Stars and Stripes Triumphant

SEAGOING THUNDER

The year 1865 ended with a winter of discontent. It proved to be the coldest December in many years, with endless snowstorms and hard ice. Even the Potomac froze over. The British government’s continuing legal and diplomatic assaults on the Americans had eased somewhat when Lord Palmerston, who had never recovered his strength after his stroke and was now in his eighty-first year, caught a chill and, after a short illness, died in October. Lord John Russell relinquished his office of Foreign Minister and became Prime Minister in his place. Government policies continued unchanged, and although there was a brief hiatus when his new government was formed, the pressure on the United States continued into the spring of 1866.

A second delay had occurred in December when King Leopold of Belgium died. His intercession had aided the difficult negotiations between the two countries. His son ascended to the throne as Leopold II, but he was never the diplomat that his father was. Difficulties and confrontations continued unabated, but outright war was still avoided.

Lincoln had kept his promise and bought the time that General Sherman had said that he needed. Sherman was a perfectionist and a very hard man to please, but by March 1866 he felt that he had done everything possible to prepare the country for war. Not just to fight a war — but to win it. It was a raw and blustery day when he met General Grant and Admiral David Glasgow Farragut at Ericsson’s foundry and ship works in Newport News.

“Have you seen the new sea batteries yet?” Admiral Farragut asked, then took a sip from his sherry glass. They were waiting for Ericsson in his office, but as usual, he was busy somewhere else in the giant factory.

“I haven’t,” Sherman said. “And I look forward to them with great anticipation. Our victory or defeat depends on these batteries. But I did inspect the new transports in the harbor here and am more than pleased with them.”

Farragut frowned deeply. “I am concerned with those ramps inside the ship that exit at various levels. They violate the integrity of the hull.”

“They are vital to our success, Admiral. Accurate measurements were made at high and low tide at our intended port, enabling the ramp doors to be precisely engineered to the correct height.” He did not mention how these measurements had been obtained; Fox and the Russians were working closely together.

“The pressure of heavy seas should not be discounted,” Farragut said.

“Presumably not. But Ericsson assures me that the watertight seals on the doors will be satisfactory even in the most inclement weather.”

“I sincerely hope that he is right.”

General Grant looked at the inch of sherry in his glass and decided against adding any more. “I have every faith in our Swedish engineer. He has been proven correct in everything that he has done so far. Have you inspected the gun-carrying tanks, Admiral?”

“I have — and they are indeed impressive. An innovation that I can appreciate, but only abstractly, for I cannot imagine how they will be used in battle. I am more at home at sea than on land.”

“Believe me,” Sherman said, with grim certitude. “They are not only important but are vital to my strategy. They will change the face of the battlefield forever.”

“Better you than me going to war with those contraptions.” Farragut was still skeptical. “The new armored warships with their rotating turrets and breech-loading guns are more in the line of work that I am interested in.”

“The British have new warships as well,” Grant said.

“They do — and I have examined reports on them. I am sure that in battle they will be outgunned and outfought by our own ships.”

“Good,” Sherman said, and turned as the door opened. “And here is the man himself.”

Ericsson muttered something incomprehensible as he hurried to his workbench and rifled through a sheaf of drawings there. His hands were smeared with grease, but he did not notice the dark marks that he made on the drawings. “Here,” he said, extracting a drawing and holding it up for inspection. “This can explain how the sea batteries are constructed. Far better than words can. See?”

His finger traced along the bottom of the drawing, pointing out a thick iron structure. “You will note the mortars are aligned along the centerline of the vessel, directly over this iron keel. When they fire, in turn I must insist, the recoil is absorbed by the keel. Mortars of this size have never been mounted in a ship before. It is my fear that if they were all fired at once, it would blow out the bottom of the hull. Is this clear, Admiral; do you understand precisely what I am saying?”

“I understand clearly,” Farragut said, making no attempt to conceal his anger at the engineer’s overbearing attitude. “All of the ship’s officers have been well briefed. They will fire only when your electric telegraph is activated.”

“The telegraph is just a machine — and it could easily fail in combat. The central gunnery officer sends an electric signal that activates a solenoid at a gun position — which raises the red tag instructing the position to fire. But if the machine is broken, signals must be passed along manually. That is when there should be no confusion. One gun at a time, that is most important.”

“The instructions have been given. All of the officers are aware of the situation and have been trained to act accordingly.”

“Hmmph,” Ericsson muttered, then sniffed loudly. Obviously believing in the perfection of machines — but not of men. His bad temper faded only when he looked at the drawing again.

“You will have noted the resemblance of this design to the Roman military ‘turtle’ defensive maneuver. Where the outer ranks of an attacking party held their shields on all sides to protect them from enemy missiles. While the center ranks held their shields over their heads in a defense similar to a turtle’s shell. So do our sea batteries. There is six inches of iron armor, backed by oak, in the hull, rising higher than the guns. Sections of iron shielding are positioned above to cover the decks for protection. These are hinged on the sides and are opened by steam pistons, but only when the mortars are ready to fire.”

While his description of the shielding was confusing, it was clearly indicated in the drawing.

“Come,” Ericsson said, “we will inspect USS Thor, the first ship completed. The god of thunder — and the one who wields the hammer which will smite the enemy.”

After years of pressure from the inventor to put a Viking name to one of his ships, the Navy Department had relented begrudgingly. However, in addition to Thor, there were the USS Thunderer, Attacker, and Destructor. Apt names for these mighty vessels.

When they left the office building and walked to the dock, they appreciated for the first time the raw strength of the mortar vessels. The guns themselves were siege weapons, never designed to be seaborne. A man could have easily fit into the wide muzzle of one of the barrels; the explosive shell that it fired would wreak hideous destruction on any gun batteries, no matter how well protected.

“Admirable,” Sherman said, nodding as he looked at the grim strength of the sea battery. “Admirable. This is the key that will unlock our victory. Or rather one of two keys to that victory. In the attack the gun-carrying tanks will be in the fore.”

“I will show you now their new protections.”

“I am afraid you must excuse me, then,” Admiral Farragut said. “They are your responsibility, General Sherman, not mine. I have no wish to see them again.”

Not so Sherman and Grant. When they looked at the deadly machines, they saw victory in battle, not black iron and harsh angles.

“This is the latest improvement,” Ericsson said, patting the curved steel shield that protected the gunner. Only the projecting barrels of the Gatling gun could be seen. “The shield, of course you can see that, obvious to anyone, but inside the device itself you will find the works of mechanical genius.” He lifted a door and pointed into the entrails of the machine. “There, to the rear of the engine, you see that casing?”

The two generals nodded that they did, but did not speak aloud the knowledge that it meant nothing to them.

“Consider the transmission of energy,” Ericsson said, and Sherman groaned inwardly at what he knew would be another incomprehensible lecture. “The engine rotates a driveshaft. It must then turn the second shaft on which the wheels are mounted. But they are unmoving. How can the energy of rotation be transmitted to them?”

Ericsson, carried away by his passion for his invention, was blissfully unaware of the looks of bafflement on their faces. “Thus my invention of a transfer case. A roughened steel plate is fastened to the end of the rotating shaft. Facing it is a second steel plate affixed by splines to the wheel shaft. A lever, this one, forces the second plate forward so the two plates meet and the power is transmitted, the wheels turn, the vehicle moves forward.”

“Indeed a work of genius,” Sherman said. If there was any irony in his words, it was lost on the Swedish engineer, who smiled and nodded agreement.

“Your machines are ready for battle, General — whenever you are.”

SHADOWS OF WAR

The battle plans were now as final as they could possibly be. Countless folders and drawers of detailed documents rested in the files of Room 313 in the War Department. General Sherman knew exactly what he wanted done. Knew to a man the sizes of the military units that he would command, the number and the strengths of the ships that he would employ. Army officers, not clerks, were now working in the greatly expanded Room 313; they fleshed out these orders with exact details of manpower, officers, material, and support. They were not as efficient, or as fast, as trained clerks were, but they knew very well how to keep secrets. The near disaster at the Navy Department after the theft of orders was too recent to be ignored. Lieutenants and captains, muttering to themselves about doing school lessons, nevertheless transcribed the hundreds of copies needed by modern warfare. Since sea power was essential to the coming operation, Admiral Farragut was Sherman’s constant companion. His advice was vital, and between them, the two commanders decided what forces would be required, then shaped the fleet of varied ships that would be needed to support the landing forces and assure victory. With a passion for detail that exhausted his officers, Sherman went over and over the organizational plans until they were precisely what he desired.

“It is a new kind of war,” he told General Grant. It was the first day of April and an early spring held Washington in a warm embrace. “I have given it much thought and have reached the reluctant conclusion that it is machines not men that make the difference now.”

“You cannot fight a war without soldiers.”

“Indeed you cannot. They must man the machines. First think about the repeating, breech-loading rifle and how it changed the battlefield. Realize how one man can now fire as many shots as a squad used to. Then go on to the Gatling gun. Now the single man has the firing power of almost an entire company. Put a number of Gatling guns together behind defensive shielding and you have an impregnable position that cannot be taken by enemy soldiers — no matter how brave they be. Now put the Gatling guns onto their powered carriers and you have a new kind of deadly cavalrymen who can sweep away any enemy that they face.”

“There is more slaughter than valor in this new kind of war,” Grant said, uneasy.

“How right you are. If this new kind of army attacks in force, it can destroy all who stand before it. The faster the attack, the quicker the end of the conflict. That is why I call it lightning war. Take the war to the enemy and destroy him. As you said — slaughter instead of valor. And certain victory. That is the way our future battles must be fought. The tiger of machine warfare has been loosed and we must ride it. Or perish. The old ways are gone, replaced by the new. My hope is that before the enemy discovers that fact, it will too late, and they will be destroyed. In the past it was passion and bravery that won battles. North and South were so evenly matched at Shiloh that the battle might have gone either way.”

“It didn’t,” Grant said. “You would not let it. You led from the front that day and your soldiers took inspiration from you. It was your courage that won the victory.”

“Perhaps. Please believe me, I am not putting down the will and bravery of our men. They are the best. But I want to give them the weapons and the organization that win battles. I want them to live through the coming conflict. Never again do I want to see twenty thousand dead in a day on the field of battle, as we did at Shiloh. If there are to be dead, let them be from the ranks of the enemy. In the end I want my avenging army to march home victorious to their families.”

“That is a tall order, Cumph.”

“But it can be done. It will be done. There are only a few remaining details to be ironed out, and I know that I can leave them safely up to you.”

“Don’t you fear, they’ll get done well before you get back.”

“Particularly since I am not going away.”

“That is true. Officially you will be joining Admiral Farragut in an inspection of the fleet. That’s what it says in the newspapers — and we know that they never lie. When are you off?”

“Tonight, just after dark. General Robert E. Lee will meet me on the ship.”

“Despite the fact he is taking some leave at his home?”

“You must always believe what you read in the papers. I know it may be considered presumptuous of me to take a mighty ship like the Dictator all the way to Ireland and back for my personal needs — but this trip is vital. I must be present when Lee and Meagher meet. We must all be of a single mind as to what is to be done.”

“I agree completely and I know that it is only the truth. Give my respects to General Meagher. He is a fine officer.”

“That he is. And I know that he won’t let us down, he and his Irish troops. But I must impress on him how vital his role is — and how even more important is exact timing. I know that he will understand when I explain the entire operation to him. It is amazing the organizational work he has done with the limited facts of the coming operation that have been supplied to him.”

“That is because he has faith in you, Cumph. We all have. This new kind of warfare is yours and yours alone. Yes, most of the weapons and machines were all there for anyone to see. But you saw more than we did. You had the foresight and, I dare say it, the genius to put everything together into a new kind of battle order. We will win, we must win a decisive victory. To settle the British question once and for all. Then maybe the politicians will take notice and decide that wars are too awful now to keep on fighting them.”

Sherman smiled wryly. “I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for that to happen. As you know I personally think that war is hell — but most people don’t. I firmly believe that the politicians will always find reasons to fight just one more war.”

“I’m afraid that you are right. Have a good and fast voyage — and I will see you upon your return.”

It was a wet day in April in Ireland — it almost always was — but General Thomas Francis Meagher scarcely noticed the rain-lashed fields and the sodden tents of the Burren. His men were fresh troops, green and untested troops — but men with the hearts of lions. They had rallied to the tricolor flag when the call had gone out for volunteers, coming from all parts of the country. Theirs was the newest nation in the world and was now under threat by one of the oldest. Ireland had been a republic just long enough to taste the benefits of freedom. Now that this newfound independence was under attack, her people rallied to its defense.

A year ago, when Meagher had inspected his first volunteers, his heart had sunk. They were willing enough, God knows, but generations of ill nourishment had exacted its toll. Their arms were pipe-thin, their skins gray and pallid. Some of them had legs that bowed out, the classical sign of bad diet and rickets. All of the noncommissioned officers in the new army were from the Irish Brigade, all of them Irish-American immigrants just one or two generations away from the old country. But what a difference those few generations had made. Through industry and hard work they had improved their lot — but a decent diet had improved their physiques as well. Most of them were a head taller than their Irish cousins, some weighing half as much again.

General Meagher had called upon the American military doctors for advice. They had years of experience in caring for large groups of men, caring for their health and well-being as well as their combat wounds.

“Feed them up,” the surgeon general had said. He had made an emergency visit to Ireland at the behest of the doctors of the Irish Brigade. He had been shocked by what he had seen. As soon as he could, he arranged a meeting with General Meagher and his staff.

