Stars and Stripes In Peril sas-2 Page 7

  “Can he do this?” Ericsson shouted at the quavering Davis.

  “Y-yes…”

  “Then I see no problem. Do it at once. My building program shall not be delayed for a single instant.”

  “But, Mr. Ericsson, there are… problems.”

  “Problems? I don’t want any problems. Hire the men as has been agreed.”

  “But, sir, it is the other trainees. They refuse to work side by side with niggers.”

  “That is not a problem,” Ericsson said. “Make all of the apprentices black men. Surely the artificers of the North will be happy to train them.”

  “I’ll see… what I can do.”

  “One week,” Douglass said ominously. Then a sudden smile flickered briefly across his severe features. “I like your style, Mr. Ericsson. You are a man of uncommon good sense.”

  “I am a man who builds ships, Mr. Douglass. I have never understood the American preoccupation with the color of a man’s skin. If a workman does his job I don’t care if he is even a…” He groped for an apt comparison. “Even a Norwegian — and I will still employ him.”

  The wail of a steam whistle interrupted him. “Ahh, you must excuse me,” he said. Turning and leaving abruptly, heading towards the puffing sound of a locomotive. He had insisted that a spur track of the Chesapeake Ohio railroad be built, coming right into the shipyard. It was already proving its worth, bringing iron plating right to the dockside.

  But this was no ordinary cargo of iron. The train consisted of a single passenger coach behind the engine, with a heavily laden flatcar behind that. A stubby man in a frockcoat, wearing a black stovepipe hat, climbed down from the coach as Ericsson came up.

  “Could you possibly be Mr. Ericsson?” he said, extending his hand. “My name is Parrott, William Parker Parrott.”

  “The gunsmith! This is a great pleasure. I have designed guns myself so know of what I speak. And this is the 12-inch cannon that you wrote me about.”

  “It is.”

  “Beautiful,” Ericsson said as they both stepped back to admire the bulk of the long, black gun. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder for this was a hulking black engine of destruction. “Your locking breech, this I must see at once.”

  They both clambered up onto the flatcar, in their enthusiasm not noticing the soot that smeared onto them.

  “The gas seal,” Parrott said, “that is the heart of a breechloading gun. I have examined closely the British Armstrong cannon, have even built one of them. Its breech is complex and when firing begins it soon becomes unusable. A sliding metal plate is secured in place by large locking screws. But the seal is incomplete. After a few rounds the heated metal expands and leaks hot gas and threatens the very safety of the crew should the breech explode — as has happened more than once. But I believe that I have now solved that problem.”

  “You must tell me — show me!”

  “I shall. The principle is a simple one. Imagine, if you will, a heavy threaded breach, into which a threaded bolt can be screwed into place.”

  “The gas seal would be complete. But it would be the devil’s own job — and a slow one at that — to screw a long bolt in and out between each shot.”

  “Of course. So let me show you…”

  Parrott went to the rear of the gun and reached up to strain at a long lever. He could barely reach it, nor was he able to pull it down. The taller Swede who, despite his advanced age, was immensely strong, reached past the small gunsmith and pulled the bar down with a mighty heave. The breech-block rotated — then swung aside on a large pinned hinge. Ericsson ran his fingers over the threads on block and barrel.

  “It is an interrupted screw,” Parrott said proudly. “The theory is a simple one — but getting the machining right was very difficult. As you can see, after the breach and the breechblock have been threaded, channels are cut in each of them. The block then slides forward into place. And with a twist it locks. A perfect gas seal has been accomplished by the threading. After firing the process is reversed.”

  “You are indeed a genius,” Ericsson said, running his fingers over the thick iron screw threads. Possibly the only time in his life that he had praised another man.

  “If you will show me the ship on which it will be mounted…”

  “Difficult to do,” Ericsson said, smiling as he tapped his head. “Most of it is inside here. But I can show you the drawings I have made. If you will step inside my office.”

  Ericsson had not stinted himself with the government’s money when he had designed a workplace for himself. He had labored for too many years in the past in drafty drawing rooms, sometimes only feebly lit by sooty lanterns. Now large windows — as well as a skylight — illuminated his handsome mahogany-framed drafting table. Shelves beside it contained models of the various ships he had designed, other inventions as well. The drawing of Virginia was spread across the table. He tapped it proudly with his finger.

  “There will be a turret here on the forelock, another aft. Each will mount two of your guns.”

  Parrott listened intently as the Swedish engineer proudly pointed out the details that would be incorporated into his latest design. But his eyes kept wandering to a chunky metal device that stood on the floor. It had pipes sticking out from it and what appeared to be a rotating shaft projecting from one side. At last he could control his curiosity no longer. He tried to interrupt, but Ericsson was in full spate.

  “These turrets will be far smaller than those I have built before because there will be no need to pull the gun back into the turret after firing to reload through the muzzle. Being smaller the turret will be lighter, and that much easier to rotate. And without the need of pulling the guns in and out after each shot the rate of fire will be faster.”

