by Jim Musgrave
Chapter Twenty-Four: Ericsson's Folly
January 30, 1862, Brooklyn
The wind had blown mightily for most of the night, but by the time the two tugs were moving the Monitor from her berth in the Continental Shipyard to the launching site inside the Brooklyn Navy Yard, it was calm and clear, albeit the temperature hovered in the low 30s. John Ericsson and Lieutenant Greene journeyed together by carriage, and Captain Worden stayed with his craft, together with the new crew and his young steward, Chip Jefferson.
Chip loved the thrill of this new experience aboard ship, and he had a difficult time sleeping that whole week. He had spent a week from Christmas to New Year's Day with his family, and they had a hard time controlling the young boy's enthusiasm. He told them about the new Captain Worden, about Easter Island, and all about the new training camp for Negro men on Mason's Island. Chip's father warned him about the two white men, as he believed they were scheming about something "nefarious if he ever heard such things." However, he agreed with his son that Captain Worden was probably a good man, especially after Chip told him the story about when he was a prisoner to the Rebs in Florida.
"Son, decent white men are fighting this war to help us, and you must stay next to them to be safe," his father told him, opening one of his many history books as way of illustration. "See here, this is Mister John Brown. Isn't he a pugnacious and noble looking white man? Well, he attempted to capture an ammunitions arsenal at Harper's Ferry, Virginia, and then arm the slaves so they could raid plantations and free others. Sadly, they were stopped because too many slaves failed to rally behind him, as they were house slaves, just like we were, and they didn't wish to risk their position. So, this white man, John Brown, died, along with some of his own sons, and only five Negroes were there with them. But now, son, you have a chance to show them we can fight too!"
"He looks a lot like Captain Worden," Chip exclaimed, staring at the photo. "I know he's a good man, Papa, and I will stand by him."
As Chip stood on the bow in front of the captain, he watched the hundreds of people who were standing on the banks of the East River, pointing and waving at their craft. Many were laughing, and Chip felt a bit strange. Was it his fault the ship looked like a "cheese box on a raft"? Even the seagulls seemed to want to come down low and take a look at what these humans had created. They swooped down and called out in their screeching, mournful way, a sound Chip Jefferson had never heard, but one that Captain Worden said was something every sailor longed to hear, as he knew he was not far from land. The captain had also told the young steward about the bad luck of the Albatross landing on your deck when you're at sea, and he even read to him a poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner," and Chip was enthralled as the Captain read: "God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus! - Why look'st thou so?" — With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross."
Chip could picture himself as the cabin boy in the poem, his imagination increasing with each moment on the ship. The other men were kind to him; at least, they said nothing to his face, and he seemed to be a favorite of many of them, especially the surgeon steward, a young man of 20 named Jesse Jones and the Acting Assistant Paymaster, Lieutenant William F. Keeler. When the dead Albatross was put around the mariner's neck, Chip felt the weight of the sea, and the possible dangers all around. He couldn't wait to see what adventures lay ahead for him and his fellow crewmembers.
* * *
Sinclair and Whitehead were up early that morning. They had to get down to the river and load the torpedo in the darkness before the Continental Ship Yard workers came in. They also knew there would be hundreds of people watching from the banks of the East River as the new ship, the U.S.S. Monitor, was pulled down to the Brooklyn Navy Yard for launching and a shake-down cruise. Time was of the essence, as they say, and Walter knew if he did not get his fishing boat out into the channel, he would not be ready to launch his little Christening gift. He now knew the speed the ship could do, and where she was going to be going for her short cruise. It was only a matter of getting his small vessel in place so when he put his torpedo into the water, it would have clear running to its target.
Sinclair knew that even if he were able to sink this bloody monstrosity, he would still have won only half the battle. Ericsson needed to be done away with, or the Confederates would be after him or his fiancée, Penelope. They had been in touch with him twice since he had been in New York, and each time they reinforced the deadly serious nature of his task.
