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maritime – monitorkitty

I hadn’t expected thorns.

Quite honestly, I’m not sure what I expected, but I thought that surely a hero’s grave would be well kept. Lovingly tended – by whom I did not know – but surely someone.

There was a small American flag in a tiny holder with a big U.S. stamped inside of a star that looked for the world like a sheriff’s badge. Several of the graves were marked with these. Revolutionary war, Civil War, Span-Am, WWI, WWII…whatever the conflict, they all had the same marker.

It was at least something.

I had expected to cry – and I did, a little. But it was more for the benign neglect than the emotional connection I had with the man who lay six feet or so below me. A man whom I had followed on a singular journey over the past 5 years. A man I continue to follow until his story is done. And I am the one to complete it. To bring it to the world. This I know.

I hadn’t brought anything with me that would clear the thorny interloper that had sprung up between Eben and his sister-in-law Henrietta. It threatened to topple one or both of the stones at some point in the not too distant future. Nearby, his brother Stephen’s stone stood tall, while brother Elisha’s stone lay in two pieces, with at least the written part leaned up against the base. “Lost at sea” was engraved forlornly across the bottom. Elisha’s last resting place is unknown. And he would have been largely unknown to Eben, dying when Eben was all of two. Their father’s stone was broken, too – and lay face down. I didn’t have the strength to lift it, and I’m not sure I should have. Mother Sarah’s stone was serenely standing, and sister Sarah was nearby with her husband. So there was some tranquility to be found.

I also found a nephew I did not know. Roswell M. Stoddard, buried next to his uncle Eben. Little Roswell lived for 4 months and 18 days in 1854. Eben would have been 20 or thereabouts, and already taken to the sea. Perhaps he knew him briefly. Perhaps not. But they lie together in repose in the family’s plot, side by side, forever bound together. I saw no evidence of nephews James and Stephen, and I don’t know if they lived long lives or short. But they were nowhere evident.

There was the thorn, however.

Each time I approached Eben’s stone for a closer look it reached for me – tapping me on the shoulder like a reminder. Of what, I am not certain. This was no rosemary for remembrance, after all. Or was it? He was not the warmest of souls as far as I can tell, yet neither was he entirely cold.

Well, he was now, I thought, somewhat morbidly. But he had been a creature of opportunity, ambition, and arguably great passion – though the latter was not entirely reserved for his wife Ellen. She rests about 150 miles to the north – decidedly not with Eben. Did she ever visit here? I have no way of knowing that either. For his sake, I hope she did – but knowing what I know, I have my doubts. And I don’t know who else visits. Who maintains the flags. Who monitors the thorn.

But at least today I visited. Not a wife. Not a lover. Not family. Not a friend.

No, wait. That last one is not right. I am a friend, albeit one now 116 years removed from the day he last drew a ragged breath at Sailor’s Snug Harbor on Staten Island. One hundred and forty one years since he raced to the rescue of the USS Huron, though sadly too late. One hundred and fifty five years since he took down the Alabama off Cherbourg and 157 years since he brought up the Merrimack at Gosport. And one hundred and eighty four years since he drew his first breath here in what would become Ledyard, Connecticut. Oh yes – I stand corrected. I am a friend – and one who cares deeply.

And so I visited with my friend for a spell. And I brushed back the thorns that threatened to overtake him. And I promised that I would not let that happen. His life, his work, his story, his final resting place – they would not be forgotten.

At least not on my watch.


Some thoughts about following a dead man.

Historians are supposed to be objective. We are supposed to let the sources speak for themselves and not manipulate them to our purposes. We are supposed to remain removed from our subjects of study.

All of this is good. And it makes for great history.

But there are times you meet someone long dead about whom it is hard to stay completely objective. Because, you see, historians can and do fall in love with the past. Not a romantic love, mind you. But a kinship. Maybe more like family. I mean – you insinuate your way into their lives like a family member, and in many cases, you know more about them than their current family does. Their words, their lives, their illnesses – all become available to the historian who pursues them.

And I pursue Eben Stoddard.

So it is that today I found myself walking through Portsmouth, New Hampshire trying to find the essence of a young sailor who cast his lot with the Union and found a berth as volunteer Acting Master on the USS Kearsarge. He lived here for a time as the ship was readied for service. And he found love here – though it was a love fraught with difficulty and frequent separation. It was a love that did not survive his post-war occupation which found him away from his wife and family more than he was with them.

He moved his young wife from Portsmouth to Portsmouth. New Hampshire to Virginia. He spent days, weeks, months away in his job as a wrecker – traveling as far as South America, the Caribbean, Bermuda, and Africa to do his work. They had a child – a girl – in 1870, and a boy in 1880. But by then I guess his wife had had enough and went back to her Portsmouth with the children.

