Iron Thunder

by Avi

Could we rest? No. Water began pouring in through the anchor well beneath the ship, by way of the hole through which the anchor rope ran—the hawse pipe. It made the most terrifying sound, like the death groans of many men. Really scary. That, too, was repaired. I don’t know how.

  It wasn’t ‘til three in the morning that all became truly calm. But though no one slept that night, we were alive—and afloat. The only thing to think about was what was up ahead: the sea monster, the Merrimac.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  We Arrive at Hampton Roads

  BY THE DAWN OF MARCH EIGHTH we had unruffled seas. It was warmer, too. But everything was damp and clammy. No one, including me, had really slept during the last two days. I took some time atop the turret, sitting in the sun, breathing in fresh air. As I sat there, I wasn’t so sure anymore that I wanted to spend my life at sea.

  After Mr. Greene did a general inspection, the crew spent most of their time trying to dry the ship out with rags, mops, and pails. Wasn’t easy. Lots of broken crockery, furniture, and junk went into the sea.

  Then Captain Worden discovered that during the wildness of the trip, the speaking tube had broken. This was the tube that allowed the captain in the pilothouse and the turret commander to communicate—their sole way of talking to each other. The only ones who would be able to see outside the Monitor during a battle were those in the pilothouse. The crew in the turret couldn’t see much of anything.

  When repairs proved impossible, the captain and Mr. Greene tried to figure out how to proceed. They made some chalk marks on the turret floor so the gun crew would know which side was which, port and starboard. But as they talked, they kept looking at me.

  “Master Tom,” the captain asked, “is your voice loud?”

  I said, “Used to call newspaper headlines.”

  They didn’t say more, not then.

  About noon—still under tow and our engines clanking—we passed Cape Charles. We’d finally reached the Chesapeake Bay. When word went out to the crew, everybody got the shivers. We were getting close. The enemy was near.

  Then our towrope broke. Captain Worden, fed up, decided that since we were in coastal waters—and everything tranquil—we best not take the time for repairs. So, with black smoke blowing from our stack, we kept on under our own power. The Seth Low, like a nervous mother duck, stayed close.

  The day became calmer, with a clear blue sky and a few high, white, fluffy clouds. Warm, almost. I began to forget all the terrible things that had happened.

  It was near four p.m. when we passed Cape Henry. That put us fifteen miles from Hampton Roads. I was up on the turret with Mr. Greene. As we steamed on, I started hearing something that sounded like thunder. Saw flashes of light, too—like lightning.

  “That another storm?” I asked Mr. Green.

  He shook his head. “That’s cannon.”

  It wasn’t just occasional cannon fire either, but a constant thud-thud.

  “Heavy guns,” said Mr. Greene. The closer we drew in, the more I felt the pressure of the blasts in my ears. I began to see clouds of black and gray smoke. When we passed Fortress Monroe, I saw dark spots in the air.

  It was Captain Worden who said, “Bursting shells.”

  We had reached the war.

  From the turret top, Captain Worden and Mr. Greene peered with their telescopes. We passed lots of ships. Many were sail. A few paddle steamers. Most were part of the Union blockade fleet. But one crew member pointed out that there were warships from England and France. “How come they’re here?” I asked.

  “Bet they’re waiting,” was the answer. “Waiting to see which side to line up with—depending on the outcome of our battle.”

  Halfway between Cape Henry and Fortress Monroe, just outside the Roads, a small sailboat nosed out and headed for us. It drew close, then sheered off. A man stood up in its bow. “Jacob Berents, sir,” he called. “I’m your pilot through the Roads. Request permission to come aboard, sir.”

  Captain Worden offered a relaxed salute. “You may come aboard, sir.”

  The cutter eased along the deck of the Monitor.

  “Help him, Tom,” the captain told me.

  Mr. Greene’s telescope. It had been given to him by some admiring officers.

  I dropped down the ladder and went along the deck. A sailor from the cutter threw me a rope. I held it, drew the cutter in, and Mr. Berents stepped onto the Monitor. An elderly, wrinkle-faced man, he looked about the ship, clearly puzzled.

