On the 9th of March, 1862, for the first time in human history, two iron-clad ships met in battle.  The occasion was a memorable one, and its story is well worthy of being retold in our cycle of historic events.  For centuries, for thousands of years, in truth, wooden vessels had been struggling for the mastery of the seas.  With the first shot fired from the turret of the Monitor at the roof-like sides of the Merrimac, in the early morning of the day named, the long reign of wooden war vessels ended; that of iron monarchs of the deep began.  England could no more trust to her “wooden walls” for safety, and all the nations of Europe, when the echo of that shot reached their ears, felt that the ancient era of naval construction was at an end, and that the future navies of the world must ride the waves clad in massive armor of steel.

On the 8th of March, indeed, this had been shown.  On that day the Merrimac steamed down from Norfolk harbor into Hampton Roads, where lay a fleet of wooden men-of-war, some of them the largest sailing frigates then in the American navy.  On shore soldiers were encamped, here Union, there Confederate; and the inmates of the camps, the garrison of Fortress Monroe, the crews of the ships at anchor under its guns, all gazed with eager eyes over the open waters of the bay, their interest in the coming contest as intense as Roman audience ever displayed for the life and death struggle in the gladiatorial arena.  Before them lay a mightier amphitheatre than that of the Coliseum, and before them was to be fought more notable struggle for life and death than ever took place within the walls of mighty Rome.

It was in the afternoon of the 8th, about one o’clock, that the long roll sounded in the camps on shore, and the cry resounded from camp to camp, “The Merrimac is coming!” For several weeks she had been looked for, and preparations made for her reception.  The frigates bore a powerful armament of heavy guns, ready to batter her iron-clad sides, and strong hopes were entertained that this modern leviathan would soon cease to trouble the deep.  The lesson fixed by fate for that day had not yet been learned.

Down the bay she came, looking at a distance like a flood-borne house, its sides drowned, only its sloping roof visible.  The strange-appearing craft moved slowly, accompanied by two small gunboats as tenders.  As she came near no signs of life were visible, while her iron sides displayed no evidence of guns.  Yet within that threatening monster was a crew of three hundred men, and her armament embraced ten heavy cannon.  Hinged lids closed the gun-ports; raised only when the guns were thrust forward for firing.  As for the men, they were hidden somewhere under that iron roof; to be felt, but not seen.