by Jim Musgrave
Chip Jefferson entered the Pilot house, his face alive with the excitement of being at sea. His youthful exuberance seemed to fill the older men with renewed purpose whenever he was near them. "Captain Worden, sir, lunch will be served in the wardroom in ten minutes."
"Thank you, Chip. Lieutenant? Want to take over until I get some victuals? She's been running pretty smoothly, although I've been concerned about some sluggishness in the steering."
Greene walked over to take the Captain's position next to the Quartermaster and his wheel. "You go ahead, Captain. I'll take her. Mister Ericsson and I had lunch earlier."
"The beef steaks are quite tasty, I might add," said Ericsson, smiling. "I saw one of your new men eat three of them as I consumed my one. Our new Lincoln greenback money will be going into the human furnaces also!" Ericsson added, referring to the recent printing of Union money to finance the war effort.
"Yes, it seems we'll all be living on borrowed time and money for the duration of this war," said Worden, as he exited the compartment. Greene looked over at Ericsson and smiled.
They both knew how true those words really were.
* * *
Walter Sinclair was lying on the deck of the fishing boat, anchored near the shore, his long body covered by a sealskin tarp. Robert Whitehead was at the bow, near his beloved torpedo, also covered, but he was sitting up, looking out into the mouth of the East River. They were both waiting for the arrival of their prey, the U.S.S. Monitor, which would soon be coming their way on its journey out into the breakwater of the Atlantic.
Sinclair and Whitehead agreed that they needed to be close to shore in case something went wrong with their plan. They could then quickly escape to an awaiting one-horse surrey, which was tied to a big elm tree nearby on a country road.
Whitehead had earlier set the compressed air container to maximum pressure, as he realized the torpedo's propeller would need extra speed in the harsh currents near the breakwater. If the explosive tip were to hit any part the armor less, exposed underbelly of the Monitor, she would sink like a cannon ball in a birdbath. Sinclair could then retrieve Ericsson from the water and bring him to the Confederates as a trophy.
A brisk wind rustled the sail overhead, and seagulls swooped down to warily inspect the vessel, as if they knew this was a poor imitation of a fishing boat. Walter stretched his legs, and he could feel the numbness beginning to set in. He had to be ready to spring up from his supine position when the moment came. The long months of subterfuge and spying had finally come to this. The black beast was approaching, as he knew it would. He never believed these stupid Americans when they talked in the pubs about the crazy Swedish inventor, John Ericsson. Even though they were a nation of castaways, Americans had a difficult time accepting foreigners. It was quite ironic, indeed. Ericsson, the Swede, had proved to be a most noble and creative adversary. He was much more creative and resilient than any one of these Americans. Walter saw Whitehead's body stiffen, and then he watched as Robert got up, peeked over the railing, and said, "She's coming!" in a low, harsh whisper. "Get ready to move!"
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Fish
January 30, 1862, East River Breakwater
Chip was cleaning up the dishes in the Captain's wardroom, trying to finish in time to get back to his reading of Moby Dick. Ahab was just about to set out to find the white whale, and Chip was entranced. He kept visualizing himself in the role of the little Negro Cabin Boy, Pip, and his reading made him believe he was aboard the Pequod. As he journeyed aboard the Monitor, his imagination often made him glimpse scenes from the book. The strange Captain Ericsson became Ahab, Captain Worden was Ishmael, and Lieutenant Greene was Starbuck. It made his routine life much more exciting to have this inner fantasy going on.
Lieutenant Greene poked his head inside the wardroom. "Hello, Chip. Captain Worden wants his pipe. Could you fetch it for him? There's a good lad."
"Yes sir!" said Chip, snapping off a sharp salute. This gave him a chance to visit the Captain's Quarters and keep his little fiction going! He cleaned up the rest of the silver from the table and took it into the pantry for washing later. He then walked down the passageway to the Captain's Room. "Captain J. L. Worden, U.S.N." the door said, in military stencil. He opened the door and stepped inside.
