"It is 1812 all over again," Gideon Welles said. As Secretary of the Navy he took this as a personal affront. "They ignore our protests and appear indifferent to a state of peace or war with us."
"They prefer war," Sherman said. Robert E. Lee, sitting at his side, nodded solemn agreement. "The moment they landed in Mexico they were in a state of war against Mexico, with the obvious aim to widen the conflict to include this country. There is nothing they need in the tropical jungles of the isthmus—other than to build a road to attack us. They knew that, sooner or later, we would have to face that fact. It would only be a matter of time before we would discover the true purpose of those landings. The invasion of our country. By not declaring war they misled us, and made the reinforcing and arming of the eastern terminus of their road possible. I strongly suggest that, with or without a declaration of war, we send an army to sever that road. I have telegraphed General Grant to come to Washington at once. I propose that he leads an army to attack and cut that road before the troops can march its length to the Atlantic."
"I concur," Lee said. "There are many ways to fight wars, and General Grant's way is the right one for this coming battle. He is a bulldog who chews his way to victory against whatever odds or defenses."
"It will be a long, hard war of attrition and Grant is surely the man for that," Sherman added. He looked around at the men at the table, his face emotionless, his pale eyes as cold as those of a bird of prey. "Grant will hold their troops, perhaps defeat them, but hold he certainly will. The British will pay a high price for their decision to cross Mexico."
"You say that Grant will perhaps defeat the enemy," Lincoln said. "I cannot believe that you would idly indulge in defeatist talk because I know that is not your way."
"In that you are correct, Mr. President. We must treat the Mexican invasion and the harassment of our ships as diversions from our main objective."
"Which is?" Stanton asked.
"Winning the war against the enemy. War is all hell and the British must be taught to believe that. We must take the war to them and impress our will upon them. They must lose—and lose so badly that they will no longer consider these kinds of military adventures against our sovereign nation. By force of arms they must be compelled to abandon all thoughts of future conquests."
There was more than one indrawn breath as the men around the table considered the impact of Sherman's statement. Lincoln spoke for all of them.
"General Sherman—are you suggesting that we take the war to the enemy—that we invade Britain?"
"I am not suggesting that, sir, although that may very well be one of our options. What I am saying is that we must no longer dance to their tune. They invaded this sovereign nation once before and we repelled them. Now they resume this war and threaten invasion a second time. They must be stopped now."
"But how?"
"That is what you must decide here in this War Room. The best military minds that our country possesses are now assembled here. They must find a way out of this impasse. And while you are deciding I want you to confer with General Robert E. Lee. He is here today at my personal invitation. A fact, that we all recognize, is that he knows how to win battles against superior forces. He knows how to outwit other generals, to attack where he is least expected, to out-think and out-fight his opponents. He might very well be the man who will find a way to take the battle to the enemy."
"Will you do this, General?" Lincoln asked.
Lee had fought—and won—so many battles that he had lost count. And he was still recovering from severe illness; the lines in his face and the pallor of his skin bore witness of that. Despite this he did not hesitate a single second. He answered the President the instant the question had been put to him.
"I feel obligated to, Mr. President."
"Good. You did a mighty fine job of winning battles for the Confederacy. We will be most obliged if you use those same skills to confuse and defeat our common enemy now."
For Thomas Meagher this was a moment of very mixed emotions. It had been over twenty years since he had last looked on the green hills of Ireland. But there they were now, the Dublin Mountains rising into the bright blue sky ahead. It was twenty years since he had left Dublin in a military transport, shackled and chained like a wild animal. Sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered for his activities as an Irish revolutionary. A sentence that had been reduced to transportation for life, in a prison camp in Tasmania on the other side of the world. He had never thought he would see Ireland again, even when he had escaped the prison, and Tasmania itself, and made his way to America. Now he was a soldier, the general in command of the Irish Brigade in the American army. Quite a rise for a convicted revolutionary. America had been good to him—but his Irish blood, and the country of his forefathers, still tugged at him. It was somehow very apt that now he was returning to the land of his ancestors. Ireland. Looking across the ocean, seeing the land of his birth, he became aware of a strange satisfaction, a lessening of a yearning he had scarcely been aware of. He was back. He was home.
" 'Tis a grand sight, 'tis it not, General," said Color-sergeant William H. Tyrell who stood beside him at the rail of the mail boat.
"That it is indeed. And it's Mr. O'Grady to the likes of you—unless you want to see me transported again." He dare not use his own name here unless, even after all this time, it might stir unwanted memories in the authorities' minds. Instead he had letters and papers on his person addressed to W.L.D. O'Grady, who happened to be a fellow officer in the Irish Brigade. O'Grady had also been an officer in the Royal Marines and had coached him well on its history and battles.
The ship's whistle sounded as they passed the Martello tower at the forty-foot and entered Kingstown Harbor. It had been a most roundabout trip for them. First they had gone from New York to Le Havre in France, where an American agent had met them. He had tickets for them, tickets that would take them all the way from France to Ireland.
