Torpedo Secrets

By S. M. Revolinski

Civil War Espionage

Sixteen year old Walker Grist is tasked by the Union to infiltrate a house in London. A Confederate scientist is known to reside there. This scientist is developing an improved underwater mine, or what is known as a torpedo. Walker is trained as a spy by the Union. Then, disguised as Max Lane, an art student from the Confederacy, he travels to London. He must determine how the new torpedoes know the difference between Union ships and Confederate ships before Admiral Farragut invades Mobile Bay.

Created for young adults, this history filled adventure can be enjoyed by everyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark S. R. Sterling
• Release date: Oct 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386800125

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental. 

Printed in the United States of America 

First Printing: June 2018

ISBN: 9781983088209

The Assignment

Walker Grist pulled the door marked 426 closed and descended the three steps from his home to the street. The morning air was still crisp and clear; although, he knew the nonstop onslaught of the horse hoofs on the dry street would soon fill the air with dust. He jingled the coins in his pocket and looked down the street for the horse drawn trolley. However, there was none in sight. The driver of an empty hackney cab across the street paused invitingly. Walker had sufficient money to hire the ride into the center of Washington City, but he considered it to be an extravagance. He turned the corner from Florida Avenue to Rhode Island Avenue.  Walker headed toward the center of Washington City on foot. He had plenty of time before his appointment.

The streets of Washington City were laid out in a rectangular grid, with the numbered streets running north-south, while the streets marked with the letters A through U ran east-west. Avenues named for the states diagonally crossed the grid, making cross-town travel easy.

Walker lived at 426 Florida Avenue, where it intersected Rhode Island Avenue. While he had been to the state of Rhode Island several times, he had never been to the state named with the Spanish word for flowers.

At the intersection with 14th Street, he turned south to pass by Ford’s Theater. He paused to admire the poster advertising the play to be performed by the group of actors this coming Friday, August 7, 1863. Walker wasn’t interested in the show or the actors; he was interested in the shapes drawn for the people and props. He admired the blending of the watercolors, and he imagined that one day his artwork would be on display for all to see.

Continuing his trek, he arrived at the White House fifteen minutes later. No one impeded his entry into the residence of President Abraham Lincoln. He turned toward his father’s office in the West Wing of the giant building. As he had been instructed, he waited in the office of his father’s aide, Captain Ross.

Walker settled in the chair, and waited.

Good afternoon, Mr. Grist. A voice that was clearly not belonging to Captain Ross emerged from the door behind Walker.

Turning in his seat, Walker watched Mr. Stanton press the door closed with his back. He smiled disarmingly. He reached behind his back and turned the lock.

Sir, please forgive me, for I seem to have wandered into the wrong office. I was expecting to be waiting in Captain Ross’s office, uh, waiting for a meeting with my father. Walker found himself uncontrollably stammering. That is, I was called here by my father, Admiral Grist, but he remains in a meeting and-and I was instructed that this was the office of his aide Captain Ross. Sir, I was only in here waiting for...

President Lincoln’s Secretary of War, Mr. Edwin Stanton, finally tired of Walker’s nervous ramble and raised a palm to halt his speech.

Mr. Stanton was not a stranger. Walker had met this esteemed gentleman the previous night. The two had met at the coming-out affair for the teenage children of the local military families. Each summer, many such parties were held at military installations across the United States, or probably the world, to present the marriageable sons and daughters of officers to their potential suitors. Being only sixteen years old, Walker was not of marriageable age; he had attended the party with his family as his older sister, Emily, entered society. While the girls had been giddily collecting the calling cards of interested junior officers, Walker had been engaging in polite conversation with the more senior officers and other gentlemen.

Walker had encountered Mr. Stanton at the punch bowl. The man was known to Walker by the notoriety of his position in the President’s cabinet, and he was Admiral Grist’s supervisor. Walker had been polite to him as the two refilled their cups.

Mr. Grist, I presume? Stanton had asked.

While somewhat surprised that Stanton was aware of his identity, Walker had calmly replied, Yes, Mr. Stanton. He did not wish to demonstrate any shock that the esteemed man would address him, and perhaps Walker wanted to surprise Stanton.

I understand you are quite an accomplished artist. Stanton continued with the conversation as he gently touched Walker’s arm and guided him away from the serving table.

Yes, I’ve been told that I have a knack for it, Walker responded proudly, though not wishing to be a braggart.

Hmm. Stanton smiled oddly, sipped his punch, and quietly continued, I have heard that you are also skilled with the written word.

How does he know so much about me? Walker had wondered to himself.

This is also true, he stated more curtly, being annoyed with the surprise shown by adults when they discovered that one so young knew how to read and write so well.

Is there an author whose work has attracted your fancy? Stanton had quickly continued, sensing that he had sparked the ire in Walker.

"Yes, actually, I’ve been reading The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. It’s the second of his works that I have read. I finished his The Three Musketeers only last week."

Do you read them in their native French?

Of course.

Indeed, Stanton’s face brightened. I am very familiar with these adventure stories. Is this a genre that interests you? Then, without waiting for a response, he enthusiastically added, "I have just finished the most fanciful short tale by another Frenchman, whom I’ve previously never heard of. His name is Jules Verne. The