1862 (15 page)

“I know. I’m being greedy, but I don’t want to lose you so soon after finding you.”

Nathan smiled and gave her a mock bow. “I’m proud and honored to be the object of your greed.”

They turned and walked back to the carriage. Rebecca smiled contentedly. She had been a polite aggressor and it had worked. Along with gentle touches, they were also calling each other by their first names. It was yet another small step forward.

The Royal Navy’s steam frigate HMS
Gorgon
rode easily in the gentle swells off the entrance to New York Harbor. Along with two other steam frigates and a trio of small sloops, this was the entire Royal Navy force that was available to blockade the entire port of New York. The bulk of the fleet, along with the mighty
Warrior,
was off Norfolk, where a base was being established.

It was morning and a soft mist covered the sea’s gentle swells. Above the mist, the sun was shining, which made it look much warmer than it was. The crews were not deceived and were bundled in winter clothing against the sharp chill.

In the distance, the batteries on Staten Island and Long Island covered the approaches to New York City. In the harbor, there were fingers of coal smoke above the mist as some ships moved about in the harbor. This was not a concern as American ships were always shuttling about.

The
Gorgon
kept station three miles from the shore, which put her just out of range of the largest guns the Americans had. The Americans had been humiliated by the bombardment of Boston, and had reacted with astonishing quickness and built seaward defenses at other ports. As a result, the shoreline bristled with cannon, and the
Gorgon
and her sisters stayed prudently out of range.

It was a boring way to run a war, thought David Hawkes, the captain of the
Gorgon,
but attempting to run the batteries would be suicidal insanity. The ships on patrol outside New York simply hadn’t the firepower for the task.

“Ship ahoy,” came the cry from the lookout. “She’s coming through the channel”

“What kind of ship?” Captain Hawkes yelled in exasperation. He was also acting commodore of the small squadron and felt the heavyweight of responsibility on his shoulders.

“Can’t tell, sir. The mist is hiding her.”

Then she can’t be too big, thought Hawkes. Still, it was coming from the enemy city, so she must be considered hostile. He ordered the
Gorgon
ready to do battle. Her decks were cleared for action, and additional steam was provided. If it was a blockade-runner, he’d take her.

“What the devil is that?” he said as he squinted into the thinning mist at a low shape in the water that had begun to appear. Whatever it was, it was moving slowly towards the
Gorgon.
“Sir,” said Lieutenant Freeland, his second in command. “I do believe it’s their ironclad, the
Monitor.”

Hawkes grinned. Yes, that’s exactly what it was and he was going to have the opportunity to blow her out of the water. As the mist cleared, he saw that the ironclad was much smaller than his frigate, that her deck was almost flush with the water, and that a bulbous protrusion arose from the flat deck. He saw no guns, which puzzled him.

No matter, he thought. If the little American ship had come out to die, he would honor her last request. He ordered the
Gorgon
turned broadside to the approaching vessel and, at long range, fired his starboard guns at her.

His crew cheered as the broadside thundered. Hawkes watched as a number of splashes arose around the
Monitor.
She was difficult to see, although he thought he saw hits on the bulbous thing that sat on top of the ship. The
Monitor
ignored them and continued her approach.

“What the devil?” Hawkes wondered. A second broadside roared and this time he did see shells strike and bounce high into the sky off what Freeland said was a turret, There was still no return fire from the American,

The other ships in the British squadron moved closer but were unable to fire for fear of hitting the
Gorgon
as the
Monitor
drew closer, “Is she going to ram?” Freeland asked.

“No,” Hawkes answered. “She’s much too slow and I don’t see a ram, No, she’s going to close on us and duel,” Now he understood that the turret revolved, and that the guns were not going to be exposed until the last minute. Clever bastards, he thought.

