1862

Chapter Nineteen

The hanging was set for the grounds of Libby Prison in Richmond. Libby was the infamous warehouse and adjacent area where Union officers were kept without adequate food or shelter. It had counterparts throughout both the North and the South, since neither side treated its prisoners with humanity. In all cases: they were more death camps than prison camps.

The overcrowded prison stood on a large piece of otherwise starkly vacant property. The three-story building had originally been a ship's chandlery owned by Libby amp; Sons, hence its name. Within its bowels: Hannibal Watson had been isolated.

Contrary to Lord Lyons^’ s fears, the Confederate government had no intention of letting Hannibal's execution become a circus. A tall temporary wooden fence had been built around the gallows to the intense dismay and disgust of the several thousands of spectators who had gathered to see the infamous slave leader, Hannibal Watson, swing at the end of a rope.

The small, slender African woman had no intention of getting too close to the prison. The well-liquored crowd was on the verge of becoming a mob, and no one with a dark skin was safe should it turn violent. She'd seen several fellow Negroes knocked down and kicked just for having the same color skin as Hannibal Watson. She had no hope that her femininity would save her should someone take a dislike with her presence at this solemn occasion.

Prudently, she walked away and up a slight hill. From there she could see a little ways over the fence, which was more than those who pressed up to it could. Several hundred of Provost Marshall John Winder's soldiers fought to push the crowd away from the fence, which was in danger of collapse, and were liberal with clubs and rifle butts before they succeeded. She enjoyed the sight of white soldiers cracking white skulls.

There was a clamor as a door opened and people emerged into the sunlight. The Negro woman more sensed this than saw it until she saw the top of a man's head standing on the gallows. Unlike others, he was hatless and had dark, curly hair. She held her breath and watched as a sack was placed over his head and the noose tightened around his neck. There was no chaplain, no prayers were said, and, a second later, the trap was sprung. Hannibal Watson disappeared from her sight as the crowd roared its pleasure even though all they could see was part of a rope that once had been slack and now jerked taut.

The Negro woman walked away and headed back to the hotel where she worked as a cleaning woman. She was liked and respected there, but she was still a slave. She had a son, but he was safe, perhaps free. He was up north in Boston, where she should have gone when she'd had the chance.

As she walked towards the hotel, a tear ran down her cheek. So long parted, she thought, only to see him again like that. What a shame, what a waste. Silently, eloquently. Abigail Watson vowed revenge on the people who had destroyed her husband and her family.

Rosemarie DeLisle had gotten her money the old-fashioned way-she'd married it. At seventeen and as Rosemarie Willows, she had accepted the proposal of a sixty-seven-year-old planter. Jedidiah DeLisle. Mr. DeLisle owned several plantations and had numerous other investments that made him an extremely wealthy man. He was also infatuated with Rosemarie, who had an excellent name and pedigree but no money.

Gossips had scoffed at the marriage, but Rosemarie had surprised them. She'd felt a genuine affection for the old man who was in constant ill health. When he worsened, she nursed him and earned the grudging admiration of her social peers, even though some of them whimsically thought she had worn him out sexually. When he died three years later, she inherited all his fortune and no one resented it.

Now, at age thirty, Rosemarie DeLisle was accepted as a member of Richmond's society, and a still young and eligible widow. She was also a good friend of Varina Davis, the wife of Jefferson Davis.

Rosemarie DeLisle also liked both sex and John Knollys, who was the latest and most interesting in a short line of discreet lovers. Both she and John were naked, exhausted, and sweat-sheened from their exertions. She rested half seated on her large bed, while he lay with his head on her lap and gazed at a full breast whose nipple seemed to be staring back at him.

She tweaked at his thinning hair. “What say you, Lord John, once more into the breach?”

Knollys smiled. She knew he wasn't a lord. Minor nobility yes, but not a lord. “Aye wench, but not for a while. The lordly battering ram needs repair. Christ, you've damn near destroyed me.”

She sighed in mock sadness. “So much for the British Empire and every man doing his duty by laying alongside his lady.”

