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By Root 2887 0

engines what required two and even three smokestacks; at the same time, they were much sleeker in design than the private and commercial vessels, having a graceful bullet shape what made it seem impossible that they were actually plated with steel. Not that there was much plating on them—as Mr. Roosevelt’d said, the boats sacrificed safety for speed, and they could go better than thirty miles an hour when required. Each boat appeared to be manned by just twenty-five or thirty men, and at various spots on their decks they carried the deadly weapons what gave them their names: torpedoes, fourteen-foot steel cylinders filled with compressed air and tipped with powerful explosive devices. The air, when it was released, shot the missiles on their way out of the boats’ torpedo tubes and through the water for upwards of hundreds of yards: plenty of time for the fast little boats what delivered them to get clear of the resulting explosions. All in all, a very ingenious bit of inventing, one what stood in very great contrast to the enormous battleships with their huge artillery turrets what were being built in other parts of the yard. It would certainly be interesting to see, I thought to myself, if the battleships of other countries would one day be laid low by the same kind of fast, hard-hitting little craft as we were on our way to board that night.

Along with the crews of the torpedo boats, there were another twenty or so sailors lined up on the wharf, men who looked like they’d been specially selected for the job ahead of us. I’d seen a lot of brawling seamen in my day and in my neighborhood, and watched more than one dive and concert saloon get dismantled when a group of them were taken by some fast-talking “dancer” or quick-handed faro dealer; but no bunch I’d ever come across could’ve matched those boys what were waiting for us at the yard that night. Muscle-bound, scarred, and obviously itching for a genuine, top-drawer brawl, the men appeared to be having a tough time controlling their high spirits enough to stand to attention when Lieutenant Kimball and Mr. Roosevelt got out of the landau. Lieutenant Kimball had some words with the three torpedo boat commanders, who then mustered their crews on the wharf next to the bruisers what were already there. Stepping in front of this collected force—which, I had to admit, looked to be a fair match even for the Dusters—Lieutenant Kimball ordered them to stand at ease, then began to walk up and down the wharf as he explained the evening’s business.

“Gentlemen!” he called out, his strong voice giving no hint of either his near fifty years or his usual assignment as a strategy planner. “Most of you, I’m sure, know that it is absolutely impossible to sail salt water in Uncle Sam’s service for thirty, ten, or even five years without becoming imbued with the feeling that the United States of America is the finest and most glorious thing that has ever happened, and that it must lead—in everything!” Here the men broke into cheers, cheers what Mr. Roosevelt heartily joined. The rest of us held back, feeling that it wasn’t really our place to take part—though I felt an urge to. “But,” the lieutenant went on, “I suspect you also know that the United States cannot lead in everything so long as enemies stand in its way. Enemies without—who will, with any luck, soon feel the power of the great ships being built around us—and enemies within, who must feel our power on this very night!” That got the boys going again, and Lieutenant Kimball had to work hard to get them to quiet back down. “I ask you now to give your attention to the honorable assistant secretary of the navy, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt!”

Stepping to the fore, Mr. Roosevelt narrowed his eyes and took the measure of the company before him. “Men,” he said, in that crisp, choppy way of his, “some of you may find the job ahead of us a strange one. Why, you might reasonably ask yourselves, should we be assigned the task of enforcing the laws of this great nation on our own soil?” Balling up one fist, Mr. Roosevelt began to smack it into