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…”