  Fortress Monroe, the largest fort in the United States.

  Robert E. Lee had been an officer here before the war. After the war the Confederate president, Jefferson Davis, was in prison here.

  “Welcome aboard the Monitor, Mr. Berents,” the captain called down to him. “We heard cannon fire. What news?”

  The man stopped his gaping about. Squinting, he looked up at the captain. “News, sir? Then you don’t know?”

  “Don’t know what?”

  He said, “The Merrimac’s come out and been on a rampage! We’re being slaughtered!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Pilot’s News

  “EXACTLY what’s happened?” Captain Worden demanded.

  “It’s the Rebel ironclad, sir,” said Mr. Berents. “The Merrimac. She’s attacked.”

  “Today?”

  “Shortly before noon.”

  The captain’s pale face became red, his fingers agitated. “What does she look like?” he asked.

  “Long, low, and huge. Thick with cannons.”

  “And she’s ironclad?”

  “Pretty certain, sir. Hard to describe. Never seen her likes before. Terrible strange. All I can tell you is her cannons are enclosed under what looks like an iron roof with sides sloping all around.”

  “Did she do any damage?”

  “Damage!” cried Mr. Berents. “God protect you, sir! First, she came out and laid a broadside on the Congress. We could see it from the fortress, sir. The Congress was so unprepared, she had her laundry drying on the spars. Terrible slaughter.”

  “Any more?”

  “Much more, sir. That Merrimac seems to have a ram. She used it on the Cumberland, sir. Smashed a hole in her hull big enough to drive a horse and buggy through. Something awful. But she went down with her guns still firing. You can see her top gallants above the water.”

  “Sank!”

  “Yes, sir, and still burning. Then the Rebs went back to the Congress. Forced her to fly a white flag.”

  “And the Minnesota, what of her, man?”

  “Coming to that. Well, sir, the Minnesota tried to run but went aground on a shoal. If ever there was a sitting duck, God mercy her, there she was.

  “Sure enough, the Merrimac went at her. I’ll say this: that ironclad does turn slow. Even so, she would have sunk the Minnesota if she hadn’t come about and headed back to Norfolk. Don’t know why. Maybe because night was coming. Or the tide was turning. Or her ammunition low. Can’t rightly say.”

  “But the Minnesota has forty guns!” cried the captain. “Didn’t she use them?”

  “Use them? They all used them. The Congress with her fifty. The Cumberland with her twenty-four. Blazing away even as they went down. It was something amazing to see.”

  “And?”

  “They might as well have been throwing boiled taters at a rampaging bull for all the damage they done.”

  The sinking of the Cumberland when the Merrimac rammed her.

  The ram stuck in the Cumberland and almost sank the Merrimac.

  She worked free but lost the ram, which we didn’t know.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing anyone could see, sir. Our shot slipped and skittered off that iron beast like skipped stones on a calm pond. Not a scratch! From what I saw, I’d say that ship can’t be touched. Like magic. Yes, sir, the whole Blockade Squadron is set to take flight. I never believed I’d see the day.”

  The captain turned away and stared off into a distance of his own measur
e. Then I heard him say, “How many killed?”

  “They say almost three hundred. Maybe more. Even that’s not all, sir. The Saint Lawrence grounded herself trying to scoot away. The Roanoke daren’t draw close. I tell you, Captain, our blockade is all but broke.”

  “Where did the Merrimac go?”

  “Back over to her base at Sewell’s Point.”

  “Heaven help us!” said Worden in exasperation. “We’ve come a day too late!”

  “A day too late for what?”

  “To fight her.”

  Mr. Berents looked around as if considering the Monitor in a new way. “Fight?” he asked, clearly puzzled. “With what?”

  “With this ship, Mr. Berents,” cried the angry captain. “This ship!”

  Mr. Berents considered a moment before saying, “Do you truly think so, sir?”

  “I know so!”

