by Jim Musgrave
John Ericsson slowly looked up from his reading. He was trying to find a new way to keep the weight of his Monitor displaced evenly when afloat. This young man in civilian clothes had a certain military bearing, and the confident gaze in his blue eyes made Ericsson pay attention to his flattery. "Yes, I am he. I'm happy to know you approve," said the inventor, pulling out a chair next to his for the young man to sit down. Since they were inside a private reading cubicle, they were free to converse without bothering the other library patrons.
"I'm waiting for my orders at the Brooklyn Transient Barracks. I am an officer graduated from the Naval Academy, and I've been following your effort to build your new invention. What a fantastic idea for a ship!" Dana pulled his chair up close to Ericsson and shut the door behind them.
John liked the boy's enthusiasm. He knew that the glow in this young man's demeanor meant something special, as he had that same glow when he was a young man in Stockholm trying to find his way in the world. As he listened to the boy go on about his family and his girl back home, John was suddenly struck with an idea. In order to proceed with his plan, he first needed to enlist this young man's cooperation.
“. . . and when father got his patent on the elevator trains, our lives took a dramatic turn," Greene was saying, when John Ericsson interrupted. "I am going to see to it that you get duty on my new ship. Would you like that, Mister Greene?"
The young lieutenant's face lit up with delight. "Me? You want me on your new ship? Why, I just knew that my meeting you today would prove to be my destiny! I can't wait to tell my family and my Anna. They'll be so proud!"
"Yes, well, I'm going to talk to people in the Navy Department about you, son. I'm certain they'll help me get you put on the manifest. I would also like you to watch the building of my Monitor from the ground up. That way, you can better appreciate the way she'll perform for you when you're at sea. As your father was an engineer and inventor, I expect there's some of that blood of the creator in you!"
The two men talked on about the details of shipbuilding and how the new Monitor would be able to defeat the Rebel's giant, the Virginia. Lieutenant Greene, as he listened to the confident words of his new benefactor, was becoming infused with an inner confidence and resourcefulness he never realized he owned. It was the same confidence that Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote about in his essays. "Great men working together can build great inventions," and Greene now believed he could be part of the effort.
Lieutenant Samuel Dana Greene understood he was part of an anointed few when he left the Brooklyn Public Library that day, with two books of Whitman's poetry under his arm. He couldn't wait to get back to his wardroom to tell all the other young men that he would no longer be a transient looking for orders. Destiny had shined on him, and he was now going to become one of the first crewmembers of a ship that was ordained to make history. Life or death was not an issue because it was the participation that made one heroic. He had been summoned to answer his calling, and Greene believed the days to come would gradually unveil his hero's journey.
As John Ericsson left the library that evening, he was thinking only about his new plan. His calculating, engineer's mind was fixed upon a goal, and when this occurred, there was nothing he would permit to get in his way. It would be quite risky, indeed, but the possible rewards could be astronomical. He would need this young man on the inside in order to pull off the plan, and it seemed quite fortuitous that he had met him. That optimistic face of youthful Lieutenant Greene had immediately set John to thinking about his own early life and how much he now needed his darling young wife, Amelia. His plan, if worked to perfection, would give him the money and influence he would need to become one of the richest Americans of the war. John Ericsson believed he understood the "dirty little secret" behind all wars. Profiteering was the impetus behind the escalation of warfare—not patriotic duty. We leaders, thought John, looking out over the waters as he stood on the Brooklyn Bridge, create patriots by our cunning propaganda. As I shall create my craft for their battle against the South, so shall I also create my unique young patriot, Mister Greene, for my war against all those who would keep me from my bride. My victory will see my precious Amelia returned to me, where she belongs. And America and its uncivil war can go straight to the bottom of the sea!
Back in the transient barracks, Lieutenant Greene sat upon his rack and read from the 1855 edition of Whitman's Leaves of Grass. From the first words, "I celebrate myself, and what I assume you shall assume, for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you," Dana was pulled into the author's world. He became fused with the natural splendor of Nature and the God within the man. It was almost three in the morning when Greene read these last few lines and fell asleep dreaming of patriotic oneness with his country, with the genius inventor, John Ericsson, and with his internal God:
This is the breath of laws and songs and behaviour, This is the tasteless water of souls . . . this is the true sustenance, It is for the illiterate . . . it is for the judges of the supreme court... it is for the federal capitol and the state capitols, It is for the admirable communes of literary men and composers and singers and lecturers and engineers and savants, It is for the endless races of working people and farmers and seamen. This is the trill of a thousand clear cornets and scream of the octave flute and strike of triangles. I play not a march for victors only ... I play great marches for conquered and slain persons. Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall. . . battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.
* * *
As John entered his house on Beach Street, he had his plan well formulated. He at once went into the study and began laying out two charts. One chart was for the construction of the U.S.S. Monitor and the other one was for the construction of the patriot: Lieutenant Samuel Dana Greene. Both of these enterprises would take all of his genius, but John believed he would succeed. The United States Government would be his salvation. No more lonely nights inside this cold tenement. No more cold sheets and drafty winter chills. John Ericsson had hit upon a plan that would bring him the money to build an empire in New York, and he would then be able to afford to bring back his empress.
