I’d like to know.”
By this time, his friend had come up right behind me. I could feel him. Though breathing hard, I managed to say, “Can’t stop now.”
“Why not?”
“My … ma’s expecting me. My sister’s sick.”
His eyes narrowed. “With what?”
“Coughing. Weakness. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. After the launch.”
His glared at me. “You sure?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“You might,” he allowed.
That made me sicker.
“And you promise to talk to me tomorrow when you come out of the Works?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, unable to look at him.
He reached out and jerked my chin up so I had to look into his fierce eyes. “Tom,” he said, “if you skip out, I’ll find you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just be there tomorrow,” he said, and stepped aside.
Uncertain, I stood a moment, and then went forward. As I went by, he rapped me on the head, hard. It stung plenty and made me stumble, but I wasn’t going to stop. Nope, I lit out and ran all the way home.
When I got there, I didn’t go inside. I sat on the steps, smeared away my tears, and tried to think what to do. I felt cold inside. I couldn’t believe I’d done anything so stupid as to listen to that copperhead.
I thought of running away. Anywhere. But I didn’t want to leave home. Still, I knew I had to get some help. But not from my ma. Or Dora. Couldn’t tell Captain Ericsson, either. I sure wished my pa was there!
That made me remember: whenever I did something stupid, like not doing my paper route right, or sassing my sister, he’d say, “Hey, Tom, only way people are going to know you’re smart is if you act smart.”
That’s when I thought of Garrett Falloy. Sure, sometimes he could be the bully. But other times he was a peacemaker. Not knowing anyone else I could go to, I decided I’d take the chance and talk to him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I Go to Garrett Falloy
GARRETT LIVED IN ROOMS like ours, only four rooms instead of two. But he had a bigger family: he lived there with his ma, four sisters, and a two-year-old brother. Garrett was the oldest kid. And of course there was his pa, but he was away in the army.
As always, their door was open, so I walked into a small hallway. There were lots of voices coming from farther in. Garrett’s youngest sister, Veronica, came running. She saw me, stopped, but didn’t say anything. Just stared at me.
I said, “Got to speak to Garrett.”
She wiped her nose with her fingers then bolted away.
“Garrett!” someone cried.
A few moments later Garrett came ambling out. He had curly hair—all the Falloys had curly hair—and a red face with fat cheeks. When he looked me up and down, there was something of a smirk on his face. “What you want?” he said, so I suppose he was remembering that the last time we were together we had a bit of a scuffle.
I said, “Need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“I got some … trouble.”
He grinned. “That floating battery sink?”
“It’s going in the water tomorrow.”
“You with her?”
“Not that kind of trouble,” I said. “Copperhead.”
He dropped his teasing look and peeked back down the hallway, as if making sure no one was there. Then he said, “Come on.”
He led me around the corner to an old carriage house. The boys on the street often went there. It was like our headquarters. Only two of its brick walls were standing. The other walls were slanted boards.
We went to the back, where an unhinged door leaned against one wall. Garrett eased it open and went forward. I followed. He set the door back, leaving us in the dark and damp. Then he lit a safety match and set a candle burning.
The space was no more than ten feet square, but us kids fixed it up like a small room. Even had a broken sofa, a three-legged table, and a chair.
Garrett threw himself down on the sofa while I stood before him. Then, “Go on, tell me.”
I stood there—almost as if I was reciting in school—and told Garrett what had happened. He listened through it all.
The space was no more than ten feet square, but us kids fixed it up like a small room.
When I’d finished, he didn’t say anything. Just pulled off his cap, rolled it up, and slapped one hand with it a few times. Then he said, “Why’d you even talk to that copperhead?”
“It was after my first day at the Works. He threw his money at me. With my pa gone, we don’t have much. My ma does washing. So does my sister. But she’s sick a lot.” I shrugged. “So I just picked it up.”
“Don’t they pay you at the ironworks?”
“Seventy-five cents a week.”
“Not much,” he said, without smirking or anything. “What did the copperhead want from you?”
“Things about the Monitor’s guns. Crew. That sort of stuff.”
“Did you tell him?”
I shook my head but recalled what Quinn had told me, that I could hang just for talking to him. Feeling tears well up, I said, “I thought I could just take his money. What am I going to do?”
“Just tell him … that the ship won’t do cheese.”
“Garrett, he showed me his pistol. Threatened me.”
“That boat really important?”
“Going to win the war.”
“Says who?”
“Captain Ericsson.”
“The one who’s building it?”
“Yeah.”
“I could get my uncle, the cop. He lives close.”
I shook my head. “I just want to keep Quinn away from me.”
Garrett didn’t speak for a bit. “What time you get off from work?” he asked.
“Seven.”
“And you said you’d meet him tomorrow? At the gates of the Works?”
“Didn’t know what else to say.”
He thought for a moment. “There’s two of them, right?”
I nodded.