Hawkes ordered a course and speed to run parallel with the
Monitor,
which was now only a hundred yards away and angling closer, A third broadside roared and, again, with no apparent effect,

“Damn,” snarled Hawkes. The
Monitor
had dipped still closer and he doubted that the Gorgon’s upper-deck guns could be lowered to reach the American, He had to extend the range, As he pondered this, the turret moved with infinite slowness until two large guns were pointed directly at the Gorgon’s hull.

“Eleven-inchers,” Freeland said with professional dispassion. “Probably Dahlgrens.”

The two American guns belched fire. Shells struck low in the hull of the unarmored British ship. Hawkes and others were thrown to the deck by the impact. They were uninjured but there were screams from those less fortunate.

“Keep firing,” he ordered as he lurched to his feet, and then, “What damage?” He was informed that it was substantial, but that it could be contained.

The
Monitor’s
turret revolved away from the
Gorgon
as the guns were reloaded. Agonizing moments later, the guns returned and again fired, hulling the British frigate. This time there was the scream of machinery crashing in the
Gorgon’s
hull, and, within seconds, she started to lose way, This time, the damage was serious and not going to be contained.

“Raise our sails,” Hawkes ordered anxiously. The
Gorgon
was dead in the water. “We have to be able to move or we’re going to be pounded to pieces.”

Before the sails could be raised, the
Monitor
maneuvered under the Gorgon’s stern and fired again. This time the shells ruined the frigate’s rudder and smashed through the length of the ship, pulping screaming sailors, On deck, Hawkes could not help but recall that he had done the same thing to the American frigate
St. Lawrence.
Was this some kind of retribution? he wondered,

There was no time for speculation, His ship was being shot out from under him by the American infernal contraption, He had to do something, but what? He couldn’t move and he couldn’t kill the damned thing.

Another American broadside thundered, This time, one shell traversed the entire length of the
Gorgon,
killing and wounding scores, while the second penetrated her hull, just below the waterline, “Can we board her?” Hawkes yelled. A moment later Freeland returned and said yes, the Union ironclad was that close under the
Gorgon
’s stern.

Freeiand organized a boarding party and gathered them at the stern, Ropes were lowered that touched the Union vessel’s deck, That was her Achilles’ heel, Hawkes thought, Within seconds, dozens of British tars would slide down the ropes and overwhelm the
Monitors
crew.

On board the
Monitor,
her captain and crew were giddy with relief and excitement, Despite the pounding from the larger British warship, they were safe, The damned thing actually worked. Shells hit the turret and simply bounced away. With the exception of a couple of men who sustained concussions when the portion of the turret they’d been leaning against had been struck, there were no injuries.

Commander John Worden, the
Monitor’s
captain, felt that he was ripping the guts out of the enemy frigate with each shell. He had just identified the British ship as the
Gorgon,
the destroyer of the St.
Lawrence,
and both he and his crew appreciated the chance for revenge,

If only the
Monitor’s
guns could be fired more quickly, he’d destroy the
Gorgon
and then move on to the other ships, But it couldn’t be, The two guns had to be run into the turret for reloading, which was awkward and took precious time. To protect the gunners, the turret was rotated away from the
Gorgon
during the reloading process. This meant that the men of the
Monitor
were essentially blind during the five or so minutes this took,

Captain Worden was concerned that his very good luck could end quickly. They were almost in physical contact with the
Gorgon
and he had the sense that they were too far under her overhanging stern, It was a gorgeous place from which to shoot, but it was almost too good to be true.

“Mr. Greene,” he ordered, and Lieutenant Samuel Greene, his second in command, stepped forward, He was as grimy as everyone else in the stifling and noisy turret, but his eyes were bright with the emotion of the battle.

“Mr. Greene, go forward to the pilot house and see what is happening on the Britisher.”

Greene nodded and worked his way forward. The pilot house, a protrusion made of logs and heavy glass windows located on the
Monitors
bow, had been shot away early in the duel, This meant that he was going to have to stick his unprotected head up into the air to observe the
Gorgon.
It was not a duty that he relished. The world outside the sheltering iron walls of the
Monitor
was a hailstorm of metal.

