Iron Thunder

by Avi

  The eight officers, with their servants, had their own rooms. The rooms might have been small—six feet by eight—but they had fancy beds, rugs, air registers, black walnut trimming, brass fixtures, storage closets, desks with drop-down lids, and washbasins.

  Who designed it all? Captain Ericsson. He paid for it, too.

  Captain Worden had two rooms. In one of them he kept some navy books: Nautical Almanac, Bache’s Tide Tables. The one I liked was Piddingham’s Book on Storms. Had good pictures.

  There were toilets below—“heads,” sailors called them. Being underwater, they were operated by pumps. Another Ericsson invention. To use these heads, you closed one valve, opened another, then worked a pump to get rid of waste.

  The officers’ butter dish. The lettering was made with real gold!

  Early on, one of the coal heavers didn’t use the valves right, and he was blown off the seat! He complained to Captain Worden, but only got laughter for his trouble.

  Walls between quarters were thin and didn’t even reach the ceiling, so as to allow for airflow. Doors could be closed, but conversations weren’t private. So as I walked about, I would often hear, “When will we be done? When will we get going? Ain’t the Merrimac complete? Ain’t that Reb boat ready to burst out?”

  What we did know was that the Merrimac was ready, willing, and able to attack the Union blockade in Hampton Roads. We needed to get down there. Fast.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  We’re Almost Ready

  NOT A DAY PASSED without Captains Ericsson or Worden getting telegraph messages from the Department of the Navy. Constant reminders that the Merrimac was going to appear in the Hampton Roads, and was going to wreck the Feds’ Blockade Squadron. “Work faster!” they urged. “We must have the Monitor on station!” A note came saying even Mr. Lincoln was worried.

  One day, I carried Ericsson a slightly different message from the navy: “It’s very important that you should say the exact day the Monitor can be at Hampton Roads.”

  Ericsson scribbled an answer: “Soon.”

  There wasn’t exactly panic at the Monitor. But folks were sure worried that the Merrimac would be attacking before we could get down there. So work on the Monitor went all the time, day and night. I wasn’t alone at night anymore. If anything, it was too noisy.

  At last they put our guns in place. We got two eleven-inch smoothbore Dahlgren cannons, taken from the USS Dacotah. New, too, cast in 1859. They were thirteen feet long and weighed more than eight tons each! Our gunners called them “soda pop guns” because of their shape: big bulb at the back part—the breech. The two were placed side by side, set on rolling carriages with brakes to reduce recoil.

  Ball shot was set up in gutters around the guns. Gunpowder was off to one side. More was stored under the turret. Powder and shot had to be passed up through floor hatches. Lifting the powder bags wasn’t hard, but we had to use a metal grip attached to a pulley system to haul up the heavy cannon balls—one hundred and sixty-five pounds each!

  It took almost eight minutes to load and shoot each cannon. After a shot went off, the cannons had to be sponged out with a soaking-wet mop. That cooled the iron. You couldn’t place a new charge in the cannon if it wasn’t cool and all sparks quenched. Otherwise, when you put in powder it might explode.

  There even was this thing called a worm—a wire looking like a pig’s tail that plucked out any bits of the old powder bag. Finally the cannon was stuffed and rammed with a new bag of powder, then loaded with the cannonball, the whole charge packed in tight as a fist. All this was done through the muzzle.

  When ready to shoot, the cannons were run out one at a time through the two-gun ports, using hand cranks. When the firing lanyard was yanked, those guns could throw the shot ball more than a mile!

  Then the guns had to be pulled back, swabbed cool, loaded, and charged with powder again. When that happened, the gun ports were closed with a crazy system of shutters so heavy it required lots of men to work them.

  It took four days to get the guns properly lined up. Still, during the first practice firing—without shot—the guns fell off their carriages. God’s blessing no one was killed.

  Finally, our boilers were fired up. Engines clanking, we cast off. Guess what? The engines had been set for reverse. We slammed back into the dock!