The teacher, Ishmael, has many books, Chip thought, as he looked around for the briar pipe. Navigation by the Stars, The Seagoing Phoenicians, and, look at this! The Mysterious Easter Island. I wonder how teacher became interested in this island? Could he be working together with Ahab and Starbuck?
Chip picked up the book and riffled through the pages. No! He can't be a slave trader! Chip slammed the book down and opened the small drawer on the Captain's nightstand. He spotted the pipe, snatched it up, and ran out of compartment, securing the hatch after him.
On deck, Chip made his way out to the Pilot house. There are Ahab and Starbuck, standing together near the starboard railing. Are they conspiring, as they whisper, nodding their heads knowingly? Are they preparing for the battle with the giant whale? Must we all go out to die with them? As he walked along the edge of the port railing, he looked out at the sea. What he saw became a recurring nightmare for weeks to follow. About one hundred yards out, directly in front of a small fishing boat, Chip saw what looked like a giant gray fish, swimming just beneath the waves directly toward them! Moby Dick! It is the white whale that has come to destroy us!
Chip stood, frozen in place, as the giant fish came rushing at them. He did what his mind told him. He screamed at the top of his voice, "We're being attacked! The giant whale is swimming right at us!"
* * *
Inside the Pilot house, Captain John Worden was watching his Quartermaster, Stearns. The tall blonde fellow was having a difficult time with the wheel.
"Captain, sir, I can't control her. She keeps pulling hard right rudder!" The two men felt the craft as she moved sharply right. "I can't keep on course!"
Worden realized the rudder needed work, and he decided not to risk the lives of the men on board. "All stop!" he yelled into the pneumatic microphone to the fore and aft engine rooms. The ship slowed until she was dead in the water.
* * *
When he and Whitehead watched the torpedo slide easily down the sled and into the water, they smiled at each other. When they heard the steady whir of the propeller as it churned up the water beneath the surface, they allowed themselves another nod of hope. The destruction of the U.S.S. Monitor was at hand! Soon, they would put the dinghy into the water to retrieve Ericsson, if he survived the explosion. Whitehead said the concussion would simply tear a hole into the vulnerable hull, and the ship would sink, leaving the sailors to fend for themselves.
However, when the torpedo looked like it was right on target, they suddenly saw that the ship was turning away from the oncoming missile! "What in blazes?" Walter whispered, not believing what he was seeing with his own eyes. Now the ship was stopping in the water! Sinclair panicked. Did they know they were being attacked? Who told them? Should he and Whitehead run away now? The fear fed into his being like gangrene. All these months of careful planning preparations and subterfuge—were they to be lost because of some traitor onboard this Union freak ship?
* * *
Chip was the only one on the port side of the ship when the fish sped past. It was long and cylindrical. It had no fins. He knew it was no whale. When Ericsson and Greene came up to him, they asked what he had seen. Chip looked out at the water one last time. He then turned to face these two men he did not trust. Somehow, he believed they were responsible for that mechanical fish.
"What was it, boy? Did you see something out there?" asked Ericsson.
"No, sir, I guess I was just a bit frightened. I've been reading Moby Dick, and I guess I thought I saw me a whale out there," said Chip, pointing backward at the water in the East River and smiling.
Greene laughed. "Well, now, that's quite an imagination you have there! You better stop reading so many of those adventure boo
ks. You'll soon be seeing pirates!"
Ericsson thought it ironic that the lieutenant was chastising the little Negro about his imagination, as it was Greene's own Romantic notions that allowed him to be controlled by the inventor. "Go below and have the cook give you some dessert. I think you've been on deck too long," Ericsson told the boy. "I must go see Captain Worden to see what has caused the engines to stop."
Worden exited the Pilot house and walked up to them, followed by Quartermaster Stearns. The captain took his pipe from Chip and frowned. "It looks like we'll need to be towed back, Mister Ericsson. It seems your little Monitor has a steering problem."
* * *
Walter Sinclair and Robert Whitehead were able to leave in their fishing boat once the Monitor was towed back to the shipyard. They would come back in the morning to retrieve the torpedo.
