Stars and Stripes Forever

WASHINGTON CITY ATTACKED

Royal Oak led the way, a sixty-gun ship of the line. In line astern were two other great ships. Prince Consort also with sixty-guns, and following her was Repulse with fifty-nine. They slowly came around the bend in the river and the city of Washington was open before them. The fighting ships drew close to the shore while the troop transports moved toward the Virginia side of the river. As soon as the British ships were within range the battery of American field artillery on the shore, and the guns of Fort Carrol, opened fire. The sound of the explosions echoed through the empty streets of the city; acrid smoke drifted in the hot air. The gunners shouted with pleasure as they saw their shells strike home in the high oak flanks of the warships.

Their voices were drowned in the thunder of the ship of the line’s broadside. Thirty guns fired as one and Royal Oak rolled with the recoil. The artillery battery ceased to exist. The undermanned fort grew silent as the heavy guns pounded it.

Other guns on the shore were firing now, with little effect against the thick oak of the British ships. They drifted closer to the embankment, turning as they came so the gun layers could pick out the individual batteries and guns. There were few enough defenders to begin with, fewer still after the first minutes of firing. None remained intact fifteen minutes later as the first of the transports approached the shore.

There was a spatter of defensive fire from the American soldiers there, answered at once by British guns firing grapeshot. Marine marksmen in the rigging added to the carnage. The signal flags went up and the big troop transports threw their sails over and tacked across the river to the shore. Sailors jumped down lines to secure them and gangways were slung down.

By the time the first troops were marching ashore, the pocket of resistance had been all but wiped out. Urged on by the shouts of the sergeants, two columns were quickly formed up and then marched out briskly. One in the direction of the Capitol — the other directly towards the White House. History was repeating itself with a vengeance.

Secretary Stanton looked down from the high window of the War Department at the troops advancing down Pennsylvania Avenue. There was shouting from the hall behind him and the sound of running feet.

“Sir,” a voice called out and he turned to see the red-faced and sweating Captain Docherty. “We got the presidential party to safety, got my men back here as quick as I could.”

“Where did you take them?”

“Mrs. Lincoln said they would be safe in Mrs. Morgan’s house in Georgetown. Good a place as any. Locked in and all the windows bolted. I left a corporal and two men though, just in case.”

“What are the streets like?”

“Empty, pretty much. Houses all locked up. But there are more and more men about, carrying guns.”

“What do you mean?”

“City folk. Got their women and kinfolk to safety then began to get angry, I guess. This may be the capital of the country but it has always been a Southern city. These people don’t like being invaded, particularly by the British.”

“Any chance of forming them up?” General A. J. Smith said, turning from the window. More shots were sounding from the street below.

“No way — but they’re doing all right from what I seen. Most of them are sniping away at the redcoats like they was at a turkey shoot. Rise up and let go, then slip away. Don’t know how much good they’re doing against the regulars, but I’ve seen the redcoats fall.”

Soldiers were firing from the windows now at the British advancing through the street below. A burst of counterfire took out the glass from the window and Stanton retreated to the far wall out of the line of fire.

“What do you see, General?”

The officer was ignoring the occasional bullet that crashed into the room, even leaned out to see better. “Those Kentucky troops, the ones stationed in the White House, they’re putting up quite a defense. Keeping the lobsterbacks pretty clear — by tarnation, good shooting!”

“What?”

“There was a rush, a squad with burning torches, they were cut down before they could reach the portico. But it can’t last, we’re too outnumbered.”

With the firing now concentrated on the White House, Stanton was emboldened enough to come closer to the window. The streets below swarmed with enemy troops. They ringed the Mansion and were slowly closing in. Disaster was certain. He wondered if they would be burning the Capitol as well.

The USS Avenger was the U.S. Navy’s newest acquisition, steam-powered and iron-hulled, with engines powerful enough to push her through the sea at fifteen knots. Heavily armed, with four 400-pound Parrott guns mounted in double turrets she was a shark of the sea. Commodore Goldsborough himself was in the pilot cabin when they saw the little steamer come around the tip of the Yorktown Peninsula, less than a mile ahead. The first officer had his glasses on her.

“I know that ship, Commodore. River Queen. Assigned to the army, does packet service — ”

His voice broke off as the large warship surged into view behind the smaller vessel. A warship moving at great speed, her guns run out and spouting a great column of smoke.

“British!” the Commodore said when he saw their flag. “Beat to quarters. Prepare for action. Open port lids and run out the guns.”

“Solid shot, sir?”

“No, the new explosive shells. She’s seen us and she’s going about — but they’re not going to get away.”