  Talk about panic. Not from Captain Ericsson, though. Said he’d make adjustments. In two days he did. Heck, far as I could see, Captain Ericsson could think us to the moon if he wanted to.

  Things began happening even faster.

  February thirteenth, news came that down in Virginia the Merrimac had been launched.

  On the fifteenth, a telegram came for Captain Worden. I ran it to him. He was in his rooms with Executive Officer Green.

  “An urgent telegraph, sir.” I gave it to him.

  Mr. Green and I waited as the captain read the message. “From the Department of the Navy,” he said. “It reads, ‘The Monitor is wanted now!'”

  Captain Worden sighed. We weren’t going anywhere.

  The nineteenth, in the afternoon, the Monitor was turned over to the United States Navy, and we got her official flags. That meant Ericsson was no longer in charge of her.

  That same day, we went from Greenpoint to the Brooklyn Navy Yard, adding a trial run around New York Harbor. Just in case, a tug followed. Good thing, too, because our boilers didn’t work well. The Monitor went too slow, only three and a half knots. At Governor’s Island we came about and didn’t get to the Navy Yard ‘til early evening.

  Not good.

  Work continued, mostly on the ship’s engines.

  On February twentieth, the Secretary of the Navy sent Captain Worden another message:

  Proceed with the USS Monitor, under

  your command, to Hampton Roads, Virginia.

  We loaded eighty tons of anthracite coal along with all our ammunition. But we didn’t go anywhere. We were still finishing or fixing things. Wasn’t ‘til the twenty-fifth that the navy officially took possession of the ship.

  Two days later—it was snowing—a navy pilot came on. We nosed out into New York Harbor. The hatches were pulled down so we were all below deck. All around was hard, cold iron. There was a strong stink of iron and sweat. Murmuring voices. Gloomy light and a constant clank-clank of the main steam engines.

  Moving down the calm East River, we hardly felt motion at all. Maybe a slight tipping and rocking back and forth. It all made me remember what that guard had called the ship: an iron coffin. But with the air blowers doing okay, we had no trouble breathing.

  I had a thought: in the whole world there was no other ship like this Monitorl And me, Tom Carroll, the only boy in the whole world upon her! The idea popped up goose bumps on my arms.

  Except, the steering wheel proved too small. The Monitor started bouncing around, from Manhattan to Brooklyn and back like a three-wheeled buggy. We even rammed a dock—a riverside gasworks near the Fulton Street Ferry. We were towed back by steamer tug.

  Captain Ericsson had to fix us a bigger wheel.

  So there we were in the East River, still going nowhere. The closest we got to excitement was sitting ‘round while one of the crew read a book, something called Waverly. Too many words for me.

  Then we got a telegram from Washington that said the Merrimac was about to attack.

  And we were still in Brooklyn.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  We Make Our Final Preparations

  WITH MECHANICS STILL WORKING on the ship, and the whole crew on board, quarters were very-crowded. Bad weather kept us below deck, but people felt uncomfortable having no sky overhead. Not knowing each other, it took time for the sailors to get along, too. In other words, everyone was getting edgy.

  March third, we did some test shooting with blanks. Trouble was we had to stop the final test run of the ship because it was raining too much. We learned then that the ship leaked. No one had dry feet on the Monitor.

  Next day we made another r
un. I squeezed into the pilothouse, where the captain, the helmsman, and a harbor pilot were stationed. Standing on a small platform, Captain Worden pressed his face against the gaps between the iron bars to see where we were going. He kept shifting his position, looking first one way or another, trying to get his bearings.

  Mr. Geddings, the harbor pilot, knew the New York harbor as well as any man. “This is the most curious view I’ve had from any ship I’ve sailed. You’re awful low in the water,” he said. “Think you can see enough?”

  “It will do,” the captain said.

  “For a battle?” Mr. Geddings asked.

  Captain Worden didn’t answer.

  “For a battle, sir?” Mr. Geddings asked again.

  The helmsman waited for the answer. I waited, too.