Walter pushed open the cabin door to the small fishing craft. His hands were almost frostbitten from the walk down to the river, and when he opened the door, he was overjoyed to see that Whitehead had a fire going for tea and biscuits. "I say, all the comforts of home, eh what?" said the torpedo man, pushing out a dilapidated chair for Walter to be seated.
"Yes, it is excruciatingly cold out there! Do you have the missile loaded?" Walter sat down and drew the cup of steaming tea close to him. He waved its warmth toward him and breathed in deeply.
Whitehead passed him a tray of almond and peppermint pastries. "Indeed, it took me from four in the A. M. until now, but I got her packed into the bow. I cut a good hole out of the starboard side, and put in my ramp. I even greased it up for the slide down into the water when the time comes. Jolly good biscuits. Grace made them last night and gave them to me to bring out here."
"She's a dear. I have the map that will get us out into the river right where the ship will be testing her maneuvers. We shouldn't attract too much attention in this bloody cod boat!"
Sinclair was beginning to like Whitehead. He was a rebel, just like he was, and he hoped they could keep their friendship after this was over. "If this proves successful, I suppose you will be able to name your price with just about any country in the world. They will want to buy the weapon that destroyed the famous Monitor, eh what?"
Whitehead brushed some crumbs from his lapel and picked up his teacup. "Yes, and I suppose England and France will be posting their observation ships to see how the South fares at the blockade in Norfolk. I read today that Lincoln is moving his soldiers into position to attack the entire peninsula."
"Indeed," said Sinclair, pushing himself away from the table. "The actions we take here can determine the outcome of this war, and if we can stop the Union, then England and France will certainly lend their support to the Southern cause."
"Let's get this ugly fish trawler out into the bay. We have a rendezvous with destiny!" said Whitehead, and he stomped out of the door leading to the pilot house.
* * *
John Ericsson waited at the dock of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. He could see his ship coming down the river, and his being was filled with anticipation. He was going to meet the government's deadline for construction, and soon the craft would be fit to enter the conflict down in Virginia. However, he had to get Lieutenant Greene sufficiently prepared for the battle, as the resultant confrontation could mean the difference between his loneliness and being together with his precious Amelia once more. Ericsson was planning to take the young man out for dinner following the shakedown cruise. This would give him the opportunity to explain just how the ship could be prevented from winning at Hampton Roads. Greene was now getting the crew ready for the cruise. Ericsson could see him talking with the crew near the dry-dock. His hands were gesticulating fervently, and it seemed absurd to Ericsson that such a young man would determine their fates.
The Monitor pulled into the docking port at 0900 hours. Little Chip Jefferson threw one of the main lines onto the pier and several sailors took up the small rope and led the larger docking rope onto the planks, where it was gathered and wrapped securely around the cleat. Other men followed Chip's example until all four ropes were secured and Captain Worden guided the ship into its place against the pier.
Dana had interviewed the new crew, and only six men would come with them out on the maiden voyage. Peter Williams, Quartermaster Seaman; George Burrows, Landsman; John Corwey,
Fireman; Thomas Feeny, Coalheaver; Moses Stearns, Quartermaster; and Captain's Orderly, Chip Jefferson. The rest of the men were going to stay onshore and get the supplies ready for the voyage to meet their nemesis, the C. S. S. Virginia.
"What we gonna do about all these people, Lieutenant?" asked Stearns, a tall, willowy farmer from Maine, who pointed to the hundreds of New York citizens who were lined-up against the fence. They were there to see "Ericsson's Folly" sink into the river, and many of the sailors in the crew were almost as suspicious of this strange craft as the public was.
"These people, Quartermaster, do not understand genius. These same citizens were making disparaging remarks about my father when he constructed the Elevator trains. Today, they all ride them, high above the city, without a care in the world. So, what does this tell us about the public?" Dana was quizzing them like schoolboys.
