Iron Thunder

by Avi

  He handed me his speaking trumpet. “This will make your voice even louder. Now, get on up to the turret,” he said. “The Minnesota will tell us when the Merrimac appears.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, and ran to do as ordered.

  Fact is, I felt a whole lot better. I’d been worried that I’d have nothing to do. Now I had something—something big. I was glad I’d shouted out newspaper headlines.

  Since we were behind the Minnesota, the Merrimac couldn’t see us. Of course, we couldn’t see her either. Even if she had seen us, not sure it would have mattered. She’d be coming no matter what.

  I stood on the turret, so tired I think I actually dozed off. Suddenly I heard, “The Merrimad She’s coming!”

  Between seven and seven thirty that morning, the Merrimac had poked her snout out of the Elizabeth River. As bold as marching music, she steamed into the Roads.

  One of the Minnesota’s officers was shouting down to me. “The Merrimac! She’s coming right at us!”

  I fairly dove into the turret, making sure I closed the hatch behind me. “She’s coming!” I shouted over and over again as I ran down the galleyway to the pilothouse.

  “Up anchor!” the captain cried.

  Next moment, I heard the anchor crank turn.

  I heard the captain say, “Very well, Mr. Williams, come ‘round the Minnesota and then proceed straight ahead, right at the Merrimac. Mr. Carroll, tell the turret what we are about.”

  I tore down the galleyway—it was about seventy-five feet back to the turret—yelling through the speaking horn, “We’re going to meet her! We’re going to meet her!”

  It was about eight thirty in the morning. The only two sounds I could hear were the clank-clank of the engine and my heart hammering.

  According to the captain, the morning’s fog—just like a theater curtain—had lifted. The battle was about to begin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Battle Starts

  I RACED BACK TO the pilothouse and looked up. Captain Worden and the pilot had their faces pressed to the viewing slots so they could see what was happening. Mr. Williams was at the wheel, awaiting orders. To my surprise, the captain climbed down to where I was. “Tom, come along,” he said to me, sounding fairly calm.

  He went down along the galley and up into the turret. “Mr. Greene,” he called. “You and I need to take a look.”

  As we climbed up, we were just coming around the Minnesota. From atop the turret, Captain Worden could study the Merrimac, and not just through the slots in the pilothouse.

  It was a frightening sight. To my eyes, the Merrimac, heading right toward us, seemed gigantic, a monster with thick black smoke streaming behind her like a galloping horse’s mane.

  Here is a pretty good map of the battle area. Just south of Newport News you can see where the Congress and the Cumberland were attacked.

  Right over where it reads “Hampton Roads” is the Minnesota.

  Right under is where our two ships fought. Confederate troops were looking on from Sewell’s Point. Union forces looked on from Fort Monroe.

  Here’s some of what I learned about the Merrimac, then and later:

  The Reb ironclad was about a hundred feet longer than the Monitor. She looked even bigger. She had a ram at her bow. She was wider than we were and had a draft (depth) of twenty-two feet. The Monitor had eleven. She had a crew of three hundred and fifty. We had fifty-eight.

  The Merrimac had this sloping iron roof that ran along pretty much the whole ship. Poking out of each sloping side were three cannons, nine-inch Dahlgrens, plus two Brooke rifled cannons. Plus two more Brooke rifled cannons at bow and stern. She could load and fire every five minutes.

  The Monitor carried two eleven-inch Dahlgren cannons. It took us between seven or eight minutes to shoot them off.

  They had even coated the Merrimac's roof with pig fat so enemy shots would skid off. No fat on us.

  Two wooden gunboat steamers came along with her.

  We were alone.

  In other words, the Merrimac was bigger, had a larger crew, had more guns than the Monitor, and could shoot faster.

  That was the sea monster we were going to fight.

  I couldn’t imagine then what the Merrimac thought of us. Later we got word that they didn’t know what we were. She certainly didn’t understand that our turret held cannons or could turn. How could she? No other turret existed. And I never had said anything to Mr. Quinn. In fact, at first they thought we were some kind of water tanker. “Tin can on a shingle,” one of the Merrimac crew called to us.

