“Pretty bad until he showed up with his men. We’re hunkered down behind a stone wall but them Scotties coming around the flanks. More and more of them.”
Lee turned slowly, looking at the terrain with a general’s eye. Then he took out his Ordnance Survey map and called Green over.
“As near as I can make out the fighting is going on about here. What I want is a new defense line here at these villages. Corkermain and Carncastle. From the hills to the shore. Make use of the natural cover.” He took the notepad from his saddlebag and wrote a quick note, then handed it to the captain.
“The reinforcements will be coming up behind us. Give them this order. I want them to form a firing line in these fields here, to left and right, using those stone walls we passed. Get some trees across this road and put the Gatlings behind them. I want them to send a runner forward as soon as that is done so we can fallback on this position.”
His aide galloped off and Lee gave the sergeant his horse to hold — then went towards the sound of battle.
Colonel Clebourne had his headquarters in a ramshackle barn, now well perforated with bullet holes.
“Are you holding them, Pat?” Lee asked when he came up.
“Good to see you, General. Just about. But ammunition is running low and I don’t think we could stop another a bayonet attack like the last one.”
The defenders were spread out in a thin line to right and left. Most sheltering behind the hedgerows or in a sunken lane. The firing was occasional and spattering — until there was a throaty roar from the enemy soldiers out of sight down the hill. Another charge was being made. The firing was almost continuous now.
“Hold them as long as you can, Pat. There are reinforcements coming up right behind me. I’m moving them into defensive positions to your rear. As soon as they are there you can pull your men back.”
The Gatling gun fell silent as its ammunition ran out; the gunners removed the firing handle, rendering it inoperable. There was no way they could take it with them when they fell back. The defenders only had their Spencer rifles now — and they were down to their last tubes of cartridges. Enough — just enough — to break the charge. A dozen kilted soldiers made it to the defenders behind the wall. It was hand-to-hand combat before they were pushed back. General Lee was reloading his pistol when the runner came up.
“Major says to tell you, sir, that the line is in position.”
“Good. Pat, let us start pulling your men back.”
It was a close-run thing. The attackers were overrunning the positions even as the gray-clad soldiers fell back. But it was a fighting retreat to the second line of reinforcements. A light rain began to fall. The British advance was being held.
For the moment.
A DREADFUL ENCOUNTER
Captain Eveshaw had one of the ship’s marines stationed in the telegraph office at the Larne pier. As soon as the message from Belfast was transcribed by the army operator, he ran to the ship, up the gangplank, and then to the bridge. Eveshaw took in the brief command in a single glance.
“Raise steam,” the captain ordered. “Prepare to cast off the lines.”
As soon as they had captured the Larne-Stranraer ferry his engineers had taken the precaution of removing the safety valve, as well as the reversing gear, from the ship. It would still be there when the USS Stalwart returned. Black smoke billowed up from the warship’s funnel as it moved away from the pier.
No one could say that she was a handsome ship. One of the first modified Monitor class that had been built after the success of the original Monitor itself, she was far more seaworthy than her predecessor. The original, with such a low freeboard, had been notably unseaworthy. Truly a cheesebox on a raft. Now, with more armored hull above the waterline, Stalwart was more of a cheesebox on a thick plank.
But, ugly or not, she had two great guns in her rotating turret that could take on almost any ship afloat. Billowing out clouds of smoke, a froth of foam at her bow, she headed north up the coast. On the bridge Captain Eveshaw had his glasses pointed at the shore.
“If there are enemy troops coming from the north and attacking our positions, they must have been landed there by ship. They could have come from Scotland during the night and we would never have seen them, not while we were tied up in the harbor, and they never came this far south.”
They had passed Balleygalley Head and were running along the rugged coast when the lookout saw the smoke ahead.
“There sir — a passenger vessel — just clearing that headland! On a northerly course.”
The captain looked at the chart and nodded. “Glenarm Bay, west of the point. There is a harbor marked here.”
“What about that ship, sir?” the first lieutenant asked. “Shall we go after her, stop her?”
“Bit of locking the barn door after the horse has been stolen. I think, since she is not a military vessel, that we let her go peacefully on her way. Now let us see where she has been.”
When they cleared Park Head the small harbor came into view. There was another passenger ship tied up there and, through their glasses, they could see troops marching up the hill.
“There’s your answer,” Captain Eveshaw said. “Make a course back to Larne so we can report this.”
The passenger ship they had seen earlier was now hull down on the horizon, almost out of sight. The lookout then began to slowly scan the rest of the horizon. There — another ship, dead ahead. He waited until he could see her clearly before he called down to the bridge.
“Vessel approaching from the south,” he said. “Under sail, a three-master with an engine it looks like, since she is making smoke.” Eveshaw swung his glasses in that direction.
“This is a very different matter indeed,” he said. “Possibly bringing reinforcements. And not from Scotland — but from England. Probably Liverpool on that course. Let us now find out.”
“If she is carrying troops,” the lieutenant said, sounding worried, “do we, well, fire into her?”
