Stars and Stripes in Peril (40 page)

At twelve knots. He hammered the bridge rail with frustration. But the First Engineer would not vouch for the boilers if the pressure were raised. Well at least they were moving, no longer sitting at anchor. The first mate came out of the Chart Room and he waved him over.

"How is our progress?"

"Slow but sure, sir. Since we are taking the most direct course to Belfast we won't see the coast of Ireland until we are past the Isle of Man. We should be past Dublin by now..."

"Smoke on the horizon, dead ahead," the lookout called out. "More than one vessel."

Slow as the
Dictator
was, the convoy ahead was even slower, held to the speed of her slowest ship—the paddlewheel packet ship. Aboard the
Valiant
Captain Fosbery contained his anger, looking ahead at the three troop-ships lumbering along in
Intrepid's
wake. They should be raising the Isle of Man soon. Then Ireland.

These were well-traveled waters, and they had passed two ships already today, so the smoke on the horizon astern seemed of no importance. Until the first mate, who had been watching its progress, lowered his glasses.

"An iron ship, sir. No masts. A good-sized one, I do believe."

Fosbery watched her now, with a growing sense of horror at her swift approach.

"I don't recognize her, sir," the first mate said.

"You wouldn't. She's not one of ours. Damnation—look at the size of the guns in that forward turret!"

Intrepid
increased her speed and passed the troop ships until she was within signaling distance of
Valiant.
They exchanged messages, then reduced speed to let the convoy past them. Their station was between their charges and the enemy. They must do battle, whatever the odds.

Aboard the American warship all eyes were on the convoy ahead. "Warrior class," Captain Johns said with great pleasure. "Armor bow and stern now, as well as slanted armor to protect the citadel." He had seen the reports sent over from the War Department: Fox's Irish shipyard workers had been most thorough in their reports. "Now let us see how well they stand up to our twelve-inch shells. Distance?"

"Thirteen hundred yards," the gun-layer called out.

"Within range. One gun fire."

A few moments later there was a great explosion of sound and the steel ship shivered at the recoil of the gun. Standing directly behind the turret, Johns could see the black smear of the shell rising up against the blue sky, then hurtling down towards the enemy ships. A mighty plume of water rose up from the sea, almost washing over the two ironclads.

"Short!" the captain called out. "The next one will be right into them!"

The next explosion was smaller, muffled. But the guns hadn't fired.

With horror Captain Johns felt the ship slow down, losing way as her propeller stopped turning.

The boiler again...

The two British ironclads, that had been willing to fight to the death in the hopes that they could keep this monster from their charges, could not believe what they were seeing. The American Goliath had lost way, had stopped and was wallowing in the waves.
Valiant
send up a white plume of steam in a long whistle of victory. They put on speed and hurried after their charges.

Behind them Dictator grew smaller and smaller until she vanished from sight.

Less than a hundred miles ahead of them
Avenger
and
Virginia
looked at the black bulk of the British ironclad standing just off the Irish coast. This was undoubtedly the same ship that had sunk the USS
Stalwart.
They were here to avenge their dead comrades. In line they steamed forward.

Conqueror
moved out to sea now so she could have room to maneuver. Swung to bring her guns to bear as the American ironclads rushed down on her.

Avenger
was first in line and passed less than twenty yards from the British ship. Their broadsides exploded at almost the same time: sheets of flame and smoke joined the two ships. Above the sound of the explosions metal clanged on metal. As they separated neither ship seemed to have suffered serious damage. They were well matched in both guns and armor.

Not so the
Virginia.
Before
Conqueror
could reload her port guns the American ironclad was on her.
Conqueror
tried to turn so her starboard guns could bear—but she had not enough time. The two guns in the forward turret fired. Twelve-inch Parrott breech-loaders firing pointed steel armor-piercing shells. The first time these guns had been fired in anger.

The two shells exploded as one. The smoke blew away and when
Virginia's
rear turret passed the other ship a great hole could be seen in her armored side. Both rear turret guns fired into the gaping wound.