  The point is, the Merrimac didn’t act as if she had a bug’s breath of worry about us, that we could do her the slightest harm. She steamed steady on toward the Minnesota, coming to finish her off.

  “What do you think, Mr. Carroll?” the captain asked me.

  I said, “We’re like a city rat attacking a Southern alligator.”

  Mr. Greene and the captain laughed. I guess I understood then why I was there: they liked a youngster aboard, someone who saw things different than they did.

  The next moment, the Merrimac opened fire. Wasn’t at us, but one of her shells howled over our heads. It struck the side of the Minnesota with a crash and burst of wood splinters. Scared the breath out of me.

  The captain, nothing but calm, said, “Gentlemen, we’d best go below.”

  Back in the pilothouse, the captain said to Mr. Howard, “I want to engage that ship as far from the Minnesota as possible. Make sure we are always between the Merrimac and the Minnesota. The only way she can get to her must be over us.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Howard, and he gave orders to the helmsmen.

  The captain turned to me: “Tell Mr. Green what we are doing.”

  I bolted off again, racing back and forth between the turret and the pilothouse.

  Mr. Greene to me: “Mr. Carroll, ask the captain if I should fire.”

  He had to ask because the turret crew had no idea where the Merrimac was. The gun ports were covered by very heavy iron shutters. Those shutters were designed to keep enemy cannon fire out, but it also meant the crew couldn’t see much of anything.

  I dashed back.

  The captain to me: “Tell Mr. Greene not to fire until I give word, then to be cool and deliberate, take sure aim, and not waste a shot.”

  Mr. Greene to me: “Tell the captain we are standing ready.”

  Me to Captain Worden: “He’s ready!”

  He to me: “Double check.”

  I shouted up from beneath the turret: “Mr. Greene, sir? Are you truly ready?”

  “Ready and waiting,” came the reply. “Ask if I shall fire!” One of the cannons, loaded with charge and shot, had been run out.

  Captain to me: “Tell Mr. Greene that I am going to bring her close alongside our starboard beam.”

  I tore back. Mr. Greene was leaning over the cannon, trying to see the Merrimac.

  “Shall I begin?”

  I ran back to the captain.

  The Monitor had pulled herself alongside the Merrimac, and then stopped. We were only yards apart!

  “Commence firing!” the captain shouted, and I ran down the galley and screamed the order. Next moment, Mr. Greene stepped back and yanked the lanyard on his cannon. It roared. That spent cannon was hauled back. The second cannon was run up and fired.

  I tell you, when our cannons fired, no noise had ever been so loud. I did not just hear it in my ears, I felt it in my eyes, mouth, my whole body. Many a nose bled, and all eyes were teary from the explosions. Smoke was everywhere.

  As soon as they fired, the turret began to rotate.

  The fifteen-pound bags of gunpowder were easy enough to carry and plump into the cannons. But to carry each cannonball—a hundred and sixty-five pounds!—required two men, the strongest backs and hands, plus a stretcher, slings, and pulleys.

  After our first shots went off, the Merrimac could have no doubt as to why we were there. And no doubt as to her response. I f
elt a terrible suspense. What would happen to us when she fired and we were struck?

  We found out soon enough.

  It took just moments for the Merrimac to heave a broadside at us with four of her cannons.

  First to come was the shrill, screaming shriek of the incoming shots. Then came an ear-breaking clang! as a metal shell struck the turret and exploded. The concussion was enormous. The whole turret shook. I felt it all over my body.

  But when that shell struck us, the result was … nothing! Nothing but noise and shaking.

  Let me tell you, every crew member’s face sparked to life. And those faces said, Nothing happened! We won’t be harmed! The iron has protected us!

  Captain Ericsson had been right.

  Maybe so, but Mr. Greene still had doubts. After the first exchange of broadsides—while our cannons were being reloaded—he scrambled out of the turret. As he told us later, he laid out flat and peered down, wanting to see what the Merrimac’s shot had done to us. All the time he was in danger of losing his life, since Merrimac sharpshooters were aiming at him. But the Monitor was constantly moving, circling the Merrimac, and he hadn’t been hit. Brave man.

