Aboard Aleksandr Nevsky, Lisovsky leaned over the rail as the ironclad shot out from between the two steamers, exclaiming in shock, “Muzha Boi!” (My God!) Before he could give the order to reverse engines, Prince Albert’s guns fired simultaneously. Lisovsky saw the enemy ship lurch back into the water ten feet from the recoil of its four turret guns. Its shells penetrated just under his quarterdeck, exploded, and threw much of the deck and the admiral overboard and threw carnage into the gundecks.
Prince Albert steamed for the Russian ships, which had started to fight back. Half of Aleksandr Nevsky’s original fifty-one guns had been replaced by American 9-inch Dahlgrens while in New York. The Russian gunners started to respond, but their 79-pound shot just bounced off the 10-inch armor of the turret fronts, leaving only deep gouges.
Inside the turrets the tars worked their guns with a will that was almost superhuman. Every man was eager to do his best. Coles was amazed at the rate of fire they were getting, something that he thought it would take months to achieve. Shell after shell gutted the Russian, leaving her gun deck nothing but a hell of splinters, dislodged guns, and blood. The inevitable cartridge exploded, starting a fire, and spread quickly through the stricken ship. With the admiral and the captain dead, the ship was slow to surrender. No one could be found with the authority to do so. Instead men were jumping overboard to save themselves from the fire. It spread to devour the masts and sheets and gushed out of the gunports and great gaping splintered holes in her sides.
The frigate was now nothing more than a dead pawn on the board of imperial strategy, but the smaller corvette, the eighteen-gun Variag was still game and had steamed around to the ironclad’s port side opposite the guns firing on Aleksandr Nevsky. Her shot also just bounced off the turrets; her original Russian guns also failed to harm Prince Albert’s 5-inch armored belt.
As the turrets turned to take her under fire, Variag’s captain chose the better part of discretion and steamed away at full speed, its engines straining to put distance between them. Not enough. Coles turned the ship broadside to the fleeing Russian. Again she lurched ten feet backward from the recoil of her guns. The stern of the Russian disintegrated, snapping her rudder and jamming her propeller. She struck.
HOTEL DU VILLE, NEW ORLEANS, 11:00 A.M., MONDAY, APRIL 4, 1864
“Oh, cher, Bazaine has been so indiscrete in the arms of Venus. Ah, men. He tells me because I am his conduit to the libres. I am, of course, but not in the way he thinks. We libres are Americain though we may often say it in French. It is not Louis Napoleon who is waging war against slavery. Bazaine thinks that bags full of gold Napoleons will buy us. Perhaps, but we are good businessmen. In this market no one will stay bought for long.”
Pryce Lewis did not know what to admire most about Clio Dulaine—her stunning beauty or the workings of her mind. Cleopatra could have taken lessons. Lewis suspected that Lucrezia Borgia could also have learned a thing or two. She was Sharpe’s chief agent in New Orleans, and the general had made it clear that Lewis was to be guided by her. He suggested, “Perhaps bags of Her Majesty’s sovereigns can complicate things for our field marshal?”
“Indeed, cher, General Sharpe has put you in the perfect position to throw the apple of discord among our friends, or shall I say a basket of such apples. You do not need my advice. You are doing so well and so soon too. Tres bon.”
She was referring to the expertly forged letters of credit from British cotton mills as well as the £100,000 in gold (over $2,000,000) he had been spreading to buy up every bale of cotton at prices that crowded out the French buyers. He had shown up a week before with an impeccably forged passport that showed he had come through Mobile along with forged letters of introduction, both Confederate and British, that fooled the British counsul and ensured his cooperation. The French cotton buyers had run to their counsul, who had run to Bazaine, which resulted in more bags of gold Napoleons spread among influential hands. They were competing with gold sovereigns, most of which went into Confederate hands to buy friends for Britain. He had put it about that Her Majesty would make a much better friend to the Confederacy than the French who seemed to think that Louisiana belonged to them again. That wish was certainly the thought for Gen. Richard Taylor. Bazaine’s increasing involvement in local politics, his buying of influence, and the insulting assumption of sovereign authority had made many senior Confederates question the value of the French alliance.