I visited her home today. I’m as fascinated with her as I am with him. I don’t pretend to know what motivated either of them in their personal lives. I can’t know how difficult the marriage may have been. I don’t know who was at fault, though I suspect it was a shared fault. They divorced – which was not common. But then they remarried. Each other. The pension files tell a terse story – it was for the insurance.

Her claim was denied.

He died alone at Sailor’s Snug Harbor on Staten Island – no longer able to work in his adopted home of Norfolk, Virginia. His company had been bought out by Merritt & Chapman, but in any event he could barely walk and barely hear – the notation said ‘deaf and worn out’; his occupation had destroyed so much.

On that intake page at Snug Harbor she was an afterthought – added as next of kin after almost anyone else. I doubt that they saw each other much – if at all – after he arrived there in 1898. He lingered on until 1902 – active at first, being allowed ‘leave’ for days or weeks at a time. Then the times grew less frequent. Shorter. Until he no longer left at all.

I don’t know yet if he saw his children during those years. The daughter went on to marry and have a nice life as far as I can tell.

The son – not so much. Institutionalized for years – he died alone, just like his father. But he was in a mental institution with no next of kin known. Father and mother both long dead. Sister moved on. I had hoped to find the son today as well – to stand there and say ‘I know who you are. I know from whence you came, and I am here to honor you’ – but perhaps that is for another time.

And she died alone – in a hotel in Philadelphia. The death certificate reveals diabetes, and pancreatic cancer. She was presumably sent home on that final journey – to her Portsmouth. She is elusive, though. I have found her mortal remains nowhere.

But for today – I honored their young selves – Eben and Ellen. Full of hope, hopelessly optimistic and looking into a future that neither one of them could ken. I walked through the streets of Portsmouth as much a ghost as they were. I was half-bemused, letting them lead me to the places I needed to see. My GPS was turned off. Instinct was turned on. And I found them there. And I will find them elsewhere. Until they tell me that I have followed them enough.

He was a hero by any accounts. He commanded the aft pivot of the Kearsarge in the battle against the Alabama. But that was a few short hours in his life. The rest of his life was spent rescuing ships, cargo, and human life from the clutches of the sea and shore.

But he couldn’t rescue what had been with his wife and family. Because all heroes have their faults.

As do historians. But I’m going to try to tell their story as best I can.

It’s what I do.


It’s a time of goodbyes. But for today, we say goodby to our old Bucko mate….

So Long – C. Fox Smith (1924)

All coiled down, an’ it’s time for us to go;
Every sail’s furled in a neat harbour stow;
Another ship for me, an’ for her another crew –
An’ so long, sailorman … good luck to you!

Fun an’ friends I wish you till the pay’s all gone –
Pleasure when you spend it an’ content when it’s done –
An’ a chest that’s not empty when you go back to sea,
An’ a better ship than she’s been, an’ a truer pal than me.

A good berth I wish you, in a ship that’s well found,
With a decent crowd forrard, an’ her gear all sound,
Spars a man can trust to when it’s comin’ on to blow,
An’ no bosun bawlin’ when it’s your watch below.

A good Trade I wish you, an’ a fair landfall,
Neither fog, nor iceberg, nor long calm, nor squall,
A pleasant port to come to, when the work’s all through –
An’ so long, sailorman … good luck to you.




From the William & Mary Quarterly, July, 1915, Volume 24, Issue 1 – so writes Robert L. Preston on page 66:

As fifty years have passed since that eventful combat, let us relegate to the rubbish heap all such tales as that the Monitor drove the Merrimac back to Norfolk, never to come out again. Burn up the histories, if they are incorrect, and re-write them. The hot blood of patriotism is excellent in time of war, but in peace by all means let us have the cold facts of history.

If fairy tales are necessary, serve them up to the little tin soldiers and the chocolate-cream generals, who have feasted on them so long. The real soldiers have no taste for them, and the children of the country need plain and simple food.

Now I’m hungry…..

21. July 2008 · Write a comment · Categories: maritime · Tags:

From Monday’s a bitch

1. Have you ever been on a cruise?
Yes – several. But none of them are typical, and only one was on an actual cruise ship – and it had neither pool, nor floor show, nor shuffleboard. The rest involved square riggers and the leeward rail….

2. Do you own a gravy boat?
Sadly, no.

3. You’ve become the proud owner of a brand new boat.What do you name your vessel?
The HMS Burford, of course….

4. What is your favourite movie about boats?
Well – that would have to be ‘Jaws’ – since they need a bigger one….

5. Do you get sea sick easily?
65-foot square rigger, The Perfect Storm, galley duty…..you do the math.


Today has given me pause, as I have only now found out about the death of the HMS Belfast‘s ships’ cat.

