Stars and Stripes In Peril

THE MIGHTY ARMADA

Never had the little island of Graciosa in the Azores seen such a sight. In the past, there had been two, sometimes three, ships that might be taking on coal in the harbor at the same time. But this — this was unbelievable. Black steel warships filled the ocean outside the small port, dark guns pointed menacingly at the city and the sea. Anchored close offshore was a sailing ship and two small steamers. The three-master — which had flown the Union Jack — was now a prize of war. The captains of the other two ships, one French, one German, had protested mightily when the American marines had boarded them. Politely, but firmly, they had been promised release after the fleet had sailed.

But for the moment not only wasn’t it sailing — it was being reinforced. It seemed that the entire population of the island was gathered now on the shore staring, gape-mouthed, at the horizon. Where vessel after vessel appeared, until the sea was filled with ships.

But there was a logic among all the bustle and apparent confusion. Signalmen relayed orders: two ironclads passed through the anchored fleet and pulled up at the coaling wharf. At the same time a steam launch made its way out through the ironclads, stopping at each one just long enough for the ship’s captain to step aboard. When it made its last call the crowded launch then returned to USS Dictator. The most powerful battleship ever launched, where Admiral Farragut hung his flag. The captains crowded the Officers’ Mess, talking intensely among themselves. The murmur of sound died down when the admiral entered, followed by his aide heavily burdened with sealed envelopes.

“Gentlemen,” the admiral said, “this will be our last meeting. At dawn tomorrow we sail for Ireland.” He waited, smiling, until the voices had died down. “I know that until this moment you have heard only rumors about the invasion, knew only our destination. Rumors were circulated that we were going to Scotland, to attack England herself, and, of course, Mexico. As far as we can tell the British have been completely duped and their forces are preparing for our invasion of Mexico. But that does not mean that there are none of her warships now at sea that may be encountered — nor does it mean that the continuing threat of the armed might of the British Isles has been neglected. Many of her ships must now be at sea. That is the one thing we must guard against — being observed before our forces are put ashore in Ireland. Therefore I want an outer screen of your ships around the convoy. No other vessels, enemy or otherwise, will penetrate this shield to see the convoy that you are guarding. Neutrals will be boarded and seized, enemy vessels captured. Now — here is the course that we will be taking.”

There was a bustle as the captains stirred and moved about so they could see the chart that had been fixed to the bulkhead. Farragut stood next to it.

“Our course will have two legs. We will first start out from the Azores on a bearing of north-north-west, to stay offshore, well away from the coastal trade of Spain and France. But you will note that this also means that we will be cutting across their transatlantic sea lanes. Therefore we will double our lookouts, who must be alert at all times. Then here,” he touched the map, “when we have passed the Bay of Biscay, when we are at forty-eight degrees, sixty minutes north, on the same latitude as Brest in France, we change course to north-north-east. This is when the two invasion groups will separate. Group A will take a more westerly approach towards the Atlantic coast of Ireland. While group B will sail for the Celtic Sea. Into the heartland of the British Isles. This is a momentous occasion, gentlemen, for we are at last carrying this war to the enemy…”

The distant sound was more felt than heard, through the steel of the deck. “What was that?” the admiral asked.

“Find out,” Captain Johns ordered his first lieutenant, who hurried from the compartment. The officers were silent, all of them commanders of steamships, aware that something was very wrong.

The lieutenant was back in less than a minute with a sailor in grease-smeared clothing. Obviously an engine room artificer. “This rating was on the way here,” the lieutenant said.

“Tell us,” the captain said.

“Explosion in the main boiler, sir. Two men killed.”

“How long will it take to repair?”

“First engineer said a day at least. It’s the feed pipes…”

“Dismissed,” Captain Johns said. All eyes were now on Admiral Farragut. He looked once at the map, then turned back to the officers.

“Nothing can be changed. The invasion must go ahead as planned. Dictator will remain here in port until she has made repairs. I am shifting my flag to Virginia. We will now revise the order of battle to allow for Dictator’s absence in the opening phases of the invasion.”

The officers were unusually quiet when they turned to their papers. The invasion would go ahead — but their earlier enthusiasm had been replaced by dogged determination. Seamen are a superstitious lot. None of them liked this grim omen so early in the operation.

In the Cabinet Room, in the White House, the meeting was getting very scrappy, with almost every member insisting that his concerns were more in need of attention than any of the others. Salmon P. Chase, the Secretary of the Treasury, knew that his problems took precedence. He seldom raised his voice, depending instead upon the force of his arguments to convince others of his wisdom. Today he almost lost his temper.

“Gentlemen — I insist that you cease this wrangling and face facts. You, Mr. Stanton, will have none of the new guns you say that the army needs, without the funds to purchase them. Before all else we must discuss the necessary taxes to pay for this war.”

“I beg to differ,” Judah P. Benjamin said in his rich Louisiana drawl. “Matters of war and taxation in this country must be put aside while we consider if we have a united country or not. You must face the fact that these nightriders are enemies of the Union, enemies of the Freedmen’s Bureau, enemies of the fragile peace now existing between the North and South. I have tragic news to convey to you and was but waiting for Mr. Lincoln to arrive to unburden myself upon you. Mr. President,” he said, standing and nodding towards the head of the table as Lincoln entered and settled himself in his chair. The other voices died away as Benjamin sat down as well and began to speak.

“Despite our efforts to consolidate the peace in the South there are still immense difficulties. In spite of our payments for freed slaves, despite the founding of mills, steelworks, even gunmakers, there is still an element that will not accept the new South. They harass freed slaves, threaten, even burn, Freedmen’s Bureaus, are even against the education of Negroes. There have been lynchings and burnings — and now this.” Benjamin held up a folded piece of paper.

“I received this telegram when I was on my way here. I am stunned by it — even horrified — and I don’t know where it will end. It seems that the Negroes have started to fight back against the nightriders — and who can blame them. But the results are terrible, tragic beyond measure.” His voice died to a whisper, his fists clenched, crushing the message that he held. He shook his head, then took himself in hand. Sitting up straight in the chair he looked around at the assembled cabinet.

“A nightrider was killed in Jackson, Mississippi. A man known to all of us. The former President of the Confederacy — Jefferson Davis.”

Stunned silence followed this dreadful news. Lincoln slowly shook his head in despair, then spoke in a voice as weary as death. “He was a great statesman who made the end of our civil war possible. And he tried to warn me…”

Edward Bates, the Attorney General, ever a practical man said, “Mr. President you must declare an emergency in Mississippi — and martial law. Before tempers flare and the killing spreads.”

Lincoln nodded. “Yes, of course we must do that. Have the governor informed at once. Find out what troops we have stationed there and telegraph their commander at once. What a terrible thing to have happen. But you said — that it was a nightrider that was killed?”

Judah Benjamin nodded, and spoke most sadly. “Mr. Davis was with the nightriders. Perhaps he felt that by being part of the protests he could mollify the hotheads, provide rational argument. I don’t know…”

Salmon Chase knew. He had talked often with Jefferson Davis and knew that at heart the man felt that the Negro was inferior and would always be that way. He stayed his voice. Davis now had the dignity of the dead. And had paid the ultimate price for his bigotry. Dissension was not needed now. Old wounds needed to be bound up — not clawed open. “Do they know who did the shooting?” he asked.

Benjamin looked again at the telegram. “It was a young man, a war veteran, by the name L.D. Lewis.” He looked up and sighed deeply. “He is now under arrest, and… he is a Negro.”

“What was his outfit?” asked Edwin M. Stanton, the Secretary of War.

“It does not say.”

“Please make every effort to find out. He is a veteran, a soldier, and of great concern to the War Department.”

They were all in agreement about declaring martial law to prevent the violence spreading. Stanton drew up the order and it was dispatched. There was little fire left in their proposals now and they talked together in low voices, trying to find ways to keep the peace. Only Gideon Welles, the Secretary of the Navy, had other business to attend to. He kept glancing at the ornate clock on the wall, even taking out his watch to determine its accuracy. He finally nodded, put away the watch and stood up.

“Gentlemen — might I have your attention. Some of you here know what I am going to tell you now. To the others I must apologize for keeping you in the dark. But the way to keep a secret is not to tell anyone. But we felt that we had to do as good as the British — do them one better if we could. You will recall how they landed and seized a Mexican seaport when we thought that they were on the way to the West Indies. Most embarrassing for us, as you all know. But that is no longer the case. At this moment I can tell you that our mighty fleet is striking close to the heart of the British Empire. The fleet that the entire world believed was on its way to the Pacific coast of Mexico — did not go there at all. It was a ruse, a hoax, an immense attempt to make the enemy expect us in one place — when in reality we were striking at another. We are not going to fight them any more in Mexico because they will soon be forced to withdraw all the troops that they have there.” He smiled around at the puzzled expressions, the few nods of agreement of those cabinet members who had knowledge of the real invasion.

“The warships and the troop transports that sailed south some days ago — did no such thing. Once out of sight of land they changed course and proceeded to a rendezvous in the North Atlantic. Refueled and united they sailed to what most certainly will be a victory.”

Welles looked around at the puzzled faces and could not stifle a wry grin.

“For even as I speak our forces are invading the island of Ireland. The first landings were made at six this morning, Greenwich Mean Time. It is now five in the afternoon in Ireland. The invasion is well under way and, with God’s help, can but succeed. Can you imagine the expression on Queen Victoria’s face when someone tells her this bit of news!”

“May that moment be long in coming,” Abraham Lincoln said. “All of our efforts up to now have been bent on keeping that royal lady — and her armed forces — in the dark. If everything goes according to plan Ireland will be secured well before news of the conquest reaches England. When they do discover what has happened it will be too late to do anything about it. Short of mounting a counter-invasion, they will have little to choose from.”

“May you be speaking the truth, Mr. President,” Judah P. Benjamin said. “May the plans of our officers be successful, may this effort of arms succeed in every way. May victory be ours.”

He did not add that victory was never assured in war. Quite the opposite in fact. Well what was done was done. He did not speak aloud his reservations or fears, not wanting to destroy this moment of happiness. But he saw Lincoln looking at him — the same dark look of deep concern on his face.

The deed was done. All that they could do now was pray that success would be theirs.

SUNDAY, 8 OCTOBER 1863 — MIDNIGHT

It was a cool and clear night in most of Ireland. But to the west there were rain squalls over Mayo and Galway, down as far south as The Burren. But there is always rain in the west and no one took any particular notice. The country slept. Only the military were awake, the nightwatch on guard at the many British military establishments that marked out the occupation of the land. Soldiers stamped outside the brick barracks in the Curragh, just south of Dublin. Stood guard as well in front of Dublin Castle, walked the battlements of Belvelly Tower, one of the five towers that defended Cork Harbor. Peered down from the gunports of the Martello towers that guarded Galway Bay. Only the military marked the darkness of the midnight hour.

Or did they? To the east of Belfast, where Belfast Lough entered the Irish Sea, was the small fishing village of Groomsport. Little different from any other village on the shores of Ireland, except, perhaps for the signs on the seafront east of the harbor. DO NOT ANCHOR HERE they read in large letters: the two men who appeared out of the darkness knew them very well.

“Further on, Seamus, just a bit.”

“It’s right here I tell you, I was pulling on the nippers right up this bit of shore—”

His words broke off with a pained grunt as he tripped and stretched himself on the sand.

“Right you are, Seamus, and I’ll never doubt you again.”

“Tripped over the bloody thing.” He reached down and with an effort he lifted the six-inch telegraph cable a few inches into the air.

“That’s it! I’ll never forget the day we dragged her ashore. Cut it here?”

“No. Get a sling on it. We’ll cut it in the water, then drag the seaward end out as far as we can.”

They passed a rope around the cable and each took an end. Gasping with the effort they lifted the cable, slid the rope along it as they stumbled into the sea, until the chill water was above their knees.

“Enough — jaysus, I’m knackered already.”

“Can you hold it there? Let the weight rest over your knee.”

“Just — about. Cut it before I’m banjaxed.”

Seamus took the hacksaw from the bag that hung from his belt. Sawed industriously at the outer casing, then the insulation and the copper wires. Cutting the steel cable in the center was something else again and his companion groaned in agony.

“That does it!” he said as the last strand parted and the severed ends of the cable disappeared into the dark water.

“Find it — find the end…”

Soaked through, their teeth chattering with the cold, they finally found the severed end of the cable that went out into the sea. Once more they managed to tie the rope around it. Not lifting now, but dragging it along the shore until they could move it no more, their mouths just above the surface of the waves.

“Leave it before we drown ourselves. They’ll not be patching this too readily.”

They stumbled and splashed their way ashore and vanished in the darkness towards the boat to cross the lough. Fearful all the way that they might be seen, identified. Not until they were in the familiar streets of the Catholic Pound area did they feel any relief. They separated there and Seamus slipped through the unlocked door of his house and bolted it behind him. Nuala was still awake, sitting by the fire in the kitchen.

“You’re a fair sight, you are, dripping from head to toe. You’ll get a chill…”

“Some warm clothes, woman,” he said, pulling off the soaked garments. “And put these in that hole in the back garden I dug between the potatoes. God save anyone in Belfast who is found with sea-wet clothing this morning. Did Sean come by?”

“He did. He said to tell you one word. Done. Said you would know.”

“I do.”

“I thought that he was living with his sister in Oldpark, after he had to leave the telegraph company, the consumption and all.”

“He never left Oldpark this night — and you never saw him. A single word about him — or the clothes — and we’re all dead.”

“Don’t speak like that, it’s like a curse.”

He patted her arm, sorry he had frightened her. “Make us a pot of tea, there’s a good love. Just forget everything about tonight and everything will be fine.” He breathed a silent prayer. Please God, may that be true.

Others were about at this hour. From Dublin to Cork, Galway to Limerick. Some of them were the telegraph men themselves, who had worked their apparatus that very day. Before they shut down for the night they had sent queries about earlier messages they had received. Asked for repeats of some. Their work done they now took great pleasure in severing the wires. They knew the places where they could be cut so that no one would notice. Where telegraphers could not be drafted for this duty, men simply climbed the poles and trees, severed the wires and rolled up yards of them. They worked fast: they knew what had to be done. By half twelve all of the electrical communication in Ireland was gone. Messages could be neither sent nor received in all the length and breadth of the island. With the underwater cable to Port Logan in Scotland cut as well — the island of Ireland was isolated.

No one in the great fleet expected to reach Ireland without being detected. Just west of the Blasket Islands, off the Munster coast, the British revenue cutter Wasp blundered into the outer screen of fast ironclads. Her captain had seen their smoke for some time, but never for an instant did he imagine they could be anything but British. Only when one of the warships turned in his direction did he think differently. He turned back towards land, but it was far too late. A shot across his bow, the sight of the stars and stripes — plus the menace of the big guns, brought him to a halt, rolling, dead in the water. The cutter was quickly boarded and captured. With her crew locked below and under guard, the warship turned and hurried after the attacking fleet, Wasp following slowly in her wake.

In mid-afternoon the attacking fleet of ships had begun to separate, forming three separate attacking forces. The first of these slowed their engines, just out of sight of Kerry Head and the mouth of the Shannon River, while the other two hurried north.

By dusk the second invading fleet had reached its destination. Just over the horizon was the Clare coast where they would be landing at dawn. The third fleet had been out of sight for hours, for they had to round Ireland to the north to reach their objective of Lough Foyle.

Ireland’s three main cities all lay on the east coast. Belfast in the north, almost within sight of Scotland, which was just across the North Channel of the Irish Sea. Dublin in the center across the Irish Sea from Wales. And Cork, in the south, across the Celtic sea from Wales. This was the settled and populated east coast of the island.

But the wild west coast of the country was the most beautiful — and most empty. It was hard to scratch a living from the flinty soil, or take fish in the stormy sea. With the major cities all in the east that would certainly have appeared to be the place to launch an invasion.

But General William Tecumseh Sherman and General Robert E. Lee were never ones to take the easy and obvious way. In the past, during the war, they had moved armies by train, kept them supplied by train. They had used railroads to wage war in a manner never seen before. So when they had looked at the map of Ireland and had seen a wonderful modern network of rail — it appeared to have been designed for their military needs.

From Portrush on the north coast it was only sixty miles by rail to Belfast. It was much the same distance in the south from Limerick to Cork.

While in the center of the country the Midland Great Western Railway ran straight from Galway to Kingsbridge Station in Dublin. A few ancient Martello towers on Galway Bay, built when there was great fear of a French invasion, were all that stood in the way of American troops coming from the sea.

There would be three striking forces: three fighting generals. Dublin was the capital of Ireland so it seemed predestined that General Sherman would land with his troops in Galway, to strike east and take that city. With Grant still fighting the British in Mexico a man of his caliber had been chosen to attack in the south from Limerick to Cork. This was General Thomas J. Jackson, the Stonewall Jackson who won battles. To General Lee fell the shortest, and possibly the easiest, invasion route from Portrush to Belfast. But it might prove to be the hardest because the invaders would be striking through the Protestant loyalist heartland. These hard men would not welcome the Americans, as would the Catholic Irish in the south. Ulster was a question mark, which is why Lee had volunteered to lead the invasion there. A superb tactician, he could maneuver entire armies, first one way then the other. If there was to be stiffened resistance and rapid alteration of plans he was the man to match the occasion.

Overall it was a subtle invasion plan that would, hopefully, be simple enough to lead to victory. Three lightning strikes to seize the country by land.

But what of the massive sea power of the American fleet? What would be their role in this new kind of warfare?

Firstly, they had to see that the transports were safely sailed across the ocean. Once this had been accomplished their role had changed. Now they were blockaders — and floating batteries. The plan of attack that Sherman and Lee had developed could not be slowed down by unloading and moving artillery. Speed must be substituted for heavy guns. The Gatling guns would take their place in the landings and attacks in the west because they could attack alongside the infantry. Speed and overwhelming odds would, hopefully, assure victory there. But what would happen when the fast-moving attackers ran up against strongly held positions held by infantry backed by artillery? Plans had been made for this possibility. Now it would be seen if the new kind of battle could be won.

Engines were banked in the second fleet, while the signal flags called selected ships with orders. At sunset a dozen ships, both war craft and troop carriers, headed east for the Irish coast.

At the same time Patrick Riordan was pushing his boat into the waters of Galway Bay. Barna was a small fishing village, no more than five miles west from Galway city. Yet it was so rural that it could have been five hundred miles away. A mere dozen houses clustered around a single dirt track that meandered offacross the fields. Patrick Riordan’s brother, Dominick, brought out an armful of lobster pots and dumped them into the boat, climbed after them in silence.

“I guess it’s about time,” Patrick said.

