Bayonets, Balloons & Ironclads: Britain and France Take Sides With the South

by Tsouras, Peter G.

  Strangely to Derby and to Lord Salisbury, Secretary for India, Disraeli was obsessed with the Russian threat to the Ottoman Empire, a throwback, they thought, to the Crimean War of the previous decade. Salisbury recalled Disraeli’s impassioned argument to the Cabinet:

  If the Russian had Constantinople, they could at any time march their Army through Syria to the mouth of the Nile, and then what would be the use of our holding Egypt? Not even the command of the sea could help us under such circumstances . . . Our strength is on the sea. Constantinople is the Key to India and not Egypt and the canal the French are building.23

  His Cabinet colleagues were at a loss at Disraeli’s constantly looking over his shoulder at Russia while engaged in a deadly struggle with the United States. The British public was inflamed to avenge the unparalleled naval and military defeats of British arms at Charleston and in upstate New York the previous October. To be sure, Disraeli was first of the pack baying for revenge. With a longer view, a twenty-first-century historian would write that “Disraeli had always been brilliant at seizing political advantages from a situation—improvising opinions and positions, and then, in the aftermath of triumph, consolidating his position and making something of it which was truly statesmanlike.”24 Had he not as the Conservative Party leader in the House of Commons brought down the Russell administration by loyally supporting the war but at the same time undermining those in power who had allowed it be brought on? Providentially, Lord Derby’s late father, the head of the Conservative Party had retired for ill health at this time, allowing Disraeli to ride the Conservative tide right into Number 10 Downing Street. But now the war was his.

  And who was this man wielding the might of the greatest empire of modern times? Lord Salisbury said of him that “one burning desire dominated his actions—zeal for the greatness of England was the passion of his life.”25 Nothing could place him at a greater distance from Lincoln, who had described glory as “that attractive rainbow, that rises in showers of blood—that serpent’s eye that charms to destroy.”26 Yet each was determined to make his mark on history. Disraeli put it, “We are here for fame.” Lincoln was the more subtle when he spoke of the desire to make life worthy of remembrance. Outwardly, Disraeli, who had been the byword for foppish elegance, could not have been more different from Lincoln, who was simply oblivious to fashion. Disraeli’s lavender kid gloves were a universe away from Lincoln’s ill-fitting and rumpled plain black suits.

  Both were also known for a lack of malice and a refusal to exact personal or political revenge on their opponents and detractors and both aroused the love of those around them for the same reason—they were men of “patience, gentleness, unswerving and unselfish loyalty.” Both were superb politicians with a shrewd judge of human nature. They also had that indefinable something that made men listen. When Disraeli stood in the House to speak, the anterooms and lobbies emptied out as members rushed to take their green leather seats. He had a clear, rich voice that grew more beautiful as he extended it to the furthest benches. And he always had something worth hearing. Lincoln’s oratory had moved history. His 1860 Cooper Union speech in New York had rumbled like a political earthquake through the North that landed him in the White House. But his speech at Gettysburg, so short that the cameramen had not time to take a picture, had left the vast crowd awestruck and speechless.

  Yet neither man was typical of his country’s elite. Disraeli was the converted Jew, who for all his sincere devotion to the Church of England, provoked a seamy prejudice in certain circles that the genius of the English people was able to rise above. He succeeded by sheer ability and became the indispensable man to the Conservative Party, which he had been actively transforming to a party that appealed across class lines. Lincoln was the ultimate outsider. For his origins to be more humble, his father would have to have been a slave. His Western accent grated on sophisticated Eastern ears, and his ungainly appearance, utterly unmodified by any sense of sartorial style, provoked the cruelest derision. As Disraeli was making over his party into a new national force, Lincoln had leaped aboard the new Republican Party and rode it to its first victory and sunk its foundations deep into the country, north of the Mason–Dixon Line, at least.