I do hate people sometimes.

Anyway – I shall raise a glass this evening for ships’ cats past, present and future. And confusion to their enemies.


For those of y’all who’ve wondered where I’ve been lately…..

From The Daily Press

Submerging into history

The USS Monitor Center in Newport New prepares to show off its port to visitors


February 11, 2007

Nobody saw the massive project looming toward the radar screen when The Mariners’ Museum launched an ambitious fundraising and improvement campaign just over 10 years ago.

Despite more than two decades of expeditions, underwater archaeologists had recovered little more than a hundred small artifacts from the wreck of the USS Monitor, the famous Civil War ironclad that lay at the bottom of the Atlantic off stormy Cape Hatteras, N.C. The one large object they had retrieved – a 1,500-pound anchor – still left plenty of room for the museum to fulfill its role as the primary caretaker of artifacts associated with the pioneering vessel.

But with the rescue of the ship’s propeller in 1998 – followed by the recovery of the massive steam engine and still larger gun turret within four years – a responsibility that had long weighed less than 2,000 pounds suddenly exploded into some 150 tons of priceless Civil War iron. That dramatic leap in scale not only pumped up the museum’s long-term plans in ways nobody had foreseen but also sparked a remarkable transformation.

Now nearing completion, the USS Monitor Center represents one of the largest parts of an enormous building campaign in which Peninsula museums have added more than 150,000 square feet and nearly $80 million in improvements over the past year because of the Jamestown 2007 celebration. But when it opens March 9, the 63,500-square-foot, $30 million exhibit hall and conservation lab also will herald a striking change in the character of one of the nation’s leading maritime museums.

“We’re not just trying to make the Monitor Center, we’re trying to change the face of The Mariners’ Museum,” Monitor Center curator Anna Holloway says. “We want to increase our visibility. We want to raise our profile. We want to change not only the way that we’re perceived but also how we do things and who our visitors are.”

Tacked onto the list of improvements targeted by the 1996 capital campaign, the Monitor Center began in late 1998 with a $500,0000 study designed to sketch out what would be needed to conserve and display the mounting stream of artifacts from the wreck. Within 18 months, that exploratory glimpse had grown into a bold plan for a large-scale exhibit hall as well as a state-of-the-art conservation lab whose work could be observed by the public.

The award-winning architectural design that resulted envisioned a sprawling two-level structure in which visitors would be able to walk in, around, on top of and under a full-scale replica of the Monitor. But when potential general contractors began to respond to the plan, the cost of the heroic engineering measures needed to make it work with the unforgiving Tidewater soil was colossal.

“It was a very wrenching fork in the road. We just couldn’t afford it,” recalls David Dwyer, Mariners’ vice president and executive manager of the project. “Because of the water table, the underground gallery – which we dubbed the ‘bathtub’ – would have popped back out of the ground without really robust support. That drove the cost to the point where the first 25 to 30 percent of the building was taking up about half the budget – and we just had to get more bang for our buck.”

Other problems confronted the planners, too, including the difficulty of creating a structure that not only incorporated two distinct functions – an exhibit hall and a conservation lab – but also embraced the complicated storyline behind the historic Monitor of the Civil War and its dramatic recovery nearly 140 years later.

Both topics had scored extremely well with test audiences, Holloway says. But putting them together in a single space proved to be a challenge.

“We have a story that takes place partly in the mid-1800s – and partly today. We have artifacts that are in the process of being conserved – but they may not be ready for years. We have artifacts that may never be recovered – but we have to have places for them in case they are,” Holloway says.

“Put the whole thing together and you have so many parts that it seems almost impossible to get your hands on it all. We actually had some design firms withdraw their proposals because it was just too hard.”

Many of these problems were ironed out through “Ironclad Evidence,” a 2004 exhibit that Holloway describes as a “dress rehearsal.” Equally important was the proving ground that the show provided for the museum’s sometimes heated relationship with the Monitor National Marine Sanctuary, the Newport News-based federal agency charged with protecting the wreck and overseeing the artifact recovery and conservation efforts.

Few people know as much about the famous ship as sanctuary historian Jeff Johnston, who Holloway now describes as her co-curator. But past differences between the two institutions have often been wide and deep, ranging from disagreements over the care of the artifacts to turf disputes between the sanctuary’s superiors at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration and the museum’s board of trustees.

“The whole purpose of ‘Ironclad Evidence’ was to figure out how to work together – and that meant working together at every level,” Holloway says. “We had to learn to speak each other’s institutional language. But once we got over that, we really worked together very well.”