  A battle scene showing the Monitor trying to shield the U.S. Navy flagship Minnesota from the Merrimac.

  He scurried back to report we’d suffered no harm.

  The turret crew cheered!

  Meanwhile, the turret had swung away. We fired another round. Another. And another.

  It was hard to see. It was hard to breathe. Gases drifted up from the fire room and mixed with the gun smoke. More smoke and heat eddied from our oil lamps. All mixed with the stench of the nineteen-man crew-sweating in that small turret, working in a hot frenzy. Sweat dripped down through the hatches into the berth deck

  In the turret, the smoke was so thick, noise so loud, shocks huge and constant, it was as if we were in a world of dark clouds, a place where gods make terrible iron thunder and blinding lightning bolts. Why, even the gun crew, covered with black powder, were like creatures from another world. In the midst of it all, orders were constantly being shouted. Cannons boomed. Chaos!

  The battle didn’t stop. Shot after shot was exchanged.

  The men in the engine room below, under the steady commands of Mr. Newton, were heaving coal into the fireboxes, keeping the boiler steam at bursting levels for the engines that moved the turret and the propeller. Same time, they were checking engines, gauges, pressure, oil.

  Mr. Greene would cry down to me, “How does the Merrimac bear?”

  I raced his question to the captain.

  His reply: “On the starboard beam.” Or: “On the port quarter.”

  But the chalk marks on the turret floor were quickly gone.

  The Merrimac had armed herself to go after wooden ships, so she was firing explosive shells. We were shooting solid shot. This gave us a great advantage, although Mr. Greene expressed the wish that he’d been permitted to use heavier powder charges so as to throw his shots with greater force.

  All during this time, I kept galloping back and forth between the pilothouse and turning turret.

  Pretty soon a whole new trouble was discovered. While the turret turned easily, once it halted it took precious moments to get it moving again. And once moving, it was hard to stop. The lifting and lowering of the gun port shutters took too much time and energy. So Mr. Greene ordered them left open. But to protect the crew while they reloaded, he kept the turret constantly moving, slow and stately. That way the Merrimac only saw the solid turret walls, save when our cannons spoke.

  While the gun crews worked frantically to clean cannons and reload, Mr. Greene leaned over the gun barrels, sighting. Soon as the turret spun so that the Merrimac hove into view, he yanked the lanyards and fired anew.

  It was the best that we could do. It worked … mainly. Yes, we often missed the Merrimac, but again and again we struck her dead-on. But though she kept losing her flag (and replacing it), and despite our close range barrage, she didn’t retreat.

  Nor did we. And with neither ironclad retreating, the battle thundered on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Battle Continues

  THE MERRIMAC tried again and again to hit the Minnesota. But Captain Worden put the Monitor in front of the stranded flagship. Between the two ironclads, the Monitor could move better, faster. And because our hull wasn’t very deep compared to hers, and Hampton Roads had a maze of shoals, we could go where the Merrimac could not. Being longer meant the Merrimac took more time to turn about, too.

  So Captain Worden had us moving constantly, circling, trying to find the Merrimac’s weakness—if there was one.

  Fact is, the two ships were nearly touching but still hurling broadside for broadside at each other.

  Smoke enveloped us both, and we were in the center of the storm.

  Then too, with Mr. Greene having made the decision to keep the gun ports open, that meant when we did swing around, marksmen on the Merrimac tried to shoot through our gun ports. Fortunately, that didn’t work.

  Another thing: because from time to time the Minnesota tried to shoot the enemy, sometimes she hit us!

  No one was hurt on our ship. The only thing close was when Mr. Stoddard, of the gun crew, was leaning against the turret wall when a shot from the Merrimac slammed into us. Stoddard hadn’t been hit, but the force of that blow striking the iron plates stunned him with a concussion. Had to go below to be attended by the surgeon.

