by Jim Musgrave
Gentlemen, consider this. When my monitor is floating, she will show very little above the surface of the water as a target. In addition, her steel plating and revolving turret will allow the maximum firing power against this metal monster, the Virginia. No other invention will succeed! You have my word. I will produce my monitor in time to save the Union!"
There was a hushed silence in the room. The cynical military men stared hard at this bulldog of a man in front of them who was pleading with them to let him create a war ship that had never before been tested. They knew time was of the essence, and soon the Confederate Navy would move on the Union ships stationed in Norfolk harbor. Stories were being circulated that the Rebels were planning to blast their way up the Potomac with this huge metal ship, raping and pillaging along the way, until, finally, they would invade Washington itself. Unless these Union men moved quickly, the fate of the nation could be at risk.
A young officer opened the door and peeked into the smoke-filled room. "Luncheon is being served in the State Dining Room. The President will be in attendance."
* * *
President Lincoln held the model of the little Monitor in his big, rail-splitter's hands, and he slowly began to turn the revolving turret with his index finger by applying pressure on the cannon's barrel. The other men were seated around the large dining table, eating and drinking, but when their Commander-in-Chief picked-up the device, they immediately stopped and began to watch him carefully.
"As the young woman said when she tried on her new stockings, ‘I think there might be something in it!’” President Lincoln said, with his usual sense of humor. The men laughed, and the State Dining Room seemed infused with new possibilities.
"Sir, does that mean you believe we should give this Ericsson our approval to begin construction?" said Secretary Welles, nodding seriously over at Assistant Secretary Gustavus Fox, as if to say, "Be ready to move!"
"If he can build this craft within the 100-day period we have demanded, then I say we should give him a chance," said Fox, sitting up straight to emphasize his point. His red, mutton chop sideburns shone under the chandeliers like fiery bands of fur. "I've seen his plans, Mister President, and the man's a genius. In addition to the revolving gun turret and the low profile in the water, he's designed a fan-powered ventilation system and a below-the-waterline flush toilet!"
President Lincoln chuckled. "Well, it seems the ventilation system and the toilet go together quite handily! The Navy beans we've been serving our boys have been known to cause quite a stir below decks."
The men all laughed and rubbed their whiskers with delight.
* * *
The inventor, John Ericsson, had already departed for New York. He seemed so enthused about his presentation that he decided not to wait to see if the committee had given him their approval to go ahead with the development of the new ship. He remarked to his friend, Cornelius Bushnell, as they were riding in the carriage to the train station, "I'm going to begin my plans for the Monitor as soon as I get back. I don't believe your government has much choice. I am their only hope."
John Ericsson rode home with his partner, Cornelius Bushnell. The train ride to New York would last several hours, and the inventor was busy working on plans for his new Monitor. As the trees and countryside beyond Washington passed by their club car, the sounds of the clacking rails beneath the two men vibrated the papers, which were spread out on the desk, as Ericsson was hard at work, making lines with his compass, and Bushnell was fast asleep, snoring to wake the dead.
I'll call on Charles McCord when I get into New York. He's the best man for this work, Ericsson thought to himself, musing over the designs in front of him and smiling at the sleeping Bushnell. I knew I could convince Bushnell to let me speak to the committee. He's such an old curmudgeon. I didn't have the heart to tell him his ship would most likely sink to the bottom with all that steel he wanted to drape on her hull.
The inventor took a creased letter out of his breast pocket and opened it to read under the gas lamp. It was from his young wife, Amelia, who was now in London with her parents. The words he read caused tears to well in his eyes and his jaws to tighten.
"I am still very much in love with you, John, my darling. However, unless you can provide for me in the way my parents are able to do, I am afraid we shall never be together again. Father says it is much too dangerous to live with you in these dramatic times of turmoil. The only way we can be one is for you to get enough money to come and get me! Don't you see, my love, we need to be aristocrats and nouveau riche. This is the American way, is it not? I do long to hold you in my arms again, my dearest. Tell me when, and I shall be packed and ready to fly on Cupid's wings!"
