by Jim Musgrave
"I dare say, when you were constructing those demonic elevator trains in New York, the press was calling you a few splendiferous names as well, am I correct?" said Ericsson, who wanted to quickly endear himself to his fellow inventor.
Just then, the Cameron’s came out of the house. Anna ran up to Dana, holding a sprig of mistletoe above her head. "Kiss me! I am the messenger of peace and good will. Dana, darling, did you know the ancient Druids worshipped this plant? It's true. And enemies who walked under it on the battlefield were obliged to toss down their weapons and observe a truce until the next day."
Anna's father, Daniel, laughed. "Take care, Lieutenant, if those Johnny Rebs get hold of this plant, and put sprigs up all over their ships and such, we may have to stop the war!"
"Let's all go into the parlor and watch the children decorate the tree," said George Greene, motioning for Jeremiah to go ahead and prepare for guests.
Captain Ericsson put his arm around his young lieutenant's shoulders as they climbed the stairs leading into the mansion. "We shall keep the little secret about Easter Island to ourselves, all right, my boy? I dare say we will need to release ourselves from this world of greed and subterfuge, if we are to survive following this war."
* * *
Captain John Worden pointed to the long lines of black men waiting for their dinner. Behind the rows of steaming iron kettles and sizzling grills, stood dozens of colored cooks, who were ladling out big gobs of grits, grilled pork chops, baked beans and potatoes into the outstretched and eager tin trays of the Union Army trainees. "See there, Chip? These men are getting the best victuals our government can provide. They eat the same as white men do, and they will receive the same training."
Chip Jefferson smiled, and inside he felt a growing pride welling up. If these men could be accepted into the Army, then it wouldn't be long before they would be accepted into general society. "You reckon one day I can learn to shoot and fire me a cannon?" Chip asked, looking up at the tall captain.
"We're doing all this so you can be free to do anything you need to do, son. And that's a fact!"
"I'm glad I signed on with you, Captain. I'll do my best to win the war, just like my brothers here," said Chip, and he pushed out his chest with pride.
"I'm certain you will, boy, but first, I hear there's going to be a certain gentleman with a red hat and white whiskers, who is waiting over at the Post Exchange for all the children to come and visit him. I don't suppose you're too old to want to see Santa Claus, are you?"
Chip's eyes grew large with excitement. "I hope you can stand beside me when I talk to him, Captain. I got something special in mind to ask for, and you need to hear it."
The captain put his large hand on the boy's shoulder. "Certainly I will stand next to you, Chip. This war's bringing a lot of different folks together, and we're going to be close friends after all this is over, so everything you do, I want to know about!"
Even though Chip had seen the Negro men training with all the latest government weapons, he was more amazed at the dining area, where hundreds of his kind were being treated just like normal soldiers. They did not bow and smile to get their food, they did not call their leaders "Master," and they could eat as much as they needed to live. Chip recalled the days in the South when slaves would come up to the mansion's back door begging for food. They said their master had refused to feed them, and they would have been left to die if it had not been for the kindness of Chip's mother, who gave them leftovers meant for the pigs.
Chip followed Captain Worden down into the mess hall. They stood in line with the soldiers, listening to them talk about the war, about their families back home, and especially about their new president, Abraham Lincoln. "Mistah Lincoln say he will abolish slavery before this war is over," said a tall sergeant, nodding at the large man behind the counter to fill his plate with fried potatoes. "Anybody got the name of the great Bible's Abraham, sure enough got my attention! The Lord told old Abe to worship only Him, and he did it, even though his own Daddy worshipped many gods. The Lord told Abe to kill his son, Isaac, and he would've done that too, but it was not pleasing to God. You see, the Big Guy was just testing Abe. Well, our Abe Lincoln is sure enough getting tested on slavery, and I do believe God will save all our Isaac asses when the show is finally over! Give me some more of them spuds, Cookie!" The big sergeant's voice boomed out inside the mess hall, and the entire room seemed to fill with expectant courage.
