Stonewall Jackson was generally known for his fierce and unexpected attacks, his flanking movements that hit where the enemy least expected. Now, with the element of surprise aiding him, his soldiers attacked with a grim ruthlessness. There was some fierce fighting in the city of Limerick, but the last pockets of resistance had been eliminated as soon as the Gatling guns had been deployed. It was a bloody but fast victory, and by ten that morning the city was Jackson’s.
The reception of the troops in the city had been of the warmest. So warm that General Jackson had to have his sergeants collect all the strong drink that had been pressed upon his soldiers, lest they be rendered unfit for action. His regiments entrained for the short journey to Cork where, if all had gone according to plan, the navy was now bombarding the shore positions. The defenses against invasion from the sea there were strong, probably the strongest of any port in Ireland. Landings under fire were out of the question and they had to be taken from the rear. That was what he had to do — and the sooner the better.
Here, as in Galway, the loyal Irish trainmen had assembled most of the Limerick-to-Cork trains in the marshaling yard at Colbert Station. The troops were swiftly boarded and as the first train was ready to leave a soldier ran up waving a sheet of paper.
“Message, General. Just came through.”
There were no British troops or constabulary north of Limerick, nor between Ennis and Galway. The broken telegraph connections between the two west coast ports had been quickly reestablished, so now at least two of the invading armies were now in contact.
“ Galway is taken,” he read out to his officers. ” Sherman is proceeding to Dublin.” He lowered the telegram. “I pray that General Lee in the north is also enjoying the same fruits of his endeavors. Now — the next battle will be ours. With God’s grace, and His sure leadership, we must attack and seize the last bastion of the enemy.
“ Cork.”
ONWARD TO BELFAST!
“It is almost dawn,” General Lee said, his white beard bristling, his face grim in the light of the binnacle.
“I am afraid that it is,” Captain Weeks said.
His ironclad Dictator led the convoy of vessels that followed behind him, unseen in the darkness. His ship carried no riding lights — just a single lamp at her stern. Each of the following ships had such a light, each of them following the lead of the ship before. Only the coming of daylight would reveal if this arrangement had succeeded. It had been a dark night, with occasional rain squalls, and only occasionally had the next ship in line been seen.
“Should we not be much closer to our destination by this time?” Lee’s voice was hard and unforgiving.
Weeks’s shrug was unseen in the darkness. “Perhaps. But you must remember that we were heading into a northerly wind for most of the night. But look — there is the light on Inishowen Head almost directly behind us now. Also to starboard is the Magilligan Point light that marks the mouth of Lough Foyle.”
“Yes — but our destination is not there, but in Portrush. How far is that?”
“No more than ten miles. Almost due east.”
“Yes,” Lee said, talking a sight from the compass. “And I can see it for the sky is growing light.”
The dark coast of Londonderry grew sharper and clearer as dawn approached. A low mist concealed the details — but it was already lifting. Lee turned and squinted into the darkness behind them, at the white froth of their wake now visible in the waning night. The stars were fading in the growing light and, one by one, the ships of the convoy came into view. He counted them as they emerged out of the darkness — and they were all there!
Eight troop-carrying steamships and, taking station to their rear, the ironclad USS Stalwart.
“Portstewart hard to starboard,” the lookout said. “Those two lights, together there. They’re the beacons at the mouth of the River Bann.”
Lee raised his glasses and sought the lights. “Then the beach, what is it called, Portstewart Strand, it will be between beacons and the town?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Raise the signal lights,” Lee ordered. The two yellow lanterns were already lit and swung instantly up to the rear crosstree. Short moments later the signal was seen, passed on, as one by one the following ships made the same signal. Wanker turned to port when she saw the lights and, one by one, the four last transports changed course and followed her towards shore.
General Robert E. Lee had split his force in the past, when a two-pronged attack was deemed necessary. He had faith in his lieutenants, and General James Longstreet was the best. He would make a successful landing on the beach. While Lee led the other half of his divided force.
Dictator was now entering Portrush Harbor, the ironclad, carrying him and his staff, coasting in between the granite jaws of the harbor walls. A single fishing boat was raising sail, otherwise the harbor was empty. BB turned away from the harbor entrance, to let the four transports by, then dropped anchor; her turrets rumbled about so the guns faced land. Within minutes the troop ships were tied up at the harborside, the first soldiers tumbling ashore. There was no sign of any resistance at all. Only the astonished fishermen seemed aware of the invasion.
Longstreet would be landing his troops on Portstewart Strand, ferrying them ashore in the boats. There was no sound of gunfire; the beach was undefended as well. This would take somewhat longer than the harbor landing, but they were also closer to the junction point at Coleraine. When Lee saw that the landing in the harbor was going according to plan he followed his staff into the waiting boat. A signalman from the ship was in the bow, ready to relay any orders to the ironclad if cannonfire was needed in support.
