“I see that the war still follows me everywhere, Nicolay.”
“The war with the Secesh and with the Congress. I sometimes think that the latter is worse. The congressmen in . . .”
“Spare me the politicians for the moment. Shot and shell seem kindlier.”
John Nicolay nodded agreement and shuffled through the new reports that Hay passed over to him. “Now here is one that should please you. The landings on Tybee Island in the Savannah River were most successful. The commander says that Fort Pulaski will be attacked next. Once that is reduced, Savannah will surely be taken. Next, our undercover agent in Norfolk reports that more armor plate for the Merrimack has arrived. Guns as well. They’ve renamed the ship CSS Virginia.”
“We won’t worry about her for awhile yet. But see that a copy of the report gets to the Monitor people. That should keep them working around the clock.”
The President leafed through the newspapers. The press seemed to be uniformly against him and his administration these days. The abolitionists were in full bay after him again—anything short of killing every Southerner and freeing every slave was a worthless goal. An item caught his eye and he smiled as he read it, then smacked the paper with his hand.
“Now this is real journalism, Nicolay. Our guardians of law and order have made a famous victory on a steamer at Baltimore. Listen . . . ‘Their suspicions were aroused by a lady who appeared nervous and desirous of avoiding them. When her reticule was searched a quantity of gloves, stockings and letters were found, all intended to the South. As well a small boy was discovered to be carrying a quantity of quinine. Both were allowed to pass after their cargo had been confiscated.’ Our protectors never sleep.”
By the time they had gone through the files the train was pulling into the West Point station, the locomotive’s steam whistle announcing their arrival. Lincoln pulled on coat and scarf, clapped his stovepipe hat onto his head before descending to meet the army officers and foundry officials. Cameron and his secretaries followed. They all walked together to the ferry that would take them across the river to Cold Spring. It was a chill but brief crossing and carriages were waiting for them at the dock when they disembarked. The horses were stamping their hooves, with their breath rising like smoke in the still, cold air. A serious, frockcoated man stood beside the first carriage as they approached.
“Mr. President,” Cameron said, “may I introduce Mr. Robert Parker Parrott, inventor and gunsmith, proprietor of the West Point Foundry.”
Lincoln nodded as Parrott shook his hand, then Cameron’s.
“A great pleasure, Mr. Lincoln, to have you visit my foundry and see for yourself what we are doing here.”
“I could not refuse the opportunity, Mr. Parrott. My commanders cry for guns and more guns and their wishes must be respected.”
“We are doing our best here to grant those wishes. I’ve prepared a test of our newly completed 300-pounder. If you find it agreeable we will go to the test site first—then on to the cannon works. I can assure you that this gun is the most impressive and powerful that I have ever built.”
And indeed it was. Secured firmly to the massive cannon-testing platform, it was a black and ominous brute. Lincoln nodded in appreciation as he paced the length of the weapon and, despite his great height, he could barely see into the gun’s muzzle to make out the lands and grooves of the rifling inside.
“Charged and loaded, Mr. President,” Parrott said. “If you will retire a short distance away you will see what this gun can do.”
When the party was safely out of range of any accident the command was given and the firing mechanism activated.
The ground shook with the strength of the explosion and, even with their hands clasped hard over their ears, the spectators found that the sound was deafening. An immense gout of flame seared from the muzzle and Lincoln, standing to the rear of the weapon, saw the pencil-like dark trace of the shell hurtle across the river. An instant later there was an explosion among the trees on the range on the other bank. Smoke billowed high among the splintered branches and some seconds later the sound of the blast reached their ears.
“An impressive sight, Mr. Parrott,” Lincoln said, “and one that I shall never forget. Now you must tell me more about your work here—but in the warmth of the foundry if you please.”
It was a short drive from the test site and they hurried into the beckoning heat that emanated from the roaring furnaces. An army lieutenant was waiting there; he saluted when they approached.
“General Ripley sent me ahead, Mr. President. He regrets that duties at West Point prevented him from joining you earlier. However he is on his way now.”
Lincoln nodded. Brigadier General James W. Ripley was head of the Ordnance Department and was responsible not only for the production of weapons, but also for the introduction of new designs. At the President’s insistence he had reluctantly agreed to leave his paperwork and join the party at the foundry.
With Parrott leading the way, the presidential inspection party toured the foundry. Work did not stop: the men laboring over the molten iron could not spare the time to even look up at their distinguished visitors. Cannon of all sizes filled the score of buildings, in all stages of production from rough castings to final assembly. All stamped with the initials WPF and RPP. West Point Foundry and Robert Parker Parrott. Lincoln slapped his hand against the cascabel of a 30-pounder.
“My engineers tell me that banding the breech of your guns is responsible for their success. Is that true?”
“In a sense, yes, but the matter is quite technical, Mr. President.”
“Do not hesitate to inform me in detail, Mr. Parrott. You must remember that before I was a politician I was a surveyor and very keen on mathematics. I understand that rifling the cannon is the source of the current problems.”