Knollys laughed. He was really quite fond of Rosemarie DeLisle. She was far more educated and interesting than anyone else he'd met, and that included Valerie D'Estaing, who was probably screwing her way across Europe. He'd heard through Lord Lyons's sources that the D'Estaings had been sent back to France in what might have been disgrace.

“Can't we just talk for a moment?” he asked.

“If we must. But not overlong,” she sighed dramatically. Rosemarie did like the fact that he appreciated her mind as well as her full, ripe body. Most men did not think she had a brain, which made Knollys quite unique. Of course, most men didn't think any woman was capable of intellectual discourse, or for that matter, of actually enjoying sexual intercourse. “What are your thoughts on the execution of the slave?”

“Badly handled,” she said. “There are those in the government who are hell-bent on offending people needlessly, and they have succeeded. It could have been done discreetly, done later, or not done at all.”

This was precisely what Knollys thought. “What about a trial?”

She yawned. She had nice teeth and an incredible tongue that she used to drive him mad by having it caress his manhood. “Then you would have to presume that he was human and had inalienable rights. The Negro is not human.”

“Then you condone slavery?”

“Of course. You know that. The Negro is an inferior creature who resembles humankind in many ways, but not in all. Therefore, he needs to be protected from his own base impulses, and from those who would exploit him. The white man was placed here by God to provide shelter and succor for the Negro and to protect him from harm. Where the North and England see slavery as an abomination, we see it as the Negro's salvation.”

“What about where they are worked to death or treated harshly?”

She ran her hand down his chest. “That is a crime, or it should be. People who abuse and destroy property are fools.”

“You are saying, then, that the slaves can never be freed.”

She caressed his manhood with her hand but stopped when she got little response. “Never is such a long time. It will not happen in my lifetime, unless, of course, the Union wins. In which case, it would be a tragedy for the Negro as well as the Confederacy.”

“And if the North does win? What will you do?”

“Then I shall leave here and find a home in another land.”

“But what about the rumors that there is an agreement between Jefferson Davis and Palmerston to free the slaves after the conclusion of the war?”

Rosemarie DeLisle laughed heartily. “If there was such an agreement, it wouldn't be worth the paper it's written on. Davis can't force any state to free slaves. It's part of the reason we exist, this freedom of self-determination that is unique to us. If Mr. Davis signed such an agreement, and I doubt that he did, then it was done under duress and knowing full well that it would never be enforced, could never be enforced. The South will not voluntarily free its slaves in the conceivable future.”

John Knollys accepted her statement as truth. She was privy to the conversations and opinions of the Confederacy's leaders to an extent that neither he nor any other Englishman could hope to be. It upset him deeply that the British army and the Royal Navy might be fighting for a fraudulent cause.

But then, Rosemarie's hand again began caressing him. This time she found life, and she purred. He shifted his head so that an inquisitive nipple found his lips and he began fondling it. He had a great deal to tell both Lyons and General Napier.

Later.

General Scott loved to pontificate, and he seized the opportunity whenever it arose. This time, he was to hear General Grant's general plans for stopping Lee's advance, and he looked forward to pronouncing his opinions on them at great length. Secretary of War Stanton and General Halleck were present, as was Nathan, who stood quietly behind Scott. The old general was fatigued and looked pale. He would not, however, be denied. He would be present at these and other meetings.

Also present was Herman Haupt, a brevet colonel who was the superintendent of the Union's railroads. Like Nathan, Haupt was a West Point graduate, but acted more like a civilian than a man in uniform. He cared little for rank and was only concerned that his precious railroads were ready and able to serve the Union. John Rawlins was present as Grant's chief of staff, and he nodded in a friendly manner towards Nathan.

The meeting was in the dining room of the pleasant two-story house on Seventeenth Street NW that Grant had taken over as his living quarters. It was directly across the street from the War Department. Had Julia Grant been present she might have objected to such goings-on in her house. However, she and the rest of Grant's family were not scheduled to arrive for several days.

Grant, who doubtless knew all that Scott was going to say, was polite and deferential. After all, Scott had been his commanding general in Mexico, and it had been Scott who had acknowledged a very young Grant for bravery in that conflict.

