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.