“You are completely correct, sir. Smoothbore cannon are now a thing of the past. The twisted rifling spins the shell as it emerges, giving far better accuracy and range. But this also causes problems. Rifled shells seal in the explosion far more than solid shot does, which is what causes the great increase in range. Alas, this greater pressure can also cause the gun to explode. For this reason an iron reinforcing ring is fitted around the breech to accommodate the higher pressure. Using rings in this way is not new. However my invention lies in the construction of a better and far stronger ring, as I shall now demonstrate. If you will, sir, over here.”
The newly forged and rifled barrel of the 20-pounder rested on metal rollers, with its breech projecting to the side. At Parrott’s signal two mighty blacksmiths took their tongs and seized a white-hot iron band from inside a roaring furnace. With skilled movements they slipped it over the breech of the waiting gun. It was only slightly larger than the gun and they grunted with effort as they struggled and hammered it into place.
“That’s done it—start her turning!”
As the newly banded gun began to rotate, a hollow rod was pushed into the barrel of the gun and water pumped in to cool it from the inside.
“Metal expands when heated,” Parrott explained. “That band is larger in circumference now than it was before heating. As you can see the water is cooling the breech and the band in turn. As the band cools it contracts evenly and grips the barrel tightly around its entire circumference. Previous to this the usual practice of banding reinforced cannon was not as efficient or as strong. The barrel would be gripped unevenly and in just a few spots. Barrels made in that fashion would be forced to use much smaller charges or they would have exploded.”
“I am impressed. And how many of these new guns are you producing at this time?”
“At present we complete ten heavy guns every week. Along with two thousand shells for them.”
“In your letter you said that you could increase that?”
“I can—and I will. With new furnaces and lathes I can expand within three months so that I will be able to produce at least twenty-five guns and seven thousand shells every week.” Parrott
hesitated a moment and looked disturbed. “The details have been worked out and are ready for your inspection. However, would it be possible . . . to talk to you in private?”
“Mr. Cameron and my secretaries share my every confidence.”
Parrott was sweating now—and not from the foundry’s heat. “I am sure that they do. But this is a matter of great secrecy, individuals . . .”
His voice died away and he glanced at the floor, struggling to compose himself. Lincoln stroked his beard in thought, then turned to Cameron and his secretaries. “Would you gentleman excuse us for a few moments.”
With great relief Parrott led the President to his office and sealed the door behind them. As they crossed the room Lincoln stopped before a framed drawing on the wall. “Mr. Parrott, a moment if you please. What in tarnation is this incredible machine?”
“That is a copy of the drawing that accompanied a certain patent application. I make it a point of checking all patent applications that might be relevant to my work. I found this on a visit to London some years ago. In 1855 two gentlemen, named Cowen and Sweetlong, if memory serves me right, attempted to patent this armored fighting wagon.”
“It appears to be formidable enough, bristling with cannon and spikes.”
“But highly impractical, Mr. President. With all those guns and the weight of armorplate it would take a steam engine bigger than the wagon itself to make it move. I attempted to revise the design, with a single gun and lighter plating, but it still was not practical.”
THE BRITISH LAND BATTERY
“Thank the Lord for that. War is hellish enough now without devilish designs like this to make it even worse. Though it might mean the end of all warfare if something like this appeared on the battlefield. But you said they would be impossible to build?”
“At the present time, yes. But steam engines are getting smaller and more powerful at the same time—and I have read of successful oil-fired engines. So I would not rule out the possibility that some day an armored battle wagon like this might be built.”
“May that black and evil day never come. But you did not ask me here to discuss this strange device?”
Parrott looked worried again. When they were seated he spoke.
“Might I ask you, Mr. Lincoln, if you are acquainted with an officer of the Russian Imperial Navy by the name of Captain Schultz?”
“That is a strange question to ask. Almost as strange, I am forced to add, as the captain’s not very Russian Russian name.”
Parrott struggled with his words. Took off his metal-rimmed spectacles, wiped them and put them back on. “I am a man of honor, Mr. President, and while I enjoy my successes I do not wish to take credit for another’s work.”
“You will explain?”
“Indeed I will. Last year this gentleman visited the foundry and asked if I would make a cannon for the Russian government. I agreed and asked him what his requirements were. He was most precise. He wanted me to make a copy of the British Armstrong rifled cannon. I thought this most unusual and told him so. Told him also that I did not have access to the Britons’ secret plans. He was not disturbed at this, just nodded agreement—and turned over to me a complete set of blueprints for the Armstrong.”
“And you constructed this gun?”
“I did. The Armstrong is a unique hundred-pounder in that it is breech-loading, which makes the guns eminently practical for sea warfare.”
“And why is that?”
“If you will compare the differences between a gun on land and a gun at sea you will understand. On land, after a gun is fired, the gunners step forward and swab out the barrel and reload. But in a ship, the gun is fired through a gun port, an opening in the hull. So after each shot the gun must be run back, tons of metal you realize, swabbed out and reloaded. Then with great effort on the tackles it is run forward again into firing position.”