“I am surprised that any of them lived long enough to reach young manhood. Do you know what the diet in the country consists of? Potatoes — almost completely potatoes. A valuable source of nutrients indeed, but not to be eaten on their own. And if the potatoes are peeled before they are cooked, this removes many of the nutrients. They are eaten dipped in salt water for flavor, washed down by black and unsweetened tea. That is not a healthy diet — it is a death sentence.”

“But they are used to it,” Meagher said. “They strongly resist eating made dishes, and what they call folderols…”

“This is the army,” the surgeon general growled. “They will obey orders. Porridge in the morning; if they don’t like it salted, they can sweeten it with sugar to make it palatable. I know that they say that oats are only for horses — but they can emulate their Scotch cousins and eat their oatmeal every day. And no tea until the evening meal! If they are thirsty, why then, provide them with jugs of milk. Then make sure that they have meat, at least once a day, and vegetables like turnips and cabbage. Leeks as well. There is a most tasty Irish dish called colcannon, made of cabbage and potatoes. See that they have some of that. Then exercise, not too strenuous at first, but keep building it. They will put on muscle and body weight and be the better for it.”

The doctors had been so right; in less than a year the changes had been remarkable. And as the men’s health had improved, so had their military prowess. The trained soldiers of the American Irish Brigade had been spread evenly through the new Irish army. Those with the needed skills and intelligence were made noncommissioned officers; the remaining ones acted as a trained central corps, an example to the boys from the farms and the cities’ slums. They were eager to learn, anxious to do their part in the defense of their country.

Meagher was immensely cheered by all this. Though at times progress had been heartbreakingly slow. But these mostly illiterate young men had the unshakable will to succeed — and win. They were told what needed to be done and they did it with enthusiasm. Now there was an army that could wheel and march on parade, that also showed a growing skill at the rifle butts. They could put down a volley of withering fire from their breech-loading Spencer repeating rifles. If they had the spunk to stand up to the enemy, they would be a formidable force in the field.

Training artillerymen had not been as easy. But there were farm boys who knew about horse handling and harnessing, and they had fleshed out the ranks. A hard core of Irish-American gunners provided the skill and knowledge to create an efficient gunnery corps.

This had been done. Before going out to attend parade, General Meagher stood in the doorway of his tent and watched the men drilling in the endless rain. They persevered. Nearby a company was erecting new tents; one of the tents, sodden with water, collapsed on the soldiers working below it. They emerged dripping — and laughing at their misfortune. Morale was fine. Soon these men would be tested in battle. General Sherman, the General of the Armies, had sent word by the weekly packet to Galway that he and General Robert E. Lee would be arriving in Ireland very soon, directly by warship to Dublin. Sherman would explain what was needed. Meagher remembered clearly what he had said at their last meeting in the War Department in Washington City, some months ago.

“You must build me an army, Francis, one that will fight and follow where you lead. If war does come, why, yours will be the most vital role in guaranteeing our victory. You will be joined by American forces, but your men must be ready to fight as well. You will have losses, that cannot be avoided, but I want every man in your ranks to know, before they face battle, that it is for the freedom of Ireland that they fight. Victory in the field will mean independence forever at home.”

They will be ready, Meagher thought, nodding his head. They will be ready.

The storm was clearing, dark clouds racing by overhead. The sun broke through to the south, sending a sudden shaft of gold to illuminate the landscape. An omen, he thought. A good omen indeed.

Blown across England by the prevailing westerly wind, the storm that had lashed Ireland had now reached the English Channel. The passengers who emerged from the Calais packet lowered their heads and held on to their hats in the driving rain. The big man with long hair and a flowing beard ignored the rain, walking slowly and stolidly along the shore. He paused when he came to the public house, slowly spelled out the words THE CASK AND TELESCOPE, nodded, and pushed the door open.

There were a few sideways glances from some of the men drinking there, but no real interest. Strangers were common here at the dockside.

“Beer,” he said to the landlord when he walked over to serve him.

“Pint? Half-pint?”

“Big vun.”

“A pint it is, then.”

Foreign sailors were no novelty here. The landlord put the glass down and pulled some pennies from the handful of change the man had laid on the bar. The newcomer drank half of the glass in a single mighty swig, belched loudly, and thudded the glass back onto the bar.

“I look for pilot,” he said in a guttural voice, in thickly accented English.

“You’ve come to the right place, my old son,” the landlord said, putting a polish onto a glass. “That’s Trinity House just a few yards away. All the pilots you want in there.”

“Pilots here?”

“My best customers. That table against the wall, pilots to the man.”

Without another word, the newcomer took up his glass and clumped across to the indicated table. The men there looked up, startled, when he pulled up a chair and dropped into it.

“Pilots?” he said.

“None of your bleeding business,” Fred Sweet said. He had been drinking since early morning and was very much the worse for wear. He started to rise, but the man seated next to him pulled him back down.

“Try next door. Trinity House. All you want there,” he said quietly. The newcomer turned to him.

“Want pilot name of Lars Nielsen. He my brodersøn, what you say… nephew.”

“By george — it looks like our friend here is related to old Lars. Always thought he was too mean to have any family.”

“Took a collier to London yesterday,” one of the other drinkers said. “Depending on what he gets coming back, he could be here at any time now.”

“Lars — he here?” the big stranger asked.

After many repetitions he finally understood what was happening. “I vait,” he said, pushing back from the table and returning to the bar. He was not particularly missed by the pilots.

The handful of change on the bar was much smaller by many pints by late afternoon. Lars’s uncle drank slowly and steadily, and patiently, only looking up when a newcomer entered the bar. It was growing dark when a gray-bearded man stumped in, his wooden leg thudding on the floorboards. A ragged cheer went up from the pilots in the room.

“You got company, Lars,” someone shouted.

“Your family wants the money back you stole when you left Denmark!”

“He is as ugly as you are — you must be related.”

Lars cursed them out loudly and savagely and stomped his way to the bar. The bearded man turned to look at him.

“What you staring at?” Lars shouted at him.

“Jeg er deres onkel, Lars,” the man said quietly.

“I never saw you before in my life,” Lars shouted in Danish, looking the other man up and down. “And you sound like you’re from København — not Jylland. My family are all Jysk.”

“I want to talk to you, Lars — about money. Lots of money that could be yours.”

“Who are you?” Lars said suspiciously. “How do you know me?”

“I know about you. You’re a Danish sailor who has been a pilot here for ten years. Is that correct?”

“Ja,” Lars muttered. He looked around the barroom, but no one was paying them any attention now that they were speaking Danish.

“Good. Now I will buy you a beer and we will snakker like old friends. Lots of money, Lars, and a trip back to Aarhus as well.”

They talked quietly after that, their heads close together over the beer-stained table. Whatever was said pleased Lars so much that his face cracked into an unaccustomed smile. They ordered some food, a large quantity of meat, potatoes, and bread, which they consumed completely. When they had finished, they left together.

The next day Lars Nielsen did not report for duty at Trinity House. Then the word got out that he had told the landlord at the pub that he had come into an inheritance and was going back to Denmark.

No one missed him in the slightest.

LET BATTLE BEGIN

In ones and twos the big ships had come from America, convoyed the entire way by United States armorclads. The transports were many and varied, a few of them even wooden sailing ships that had been fitted out with steam engines. Some of these converted ships had limited bunker space, so all of the convoys made a stop at St. John’s, Newfoundland. The seaport there was empty now of any British ships; the locals gave the Americans a warm welcome. After this landfall, the convoys had sailed far to the north in the hope of avoiding British patrols; this plan had succeeded. Only a single British warship had been encountered, which fled the field at the sight of the bigger warships. Their route took them north, almost to Iceland, before they turned south to the rendezvous in Galway. When the arriving ships had unloaded their cargo, mostly munitions, to go by train to Dublin, the now empty ships had moved out to anchorage in Galway Bay. By late spring the bay was dark with ships, more than had ever been seen there before. They stayed peacefully at anchor, awaiting their orders.

These were not long in coming. USS Avenger herself, the victor of the Battle of the Potomac, brought the final commands. One morning she steamed majestically up the bay to dock at Galway City. Avenger was now commanded by the veteran Captain Schofield, since the aging Commodore Goldsborough had taken his long-deserved retirement. She also had a new first lieutenant, a Russian of all things, a Count Korzhenevski, who had actually gone to the British Naval Academy. Schofield’s first suspicions of this unusual arrangement soon gave way to appreciation, for the Count was a willing and able officer.

The orders that Avenger had brought went out swiftly to the waiting ships, while an army colonel, with an armed guard, took the fast train to Dublin with orders for General Meagher and General Robert E. Lee.

There was nothing precipitous or hurried about the preparations. They moved with stately finality so that, at dawn on the fifteenth of May, 1866, the ships, one by one, hauled up their anchors and steamed out to sea. Past the Aran Islands they sailed, coasting northwest off the coast of Connemara, then turned north, their course set for the North Channel between Ireland and Scotland. Long before they reached the channel, off Donegal Bay, clouds of smoke on the horizon revealed the presence of the waiting American ironclads.

A war fleet this size had never been seen before, not even during the earlier invasion of Ireland. No British fleet, no matter how strong, would dare face up to this mighty armada.

But there was no enemy in sight; the American fleet movement had caught the British by surprise. South the ships moved, through the North Channel, where they could easily be seen from Scotland. They were indeed observed as they passed the Mull of Kintyre, and the telegraph from Campbeltown quickly spread the news south. But by the time that there could be any reaction, the cargo vessels were safe in Dublin Harbor and Dun Laoghaire.

The ironclads were stationed out to sea to intercept any vessels rash enough to approach the Irish shore. The few that did come close were seen off quite quickly. Ashore, the troops filed aboard the waiting ships while the gun batteries approached the novel transports built specially for the coming invasion. Iron-hulled ships that, after they docked, opened up great ports in their sides from which, propelled by steam cylinders, slid out metal ramps. They were ridged with wooden crosspieces so that horses could easily pull the guns and limbers into the ships. Cavalry boarded the same way, as well as grooms with the officers’ mounts. Embarkation was completed just after dusk on the night of May 19.

Soon after midnight, on May 20, the ships took in their lines and went to sea. It was a straight run of less than a hundred and forty miles across the Irish Sea to the British shore. Dawn found them in Liverpool Bay, with the first warships already steaming up the Mersey.

The attack was a complete surprise to the shocked Liverpudlians, the crashing of heavy guns the first intimation that their country was again at war. Every fort, gun battery, and military installation had been carefully marked on the American charts. Years of spying had not been in vain. Each of the ironclads had its own specific targets. The sun was still low in the eastern horizon when the first guns fired.

High explosives smashed into the defenses, sending guns, masonry, and pieces of men hurtling out from the maelstrom of death that was spread by the heavy shells. A cavalryman, clutching his wounded arm, galloped his horse through the empty streets to the central telegraph office. He hammered on the sealed door with the pommel end of his saber until he finally broke it open. A terrified operator soon appeared, sat down at his machine still wearing his nightclothes, and sent word of the invasion to London.

For the first time in over eight hundred years, Britain was being invaded. Shock — and then horror — spread through the island. The barbarians were at the gate.

General Sherman had set up his headquarters in the customhouse in Cork City. This was a handsome white stone building that stood at the very end of the island on which the center of the city had been built. From the tall windows he had a fine view of the river Lee. The North Channel and the South Channel of the river joined together just before his windows, blue and placid, flowing out into Cork Lough. Filled now with the varied ships of the southern invasion fleet. The transports were close in, many of them tied up at the city’s wharves. Farther down the river, in Cork Harbor, were the ironclad ships of war, with others on patrol farther east where the river met the sea. Enemy warships had probed in this direction, but were driven off long before they could observe a thing. As much as possible all ship movements had been kept secret — other than the few chance observations that could be expected. The Americans had proclaimed publicly that they were protecting Irish shipping from the incursions of foreign powers. The British protestations about entry into their coastal waters were pointedly ignored.

General Grant entered the room and looked at the large MAY 20 displayed on the calendar before he sat down across the desk from General Sherman. He ran his fingers thoughtfully through his thick beard.

“May the twentieth,” he said. “Dublin telegraphed as soon as the last ships sailed. Barring breakdowns at sea, the city of Liverpool will have come under attack this morning.”

“A percentage of ship losses was allowed for in the operating orders,” General Sherman said. “So the attack will have gone ahead as planned.”

“When will we know anything?”

“It will be hours yet. Only after all strongpoints have been taken and the first trains seized will word be carried back to Dublin by the fastest vessel. They’ll know first, then will telegraph the news on to us.”

Sherman nodded his head toward the open door and telegraphists working in the room across the hall. Wires were festooned from the ceiling and ran out of the window, connecting them to the central post office and the fleet.

“The waiting is not easy,” Grant said. He took a black cheroot from his breast pocket, struck a sulfur match, and lit it.

“It never is,” Sherman said. “But patience must be our watchword. One thing we can be sure of is that word of the attack will be telegraphed to London by now. Undoubtedly they will want to order instant mobilization. We must allow them at least one day to find out what has happened, then to come to a decision as to what must be done.”

“That will be tomorrow, the twenty-first.”

“It will indeed. And I am also allowing that one day for confusion. The government must sit, plan, seek advice, run to the Queen, and back.”

“You estimate that an entire day will pass like that before any firm actions are taken by them?”

“I do.”

Grant puffed out a cloud of smoke, looked unseeingly out of the window. “You are a man of decision, Cumph. I would not like to be in your position and be responsible for the progress of this war. I would have continued the invasion at once.”

