“The rudder is overbalanced,” he said “We must increase the purchase of the connecting linkage. Double it if needs be.”
It look less than a day to accomplish this. But three days later the Monitor was still tied up at her docking berth. The crew restless and upset. They knew that their craft had been designed to fight the Virginia, which was nearing completion according to the continual reports in the newspapers. Yet they could do nothing. A heavy storm was hitting the coast, great waves breaking on the shore. Monitor was designed for shoal water and rivers. Her low freeboard and shallow draft made her most unseaworthy even in a slight swell.
On March 6 there was a clear sky, a slight wind — and a smooth sea. It had been decided that, since the Monitor’s top speed was only seven knots, she would be towed to her destination. A heavy line was passed from the tug Seth Low and, accompanied by the steam gunboats Currituck and Sachem, Monitor finally headed out to sea.
The day passed easily enough and the crew were getting used to their new charge. They had boiled beef and potatoes for dinner and those off duty retired peacefully for the night. They did not get much sleep. The wind grew stronger, the seas heavier, and by morning the good weather had ended and a dreadful journey had begun.
Green seas broke right across the tiny ship, coming under the turret in waterfalls. The waves rolled right over the pilothouse, jetting in through the narrow eyeholes with such force that it knocked the helmsman off the wheel.
Even worse were the waves that passed over the vital blower pipes. These protruded above the deck, high enough to stay above the water in a normal sea for they supplied air to the steam engines deep in the hold below. Water inundated the blower engines, wetting the leather straps that turned them, stopping them from functioning. Without air the fires died; without blowers to pump it out the engineroom filled with poisonous, acid gas that nearly killed the men there.
The bravery of the crew was not in doubt. Volunteers entered the engineroom, at the risk of their own lives, and carried out the unconscious men. They were dragged out to the top of the turret in the fresh air. After some time they recovered — but the ship was still in great danger. With the fires damped, the engineroom was now filled with carbonic acid gas from the coal fumes. With no steam the bilge pumps were put out of action. The tow rope still held, pulling them through the crashing seas — but the ship was slowly filling with water. Hand pumps were tried but to no avail. The men fought the many leaks — and still the water rose. When each wave broke more water was forced in through the hawse pipe.
It was a terrible night, of exhaustion and seasickness. Few men had the strength to climb to the top of the turret and vomit over the side. Belowdecks, lit by the feeble oil lights, was a scene of crashing filthy water, floating debris, endless labor to save the ship.
It wasn’t until just before daylight that the storm blew itself out and the waves died down. The poisonous gas had dissipated during the night, so now the sodden ashes could be shoveled from the boilers and fresh fires lit. When the head of steam built up the blower engines began to turn. There was a spontaneous cheer throughout the ship as the first gouts of bilge water jetted over the side.
No one had slept. Cooking was impossible, so that those who could manage to eat had only cheese and crackers, with fresh water from the condenser to drink.
The second day was slightly better than the first, but the weary, wet men were not aware of the difference. Yet they were getting close to their destination. By four in the afternoon Fortress Monroe, the Union fort guarding the entrance to Hampton Roads, was in sight.
And clouds of billowing smoke as well. Dark streaks of cannon projectiles could be seen, exploding into white smoke. Lieutenant Worden climbed to the top of the turret for a better view.
“Might be a Secesh ship trying to run the blockade,” one of the sailors said; little hope in his voice. Worden shook his head in a silent no.
“Too much, too much firing from too many ships. The Virginia must be out and among the fleet. Iron against wood — they don’t have a chance.”
“That’s our job to take her on — that’s what we have to do!” one of the men shouted.
“We’ll never get there before dark,” a sailor said, looking up at the sky, then at the horizon.
“Then we will be there in the morning,” Lieutenant Worden said grimly. “If that ironclad is among our fleet, and she survives this day, she will surely be back in the morning. But when dawn breaks and Virginia appears, we are going to be there waiting for her. It will be iron against iron this time. Then those Rebels will know that they have been in a fight.”
Standing out to sea, at the mouth of Hampton Roads, the watching French and British were unaware of the small, black, ugly vessel that had dropped anchor after dark at Fortress Monroe, the Union bastion on the other side of the Roads. What they had witnessed that day when Virginia had attacked the Northern fleet had been more of a massacre than a battle. In the morning they expected more of the same.
But would it be different when the untested Monitor faced up to the battle-proven Virginia in the morning?
Monitor raised her anchor in the night and steamed out into Hampton Roads. The warm spring night was lit by the newly-risen moon — but far brighter was the glare from the burning Congress. Explosions racked her as loaded guns and powder magazines exploded. The crew of Monitor had been told of the day’s disastrous events; the reality was far more shocking than words could ever be. By ten o’clock she had stationed herself between the badly damaged Minnesota and the shore. Her crew waited sleepless throughout the night while steam tugs tried to free the stranded warship. Though stranded and vulnerable by daylight, Minnesota had not given up the fight. She took aboard more cannon balls and powder from the fort during the night.
At two in the morning the battleship was refloated — but soon grounded again. The Monitor approached her and dropped anchor. Worden sent Lieutenant Greene aboard to talk to her commander.
“Thank God that you have arrived,” Captain Van Brunt said, pointing to the still-burning Congress. “That will be us in the morning if we don’t get out of these shallows. Our guns can’t make a dent in that infernal contraption, though we will keep on trying.”
“Perhaps ours can. In any case we will station ourselves between your ship and the enemy. She will have to get by us to reach you and that will take
some doing.”
At a little after nine o’clock next morning the history of naval warfare changed forever. Modern warfare began. When the Virginia made her leisurely way toward the stranded Union warship, Monitor was placed squarely between the ironclad and her prey.
Aboard the Virginia the sailors cleared for action once again. But Lieutenant Jones was unhappy.
“What’s happening there?” he called out, his view restricted by the armored eyeslit. Midshipman Littlepage climbed up the armor to see better.
“The tugs are leaving. But there is a raft of some kind close to her. Something on it — as though they were taking her boilers and machinery ashore.”
“Nonsense! Not at this time.” He pulled himself up to see better and grimaced with anger. “Damnation! That’s no raft — and that is a monstrous gun turret. It must be Ericsson’s battery.”
It could not have come at a worse time. His plans to finish off the Minnesota then disperse the rest of the blockading fleet were in peril.