Sinclair knew he had ruined his one and only chance to sink the ship with this novel weapon. The Union monster's steering malfunction had saved it. Now it would be repaired, and the next time she passed this way she would have a heavily armed escort. There would be no more chances with Whitehead's invention. Walter knew it was now a race against time to kill Ericsson and steal the plans to the Monitor before the Confederates found out he had failed. The noose was tightening around his neck, and Walter also knew his darling Penelope would be in danger if he failed again. Sinclair set his jaw and glanced over at his friend. "I'm sorry you didn't get to see your torpedo succeed, Robert. Perhaps there will be time before this war is over."
Whitehead shrugged. "I don't suppose so, Simon, as I hear the French are planning to invade Mexico while the colonies are busy fighting each other to the death up here. I may go down there to see if they want to see what my torpedo can do."
Alone again. Walter knew it would probably come to this. He trimmed the sail on the little fishing boat hard into the wind.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Another Plan
February 10, 1862, Greenpoint, Brooklyn
After the Monitor was towed back to the Brooklyn Navy Yard, Lieutenant Greene dismissed the men and walked alone back to the Bachelor's Officer Barracks. Captains Worden and Ericsson were supervising the repair schedule for the steering malfunction, and they supposed it would be completed in a few weeks. Until then, Greene would be in charge of getting the men ready for combat. But it was the secret mission that was making him uncomfortable. As he was going to be in charge of the turret guns, he had to learn how to aim the Dahlgrens so that they would not inflict heavy damage on the Virginia. This went against his military training and his will to win, and it also seemed to be a traitorous act.
However, later that evening, as they dined at Wheelers' Steak House on Broadway, Ericsson began describing Easter Island again and what lay ahead for them and their wives, and Greene went into a reverie that placed him far away from the chaos of guns and war, and he was able to see the "Over Soul," as Ericsson told him the Transcendentalists were calling Man's communal harmony with Nature. Their goal was to live on the island peacefully, for the rest of their lives, and the idyllic image was now firmly implanted in Greene's subconscious.
All Greene had to do was pick-up a poem by Whitman and see what was in store for them if they could get the money from the sale of the Monitors to the Navy. Greene believed Nature had the key to life without war. Easter Island would be their Eden and their rebirth into paradise.
Later, standing on the landing outside his small apartment, Greene read from his adored Whitman and thought about his loved one, Anna, as she awaited his return. They were both like the torn blossoms in the passage:
Tufts of straw, sands, fragments,
Buoy'd hither from many moods, one contradicting another,
From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell,
Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil,
Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown,
A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves
floating, drifted at random.
* * *
Walter held Grace's round face in his large hands. He kissed her eyebrows, one at a time, and then her lips. "I am leaving, Grade," he said. "Time and the devil wait for no man."
Grace's eyes were brimming with tears. "True, I don't know what devil's got inside you, Simon, but I wish you well. Do you suppose you could write me a few lines on your travels? It's a bit of a drudge working this life of mine, you know. You and Mister Whitehead have been the only excitement I've had in this town. I do hate to see you go."
"I promise. I will write to you when I am able to get to sea again. There's something about the sea that brings out the writer in a man. I guess it's the way one feels so small and insignificant next to her magnificence. Just the way I feel when I'm with you, Grade." Walter kissed her again, and they both held each other until the sun went down outside.
Later, after Grace left, Walter took out his assassination accoutrements and knew he would have to devise a new plan to keep his contract with the Confederacy. The Enfield sniper rifle was a possibility if he could find a location where a bead could be drawn down upon the inventor without notice. Walter would scout the area around Ericsson's home on Beach Street. The "Yankee Love Potion" was his late option. If there were a way he could get into the Captain's food supply or into his plate served in a restaurant—wait a moment! The little darkie, Chip Jefferson, from the hotel. Perhaps he was the answer. Walter picked up the rifle and held it up against his cheek, and peered into the scope. Reality took on a simpler aspect when one looked through a spyglass. He was now a spy for the Confederacy, and he knew his time was growing short.