“Then again perhaps you would not, if you were in my shoes. It is a command decision — and once made it cannot be altered. In London, evaluations will have to be made as well, orders written and transmitted. Their thinking will have to change completely, which is never an easy thing to do, because they have never been in this position before. For the first time their armies will not be attacking — but defending. Of course, there is always the possibility that plans have been made for such an eventuality. But even if they have plans, they will have to be unearthed, examined, modified. If anything, I think that I am being overly conservative in allowing only a single day for confusion. But it is too late to change all that. I am sure that tomorrow will be a quiet day for all the enemy forces in the country. I am positive that meaningful movement of troops will not happen until the twenty-second.”

“And then they will all be marching toward the Midlands to counter the invasion.”

“They will indeed,” Sherman said; there was no warmth in his smile. “So it will be on the twenty-third that you will sail with your men.”

“I look forward to that moment, as do all the troops. By which time we will surely have been informed how the first invasion, at Liverpool, is proceeding.”

“I am counting upon you to drive your attack home.”

“I will not fail you,” Grant said in an even voice that was firm, even gruff. He would get the job done all right. Sherman knew that if any general in the entire world could succeed, it was Ulysses S. Grant.

As soon as the Liverpool fortifications had been leveled and the guns silenced by the naval fire, the transports of the invading army tied up one by one at the city’s central docks. The ships that were already berthed there had their hawsers unceremoniously cut and were towed to the Birkenhead side of the river, where they were run aground. Even while this was happening the gangways on the Irish ships were dropped. The first men ashore were Irish riflemen, who fanned out in defensive positions and took shelter from any counterattack. They were scarcely under cover before the loading ramps of the special transports were extended and the American cavalry galloped out into the morning light.

Within an hour the waterfront was secured while the attackers fanned out through the city. There were pockets of resistance, which were swiftly reduced because after the cavalrymen left the transports and charged forward into battle, the cannon were unloaded. As they emerged they were prevented from too fast progress down the ramps by restraining ropes that were wrapped around deck winches. Slowly and carefully they were rolled down onto the dock. The horses were in their traces within minutes. The Gatling guns, being much lighter, were manhandled down the ramps to the dockside, where their horses were hitched up. The cannon, with caissons and limbers attached, were soon ready to go into battle as well. The advance continued into the city, slowly and inexorably.

General Robert E. Lee had set up his headquarters close by the Mersey. Runners, and an occasional cavalryman, brought their reports to him.

“There is a strong defense at the barracks, here,” Colonel Kiley said, touching his finger to the map of the city spread out on the table.

Lee nodded. “That was to be expected. Were they bypassed?”

“They were indeed, General, just as you ordered. A company left behind to keep up fire, along with two of the Gatling guns.”

“Fine. Get a battery of guns down there to clear them out.”

While the attack into Liverpool was slow and precise, the spearhead of troops launched against Lime Street Station was not. The cavalry had galloped ahead, cutting through any determined defenses, charging on. Pockets of resistance were bypassed, leaving the infantry to mop them up. The mobile Gatling guns sent torrents of bullets into any troops bold enough to stand in their way. It was the station, the trains, the marshaling yards that had to be seized intact at any cost. Lee only relaxed, ever so slightly, when the reports reached him that the primary targets had been taken.

“I am moving my headquarters to the station as was planned. Send runners, see that all units are informed.” He stepped aside as officers hurried to roll up the maps.

“This operation will now move into the second and final phase. General Meagher and the Irish troops will begin leaving as soon as possible.” He waved over a cavalryman and passed him the message he had just written.

“Take this to the commander of the Darter. He is to get under way for Dublin at once.”

The officer saluted, then vaulted into his saddle and galloped to the ship. Lee nodded after him.

Everything was going just as they had planned.

THE SWORD IS DRAWN

It was like using a steam hammer to crack a nut: the forces employed were well out of proportion to the chosen target. Yet the success or failure of the entire invasion depended upon the simple act of getting one man ashore at the right place in Cornwall — armed with a single vital tool. USS Mississippi and USS Pennsylvania were chosen for the task. They were newly built and improved ironclads of the two-turret Monitor class. Like their predecessor, Virginia, they were named after states of the Union. The politically aware Navy Department made sure that they were named alternately after a Northern and a Southern state.

The two ironclads had raced ahead of the rest of the armada when it left Cork harbor. Steaming due south, they did not turn east until they had crossed fifty degrees north latitude and were at the mouth of the English Channel. After this they kept a course well south of the Scilly Isles; the islands were seen just as small blurs on the horizon to port. It was late in the afternoon by this time, and they slowed their progress until dark. Now was the time of greatest peril: they were less than forty miles away from Plymouth, the second-largest naval base in the British Isles. The lookout posts were double-manned and the men swept the horizon continuously. There were fishing boats close inshore, but these could be ignored. It was the British navy that they were concerned with; for good reason. Surprise was of the essence.

It was growing dark when Mississippi sent a signal to Pennsylvania. She was sailing well ahead of her sister ship, as well as standing farther out to sea. This positioning was deliberate — and vital — as her brief message reported.

Unidentified naval vessel sighted ahead. Am intercepting.

Even as she was sending the report, Mississippi was belching out clouds of smoke as she gained speed. On a southeast course. When she was seen, if chase were given, the action would take place well out of sight of the Pennsylvania.

The plan succeeded. Night fell. Now, unseen in the darkness, with her engine barely turning over, the American warship crept in toward the Cornish shore.

“That must be the light at Zone Point,” the first officer said as they neared the coast. “It’s at the mouth of Falmouth Bay — and those will be the lights of Falmouth beyond.”

“Steady on your course,” the captain ordered.

It was just after midnight when they slipped past St. Austell and into St. Austell Bay. When the gaslights of the town were behind them, the engines were stopped and the ship drifted forward, the light waves slapping against her iron sides.

“Landing party away.”

There was the hammer of running feet on deck. Moments later there was the slight creak of the well-greased davits as the two boats were slung over the side and lowered down into the sea. The sailors went down the rope ladders first, ready to help the clumsier soldiers into the waiting boats. The telegraph men were next, followed by the rest of the party. Their rifles were unloaded and their ammunition secured in closed pouches. It would have to be silent gun butts and bayonets if they encountered any resistance.

Hopefully they would not. This part of the coast had been selected for two very important reasons. Most of the land adjoining the coast here was forest, private land, where deer roamed freely. It should be deserted at night, for there were no farms or other habitations nearby, here where the rail line ran between the shoreline and the steep hills. And this train track was the reason they were here.

Cornwall has a rocky spine of hills running the entire length of the peninsula. When the Great Western Railway left its westernmost terminus in Penzance, the tracks turned inland, away from the sea. Through Redruth and Truro they went, then on to St. Austell, where the tracks came in sight of the sea again, well over halfway from Penzance to Plymouth. Skirting the bogs of Blackmoor, the rail line ran along the shore for some miles before turning inland a final time. This stretch of line was their target.

The boats grated on the gravelly shore. There were whispered commands as the sailors jumped into the knee-high surf and dragged the boats farther up onto the beach. A waning moon provided enough light for the disembarking soldiers. One of them fell with a clatter as his gun crashed onto the pebbles. There was a quick yelp of pain as someone trod on his hand. He was pulled to his feet and all movement stopped at the officer’s hissed command. The night was so silent that an owl could be heard hooting in the trees on the far side of the single railroad track. Its rails gleamed silver in the moonlight.

Next to the tracks was a row of poles that carried the telegraph wires.

“Sergeant, I want men posted left and right, twenty yards out. And quietly this time. Telegraph squad, you know what to do.”

When they reached the rails the telegraph men divided in two, with one squad walking down the ties to the east. Even before they had vanished into the darkness, the man delegated for this task was belting on his climbing irons. Up the poles he went, swiftly and surely, the pointed ends of his irons thokking into the wood as he climbed. The sharp click of wire cutters sounded and there was a rustle as the telegraph wires fell to the ground.

“Gather up the wire,” the sergeant said quietly. “Cut it free and throw it into the ocean.”

A hundred, two hundred yards of wire were cut out and dumped into the water. The soldiers had finished their appointed task and returned to the boats long before the second party. The men fidgeted about until the sergeants hushed them into silence. The lieutenant paced back and forth, tapping his fingers restlessly on his pistol holster, but did not speak aloud. The wire-cutting party had been told to proceed down the track for fifteen minutes, or as near as they could judge the time. They were to cut down another section of wire there and return. It seemed well past the allotted time now; it probably was not, he realized.

Private O’Reilly, one of the sentries stationed by the track, saw the dark figure approaching. He was about to call out when he discerned that the man was coming from the west — while the second wire company had gone east. O’Reilly leaned over and pulled the corporal by the sleeve, touching his forefinger to his lips at the same time. Then he pointed down the track. The two soldiers crouched down, trying to blend into the ground.

The figure came on, strangely wide across the shoulders, whistling softly.

Then he stopped, suddenly aware of the dark forms ahead of him beside the rails. In an instant the stranger turned and began to run heavily back down the track.

“Get him!” the corporal said, and led the way at a run.

The fleeing man slowed for an instant. A dark form fell from his shoulders to the tracks. Freed from his burden, he began to run again. Not fast enough. The corporal stabbed forward with his rifle, got it between the man’s legs, sent him crashing to the ground. Before the man could rise, O’Reilly was on him, pinning him by the wrists.

“Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me!” the man begged in a reedy voice. This close they could see that his long hair was matted and gray.

“Now, why would you go thinking a cruel thing like that, Granddad?”

“It weren’t me. I didn’t set the snare. I just sort of stumbled over it, just by chance.”

O’Reilly picked up the deer’s corpse by the antlers. “A poacher, by God!”

“Never!” the man squealed, and the corporal shook him until he was quiet.

“That’s a good man. Just be quiet and nothing will happen to you. Bring the stag,” he whispered to O’Reilly. “Someone will enjoy the fresh meat.”

“What’s happening here?” the lieutenant asked when they dragged the frightened old man up the beach. The corporal explained.

“Fine. Tie his wrists and put him into the boat. We’ll take him back — our first prisoner.” Then, coldly, “If he makes any noise, shut him up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“O’Reilly, go with him. And bring the deer. The general will fancy a bit of venison, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Party approaching.” A hushed voice sounded through the darkness.

There was more than one sigh of relief when boots could be heard crunching on the gravel.

“Push the boats out! Board as soon as they float free!”

The wire was cut. They had not been seen.

At first light the landings would begin.

For the poacher the war was over even before it began. When he finally realized what had happened to him, he was most relieved. These weren’t Sir Percy’s gamekeepers after all; he would not be appearing at the Falmouth assizes, as he had feared. Being a prisoner of war of the Americans was far better than transportation to the other end of the world.

The lights in Buckingham Palace had been blazing past midnight and well into the early hours. There was a constant coming and going of cavalrymen as well as the occasional carriage. All of this activity centered on the conference room, where a most important meeting was taking place. There was a colonel stationed outside the door to intercept messages; a second colonel inside passed on any that were deemed important enough to be grounds for an interruption.

“We will not have the sanctity of our country violated. Are we clear?”

“You are, ma’am, very clear. But you must understand that the violation has already occurred; the landings are a thing of the past now. Enemy forces are well ashore in Liverpool, the city has been captured, all fighting ended according to the last reports.”

“My dear soldiers would never surrender!” Victoria almost screeched the words, her voice roughened by hours, if not days, of deep emotion. Her complexion was so florid that it alarmed all those present.

“Indeed they would not, ma’am,” Lord John Russell said patiently. “But they might very well be dead. The defenders were few in number, the attackers many and ruthless. And it appears that Liverpool is not the only goal. Reports from Birmingham report intense fighting there.”

“Birmingham — but how?” Victoria’s jaw dropped as, confusedly, she tried to master this new and frightful information.

“By train, ma’am. Our own trains were seized and forced to carry enemy troops south. The Americans are great devotees of trains, and have made wide use of them in their various wars.”

“Americans? I was told that the invaders were Irish…”

“Yankees or Paddies — it makes little difference!” the Duke of Cambridge snapped. The hours of wrangling had worn down his nerves; he wished that he were in the field taking this battle to the enemy. Slaughtering the bastards.

“Why would the Irish want to invade?” Victoria asked with dumb sincerity. To her the Irish would always be wayward children, who must be corrected and returned to the blessing of British rule.

“Why?” the Duke of Cambridge growled. “Because they may have taken umbrage at their relatives being bunged up in those concentration camps. Not that we had any choice. Nursing serpents in our bosom. It seems that Sefton Park, the camp east of Liverpool, has been seized. Undoubtedly Aston Hall outside of Birmingham is next.”

While he was speaking he had been aware of a light tapping on the door. This was now opened a crack and there was a quick whispered exchange before it was closed again. The group around the conference table looked up as the colonel approached with a slip of paper.

“Telegram from Whitehall—”

The Duke tore it from the officer’s fingers even as Lord Russell was reaching for it.

“Goddamn their eyes.” He was seething with fury. He threw down the message and stamped across the room to the large map of the British Isles that had been hung on the wall.

“Report from Defender, telegraphed from Milford Haven — here.” He stabbed his finger on the map of western Wales where a spit of land projected into St. George’s Channel. “It seems that some hours earlier they caught sight of a large convoy passing in the channel. They were proceeding south.”

“South? Why south?” Lord Russell asked, struggling to take in this new development.

“Well, it is not to invade France, I can assure you of that,” the Duke raged. He swept his hand along the English Channel, along the southern coast of Britain. “This is where they are going — the warm and soft underbelly of England!”

