Reign of Iron

James L. Nelson

• Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
• Year: 2009
• ISBN:
  9780061857034
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: American Civil War History
• Index: History

At the outbreak of the Civil War, North and South quickly saw the need to develop the latest technology in naval warfare, the ironclad ship. After a year-long scramble to finish first, in a race filled with intrigue and second guessing, blundering and genius, the two ships -- the Monitor and the Merrimack -- after a four-hour battle, ended the three-thousand-year tradition of wooden men-of-war and ushered in "the reign of iron."

In the first major work on the subject in thirty-five years, novelist, historian, and tall-ship sailor James L. Nelson, acclaimed author of the Brethren of the Coast trilogy, brilliantly recounts the story of these magnificent ships, the men who built and fought them, and the extraordinary battle that made them legend.

Chapter 1

Sink Before Surrender

Saturday, March 8, 1862, was a beautiful day in Virginia. A gale had blown itself out the night before, and behind it came clear, warm weather, a high-pressure system on the tail of the storm. A day more like May than March, many people felt.

In Norfolk and Portsmouth, towns that faced one another across the Elizabeth River, excitement was spreading like fire, just as it had the year before, in the days leading up to secession and the burning of the shipyard. The Confederate States Ship Virginia, an ironclad built on the burned-out hull of the old USS Merrimack, was getting under way. There had been no announcement. In the interest of military security, the Gosport Naval Shipyard had been closed to visitors for months. Not even Virginia’s crew knew where they were bound.

But there was no concealing her movements. Virginia was a monstrous vessel, 275 feet long. She was 38½ feet on the beam, and though the crowds watching from the shore could not see this, she was burdened by a ponderous 22 feet of draft.

With black smoke rolling out of her tall stack she edged away from the dock, heading into the stream. Word spread fast, and people rushed to the riverbank to see her go. They had been waiting eight months for this moment.

Most of Virginia was underwater, not only her massive hull, but also her afterdeck, the last 50 feet or so of the ship, which was 6 inches below the surface. All that the citizens watching could see was a wedge-shaped false bow, barely breaking the surface, and her ironclad shield, like a barn roof floating on the river, 8 feet high. The lengths of plate iron running vertically along the shield gleamed black with the coat of tallow smeared on them to help enemy shot bounce off. On the forward flagstaff flew the red pennant of an admiral. On the ensign staff was the Confederate national flag, the “Stars and Bars.”

The roof of the casemate, the “shield deck,” was mainly an iron grating to let air and light into the gun deck below. But still the gun deck was “badly ventilated, very uncomfortable,” and so gloomy that lanterns were needed the full length of the deck, even on a fine, sunny day such as the 8th.

For that reason most of the Virginia’s crew were crowded on the shield deck, about 16 feet wide and 120 feet long. In keeping with traditions of the sailing navy—men before the mast and officers aft—the crew stood in front of the smokestack, the officers aft of it, though the helm and pilothouse were at the forward end of the casemate.

Foremost of the officers was Franklin Buchanan, appointed admiral in command of the James River squadron just a few weeks before. Sixty-one years old, balding with a tussle of white hair ringing his head, Buchanan was a hard-driving disciplinarian, navy to the marrow, the “beau ideal of a naval officer of the old school, with his tall form, harsh features and clear piercing eyes.” He was a man with a great deal on his mind.

Virginia had never been under way before. She was powered by the Merrimack’s old engines, engines that had been condemned by the U.S. Navy. Her engineer, H. Ashton Ramsay, had served aboard the ship while she was still the USS Merrimack, and he reported, “From my past and present experience with the engines of this vessel, I am of the opinion that they can not be relied upon. During a cruise of two years…they were continually breaking down, at times when least expected.”

Buchanan had quizzed Ramsay about the engines before getting under way. He asked about their reliability. He asked how they would endure the shock of Virginia ramming another vessel. He asked if they should first make a trial trip.

Ramsay answered as best as he could. “She will have to travel some ten miles down the river before we get to the [Hampton] Roads. If any trouble develops, I’ll report it. That will be sufficient trial trip.”