* * *
"Captain Ericsson, I hear the turret on your Monitor can turn one-hundred-eighty degrees while firing, is this correct?" Daniel Cameron asked, biting into the leg of turkey at the Christmas Dinner table. The assembled families of Cameron’s and Greene’s were boisterously enjoying the festivities, knowing in their hearts they would soon be bidding these military visitors "God speed" into the jaws of war. Anna Cameron was fastened to the arm of her Dana like a barnacle on the hull of a frigate, and Mrs. Cameron kept smiling over at Captain Ericsson, her glowing face flushed from three glasses of sherry.
"Yes, that's correct. We hope to have her completed by the end of next month, and we shall launch my ship, and the history of naval warfare will be changed forever. I don't know if we will stop the South from doing damage in Virginia, but we will certainly do our best to keep them from the banks of the Potomac!" said Ericsson, puffing on his pipe. He found the rich American food to be too much for his digestion, and he had eaten only the soup and salads.
Anna raised her glass, as Dana, with adoring eyes, watched her carefully. "I want to propose a Christmas toast! To the brave inventor and his men, among them our Samuel Dana Greene, my future husband, and to their success in this war that divides us all. May we all be made whole one day, and may you all stay healthy and become victorious for the coming new year of 1862!"
"Hear, hear!" the rest of the party cried, and the tears flowed solemnly down cheeks while snowflakes blew in the wind outside.
Awhile later, as Jeremiah was bringing in the brandy for the gentlemen to enjoy as an after-dinner cordial, and the women were adjourning to the sitting room, the dining room window was shattered apart, and a large red brick crashed on the table, toppling several wine decanters, and sending silver pieces flying in every direction. There was a note tied around the brick, and Dana, who was closest, untied the knot and read the inscription.
"It says, 'Yankee traitors go home. Maryland is a sister to the Southern rebellion. Long may she be free!"' Dana passed it along to his father. "Who could have done this?"
"I'm terribly sorry, Captain Ericsson. I'm afraid my statesmen have not completely made up their minds about to whose flag they wish to swear allegiance. We've been having these kinds of incidents for over a month now. I didn't want to disappoint Dana's homecoming, but this is the kind of thing with which we must contend here on the home front." George Greene straightened his collar as if he could collect the lost decorum by a gesture.
John Ericsson stood up and gravely smiled at the assemblage. "It is quite clear that these Southern rebels are nothing more than mere anarchists, at heart, and it is you and your kind family who will symbolize the civilized union needed to bring us true peace once more. If your son and I can assist in this endeavor, then God will indeed be with us, and you will be proud, sir, to call yourself a member of the Union!"
"Well said, Captain," said the elder Greene, and all the rest in the room began to applaud.
John Ericsson, who was used to making speeches, was also thinking that he had now made a good impression on these relatives, and that their son would become even more closely aligned to him and his private war to get his darling Amelia back from England.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Mister Brooke, Meet Lieutenant Jones
January 4, 1862, Gosport Navy Yard, Norfolk, Virginia
John Brooke knew that the officer in charge of the battery, one Catesby ap Roger Jones, had been at Gosport since November, and it was he John wanted to meet. If there were going to be any work completed then this was the man wi
th whom he must confer. He also knew when Navy Secretary Mallory finally sent this Admiral Buchanan over to take the flag, there would be little or no work accomplished afterward. They would expect everything to be ready before the Admiral got there.
It was complete chaos inside the small shipyard. Confederate officers were ordering men around who were obviously farmers or country types of one kind or another, and the tools they were wielding were rusted and ill-suited for the intricate work to be done aboard the hull of the Merrimack. The conquered ship stood alongside the pier like a gigantic, burnt-out cigar, and the wooden dry-dock on the other side of the pier, which would soon house her during the conversion process, had not yet been half completed. There were groups of marching soldiers all around the perimeter of the ship yard, and the variety of artillery batteries on the walls served as a protective shield against any invasion from without.
