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  “Sir,” I blurted out in frustration, “or Captain, or Mister, all I know is I was sent here from the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Mr. Hendricks sends his compliments. Said you’d pay seventy-five cents a week to a small boy.”

  “Why small?”

  “Because you’re making something small enough for me to fit into.”

  He let slip a hint of a smile. “On that account alone,” he said, “you’ll qualify. Be with you soon.” He turned back to marking his drawings.

  There was a potbellied stove in the corner, but it wasn’t being used. All I could do was rub my hands and stamp my feet against the chill. Feeling stupid and cold, I didn’t have much choice but to sit on the floor just inside his door and wait. Still, waiting there, I had plenty of time to take in the ironworks.

  It was a lot smaller than the Brooklyn Navy Yard, with none of the Yard’s wood and tar smells or tapping hammers. Instead, lots of black smoke, roaring sounds, and the stink of I knew not what, though it did make my eyes, nose, and ears itch. There were machines making awful clanking noises. Near as I could tell, iron ingots were being shaped and cut. Lots of thick-armed blacksmiths, too, pounding more iron.

  And there were great furnaces glowing fiery red heat, reminding me of that place boys had to work hard to avoid. In the Brooklyn Navy Yard, fire was the enemy. Here, fire was a tool. Made me think, This is no place for making ships.

  I waited on Captain Ericsson at least an hour. All that time he didn’t look around or say one word. I sat there wondering if there wasn’t a better way to earn some money.

  But finally the man left off his work. “Come with me,” he barked, as if only a moment had passed. Paper scroll in hand, top hat on his head, frock coat buttoned, he strode out of the shed.

  “Name’s Tom, is it?” he said as I tried to keep up. As I’d learn, John Ericsson never went anywhere slowly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you read, write, do sums?”

  “I’ve been attending school,” I told him.

  “Just attending?” He frowned, but left off the subject. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Captain Ericsson, sir,” I said, making sure I said Captain.

  “Captain in the Swedish army. I’ve invented machines, motors, locomotives, ships, as well as the screw propeller for most ships.”

  I took another look up at him.

  “Now then,” he went on, “we’re working on my latest invention. A ship. I have designed it to save the Union.”

  Wondering why he was saying these things to me, a boy, all I said was, “I’m sure you will, sir.”

  “Good. You’ll take your orders from me,” he went on, “and from those to whom I delegate authority.” He stopped and faced me with a frown. “Spies are everywhere. You will tell no one what you see here. Is that understood?”

  Nothing for me to say but “Yes, sir.”

  He marched on. “I’m a married man,” he continued, “but my wife resides in England. With my boy. It’s been a while since I’ve seen them. My knowledge of boys comes mostly from my own memory. When I was sixteen, I was a surveyor for the Swedish army and had command of six hundred men.”

  “I heard say you are a genius,” I said, wondering if he’d hear my sarcasm.

  He glanced at me, nodded, and said, “You’ll do.”

  Then I thought about what the guard had said: how geniuses were like madmen. Except, there I was, under tow, so to speak, and couldn’t rightly break off. And I kept reminding myself that maybe seventy-five cents wasn’t gold, but it could buy bread.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I Gaze Upon Something Strange

  I FOLLOWED CAPTAIN ERICSSON into a huge, open-ended woodshed. “There’s my ship!” he said, his voice full of pride.

  The East River was crowded with ships. So, like most anyone living in Brooklyn, I’d seen plenty of them. But what Captain Ericsson was showing me was like no ship I’d ever seen.

  The thing before me had no masts, spars, or rope, which is to say nothing from which to hang sails. Which was the bow or stern, I couldn’t guess. Just rounded ends. I figured it to be a hundred and seventy feet long—the measure of a really tall telegraph pole. It was forty or so feet wide, maybe sixteen feet deep, with straight sides.

  Ship? It was more like a raft—flat as one of my ma’s Sunday griddle cakes. What might make her sail, or what she was supposed to do, I couldn’t fathom.