But Buchanan had more than engines to worry about. The crew were new to the ship. Construction had been ongoing until the very end—that very morning he had ordered workmen off the ship so she could get under way—and the men had had no chance to drill onboard. They had never fired the guns. “The officers and crew were strangers to the ship and to each other,” one of Virginia’s lieutenants wrote.

Many of the crew were strangers to ships of any description. The South had a chronic dearth of sailors, and Virginia’s men had been hustled from the army or recruited from among the yard workers or from local militia units. Scattered among them were a few veteran sailors, some survivors of the desperate battle for Albemarle Sound. “They proved to be as gallant and trusty a body of men as anyone could wish to command,” recalled Midshipman Virginius Newton, “but what a contrast they made to a crew of trained jack tars!”

Virginia was a “novelty in naval construction,” her properties unknown, and she was still incomplete. There had been no time to fit the protective shutters over the gunports. The ship was riding too high in the water. The lower edge of her casemate, which was supposed to be two feet underwater, was only a few inches under, leaving her lightly armored waterline vulnerable.

The enemy had at least five major warships on station, protected by heavy shore batteries at Newport News and the guns of Fortress Monroe and Fort Wool.

Any commanding officer would have been excused for insisting on a sea trial, a shakedown, a practice run, before steaming into battle. Most of the men onboard Virginia assumed that was what they were doing. Only a few knew the truth.

Buchanan was not going to wait. He was an aggressive fighting man with a bitter resentment of the U.S. Navy and he knew that the strategic situation would not allow for delay. Union General George McClellan was planning an attack on Richmond that he would launch from Fortress Monroe, transporting his troops by water from Washington. If Virginia ruled Hampton Roads, she could ruin his entire plan.

And, more ominously, there were indications that a Union ironclad would soon be ready for sea.

So Virginia steamed away, bound for battle on her maiden voyage. The wharves along the Elizabeth River, the banks, the rooftops were crowded with people. They waved their hats and handkerchiefs, and the ironclad’s crew doffed their hats in reply.

Some of Virginia’s men recalled the people onshore cheering loudly as the ironclad steamed past, shouting “Godspeed” as they headed downriver. Most remembered a silent, somber crowd who watched and waved but did not cheer. The Confederacy had suffered many setbacks in the past months after the jubilation of its victory at Manassas the summer before. A great deal of hope rested on the ship, but many believed she and her crew would not survive the day. The churches were jammed with people praying for the safety of the men and the success of their mission.

As the Virginia passed Norfolk, the hands were piped to dinner. In the engine room, Ramsay nervously watched as the two horizontal, back-acting engines turned under the pressure of the steam from the four huge Martin-type boilers. Everything seemed to be in order. He went back up to the shield deck.

“How fast is she going, do you think?” he asked one of the pilots.

The pilot looked at the shore and estimated the speed. “Eight or nine knots an hour,” he replied, a very optimistic guess. It took the ironclad an hour and a half to steam approximately seven miles to the mouth of the Elizabeth River, putting her speed at closer to five knots, which was still respectable, given that she was underpowered, unwieldy, and stemming a flood tide. Ramsay and William H. Parker, the captain of the Beaufort’s , one of Virginia’s escorts would later agree that she averaged around seven knots. That was as good as she did under power as a sailing frigate.

The crew were not as impressed with her turn of speed. “If this is all the speed we can make,” they whispered to one another, “we better get out and walk.”

Dinner was a brief affair, and terminated by the drums beating to quarters. The men scrambled to clear the ship for action, the first time it had ever been done. It was no doubt a confused and disorganized exercise, compared to a well-drilled company of bluewater sailors on board a man-of-war in long commission.

The galley fires were extinguished, lashings on the guns cast off, rammers and swabs arranged for easy handling. The powder magazine was opened and cartridges were passed up to the gun crews and rammed down the gaping barrels. On top of the charges went 9-inch shells for the Dahlgren smoothbores in the broadside, 6.4-inch shells for the Brooke rifles amidships, and 7-inch shells for the Brooke rifles in the bow and stern.

