by Jim Musgrave
In fact, in all my years in New York, I have never ridden the satanic transportation that rumbles through the skies above the chaos they call "city life." I came upon the monstrosity called the Brooklyn Bridge one day, quite by accident. I have no use for what New Yorkers call their engineering "wonders of the world." Rather than ride the elevator trains or cross that grotesque bridge, I would that they tie me to a steam-driven propeller of one of my frigates and let me spin my way across the seas—underwater!
When I arrived in America in 1839, I entertained notions of building a big frigate for the Navy. The result was the unconventional 600-ton frigate Princeton that was built during the period 1841-44. The hulk was constructed in the Philadelphia Navy Yard and the engine in New York. It was with great admiration that the newspapers of the time boasted that my craft was a first in many areas of navigational genius.
The Princeton was the first direct-acting, screw-driven metal-hulled steamship of war with all machinery below the waterline, furnaces designed for anthracite, forced draft by blowers, telescopic stack—and the biggest gun ever carried by a fighting vessel, of twelve-inch caliber. I was quite pleased to be producing this craft because it was far superior to any British frigate of the time.
However, there was an accident, which occurred aboard the vessel that was the fault of an early American partner of mine, one Captain Robert F. Stockton. I first became acquainted with the Captain when my wife and I crossed the Atlantic—England to America—in his ship, a little twin-propeller steamer that he financed, the Great Western. He was a tall, pipe-smoking gentleman, with willowy black hair and big spectacles, which encircled his great ears like grappling hooks. Captain Stockton, like many Americans I have met, was enamored of "bigness." If it were his choice, it was better to be bigger. "America is for big thinkers like us, Swede," he used to tell me, puffing on his pipe like one of the boilers in the Princeton. "If we don't think big, then we won't succeed!"
So, it was the captain's idea to take the ship out for a test firing of weapons; but, unbeknownst to me, he was also sailing out with one of his own cannons added to the Princeton's arsenal. It was nicknamed the "Peacemaker," and it was a foot more in diameter at the breech than the ones I had constructed and much heavier. It was "the largest mass of iron to be brought under the forging hammer," Stockton later told me. But it also had an Achilles' heel: unlike my guns, the Peacemaker was not reinforced with hooplike iron rings forged into the breech and extending for a partial length to protect the metal during the concussion of firing.
As a result, on February 28, 1844, a notable party headed by President John Tyler went on board our ship docked on the Potomac River, for a cruise and demonstration of Stockton's wondrous "Frankenstein" naval rifle. It was a bright unusually warm winter's day, an electioneering candidate's delight with some four hundred political and social leaders and their ladies coming on board to see the event.
I was not present, but Stockton reported the news to me shortly afterward. I had to meet him at a pub in downtown New York, near those dreaded cable cars. He was already "three sheets to the wind" when I approached. His eyes glared at me intensely from out of the smoke-filled darkness, and I thought he was going to fall off his stool.
"Swede! It was disastrous! I put the fire to her fuse myself. There was a flash of light—then an explosion like hell itself erupted from that black beast! We felt the vessel lurch under the concussion. When the smoke cleared, there they were. Five persons dead. Secretary of State Upshur and Navy Secretary Gilmer. Three others. President Tyler was on board but below decks at the time—thank God! A score were seriously wounded and were writhing in agony on the decks. Blood was everywhere! The Peacemaker blew-up, Swede! What are we going to do?"
It was something I had expected, given Captain Stockton's proclivity for "bigness." I reassured him and told him I was working on other projects, and that I still needed his financial help. But he was obviously shocked to the marrow. "The United States Government will not pay us the rest of our money, Swede. And I ... I have murdered the Secretary of State!"
This fiasco was to come back to haunt me, but I did continue with my other tasks, leaving Captain Stockton to his despair. I heard rumors that he took to drink and was eventually committed into a sanatorium by his wife, Rachel. This was not the last time I would see rich and noble men come to ruin.