  Disraeli’s leadership of the nation in war was being likened to that of the Elder Pitt, the savior who had lead Britain to triumph in the Seven Years War over a hundred years before. Disraeli rallied the nation and marshaled its might for the struggle against the upstart republic. If the Liberator, Simon Bolivar, had once remarked that the army was a sack with no bottom, he obviously had not had the staggering wealth of the British Empire at his call. Another factor was Disraeli’s ability to give voice to the mind of the British people. Their pride had been wounded by their defeats and had awakened an iron determination to be avenged. So the House voted tax rates that had not been seen since the wars of Napoleon, and Britain paid.

  The flood of Southern cotton had put millions of idled mill workers and others back to work. The loss of the immense Northern market for British iron had been partially replaced by the South’s pent-up demand for rails, bridging, and other iron products. Much of the rest had been soaked up by the vast shipbuilding programs that had filled every capable shipyard in the United Kingdom with the keels, ribs, and armor of the new ironclad classes that had been rushed into design. Vulcan’s forge glowed as his hammer beat from one end of the island kingdom to another.

  Still, Disraeli looked east over his shoulder more and more.

  His colleagues had repeatedly argued that the tsar’s determined efforts to avoid war with Britain after the battle of the Upper Bay of New York was proof that he did not intend war. Alexander II had to publicly eat his pride to apologize officially to the Court of St. James and to the Queen personally for the participation of Russian warships in the battle. He had pleaded that they had been drawn unintentionally into the battle in defense of a friendly port. It was all intensely regrettable that Admiral Lisovsky had acted without orders. The tsar went so far as to sack the admiral, publicly, that is. Intent on extracting revenge from the Americans and gratified by the tsar’s humiliating acknowledgment of Britain’s power, the Cabinet had been glad to back off a second war with Russia. The thrashing Russia had received in the Crimean War continued to pay dividends.

  Thus it came as a shock to the Cabinet to be presented with a copy of the secret Russo-American treaty of alliance sold by a file clerk at the American State Department. Gen. Sharpe may have created a robust and talented American national intelligence system, but the British had centuries of successful espionage experience that allowed them to artfully cultivate traitors. The source of this document was not the only agent they were running either.

  The evidence now seemed to tumble into their arms. Three American-designed monitors were discovered to be fitting out at the huge Russian naval base at Kronstadt that guarded the approaches to St. Petersburg. With the Great Armament sent to American waters, the Russians were now doubly sure of defending their capital from the Royal Navy.27

  ST. PETESBURG, RUSSIA, MARCH 19, 1864

  The English, for all their empire, were more than a little tone deaf when it came to understanding other peoples. They had seriously misread Russia in the lead up to the Crimean War just as they were doing now. What they simply did not comprehend was the enormous motive force of the piety of the Russian people. A warning had been sounded the year before in the first volume of Alexander Kinglake’s masterful series on the Crimean War:

  When the Emperor of Russia sought to gain or to keep for his Church the holy shrines of Palestine, he spoke on behalf of fifty millions of brave, pious, devoted subjects, of whom thousands for the sake of the cause would joyfully risk their lives. From the serf in his hut, even up to the great Tsar himself, the faith professed was the faith really glowing in his heart, and violently swaying his will.28

  It should have come as no surprise then when news of the victory of American and Russian ships in the battle of the Upper Bay of New York had
reached Alexander II, he had fallen on his knees, crossed himself, and exclaimed, “Glory to God!” The young Tsar-Liberator at that moment embodied the dream of every Russian to plant the Cross of Christ once more on the dome of the Cathedral of the Holy Wisdom (Hagia Sophia) in Constantinople. The fate of the greatest church in Christendom, until the building of St. Peters in Rome, epitomized the fate of the Orthodox world. The Ottoman tide had finally washed over the battered walls of Theodosius to flood into the vast marble and mosaic-glittering interior of the cathedral on that evil Tuesday in May 1453.29 Mehmet II the Conqueror himself rode his white horse inside to order it converted into a mosque. His armies and those of successors swept over the last of the Orthodox kingdoms in the Balkans. The only Orthodox monarch to survive this tide was the Grand Prince of Moscow. And that throne was sorely beleaguered. The sultan’s Tatar vassals slaved and raided into Russia for centuries, filling their galleys and harems with Russian and Ukrainian slaves.