At first light the attacking armada approached the Cornish shore. The stone-girt harbor at Penzance was very small, suitable only for pleasure craft and fishing boats. The Scilly Isles ferry took up the most space inside where she tied up for the night. This had been allowed for in the landings, and the steam pinnace from Virginia was the only American boat that attempted to enter the harbor. She was jammed tight with soldiers, so many of them that her bulwarks were only inches above the sea. The men poured out onto the harbor wall in a dark wave, running to the attack and quickly securing the customhouse and the lifeguard station.

While all along the Penzance coast the small boats were coming ashore. Landing on the curving strand between the harbor and the train station, and the long empty beaches that ran in an arc to the west of the harbor. The first soldiers to land went at a trot down the road to the station, then on into the train yards beyond. General Grant was at the head of the troops; the trains were the key to the entire campaign. He stamped through the station and into the telegraph office, where two soldiers held the terrified night operator by the arms.

“He was sleeping over his key, General,” a sergeant said. “We grabbed him before he could send any warning.”

“I couldn’t have done that, your honor,” the man protested. “Couldn’t have, because the wire to Plymouth is down.”

“I’ve asked him about any down trains,” Major Sandison said. He had been a railway director before he raised a company of volunteers in St. Louis and led them off to war. His soldiers, many of them former railway men, had taken the station and the adjoining yards.

“Just a goods train from St. Austell to Truro, that’s all that’s on the line.”

Sandison spread the map across the table and pointed to the station. “They should be on a siding before we get there.”

“Should is not good enough,” Grant said.

“I agree, General. I’m sending an engine, pushing some freight cars, ahead of our first train. Plus a car with troops. Sledgehammers and spikes in case there is any damage to the rails. They’ll make sure that the track is clear — and open.”

“General — first Gatlings coming ashore now,” a soldier reported.

“Good. Get the rest of them unloaded — and down here at once.”

Sherman and Grant had spent many hours organizing the forces for this attack on Cornwall.

“The harbor is impossibly small,” Sherman had said. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes, since our yacht was tied up inside. But there is deep water beyond the outer wall of the harbor. I had Aurora’s crew make soundings there when we left. The navy agrees that cargo ships of shallow enough draft can tie up on the seaward side and winch heavy equipment ashore.”

“Cannon?”

Sherman shook his head. “Too heavy — and too slow to unload. And we have no draft animals to move them. They would also be too clumsy to load onto the trains even if we managed to get them to the yards. No cannon. We must move fast.”

“The Gatling guns, then.”

“Exactly. Light enough to be towed by the men.”

“What about their ammunition? They consume an astonishing amount in battle.”

“Soldiers again. You’ll pick out the biggest and the strongest of your men. Form special gun companies. Arm them with revolvers rather than rifles. They will be lighter to carry, and just as effective in close conflict. Assign special squads to each Gatling gun. Some to pull the guns, others to carry the ammunition. That way each Gatling will be self-sufficient at all times.”

“It has never been done before,” Grant said, running his fingers through his beard, deep in thought.

Sherman smiled. “And lightning warfare like this has never been fought before.”

“By God — you are right, Cumph!” Grant laughed aloud. “We’ll come down on them like the wolf on the sheepfold. Before they even know what has hit them, they will be prisoners — or dead!”

And so it came to pass. The first black-hulled freighter threw out fenders and tied up to the seaward side of Penzance Harbor. The fenders creaked ominously as the hull moved up and down in the swell, but nothing gave way. The steam winches clanked and the long cargo booms lifted the deck-loaded Gatling guns into the air, swung them onto the wide top of the harbor wall. As the sailors untied the slings, waiting soldiers ran them ashore, where the gun companies were being assembled on the road. As soon as a gun company was complete with ammunition and bearers, it went at a trot down the harbor road to the station, where the first train was already assembled. General Grant himself rode the footplate beside the driver when it puffed its way out of the station and headed east along the coast.

The second American invasion of the British mainland was well under way.

A CLASH IN PARLIAMENT

“This country, today, is faced with the greatest danger that it has ever encountered in its entire history.” The members of Parliament listened in hushed silence as Lord John Russell spoke. “From across the ocean, from the distant Americas, a mighty force has been unleashed on our sovereign shores. Some among you will say that various enterprises undertaken by the previous government went a long way toward igniting the American fury. I will not deny that. I was a member of Lord Palmerston’s government, and as a member I feel a certain responsibility about those events. But that is in the past and one cannot alter the past. I might also say that certain mistakes were made in the governance of Ireland. But the relationship between Britain and Ireland has never been an easy one. However, I am not here to address history. What has been done has been done. I address the present, and the disastrous and cowardly attacks that now beset our country. Contrary to international law, and even common decency, we have been stabbed in the back, dealt one cowardly blow after another. Irish and American troops have landed on our shores. Our lands have been ravaged, our citizens killed. So it is that now I call for you to stand with me in a unified government that will unite this troubled land and hurl the invaders back into the sea.”

Russell was not a prepossessing man. Diminutive and rickety, he wriggled round while he spoke and seemed unable to control his hands and feet. His voice was small and thin; but a house of five hundred members was hushed to catch his every word. He spoke as a man of mind and thought, and of moral elevation. Yet not all were impressed. When Russell paused to look at his notes, Benjamin Disraeli was on his feet in the instant.

“Will the Prime Minister have the kindness to inform of us the extent of the depredations of the Yankee invader? The newspapers froth and grunt and do little else — so that hard facts are impossible to separate from the dross of their invective.”

“The right honorable gentleman’s interest is understandable. Therefore it is my sad duty to impart to you all of the details that the Conservative leader of the House has requested.” He looked at his papers and sighed. “A few days ago, on the twenty-first of May, there were landings in Liverpool by foreign troops, apparently Irish for the most part — but we know who the puppet master is here. That city was taken. Our gallant men fought bravely, although greatly outnumbered. The attackers then proceeded to Birmingham, and after a surprise and savage attack secured that city and its environs.”

Disraeli was standing again, imperious in his anger. “Is it not true that the attacking troops went straight to Sefton Park in Liverpool, where they engaged our soldiers and defeated them? As you undoubtedly know, there is a camp there for Irish traitors to the crown. Is it not also true that while this was happening other invaders seized trains and proceeded to Birmingham? It appears that because the telegraph wires had been cut, the troops there had no warning and were attacked and butchered at Aston Hall. Is this also true?”

“Regrettably, it is true. At least the newspapers got these facts right.”

“Then tell us — is it also not true that there were camps at these sites where citizens of Irish extraction were concentrated — women and children as well as men? People who had been seized and imprisoned without being charged with any crime?”

“Your queries will be answered in a short while. If I am permitted to continue I will answer any questions later in great detail.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the members. Disraeli bowed to their decision and seated himself again.

“As soon as we learned of these cowardly attacks, this country’s military sprang to its defense. Under the Duke of Cambridge’s instruction, Scots troops from Glasgow and Edinburgh are now on their way to the Midlands. Cavalry and yeomanry as well as the other troops are now in the field, and we expect imminent news of victory. The following regiments have been ordered to…”

His words died away as a rustle of voices swept the chamber. He looked up to see that one of the parliamentary clerks had let himself into the hall and was hurrying toward the front seats, a single sheet of paper in his hand. He thrust it forward and Russell took it.

Gasped and staggered as though he had been struck a blow.

“Attacked,” he said. “Another attack — this time on the naval base at Plymouth!”

It was the moment of decision. The engine of the first troop train had stopped in Saltash station. A wisp of smoke drifted up from the stack and the metal of the hot boiler clicked quietly. General Grant swung down from the engine and went forward to the advance engine that had halted just before the Albert Bridge across the Tamar River. Troops looked out of the windows of the two cars as he approached; a young captain swung down from the engine and saluted.

“You took care of the telegraph wires?” Grant asked.

“Just as you ordered, General. We dropped off a squad at every station to grab the telegraph operator, if there was one. After we left each station we used the train to pull down a half-dozen poles, then took up the wire. Got a passel of it in the freight car.”

“Good. To the best of your knowledge, then, no warning was sent ahead?”

“Absolutely none, sir. We moved too fast. None of the operators were at their keys when we busted in.”

“Well done.” Grant looked across the bridge for a long moment; he could see no activity at the other end. The railway authorities would know by now that the telegraph was out of service the length of Cornwall. Had they thought it necessary to inform the military of this? There was only one way to find out.

“You will proceed across the bridge. Go slowly until you reach the other side. Then open the throttle and don’t slow down until you go through Plymouth station. Stop there — but leave room for the troop trains behind you. Keep your weapons loaded — but return fire only if you are fired on first. Good luck.”

“To us all, General!”

The officer sprinted back to the engine, which started to move even as he was climbing aboard. It pulled slowly out onto the long span of the incredible bridge. The troop train followed a hundred yards behind. Once safely off the bridge, they sped up, faster and faster through the local stations: St. Budeaux, Manadon, and Crownhill. The three following trains would stop at these stations, dispensing troops to seize and envelop the cities from the hills above. Shocked passengers on the platforms fell back as the train plunged through the stations, braking to a stop only after entering Plymouth station itself. The troops jumped down from the cars and fanned out, ignoring the civilians. There was a brief struggle as a policeman was overwhelmed, bound, and locked into the telegraph room with the operator, who had been trying to send a message down the line to London when they seized him. He did not succeed because the advance party had done their job and torn down the wires beyond the station.

The troops from the train formed up and marched out of the station. General Grant was with them. There was a row of waiting cabs just outside the station.

“Seize those horses,” General Grant ordered an aide. “They can pull some of the Gatlings.”

“What is happening here? I demand to know!” A well-dressed and irate gentleman stood before Grant, shaking his gold-headed walking stick in his direction.

“War, sir. You are at war.” The man was seized by two troopers and bustled away even as Grant spoke.

The advance down through the streets of Plymouth was almost unopposed. There appeared to be no military units in the city itself; the few sailors they encountered were unarmed and fled before the menacing soldiers. But the alarm had been raised and the Americans came under fire when they approached the naval station.

“Bring up the Gatlings,” Grant ordered. “The lead squads will bypass any strong points and let the Gatling guns come after and subdue them.”

The Royal Marines put up a spirited defense of their barracks, but the machine guns chewed them up, tearing through the thin wooden walls. Roaring with victory, the American troops charged into the buildings; the few survivors quickly surrendered. The small number of sailors who took up arms were cut down by the Gatlings — and the marksmanship of the veteran American soldiers.

No cannon from any of the shore batteries were fired at the attackers because they were all trained out to sea. An attack from the land side of the port had never been expected.

The Americans were unstoppable. In Devonport they overran and occupied the navy vessels tied up there. The Plymouth docks were larger and more confusing and it took time to work through them. The American attack slowed — but still pushed forward.

As chance would have it, HMS Defender, which had arrived that morning, was tied up at a buoy in the stream. Her captain was on deck, summoned by the watch officer when they had heard the sound of firing from the city.

“What is it, Number One?” he asked when he had climbed to the bridge.

“Gunfire, sir, that is all that I know.”

“What have you done about it?”

“Sent the gig ashore with Lieutenant Osborne. I thought that a gunnery officer might make sense of what is happening.”

“Well done. Sounds like a bloody revolution…”

“Here they come, sir, rowing flat out.”

“I don’t like this at all. Signal the engine room. Get up steam.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Lieutenant Osborne was panting with exertion as he climbed to the bridge. Yet his face was pale under his tropical tan.

“Gone all to hell, sir,” he said, saluting vaguely. “Troops everywhere, shooting, I saw bodies…”

“Pull yourself together, man. Report.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Osborne straightened his shoulders and came to attention. “I had the gig wait at the dockside in case we had to get out in a hurry. I went on alone. Almost ran into a group of soldiers. They were pushing three matelots along that they had taken prisoner. They were shouting and laughing, didn’t see me.”

“What kind of troops?” the captain snapped. “Be specific.”

“Blue uniforms with the sergeants’ stripes wrong side up. They sounded like — Americans.”

“Americans? Here? But how…?”

The hapless gunnery officer could only shrug. “I saw other parties of them, sir. In the buildings, even boarding the ships. All kinds of gunfire. It was coming closer to me, even flanking me. That’s when I decided that I had better get back and report what I had seen.”

The captain quickly marshaled his thoughts. He had a grave decision to make. Should he take his ship closer to the dock to fire upon the invaders? But how could he find them? If they had seized any of the British warships, would he fire on his own sailors? If the attack had been as successful as the gunnery officer had said, why, the entire port could well be in enemy hands. If the telegraph lines were down, then no one would even know what had happened here. It was his duty now to inform Whitehall of this debacle.

It took long seconds to reach this conclusion, and he realized that the bridge was silent while they awaited his orders.

“Signal slow ahead. Have that line to the buoy cut. There is nothing that we can do here. But we can contact London and tell them what has happened. As soon as we are clear of the harbor, set a course for Dartmouth. Full revolutions. There will be a telegraph station there. I must report what we have seen.”

Smoke pouring from her stack, the ironclad headed out to sea.

STRIKING A MIGHTY BLOW

As soon as the landings at Penzance were complete, USS Pennsylvania raised steam. When the message reached the ship that General Grant and his forces had left for Plymouth with the trains, she upped anchor and headed out to sea. The two other ironclads that remained anchored offshore would be more than force enough to secure the city should any enemy ships be so unwise as to attack. Captain Sanborn had received specific instructions from General Grant. He was to proceed to the part of the coast he was familiar with from the previous night’s action. Pennsylvania steamed slowly east until they reached St. Austell, where they anchored in the deep water offshore. The previous night’s landings had been good experience for the junior officers. But now Sanborn wanted to see the enemy country for himself.