When Longstreet saw that the beach landings were going as smoothly as could be expected, he ordered the two boatloads of marines to begin their own landings. They did not join the army on the beach, but were rowed instead across the mouth of the River Bann, to land at the little village of Castlerock on the far side. A few early-rising people gaped at the marching troops, then quickly closed and locked their doors. A uniformed constable came out to see the cause of the tramping feet and was instantly seized.
“Into the constabulary with him,” the lieutenant ordered. “Take any arms you find. If there is a cell lock him in it.” He smiled at the stunned gaping man. “This newly begun war is already over for you, suh.”
“What war?” the man gasped.
“Now that’s a fair question. Hasn’t got a name yet that I know of.”
There was a whistle in the distance and he led his men at a swift trot to the station. It was a freight train from Londonderry heading south towards Belfast. The marines quickly clambered aboard while the lieutenant, his Colt.45 Peacemaker revolver in his hand, rode the footplate behind the terrified driver.
In the harbor of Portrush General Lee watched the orderly disembarking of his troops and he was pleased. A textbook operation. A captain of his staff approached and saluted.
“Two trains in the Portrush station, sir. Getting up steam now.”
“Flatcars?”
“More than enough for the Gatling guns, General.”
“Fine. Load them up. Board as many troops as you can. Get the rest of them moving on the road to Coleraine. It’s about four miles. We’ll rendezvous there. What was the condition of the telegraph?”
“Inoperable. Line broken somewhere between here and Belfast.”
“Fine. Everything is going according to plan.” He wrote a quick note and handed it to a runner. “For the captain commanding the transports.”
Once the army was safely ashore and military situation in hand, the transports were to leave and rendezvous at Limerick to refuel. The two ironclads would head south as well — to Belfast. Part of the overall plan was to restore telegraph communication as they advanced. His report would apprise Sherman of the success so far.
By road and train the soldiers moved south to join forces again at Coleraine. They had landed successfully without a shot being fired. The t
elegraph wires had been cut, no alarm had been raised, their presence in Ireland known only here. Now they moved south towards Belfast confident that they could take the enemy there by surprise.
Not for the first time had General Robert E. Lee cut himself free of his base and marched his forces against an enemy.
He liked it that way.
Well before ten that morning, by road and by rail, they entered Ballymoney where Lee ordered a halt. The pickets were out, both before and behind — and on both flanks as well. His army was used to living off of the country — only this time they paid for the privilege. Good U.S. greenbacks in exchange for the hams, chickens and other vittles. There had also been some reluctant horse purchases; the gentlemen had little option but to agree. All of his staff were now mounted, Lee himself on a handsome thirteen hand hunter. He took time only to snatch a few mouthfuls of food before gathering his officers around him.
“We are here — and Belfast is here. If we keep to this march we should reach Belfast around three in the morning…” He looked up as Major Craig hurried up.
“Run into another train on a siding, sir. Any more like this and we’ll all be able to ride the cars in style.”
Like most of rural Ireland there was only a single train track leading south. When a train entered a block of single track it picked up a brass “key” on a metal loop from the stationmaster. Only the train with the key was allowed on the single track. At the other end of the block the train would enter a siding while the key would be passed to the up train, which would be waiting on the other track for the down train to pass. Then it could use this section of track, sure that there would not be a head-on collision with a train moving in the opposite direction.
Not today. As the invaders had encountered each waiting train they had seized it and added it to the American cause. Now the first train, seized in Castlerock, was led by three trains, laden with troops, all of them moving majestically in reverse.
“That is good news indeed,” Lee said. “The fresher the troops, the easier the victory.” He looked back to the map. “We’ll make a halt again in Antrim. Looks to be ten miles out of Belfast. Then we’ll go on three hours before dawn. At first light we will hit them and hit them hard. You all have assigned targets so we all know what must be done. Nevertheless we will go over the attack once again in detail.”
At first light the first train rattled into Blank Street Station. The first of the marching troops had already secured the area around the station and willing hands rolled the Gatling guns from the cars and into the streets. All along the line of march horses had been seized, and paid for, and were now waiting to be hitched up to the guns. There was sporadic fire from the city, but nothing heavy and concentrated until the infantry barracks on North Queen Street was surrounded, the artillery barracks next to it as well.
The Battle of Belfast had begun.
While far to the south the battle for Cork was over. The trains from Galway had brought the American forces into Cork Station. Stonewall Jackson’s troops had fanned out while the Gatling guns were being unloaded. The attackers had spread out along the Lower Glanmire Road, through the fields and past the hospital. They had crossed the Old Youghal Road and had launched a fierce attack on the barracks there — which was almost over even before the first ragged bugle call had sounded the warning.
The impregnable forts guarding the entrance to the harbor were taken from the rear, even as the gunners were firing ranging shots at the great black bulk of the ironclad. The attacking ship had fired two broadsides before retiring out of range. The first that the gunners knew that they were under attack from the land was when they saw the bayonets at their throats.
It was indeed a new kind of lightning war.