  After a moment, Captain Worden said, “It will suffice.” Then he ordered, “Take her into the Lower Bay.” He turned to me. “Tom, come with me.”

  We climbed down the ladder, worked our way back past the officers’quarters, into the storerooms beneath the guns. I looked up through the grating. I could see the feet of gun crew, the underside of the great cannons.

  The passageway to the turret was open, so we went up the ladder. Inside the turret, the gun crew was still trying to find an easy way to shift the heavy shutters that covered the gun ports.

  There was another ladder that led to the turret’s roof. Captain Worden climbed out, then reached down to help me up. Standing on the turret top in the cold rain, I could see that we were out of the East River and into New York Bay. We were going about seven knots in calm waters. Any number of ships were about. As we steamed along, lots of people watched us. We must have appeared something strange.

  Inside the turret.

  During the battle there were a lot of men stationed in her.

  “Come along,” the captain said. He climbed down the outside ladder to the black deck. My feet could feel the steady pulse of the engines. Now and again a small wave curled over, making the deck slippery. I thought, This must be like riding the back of a whale.

  I stayed by the turret, wet spray in my face as the captain went forward—skirting the pilot box—until he stood at the bow, one hand holding on to the fluttering navy-jack mast. He remained standing there, not moving. I had no idea what he was thinking. It looked like he wanted to be alone. But then he beckoned to me. Walking wide to keep my balance, I drew up. He put a hand on my shoulder, and we gazed over the bay.

  “Tom,” he said, “one of the things a captain faces is that he’s not always free to speak his mind.”

  I stared out over the water.

  “But sometimes it’s easier to talk to the young.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “So you’ll hear it from me now—and never again. Do not repeat what I am about to say. Tom, I’ve been in the navy since 1834—a midshipman at the age of sixteen—and have answered many a call on many a ship, but this is the strangest vessel I’ve ever sailed.”

  I looked up into his bearded face. He was somber. “Do you doubt her, sir?”

  “Not the ship, Tom. Myself.”

  “How so, sir?”

  “I’m forty-three years of age—and have been ill. I ask myself if I am ready for such newfangledness.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder, and we gazed over the bay.

  “I think so, sir.”

  The captain smiled. “If youth says so,” he said, “it must be!”

  “Are we going south, then, sir?” I asked.

  “We are. Very soon.”

  Suddenly we heard a rumbling. Turning, we saw the turret moving. Amazing to see it—so huge. Next moment, the gun ports opened and a cannon was run out—aiming right at us.

  “Sir!” I cried.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, laughing. “I’m sure they know we’re here. But, Tom, I must tell them they mustn’t shoot the guns over our bow.”

  “Why?”

  “They will blow the pilot box—with me in it—to smithereens.”

  When we reached Sandy Hook, the guns were tested, firing blank charges. All went well.

  That night, asleep on the Monitor, I dreamt of great dark whales, swimming deep. I was trying to ride one.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Night Before Departure

  MARCH FOURTH WE MADE our last trial run, including cannon firing. Things went well, except when we got back to the Yard, Paymaster Keeler discovered that two seamen had deserted. Took a dinghy, too—one of the ship’s small rescue boats. They must have fled across the river to New York.

  There was lots of talk in the sailors’quarters. People wondered if the two got scared, found better berths on other ships—or were spies. A coal heaver said, “Whatever they were, we’re better off without.”

  I thought different. If they were spies, it might mean Mr. Quinn knew we were about to head south. If so, he’d really want to grab hold of me to hear what I knew, which was a lot. And the thing was, before we went, I had to get home to Ma and Dora. I just couldn’t go without saying good-bye. I might never see them again. And with the weather clearing, everybody was hoping we would leave in the morning.

  At quitting time I went out to the main Navy Yard gates. Garrett was there, selling papers. I ran up to him.

  “They say we’re leaving tomorrow. I’m not sure, but I have to get home. If Quinn’s going to grab me, it’ll be tonight.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll fix things.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll do something,” he said. “When you want to go?”