But the British ship was not retreating. With her guns already run out she was prepared for battle and was ready for it. She was no longer following the River Queen but was turning to engage this new enemy who had suddenly appeared across her bows.

Both ships had their boiler pressure close to the red. Their closing speed was almost thirty-five miles an hour. Within two minutes the mile that had separated them had diminished to a hundred yards. Through the slits in the iron pilot box the American officers could see the men manning the guns on the enemy ship, the officers on the bridge there peering down toward them.

“Starboard your helm,” Goldsborough ordered. “Helmsman, steer fine, pass her to port. Steady.”

When the great warship had turned and gone thundering by them, the captain of the River Queen had eased the pressure in his laboring engine and had turned in the other ship’s wake. The men in the salon were roaring with relieved laughter, shouting with excitement as they poured on deck to watch the spectacle. President Lincoln had the perfect view of the action through the bridge window.

“You will never see the likes of this again,” the captain cried out. “Never again!”

For an instant it looked as though the two warships were going to strike each other, bow to bow. But no, they slid past just yards apart. And as they passed the guns on the British battleship roared out at point-blank range, one after another.

With absolutely no effect. The solid shot slammed into the iron turrets and bounced away. Sheets of flame joined the two ships together, smoke billowing high.

Then Avenger fired. Four shots only, one after the other, fired at point-blank range, the noise like the thunder of a summer storm.

Then the ships were past each other and in those brief moments the battle had been engaged — and ended.

The Avenger swung about in a great arc. By the time she had turned in her own wake the ship was ready for battle again as the reloaded guns, one after another, were run back into position. There were burns and great smears and gouges in her armor plate where shells had struck and exploded. But she was still fit, still ready to do battle.

There was no need.

In the time it had taken for the two ships to pass each other the wooden British warship had been holed and was aflame from stem to stern. There was scarcely time to lower the boats as the rigging and sails caught fire; the terrified crewmen hurled themselves into the ocean to escape the flames. Corpses and upended cannon were strewn on her deck. There was a muffled explosion deep in her hull and gushing steam added to the horrors aboard her as the boiler exploded.

Avenger slowed her engines as she approached the enemy, guns ready and alert. Yet not a shot was fired. With all resistance ended the enemy lay heavy in the sea, almost unseen behind the flame and smoke that roared from her.

Goldsborough nodded with satisfaction. “Lower the boats to pick up those survivors in the water.”

The little steamship had come close to the warship now and Lincoln’s orders kept the River Queen’s signalman busy. As soon as the import of his message reached Commander Goldsborough the word was quickly passed and one of the boats, oars flashing, raced for the smaller vessel. Lincoln climbed wearily down from the bridge to speak to his assembled officers.

“Gentlemen, I think that we have experienced the nearest thing to a miracle that we will ever see in our lifetime.”

“Amen to that, brother!” called out one of Lee’s officers, a preacher in civilian life.

“We have little or no time to waste. We all saw the fleet that is now sailing on Washington. And we know how defenseless that city is at the present time. Providence has provided us with this magnificent vessel that might put a halt to that invasion. General Sherman and I will go aboard the Avenger and sail with her. You will follow in this ship. We will meet again in Washington.” He looked down at the boat that now, oars in, was tying onto their ship.

“There is danger, Mr. President. I am a soldier and it is my duty to move into battle. But you are the leader of our country, your life far more valuable than mine,” General Sherman protested. Lincoln shook his head.

“I have a feeling, General, that for this day at least Providence is on our side. Let us go.” He went to the ladder and descended, one of the sailors helping him into the boat. Sherman could only follow.

Commodore Goldsborough came out of the hatch and onto the shrapnel-strewn deck and saluted when they climbed aboard. Old, gray-haired and overweight, he was still a man of fighting spirit.

“Thank you for the timely arrival,” Lincoln said. He looked at the blazing wreck and shook his head. “A single broadside did that…”

“We used explosive shells, Mr. President. The aft battery was charged with the new incendiary shells that we were testing out at sea. They are filled with an inflammable substance that is said to burn for thirty minutes without the possibility of being quenched. I wish we had more of them for I would say they are a great success. But welcome, sir, welcome aboard. You as well, General Sherman.” He turned and shouted commands in a voice that could be heard in a gale; the engines rumbled deep below. He coughed, cleared his throat, and continued to speak but in a far more conversational manner.

“I tied up at Fort Monroe less than two hours ago, to take on coal. Then telegraphed reports began coming in about the presence of the enemy fleet in the Potomac. As far as I know mine is the only ship of strength in these waters. I dropped my lines and, well, you saw what happened next. I must thank you for bringing that British ship to my attention.”

“We must thank you, Commodore, for your timely arrival and most convincing treatment of our pursuer. Now — to Washington.”

