There would be three striking forces: three fighting generals. Dublin was the capital of Ireland so it seemed predestined that General Sherman would land with his troops in Galway, to strike east and take that city. With Grant still fighting the British in Mexico a man of his caliber had been chosen to attack in the south from Limerick to Cork. This was General Thomas J. Jackson, the Stonewall Jackson who won battles. To General Lee fell the shortest, and possibly the easiest, invasion route from Portrush to Belfast. But it might prove to be the hardest because the invaders would be striking through the Protestant loyalist heartland. These hard men would not welcome the Americans, as would the Catholic Irish in the south. Ulster was a question mark, which is why Lee had volunteered to lead the invasion there. A superb tactician, he could maneuver entire armies, first one way then the other. If there was to be stiffened resistance and rapid alteration of plans he was the man to match the occasion.
Overall it was a subtle invasion plan that would, hopefully, be simple enough to lead to victory. Three lightning strikes to seize the country by land.
But what of the massive sea power of the American fleet? What would be their role in this new kind of warfare?
Firstly, they had to see that the transports were safely sailed across the ocean. Once this had been accomplished their role had changed. Now they were blockaders — and floating batteries. The plan of attack that Sherman and Lee had developed could not be slowed down by unloading and moving artillery. Speed must be substituted for heavy guns. The Gatling guns would take their place in the landings and attacks in the west because they could attack alongside the infantry. Speed and overwhelming odds would, hopefully, assure victory there. But what would happen when the fast-moving attackers ran up against strongly held positions held by infantry backed by artillery? Plans had been made for this possibility. Now it would be seen if the new kind of battle could be won.
Engines were banked in the second fleet, while the signal flags called selected ships with orders. At sunset a dozen ships, both war craft and troop carriers, headed east for the Irish coast.
At the same time Patrick Riordan was pushing his boat into the waters of Galway Bay. Barna was a small fishing village, no more than five miles west from Galway city. Yet it was so rural that it could have been five hundred miles away. A mere dozen houses clustered around a single dirt track that meandered offacross the fields. Patrick Riordan’s brother, Dominick, brought out an armful of lobster pots and dumped them into the boat, climbed after them in silence.
“I guess it’s about time,” Patrick said.
Dominick looked at the dark clouds banked up on the western horizon and nodded. He used the steering oar to push them out, sculling them forward with it while his brother raised sail on the single mast; it billowed out in the light wind. Blowing, as it almost always did, from the west. They tacked in silence across the bay.
“You have the lanterns?” Patrick asked. Dominick touched the bag with his toe.
“And it is the right day?”
“Paddy, you know all these things without asking about them over and over. We went to mass this morning, which means that it is a Sunday. The eighth day of October, the day we’ve been planning for all these long months. Sean told us that — and you have to believe your own cousin. And he gave us the money to buy the lamps and all. This is the right day, all right, and you should be jubilating.” He pushed the steering oar hard over and they ducked their heads as the boom came about as they tacked in the opposite direction.
Dusk turned to night, a starless night as the clouds rolled in from the ocean. Neither of the brothers took much notice as they tacked again. A lifetime fishing these waters had stamped every part of them into their souls. The hills of The Burren to starboard were an even darker mass against the cloudy sky. On the next tack they were just aware of clearing Finvarra Point; the waves foaming on the rocks there barely visible. When they reached the mouth of the bay, and the Aran Islands, it was close to midnight. Lights in the occasional farmhouse moved by as they aimed for the outermost island and the sandy shore past the village of Oghil. Patrick jumped out and pulled the little boat grating up onto the sand: Dominick lowered the sail then dug out the bag with the lanterns.
“Should I light them?” he asked.
“Aye. It’s time.”
He lifted the chimney and fumbled out a lucifer from the waxpaper wrapping in his pocket, struck it on a metal fitting on the mast. It flared to life and the lantern caught. He blew the match out and adjusted the wick. Relit the match from this to light the second lantern. As they had been instructed, the lanterns were hung one above the other from the mast.
