Chapter XXII

Through Kansas.--Kansas City.--The Cattle Yards.--The Bluffs.--The Fight between the Merrimac and the Monitor.

Our homeward route took us through the southern part of Kansas. It was refreshing to see the vast, verdant plains which greeted us in the early morning light. It is a great and glorious land, and all day long we watched the farms, the houses, the villages, and the towns, as we journeyed onward, ever onward. The whole country was in richest green, resulting from the recent almost too profuse rains. But nothing in Kansas goes by halves. It is a drought or a deluge, a dead calm or a cyclone. How can it be otherwise! From the Rockies to the Alleghanies, it is all a vast, curving plain. The fluid air, in such a wide area, when influenced in any way, must be on a gigantic scale. A tilt of half an inch at one point, will be a mile in height, thousands of miles farther on. Such a proportion of oscillation tells.

One could but dream of coming empire and Western enterprise and power yet unthought of, while lounging about in our flying train, homeward, still homeward, every moment, over those vast plains. We had ample leisure for this delicious, idle dreaming. We looked on, as if we were denizens of another world, as we saw the bustle at passing stations, and the play of varied human interests which disported themselves before our magnificent heedlessness of it all. We were cut off, for the nonce, from all such care or thought, flying onward, filled with pleasure, to our Eastern home.

It was night when we made our first stop of any length. That was at Kansas City. We here crossed the "Big Muddy," or the Missouri River, swollen by the extraordinary rains, and looking more than ever like a tawny lion.

As we neared Kansas City we could see across the waters of the river to the other side, where myriads of cattle wandered like spectres, awaiting further immediate shipment east, or, the nearer end of the adjacent slaughter-houses. How sad it all seemed. The cattle, magnified by the intervening air, loomed up hugely across the brown waters of the river. They seemed like victims of destiny, conscious of their doom; and the sullen river, and the shades of the falling day, gave fitting color and setting to the melancholy picture.

I asked a lady by my side, "Do you see all those cattle?" "Yes," said she; "I cannot bear to look at them." Our thoughts were the same.

How fortunate it is for us that our poor, four-footed brethren cannot probe our motives as we fatten our flocks and herds, and tend them with tireless assiduity! The beasts do love us, perhaps, and think us good and kind, and their best friend. I wonder, as they face the knife or the mallet, at the sublime moment of the end, are they awakened at last to the true inwardness of their false friend, man!

All this great prairie journey was a pleasant contrast to the great deserts and mountains we had passed, since we flew down through Jersey, the Southern States, across Texas and Arizona, out to California and the Rockies with all their wonders.

Our stay in Kansas City was limited to a few hours, but in that time some of us ventured out on the streets, which were not very inviting, down on the bottom lands among the grime of the railroad tracks.

Kansas City lies, the best part of it, on high bluffs overlooking the great Missouri River, and its tributary, at this point, the Kaw. It is really a picturesque place, and capable of being beautified to any extent. The bluffs are quite precipitous, and on their shelving sides a number of squatters have settled, with their nondescript cabins and huts, giving a sort of rag-fair look to the general aspect of the town as seen as a whole. But the City Fathers have awakened to the fact, that those precipitous bluffs can be made highly ornamental, by green sod and trees and flowers. A great park plan has been projected for all those curving spaces, and ere long the city will be made unique and beautiful by those winding, aspiring, and splendid plantations, out of which the homes, the churches, and public buildings will rise as from a garden.

In our brief stay we called on our dear and old-time friend, the Rev. J. Stewart Smith, of St. Mary's, or, rather, I should say he called on us, for, having announced our coming by telegraph, he was there at the station to meet us.

It so happened that a day or two before he had written, for one of the local papers, his recollection of the great fight between the Merrimac and the Monitor in Hampton Roads in the year 1862.

How much has transpired since then!

In view of it all, and our Cuban War still on, all now happily over as I write, I thought that my dear friend's recollections would be of interest, as that of an eye-witness of that great first battle between armored ships.