John showed his identification papers to the sentry at the gate and walked briskly toward a tall man with a salt-and- pepper, full beard, who was wearing the gray uniform of a Confederate Officer. He was shouting at two workers, who seemed to be imitating carpenters, although they were having a difficult time getting a stack of 4 x 12 feet oak planks into a long cart near the dry-dock.
"Easy there, men! Those aren't bales of hay. We're going to convert a ship, not build a barn! Swing them gently, now. That's it."
"Lieutenant Jones?" said John, raising his voice to be heard above all the noise around the yard.
The officer turned around and frowned at Brooke. "What? And who are you, sir? If you have those punched iron plates from Tredegar Works, bring them around to the supply depot."
"No, I am Lieutenant John Brooke from Richmond. I am in charge of the design of your new ship. Is it possible that we might talk about the problems you're having in a more private location?"
Jones's demeanor changed instantly from mistrust to adoration. "Why, what an astounding pleasure! Your reputation as an inventor and designer are legendary in the Navy. We studied and practiced firing your rifles while I was working for General Robert E. Lee at the fortifications of Jamestown Island. We protected the men who were taking over this very ship yard. Your rifle is the most accurate weapon I have ever had the pleasure of utilizing against an enemy."
Brooke followed Jones into a slant-roofed shack near the dry-dock. There was a gas lantern sitting on a large workbench, and a tall, slender Negro orderly greeted them. "Mistah Jones, sah!" he said, coming to attention.
"Bring us two pints of grog, Sebastian," said Lt. Jones, pulling out one of the wooden stools for his guest to be seated.
John sat down and smoothed his trousers to get the wrinkles out.
"I see you've not completed very much since November, Mister Jones, and I'm sorry to see things in such confusion. What I'm about to tell you won't make the job any easier, I'm afraid. The Secretary of the Navy wants the Virginia converted and launched for action by the beginning of March."
Jones took the pint from Sebastian, and blew off the heady froth.
John let his drink sit, as he watched the younger man take a long swig from the mug.
"March? Let me tell you something, Mister Brooke. I respect you and your design, and I don't doubt the patriotism you have in your heart. However, I do suspect those aristocrats in Richmond are unaware that I have been working for two months with country farmers, Army rejects, and slaves. And my workmen have been learning their skills as they labor, with a collection of tools that are damaged, inadequate and mostly unsuited for the task at hand. In addition, the Army has taxed the railroad, and thus I have not been able to get my shipments of iron plating, as I have not had the Confederate currency to pay the taxes to get these goods delivered!"
John made large circles with his mug on the wooden table. "Yes, I'm aware of your predicament, Mister Jones. And I am here to assist you in training your men and in meeting your deadline. But I am also here to make you realize that the Virginia will be commissioned in February, and she will be launched in March. And she will not only be armed with four of my single-banded Brooke rifles, but she will also be the first ship in Naval history to utilize six, nine-inch Dahlgren shell guns."
Jones slammed his mug to the table and stood up. "The hell you say! There is no ship on earth, which can withstand that kind of firepower from her decks. Are they crazy? How can we fit this vessel with those guns? This is a navy ship, sir, not a castle on Jamestown Island!"
"Please, be seated, Lieutenant. I have been thinking this over, and there is a way we can fortify our ship enough to withstand the size of these guns. In addition, we are going to add a wedge-shaped battering ram to her prow which will weigh 1,500 pounds."
Jones slumped down on the stool and held his head in his hands. "Oh, dear Lord above! Has the Confederacy lost its collective sanity? We shall sink like a lead duck!"
Brooke smiled. "Not necessarily. I have a plan, you see, which will utilize the central 160 feet of the 175 total feet of her hull. We shall construct a thirty-six degree inclined roof, of both wood and iron, alternating planks, if you will. The wood planks will be two feet thick and the iron two inches thick, so the complete weight will not be as much as one would believe was necessary. The final covering of a four-inch thickness of armor will be fasted to its wooden backing with one and three- eighths inch bolts, countersunk and secured by iron nuts and washers. Thus, she will not be as heavy as you and others seem to expect. She should be seaworthy and yet still have the protection we will need to fire those big Dahlgrens."
