Stars and Stripes Forever

ON THE BRINK

Dr. Jenner closed the door to Prince Albert’s bedroom as quietly as he could, turning the handle as he shut it so there would not be the slightest click of metal on metal. Queen Victoria watched him, eyes wide with fright and apprehension; the flame on the candlestick in her trembling hand wavered and smoked.

“Tell me…” she said, almost breathlessly.

“Sleeping,” the doctor said. “A very good sign.”

“It is, of course!” Victoria felt the slightest lift of spirits. “It has been, I don’t know how long, days, nights since he has slept a little, or not at all.”

“Nor you either, for that matter.”

She dismissed this with a disdainful wave of her small and chubby hand. “I am not ill, he is the one whom you and Sir James must be concerned about. I have been sleeping on that makeshift bed in his dressing room. But he walks about, does not lie down — and he is so thin. Some nights I do not believe he sleeps at all. Nor does he eat! It tears at my heart to see him like this.”

“His gastric fever must run its course so we must be patient. You can be of immense help by doing what no one else can do. You must see that he eats something every day. Even if only gruel, his body must need all the help to fight this disease.” Jenner took the candle from her trembling hand and placed it on the table next to the couch. “You had best sit, ma’am.”

Victoria sat as bid, spreading her skirts wide. Trying to fold her hands steady on her lap, but kneading them ceaselessly instead.

“I saw Lord Palmerston today,” Jenner said. “He was most concerned about the Prince’s health and had what I consider to be a most worthwhile suggestion. I am of course most qualified, but I see no reason that other physicians might — ”

“He has talked to me too. You need not go on.”

“But his suggestion may be a wise one. I would certainly not take umbrage if another physician, or even more, were consulted.”

“No. I do not like Palmerston’s interference. You are my dear husband’s doctor and so you shall remain. This hasty feverish sort of influenza and deranged stomach will soon pass as it has done so before. At least he is resting now, sleeping.”

“The best medicine in the world for him in his condition…”

As if to deny his words the candle flame guttered as the door to the bedroom opened. Albert stood there in his dressing gown, clutching the fabric to his chest, his pale skin stretched taut across his cheekbones.

“I awoke — ” he said weakly, then coughed, a racking cough that shook his frail body.

Jenner sprang to his feet. “You must return to your bed — this is most imperative. The chill of the night alone!”

“Why?” Albert asked in tones of deepest despair. “I know how ill I am. I know this fever, an old enemy — and knowing it I know that I shall not ever recover.”

“Never!” Victoria cried. “Come dearest, come to bed. I shall read to you until you fall asleep.”

Albert was too weak to protest, merely shaking his head with Teutonic despair. Leaning on her arm he shuffled across the room. He was not wearing his slippers, but the long underwear he insisted on using had fabric feet sewed to them, offering some protection against the cold. Dr. Jenner lit the bedside lamp as Victoria saw her husband back to bed. Carefully walking backward, Dr. Jenner bowed and left.

“You will sleep now,” she said.

“I cannot.”

“Then I will read to you. Your favorite, Walter Scott.”

“Some other time. Tell me — is there still talk of war with the Americans?”

“You must not disturb yourself with politics. Let others concern themselves now with affairs of state.”

“I should have done more. That ultimatum should not have been sent.”

“Hush, my dearest. If I cannot read to you from Scott — why then you have always been fond of the writings of von Ense.”

Albert nodded agreement and she fetched the book from the shelf. The memoirs of Varnhagen von Ense, the famous soldier and diplomat, indeed was his favorite. And hearing her read in German seemed to soothe him somewhat. After some time his breathing steadied and she saw that he was asleep. Lowering the lamp she found her way by the light of the flickering fire, in the grate to his dressing room, and to her improvised bed.

The next day was December eleventh and the coldest day of this coldest month on record. England and London were in the grip of the deepest of deep frosts. Here, in this stone castle, if possible the chill and dank corridors of Windsor Palace were colder than ever before. The servants stoked the many fires, yet still the cold prevailed.

At noon Albert was still in his bed, still asleep. Victoria’s daughter, Alice, was at her side when Dr. Jenner came to examine his patient.

