“This is a very different matter indeed,” he said. “Possibly bringing reinforcements. And not from Scotland — but from England. Probably Liverpool on that course. Let us now find out.”
“If she is carrying troops,” the lieutenant said, sounding worried, “do we, well, fire into her?”
“That we will have to decide when we find out what her cargo is,” the captain said, grim authority in his voice. “If they are reinforcements we certainly cannot permit them to be used against our troops.”
The Stalwart’s bow pointed directly towards the oncoming vessel as they picked up speed. They were surely seen by the other ship because a moment later her image widened and her single sail became three as she came about.
“She’s turning away from us,” the captain said. “Gone about.”
“She’ll not get away,” the lieutenant said happily. “Rigged like that she’ll never match our speed.”
Even though the fleeing ship had a following wind on this course, even aided by her engine, there was no way that she could escape. With every turn of her screw USS Stalwart closed the distance between the two ships. All eyes were upon her until the lookout called out.
“Smoke on the horizon. Ten points off the starboard bow.”
The silence stretched as the other vessel steamed towards them, hull up now.
“An ironclad!” the lieutenant said. “One of ours.”
“Hardly,” Eveshaw said as the vessel grew in his glasses. “We’ve had reports on her. Ten inches of armor. Fourteen guns. HMS Conqueror. British. Change course for Larne. We must report her presence to our forces in Belfast. Order the gun-crews to load with explosive shells and run the guns out.”
“We’re outgunned, sir…”
“Indeed we are, lieutenant, indeed we are. Nevertheless — we will fight.”
On the bridge of Conqueror all eyes were on the strange black vessel with the single stack that was cutting across their course.
“She’s turning, sir,” the first lieutenant said. “Setting a course towards Larne.”
“We can’t have that,” Captain Durnford said. “She’s an American warship, by Jove. Single turret, two guns. Tally ho!”
It was a close-run thing. Stalwart entered Larne Harbor with her gigantic opponent no more than a thousand yards be
hind her. The American ironclad backwatered at full throttle, yet still smashed hard into the dock. The waiting marine clutching the captain’s message, who was standing at the rail, jumped as the ship collided with the dock, rolled and fell onto the splintered wood. Picked himself up and ran towards the telegraph station. Behind him the armored ports were battened tight as the ship cleared for action.
Stalwart fired first as the hull of her opponent filled her gunsights as Conqueror entered the mouth of Larne Lough. Both shells exploded full on the British ship’s hull. When the smoke blew away two great indentations were visible on her armor. But despite the impact and explosions the shells had not penetrated the layers of iron and wood.
Then, almost as one, the seven port guns of Conqueror fired their broadside.
Stalwart’s turret had been rotated as soon as she had fired, so the single shell that struck it only bounced off the armored rear of the turret. Four of the enemy’s guns were trained too high and their shells passed over the low hull and wreaked havoc in the ferry station beyond.
The other two shells hit Stalwart’s deck. One of them bounced screaming from her armor. The other hit where armor and hull joined and tore a brutal gash in her side.
It was a bitter, pounding, one-sided battle. People, and soldiers, ashore fled from the burning ferry terminal. While Stalwart’s guns were being reloaded, Conqueror went about and her starboard battery roared fire and shell. The Americans’ return fire once again had no visible effect on the larger ship.
The next broadside opened the gap deeper in the American ship’s hull. She appeared to be settling lower in the water. Her guns fired one last time — and then her turret vanished beneath the waters of the harbor. Air bubbled up and whipped the surface into a froth. When the bubbles ceased the ocean calmed. Empty.
No one escaped from the drowned vessel.
The marine in the ruin of the telegraph room turned to the army telegraph operator. “Better add to that message. Stalwart destroyed by enemy fire. She has sunk with all hands aboard.”
The Duke of Cambridge was in a fire-eating mood. The more he thought about the audacity of the Americans in daring to launch an attack on the British Isles, the more incensed he became. Even though there had been no report in yet, on the success or failure of their attack, he called for more and more troops.
“Somerville!” he bellowed. “Are there any more ships in the Clyde that we can use?”
“Possibly, sir. But since the Scots Guards and the Royal Scots Greys have entrained and embarked there are no more regiments immediately available. However I have sent an order canceling all ship departures from Liverpool. Officers there are determining which of them would be able to carry troops.” He looked up at the office clock. “The Green Howards left some hours ago and should be reaching Liverpool about this time. The Royal Regiment of Fusiliers will be close behind them. We have also rounded up all of the batteries of field artillery available and they are on the way as well.”
“Well done,” the Duke said, albeit begrudgingly. “It is now or never. We must assume that our landings went well and that our forces are now advancing against the enemy in the field. They must be reinforced! We must keep up the pressure. If we cannot prevail now it will be devilish hard to go back and launch an attack again at some future date.”