"Do you think he can do it?" Grant asked.
"If he can't, why, there is no one else in the world who can. He is an original thinker. Never forget that it was his Monitor that changed naval warfare forever."
On the other side of the Atlantic a far more commonplace event was taking place. In the port of Dover, the morning steam packet from Calais had just arrived after an uneventful crossing of the English Channel from France. Albert Noireau was just one of the many passengers who came down the gangway and stepped onto the English soil.
Most of the other passengers hurried on to board the London train. But a few, like Monsieur Noireau, had business here in the seaport. His visit could not have been intended to be an extensive one, for he carried no baggage. He also appeared to be in no hurry as he strolled along the seafront. Sometimes stopping to gaze at the ships gathered there, at other times he looked at the shops and buildings that faced the docks. One in particular attracted his attention. He peered at the chiseled nameplate outside the door, then went on. At the next turning he paused and looked about. As far as he could tell, he was unobserved. He took a moment to glance at the slip of paper in his pocket and nodded slightly. It was indeed the same name he had been told to look for. Trinity House. He walked back toward it, then entered the public house in the adjoining building. The Cask and Telescope. Très naval.
The newcomer ordered a pint of beer in good English—although he had a thick French accent. His French was perfect, he had lived in France for many years, and had long since submerged Mikhail Shevchuk under his new persona. But he never forgot who his masters were.
It was easy to strike up conversations at the bar. Particularly when he was most generous when his time came for buying rounds. By late afternoon he had talked to a number of pilots from Trinity House and had discovered what he needed to know. To them he was an affable agent for French ship's chandlers, with well-filled pockets.
They called after him cheerfully when he hurried to get the afternoon packet back to France.
BOOK TWO
THE WINDS OF WAR
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 yo
u 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.
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