As the Virginia steamed past the Confederate batteries on Craney Island, the troops there lined the parapets and cheered wildly. By then there was a veritable parade of boats on the river, and “everything that would float, from the Army tug-boat to the oysterman’s skiff” was loaded with spectators heading down to Craney Island to watch the action.

Buchanan ordered all hands topside. The shield deck was crowded with the 320 or so members of the ship’s company, officers to starboard, enlisted men to port, waiting to hear what “Old Buck” would say.

Among those who recalled Buchanan’s words, there seems to be little consensus about what he said. Third Assistant Engineer E. Alex Jack recalled Buchanan assuring those who might have had doubts about his loyalty to the Confederacy that after that day there would be “no cause for any such unjust suspicions,” hardly words to inspire men to fight.

Another version had Buchanan saying, “The Confederacy expects every man to do his duty,” but one hopes for a little more originality than that.

H. Ashton Ramsay’s version was probably closer to the truth: “Sailors, in a few moments you will have the long expected opportunity to show your devotion to our cause. Remember that you are about to strike for your country, for your homes, for your wives and your children.”

Ramsay, worrying over his engines, had nearly missed dinner. The caterer sent word to him that he had better eat soon or he would miss his chance. He climbed down to the gun deck, struck by the looks of the men waiting at the guns, “pale and determined, standing straight and stiff, showing their nerves were wrought to a high degree of tension.” They stood with rammers and sponges in hand, waiting for the battle to start. Ramsay had been so involved in the engine room that he had not until that moment considered the bloody fight in which they were about to engage.

Down in the wardroom he found several officers “daintily partaking of cold tongue and biscuit.” At the far end of the room, Assistant Surgeon A. S. Garnett was laying out tourniquets, forceps, bone saws, all the tools of his work. Ramsay’s appetite disappeared. He settled for a taste of tongue and a cup of coffee.

Virginia was not going into battle alone. She was, in fact, the flagship of a squadron, the James River squadron. Three of the squadron’s six vessels were up the James River, waiting for Virginia to make her move. In company with the ironclad were the Raleigh and the Beaufort, both converted tugboats mounting 32-pounder guns on their bows. They were instructed to use their “best exertions to injure or destroy the enemy.”

For the time being, they were more useful as tugs. As Virginia passed Craney Island, the water became so shallow that she could not steer well. Beaufort passed a hawser and took her in tow until they reached the deeper water abreast Sewells Point.

Hampton Roads is a wide expanse of water and from the shore looks perfectly navigable in any direction. But that is deceptive. Most of the Roads are mud banks and shallow places. Like a wagon stuck in the ruts of a road, the deep-draft Virginia was limited in where she could go. To get at the enemy she would have to travel a roundabout course that would cover twice the distance of a direct line. There was no chance for the surprise Buchanan had originally hoped for.

As Virginia passed Sewell’s Point, the men could see the enemy on either beam. To the east was Fortress Monroe and the men-of-war under its guns, Roanoke, commanded by Captain John Marston, senior captain present, with forty guns; Minnesota, with forty-eight guns; and Brandywine and St. Lawrence, both fifty-gun sailing frigates. To the west, blockading the entrance to the James River, were the sailing ships Congress, fifty guns, and Cumberland, thirty. Buchanan had already made up his mind on his initial attack. He turned the Virginia west.

Bent on to halyard on the forward flagstaff, ready to hoist, was the signal flag Number One. Buchanan had prearranged it with the other captains of the squadron. Number One hoisted below his pennant meant “Sink before you surrender.”

“That Thing Is A-comin’…”

The Union ships Congress and Cumberland had been waiting a long time, at least since November of the previous year, for the day the Confederate ironclad would come out. They had spent the winter at anchor off Newport News, at the mouth of the James River, their time occupied by shipboard routine, drills, boredom, and misery.

It was no secret that the Confederates were building an ironclad on the raised hulk of the Merrimack. Rumors of her imminent appearance had surfaced so ...