  “Hate to tell you, Captain,” said Mr. Berents, squinting up. “That Merrimac, she’s bound to come back tomorrow. She’ll want to finish her bloody work. With all respect, sir, I suggest you keep out of her way. I sure don’t want no part of her. No, sir, I’ll take you up the Roads to anchor. No farther. My advice, sir: head back north.”

  Captain Worden made no response. What could he say? He led Mr. Berents to the pilothouse. When I got below, members of the crew called out, “Tom! Tom! What news?”

  I told them. As my report about the Merrimac spread among the crew, the mood turned bleak. And when I told them that the pilot had refused to stay on board, you never saw such dismal faces.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I See a Sight I Never Wish to See Again

  THE MONITOR—piloted by Mr. Berents—entered Hampton Roads close to sundown.

  Night proved easy and mild. The moon was in its second quarter, with just enough light to witness what the pilot had told us. It was something awful: the Cumberland had sunk, but her flag was still flying from her top mast. The Congress, not so much blown apart, but smoldering. Now and again I saw a swirling lick of flame on her spars.

  The captain issued orders. Of course, he didn’t know when the Merrimac might return. Just certain she would. So we prepared ourselves for battle. Smokestack and blower funnels down. Covers screwed over the glass deck windows. Everything movable cleared from the deck and turret. Turret levered up, ready to turn. As much shot and powder in the turret as we could fit. The Stars and Stripes at the stern. Navy jack at the bow.

  Then someone discovered that all the water we’d taken in the storm had made things rusty, so everyone set to scraping it off, lubricating whatever needed to move.

  Since our Mr. Berents was too fearful to go with us, Captain Worden sent an urgent message to Fortress Monroe for another pilot to guide us through the Roads’shoals. We had to have someone for the next day. It took a long time to get one. But finally, a Mr. Samuel Howard came aboard from the Amanda.

  Another boat came from the fortress to bring orders. Captain Worden read the message, then called the crew up on the deck.

  Looking down from the turret, he said, “Gentlemen, you have already learned of the day’s terrible events. I shall not dwell on them. Regardless, we have received our orders. We are ordered to go to the assistance of the Minnesota. She is the key, here. We must protect her.”

  No crew member spoke a word.

  The captain went on. “I’ve composed a message to the Secretary of the Navy and asked that it be telegraphed to Washington. I wrote, ‘I have the honor to report that I have arrived at anchorage at nine o’clock this evening and am ordered to proceed immediately to the assistance of the Minnesota aground near Newport News.’

  “Gentlemen, I have every expectation that the Merrimac will return and continue her attack. I cannot tell you when she will come, only that she surely will. We shall stay on alert. Gentlemen, we must stop her. And we will. But there will be a battle.”

  That night, the Monitor anchored in water ten fathoms deep, halfway between Fort Monroe and the town of Newport News. We lay aside the Minnesota. Compared to us, that Minnesota was a mountain. But we were there to protect her.

  The captain of the Minnesota spoke to Captain Worden. He told Worden that if the Monitor failed to save his ship, he would destroy her rather than surrender her to the Rebels.

  Everyone knew what that meant. If the Minnesota was gone, so was the Union blockade. That made me recall O’Keefe’s words: if the blockade failed, the Union cause would be lost.

  Most of our crew, worn out from so little sleep and food, stayed below. It was pretty warm down there. Sailors muttered about how many oysters there were below our ship, but how we couldn’t get at them. All we had was moldy bread and bad coffee.

  Too tense to sleep, I stayed up with the night watch. They filled my head with tales of battles they had fought. The stories, full of screaming cannonballs, splintering wood, and smashed bodies, touched me with dread. I kept thinking about my father. Had he seen such things? Would I ever see Brooklyn again?

  When things quieted down, I climbed off the turret and went out to the bow of the ship. I looked about. Over to the north, around Fortress Monroe, I could see lots of campfires burning. Union troops. To the south, at Sewell’s Point and Craney Island, just as many flares from Reb troops.

  I got goose bumps on my arms when I understood what I was seeing. Thousands of troops—friend and foe alike—would be watching us, looking to see who won.