After securing the rope from the bow to the stump of a tree ashore, Patrick dug the stone crock out from under the stern bench. Dominick joined him ashore. Took out the stopper and drank deep of the poteen. Patrick joined him, sighing with satisfaction.
“So now we wait,” he said.
No more than an hour had passed before they heard the distant throb of a steam engine from the darkness of Galway Bay. The sound stopped and they stood, trying to peer into the inky darkness.
“I hear something—”
“Oars — and a squeaking oarlock!”
The ship’s boat appeared out of the darkness, slipping into the pool of light thrown by the lanterns. The sailors raised their oars as the blue uniformed figure in the bow jumped ashore.
“Sean,” Dominick said, “so you’re a soldier now.”
“I always have been. But I didn’t think it was wise to wear uniform when I was visiting youse.” He saw the crock on the ground and grabbed it up. “In the boat with you now — and I’ll take care of this.” He swallowed a large mouthful and sighed with delight.
“But our boat!” Patrick protested. “We can’t just leave it here.”
“Why can’t you? The good people of Oghil will keep it safe. Now — in with you. ’Tis a war we’re starting this very day.”
The Riordan brothers could only make feeble protests as they were bundled into the boat, which was quickly pushed out and returned to the transport. A hooded light revealed the rope ladder hanging over her side. They were up it, and Sean guided them to a ship’s officer, who took them up to the bridge and into the chart room. A bull’s-eye lantern threw a weak glow over the chart. The tall man who was examining the map straightened up.
“I am Captain Thrushton and I am in charge of this operation. Welcome aboard.”
The two Irishmen muttered embarrassed responses; Paddy managed a sort of salute. They had little experience with the gentry, had certainly never talked with a ship’s captain before.
“Look at this,” he said, tapping the chart. “As far as I can tell I am in the channel here, lined up on your lights on the island.”
“Not quite, your honor. The tide is on the make and you will have drifted, putting your ship about here.”
“And where is the first Martello tower?”
“Here, the Rossaveal tower on Cashula Bay. Only one gun.”
“How far from Galway?”
“Next to twenty miles.”
“Good. First boat’s company will take care of that. The other two towers?”
“South side of the bay, here on Aughinish Island, the second on Finvarra Point near the Burren. Sixteen miles from the city. Three guns each.”
“Excellent. I sincerely hope that you gentlemen will be in the lead boats when we make the attack.”
“I’m no fighting man!” Dominick said, horrified.
“Of course not — nor do I want you anywhere near the marines and infantry when we attack. You will simply point out the places where we must land — then stay by the boats. Your cousin, Private Riordan, has made very exact maps of the area around the towers. Are there any other strongpoints defending the city? Any troop movements in the last months?”
“No changes that we could see. Soldiers there and there. The barracks, and around the harbor.”
“We know about those and they will b
e taken care of. I am charged with seizing these towers and that I will do to the best of my ability.”
Of the three towers, the one on Cashula Bay proved by far the easiest to take. The marines had made their way from the landing beach to the tower and were concealed in a small copse beside the massive stone wall before dawn. At first light the single wooden door in the base opened and a soldier, in shirtsleeves, braces hanging, came out to relieve himself. The sergeant waved his men forward and a quick rush seized the man. The others were still asleep: the gun was taken.
The solid granite walls of the other two towers proved more difficult to breach. The attacking Irish troops found places of concealment around them in the dark. They lay there, rifles ready, as the light grew. First Lieutenant James Byrnes carried the charge himself in the attack on the Finvarra Point tower. Making his way in the darkness to the recessed door. As soon as there was light enough to see what he was doing, he packed the charge of blackpowder against the steel door and heaped rocks over it. He had cut the fuse himself; it should burn for two minutes. He lit it and waited until he was sure it was burning steadily. Then moved out of the doorwell, staying tight against the wall, moving around its circular form until he was well away from the explosives.