Dominick looked at the dark clouds banked up on the western horizon and nodded. He used the steering oar to push them out, sculling them forward with it while his brother raised sail on the single mast; it billowed out in the light wind. Blowing, as it almost always did, from the west. They tacked in silence across the bay.

“You have the lanterns?” Patrick asked. Dominick touched the bag with his toe.

“And it is the right day?”

“Paddy, you know all these things without asking about them over and over. We went to mass this morning, which means that it is a Sunday. The eighth day of October, the day we’ve been planning for all these long months. Sean told us that — and you have to believe your own cousin. And he gave us the money to buy the lamps and all. This is the right day, all right, and you should be jubilating.” He pushed the steering oar hard over and they ducked their heads as the boom came about as they tacked in the opposite direction.

Dusk turned to night, a starless night as the clouds rolled in from the ocean. Neither of the brothers took much notice as they tacked again. A lifetime fishing these waters had stamped every part of them into their souls. The hills of The Burren to starboard were an even darker mass against the cloudy sky. On the next tack they were just aware of clearing Finvarra Point; the waves foaming on the rocks there barely visible. When they reached the mouth of the bay, and the Aran Islands, it was close to midnight. Lights in the occasional farmhouse moved by as they aimed for the outermost island and the sandy shore past the village of Oghil. Patrick jumped out and pulled the little boat grating up onto the sand: Dominick lowered the sail then dug out the bag with the lanterns.

“Should I light them?” he asked.

“Aye. It’s time.”

He lifted the chimney and fumbled out a lucifer from the waxpaper wrapping in his pocket, struck it on a metal fitting on the mast. It flared to life and the lantern caught. He blew the match out and adjusted the wick. Relit the match from this to light the second lantern. As they had been instructed, the lanterns were hung one above the other from the mast.

After securing the rope from the bow to the stump of a tree ashore, Patrick dug the stone crock out from under the stern bench. Dominick joined him ashore. Took out the stopper and drank deep of the poteen. Patrick joined him, sighing with satisfaction.

“So now we wait,” he said.

No more than an hour had passed before they heard the distant throb of a steam engine from the darkness of Galway Bay. The sound stopped and they stood, trying to peer into the inky darkness.

“I hear something—”

“Oars — and a squeaking oarlock!”

The ship’s boat appeared out of the darkness, slipping into the pool of light thrown by the lanterns. The sailors raised their oars as the blue uniformed figure in the bow jumped ashore.

“Sean,” Dominick said, “so you’re a soldier now.”

“I always have been. But I didn’t think it was wise to wear uniform when I was visiting youse.” He saw the crock on the ground and grabbed it up. “In the boat with you now — and I’ll take care of this.” He swallowed a large mouthful and sighed with delight.

“But our boat!” Patrick protested. “We can’t just leave it here.”

“Why can’t you? The good people of Oghil will keep it safe. Now — in with you. ’Tis a war we’re starting this very day.”

The Riordan brothers could only make feeble protests as they were bundled into the boat, which was quickly pushed out and returned to the transport. A hooded light revealed the rope ladder hanging over her side. They were up it, and Sean guided them to a ship’s officer, who took them up to the bridge and into the chart room. A bull’s-eye lantern threw a weak glow over the chart. The tall man who was examining the map straightened up.

“I am Captain Thrushton and I am in charge of this operation. Welcome aboard.”

The two Irishmen muttered embarrassed responses; Paddy managed a sort of salute. They had little experience with the gentry, had certainly never talked with a ship’s captain before.

“Look at this,” he said, tapping the chart. “As far as I can tell I am in the channel here, lined up on your lights on the island.”

“Not quite, your honor. The tide is on the make and you will have drifted, putting your ship about here.”

“And where is the first Martello tower?”

“Here, the Rossaveal tower on Cashula Bay. Only one gun.”

“How far from Galway?”

“Next to twenty miles.”

“Good. First boat’s company will take care of that. The other two towers?”

“South side of the bay, here on Aughinish Island, the second on Finvarra Point near the Burren. Sixteen miles from the city. Three guns each.”

“Excellent. I sincerely hope that you gentlemen will be in the lead boats when we make the attack.”

“I’m no fighting man!” Dominick said, horrified.

“Of course not — nor do I want you anywhere near the marines and infantry when we attack. You will simply point out the places where we must land — then stay by the boats. Your cousin, Private Riordan, has made very exact maps of the area around the towers. Are there any other strongpoints defending the city? Any troop movements in the last months?”

“No changes that we could see. Soldiers there and there. The barracks, and around the harbor.”

“We know about those and they will be taken care of. I am charged with seizing these towers and that I will do to the best of my ability.”

Of the three towers, the one on Cashula Bay proved by far the easiest to take. The marines had made their way from the landing beach to the tower and were concealed in a small copse beside the massive stone wall before dawn. At first light the single wooden door in the base opened and a soldier, in shirtsleeves, braces hanging, came out to relieve himself. The sergeant waved his men forward and a quick rush seized the man. The others were still asleep: the gun was taken.

The solid granite walls of the other two towers proved more difficult to breach. The attacking Irish troops found places of concealment around them in the dark. They lay there, rifles ready, as the light grew. First Lieutenant James Byrnes carried the charge himself in the attack on the Finvarra Point tower. Making his way in the darkness to the recessed door. As soon as there was light enough to see what he was doing, he packed the charge of blackpowder against the steel door and heaped rocks over it. He had cut the fuse himself; it should burn for two minutes. He lit it and waited until he was sure it was burning steadily. Then moved out of the doorwell, staying tight against the wall, moving around its circular form until he was well away from the explosives.

The thunderous bang and cloud of black smoke signaled the attack.

The sharpshooters in the brush poured their fire into the embrasures above. The attacking squads pushed aside the wreckage of the door and charged inside, bayonets fixed.

There were screams and shots fired. Within three minutes the tower was taken from the completely unprepared soldiers inside. The British had three wounded, one dead. Private Cassidy had a flesh wound in his arm, a pistol bullet lodged there that had been fired by the officer commanding, who slept with the weapon by his bed.

Lieutenant Byrnes climbed to the top of the tower, stepping aside as the manacled prisoners were led down to the ground. The excited soldiers of the Irish Brigade called to one another, exulting in the quick and successful action. Byrnes came out onto the firing platform, resting his hand on the silent black form of the 400-pounder cannon.

Dawn was breaking on Galway Bay, golden clouds against the pure, pale blue of the sky. And before him, clear and sharp, were the black and deadly forms of the ironclads coming straight down the center of the bay. Behind them the white-sailed transports with the American troops. Both blue and gray.

Boldly they came. Ready, by force of arms, to free Ireland. He could not contain himself.

“Oh, but ’tis a glorious day for the Irish!” he shouted aloud.

The cheers of his men proved that he had struck a common chord in their breasts.

The invasion of Ireland had begun.

Tied up to the wharves of Galway City were a few fishing craft as well as a Customs and Excise steamer. The bane of smugglers, she carried a single swivel gun in the bow. This was powerless against the ironclad Defender that pushed up close to her. Nor were her newly awakened crew able to make a stand against the hardened American marines that slid down the ropes to her decks.

It was just after dawn. The Customs vessel was now moving clear of the wharves, out into the harbor, as were the fishing vessels hastily manned by their cheering crews. Then the transports arrived and tied up at the wharves: the American soldiers streamed ashore. The few defended British strongpoints were already under attack by the infiltrating Irish troops who had landed near the harbor under cover of darkness. Their job was to hold, not win, until reinforcements arrived. This they did very well, joining the attack when the fresh troops streamed through their positions.

There were stongpoints that stoutly resisted the infantry attack. Lives were not wasted in suicide attacks; the Irish-American troops simply went to ground. Sniping at the enemy to keep their heads down.

Because from the newly arrived ships in the harbor wheeled guns were being swung up from the holds, let down on shore. They might have been small cannon — but they were not.

These were the weapons of the 23rd Mississippi Gatling regiment.

General William Tecumseh Sherman and his staff had landed behind the first wave of attackers. As reports came in he apportioned the rest of his troops. As the Gatling guns were unloaded he had them rushed to the few places where the enemy was putting up any resistance.

There were no horses to pull them, not yet. But the fighting front was only yards from the harbor. Sweating, shouting soldiers tied ropes to the guns, and their ammunition limbers, and at a run rushed into battle. Positioned them, put on the ammunition hoppers. And produced a withering fire of lead that chewed up the British positions. Tore into them, sent them reeling back, easy prey for the attacking infantry.

By nine in the morning the battle of Galway City was over. All of the enemy were dead or taken prisoner. As the captured British were taken back to the now-empty ships, the soldiers were pushing and towing the Gatling guns to the marshaling yard of the railroad. Where almost every passenger car and goods wagon of the entire railroad seemed to have been assembled. The engine drivers were in their cabs, the firemen shoveling in coal.

General Sherman nodded with approval: it had been almost a textbook operation. The enemy completely surprised and disorganized, overwhelmed and defeated. A staff officer appeared and saluted. “First train loaded. And just about ready to go.”

Behind them the citizens of Galway, now emerging from their homes after the fighting had ended, were almost numb with shock.

“Go on with youse,” a sweating sergeant shouted at them, pushing at the wheel of a Gatling gun that was being pulled aboard a flat car. “Give us a cheer. It’s Brits out, don’t you see. We’re here to set old Ireland free!”

With that they cheered, oh how they cheered, cheered themselves hoarse with hope and faith that a new day had dawned.

Now all of the activity was concentrated on the railway terminal. With the fighting ended the streets filled with the ecstatic populace. Many were too stunned to understand what had happened — but to the rest it was Christmas and St. Patrick’s Day rolled into one. Of greatest importance now were the secret workers that had been drafted by the Fenian Circle. They were the ones who had made maps of the British positions and counted their troops. Others worked on the railroad and had made both subtle and major changes to the passenger and freight train schedules. The result was that almost all of the rolling stock of the railroad was now in the Galway yards. Working in secret cells, they now emerged into the light of day, green ribbons tied about their arms for identification. Acting as guides they led the soldiers to their selected carriages. One of them, a gray-haired and well dressed man, approached the group of officers, halted, snapped to attention — and gave a very passable salute. Palm facing out.

“Richard Moore, formerly of Her Majesty’s Irish Rifles, sir.” He dropped the salute and stood at ease. “Now the station manager here. Welcome to Ireland and to Galway, General.”

“Reports tell me that you have done a most excellent job, Mr. Moore.”

“Thank you, sir. Steam is up in the first train and it is ready to leave. I have coupled on the State Saloon Car for your comfort. And they’ll have breakfast ready as soon as you board.”

“Excellent. What is the state of your telegraph?”

“Out of service. As is I believe every other telegraph system in Ireland. But I have engineers on the first train who will reconnect the wires at each station. You will have communication at all times.”

“I am sincerely grateful, Mr. Moore.”

A train whistle sounded. “Platform one,” Moore said. “All aboard. Have a safe journey.”

They boarded the train, welcomed by the cheering soldiers of the 69th New York. Breakfast was indeed waiting and after the morning’s activities they were famished. Only later, when they had finished the tea, eggs, sausages, rashers, black pudding and soda bread, did they get to work. The waiters whisked away the breakfast dishes and Colonel Roberts, Sherman’s aide, spread out the map and Sherman leaned over it.

“We should make good time,” he said, tapping on the map. “We’ll not stop until we get to Athlone. There’s a barracks there of the Royal Irish Constabulary. A company will get off there and neutralize them. The same thing will happen in Mullingar where there is a cavalry camp. After that it is straight into Dublin.”

“Which should be in a state of shock by that time,” Roberts said. “Our navy will have been offshore at dawn.”

“They will indeed. At first light they will bombard the harbor defenses. As well as the Martello towers at Kingstown, Dalkey Island here, all these others along the coast. This will concentrate the British forces’ attention on the sea. Without telegraph communication they will be out of touch with the rest of the country, so will know of no other military action. All of the defensive positions that face the sea will be taken from the rear when our troops arrive.”

“Good. And our guides?”

“Will be waiting at Kingsbridge Station which is here, close to the River Liffey. They are all Dubliners and each of them will have a single site assigned to him. There will be British troops in strength at Dublin Castle, as well as in the constabulary barracks here.”

They went over the familiar plans just one last time, then Sherman pushed the maps away and took out a cigar. The waiter appeared at his side to light. “More tea, sir? Or perhaps a wee glass of whisky for your health’s sake.”

Sherman puffed on his cigar and sipped at the strong, black tea. Outside the window the green and lovely Irish countryside streamed by.

“You know, gentlemen,” he said. “This about the finest way I have ever seen of going to war.”

To the south, General Stonewall Jackson’s ships had also approached the shore at dawn. The defenses along the Shannon estuary had their guns pointed towards the river, and the Doonaha and Kilcredaun Point Batteries had long been abandoned. The most westerly of them was now the Kilkerin Point Battery, a full twenty-five miles from Limerick. It could give no warning of the invasion for the telegraph wire to it had been severed during the night. It had fallen to attack from the rear soon after the American troops had landed. The local Irish volunteers welcomed the soldiers of the Irish Brigade with cries of happiness, were equally receptive to the Mississippi troops who followed close behind them.

Stonewall Jackson was generally known for his fierce and unexpected attacks, his flanking movements that hit where the enemy least expected. Now, with the element of surprise aiding him, his soldiers attacked with a grim ruthlessness. There was some fierce fighting in the city of Limerick, but the last pockets of resistance had been eliminated as soon as the Gatling guns had been deployed. It was a bloody but fast victory, and by ten that morning the city was Jackson’s.

The reception of the troops in the city had been of the warmest. So warm that General Jackson had to have his sergeants collect all the strong drink that had been pressed upon his soldiers, lest they be rendered unfit for action. His regiments entrained for the short journey to Cork where, if all had gone according to plan, the navy was now bombarding the shore positions. The defenses against invasion from the sea there were strong, probably the strongest of any port in Ireland. Landings under fire were out of the question and they had to be taken from the rear. That was what he had to do — and the sooner the better.

Here, as in Galway, the loyal Irish trainmen had assembled most of the Limerick-to-Cork trains in the marshaling yard at Colbert Station. The troops were swiftly boarded and as the first train was ready to leave a soldier ran up waving a sheet of paper.

“Message, General. Just came through.”

There were no British troops or constabulary north of Limerick, nor between Ennis and Galway. The broken telegraph connections between the two west coast ports had been quickly reestablished, so now at least two of the invading armies were now in contact.

“ Galway is taken,” he read out to his officers. ” Sherman is proceeding to Dublin.” He lowered the telegram. “I pray that General Lee in the north is also enjoying the same fruits of his endeavors. Now — the next battle will be ours. With God’s grace, and His sure leadership, we must attack and seize the last bastion of the enemy.

“ Cork.”

ONWARD TO BELFAST!

“It is almost dawn,” General Lee said, his white beard bristling, his face grim in the light of the binnacle.

“I am afraid that it is,” Captain Weeks said.

His ironclad Dictator led the convoy of vessels that followed behind him, unseen in the darkness. His ship carried no riding lights — just a single lamp at her stern. Each of the following ships had such a light, each of them following the lead of the ship before. Only the coming of daylight would reveal if this arrangement had succeeded. It had been a dark night, with occasional rain squalls, and only occasionally had the next ship in line been seen.

“Should we not be much closer to our destination by this time?” Lee’s voice was hard and unforgiving.

Weeks’s shrug was unseen in the darkness. “Perhaps. But you must remember that we were heading into a northerly wind for most of the night. But look — there is the light on Inishowen Head almost directly behind us now. Also to starboard is the Magilligan Point light that marks the mouth of Lough Foyle.”

“Yes — but our destination is not there, but in Portrush. How far is that?”

“No more than ten miles. Almost due east.”

“Yes,” Lee said, talking a sight from the compass. “And I can see it for the sky is growing light.”

The dark coast of Londonderry grew sharper and clearer as dawn approached. A low mist concealed the details — but it was already lifting. Lee turned and squinted into the darkness behind them, at the white froth of their wake now visible in the waning night. The stars were fading in the growing light and, one by one, the ships of the convoy came into view. He counted them as they emerged out of the darkness — and they were all there!

Eight troop-carrying steamships and, taking station to their rear, the ironclad USS Stalwart.

“Portstewart hard to starboard,” the lookout said. “Those two lights, together there. They’re the beacons at the mouth of the River Bann.”

Lee raised his glasses and sought the lights. “Then the beach, what is it called, Portstewart Strand, it will be between beacons and the town?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Raise the signal lights,” Lee ordered. The two yellow lanterns were already lit and swung instantly up to the rear crosstree. Short moments later the signal was seen, passed on, as one by one the following ships made the same signal. Wanker turned to port when she saw the lights and, one by one, the four last transports changed course and followed her towards shore.

General Robert E. Lee had split his force in the past, when a two-pronged attack was deemed necessary. He had faith in his lieutenants, and General James Longstreet was the best. He would make a successful landing on the beach. While Lee led the other half of his divided force.

Dictator was now entering Portrush Harbor, the ironclad, carrying him and his staff, coasting in between the granite jaws of the harbor walls. A single fishing boat was raising sail, otherwise the harbor was empty. BB turned away from the harbor entrance, to let the four transports by, then dropped anchor; her turrets rumbled about so the guns faced land. Within minutes the troop ships were tied up at the harborside, the first soldiers tumbling ashore. There was no sign of any resistance at all. Only the astonished fishermen seemed aware of the invasion.

Longstreet would be landing his troops on Portstewart Strand, ferrying them ashore in the boats. There was no sound of gunfire; the beach was undefended as well. This would take somewhat longer than the harbor landing, but they were also closer to the junction point at Coleraine. When Lee saw that the landing in the harbor was going according to plan he followed his staff into the waiting boat. A signalman from the ship was in the bow, ready to relay any orders to the ironclad if cannonfire was needed in support.

When Longstreet saw that the beach landings were going as smoothly as could be expected, he ordered the two boatloads of marines to begin their own landings. They did not join the army on the beach, but were rowed instead across the mouth of the River Bann, to land at the little village of Castlerock on the far side. A few early-rising people gaped at the marching troops, then quickly closed and locked their doors. A uniformed constable came out to see the cause of the tramping feet and was instantly seized.

“Into the constabulary with him,” the lieutenant ordered. “Take any arms you find. If there is a cell lock him in it.” He smiled at the stunned gaping man. “This newly begun war is already over for you, suh.”

“What war?” the man gasped.

“Now that’s a fair question. Hasn’t got a name yet that I know of.”

There was a whistle in the distance and he led his men at a swift trot to the station. It was a freight train from Londonderry heading south towards Belfast. The marines quickly clambered aboard while the lieutenant, his Colt.45 Peacemaker revolver in his hand, rode the footplate behind the terrified driver.