Since their joint victory at Vermillionville in October, there had been no other victories, only the grinding and difficult siege of Port Hudson and costly failed assaults. Jefferson Davis had put up with French effrontery because he needed Napoleon’s treaty, army, and money, but it only aroused his deepest jealousy for the sovereignty of the Confederacy. The British, on the other hand, would sign no treaty, it being an impossibility to do so with a slave-holding government, but offered their military support freely and seemed to bend over backward to respect Southern sovereignty. It was a paradox of sorts—French substance that was hollow and British diffidence that was substantial in effect. The British had no interest in Southern territory. Their interest in defeating the United States simply required Southern independence. It was clear that British strategy now required multiple states in place of the Old Union. The French, on the other hand, had an interest in Southern territory that determined everything else including their hold on Mexico.
So far it had not proved possible to use the British against the French in Louisiana. The British had made it clear that their priorities were limited to defeating the United States, and they seemed to acquiesce to French primacy of interest in Louisiana. Until now. Suddenly there was a British subject in New Orleans spending gold in a stream that could only have come directly from a royal mint and suggesting British support that they were not willing even to admit privately.7
Davis jumped at the chance to put the French in their place. It surprised both Clio and Pryce how fast he reacted. Confederate troops from the combined army before Port Hudson had been arriving in New Orleans by train for the last several days. Clio sipped her coffee. “I tell you, cher, that Bazaine was livid that Taylor left only the French to carry on the siege. But that Taylor, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He had the effrontery to say to the Marechal du France himself, this Duc du Vermillionville, this representative of His Majesty, Louis Napoleon, Emperor of the French, that under his command the Confederate divisions had accomplished little; he instead would use them to reconquer Missouri for the Confederacy. Mon Dieu, cher, what a scene! It is something I will entertain my grandchildren with.”
THE MARSHES OF RIVER CROUCH, ESSEX, 7:12 A.M., THURSDAY, APRIL 7, 1864
It was a hard thing to be the prey when the heart was that of a predator. Dahlgren had charged at the head of a regiment at Brandy Station, led raids that had made him a hero, and howled in the pursuit of Lee’s army after Gettysburg, always feeding on the surprise and fear of the prey. Now with the roles reversed he saw it as a game of cat and mouse where every escape was a victory for the mouse, a snap of the fingers in the feline’s face. The fact that the odds were all with the cat just made the game more exciting.
After the night in the woodsman’s hut, they set out just as the dawn’s first blush rose in the east from the direction of the sea. They rode hard all day on country roads counting on chaos to be their cloak, skirting Hainault Forest to the east and then following the ridge south to pass Brentwood and then picking up the high ground around Billericay. The word of invasion had spread everywhere by now so that the sight of galloping men in uniform was a cause for alarm. At dusk they hid in a small woodland with some great house jutting its turrets beyond the treetops.
Dahlgren had among his worries what to do with Abel. It was not as if the odds were likely he was going to be able to carry him off to new employment at the Dupont powder mills in Pennsylvania. That chance flew away when he missed his rendezvous with Lamson. There was also the problem that whatever escape they attempted, Abel would be an enormous
liability. What to do?
It was a cold meal they all shared that night. “Mr. Abel,” Dahlgren said, “Let me suggest an arrangement that will make all our lives a bit easier. If you give me your word that you will not try to escape, I will not have you tied at night or your hands to the pommel of your saddle during the day.”
Sleeping on often damp leaves had been an unsettling experience for the chemist though not nearly as much as riding with hands tied. He had hardly ever ridden a horse in his life, and to be charitable, his seat was so unsteady that he lived in terror of being cast to his death. As a scientist, he could see the logic of the offer and immediately accepted.