  A Brooklyn Navy Yard building shed. It is very much like the ones at the Continental Iron Works.

  I did see some wood—ten-inch-square oak beams held in place by wood angles. I figured that was her hull. As we stood there, swarms of mechanics and laborers were covering those beams with pine planking. And over that planking, other men were quick to slap on what looked like double sheets of half-inch iron, bolting them tight with rivets and bolts.

  I’d been to the Navy Yard tons of times, helping Ma with laundry. Saw ships aplenty being made. Hard work, sure, but work as calm as Sunday—men knowing what to do the way I suppose shipbuilders knew since it started drizzling on Noah.

  But what I was seeing here were men shouting, pushing each other out of the way, all of them trying to do this, that, and another thing, all at the same time. A jumble!

  Then Captain Ericsson said, “Well, boy, don’t you think she’s fine?”

  As fine as salted rat spit! I thought. Only, I wasn’t going to say that. Not on the first day of a new job, and that job needed. The best I could offer was, “They’re working pretty fast.”

  “We’ve only got a hundred days to build her,” he said.

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Because, at this very moment, in Virginia, they are building a sea monster.”

  I looked at him. Sure as shooting, he was mad. “A sea monster?”

  He gave a solemn nod. “A monster to destroy the Union. But my ship shall stop her dead in the water.”

  “How she going to do that?”

  “She’s covered with iron.”

  “Will she … float?”

  “Of course!”

  I turned from this odd man to the odder-looking ship being built. My first thought was, I don’t think so. My second thought was to recall the guard’s mocking words, iron coffin. My third notion was, Thank the Lord I won’t be sailing on her, or—to put it right—sinking with her!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I See Gold in the Snow

  THAT FIRST DAY, I spent my time mostly running errands for Captain Ericsson, learning where things were, who was in charge of this and that. By the end of the day, I knew he wanted things fast and he wanted them right.

  By quitting time, it was dark, snow was drifting down, and I was worn out. As I left through the gates with the other workers, I saw Luke, one of my pals, selling newspapers. Envying him his freedom, I gave him a nod and started the long walk home.

  I moved from one pool of gas lamplight to another, bright islands in the muddy slush. I was thinking about the captain’s ship, trying to grasp what she was. Mostly, though, I was just glad to be going home.

  Crossing a street, I chanced to look back. Half a block behind, a man was coming along in my footsteps. I paid him no mind. But after another few blocks, I looked around. He was still there, only a little closer. I thought, He’s following me.

  I walked faster, but it wasn’t too long before I heard, “Hey, boy! Wait!”

  I stopped but kept myself ready to bolt. When he was about twenty feet from me, I spun around and called, “What do you want? Why are you following me?”

  The man halted in the darkness. All I could make out was that he was a thin fella, with a long coat and shiny boots. A slouch hat slipped a shadow over most of his face.

  “You’re working at the ironworks, aren’t you?”

  “What about it?”

  “See anything of Ericsson’s floating battery?”

  That took me by surprise. “Maybe.”

  “I’d sure be interested in what you saw.”

 
I said, “How come?”

  “Just curious. Everybody’s talking about it. What’s your name?”

  “Tom.”

  “Say, Tom, if you kept your eyes open and told me what you saw, you could make real money.” All of a sudden, he pitched a coin at me that landed by my feet. I looked down. In the gaslight I could see a gold dollar glowing in the snow!

  The man halted in the darkness.

  “Go on,” he said, laughing. “Pick it up. It’s yours. More to come if you want it.”

  I looked at him and then at the coin. More than a week’s pay right there! Truth is, I didn’t think twice before I snatched it up and then took off fast as I could for our rooms.

  Behind me, I could hear him calling, “You’re with me now, Tom!”

  As I galloped home, coin clutched in my hand, I kept thinking of Captain Ericsson’s words: You will tell no one what you see here. Spies are everywhere. Is that all understood?