“That we will have to decide when we find out what her cargo is,” the captain said, grim authority in his voice. “If they are reinforcements we certainly cannot permit them to be used against our troops.”
The Stalwart’s bow pointed directly towards the oncoming vessel as they picked up speed. They were surely seen by the other ship because a moment later her image widened and her single sail became three as she came about.
“She’s turning away from us,” the captain said. “Gone about.”
“She’ll not get away,” the lieutenant said happily. “Rigged like that she’ll never match our speed.”
Even though the fleeing ship had a following wind on this course, even aided by her engine, there was no way that she could escape. With every turn of her screw USS Stalwart closed the distance between the two ships. All eyes were upon her until the lookout called out.
“Smoke on the horizon. Ten points off the starboard bow.”
The silence stretched as the other vessel steamed towards them, hull up now.
“An ironclad!” the lieutenant said. “One of ours.”
“Hardly,” Eveshaw said as the vessel grew in his glasses. “We’ve had reports on her. Ten inches of armor. Fourteen guns. HMS Conqueror. British. Change course for Larne. We must report her presence to our forces in Belfast. Order the gun-crews to load with explosive shells and run the guns out.”
“We’re outgunned, sir…”
“Indeed we are, lieutenant, indeed we are. Nevertheless — we will fight.”
On the bridge of Conqueror all eyes were on the strange black vessel with the single stack that was cutting across their course.
“She’s turning, sir,” the first lieutenant said. “Setting a course towards Larne.”
“We can’t have that,” Captain Durnford said. “She’s an American warship, by Jove. Single turret, two guns. Tally ho!”
It was a close-run thing. Stalwart entered Larne Harbor with her gigantic opponent no more than a thousand yards be
hind her. The American ironclad backwatered at full throttle, yet still smashed hard into the dock. The waiting marine clutching the captain’s message, who was standing at the rail, jumped as the ship collided with the dock, rolled and fell onto the splintered wood. Picked himself up and ran towards the telegraph station. Behind him the armored ports were battened tight as the ship cleared for action.
Stalwart fired first as the hull of her opponent filled her gunsights as Conqueror entered the mouth of Larne Lough. Both shells exploded full on the British ship’s hull. When the smoke blew away two great indentations were visible on her armor. But despite the impact and explosions the shells had not penetrated the layers of iron and wood.
Then, almost as one, the seven port guns of Conqueror fired their broadside.
Stalwart’s turret had been rotated as soon as she had fired, so the single shell that struck it only bounced off the armored rear of the turret. Four of the enemy’s guns were trained too high and their shells passed over the low hull and wreaked havoc in the ferry station beyond.
The other two shells hit Stalwart’s deck. One of them bounced screaming from her armor. The other hit where armor and hull joined and tore a brutal gash in her side.
It was a bitter, pounding, one-sided battle. People, and soldiers, ashore fled from the burning ferry terminal. While Stalwart’s guns were being reloaded, Conqueror went about and her starboard battery roared fire and shell. The Americans’ return fire once again had no visible effect on the larger ship.
The next broadside opened the gap deeper in the American ship’s hull. She appeared to be settling lower in the water. Her guns fired one last time — and then her turret vanished beneath the waters of the harbor. Air bubbled up and whipped the surface into a froth. When the bubbles ceased the ocean calmed. Empty.
No one escaped from the drowned vessel.
The marine in the ruin of the telegraph room turned to the army telegraph operator. “Better add to that message. Stalwart destroyed by enemy fire. She has sunk with all hands aboard.”
The Duke of Cambridge was in a fire-eating mood. The more he thought about the audacity of the Americans in daring to launch an attack on the British Isles, the more incensed he became. Even though there had been no report in yet, on the success or failure of their attack, he called for more and more troops.
“Somerville!” he bellowed. “Are there any more ships in the Clyde that we can use?”
“Possibly, sir. But since the Scots Guards and the Royal Scots Greys have entrained and embarked there are no more regiments immediately available. However I have sent an order canceling all ship departures from Liverpool. Officers there are determining which of them would be able to carry troops.” He looked up at the office clock. “The Green Howards left some hours ago and should be reaching Liverpool about this time. The Royal Regiment of Fusiliers will be close behind them. We have also rounded up all of the batteries of field artillery available and they are on the way as well.”
“Well done,” the Duke said, albeit begrudgingly. “It is now or never. We must assume that our landings went well and that our forces are now advancing against the enemy in the field. They must be reinforced! We must keep up the pressure. If we cannot prevail now it will be devilish hard to go back and launch an attack again at some future date.”
“You are completely correct, your grace. The enemy has committed its forces to an invasion of Ireland. Battles cause casualties. We do not know the state of their communications. But we do know that they will not have had enough time to resupply or reinforce their troops. We must not fail at this time.”
When he had sent his men on the cars north from Cork, General Stonewall Jackson had telegraphed asking permission of General Sherman to march at their head. Sherman had not hesitated. The defenses at Cork were well manned and armed. It would not need a fighting general of Jackson’s stature to wage a defensive battle. Sherman’s answer had been fast and brief. Command your troops.