“I’ll command the landing party,” he told the watch officer. “Bank the boilers and see that the watch below gets some sleep; some of them have been awake for two days now. I want two lookouts at the masthead with glasses. They are to report to you anything larger than a fishing boat. If they do sight any ships, you must then sound three long blasts on the whistle, and get up steam. Understood?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The ship’s four boats were hung on davits outside her armor. If they were destroyed in battle they could easily be replaced; the Pennsylvania could not be. Now they were lowered into the water, then swiftly boarded by the landing party and rowed ashore. The ship’s marines landed first and ran across the beach to the street. Sanborn followed after them with his sailors, at a more leisurely pace, smiling at the shocked expressions of the pedestrians. He followed the train tracks to the tiny station, then returned the salute of the sergeant who came out to meet him.

“Station secured, sir, telegraph wires cut. I’ve got some prisoners locked in there, including two local policemen.”

“Any trouble?”

“Nothing to speak of, sir. General Grant said that I was to expect you.”

It was a long wait, most of the afternoon. Captain Sanborn shared some rations with the soldiers and heard about the capture of Penzance and the victorious train ride through Cornwall. Occupying each station as they came to it, then silencing all the telegraph communication as they went.

Around them the little town was silent, pacified — stunned, in fact — with most people staying off the streets. There was obviously no need for a large occupying force here, so the sailors were ordered back to the ship and only the marines remained. Sanborn was almost dozing off when he heard the sound of a train whistle up the line toward Plymouth. He joined the soldiers on the platform as the engine pulled in, pushing a single car ahead of it. The army officer swung down before they stopped and saluted the ship’s commander.

“You will be Captain Sanborn?”

“I am.”

He took an envelope from his locket and passed it over. “From General Grant, sir.”

“How did it go in Plymouth?”

“I would say perfectly, sir. Before I left it was clear that all of the harbor defenses and docks had been captured. Most of the enemy ships had already being boarded and occupied. There was some resistance — but they couldn’t stand before the Gatlings.”

“It sounds like a job well done.” Then the question that was foremost in his mind: “Did any of the enemy ships get away?”

“At least one, sir. An ironclad. I saw her standing out to sea when I was in the railroad station. Just the one, though.”

“One is enough. My congratulations to the general.” The envelope was unsealed, so it was obviously meant for Sanborn to read. But that could wait until he was back aboard his ship; he had been away long enough now. And General Sherman would be waiting for this report. He knew its importance. The fate of the entire campaign depended on what was in this envelope.

Waiting was the hardest part.

General Sherman sat in his office in Cork, staring unseeingly out of the window. The now-familiar river Lee did not attract his attention. Instead he was looking past it toward England, trying to visualize the evolving situation in that country, fleshing out the bare reports that were spread out on the desk before him. The landings at Liverpool had been a brilliant success. The concentration camp there, and the other one near Birmingham, had been seized. The latest communication from each of them said that counterattacks had been reported. But they had been sporadic and disorganized; the well-armed defenders had successfully held their positions. This could easily change. Once the mighty British war machine began to roll, it would be unstoppable on its own soil. Heavy guns would batter the Irish and American troops; when their ammunition ran out they would be overwhelmed. That had been the risk from the very beginning of the operation. They were expendable and they knew it. But they would die fighting.

But that need not be. The British commanders surely would be rattled by the seizure of their naval base at Plymouth. It had been over twenty-four hours since that attack, and the authorities in London would have heard about it long since. Troops would be on the way there — might easily have arrived by now.

But it had been almost four days since the camps had been attacked and taken. The fighting would be desperate. Would his gamble succeed? Would the attack on Plymouth cause the British forces to be diverted from the two Midland cities? Would the British generals realize that they were wasting time and troops on tactically unimportant targets? Or was the British military mind too thick to reach that conclusion? If it was, why then, only the troops occupying the concentration camps would suffer. This would have no effect on the invasion, which would still go ahead as planned.

The worst part was that Generals Lee and Meagher knew about the dangers — as did their men who had captured the camps. They had still insisted on going. They would all be volunteers for what might be considered a suicide mission if Sherman had any doubts. He had had none. They were very brave men.

That was why it was so hard to wait while his soldiers were fighting and dying. Yet this was the plan they had all agreed upon, the right course to take, and he had to see it through. His adjutant knocked, then opened the door.

“Admiral Farragut and Captain Dodge are here, General.”

“Any more reports from the front?”

“None, sir.”

“All right, show them in.”

Dodge was commander of USS Thunderer, the lead mortar ship. Farragut, as naval commander in chief, had chosen her as his flagship for the beginning of the operation. As usual, this veteran commander would be first into battle. Then, as Sherman started to speak, there was a rapid knocking on the door and the adjutant pushed in, his arms filled with newspapers.

“Captain Schofield in Avenger put a raiding party ashore in Fishguard — and they seized these newspapers that had just arrived there by train from London.”

Sherman took the Times from him and stared at the blaring headline.

“We have stirred up a right hornet’s nest,” he said.

“You certainly have,” Farragut said. “It appears that everything is going according to plan.”

“Everything,” Sherman agreed. “I just wish that there was more word about events in Liverpool and Birmingham.”

“Being attacked, vicious fighting, according to this paper,” Dodge said.

“Yes, but nothing about diversion of troops.” Sherman shook his head. “I suppose that is a lot to ask from any public statements made by their government. There is no reason for the military to confide all of the details of their operations to the newspapers. Quite the opposite is probably true. Well then, to matters at hand. In your last report, Admiral, you said that the fleet was ready to put to sea.”

“As indeed it is. The coal bunkers are full, rations and water stored aboard. The troops finished their boarding about two hours ago.”

“Then we sail as planned?”

“We do indeed.”

“You realize that this final attack will take place almost exactly two days after the landings at Penzance?”

The two naval officers nodded, knowing what Sherman was thinking and, like him, not wanting to speak any doubts aloud. The two-day delay had been deliberate. Two days more for the British to understand what was happening in the west — two days for them to take positive action against the invasion in the south. Two days to rally their forces and dispatch them to the invasion sites.

But this was also two days more for General Grant’s men to hold them back.

And four days in all for Generals Lee and Meagher, and their troops, to defend the concentration camps that they had seized. It was all going according to plan. But it was also a plan that might very well send a good number of soldiers to their doom.

“Well then,” Sherman said, drawing himself to his feet. “Let the operation begin.”

As his pinnace brought Captain Dodge back to his ship, he saw another boat pulling away from Thunderer’s side. He clambered up the ladder and through the open hatch to find Gustavus Fox, the Assistant Secretary of the Navy, waiting for him.

“This is a pleasant surprise, Mr. Fox.”

“My pleasure, Captain. I regret the delay, but there were unexpected difficulties in getting your river pilot here before you sailed. He is here now.” He indicated the scowling, gray-bearded man being held by two marines. This was not the time to explain that Lars Nielsen, safely back in his native Jutland and drinking away the money that he had been given, had not been eager to leave Denmark again. A small force had to be quickly organized; a night landing and a sudden scuffle had resolved the situation.

“This a great relief, Mr. Fox. I must say that I was more than a little concerned.”

“We all were, sir. I’m glad that I could be of service.”

They sailed in daylight. Because of the necessity of keeping well away from the English coast, they were taking a more circuitous route well out into the Atlantic. It was a slow convoy, since they could not proceed at a pace faster than that of their slowest vessel. Some of the converted sailing ships were underpowered and sluggish — as were the newly built sea batteries. Certainly their engines were large enough, but the tons of armor plating, as well as the immense mass of the giant mortars, made for a ponderous weight.

It was an incredible sight — hopefully unseen by the enemy — as, one by one, the ships emerged from the mouth of the river Lee to join the warships already situated at their stations. They formed up as they moved, the cargo ships with their human consignment to the center of the convoy. The mortar ships were circled by more mobile vessels as well because, with their armor shields in place, they were unable to fight in the open sea. But their day would soon come.

On guard to the flanks, before and after as well, were the ironclads. Some of them had raced ahead and interposed themselves between the convoy and the invisible British shore. This was a busy part of the Atlantic and there were other ships in the seaway. These were shepherded aside by the guarding ironclads, kept safely over the horizon so none of them ever had a glimpse of the bulk of the convoy.

The ships sailed this way until it was dark, then took nighttime stations so that each ship could follow the shielded lights of the ship in line before them. A rainy dawn found them entering the mouth of the English Channel. France to one side, England to the other, both invisible in the mist. Careful navigation had brought them to the right place at the correct time. Ironclads ranging out on the port flank to observe the English coast and assure the accuracy of their position.

General Sherman, on the bridge of USS Thunderer, saw that the sea batteries were now ranging ponderously ahead of the rest of the convoy as had been planned. Thunderer with her troops and machines would be the first to approach the British shore. The rain was clearing away now and a gray strip of land appeared through the mist off to the left.

England.

If Sherman’s calculations were correct they would now be entering the final and critical phase of his combined attacks. Everything that had been accomplished so far had been leading up to this moment. If the British had been caught off guard, as he hoped, their troops and weapons would have been fully committed to the two earlier attacks.

But if they had seen through his plans, then this last assault Would be in grave danger. Reinforced defenses might stop his advance; a blockade ship sunk in the river channel would render his assault useless. If he were beaten off, why then, Lee and Grant’s soldiers were as good as dead. Without reinforcements and supplies, their positions were doomed. Waiting now for action, he was assailed by doubts; he fought them off. There was no going back.

Was it possible that the British generals had outthought him? Had they somehow divined the true nature of his approaching attack? Did they somehow know where he would strike next?

London.

The heart of the British Empire, the seat of power, the resting place of the crown.

Could the upstart Americans attack and seize this historic city and bring the worldwide empire crashing down?

Yes, Sherman said to himself, walking across the bridge to see the mouth of the Thames opening out before. Yes, he said, jaw set. It can and it will be done.

IN BATTLE DRAWN

It was a misty dawn and little could be seen through the clouded ports of the Trinity House cutter Patricia, now established off Dungeness. Caleb Polwheal had gotten out of bed in the dark, gone into the galley, and made a pot of tea by lamplight. He was master of the first shift, those pilots who would be standing ready at first light to take any waiting ships up the Thames. Taking his cup of tea, Caleb pushed open the door and went out on deck. Out to sea, just visible in the growing light, were the dark shapes of ships, just emerging from a rain squall that had swept by. More and more of them; this was going to be a busy day.

There were warships there as well, a fact made obvious by their menacing guns. Caleb hadn’t been informed of any fleet movements, but that wasn’t unusual. The navy liked to keep their secrets. The rain was stopping, the skies clearing; he went back into the ship and tapped the barometer on the wall. The glass was rising as well; it promised to be a fine day. When he came back on deck again, the approaching ships were closer, clearer; he was unaware that the cup had dropped from his limp fingers and had broken on the planking.

What ships were those to the fore? High-sided and bulky with black armor. They had an armored bridge right up in the bow; two side-by-side funnels in the stern. He knew the lines of every British ship — and these were not like anything ever seen in the navy. And the ironclads in line behind them, with two two-gun turrets — these were unfamiliar as well. There was nothing imaginably like these in the British navy. If not British, was it possible then that these ships were…

An invasion!

Pushing through the door, he stumbled into the bunkroom, shouting the startled pilots awake.

“Get up, get up! Man the pilot boat. We must get to the telegraph station on shore. Contact Trinity House in London immediately. They must know what is happening out here.”

When the news of the invasion fleet reached Trinity House, it was quickly passed on to Whitehall and the War Department. Less than an hour after the ships had been sighted, the message dropped onto the desk of Brigadier Somerville. He had been at his post all night, working to coordinate the movement of the regiments and divisions that were being rushed into battle at Plymouth. After he spent some hours reading all the reports from the fighting fronts, it had been obvious, at least to him, that the attacks on the Midlands’ concentration camps had been a feint. The enemy there had no escape, so they could be ignored. Eventually they would be captured and reduced — but not now. The real threat was in the south. Trains already going north had to be stopped, diverted, given new destinations. He had been at his post for two days and was wretched from lack of sleep. The Duke of Cambridge had been there almost as long. But he had gone for some rest before midnight and had never returned. Which was fine for Somerville. He no longer had to explain every action to his commander in chief, who at times had difficulty following the brigadier’s quick and complex thinking. He seized the sheet of telegraph paper from the messenger, read it in a glance.

Fleet of warships entering the Thames estuary!

Realization struck. Of course — that had been their plan all the time. The other attacks were only diversions… He was scrawling out a message even as his thoughts raced, his pen nib sputtering and spraying ink in his haste. He pushed it to one side, mastered himself, and wrote another message. He thrust both of them, the ink still wet, at the messenger who answered his call.

“Take these at once to the telegraph room. This one goes to the commander of the Southampton Naval Station. This other one must go out at once to the commander of Tilbury Fort.”

“What fort is that, sir?”

“The telegraph men will know, you idiot. Give that back — I’ll write it here. Now run!”

Before the man was out of the room, Somerville had forgotten him and was engaged in drafting messages to the armed forces now spread across the length and breadth of England. Changing all their orders. God — how he had been fooled! Then he stopped and drew himself up and took a deep breath. It was thought not action that was needed now.