  And to the court of Ivan III fled the niece of Constantine XI, the Emperor of the Romans, who had thrown away his life in the defense of Constantinople, a heroic end for the last of the Caesars. Ivan took the princess to wife, and from that moment was transformed from prince to Caesar (tsar in Russian) for the dower of the princess was nothing less than the legitimacy of Rome itself, that had passed with Constantine the Great to Constantinople. Moscow was proclaimed the Third Rome with the codicil that there would be no other. And slowly Russia grew in strength, first crushing the Tatar kingdoms that had tormented it, then moving like a glacier inexorably east and south against the borders of the Ottoman Empire. Russia had become the Champion of Orthodoxy, and every victory shone with the glory of Holy Crusade.

  The Crimean War had been sparked by the Russian desire to protect the Orthodox subjects of the Sublime Porte from the outrages of their Muslim rulers. Four hundred years these peoples had suffered; only the Greeks had broken away in the early part of the century, but the southern Slavs still writhed under the Ottoman yoke as did countless other Greeks, Armenians, and Arab Christians in the Middle East.30

  For the Russians that war had been a holy crusade to free the fettered Orthodox peoples, but the British had chosen to see it only in its great power context. A Russia triumphant over the corpse of the Ottoman Empire was a threat to Egypt and more importantly to India, the jewel in the crown, and largest source of imperial revenue. So there was seen the spectacle of Christian Britain and France going to war with Christian Russia to prevent the liberation of millions of Christians oppressed by Muslim Turks. It became fashionable to preach from Church of England and French Catholic pulpits of the barbarous and superstitious-ridden Orthodox Church and ennoble the Turk who had ridden into the Hagia Sophia with his warhorse red to the fetlocks with Christian blood.

  Alexander II had only come to the throne in the last year of that war and had to admit it was lost. For the first time he drank the cup of humiliation pressed to lips by Britain. He vowed he would never do it again. His almost servile attempts to stay out of war with Britain the previous fall had only been a deception, a word for which the Russians set much store. The treaty with the Americans would become operative at the optimum time for Russia and that would be spring when the new grass would feed the chargers and artillery horses of Russia, when the roads would dry for marching armies.

  The American alliance to the casual observer was an odd one. Yet for the Russians it was a matter of deep strategic interest. Ever since the American Revolution, Russia had been a benign if not friendly power. At either ends of the planet form each other, they simply had no strategic conflicts. Instead, trade and lessons learned in taming vast virgin continents were freely exchanged. For example, the ships of the Russian squadron in New York were American designed and their guns American cast. Americans were building Russia’s railroads as well. But it was not these matters drove the alliance. It was fear. Russia’s defeat in the Crimean War had convinced Alexander II and his people that the greatest threat they faced was British world hegemony. And the only counterweight they saw was the rise of the American republic. Now that republic was in danger of self-destruction, the rebellion armed and equipped by Britain. In the first years of the American Civil War, Russia had maneuvered skillfully to prevent an Anglo-French-forced mediation on the Americans that would have resulted in Southern independence. Its mature diplomatic advice had saved the Lincoln administration from more than one pitfall. Russia’s primary foreign policy objective had become preservation of the American Union. With the British attack on the United States, that policy required more than diplomatic support. It demanded that Russia throw her sword on the scales of war.

  5

  Breaking Out

  USS KEARSARGE, MID-ATLANTIC, 3:14 P.M., TUESDAY, MARCH 22, 1864

  As much as Dahlgren liked the sea, standing on the bridge with Captain Lamson during a late-winter Atlantic gale put too high a premium on steady footing. He had sense enough to realize a cork leg was a liability and excused himself to go below, leaving Lamson in his element. The young captain was actually enjoying himself as the rain streamed down his slicker.

  Growing up the son of the most famous admiral in the Navy had long since cured Dahlgren of seasickness. He found his cabin and threw himself into a chair. The heaving of the ship ensured he would have no guests, except perhaps that Russian naval ensign, Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, sent along as His Imperial Majesty’s representative on this expedition. His American staff were soldiers and landlubbers, all a shade of pale green and immobile in their quarters, each surely cursing his decision to volunteer for this mission. It gave Dahlgren time to think.