“For military purposes,” Scott said, “the Confederacy is divided into a number of departments, or districts. The idea behind it is that each department will be strong enough to defend itself under normal circumstances, yet be able to aid or be aided by other departments in the case of a major assault. For practical purposes, those departments west of the Mississippi are of no concern to us.

They could not get reinforcements to Virginia in a timely manner even if they started a month ago. Even many of those forces east of the Mississippi will not be able to expedite getting to Virginia because of the paucity of railroads in the South.”

“The South has only about a third of the railroad mileage we have,” Haupt said. He was abrupt and terse: and not at all awed by the power present in the room. “At best rail traffic in the Confederacy is erratic, even though Generals Lee and Jackson have made good use of what was available.”

“In effect,” Scott concluded, “General Lee will have to make do essentially with what he has now, plus what little help he can get from adjacent departments. Again, please remember that several Southern governors want large bodies of troops in their areas to protect against slave rebellions.”

Grant nodded. “Even so, there will be some reinforcements from those nearby districts, as well as the thirty-five thousand British soldiers who are encamped outside Richmond. I wish to take actions that would ensure that no other soldiers do make it to General Lee's army.”

“And what do you propose?” inquired Stanton.

Grant took out a fresh cigar and lit it. The dark blue smoke quickly filled the room. “In the advance on Bull Run and the later advance towards Culpeper, we made no other moves on the Confederacy; thus, the South was able to concentrate as much as it could on our one thrust. I have already directed General Rosecrans to advance towards Knoxville, while General Buell has been ordered to move down the Mississippi and threaten Vicksburg. In each case, I will require very real assaults from their armies and not weak demonstrations or feints. This will distract the Confederacy and might even reward us with success. Right now, we outnumber the Confederates in those areas; if those campaigns are pushed aggressively, it could bring us victory in both Tennessee and Mississippi. At the very least, the rebels will not be able to strip those districts to support Lee.”

Nathan shifted his feet. He was not as confident of success as Grant. Neither Rosecrans nor Buell were the best Union generals. Yet neither were their opponents, Bragg and Pemberton. He did like the idea of pushing the rebels at every point. It was a far cry from McClellan, who saw phantom armies behind every hill and ridge. Grant had espoused his theory in a concise way when he said the rebels didn't have enough armies to stop the North.

“And what will you do with your army?” Scott asked.

“Thanks to the British,” Grant replied, “the Confederates will field a large force, perhaps as many as one hundred and ten thousand men.”

“Great God,” Stanton gasped. “There has never been a host that great on our land.”

“Mine will be greater,” Grant said softly. “I have already ordered most of the force in Canada to move as quickly as possible to Baltimore. Thanks to Colonel Haupt, this is being done. I left two divisions of regular army under General Smith to occupy Ontario. Like it or not. I have ordered the Irish Legion out of Canada. That way they cannot cause mischief. Since most of the British forces in Canada have been transferred to Richmond, it should be more than sufficient.”

“Excellent,” said Scott.

“Along with the forces in the Shenandoah and other commands moving towards here, I should command at least one hundred and fifty thousand men.”

The numbers were staggering. Should they all meet in combat, it would be one of the largest battles of all time. Perhaps the largest ever. Nathan made a mental note to look up the size of the forces involved at Waterloo and elsewhere. Then he realized that the numbers were irrelevant trivia. Many tens of thousands of young men would be killed or maimed, and that was what was important.

“As we shall have the larger forces,” Grant continued, “I will divide them.”

“Why?” asked Stanton.

“I discussed it with Mr. Lincoln. I have no idea what will be the main thrust of Lee's advance. Perhaps Lee doesn't know himself. I rather think his strategy will be based on what my moves will be. Will he move directly on Washington? Or will his targets be Baltimore or Philadelphia? Even Harrisburg is a possibility, and he is capable of striking towards Pittsburgh before withdrawing back to the south. Regardless, Mr. Lincoln is adamant that no major American cities should fall to the rebels, as even their temporary capture would give the South an enormous moral victory. Therefore, those places I just mentioned will be heavily garrisoned and fortified as best we can on such short notice. However, we cannot hope to make them as secure as Washington is now. When General Lee decides which place is his target, then we will converge on him while the garrison of the city attacked holds him at bay. If he chooses neither and simply seeks to raid through Maryland and Pennsylvania, then we will attack him where he goes.”