He wiped the nib of his pen dry and took out his penknife. He preferred old-fashioned quill pens to the new steel ones. He carefully cut a new point on the quill while he ordered his thoughts. The attack up the Thames was surely aimed at London. He realized that his first priority was to look to the defenses of the capital. The household regiments had to be alerted. The Seventh Company of the Coldstream Guards was in its Chelsea barracks — they would be the first soldiers sent to the defense of Buckingham Palace. There were troops in Woolwich Arsenal; they must be sent for at once. Special trains had to be dispatched to Wiltshire for the troops encamped on Salisbury Plain there. The Prime Minister had to be awakened and informed. Thank goodness that it would be the PM’s task to inform Buckingham Palace — not his.

He drew over a fresh sheet of paper and began, clearly and slowly, to write out his commands. Only after they were dispatched would he have the Duke of Cambridge awakened. Time enough after the proper orders had been issued to suffer his choleric wrath.

Admiral Spencer knew exactly what must be done as soon as he read the telegram. Enemy fleet including warships now entering the Thames. They were there with only one possible target in mind. London. A strike at the heart of the empire would have a terrible effect if it were successful. It was obvious now that the various other landings and acts of harassment around the country had just been diversions. Ever since the attack on Plymouth every ship under his command had been manned and on the alert.

Now, at last, he knew where they must go. The enemy could get no farther upriver than London Bridge. Undoubtedly their troops would be disembarking there. The household regiments would see to them all right! There would be warships protecting them, he was certain of that. They would have to face the guns of his own ironclads. The enemy was stuck in a bottleneck — and he was going to drive in the cork. There would be no way out for them: they faced only destruction.

General Bagnell ordered the sergeant who had brought the telegram to throw open the curtains, then squinted at the sheet of paper in the morning light. He was still half-asleep and it took him some moments to understand the purport of the message.

An attack.

Even as reality struck home he heard, through the open window, the bugler sounding assembly. The officer of the day would have read the message and have had the intelligence to sound the alarm. The general’s servant, who had let the messenger in, was already bringing his uniform. The many parts that formed the military machine were moving into place. Whenever the attack came — they would be ready. He pulled on his trousers and was stepping into his boots when he thought of the late Lord Palmerston. It was through his intervention and enterprise that Tilbury Fort had been rearmed and expanded. As had the many other fortresses that defended England. It was that great man’s foresight that might save England yet again.

It was a clear, fine day. General Bagnell stood beneath the flag, on the topmost battlement of the Water Gate, looking downriver at the placid Thames. The curtain walls of Tilbury Fort, to the east and west bastions, were built on arched counter forts, solidly constructed of Portland stone. The stout walls and parapets beyond were made of brick and had been reinforced with dirt ramparts strong enough to resist an enemy siege barrage, while the large guns concealed in the forts returned their fire. And there were the other defenses; the gun lines outside the walls, safe behind their own parapets, stretching out to east and west of the Water Gate. Six-inch and twelve-pounder guns. All manned, all ready.

There was the sound of heavy guns firing downriver. It must have been the batteries at Coalhouse Fort. The thunder became intense — then died away. A few minutes later the enemy came into view. Coming around the bend in the Thames between East Tilbury and Cliffe. Strange-shaped armorclads like black beetles that crawled on the surface of the water. They had high, sloped sides with armor plate covering above that. But no gun ports that Bagnell could see.

“Prepare to open fire as soon as they are in range,” he ordered his aide, who passed the message on to the waiting gunners.

The four ships were closer now — but separating. One of them was moving away from the others, toward the gun positions at Gravesend, on the other side of the river. Good, the gunners there would make short work of her — while he could concentrate his fire on the remaining three.

The gunnery officer shouted “fire” and the Tilbury Fort guns roared out. The peaceful surface of the Thames turned suddenly into a maelstrom of waterspouts as near misses crashed into the river. And there were hits — many of them. Solid shot that hammered into the enemy’s iron armor.

And bounced away. Bagnell saw the blur of the ricocheting balls as they hummed into the air.

From this distance the ironclads seemed to be unharmed. And something strange was happening to them as they anchored, their chains running out fore and aft. They were facing broadside to the fort with their upper armor moving, apparently rising. No, not rising, opening up as the metal plates that covered the vessels were swung wide.

His cannon were firing again, but the raised plates deflected the cannonballs as well as did the armor. Then the first ship seemed to shiver and sink deeper into the water, throwing whitecapped waves out in all directions. A dark cloud of smoke welled up and he had a brief glimpse of a large projectile rising high into the air. Drawing a dark line in the sky that ended on the bastion beside the Water Gate. There was an immense explosion, and when the smoke cleared away, to his horror, the general saw that three guns had been dismounted and destroyed, the guncrews obliterated in that terrible explosion. A single shell had wrought this carnage.

And more of the large shells were falling, until there was an almost continuous roar of detonating high explosives. Unlike normal cannon that fired shells directly at a target, these mortars arched a giant missile high into the air, to plunge down almost vertically onto the target below. Battlements and walls that faced the enemy were no defense against this kind of attack.

But General Bagnell was not aware of this debacle. He, and all of his officers, had been blown to pieces by the third shell that had landed on the fort. He did not live to see either the destruction of his fort or the obliteration of the gun emplacements across the river by the fourth mortar ship. In thirty intense, destructive minutes, all of the defenses of the river at Tilbury had been destroyed. Even as the firing ceased, the first of the long line of ships nosed into sight around the bend in the river and moved, unharmed, toward London.

USS Atlas had been idling her engines to keep position in the river against the tidal current. When the mortar ships had ceased firing, her captain saw that the boat that had been shielded by the bulk of the Thunderer was now pulling away from her flank. Good. Admiral Farragut was transferring his flag to the Mississippi — and taking the Thames pilot with him. Everything was going as planned. As soon as the boat reached the ironclad, Captain Curtin ordered the engines slow ahead. Three blasts on her steam whistle signaled the rest of the waiting ships to follow her upstream. As they got under way, USS Mississippi surged forward, passing the slower cargo ship and taking her position in the lead. After the successful landings at Penzance, she had proceeded to the mouth of the Thames to join the attacking squadron. Now she raced ahead, guns loaded and ready, to seek out any other river defenses.

Beside Curtin on Atlas’s bridge, General Sherman looked at the smoking ruins of Tilbury Fort as they moved slowly by. “Utterly destroyed in less than half an hour,” he said. “I have never seen anything like it.”

Curtin nodded understandingly. “That is because you are a soldier and see war as something to be fought on land. But you must remember the success of General Grant’s mortar ships in the Mississippi at Vicksburg. No railway gun can match one of these sea-battery mortars for size — and no team of horses could ever move one. But put them into an iron ship and you can cross oceans with them. Just as they have done. But it took the genius of a nautical engineer to design and manufacture them as well.”

“I agree completely. Mr. Ericsson is an asset to our country — and most certainly will lead us to success in this war. Are you pleased with the ship you command, Captain? This is also his design.”

“Not pleased — ecstatic, if you will permit me to use a word with many connotations. I believe that Atlas is the most powerful ship that I have ever commanded. With twin engines and twin screws, she is in a class by herself. And like her namesake, she cannot quite carry the world on her shoulders — but she comes mighty close to it.”

The Thames curved in great loops as they made their way upriver. As they came into the Dartford reach, there was the flash of guns from the Mississippi ahead of them.

“That will be the arsenal at Woolwich,” Sherman said. “They have some batteries facing the river there, but nothing much to speak of. Tilbury Fort is the major defense of the Thames, and no hostile fleet was ever expected to get by her armaments or reduce her by siege.”

“Perhaps that was true of yesterday’s wars,” Curtin said. “But not today’s.”

Mississippi was already at the next bend in the river when they passed Woolwich. A few battered and burning gun emplacements on the shore were all that remained of her defenses.

The Thames here made a great swing around the Isle of Dogs, and when the river straightened again all of the commercial heart of London opened out before them. There were ships tied up at the docks on both shores, merchantmen from every corner of the empire. Fresh fruit was being unloaded at Limehouse — whence it got its name. Behind Atlas the line of black ships followed steadily — an invasion force that was piercing straight into the heart of London.

More firing sounded ahead as the American ironclad began trading fire with the batteries of the Tower of London. But here, as in Woolwich, the defenses were not substantial at all. One of the towers of the famous castle crumbled under the ship’s fire.

One by one Mississippi’s guns grew silent, their work done, as the shore defenses were battered into destruction. Her funnels were riddled with holes, her boats shot away, but other than that, the ironclad appeared unharmed. Smoke rolled up from her funnels as she gained way, moving ponderously toward the riverbank, letting Atlas proceed up the main channel.

The river was clear ahead. Sherman recognized it from the many photographs and maps that he had pored over. On the right was the road along the Embankment, with fine buildings behind it. Beyond the buildings were the Gothic towers of the Houses of Parliament, the main tower with its immense clock face visible far downriver. The hands pointed to noon. Sherman stepped out onto the wing and could hear the deep tolling of Big Ben sounding the hour. It was the beginning of the afternoon of the British Empire.

Atlas’s engines were silent as she drifted toward the Embankment, slower and slower. There were hansom cabs and drays on the road there, private carriages and pedestrians. They were fleeing now as the hulking black ship grated against the granite river wall.

Even before she touched, sailors had leaped over the lessening gap, seized the cables passed down to them, and made them fast to the stone bollards of the waterfront. The sudden rattle of rifle fire sounded; two of the sailors twisted and dropped. Bullets clanged against the metal of the bridge, shooting out one of the windows. A line of red-coated soldiers had advanced from Parliament Square. The front rank stopped to fire — just as the bow battery of Atlas fired a canister shell. Holes opened suddenly in the advancing ranks of redcoats. Then a dark shadow passed over Atlas as Mississippi slid by, her guns opening fire as soon as they could bear.

Captain Curtin was out on the wing of the bridge, ignoring the fire from the shore, issuing commands. The moment his ship was securely moored, he ordered the upper ramp to be extended. The outer door swung slowly aside and there was a mighty clanking as the steam pistons pushed the tons of metal out and down. The information that had been passed on by the Russian agents proved to be correct. At this time of day, on this date, at this particular place, where the tidal river rose and fell by a dozen feet, the ramp was exactly two feet above the granite of the river wall. It clanked down into place; metal screeched as the relentless pistons pushed the ramp forward into position.

Inside Atlas, on the upper deck, the Gatling carriers were lined up in even rows that stretched from bow to stern. As soon as the great ship had entered the Thames, the tank crews began removing the shackles and turnbuckles that had secured them in place during the sea crossing. Kerosene lamps on the bulkheads provided barely enough light to accomplish this task.

Sergeant Corbett, driver of the lead machine, cursed as he barked his knuckles on the last recalcitrant shackle, pulled it free of the eye inset in the deck, and hurled it aside. As he did this, green electric lights in the ceiling came on, controlled from the ship’s bridge.

“Start your engines!” he bellowed. Drivers and gunners, down the length of the columns, jumped to the task. Private Hoobler, Corbett’s gunner, ran to the front of their machine and seized the starting handle. “Battery switch off!” he called out.

“Switched off!” Corbett shouted back.

Hoobler braced himself and turned the handle the required four times, grunting with the effort of pumping oil into the engine’s bearings and fuel into its cylinders; gunners were selected for their strength of arm as well as their accuracy of fire.

“Battery switch on,” he gasped.

“On!” the sergeant shouted back and thrust closed the small bayonet switch on the control panel. He had to raise his voice above the din of the many barking, hammering Carnot-cycle engines that were bursting into life. Hoobler gave a mighty swing of the handle, but instead of starting, the engine backfired. He cried out in pain as the starting handle kicked back in reverse and broke his arm.

At this same moment the bow door opened and the blaze of sunlight revealed him sitting on the deck nursing his wounded arm. Cursing even more vociferously, Sergeant Corbett jumped down and bent over the wounded man; the crooked angle of his lower arm was vivid evidence of what had happened.

The tank deck was now an inferno of hammering exhausts and clouds of reeking fumes. As the landing ramp went down, soldiers rushed forward from the machines to the rear, shouldered the sergeant and his wounded gunner aside, pushed their stalled vehicle aside as well. A moment later the second Gatling carrier rumbled past them and forward onto the ramp, leading the others into battle. Its spiked wheels dug into the wooden planks of the ramp as it gathered speed. Coughing in the reeking fumes, Corbett tore Hoobler’s jacket open and thrust the man’s broken arm into it for support; the soldier gagged with pain. Behind them the carriers rumbled forward to the attack while Corbett pulled open the access door to the deck and half dragged, half carried, the wounded soldier out into the sunshine. Once he had settled the man against a bulkhead, he turned and shouted.

“I need a gunner!”

His words were drowned out by the roar of a cannon firing close by. He ran toward it, dodged the discarded shell casing that rolled toward him. Called out again just as the gun’s breech was slammed shut and the gun bellowed again. One of the two ammunition carriers shouted back.

“I shot one of them Gatlings in training!”

The gun captain seized the firing lanyard. “I can spare one man!” he called back, then fired the cannon again. Sergeant Corbett headed back on the run, with the gunner right behind him. “Get aboard,” he ordered. Checked the bayonet switch and, with a single mighty heave, turned over the engine. It started at once, roared and rattled as he jumped into his seat. He looked over his shoulder at the line of vehicles rumbling by. The top deck was now clear of vehicles. Before the carriers from the lower deck could come off the ramp from below, Corbett sped up the engine, eased power to the wheels, and jerked forward. Into the daylight and down the landing ramp he drove into combat.

The bark of his engine joined the roar of the others, echoed out from the interior of the cavernous ship. A steady stream of tanks, the Gatling carriers, rolled out and down onto the riverbank. Followed by more — and yet still more machines. While fore and aft the companionways had been dropped and a tide of blue uniforms flowed down from the ship and onto the English soil.

