Dahlgren barked an order, and Kolya followed in Russian. The two pulled up. “Private Collins, sir! A Company, with a captive.” The young man’s cap was gone, and there was a long wound running down his temple to chin where a saber had wickedly nicked him. The blood dripped black in the gloom. A very frightened Frederick Abel trembled on his horse.
Dahlgren pulled out a handkerchief to put against the wound, as he said, “It’s going to hurt like hell, Collins, but it is not serious. These scalp wounds are worse than they seem.” He kept to himself the elation that at least two of the men had come through. That Private Collins’s devotion to duty had brought the chemist Abel with him was going to be problematic now.
They walked their horses down forest trails till two in the morning when they found an empty woodsman’s hut. After shuttering the windows, they dared light a fire. There Feodor boiled some water to wash Collin’s wound. They ate what rations they had carried in their saddlebags. Luckily there was tea and a kettle. The hot brew never tasted so good to any of them. For the Russians who were a tea-drinking culture, it was a comfort of a happy feature of life; for Americans who were mostly coffee drinkers, it had the touch of the exotic, and for Abel it was a bit of the calm normality in sudden chaos, but any way for all of them it was hot and welcome.
Dahlgren pulled from his coat a map and carefully unfolded it on the table. He studied it for a few minutes. It was a familiar route his finger traced across Essex. “Kolya, we had enough time at sea for me to think through several branches of escape should things go bad.” He gave Rimsky-Korsakov a wry look, “and I think our situations qualify.” Collins hung over the map as well with that familiarity of American soldiers. Feodor, who did not understand a word that was being said, hung back. Charts and maps were for officers only, things of great secrecy, best left alone. As a precaution, Abel was in a back room tied to a chair behind a thick door.
“I don’t intend to surrender, and I’m sure you do not want to either.” Young as he was, Rimsky-Korsakov looked upon his representation of the honor of the empire as a holy thing for which he would give his life. To let the British capture the imperial banner, which he had now entrusted to Feodor as his color bearer, was unthinkable. Nevertheless, he did not see an alternative to a glorious death, which greatly distressed the imaginative artist in him.
Dahlgren went on. He pointed to a place on the map. “I think we are here, near this little place called Debben Hall near where we crossed the river to get into this forest. If we go about two miles south, we can cross the valley where it narrows and get into Hainault Forest. Then we can go west following this ridge line till we reach River Crouch. That’s about twenty-five miles as the crow flies but longer the way we will have to go to seek cover and mostly at night. The river is marshy on both sides and leads into larger marshlands until it gets to the sea. Thank God Wilmoth’s report was in such detail of Essex. There’s a lot of smuggling that hides in the marshes. I hope to find a boat and slip out to sea and head for the continent.”
Collins turned green at the last comment. He had been sick on the Vanderbilt almost the whole way. That ship was as big and steady as you could find at sea, but the prospect of a little boat in the seas he had seen was terrifying. Not Dahlgren, who had been a navy brat and learned to sail small boats almost since childhood. Not so Kolya, who was a trained sailor; his naval academy training had emphasized small boats in the Baltic, which could be as rough as the North Sea. Nor Feodor either, had he know what was being said, for he was fifteen years an able-bodied sailor in the Imperial Navy. When Rimsky-Korsakov told him, Feodor brightened up. The sea was home, and these damned horses had done nothing but make his ass sore.
10
“Old Soldiers of the Queen”
KENNEBUNK, MAINE, 1:45 P.M., MONDAY, APRIL 4, 1964
Troops had been detraining all day on the north side of the Kennebunk River into the ruins of the town where the British had defeated VI Corps’ attempt to relieve Fortress Portland the previous October. The news of Portland’s fall less than a week before had been met with intense disappointment by the men of the Army of the Hudson. They had been arriving in southern Maine for days as the railroad system of the Northeast had been devoted to their transfer from Upstate New York’s Canadian border.