The thunderous bang and cloud of black smoke signaled the attack.
The sharpshooters in the brush poured their fire into the embrasures above. The attacking squads pushed aside the wreckage of the door and charged inside, bayonets fixed.
There were screams and shots fired. Within three minutes the tower was taken from the completely unprepared soldiers inside. The British had three wounded, one dead. Private Cassidy had a flesh wound in his arm, a pistol bullet lodged there that had been fired by the officer commanding, who slept with the weapon by his bed.
Lieutenant Byrnes climbed to the top of the tower, stepping aside as the manacled prisoners were led down to the ground. The excited soldiers of the Irish Brigade called to one another, exulting in the quick and successful action. Byrnes came out onto the firing platform, resting his hand on the silent black form of the 400-pounder cannon.
Dawn was breaking on Galway Bay, golden clouds against the pure, pale blue of the sky. And before him, clear and sharp, were the black and deadly forms of the ironclads coming straight down the center of the bay. Behind them the white-sailed transports with the American troops. Both blue and gray.
Boldly they came. Ready, by force of arms, to free Ireland. He could not contain himself.
“Oh, but ’tis a glorious day for the Irish!” he shouted aloud.
The cheers of his men proved that he had struck a common chord in their breasts.
The invasion of Ireland had begun.
Tied up to the wharves of Galway City were a few fishing craft as well as a Customs and Excise steamer. The bane of smugglers, she carried a single swivel gun in the bow. This was powerless against the ironclad Defender that pushed up close to her. Nor were her newly awakened crew able to make a stand against the hardened American marines that slid down the ropes to her decks.
It was just after dawn. The Customs vessel was now moving clear of the wharves, out into the harbor, as were the fishing vessels hastily manned by their cheering crews. Then the transports arrived and tied up at the wharves: the American soldiers streamed ashore. The few defended British strongpoints were already under attack by the infiltrating Irish troops who had landed near the harbor under cover of darkness. Their job was to hold, not win, until reinforcements arrived. This they did very well, joining the attack when the fresh troops streamed through their positions.
There were stongpoints that stoutly resisted the infantry attack. Lives were not wasted in suicide attacks; the Irish-American troops simply went to ground. Sniping at the enemy to keep their heads down.
Because from the newly arrived ships in the harbor wheeled guns were being swung up from the holds, let down on shore. They might have been small cannon — but they were not.
These were the weapons of the 23rd Mississippi Gatling regiment.
General William Tecumseh Sherman and his staff had landed behind the first wave of attackers. As reports came in he apportioned the rest of his troops. As the Gatling guns were unloaded he had them rushed to the few places where the enemy was putting up any resistance.
There were no horses to pull them, not yet. But the fighting front was only yards from the harbor. Sweating, shouting soldiers tied ropes to the guns, and their ammunition limbers, and at a run rushed into battle. Positioned them, put on the ammunition hoppers. And produced a withering fire of lead that chewed up the British positions. Tore into them, sent them reeling back, easy prey for the attacking infantry.
By nine in the morning the battle of Galway City was over. All of the enemy were dead or taken prisoner. As the captured British were taken back to the now-empty ships, the soldiers were pushing and towing the Gatling guns to the marshaling yard of the railroad. Where almost every passenger car and goods wagon of the entire railroad seemed to have been assembled. The engine drivers were in their cabs, the firemen shoveling in coal.
General Sherman nodded with approval: it had been almost a textbook operation. The enemy completely surprised and disorganized, overwhelmed and defeated. A staff officer appeared and saluted. “First train loaded. And just about ready to go.”
Behind them the citizens of Galway, now emerging from their homes after the fighting had ended, were almost numb with shock.
“Go on with youse,” a sweating sergeant shouted at them, pushing at the wheel of a Gatling gun that was being pulled aboard a flat car. “Give us a cheer. It’s Brits out, don’t you see. We’re here to set old Ireland free!”