Conqueror
had been mortally wounded by the four explosive shells. Smoke poured out of the jagged opening—then there was another explosion and sheets of flame appeared. Her magazine had exploded. As the American ships turned, she settled lower in the water as her bow rose up. Then the great ship sank with a mighty bubbling roar.

The two ironclads slowed to pick up the few survivors. The pride of the British navy was no more.

From the wooded hillside General Stonewall Jackson could see the rear of the enemy lines. A group of officers conferred, while a squad of soldiers passed them; wounded soldiers were being brought back on stretchers.

"Five minutes," he ordered and his tired troops dropped down in the cover of the trees. March discipline was strict and they had not touched their canteens before this. They drank deep. They checked their cartridges, then fixed their bayonets.

"And no shouting until we hit them, hear," the First Sergeant said. "Then whoop like the devils in hell. Cold steel—and lead. Go get them, tigers!"

The signal was passed and they rose, waited in the shelter of the trees. All eyes were on General Jackson when he stepped out into the sunshine and slowly drew his sword. He raised it high—then slashed it down. Silently the lines of gray clad soldiers emerged from the trees, walking forward, faster and faster—then running down the slope.

The enemy was taken completely by surprise. The First Sergeant lumbered past Jackson and slammed into the shocked group of officers—bayoneting the one with the most chicken guts on his hat. Jackson was at his side, his sword slashing down.

The attackers slammed into the rear of the defenders' line, jabbing with their bayonets. A shot was fired, then more—and a single rebel cry was echoed from a thousand throats.

In the defensive lines the firing and shrill yells could be plainly heard.

"Now it is our turn," General Robert E. Lee said. "We have been taking it for too long. Now let us give them back some of their own."

His men surged out of the trenches and over the stone and timber defenses, and fell on the enemy.

The suddenness of the charge, the brutality of the bayonets—and the rapid-firing Spencer rifles—swept the field. Clumps of men struggled and died. British soldiers tried to flee, but they had no place to go. Leaderless, their officers captured or dead, their rifles empty and fear gripping their guts, they had no choice.

They threw down their weapons and surrendered.

While out to sea the final battle was being fought.

With the
Avenger
in her wake the USS
Virginia
steamed out to face the approaching convoy. On his bridge Captain Raphael Semmes looked through his glasses at the two ironclads, Union Jacks flapping and their guns run out. Behind them the three troop transports had heaved to.

"Now I do believe that they want to fight us," Semmes said, lowering his glasses and shaking his head. "This is foolhardy indeed." He turned to his first mate, Lieutenant Sawyer. "Lower the ship's boat. Get a tablecloth and wave it at them. Tell the senior captain that if he strikes his colors he, his men—and his ship—will be spared. As a bit of a telling argument you might tell him what happened to
Conqueror."
The few survivors of the battle had identified their ship.

Captain Fosbery looked at the approaching boat with mixed emotions. He saw the size of the guns he was facing and knew what he was to be offered. Life—or death. But did he have a choice? He heard Lieutenant Sawyer out, was appalled at the news about
Conqueror.

"All hands, you say?"

"Under a dozen survivors. And that was a single salvo. How long do you think your ship would last?"

Fosbery drew himself up. "Your consideration is appreciated. But, you see, I have very little choice. I could never live down the disgrace of surrendering, without firing a shot, in my first encounter with the enemy. The disgrace..."

"Your death, the death of your crew. There are things worse than disgrace."

"To a colonial, perhaps," Fosbery snapped. "But not to a gentleman. Remove yourself from my ship, sir. You have your answer."

"Mighty touchy about their honor, aren't they?" Captain Semmes said when Sawyer had reported back to him on the bridge. "Make a signal to the
Virginia.
Surrender refused. I am firing high to disable the guns not sink the ship. Good luck."

The three troop ships pulled away as the two American ironclads steamed down on their defenders.

It was not a battle but deliberate slaughter. The British shells bounced off the heavier American armor.

The American guns battered them into twisted ruin. And they had fired high. Pounded and torn—but still afloat—the British ironclads struck their colors at last.