"We don't want anyone to hear your accents," he had said. "Just present the tickets, grunt a bit, keep your mouths shut and overtip everyone. You will get a good bit of British humble servitude that way—and no questions asked."
Their nameless guide had been right. The ferry had taken them across the Channel to Southampton, on the south coast of England, where they had boarded the train at the station there. Many a forelock was pulled as the silver shillings changed hands. The same thing was true when they boarded the mail boat in Holyhead. This roundabout route was necessary since anyone sailing directly from the United States to Ireland would be suspect, questioned, possibly searched. This way was longer but safer.
"Tell me again where and when you and I will meet," Meagher said.
"Thursday week, right over there in the First Class waiting room at the train station. The Kingstown station. Before that—why I'll be home with the family! I can taste it now, boiled bacon and cabbage. Fresh-baked soda bread. Me auntie was always a dab hand at baking."
Tyrell had been chosen to accompany the general on this first trip because he was a Dubliner, a real jackeen who, to hear him speak, had so many relatives in Ringsend that they populated the entire neighborhood.
"Eat all you want," Meagher said. "But stay off the drink, at least in public. Watch out whom you talk to. The Fenians have been betrayed once too often."
"It won't happen to me, that I swear, sir. My uncles, cousins and brothers, they'll be the only ones I'll speak my mind to."
They moved apart when the ferry tied up, separating before they joined the other passengers going down the gangway. Meagher ignored the two soldiers by the exit doorway from the wharf; he had no reason to believe, after all these years, that he was still being actively looked for by the authorities. He walked out and crossed the road to the train station. There was the sound of a distant whistle and shortly afterwards the little train puffed into the station. He purchased a ticket—his accent was certainly no handicap here!—and climbed aboard. It was a short trip, the train stopping only at Sand
ycove and Glenageary, before pulling into the Dalkey station. He took up his carpetbag and joined the two other disembarking passengers on the platform. He studied the train timetables that were posted outside the station, until the other passengers were out of sight. Then he turned to look and yes, there it was, just a few paces down the hill was the pub he had been told about. He took up his bag and strolled down to it and pushed open the door. The publican, in a striped blue apron, was serving groceries to a customer in the little shop at the far end of the bar.
"Just sit yourself down," he called out. "I'll be with youse as soon as I've finished serving Mrs. Riley."
Meagher looked around at the dark interior, the coal-oil lamps and the beer engines, scattered sawdust on the floor. He smiled; it had been a very, very long time.
"Been away have you?" the publican said as he brought over the pint of stout. "Never saw a suit of that cut in Dublin."
"Sheep farming—in New Zealand."
"Would you ever! That's a grand distance to go."
"Two months by ship if the wind is right."
"You're not from Dalkey." A statement, not a question. Ireland was, as ever, one big small town and everyone knew everyone else's business.
"No, I'm not. But my cousin is."
"Get away with you!"
"It's true. Name of Francis Kearnan."
"Him that's married to Bridget?"
"The very one. Does he come in here?"
"Usually. But you'll find him at home now. Down the hill, first turning on the right. The cottage there, the one that needs rethatching."
"Good man."
After more crack about the weather, the last potato crop and the sad political state of affairs, the publican went to serve another customer in the grocery. Meagher drained his glass and went looking for his cousin.
Who really was his cousin on his mother's side. When the Fenian Circle had decided to rebuild the revolutionary movement in Ireland it was decided that, for now, only relatives would be contacted. There would be no betrayal this way. Politics was one thing; family ties completely another.
He found the cottage, knocked on the door and stepped back. There was a shuffle of footsteps inside and the door opened.
"Is that you, Francis?" Meagher asked.
The middle-aged man blinked near-sightedly, nodded. Behind the wrinkles and gray hair, Meagher could see the lines of the boy he had known so well. "Still swimming at the forty-foot, are ya'?"
"What? Who are you?"
The street was empty, nevertheless he leaned forward and whispered. "Name of Meagher..."
"Mother of God! Is that you, Tommy?"
"It is. Now—how long are you going to keep me standing out here?"
It was a warm reunion. Bridget was out, so Kearnan made the tea himself. Rooted about in the cabinet and found some poteen to sweeten it. They talked of family and the years that had passed, and Francis was refilling their cups before Meagher got around to the purpose of his visit.
"The papers in the United States had news that the Fenians had been penetrated, the leaders arrested—"
"Betrayed the lot of them! Can you imagine a man, an Irishman, betraying his own neighbors? Anyone who would do that is a gobshite of a lower order than the Englishman that buys him."
"I am in agreement there. But the people of Ireland will not be stopped. The freedom movement will arise from the ashes like a phoenix. I am here to see that happen—and if you are the man I think you are—then you are going to help." He dug the wad of ten-shilling and pound notes from his pocket, dropped them on the table between them. He smiled at Francis's wide-eyed stare. "And I'll tell you just what you can do with it."
"Jayzus, it's not for me, is it?"
"No—but you can use what you need for the work I want you to do."
"Will it be dangerous?"
"Not if you keep your Irish cakehole shut and not go wording about how you came into the money. This l.s.d. is for men you trust—men in our family or Bridget's. Here, let me tell you exactly what must be done."
