Russell Moran: The Gray Ship

He never liked Ashley Patterson, and since she embarrassed him in the wardroom incident about Seaman Thurber’s promotion, his dislike was turning to hatred. When she named Ivan Campbell to lead the delegation to the Navy Department, that cemented it. I’m second in command of this goddamn ship, he thought. I should be the one to make contact with the Secretary of the Navy.

Bradley realized that his career would soon be over, in 1861 or 2013. He was 45 years old and had been passed over twice for captain. Even though he had licked his drinking problem long ago, there were still black marks on his record. Because the captain is responsible for his annual fitness report, that wardroom incident probably tolled the end of his days in the Navy. I’ve been an officer since that bitch was in elementary school, he thought. Now she’s a media darling, outranks me, and will probably be the final nail in my career coffin. I may as well be in the Confederate Navy.

Bradley sat bolt upright, spilling coffee all over his desk.

The Confederate Navy? As a Southerner and as a history buff, he always felt that the Civil War was a big mistake. But now that there’s a war, is he on the right side?

The Confederate Navy, he kept thinking. If he were a Confederate officer he’d no sooner be a traitor to his country than Robert E. Lee or anyone who fought for the South. Not only would he become a captain, he thought, he could see a clear path to admiral. If Dashing Ashley and her new friend Lt. Thurber can figure out a way back to 2013, he would be perfectly content to finish out his career in the nineteenth-century. He had no wife, no kids, and very little that he wanted to return to. Eighteen sixty-one sounds like a good year to me, he thought.

Bradley knew something that the Confederate command didn’t.

He knew the secrets of The Gray Ship .

The ship slowed to a position 10 miles southeast of the mouth of Chesapeake Bay, after a journey of 14 hours. It was April 13, the day after the Battle of Fort Sumter.

The California carried a 40-foot motor launch with ample room to accommodate Secretary Wells and his delegation.

Captain Patterson ordered the boat lowered at 0400, well before sunrise. She had given up on the idea of total secrecy. She knew that there had been many sightings of the Gray Ship . The launch would find a place to tie up around dawn. The Marine corporal and the petty officer who was the boat captain were both armed and would provide security. If they were questioned, they would say they were from the Gray Ship .

Ivan Campbell, Father Rick and Lt. Jack Thurber boarded the launch at 0410. It was pitch dark, but the temperature was mild and the winds calm. Marine Corporal Robert Falanga tossed off the lines to a sailor on the ship. Petty Officer Michael Donizzio, the captain of the motor launch, maneuvered the boat away from the base of the ladder. Donizzio pulled the launch away from the California and steered toward the mouth of the Potomac River.

Campbell turned to Father Rick and Lt. Thurber and said, “I think this is a boat ride we’ll never forget.”

Father Rick looked at him and said, “Is that because we’re motoring up the Potomac River in 1861 to visit the Secretary of the Navy and invite him to take a look at 2013?”

“Yeah, something like that Father,” said Campbell.”

Donizzio stayed in the center of the river because he did not have accurate charts for 1861. Although the boat was equipped with a depth meter, Donizzio knew, as did any experienced boater, that relying solely on a depth meter was poor seamanship. Water depth, especially in a busy river, can go from feet to inches in an instant, and many a boater has learned that a depth meter often lets you know that you’re about to go aground in a couple of seconds. The launch was also equipped with radar, so piloting the boat up the Potomac wasn’t difficult. They arrived at a pier that had a view of the not-quite finished Capital Dome. The time was 0545. Sunrise would be at 0630. Donizzio expertly guided the boat next to the pier, reversing her big diesel engines to bring it to a stop. Before he joined the Navy, Donizzio worked in his father’s boatyard. Small boat handling came second nature to him.

Because it was still early, Donizzio put on a pot of coffee for his guests. As captain of the motor launch, he considered anyone aboard to be his guest.

“You’d make a great tour guide with your own boat, Mike,” said Father Rick.

“Planning on it, Padre,” said Donizzio. At 0800, Campbell said they should head for the Navy Department. Donizzio stepped onto the pier and walked up to a small building on the roadway that appeared to be a general store. He asked the proprietor where he could call for a carriage. The store owner called up to his son, who came bounding down the stairs.

“This young man will be happy to assist you,” said the store owner. The kid, maybe 17 years old, ran behind the store and a couple of minutes later brought the horse drawn carriage to the front of the store. Donizzio hopped in and they rode down to the pier.

The carriage pulled up to the Navy Department at 0900. All three officers were wearing the period clothing that the SEALs had stolen from Morton’s Dry Goods Store in Charleston.

The building that housed the Navy Department was a two-story structure with plain but elegant stone carving around its entrance, which was four steps above the street.

As they strode through the front door they all had the same thought: “No metal detector?”

The lobby of the building had no windows and was dimly lit by gas lamps. An officer sat at a desk off to the right about 25 feet from the entrance. On the other side of the room, opposite from the officer’s desk, was a couch and a couple of chairs. Campbell walked up to the officer and got right to the point.

“Good morning, Lieutenant. We’re officers from the USS California , which you may know as the Gray Ship . We’ve been sent by our captain to contact Secretary Wells.”

Looking at their Morton’s Dry Goods best the officer asked, “Are these your normal uniforms?”

“The Captain ordered the uniform of the day to be civilian clothes for the purpose of our visit,” Campbell said.

“Please wait, gentlemen. I’ll ask if Secretary Wells can see you.” The officer walked through a large doorway opening.

Lt. Jack observed, “I guess they haven’t invented an intercom system yet.” They expected to be kept waiting awhile so they sat on the large sofa in the lobby. The union officer burst into the room in less than a minute.

“Secretary Wells will see you immediately,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Please follow me.”

I guess the Secretary is anxious to see us, Campbell thought. They walked down a long hallway with quaint opaque windows on the doors, each imprinted with the purpose of the office. The officer opened the door and led them into Wells’ office. The room was 20 feet by 20 feet, tastefully decorated with dark wood paneling. Each wall boasted paintings of famous naval battles.

Gideon Wells, age 59, with the largest white beard any of them had ever seen, sprang to his feet and almost sprinted around his desk to greet his visitors.

“So you’re from the Gray Ship I’ve been hearing so much about,” Wells said. “It is fortuitous indeed that you should seek me out.” Charmingly stuffy language, thought Fr. Rick. “Gentlemen, my staff and I have been struggling for days to devise a plan to contact you . Please be seated.” Campbell introduced his colleagues and himself.

A sailor appeared carrying a large tray with coffee, tea, and cakes. Wells asked, “Do you mind if I ask my aide, Commander Roebling, to join us?”