"Yes sir, you are correct," said little Chip, who was anxious to get on board with Captain Worden, as he had promised Chip he could watch from the bridge. "My family rides them all the time, and they're wonderful!" All the sea stories Chip had read as a child were coming back to him. Melville's Moby Dick kept him up for three nights straight, reading under the lamp in their rooms on the plantation. Mrs. Sims had recommended it to him, and Chip was immediately drawn into the tale about the obsessed Captain Ahab and the narrator, Ishmael. There was even a Cabin boy named Pip, and this fact electrified him, as he read over the passage about the young Negro lad as he was knocked overboard during a chase for the whales. After falling, little Pip became transfigured by the sea and its miraculous depths. Chip wondered if he, too, fell overboard, would the same hold true? Chip could quote that passage word for word to this very day, as he kept it inside his wallet, neatly folded, and he would bring it out to read whenever he felt closer to God and Nature, and as he read it that day, just before their first voyage, it seemed to symbolize what lay ahead for him:
By the merest chance the ship itself at last rescued him; but from that hour the little negro went about the deck an idiot; such, at least, they said he was. The sea had jeeringly kept his finite body up, but drowned the infinite of his soul Not drowned entirely, though. Rather carried down alive to wondrous depths, where strange shapes of the unwarped primal world glided to and fro before his passive eyes; and the miser-merman, Wisdom, revealed his hoarded heaps; and among the joyous, heartless, ever-juvenile eternities, Pip saw the multitudinous, God-omnipresent, coral insects, that out of the firmament of waters heaved the colossal orbs. He saw God's foot upon the treadle of the loom, and spoke it; and therefore his shipmates called him mad. So man's insanity is heaven's sense; and wandering from all mortal reason, man comes at last to that celestial thought, which, to reason, is absurd and frantic; and weal or woe, feels then uncompromised, indifferent as his God.
Chip believed slavery had been his ocean bottom, and that he, too, had gone mad. But now Captain Worden had saved him for the war and he could go on to fight injustice. Just as Captain Ahab's quest for the White Whale led little Pip to a great adventure, so Captain Worden's obsession to prove himself a worthy foe of his former captors, a great gray whale of Rebellion, had led Chip on the most exciting adventure of his life.
Chapter Twenty-Five: Rendezvous
January 30, 1862, Brooklyn Navy Yard
Walter Sinclair and Robert Whitehead were able to navigate smoothly into the channel before the U.S.S. Monitor launched to the hoopla of a military brass band, a 21-gun salute, and the roaring cheers and jeers of thousands of New York citizens, who were lined-up along the shore of the East River waiting for the ship to sink like a Confederate war bond in Manhattan.
Chip Jefferson stood next to Captain Worden in the Pilot house. He could see the inventor, John Ericsson, standing in the stern of the ship, as it was about to launch. Just a few minutes before, Chip had delivered a letter from the captain to the office in the Navy Yard where the mail was processed. Chip had read it before putting it into the envelope, and he felt proud to be a part of this ship's crew as Worden described it to the Secretary of the Navy:
Report of Lieutenant Worden, U. S. Navy, regarding the complement of officers and crew for the U. S. S. Monitor.
NAVY YARD, NEW YORK, January 30, 1862.
Hon. GIDEON WELLES, Secretary of the Navy.
SIR: I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your communication of the 24th instant, in relation to the complement of officers and crew for Ericsson's ironclad battery.
In estimating the number of her crew, I allowed 15 men and a quarter gunner for the two guns, 11 men for the powder division, and 1 for the wheel, which I deem ample for the efficient working of her guns in action. That would leave 12 men (including those available in the engineer's department) to supply deficiencies at the guns, caused by sickness or casualties. I propose to use a portion of the petty officers at the guns, and in naming the number of that class I thought I would be enabled to obtain a better class of men for that purpose.
It is believed that 17 men and 2 officers in the turret would be as many as could work there with advantage; a greater number would be in each other's way and cause embarrassment.
The limited accommodations of the battery and the insufficiency of ventilation renders it important that as few as is consistent with her efficiency in action should be put in her.