“Fire!” Corbett shouted as they clattered off the ramp onto the cobbles. His new gunner bent to his sights and cranked the handle of his gun. Bullets streamed out as he swept the gun along the line of red-uniformed soldiers.

The defending troops were mowed down like a field of grain by the rapid-firing Gatling guns. Some of the defenders fired back, but their bullets merely clanged off the armored front shields of the carriers.

On the bridge of the Atlas, high above, General Sherman looked down at the surging battle. The enemy line appeared to be broken, the defenders dead or fleeing the blue-clad troops now moving past the slower gun carriers.

“Cavalry!” someone shouted, and Sherman looked up to see the mounted soldiers pouring out of the streets that led to Whitehall and Horse Guards Parade. Brigadier Somerville had done an exemplary job in alerting the defenses. The American soldiers turned to face this new threat on their flank — but the Gatling carriers surged past them. Their exhausts roaring loudly, pumping out clouds of acrid smoke, they surged forward toward the cavalry. Now, with swords raised, helmets and cuirasses gleaming, the horsemen charged at the gallop.

And were destroyed. Just as the Light Brigade had been when they had charged the Russian lines in the Crimea. But here were rapid-firing guns, more deadly at close range than any cannon could ever be. Men and horses screamed and died, wiped out, sprawling unmoving across the road that now ran red with blood.

None survived. General Sherman went down from the ship’s bridge to join his staff waiting for him on the shore.

HMS Viperous, the pride of the British navy, led the attack. After taking aboard the pilot off Dungeness, she proceeded at a stately five knots into the main channel of the Thames. The other ironclads, in line behind her, followed in her course. Her guns were loaded and ready; she was prepared to take on any Yankee ironclad and give as good as she received. From his station on the bridge wing, the captain was the first to see the waiting enemy as they rounded the last bend in the river before Tilbury Fort.

There were the American war craft, four hulking black ships drawn up in line across the river.

“Fire when your guns bear,” he ordered, looking at the enemy through his glasses. He had never seen ships like this before. Armor was all that he could see — with no sign of gun ports at all. There was a mighty roar as the forward gun turret fired; the ship’s fabric shook beneath his feet.

Good shooting. He could see the shells explode against the armor of the ship in the center of the line. The smoke cleared, he could see no signs of damage — then a cloud of smoke blossomed up from behind the enemy’s armor. He had a quick glimpse of an immense shell climbing in a high arc, seemingly suspended in space before it dropped. An enormous fountain of water sprang up beside the port bow, drenching the foredeck.

Even before the first shell struck, a second was on its way. This struck the Viperous amidships, and the tremendous explosion almost blew the mighty ship in two.

Anchored and ready, the mortar batteries were as deadly against the slow-moving enemy as they had been against the fortress on land. Within a minute the mortally wounded iron ship had settled to the riverbed, with shells sending up massive waterspouts around the rest of the attacking fleet as they withdrew out of range.

Sherman’s rear defenses were secured. He need fear no attacks from the river as long as the floating batteries were in place.

BUCKINGHAM PALACE ATTACKED

More and still more of the Gatling-gun carriers emerged from Atlas and rumbled down the ramp. These had been stowed deep in the ship’s hold and had climbed to the disembarking level using a series of interior ramps between decks.

Nor was Atlas now the only ship tied up at the embankment. While the ironclads stayed on station in midriver, the transports at the river wall had sent their soldiers charging ashore. Regiments of riflemen were forming up even as the first cannon were being lowered to the Embankment. The horse handlers led their mounts, trotting up to Sherman’s staff; he felt better after swinging up into the saddle.

“We’ve pushed units up these streets toward Whitehall,” an aide said, pointing out the positions on his map. “Our men will be taking defensive positions in the buildings on both sides. There’ll be no more surprise attacks by cavalry from that direction.”

Sherman nodded approval, touched the map. “These troops in Parliament Square must be neutralized. Then the Gatlings can take out these defensive positions in the buildings there.”

“We’re taking fire from Westminster Abbey,” an officer reported.

“Return it,” Sherman said coldly. “If that is their choice, I say that our men’s lives come before an ancient monument. I want all the defensive positions reduced before we advance to the Mall. It will be a two-pronged attack, there and down this road. Is it really called Birdcage Walk?”

“It is, sir.”

“All right. The staff will join the column there — let the attacking units know. Report to me when you are ready.”

The sound of cannon, the tearing violence of gunfire, could easily be heard at Buckingham Palace. From the other side of St. James’s Park, above the trees, clouds of smoke roiled skyward. Queen Victoria stood white-faced on the balcony, shaking her head in disbelief. This was not happening, could not be happening. Below her there was the clatter of hooves and the scrape of wheels on the cobbles of the courtyard. She was aware of her ladies-in-waiting calling to her, pleading, but she did not move. Even when one of them was bold enough to touch her sleeve.

A man’s voice sounded from the door behind her, silencing the shrill voices.

“Come now, Your Majesty. The carriages are here.”

The Duke of Cambridge had an urgency in his voice. Victoria’s first cousin, he was familiar enough to take her by the arm. “The children have gone ahead. We must go after them.”

The children! Mention of them cleared her head and filled her with a certain urgency. She turned from the window and let the Duke lead her from the room. He went on ahead, leaving her ladies to see to her.

He had a lot to do and not much time to do it in. When his servant had shaken him awake that morning, his head was still fogged with fatigue and he could make little of what was happening at first. Warships? The Thames? When he had hurried to his office, Brigadier Somerville made it all too clear.

“The attacks in the Midlands — even capturing Plymouth — that was all a ruse. And it succeeded. They are striking up the Thames, and London is their target.”

“Tilbury. The fort there will stop them.”

“I sincerely hope so, but we cannot rely on hope. So far everything about this invasion has gone exactly as they have planned. I fear they must have some strategy how they will attack the fort. London must be defended, and I have made every effort to see that is done. The household troops have been alerted and I have sent for reinforcements. Now we must see about saving the government — and the Queen. You must convince her that for her own safety, she must leave.”

“Leave? Go where?”

The Duke was being even thicker than usual this morning; Somerville fought to keep the anger from his voice. “Windsor Castle for now. The Prime Minister and his cabinet can join her there. Immediate danger will be averted and further plans can be made once she is safe. She will listen to you. You must convince her that this is the proper course of action. The forces attacking us are overwhelming. If she is seized in Buckingham Palace, why then, this war is over before it has even properly begun.”

“Yes, of course.” The Duke rubbed his jaw, his fingers scraping over the unshaven bristles. “But the defense of the city?”

“Everything has been done that can be done here. Only the Queen’s safety remains in doubt.”

“Yes,” the Duke said, climbing slowly to his feet. “Call my carriage. I will take the matter in hand.”

The hours had passed like minutes in Buckingham Palace. The Duke had had the household cavalry turned out, mounted and ready. The stables behind the palace were stirred to life. Now it was time to leave. The sound of gunfire was louder, closer. Yes, now, the last carriage door slammed shut. With a crack of whips and clatter of hooves they swung out of the forecourt, through the palace gateway, and into Buckingham Gate. Riding west toward safety.

The resistance by the British forces around Parliament Square was dying down. Flesh and blood could not stand against the mechanized attack, the Gatling guns and the decimating volleys of the rapid-firing rifles of the American troops. General Sherman noted the reports as they came in; issued clipped orders. These veterans knew what to do. Within an hour the enemy had been pushed back into St. James’s Park and the final assault was ready to begin. Sherman wrote a last order and passed it to the waiting rider.

“For Colonel Foster at Admiralty Arch. He is to advance when he sees us move out.”

During the brief wait ammunition had been rushed to the Gatling carriers. Horses also pulled forward a wagon laden with barrels of liquid fuel to fill their emptying tanks. Sherman read the last of the reports and nodded.

“Sound the attack,” he said.

As the bugle notes echoed from the buildings, they were drowned out as the engines of the Gatling carriers roared into life. Clouds of blue smoke rolled across the square from their blatting exhausts as the advance began.

It was attrition and death for the defenders. Armored in the fore, spitting leaden death, the carriers rolled up to the hastily constructed barricades and slaughtered the troops that were concealed there, firing until the ineffective defending fire died away. Willing hands tore gaps in the barricades and the carriers rolled through the defensive lines. There was another cavalry charge down Birdcage Walk by the defenders as Buckingham Palace came into view; it was no more successful than the first and only a handful of survivors stumbled in retreat.

The Gatling carriers rumbled ahead of the troops, pausing only when they reached the palace. A household guard regiment there put up a heroic defense, but their thin steel cuirasses could not stop the American bullets. Through the gates the attackers surged, held up for a moment by defenders within the palace itself. But the withering Gatling fire crashed through the windows on the ground floor, sending a spray of death crawling up to the defenders firing from the floors above. With a roaring cheer the soldiers surged forward into the palace itself.

When General Sherman and his staff rode into the palace yard a few minutes later, the battle had come to a bloody end. Corpses sprawled across the cobbles. Here and there were a few wounded survivors now being tended by medical corpsmen. Two American soldiers, with slung rifles, emerged from the entrance holding between them an elegantly dressed man bearing a white cloth.

“Came walking right up to us, General, just a-waving this tablecloth,” the corporal said. “Let on how he wanted to speak with whoever is in charge.”

“Who are you?” Sherman asked coldly.

“Equerry to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.”

“That is fine. Take me to her.”

The man drew himself up, trying to control his quaking limbs as he faced the armed enemy.

“That will not possible. She is not here. Please call off this attack and the senseless killing.”

“Where is she?”

The man stiffened, his mouth clamped shut. Sherman started to query him, changed his mind. He turned to his staff.

“We will assume for the moment that he is telling the truth. Search the palace, speak to the servants, find out where the Queen has gone. Meanwhile I will make my headquarters here.”

“Look, General, up there,” an officer called out, and pointed toward the roof of Buckingham Palace. Everyone who heard him turned to look.

An American soldier had appeared on the roof and was lowering the flag that flew there. It fluttered down the face of the building and lay crumpled on the stones. Now the Stars and Stripes was going up in its place. A great cheering broke out from the watching soldiers; even Sherman nodded and smiled.

“This is a great moment, a great day, sir,” his chief of staff said.

“It is indeed, Andy, it surely is.”

A DARING ESCAPE

From his window, facing out onto Whitehall, Brigadier Somerville had an uninterrupted view of the battle for London. Once he had informed the household cavalry and the foot guards, all of the troops defending the city, of the approaching menace, the defense of the city was out of his hands. There was the continuing sound of gunfire from the direction of the Embankment; cannon sounded in Parliament Square. He watched as proud cavalrymen trotted by, helmets and cuirasses gleaming. This was the second time he had seen the cavalry attack the enemy; none had returned from the first wave.

Now Somerville saw the shattered remnants of the last charge returning from battle. It was terrible, but he could not look away. If the finest soldiers in the land could not stand against the enemy — was there any hope for them at all? He saw bloody disaster, death, and destruction. This was the end. A knocking at his door stirred him from his dark reverie. He turned to see Sergeant Major Brown enter and snap to attention and salute.

“What is it, Sergeant Major?” He heard his voice as from a great distance, his mind still dazed by the horrors he had just witnessed.

“Permission to join the defenses, sir.”

“No. I need you with me.” Somerville spoke the words automatically — but there was a reason. With an effort he drew his thoughts together as an element of a plan began to form. His work in London was done. But, yes, he could still be of value to this war, to the defense of his country. The rough idea of what he must do was there, still not fleshed out, but it held out hope. He knew what he must do for a start. Escape. He realized that the sergeant major was still at attention, waiting for him to finish what he had started to say.

“Stand at ease. You and I are going to get out of this city and join up with Her Majesty’s forces where we can do the most good.” He looked at the man’s scarlet jacket with its rows of medals. He couldn’t leave the safety of the building looking like this. “Do you keep any other clothes here?”

The soldier was startled by the question, but nodded in reply. “Some mufti, sir. I use it when I’m not on duty.”

“Then put it on and come back here.” The brigadier glanced down at his own uniform. “I’ll need clothes as well.” He took some pound notes from his pocket and passed them over. “I’ll need trousers, a jacket, coat. Find something my size among the clerks. See that they are paid for the clothes. Then bring them back with you.”

Sergeant Major Brown saluted and did a smart about-face. Somerville automatically returned the salute — then called out to Brown. “That’s the last salute for the time being. We are going to be civilians, members of the public. Don’t forget that.”

When he had given Brown the money, he realized he had very little more remaining in his wallet. He was going to need funds to fashion their escape from the city, perhaps a good deal of them. That was easily rectified. He went down the corridor and up a flight of stairs to the paymaster general’s office.

The halls and offices were deserted; everyone was either watching from the front windows or had fled to safety. He righted an overturned chair and went across the room to the large safe. The key was on the ring in his pocket; he unlocked it and opened the door. Gold guineas would be best, coin of the realm, and welcome anywhere. He took out a heavy bag that thunked when he dropped it on the desk. He needed something to carry it in. He opened a closet and found a carpetbag behind the umbrellas there. Perfect. He dropped two bags of coins into it, started to close it. Opened it again and took out a handful of coins from one of the bags and put them into his pocket.

He was back in his office before Brown returned, dressed for the street and bearing an armful of clothing. “Not of the best quality, sir, but was all I could find in this size.”

“That will do fine, Sergeant… Brown. You’ll carry this bag. Careful, it has gold coin.”