  And I thought, That man’s a Rebel spy! A copperhead! He wants me to spy!

  I stopped short and looked at the coin. Though it gleamed pretty, I almost threw it away as something dirty, thinking, Copperhead coin. Then I had two more thoughts: Pa is gone. We need it. I didn’t do anything. He just gave it to me. It’s ours.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I Don’t Tell the Truth

  GOLD COIN DEEP in my pocket, I climbed to our place.

  We lived in two rooms. The front one—our kitchen—had a wood stove and just one window, cracked. I hauled up water and wood. The other room had a bed, which my ma had shared with my father. My sister slept with her now. I had a cot at the foot. Our privy was in the backyard.

  When I got there, Ma was working in the kitchen by the light of our hurricane lamp. She was folding a mound of sheets, shirts, and vests.

  “How was it?” she asked, soon as I came through the door.

  “Not sure,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The man I’m working for is strange,” I said. “A Swede. Some kind of inventor. Brags a lot.”

  “You’ll stick with it, won’t you?” she asked.

  “Suppose,” I said.

  She set down a plate of cold boiled taters with a cut of bacon fry. I pitched in since I’d eaten nothing all day. She stood across from me, arms folded over her chest. The way she had with my father. It made me feel strange.

  … Ma was working in the kitchen by the light of our hurricane lamp.

  “You’ll make some money,” she said.

  “Seventy-five cents.”

  “That’s something.”

  Thinking about that gold dollar in my pocket, I wanted to give it to her, but didn’t because I’d have to explain where I got it, and I didn’t feel right about it.

  “Where’s Dora?” I asked.

  “In bed. Feeling poorly.”

  When I finished eating, I went to our other room. Dora was sitting up in bed, Ma’s coat around her. She was holding a handkerchief that was spotted with blood. A burning candle cast shadows on the walls.

  I sat on the bed. Dora looked at me with her large, tired eyes. “Did you do well?” she asked, speaking soft like always. Being home so much, she was always asking about my outside doings.

  “Good enough,” I said. “Only, they’re building something strange. A ship, they say. Except it sure don’t look like one to me.”

  “Why, what’s it look like?”

  “Flat as the bottom of my shoe. And mostly iron.”

  “Iron! That’s peculiar.”

  On impulse I held out the gold coin.

  She looked at it, then at me. “That gold?”

  “I found it on our street,” I lied.

  “Lucky! Did you tell Ma?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think we should ‘til we make sure no one claims it. Can you keep it safe for me?”

  She wrapped the coin in her handkerchief.

  “Tom,” she said. “About your ship. Being iron, can it really float?”

  “The man building her—Captain Ericsson—says so.”

  “Isn’t that … foolish?”

  “Seems so … but they pay me seventy-five cents, don’t they?”

  She smiled sadly. “Just don’t sail on her.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I Learn Some Big Things

  I’D TOLD DORA it was a strange ship they were building. That wasn’t half. Ericsson bragged to me that she was like no ship ever built! Said he had some forty new inventions on her! Of course, that meant he was the only one who could give directions. Guess who carried each and every one? Me. I was more pack mule than boy.

  I carried messages from this work crew to that. From Captain Ericsson—his spidery handwriting awful to read—to foremen, from foremen to Captain Ericsson. Questions asked, answered, asked again. Or I was fetching tea and coffee. The captain liked his tea strong and hot.

  Most days—sometimes most hours—letters and telegraphs flew in from the Department of the Navy in Washington. I carried them all—read them all. I learned everything.

  A letter from John Ericsson, written after the battle. His writing was so light it seemed he hardly touched his pen to the paper.

  I began to feel sorry for Captain Ericsson. The man was always working. Solving problems. Inventing what needed to be invented. Visiting all the places where parts were being made. Far as I could see, he didn’t eat much, slept less. Short tempered? If he had a smile, it was still in Sweden!