Lieutenant Catesby ap Roger Jones, who had been chosen to lead the first battery of Dahlgren cannons ever to be used on an American ship of war, was now feeling more comfortable with his assignment. The confidence of this man John Brooke gave him a renewed vigor. The South had been victorious in early battles, and now the Navy was going to show the Yankees what the ingenuity and hard work of leaders committed to a cause could do.
"It's good to have you aboard, Mister Brooke. Now let's get to work!"
"Where can I change my clothes?" asked John, pointing down at his dress pants and shoes. "I realize we are Southern gentlemen, but my wife would kill me if I should get this new suit soiled," he added, and they both began to laugh.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Common Purpose
January 10, 1862, Brooklyn, New York
Walter Sinclair knew that the Virginia was behind schedule due to labor and delivery problems, and yet he was determined to have his end of the bargain completed when the Union's Monitor launched. Robert Whitehead was staying at a hotel in New York City, and he was visiting Walter on weekends to discuss the arrangements for the torpedo delivery on January 28, two days before the Monitor was supposed to be put to sea for the first time. Walter had discovered this secret information during his sleuthing inside McCord's house.
Having spent Christmas and New Year's at Mug's Ale House, Walter was beginning to detest his assignment in America. Although he had struck a close friendship with the bar maid, Grace Witherspoon, he had no use for most of these citizens of Brooklyn, who were the most uncouth and dull lot he had ever seen. Even the uneducated seamen aboard his ship proved better companions than most of these Americans. They were incessantly discussing the war and how their "sacred Union" was going to win. These citizens had little time for theater or other cultural pursuits that would be the high point of life in England, and Walter found very little to do except to visit the taverns and restaurants with Miss Grace and Mister Whitehead where, to pass the hours, they would make fun of the local community.
His life was becoming an obsession. The days were melding into the true purpose of his existence, and Walter often discussed this point with Whitehead, although they were frequently "in their cups” and the result often became blurred by drink and romantic musings about their women. It was clear, however, that Walter's mission was taking on an important aspect beyond the money he needed to establish himself in England and perhaps get away from the sea and its transitory nature.
"I have been reading about Captain Ericsson and his life, and he is indeed a worthy opponent," said Walter one evening, as the pub was about to close, and Grace had promised to return with him to the hotel after she closed the bar.
"How so?" said Whitehead, who was rather an objectivist sort, inclined to see people as simply "doers of actions" and not as "thinkers of ideas."
"It seems he has always been creating for himself and for his own aspirations. This, to me, is the mark of an original genius. Whereas many inventors are purchased by governments and become slaves to the state, I can see that this Ericsson is a man for himself, and I applaud him for that," Walter said, taking a healthy swig from his pint.
"Aren't you both doing the bidding of your superiors? How can what you do be seen as individualistic or unique, when the master is watching your every move from above?" Whitehead responded, motioning to Grace to come fill his tankard.
"This Ericsson is a man working for himself only. I have an intuition about these things, and I almost feel sorry for him. Even though I must destroy his invention, I still believe he is not working for the Union as a patriot." Walter stroked his beard and smiled.
"Well then, it seems you are two pigs from the same sty. What makes you believe you can win against him? He may be your doppelganger," said Whitehead, and they both began to laugh uproariously.
"Yes! He even has a lady in jolly old England, same as myself, and we are both laboring for love, it seems."
As he said the word "love," Grace came by and frowned down at the two men. "I do believe we'll have to cut-off the tap for you boys. You seem to be losing your gentlemanly ways."
When Grace was out of earshot, Walter continued, "That's how my insurance comes into play. If something were to go wrong with your torpedo, then I shall be following Captain Ericsson—to the ends of the earth, if need be—and I will smash his independent spirit once and for all!"