  And I couldn’t keep my eyes from the Congress. She was still burning. Dreadful to watch. Flames were slowly crawling up her rigging, going ever higher. The burning masts and spars reminded me of a spider’s web—threads red hot against the dark night.

  Sometime after midnight a series of explosions began. Ever faster, ever louder—powder cases, cannons, and shells exploded. The fire must have reached the Congress’s gunpowder stores. With a roar that hurt so much I had to clap my hands over my ears, I saw a sight the likes of which I hope never to see again: a gigantic burst of flame leaped up. It went so high it was like hell was attacking heaven. The night sky was filled with a billion flaming bits. Then, as if the stars themselves had broken loose, the pieces began to drift down. Every time an ember hit the water, it hissed.

  The awful end of the Congress. At least some of the crew got away.

  The Congress breathed flutters of flame like a dying man’s last breath. Don’t ask me why, but in my head I could see Mr. Quinn grinning at me.

  Finally, the dim light of dawn came creeping in from the east. Not so far from where we lay, I could see the all-but-sunken Cumberland. Her Stars and Stripes were still flying at her peak.

  I wondered, Is that a sign of bravery or despair?

  We were about to find out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Morning of March 9, 1862

  WE TOOK UP ANCHORAGE behind the Minnesota. Just sat there waiting for the Merrimac to steam back into the Roads from the Elizabeth River, where she’d gone for the night. Like a sea monster in its lair, I thought. When she came up, she wouldn’t see us. Not at first.

  Did I want her to return?

  I was scared. I mean, I had no experience of deadly battle. Was the Monitor going to be Ericsson’s Folly? Or was she going to teach them Rebs a lesson? I knew the Monitor. I knew what was strong about her—how different she was, her iron-plated turret, her two great guns, her crew.

  But we had almost sunk. We had almost abandoned her. And I could think of four weak points.

  What would happen if a shot dropped straight down on our deck? No eight inches of iron-plate protection there—as the turret had—just two inches.

  What would happen when an iron shot smashed the turret? Would the rivets and bolts hold?

  What if a shot struck dead-on where the deck folded over the hull? Were we weak there?

  What about that Merrimac’s ram, which the pilot had told us about? It had sunk the Cumberland, hadn’t it? What if she used it against us?

  I kept telling myself, Nothing bad’s gonna happen.
If I thought that once, I thought it a million times. But I couldn’t get my pa, and what had happened to him, out of my head.

  Then night drifted off, and the new day—Sunday, March ninth—seeped in, bringing a low fog over Hampton Roads. Vapor rising up from the bay waters made it look as if the water was smoldering.

  Tension on board was high. It wasn’t just not knowing what was about to happen. It was wanting things to start happening.

  I helped pass out coffee and bread.

  Not long after, Worden had us piped to quarters. That’s sailor talk for “get ready for battle.”

  The captain took his place—wearing his sword!—in the pilothouse. He stood there with the pilot, Mr. Howard, and the helmsman, Mr. Williams. Mr. Greene was in command in the turret. Mr. Stodder was at the turret controls. Mr. Stimers was there too, overseeing. The gun crew, our sixteen strongest men, were stripped to their waists. Mr. Stocking and Mr. Lochrave were the gun captains, each one in charge of a single cannon.

  Isaac Newton was in the engine room below. He had coal heavers, firemen, oilers, and a water tender under his command. Boilers needed constant minding, and there were lots of gauges to check, oil cups to keep full.

  And, oh! I was sure wishing I hadn’t seen the surgeon lay out his ghastly tools—saws, pincers, knives—on the officers’table.

  Someone was in charge of the powder magazine on the berth deck. A crew was ready to hoist shot and powder when needed.

  Where was I?

  Remember me saying that the speaking tube—the way the captain and the men in the turret talked to each other—had broken during the storm?

  The captain called me to him.

  “Mr. Carroll,” he said to me, first time he’d used that Mr. “It’ll have to be you who carries my orders to the turret. I’ll give a command. You dash aft and shout it up. Can you do it? It’s a crucial task.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, my heart thudding.