There were guides waiting when Jackson’s troops reached Dublin. To lead them through the city, to the train to Belfast. A mounted major, leading a second saddled horse, saluted Jackson.
“General Sherman’s compliments, sir. He would like to confer with you while your troops are boarding the cars.” Jackson mounted and followed the aide to the headquarters in the General Post Office. Sherman took him by the hand when he came in.
“Congratulations on your success in battle.”
“It was God’s will. Now — tell me what has happened in the north.”
“The enemy has landed in force, on the coast north of here. We must first hold them on land — then look to the navy to prevent any future landings,” General Sherman told him, pointing at the map of Ireland tacked to his headquarters wall. “On our northern front — Lee reports that we are holding — but just barely. You must reinforce him. And hold. He has thrown all his reserves into his defensive position. But the front is small and almost undefendable. It is hand-to-hand fighting now and it cannot go on. He is now setting a major defense line just north of Larne. They’ll fall back on these positions as soon as it is dark, and you will reinforce him. We will hold there. But at sea it is very bad. Stalwart is sunk.”
“I had not heard,” Jackson said grimly.
“She was not outfought — but she was outgunned. And she did report that more ships with troops were supporting the British counter-attack. There is nothing we can do about that, not yet. Her antagonist Conqueror is now protecting the troop ships that continue to arrive from Scotland and possibly from England.”
“What about Avenger? She can surely get after the enemy troop ships — but she’s still tied up here.”
“On my orders. As you know Virginia is on her way here from Cork. When she arrives they will sail together. Then Conqueror will not be able to both protect herself and guard the arriving troop ships at the same time. Undoubtedly there are more British warships on the way. We must make as much of this opportunity as we can before they arrive.”
“Is there any word of Dictator?” Other officers had been hesitant to put into words the question that was in the back of all their minds, but not Jackson. Their mightiest ironclad had missed the invasion with her blown boiler. “Is there any word of her yet?”
“None. I have sent one of the troop ships to the Azores with instructions that she is to proceed at once to Belfast as soon as repairs are made. We can only hope that she has been repaired by now. We must stop any enemy replacements from arriving. When your troops arrive at the front we will have done everything that we could possibly do. As you know, we hold Dublin and Cork with the absolute minimum of troops. Your regiments are the last of the reserves that I can send General Lee. All the other regiments have already been committed. If any man can hold the line it is he.”
“With the good Lord’s aid,” Jackson said firmly; he was a most religious man. “We go where He tells us to go, and in that way we win our battles.”
A DESPERATE GAMBLE
The First Engineer of the USS Dictator stood on the ship’s bridge, so tired that he swayed with fatigue. His clothes were black with grease, as was his skin and the rag he was wiping his hands on with no success. Only his bloodshot eyes had any trace of color.
“It is a simple question,” Captain Johns said quietly. “And I feel that it deserves a simple answer. Is the boiler now repaired?”
The First Engineer twisted the rag as he blurted out the words. “It is but…”
“No ‘buts.’ Will it take us to Ireland?”
Ever since the ship had brought the message from General Sherman that afternoon the captain had paced the bridge deck. It was now after dark and his vessel was still dead in the water. In the end he could control his impatience no longer and had sent for the First Engineer. Whose answer he now awaited.
“It will hold pressure…”
“No ‘buts,’ remember. Will it get us there?”
“I would like some more time…”
“You have none. We
get under way at once.”
“I’ll need at least another half-hour.”
“You have it. We sail then.”
Captain Fosbery sat in the stern of the ship’s boat as they crossed the choppy waters at the mouth of the Mersey River. HMS Intrepid lay still in the water ahead, gray against gray clouds in the falling rain. Alike as two peas in a pod, he thought. They should be. Sister ships. He commanded the Valiant that lay behind him. There were small differences he could detect, nothing important. The ships were Clyde-built, they had been launched within weeks of each other, and were Clyde-strong. He heard the bosun’s whistle as the boat pulled beside her.
“Fosbery, it is good to see you,” Captain Cockham said when his fellow captain climbed on deck. “Do come below where it is dryer and warmer.” He coughed deeply. “Got a bit of a chill on the liver, rum’s the only thing for that. You will join me.”
Sitting in the captain’s cabin they raised their glasses.
“Confusion to the enemy,” Cockham said.
“And a speedy victory. What have you heard?”
“Probably the same as you. The Americans have invaded Ireland — and it seems that they have done it quite successfully, though none of the reports comes right out and says that. In any case, we have put troops ashore north of Belfast and they need reinforcing. Orders are for me to meet you here, then hold our station until we meet the ships we are to convoy to Ireland. They’ll be coming downstream from Liverpool this morning.”
Fosbury nodded. “That is precisely what I have been told. With the added information that Conqueror is there ahead of us — and has already sunk an American ironclad.”
“Did she, by Jove! Well done. That will teach the Yankees to bite off more than they can chew.”
The first mate tapped lightly on the door, then came in. “Three ships in sight upstream, sir. All of them steam and sail. One looks like a mail packet.”
“I’ll get back to my ship,” Fosbery said, standing. “As I remember you are almost a year superior to me, so I submit to your orders.”
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