He found the ruins of the pilothouse and pulled away enough debris to permit him to raise himself up and see. He gasped. The insides of the Gorgon were visible and a number of fires burned out of control. He could see bodies and chunks of gore lying about and blood running in rivulets along the deck. It was a vision of hell. For a moment he was fascinated by the fact that he could see British sailors moving about and that they hadn’t seen him.

Then he sensed something above him and looked upwards. “Jesus:” he blurted. Ropes dangled from the stern of the
Gorgon
and a couple of them had come to rest on the deck of the
Monitor.
Heads appeared over the railing and it was obvious what was going to happen. Someone yelled and pointed at him.

Greene ducked back inside the hull of the
Monitor
and ran towards the turret. “Pull back!” he screamed. “We’re going to be boarded. Pull the ship back.” The din level in the turret prevented his voice from being heard, but sailors in his way relayed the message. Greene’s shrieking left no doubt as to its urgency.

Worden quickly gave the order and the small
Monitor
slowly eased away from her dying prey. When they were about fifty yards from the frigate, he took a chance and squinted through the gun port just before the weapons were fired. A half dozen ropes hung down from the
Gorgon
and each one held sailors who were now being pulled back on board the doomed vessel.

“Too close,” Worden muttered. He had learned several great truths regarding his little ship. First, that it was damned near impregnable and, second, that the advantage of impregnability could be thrown away if he wasn’t careful.

The
Gorgon
had commenced taking on water at an enormous rate. The pumps were overwhelmed and she was visibly settling by the stern. Weeping tears of frustration, Hawkes ordered his ship abandoned. His attempt to drop sailors on the Union ship had been a failure. So, too, had been an attempt to launch the ship’s boats with men to board her.

However slow the
Monitor was,
she could move more swiftly than rowed boats. More important, those boats were needed to take men off the
Gorgon,
He ordered them back. Honor be damned, Hawkes thought bitterly. Now he had to save himself and his crew from a frigid death.

Hawkes watched as the
Monitor
turned and headed slowly back towards New York Harbor. The remainder of the blockading force attempted to close on her and they fired at her, virtually at once. Hawkes watched in dismay as several shells from British ships struck other British ships while the
Monitor moved
unscathed through the shower of metal.

A sloop of war, the
Asp,
steamed ahead to block the
Monitor
’s return to the harbor. It was suicide. Hawkes wanted to yell to the captain of the
Asp
to back off, but could only watch the tragedy unfold. The eleven-inch guns of the
Monitor
spoke but once. They struck the
Asp
amidships and broke the back of the sloop. She immediately began to burn and sink while the
Monitor
disappeared into the sanctuary of New York Harbor.

Dozens of men from the
Asp
had either fallen or thrown themselves into the water. In just a few moments, most of them had disappeared under the waves. The combination of cold water and the sad but true fact that sailors were poor swimmers had killed them.

Hawkes had his own problems. Water was lapping at the stern and scores of wounded lay on the deck. Frantic signals to other ships brought more boats that took them off, the last of them just as the dying frigate slid beneath the waves. It was so close that both Hawkes and Freeland simply stepped off the deck of the
Gorgon
and onto a boat.

When Hawkes and Freeland were finally taken aboard another warship, everyone in the squadron knew that something more than the sinking of two ships had occurred. They had just seen the face of naval warfare change.

Captain David Glasgow Farragut was as happy as a naval officer without a command could possibly be. Months ago, he’d been appointed commodore of the squadron that was going to attack New Orleans, but that mission had been aborted when England entered the war. The sixty-year-old Farragut understood, but still hated it. He’d fought the British as a junior officer in the War of 1812, and now wanted an opportunity to strike at them again.

Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles’s exceptionally competent assistant. Gustavus Fox, was equally happy. Fox was the power behind Welles’s throne, and Farragut understood that Fox was the path to getting a new command.

“Captain Farragut, please tell me how we can exploit the
Monitor’s
victory.”