I shall get the money we need, my love! If I must, I will kidnap President Lincoln and collect his ransom! I will do anything to get you back. You have been in my dreams each and every night. I fight it, but your face haunts my mind like an avenging angel. This war will bring us the money we need—I just know it will. War creates millionaires overnight—and I will be one of these men—or I shall die trying!
Chapter Eight: Duty Calls
Liverpool, England, September 2, 1861
The Union Navy was setting up blockades at all the Southern ports of call. From the Carolinas to Virginia, all along the coast down to Florida and around to Texas, huge frigates, schooners, and armored batteries were moving into place to stop all shipping activity going in and out of these ports. Walter Sinclair had seen them from his own ship, H.M.S. Caine, as he had been running tobacco from Virginia and the Carolinas across the Atlantic Ocean to Scotland and England, before the blockades began.
Walter knew that the new Confederate government was offering sailors 100 pounds a month in gold and a 50-pound bonus at the end of a good trip, which usually took about seven days. More importantly, the captains and pilots earned as much as 5,000 pounds a year. This was good news to Walter, as he was planning to wed his dearest Penelope as soon as he could save enough money.
Walter breathed in the salt sea air of Liverpool as he walked along the cobblestones toward the Silver Tide Inn. Shropshire Court was just around the next bend, and as he walked, Walter speculated about who would be meeting with him to hire his services for the Confederacy.
The London Times was covering the outbreak of America's Civil War with some amount of caustic humor and usual British wit. Many of the Southern plantation owners were negotiating with English ship owners to convert passenger steamers into streamlined blockade-runners. They would then hire ship captains and sailors to serve the Confederacy on board these ships, which would serve as a trading lifeline between the South and the rest of the world. The British newspapers showed many cartoons of these "ignorant country gentlemen" dressed in lively, but bombastic squire outfits, sitting down with professional English sea captains and getting bamboozled out of their money. It was all ripping good sport, with the colonies as the butt of the humor.
The Silver Tide Inn was a favorite pub of sailors in Liverpool, and it had a thatched roof with green ivy climbing the walls outside the structure. The sign above the front entrance showed a massive, ocean wave cresting above a giant tankard of ale. As Walter entered, he was enveloped in tobacco smoke and the odor of liquor, and he had to wait a few moments by the door so his eyes could become accustomed to the darkness. A pretty Irish serving wench, with a white-laced hat, greeted him with a big smile and even bigger cleavage, and he followed her to an enclosed booth in the back of the tavern. As she pulled back the maroon drapes covering the booth inside, she said, "Walter, please be seated. And what shall I be getting for you, then?"
Walter was startled by the girl's impertinence, as he had never met her before. "I beg your pardon? I don't believe we've been introduced," he said, sitting down inside the booth.
A tall figure appeared at the waitress's side and handed her a pound note. "Thank you very much, Mollie. You can get my guest a tankard of ale. And bring me one as well."
"Right you are, governor,
" said the girl, and she turned to leave.
Walter looked over at an extraordinary American. He was a tall man, with piercing green eyes, and he bore the reddest sideburns Walter had ever seen. His dark blue coat was the latest fashion from Europe—probably Italian—and he had a long, gold watch chain curling out of his side vest.
This man is indeed a gentleman, Walter thought, straightening his own tie.
The gentleman took a folded newspaper from his coat pocket and thrust it over to Walter, where he could read the headlines under the flickering overhead gas lantern. "UNION GOVERNMENT WILL BUILD A NEW IRON SHIP TO CONFRONT THE REBEL VIRGINIA AT HAMPTON ROADS!"
"I don't understand, sir," said Walter, looking up from the newspaper to gaze quizzically at the American. "What has this to do with what we are here to negotiate? I assumed you needed to hire a captain to serve as a blockade runner."
