CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CAPTAIN RICHMOND HOBSON felt that at least some of his prayers had been answered. The awful rain had slackened and his instincts told him it was likely to cease altogether in a little while. Visibility had improved dramatically and he could now see the running lights of scores of ships anchored in close formation in the upper bay of New York harbor. Although the wind continued to be strong and the waves choppier than he would have thought optimal, both were well within acceptable limits. The only problem was that it was already midnight and his plans had to be executed in the darkest part of the night. If he did not rush, it would be dawn before he and his men could make their way out and back, and there would be a slaughter.
Of course, he could wait one more day and start earlier in the night, when better weather would make their attempts that much easier. If he did that, however, then many of the dozens of ships would have made their way out the Narrows and into the lower bay anchorage or, worse, started back to Germany.
It was a real Hobson’s choice. He smiled ruefully and silently condemned the English stable owner of the same name who had created the statement.
There was no choice. It would be tonight. “Mr. Holland!”
John Holland had been gazing at the Germans as well, and the summons startled him. A small, bearded man in his sixties, he looked like an innocuous college professor, not an inventor of military devices.
“Yes, Captain Hobson?”
“Can you get your boat ready to depart in one hour? And in position to attack no later than four in the morning?”
Holland thought a moment. “I believe so. I might have to settle for a long shot, but perhaps I can run on the surface a little longer than I first planned. The Germans shouldn’t be too concerned about what might look to them like bobbing debris after such a great storm.”
“Then get started.” Holland nodded and turned away. “And don’t forget which fleet you’re shooting at.” Holland looked back and flashed a quick grin. John Holland’s personal sympathies lay in a desire for Irish independence, which resulted in an almost pathological hatred of things British. He had openly proclaimed a willingness to use America’s only submarine against the Royal Navy.
A part of Hobson’s mind was intrigued by the possibility of using a submarine as a part of his plans, but the poor little boat had so many limitations. First, it had only one torpedo tube; thus, although it carried three torpedoes, it could only fire one at a time and then the tubes had to be torturously reloaded. Second, the vessel was very slow. Holland said it could do seven knots on the surface and four submerged, but Hobson had doubts whether the choppy seas would permit such speeds to be achieved. Worse, the half-dozen or so crewmen lived, if that was the proper word, in a stifling environment and breathed chemical-filled air. The submarine called the Holland, also known as the A-1, used diesel engines for surface travel and acid batteries for underwater propulsion. Hobson was surprised that anyone survived a cruise, however brief. It was no wonder that submarines were referred to as floating coffins. Had he not been ordered to do so by the secretary of the navy, he would have left Holland and his odd craft behind. But the powers that be wanted a little return for their investment.
Under normal circumstances, Hobson would not have permitted a civilian like Holland to participate, but the man was the inventor, designer, and builder of the boat, had been working with the crew, and knew more about his revolutionary craft than any man alive. The Holland, which he had so humbly named after himself, was the sixth submarine John Holland had built and the first accepted by the navy. John Holland was determined that this one would succeed and that others would follow. It would doubtless make him a rich man, and he would use the money to help free Ireland.
A soft, chugging sound disturbed Hobson, and he turned to see the Holland departing its anchorage. This brought a genuine smile to Hobson. Holland and his crew had indeed been ready. Well, they had better be. They had only a few hours to make it out of the Kill Van Kull channel, which connected Newark Bay with the upper bay. Judging by the way the submarine was having to bull its way through the chop, she would need every minute of it. At four in the morning they had to be ready.
God, what an ugly duckling the submarine was, Hobson thought as he waved at the little man whose derbied head projected incongruously from the conning tower. It was time for Hobson to charge up the real weapons at his disposal.
Passage through the channel and out into the bay was a wretched endeavor. Even though the Holland was able to run on the surface through the channel, the hatches had to be kept closed to prevent the sub from being swamped by the waves. This made the already miserable air worse, and the men began to sicken.
Upon reaching the bay, they submerged and started to fight the currents that were trying to push them out to the ocean. All the men, Holland included, were nauseous and drenched with sweat. Holland checked his watch to estimate the distance they’d traveled, then he ordered them back to the surface, where he gazed through the small windows of the conning tower and tried to fathom where he was. If his calculations were even remotely correct, he had at least two more miles to go before he would be among the German ships and within firing range.
The submarine had one advantage that Holland hadn’t told Hobson about. The Whitehead torpedo was the standard torpedo in use in most navies. It had been invented about thirty years previously. The current version carried a 220-pound warhead at a speed of twenty-eight knots and had a range of half a mile. The Holland carried two of them. But the one in the single torpedo tube—and this was John Holland’s secret—was an experimental model, developed by two gentlemen named Bliss and Leavitt. It sacrificed warhead for range and could cruise for more than two miles. That is, if it worked.
After a while, John Holland decided he had closed the distance enough and ordered the submarine to submerge. Periodically, the sub raised itself enough for him to get a rough bearing by looking through the small, heavy glass windows of the conning tower. It was frustrating, and it defeated the purpose of being submerged. Holland thought there had to be a way to view the surface from underwater. A periscope would work if only he could figure out a way to retract it so it wouldn’t be destroyed by waves and current.
The tiny sub—it was only fifty-three feet long and displaced seventy-four tons—continued its up-and-down journey until Holland again looked at his watch and saw it was only a few minutes until four. Wherever he actually was would have to do.
“Please surface, Lieutenant.”
The actual crew consisted of one officer and six enlisted men. Technically, John Holland was a supernumerary, but the regular commander had recently been transferred and another young graduate of the naval academy was temporarily assigned as her captain. Although the lieutenant was eager enough and surprisingly experienced for his age—he had actually seen action during the Spanish war—he knew nothing about the sub. There was no other option; Holland had to command the vessel.
The ship bobbed to the surface. Holland opened the hatch and stuck his head and shoulders out to behold an incredible sight. To his left was the Statue of Liberty and, behind it, the squat bulk of Ellis Island. To his right lay Governors Island and the borough of Brooklyn; immediately to his front was the tip of Manhattan. Lovely though these sights were, the most exciting scene was the rows of brightly lighted German ships. All he had to do was pick one.
Holland was like a child turned loose in a toy store. Which should he choose?
“Mr. Holland, what do you see?” asked the ship’s officer.
“An absolute abundance of targets, Lieutenant King. Please come and help me.”
The young officer squeezed through the hatch and stood on the bobbing deck of the sub. “Absolutely amazing, sir. Not at all like Ohio.” Ernest King had been born in Lorain, Ohio, twenty-three years prior and, until a few hours ago, deeply regretted the impulse that made him volunteer for duty in the navy’s first and only submarine, despite the promotion from ensign. Now his dull world promised to be wonderfully exciting. He selected what appeared to be a large cruiser or even a battleship about a mile away. As he understood the orders given to Holland, the submarine was to attack warships. If they were successful, the rest of Hobson’s command could concentrate on the vulnerable transports. “Even if we miss her, we ought to be able to hit one of those big freighters anchored behind her.”