The captain pointed to the tip of the Yorktown Peninsula ahead; waves broke lazily on the sandy beach. “We will weather the point all right. But it’s maybe eight miles more down the coast to the fort. That warship will catch us up before we’ve gone half that far. Sorry, sir. We have done what we can — this old ship has as well. There is nothing more that can be done. We have all the steam up, almost too much. Short of blowing up our boiler we’ve done our best.”
Then the British ship fired. The shells fell short. Now. But the range was closing.
So close, so very close. Lincoln pounded his fist against the side of the cabin. It could not be. The war just could not end like this, with humiliation and disgrace. Too much was at stake, too many young men had died. Now that there was a possibility that the war between the states might end, the stupidity of this chance encounter was almost too much to believe. But it was true. The British ship was growing ever closer: the end was in sight.
The wheel came over and the ship heeled as they weathered the point, sailing so close to the shore and the marshland beyond that they were practically in the breakers. The River Queen seemed to gain a bit as the larger British warship stood further out to sea, needing more depth beneath her keel.
But it wasn’t enough. From his experiences as a river boatman Lincoln could tell that there was no escape. They would be overtaken long before they reached the security of the fort and its guns. For a moment the warship seemed to be going away from them, showing her flank bristling with cannon. Then she turned once more to the pursuit, bows on and coming fast.
Lincoln could not look at this certain destiny. He turned toward the bow as the eastern portion of the coast opened up. With the dark smudge of Fort Monroe at its farther end.
“My God!” the captain gasped.
“My God, indeed,” Lincoln agreed, and felt his tight clasp on the rail loosen.
For there, not a mile away, was an ironclad warship. Smoke pouring from her funnel, heading toward them.
And most glorious sight of all — the Stars and Stripes that were streaming out from her masthead.
WASHINGTON CITY ATTACKED
Royal Oak led the way, a sixty-gun ship of the line. In line astern were two other great ships. Prince Consort also with sixty-guns, and following her was Repulse with fifty-nine. They slowly came around the bend in the river and the city of Washington was open before them. The fighting ships drew close to the shore while the troop transports moved toward the Virginia side of the river. As soon as the British ships were within range the battery of American field artillery on the shore, and the guns of Fort Carrol, opened fire. The sound of the explosions echoed through the empty streets of the city; acrid smoke drifted in the hot air. The gunners shouted with pleasure as they saw their shells strike home in the high oak flanks of the warships.
Their voices were drowned in the thunder of the ship of the line’s broadside. Thirty guns fired as one and Royal Oak rolled with the recoil. The artillery battery ceased to exist. The undermanned fort grew silent as the heavy guns pounded it.
Other guns on the shore were firing now, with little effect against the thick oak of the British ships. They drifted closer to the embankment, turning as they came so the gun layers could pick out the individual batteries and guns. There were few enough defenders to begin with, fewer still after the first minutes of firing. None remained intact fifteen minutes later as the first of the transports approached the shore.
There was a spatter of defensive fire from the American soldiers there, answered at once by British guns firing grapeshot. Marine marksmen in the rigging added to the carnage. The signal flags went up and the big troop transports threw their sails over and tacked across the river to the shore. Sailors jumped down lines to secure them and gangways were slung down.
By the time the first troops were marching ashore, the pocket of resistance had been all but wiped out. Urged on by the shouts of the sergeants, two columns were quickly formed up and then marched out briskly. One in the direction of the Capitol — the other directly towards the White House. History was repeating itself with a vengeance.
Secretary Stanton looked down from the high window of the War Department at the troops advancing down Pennsylvania Avenue. There was shouting from the hall behind him and the sound of running feet.
“Sir,” a voice called out and he turned to see the red-faced and sweating Captain Docherty. “We got the presidential party to safety, got my men back here as quick as I could.”
“Where did you take them?”
“Mrs. Lincoln said they would be safe in Mrs. Morgan’s house in Georgetown. Good a place as any. Locked in and all the windows bolted. I left a corporal and two men though, just in case.”
“What are the streets like?”
“Empty, pretty much. Houses all locked up. But there are more and more men about, carrying guns.”
“What do you
mean?”
“City folk. Got their women and kinfolk to safety then began to get angry, I guess. This may be the capital of the country but it has always been a Southern city. These people don’t like being invaded, particularly by the British.”
“Any chance of forming them up?” General A. J. Smith said, turning from the window. More shots were sounding from the street below.
“No way — but they’re doing all right from what I seen. Most of them are sniping away at the redcoats like they was at a turkey shoot. Rise up and let go, then slip away. Don’t know how much good they’re doing against the regulars, but I’ve seen the redcoats fall.”
Soldiers were firing from the windows now at the British advancing through the street below. A burst of counterfire took out the glass from the window and Stanton retreated to the far wall out of the line of fire.
“What do you see, General?”
The officer was ignoring the occasional bullet that crashed into the room, even leaned out to see better. “Those Kentucky troops, the ones stationed in the White House, they’re putting up quite a defense. Keeping the lobsterbacks pretty clear — by tarnation, good shooting!”