"Indeed, Captain Sinclair, we do wish to hire you in the service of Jefferson Davis and the Confederate States of America. However, there is an emergency right now that needs to be seen to, and I am here to call you to your duty." The gentleman took out a bulky envelope from his coat pocket and placed it next to Walter's hand. "Go ahead, open it," he said, motioning with a flick of his wrist.
As Walter opened the flap on the envelope, he saw what looked to be currency of some kind. The thickness of the stack inside told him this was no small amount. Walter Sinclair's eyes grew wider, as did those of the young serving girl, as she sat the two tankards down on the table for the two men, staring down in disbelief at the dozens of 500-pound notes being rustled between Walter's fingertips.
"Thank you, Mollie," said the American, and the serving girl smiled at him, licking her red lips at the money.
"Yessir! Anything you gents want, now, you just yell out! I can get you both anything you need!" she said, and before leaving, she tugged at Walter's sleeve and whispered, "The angels sure be shinin' down on your head, Captain Walter Sinclair!"
"There are over 50,000 pounds in that envelope, sir," said the American. "And it's all yours when you complete your assignment."
"Assignment?" said Walter, looking up from the money. His throat felt raw and dry, so he picked up the tankard of ale and gulped down a large portion, and then he wiped his foamy lips with the back of his hand. "You want me to assassinate your President Lincoln?" Walter said, and he laughed out loud at his own joke.
However, there was not the slightest hint of a smile on the American's lips, as he whispered, "No that shall not be necessary. At the present moment, we have things well in hand. But our plans to use our new ironclad to break the Union's stranglehold on our ports and to protect our shore batteries in the South could be halted. Halted by one man. This man is an inventor named John Ericsson."
"Ericsson? An inventor? I don't quite understand, sir. What has this to do with me?" Walter felt the ale warming and gurgling in his stomach, and he belched into his fist.
"Yes, John Ericsson once served prison time in your country. He is a most unscrupulous fellow. But he is also quite an inspired engineer. This is why we want him done away with. The dictatorship of the North has given this little Swede 100 days to build a ship that they say is the only vessel which can stand up to our Virginia's armored firepower."
Walter felt dizzy, and the room was imploding in on him. He stood up quickly, hitting his head on the crossbeam, which drove him back down into his seat again. "Are you insane, sir? You want me to murder this man for you?"
"No, not quite, Captain. We don't request that you do this for us. You will do this for us!" the American spat the last words.
Walter became enraged. "Look here, I don't know what you Yanks have up your sleeves, but I am not becoming a conspirator to murder! This Ericsson could be Judas Iscariot, and I would not kill him!"
The American chose to laugh at that moment, and the sound of his deep, guttural bass voice made Walter sick to his stomach. "Do you love Penelope Andrews?" he asked suddenly, taking a swig from his tankard.
"My Penelope? What has she to do with this plot of yours?" Walter asked, terrified of what was to come next.
"If you do not become our Judas, as you so prophetically call yourself, then you will lose your dear Penelope. This mission will be carried out, one way or another. We know you can find a way to sneak into the shipyard and annihilate John Ericsson and his invention. We shall provide you with the location and the false identification you will need to live in the city without being suspect. How you do it will be up to you. The money will be yours when you carry out the death sentence of this Union savior, John Ericsson. Until then, here is a thousand pounds." The American folded two bills into Walter's palm. "Only after you have completed your duty will you get the rest of the payment. Then, and only then, will you and your lovely Penelope be able to live out your days in peace."
Standing up, the tall stranger took a final swallow of his ale and placed the tankard down on the table. "We shall be in frequent contact with you, Captain Sinclair. You are, after all, the best hope for an early Confederate victory. Good day to you, sir." The American pushed back the curtain and stepped out into the commotion of the noisy tavern.
Watching him leave, Walter saw the dense smoke envelop his large figure like a phantom, until he was no more. Walter looked down at the two notes in his hand. The Irish serving girl stuck her head inside the booth and said, "My, my Walter! Were you a naughty boy? Why don't you have the rest?"