“Yes, sir…” He stopped as the rapid firing of a gun sounded through the open window. It was followed by a roaring, racketing sound, something he had never heard before. Somerville and Brown crossed the room to look carefully down into the street. They gaped in silence at the strange contrivances passing by below.

They had wheels — but were not drawn by horses. They were propelled in some internal manner, for clouds of fumes poured behind them, the source of the strange hammering noise. A blue-clad soldier rode in the rear of each contrivance, somehow directing it.

At the front, crouching behind armor plate, was a gunner. The nearest one turned the handle of his rapid-firing weapon and a stream of bullets poured out.

A bullet crashed through the glass just above their heads and they drew back from a last vision of the attacking troops following the Gatling guns.

“They are going in the direction of the Mall,” Brown said grimly. “They’ll be attacking the palace.”

“Undoubtedly. We must wait until the stragglers have passed — then follow them. We are going to the Strand.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

“Then we must find a cab. There should still be some in the streets.”

They stood in the doorway until the last soldiers had gone by. There were uniformed corpses in the streets now; a cavalryman lay nearby, dead beside his mount, sprawled in the animal’s entrails. Like Somerville and Brown, a few other figures scuttled along the pavements to safety. They walked quickly, taking shelter in another doorway when an American cavalryman galloped past. After that it was a hurried dash to the Strand and down it past Charing Cross station. They could see people huddled inside the station, but they did not stop. All of the cabs were gone from the forecourt. They had to walk as far as the Savoy Hotel before they found a cab waiting outside the entrance there. The frightened cabbie stood, holding his horse, his face white with fear.

“I need your cab,” Somerville said. The man shook his head numbly, beyond speech. Brown stepped forward, raising a large fist; Somerville put out a restraining hand. “We are going to the docks—” He thought quickly. “Go through the City, away from the river, until you are well past the Tower. You’ll be safe in the East End.” He dug one of the guineas from his pocket and passed it over.

The sight of the coin did more than words ever could to move the cabby to action. He took it, turned and opened the door for them. “The East End, sir. I’ll go through Aldgate, then to Shadwell to Wapping. Maybe to Shadwell Basin.”

“Whatever you say. Now go.”

The sound of gunfire grew more distant as they went up Kingsway. There were more people here, hurrying through the streets, as well as a few other cabs. The City of London seemed undisturbed, although there were armed guards outside the Bank of England. They reached Shadwell Basin without any incidents and Brigadier Somerville saw, tied up in the basin there, just what he was looking for.

A Thames lighter, brown sail hanging limp, was on the far side of the basin. He called up through the hatch to the cabbie. There were three men sitting on the deck of the sturdy little ship when they alighted beside it. The oldest, with a grizzled beard, stood up when they approached.

“I need to hire your boat,” Somerville said without any preamble. The man laughed and pointed with his pipe at the direction of the river. Above the rooftops of the terraced houses the dark bulk of a large ironclad could be seen moving by.

“Guns and shooting. You ain’t seeing old Thomas on the river this day.”

“They won’t shoot at a boat like this,” Somerville said.

“Begging your pardon, your honor, but I ain’t taking any man’s word for that.”

The brigadier dug into his pockets and drew out some gold coins. “Five guineas to take us downriver. Five more when we get there.”

Thomas looked wary. He couldn’t get five guineas for a month’s, two months’ hard labor on the river. Greed fought with fear.

“I’ll take those now,” he finally said. “But ten more when we get there.”

“Done. Let us leave at once.”

Once they were out of the basin, the big sail was hauled up and they made good time through the muddy water. Rounding the Isle of Dogs, they looked back and saw an approaching warship coming down the river behind them. Thomas shouted commands and the sail came down; they drifted close by the docks on the shore there. The ship went smoothly by, the sailors visible on deck giving them no heed. They went on when it had passed, moving quickly and uneventfully until Tilbury came into sight.

“Mother of God…” the helmsman said, standing and shading his eyes. They all looked on in horrified silence at the smoking ruins of the shattered fortress. Walls and battlements had been destroyed, dismounted gun barrels pointed to the sky. Nothing moved. Thomas automatically turned closer to shore at the sight of the four hulking black ships that were anchored across the river. The stars and stripes of the American flag flew from a flagstaff at the stern of the nearest warship. Beyond them, in midstream, the masts and funnel, some of the upperworks of a sunken ship projected a few feet above the water.

“Is she… one of ours?” Thomas asked in a hushed, hoarse voice.

“Perhaps,” Somerville said. “It does not matter. Proceed downstream.”

“Not with them ships there!”

“They are not here to harm a vessel like this one.”

“You can say that, your honor, but who’s to tell.”

Somerville was tempted to reason with the man; reached into his pocket instead. “Five guineas right now — and then ten more when we get downriver.”

In the end avarice won. The lighter crept along the riverbank, slowly past the ruined fort. The warships anchored in the river ignored it. Then they moved faster once they were past the invaders, swept around the bend under full sail.

Ahead of them, anchored by the channel, was another ironclad, bristling with guns.

“Drop the sail!”

“Don’t do that, you fool,” the brigadier shouted. “Look at that flag!”

The British white ensign hung from the staff at her stern.

A MONARCH’S PLIGHT

General Sherman allowed thirty minutes to make absolutely sure that the battle for London was truly won. He went carefully through the reports, checking the references on a map of the city spread across the ornate desk. Through the open window behind him he could hear that the sounds of battle were dying away. A rumble of cannon in the distance, one of the ironclads from the sound of it. They were proving invaluable in reducing the riverside defenses. Then the crackling fire of a Gatling gun.

“I think we have done it, Andy,” he said, sitting back in the chair. His chief of staff nodded agreement.

“We are still finding pockets of resistance, but the main bodies of enemy troops have all been defeated. I am sure that we’ll mop up the rest before dark.”

“Good. Make sure that sentries are posted before the men bed down. We don’t want any surprise night attacks.”

With the city secured, Sherman’s thoughts returned to the next and most important matter at hand.

“You made inquiries. Did you find out where the Queen went?”

“No secret of it — everyone in London seems to know, the ones near the palace saw her pass by. Windsor Castle, they all agree on that.”

“Show me on the map.”

Colonel Summers unfolded the large-scale map and laid it over the one of London.

“Quite close,” Sherman said. “As I remember, there are two train lines going there from London.” He smiled when he saw his aide’s expression. “Not black magic, Andy. It is just that I have been a keen student of my Bradshaw — the volume that contains timetables for every rail line in Britain. Get a troop of cavalry to Paddington Station. Seize the station and the trains.”

Reports and requests for support were coming in and for some time Sherman was kept busy guiding the attacks. Then, when he looked up, he saw that Summers had returned.

“We’re not going anywhere by train for some time, General. Engines and rails were sabotaged at Paddington.”

Sherman nodded grim agreement. “At the other stations as well, I’ll wager. They’re beginning to learn that we make good use of their rolling stock. But there are other ways to get to Windsor.” He looked back at the map. “Here is the castle, upriver on the Thames. Plenty of twists and turns to the river before it gets there. But it’s pretty straight there by road. Through Richmond and Staines, then into Windsor Great Park.”

Sherman looked at the scale on the map. “Must be twenty-five, thirty miles.”

“At least.”

“These soldiers have had a long day fighting; I’m not going to have them endure a forced march after that. Can we spare the cavalry?”

“We certainly can — now that the city has been taken. And they are still fresh.”

“Can we round up more horses?”

“The city is full of them, dray horses for the most part.”

“Good. I want the entire troop to take part in this. Round up all the horses you need and harness them to some Gatling guns. We’ll move them out when the guns are ready. I’ll take command. Make sure the city stays pacified.”

“What about the river, General?”

“That was my next thought. There are plenty of small boats in the Thames that we can commandeer. Put some of our sailors in each one to make sure the crews follow orders. Get a company of troops upriver that way. General Groves will be in command. If he gets there first I want his men to get around the castle but not attack it until he receives the command from me. Whoever is in the castle now — I want them still there when we occupy it.”

“Understood.”

The cavalry went west at an easy trot, General Sherman and his staff to the fore. Almost as soon as they had passed through Chelsea, where a bitter battle had been fought to take the barracks, all signs of war fell behind them. Distant guns still rumbled sporadically, but they could have been mistaken for thunder. The streets were strangely empty for the time of day, though the soldiers were aware of watching eyes from the passing windows. The only untoward incident occurred when they were passing through Putney.

There was the crack of a gun and a bullet passed close to General Sherman.

“Up there!” one of the soldiers shouted, pointing to a puff of smoke from the window of a residence. One after another the cavalrymen fired, their bullets crashing the glass from the window and sending chunks of frame flying.

“Leave it,” Sherman ordered. They galloped on.

It was late afternoon before they passed through Windsor Great Park and saw the crenellated towers of the castle ahead. As they came through the woods, they saw that there were American riflemen who had taken up positions behind many of the trees facing an open green field. A sloping lawn led up to the castle beyond. A major of the Kentucky Rifles stepped forward and saluted Sherman as he slid down from his horse.

“Men all in position, right around the castle, sir.”

“Any resistance?”

“They tried some potshots from the windows, but stopped when we returned their fire. We stayed away, like you ordered. Gates closed tight, but we know there are a passel of people inside.”

“Is the Queen among them?”

“Don’t rightly know. But we rousted out some of the citizens from the town. All say the same thing, and I think they are too frightened to lie. Lots of carriages came today — and the Queen’s was one of them. Nobody come out since.”

“Good work, Major. I’ll take over from here.”

Sherman returned the man’s salute, then turned to look up at the grim granite walls of the castle. Should he wait until they could bring some cannon up to batter an opening in them? There were a number of doors and windows; a sudden attack might take the castle by storm. But many good men would be lost if the defenders put up a stiff defense. A moment later the decision was taken out of his hands.

“The big front gate is opening, General,” a soldier called out.

“Hold your fire,” Sherman ordered.

The gate swung wide, and from inside the castle there sounded the roll of a drum. The army drummer emerged, accompanied by an officer carrying a white flag.

“Bring them to me,” Sherman ordered, greatly relieved. A squad trotted toward the two soldiers and accompanied them forward, automatically falling in step with the drumbeat. The officer, a colonel, stopped in front of Sherman and saluted, which Sherman returned.

“I wish to speak to your commanding officer,” the British colonel said.

“I am General Sherman, commanding the American army.”

The officer took a folded sheet of paper from his belt. “This message is from His Grace the Duke of Cambridge. He writes, ‘To the commander of the American forces. There are women and children here, and I fear for their safety if this conflict continues. I therefore request you to send an emissary to discuss terms of surrender.’ ”

Sherman felt an intense wave of relief — but did not reveal it in his expression. “I shall go myself. Sergeant, pick a small squad to accompany me.”

It was a large and elegantly furnished room, awash with light from the ceiling-high windows. A tiny woman sat in a large chair, dressed in black, quite chubby, with a puffy face and perpetually open mouth and exophthalmic eyes. She wore a fur miniver over her shoulders and a white widow’s cap with a long veil, as well as a diamond-and-sapphire coronet. The group of ladies-in-waiting around her looked uneasy and frightened. Lord John Russell, diminutive and ancient, was at her side. Along with the uniformed Duke of Cambridge, appearing his usual assertive self.

General Sherman and his party stopped before the waiting group; no one spoke. After a moment Sherman turned away from the Queen and addressed the Duke of Cambridge.

“We have met before,” Sherman said.

“We have,” the Duke said, fighting to control his temper. “This is Lord John Russell, the Prime Minister.”

Sherman nodded and turned to Russell — presenting his back to the Queen. There were horrified gasps from the ladies, which he ignored. “You are leader of the government — while the Duke heads the army. Are you of a like mind that the hostilities are to cease?”

“Some discussion is needed…” Russell said. Sherman shook his head.

“That is out of the question. I was instructed by President Lincoln that the war would be ended only by unconditional surrender.”

“You presume too much, sir!” the Duke raged. “Surrender is a word not lightly used—”

Sherman silenced him with a curt wave of his hand. “It is the only word that I will use.” He turned back to the Queen. “Since you are said to rule supreme in this country, I must tell you that your war is lost. Unconditional surrender is your only option.”

Victoria’s mouth gaped even more widely; she had not been spoken to in this manner since she was a child.

“I cannot… will not,” she finally gasped.

“By God — this has gone far enough!” the Duke raged, stepping forward and pulling at his sword. Before it was free of its scabbard, two soldiers had seized him and prisoned his arms.

“Outrageous…” Russell gasped, but Sherman ignored them both and turned back to the Queen.

“I will cease all military operations as soon as surrender is agreed. You will remember that you sent the white flag to me. So tell me now, is the killing to stop?”

All eyes in the room were now on the diminutive figure in the large chair. The color had drained from her face and she pressed a black handkerchief to her lips. Her eyes found Lord Russell and sought help. He drew himself up but did not speak. When she turned back to General Sherman, she found no compassion in his grim expression. In the end she simply nodded and dropped back in the chair.

“Good,” Sherman said, then addressed himself to the Duke of Cambridge. “I will have the papers for surrender drawn up for you to sign in your capacity as commander of all the armed forces. The Prime Minister will sign as well. You will remain here until that is done.” Once again he spoke to the Queen.

“It is my understanding that you have a residence on the Isle of Wight named Osborne House. I will see to it that you are taken there with your family and servants. The war is now over.”

As he looked around at the luxury of Windsor Castle and the silent witnesses, Sherman could not hold back a sudden feeling of triumph.

They had done it. There would still be skirmishes, but with London taken and the Queen in protective custody, the war would undoubtedly be over.

Now all they had to do was win the peace.