“Okay. Go to work regular. And don’t worry. By the time you come out—if you haven’t drowned on that thing—I’ll think of something.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, and left. Right then, the only thing I wanted was for tomorrow to be yesterday.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I Ride the Monitor Into the East River
NEXT DAY—January thirtieth—launching day, came in cold but bright. I was pretty quiet over my coffee, bread, and molasses, thinking about all that was going to happen: the launching and Mr. Quinn. The way I was feeling, either way I would be sunk. In fact, I almost wished the Monitor would sink. That way I wouldn’t have to meet Quinn.
When I couldn’t put my going off longer, I hugged my ma good-bye. She was surprised, because I didn’t offer too many hugs. But other than hug me back, she said nothing.
Just before I left, I got the gold dollar back from Dora, telling her I found out who had lost it. Then I fetched the one I’d hid in the backyard. If I met Quinn, I was going to make him take his money back.
Maybe Ma didn’t know about the launch, but it was hardly a secret. Crowds of spectators had gathered at the ironworks to see what would happen. There were crowds across the river, too. Swarms of yard mechanics standing by to watch, cheer, or jeer, setting bets as to whether the Monitor would sink or not. Newspapermen were there. Artists were sketching the event for papers. There were even small boats close by on the r
iver, ready to pluck off survivors if there came the sinking need.
I kept looking for Mr. Quinn, but I didn’t see him.
Then it came: eleven o’clock in the morning. Launch time.
The Monitor was perched on smooth wooden skids, on an incline, held back by massive wooden blocks. Attached to our stern and then to the land was a heavy line. I supposed it was there to haul the Monitor back to shore if she sank. It made me feel better—and worse.
Some of the mechanics—my friend O’Keefe was one—stood by with huge hammers in hand, ready to knock the blocks away. The ship’s weight was supposed to do the rest.
Captain Ericsson, wearing his top hat, stood midship near the place where the turret would be set. A few of his business partners were there, along with someone from the navy. I was, too, and not happy, my head full of thoughts about what I should do if the ship started to sink. I kept reminding myself I could swim, and that the water would be cold so I shouldn’t be shocked. I told myself that the river was calm, with far less ice than before. At least I wasn’t thinking about Mr. Quinn for the moment.
This picture had to have been made after the Monitor became famous, because at this time there was no turret on her.
The only one not looking nervous was Ericsson. After a bit he cried, “Is all ready?”
“Ready, sir!” came the answer from the hammer holders.
“Hammers up!” I heard Mr. O’Keefe call.
Heart pounding, I forced myself to keep my eyes open.
Captain Ericsson lifted an arm and shouted, “Strike the blocks!”
There was a crick-crack! of hammer blows to the blocks. Next moment, the Monitor slipped down the ways, slow at first but picking up speed.
I was afraid to breathe.
Quick as winks, the Monitor slid into the cold river, spraying a fountain of foam, only to settle on the waters, wallowing like a fat duck. Then she—floated!—her deck only eighteen inches above the water! After 105 days of building—just a little behind schedule.
The crowd shouted, “Hurrah! Hurrah!”
I caught myself doing the same.
Captain Ericsson turned to me as if asking me a question.
“Displacement,” I whispered.
For once he gave a real smile—which made me feel fine—nodded, and said, “All right then, Tom, there’s work to do.”
But as I followed him, I suddenly remembered: now I’d have to deal with Mr. Quinn. In fact, later that day, Mr. O’Keefe sidled up to me and whispered, “Hey, Tom, people are saying there were two Confederate spies watching the launch!”
That gave me a jolt. “They still here?”
“Didn’t see them. If I did, I’d have wrung their necks.”
As the day wore on I got more and more nervous. How would I avoid Quinn? Would Garrett really help? Maybe I should go to his uncle, the policeman. But I was too scared to tell him what I’d done.
I considered confessing to Captain Ericsson. But by the time I got up my courage, he’d gone off to meet the newly appointed captain for the ship, John Worden. Then I thought of talking to O’Keefe, only to back off. I didn’t want him thinking poorly of me.
Seven o’clock came too soon. The mechanics and laborers began streaming toward the gates. I started forward, stopped, and then went on. My hands were deep in my pockets, gripping those slippery gold dollars. My head was bowed—as if Quinn wouldn’t see me if I didn’t see him.
I went through the gates. I did see Luke, but no Garrett. No policemen either. Though my stomach was tight, I didn’t dare stop. So I turned toward home.
And bumped right into Mr. Quinn. Bumped so hard I sort of bounced back. I jerked my head up, and there he was, smiling, but it wasn’t any kind of smile you’d enjoy.
“Been waiting for you,” he said.
I just stared at him.
“Saw you on that ship as she went into the water,” he said, proving that it had been him at the launch. “We need to talk.”
I pulled my trembling hands out of my pockets and held out the dollars. “Don’t … don’t want these,” I said. “And … I don’t … don’t want to talk to you.”
