Martha Coston and the Box of Light

By Tom Lonergan

Widowed at the age of twenty-one, left penniless with four children to raise, Martha Coston overcame nineteenth century bias to carry on her deceased husbands work, patenting and manufacturing historys first night time signal device. Traveling the world, she then successfully marketed the Coston Night Signal to the navies, coast guardians and railroads of every industrialized nation, founding a company that flourished for more than a century.

In her lifetime, Martha Coston became close friends with Admiral David Farragut, was introduced to British society in Queen Victorias own drawing room, banqueted with Napoleon III at the Palaise de Tuilleries, danced with the King of Sweden at his summer retreat at Rosendal, was feted by the Admiral of the Russian fleet at Kronstadt Island in St. Petersburg, struggled across winter ice floes in Scandinavia and fought fang and claw with the United States Congress for her invention to be recognized.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475983319

Tom Lonergan

Tom Lonergan is a writer and historian. He has previously published a biography of Henry Knox, George Washington’s General of Artillery. He works as a guide at the Nantucket Shipwreck and Lifesaving Museum in Nantucket, Massachusetts where he resides with his wife.

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Prologue

It was a dreary afternoon. The rain was falling heavily on the window panes. The boughs of the great birch in front of our cottage scraped the walls with a mournful sound. Even the canaries in their cages were so depressed by the pervading gloom they refused to sing, and the children bent seriously over their picture books. All these trifles were impressed upon my mind, I suppose, because I felt the importance of the next step, which was to decide possibly our whole future.

The box seemed unexceptional. Lying next to my husband’s folded silk handkerchiefs and his scientific medals, gold and silver, with their red and green and yellow ribbons, it seemed old and ordinary. After all, this was a sacred hiding place, closed off to even the oldest of our children, a sanctuary untouched since the last time he’d entered it. And I leaned in for a cherished breath of the air he’d last tasted only days earlier.

I was but twenty-one years old, destitute and mother of four. And as I lifted the box from where he’d placed it, set it on the dresser top and prepared to open it, my fingers trembled at the enormity of the risk I faced. If there were nothing inside for me to make a life out of for myself and my family, we were ruined.

Mrs. Martha Scott Coston

Philadelphia

November, 1848

I

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For no good reason, Martha separated herself from her picnicking friends and wandered alone toward a beckoning opening in the tree line. All around her, the September sun struck the meadow grasses at a low angle, enflaming them. The air was brisk, unscented. Gone were the suffocating fragrances of summer: lilac, privet, honeysuckle and camellia. For the first time since spring, the pores of Martha’s skin could breathe and she felt, with the certainty blossoming womanhood had brought her, that something special was going to happen.

In the distance, the pond glowed like a gold coin. That was what drew her to its edge and to the astonishing reflection of her features. She was a stranger to herself, she realized, years shy of twenty, but transformed from everything she’d been, a woman.

Martha released the straps on her shoes and slipped them off. Stepping close enough to the pond for her toes to touch its edge but not so close as to cause a single ripple to disturb its surface she watched the reflection of her hands fuss with the ribbon in her hair, bluer even than the clear late summer sky above her head. With those same reflected hands she smoothed her muslin dress, touching briefly on the sprigs of matching blue forget-me-nots she’d pinned to her blouse front just that morning.

It was then that Martha felt the presence of another. And, turning, she encountered an unexpected intruder, a slender young man of medium height, but not much taller than herself, with the most intense brown eyes she’d ever seen. For an instant they held each other’s gaze until the young man turned and hurried off along the same path Martha had followed from her picnic moments earlier.

His name was Benjamin Franklin Coston, a guest of Martha’s friend Nellie and her brother. A formal introduction was made when Martha arrived back at the blanket Nellie and her other friends had lavished with sandwiches and fruit.

Ben is a prodigy, Nellie gushed. He has just perfected a new torpedo. For the Department of the Navy.

In fact, it is a submarine, the man replied.

His voice was far softer than Martha had expected. With his swarthy handsomeness and stout athletic stature, he’d led her to expect something deeper and more gruff.

A submarine?

What on earth is that?

An undersea vessel. He addressed all of them. Capable of remaining below the surface of the ocean for eight continuous hours.

It pleased Martha to hear him speak and she hung on every word, especially the few times he managed to single her out with his eyes.

But how does one breathe? Martha dared ask.

I’ve made a chemical composition that produces oxygen for a single operator.

His tone had softened.

And what is it for? she asked, wanting to be sure her ears had not deceived her.

When war comes, he told her. The President will order a blockade of all the southern ports. When that happens, the submarine will be an effective weapon against blockade runners.

Martha was certain his eyes lingered on hers a moment longer before Nellie interrupted.

How very clever.

Yes, another of them squealed.

Assured she’d sensed something in her brown eyed guest, that he regarded her with favor, Martha contented herself with lapsing into silence, letting the other vultures inch closer to their prey, knowing what they didn’t, that she would see this captivating man again. He might be older than her, successful, sophisticated. And she might be a child still compared to these other girls. But she knew what she had seen. Somehow Mr. Benjamin Coston would find her.