In the harbor of Portrush General Lee watched the orderly disembarking of his troops and he was pleased. A textbook operation. A captain of his staff approached and saluted.

“Two trains in the Portrush station, sir. Getting up steam now.”

“Flatcars?”

“More than enough for the Gatling guns, General.”

“Fine. Load them up. Board as many troops as you can. Get the rest of them moving on the road to Coleraine. It’s about four miles. We’ll rendezvous there. What was the condition of the telegraph?”

“Inoperable. Line broken somewhere between here and Belfast.”

“Fine. Everything is going according to plan.” He wrote a quick note and handed it to a runner. “For the captain commanding the transports.”

Once the army was safely ashore and military situation in hand, the transports were to leave and rendezvous at Limerick to refuel. The two ironclads would head south as well — to Belfast. Part of the overall plan was to restore telegraph communication as they advanced. His report would apprise Sherman of the success so far.

By road and train the soldiers moved south to join forces again at Coleraine. They had landed successfully without a shot being fired. The telegraph wires had been cut, no alarm had been raised, their presence in Ireland known only here. Now they moved south towards Belfast confident that they could take the enemy there by surprise.

Not for the first time had General Robert E. Lee cut himself free of his base and marched his forces against an enemy.

He liked it that way.

Well before ten that morning, by road and by rail, they entered Ballymoney where Lee ordered a halt. The pickets were out, both before and behind — and on both flanks as well. His army was used to living off of the country — only this time they paid for the privilege. Good U.S. greenbacks in exchange for the hams, chickens and other vittles. There had also been some reluctant horse purchases; the gentlemen had little option but to agree. All of his staff were now mounted, Lee himself on a handsome thirteen hand hunter. He took time only to snatch a few mouthfuls of food before gathering his officers around him.

“We are here — and Belfast is here. If we keep to this march we should reach Belfast around three in the morning…” He looked up as Major Craig hurried up.

“Run into another train on a siding, sir. Any more like this and we’ll all be able to ride the cars in style.”

Like most of rural Ireland there was only a single train track leading south. When a train entered a block of single track it picked up a brass “key” on a metal loop from the stationmaster. Only the train with the key was allowed on the single track. At the other end of the block the train would enter a siding while the key would be passed to the up train, which would be waiting on the other track for the down train to pass. Then it could use this section of track, sure that there would not be a head-on collision with a train moving in the opposite direction.

Not today. As the invaders had encountered each waiting train they had seized it and added it to the American cause. Now the first train, seized in Castlerock, was led by three trains, laden with troops, all of them moving majestically in reverse.

“That is good news indeed,” Lee said. “The fresher the troops, the easier the victory.” He looked back to the map. “We’ll make a halt again in Antrim. Looks to be ten miles out of Belfast. Then we’ll go on three hours before dawn. At first light we will hit them and hit them hard. You all have assigned targets so we all know what must be done. Nevertheless we will go over the attack once again in detail.”

At first light the first train rattled into Blank Street Station. The first of the marching troops had already secured the area around the station and willing hands rolled the Gatling guns from the cars and into the streets. All along the line of march horses had been seized, and paid for, and were now waiting to be hitched up to the guns. There was sporadic fire from the city, but nothing heavy and concentrated until the infantry barracks on North Queen Street was surrounded, the artillery barracks next to it as well.

The Battle of Belfast had begun.

While far to the south the battle for Cork was over. The trains from Galway had brought the American forces into Cork Station. Stonewall Jackson’s troops had fanned out while the Gatling guns were being unloaded. The attackers had spread out along the Lower Glanmire Road, through the fields and past the hospital. They had crossed the Old Youghal Road and had launched a fierce attack on the barracks there — which was almost over even before the first ragged bugle call had sounded the warning.

The impregnable forts guarding the entrance to the harbor were taken from the rear, even as the gunners were firing ranging shots at the great black bulk of the ironclad. The attacking ship had fired two broadsides before retiring out of range. The first that the gunners knew that they were under attack from the land was when they saw the bayonets at their throats.

It was indeed a new kind of lightning war.

IRELAND UNDER SIEGE

General Arthur Tarbet was wakened by the hammering on his bedroom door. He blinked his eyes open and saw that there was the first light of dawn around the window curtains.

“What is it?” he called out.

“Ships, sir. Battleships in the lough!”

Even as the words were spoken there came the rumble of distant gunfire.

“Damn it to hell!” he swore as he kicked the bed covers off and jammed his feet into his boots. He pulled on his heavy woolen robe and stumbled hastily across the room. He was seventy-five years old, arthritic and weary, and had been offered command of Her Majesty’s forces in Belfast as a sinecure, an easy post to fill while he awaited his retirement. This was obviously not to be. Captain Otfried, the officer of the day, was waiting for him.

“What is happening, Captain?”

“A certain confusion, sir. Something has gone wrong with the telegraph connection to the gun batteries on the Lough. Not functioning. They sent a runner to report. At least two ironclads are in Belfast Lough. I imagine that is their firing that we hear.”

“Any identification?”

“None at the moment. Though we can safely assume—”

“Yankees. Bloody Yankees. I can figure that one out for myself. Telegraph Dublin at once.”

“I’m afraid that line is not functioning either.”

“Hmm.” Tarbet dropped into the chair behind his desk. “No coincidence there. Have you tried the international cable to Scotland?”

“No, sir.”

“Do it now. Though I wager that it will be a waste of time. Whoever cut the wires will not have made an exception there. Dare we assume that the war has come to Belfast?”

“A reasonable assumption, General.”

“Order me some coffee.” He leaned his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers as he thought about the possibilities. He had been an intelligent officer, as well as a fighting one, and age had not hampered his abilities.

“An attack by sea. Valueless unless landings follow. Or are they already under way? And why Belfast? Most of our troops are in the south and that is where the battle must be fought and won. Or is Dublin under attack as well? Ahh, thank you.”

Otfried opened the window and they could hear the distant rattle of firing. Single shots, then a ripping sound of rapid firing like an entire company firing all together.

“I believe that we are under attack by land as well, sir.”

“I believe that you are right,” Tarbet said as he sipped gratefully at the hot coffee and looked closely at Captain Otfried. “Like to ride, do you Otfried?”

“Rather. Member of my hunt at home.”

“Good. Then get saddled up. I am certain that Ireland is under siege, certainly under attack. If it is, why then the mail boat from Kingstown will certainly have been captured, to prevent any news of the attack on Dublin from reaching London. The ferry from Larne to Scotland will have been taken as well, I wager. No hope of getting word out that way. I am sure that there will be a gunboat closing that port as well. It should be easy enough to blockade all the Irish ports to the south. But it’s a different matter here, with Scotland just across this bit of sea. If any word is to be sent it must be sent from here. I am confident that the little fishing port a few miles north of Larne won’t be watched… what’s the name?”

“Balleygalley.”

“The very place.” The general was writing as he talked. “Ride like the very devil and get yourself there. Commandeer a boat to take you over to Scotland. I’ll give you some coin, just in case an appeal to the mariner’s patriotism doesn’t work. Take this message, find a telegraph, there’s one in Port Logan, get it to Whitehall. Go my boy — may luck be with you.”

The gunfire sounded loud behind Captain Otfried as he galloped out of Belfast on the coast road to the north. When he passed Larne he saw that the general’s assumption had been correct. The mail boat was still there — an armorclad tied up beside her. He rode on.

His horse was lathered with sweat and starting to stumble when he galloped through the streets of Balleygalley and down to the strand. A fishing boat had just dropped sail and was tying up at the jetty. Otfried slipped down from his horse and called out to them.

“I say — who’s in command here?”

The gray-haired fisherman looked up from the rope he was securing.

“Aye.”

“I must cross to Scotland at once.”

“Go to Larne. I’m no ferry.”

“Larne is sealed off. I saw an enemy gunboat there.”

“Get away with you! And what enemy would that be?”

“The Americans.”

“Well — it’s not my business.” He reached up and took the fish box from the man on deck.

“Please do this. I will pay well.”

The captain dropped the box and looked up. “How much is well?”

“Fifty pounds.”

The fisherman rubbed his beard in thought. “Done. Can I unload my catch first?”

“No. There is no time. And you’ll be coming right back.”

The captain thought about this, then nodded. “Tie your horse up and get aboard.” He bent and untied the line. A squall came up and rain spattered on the deck as the sail filled and they headed out to sea.

More squalls were coming in from the west: they hid the coast from sight when they swept over the fishing boat. The sea was empty of ships and Otfried sincerely hoped that it would stay that way.

But his good luck did not last. The captain estimated that they had come halfway to Scotland when he pointed out to another squall coming down upon them.

“Did you see that — just before the rain come up. A large steamer coming our way.”

“No. Are you sure?”

The fisherman nodded. “In a moment you’ll see for yourself.”

What to do? How to escape capture? Otfried had a sudden inspiration. “Turn about,” he said. “Head back towards Ireland.”

“What?”

“Do as I say man — hurry.”

After a moment’s hesitation the wheel came over. Captain Otfried was suddenly conscious of his uniform.

“I’m going below. If the ship is American say that you are from Scotland — going to sell your fish in Ireland. Do it!”

The rain blew past and there was the warship — with the American flag flying from her mast. Otfried closed the door all the way. Strained to listen at the crack between the door and the frame.

“Heave to!” someone shouted and the fishing boat swung about into the wind and lay pitching in the waves. “What’s your destination?”

“Carrickfergus. Sell my fish there.”

And spoken with a thick North Irish accent! Could the Americans tell the difference between that and Scots? The silence lengthened — and then the voice called out again.

“Not today, Scotty. Just turn about and go back to Scotland.”

Otfried smothered his cry of happiness, pounded his fist into his palm. It had worked! A simple ruse — the Americans were sealing off Ireland from all communication with the outside world. He felt the boat go about again, waited below until he was sure it was safe.

“You can come on deck,” the captain called out. “They’re gone. And now is the time for you to tell me just what is happening with the Yanks and all.”

“We have been at war with the United States, still are, as I am sure you know. I do believe that the war has now widened and includes Ireland.”

“The divil you say! What would they want to be doin’ that for?”

“I’m afraid that I am not in their confidence. But I imagine that their aim would be to drive the British out.”

The captain looked up at the sail and made an adjustment on the wheel. Loyalist or Republican, he did not say. Otfried started to query him, then changed his mind. This was not his business. What he had to do was make sure that the warning did go out. He had to get to the telegraph. Whitehall must be informed of the invasion.

No one in Jackson, Mississippi, knew that a new war had started some thousands of miles away across the Atlantic Ocean. Even if they had known, the chances were that it would have taken second place to the dramatic events now unfolding in Jackson. Since soon after dawn the crowds had begun to gather outside of the jail. Silent for the most part, though there was the occasional jeer at the troops of the Texas Brigade who were lined up before the jail. The soldiers looked uncomfortable — but snapped to attention when the captain and the first sergeant came out of the building. They ignored the questions and the taunts from the crowd as they made their way to their temporary quarters in the hotel next door. The crowd grew restless.

Major Compton stopped the cab well clear of the crowd and paid off the driver. He did not know Jackson at all, so had taken the cab from the station. Now he rubbed at his chin, he had cut himself some when he had shaven himself on the train. He straightened his tie and brushed some soot from his tan jacket: he was not used to being out of uniform. But it would have taken some special kind of insanity to wear his blue jacket down here. He picked up his carpetbag and pushed through the crowd towards the hotel.

The lobby was crowded and noisy. A small boy with a bundle of newspapers was doing a smart business, with people climbing over each other to buy one. An army captain in field gray came in from the street and worked his way through the crowd to a hallway on the far side of the lobby. Compton went after him: it was much quieter in the hall. Two soldiers in butternut brown guarded a doorway labeled “Ballroom” at the far end of the hallway. They looked at him suspiciously when he approached.

“I am Major Compton. I am here to see General Bragg.”

One of the soldiers opened the door and called inside. A moment later a corporal came out.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“I am Major Compton of the United States Army. I am here to see General Bragg. He will have had a telegraph message about me.”

The corporal looked suspiciously at the jacket and tie. “There’s a chair over there, Major. If you’ll just sit a bit I’ll see what I can find out.”

Compton sat down and paced his bag on the floor. The guards stared into space. The crowd in the street outside were a distant roar, like waves breaking on a beach. After some minutes the corporal returned.

“You best come with me.”

General Bragg was not a happy man. He waved Compton to a chair as he shuffled through the papers on the desk before him, until he found the right one. Pulled it out and read from it.

“From the War Department… will make himself known to you… officer in the 29th Connecticut.” He dropped the sheet of paper and looked at Compton, cocking his head to one side.

“I thought that the 29th Connecticut was, well—”

“A Negro regiment?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“It is. The senior officers are all like me.”

“Well then, yes, I see. How can I be of help to you, Major?”

“Maybe I can be of help to you, General. You are not in an enviable position here…”

“You can damn well say that again, and twice on Sunday. We’re all good Texas boys in this brigade and we fought for the South. But folks here look at us like we’re lower than raccoon shit.”

“Understandable. They’re all upset.”

“Hell, we’re upset! After what happened to ol’ Jeff Davis. Went and got shot by a nigger…”

“While wearing a hood and participating in a lynching.”

“Yes, well, there is that. A man his age ought to have had more sense. But, anyway, you never say why you’re here.”

“I would like you to arrange it so I can see the prisoner in jail.”

“Nothing I can do about that. Have to see the judge, the sheriff about that. We just sent here to keep the peace, such as it is.”

“I will see the sheriff — but any decisions about the prisoner are really up to you. You are an army officer and this is a military matter. Sergeant Lewis is in the army—”

“The hell you say!”

“I do say — and you can telegraph the War Department if you don’t believe me. He was on detached service, working with the Freedmen’s Bureau. But he was in uniform when he was arrested and he is subject to military justice.”

The general’s jaw fell. “Am I right? Are you telling me that the army wants him?”

“They do. If there any charges to answer over this death he will be tried by a military court martial. Legally he cannot be tried by a Mississippi civilian court.”

General Bragg let his breath out with a whoosh — then laughed.

“I like your brass, major. One lone Yankee officer coming down here and trying to walk outta jail — with a prisoner that the whole South is dying to lynch.”

“I am not alone, General. I have the strength of the army behind me. I have you and your troops to help me make sure that no miscarriage of justice does occur.”

General Bragg rose from his chair and began to pace the room in silence. He stopped to light a black cigar, blew out a cloud of acrid smoke. Pointed the cigar like a pistol at Compton.

“You know what you asking?”

“I do. I was told that if you have doubts about your duty in this matter, that you were to telegraph the Secretary of War.”

“I gonna do just that — Orderly!” He bellowed the last word, then scratched a quick message on a pad as a corporal came in from an adjoining room. “Have this sent to the War Department. Wait there at the telegraph office and bring me back the reply.”

General Bragg dropped back into his chair, blew out a cloud of smoke and looked into the distance, absorbed in thought. Finally nodded.

“This could be the way out of our problems. Trouble is going to happen very soon if something ain’t done. Maybe this is it. Get that man out of here before someone gets kilt. You want a cigar?”

“Not now, thank you.”

“Whisky?”

“It’s early — but I think that I damned well do.”

“Good. I’ll join you.”

The War Department had been waiting for Bragg’s telegram. The answer came at once and was signed by the Secretary of War.

“This is it,” Bragg said, folding the paper and putting it into the pocket of his jacket. “Bring your bag, Captain, because you are not coming back here. First Sergeant,” he shouted.

When they left the hotel the First Sergeant and an armed squad came with them. The crowd whistled and catcalled as they went towards the jail, shouted even louder when the sergeant knocked on the door.

“General Bragg is here. He wants to see the sheriff.”

After a long wait the door opened a crack. Someone inside started to speak but the sergeant pushed the door wide so they could go in. The crowd surged and shouted until the closing door shut them out.

“What you want?” the sheriff said. He was unshaven and appeared to have been drinking.

“I want your prisoner,” the general said. He took out the folded telegram. “Here is my authorization from the War Department.”

“You got no rights in here! I’m the sheriff and I beholden to the judge and the mayor and not to you.”

“Sheriff, this state is now under martial law, so I am afraid that you are going to have to do what I say. Your prisoner is a serving noncommissioned officer in the United States Army, and is therefore subject to military justice. Take us to him.”

Sheriff Boyce fumbled for his gun and the sergeant knocked it out of his hand.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” the general warned. “Sergeant, get the key. Disarm this man and anyone else who attempts any resistance.”

The sight of the armed soldiers had a cooling effect on the warders and deputies. Major Compton and four armed soldiers followed the warden into the iron-barred corridor to the cells. L.D. Lewis heard them coming and jumped to his feet. One eye was bruised and swollen shut; he cocked his head to look out of the other eye.

“Major Compton… what?”

“Open this cell,” Compton ordered. “We’re taking you out of here, sergeant. To Washington City where a court of inquiry will investigate this matter. Let’s go.”

L.D. stumbled a bit when he walked and the major took him by the arm. He shrugged it off.

“I’m just fine, sir. I can walk out of here.”

The general had organized everything in a highly efficient military manner. His troops had sealed off the alley that ran behind the jailhouse. A grocery wagon was waiting outside the door. Four mounted officers from his brigade blocked L.D. and Compton from sight as they climbed into the wagon, were pushed in by the First Sergeant who joined them. The soldier who was driving the wagon flipped the reins and they started forward. There was milling and shoving when they reached the street but the soldiers just pushed their way through the crowd. A moment later and the wagon and the officers were galloping down the street towards the train station.

“The general put together a military train,” the First Sergeant said. “An engine and two cars. Troops going on leave. It’s in a siding and waiting for you.” He looked at L.D. and scowled. “Be smart, Sergeant. Stay out of the South. We got enough trouble of our own.”

“Send our thanks to the general,” Major Compton said. “I’ll see that this is reported in detail to the War Department.”

“Just doing our duty, sir — just doing our duty…”

THE BATTLE FOR DUBLIN

“Looks like we have a welcoming committee, General” Colonel Sam Roberts said, leaning out of the train window.

“Not the British, I hope,” General William Tecumseh Sherman said, standing and fastening his sword belt.

“Not quite, sir.”