"Piss off, damn you!" shouted Walter, finally realizing the deadly serious nature of his predicament. Inside the tavern, the local quartet of piano, horn and two voices—the Liverpool Landsmen—began to play their first song of the evening, a tune of the 65th Yorkshire Regiment, "The Mermaid's Song." Walter listened intently, as the words seemed to portend his future.
It was Friday morn when we set sail,
And we were not so far from the land,
When the captain he spied a mermaid so fair,
With a comb and a glass in her hand.
And the ocean waves do roll,
And the stormy winds do blow,
And we poor tars go skipping through the tops,
While the landlubbers lie down
Below, below, below.
While the landlubbers lie down.
Up spoke the captain of our gallant ship,
And a fine spoken sailor was he.
"This fishy mermaid has warned us of our doom.
We shall sink to the bottom of the sea. "
Walter pulled open the drapes to his booth and shouted into the din, "Mollie! Bring me a pint of ale!"
Chapter Nine: Transient
Brooklyn, New York, September 4, 1861
Lieutenant Samuel Dana Greene, 21 years old, was still infused with youthful optimism and patriotic fervor following his graduation from Annapolis two years before. His fiancée Miss Anna Cameron, of the Shipbuilding Cameron's of New Jersey was in attendance, as well his parents, engineer and inventor Army General George S. Greene and his wife Elizabeth. After graduation, he was stationed on the steam sloop Hartford, which was sent to China and cruised the seas of the Far East for two years. He was ordered back to Brooklyn when the Civil War broke out in 1861. His family was all proud of him, and they were writing him every day as he served his country in the Bachelor Officers' Transient Quarters in the Brooklyn Navy Yard, awaiting his next orders to duty.
As a transient sailor, Lieutenant Greene served only one duty night at the BOTQ as the Officer of the Deck (OOD), and the rest of the nights he was free to wander the streets of Brooklyn, staring up at the starry sky, walking over the green hills, still believing he could pick out the one special star owned by him and his lover.
On rainy nights, Greene would sit inside the Brooklyn Public Library and read the works of the Transcendentalists such as Henry Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson and the new poet, Walt Whitman, who was making a literary statement with his poems of the war, Drum Taps, which were being published in many of the best New York magazines. However,
it was Whitman's internal message that got to Dana Greene the most.
Something about the poet's link with Nature and the common man gave the young lieutenant deep understanding as he read passages inside the drafty library confines. Shadows danced on the walls, and the stunning visions Whitman weaved played themselves inside Greene's consciousness like Greek nymphs cavorting in a pasture at the bottom of Olympus.
The words from poems such as "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" reverberated inside Dana and gave him distinctive feelings of anguish and elation at the same time. It was similar to the emotions of dread and excited anticipation, which he would feel whenever he thought about his wartime future. This man, Walt Whitman, was saying a lot about what was going on inside young Lieutenant Samuel Dana Greene:
Whatever it is, it avails not — distance avails not, and place avails not,
I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine, I too walked the streets of Manhattan island, and bathed in the waters around it,
I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me, In the day among crowds of people sometimes they came upon me,
In my walks home late at night or as I lay in my bed they came upon me,
I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution,
I too had received identity by my body, That I was I knew was of my body, and what I should be I knew I should be of my body.
Dana looked up from his reading. Across from him, inside an enclosed reading booth, an older gentleman was attentively reading from some large books. He wore a beaver hat and dark coat, and as Lieutenant Greene looked carefully over at what the man was reading, he noticed that they were books containing pages of ship designs.
Could it be? Dana thought. I wonder. Dare I ask him? By Jove, this may be my chosen fate! The young lieutenant got up from his seat and walked over to where the older man was still busily perusing the texts. "Excuse me, sir. I'm sorry to bother you, but aren't you the inventor, John Ericsson? I saw your letter in the Brooklyn Eagle the other day. And, I must say, I was quite impressed by your brilliant new design!"