“Simple enough, old chap. We position ourselves between our charges and the enemy and see that they don’t get sunk.”
Avenger had left the Liffey and had stationed herself out to sea, in the lee of the Minch lighthouse. Steaming north, Virginia began signaling as soon as they could make out the signalman on the other ship’s bridge. Commander Goldborough passed on the sore news of the loss of the Stalwart with all hands. They exchanged a quick flurry of flag signals before taking station on each other and, at top speed, steamed north towards Belfast.
The Mississippi regiment held the defensive position through the long night. They had to fight off more than one probing action during the hours of darkness. Firing low, seeing the enemy only in their muzzle flashes. Then it was bayonet against bayonet — and swords, for many of the Scots officers had bucket-handled swords that were vicious weapons in a melee, in the dark. Few prisoners were taken by either side. It was close to dawn before the order was passed forward to withdraw. The Gatling guns were taken out last since their bursts of firing kept enemy heads down — and reminded the enemy that the Americans were still there. They were finally pulled back, one at a time, soldiers pushing on their wheels, tugging on the ropes, until they reached the waiting horses. By dawn the front line was deserted and the defenders were all behind the strengthened new defenses.
General Robert E. Lee stood at the highest spot in the defense line, where the trenches met the foothills. His right flank was anchored on the shore at Drains Bay. From there it stretched across the rolling countryside to the base of Robin Youngs Hill. The troops were well dug in; a lesson that had been learned very well by both sides in the War Between the States. The Gatling guns were set in embrasures in the line, while his few cannon were stationed on the rising hillsides to the rear where they could fire over the lines. He had done all that he could do. He preferred to attack — but knew as well how to build a strong defense.
He done everything possible to prepare the defensive position. All that could be done now was to wait for the attack. He went down the hill to where his aides waited. They must have been questioning a prisoner because he saw two soldiers leading away a man in a scarlet uniform.
“Did you learn anything, Andrews?”
“We did indeed, sir. There are more than Scotch troops out there now. That man is from the King’s Regiment, from Liverpool. He says they sailed from there.”
“That is not in Scotland?”
“No, sir, it’s in England. That means that more ships have been getting through since the first ones landed the Scotch troops.”
Lee looked grimly out to sea. “There is an entire country full of troops out there just yearning to cross this bit of ocean to fight us. We cannot remain on the defensive forever. We shall have to take the attack to the troops that are already here. Roll them back into the ocean before any more can land.”
“We have our navy, sir,” Captain Andrews said. “They should be able to stop more troops from landing.”
“I do not depend on the navy to win my battles,” he said coldly. “Armies win wars.”
There was the call of distant bugles from the enemy where they had assembled out of range of the American guns. Their cannon began to fire a covering barrage and the massed soldiers started forward to the sound of beating drums. The battle had begun.
The British commander was prolifigate with his men’s lives. They attacked in waves, one after the other, waves that threatened to engulf the thinly held line. But the Gatling guns, and the Spencer rifles, tore into the attackers, spreading death and destruction. But not even the bravest of soldiers could continue the attack with the knowledge of certain death at the end. First one man, then another, fell back — then the panic spread until the attacking battalions were in full retreat.
General Lee looked on grimly — then turned when he heard his name called out.
General Stonewall Jackson was swinging down from his horse. They clasped hands and Lee took Jackson by the arm.
“My stout right arm! I have indeed missed you.”
“I am here now — and my regiments are right behind me.”
“We will need all of them. Because we must attack and destroy the British before our ammunition is spent. With each attack our reserves get lower. I think it is deliberate. The enemy commander must know that we cannot resupply. He is trading his men’s lives for our bullets. Let me show you what must be done.”
On the map the situation looked perfectly clear. The tall hill on which their left flank was anchored fell away in sharp cliffs to the rear. Below the cliff was a valley that completely encircled the hill. Jackson should be able to march his troops, unseen, about the base of the hill — and could fall on the enemy from the rear.
“Hit them hard — here,” Lee said. “Cut across their lines of supply. As soon as you do that we will attack from the line.”
“They will be caught between us without a means of escape. God has provided us with the strength and the will. In His name we shall persevere.”
Jackson’s regiments never went into the line. Instead, without stopping, they began the forced march around Robin Youngs Hill to attack the enemy from the rear. The success or failure of the entire war depended on their endurance. Jackson had been Lee’s striking right arm before and had prevailed. Now he must do it again.
VICTORY — OR DEFEAT?
Captain Johns was secure in the knowledge that his ship could defeat any enemy vessel that she might encounter at sea. Dictator’s armor was the heaviest — her guns some of the largest ever mounted on a ship. Each of her turrets, one forward and one aft, held two of the largest cannon Parrott had ever designed. They fired the new hardened steel pointed shells that had proven highly successful in penetrating armor on the testing range. He was sure that they would prove just as successful at sea. Now, instead of taking a route from the Azores to the Irish Sea that might avoid other ships, he proceeded directly towards his destination.
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 th
ey 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 trie
d 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!”
Stars and Stripes In Peril sas-2 Page 31