“He is sleeping well, isn’t he?” the Queen asked with some apprehension. “This is a change for the better?”

The doctor nodded, but did not speak. He touched his hand to his patient’s forehead before taking his pulse.

“This is a turning point,” Jenner said with an inadvertent air of deepest gloom. “But he is very weak you must remember — ”

“What are you saying? Are you giving up hope?”

The doctor’s silence was answer enough.

Victoria no longer protested at additional medical support. There were other doctors in attendance now, five specialists who aided Jenner, who spoke to each other in murmured whispers that the Queen could not hear. When she became upset Alice led her gently from the room, sent for tea.

For two days the Prince lay very still, his face ashen, his breathing labored. Victoria never left his side, holding his pale hand with its weakening pulse. In mid-afternoon of the second day clouds broke and a ray of golden sunlight illuminated the room, touching his face with a sheen of color. His eyes opened and he looked up at her.

“The Trent Affair…” he whispered, but could not go on. Victoria wept silently, clasping his cold and limp hand.

At sunset the children were brought in to see their father. Beatrice was too young to be allowed to attend this depressing scene, but Lenchen, Louise, Alice and Arthur were all there. Even Bertie came by train from Cambridge for a final visit to his father. Unhappily Alfie and Leopold were traveling abroad and could not be reached. Vickie, pregnant again, could not make the exhausting trip from Berlin. Still, four of their children were present in the sick room, clutching hands, trying to fathom what was happening to their father. Even Bertie, always at odds with his father, was silent now.

The following morning, in bright sunlight, a military band playing faintly in the distance, Albert sank into a final coma, Victoria still at his side. His eyes were open now, but he did not move or speak. Her vigil lasted all of that day and into evening and night.

At a little before eleven o’clock he drew several long breaths. Victoria clutched at his hand as his breathing ceased.

“Oh! My dear darling!” she cried aloud as she dropped to her knees in distracted despair. “My Angel has gone to rest with the angels.”

She leaned over to kiss his cold forehead one last time. And unbidden the last words he had spoken sprang poisonously to her mind.

“The Trent Affair. Those Americans did this. They have killed my love.”

She screamed aloud, tore at her clothing, screamed again and again and again.

Across the Atlantic the winter was just as bad as that in England. There were thick sheets of ice in the river water that were struck aside by the ferry boat’s bow, to thud and hammer down her sides. It was a slow passage from the island of Manhattan. When the ship finally tied up in its slip on the Brooklyn shore of the East River, the two men quickly went from the ferry and hurried to the first carriage in the row of waiting cabs.

“Do you know where the Continental Ironworks is?” Cornelius Bushnell asked.

“I do, Your Honor — if that is indeed the one on the river in Greenpoint.”

“Surely it is. Take us there.”

Gustavus Fox opened the door and let the older man precede him. The cab, stinking of horse, was damp and cold. But both men were warmly dressed for this was indeed a bitter winter.

“Have you met John Ericsson before?” Bushnell asked. They had met at the ferry and had had little chance to talk before in private.

“Just the once, when he was called in by the Secretary of the Navy. But only to shake his hand — I had to miss the meeting, another urgent matter.”

Bushnell, although chairman of the navy committee funding the ironclad, knew better than to ask what the urgent matter was. Fox was more than the Assistant Secretary of the Navy; he had other duties that took him to the Presidential Mansion quite often. “He is a mechanical genius… but,” Bushnell seemed reluctant to go on. “But he can be difficult at times.”

“Unhappily this is not new information. I have heard that said of him.”

“But we need his genius. When he first presented his model to my Naval Committee I knew he was the man to solve the problem that is troubling us all.”

“You of course mean the ironclad that the South is building on the hull of the Merrimack?”

“I do indeed. When the Confederates finish her and she sails — it will be a disaster. Our entire blockading fleet will be in the gravest danger. Why she could even attack Washington and bombard the city!”

“Hardly that. And not that soon as well. I have it on good authority that while her hull and engines have been rebuilt in the drydock, there is a serious shortage of iron plate for her armor. There is no iron in the South and they are desperate. They are melting down gates and fences, even tearing up disused railroad sidings. But they need six hundred tons of iron plate for that single ship, and that is far from easy to obtain in this manner. I have men reporting from inside the Tredegar Iron Works in Richmond, the only place in the South where armor plate is rolled. There is not only a shortage of iron — but a shortage of transportation as well. The finished plates just lie there, rusting, until railroad transportation can be arranged.”