  At one point, the captain, with his eyes as always pressed to the viewing slots, called to me: “Mr. Carroll,” he said, “tell Mr. Greene I think they are preparing a boarding party. He should load with canister shot!”

  A whole new danger. Now I knew why the captain wore a sword! Wished I had one.

  As I raced to deliver the message, I wondered what I would—or could—do. A boarding party! It was nothing I’d ever even considered. I delivered the message to Mr. Greene, but didn’t run back, waiting to see what would happen. Five of the gun crew grabbed rifles and stood under the ladder that went to the top of the turret. At the same time, Mr. Greene yanked the lanyards and fired off two more shots.

  As the smoke cleared, I heard him say, “They’ll never board now.” I couldn’t see what he’d done.

  The battled raged on.

  From time to time the turret ran out of cannon shot. When I passed on the word to Captain Worden, he ordered the Monitor to withdraw for a few moments to a shallow place where the Merrimac could not follow. Then we swung our turret about to align the scuttle hole with the hole above the powder storage area. Heavy shot was hoisted up as fast as possible.

  During one such time, the Merrimac tried to slip past us, but only succeeded in running aground. She couldn’t move.

  “Bring us around to her stern,” Captain Worden commanded. I could tell he was excited.

  To me he said, “Tell Mr. Greene what’s happened. I intend to cross that ship. When I do, he must fire!”

  I tore down to deliver the message, and then raced back. I found the captain, face pressed against the viewing slots, saying, “She’s trying to pull off!”

  Even as he spoke, we unloaded shots at her stern.

  “She’s broken free!” called our pilot.

  In fact, the Merrimac had not only broken free but was coming around and heading right at us!

  This picture shows just how close our two ships came!

  “Look out, now!” cried the captain. “She has a ram. She’s trying to hit us. Mr. Carroll, tell Mr. Greene to give them both guns to keep her off!”

  I was running back with the message when I felt a massive jolt, enough to throw me off my feet. The Merrimac had struck us a glancing blow on the starboard quarter. Same moment we sent off another shot. Even so, the blow from the Merrimac caused the Monitor to lurch about. Our engines clanked the more. But then our motion evened out. We had not been harmed.

  The battle continued as fiercely as before.

  Close to noon, needing to repleni
sh our ammunition and shot supplies, we retired to shallower water. Good thing, too: everyone was exhausted.

  Then Captain Worden announced that the Merrimac was making another attack on the Minnesota. He ordered us back into the fray. He shouted down to me: “Tell Mr. Greene I am going to try to ram her. Tell Mr. Newton I want top speed!”

  I raced toward the engine room, shouting orders. The coal heavers glistened with sweat and black coal dust. The Monitor swung about.

  I ran back just in time to hear the captain shout, “Just missed her!”

  The smoke and cannon noise were incredible!

  I stood below the pilothouse, staring up, waiting for orders. That’s when I saw a flash of light followed by a loud crack! A cloud of smoke poured through the pilot box.

  “My eyes!” the captain cried. He staggered back, hands clapped to his face. Blood was streaming down his cheeks. “Sheer off! Sheer off!”

  An exploding shell had struck the pilothouse.

  I stood there, horrified. Then, recollecting myself, I tore down the galley, crying for the surgeon. “Captain’s been wounded! Captain’s been wounded!”

  As the surgeon rushed past me, I shouted up to the turret, “Mr. Greene! Mr. Greene! Captain’s been wounded.”

  In moments we were beneath the pilothouse, the captain on the floor, attended by the doctor. Mr. Greene knelt by the wounded captain.

  “Mr. Greene,” I heard the captain say. “I’m blind! Take command. Save the Minnesota if you can.”

  Mr. Greene shouted up to the helmsman, “Back us off!”

  Then the doctor, Mr. Greene, and I carried the captain to his rooms. Laid him on his bed. The doctor began to work on Captain Worden’s eyes. We stood there helplessly.

  As if suddenly realizing the ship was under his command, Mr. Greene raced back to the pilothouse, and I followed. By the time we got there, perhaps twenty minutes had gone by.

  Viewing the battle from near Newport News.