Philadelphia was a busy place and there were parties, teas and school, that hateful occupation that consumed Martha’s weekdays with drudgery and disappointment. To perform at a satisfactory level with her academics was such a struggle that Martha couldn’t let up one bit lest she slip down to the bottom of her class. And slip to the bottom she did, starting on the day she happened to see her mother conversing with the same brown eyed Mr. Coston she had met weeks earlier at the picnic.

Who was that man you were talking with today? Martha asked at dinner.

Mr. Coston, dear. The famous naval inventor. Martha’s mother Margaret had been widowed since Martha was a child. She and her sisters had been forced to move from Baltimore to Philadelphia as youngsters so their mother could find an affordable place for a woman in her situation to get by.

Mamma has invited him to visit us, Martha’s oldest sister Abby said.

Martha felt the spark of competition fire in her as she watched Abby turn and wink at Lizzy, the family’s middle child. As it turned out, Martha’s new brown eyed interest was just nineteen, three years older than herself, but perfect for her eighteen and twenty year old sisters.

Perhaps he will consent to help you with your studies. Mother’s mother told her. Lord knows you could use some guidance.

Soon, Mrs. Scott’s prediction came true. And twice each week, Ben spent an afternoon with Martha in the Scott living room, working with her on Mathematics and Latin, her two most troubling subjects. Immediately Martha was amazed at how easily he unraveled the complexities of work her teachers had only made more difficult to understand. The inventor had such a knack of making things easy for her to understand, she wondered if he had an eye inside the workings of her mind.

The first important project they attacked together was an extra credit question from her mathematics class.

If I get the answer to this problem, I will outshine all the other girls, she confessed throwing open the notebook in which she’d copied down the question. No one in the class can solve it.

Then you must, he beamed. You will.

The problem was a brainbuster, as Ben called it.

You must learn to bend your mind in a way it doesn’t want to go, he told her.

Three cannibals and three missionaries must cross a river with a canoe that holds just two. At no point, however, can the cannibals outnumber the missionaries on either side of the river or the savages will devour the simple holy men. Ben had Martha go to the kitchen for used match sticks from the saucer over the stove. With the tiny pocket knife that hung from his watch chain he then cut the charred heads off three of the slender blond spikes.

These will be the missionaries, he said. The ones with the dark heads, cannibals.

Hmmm? Martha teased him about the implications of black versus white.

Not at all, he smiled. Missionaries are hairless. Cannibals are not.

Not once had Martha dared try the problem. But with the tiny matchsticks aligned on the banks of the pretended river and Ben’s dear eyes encouraging her, she began.

A cannibal and a missionary cross in the canoe. She moved the two matchsticks, one hairless, one with a perfect black cap. A missionary returns with the canoe. She moved the hairless blond match stick back across the river again.

So far, so good. But Ben offered no hint that he was really impressed. One cannibal across. Three missionaries and two cannibals to go.

Martha continued following the same logic.

Two cannibals cross. She felt emboldened. One cannibal returns.

Excellent!

Now her heart was pounding. And she continued until she had just one cannibal and one missionary remaining to cross. But there was nothing she could do after that. Return a missionary to his mate and the cannibals on the far side of the river would devour the lone missionary left behind. Return a cannibal with the canoe and he and his cohort would make a nice meal out of the lone missionary remaining to cross.

Bend your mind, the inventor encouraged.

But how is it you know the answer? Martha was frustrated and annoyed. You have no text to refer to.

I can see it, he told her. Just let your mind bend and you will see it too.

For the next several minutes, Martha tried to do as she’d been told. Let her mind bend. But what exactly did that mean? She was too stubborn to ask. Around them the room was filled with the ticking of the clocks Mrs. Scott had gathered over time. There were at least a dozen in the living room alone. Outside, horses clopped on the cobblestone streets, going somewhere, while inside time ran endlessly nowhere. It frustrated her as much as the problem did.

Where could those horses be going with clattering cart wheels behind them? she wondered. On what missions were they taking their masters? Were they carrying cannibals, or missionaries, or both?

That was when the answer struck her. By sending both, a cannibal and a missionary, back across the river to where they’d started, the first missionary could then safely join his brother for a comfortable return across to join the third. Not once would any of the blond matchsticks be outnumbered by the dark.

Brilliant! Ben clapped his hands together. Sometimes in science, as in life, you have to sacrifice something of value in order to achieve something of greater value. In this case you had to reverse your previous successes, retreat with half your gains lost, in order to gain the whole.

He was suddenly so animated she wanted to place her hand against his cheek to feel its heat.

How did you get to be so smart? she boldly asked him.

And he leaned in so close she thought he might kiss her. She closed her eyes and felt him touch the tip of his finger to her forehead.

Same as you, he said. By thinking.

As she quickly rose to the top of her class, Martha began to think that life like this could be enjoyed for eternity. But she was just sixteen. And her nineteen year old tutor had not yet found a station in life that would allow him to support even himself. With the announcement of his latest invention, a percussion cap that would allow naval guns to be fired with the tug of a rope instead of the lighting of powder, it was clear he was far too advanced for an appointment at the Naval Academy.