It was Gus Fox who had explained how the new Fenians should be organized. Officers of the Fenian Circle would visit Ireland separately. They would speak only to members of their immediate family, recruit them to the movement. No strangers would be contacted; no old friends either, no matter how close they had been. It was the mass recruiting in the past, when anyone could join, that had destroyed the Fenians. This new way of recruiting was called the cell organization, Fox had explained. Members of a single cell would know only one another—as well as the officer who had recruited them. No members of one cell would know of any members of a different cell, even in the same city. Meagher himself was the only person who would know all the cell leaders. He would supply the money and they would supply the information. Skilled laborers would be encouraged—and paid—to cross the Irish Sea and obtain work in Britain. In shipyards, on the railroads, in the steelworks. And they would report back anything they could learn. Troop movements, ship movements, any bit of information that would be important to Fox. When he had assembled all the small pieces he would be able to see the big picture that they could not. With this he could write the intelligence reports that would be so vital for the military to have, military intelligence that was vital in modern warfare.
Also—the fact that he would be reviving the Irish revolutionary movement at the same time would only be of aid. Anything that discomfited the British could only help the war effort.
Mine enemy's enemies, once again.
THE ATTACK BEGINS
John Ericsson never had an instant's doubt about the reliability of any ship that he built. There would certainly be minor problems with any new design, like the tiller cables on his Monitor. This was to be expected and experience had proven that a short test cruise was all that would ever be needed. Virginia was no exception. She had sailed from the new shipyard at Newport News into the calm waters of Hampton Roads, then out into the Atlantic beyond. Ericsson's faith in his ship been correct; only minor difficulties had been found and they were quickly put right. The asbestos lagging on the steam pipes had to be reinforced, where it ran through the compartments below the gun turrets. Pieces of it had been broken off exposing the hot pipes inside. Now the lagging was patched and covered with thick wood. Ericsson had hoped he would not have to run the steam pipes from the boiler room below, but he still had not completed the designs on his Carnot engine.
Even as this final work was being done the supplies of food for the men, the powder and shot for the guns, were already being put aboard.
Ericsson was on the bridge of the ship, coat thrown aside as he made the final adjustments on a machine of his own invention. A mechanical telegraph that would convey instructions from the captain to the engine room.
"Mr. Ericsson, might I disturb you?"
A growled oath was his only reply as the engineer tightened the thin chain over the cogwheel, that was attached to the ship's telegraph mechanism. Only after it had been done to his satisfaction did Ericsson bolt on the cover plate and climb to his feet, rubbing the grease from his hands onto a wad of cotton waste. His works manager, Garret Davis, stood there, nervous as usual, a naval officer at his side. The man was quite tall and sported an elegant flared mustache.
"This is Captain Raphael Semmes," Davis said.
"That name is familiar," Ericsson said. First offering his hand—then drawing it back when he saw how grease-stained it was.
"During the past hostilities I had the privilege of commanding the CNN Alabama. Perhaps that—"
"Yes, of course. I do remember. A fine ship that you made good use of during the last war. What did the newspapers call her? Ja—the shark of the Confederacy."
The British-built commerce raider had cut a wide swath through the Union merchant fleet during the War Between the States.
"Where is she now, your shark?"
"Laid up, sir. She's getting new engines, more guns, some armor and such, I do believe. But, as attached as I am to
her, I am more interested in the new ironclads that you are building. I must admit that I pulled some strings, right from Jefferson Davis on down. I pointed out that the new navy must contain officers from the South as well as the North."
"A forceful argument," Ericsson said, looking at his hands, then throwing the filthy cotton waste aside. "Were you successful in your quest?"
"I think so. I am to command your USS Virginia here."
"That is wonderful news indeed. May I congratulate you on your new command—of the mightiest ironclad afloat. Come with me. As soon as I cleanse my hands I will shake yours. Then I will show your around the ship."
Ericsson was as good as his word, leading the way below decks to the engine room where the gigantic steam engine seemed to fill most of the space.
"The largest and most powerful engine ever constructed," Ericsson said proudly. "My own design, of course. Four cylinders—no other engine was ever built with four cylinders. You will also notice that the steam is recycled at a lower pressure. My design and that was also never done before. The gun turrets—you must see them."
They entered the bow turret by the armored hatch in its rear. Semmes looked at the guns with awe.
"Their size—I can't believe that they are mounted on a ship!"
"It was not easy to do—but I did it. Twelve-inch guns that will hurl an explosive shell for five miles. Breech-loading, as you see. You will notice also the pneumatic shock absorbers at their base. Also my invention, of course." Ericsson pointed to the cylinders on both sides of the guns. "When the gun fires the recoil drives these pistons into these cylinders. The air is compressed and slows the gun down as the compressed air escapes through these orifices. Now here is the ingenious part. Once the gun has reached its limit of travel these valves are closed, once the compressed air has been released—and steam is let into the cylinder. In a sense you have a vertical steam engine. So, with great ease, and no human labor, the cannon is once more pushed forward into firing position."
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