“That is most gratifying to hear. We must have our own vessel ready before she is launched, to stand between her and our vulnerable fleet.”

The cab stopped and the driver climbed down to open the door. “Here she is, the ironworks.”

A clerk took them to the office where Thomas Fitch Roland, owner of the Continental Ironworks, awaited them.

“Mr. Roland,” Bushnell said, “this is Mr. Gustavus Fox who is Assistant Secretary of the Navy.”

“Welcome, Mr. Fox. I imagine that you are here to see what progress we are making on Captain Ericsson’s floating battery.”

“I am indeed most interested in that.”

“Work goes according to plan. The keel plates have already been passed through the rolling mill. But you must realize that a craft of this type has never been built before. And, even as we begin to assemble the ship, Mr. Ericsson is still working on the drawings. That is why I asked Mr. Bushnell’s committee for just a bit more time.”

“That will not be a problem,” Bushnell said. “I always felt that three months, from design to completion, was very little time. Are you sure that ten more days will be enough?”

“Ericsson says that she will be launched after one hundred days — and I have never known him to be wrong.”

“That is good news indeed. And now — may we see this remarkable vessel?”

“That will be a little difficult. The hull is still under construction and there is very little that can be seen at the present time. I feel that if you will look at these drawings you will understand something more of this wonderful invention.” He spread the large sheets out on the table. “The bottom of the hull is made of iron plate and is 124 feet long and eighteen feet wide. It is stiffened with angle iron and transverse timber beams to support the decking above which is much bigger, all of 172 feet long and forty-one feet abeam. And armored, heavily armored on top and on the sides that extend below the water to protect the thin hull. Engines here in the hold to drive the propeller screw. And all of this has but a single purpose — to bring this turret into battle.”

“I am sure of that,” Fox said, turning the drawings about. “But I must admit that my experience in understanding the designer’s craft is less than perfect. The ship is apparently made of iron, with some wood to reinforce it. But is not iron heavier than water? Will it not sink when launched?”

“Have no fear of that. There are a number of iron ships afloat — and iron warships as well. The French have one — the British too. The hull will certainly support the massive firepower of the turret, the new engines will bring it into battle.”

“Then we shall see the turret itself — and the man who designed it.”

The large building echoed with the clamor of metal on metal. Overhead winches swayed up a load of plate iron to be fitted onto the growing hull. Following Roland they made their way toward the rear of the hall where the circular form of the turret was beginning to take shape. A tall, gray-haired man with mutton-chop whiskers was supervising the assembly of a small steam engine. Although he was almost sixty years old Ericsson’s strength was still phenomenal; he easily lifted and slid into place a rocker beam that weighed over ninety pounds. He nodded to his visitors and wiped the grease from his hands with a rag.

“Und so, Bushnell, you come to see what you spending the navy’s $275,000 on.” Although he had been an American citizen for many years he had not lost his thick Swedish accent.

“I do indeed, John. You have met Mr. Fox before?”

“I have. In the office of the Secretary of the Navy — and joost the man I want to see. I want my money!”

“I am afraid that appropriations are not my responsibility, Mr. Ericsson.”

“Then talk to someone to pay up. My good friend Cornelius here has received nothing — even though he is building my ship! He pays for the iron plate out of his own pocket. This is a situation that should not be. The navy commissions this battery so the navy must pay.”

“I promise to talk to my superiors and do what I can to alleviate the situation.” Not that it will do much good, he thought to himself. The navy was tight-fisted and loath to pay any debts that could be avoided. “But for the moment I would dearly like to discover how this vessel’s marvelous turret will operate.”

“It will operate in a manner never seen before, I assure you.” Ericsson patted the black metal affectionately, financial matters forgotten for the moment. “Deadly and impenetrable. This armor is eight inches thick and the gun has not been made that can send a shell through that much iron. Now around here — you see these openings. Through them will fire two 11-inch Dahlgren guns. Remember — this vessel has been designed to work in the coastal waters of the South, to penetrate up narrow rivers in search of its prey. Turning the entire ship to fire the guns, the way navy ships are built now, will no longer be necessary. That is the genius of my design — for this entire 120-ton turret revolves!”

