Stars and Stripes in Peril (8 page)

"We're with you to the man!" Meagher shouted aloud, and the rest roared echo to his words.

"Good. We will work together in deciding what must be done and how to go about doing it. And I ask you to give your solemn word that nothing heard here shall be repeated outside this room."

"You have our word and our pledge," Meagher said, and the others murmured agreement. "There are informers in the Fenian ranks, both here and abroad, I am unhappy to say. Before you came, Gus, we were looking for new ways to organize our resistance movement, to make a plan that will put paid to all those that would sell their homeland for British gold. I think that you can guide us in this quest."

"I certainly can. I think that you and I—and young O'Higgins here—can discuss details right after this meeting."

There was much strong talk after that, while the punch bowl was well attended and filled more than once. When the punch was gone, and the officers ready to leave, Surgeon Reynolds called for silence.

"I have written a poem for Mother Ireland, that I was going to dedicate to the Fenian cause. Instead I dedicate it to our new commanding officer and our new comrade, Andy O'Higgins."

Silence fell as he took a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. He read;

"When concord and peace to this land are restored,

And the union's established forever,

Brave sons of Hibernia, oh, sheathe not the sword;—

You will then have a union
to sever."

This was greeted with shouts and grim nods of approval. The war with the South might be over. But for these dedicated officers the war with Britain never would be ended until Ireland was sovereign and free. They filed out into the night but Meagher, Fox and O'Higgins stayed behind: Meagher closed and locked the door behind them.

"That punch is a bit too sweet for my taste," he said. "We'll have a wee dram of something more authentic." He unlocked a cabinet and took out a stone crock. "Poteen. My lips are sealed as to how it reached me here but, upon my honor as an officer and a gentlemen, and a general now as well, I can assure you that it is the real thing."

He poured two tin cups full and pushed them over to Fox and O'Higgins who sniffed warily at the transparent spirit.
"Slainte!"
Meagher said, upending the crock on his arm in a practiced gesture, and drank deep. And sighed happily. "Lovely stuff."

The others were not as sure as he was. O'Higgins's eyes opened wide when he drank and he put the cup carefully back onto the table. Fox had a coughing fit that only ceased when Meagher pounded him on the back.

"Takes a bit of getting used to," he said. "Now, Gus, how can the Fenian circle be of aid to you?"

"Information, as I said. It is the life-blood of military intelligence. I understand that there are many Irish working in England and Scotland?"

" 'Tis the sad truth," Meagher said, nodding in agreement. "Ours is a poor country, kept poorer by those who rule. The Irish have always crossed the waters to earn a living—and send money to their families who must stay at home. It was even worse in the forties, when the famine came. Oh the thousands that starved in agony! Those with the means went abroad. Many came here to the land of freedom, but even more went to England and stayed on. Many a navvy you will meet there is an Irishman."

"By 'navvy' you mean someone who works building the canals?" Fox asked.

"In the beginning, yes, they called them navigators because they dug their way across the length and breadth of England. But the name stuck to them even when the canals were finished. Now they work on the railroads, on the building sites and the shipyards. Wherever a man can earn a few bob by the sweat of his brow."

"And they stay in touch with their families still?" O'Higgins asked. "I'm afraid that after my grandfather went to South America we fell out of touch with Ireland."

"You sailed a powerful distance and that is understood. But, yes, the Irish in England and Scotland stay in touch with home. When young lads cross the water seeking their fortune they are made welcome by those already there."

"There is a constant coming and going, then?" Fox asked.

"There is indeed."

"Then we must take advantage of this relationship. We must recruit men in Ireland to the Fenian cause. But not at random nor at open political meetings. That has proven to be a disaster in the past. In the future any contacts must be made on a one to one basis. So if one of your officers ventures to Ireland, he must take into his confidence only other family members. They in turn will contact family members who may be working in England. Funds will be provided for travel if needs be. In that way we can learn about shipbuilding—"

"Any troop movements and transports and all the like," Meagher added with enthusiasm. "For even a lowly working man still has eyes and a brain, and he can see what is going on around him. This is a grand plan you put forward, Gus Fox, and we are behind you to a man. We shall be your eyes and ears and look forward with great gusto to doing this for America, our new home."

As Meagher was locking the door behind them when they left, Fox, offhandedly, asked him a question.

"Who was that officer, the one with gray hair and a scar on his right cheek?"

"You must mean Lieutenant Riley. A good soldier."

"That's fine. Do you think you could bring him around to see me tomorrow morning?"

"Sure and I will."

He wanted to ask Fox the reason, but the naval officer had turned and was walking away. Ah, well. He would find out in the morning.

NEWPORT NEWS, VIRGINIA

John Ericsson looked down into the immense drydock and nodded approval. The massive outer gates were shut, sealing it off from the bay, and the last of the water was now being pumped out. Knee-deep in water and mud a Negro working crew, with a white supervisor in charge, were putting the heavy logs into place that would support the keel of the new ironclad
Virginia
while she was being built. Ericsson was not pleased with the name. But he had had no support from the War Department, or the navy, for his more imaginative suggestions such as
Aesir
or
Destructor.
The authorities had insisted in naming the new battleship after the state where it was being built.