Reaching into a trunk at the end of his worktable, John pulled out a worn letter from his Amelia. He sat back in his chair and reverently unfolded the letter in front of the gas lamp on the desk beside him.
John,
I hope you can afford to soon bring me back to America. I have faith in you, darling. The days, and especially the long nights, make me yearn for your touch. We can at last be together once you are able to become independently wealthy. I believe you shall be able to do it! America is the place where dreams can come true. And, right now, you are in my dreams, my love! Soon, we shall be one forever!
Love, Amelia
John fell asleep with the letter on his lap and the two charts completed. It was almost daybreak. In addition to a number of paragraphs filled with engineering plans, two words were capitalized in the Greene chart beneath the young officer's name: "MIND" and "MONITOR". Between the words was:
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Chapter Ten: Recruitment
Brooklyn, New York, September 5, 1861
Charles W. McCord was a lanky Irish draftsman who lived down the road from John Ericsson, off 42nd Street and Canal. The inventor knew that McCord would be his lead draftsman, as there was a need for hundreds of additional drawings for the workmen to use on the new ideas to be implemented on the Monitor.
As John approached the Dutch-style building, he was thinking about how to begin his development of the young Lieutenant Greene. John believed that Greene would best respond to a fantastic scenario rather than a monetary appeal. Young men usually are taken in by propaganda that includes vivid descriptions of a new world to come and other romantic notions that can pique their fancy. After hours of research in the library, Ericsson now had such a notion, and it would be quite stimulating to see if the young man would respond. If Greene did not react, then noth
ing was lost. The engineer's son would certainly never call his mentor a traitor.
Charles was working on his latest invention at the rear of his one-room apartment. The sun was shining on his workbench through a small window in the back wall. There were a variety of blueprints hung up on the walls on either side of his bench, and when McCord looked up from his drawings as Ericsson entered, the Irishman gave John the appearance of some insane warden of mysterious secrets of the soul.
Charles McCord always left his door open when working, a habit that John Ericsson found quite irritating, but McCord always insisted, "Thieves who are able to read my chicken scratches would not be of our civilization, so they would be welcome to them!"
"I see you have another nebulous concoction brewing, my dear Charles," said Ericsson, moving over to stand near the tall and lean Irishman and look over his plans. "What might this contrivance be, pray tell?"
McCord wore brown corduroy trousers and a white shirt with fasteners on the rolled sleeves, and his black jackboots were in memory of his days in the Irish Army in Dublin. He had them ship him a new pair every six months. He had a sweeping black mustache, as Charles was one of the Irish they call "Black," and his thick, wavy hair extended down into broad, midnight sideburns. His face was expansive and good-humored, and his complexion dark, yet his murky eyes contained the sparkle of wit that endeared him to Ericsson.
"You would not care for what I'm doing, John. I am not the inventor of important devices that you are. I have devised a simple way to hold paper on a roll for uses in privies. Outhouses, as you call them, can be quite dark at times, and I thought that having a roller containing paper would make the completion task much easier."
Ericsson slapped McCord on the back until dust rose into the air around them. "Charles, my dear lad, great minds do think alike! You have just invented something that will go quite handily inside my new Monitor. We shall build the first below-decks flush toilet system any world navy has ever seen!"
McCord moved into the kitchen and stood by a table covered with a variety of liquors and smoking paraphernalia. He poured a shot of Irish whiskey from a long black bottle into a water-stained cup and thrust it forward toward John. "Here's to you, Mister Ericsson. We had some grand times working together, to be sure. But the last one—when the gentlemen got blown-up on the Princeton—that was just too much for me. You'll be needing to find yourself another draftsman."
"Now Charles, we've been over this many times. I was not responsible for the disaster on board the Princeton. Captain Stockton was. Indeed, I have come to enlist your service because I know you are the only man who can illustrate what I have in my head. We have almost a psychic affinity for each other. Your country is at war, Charles, and those Rebels down in Virginia have a ship that can destroy any naval vessel you have in the North. However, you can help me build the ship that can surely save the union!"
Charles looked perplexed. He poured another finger of liquor. "You mean, you have a way to combat that iron monster they're building in Gosport? Why, those damned Rebels deserve to go straight to hell!"
Ericsson smiled. "That's the spirit! Yes, you and I can build a craft to sail down to Hampton Roads and stop that giant. I invented her to sell to Emperor Napoleon to use against the Russians, but he refused. Now we can put our novelty together and see what she can do against those mutineers."
"I don't know, Mister Ericsson. You're a hard man to work for, you are. I spent fifteen hour days working on your plans for the Princeton." Charles downed the whiskey and wiped his mustaches with the back of his hand.
"This will be even more work, my lad, because we have only 100 days to finish her. President Lincoln himself wants it done! But there's more money to be had, that's for certain. Are you up for it?" John walked over to Charles and held out his hand. "Let's seal our agreement before the sun sets. It will be an omen of our patriotic intentions."
Charles McCord stood for several moments, gazing into the convincing eyes of Captain John Ericsson, and then he inflated his cheeks and blew out a rush of air. Finally, he reached out and shook the older man's hand. "All right, sir, you've got yourself a draftsman. But I get all the whiskey I can drink at the end of the week!"