At first light on the morning of the sixth, Feodor scrambled up a tree as if it were a mast. In ten minutes he was sliding down to land on the forest floor like a cat. He ran up to Rimsky-Korsakov to jammer away in Russian. Kolya peppered him with questions, then turned to Dahlgren. “The English are beating the fields for us, Ulrich. They have troops on line for miles with local people guiding them. They have dogs too. We must go.” Collins helped Dahlgren onto his horse and strapped down his wooden leg. No one questioned that it was that leg that kept them conspicuously on horseback. Feodor had unconsciously in all innocence called him nash molodoi geroi polkovnik—our young hero colonel! Despite the leg, they all recognized that indefinable quality of the man who could pull them through.
Now even that ability seemed to have run its course of miraculous near-run escapes on this morning as the mist rose off the marshes. They had reached a patch of woods near the marsh edge, just in time to avoid a patrol of lancers picking their way through the soft ground, poking lances into every large clump of reeds at the waters edge. They were fine fellows under Dahlgren’s critical eye, riding excellent horses, clad in dark blue with red front tunics and a red crest to their Uhlan helmets. Red and white pennons flew from their lances, which they handled with a quick second nature. An officer rode out onto a small pier to which several boats were tied. He stood up in his stirrups and gazed about.8
The four held their breaths as two of the lancers trotted up to the woods, but a sharp command brought them back as the group moved on down the marsh bank and disappeared as it meandered out of sight. Dahlgren spurred his black out of the woods and onto the pier. “Yes,” exclaimed, clenching his fist. There was a marsh boat, just the sort of craft to wend its way through the shallow water and reeds. The others had ridden up and dismounted when Feodor shouted and pointed.
The Lancers were riding toward them at a full gallop back from the way they had come; their lances dipped as the officer drew his saber. Collins needed no order but fell to one knee with his Spencer. He drew in a breath as the officer filled the rifle’s simple site and slowly squeezed the trigger. The man flew back in the saddle and fell off the horse. Again he held his breath, then fired. A lancer crumpled. The rest slowed as they got to the soft ground. Dahlgren, still mounted, fired over Collins’s head with his Colt revolver and claimed another lancer. The last four were still game and spurred their mounts forward. Dahlgren then shouted and drove their three horses off the pier straight at the lancers as they approached. The animals kept the lances too far away from him as he shot another one from his saddle. The trigger then clicked on an empty chamber. It almost killed him as he dodged a lance thrust and pulled his mount back. The lance thrust again just as the black reared and buried itself in the cork leg. Dahlgren drew his own saber and severed the shaft of the lance. The lancer pulled his own saber and closed.
The last two the lancers clambered onto the pier. One of them stabbed Kolya in the leg, and the lieutenant fell with a scream. Before the lancer could wrench out the lance head, Feodor threw himself up and carried him off his horse and into the water. It was not deep but deep enough for the Russian’s grip around the man’s throat to keep him under water till he went limp. The other lancer leveled his lance at Collins, who jumped into the water knocking Abel down as he flew past.
The lancer was peering over the side ready to jab his lance wherever the American reappeared when Dahlgren crashed into him, throwing man and horse into the water. The animal struggled to its feet and waded ashore. The lancer popped to the surface and went down gasping. Collins waded over to him and pulled him to his feet, coughing water, his bedraggled Uhlan’s helmet still strapped to his head, then helped him onto the pier where he lay gasping. He finally got a few words in between coughing. “Can’t swim.” He rolled over, looked at Collins and muttered, “Thanks, mate.” He sat up at the noise of a nervous hoof tapping the wooden planking and saw Dahlgren towering over him on the black. His eyes widened as he saw the broken lance shaft and pennon protruding from his leg.
Dahlgren’s attention was all on Kolya now. Feodor had climbed back onto the pier and was trying to stop the bleeding, but it just oozed through his fingers. “Look, mate, there’s a bandage in my horse bag,” the lancer offered. Collins ran to where the lancer’s horse was grazing and returned with it. The lancer unrolled the lint-filled pad, pressed it to the wound. Then he fastened a tourniquet, tightening and loosening it. He looked up and smiled. “Learned this from Miss Nightingale at Scutari, I did. An angel she was, Miss Nightingale. Saved me leg, she did, and when I was on the mend she taught us these things to save soldiers’ lives. God bless ‘er.” He looked pleased with himself, then said, “Loosen it every fifteen minutes.” Kolya gasped the translation to Feodor, who nodded.