“I am beginning to understand.”
“Exactly. If the gun is a breechloader it will not be necessary for it to be run back inside the ship and out again with every shot. This is fine in theory, but the breech on this particular cannon sealed badly, leaking gas, and was unreliable as well. If you will look at these drawings you will see why.
“It is most cumbersome to load. Firstly, this breech screw must be slackened off to relieve the pressure on the vent piece. This is a strong metal plate that seals the open breech of the gun barrel. It is very heavy and it requires the strength of two burly men to grasp the handles and swing it up onto the saddle. After the bore is sponged out and the vent in the vent piece cleared, and reloaded with a new firing tube, a projectile is loaded through the hollow breech. A lubricator is fitted behind it that contains the black powder charge. Next the vent piece is lowered into place and the breech screw tightened. The gun is now ready to fire.”
“Complex, I agree, but surely a great advantage over the practice of running the gun back and then into position again.”
“I agree, sir, but difficulties soon arise. After a few shots the gun heats up and the parts expand. Burnt powder accumulates and the vent piece jams and leaks quantities of burning gas. After very few shots the gun becomes inoperable. After testing this weapon before delivering it to the Russians I am forced to believe that this is not the path to a successful breech-loading weapon. However there was another improvement on this gun that drew my attention. It had a banded breech to reinforce the loading mechanism. The drawings contained detailed instruction on how this banding was done.”
Parrott started to rise, thought better of it and sat again. His hands twisted together on the desk before him as he struggled to get out the words.
“It was . . . a few weeks later that I personally took out the patents on the first Parrott gun.”
Lincoln leaned forward and rested his hand lightly on the troubled man’s arm.
“You have nothing to berate yourself for. You did the right and correct thing. There are many ways to serve one’s government. Particularly in the time of war.”
“Then—you knew?”
“Let us say that Captain Schultz is known to the proper people. So I think we had better let the matter rest there if you please.”
“But . . .”
“You serve your country well, Mr Parrott. If you profit from that service it is all the better. And you may be interested to know that the British have withdrawn the Armstrong guns from service for the same reason you just mentioned.”
“I am sure that they did. However I have been improving on the design of a locking breech with what I call an interrupted thread. My first experiments have been most successful.”
“You have dispensed with the vent piece?”
“I have. Consider, if you would, how secure a breech would be if a breech-block could be screwed into place. The screw threads, in breech and block, would fit tightly against one another along a great length and contain both pressure and gas.”
“It sounds eminently practical. But would not great effort be needed to screw this large piece of metal in and out?”
“You are absolutely correct! That is why I have devised what I call an interrupted thread. Matching grooves are cut in both breech-block and breech. In operation the breech-block is slid into position—then twisted to lock.”
“Does the device work?”
“I am sure that it will—but machining is difficult and construction still at an early stage.”
“Continue your efforts by all means. And keep me informed of any future developments. Now—we will rejoin the others. I am told that you are perfecting the fuses for your explosive shells to ensure greater accuracy in timing . . .”
The inspection tour had scarcely begun again when an army officer hurried in and took Nicolay aside, spoke to him quickly. Parrott was explaining the operation of the new fuse when Lincoln’s secretary interrupted him.
“I’m sorry, sir, but there has been an accident. To General Ripley, Mr. President. This officer has no details, but he does forward a request for your prese
nce at the military hospital.”
“Of course. We’ll go now. Thank you for everything, Mr. Parrott— everything.”
The ferry had been held awaiting their arrival. Two carriages were standing on the dock. In the first one the commander of West Point, Lieutenant General Winfield Scott, was waiting to escort them to the hospital. Cameron and his secretaries took the second carriage. There was an embarrassing moment when the President climbed awkwardly through the door of Scott’s carriage.
“How are you, Winfield?”
“As well as might be expected at my age, Mr. Lincoln.”
The former General-in-Chief of the Union Army, who had been replaced by the younger and more energetic McClellan, could not keep a thin bite of anger from his words as he looked grimly at the man who had ordered that replacement. Heroically fat and gray of hair, he had served his country well for many decades and through many wars. He had chosen command of West Point instead of retirement, but well knew that his years of service had effectively ended. And the tall, ungainly man in the ugly tall hat who clambered into the carriage across from him was the power that had engineered that fall.
“Tell me about Ripley,” Lincoln said as the carriage started forward.
“A tragic accident without sense or reason. He was mounted and riding toward the ferry, to join you—or so he informed me. The road he took crosses the railway tracks close to the station. Apparently a train was about to pull out and, as he approached, the driver blew the whistle for departure. The general’s horse was startled and reared up, throwing him from the saddle. He fell on the tracks and was gravely injured. I am no medical man, as you well know, so we will leave it for the head surgeon to explain. He is waiting for you in his office in the hospital.” Scott looked at Lincoln with a very penetrating eye. “How goes the war? I assume that your generals are drawing the ever tighter noose of my anaconda around the Rebels?”
Stars & Stripes Forever Page 4