  He laughed as he clapped the small man on the back, sent him staggering. “There will be two turrets, four guns. And I shall design the fastest armored ship in the world to carry these guns into battle. No ship now afloat will stand against her!”

  He stepped back, smiling down at his design, and Parrott finally had a chance to speak. “Excellent, excellent indeed. When I return I shall begin work on the other three guns at once. But pardon me, if you don’t mind — could you tell me what this machine is?”

  He tapped the black metal surface of the machine and Ericsson turned his way.

  “That is a prototype, still under development.” He pointed back at the drawings of his iron ship. “This new ship will be big — and with size comes problems. Here look at this.”

  He picked up a half-model of Monitor and pointed out the steam boiler. “A single source of steam here, that is more than enough in a ship this size. The turret you will notice is almost directly above the boiler. So it was simple enough to run a steam line to it to power the small steam engine that rotates the turret. But here, look at the drawing of Virginia. Her engine is on the lowest deck. While the turrets are far above, fore and aft. This means that I will need insulated steam lines going right through the ship. Even when they are insulated they get very hot. And there is the danger of ruptures, natural or caused by enemy fire. Live steam is not a nice thing to be near. Should I have a separate boiler under each turret? Not very practical. I have considered this matter deeply, and in the end I have decided to do it this way.”

  “You have considered electric motors?”

  “I have. But none are large enough to move my turrets. And the generators are large, clumsy and inefficient. So I am considering a mechanical answer.” He looked over at the engineer. “You have heard of the Carnot cycle?”

  “Of course. It is the application of the second law of thermodynamics.”

  “It is indeed. The ideal cycle of four reversible changes in the physical condition of a substance. A steam engine works in a Carnot cycle, though since the source of energy is external it is not a perfect cycle. In my Carnot engine I am attempting to combine the complete cycle in a single unit. I first used coal dust as a fuel, fed into the cylinder fast enough so that isothermal
expansion would take place when it burned.”

  “And the results?” Parrott asked enthusiastically.

  “Alas, dubious at best. It was hard to keep the cylinder temperature high enough to assure combustion. Then there is the nature of the fuel itself. Unless it is ground exceedingly fine, a weary and expensive process at best, it tended to lump and clog the feed tube. To get around that problem I am now working with coal oil and other combustible liquids with improved results.”

  “How wonderful! You will have a self-contained engine under each turret then. You will keep me informed of your progress?”

  “Of course.”

  Parrott thought of the patent of the land battery that had been hanging on his office wall for many years. A most practical idea. Lacking only an engine sufficiently small to move it.

  Was Ericsson’s machine going to fulfill that role?

  Gustavus Fox was signing papers at his desk when the two Irish officers came in. He waved them to the waiting chairs, then finished his task and put his pen aside.

  “General Meagher — do I have your permission to ask Lieutenant Riley a few questions?”

  “Ask away, your honor.”

  “Thank you. Lieutenant, I noticed that scar on your right cheek.”

  “Sir?” Riley looked concerned, started to touch the scar, then dropped his hand.

  “Could that scar once have been — the letter ‘D’?”

  Riley’s fair skin turned bright red and he stammered an answer. “It was, sir, but…”

  “You were a San Patricio?”

  Riley nodded slowly, slumped miserably in his chair.

  “Mr. Fox,” Meagher said. “Could you tell me just what this is all about?”

  “I will. It happened some years ago when this country went to war against Mexico. Forty years ago. There were Irish soldiers in the American army even then. Good, loyal soldiers. Except for those who deserted and joined the Mexican army to fight for the Mexican cause.”

  “You never!” Meagher cried out, fists clenched as he rose to his feet.

  “I didn’t, General, please. Let me explain…”

  “You will — and fast, boyo!”

  “It was the Company of Saint Patrick, the San Patricios they called us in Spanish. Most of the company were deserters from the American army. But I wasn’t, sir! I had just come from Ireland and I was in Texas on a mule train. I was never in the American army. I joined the Mexicans for the money and everything. Then when we were captured General Winfield Scott wanted to hang the lot of us. Some were hung, others got off with being lashed and branded with the ‘D’ for deserter. I swore I had never been in the army, and they could find no record of me whatsoever. They believed me then so I didn’t get the fifty lashes. But they said I still fought against this country so I was branded and let go. I rubbed the brand, broke the scab and all, so you couldn’t see the letter.” Riley raised his head and straightened in his chair.

  “That’s the whole of it, General Meagher. I swear on the Holy Bible. I was a lad from Kerry, some months off the boat, and I made a mistake. Not a day has gone by that I didn’t regret what I had done. I joined this army and I have fought for this country. And that is all I ever want to do.”

  Meagher wrinkled his brow in thought; Fox spoke.

  “What do you think, General? Do you believe him? I will leave the decision to you.”

  Meagher nodded. Lieutenant Riley sat erect, his skin pale as death. Seconds passed before Meagher spoke.

  “I believe him, Mr. Fox. He is a good soldier with a good record and I think he has more than paid for what he did so long ago. I’ll have him — if you agree.”