He stood up, a small, lithe man in his early thirties, looked at Collins, who had the Spencer pointed at him, and at Dahlgren on his horse. He came to attention and saluted Dahlgren. “Sir, Corporal Townsend, 12th Lancers.”
Dahlgren returned the salute knowing full well that the man knew who he was. “At ease, Corporal. I thank you for the assistance you have rendered our comrade. Nevertheless, you have presented me a problem I do not need at this time.” He looked long and hard at the lancer, then scanned the woodline. “Collins, go check the bodies for any written documents. Hurry.” Collins took off at a run.
Dahlgren was still figuring out what to do with the lancer when Collins shouted, “I need help! This officer is wounded.”
“Help him,” Dahlgren gestured, and Townsend was off like a shot. Together Collins and he brought the wounded officer to the pier to lie next to Kolya. Collins’s shot had put a 52-caliber bullet straight through his shoulder, a clean wound. The man tried to sit up but fell back on one arm. He looked up and around, but Dahlgren on his black took all his attention. “Lieutenant John Beauchamp, sir,” he said. “I say, you must be that Dahlgren chap. Worse luck for me.”
“At your service, Lieutenant.”
The man had not lost his equanimity and managed a wincing laugh. “A small change in our positions, sir, and I would be a hundred thousand pounds richer.”
“You have me there.”
“No, sir, you have me here.” He looked at Dahlgren’s lack of recognition and realized. “You have no idea that the government has put a hundred-thousand-pound bounty on your head, sir? Everyone in eastern England is hoping to collect.”
“They shall be disappointed.”
“I dare say, so far you’ve given the hounds a good run all this way from Enfield. Gave the whole of England a bad scare with this invasion story. Very good there. Society fled London in its carriages. Couldn’t get a train, all commandeered by the government. Hell of a time getting the regiment through that mess.” He looked about and muttered about his poor lads, then went on to describe the chaos created by the invasion scare on top of the fall of Dublin. Dahlgren’s hopes leapt at the news that Meagher had succeeded. He was more concerned with Beauchamp’s description of how half the British Army and every RVC from half of England had converged on Essex determined to cast out the invader. There had been small battles at Romford and Maldon but only a few prisoners had been taken, mostly lost cavalrymen wandering the countryside. Dahlgren had thought that was a lot of information to be passed down anyone’s chain of command so soon whereupon Beauchamp authoritatively
cited the London Times as his source.
“As I’ve said, sir, you’ve given the hounds a damned fine race, but we’ve got you. The regiment will be looking why this patrol did not return; must’ve already heard the gunfire. Best to surrender now, no dishonor, sir, none at all. In fact, whatever happens you’ve made history, and besides you’ve got the wounded Russki officer here.” Kolya glared at him. The imperial banner wrapped under his coat now had a large blood stain.
Dahlgren said, “Completely unacceptable. This fox still has a good run in him, not just the one I had in mind before you lancers arrived.” He pointedly looked at the boat and sighed, turned to Rimsky-Korsakov. “Kolya, we shall have to forget the boat; I cannot risk your wound at sea.” Then he looked back at Beauchamp and laughed. “This fox still has hundred Celtic bolt holes in Mother England! You will never find him.”
The sudden distaste on Beauchamp’s face told him he had hit a nerve. He looked over to Collins. “Round up three horses for us.” Then he turned back to the lieutenant. “I have a better idea than surrender. Can you ride with that shoulder?”
“Of course, sir; I am a lancer.”
“Collins, help Townsend put the lieutenant on a horse. Townsend, you will guide the lieutenant to medical attention. I release you both.” He turned to Abel. “Well, sir, there is no use of your coming with us. You have been a gentleman. I release you to accompany the Lancers.”
He watched Townsend walk away leading the lieutenant’s horse. He knew how much Lincoln had hoped to find a gun cotton substitute for niter and that Abel could have been the key to it. That Sword of Damocles would continue to hang over the country. Dahlgren just could not do anything about it.
Bayonets, Balloons & Ironclads: Britain and France Take Sides With the South Page 28