Grant exhaled a cloud of noxious smoke. “In order to succeed, Lee must stay on the move. Should he stop, it will be to our advantage. Then and only then will we be able to bring our superior numbers to bear; otherwise we will be chasing him. My strategy is to cast a net for General Lee. Then, when he is ensnared, take him.”

Nathan listened and again wondered just when and how the shy and taciturn young officer of years past had become a war leader.

Grant gestured towards Colonel Haupt. “My ability to move these separated forces to a place of gathering in a timely manner depends entirely on Colonel Haupt's railroads.”

Haupt's eyes gleamed. The challenge was accepted. “We will not fail you, General Grant.”

Halleck was unconvinced, and doubt was evident in his expression. “Why not meet Lee as far south as possible? Why let him lay waste to our lands?”

Grant eyed him coldly. There was no love lost between the two men. Grant's star was on the ascendant while Halleck was being forced to the background. Already he'd been told that his task was to support Grant, not to direct him. Once, Grant had been Halleck's subordinate, and the jealous Halleck did not like the current turn of events at all.

“Because every step he takes northward,” said Grant, “takes him farther away from his base and draws him closer to ours. Simply feeding such a large army is a vast undertaking, and I don't think they have the capability of doing so for any length of time. Whichever way they turn, they will use up food, ammunition, fodder, horses, and manpower that they cannot replace.”

“Like Napoleon in Russia,” Scott whispered.

Grant smiled. “Only Pennsylvania in the fall is not quite as cold as a Russian winter. But yes, I wish to fight the rebels when they are tired, wet, cold, and hungry, and not before. Most crops have already been harvested, which means they will have only what they bring to devour.”

“And you will see to it that pickings are slim, won't you. General?” asked Stanton.

“I will burn or kill anything they can use.”

Halleck appeared shocked. “You would destroy American property?”

Grant glared at him. “I would burn the very earth itself if I thought I could.”

The train contained but one passenger car, and that car carried but one passenger. General Patrick Cleburne stepped off and was greeted by a small semblance of a band playing something that might have been “Brian Boru's March,” or even “Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye.” Whichever it was, it was played at a much faster tempo than he was used to, and not particularly well.

Attila Flynn stepped forward and grasped Cleburne's hand. “Welcome to the Republic of New Ireland, General. Are you here to take me up on my offer?”

Cleburne looked about in mild amusement. Several dozen men armed with a miscellany of weapons stood in uneven ranks before him. A green flag with a white cloth harp sewn in the middle waved from a pole. “Funny, but I thought I was in London, Canada, and not Ireland.”

Flynn smiled. “A detail only, General, and one you can help rectify. Bring the Legion over to us and the Americans will never return Canada to England when a treaty is finally signed. We can use New Ireland ourselves to bargain for Irish independence, or as a refuge for Irish immigrants.”

Cleburne sighed. “Flynn, you are such a damned fool. First, I have said repeatedly that I will never again betray my country, and my country is the United States. Second, Britain will never give Ireland her independence, at least not in our time, and third, Irishmen already have a refuge, and that is the previously mentioned United States.”

Flynn was puzzled. “Then why have you bothered to come here at all?”

“We are leaving, Flynn. The Legion is already headed south and back to the United States. It's no secret, but the Confederates will be attacking northward, and we will help defend the Union.”

“But what of your promise to fight only England?” Cleburne grinned. “It will be kept. The British have landed an army in Virginia. 'Tis them we will fight, and the men are all for it. If a few rebels get in the way, then so be it, but we are headed south to fight the redcoats.”

So the rumors were true, Flynn thought. The focus of the war was shifting away from Canada.

Cleburne made a cursory inspection of the ranked men. “A villainous lot and Fenians all, I presume?” he asked when he finished and returned to where Flynn stood by the train.