  He picked up the thread, remembering back to when Meagher, Lamson, and he had arrived at the President’s cottage at the Old Soldiers Home outside of Washington the previous December. They were ushered to the library, where the fireplace glow seemed to bring out the red richness of the wood paneling. Seated at a long, green felt-covered table in the middle of the room were Gus Fox, Edwin Stanton, James McPhail, and a Russian admiral, surely Rear Admiral Lisovsky. Lamson recognized and exchanged smiles with Henry Adams. A few junior officers of both services were setting up maps on boards. Their eyes gathered this in with a glance, but the man standing in front of the three-sided bay window instantly drew their attention. Lincoln’s long presence was illuminated by the cool winter’s light from the windows. He turned and smiled as all three officers came to attention. “Our heroes three,” he said then came over to shake their hands.

  “General Meagher, fortune’s child, there’s no man I’d rather have here today.” Meagher glowed at the compliment.

  Then he put his hand on Dahlgren’s shoulder in the proud but gentle way of a father. “My boy,” he said. Dalghren’s father was Rear Adm. John Dahlgren. The admiral, then a captain, commanded the Washington Navy Yard, had quickly become an indispensable source of technical information on ordnance and sound military common sense. They had become fast friends, and when the then Capt. Dahlgren had returned broken from Gettysburg, hovering near death from the loss of a leg, Lincoln had sat at his bedside holding his hand. His own little boy, Willie, had died eighteen months before, and his soul-rending grief found solace in helping this young man hold onto life. For his heroism at Gettysburg, Lincoln jumped him from captain to well-deserved colonel before his twenty-first birthday.1

  Then he turned to Lamson. “So, Roswell, there’s been a lot of water under the bridge since that day we met in Washington while you were fitting out Gettysburg. Victory hangs on that name.”2

  Introductions were made, and Lincoln retreated to stand with his back to the warmth of the fireplace. “I tell you outright that the war is not going well, despite the victories that you have won. The British have us in the slow squeeze of a python. That is the way they have always won. Over time, their wealth and industrial strength will simply overwhelm us. We need a way to make the python let us go long enough for us to be able to turn out enough of Chris Spencer’s repeaters, Mr. Gatling’s guns,
Col. Lowe’s balloons, and some of Mr. Fox’s surprises to throw onto the scales. That’s where you three come in.” You can give us time by setting big fires in the enemy’s backyard, big enough that they dare not send another man or ship to our shores.” He nodded to McPhail, who summarized the British advantages in industry, manpower, etc.

  Fox picked up the narrative. “We propose to make two simultaneous raids on the British Isles.” An ensign pulled the cloth cover off a map of the United Kingdom. Fox’s pointer stabbed at Dublin first. “General Meagher, we prose to slip the Irish Brigade under your command into Dublin and take it by coup de main. Admiral Lisovsky’s squadron will escort the brigade’s transports and then raid the Irish Sea, dash south, and out into the open ocean again to prey upon the enemy’s shipping.”

  Young Adams added, “And declare the Irish Republic which, I, as the representative of the President of the United States on your expedition, will recognize as an independent nation.”

  Meagher leaped to his feet, drew his sword, and threw it on the table. “Unto death!” Tears coursed down his face. “God bless the United States and the Republic of Ireland.” He stood there and wept unashamedly. The goal of his life, a free Ireland, was suddenly real for this great-hearted Gael. All were moved by the response of the man called Meagher of the Sword.

  Fox’s pointer moved east across the Irish Sea, Wales, and the breadth of England to its east coast. “The objective of the second raid is the Royal Small Arms Factory, Enfield in Essex, and the Royal Power Mills as Waltham Abbey nearby. Captain Lamson will escort the transports with a cavalry regiment. Colonel Dahlgren will command the raid.” He paused to let it sink in. Then he went on. “Enfield is barely twenty-five miles north of London. No enemy has penetrated England so close to London by land since William the Conqueror.”3