With a hissing of steam and squealing of brakes the train from Galway slid to a stop in Kingsbridge Station. Through the open window came the sound of massed cheering — growing louder still when Sherman stepped down to the platform. At least a hundred men were waiting on the platform there, each wearing a green ribbon tied around his arm. A large man with a great white beard pushed forward through the crowd and executed what might possibly be called a salute. “Welcome, your honor — welcome to Dublin.” The crowd fell silent, hushed, listening. “We hear only rumors, nothing more. Could you tell us…”

“I am General Sherman of the United States Army. The soldiers on this train landed this morning and seized Galway City. The British troops stationed there are now our prisoners. The invasion and freeing of Ireland has begun. We now plan to do the same here in Dublin. With your aid.”

The silence was fractured by the shouts of joy that rang out from the listening crowd. Some wept with happiness; they pounded each other on the back. The bearded man had to lean forward and shout to be heard.

“The name’s O’Brian, General, the captain of these volunteers.”

“Then I will ask you to get your men inside the station, Mr. O’Brian, so my troops can detrain.”

The soldiers were pouring out of the cars now, spurred on by the sergeants’ shouted commands. Stout planks were being put into place to unload the Gatling guns. Sherman and his staff followed O’Brian to the relative quiet of the Stationmaster’s office. A map of Dublin was spread out on the table. Sherman pointed towards it.

“Do your men know the city?”

“Jayzus and do they not! Every one of them a Jackeen born and bred and they knows dear old dirty Dublin like the backs of their hands.”

“Good. And the horses?”

“We have them, sir, indeed we do! Begged, borrowed or — begging your pardon — stolen. Two livery stables full of them.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “And men waiting to take you there.”

Sherman pointed to one of his aides. “Get a platoon and follow the guides.” The officer hurried off as the general turned back to the map. “Now, where is Dublin Castle?” he asked and O’Brian touched a thick finger to it. Then, in turn, he pointed out the barracks in Phoenix Park, the Customs House, the headquarters of the Royal Irish Constabulary. One by one they were singled out and orders issued. This attack had long been planned, with troops allotted to attack the individual strongpoints.

The Battle of Dublin had begun. The Gray and Blue troops poured out of the station, each attacking force led by a green-ribboned volunteer, just as the second train was arriving on the next platform: sweating soldiers manhandled the heavy Gatling guns from the flat cars. In the distance could be heard loud neighing and the clatter of hooves.

“Good God!” a startled officer said. “The Irish cavalry!”

Trotting into the trainyard came the most motley collection of horses ever seen. Most of them were being led, while some of them were being ridden bareback by soldiers fresh from the farms. Every variation on the theme of horse appeared to be present. Heavy cart horses, shaggy little ponies, sturdy hunters — even a wall-eyed mule that was trying to kick out at the strangers — as well as a small group of some tiny donkeys. All of them were quickly pressed into service. Bits of leather straps and lengths of rope were tied together to make crude but workable harnesses. Very quickly they were secured to the Gatling guns, and their ammunition limbers, and followed the troops into battle.

At the various strongpoints around the city there could be heard the rattle of gunfire as the invading troops made their first contacts with the enemy. Sherman, and his staff, remained in the Stationmaster’s office, waiting impatiently for the first reports to come in.

“We are getting resistance here at the barracks — just across the River Liffey from the Wellington Monument,” the staff officer said.

“Gatlings?” Sherman asked.

“On the way now.”

“Any other problems?”

“ Dublin Castle. It was always going to be a center of strong resistance. Heavy cannon — and granite walls. We tried to surprise them but were too late and the gates were shut. We have them surrounded, but our troops are pinned down.”

“Do you have an observation post there yet?”

“Yes, sir. On the roof of Christ Church, right here. Looks right down into the yard.”

“Good. Keep the Castle surrounded — but hold the troops well back from the walls. We are not going to lose good men in a head-on assault.”

Reports kept coming in and, overall, the battle for Dublin seemed to be going as well as possible at this early juncture. Going as well as any engagement can go when the battle is within a city. British strongpoints were holding out and had to be attacked one by one. There was a sniper firing from one of the upper windows of Trinity College and the sharpshooter had to be winkled out. When the last of the troops were committed Sherman changed his headquarters, as had been planned, to the Customs House on the banks of the Liffey. A saddle had been found for a magnificent bay that some gentleman of means had inadvertently supplied to the Irish cause, and Sherman rode it through the empty streets of the city. Gunfire sounded in the distance, the popping sound of individual rifles — then the tearing roar of a Gatling gun. Wisely, the people of Dublin were staying behind locked doors.

As he galloped along Eden Quay the general passed a party of engineers. They had commandeered a cart, along with the wall-eyed mule to pull it. Now, safely harnessed up, the beast was far more placid than it had been. The engineers were stringing the wire to the buildings, from the spool on the cart. As Sherman climbed down from his horse at the Customs House on the bank of the Liffey, he saw a dark form at the mouth of the river, still outside the harbor; he nodded at the pleasurable sight of the ironclad moving slowly towards him.

On the bridge of the USS Avenger her commander, Commodore Goldsborough, stood to one side looking grimly at the small, roughly dressed man in the battered cap. He was sucking at a clay pipe that had gone out, but still stank strongly.

“That’s it boyo,” the stranger said to the helmsman. “Dead slow. Keep the Poolbeg light to port, the North Bull to starboard and you’ll be in mid-channel.”

Barely keeping steering way, the iron ship was moving into Dublin harbor and the mouth of the Liffey.

“What’s your depth?” Goldsborough couldn’t help asking.

“She’s dredged deep, Captain, dredged deep,” the pilot reassured him. “But I’ll only take you as far as the Customs House. You can tie up at the North Wall. Keep that beacon to starboard, that’s a good man.”

Ever so slowly the great gunship crept forward.

In the Customs House, now that the attacks had begun, the resurrected telegraphs began to clatter.

“From General Hooker, sir,” handing the folded paper to Sherman. This was a vital report and overdue; the general opened it calmly. Read it and nodded.

“Hooker’s brigade has detrained at the meeting place, just outside Monastereven. The volunteers with the horses were waiting. He is moving against the barracks in the Curragh now. His scouts report no enemy activity and he hopes to engage the enemy by dark.”

But not if Lieutenant Knight of the Royal Hussars had his way. He had been exercising his horse on the Kildare road when he had seen the train come to a stop in the empty field ahead. He had made only casual notice of it until he had seen the blue-uniformed soldiers emerge. Blue? What regiment could that possibly be? He had tied his mount to a tree by the side of the road and pushed his way through the hedge to get a better view. His jaw dropped with amazement — then he recovered and pulled himself back behind the hedge.

Those weren’t British troops — they were bloody Americans! He knew them well from the long retreat up the Hudson valley.

Americans here? There could be only one reason.

“Invasion,” he said through gritted teeth, as he pulled himself into his saddle. Bloody cheek. Right in Britain’s back garden.

He started off at a trot — then spurred his mount into a gallop as soon as he was out of sight of the train. The general at the Curragh had to be told. The soldiers had to be warned, they must stand to arms. There had been almost ten thousand of them there at the last muster. More than enough to give the Yankees the drubbing that they so richly deserved.

High in the bell tower of Christ Church, Lieutenant Buchner had a fine view across the city, with all of Dublin opened out before him. Off to the left there was a hint of water, the River Liffey, just barely visible between the buildings. The Green of Phoenix Park was behind him, while in front of him he could clearly see the buildings and the quad of Trinity College. All around were the church towers and chimneypots of the city — and the smoke from burning buildings. Men were fighting — and dying — out there. And here he was, perched on top of a church, miles from his guns and his men of the 32nd Pennsylvania. But he still had a job to do.

“Anything yet?” he called out to the soldier who was crouched behind the wall and industriously working a telegraph key.

“Almost, sir, got an answer — then was cut off again. Won’t be long — wait! There it is.”

“Ask them if the ship has tied up yet — and where.”

Lieutenant Buchner looked again at the map that was tacked to the board. He aligned the compass heading yet one more time, noted the degree on the compass rose. This plan had worked out all right when they had rehearsed it. But anything could happen in the stress of battle.

Aboard the Avenger Commodore Goldsborough felt a great relief when the propeller had finally stopped and they had tied up against the granite wall of the river. On the bridge next to him, the signalman was looking through his binoculars at the upper story of the Customs House.

“I have him, sir,” he called out. “Signalman Potter.” He looked at the moving flags. “Message reads — are you ready to receive?”

“We certainly are. What does he say.”

“Range… estimated at nine hundred and sixty yards. Compass bearing—”

The information was passed on to the first turret, which rumbled around to port as one of its guns elevated.

“Fire on the bearing,” the captain ordered.

The plume of fire and smoke roared out: the tight cables to shore creaked as the recoil rocked the ship.

“Over!” Buchner shouted as the shell exploded in the street below. “Nearer to us than the Castle. Signal that they are over by two hundred yards. Lower range. Change bearing right by one degree. Tell them that they can fire again — but only one gun at a time so I can mark the fall.”

The telegraph operator sent his message along the newly installed wire to the Customs House. As soon as it was transcribed it was handed to the signalman from the Avenger whose flags quickly relayed it to the ship.

Short seconds later a second shell exploded. “Much better.” Buchner smiled and rubbed his hands together. This was going to work after all. “Tell them that they are on target and can fire at will.”

A few minutes later shell after shell began to explode in Dublin Castle.

General Sherman had his artillery — even if it was mounted aboard an ironclad. This was indeed a new kind of war that they were fighting.

General Napier was at a staff meeting in the Curragh when Lieutenant Knight burst in. “General, sir, I do believe that the Americans have invaded this country. I saw a train filled with American soldiers. Unloading. Coming this way.”

“Indeed,” Napier said. He was a good field officer but he did not like to be rushed. “Show me where.” He pointed to the map hanging on the wall.

“Here, sir, a ruddy great trainload of them. Blue uniforms, I remember them from the Hudson valley.”

Napier nodded. “This would explain why all the telegraph lines are down. If there is an invasion on it would be simple enough to get some of the locals to take care of that bit of sabotage. I am sure that they would exact great pleasure from interfering with our communications.” He looked around at his assembled officers. “Gentlemen. Let us go to war.”

General Hooker’s scouts reported contact with the enemy. In strength — with cavalry. Half of his men were crossing the ploughed fields and that wouldn’t do.

“Fall back to the last hedgerow. And bring up the Gatlings — we are going to need them.”

The fire grew fiercer when the two armies made contact. The British taking cover before the rapid-firing American rifles. General Napier saw the advance grind to a halt and ordered the cavalry around to flank the Americans. Take them from the rear and pin them down. Then go in for the kill.

The cavalry galloped out, jumping fences as they moved through the green fields. The Americans here were jammed in the single road between high hedges. A killing ground for the heavy cavalry sabers. With a roar they charged.

The Gatling guns that had hurriedly been driven forward opened up with their heady blast of sound. Horses screamed and fell, troopers as well as the hail of lead poured into them. In moments the charge was broken, the troops dismembered, killed.

General Napier did not know it yet, but the battle of the Curragh was as good as lost. His men were brave soldiers and good fighters. But they could not stand up to this new weapon of death.

With the charge broken, General Joe Hooker’s men pushed forward once again. The Gatling guns ready to demolish any resistance that stood in their way.

MOST SHOCKING NEWS

The officer ran out of the front door of the Horse Guards and across the courtyard. The two mounted cavalrymen in front of their guardboxes, as they had been trained to do, did not stir a muscle. Although they did look at him out of the corners of their eyes as his boots clattered across the cobbles towards them.

“You!” he shouted, “Trooper Brown. Take this!”

He shoved the piece of paper into the gloved hand of the mounted sentry.

“Take it to Buckingham Palace — to the Prime Minister. He is meeting with the Queen. Put that bloody saber away and go!”

That was a clear order that had to be obeyed. Brown seized the sheet of paper as he jammed his saber back into its scabbard, kicked his horse into action with his spurs and galloped out into Whitehall. Pedestrians turned and gaped at this wondrous sight. Here was one of the guards who was formally mounted in front of the Horse Guards, with plumed steel helmet, shining gorget, now galloping wildly away. Dodging between the cabs and turning into the Mall. As he galloped its length he managed to take a glimpse at the paper he was carrying, gasped aloud and spurred his mount even harder.

Through the palace gates and clattering across the cobbled courtyard. His horse reared up as he pulled hard on his reins, then jumped to the ground.

“For the Prime Minister!” he shouted as he ran past the astonished porter, clumsy in his high boots.

Lord Palmerston was sure that the Queen understood little of what she was hearing now. Yet she wanted to see every order and hear every government decision herself. Not for the first time did he miss Prince Albert. A man of intelligence and decision. Not this pop-eyed and plump little woman, he thought unkindly. He doubted if she understood one word in ten. Lord Russell droned on about the exhaustive and boring administrative details of the latest tax rise. Stopping when, after a brief knock, the door was thrown wide and the cavalryman clattered in.

“A telegraph message, a matter of some emergency for Lord Palmerston,” the equerry called out.

The messenger stamped to a halt, thudding and jangling as he came to attention and saluted. Queen Victoria’s jaw dropped. Palmerston reached out and seized the paper, read the first three words and gasped aloud.

“Good God!”

“What is the meaning of this?” Victoria shouted, her temper beginning to rise.

“The Americans…” Palmerston could only choke out the words. “The Americans — they have invaded Ireland.”

The cavalryman’s boots creaked, his spurs jangled, as he backed clumsily from the room in the silence that followed.

“What are you saying?” Lord Russell shouted. “Who is that from?”

Palmerston read the signature aloud. “General Tarbet. He is in charge of the defenses of Belfast.” Palmerston grew most pale and his hands began to shake.

“A chair for Lord Palmerston!” Russell called out to the servants as he took the telegram from the Prime Minister’s flaccid fingers. He read it aloud.

“I am forced to report that the Americans are now in the process of invading Ireland. There is a ship of war in Belfast Lough that is shelling our defenses. All telegraph communication has been destroyed. I cannot contact Dublin or Londonderry. The telegraph to Scotland has been severed. There is the sound of gunfire in the city. If you receive this message it will indicate that Captain Otfried of my command has succeeded in crossing to Scotland. Query him for more information at the telegraph source of this message.”

“Send for my carriage!” Lord Palmerston shouted, staggering to his feet, somewhat recovered. “Get messages to the War Department and the Royal Navy, to my Cabinet. An emergency meeting of the Cabinet — at once.”

“What does this all mean?” Queen Victoria screeched. “What is happening?”

Palmerston was very much in control of himself now, although his pale face was mottled and shining. “It seems, Ma’am, as though the Americans have fought guile with guile. Apparently their attack on Mexico was just about as real as our attack on the Bahamas. That is — nonexistent. Their fleet has not gone to the Pacific Ocean as was reported to us with such authority. Instead they have come here and invaded these British Isles. They have attacked Ireland — and we know nothing about it! Nothing more than these few words!”

He bowed and stumbled backwards out of the room. He heard the Queen calling after him but did not respond.

The Cabinet Room was bursting with sound when the Prime Minster opened the door. The politicians, army and navy officers, were calling out to one another, seeking information, getting no answers.

“Silence!” Palmerston roared. “I want silence.”

“What is this nonsense about an invasion?” the Duke of Cambridge called out as he threw the door wide and entered, Brigadier Somerville following close behind him.

“Just that,” Palmerston said. “Read it for yourself.” He passed over the telegram. “We need to find out more. And at once.”

“HMS Conqueror is now at Portsmouth,” Admiral Sawyer called out.

“Telegraph Portsmouth now,” Palmerston said. “Tell them what we know. Tell her captain to sail at once for Ireland. We need to find out what is happening there.”

Brigadier Somerville had been speaking quietly to the Duke of Cambridge, who was nodding as he listened. “We need knowledge of the enemy,” Somerville said. “Whereabouts they are, in what numbers…”

“We need bloody well more than that!” The Duke’s face was glowing bright red. “We need to wipe them off the map!”

“But, your grace, without knowledge we don’t know where to attack. I suggest a reconnaissance in force. The Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders will be in barracks in Glasgow. We should have at least a company to stand to arms. There will be shipping in the Clyde. A ship could be commandeered at once, and these troops transported to Northern Ireland. To the fishing port of Carnlough, in Carnlough Bay, might be a likely spot for a landing. It is out of sight of Larne where the enemy warship was seen. But no more than thirty miles north of Belfast. They could discover if—”

“Bugger discovery — I want them stopped, destroyed, wiped out!”

He was shouting so loud that the room grew silent as they listened. The Duke turned to face them, shoulders hunched, nostrils flaring, a bull about to attack.

“They want war? They shall have war. I want all of the troops in the Glasgow garrison to get to Ireland at once. Then I want complete mobilization, right across the country. Stand to arms! Call out the yeomanry. And that warship we are sending to spy — what’s her name?”

“The Conqueror,” the admiral said.

“She’s to do more than just snoop. After they have found what is happening in Ireland — and reported back to us — order the ship north to this Carnlough Bay. The Americans will have their navy at sea. I want our troops protected. Whatever the Americans think they are doing in Ireland, whatever they are doing, they will be stopped!” He turned to Somerville, stabbing out his finger. “Issue the orders!”

Somerville had no choice. He came to attention. “Yes, sir,” he said. Turned and went to went down to the telegraph office himself, composing the messages as he went. Mobilization of all troops on duty in Glasgow. Both regiments. The issue of ammunition before leaving the barracks. Water bottles full, emergency rations for a week. Field guns? No, too slow to muster and move at once. They would follow by the next ships. The first troops would be a reconnaissance in strength. The need was for speed. He wrote out the orders and gave them to the telegrapher, then pulled over the bound book of military telegraph connections. He made a list of the major barracks and regiments. Horse Guards, Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, Green Howards, all of them. Then he wrote out an order for general mobilization.

“Send this order to these units immediately,” he said, passing the list to the chief operator. “I want an acknowledgement that the orders have been received from each one of them.”

In Glasgow the bugles sounded clearly through the afternoon rain, followed by the bellowed commands of the sergeants, the hammer of running feet. Lieutenant Colonel McTavish, in command, was a veteran soldier — his troops just as experienced and professional. They were used to quick actions and even quicker decisions. Minutes later there was the clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobbles outside the barracks as a staff officer galloped towards the shipping offices on the banks of the Clyde. It was a measure of their professionalism that by the time dusk was falling the armed and fully equipped soldiers were marching out of their barracks to the strains of the bagpipes, making their way down to the docks. As they boarded the commandeered steamships they heard the angry shouts of the forcefully disembarked passengers struggling to find their luggage.

It was a slow crossing to Ireland for the two ships, down the Firth of Clyde and across the Irish Channel. Deliberately so since the ships’ captains had conferred, while the troops were being boarded, and had agreed that they wanted to arrive off the Irish coast just at dawn. A landing at night would be impossible.

The sea was calm, with no other ships in sight at daybreak, when they crept into Carnlough Bay and dropped anchor. The ships’ lifeboats were swung out and they began the tedious business of ferrying the troops to land.