  Trying to keep up with him didn’t give me much rest. By the time I’d get back home at night I was something tired. And when I got there, Dora had a million questions about what was happening at the Works.

  “I don’t fully understand,” I admitted. “Every day we get telegraph messages from the Department of the Navy. They don’t think the ship will work. Same time, they keep saying, ‘Hurry up!'”

  “Is it that hard to build?” she asked.

  “I guess. All the iron parts are being made in different places. First we got to get them. Then they have to fit.”

  She laughed. “Like fixing a stew in a dozen kitchens all at once!”

  “And another thing? Someone told me Captain Ericsson won’t even get paid ‘til it’s done. He and some partners had to put up all the money.”

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars!”

  The best news was I hadn’t seen that spy again. Which was fine because I wasn’t sure what I’d say. One moment I’d think gold dollars. Next moment I’d think copperhead. And I have to admit, the more I worked at the ironworks, the more I fancied it. No two days were ever the same. No two hours, either!

  I did get to know mechanics who were willing to answer my questions. I finally asked one—a lean, clean-shaven, strong-armed blacksmith by the name of Rory O’Keefe—why everything was being so rushed.

  “Look here,” he said, drawing a crude map with white chalk on a piece of rusty iron. “Here’s the Atlantic coast. Here’s us. Brooklyn. Down here, Virginia. Right here—the Elizabeth River. She flows right into Hampton Roads, on to the Chesapeake, on to the sea.”

  “What do you mean roads?” I asked.

  “That’s what they call a sheltered anchorage from the sea.

  “At the head of the Chesapeake, the Potomac River and Washington, our capital. At the head of the James River sits Richmond. The Rebs’capital. Get it?”

  I nodded.

  “Now then, them secesh can’t win their war alone. Need to trade with Europe. So we clamped a tight blockade at Hampton Roads, here, to lock them in. Okay. Lots of our ships are ready to fight—what they call on station. And our Fortress Monroe—biggest fort in the whole country—is nearby to help us. Long as we keep the Roads bottled up, them Rebels don’t have a hair’s chance on a bald man.

  “Now, Mr. Lincoln says blockade everything from Chesapeake Bay to New Orleans. Easy to say. But when the war began, Tom, the Union had only ninety ships of war—just twenty-one of them steam powered! Doz
ens of ships needed fixing. So naturally, we set lickety-split to patching up hundreds of old ships and building new ones.

  “But hold on!” exclaimed O’Keefe. “Our biggest navy yard was Gosport. Here. On the Elizabeth River in Norfolk. Ah, lad, we lost it. And Virginia grabbed it. What do you think they got with that grab? Why, the biggest steam propeller ship in our navy, the Merrimac. But what do you think the Rebs are doing with her? Turning her into an ironclad!”

  “Like ours?” I gasped.

  “Tom,” he whispered, “word is she’s huge. Bigger than ours. A gigantic floating porcupine of bristling cannon, they say. And if she steams out and breaks the blockade, we’re sunk.”

  He looked toward Ericsson’s battery. “So what we’re building here will have to stop that beast afore she comes out. Can you see now why what we’re doing is so important? And why we’re working so fast? Our ironclad is being built to fight one ship: that Merrimac.”

  The Merrimac when she was first built for the U.S. Navy. At the time she had sails and a steam-driven screw propeller.

  I glanced over to the flat, iron thing we were building. Seemed a tall order for such a … raft. “But … what’s she going to fight with?” I ask.

  “A turret.”

  “Mr. O’Keefe,” I said, “what’s … what’s a turret?”

  He leaned toward me and whispered into my ear, “Don’t really know. See, the whole thing is supposed to be secret.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you wouldn’t want them Rebs to know what we’re doing, would you? Just hope the copperheads don’t find out too much about her.”

  That made me jump. “What do you mean?”

  “Just saying I suppose they’d give a bushel of gold to know what we’re building.”

  I stared at him, wondering if he knew.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I Meet Mr. Ogden Quinn