I devoted much of my time on smaller projects. It was in this time period that my wife, Amelia, advised me she was heading back to London to stay with her parents for a while. I must admit, I was quite busy, and I had been neglecting her. Women are quite soulful beings, forever parading about and wanting you to pay them constant attention. I spent most of my time working at my drawing boards or supervising construction at the shipyards, so I am ashamed to say that I was a bit relieved when she told me the news. I could finally get down to some real work at last.
The 260-foot Ericsson, powered by my caloric engine, sank in a squall off New Jersey but was raised and refitted for steam. Steam machinery for various light tonnage vessels earned me as high as $84,000 in one year—1845—but I lost my money on the Iron Witch, a New York-to-Albany Hudson River steamer equipped with both a propeller and paddles. She vibrated so much that none wanted to embark on her pulsating decks. This craft served as a metaphor for my marriage, it seemed.
I spent most of my time defending my patent rights to the screw or "spiral" propeller in the courts, especially with respect to those U.S. Government steamers found using them. I failed, however, to win a $15,000 claim. In spite of my rebuffs and shabby treatment with regard to funds owed to me for the Princeton (I was blamed for Captain Stockton's escapade on the Potomac), I became a naturalized citizen in October 1848.
I remember the day clearly. I walked down to the doorman, Alfred, and I told him I was now an American, at the age of 37. The grizzled old ruffian looked me up and down, shook his head, and exclaimed, "Well, the country was named after an Italian explorer, Vespucci, discovered by an Italian explorer, Columbus, but some have said the first man who founded these United States was from your area, Captain."
"Oh? And who might that be, Alfred?" I asked.
"I don't exactly remember his right name, but I think it was somethin' like Leaf. Yes, that's it! Leaf Ericson! He had the same damned name you have, Captain!"
Thus, I was initiated as an honorary relative of the Scandinavian Viking founder of these United States, Leif Ericson.
Yours truly, John Ericsson
Chapter Two: Leaving Annapolis
"The Officer, "Annapolis Maryland June 10, 1860
Dearest Anna,
Well, I have done it! At long last, the years of study and hardship have given me the diploma and an appointment to Midshipman by the President of these United States. When you come to the graduation ceremonies, you will see how well we have fitted the grounds for feminine splendor. There will be rest rooms where the women can spruce-up before the long-winded speeches by our commanding officers. I wish I could spare you all the pomp and circumstance, but such is the plight of the military service. If you are to wed an officer, you must learn to put up with these formal occasions, I am afraid.
I am apprehensive father is disappointed that I finished seventh in my class. How can I compete with the man who invented the famous "elevator trains" of New York? I did, however, finish second in Mathematics and Astronomy, so perhaps I can impress you with my calculations of the stars? I sat last night at my dormitory window and found "our star." It is in the Spiral Nebulae, and I have named it "Lovers' Retreat." It is here we shall stay when our time on this earth is finished. This will be a planet for our dreams, my Anna. There will be no conflicts to break us apart, no oceans to separate us. Whatever you can imagine in your female dreams, we shall have it on our planet! Alas, the Master-at-Arms, who came poking his long nose into my room and saying, "Lights out", broke my reverie! But, as we both know, the Navy will never extinguish our love light in the heavens!
I will meet you at the station
in Annapolis, my love. I want to escort you around the campus during our pre- graduation festivities. We shall have a ball on the evening of our commencement ceremony, and I will be the luckiest midshipman attending with you at my side. I have been practicing my waltz, and I can even do a fair Virginia Reel, although I doubt that with politics as they are we will hear such tunes! All the men are discussing the possibility of war, but I do not think it will come to that. The Southern States may have differences with the Union, but they must realize that we could leave ourselves open to foreign aggression if we were to fight over slavery and King Cotton.
Well, the Master-at-Arms will arrive soon, and I must extinguish the lamp. My love is pulsating out of my heart and into my quill. Please, kiss these words and feel my life's blood rush to your brain! Oh, my love, I miss you so!
Until I can see you step down from the train, I will be the saddest midshipman in the Navy.
Love,
Dana
Chapter Three: Blockade!