Captain Fosbery's honor was intact.

He was also dead.

Dictator
stayed by the battered British ironclads while the
Virginia
went after the troop ships that had turned tail when the battle had started. The troops aboard would march ashore and straight into prison camps.

It had been a very close-run thing, but the British attack had failed.

Ireland was no longer a part of Great Britain. Still not a country in her own right. There was still a long road to travel before she reached that happy day.

VICTORY!

For Henry, Lord Blessington, it was very obvious that something very disturbing was happening in Ireland. For three long days he had watched and waited, listened to what was being said by the servants and tried to separate rumor from fact. This was very difficult to do. From the upper windows of Trim Castle he had seen soldiers marching north. A squadron of cavalry galloped past on the second day, the same day that he had heard cannon booming in the distance. On the third day he had sent his manager riding into Drogheda to find out what he could. The man was Irish, but he was reliable. At least for the present. Now he had returned and stood before him, shaking, gripped by some strong emotion. Riley was a man of little imagination and Blessington had never seen him like this, standing here in the study and twisting his hat, unspeaking.

"Sit down man, sit down and compose yourself," Blessington said. "And drink this." He pushed a beaker of brandy across the table, sat down himself in the big armchair with his back to window. "Now tell me what you found out."

Riley drank too fast and had an immense coughing fit. He dried his mouth and face with a bandana from his sleeve, then rooted in his jacket pocket for the little leather-bound book that he always carried. The coughing seemed to have broken his silence.

"I made notes, your lordship. Of what people told me. I went to the town clerk and checked with him. He had some telegrams there and he let me look at them. It seems that American soldiers have seized Dublin by force. They are everywhere."

"Taken Dublin? How—and how did they get here?"

"Who can tell? Oh, the stories I heard, there is enough talk all right. Some said they came by sea, in an immense fleet. Someone said he had seen them with his own eyes, landing in their thousands, by boat and barge down the Royal Canal and the Liffey. But one thing is certain, and all I heard agreed on that, they are here and a great number of them indeed. Wounded too, and in the hospitals where there was talk of a great battle in the Curragh."

"There would indeed be a conflict there." Blessington almost said
"We have"
but quickly corrected himself. "There must be at least ten thousand troops stationed there. That would be a battle!"

"Indeed, sir, and I am sure that there was. And there were a lot of people who also seemed to believe that the Americans came by train, had seen them doing it."

"Yes—of course, just what they would do. I can believe that. I have been in America and they are the great ones with their trains." He stood and tapped the framed map on the wall. It had castles and heraldry that picked out the noble seats of Ireland, yet behind all the shields and coats of arms it was still visible as a map. "They landed here at Galway City, I'll warrant. Beat down the local resistance, whatever there was of it, then took the trains to Dublin. What of the rest of Ireland?" he asked, turning back towards Riley. "What did you hear?"

"Saw, your lordship. A big announcement hung on the post office gate. I copied it here, just the gist if it, the best that I could, people were righting to get close to it and read it. Cork taken, it said, and all of the south of Ireland in the Liberators' hands. That's what they call themselves now, the Liberators."

"They would, wouldn't they?" he said bitterly. "But what of Belfast?"

"Fierce fighting there, that is what it said. But Belfast subdued, Ulster surrendered, Ireland one and indivisible and free. Martial law, with a dusk-to-dawn curfew, to be lifted as soon as the dissident elements are subdued. Those aren't my words, I copied what I saw."

"Yes, Riley, thank you. An excellent job." Blessington dismissed the man with a flick of his hand and turned back to the map. "Trains," he muttered to himself. It was so easy when you thought about it. There were no troops to speak of in the west of Ireland. None that he had ever seen. The invaders could land wherever they pleased there, to be greeted by rebels no doubt. Limerick to Cork. Galway to Dublin. Londonderry to Belfast—
and no easy thing for them in the north, I'll warrant. There are loyal people there. Not like the south of Ireland. A viper's nest of Fenians.
He turned away from the map as the door to the study opened.