  “Of course. I think the lieutenant will be a better soldier now that the past is known. Perhaps he can finally put the past behind him.”

  The hackney cab came along Whitehall and turned into Downing Street, stopping in front of Number 10. The cab driver climbed down from his seat and opened the door. The military officer who emerged had to be helped to step down. His face was thin and cadaverous, his skin quite yellow, sure signs of the fever. Since he was being sent home on sick leave he had been trusted with the latest reports. Although the grueling trip on muleback to Vera Cruz had almost finished him off, he was recovering now. He shivered in the pale spring sunshine, tucked the bundle of papers under his arm and hurried inside as soon as the door was opened.

  “This is Major Chalmers,” Lord Palmerston said when the officer was ushered into the Cabinet Room. “A chair for him, if you please. Ahh, yes, the reports, I’ll take them if you please. Gentlemen, despite his obvious ill health the major has been kind enough to appear before us today to personally report on the progress of our road. Is that not right, sir?”

  “It is indeed. I must, in all truth, say it was rather a slow start, since we only had a few Indian regiments in the beginning. I myself did the first survey. The worst part of the construction was the swamps near the coast. In the end we had to raise the road on a dyke, after the fashion of the Dutch, with culverts beneath it so the tidal flats could drain back into the sea…”

  Chalmers coughed damply and took a kerchief from his sleeve to wipe his face. Lord Russell, seeing his obvious distress, poured a glass of water and took it to him. The major smile weakly and nodded his thanks, then went on.

  “After the swamps we were back in jungle again. In addition, there is a backbone of low hills running the length of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec which must be crossed. No real difficulties there, though a few bridges will have to be built. Plenty of trees so that won’t be a problem. Then, once past the hills, we will be on the Atlantic coastal plain and the grading will be that much easier.”

  “You have a completion schedule, I do believe,” Lord Palmerston said.

  “We do — and I believe that we will better it. More and more regiments are arriving and they go right to work. We have enough men now so that we can rotate them for the most onerous duty. I can firmly promise you, gentlemen, that when you need the road it will be there.”

  “Bravo!” Lord Russell said. “That is the true British spirit. We all bid you a speedy recovery, and sincerely hope that you will enjoy your leave here in London.”

  A DANGEROUS JOURNEY

  Don Ambrosio O’Higgins left the paddle wheel coaster after dark. A small carpetbag was passed down to him, then a long bundle wrapped in oiled canvas. He seized up the bag, put the bundle over his shoulder and started forward — then stepped back into the shadows. A French patrol had appeared on the waterfront, lighting their way with a lantern. They proceeded carefully, muskets ready, looking in all directions as they came forward. They knew full well that every hand was against them in this country of Mexico. O’Higgins crouched down behind some large hogsheads, staying there until the patrol had passed by. Only then did he make his way quickly across the open docks and into the safety of the now familiar streets of Vera Cruz. There were many other French patrols in the city, but they never penetrated these dark and dangerous back alleys. Too many patrols had been ambushed, too many soldiers had never returned. Their weapons lost, now used to fight the invaders. O’Higgins kept careful watch around him, for not only the French were unsafe in these dismal streets. He emitted a low sigh of relief when he finally reached the merchant’s shop. It was locked and silent. O’Higgins felt his way carefully to the rear of the building where he tapped lightly on the back door. Then louder still until a voice called out querulously from inside.

  “Go away — we are closed.”

  “Such a cold greeting for an old friend, Pablocito. I am wounded to the core.”

  “Don Ambrosio! Can that be you?”

  The bolt rattled as it was drawn back. A single candle lit the room; Pablo resealed the door behind him, and then went to fetch a bottle of the special mezcal from the town of Tequila. They toasted and drank.

  “Any news of interest from Salina Cruz since I went away?” O’Higgins asked.

  “Just more of the same. Reports filter in that the Englis
h are still bringing in their troops. The road advances slowly — but it advances. When these invaders are thrown from our country — God willing! — we will at least have the road that they will have to leave behind. Everything else they steal from our country. But a road — no!” Then Pablo touched the canvas-wrapped package with his toe.

  “Another mission?” he asked. O’Higgins nodded.

  “Like you, I fight for the freedom of Mexico. Also like you I do not speak of what I do.” Pablo nodded understandingly and drained his glass.

  “Before the French came Mexicans were always ready to fight Mexicans. When the French are driven out they will undoubtedly fight each other again. There are those now out of power who are just biding their time, waiting for the French to leave.”

  “I sorrowfully admit that I know little of Mexico’s turbulent past.”

  “That is a good word for it. Before the Conquistadores came the various Indian tribes warred with one another. Then they warred with the Spanish. When the tribes were defeated they were enslaved. I must tell you that I go to mass and am most religious. But Mexico will not be free until the power of the church is broken.”

  “They are that strong?”

  “They are. I believe that there are over six thousand priests and over eight thousand members of religious orders. All of them above the law because of the fuero, their own courts of justice. If that is the word. They own enormous properties where the friars live in luxury while the poor starve. The bishops of Puebla, Valladolid and Guadalajara are millionaires.”