"The Spy, "Liverpool, June 12, 1861
Heavenly Penelope,
I have received word that my schooner, H.M.S. Caine, shall be ready in a fortnight. I will meet with the American at the Silver Tide Inn on Shropshire Court, just as the sun goes down. There is a great profit to be made, Penny, and I pray you not be abashed by these bold actions of mine. It is inevitable that this war will take place. The northern business owners are refusing to let the southern farmers run their plantations as they see fit.
The boys up north are trying to say it is because of the negro. But no, on the contrary, I have heard these southern gentlemen speak in great detail about the true cause of this pending conflict. They tell me their "darkies," as they politely refer to them, live extremely comfortable lives; indeed, they have much better lives than the factory workers whose existences are in constant danger because of the unsanitary slum hovels and countless, labouring hours toiling in those horrendous sweat shops. Those northern pigs even put the children to work inside those metal tombs in New York City! It seems they need a good Charlie Dickens to show the people who the true villains are over there in the colonies!
Do not fret over me, Pen. I know you worry about the peril, but the Union Navy is an abysmally sad collection of torpid old frigates and ineffectual sailing vessels. With her steam-driven propeller below the water line, my schooner will glide past these old dowagers like a good pickpocket on the run at Piccadilly Square.
The “Confederates” as they call themselves, plan to wage a long and bitter conflict with their northern brethren. They want to keep the same genteel values we have long esteemed under the Crown. Profit is not as important to these gentlemen as their way of living. They see the demonic tendencies of capitalistic greed and social permissiveness taking over in the north, and they say they will fight to the last man to preserve their "southern dignity."
They plan to buy tons of supplies, and they are opening hundreds of stock lines here and in France. But I, and many other professional captains, will be "running the gauntlets" for them as they have little or no naval force. You know I have always sided with the underdog, Penny, and especially when the dog has a gigantic bone for me as well!
Please, do come out to Liverpool! We can celebrate my contract with the Americans and plan for our wedding vows. I must say if your father rattles his saber one more time when I come to visit, I shall flail the old buzzard like an American turkey! Sincerely, however, I am certain he will agree to our marriage once he sees what the monetary award is for running the blockades in America!
Until we meet again,
Walter
Chapter Four: The Union Crumbles
"The Inventor, "New York, July 4, 1861
Dear Cornelius,
It has been several months now since my wife, Amelia, left. I have moved to less auspicious surroundings at 36 Beach Street, near Canal Street and City Hall. Amelia's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Blackstone, are very wealthy Londoners, and I am afraid my constant work for little money drove her back to them. She appears in my dreams, however, and I can't get her out of my mind. It is as if her lovely image can project itself upon any task I have in front of me. I am immediately interrupted, and it takes me quite some time to become focused once more. Quite scandalous, really!
My work habits, however, remain the same. My workroom is now located on the second floor, with drawing boards stretched the full twenty-five feet beneath the five bright windows overlooking the city's traffic. My parlor and dining room, dominated by heavy chandeliers and mantel mirrors, exude grandfatherly, old-fashioned dignity. I am told by Mrs. Hasbro, my house woman, that I should attend the theatre or visit a symphony. She says I am too much of a "busy bee," and that a person of my age should learn to relax. She has even observed that the pins in the cushion on my bedroom bureau are arranged so that they are in mathematical rows, and that I have all my canned goods filed in the cupboards alphabetically. She says I am obsessed with order.
My dress is as meticulous and uniform as my home furnishings. Invariably, I will wear a black frock surtout coat with rolling collar, velvet vest over a fresh shirt front, gold chain hung about my neck, looped at the first buttonhole and attached to a watch in the fob of the vest. My trousers are usually of light shade, and when I walk out of my front door, I top-off my attire with a dressy beaver hat and kid gloves.