But a champion appeared in the form of Admiral Charles Stewart, Old Ironsides, as he was known in Philadelphia, legendary commander of the U.S.S. Frigate Constitution during the Second War with Britain in 1812. Admiral Stewart was a great fan of Ben’s work and agreed to provide him introduction to the Naval Department in Washington. Armed with letters from Old Ironsides, therefore, Ben traveled to Washington to call on Navy Secretary Bancroft.

Meantime, Martha remained home where, during Ben’s extended absence, her grades and spirits plummeted. When a note was received by Mrs. Scott, therefore, informing her that Ben would return by rail the following week, Martha made certain to steal off from school to meet him at the station.

It was a risky plan made even worse by the steely eyed glare she received from Ben when he stepped off the train.

What are you doing here? he asked.

Martha was crushed. How can you say such a thing to me after I’ve come all the way here just to meet you?

But it’s not proper, he stammered. You’re just a child.

She had never seen him so flustered and she nearly turned and ran from him when she felt him take her hand.

I must do the right thing by you, he said having recovered that unwavering look of certainty she’d come to rely on. I will speak with your mother. Right now. Eliminate all impropriety and confess my feelings.

Martha felt like she’d been knocked on the head.

Take me someplace where we can talk, she begged, her heart racing at his unexpected profession. Please.

They found a small bake shop on Market Street, ordered tea for two and a fresh strawberry tart for Ben who was famished from the long train ride. Martha folded her hands in her lap and waited until their order was served, their milk poured and Ben’s tart placed in front of him, before she raised her eyes to his.

Now, tell me of your feelings, she asked, her insides in a sudden tangle.

I want you with me always, he announced.

Never had Martha met a person so direct.

But I’m just sixteen, she managed.

And in an instant, his shoulders slackened, his eyes grew dark.

I’m sorry, he whispered. What a fool you must think I am.

No, she hurried to answer.

I should never have presumed. He pushed the tart away.

It’s not presumption at all, she told him reaching for his still extended hand. I’m flattered. Happy. In ecstasy, in fact.

Words, like feelings, spilled from her. And when she finally managed to sit back and face his eyes again, she saw their luster had returned and they appeared as warm as she had ever seen them.

Let me tell you about my trip to Washington. He then frowned. And discuss with you our future.

Our future, Martha played his words over in her mind. She felt reborn. Ben Coston had thrown open his arms and invited her into a new world with him.

And Secretary Bancroft? she asked, still concerned about his frown.

As Ben explained it, the Secretary was a very stiff and formal man.

But hadn’t he heard of your inventions? Martha asked.

He had, Ben affirmed. That was the reason he agreed to see me when I called. He seemed immediately crestfallen, however, at my youthful appearance.

What did you say to him?

I told him youth was nothing that time wouldn’t cure.

Very clever.

The Secretary laughed of course but then informed me there was nothing he could do for me at present. He would have to petition Congress to create an office and title for me.

In the meantime, Ben explained, the Navy could offer him a temporary position as master of the service. And a laboratory of my own at the Navy Yard in Washington.

You must accept, she said, not once thinking it would mean their being separated.

In the eyes of the world, Martha might still be just a girl, but despite what people thought, she knew what was important.

Accept, she reaffirmed, but make it clear you want Congress to be petitioned at once in your behalf.

Ben smiled.

Yes, mam, he said.

For an instant, she thought he was mocking her.

You already did accept, didn’t you? By now she’d grown accustomed to reading his eyes.

II

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Never had Martha felt so uncomfortable in her own home. Ben had arranged to speak with her mother that afternoon and all morning long she’d crept around the house as if she was afraid to stir a ghost. Keeping a wide berth of her sisters, anxious about the topic she knew her beau intended to raise with her mother, Martha was unable to sit still long enough to eat or to read. Instead, she took herself to the attic, removed her shoes and paced as quietly as she could from one gabled eave to the other, feeling the warm, musty air enclose her like a robe.

At two o’clock, as arranged, the doorbell rang, the sound penetrating Martha’s sanctuary. She ran to the window under the front gable, but the steep angle meant she was unable to see down to the porch where she knew Ben was waiting. She heard Abby’s trill of welcome, and then nothing. For many minutes she stayed completely still, trying to pick up whatever new rhythms Ben had brought with him into her home, trying to sense from the heavy, still air whether his reception had been a good one. And when Mrs. Scott called for her to come downstairs, Martha could hardly manage the steep steps. With one eye out for her meddlesome sisters, though, she moved as quickly as she could, anxious for the reassuring warmth of Ben’s dark eyes.

Close the door, my dear, Mrs. Scott insisted the instant Martha stepped inside the clock filled living room.

Ben was standing by the same chair he’d occupied on his first visit. On the side table beside his chair sat his hat. His hands were folded in front of him. It was a quiet scene except for the nervous smile he presented her.

It seems Mr. Coston has cultivated feelings for you, Martha.

Martha nearly laughed aloud at her mother’s