Here is what he says:

"One of my earliest recollections is of the United States frigate,
Merrimac, which anchored off Norfolk in 1855 before making her
first voyage. Like most small boys, I was deeply interested in
anything that would float, and when one of the officers took me on
board and showed me everything to be seen, explaining, so far as
was possible to make a child understand, the workings of a warship,
I was perfectly happy. I asked many questions, and ever afterward I
felt a peculiar interest--almost a sense of ownership--in that
vessel.

"At the beginning of the war the Merrimac was again in Hampton
Roads, undergoing repairs at the navy yard, just across the river
from Norfolk. One Saturday night early in April, 1861, Norfolk was
abandoned by the Federal forces. The next day the dry dock was
blown up, the navy yard, all the smaller crafts, the Pennsylvania,
perhaps the largest vessel in the service--too large, in fact, to
be seaworthy, but which had been for years used as a training-ship
at the port--and the Merrimac were set on fire.

"I can never forget the scene on that Sunday morning. Words cannot
describe the excitement of the people. The harbor was dotted with
burning vessels; the ear was startled by repeated explosions, and
the whole scene was backed by a mass of roaring flame devouring
shops, storehouses, and sheds about the navy yard.

"The fires were brightly burning when, with hundreds, I found
myself on the ground, which was still hot, picking out nails from
the touch-holes of the heavy guns hastily abandoned. Some were
properly spiked, nails had been simply dropped into others, and
many had not received even this attention. But the thing that
interested me more than all else was the flames still licking the
black sides of the huge Pennsylvania, and the graceful form of 'my
ship,' the Merrimac, now burning to the water's edge.

"The Confederate Government was quick to take advantage of the
situation. The navy yard was rebuilt, and the dry dock repaired.
The plan of rebuilding the Merrimac was proposed, but was found
impracticable on account of the expense, although her hull was
almost uninjured. Lieutenant John Mercer Brooks and Joseph L.
Porter then presented a plan for converting her into a floating
battery, which was accepted. A high fence was built around the dock
and the work began. Great secrecy was maintained, but I was able to
gain admission two or three times, and to look with wondering eyes
on the strange structure. The hull was cut down to the water-line,
a low deck was built out at the bow and stern, heavy oak timbers
were set up like the rafters of a house inclined at an angle of
about 45 degrees, and these were covered with several thicknesses
of railroad iron, which extended into the water. When finished, the
vessel looked like a long, black roof with the top cut off so as to
be flat. Around this ran a light iron rail, a wide funnel rose
about the middle, and a low pyramidal structure pierced with small
sight-holes served to protect the pilot. As I recall her, she
carried two guns forward and three aft on each side, and one or two
at both bow and stern. She had no mast, except a short one at the
stern for the flag. The bow was pointed without curving, and an oak
ram, protected by a heavy iron shoe, extended forward under water.
Her name was changed to the Virginia, but every one spoke of her
still as the Merrimac. One day it was announced that she was ready
to go out, and the next that she was a failure. For weeks reports
of the most conflicting character were in circulation, and no one
could find out anything definite.

"The report of her failure had, however, generally been credited,
when on Saturday morning, March 8, 1862, the news came that she was
going out. It spread like wildfire, and soon every one in the city
was wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement. Slowly she
steamed down the river, looking like a floating shed, and with her
went the Jamestown, the Patrick Henry, and several other vessels
that made up the Confederate fleet. The town was wild; whistles
blew, bells rang, guns were fired, people shouted, the air was full
of flags and hats and cries. Every one who could do so hastened
toward Sewell's Point to see the expected battle. Vehicles of every
description were pressed into service, and those who could not ride
set out to walk through the sand.

"The Congress and the Cumberland rode at anchor a few hundred yards
from shore, and not far away the Minnesota and the Roanoke. These
vessels were a part of the United States blockading fleet. As the
Merrimac drew near, we on the shore could see the preparations
making on the wooden ships to receive their strange foe. The guns
of the Congress roared out, and those of the Cumberland joined in
the chorus, but although fired at short range, their shot fell
harmless from the iron sides of the Merrimac. The flash of cannon,
and the exploding shells, were clearly seen when the smoke would
lift.