“To Washington, Mr. President. Full speed ahead.”

When the War Department was not directly attacked, General Rose had ordered scouts to slip out of the back windows. They desperately needed to know what was going on. The first one to return was ordered to report directly to Secretary Stanton.

“What is the city like, Corporal?”

“Pretty quiet, nothing moving except where them British troops are. Everyone locked up and quiet. I think I saw the Capitol on fire, and it had been hit by gunfire, but couldn’t get close enough to be sure. Then I got as near to the river as I could. All our guns wiped out, many of our men too. Redcoats still landing, lots of them spread out, but lots of them shot dead.”

“What do you mean?”

“Local folks not taking kindly to them. And it looked like every farmer that could ride a mule headed for the city when these ships went by on the Potomac. They got a line of men stretched out and firing — with more arriving every minute.”

“Enough to stop the British?”

“I don’t believe so, sir. Those troops are regulars and there is an awful lot of them.”

“Mr. Stanton — it looks like they’re getting into the White House now!”

It certainly appeared to be the end. The defensive fire had died down and the first enemy troops were battering at the sealed front door. The troops inside were firing through the shattered windows to no avail.

Above the scattering of shots a bugle could be clearly heard. Sounding the same call over and over.

“That bugle call — what is it?” Stanton asked worriedly.

The general shook his head. “I’m afraid that I do not know, sir. It is not a call used in the United States Army.”

“I know, sir,” the corporal said. Every eye was on him. “I’m in a signals unit, we know all the British calls as well.

“That’s retreat, sir, that’s what they are sounding. Retreat.”

“But — why?” Stanton asked. “They are winning. Have our troops rallied and attacked…”

“Not troops!” General Rose cried out. “Look, there in the Potomac!”

In the patch of river, just visible past the verandas of the White House, a hulking dark form moved into view. Guns ready, the stars and stripes flapping from her staff.

An American armor-clad; the salvation of the city.

“Your orders, Mr. President,” the Commodore said.

Lincoln was bent over and looking out through the slit in the armor that covered the bridge. It was hot, close in here. What it would be like when the guns fired and shells struck outside he did not even want to imagine. There was a good chance that he might find out in the coming minutes.

“What do you suggest, Commodore?”

“Wood, sir. All wood and no iron on any of the warships. You saw what happens when wood fights iron.”

“I did indeed. Can you call upon them to surrender?”

“I could, but I doubt that it would be appreciated. Those ships came here to fight and fight they will. See, they are already swinging about to get their guns to bear.”

“The ships with the troops — you will spare them?”

“Of course — unless they refuse to surrender and try to escape. But I think they will be reasonable after they see what happens to the others.”

Smoke rolled out from the Prince Regent’s guns and there was a mighty clang of metal upon metal that sounded through the ship.

“Return fire,” Goldsborough ordered.

The Battle of the Potomac River had begun.

The British had their defensive tactics forced upon them: they were compelled to keep their warships between this armored enemy and the unarmed transports tied up along the shore. The retreating troops were being boarded as fast as they could, but it would still take some time. Time that would have to be bought with men’s lives.

They sailed in line against the single enemy, crossing the T just as Nelson had done at Trafalgar. This would concentrate the gunfire of each ship in turn against a single target. But success at the Battle of Trafalgar had seen wooden ships fighting wooden ships. Now it was wood against iron.

Prince Regent was first in line. As she passed the ironclad gun after gun fired at close range. The solid shot just bounced off the armor plate; the explosive shells could not penetrate. There was no return fire until the rear turret of Avenger was even with the waist of the British ship. The two guns fired and the massive iron shells from the 400-pounders crashed through the oak hull and on into the crowded gun deck.

Royal Oak was next and she took the fire of the other turret and suffered the same fate as her sister ship. Guns unmounted, men screaming and dying, tangled rigging and sails down.

It took two minutes to reload the big guns. Every minute one of the turrets fired and death crashed into the British squadron. The ships fought and died, one by one, a small victory bought at a terrible price. But the first transports had slipped their lines and were heading downriver.

Men ran along the bank, cheering and shouting, letting off the occasional shot against the retreating ships. A British warship had her rudder blown away and drifted helplessly in the current; the watchers cheered even louder.

Guns were still firing upstream from the drifting ship as it slowly drifted out of sight. Smaller guns firing at erratic intervals. And every two minutes the louder boom of the 400-pounders.

“We are winning, Mr. Lincoln,” Goldsborough said. “No doubt about that.”

“Has this ship suffered any damage?”

“None, sir — other than our flagstaff being shot away. They got Old Glory and they will pay a terrible price for that.”