In relation to masters' mates, one might be ordered; more would overcrowd her accommodations and seems to be unnecessary. Very respectfully, your obedient servant, JOHN L. WORDEN, Lieutenant, Commanding
Chip had been taken inside the turret, and the darkly ominous nature of the two guns mounted on the revolving platform sent a shiver down his back. As he waited alone, while the captain went to fetch his pipe, Chip could imagine the explosions coming from those caverns of heavy metal, as they spun around inside the turret, pointing at the enemy through the battery's seaward exposure. Chip pictured the giant Merrimack as she took the full brunt of the guns' onslaught. Ka-boom!
Rebels would fly into the air like gray rag dolls, and Captain Worden would let him fire the cannon. "Take that you dirty scoundrels!" he shouted, his face beaming with indignation, "this is for all the slaves you have imprisoned, and all the pain you have caused us for a hundred years!"
John Ericsson was still standing at the stern of his ship, as if he were a monument of defiance to all those on shore who would disbelieve that his craft could accomplish what he said it could do. Lieutenant Greene stood beside him, smiling proudly, as the ship was ready for its maiden launch. Matthew Brady, the famous New York photographer and war correspondent, was set-up on the shore right next to the launching dock, ready to capture the success or failure of this strange vessel called Monitor. The photo would, no doubt, after being distributed to all the major newspapers of the world, hang in his personal gallery downtown on Broadway. In addition, several rescue vessels were out in the river, ready to collect survivors when and if the ship sank.
"Mister Greene, prepare to get underway!" Captain Worden shouted, and the band picked up its cadence with "Battle Hymn of the Republic," and the crowd along the banks cheered, as the shadowy craft eased down the wooden launching sled, causing the planks to moan and creak, as the heavy iron hull hit the river with a gigantic splash, and water gushed up and over the sides, drenching Captain Ericsson and two sailors. Greene rushed over to the older man to see if he were injured. "Captain, are you all right?"
Ericsson sputtered a bit, but he was smiling. The ship, although it had dipped under the waves, and had taken a full- sized drench over her bow, immediately became seaworthy and was ready for her first adventure. "See? What did I tell you, Mister Greene? This ship was made for the open sea!"
Greene grabbed Ericsson's hand and shook it vigorously. "Indeed, Sir! It certainly was. And now they shall see us in a different light, won't they? Ericsson's Folly is no more!"
* * *
Captain Worden put the new vessel into a rigorous test of her abilities. First, he ran through the engine functions to see t
he maximum speed that could be reached. Although Ericsson had said she could reach a speed of 14 knots, the most Worden could get her to do was seven. As most of the craft was under the water line, Worden believed she would prove to be a poor target for anything but a ramming maneuver by the enemy. This was a good thing because the armor on the craft had to be reduced to one-inch plating, and the Pilot house, where he was now standing was most vulnerable to a direct hit. She displaced 987 tons, and was 41.5 feet long and 10.5 feet wide. Although he privately had grave misgivings about the ultimate seaworthiness of his ship, Captain Worden decided to keep his reservations to himself. When Captain Ericsson and Lieutenant Greene came in, Worden was giving orders to Quartermaster Stearnes. "We shall take her out near the breakwater, Quartermaster. I want to see how she rides in conditions similar to what we'll be experiencing on our journey down the coast to Virginia."
"Yes, Captain. But remember, you'll be having an escort on your journey to do battle with the Merrimack. I can understand your misgivings about her maneuverability in high seas. But our Monitor will not have to do much until she reaches Hampton Roads Harbor." John Ericsson spoke as he inspected the various instruments on the Quartermaster's wheel.
It was gloomy inside the Pilot house, and the only light came from two horizontal slits in the fore and aft bulkheads. It was like being inside a coffin, Greene thought, and he shivered involuntarily. "Can't we open these panels somehow? It's like living inside a dungeon."
Ericsson walked over to the foremost bulkhead and pushed. "See? I have built an eight-inch, hinged metal panel that can swing down." The panel flapped down, and sunlight streamed into the compartment. The four men had to squint to look out at the scene in the East River. People were lined up on the banks waving and cheering the ship as it moved onward to the mouth of the river.