They had been relieved in place by the IX Corps, another detail from the Army of the Potomac. Maj. Gen. Ambrose Burnside had been finally relieved of its command; his honest and repeated protestations of his inability at high command had been proven prescient too many times to risk him in a command of such importance.
Maj. Gen. Dan Sickles had recovered enough from the loss of his leg at Gettysburg to be given this independent command, the only non-West Pointer to be so rewarded. Meade had said flatly that he would resign if Sickles were returned to command his old III Corps. He had clearly identified Sickles as the author of the scathing articles on his command at Gettysburg under the pen name of Historicus.1 Nevertheless, Grant and Lincoln concluded that they could put up with the man’s flamboyance for the fact that he was a natural leader and a hard fighter.
Disappointment quickly hardened into resolve to liberate Gallant Portland for the Army of the Hudson. With VI Corps added to its order-of-battle, Sherman now had over sixty thousand men.2 He had arrived a few days before the rest of the Army to supervise the building of a base of operations at Kennebunk and had welcomed Maj. Gen. Horatio Wright back to the command of his corps after his exchange. He had also brought his own team of commanders from the West, such as Maj. Gen. John A. Logan to command XI Corps and Maj. Gen. James McPherson to command XII Corps. Both were gifted commanders who worked well with each other.3
Sherman was also pleased to receive another officer to his command, though he had never met him before—Maj. Gen. Joshua Chamberlain and his Maine Division. Chamberlain and his men had been exchanged after the surrender of Portland and were national heroes for their stout defense of the city. To that shrunken band, the other Maine regiments in the army were transferred so that it formed a small division of two brigades that Sherman assigned to XI Corps to round out Logan’s command to three divisions. It was thought that no men would fight harder to drive the British men than sons of their own native state.
Sherman was enormously buoyed by the song the men were singing, “The Old Soldiers of the Queen,” based on a song of the Revolution.
Since you all must having singing and won’t be said “Nay,”
I cannot refuse when you beg and you pray.
I will sing you a song (as the poet might say),
Of Queen Vicky’s old soldiers who ne’er ran away.
Chorus: We’re the old soldiers of the queen, And the queen’s own regulars
At Cavarack we met with Yankees one day,
We got ourselves up in our finest array.
Our heads bid us and, and our hearts bid us stay,
But our legs were strong-minded and took us away.
Chorus: We’re the old soldiers of the queen, And the queen’s own regulars
We marched into New York with fifes and with drums,
With muskets and cannons, with swords and with bombs,
This great expedition cost infinite sums.
But some underpaid Doodles, they cut us to crumbs.
Chorus: We’re the old soldiers of the queen, And the queen’s own regulars
They fought so unfairly from back of the trees,
If they’d only fought open we’d have beat them with ease.
They can fight one another that way, if they please,
But we don’t have to stand for such tactics as these!
Chorus: We’re the old soldiers of the queen, And the queen’s own regulars
‘Tis true that we turned, but that shouldn’t disgrace us,
We did it to prove that the foe couldn’t face us.
And they’ve nothing to boast, it’s a very plain case,
Though we lost in the fight, we came first in the race.
Chorus: We�
��re the old soldiers of the queen, And the queen’s own regulars4
THE PINEY WOODS JUST NORTH OF PONCHATOULA, LOUISIANA, 12:05 P.M., MONDAY, APRIL 4, 1864
Ben Grierson had personally scouted every mile of the enemy supply route from the train station at Ponchatoula to Baton Rouge. He had not only gained a careful appreciation for the care that Bazaine had taken to defend it but of the French cavalry patrolling it, especially those Chasseurs d’Afrique in their light-blue jackets and red trousers. The Mexicans had named them the Blue Butchers; they were deadly on patrol. Having been raised from French colonists in Algeria to subdue the native Muslim population, they had become expert at small warfare. Grierson had barely escaped them more than once. What worried him most was the construction by slave crews of an extension of the railroad from Ponchatoula to Baton Rouge that if successfully built would transform a three day wagon trip to only an hour by rail.
