Glory In The Name

correspondence secretaries and enlisted men. Gone was almost everyone, and more leaving by the hour.

Of those who were left, Alden was not sure whom he could trust. He hoped to soon be one of the gone himself.

McCauley’s office was open, and Alden entered without knocking. The old man had his frock coat on and was wearing sword and pistol. He was not alone.

Commodore Pendergrast, commander of the Home Squadron, was there. The Home Squadron had found itself at Norfolk when the trouble first began to simmer and had been ordered by Gideon Welles to remain and lend its weight of iron to the defense of the shipyard. Along with Pendergrast was Captain Marston, captain of the 1,708-ton sloop-of-war Cumberland, flagship of the squadron.

“Commander Alden, good you are here…should be part of this…” McCauley said, and his voice sounded even less promising than it had that morning. “Just discussing the strategic situation here…last report I heard, must be two thousand of these damned Rebels massing…”

“It would seem so, sir. Commodore, Merrimack has her head up steam. I’ve men enough to get her to Fortress Monroe, at least. I beg of you, sir, give me leave to go.”

McCauley threw a hopeful look at the other officers. “Pendergrast, what do you think?”

“Welles says to move the ship. It ain’t going to get any easier. Best do it now.”

Alden wanted to cross the room and hug the man. How clear and straightforward was his perception of the situation!

“Well…” McCauley sputtered. “You have men enough for this, Alden?”

“There are men enough in the engine room. If I can beg of Captain Marston thirty men from Cumberland-I’ll send them right back, soon as we’re under Monroe’s guns-then I have enough.”

Marston frowned, and the expression brought out a hundred more lines in an already craggy face, but he nodded his big head. “I can spare you thirty men, Commander, if you sent ’em right back.”

All eyes turned back to McCauley. The commodore breathed deep. Alden tensed. This is a lot of work just to get the old bastard to let me do what the Secretary of the Navy ordered me to, he thought, and then McCauley nodded as well.

“Very good, Commander. Take Merrimack out of here before these Rebels can get their damned hands on her.”

Alden straightened, and he felt inches taller. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said.

Marston stood up from the desk on which he had been leaning. “I’ll arrange for those men, Alden, march ’em over to Merrimack,” and with no more ceremony he left McCauley’s office.

“Thank you, sir. Oh, and sir?” Alden turned back to McCauley. He felt he was pushing his luck, as if inching farther out on ice of dubious thickness. “Sir, the ordnance is all out of the ship. If I could have a couple of field pieces, something we could bring right up the brow, that should serve as battery enough for now.”

“Yes, yes, very well,” said McCauley. Now that the decision was made, he seemed to not want to hear more about it. “Go see Tucker about it.”

“Aye, aye, sir. And sir…you have done the right thing, if I may be so bold…”

“Yes, yes, yes, dismissed, Commander.” McCauley waved him away, did not meet his eye.

Alden fairly ran out of the commodore’s office, raced back to Merrimack and up the brow. Lieutenant Murray, first officer of the Cumberland, who had volunteered to help with Merrimack, was on deck. He was in discussion with Chief Isherwood.

“Mr. Isherwood, Murray, praise God, we have orders to get the ship out of here!”

“Most high miracle,” Isherwood said dryly. “God alone could have moved that man to make a decision.”

“God and Commodore Pendergrast, reminding him of his duties. Where is Lieutenant Poindexter?” Poindexter was the Merrimack’s first officer. Alden would have expected to find him on deck as well.

“I haven’t seen him,” said Murray.

“No matter, I’ll find him. Mr. Isherwood, if I might impose upon you to see the engines ready to get us underway?”

Isherwood nodded.

“And Mr. Murray, we need a pilot. Do you know of a pilot who will take us out of here?”

“Ahh,” Murray equivocated in a way that Alden did not like to hear. “That won’t be easy. Since Virginia went secesh, none of the pilots’ll work a government ship. They’re all afraid of being hanged, apparently, by the damned Rebels.”

“Well, find one. Offer a thousand dollars to the man who will get Merrimack to Fortress Monroe. Wait…offer twice that if he can get the Germantown there, too. We’ll tow her out. And offer a place for life in the navy, as well.”

Murray smiled. “He’ll need that. Damned sure won’t be going back home anytime soon.”

“Good. Go.”

“Aye, aye!” Murray hurried off, and Alden was glad he did not ask if he, Commander Alden, had the authority to make such offers. To hell with it. We’ll sort it out when the ships are safe.

“I must see to getting us a few guns, Mr. Isherwood,” Alden said next.

“I will see the fires stoked up, Mr. Alden,” Isherwood said. He looked pleased. That was a change from the seemingly permanent dour look that the frustrations of the past week had stamped on his face.

Alden raced back down the brow and back across the yard to the ordnance shed. It was a grand warehouse of artillery, and where it met the water’s edge, a great set of shears rose up overhead, used for lifting the heavy guns and setting them down on ships warped alongside. He would have liked to put those to use, to have Merrimack’s twenty-four nine-inch guns back in place, but there was no time. If he could get a couple of three-inch ordnance rifles he would be happy.

He stepped out of the sunshine and into the gloom of the cavernous ordnance building. On the far side of the big shed door was the office of Commander J. R. Tucker, ordnance officer for the naval yard. One of the few officers who had not resigned.

Alden crossed over to Tucker’s office, knocked, and entered. Tucker was at his desk, his frock coat unbuttoned, his feet up, heels resting on the edge of the desktop. He made no move to assume a more businesslike position.

“Commander Alden! What can I do for you, this fine spring day?”

Alden stiffened. Tucker’s informality would have been objectionable in the normal course of affairs. In the current crisis it was near insufferable. “I need guns, Mr. Tucker. For…”

“No, no, no. That ain’t gonna happen, Mr. Alden. I don’t have men to work the shears, or…”

“Damn the shears. I need two field pieces, that’s all. Howitzers, three-inch rifles, whatever you have, just something I can defend the Merrimack with.”

Tucker smiled, shook his head. “It’s all these damned disloyal workers, all gone over to the Rebs, now Virginia is out.”

“Never mind the workers. Marston’s giving me thirty men out of Cumberland. Give me a pair of guns on field carriages and we’ll get them up the brow.”

Once more Tucker shook his head. “It ain’t just men I’m wanting for, Alden. I haven’t got the requisition forms I need to issue guns, don’t know where in hell I would get them.”

Alden made to speak again, but Tucker talked right over his protest. “And even if I had them, who would approve them? The damned office is deserted, old McCauley’s too drunk, I’ll bet. I’m sorry, Mr. Alden, I sure as hell would like to help you, but there is just nothing I can do.” He shrugged, smiled, and then Alden realized what was what.

The commander straightened, looked down on Tucker, hoped that the disgust he felt was evident. He could see what Tucker was, now. Traitor, secesh. It was like discovering that a friend and shipmate is in fact an escaped criminal. He tried to think of something to say, something proportionately scathing, but nothing would come.

“Good day,” he said, and turned and stamped out. Through the open door he could hear Tucker call, “And good day to you, Commander! Good luck with them guns!” The humor in his voice was like a knife to Alden.

He crossed back, making once again for the commodore’s office. Having ordered Merrimack away, perhaps McCauley would have the guts now to stand up to Tucker. He