IRELAND UNDER SIEGE
General Arthur Tarbet was wakened by the hammering on his bedroom door. He blinked his eyes open and saw that there was the first light of dawn around the window curtains.
“What is it?” he called out.
“Ships, sir. Battleships in the lough!”
Even as the words were spoken there came the rumble of distant gunfire.
“Damn it to hell!” he swore as he kicked the bed covers off and jammed his feet into his boots. He pulled on his heavy woolen robe and stumbled hastily across the room. He was seventy-five years old, arthritic and weary, and had been offered command of Her Majesty’s forces in Belfast as a sinecure, an easy post to fill while he awaited his retirement. This was obviously not to be. Captain Otfried, the officer of the day, was waiting for him.
“What is happening, Captain?”
“A certain confusion, sir. Something has gone wrong with the telegraph connection to the gun batteries on the Lough. Not functioning. They sent a runner to report. At least two ironclads are in Belfast Lough. I imagine that is their firing that we hear.”
“Any identification?”
“None at the moment. Though we can safely assume—”
“Yankees. Bloody Yankees. I can figure that one out for myself. Telegraph Dublin at once.”
“I’m afraid that line is not functioning either.”
“Hmm.” Tarbet dropped into the chair behind his desk. “No coincidence there. Have you tried the international cable to Scotland?”
“No, sir.”
“Do it now. Though I wager that it will be a waste of time. Whoever cut the wires will not have made an exception there. Dare we assume that the war has come to Belfast?”
“A reasonable assumption, General.”
“Order me some coffee.” He leaned his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers as he thought about the possibilities. He had been an intelligent officer, as well as a fighting one, and age had not hampered his abilities.
“An attack by sea. Valueless unless landings follow. Or are they already under way? And why Belfast? Most of our troops are in the south and that is where the battle must be fought and won. Or is Dublin under attack as well? Ahh, thank you.”
Otfried opened the window and they could hear the distant rattle of firing. Single shots, then a ripping sound of rapid firing like an entire company firing all together.
“I believe that we are under attack by land as well, sir.”
“I believe that you are right,” Tarbet said as he sipped gratefully at the hot coffee and looked closely at Captain Otfried. “Like to ride, do you Otfried?”
“Rather. Member of my hunt at home.”
“Good. Then get saddled up. I am certain that Ireland is under siege, certainly under attack. If it is, why then the mail boat from Kingstown will certainly have been captured, to prevent any news of the attack on Dublin from reaching London. The ferry from Larne to Scotland will have been taken as well, I wager. No hope of getting word out that way. I am sure that there will be a gunboat closing that port as well. It should be easy enough to blockade all the Irish ports to the south. But it’s a different matter here, with Scotland just across this bit of sea. If any word is to be sent it must be sent from here. I am confident that the little fishing port a few miles north of Larne won’t be watched… what’s the name?”
“Balleygalley.”
“The very place.” The general was writing as he talked. “Ride like the very devil and get yourself there. Commandeer a boat to take you over to Scotland. I’ll give you some coin, just in case an appeal to the mariner’s patriotism doesn’t work. Take this message, find a telegraph, there’s one in Port Logan, get it to Whitehall. Go my boy — may luck be with you.”
The gunfire sounded loud behind Captain Otfried as he galloped out of Belfast on the coast road to the north. When he passed Larne he saw that the general’s assumption had been correct. The mail boat was still there — an armorclad tied up beside her. He rode on.
His horse was lathered with sweat and starting to stumble when he galloped through the streets of Balleygalley and down to the strand. A fishing boat had just dropped sail and was tying up at the jetty. Otfried slipped down from his horse and called out to them.
&nb
sp; “I say — who’s in command here?”
The gray-haired fisherman looked up from the rope he was securing.
“Aye.”
“I must cross to Scotland at once.”
“Go to Larne. I’m no ferry.”
“Larne is sealed off. I saw an enemy gunboat there.”
“Get away with you! And what enemy would that be?”
“The Americans.”
“Well — it’s not my business.” He reached up and took the fish box from the man on deck.
“Please do this. I will pay well.”
The captain dropped the box and looked up. “How much is well?”
“Fifty pounds.”
The fisherman rubbed his beard in thought. “Done. Can I unload my catch first?”
“No. There is no time. And you’ll be coming right back.”
The captain thought about this, then nodded. “Tie your horse up and get aboard.” He bent and untied the line. A squall came up and rain spattered on the deck as the sail filled and they headed out to sea.
More squalls were coming in from the west: they hid the coast from sight when they swept over the fishing boat. The sea was empty of ships and Otfried sincerely hoped that it would stay that way.
But his good luck did not last. The captain estimated that they had come halfway to Scotland when he pointed out to another squall coming down upon them.
“Did you see that — just before the rain come up. A large steamer coming our way.”
“No. Are you sure?”
The fisherman nodded. “In a moment you’ll see for yourself.”
What to do? How to escape capture? Otfried had a sudden inspiration. “Turn about,” he said. “Head back towards Ireland.”
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