G Company was the first ashore.

The first of the soldiers, kilts swaying as they marched, were moving out on the coast road south well before the last of the regiment had been rowed ashore.

“Get some scouts out ahead,” Major Bell ordered from the head of the column. He did not want them to march into any surprises: the sergeant-major sent them forward at double time.

Close to the village of Saint Cunning the marching column passed a fanner lifting potatoes in his field. Two of the soldiers hustled him back to Major Bell.

“Your name?”

“O’Reardon, your honor.”

“Has there been any military engagements here?”

“Not here, sir. But there was the sound of guns from Belfast, then at Larne. Began at dawn. Could hear them clearly, we could. I sent young Brian running to see what was happening. He only got as far as Ballyruther, down the road. As he was going through the village two soldiers came out of the shop and grabbed him. Frightened the bejeezus out of him.”

“English soldiers?”

“Indeed not, he said. Foreigners of some kind. Wearing sort of brown uniforms, talked so funny he couldn’t hardly understand them. They turned him back, didn’t harm him or anything. He even had the nerve to ask them what was happening. They laughed at that and one of them said, this is what Brian told me — we’ve come to set you free.”

“Indeed.” Major Bell scratched a note on his message pad and waved over a runner. “For the colonel.” He traced a new route on his map as he called out to the sergeant-major.

“The main force is going to bypass this village. But I am going to take a company to find out how many enemy troops there are there. See if we can’t get some prisoners.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant-major said, smiling. They had been in the barracks too long. It was about time for a fight.

It was not long in coming. As they came down the road towards the villages rifles cracked from the windows of the stone buildings. As they dropped, seeking shelter, there was a tremendous burst of firing and bullets tore the leaves from the trees, ricocheted from the stones, tore up the ground.

“Get back!” the major ordered. “Fall back to that stone fence!”

From the sound of the firing it sounded like he was facing an entire company.

Like all the other officers in the British Army he had never heard a Gatling gun before.

RAISE THE ALARM!

Captain Frederick Durnford was lunching ashore with Admiral Cousins, who was commander of the Plymouth Navy Yard. It had been a most pleasant meal, and the port that followed was of a much-valued vintage. Captain Durnford had just poured himself a good measure when an officer tapped on the door, came in and handed a message form to the admiral.

“What? What?” the admiral said as he opened the paper; the source of his nickname that everyone in the fleet — except him — knew. He read it quickly, then turned to Durnford, a look of dazed vacuity on his face. “Have they gone bloody mad at the admiralty — or is this true?”

“I have no idea, sir. What does it say?”

Cousins stumbled over the words. “It purports to say that the Americans have invaded Ireland. That they are attacking Belfast. All communication with Ireland has been severed. Mail boats haven’t arrived. The last part is addressed to you. You are ordered to take Conqueror and find out what is happening over there.”

Durnford’s chair crashed unnoticed to the floor as he sprang to his feet. “Your permission, Admiral, if I could, soonest…”

“Go man, go. And get us back a report as soon as possible. I have the feeling that this is all some ghastly mistake.”

Captain Durnford did not agree. The Admiralty, for all its imperfections, could not make a mistake of this magnitude. Something was very, very wrong in Ireland, of that he was very certain. He discovered when he returned that more detailed orders had been telegraphed to the ship and were waiting for when he boarded Conqueror, he read them through most carefully. He ordered his officers to the bridge as they got up steam, then rolled out the charts and pointed to their destination.

“Here,” he said. “We’ll clear The Lizard and Land’s End after dark. Hold a course towards Ireland with a landfall here at the Old Head of Kinsale. You must understand that, as of this moment, no one in government has the slightest idea of what is happening in Ireland. Except for the single report from Belfast we are operating in the dark. As you can well imagine, there is great agitation in high places. They have absolutely no information as to what is going on there — on land or at sea. However some action has been taken. Troops are being landed at Carlough Bay, north of Belfast. After our reconnaissance we are to report our findings by telegraph. Then sail north to add our presence to the landings there.” He tapped the map of Ireland, the coastline south of Cork. “Now I want some marines landed here under a good officer — you Strutten.” He nodded at his first officer. “Take them inland, into Kinsale. There is a constabulary barracks there. Find out if anyone knows what the devil is going on. Be smart about it, because you only have until an hour after dawn to get back to the beach.”

He looked grimly into the unknown future. “The ship will be off Cork at dawn. No idea what we’ll find. But I do know that I will not take this ship into battle — no matter how tempting the prospects. Whitehall wants information — not engagements. And the same applies to you, Lieutenant. Is that absolutely clear?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Make sure that this is understood by everyone in your landing party. If attacked they are of course to defend themselves. It is up to you to see that they are not placed in that position. I want information — not heroics.”

“I will do my best, sir.”

They headed north in the darkness. If there was a war in Ireland it appeared that it had not affected the maritime trade. The light on the Old Head of Kinsale was flashing. Conqueror approached it and slowed her engines in the deep water by the head. The ship’s boat was lowered, the very newest sort with its own steam engine. With the two squads of Royal Marines aboard, it chugged off into the darkness towards the shore. Throttled back, the ironclad stood out to sea again, timing her arrival for dawn off the mouth of the estuary.

At first light the great ship crept forward, her officers on the bridge with binoculars and telescopes fixed on the shore.

“There, to starboard, sir, that’s Charles Fort.”

“And James Fort, across the water from it.”

Both forts stood out clearly against the western sky, sharp black silhouettes until the sun cleared the eastern horizon. Captain Durnford adjusted the focusing wheel on his glasses, peering at the top of the fort just as the sun touched it. There was a flag there, hanging limp — then stirring as the dawn breeze caught at its fabric.

“Damn my eyes!” one of the officer gasped. “That is the stars and stripes on that fort!”

“I do believe that it is,” Durnford said, lowering his glasses. “Stop engines.”

His ship still had some way and was sliding steadily into the mouth of the estuary. Just beyond the forts it could be seen that the waterway turned sharply to the left. As the inner reaches of the river came slowly into view they became aware of the growing bulk of an ironclad that was anchored there.

“Full speed astern,” the captain ordered, staring hard at the unfamiliar black shape. “I can truthfully say that vessel is not part of the Royal Navy.”

The propeller bit hard, sending swirls of foam to the surface. In a moment they were moving away from the black menace of the warship which, if it had seen them, which was a certainty, had made no move in their direction. Her anchor chain was visible and a small trickle of smoke rose up from her funnel. That she was well aware of the intruding ship was proven when the immense two-gun turret on her bow rumbled about to face in their direction. Then the headland intervened and the menacing enemy ship vanished from sight again.

“Captain,” the second lieutenant said. “I am certain that I know that ship. Saw her off the Mexican coast. The USS Virginia, two turrets each with two guns. Launched this past summer.”

“I do believe that you are right; she was described in recent Admiralty reports. Set course for the Old Head of Kinsale.”

There was silence on the bridge, but not on deck or in the wardroom below.

“A Yankee ship — here in Irish waters. What can it mean?”

“It means the bloody Yankees have invaded the country — you saw their flags there. Their troops must have been landed, perhaps there was an uprising as well by the Irish, whatever. But they are certainly here, and in some force as well if they stormed and took those forts.”

“Strutten will have found out something, he should know what has happened.”

It was full daylight by the time they were clear of the estuary, and the ship turned south-west for their rendezvous off Kinsale. As they approached the head the ship’s boat could be seen waiting for them. A rope ladder was dropped and Lieutenant Strutten was mounting it even before the falls were hooked onto the boat. He said nothing to the waiting officers, but hurried below to see the captain.

“There is an American warship anchored in the estuary,” the captain said. “The two forts there are taken as well.”

“It is far worse than that,” the lieutenant said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I talked with the captain of the constabulary in Kinsale. They were besieged in their barracks by a mob, but the attackers fled when they saw our guns. He had been to Cork, talked to people who escaped the city, for there was a pitched battle there. No details, just fighting and the like, but he saw the troops and the flags. The city is taken. Troops everywhere, and the crossed American flags above the gates. But no landings were made, he was sure of that. Talk is that there were trains, from Limerick Junction, for Dublin. The telegraph lines have been cut, so there is no real information, just speculation and rumors.”

“And facts. We know that the enemy were in Belfast — and now Cork. It stands to reason that Dublin would be attacked as well. There have been attacks, dastardly attacks. Our sovereign nation has been stabbed in the back!”

Frustrated and livid with anger, Captain Durnford hammered on the porthole frame.

“The country must know. Milford Haven in Wales, that is the nearest port with a telegraph station. Set the course, full speed. As soon as the boat is back aboard. England must know the full extent of this disaster!”

He looked grimly north along the Irish coast. “When that is done we will have to go and see what is happening with the troops at Carnlough Bay.”

TROUBLE TO THE NORTH

In the attack on Belfast, the 83rd Regiment of Foot had put up a strong defense of their barracks on North Queen Street, a solidly built and sturdy compound of buildings. While he knew that the Gatling guns were first-rate against troops in the field, not for the first time did General Robert E. Lee wish that he had had some artillery to fall back on. It wasn’t until the 33rd Mississippi had stormed the artillery barracks to the north of the infantry barracks that the battle had tilted in the direction of the American troops. There were cannon in store there, old smooth-bore 12-pounders that fired solid iron shot. General Longstreet had them pushed out onto the drill field even before the last of the defenders there had been subdued. Horses were brought from the stables and hitched up, while axe-men broke down the door to the powder store. Longstreet looked inside, then waved his men back.

“There’s black powder all over the flagstones in there. Take off those boots — anyone who goes in there goes in barefoot. If a hobnail on a boot makes a spark on the flags we’ll all be blown to kingdom come.”

The barrels of gunpowder were gingerly loaded onto the gun limbers, along with the round shot, horses were hitched up and Longstreet and his men followed the guns when they headed back to the infantry barracks. Behind them the firing died away as the last defenders surrendered; ahead the firing seemed to be as brisk as ever.

The arrival of the three cannon changed all that. The barracks was solidly built, but it was no fort. The wooden doors, and the surrounding masonry, were soon battered down by the solid shot. Lee ordered a bayonet charge which, urged on by rebel yells, rolled over the few defenders inside. Once the prisoners had been taken away, General Lee set up his headquarters in the offices inside.

The reports came in, one by one, and he permitted himself the smallest of smiles. Carrickfergus Castle had been shelled from the sea and had surrendered.

“The remaining defenders at the Ulster Railway Station have surrendered, General,” Captain Green said. “That seems to be the last strong point.”

“How are the casualties?”

“Seen worse,” Green said, passing over the list. As Lee picked it up a runner brought in a message; Lee looked at it.

“Trouble to the north.” He bent over the map. “The patrol we pushed north along the coast road past Larne have come under fire, some strong resistance at a village named Ballyruther. Scotch troops they say, soldiers wearing kilts. Colonel Clebourne passed the message back. He says he is taking the rest of his division forward from Carrickfergus to reinforce them.”

Lee frowned down at the British Ordnance Survey map. “There are no enemy troops to the north of us that we know of. And there are no sizeable cities at all. There is only this coast road, between the mountains inland and the shore. There are just small villages along the coast, no barracks or camps that we have any record of.”

Major Howard was puzzled. “Then where could they have come from?”

“Here,” Lee said pointing to the coast. “Small ports, harbors — and a very short crossing to Scotland. I think that we can now safely assume that the British know that we are here. Send Clebourne reinforcements — and those smooth-bore cannon as well. Do they have Gatlings?”

“A single one, sir.”

“Reinforce them with four more. Have we opened communication with the south yet?”

“The wire crews are out. Found one break and reported in. They are carrying on south tracing the line. There will be more breaks they said.”

“Let me know the moment that you are through to Dublin. Now what about the Stalwart? Is she still in the harbor at Larne?”

“Yes, sir. She captured the mailboat that goes to Scotland and has bottled her up there.”

“She has more important things to do. Is there a telegraph station at the harbor there?”

“Yes, sir. We have our own telegraph operator working it.”

“Then get a massage to the Stalwart. They are to disable the ferry so she cannot leave port. Then tell them to go north along the coast to find out where those troops came from. Then get my horse — and yours too, Green. I want to see for myself what is happening out there. Longstreet, you are in command here until I return.”

It was Colonel Roberts who brought the telegraph message to General Sherman in Dublin. “General Jackson reports the end of hostilities in Cork,” he said, holding up the telegraph report that had just arrived. “The British know that something has happened in Ireland. One of their armorclads took a look in there, but the Virginia saw her off.”

Sherman took the paper and read it. “We’ve done just as we planned here — and now Cork as well. A model campaign, victory on all fronts. But — what is happening in the north? I must know how General Lee has fared.”

It was midafternoon before the last breaks were repaired and the line was open between Belfast and Dublin. The first message was rushed to Sherman, who quickly read through the sheets of paper while his staff looked on in silence.

“The landings went very well. No resistance whatsoever on the shore of the north coast. Our information was correct. No troops stationed there. They reached Belfast on schedule. Some heavy resistance, but our forces prevailed. But they are now under attack from Scotch troops north of the city. Lee is of the opinion that the British have landed troops on the coast north of Belfast. He has sent the USS Stalwart to investigate and he is proceeding to the battlefront now.” Sherman dropped the report onto his desk. General Meagher picked it up and read it, then passed it to the other staff officers. Sherman had turned to look out of the window, his eyes cold and distant. Seeing past Dublin to Ulster and the clash of forces there.

“I don’t like this at all. The north was always going to be the unknown quantity, and it is proving so now. We have succeeded in the south. All of the coast defenses have been seized and manned as was planned. With the coastal defenses in our hands — and an ironclad in each major port — it will be very difficult for British forces to make any landings of importance along the east coast. Our navy has possession of the sea for the moment. We can defend ourselves here.” He turned his chair back and spoke to his staff.

“We must be bold. Get a telegram to General Jackson in Cork. I want him to send at least half of his forces to join us here in Dublin. Bring along any cannon he has seized as well. General Meagher, you and men of the Irish Brigade must hold the defenses that we now occupy. I am sending the 15th Pennsylvania and the 10th New York to reinforce Lee.”

He looked again at the map. “When General Jackson’s troops arrive I’ll send them on to Belfast. General Lee must hold.” He turned to Captain Green.

“Get word to Commander Goldsborough aboard Avenger. Apprise him of the situation here. Tell him that he is to remain in Dublin, since his guns are vital to our defenses. But if I find that his ironclad is needed in the north he must be prepared to sail immediately.”

This was the first time that the rail line from Dublin to Belfast had been used in the invasion. The men of the 15th Pennsylvania marched slowly through Dublin to the station. They had been awake for over thirty-six hours, and in combat for half of that time. They were exhausted — but still ready to fight. The quartermaster had seen that their bullet pouches were full. Hot rations were waiting for them before they boarded the train. Within minutes most of them were asleep. They were good soldiers, General Sherman thought, as he walked the length of the train and looked through the windows at the sleeping forms. They needed the rest.

He did too, but he had no time for it. He could sleep only after the reinforcements were on their way north. Guns from Dublin Castle were now being carried through the streets by Dublin draymen. Powder and shot would follow, and the Gatling guns, then more and more ammunition would be needed. The trains the invaders had used to get here from Galway must return there to get the ammunition that was being unloaded from the troop ships. His staff would take care of all of this. They were good and efficient officers. Maybe he could take that rest after all.

General Robert E. Lee’s horse was a sturdy hunter. Not half the horse that Traveller was, but serviceable indeed. At a steady gallop he passed the horse-drawn Gatling guns, then the marching troops. Captain Green, on a slower horse, could barely keep up.

“Let’s hear it for good old Bobby Lee!” one of the soldiers called out as he rode by and a great cheer went up. He waved his hat at them and headed for the sound of firing. It grew louder and closer and, when he heard the bullets crackling through the tree leaves above, he dismounted and Green joined him; they led their horses forward. Around a bend they came to a large oak tree with two gray-clad soldiers lying under it. One had a bandage around his head and appeared to be unconscious. The other, with a sergeant’s stripes, had his arm in a sling: he touched the brim of his hat with his left hand.

“Colonel sent me back with Caleb, General. Seeing how I can’t fire no gun or nothing and Caleb, he’s doing poorly.”

“What is the situation that you know of?”

“Pretty bad until he showed up with his men. We’re hunkered down behind a stone wall but them Scotties coming around the flanks. More and more of them.”

Lee turned slowly, looking at the terrain with a general’s eye. Then he took out his Ordnance Survey map and called Green over.

“As near as I can make out the fighting is going on about here. What I want is a new defense line here at these villages. Corkermain and Carncastle. From the hills to the shore. Make use of the natural cover.” He took the notepad from his saddlebag and wrote a quick note, then handed it to the captain.

“The reinforcements will be coming up behind us. Give them this order. I want them to form a firing line in these fields here, to left and right, using those stone walls we passed. Get some trees across this road and put the Gatlings behind them. I want them to send a runner forward as soon as that is done so we can fallback on this position.”

His aide galloped off and Lee gave the sergeant his horse to hold — then went towards the sound of battle.

Colonel Clebourne had his headquarters in a ramshackle barn, now well perforated with bullet holes.

“Are you holding them, Pat?” Lee asked when he came up.

“Good to see you, General. Just about. But ammunition is running low and I don’t think we could stop another a bayonet attack like the last one.”

The defenders were spread out in a thin line to right and left. Most sheltering behind the hedgerows or in a sunken lane. The firing was occasional and spattering — until there was a throaty roar from the enemy soldiers out of sight down the hill. Another charge was being made. The firing was almost continuous now.

“Hold them as long as you can, Pat. There are reinforcements coming up right behind me. I’m moving them into defensive positions to your rear. As soon as they are there you can pull your men back.”

The Gatling gun fell silent as its ammunition ran out; the gunners removed the firing handle, rendering it inoperable. There was no way they could take it with them when they fell back. The defenders only had their Spencer rifles now — and they were down to their last tubes of cartridges. Enough — just enough — to break the charge. A dozen kilted soldiers made it to the defenders behind the wall. It was hand-to-hand combat before they were pushed back. General Lee was reloading his pistol when the runner came up.

“Major says to tell you, sir, that the line is in position.”

“Good. Pat, let us start pulling your men back.”

It was a close-run thing. The attackers were overrunning the positions even as the gray-clad soldiers fell back. But it was a fighting retreat to the second line of reinforcements. A light rain began to fall. The British advance was being held.

For the moment.

A DREADFUL ENCOUNTER

Captain Eveshaw had one of the ship’s marines stationed in the telegraph office at the Larne pier. As soon as the message from Belfast was transcribed by the army operator, he ran to the ship, up the gangplank, and then to the bridge. Eveshaw took in the brief command in a single glance.