“Of course,” Flynn replied.

“My real reason for visiting you is to let you know where you and this foolishness stand. As I said, I am leaving and my men are going with me. General Smith and a full corps of Union veterans will remain and will continue to put pressure on those British who haven't gone to Virginia. General Smith is of the thought that he will leave you alone here in London as long as you do not destroy property, or do any killing, or try to enlarge your so-called nation. Break the peace, and he will come down on you like the worst plague that never got into the Bible and hang every scurvy one of you. Accept deserters from the Union army and he will hang them twice, with the first time being by their balls. In short, Mr. Flynn, General Smith is not a nice man and you shouldn't fuck with him.”

Flynn understood and both men tried not to smile. Despite the apparent tongue-lashing, the message was clear. As long as he did nothing to antagonize General Smith, his Republic of New Ireland could remain on English soil. The United States of America would let the Republic of New Ireland be a public thorn in the side of England, and bloody Palmerston wouldn't know whether it was being condoned or not. At worst, it would give old Palmerston something else to worry about. Perhaps it would cause the old fart to croak. Flynn was impressed. Abraham Lincoln looked like an ignorant farmer, but he might just be far more devious than anyone thought.

“Don't you or General Smith worry, General dear, my people will all be perfect angels.”

“Will you be going to Harrisburg with Grant?” Rebecca asked. She tried to keep the anxiety from her voice but was afraid she failed.

“I offered,” Nathan replied with a small shrug, “but he feels more comfortable with the staff he already has, even though Rawlins is far from the most efficient manager in the world. I also think he wants me to watch over General Scott and keep General Halleck out of Meade's hair. Meade's excitable enough without anyone provoking him.”

George Gordon Meade had been promoted to major general and given expanded control over the Washington garrison, which now numbered over forty thousand. It was yet another move stripping any battlefield authority from Halleck, who was furious and frustrated at the developments.

“I can't say I'm disappointed,” Rebecca said. “I much prefer you here with me.”

Nathan chuckled. Tm not complaining.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. Once again they were in the parlor of the residence shared by Nathan and General Scott. This time, they were seated demurely across from each other. The look in her eyes told him she wished it were otherwise, but there was too much going on in the house for privacy, and she would be leaving for her own home in a short while.

“I just don't understand why the South is going to attempt this conquest of the North.”

“First of all,” he replied, “it will more correctly be called a raid. A gigantic, long-term raid and not a conquest, which, by definition, is an event of long duration. Lee will try to march through us, whip us in a handful of battles, and then return south filled with glory, and us with humiliation and the realization that we can't beat him. Therefore, it will never be called a conquest.”

“Then why won't he try to conquer?”

“Because it would mean he would have to garrison and try to hold on to what he has taken. With us having overwhelming superiority in both numbers and equipment, it would only be a matter of time before any conquering Southern army would be pounded to pieces.”

It seemed so strange to Rebecca. Ladies did not sit on a chair facing their beloved and talk about mass killings. What a world this war has made, she thought. “Then what is his goal in causing this raid?”

“Jefferson Davis is very clever. He knows that the British want this war ended soon so they can retake Canada, either by force of arms or at the negotiating table. He hopes that a Confederate victory will bring us to that table.”

“And will it?”

“Not as long as Mr. Lincoln is president. Both the Confederacy and the British underestimate Lincoln's resolve in the matter of preserving the Union. Even if the Anglo-Confederate forces do win a battle or two, they will never win the war. At least, not so long as Mr. Lincoln is president.”

She thought she understood. “Then, if the North is defeated in battle, it might cause Lincoln to be defeated in the next election. In which case, he might be replaced by someone less vigorous in defense of the Union. McClellan, for instance. Or, a defeat might cause him to lose control of Congress.”

“Correct.” It was marvelous to be able to talk with a woman who understood matters. “And it is also why General Grant will do his utmost to ensure that General Lee is not able to take any major city. Harrisburg, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and, of course, Washington, will be defended to the utmost.”

“Could Lee continue on to Pittsburgh?”

