The cavalryman’s boots creaked, his spurs jangled, as he backed clumsily from the room in the silence that followed.
“What are you saying?” Lord Russell shouted. “Who is that from?”
Palmerston read the signature aloud. “General Tarbet. He is in charge of the defenses of Belfast.” Palmerston grew most pale and his hands began to shake.
“A chair for Lord Palmerston!” Russell called out to the servants as he took the telegram from the Prime Minister’s flaccid fingers. He read it aloud.
“I am forced to report that the Americans are now in the process of invading Ireland. There is a ship of war in Belfast Lough that is shelling our defenses. All telegraph communication has been destroyed. I cannot contact Dublin or Londonderry. The telegraph to Scotland has been severed. There is the sound of gunfire in the city. If you receive this message it will indicate that Captain Otfried of my command has succeeded in crossing to Scotland. Query him for more information at the telegraph source of this message.”
“Send for my carriage!” Lord Palmerston shouted, staggering to his feet, somewhat recovered. “Get messages to the War Department and the Royal Navy, to my Cabinet. An emergency meeting of the Cabinet — at once.”
“What does this all mean?” Queen Victoria screeched. “What is happening?”
Palmerston was very much in control of himself now, although his pale face was mottled and shining. “It seems, Ma’am, as though the Americans have fought guile with guile. Apparently their attack on Mexico was just about as real as our attack on the Bahamas. That is — nonexistent. Their fleet has not gone to the Pacific Ocean as was reported to us with such authority. Instead they have come here and invaded these British Isles. They have attacked Ireland — and we know nothing about it! Nothing more than these few words!”
He bowed and stumbled backwards out of the room. He heard the Queen calling after him but did not respond.
The Cabinet Room was bursting with sound when the Prime Minster opened the door. The politicians, army and navy officers, were calling out to one another, seeking information, getting no answers.
“Silence!” Palmerston roared. “I want silence.”
“What is this nonsense about an invasion?” the Duke of Cambridge called out as he threw the door wide and entered, Brigadier Somerville following close behind him.
“Just that,” Palmerston said. “Read it for yourself.” He passed over the telegram. “We need to find out more. And at once.”
“HMS Conqueror is now at Portsmouth,” Admiral Sawyer called out.
“Telegraph Portsmouth now,” Palmerston said. “Tell them what we know. Tell her captain to sail at once for Ireland. We need to find out what is happening there.”
Brigadier Somerville had been speaking quietly to the Duke of Cambridge, who was nodding as he listened. “We need knowledge of the enemy,” Somerville said. “Whereabouts they are, in what numbers…”
“We need bloody well more than that!” The Duke’s face was glowing bright red. “We need to wipe them off the map!”
“But, your grace, without knowledge we don’t know where to attack. I suggest a reconnaissance in force. The Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders will be in barracks in Glasgow. We should have at least a company to stand to arms. There will be shipping in the Clyde. A ship could be commandeered at once, and these troops transported to Northern Ireland. To the fishing port of Carnlough, in Carnlough Bay, might be a likely spot for a landing. It is out of sight of Larne where the enemy warship was seen. But no more than thirty miles north of Belfast. They could discover if—”
“Bugger discovery — I want them stopped, destroyed, wiped out!”
He was shouting so loud that the room grew silent as they listened. The Duke turned to face them, shoulders hunched, nostrils flaring, a bull about to attack.
“They want war? They shall have war. I want all of the troops in the Glasgow garrison to get to Ireland at once. Then I want complete mobilization, right across the country. Stand to arms! Call out the yeomanry. And that warship we are sending to spy — what’s her name?”
“The Conqueror,” the admiral said.
“She’s to do more than just snoop. After they have found what is happening in Ireland — and reported back to us — order the ship north to this Carnlough Bay. The Americans will have their navy at sea. I want our troops protected. Whatever the Americans think they are doing in Ireland, whatever they are doing, they will be stopped!” He turned to Somerville, stabbing out his finger. “Issue the orders!”
Somerville had no choice. He came to attention. “Yes, sir,” he said. Turned and went to went down to the telegraph office himself, composing the messages as he went. Mobilization of all troops on duty in Glasgow. Both regiments. The issue of ammunition before leaving the barracks. Water bottles full, emergency rations for a week. Field guns? No, too slow to muster and move at once. They would follow by the next ships. The first troops would be a reconnaissance in strength. The need was for speed. He wrote out the orders and gave them to the telegrapher, then pulled over the bound book of military telegraph connections. He made a list of the major barracks and regiments. Horse Guards, Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, Green Howards, all of them. Then he wrote out an order for general mobilization.
“Send this order to these units immediately,” he said, passing the list to the chief operator. “I want an acknowledgement that the orders have been received from each one of them.”
In Glasgow the bugles sounded clearly through the afternoon rain, followed by the bellowed commands of the sergeants, the hammer of running feet. Lieutenant Colonel McTavish, in command, was a veteran soldier — his troops just as experienced and professional. They were used to quick actions and even quicker decisions. Minutes later there was the clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobbles outside the barracks as a staff officer galloped towards the shipping offices on the banks of the Clyde. It was a measure of their professionalism that by the time dusk was falling the armed and fully equipped soldiers were marching out of their barracks to the strains of the bagpipes, making their way down to the docks. As they boarded the commandeered steamships they heard the angry shouts of the forcefully disembarked passengers struggling to find their luggage.
It was a slow crossing to Ireland for the two ships, down the Firth of Clyde and across the Irish Channel. Deliberately so since the ships’ captains had conferred, while the troops were being boarded, and had agreed that they
wanted to arrive off the Irish coast just at dawn. A landing at night would be impossible.
The sea was calm, with no other ships in sight at daybreak, when they crept into Carnlough Bay and dropped anchor. The ships’ lifeboats were swung out and they began the tedious business of ferrying the troops to land.
G Company was the first ashore.