"As if in disdain of the puny weapons turned against her, the
ironclad went slowly on till she seemed to bury herself in the side
of the Cumberland. She had rammed the big ship. The guns roared
again and again, but without effect, and lurching forward, the
Cumberland sank in fifty feet of water, her masthead, from which
floated the flag, remaining visible above the waves.

"The Merrimac then turned her attack upon the Congress, and the
other Confederate ships began to engage in the battle. The Congress
soon ran aground and was practically helpless against the
tremendous fire that was turned against her. About four o'clock her
flag was hauled down, and she was boarded by a Confederate officer.
Later she was discovered to be on fire in several places, and, her
magazine exploding, she was destroyed. The Minnesota was next
assailed. She also ran aground, and the Merrimac could not reach
her, but the wooden fleet poured in shot and shell, inflicting
serious damage. As night was now drawing on, the Confederate fleet
withdrew, having carried everything before it.

"Early Sunday morning the Merrimac again turned seaward, evidently
intending to attack the Minnesota. I hurried down to a point on the
south side of the bay, from which I could get an unobstructed view
of whatever might take place. The Monitor had arrived the night
before. I had never seen the strange-looking craft, but the minute
I laid eyes on it I knew what it was. Young as I was, I realized
that I was about to witness the most remarkable naval battle that
was ever fought up to that time--the first encounter between
ironclads.

"The Merrimac was the pride of my heart. When I saw the Monitor I
wondered what the result of the fight would be. With a glass in my
hand I shivered with excitement as they approached each other. The
two strangest vessels on the sea were face to face. A cheese-box on
a plank, all painted black, not inaccurately describes the
Monitor's appearance. She was much smaller and more active than the
Confederate vessel, and carried only two guns, but these could be
pointed in any direction by the revolving of her turret. Quickly
they engaged, and the fight soon became furious.

"The guns on the Merrimac poured forth broadside after broadside.
The shot and shells glanced off the turret of the Monitor and fell
harmless into the water. In the same way, the heaviest shot from
the Monitor's guns bounded off the slanting sides of the Merrimac,
like foul balls from a player's bat. Sometimes it looked as if they
were in actual contact. Even then the shells did no harm of any
consequence to either vessel.

"The Minnesota joined in the conflict, and fired her broadside of
fifty guns into the Merrimac. It seemed to me that every shot
struck, but they all fell harmless from the invulnerable sides of
the ironclad. The battle was waged with terrific rapidity of
action. Now the two craft seemed joined together, now the Monitor
would run around the Merrimac, as if trying to find a weak spot.
The sound of the cannonading was deafening, even at my distance.

"The Merrimac presently withdrew. The crowd on the shore trembled
and asked what the matter could be. Was she defeated? There was
only a moment's suspense, but it seemed like an hour. The answer
came soon. Suddenly swinging around, the Merrimac paused for a
minute, then steamed with full head against the Monitor. The little
'cheese-box' staggered from the blow, but soon righted and
continued firing, practically unharmed. When the Cumberland was
rammed, the iron shoe that covered the Merrimac's ram was torn off,
and so she had nothing but the oak foundation to oppose to the iron
sides of the Monitor.

"This was about the last incident of the fight. Shortly afterward
the two vessels drew apart, the smoke lifted, and neither of them
showed any disposition to renew the battle. The Monitor headed
toward Fortress Monroe, and the Merrimac steamed toward the
Minneapolis, as if to continue the fight, but passed on without
attacking her, and rested under the guns of the Confederate battery
at Craney Island.

"Norfolk was evacuated by the Confederates two months later, the
navy yard was burned, and many ships were destroyed. An effort was
made to get the Merrimac to Richmond, but it was impossible to take
her over the bar at the entrance of the James River. Just at
daylight, Sunday morning, May 11th, we in Norfolk were awakened by
an explosion whose meaning all quickly guessed. The Merrimac had
been blown up by her commander, Josiah Tattnall, and so effectively
destroyed that no fragments sufficient to reveal the details of her
construction were ever recovered.

"The Monitor was lost in a storm off Cape Hatteras at midnight of
December 31 of the same year (1862). The two ironclads, which in a
single day had changed the face of war and revolutionized the
navies of the world, thus found early graves."