He bent and ran his hand along the bottom of the turret’s armor. “Machined flat as you can see. At sea it will rest on a smooth brass ring in the deck — and its great weight will make a watertight seal. In action the turret will be jacked up so that it will rest on these wheels. Below it is this steam donkey engine that will drive this circular gear situated right below the deck — operated by a lever in the turret of course. It will take less than a minute for a complete revolution.”

Fox nodded with appreciation. “It is a great concept, Mr. Ericsson. Your ironclad will change the face of this war.”

“Not ironclad,” Ericsson said angrily. “That is what your idiots in the Navy Department do not realize. This is a machine, the creation of an engineer, an iron, steam-powered vessel of war. A fabricated iron hull filled with complex machinery that bears no similarity to the wooden sailing ships of the past. Yet in the specifications your people say, a moment, I have it here.” He took a wrinkled and much-folded sheet of paper from his pocket and read it aloud.

“They want me to… here it is. ‘To furnish Masts, Spars, Sails and Rigging of sufficient dimension to drive the vessel at the rate of Six knots per hour in a fair breeze of wind.’ Impossible! The power is steam and steam only as I have said many times in the past. No masts, no sails, no ropes. Steam! And the cretin who wrote this proves that he knows nothing of ships when he writes of ‘knots per hour’! One knot means that a vessel covers a distance of one nautical mile in one hour as you know.”

“I do indeed,” Fox said and hurried to change the subject. “Have you a name for your floating battery?”

“I have been giving that a good deal of thought. Consider that the impregnable and aggressive character of this structure will admonish the leaders of the Southern Rebellion that their batteries on the banks of their rivers will no longer present barriers to the entrance of our Union forces. This iron-clad intruder will thus prove a severe monitor to those leaders. But there are other leaders who will also be startled and admonished by the booming of the guns from this impregnable iron turret. Downing Street will hardly view with indifference this last Yankee notion, this monitor. On these and many similar grounds, I propose to name the new battery Monitor.”

“A most excellent point,” Bushnell said, “and I shall recommend it to my committee.”

“I concur,” Fox said. “I will put it to the Secretary of the Navy as well. Now if you gentlemen will excuse us for a few minutes, I need to have a few words about naval matters with Mr. Roland.”

In the ironworks owner’s office, Fox got right to the important matter at hand.

“It has been pointed out to me that in addition to your being an entrepreneur, you are also an engineer of experience, not only in ship building but in the construction of marine steam machinery as well.”

“I am indeed. In the past I have submitted designs to your Navy Department.” He pointed to the wooden model on his desk. “This was one of them. A twin screw ironclad with twin rotating turrets.”

“The design was not accepted?”

“It was not! I was told it would not bear the weight and provide stability.”

“But will it?”

“Of course. I have discussed it with John Ericsson, who did the mathematic equations to analyze its design. He has proven that the weight of the engines in the hold will counterbalance the weight of the turrets above. He also suggested design changes in the hull that will make for higher speed.” He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a set of drawings.

“A week after our talk John gave me these. He designed a new kind of boiler that he calls a surface condenser, where steam is condensed in an evaporator consisting of horizontal copper pipes. With his newly designed engines he estimates the ship will do fifteen knots.”

“This will be a larger ship than the Monitor, more seaworthy?”

“It will indeed. This ship is designed for deep water, to stay at sea to defend our coasts.” Roland looked curiously at Fox. “There is some meaning behind these questions, sir?”

“There is. Before Monitor is completed we would like full details of your ship. I can guarantee approval this time.”

Fox leaned over and touched the model.

“Then, as soon as Monitor is launched, we want you to begin construction of this ship.”

“It will be far bigger than the Monitor, so it cannot be built in this building. But it will be spring by then and I can use the outside slipway.”

“Even better. The navy would also like you to start building a second ship of the Monitor class here as soon as the first one is launched. The first of many if I have my way.”