That was why he had concentrated his raids on the blockhouses and convoys in the last third of the route leading to Baton Rouge—to draw the Blue Butchers in that as far away from Ponchatoula as possible. Three days before, though, large Confederate infantry and artillery columns had filled the road to Ponchatoula. Grierson thought at first that Bazaine had called his bluff and was going to deal decisively with his raids by crushing him, but the troops had just kept on marching to Ponchatula and entrained for New Orleans, at least two divisions worth. He kept Franklin informed in detail, especially of the stories of deserters his men had scooped up in the piney woods that Taylor was off to take Missouri back from the Yankees. No one was more surprised than Grierson when the last of the Confederates had departed.
He concluded that these events just made his job easier and was glad that he had also taken up Rear Admiral Porter on the offer of a diversion. Grierson looked at his watch. Five minutes after twelve. He expected Porter was in action.
Indeed he was. His ironclad fleet had bolted down the river to blast away at the Franco-Confederate lines in front of Port Hudson while Franklin made ostentatious preparations to issue from his own defenses to attack the enemy to fix Bazaine’s attention anywhere but Ponchatoula. One squadron steamed down river to attack the defenses of Baton Rouge and another to attack enemy shipping on the river south of there as far as New Orleans.
Now all Grierson had to worry about was the French regiment behind earthworks around Ponchatoula. He was watching from a camouflaged platform in the top of the pines a quarter mile away. One of Franklin’s Corps d’Afrique brigades was concealed below him.
He was keen on the arrival of trains and departure of convoys. Two trains had arrived since yesterday and were being loaded aboard the wagons of a convoy, over a hundred wagons. There were plenty of slaves to do the unloading, which gave the French troops very little to do except chase after the few black women in the camp. Their patrolling had fallen off as well since he had carefully stopped all raids and combat patrols anywhere near the garrison. Reconnaissance patrols instead had kept a minute watch on the comings and goings of the French. They were immeasurably helped by the slaves who were periodically let out to gather wood. Grierson had a perfect understanding of the location of every tent, guard post, and ammunition box in Ponchatoula as well as the routine of the guards, their posts, the changing of the guard, and the noontime nap they took. When a few of the slave informants saw the dense ranks of the Corps d’Afrique in the woods, they could scarcely be restrained from rejoicing.
They were mystified when men of the Corps borrowed their clothes. The wagons were filled with rocks and a layer of logs. Under some of the smaller pieces of wood axes, rifles and pistols were hidden. When the plan was explained to the slave leader of the wood party, he volunteered to go along since he was on good terms with the French guards.
The wagons lumbered out of the woods, the men singing a work song that was now familiar to French ears. The wood party was a part of the regular rhythm of the garrison. The guards did not even bother to wave them through, just leaning on their rifles. When the third wagon stopped just halfway through the gate, the guards were only amused at the wagon driver’s evident distress with his mules as he cursed them for their always ill-timed display of stubbornness. Any bit of entertainment out of the ordinary was always welcome, and they focused on him.
They did not pay attention to the slaves next to the wagons reaching in among their tools. The guards died in a fusillade of shots. The Corps d’Afrique men shot the mules, leaving the heavy wagon to block the gates, and killed the last of the guards. With the first shots, Grierson watched one of his cavalry regiments break from the woods and dash the quarter mile to the gate. The black regiments double-timed out of the woods right after them just as four batteries of guns hidden in the woods begin lobbing shells into the camp among the French tents.
The cavalry arrived just in time as the French had rallied to try and retake the gate, but the Corps d’Afrique men fought like devils to hold it. The first of the horsemen worked past the wagon and into the firefight at the gate. A few went down careening off the bridge, but others crowded past the wagon to trample over the bodies carpeting the entrance to the gate and fan out into the camp.
