by Bob Mayer
The Virginia drew abreast and fired a volley from the flank guns into the Union ship. Fire was returned, as ineffectual as the Cumberland’s had been. For almost an hour, the two vessels pounded each other. The result was that the Congress was slowly dismantled, blast by blast, while more dents were made in the iron skin of the Virginia.
It was over relatively quickly. King felt a thrill as the United States flag was struck and a white flag run up.
“Captain King!”
King shook himself out of his reverie. Buchanan was red-faced and shouting. “Can’t you hear? Relay my order to cease fire!”
“Yes, sir.”
King was in no rush to get below. He took each rung of the ladder carefully as another broadside from the Virginia belched death into the Union ship.
“Cease fire,” King said in a normal voice, heard only by a few men closest to him. Slowly the word made its way through the smoke-filled interior of the ironclad and the guns fell silent, one by one.
Accompanied by several armed men, King went back up top. Survivors from the Congress were clambering down ropes onto the Virginia. Wounded men were being lowered as carefully as possible. Looking about, King could see that the Minnesota had also run aground, whether deliberately or not, wasn’t clear.
“Captain Buchanan,” King said. “If we attack now, we’ll have enough light and tide to deal with her.” He pointed at the third Union ship.
“The law of the sea,” Buchanan countered. “Always give assistance to those who raise the white flag.”
“But, sir—” King began, but was cut off as a Union shore battery opened fire.
“Damnation!” Buchanan exclaimed as Federal shots hit both the Virginia and the Congress.
A cannon ball ripped into the Union ship, spraying splinters across the top of the Virginia. One tore into Buchanan’s leg, dropping him to the deck.
“Get the Captain below!” King ordered.
As two men grabbed Buchanan, King followed them to the hatch. Making sure all Confederates were inside, King ignored the remaining Union sailors trying to come over and those already on top of the Virginia desperate to get inside and out of harm’s way of their own side’s artillery. He clambered down the ladder, slamming the hatch shut and sealing it.
“Hot shot!” King yelled, clearly heard now. “Fire until she’s blazing like Hell’s inferno!”
Rumble dry-heaved, his stomach long since emptied of any substance. The seasoned sailors nearby had laughed the previous day when Rumble had first started throwing up, somewhere off the coast of Maryland, en route from New York City. No one was laughing now. The interior of the Monitor was smoke-filled, hot, and a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare. On top of that, the vessel handled very poorly in the open sea, exactly as predicted by the traditional Navy men who had scorned her design.
A tinge of fresh air cut through the dimly lit interior and Rumble realized that a hatch had been opened. The ship was wallowing less, which meant either the storm they’d been passing through had moved on, they were in calmer water, or both. Rumble pushed his way through to the front hatch, carrying his Henry rifle.
Sailors were standing on deck, near the small metal box that poked up above the flat deck in front of the turret: the pilot house from which the Captain commanded the vessel. The first hint of dawn was showing in the east over the Atlantic. But everyone was staring solemnly to the west. The horizon glowed with an unearthly light. A tongue of flame licked into the air, followed the dull roar of an explosion.
“What was that?” Rumble asked.
The Monitor’s Captain, Lieutenant Worden, was reading a report just brought by a skiff. “The Cumberland and Congress burning. One must have just blown up when the fire reached the powder room. At least two-hundred and forty men lost at last count.”
“We’re too late?” Rumble asked.
“For yesterday’s fight,” Worden said. “But not today’s.”
King held the Spencer and gave orders to an ensign positioned in the hatch, exactly as Buchanan had commanded the previous day. The ship was his; Buchanan recovering in a shore hospital. There was no one to issue him orders, no one to surrender at the slightest sign of resistance. Today was King’s to own. It was time to finish the Union fleet at Hampton Roads, and open the way to the Potomac. The Virginia would be able to sail up that river, past the Union forts, and fire directly at the White House, where the great devil Lincoln reigned. And then the war would be over, and the South would be victorious.
The Cumberland was a burned out hulk. Where the Congress had surrendered was scattered debris and corpses floating in the water. The magazine explosion had torn apart what remained of the ship. The Minnesota was still aground and King directed the Virginia straight toward it.
“Prepare to fire!” King ordered.
The command was relayed by the ensign to the gunners. King checked the Spencer, insuring a round was in the chamber. He estimated the distance to the Minnesota. It appeared as if the ship were being serviced. A raft with what looked like a spare boiler on top was just in front of the warship. King squinted.
It wasn’t a raft.
“Fire!” King yelled.
Rumble was jammed in the pilothouse with Lieutenant Worden and the helmsman. The metal cube poked up above the deck a few feet, with narrow viewing slits, about an inch wide, facing all four sides. Rumble was estimating how quickly he could dash down the couple of stairs into the hull of the ship and then race forward to the hatch. Then he added in trying to make that journey while the rest of the crew tried for the same exit. He wondered why no one else saw the ironclad as he did: a prison bobbing on the water, which could easily turn into an iron coffin.
Flame erupted from the bow of the Virginia. A second later, thunder exploded overhead as the Minnesota fired a broadside at the approaching Confederate ship. Worden began issuing orders to the helmsman and the Monitor advanced toward the Virginia.