With that they cheered, oh how they cheered, cheered themselves hoarse with hope and faith that a new day had dawned.
Now all of the activity was concentrated on the railway terminal. With the fighting ended the streets filled with the ecstatic populace. Many were too stunned to understand what had happened — but to the rest it was Christmas and St. Patrick’s Day rolled into one. Of greatest importance now were the secret workers that had been drafted by the Fenian Circle. They were the ones who had made maps of the British positions and counted their troops. Others worked on the railroad and had made both subtle and major changes to the passenger and freight train schedules. The result was that almost all of the rolling stock of the railroad was now in the Galway yards. Working in secret cells, they now emerged into the light of day, green ribbons tied about their arms for identification. Acting as guides they led the soldiers to their selected carriages. One of them, a gray-haired and well dressed man, approached the group of officers, halted, snapped to attention — and gave a very passable salute. Palm facing out.
“Richard Moore, formerly of Her Majesty’s Irish Rifles, sir.” He dropped the salute and stood at ease. “Now the station manager here. Welcome to Ireland and to Galway, General.”
“Reports tell me that you have done a most excellent job, Mr. Moore.”
“Thank you, sir. Steam is up in the first train and it is ready to leave. I have coupled on the State Saloon Car for your comfort. And they’ll have breakfast ready as soon as you board.”
“Excellent. What is the state of your telegraph?”
“Out of service. As is I believe every other telegraph system in Ireland. But I have engineers on the first train who will reconnect the wires at each station. You will have communication at all times.”
“I am sincerely grateful, Mr. Moore.”
A train whistle sounded. “Platform one,” Moore said. “All aboard. Have a safe journey.”
They boarded the train, welcomed by the cheering soldiers of the 69th New York. Breakfast was indeed waiting and after the morning’s activities they were famished. Only later, when they had finished the tea, eggs, sausages, rashers, black pudding and soda bread, did they get to work. The waiters whisked away the breakfast dishes and Colonel Roberts, Sherman’s aide, spread out the map and Sherman leaned over it.
“We should make good time,” he said, tapping on the map. “We’ll not stop until we get to Athlone. There’s a barracks there of the Royal Irish Constabulary. A company will get off there and neutralize them. The same thing will happen in Mullingar where there is a cavalry camp. After that it is straight into Dublin.”
“Which should be in a state of shock by that time,” Roberts said. “Our navy will have been offshore at dawn.”
“They will indeed. At first light they will bombard the harbor defenses. As well as the Martello towers at Kingstown, Dalkey Island here, all these others along the coast. This will concentrate the British forces’ attention on the sea. Without telegraph communication they will be out of touch with the rest of the country, so will know of no other military action. All of the defensive positions that face the sea will be taken from the rear when our troops arrive.”
“Good. And our guides?”
“Will be waiting at Kingsbridge Station which is here, close to the River Liffey. They are all Dubliners and each of them will have a single site assigned to him. There will be British troops in strength at Dublin Castle, as well as in the constabulary barracks here.”
They went over the familiar plans just one last time, then Sherman pushed the maps away and took out a cigar. The waiter appeared at his side to light. “More tea, sir? Or perhaps a wee glass of whisky for your health’s sake.”
Sherman puffed on his cigar and sipped at the strong, black tea. Outside the window the green and lovely Irish countryside streamed by.
“You know, gentlemen,” he said. “This about the finest way I have ever seen of going to war.”
To the south, General Stonewall Jackson’s ships had also approached the shore at dawn. The defenses along the Shannon estuary had their guns pointed towards the river, and the Doonaha and Kilcredaun Point Batteries had long been abandoned. The most westerly of them was now the Kilkerin Point Battery, a full twenty-five miles from Limerick. It could give no warning of the invasion for the telegraph wire to it had been severed during the night. It had fallen to attack from the rear soon after the American troops had landed. The local Irish volunteers welcomed the soldiers of the Irish Brigade with cries of happiness, were equally receptive to the Mississippi troops who followed close behind them.
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