The head of the infantry column was only a hundred yards from the gate when the French gunners manned their pieces and fired into them. The solid shot and shells tore ranks away at a time, but the columns came coming stumbling over their dead or going around. They flooded through the gate, a steel-tipped wave just as a French bayonet charge was driving back the dismounted cavalrymen who had fought through the gate. It was rare for a bayonet charge to be driven home against men who were willing to receive it. Invariably the charge either petered out against an obstinate defender or the defender flew. Either way bayonet rarely crossed bayonet. But this time it did in a stabbing melee where the shouts and curses were all in French for the Corps d’Afrique spoke French as well, not necessarily the pure language of la belle France but that New Orleans gumbo heavily spiced with Congo.
The black column surged and broke through the gate. The coffee mill guns among the artillery concentrated on the French guns crews and swept them from their pieces. Inside the camp the French were driven back step by step until it was clear that they had nowhere to go except the swamp. The eight hundred survivors surrendered.
Disarmed, they were forced to watch the former slave crews of their Confederate allies joyfully loot their camp. Grierson quickly turned them to destroying the rail spur toward Baton Rouge. His cavalry taught them how to heat the ties red hot on fire and then wrap them around telegraph poles, et viola, Ponchatoula hairpins. Inside the camp were warehouses filled with supplies destined for Bazaine’s army that would now sustain Grierson’s command, as well as the hundred wagons and mule teams. There was also a mule stable for replacement animals for the convoys.
Franklin’s orders had been to wipe the Ponchatoula railroad station off the map and destroy the tracks as deep into the woods and swamps as possible. It now occurred to Grierson that he had captured not only two locomotives but over fifty railcars. More of these fine English-made locomotives and their cars were expected according to the interrogation of the station personnel.5
HMS PRINCE ALBERT, THE IRISH SEA OFF THE COAST OF CORK, 6:45 P.M., MONDAY, APRIL 4, 1864
Captain Coles looked at the sun as it prepared to dip below the horizon. He drove a fist into his open hand out of sheer frustration. His chance to catch the Russians would disappear with the sun. Last night he had steamed to the burning ships and intercepted the lifeboats of the crews making their way by sail to Wales. Their stories were unanimous: Russians raiding in the Irish Sea! There was not a Briton who would not dare the impossible to avenge this insult. That night he had assembled his gun crews and every man that could be spared. He explained the gravity of the situation, that they were at war with the Russians, and that Her Majesty looked with special favor on this ship named for the late Prince Consort. Nothing would give the queen greater satisfaction than this ship be the means of England’s r
evenge. They had cheered him wildly. He hoped their morale would make up in some small degree for the minimal gunnery training they had had in the first turrets in the Royal Navy. For that matter, the entire crew had only that one earlier and brief voyage together, not nearly enough to shake down into a fighting team. None of that mattered. He would find the enemy and fight.
He had grasped at the only bit of useful information he could glean from a quick questioning of the merchant crews. The course of the two Russian ships was in the direction of the coast of Cork. He had steamed through the night on that same course and had intercepted and warned a number of British ships, two fast rich steamers of which he had ordered to accompany him. The captains were at first relieved to have such an escort only to realize that they were doing the escorting. Prince Albert sailed inconspicuously between them almost invisible to an approaching ship.
Sure enough, by midmorning a burning ship was spotted by its smoke. Coles steamed in that direction and was quickly alerted by one of his lookouts in the shrouds towering over the steamers that two ships were approaching at high speed trailing their own smoke.6 Coles’s glass quickly confirmed that they were warships, one a frigate and the other a corvette. His marines drummed out “Beat to quarters,” as he prepared his virgin ship for action.
In minutes a ball fired from the frigate splashed into the water just ahead of the larger of the two British steamers. As Coles had directed the captains, they slowed to a stop. When the Russians were only a few hundred yards away, Prince Albert’s engines gave the ship full power, and she sprang out from between the steamers, her four turrets already turned to starboard in the direction of the Russians.
Bayonets, Balloons & Ironclads: Britain and France Take Sides With the South Page 27