“Raise steam,” the captain ordered. “Prepare to cast off the lines.”

As soon as they had captured the Larne-Stranraer ferry his engineers had taken the precaution of removing the safety valve, as well as the reversing gear, from the ship. It would still be there when the USS Stalwart returned. Black smoke billowed up from the warship’s funnel as it moved away from the pier.

No one could say that she was a handsome ship. One of the first modified Monitor class that had been built after the success of the original Monitor itself, she was far more seaworthy than her predecessor. The original, with such a low freeboard, had been notably unseaworthy. Truly a cheesebox on a raft. Now, with more armored hull above the waterline, Stalwart was more of a cheesebox on a thick plank.

But, ugly or not, she had two great guns in her rotating turret that could take on almost any ship afloat. Billowing out clouds of smoke, a froth of foam at her bow, she headed north up the coast. On the bridge Captain Eveshaw had his glasses pointed at the shore.

“If there are enemy troops coming from the north and attacking our positions, they must have been landed there by ship. They could have come from Scotland during the night and we would never have seen them, not while we were tied up in the harbor, and they never came this far south.”

They had passed Balleygalley Head and were running along the rugged coast when the lookout saw the smoke ahead.

“There sir — a passenger vessel — just clearing that headland! On a northerly course.”

The captain looked at the chart and nodded. “Glenarm Bay, west of the point. There is a harbor marked here.”

“What about that ship, sir?” the first lieutenant asked. “Shall we go after her, stop her?”

“Bit of locking the barn door after the horse has been stolen. I think, since she is not a military vessel, that we let her go peacefully on her way. Now let us see where she has been.”

When they cleared Park Head the small harbor came into view. There was another passenger ship tied up there and, through their glasses, they could see troops marching up the hill.

“There’s your answer,” Captain Eveshaw said. “Make a course back to Larne so we can report this.”

The passenger ship they had seen earlier was now hull down on the horizon, almost out of sight. The lookout then began to slowly scan the rest of the horizon. There — another ship, dead ahead. He waited until he could see her clearly before he called down to the bridge.

“Vessel approaching from the south,” he said. “Under sail, a three-master with an engine it looks like, since she is making smoke.” Eveshaw swung his glasses in that direction.

“This is a very different matter indeed,” he said. “Possibly bringing reinforcements. And not from Scotland — but from England. Probably Liverpool on that course. Let us now find out.”

“If she is carrying troops,” the lieutenant said, sounding worried, “do we, well, fire into her?”

“That we will have to decide when we find out what her cargo is,” the captain said, grim authority in his voice. “If they are reinforcements we certainly cannot permit them to be used against our troops.”

The Stalwart’s bow pointed directly towards the oncoming vessel as they picked up speed. They were surely seen by the other ship because a moment later her image widened and her single sail became three as she came about.

“She’s turning away from us,” the captain said. “Gone about.”

“She’ll not get away,” the lieutenant said happily. “Rigged like that she’ll never match our speed.”

Even though the fleeing ship had a following wind on this course, even aided by her engine, there was no way that she could escape. With every turn of her screw USS Stalwart closed the distance between the two ships. All eyes were upon her until the lookout called out.

“Smoke on the horizon. Ten points off the starboard bow.”

The silence stretched as the other vessel steamed towards them, hull up now.

“An ironclad!” the lieutenant said. “One of ours.”

“Hardly,” Eveshaw said as the vessel grew in his glasses. “We’ve had reports on her. Ten inches of armor. Fourteen guns. HMS Conqueror. British. Change course for Larne. We must report her presence to our forces in Belfast. Order the gun-crews to load with explosive shells and run the guns out.”

“We’re outgunned, sir…”

“Indeed we are, lieutenant, indeed we are. Nevertheless — we will fight.”

On the bridge of Conqueror all eyes were on the strange black vessel with the single stack that was cutting across their course.

“She’s turning, sir,” the first lieutenant said. “Setting a course towards Larne.”

“We can’t have that,” Captain Durnford said. “She’s an American warship, by Jove. Single turret, two guns. Tally ho!”

It was a close-run thing. Stalwart entered Larne Harbor with her gigantic opponent no more than a thousand yards behind her. The American ironclad backwatered at full throttle, yet still smashed hard into the dock. The waiting marine clutching the captain’s message, who was standing at the rail, jumped as the ship collided with the dock, rolled and fell onto the splintered wood. Picked himself up and ran towards the telegraph station. Behind him the armored ports were battened tight as the ship cleared for action.

Stalwart fired first as the hull of her opponent filled her gunsights as Conqueror entered the mouth of Larne Lough. Both shells exploded full on the British ship’s hull. When the smoke blew away two great indentations were visible on her armor. But despite the impact and explosions the shells had not penetrated the layers of iron and wood.

Then, almost as one, the seven port guns of Conqueror fired their broadside.

Stalwart’s turret had been rotated as soon as she had fired, so the single shell that struck it only bounced off the armored rear of the turret. Four of the enemy’s guns were trained too high and their shells passed over the low hull and wreaked havoc in the ferry station beyond.

The other two shells hit Stalwart’s deck. One of them bounced screaming from her armor. The other hit where armor and hull joined and tore a brutal gash in her side.

It was a bitter, pounding, one-sided battle. People, and soldiers, ashore fled from the burning ferry terminal. While Stalwart’s guns were being reloaded, Conqueror went about and her starboard battery roared fire and shell. The Americans’ return fire once again had no visible effect on the larger ship.

The next broadside opened the gap deeper in the American ship’s hull. She appeared to be settling lower in the water. Her guns fired one last time — and then her turret vanished beneath the waters of the harbor. Air bubbled up and whipped the surface into a froth. When the bubbles ceased the ocean calmed. Empty.

No one escaped from the drowned vessel.

The marine in the ruin of the telegraph room turned to the army telegraph operator. “Better add to that message. Stalwart destroyed by enemy fire. She has sunk with all hands aboard.”

The Duke of Cambridge was in a fire-eating mood. The more he thought about the audacity of the Americans in daring to launch an attack on the British Isles, the more incensed he became. Even though there had been no report in yet, on the success or failure of their attack, he called for more and more troops.

“Somerville!” he bellowed. “Are there any more ships in the Clyde that we can use?”

“Possibly, sir. But since the Scots Guards and the Royal Scots Greys have entrained and embarked there are no more regiments immediately available. However I have sent an order canceling all ship departures from Liverpool. Officers there are determining which of them would be able to carry troops.” He looked up at the office clock. “The Green Howards left some hours ago and should be reaching Liverpool about this time. The Royal Regiment of Fusiliers will be close behind them. We have also rounded up all of the batteries of field artillery available and they are on the way as well.”

“Well done,” the Duke said, albeit begrudgingly. “It is now or never. We must assume that our landings went well and that our forces are now advancing against the enemy in the field. They must be reinforced! We must keep up the pressure. If we cannot prevail now it will be devilish hard to go back and launch an attack again at some future date.”

“You are completely correct, your grace. The enemy has committed its forces to an invasion of Ireland. Battles cause casualties. We do not know the state of their communications. But we do know that they will not have had enough time to resupply or reinforce their troops. We must not fail at this time.”

When he had sent his men on the cars north from Cork, General Stonewall Jackson had telegraphed asking permission of General Sherman to march at their head. Sherman had not hesitated. The defenses at Cork were well manned and armed. It would not need a fighting general of Jackson’s stature to wage a defensive battle. Sherman’s answer had been fast and brief. Command your troops.

There were guides waiting when Jackson’s troops reached Dublin. To lead them through the city, to the train to Belfast. A mounted major, leading a second saddled horse, saluted Jackson.

“General Sherman’s compliments, sir. He would like to confer with you while your troops are boarding the cars.” Jackson mounted and followed the aide to the headquarters in the General Post Office. Sherman took him by the hand when he came in.

“Congratulations on your success in battle.”

“It was God’s will. Now — tell me what has happened in the north.”

“The enemy has landed in force, on the coast north of here. We must first hold them on land — then look to the navy to prevent any future landings,” General Sherman told him, pointing at the map of Ireland tacked to his headquarters wall. “On our northern front — Lee reports that we are holding — but just barely. You must reinforce him. And hold. He has thrown all his reserves into his defensive position. But the front is small and almost undefendable. It is hand-to-hand fighting now and it cannot go on. He is now setting a major defense line just north of Larne. They’ll fall back on these positions as soon as it is dark, and you will reinforce him. We will hold there. But at sea it is very bad. Stalwart is sunk.”

“I had not heard,” Jackson said grimly.

“She was not outfought — but she was outgunned. And she did report that more ships with troops were supporting the British counter-attack. There is nothing we can do about that, not yet. Her antagonist Conqueror is now protecting the troop ships that continue to arrive from Scotland and possibly from England.”

“What about Avenger? She can surely get after the enemy troop ships — but she’s still tied up here.”

“On my orders. As you know Virginia is on her way here from Cork. When she arrives they will sail together. Then Conqueror will not be able to both protect herself and guard the arriving troop ships at the same time. Undoubtedly there are more British warships on the way. We must make as much of this opportunity as we can before they arrive.”

“Is there any word of Dictator?” Other officers had been hesitant to put into words the question that was in the back of all their minds, but not Jackson. Their mightiest ironclad had missed the invasion with her blown boiler. “Is there any word of her yet?”

“None. I have sent one of the troop ships to the Azores with instructions that she is to proceed at once to Belfast as soon as repairs are made. We can only hope that she has been repaired by now. We must stop any enemy replacements from arriving. When your troops arrive at the front we will have done everything that we could possibly do. As you know, we hold Dublin and Cork with the absolute minimum of troops. Your regiments are the last of the reserves that I can send General Lee. All the other regiments have already been committed. If any man can hold the line it is he.”

“With the good Lord’s aid,” Jackson said firmly; he was a most religious man. “We go where He tells us to go, and in that way we win our battles.”

A DESPERATE GAMBLE

The First Engineer of the USS Dictator stood on the ship’s bridge, so tired that he swayed with fatigue. His clothes were black with grease, as was his skin and the rag he was wiping his hands on with no success. Only his bloodshot eyes had any trace of color.

“It is a simple question,” Captain Johns said quietly. “And I feel that it deserves a simple answer. Is the boiler now repaired?”

The First Engineer twisted the rag as he blurted out the words. “It is but…”

“No ‘buts.’ Will it take us to Ireland?”

Ever since the ship had brought the message from General Sherman that afternoon the captain had paced the bridge deck. It was now after dark and his vessel was still dead in the water. In the end he could control his impatience no longer and had sent for the First Engineer. Whose answer he now awaited.

“It will hold pressure…”

“No ‘buts,’ remember. Will it get us there?”

“I would like some more time…”

“You have none. We get under way at once.”

“I’ll need at least another half-hour.”

“You have it. We sail then.”

Captain Fosbery sat in the stern of the ship’s boat as they crossed the choppy waters at the mouth of the Mersey River. HMS Intrepid lay still in the water ahead, gray against gray clouds in the falling rain. Alike as two peas in a pod, he thought. They should be. Sister ships. He commanded the Valiant that lay behind him. There were small differences he could detect, nothing important. The ships were Clyde-built, they had been launched within weeks of each other, and were Clyde-strong. He heard the bosun’s whistle as the boat pulled beside her.

“Fosbery, it is good to see you,” Captain Cockham said when his fellow captain climbed on deck. “Do come below where it is dryer and warmer.” He coughed deeply. “Got a bit of a chill on the liver, rum’s the only thing for that. You will join me.”

Sitting in the captain’s cabin they raised their glasses.

“Confusion to the enemy,” Cockham said.

“And a speedy victory. What have you heard?”

“Probably the same as you. The Americans have invaded Ireland — and it seems that they have done it quite successfully, though none of the reports comes right out and says that. In any case, we have put troops ashore north of Belfast and they need reinforcing. Orders are for me to meet you here, then hold our station until we meet the ships we are to convoy to Ireland. They’ll be coming downstream from Liverpool this morning.”

Fosbury nodded. “That is precisely what I have been told. With the added information that Conqueror is there ahead of us — and has already sunk an American ironclad.”

“Did she, by Jove! Well done. That will teach the Yankees to bite off more than they can chew.”

The first mate tapped lightly on the door, then came in. “Three ships in sight upstream, sir. All of them steam and sail. One looks like a mail packet.”

“I’ll get back to my ship,” Fosbery said, standing. “As I remember you are almost a year superior to me, so I submit to your orders.”

“Simple enough, old chap. We position ourselves between our charges and the enemy and see that they don’t get sunk.”

Avenger had left the Liffey and had stationed herself out to sea, in the lee of the Minch lighthouse. Steaming north, Virginia began signaling as soon as they could make out the signalman on the other ship’s bridge. Commander Goldborough passed on the sore news of the loss of the Stalwart with all hands. They exchanged a quick flurry of flag signals before taking station on each other and, at top speed, steamed north towards Belfast.

The Mississippi regiment held the defensive position through the long night. They had to fight off more than one probing action during the hours of darkness. Firing low, seeing the enemy only in their muzzle flashes. Then it was bayonet against bayonet — and swords, for many of the Scots officers had bucket-handled swords that were vicious weapons in a melee, in the dark. Few prisoners were taken by either side. It was close to dawn before the order was passed forward to withdraw. The Gatling guns were taken out last since their bursts of firing kept enemy heads down — and reminded the enemy that the Americans were still there. They were finally pulled back, one at a time, soldiers pushing on their wheels, tugging on the ropes, until they reached the waiting horses. By dawn the front line was deserted and the defenders were all behind the strengthened new defenses.

General Robert E. Lee stood at the highest spot in the defense line, where the trenches met the foothills. His right flank was anchored on the shore at Drains Bay. From there it stretched across the rolling countryside to the base of Robin Youngs Hill. The troops were well dug in; a lesson that had been learned very well by both sides in the War Between the States. The Gatling guns were set in embrasures in the line, while his few cannon were stationed on the rising hillsides to the rear where they could fire over the lines. He had done all that he could do. He preferred to attack — but knew as well how to build a strong defense.

He done everything possible to prepare the defensive position. All that could be done now was to wait for the attack. He went down the hill to where his aides waited. They must have been questioning a prisoner because he saw two soldiers leading away a man in a scarlet uniform.

“Did you learn anything, Andrews?”

“We did indeed, sir. There are more than Scotch troops out there now. That man is from the King’s Regiment, from Liverpool. He says they sailed from there.”

“That is not in Scotland?”

“No, sir, it’s in England. That means that more ships have been getting through since the first ones landed the Scotch troops.”

Lee looked grimly out to sea. “There is an entire country full of troops out there just yearning to cross this bit of ocean to fight us. We cannot remain on the defensive forever. We shall have to take the attack to the troops that are already here. Roll them back into the ocean before any more can land.”

“We have our navy, sir,” Captain Andrews said. “They should be able to stop more troops from landing.”

“I do not depend on the navy to win my battles,” he said coldly. “Armies win wars.”

There was the call of distant bugles from the enemy where they had assembled out of range of the American guns. Their cannon began to fire a covering barrage and the massed soldiers started forward to the sound of beating drums. The battle had begun.

The British commander was prolifigate with his men’s lives. They attacked in waves, one after the other, waves that threatened to engulf the thinly held line. But the Gatling guns, and the Spencer rifles, tore into the attackers, spreading death and destruction. But not even the bravest of soldiers could continue the attack with the knowledge of certain death at the end. First one man, then another, fell back — then the panic spread until the attacking battalions were in full retreat.

General Lee looked on grimly — then turned when he heard his name called out.

General Stonewall Jackson was swinging down from his horse. They clasped hands and Lee took Jackson by the arm.

“My stout right arm! I have indeed missed you.”

“I am here now — and my regiments are right behind me.”

“We will need all of them. Because we must attack and destroy the British before our ammunition is spent. With each attack our reserves get lower. I think it is deliberate. The enemy commander must know that we cannot resupply. He is trading his men’s lives for our bullets. Let me show you what must be done.”

On the map the situation looked perfectly clear. The tall hill on which their left flank was anchored fell away in sharp cliffs to the rear. Below the cliff was a valley that completely encircled the hill. Jackson should be able to march his troops, unseen, about the base of the hill — and could fall on the enemy from the rear.

“Hit them hard — here,” Lee said. “Cut across their lines of supply. As soon as you do that we will attack from the line.”

“They will be caught between us without a means of escape. God has provided us with the strength and the will. In His name we shall persevere.”

Jackson’s regiments never went into the line. Instead, without stopping, they began the forced march around Robin Youngs Hill to attack the enemy from the rear. The success or failure of the entire war depended on their endurance. Jackson had been Lee’s striking right arm before and had prevailed. Now he must do it again.

VICTORY — OR DEFEAT?

Captain Johns was secure in the knowledge that his ship could defeat any enemy vessel that she might encounter at sea. Dictator’s armor was the heaviest — her guns some of the largest ever mounted on a ship. Each of her turrets, one forward and one aft, held two of the largest cannon Parrott had ever designed. They fired the new hardened steel pointed shells that had proven highly successful in penetrating armor on the testing range. He was sure that they would prove just as successful at sea. Now, instead of taking a route from the Azores to the Irish Sea that might avoid other ships, he proceeded directly towards his destination.

At twelve knots. He hammered the bridge rail with frustration. But the First Engineer would not vouch for the boilers if the pressure were raised. Well at least they were moving, no longer sitting at anchor. The first mate came out of the Chart Room and he waved him over.

“How is our progress?”

“Slow but sure, sir. Since we are taking the most direct course to Belfast we won’t see the coast of Ireland until we are past the Isle of Man. We should be past Dublin by now…”

“Smoke on the horizon, dead ahead,” the lookout called out. “More than one vessel.”

Slow as the Dictator was, the convoy ahead was even slower, held to the speed of her slowest ship — the paddlewheel packet ship. Aboard the Valiant Captain Fosbery contained his anger, looking ahead at the three troop-ships lumbering along in Intrepid’s wake. They should be raising the Isle of Man soon. Then Ireland.

These were well-traveled waters, and they had passed two ships already today, so the smoke on the horizon astern seemed of no importance. Until the first mate, who had been watching its progress, lowered his glasses.

“An iron ship, sir. No masts. A good-sized one, I do believe.”

Fosbery watched her now, with a growing sense of horror at her swift approach.

“I don’t recognize her, sir,” the first mate said.

“You wouldn’t. She’s not one of ours. Damnation — look at the size of the guns in that forward turret!”

Intrepid increased her speed and passed the troop ships until she was within signaling distance of Valiant. They exchanged messages, then reduced speed to let the convoy past them. Their station was between their charges and the enemy. They must do battle, whatever the odds.