"Allt går I alla fall mycket, mycket bra,"
he muttered to himself in Swedish since, other than the matter of the ship's name, he was pleased with what he had accomplished in such a short space of time. Yes, this shipyard was indeed very, very good. Of course it had to be—since he had designed it all himself. He had known all of his life that he was a genius; now the world was beginning to realize that as well. Hadn't he invented the first screw propeller, that was now replacing the side-wheelers for propulsion? Then hadn't he designed and built the
Monitor
in one hundred days? After that he had gone on to build the
Avenger
that had defeated the British when they attacked WashingtonCity. Now he was going to build the even more powerful
Virginia,
named simply after the state where she was being built. He had protested that that was the name of the Confederate ironclad that was still in commission. This raised the troublesome point that the North had never recognized this name, which had been given to her by the Confederate authorities. In the naval records she was still the
Merrimac,
the sunken hull of the Federal vessel on which the South had constructed the ironclad. The authorities had responded by removing her feeble engine and decommissioning her, both in the North and the South. Still
Virginia
was such a commonplace name for the battleship that would change the face of naval warfare. He promised himself that he would fight for the name of the next one to be built. It would be the
Aesir,
the battleship of the gods.

"Mr. Ericsson," a voice called out and he turned to see Garret Davis climbing up the steps behind him. The dockyard manager was wiping his full red face with a large kerchief, though there was still the morning cool in the air. "We've got an answer back from the Tredegar Iron Works. They'll be putting that plate on the train today."

"That they had better do—or else," Ericsson said ominously, but not specifying what the "or else" would be. "Very soon we will not need them."

He looked around and almost smiled with satisfaction. It had been a running fight with the Navy Department, but he had finally got what he wanted. They had complained about the price, but in the end had given in. Now he had a completely integrated shipyard, every unit of which he had designed himself. From this immense stone-walled drydock, right through to the foundries, plate-shops, machine shops, steam hammers, drills and steam engines. All of the equipment for handling the massive amount of iron needed to build this new leviathan of the seas.

A totally new design, of course. Twice as large as the
Avenger,
it had two turrets, each mounting two 12-inch cannon, one forward and one aft. A belt of armor ran along the waterline, and there were armored decks over the engines, the boilers, and the magazines. Armor around the base of the turrets as well. As well as the two main batteries there were a variety of small guns along the sides. This would be a seagoing ship that could patrol the oceans of the world and dread naught from any other vessel of war. Particularly the British. Locked in his safe was a report sent to him by the Navy Department. He had not questioned its accuracy, although he had no idea how it had been obtained. It contained details of three British ironclads now under construction. All the same, all compromises, all built on a modified design of
Warrior.
They would be no match for his
Virginia,
that he was sure of. He also had details on a larger ship that had already been launched, HMS
Conqueror.
An improvement on the others—but still not good enough. Should she come up against the
Virginia
he had no doubts as to the outcome.

"There is something else," Davis said. "There are two gentlemen in the office who want to see you."

"I am too busy."

"They are from the government, sir. They said that it was important."

Muttering at this interruption of his work, Ericsson went down to the office. One of them he recognized, for he knew him far too well. Litwack was his name and he represented the US Treasury and was the channel by which Ericsson received his funding. There was always a battle over money whenever they met.

"Mr. Ericsson," Litwack said, stepping forward, "This is Mr. Frederick Douglass, of the Freedmen's Bureau."

Ericsson nodded perfunctorily at the tall Negro, a striking-looking man with a great beard and a towering mass of hair. He shook his hand briefly, since he had no racial prejudice—any hatreds he might have had were directed against the stupidity of the people he had to deal with. He turned back to Litwack.

"What is it this time? You are here about funding?"

"No, not this time. It is Mr. Douglass of the Freedmen's Bureau who has some questions for you."

"I know nothing about your Freedmen's. I am an engineer..."

"Then you had better learn right now," Douglass said in an irritated grumble. Ericsson turned, angrily, to face him, but Douglass spoke before he did.

"The Freedmen's Bureau was founded to see that the laws passed by Congress are carried out to the letter of those same laws. It is one thing to free slaves, another thing altogether to see that they have gainful employment once they are freed. How many Negroes exactly are there in your apprentice program?"

"What is this man talking about?" Ericsson shouted furiously. "I have my work to do. I know nothing of politics nor do I care nothing."

"I assure you—that is not the case." Douglass raised his voice even louder to drown out the angry Swede. "One war has ended, the war between the states. But a new war is just beginning. By law the slaves have been freed. This has been done. Slave owners have received compensation for what they so foully considered property. But this has been only the first step along the road to freedom. If former slaves can labor only in the cotton fields, as they have in the past, they will not have the economic freedom that they are guaranteed as free men. They need the skills, the trades that they have been denied for so long. The South is now undergoing an industrial revolution. There are machine shops, factories and shipyards, as well as the trainyards, that are now being built in the new South. They will bring prosperity to the South—and independence to their workers. The Negro who brings home his weekly pay is dependent on no man. That is right and just. The freed Negro must be part of that process. That is the law! The Federal government paid out the funds that were needed to build this new dockyard. It is here not only to build the ships of war, but to follow the new policy of industrial development in the South. Skilled machinists and fitters have come here from shipyards in the North, to train apprentices in their skills. Do you know how many of these apprentices you have in your program?"

Ericsson threw his hands into the air, exasperated beyond belief.

"This has nothing to do with me, I tell you. I am an engineer and my job is to build machines. I have never heard of these new laws nor do I care about them in the slightest." He turned to his dockyard manager. "Davis—do you know anything about this?"

"I do, sir. I have the figures here." He took a grubby piece of paper from his pocket. "As yet there are only forty-three men who have entered this program. But there will be one hundred and eighty apprentices in all when recruitment is finished."

"And how many of them will be Negroes?" The question boomed out into the sudden silence. Davis mopped at his streaming face, looked around helplessly. "Tell me!" Douglass insisted.

The dockyard manager looked at the piece of paper again, then crumpled it in his sweaty palm. Finally, almost in a whisper, he said, "I believe... that there are no Negroes enrolled at the present time. To the best of my knowledge, that is."