“Fire!” Worden ordered and the two nine-inch Dahlgren’s in the turret roared.
There was no point using the Spencer. And standing exposed to fire on top was stupid; even King had to accept that. He reluctantly retreated inside the Virginia, rushing from gun to gun to keep track of the Union ironclad. While his ship had more guns, the Monitor was much more maneuverable, running circles around the larger and more cumbersome Confederate ironclad.
The clang of rounds bouncing off the iron plates resounded throughout the ship as the Union gunners found the range. King could tell his men were also finding the target. With the same effect of much sound and fury but no real damage.
For two hours the ships battled. Sometimes so close that they collided and bounced off each other. Even firing from point blank range produced no tangible results. King grew weary of running from gun port to gun port, trying to keep the more nimble vessel in view. As the Monitor circled around for another charge, King leaned over a hot cannon tube and peered out the gun port.
His guns had riddled the two short smokestacks behind the turret, but that had not slowed the enemy in the slightest. He’d given the order to aim for the two openings in the turret where the Union guns fired. But given both vessels were moving, and the turret rotated, there were too many aiming variables, making it a matter of blind luck if they were to thread one of those needles. So far, no luck.
But through the smoke of battle, King noticed something. Forward of the turret was an iron box poking up above the deck, but low enough that the Union guns could fire over it. As the Monitor closed in, King focused on the box. As hard as it was for him to see through the gunports on his ship, he realized the Union commander would have the same problem, multiplied by having only two ports if he were in the turret. So he wasn’t in the turret. The Monitor was being captained from that box.
King went from gun to gun and ordered each crew to focus on the box as it came to bear. They might not punch through the armor, but they’d keep the Union captain busy.
The first clash ever of metal ships was c
ausing a lot of noise, a lot of smoke and not much in terms of results. Rumble flinched as a cannon ball hit the side of the pilothouse, the clang deafening, the shock wave jarring his teeth.
Worden grabbed the helmsman and pointed out the direction he wanted the ship to go, the ability to hear inside the metal box negated by the shot for a few moments. Angled toward the bow of the Virginia, Worden was trying to keep his two guns battling the forward guns of the Confederate ship, rather than taking on the broadside.
The two ships once more drew closer. Rumble saw one of the balls fired from the turret bounce off the sloped side of the Virginia, flying high up into the air and disappearing in the distance. He hoped the rebels inside felt as miserable.
A flash of light and thunderous explosion was followed by Lieutenant Worden’s scream of pain. Rumble was dazed for a moment, then grabbed Worden whose hands were covering his face, blood pouring over them. A cannon ball had hit right on one of the inch wide observation slits, shattering the edges and spraying shrapnel, leaving behind a wider, jagged gap of a half foot.
“I can’t see!” Worden exclaimed, pulling his hands away to reveal gashes around his eyes and burst blood vessels in them.
Rumble helped Worden sit down on the deck, his back against the support for the wheel. Behind him, the helmsman peered out the gash in the pilothouse, spinning the wheel clockwise to turn away from the Virginia.
A bullet pinged off the wall behind the helmsman. “Damnation!” the man exclaimed, keeping to the task. Another bullet zipped through the damaged slit, ricocheted twice around the interior, narrowly missing both helmsman, Rumble and Worden.
Rumble brought the Henry to his shoulder, the muzzle now able to fit through the armor. He could see a rifle poking out of the closest gun port on the Virginia. Rumble fired three quick rounds at the port. He saw the muzzle of the rifle spit fire in return. A spark from a bullet hitting the top edge of the damaged slit snapped in front of his eyes and he was slammed back as a fist hit his chest, right over his heart.
Rumble fell over Worden, bounced off the helm and collapsed to the deck. It was hard for him to breathe. His hand grabbed his chest where the richocheting bullet had hit and pulled it back, expecting it to be covered with blood straight from his heart and his time on this mortal coil down to seconds remaining.
No blood.
Grunting in pain, Rumble sat up, back against the armor plate. His left breast pocket was torn. Rumble reached into the pocket and pulled out the contents: a spent bullet, Lidia’s and Ben’s etching with a perfect round circle in it just to the right of Lidia, and the abolitionist coin Ben had given him, bent almost double from the impact of the round.
Rumble took a deep breath, relishing the pain of the broken rib in his chest.
Another bullet pinged into the pilothouse. Rumble scrambled to his feet, put the Henry to his shoulder, ignored the pain, and fired as fast as he could pull the trigger and work the lever action. He shot the remaining four rounds right at the muzzle of the rifle that had shot him.
King was sighting the Spencer on the opening once more when he was hit in the face, snapping his head back and sending him flying to the deck. The round hit his left cheek, smashed the bone, and was partially deflected through his mouth and out the right side of his jaw.
King lay on his back, trying to spit out shattered teeth. Of more dire concern was the blood filling his mouth, choking him. One of the crew saw the danger and rolled him onto his side, allowing the blood to drain out. Another jammed cloth in the wound, slowing the bleeding.
“Withdraw!” the ensign left in command screamed.
Rumble saw the Virginia begin a ponderous turn away.