  “In an hour.”

  Then I discovered that Captain Worden decided he would hold a farewell dinner on ship. That wouldn’t ordinarily be a problem for me, but the cook got drunk, so Worden put him in the brig. That meant I had to do all the serving alone. Now I really wanted to get home, but I didn’t know when I could.

  All the officers were at the dinner. So was Captain Ericsson, though word was out that he wouldn’t go. Seemed that when he first came to America he got seasick. Wasn’t about to go to sea again! Made me laugh. And then during dinner, Captain Worden announced we were leaving in the morning—for certain.

  “Is this a secret, sir?” asked Paymaster Keeler.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Once dinner was over I rushed to clear everything away. Then I went to Captain Worden’s quarters. When I got to the door I overheard Mr. Greene, the second in command, speaking.

  “I tell you, Captain,” Greene was saying, “there never was a vessel launched that needed more trials. No part of her is finished. Not even the gun ports have been rounded smooth.”

  Captain Worden said, “We’ll have to take our chances, Mr. Greene. We can’t wait anymore. We’re needed.”

  A silence followed, so I knocked on the door. Got permission to enter.

  “Yes, Tom?”

  “Sir, request permission to go ashore to say goodbye to my ma and sister.”

  “Where are they?

  “Not far from the Yard, sir.”

  The captain exchanged a look with his executive officer.

  “Not planning to fly off, are you?” said Mr. Greene, looking at me with his fierce dark eyes. “Like those others?”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t. On my honor, sir!”

  Captain Worden pulled a brass pocket watch from his jacket and looked at it. “Tom, I’ll give you two hours. Be back by midnight.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  I leaped off the Monitor to the wharf, tore through the Yard, out through the gates, and onto the Brooklyn streets. Once there, I stopped and looked around. Everything was deserted, dark, and cold, a stiff breeze coming off the East River. A few streetlamps were glowing and only a couple of lights in house windows. But no Garrett.

  Telling myself I needed to go only a few blocks, I set out. I’d barely gone a block and a half when I heard something. A scraping sound and a low whistle. It came from behind me. Wasn’t much, and I hardly thought it was worth any
worry. Even so, I ran faster, keeping to the middle of the street.

  Then I heard another whistle. From in front of me, this time.

  I stopped and peered into the dark. Another whistle from behind made me look back. Then down the street, before me, a man appeared. I looked around. There were two men behind me. By the time I whipped ‘round to look ahead again, there were another two men. One of them passed beneath the gas streetlamp: Mr. Quinn.

  My stomach rolled.

  “Tom?” he called. “That you? Fancy meeting you here.”

  I stood where I was, but the men kept coming toward me.

  “Now, Tom,” I heard Mr. Quinn say, “I’ve had enough of your putting me off.”

  The men behind me came up quickly. One of them grabbed me by the neck. Another took my arm.

  Mr. Quinn stood before me. “All right, Tom,” he said. “Now, just come along.”

  They started to march me away.

  Suddenly, I heard “Charge ‘em!” And from different places and directions maybe six policemen came rushing in, yelling, “Get them copperheads! Catch them Rebs!” Lights went on in windows along the street. That’s when I saw that Garrett was there, too.

  Quinn’s men tried to escape, but the policemen quickly surrounded and collared them.

  Garrett grabbed my arm and led me up to one of the policeman. “This is my uncle Mike,” he said to me. He was a big man, and looked a lot like Garrett’s father, curly-haired and red-faced.

  “Uncle Mike, this is my friend I told you about,” Garrett announced.

  “Which one is the Reb who wanted you to spy?” the policeman asked me.

  “That one,” I said, pointing. “He calls himself Quinn, but he may be Parker, too.”

  “If you’re going to take me,” Quinn snarled, “you’d better take the boy, too. He works for me.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Uncle Mike,” cried Garrett. “I told you, Tom’s the one who found him out.”

  “Right enough. But you’ll need to make a statement at headquarters,” the policeman said to me.