There was a knock at the door. Walter shoved the assassin tools under the bed, but he kept the rifle within his reach. He walked over and stood against the door. "Who is it?" he asked, half-expecting Grace. Perhaps she wanted to stay the night?
"Open up. I have news from Mister Davis," said a deep voice.
This was one of the code phrases for a meeting with his Confederate contacts. Walter took a deep breath and opened the door. The tall, red-haired gentleman who entered was immediately recognizable. He was the same person who came to see him at the Silver Tide Inn in Liverpool. Sitting down in the chair near the window, the Southerner took out his long white pipe and lit it. The room became invigorated with Virginia tobacco.
"We know what happened, Captain Sinclair," he said, puffing energetically. "There are now two men living in your Penelope's home town, and should you fail in your endeavor, they will be told to take appropriate action."
Walter began to sweat, and he thought about lunging for the rifle beneath the bed, but he knew it would mean they would just kill Penelope when this fellow did not return. "I know, but it was an accident about the ship swerving off course. Her rudder malfunctioned. You know I have enough bloody time to finish the task at hand!"
The gentleman smiled. He looked like he was enjoying this. "Yes, we know. We are aware also of your methods and tools. However, there is another person we want you to work with who has a bit more experience in these matters than you or I."
It was Walter's turn to grin. "You don't say? I suppose it's Dr. Frankenstein, then, is it not? I hear his monster can do these kinds of things with great gusto."
"I'm glad you have your sense of humor during these trying times, Captain. Although, it will do you well to stay focused during these remaining days. You are to meet this gentleman at the Museum of Oddities tomorrow at noon. This man has talents as a chemist and as a master of disguises. You see, he is an actor, and he has been supplying the South with certain drugs we need for our wounded in hospitals. He can help you with your poisons and with your masquerade."
"And for whom am I to ask, pray tell?" said Walter.
"Booth, Mister John Wilkes Booth," said the Southerner.
* * *
Captain Worden slept onboard the Monitor that evening, and Chip was allowed to stay on board as well. As he curled up on the rack behind the
pantry in the Wardroom, Chip was thinking about whether or not he should tell the captain about what he saw in the water. I'm not certain what it was myself. How can I tell him what I don't understand? He would laugh at me, and I could not abide that.
However, Chip believed the inventor and the lieutenant were somehow behind the thing he saw. He vowed to watch them closely to see if he could determine what they were doing. Could they be spies? If they were slave traders, then anything was possible! I will be a spy for my people, Chip thought, turning over toward the bulkhead and closing his eyes. When the time comes, I will tell Captain Worden. But not until I obtain the proof.
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Another Launch
February 17, 1862, Norfolk Navy Yard, Virginia
John Brooke felt newly invigorated as he watched the men put on the last of the wood and iron onto the inclining roof of the behemoth ship, the Virginia. The hull was 275 feet long. A roof of wood and iron, inclining about 36 degrees, covered about 160 feet of the central portion. The wood was two feet thick; it consisted of oak planks four inches by twelve inches, laid up and down next to the iron, and two courses of pine, one longitudinal of eight inches thickness, the other twelve inches thick.
The intervening space on top was closed by permanent gratings of two-inch square iron, two and one-half inches apart, leaving an opening for four hatches, one near each end, one forward and one abaft the smoke-stack. The roof did not project beyond the hull, however, and the ends of the shield were rounded.
The armor was four inches thick. It was fastened to its wooden backing by one and three-eighths inch bolts, countersunk and secured by iron nuts and washers. The plates were eight inches wide. Brooke and his men succeeded soon in punching two inches, and the remaining plates, more than two- thirds, were two inches thick. They had been rolled and punched at the Tredegar Works, Richmond. The outside course was up and down, the next longitudinal. Joints were broken where there were more than two courses. The hull, extending two feet below the roof, was plated with one-inch iron; it was intended that it should have had three inches.