Mrs. Hasbro's husband, Neil, often comes in the evenings to play chess and to discuss politics. He is now sitting across from me; we are celebrating Independence Day, and he is going on about the American election campaign. It seems that in June there was a clamor for secession at the Southern Democratic National Convention, which met successively in Charleston, Richmond, and Baltimore and nominated its own candidates, a Mr. John C. Breckinridge of Kentucky, President, and a Mr. Joseph Lane of Oregon, Vice-President. This little southern party has insisted, says Mr. Hasbro, that the federal government protect slavery as a state right.
It is interesting to me that these Americans elect people called "presidents," as though they were appointing the heads of corporations, and not commanders-in-chief of the armed forces. Indeed, one cannot move an inch in this country without the talk of money. As Mr. Hasbro so quaintly phrases it, "If we could charge people for breathin' air, we sure as hell would do it!"
Well, there will most likely be a new "president" in the American White House. He will defeat a short little man named Douglas, who was supposed to have been a superb orator. I have heard this tall, gawky new president speak. Hasbro says he is from the state of Illinois and that he was raised in a log cabin. I must say, I expected him to speak in the homespun vernacular of many of these fools, but he surprised me. He has some wit about him. When a gentleman—a Wall Street financier, I believe—asked him why he wanted to alienate the South by abolishing slavery, the big, bearded fellow replied, "What if the cotton farmers in the South had decided to pass a law that said they could own white men with black beards and work these men for nothing, and beat them or kill them if they tried to seek other employment? Why, you and I would be hallowing for the abolishment of slavery, would we not?"
The Wall Streeter said, "But that is not the case, dear sir, those slaves are black all over! We merely have black beards."
Whereupon Abe Lincoln replied, "There you have it! We can shave our faces and roam free as rabbits, but these poor devils are trapped in their own skins. What justice is there in that?"
Mr. Hasbro believes this Mr. Lincoln will win the elections in November but that the South will leave the Union. As I look across at him, his eyes sparkle with an absurd twinkle, as he moves his white knight right into my trap. "But that means a civil war," I say, taking his knight and preparing for my usual conquest.
Mr. Hasbro is a sixty-five-year-old cobbler, and his gray beard curls up like a little girl's on the ends. But his green eyes flash as he replies, "Abe says, 'if the Union crumbles, there won't be nothin' civil left!'"
After Mr. Hasbro leaves, I go to the back of my bedroom to an
old trunk. I take out a brown-wrapped drawing of a small, black, iron-plated battery craft I invented for Emperor Napoleon III of France to use in his little conflict in the Crimea in 1855 against those barbarians of Russia. I must say I have no love for those czarist pigs! But my little monitor, as I call it, had only one revolving turret with cannon, and the grandiose emperor believed it did not fit his expectations. I now raise the letter from "his majesty's personal secretary" and hold it near the gas lamp.
"The Emperor himself examined with the greatest care the new system of naval attack ... he has found your ideas very ingenious."
Then he explained that His Majesty was concerned about the expense as well as "the small number of guns which could be brought into use."
As I hold these drawings, I can't help but think that my invention still has value. There is an English inventor named William A. Armstrong, whom I met in a pub on Canal Street not too long ago. He was bragging that he has invented a rifled- cannon of such powerful explosive strength that it could destroy any American vessel on the seas today. He further bragged that he had met with some southern "gentlemen," and they were willing to pay him over eighty thousand pounds for exclusive rights to his gun.
I still hate the British. And, as I gaze upon my little ironclad, my little iron maiden, I can't help but conclude that Mr. Armstrong has erred. His cannon could perhaps penetrate every American vessel . . . excluding one . . . and I was now looking down upon it.
Yours truly,
John Ericsson
Chapter Five: The Merrimack is Raised!
"The Officer," Brooklyn, New York, August 29, 1861
Dearest Anna,
It was so wonderful being with you for those few short days before war began. Our moonlit nights on the lake will be etched in my memory forever! Christmas was such a joy with your parents and mine getting together at long last. My father has seemed to reconcile our marriage, even though he abhors my choice of the military as a career. I am the first Greene to leave the engineering ranks, and now I feel like the Ugly Duckling out on the lake. When Mr. Lincoln won the election, we thought he could avert war, but those rebel bastards were up to no good from the start!