Proof of that partnership can be found not only in NOAA’s leading financial contribution to the project – an estimated $10 million so far – but also in the close attention that Holloway and Johnston have learned to pay to each other’s interests. Working with New York-based exhibit design firm DMCD, they’ve striven to hammer out an experience that transcends both the Monitor and the Civil War by emphasizing the human stories associated with the ship. They’ve also insisted on moving far beyond the traditional exhibit paradigms associated with history museums.

“We’ve got great stuff – really great artifacts – and really great stories to tell. But when you move through most of our galleries, it’s just a cabinet of curiosities unless you have one of our fabulous docents there to make it come alive for you,” Holloway says.

“We can’t have docents in every spot all the time. So we had to find new ways to take the stuff we have and make it more interesting and relevant.”

One strategy came from the National Aquarium in Baltimore, from which Holloway and Johnston borrowed the meandering but carefully calculated floor plan that has helped make the attraction one of the most popular on the East Coast. Marked by dramatic twists and turns that often lead to unexpected theatrical vistas, it animates the visitors’ experience in ways rarely found in history museums.

“We want people to say ‘Whoa!’ when they see what great stuff we have,” Holloway says, “and that’s what all these twists and turns are about.”

Computer technology plays an important role, too, especially as a means of engaging visitors and immersing them in the rich array of objects found in both the Mariners’ and the Monitor collections. In one attraction called “100 Days to Build a Warship,” visitors can interact with a computer screen that moves along a wall-sized timeline, accessing reams of audio, video and animated footage in addition to photographs, documents and artifacts explaining how the Monitor was constructed.

“NOAA’s collection is huge. The museum’s collection is huge. So how do we show people all this stuff?” Johnston asks. “The answer lies in technology like the I-Wall, where they can immerse themselves in all sorts of things if they want to – and where, suddenly, as you’re going through all this information, something like the receipt for the Monitor‘s paint job can become a really cool document.”

Similar kinds of technology power the exhibit’s personal story stations, enabling visitors to understand the people and issues surrounding the Monitor in a vivid and unexpectedly comprehensive manner. Other computer stations use challenging interactive games to explore such otherwise obtuse topics as designing an ironclad and maneuvering a wooden warship.

More digital magic waits in the museum’s new Battle Theater, where visitors will come as close to experiencing the historic clash between the Monitor and the CSS Virginia as current exhibit technology can make it, Johnston says.

“The great thing about the Monitor Center is that it allows you to experience the traditional and the new side by side – and the mix between the two works really well,” he explains.

“People will be able to see cool artifacts in cases – and we’ll have plenty of those. But they’ll also be able to push buttons and do things with these cool interactives.”


My oh my – how the time does fly…

Here we are staring spring in the face already. A month has flown by nearly unnoticed as things have sped up to the point that I am displaying both a red and a blue shift depending on your vantage point.

We have survived yet another Battle of Hampton Roads weekend – and, at year 4 – it seems that we almost know what we’re doing! It was a whirlwind of fun – seeing old friends, making new ones and having a truly fun time whilst actually learning something! I had a great time with our speakers and guests – I had a meeting with James McPherson, Craig Symonds and Harold Holzer to go over themes for the exhibition. They could have made it feel like my doctoral comps all over again – but instead it was a blast! I got to take them out onto the deck of the full-size Monitor replica and it was fun to watch their reactions.

I think everyone who has been out there gets goosebumps. It’s pretty phenomenal.

So that was fun! The weekend is always great for catching up with folks we haven’t seen in a year, too. Bill (who is triply related to folks from the Monitor‘s crew and builders) was so much fun to hang out with and Francis and his wife brought many fine goodies to loan to us for the exhibit. Steve & Sylvia came all the way from California and we had a great time discussing all things ironclad and looking at pictures of Steve’s RC replicas – which he’ll be bringing out east next year for the grand opening.

Bob from National Ge0graphic brought freebies for us as well as an incredible Jim Gurney painting that will hopefully come to stay with us someday, someway. Bob Holland brought us some paintings to display as well – and some prints for us to sell. Very nice indeed!

We were able to display a brand new model of the CSS Patrick Henry made by Ozzy Raines. She’s absolutely beautiful – his work is exquisite. The MOC wants her – and I offered to arm-wrestle Dr. Coski for it – but he declined…

We also had a new member of the staff show up just in time for the weekend. Gunner Wood – fresh from Tennessee (and the Guru compound) made his appearance – along with his gun and pipe – and delighted all of the guests who were fortunate enough to meet him. We are looking for an appropriate berth for him in the new exhibition as he is – of course – a model of naval fortitude.

Well – I’m telecommuting at the moment – so work calls. But rather than continue to let you all think I fell off the face of the earth – I thought I’d resurface, if only for a moment…..