Benjamin Franklin Isherwood, Naval Engineer. Edward William Sloan III
yourself of all the means in your power for determin[ing] and present me the name of [the] best man for the service. . . .1
As sectional tensions moved the American nation toward a crisis, no choice for an important naval office, even for one as presumably nonpolitical as engineer in chief, could be made without regard to special political pressures which now were added to the normal intraservice rivalry for such a post. Moreover, the competition for the office of engineer in chief was not confined within the service, as it would necessarily be for most naval positions.
It was entirely appropriate that a civilian marine engineer should be considered for the post, because a naval engineer in the 1860’s was still, in the eyes of the Navy, a civilian in officer’s dress. The difference in training and professional duties between a naval and civilian marine engineer was slight; consequently, the transition from civilian life was still easy and frequent at all levels of engineering duty. Although the naval engineer was technically a commissioned officer and his corps a recognized branch of the service since its creation in 1842, the fact remained that, in practice, he was still not a Navy man but only a glorified mechanic, especially in the eyes of line officers who sighed morosely for the days of sail.
That a leading civilian marine engineer should now have hopes for direct appointment as chief of the Navy’s engineers was not unreasonable, especially as such appointments had been made several times before. Many such civilian experts saw in this office an opportunity for professional recognition and advancement; perhaps some also perceived the alluring prospect for quick wealth, derived from influence over government contracts for machinery and supplies.
The office of engineer in chief had grown in stature during the previous twenty years. Although the incumbent as yet did not command his own bureau, he still was a key figure in naval administration, working closely with his immediate superior, the chief of the Bureau of Construction, Equipment, and Repairs. Together, these men had primary responsibility for the design, construction, and maintenance of all the vessels in the United States Navy. Furthermore, in an age of rapid transition from sail to steam, the Navy depended increasingly on its engineer in chief—the man who governed that mode of propulsion which, day by day, posed a greater challenge to the “Old Navy,” which for centuries had ruled the sea under clouds of canvas, undefiled by the sooty residue of man-made power.
Secretary Welles, though new in office, had anticipated the President’s request, and for several days had been scrutinizing candidates for this key post in the Navy. While newspapers speculated on his ultimate choice, civilian and naval engineers alike applied what influence they could muster. Sectional considerations, so vital at this particular moment in American history, intruded to the extent that a former North Carolinian became a particular favorite because his candidacy was pressed by many leading Union men from the crucial border states, reported The New York Times, on March 21.
The Secretary of the Navy, however, had made up his mind. On the day following the President’s request, Gideon Welles made his recommendation; and on the same day, Abraham Lincoln nominated a career naval engineer, Benjamin Franklin Isherwood, to be the new engineer in chief of the Navy.
By law, Isherwood’s nomination was subject to Senate confirmation. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Benjamin Isherwood met opposition as Charles Sumner, speaking for a group of civilians objecting to the nomination, rose in the Senate to present a memorial against the candidate. Referred to the Committee on Naval Affairs, this petition met a quick death as Senator John P. Hale, the chairman, reported back his committee’s favorable decision on Isherwood’s nomination. With the opposition squelched, the Senate, on March 27, then duly advised and agreeably consented to Benjamin Isherwood’s being the new chief of the naval engineers.
In general, public reception to the appointment was cordial. Although several civilian engineers were sadly disappointed, The New York Times reported, the choice of Isherwood was “very gratifying to the Engineer Corps.”2 On April 13 the Scientific American enthusiastically endorsed Isherwood and concurred in the view of The Times that this choice was not only a feather in the cap of the naval engineers, by contributing one of their own, but was also a tribute to the “true and deserving worth” of Isherwood himself. Less than thirty-nine years old, he, nevertheless, had already achieved a considerable reputation for professional ability; and his appointment was a confirmation of professional respect.
Why had Secretary Welles chosen Benjamin Isherwood, junior both in age and in seniority on the list of chief engineers in the Navy? What were those personal qualities which had brought this man to the top of his profession and had won him international recognition in the field of marine engineering? How would he respond to the challenge of a position where his authority and responsibilities would expand within months to an unprecedented degree? The answers to these questions were not so simply stated.
Benjamin Franklin Isherwood was born in New York city, on October 6, 1822. His father, a graduate of Columbia College and a practicing physician in New York, died shortly after the birth of his son. Benjamin Isherwood’s mother, Eliza, remarried in 1824, only to lose her second husband before her only son had reached maturity. Twice-widowed, she then remained single until her death in 1896, depending upon Benjamin for support. A strong woman, tenaciously devoted to her son, Eliza found full reciprocation in his unwavering love and concern for her welfare—a filial affection which proved to be too intense to tolerate the later competition of his marriage.
In March, 1831, when less than nine years old, Benjamin Isherwood was enrolled in the Albany Academy, a boys’ preparatory school which, in many respects, was considered “a college in disguise.” When Isherwood arrived at the school, the young physicist and mathematician Joseph Henry was on the faculty, although in the following year he would depart for Princeton, where he would earn increased fame for his continuing experiments in electromagnetic induction.
The transition for Joseph Henry between teaching at Albany Academy and at Princeton was not so great as it might seem. The academy, at the time Henry taught there and Isherwood attended his class, had a system of education which Henry described as being “more extensive and more thorough than that of many colleges in our country.” Its curriculum, Joseph Henry later pointed out, “paralleled the courses of study at Yale College, and was more exacting in its requirements for graduation than were many of the smaller colleges.” Albany Academy, in fact, had a course of study sufficiently advanced for its graduates to enter the junior and even senior years of good colleges.3
The emphasis upon subject matter at Albany Academy was unusual for its time. Although there was the usual attention paid to the study of the classics, the school also had shorter programs in mathematics and in the “mercantile” field. The mathematics program of study, in which Isherwood apparently enrolled, included all of the classics program, except for advanced work in Latin and Greek. In particular, his program contained courses in algebra, solid geometry, plane and spherical trigonometry, analytical geometry, and integral and differential calculus. Moreover, the student in this program, who might be barely in his teens, took courses in physics, chemistry, mineralogy, architecture, civil engineering (including topography and linear drawing), and optics.
The object of this program, established only a few years before Isherwood arrived, was to prepare the academy graduate for the practical world of business, as well as that of gracious living. The Albany Academy student, even though he might be in the “General,” or classics, course, would receive above all an education of practical utility which would lay particular stress on “mechanical pursuits.” Science as pure speculative theory or history as an antiquarian interest had no place at the Academy, the trustees had decided, and all courses had to serve “useful purposes of practical life,” so that man and his society might benefit and progress toward perfection.4
Albany Academy, consequently, was a serious place with little time for frivolity. To encourage its students to prepare for the struggle of life, the academy was rigorously competitive, ranking the entire student body by class each day, awarding innumerable prizes for performance at formal public examinations, and exhorting the boys to hard work and the sober, moral life.
For the submissive or diligent pupil, Albany Academy may have been ideal. Not so, however, for those of a more