Aboard the American warship all eyes were on the convoy ahead. “Warrior class,” Captain Johns said with great pleasure. “Armor bow and stern now, as well as slanted armor to protect the citadel.” He had seen the reports sent over from the War Department: Fox’s Irish shipyard workers had been most thorough in their reports. “Now let us see how well they stand up to our twelve-inch shells. Distance?”

“Thirteen hundred yards,” the gun-layer called out.

“Within range. One gun fire.”

A few moments later there was a great explosion of sound and the steel ship shivered at the recoil of the gun. Standing directly behind the turret, Johns could see the black smear of the shell rising up against the blue sky, then hurtling down towards the enemy ships. A mighty plume of water rose up from the sea, almost washing over the two ironclads.

“Short!” the captain called out. “The next one will be right into them!”

The next explosion was smaller, muffled. But the guns hadn’t fired.

With horror Captain Johns felt the ship slow down, losing way as her propeller stopped turning.

The boiler again…

The two British ironclads, that had been willing to fight to the death in the hopes that they could keep this monster from their charges, could not believe what they were seeing. The American Goliath had lost way, had stopped and was wallowing in the waves. Valiant send up a white plume of steam in a long whistle of victory. They put on speed and hurried after their charges.

Behind them Dictator grew smaller and smaller until she vanished from sight.

Less than a hundred miles ahead of them Avenger and Virginia looked at the black bulk of the British ironclad standing just off the Irish coast. This was undoubtedly the same ship that had sunk the USS Stalwart. They were here to avenge their dead comrades. In line they steamed forward.

Conqueror moved out to sea now so she could have room to maneuver. Swung to bring her guns to bear as the American ironclads rushed down on her.

Avenger was first in line and passed less than twenty yards from the British ship. Their broadsides exploded at almost the same time: sheets of flame and smoke joined the two ships. Above the sound of the explosions metal clanged on metal. As they separated neither ship seemed to have suffered serious damage. They were well matched in both guns and armor.

Not so the Virginia. Before Conqueror could reload her port guns the American ironclad was on her. Conqueror tried to turn so her starboard guns could bear — but she had not enough time. The two guns in the forward turret fired. Twelve-inch Parrott breech-loaders firing pointed steel armor-piercing shells. The first time these guns had been fired in anger.

The two shells exploded as one. The smoke blew away and when Virginia’s rear turret passed the other ship a great hole could be seen in her armored side. Both rear turret guns fired into the gaping wound.

Conqueror had been mortally wounded by the four explosive shells. Smoke poured out of the jagged opening — then there was another explosion and sheets of flame appeared. Her magazine had exploded. As the American ships turned, she settled lower in the water as her bow rose up. Then the great ship sank with a mighty bubbling roar.

The two ironclads slowed to pick up the few survivors. The pride of the British navy was no more.

From the wooded hillside General Stonewall Jackson could see the rear of the enemy lines. A group of officers conferred, while a squad of soldiers passed them; wounded soldiers were being brought back on stretchers.

“Five minutes,” he ordered and his tired troops dropped down in the cover of the trees. March discipline was strict and they had not touched their canteens before this. They drank deep. They checked their cartridges, then fixed their bayonets.

“And no shouting until we hit them, hear,” the First Sergeant said. “Then whoop like the devils in hell. Cold steel — and lead. Go get them, tigers!”

The signal was passed and they rose, waited in the shelter of the trees. All eyes were on General Jackson when he stepped out into the sunshine and slowly drew his sword. He raised it high — then slashed it down. Silently the lines of gray clad soldiers emerged from the trees, walking forward, faster and faster — then running down the slope.

The enemy was taken completely by surprise. The First Sergeant lumbered past Jackson and slammed into the shocked group of officers — bayoneting the one with the most chicken guts on his hat. Jackson was at his side, his sword slashing down.

The attackers slammed into the rear of the defenders’ line, jabbing with their bayonets. A shot was fired, then more — and a single rebel cry was echoed from a thousand throats.

In the defensive lines the firing and shrill yells could be plainly heard.

“Now it is our turn,” General Robert E. Lee said. “We have been taking it for too long. Now let us give them back some of their own.”

His men surged out of the trenches and over the stone and timber defenses, and fell on the enemy.

The suddenness of the charge, the brutality of the bayonets — and the rapid-firing Spencer rifles — swept the field. Clumps of men struggled and died. British soldiers tried to flee, but they had no place to go. Leaderless, their officers captured or dead, their rifles empty and fear gripping their guts, they had no choice.

They threw down their weapons and surrendered.

While out to sea the final battle was being fought.

With the Avenger in her wake the USS Virginia steamed out to face the approaching convoy. On his bridge Captain Raphael Semmes looked through his glasses at the two ironclads, Union Jacks flapping and their guns run out. Behind them the three troop transports had heaved to.

“Now I do believe that they want to fight us,” Semmes said, lowering his glasses and shaking his head. “This is foolhardy indeed.” He turned to his first mate, Lieutenant Sawyer. “Lower the ship’s boat. Get a tablecloth and wave it at them. Tell the senior captain that if he strikes his colors he, his men — and his ship — will be spared. As a bit of a telling argument you might tell him what happened to Conqueror.” The few survivors of the battle had identified their ship.

Captain Fosbery looked at the approaching boat with mixed emotions. He saw the size of the guns he was facing and knew what he was to be offered. Life — or death. But did he have a choice? He heard Lieutenant Sawyer out, was appalled at the news about Conqueror.

“All hands, you say?”

“Under a dozen survivors. And that was a single salvo. How long do you think your ship would last?”

Fosbery drew himself up. “Your consideration is appreciated. But, you see, I have very little choice. I could never live down the disgrace of surrendering, without firing a shot, in my first encounter with the enemy. The disgrace…”

“Your death, the death of your crew. There are things worse than disgrace.”

“To a colonial, perhaps,” Fosbery snapped. “But not to a gentleman. Remove yourself from my ship, sir. You have your answer.”

“Mighty touchy about their honor, aren’t they?” Captain Semmes said when Sawyer had reported back to him on the bridge. “Make a signal to the Virginia. Surrender refused. I am firing high to disable the guns not sink the ship. Good luck.”

The three troop ships pulled away as the two American ironclads steamed down on their defenders.

It was not a battle but deliberate slaughter. The British shells bounced off the heavier American armor.

The American guns battered them into twisted ruin. And they had fired high. Pounded and torn — but still afloat — the British ironclads struck their colors at last.

Captain Fosbery’s honor was intact.

He was also dead.

Dictator stayed by the battered British ironclads while the Virginia went after the troop ships that had turned tail when the battle had started. The troops aboard would march ashore and straight into prison camps.

It had been a very close-run thing, but the British attack had failed.

Ireland was no longer a part of Great Britain. Still not a country in her own right. There was still a long road to travel before she reached that happy day.

VICTORY!

For Henry, Lord Blessington, it was very obvious that something very disturbing was happening in Ireland. For three long days he had watched and waited, listened to what was being said by the servants and tried to separate rumor from fact. This was very difficult to do. From the upper windows of Trim Castle he had seen soldiers marching north. A squadron of cavalry galloped past on the second day, the same day that he had heard cannon booming in the distance. On the third day he had sent his manager riding into Drogheda to find out what he could. The man was Irish, but he was reliable. At least for the present. Now he had returned and stood before him, shaking, gripped by some strong emotion. Riley was a man of little imagination and Blessington had never seen him like this, standing here in the study and twisting his hat, unspeaking.

“Sit down man, sit down and compose yourself,” Blessington said. “And drink this.” He pushed a beaker of brandy across the table, sat down himself in the big armchair with his back to window. “Now tell me what you found out.”

Riley drank too fast and had an immense coughing fit. He dried his mouth and face with a bandana from his sleeve, then rooted in his jacket pocket for the little leather-bound book that he always carried. The coughing seemed to have broken his silence.

“I made notes, your lordship. Of what people told me. I went to the town clerk and checked with him. He had some telegrams there and he let me look at them. It seems that American soldiers have seized Dublin by force. They are everywhere.”

“Taken Dublin? How — and how did they get here?”

“Who can tell? Oh, the stories I heard, there is enough talk all right. Some said they came by sea, in an immense fleet. Someone said he had seen them with his own eyes, landing in their thousands, by boat and barge down the Royal Canal and the Liffey. But one thing is certain, and all I heard agreed on that, they are here and a great number of them indeed. Wounded too, and in the hospitals where there was talk of a great battle in the Curragh.”

“There would indeed be a conflict there.” Blessington almost said “We have” but quickly corrected himself. “There must be at least ten thousand troops stationed there. That would be a battle!”

“Indeed, sir, and I am sure that there was. And there were a lot of people who also seemed to believe that the Americans came by train, had seen them doing it.”

“Yes — of course, just what they would do. I can believe that. I have been in America and they are the great ones with their trains.” He stood and tapped the framed map on the wall. It had castles and heraldry that picked out the noble seats of Ireland, yet behind all the shields and coats of arms it was still visible as a map. “They landed here at Galway City, I’ll warrant. Beat down the local resistance, whatever there was of it, then took the trains to Dublin. What of the rest of Ireland?” he asked, turning back towards Riley. “What did you hear?”

“Saw, your lordship. A big announcement hung on the post office gate. I copied it here, just the gist if it, the best that I could, people were righting to get close to it and read it. Cork taken, it said, and all of the south of Ireland in the Liberators’ hands. That’s what they call themselves now, the Liberators.”

“They would, wouldn’t they?” he said bitterly. “But what of Belfast?”

“Fierce fighting there, that is what it said. But Belfast subdued, Ulster surrendered, Ireland one and indivisible and free. Martial law, with a dusk-to-dawn curfew, to be lifted as soon as the dissident elements are subdued. Those aren’t my words, I copied what I saw.”

“Yes, Riley, thank you. An excellent job.” Blessington dismissed the man with a flick of his hand and turned back to the map. “Trains,” he muttered to himself. It was so easy when you thought about it. There were no troops to speak of in the west of Ireland. None that he had ever seen. The invaders could land wherever they pleased there, to be greeted by rebels no doubt. Limerick to Cork. Galway to Dublin. Londonderry to Belfast — and no easy thing for them in the north, I’ll warrant. There are loyal people there. Not like the south of Ireland. A viper’s nest of Fenians. He turned away from the map as the door to the study opened.

“I saw Riley leaving,” Lady Sarah Blessington said. “Did he find out about the… troubles?”

“He did indeed. The troubles, as you see fit to call them, are a bloody invasion and a bloody war!” He knew that his wife disliked vulgarity and it gave him perverse pleasure to use it at this time. She was English by birth, very distantly related to the Queen, as she was fond of reminding him. Her eyes widened slightly, but she refused to be dragged into an argument.

“War?”

“The Americans, it seems, are the new masters of Ireland. While our troops are mucking about in Mexico, plotting some piddling invasion, the Americans have jumped the gun and are here. Now.”

“Our troops?” Sarah asked, stressing slightly the our.

Henry turned, fists clenched, to stare unseeingly out of the window. He was part of the Protestant landed gentry, one of the titled few in a sea of Catholics. Irish-born and reared, except for the few years at Cambridge, he was neither all of one nor part the other. Sarah had no problems. English-born, she carried that country locked into her bosom. But what about him? Where did he stand? What of his future?

Patrick Riley, manager of the estates of Trim Castle, had no such problem of identity. He had left the castle and walked to the row of tied cottages by the gatehouse. The door to his house opened directly into the kitchen. Peter, the Blessington butler, was waiting for him there. Seamus, the head groom, as well. Riley nodded at them and took down the stone crock and glasses for them all. Poured out good measures of whisky.

“Here’s to Ireland — free at last,” he said as he raised his glass.

“ ’Tis true, then,” Peter said.

“True as I’m sitting before you and drinking from this glass.”

“Not just rumors?” Seamus asked, always the suspicious one.

“Read it in the paper yourself,” he said, as he pulled a copy of the Irish Times from his tailcoat pocket and slammed it onto the table. The black letters of the headline leaped out at them:

THE LIBERATION OF IRELAND

“Glory be to God,” Peter said in a hushed voice, brushing the back of his hand across the newspaper, as delicately as he would a lover’s cheek.

“I gave his lordship a word or two about what was happening. But this paper is mine, for my children and their children’s children,” Riley said. “History has been made this day.”

“It has indeed,” Peter agreed, bending over to read the blessed words.

General William Tecumseh Sherman was also admiring the bold headline in the Irish Times. The first issue of the paper that had been published since the army had reached Dublin. Through the open window he could hear the cheering of the crowd outside in Sackville Street. He had moved his headquarters to the General Post Office here as soon as the telegraph wires had been repaired; all of them seemed to have terminated here. One of his aides had hung his big battleflag outside on the pole next to the main entrance. Now the street was packed solid with people come to see the flag and to cheer the liberating army.

“You are the man of the hour, General,” General Francis Meagher said as he came through the door.

“That credit belongs to you and your men in the Irish Brigade. First in battle, first in peace. We should hang an Irish flag up next to the stars and stripes.”

“We would if we could — but we don’t have one. Yet. I’m thinking that that will be the first order of business. But I’ll be forgetting my head next. The telegraph to Limerick is working again. The troop ship Memphis Star has finished loading and is just waiting for the message.”

“Fine. Here it is. Addressed to President Lincoln.” He handed it to an orderly who hurried away. “The Memphis Star is the fastest ship we have. Got a load of British prisoners below decks. Her captain assured me that she’ll do twenty-one knots all the way to Halifax, Nova Scotia — that’s where the new cable to the United States ends. That message will be in the President’s hands just as soon as the ship docks there.”

Meagher shook his head. “It is a miracle of modern telegraphic communication. It is a brand new world that we live in.”

The Cabinet was meeting when Hay brought the telegram to the President and laid it on the table before him.

“The message from General Sherman that you have been waiting for, Mr. President.”

Lincoln found his fingers trembling slightly when he put his glasses on. But his voice was firm as he read the telegraph message aloud.

“ ‘It is with the greatest pleasure that I inform you that our forces in the field in Ireland have achieved success on every front. The landings in Limerick and Galway were relatively unopposed, so that the attacks on Dublin and Cork went as planned. There was fierce resistance from British troops defending Dublin, but their defeat was the order of the day. The same might be said of Cork as well. The joint operation with the Navy was most successful in all the cities. However the defenders of Belfast, and the counter-attacking forces in the north, put up a strong resistance. They were in the end overwhelmed and defeated.

“ ‘I have declared martial law until the garrisons and pockets of enemy troops we bypassed in our swift attack are neutralized. They pose no real threat to peace since they are few in number and disorganized. I can therefore truthfully state that we have prevailed by might of arms. Ireland is free.’ It is signed General William Tecumseh Sherman.”

“I make it five days from beginning to end,” the Secretary of War said. “History has seen a Forty Years’ War, as well as other conflicts both longer and shorter. But, gentlemen, I don’t think history has ever seen a war before that began and ended in less than a week. This is a new kind of war, just as General Sherman told us. A lightning war where the enemy is overwhelmed — even as they are discovering that they are being attacked. Ireland is taken, the usurper defeated, the deed done.”

“For that we are most grateful,” Lincoln said wearily. “I, for one, am tired of war no matter how swiftly executed, how rapidly won. Perhaps now our British cousins will read the handwriting on the wall and will begin to understand. The warring is done. We look only to peace in the future. My fondest wish is that they will now withdraw their troops from this hemisphere and join us in looking forward to a peaceful future.”

“This is impossible!” Queen Victoria shrieked, her face flaming red under her white face powder. “You stand before Us and say that We are no longer Queen of Ireland?”

Lord Palmerston bent his head in a sorrowful bow. “That, Your Majesty, appears to be the case. We have had the wired report from the Conqueror about her investigations of Cork. In Northern Ireland the Scots troops have fought a successful retreat and have returned with the news that Belfast is taken as well. In addition there is the telegram from Holyhead that the mail ship from Kingstown has arrived on schedule, for the first time in a week. There were only British passengers aboard, and the vessel was short-handed since only British sailors remained on her crew. However she did carry copies of an Irish newspaper, which, in its entirety, is being telegraphed here even as we speak.” He straightened up and proffered a handful of telegraph papers. “These are the first to arrive. They speak in some detail of the defeat of our forces and the jubilation of the natives at what is referred to as the removal of the English yoke…”

Palmerston ceased speaking when he realized that the Queen was no longer listening. She was wailing, half-fainting, crying into the kerchief held by one of the circle of ladies-in-waiting who attended her. Murmuring his regrets Lord Palmerston bowed his way out.

“A damn’ black day indeed!” he said as the door closed behind him. He shoved the papers into his pocket as he turned to leave the palace.

“Damnation!” he shouted at the trembling royal servants. “This is not the end, I swear it is not — but it is the beginning! It will end only when those Americans are destroyed — destroyed to the last man! We were caught by surprise, that is all. This evil shall not prevail.”

A NEW IRELAND IS BORN

It was Sunday, the first Sunday since the brief battle for Ireland had ended with victory for the American troops. Church bells sounded throughout the land and in many churches prayers of thanks were given, and a warm welcome extended to the soldiers who came to attend services. Smiles and handshakes and, even better, in the public houses there was drink all around and no mention of payment expected from these brave men from across the sea.

In the south.

In the north of Ireland, in Belfast and in the cities that the Americans had marched through, the Catholics went to mass in silence, not even glancing at each other as they trod the rain-slick streets. Not until they were inside, and the church doors locked, did they dare speak, voices raised in questions that had no answers.

In Portstewart the Catholic church was next to the sand dunes, behind the beach where the Americans had landed. The priest had stood in the doorway while the long lines of gray clad soldiers had come up from the beach and passed his church. Some had waved to him as they went by. Even others — to his amazement — had crossed themselves as they passed his church. Grinning from ear to ear, he had made the sign of the cross, blessing them over and over. Now it was time to speak about this to his parishioners. The talk died away as he stood in the pulpit.

“We must be silent — and we must be hopeful. Those are the first two things that we must do. Silent because we do not know Ireland’s fate. We have seen the American army move south to Belfast. We can hope them all success there, and in the rest of Ireland. Have they invaded the south as well? We do not know. We can only hope — and we can pray. Pray that these men from across the sea have come here to unite Ireland in a freedom never experienced before. We can pray, pray earnestly for the success of their cause. But we must pray in silence until we know Ireland’s fate. Bow our heads and pray in the hope that they bring to these beleaguered shores.”