Nathan shook his head. “I doubt it. It's just too far into the North and too distant from any base of operations. If he were to move on Pittsburgh, his route south from there would be directly through West Virginia, where rebels are about as popular as the devil in church.”

“Then if it's only a raid and Lincoln won't negotiate, what's in it for Great Britain?” she wondered.

“We must be realistic,” said Palmerston. Lord Russell nodded in reply. “We must not lose another army in North America.”

Russell yawned. “A bad habit that began with Burgoyne and continued with Cardigan. I think Napier is made of sterner stuff, don't you?”

“Of course, but he doesn't command. This Lee may be a bloody genius, but he is attacking a superior force led by a general who may or may not be his equal.”

Russell thought Palmerston's comment was interesting. It was only a little while prior that the prime minister had called Grant a drunken street fighter. “Then why are we insisting on such an adventure?”

“Because it is the only way we can make the Union negotiate. As I have said so often, we must end the war soon. Our army is stretched beyond its limit and our navy is in danger of no longer being able to sustain a blockade thanks to the North's damned ironclads.”

“And then there's Ireland,” said Russell.

Palmerston groaned. “Dear God, what a mess. Along with this ridiculous Republic of New Ireland that Lincoln has permitted the Fenians to proclaim within the confines of Canada, we have the uproar of Sepoys enforcing the law in Ireland itself.”

Replacing British regulars who'd been shipped to Virginia, two regiments of Indian Sepoys had been installed as garrison troops in unruly Ireland, with more to follow. The move had been a disaster. The indigenous Irish population had been outraged at being ruled by dark-skinned men, and there had been serious rioting. Then, a few days after the riots had begun to subside, an Irish woman claimed she had been raped and her husband killed by Sepoys. True or not, the rioting was renewed with a fury and had become almost a full-blown rebellion, with many hundreds dead and wounded on each side. The Sepoys had been overwhelmed by the Irish mobs, with only a lucky few finding ships to take them to England. Many of the captured Sepoys had been lynched by Irish rebels. Worse, this meant that British regulars would have to retake a rebellious Ireland that was now armed with the weapons taken from the Sepoys.

Russell looked at him solemnly. “Yet I have heard that Lincoln will not negotiate an end to the war under any circumstances.” Palmerston grasped the arm of his chair until his knuckles showed white. “Then he's a fool.”

“But a fool who will not give in. What then, Prime Minister?”

“If that unhappy chance should arise, we will deal with it. We will make plans,” Palmerston said. “Unwelcome and unpleasant plans, but plans nonetheless. A truly great power must know when to compromise.”

There was so much British shipping in the Chesapeake Bay-Hampton Roads area that several score transports and numerous small naval vessels were anchored well out of the James River. In some areas the congested anchorage was literally hull to hull with ships anchored and awaiting the return to England. They awaited convoys to form up for the journey when unloading was finished, which, since there were no major port facilities in the area, was stretching out from a time standpoint. Getting men and horses off the ships had been the first priority, and now the equipment and supplies were getting their turn. The work of unloading was proceeding, but with glacial slowness.

If any of the lookouts on either the Confederate shore batteries or the British picket ships noted the ugly, slow-moving steamship as she approached the clogged anchorage, they only gave her a cursory glance. The decrepit craft looked like she'd been through more than a few storms and was the product of sloppy care. Someone would later say he thought she looked like she'd been put together by a committee of drunks. At any rate, she was deemed harmless.

They were wrong.

The ugly duckling drew next to a group of British merchant ships that had been lashed together to permit ease of handling of their cargoes. A sailor on one looked at the strange steamer that was only about a hundred yards away and closing steadily. He paled. A large gun barrel showed from what looked like a pile of lumber on her deck.

He never got a chance to sound a warning. The gun roared, sending a shell through the thin hull of his ship as well as the one behind her. A second gun thundered and smashed into two more hulls. The concussion from the guns caused the flimsily built false deck and cargo to fall off the attacker. There, in the midst of Hampton Roads, stood a Union ironclad with the Stars and Stripes waving proudly from her stern.