“They’re running!” the helmsman yelled in exultation. “Lieutenant,” he said to Worden. “They’re withdrawing.”
Worden nodded, a hasty bandage Rumble had concocted from a bandana covering his blinded eyes. “Pull back to the Minnesota if you please.”
11 March 1862, Washington DC
President Lincoln had a wet towel draped over his forehead and was leaning far back in his chair as Rumble was escorted into his office, just two days after the mighty battle of ironclads at Hampton Roads. Despite his obvious exhaustion, Lincoln peeled the towel off, got to his feet, and extended his hand.
Rumble shook it. “Sir.”
“Sergeant Major Rumble. Please take a seat.”
Rumble sat on the bench as Lincoln wearily collapsed back into his seat. “The newspapers say we won a great victory over the Virginia.”
Rumble nodded, but said nothing, his chest throbbing in pain, his fingers wrapped around the bent abolitionist coin.
“So you agree?” Lincoln pressed.
“The Virginia still floats and is still capable of fighting, sir,” Rumble said. “I may not know about naval tactics, but it seems to me the goal is to sink the opponent’s ship.”
“But they did withdraw from the, what is the proper word, not field, perhaps sea, of battle, first. Correct?”
“They did, sir.”
“Because you used your Henry rifle that some prescient person pressed upon you.”
Rumble was shocked. “Sir, how did you—”
“I get reports from many sources, Sergeant Major, and also, I get the Richmond paper and can read. I don’t think it was any coincidence that the Virginia withdrew after you fired. The reports are that the acting captain of the Confederate vessel was badly wounded by one of your bullets. This after the first captain was wounded the day before by the shore batteries. They were running out of captains, I believe.”
“A lucky shot on my part, then, sir.”
“Did you know the name of the second captain?”
“No, sir.”
“A former West Pointer and US Marine named George King.”
Rumble’s fingers tightened so hard around the token, it cut into his skin. “King is my distant cousin, sir. We were at West Point together.”
“That’s the nature of this war,” Lincoln said. He sighed, the lines on his face collapsing on themselves and he looked ancient. “Let bravery stand where it is, Sergeant Major. I propose to put you in for a Medal of Honor. It’s a new award which was proposed by Congress and I signed into law back in December.”
“I can’t take a medal for shooting kin, sir.”
Lincoln slumped back in his chair. “Why is nothing ever easy? We need heroes Sergeant Major, so I am giving a medal. Lots of people are going to be shooting relatives by the time this war is over. Is that so hard?”
“Give it to the helmsman of the Monitor,” Rumble suggested. “He stood fast with bullets flying all about and maintained control of the ship after Lieutenant Worden was wounded.”
“So you’re turning down a medal,” Lincoln said. “You surely do not belong in Washington. You don’t fit in.”
“I don’t belong in Washington, sir,” Rumble agreed.
“And I suppose you are going to tell me where you do belong?”
“Instead of a Medal of Honor, sir, I’d like to go west.”
“For once, fortune turns my way and the stars align,” Lincoln said. He sorted through the papers on his desk. “The telegram is most fascinating. I can get news from hundreds of miles away in an instant. The problem is trying to discern if the news I’m receiving is news or if it’s political maneuvering or in some cases, out-right lies. Such is the difficulty of only being able to be one place at a time. That is why I have men like you, Sergeant Major.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t look so glum,” Lincoln said. “Have some faith in me. You’ll go west, and I’m glad to accommodate your personal desire for that, whatever it might be; however I want you to keep in mind your primary duty is to your country.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have a letter from your friend Grant’s senator. He says there’s quite the ruckus going on between Generals Halleck and Grant. He goes so far as to say that he’s afraid Halleck might place Grant under arrest. He’s already re
lieved him of his command.”
Rumble half rose off the bench. “For what, sir! He conquered Henry. He took Donelson. His men have invested Nashville. He should be getting a medal.”
Lincoln waved a hand. “Sit down. It appears that Halleck feels Grant has slipped his leash and doesn’t follow orders. That, of course, is what Halleck says. What he means is that Grant’s success has rankled his superiors. He acts while they strut and preen and do little. But Halleck does command the west. And,” Lincoln stroked his chin, “there is a nugget in all of this that disturbs me. There are rumors your friend is drinking.” Lincoln raised an eyebrow. “You do not leap to his defense.”
“Sir, General Grant is a man who has little tolerance for spirits,” Rumble explained. “However, I do not believe he would imbibe while in such a position of trust.”
“They say he was booted out of the army for drinking. Is that so?”
“I’ve heard that rumor, but don’t know if it’s true or not.”
“Did you see him drink in Mexico?”
Rumble fidgeted. “Yes, sir. But not much and briefly. And he was never in command in Mexico and never drunk during battle.”
“A less honest man and more loyal friend might have simply answered ‘never’,” Lincoln pointed out. “I appreciate the honesty and that’s why you’re sitting there. Be that as it may, you will find out for me. Thus we strike two birds with one stone.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’m relieving General McClellan later today,” Lincoln said. “He had my order and he did not move. Thus I’ve issued a new order.”
“And his replacement, sir?”