"Yes, Charles, that shall be written into your contract, I'll see to it myself. My boy, today is a superior day. A fine day for both of us, and an excellent day for the United States of America!" John said, as he vigorously pumped the draftsman's hand and beamed like a Swedish sunrise.
* * *
Mrs. Beulah Scott-Townsend was the widow who owned the Brooklyn Seaward Rooming House on Bedford Avenue at North 10th Street, across from Mug's Ale House, in Green Point, Brooklyn. About five blocks away, as the seagulls flew, was the Continental Ship Yard. When the stranger came into her place of business, Mrs. Townsend greeted him with the same warm welcome she gave all prospective boarders. However, when she heard the young man's British accent, she was especially impressed, as she was a bit of an Anglophile. Inside her rooming house she had collected a variety of Victorian furnishings to decorate all the rooms. Stained glass windows, billowy and tasseled red drapes, and thick mahogany chairs and tables with carved feet and legs were all about, as well as tall fern stands. Bric-a-brac, silver and china collectables covered all the windowsills and smoking room stands. The atmosphere was quite charming and darkly ravishing, or so Mrs. Townsend believed, and when this gentleman began speaking in the King's proper English, she became immediately attentive and formal.
"I would like a room for the month," said the tall young man. He handed Mrs. Townsend cash for the month, and the old widow smiled warmly as he signed the registry.
"Thank you, Mister Ellwood. I am certain you will be quite happy here in my little home. We serve breakfast at seven, and dinner at eight. Also, I would be delighted to offer you a special tea time!" Beulah was beside herself with good humor, and when the gentleman took her hand into his and kissed it, she indeed felt a bit woozy with passion! Nobody had done that since her late husband, Gaspar Townsend, originally of the London Townsends, used to do it before they would enter the dining room for the evening meal.
"I thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Townsend, but I shall be out and about most of the day. I am doing work at the shipyard, and I shall not have need for teatime. I should now like a nice bath, however, if that could be arranged? I have been traveling aboard ship for several days now, and I could use a good sloshing about the gunnels, if I may be so blunt."
"Why, certainly sir! I will have one of my porters heat the water for your bath immediately," said Mrs. Townsend, and she hit the brass bell at her desk. A short black boy came running out from the back of the house. "Chip, please take this gentleman's cases, and then heat him a bath."
"Yes, Mrs. Townsend," said the boy, in a refined voice, and he immediately picked up the two suitcases and began dragging them toward the dumb waiter near the circular stairs in the center of the room.
Mrs. Townsend whispered conspiratorially to the gentleman, "I taught him proper manners. I belong to the Abolitionist Union, and we do our patriotic duty!"
"Indeed," said the gentleman, as he followed the young lad up the stairs. The boy led him to his room on the top floor facing the tavern, and he could hear the clatter of glasses and the occasional shouts of drunken revelry coming from the dark tavern just outside his window. He knew he could use a good pint before turning in for the night.
He gave the boy five cents, and the little urchin's face lit up with a pearly smile, as he dipped low with a grand bow and left the room. "Bloody trained monkeys!" Walter cursed under his breath, as he lifted his biggest suitcase onto the four-poster bed. The bed had a large blue canopy above it that reminded him of some kind of funeral home.
Captain Walter Sinclair spread out three sets of strategies on the bedspread. One was a long black box containing a British Enfield rifle, or "musketoon," as the Confederates who were using them against the Yankees were calling them. This was a superb model, used by snipers, and it had a
long telescopic sight designed by a Northern inventor, one Cornelius Bushnell. The second device was a collection of poisons guaranteed to kill any human alive, preferably a certain Swedish inventor. Hemlock, arsenic, and cyanide were mixed in a concoction the Confederate contact had called "Yankee Love Potion." The last device was the most impressive. Although it was in the form of a secret plan in writing by a British engineer, Robert Whitehead, Walter believed it to be the most ingenious way to destroy the Monitor when it sailed out for its maiden voyage. Walter also thought it quite ironic that this mission would be the first use of a propeller-driven bomb, which would be launched from his own schooner, the H.M.S. Caine. After all, it was John Ericsson who had first invented the propeller-driven ship, and it seemed quite proper that Ericsson's own invention was to be sunk by a British torpedo bomb finding its way through the water to explode inside this scourge of an ironclad!
Walter heard a knock on the door, and he quickly threw the large coverlet over the top of his assassin's gear. "One moment," he called, and walked briskly over to the door. He leaned against the entrance and said loudly, "Yes, who is it?"
A high-pitched, very proper voice of young Chip came through the transom above his door. "Mister Ellwood, sir! I got your hot bath ready in the room down the hall. And it ain't even Saturday!" Walter could hear the little black bastard laugh and then run away down the hallway. Breathing a sigh of relief, Walter began to undress, walking slowly over to the other suitcase to get out his long silk dressing gown imported directly from the Japanese islands. He had one hundred days to do his duty, and tomorrow he would see where this demonic ship was going to be built.
Chapter Eleven: Construction Begins