It was thePotomac, and her twin turrets revolved like the eyes of some malevolent beast. There was nothing the British ships could do. They had no steam up and their sails were furled. Even if they wished to get under way, they couldn't, as many had virtually all their crews on shore, drinking themselves blind in the taverns and whorehouses of Norfolk and Richmond. They were helpless as tethered lambs while the lion slowly prowled and selected its prey.

Some of the remaining crews panicked and cut their anchor cables. This allowed the ships to move with the currents, crashing into other ships or running ashore. A lucky few found themselves drifting safely away, but most found themselves in as much danger as they had been before. As thePotomac approached, those sailors who had remained onboard solved their personal problems by abandoning their ships and diving into the water.

ThePotomac mounted four twelve-inch guns, and one of them fired every minute or so in methodic execution. Each shell meant the death of a helpless merchant. Fires began and, with no one available to put them out, swept through tarred rigging and over painted, wooden decks, and then, as flaming embers, flew from ship to ship. Within a short while, the British merchant fleet was the scene of a conflagration of epic proportions.

The Confederate shore batteries were the first to respond, but they were hampered by the fact that thePotomac was moving slowly but nimbly in and about the British shipping. Thus, while the batteries fired rapidly, many of their shots either missed or struck the Potomac's victims, and those few that did strike the ironclad bounced off harmlessly.

An attack on Hampton Roads and the James River was absolutely the last thing the Royal Navy had expected from the minuscule Union navy. The British warships damaged in the previous fighting had returned to England under escort. This meant that the Royal Navy's presence was far less than the fleet that had escorted the merchants to what was presumed to be security. Even theWarrior had departed on a cruise towards New York, where it was presumed that the Union ships would head. Like their merchant counterparts, the remaining wooden British warships were not in the slightest bit ready to move against an enemy whose presence had been unimaginable only a few moments before.

Admiral Chads was ashore when thePotomac launched her assault and all he could do was stand and listen, a stricken look on his face, while, in the distance, smoke billowed from burning ships. A pair of armed sloops raced to stop thePotomac, but the ironclad virtually ignored their feeble efforts as she continued to savage the transport fleet. Occasionally, some unloaded cargo proved particularly explosive or flammable, and a ship went up with a whoosh or a thunderous boom.

Onboard thePotomac. Commodore David Glasgow Farragut looked through a telescope that poked from one of the turrets and howled with glee at the carnage he had wrought. “That'll teach the bastards,” he said. He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the one-sided battle. “This is what we should have done to them when they tried to sail past us.”

Newly transferred from theHudson. Lieutenant George Dewey merely smiled. Farragut was his mentor, and the young lieutenant felt that he had chosen a damned good one. Farragut had slipped into Baltimore and driven the shipyard to focus its repair efforts on one ship-thePotomac. As a result, damaged plates had been repaired in record time while ammunition was hauled onboard. With only a few days' food and water, they had waited until intelligence said that the main part of the British war fleet had departed for other ports, deeming the situation safe and secure. Then they had pounced. Disguised as a tramp, she had been ignored until too late.

Dewey pulled his watch out of his pocket and checked the time. “I think we should depart, sir.”

Farragut scowled in mock anger. “What, and end this fine party?”

“We've used eighty percent of our shells and the Brits have had time to get steam up. They'll be after us very soon and we'll need ammunition to fight our way back.”

Farragut sniffed his disappointment. He gave the cease-fire order and turned away. He was convinced the British would trail him from a distance and try to harm him with a lucky, fluke shot. They had no urge to close on his twelve-inchers and be blown back to Liverpool. The ironclad was master of America's inland seas.

“Isn't this about where the rebels were building their own ironclad?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Dewey answered. “TheMerrimack was under construction just a few miles from here. She's still there; they never finished her.”

“A shame they didn't,” Farragut mused. “A Monitor like thePotomac and a ship like theMerrimack would have been one hell of a fight.”

“Indeed, sir, it would.”

The firing had died off and thePotomac was under way, heading northward towards Baltimore at a steady seven knots per hour. “But then, we really did kick John Bull's ass today, didn't we?”