Harry Harrison: Stars and Stripes Forever

The President leafed through the newspapers. The press seemed to be uniformly against him and his administration these days. The abolitionists were in full bay after him again — anything short of killing every Southerner and freeing every slave was a worthless goal. An item caught his eye and he smiled as he read it, then smacked the paper with his hand.

“Now this is real journalism, Nicolay. Our guardians of law and order have made a famous victory on a steamer at Baltimore. Listen… ‘Their suspicions were aroused by a lady who appeared nervous and desirous of avoiding them. When her reticule was searched a quantity of gloves, stockings and letters were found, all intended to the South. As well a small boy was discovered to be carrying a quantity of quinine. Both were allowed to pass after their cargo had been confiscated.’ Our protectors never sleep.”

By the time they had gone through the files the train was pulling into the West Point station, the locomotive’s steam whistle announcing their arrival. Lincoln pulled on coat and scarf, clapped his stovepipe hat onto his head before descending to meet the army officers and foundry officials. Cameron and his secretaries followed. They all walked together to the ferry that would take them across the river to Cold Spring. It was a chill but brief crossing and carriages were waiting for them at the dock when they disembarked. The horses were stamping their hooves, with their breath rising like smoke in the still, cold air. A serious, frockcoated man stood beside the first carriage as they approached.

“Mr. President,” Cameron said, “may I introduce Mr. Robert Parker Parrott, inventor and gunsmith, proprietor of the West Point Foundry.”

Lincoln nodded as Parrott shook his hand, then Cameron’s.

“A great pleasure, Mr. Lincoln, to have you visit my foundry and see for yourself what we are doing here.”

“I could not refuse the opportunity, Mr. Parrott. My commanders cry for guns and more guns and their wishes must be respected.”

“We are doing our best here to grant those wishes. I’ve prepared a test of our newly completed 300-pounder. If you find it agreeable we will go to the test site first — then on to the cannon works. I can assure you that this gun is the most impressive and powerful that I have ever built.”

And indeed it was. Secured firmly to the massive cannon-testing platform, it was a black and ominous brute. Lincoln nodded in appreciation as he paced the length of the weapon and, despite his great height, he could barely see into the gun’s muzzle to make out the lands and grooves of the rifling inside.

“Charged and loaded, Mr. President,” Parrott said. “If you will retire a short distance away you will see what this gun can do.”

When the party was safely out of range of any accident the command was given and the firing mechanism activated.

The ground shook with the strength of the explosion and, even with their hands clasped hard over their ears, the spectators found that the sound was deafening. An immense gout of flame seared from the muzzle and Lincoln, standing to the rear of the weapon, saw the pencil-like dark trace of the shell hurtle across the river. An instant later there was an explosion among the trees on the range on the other bank. Smoke billowed high among the splintered branches and some seconds later the sound of the blast reached their ears.

“An impressive sight, Mr. Parrott,” Lincoln said, “and one that I shall never forget. Now you must tell me more about your work here — but in the warmth of the foundry if you please.”

It was a short drive from the test site and they hurried into the beckoning heat that emanated from the roaring furnaces. An army lieutenant was waiting there; he saluted when they approached.

“General Ripley sent me ahead, Mr. President. He regrets that duties at West Point prevented him from joining you earlier. However he is on his way now.”

Lincoln nodded. Brigadier General James W. Ripley was head of the Ordnance Department and was responsible not only for the production of weapons, but also for the introduction of new designs. At the President’s insistence he had reluctantly agreed to leave his paperwork and join the party at the foundry.

With Parrott leading the way, the presidential inspection party toured the foundry. Work did not stop: the men laboring over the molten iron could not spare the time to even look up at their distinguished visitors. Cannon of all sizes filled the score of buildings, in all stages of production from rough castings to final assembly. All stamped with the initials WPF and RPP. West Point Foundry and Robert Parker Parrott. Lincoln slapped his hand against the cascabel of a 30-pounder.

“My engineers tell me that banding the breech of your guns is responsible for their success. Is that true?”

“In a sense, yes, but the matter is quite technical, Mr. President.”

“Do not hesitate to inform me in detail, Mr. Parrott. You must remember that before I was a politician I was a surveyor and very keen on mathematics. I understand that rifling the cannon is the source of the current problems.”

“You are completely correct, sir. Smoothbore cannon are now a thing of the past. The twisted rifling spins the shell as it emerges, giving far better accuracy and range. But this also causes problems. Rifled shells seal in the explosion far more than solid shot does, which is what causes the great increase in range. Alas, this greater pressure can also cause the gun to explode. For this reason an iron reinforcing ring is fitted around the breech to accommodate the higher pressure. Using rings in this way is not new. However my invention lies in the construction of a better and far stronger ring, as I shall now demonstrate. If you will, sir, over here.”

The newly forged and rifled barrel of the 20-pounder rested on metal rollers, with its breech projecting to the side. At Parrott’s signal two mighty blacksmiths took their tongs and seized a white-hot iron band from inside a roaring furnace. With skilled movements they slipped it over the breech of the waiting gun. It was only slightly larger than the gun and they grunted with effort as they struggled and hammered it into place.

“That’s done it — start her turning!”

As the newly banded gun began to rotate, a hollow rod was pushed into the barrel of the gun and water pumped in to cool it from the inside.

“Metal expands when heated,” Parrott explained. “That band is larger in circumference now than it was before heating. As you can see the water is cooling the breech and the band in turn. As the band cools it contracts evenly and grips the barrel tightly around its entire circumference. Previous to this the usual practice of banding reinforced cannon was not as efficient or as strong. The barrel would be gripped unevenly and in just a few spots. Barrels made in that fashion would be forced to use much smaller charges or they would have exploded.”

“I am impressed. And how many of these new guns are you producing at this time?”

“At present we complete ten heavy guns every week. Along with two thousand shells for them.”

“In your letter you said that you could increase that?”

“I can — and I will. With new furnaces and lathes I can expand within three months so that I will be able to produce at least twenty-five guns and seven thousand shells every week.” Parrott hesitated a moment and looked disturbed. “The details have been worked out and are ready for your inspection. However, would it be possible… to talk to you in private?”

“Mr. Cameron and my secretaries share my every confidence.”

Parrott was sweating now — and not from the foundry’s heat. “I am sure that they do. But this is a matter of great secrecy, individuals…”