Excerpt from That Anvil of Our Souls by David Poyer, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

-- Not a "ship," sir. It is a fighting machine. Impregnable. Irresistible. Unsinkable. Ericsson spied the housekeeper lurking on the landing and shouted for coffee. -- So you're here to assist me. How?

-- In whatever capacity you wish. I have some ability in drafting.

-- Mister MacCord does the working drawings. He nodded behind him, and Theo, looking over what he saw now was another drafting board, realized an assistant had overheard the entire conversation.

-- Then if you wish me to hoof them back and forth, I will gladly do that. Whatever you like. I believe in your vision and will do all in my power to assist you in its realization. And the Navy is paying my salary. You need furnish nothing in that direction.

Ericsson cocked his head. -- Can you do without sleep?

-- That is one thing one learns in an engine room. I will sleep no more in the next ninety days than you.

The engineer looked skeptical. He said slowly, drawing a pen through a wiper: -- You might be young enough to train. If you are capable of checking a calculation for any errors fatigue may interpolate, I can put you to use. As well as in carrying instructions to the various contractors. Ensuring plans are being carried out to specifications.

-- It will be my honor to work under you, sir.

A frosty, remote grimace. -- Perhaps we shall give you a trial. Coffee, Hubble? I confess I need a cup.

-- Hubbard, sir. I would be honored to take one with you, Captain.

Ericsson included MacCord in the invitation; he and Theo exchanged cool bows. As they gulped the bitter brew, and Ericsson began explaining his time line for construction, Theo recalled his own scroll, reposing within his coat. He too thought the Navy hidebound, unwilling to step into the nineteenth century. Perhaps the great man's backers would be interested in another new machine of war. And thinking of them, he remembered their confidential charge, and cleared his throat.

-- I will be happy also to give you the benefit of my experience, sir.

Ericsson looked up sharply. -- What do you mean?

-- I have spent years at sea; have been through storms and so forth. I could look over the design from that aspect.

-- That will not be required. Matters of buoyancy and stress can be foreseen better from the viewpoint of the experienced engineer than from the untutored guesses of seamen.

-- Then let me ask your indulgence in one thing more, sir.

Feeling perhaps the moment was not right, yet unable to resist, Theo brought it out into the light. Conscious suddenly of the erasures and inkblots, false starts, conjectures unsupported by calculation, he unrolled it at waist level.

Ericsson scooted his stool back from it. -- This would be...?

-- It is a...submersible boat. Powered by a liquid fuel derived from petroleum oil.

This time Ericsson's smile was hawkish, contemptuous, his eyes sliding from the very sight of the document. -- I have no desire to be subjected to amateurish fantasies, sir. Nor with your pretense to knowledge of the mysterious ways of the sea. Let us deal with realities. We must build the machine by January 12. My machine. Just as I have drawn it. A race against time. If we lose, the Confederates will rule the waves. Is that quite clear?

-- Of course, sir. But I thought certain ideas --

Ericsson's attention was back in the board. Dipping his pen, he began etching in a watertight door. -- Let me make myself plain, Hobart. Or whatever your name is. Ideas are not required of you. You are here to help me save the Union. Shall we confine our relations to that, sir?

Meekly, Theo agreed.

From That Anvil of Our Souls by David Poyer. Copyright © 2005 by David Poyer. All rights reserved.