In Belfast there was a coldness in the Protestant congregations that matched the chill wind and driving rain under the lowering October sky. General Robert E. Lee and his officers rode from the Townhall Building, where he had his headquarters, to May Street Presbyterian Church where the gentry attended Sunday service. A troop of cavalry trotted by and Lee returned their salute: he noticed the sentries posted outside the government buildings. Martial law was still in effect.

There was a rustle of movement and suppressed whispers when the American officers passed between the high pillars and entered the church. The Reverend Ian Craig was just entering the pulpit and, although a most loquacious man at all other times, he could at this moment think of nothing to say. The military men marched calmly to the front row, which quickly emptied of the few souls there, and seated themselves. The officers sat upright, their hats on their laps, and looked expectantly at Reverend Craig. The silence lengthened until he cleared his voice and spoke.

His sermon was about redemption and brotherly love and was — for him — unexpectedly short. Nor did he stand at the doorway as his parishioners left, as was his wont, but instead hurried into his vestry.

“How do, ma’am,” General Lee said tipping his hat to a black-garbed and elderly woman passing in the aisle. She gasped, looked horrified, and hurried on. As did all the others.

“It ’pears like they think we got something catching,” James Longstreet observed.

“Maybe we do,” Lee said, and smiled enigmatically.

When he reached his headquarters the officer of the day had a message for him.

“Delegation of the locals here to see you, General.”

“How many of them?”

“The Mayor, a Mr. John Lytle, and ten members of the Belfast City Council.”

“Too many. Tell them that I’ll see the mayor and one more of them, that’s enough. And before you let them in send for Surgeon Reynolds.”

He went through the accumulated reports on his desk until Reynolds came in.

“Sit down, Francis, and look military. The locals have finally decided that they want to talk to us.”

“Well that is surely nice to hear. I wonder what they will have to say for themselves.”

“Complaints, first off, I imagine.” Lee was right.

“Mayor Lytle, Councilor Mullan,” the sergeant said as he ushered them in.

Lytle, a plump man in a dark frock coat looked decidedly angry. “I protest, sir, at the exclusion of the councilors…”

“Please be seated, gentleman,” Lee interrupted. “I am General Lee, military commandant of this city. This is Surgeon Reynolds, on my staff. This city is under martial law and it is I who decide the size of all meetings both public and private. I am sure that you will understand that. Now — how may I be of service?”

Lytle sat down heavily in his chair and fingered his gold watchfob before he spoke. “You say martial law, sir? And why is that — and how long will it continue?”

“I have declared martial law because this country is in a state of war between two opposing military groups. Once all military opposition has been eliminated and peace restored, martial law will be lifted.”

“I protest. You have fired on this country’s armed forces—”

“That I have not done, sir.” Lee’s words were sharp, his voice cold. “This country is Ireland and I have engaged only British troops.”

“But we are British. We protest your presence here, your invasion…”

“If I might speak,” Reynolds said quietly. “I would like to point out some inescapable truths.”

“You’re not American,” Mullen said accusingly, hearing Reynolds’s Irish accent.

“Ahh, but I am, Mr. Mullen. Born in Derry and educated here in Belfast, but just as American as the general here. Ours is a nation of immigrants — as is yours.”

“Never!”

“I would like you to remember that you are a nationalist and a Protestant, whose ancestors immigrated here from Scotland some many hundreds of years ago. If you wish to return to that land, General Lee informs me that you are free to do so. If you remain here you will be fairly treated as will be all Irishman.”

“You’re a Teague,” Lytle snarled.

“No, sir,” Reynolds said coldly. “I am an Irish Catholic who is now an American citizen. In our country there is complete separation of Church and State. There is no official state religion…”

“But you will side with the Catholics against the Protestants, that’s what you will do…”

“Mr. Lytle.” Lee’s words cracked like a whip, silencing the man. “If you came here for a religious argument you may leave now. If you came as an elected official of this city, then address yourself to your reasons for your presence.”

Lytle was breathing hard, unable to speak. It was Councilor Mullan who broke the silence.

“General, the Protestants in the north are a much maligned people who are now united in peace with one another. We are a hard-working people who have built Belfast, in very few years, into a successful and growing city. We weave linen and build ships. But if we unite with the backward south — there will be changes I am sure. The past has been a turbulent one, but that I feel is over. Now what will happen to us?”

“You, and every other resident of this island, will be treated equally. I sincerely hope that you all follow the example of the people of Canada, where national elections have been held and a government has been democratically elected. The same we hope will be true of Mexico in the near future, now that the invading army has been expelled.”

“If you let them rule us there will be murder in the streets—”

“Mr. Lytle,” Reynolds said quietly, “there is no more ‘them.’ There is only democracy now, where all men are equal. One man, one vote. I should think that as an elected official yourself you would respect that fact. Ireland will no longer be ruled from above, ruled by a distant monarch and a self-appointed nobility. You are a free man and you should be grateful for that freedom.”

“Freedom!” he cried out. “We are ruled by invaders!”

“For the moment,” Lee said calmly. “But when you have had your election we will be more than happy to leave. You will have your own police force then to protect you, an army of your own as well to guard against foreign invasion if that is threatened. We have offered you freedom from foreign rule. You would be wise to take it.”

The mayor glared pure hatred. Unspoken was the knowledge that his Protestant majority in Northern Ireland would now be a minority in Catholic Ireland.

“You cannot be sure that the new Ireland will not have a place for you,” Surgeon Reynolds said quietly. “If we fight for equality we may be able to forget the inequalities of the past. Is that not worth working for? Do you see my blue uniform and General Lee’s gray one? Do you know the significance of this? We fought a terrible civil war, brother killing brother — and now we have turned our backs on it and live in peace. Can you not abandon your tribal loyalties and learn to live in peace with your brothers who share this island? Isn’t that a goal worth achieving, an ambition worth attaining?”

His answer was only grim silence. But from their expressions it was obvious that the two men were not pleased with the prospect of a brave new world.

Lee spoke into the silence.

“You gentlemen may go. Please contact me at any time concerning matters of the public good. We are all on the same side, as Surgeon Reynolds has so eloquently said.

“The side of peace.”

Despite General Sherman’s refusal to let him be anywhere near the invasion fleet, John Stuart Mill had still managed to arrive in Ireland as soon as hostilities were at an end. By appealing directly to President Lincoln, who had spoken to the Secretary of the Navy, who had confided in Admiral Farragut, who in turn had gone to Commodore Goldsborough for aid. Goldsborough made the eminently practical suggestion that Mill should see the war from the deck of his ship, the USS Avenger. Since the British had no ironclads that could better — or even equal — her in strength, his safety would not be put into question. Mill greatly enjoyed this wartime experience, particularly when the great ship had fired at an unseen target in Dublin, using the most modern communication, and had in this manner brought about the surrender of the British troops in Dublin Castle.

Only when martial law had been partially lifted was he permitted ashore. Even then a troop of cavalry escorted his carriage from the dock to Fitzwilliam Square, while General Sherman’s aide, Colonel Roberts, accompanied him.

“It is a splendid city,” Mill said looking at the leafy square and the handsome Georgian houses that surrounded it. The colonel pointed.

“There it is, number ten. It is all yours. Don’t know who the owner is yet, but we do know that he left with one bag on the first mailboat from Kingstown after hostilities ended. So it is yours for as long as you need it.”

The two soldiers on guard outside saluted as they went in. “Wonderful, wonderful,” Mill said as they walked through the elegant rooms and admired the handsome garden to the rear. “A suitable setting for the foundation of a new state. Here will meet the men whose task that will be. Thank heavens that they will have such an excellent model to hand, less than a hundred years old.”

“I think, at this point, that you have lost me, sir.”

“Nonsense, my dear fellow, you know all about this Union that you fight to defend. You should be very proud of it. You have your own Congress — and your own Constitution. It was indeed the rule of law, and constitutional responsibility, as pointed out by Lord Coke, that your founding fathers used as a model. It is my great hope that Ireland shall build upon that model in return. First a constitutional congress — and then a constitution. Remember, that all during the Revolutionary period, Americans relied upon their possession of the rights of Englishmen, and the claim that infringement upon those rights was unconstitutional and void. That claim could not, however, rest upon a secure legal foundation until the rights of Americans were protected in written organic instruments. Such protection came with the adoption of written constitutions and bills of rights in the states, as soon as independence had severed their ties with the mother country. The American army has indeed succeeded in severing the Irish ties with Great Britain. Now I am sure that you are wondering how the rights guaranteed by these new constitutions can be enforced?”

Colonel Roberts was thinking nothing of the kind. In fact he wished that he were back in the heat of battle rather than facing up to the seemingly incomprehensible enthusiasms of John Stuart Mill. “Guaranteed rights…” he finally muttered. “Enforced?”

“As, of course, they must be protected. The American genius was the adaptation of a system of checks and balances. The answer to this question is, of course, ultimately, judicial review. That is the function of the Supreme Court. Ireland is very much in need of this rule of law. For the British have never looked upon Ireland as an integral part of the United Kingdom, like Scotland, but as a remote and certainly different part. A backward land set in unprofitable and obscurantist ways of life and thought. All that will change. As a new democracy, separate at last, this country can only look forward to a brilliant future.”

17 MARCH 1864

Perhaps it was the power of prayer rising from every church across the land that brought this particular sunrise, shining golden shafts across the sea. For over two weeks it had rained ceaselessly, remorselessly, cruelly, until it was a wonder that all of Ireland was not washed into the surrounding ocean. Surely everyone was praying for an end of the rain on this most important of all days.

Nevertheless, from dawn to dusk, on the Wednesday it had rained as hard as on any other of the days. But not a cloud was in sight on Thursday morning, St. Patrick’s Day morning, the birth-of-a-country morning.

Mist rose from the grass in Phoenix Park, Dublin, to be burned away by the sun. The tock-tock of hammers on wood sounded through the still air as the final work was done on the viewing stands. Soldiers, in their new dark green uniforms, marched and stamped and saluted as they changed the guard and, my, but there was a new rhythm to their march.

“ ’Tis a grand day,” the captain of the old guard said.

“Aye — and a grand day for old Ireland,” said the captain of the new.

The city was waking, streamers of smoke lazing up from the myriad chimneypots. The clop of horses’ hooves sounded on cobbles as the bakers’ carts made their rounds. Above Sackville Street, across and down the street from the General Post Office, a man was standing at the open window of the Gresham Hotel, breathing in the fresh morning air. The lines of tension on his forehead, and around his eyes, eased a bit as he rubbed long fingers through his thick, and graying, beard.

“Come away from that window — you’ll get your death,” Mary called out from the depths of the feather bed.

“Yes, mother,” Abraham Lincoln said as he closed the window. “But it is a glorious day — how fitting for such a glorious occasion.”

“Noon, you said, the ceremony. We must leave time…”

He sat on the bed and patted her hand. “We have all the time in the world. The carriage will be here at eleven. This will be a day to remember, indeed it will.”

He was glad now that he had insisted she come for this most important of ceremonies. His advisers had wanted him to use the time for electioneering for the presidential election in the fall. But the strain of the war had left him drained. And he wanted to devote some time to Mary, who was suffering more and more from melancholia. It had been a wise decision. Much of her listlessness had gone, the wandering attention, the sudden bouts of crying. The ocean voyage had helped; she had been much taken by their luxurious staterooms aboard the new steam liner the United States. And Dublin had been one party after another as ministers and officials from dozens of countries vied each to outdo the other.

Abraham Lincoln wandered through the suite, found the sitting room where he rugged on the bell pull. The knock on the door seemed to come brief instants later; he ordered coffee. Sat sipping it after it came.

The Irish had outdone themselves in their enthusiasm for their new-found democracy. A quickly assembled committee of politicians and lawyers, under the gentle guidance of John Stuart Mill, had hammered out a constitution, based, like the Mexican constitution of 1823, upon the American model. The judges of the new Supreme Court had been chosen, and preparation for a national election was soon in hand.

Even while this was going on the closed-up constabulary stations were being opened and dusted out, while the first officers of the National Police were installed there. What if many of them were veterans of the American army? They were strong and willing — and were Irish. Policemen who were no longer the servants of foreign masters to be feared rather than trusted. The fact that their senior officers were all volunteers from the American army was, of course, known, but since they were never seen in public little notice was made of it. These were temporary commands, the public were assured, until the police themselves had more experience.

In Belfast and the north an uneasy truce prevailed. When the last British soldiers had been seized and cleared from the land, martial law had been eased. But the American soldiers remained in the barracks and were quick to respond to any breaches of the peace. Political meetings were encouraged; political marches strictly banned. Surgeon Reynolds was relieved of his medical duties and sat on the Ulster Police Committee screening candidates for the new National Police. Discrimination by religion was completely forbidden: no one could be asked his religion. But his address, that was something else again, since everyone in the north knew their tribal lands to the inch. Under Reynolds’s watchful eye, and the quick clamping down on any dissension, the police force was slowly organized. Not by chance, half Protestant, half Catholic.

The pay was good, the uniforms new, promotion fast for the talented.

Dismissal instant at the slightest hint of religious discrimination. The police ranks thinned, then grew again, until they finally stabilized. Like it or not, Ireland, both north and south, was becoming a country of law and equality; discrimination was no longer the rule.

The elections ran far more smoothly than anyone had expected. Of course some of the districts had ballot boxes with more votes than voters, but after all this was Ireland and this sort of thing was expected. Events got a bit riotous on election night and a few heads had to be knocked. But no records were kept, there would be no recriminations, and the cells were turned out next morning.

In five short months the sweet breath of liberty had swept across the land. The courts were opened and Irish judges presided. The Encumbered Estates Courts were abandoned. The new courts ruled fairly on old disputes, settled ancient land claims, presided over the partitioning of giant English estates. The Duke of Leinster had to bid farewell to his 73,000 acres in Kildare and Meath, the Marquis of Downshire lost 115,000 acres as well. Each court dispensed justice beneath the eyes of an officer of the American Provost Marshall General’s Office. Americans had fought — and died — to win this war. They were not going to lose the peace. They wanted old feuds forgotten, old differences finally put by. And so far it seemed to be working.

In a week the newly elected Congress would be seated in the Senate Building in Dublin.

And today the first democratically elected President of the Irish Republic, Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa would be sworn into office. That the new Chief Justice of the Supreme Court would administer the oath, not Archbishop Cullen, was a law that was firmly implanted in the new Constitution, and strongly backed by the liberating army. There was an iron fist inside the velvet glove. The bishops, who had worked hard to remain in power, were put out by what they claimed was the bypassing of their authority.

The Americans were adamant. Church and State were separate. Religion had no place in politics. The new constitution was very clear on this matter and could not be challenged. If John Stuart Mill was advising from behind the scenes only his spirit was observed, never the man himself.

Ambassadors from around the world had assembled for this great occasion. Only the ambassador from Great Britain was not there; though that country had been asked. There had been no response to the request.

While across the Irish Sea a fierce argument was raging in Britain. Most strongly heard was the war party. A stab in the back, an assault on a peaceful country, soldiers killed, revenge for besmirched honor called for. Far less vociferous was the voice of reason; after all the Irish problem that had always caused so much dissension down through the years had been settled once and for all. Very few listened to reason. Parliament passed bills raising more troops, while regiments were on their way home from Mexico and the Far East. Ironclads made swift raids along the Irish coast, burning any buildings that flew the new green flag with its golden harp. More American warships appeared in Irish ports to patrol the beleaguered coast.

But all of this was forgotten on this most historical of all St. Patrick’s Days. At first light the crowds began streaming into Phoenix Park. It was full to bursting by eleven in the morning and the carriages of the honored guests could only enter after the soldiers had made a lane for them. The viewing stands filled quickly. President Lincoln, and the first lady, were seated on the platform close to the president elect.

“I must congratulate you on a landslide victory,” Lincoln said. “This is not your first public office, I understand.”

“Indeed it is not. I was elected to the British parliament by the good people of Tipperary,” Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa said. “Though the British would not allow me to take my seat since they had arrested me earlier for being a Fenian. There is too much bigotry in Ireland, on all sides. This is why I insisted on having Isaac Butt as my Vice-President. He is a Protestant lawyer who defended me at my trial. To me he symbolizes the drawing together of all the peoples of this troubled island. Now I must thank you, Mr. President. Thank you, and your stout soldiers and officers, for what you have done for this country. Words cannot express our feelings of gratitude…”

“Why I thought you were doing right fine there.”

“Then let me take your hand and say that this is the most important moment of my life. Ireland free, my imminent inauguration, in my hand that of the great man who made it all possible. Bless you, President Lincoln, the thanks and blessing of all the Irish people are yours.”

It was indeed a memorable day. The speeches were long and windy, but no one cared. The inauguration ceremony brief, the acceptance speech well received. All the excitement had been a bit much for Mary, and the President called for their carriage. But not before Lincoln had sent a message to General Sherman to join him in the hotel. The President waited for him in the sitting room while Mary took her rest. There were some reports and letters waiting for him and he went through them. Smiled at the letter from young Ambrosio O’Higgins who was apparently going into Mexican politics, for which he was well suited. It appeared that he had visited the British road in Mexico, which was now abandoned and deserted. The locals had no use for it and the jungle was quickly taking over.

Sherman found Lincoln at the window, looking down on the celebrating crowds in Sackville Street.

“Come in, Cumph,” Lincoln said, hurrying across the room to shake his hand. “This is the first real chance I have had to congratulate you on your marvelous victory by force of arms. And not only you — but Lee in the north, Jackson in the south.”

“Thank you, sir, it is greatly appreciated. We have good troops, the highest morale — and the deadliest weapons that soldier ever fired. The Gatling guns carried the day. We have heard from captured prisoners that the mere sound of them struck terror into their troops.”

“It was a war well won.”

“And a peace well won as well.” Sherman pointed at the crowded street below.

“It was indeed. If only…”

They looked down the street to the River Liffey and in their minds’ eyes further still across the Irish Sea and to the land beyond.

“I wonder if they will accept the reality of their defeat?” Lincoln said quietly, speaking to himself.

“Their soldiers fought bravely and well. It is not them that we must fear. But the politicians, it appears that they will not let this matter rest.”

“We must have peace. Not peace at any price — but a lasting and just peace. The Council of Berlin starts next week, and our ambassadors are already there. They have had sympathetic talks with the French and Germans. The British delegates will arrive soon. With Lord Palmerston at their head. There must be peace.” Lincoln said it more in hope, than with any positive feeling.

“There must be peace now,” Sherman agreed. “But we must be prepared for war. Only the strength of our navy and army will keep the enemy at bay.”

“Speak politely — but make sure that the rifle hanging over the mantelpiece is loaded. That’s what an old rail-splitter might say.”

“Truer words were never spoken, Mr. President. Never truer.”