“Now, Tom,” he said, all easy, “that’s not fair. You gave your word.”
“Didn’t,” I muttered, and glanced over my shoulder. Mr. Quinn’s friend was there. Awful close.
Mr. Quinn put a hand on my shoulder. Gripped it hard. “Tom,” he said, “you promised.”
I don’t know where he came from, but suddenly Garrett Falloy came running.
Head down, he butted Quinn right in his guts. Did it so fast, so hard, the man reeled back as much from surprise as hurt. Same time, Luke came up and knocked into Quinn, too. That sent him down to the ground.
Before I realized what was happening, three other boys from my street—Jacob, Sean, and Connor—did pretty much the same to Mr. Quinn’s friend—laid him flat on the street.
Once they were down, Garrett turned and grabbed my arm. “Come on, run!”
I took one step with him, then stopped and flung the dollars at Mr. Quinn.
Garrett halted. “You crazy?” He darted back, scooped up the coins, and then all of us—like a troop of cavalry—galloped off.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I Escape
THE FIVE OF US DASHED through the streets, a-whooping and a-hollering as if we’d won a great victory over the Rebs. Hadn’t felt so good in a long time.
Garrett led us to the carriage house. There we did some more yelling, collapsed onto the sofa, laughed, and even wrestled a bit. We kept telling what happened maybe twenty times.
“Luke was our lookout,” said Garrett with a grin. “Soon as he saw you with Quinn, he whistled us up. We were waiting.”
Then Garrett plucked out the two gold dollars so all could see them on the palm of his hand. In the candlelight they glistened fine.
“Guess I got my reward, too,” he crowed.
“You really giving them to Garrett?” Sean asked me.
“Ain’t mine,” I said with relief. “He’s welcome.”
“And Reb gold is still gold.” Garrett laughed.
Then it was as if our fizz went flat. No one said anything for a moment. We just sat there. One by one, the other boys said they had to get on home.
“Thanks a lot,” I called to each. Pretty soon it was just me and Garrett. He was still enjoying his dollars, flipping them up with his thumbs, catching them.
“Don’t know what I’ll do with these,” he said.
“Do what you want,” I said. Meant it, too.
“What are you going to do?” he said.
“About what?”
“Hate to tell you,” said Garrett, all serious, “we got you away from them tonight. What about tomorrow?”
“What do you mean?”
“Tom Carroll, I reckon for a small chap you’re the biggest fool. Don’t you know they’ll keep coming ‘til they get you?”
My good feelings melted. “Guess so,” I admitted.
“You better stay out of their way.”
“Got to go to work,” I said. “Need the money.”
“You launched that ship today, didn’t you?”
“It floated.”
“She going off to station?”
“You bet.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“If I were you I’d go with her.”
“I’m not crew.” Discouraged, I said, “Guess I better go home.”
“I’ll walk with you. In case.”
I didn’t refuse.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I Find a Place of Safety
IN THE MORNING, I figured I’d better find another way of getting to the ironworks. I made a big circle and came around opposite the way I usually did. The last two blocks I ran, racing through the gates.
I was awful glad to see Captain Ericsson in his shack when I got there. Soon as he saw me he said, “The turret’s going on. And Tom,” he added with his usual pride, “there’s n
othing like it in the whole world.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t really understand what a turret is,” I said, relieved to be fixing on the Monitor again.
Ericsson was only too happy to give an explanation. “First off, turret means little tower, like on a fort, only this one is all iron.
“Second, it’s round—twenty feet across inside. Third, and best thing of all, it turns around.”
“How?” I asked.
“The whole turret sits on a ring of brass. Right underneath the turret I’ve attached a strong shaft. I’ve designed a hand screw that lifts the turret up half an inch off that brass ring. That allows the turret to turn on the shaft. But what turns the shaft—and the turret—is a pair of steam engines down below. Inside the turret, there are levers to control those engines. What’s it all mean? The gun crew, inside the turret, can control the turning of the turret.”
“How fast?” I asked.
“Two and a half turns each minute.”
This is one of Ericsson’s detailed plans for the turret.
Sure enough, that day they started putting the turret together. It was all iron plates, so they assembled it piece by piece, layering it like an onion. The plates were an inch thick, bolted together so each one could be removed easily if damaged. When they finished, the turret walls were eight inches thick!
Over the next several days, they put on the turret roof with its iron beams, reinforcing them with diagonal braces. They covered the beams with more iron plate. Those plates had holes in them to let in light and air. Also, there were two escape hatches on top.
This photograph of the turret was taken after the battle. Look closely and you can see the dents made by enemy cannon fire.
The turret looks pretty spacious here, but during the battle there were nineteen men working in it!
If I figured it right, from top to bottom that turret was nine feet tall, but because of how thick the iron was, only six or seven feet high inside.