“Yes, sir. Sounded like a saluting cannon.”
Semmes stood, frozen for a long moment, while the smoke thinned and dispersed. He had a decision to make, a decision that might end these frustrating months of convoy duty.
“Bos’un — was there a cannon fired aboard the British ship?”
“Aye, sir. But I think—”
“Do not think. Answer me. You saw the smoke, heard the sound of a cannon being fired aboard that British ship?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Good. We will return fire. I want the gunners to aim for her upper works.”
The six guns fired almost as one. The hail of steel fragments swept the other ship’s decks clear, wrecked both her funnels, blew away her bridge and officers, steersman, everyone. The surprise was complete, the destruction total. No order was given to fire aboard the battered ship, and the guncrews, trained to obey orders and not to think, did nothing.
Semmes knew all about the ship he had just engaged. He knew that all of her guns were in a heavily armored citadel, an iron box that was separate from the rest of the ship. They pointed to port and starboard — and only a single hundred-pound pivot gun that was on her stern deck pointed aft. Virginia crossed Devastation’s stern, and all of her guns, firing over and over, pounded this single target.
No ship, no matter how well built and heavily armored, could survive this kind of punishment. The pivot gun got off one shot, which bounced from Virginia’s armor before being dismounted and destroyed. Shell after shell exploded inside the ironclad’s hull, gutting her, blowing gaping holes in the outer armor. Igniting a store of powder.
The ripping explosion blew most of the ship’s stern away, and the ocean rushed in. With the ship deprived of her buoyancy, the bow rose in the air. There were more explosions deep in the hull and immense clouds of vapor as the boilers were flooded. The bow was higher now, pointing to the zenith. Then, with immense burbling and retching, the ironclad sank down into the ocean and vanished from sight. Nothing but wreckage remained to mark the spot.
“Lower the boat,” Semmes ordered. “Pick up any survivors.” He had to repeat the order, shouting it this time, before the stunned sailors sprang into action.
Out of a crew of over six hundred, there were three survivors. One of them was so badly wounded he died even before they could bring him aboard. It was a resounding victory for American sea power.
And HMS Devastation had fired the gun that started the conflict. Captain Semmes had many witnesses to that fact. Not that there would be any real questions asked; the affair was a fait accompli. The act was finished.
There was no going back now. The deed was done.
Once the Aurora was out of Liverpool Bay, safe in the darkness and the open and rainswept Irish Sea, she slowed to a less strenuous pace and eased the reckless pressure in her boilers. There were extra lookouts posted, on the off chance that their pursuer might still be after them, while the sailors cleared away the wreckage and covered with a tarpaulin the hole that had been blasted into the cabin. Once this was done, they settled down for a late dinner with, as always, copious quantities of the Count’s vintage champagne. Because the galley fires were still out, it was a cold meal of caviar and pickled herring; there were no complaints.
“How did they find us?” Wilson said, sipping gratefully at the champagne. “That is what I don’t understand.”
“My fault completely,” Korzhenevski admitted. “After that little contretemps in Greenwich, I should have been more on my guard. Once suspicion was aroused, they would have easily traced us to Penzance. Plenty of people there saw us cruise north from there. I was equally foolish when we stopped for fresh supplies in Anglesey. I bought maps of the estuary here, and of the bay, in the chandler’s. Once they knew that, they knew where to find us. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“Which is written by the victors,” General Sherman said, holding up his glass. “And a toast to the Count, the victor. Whatever crimes of omission you think you have committed in leading the British to us, you have well vindicated yourself by what to me, a mere landsman, appeared to be an incredibly skilled bit of boat handling.”
“Hear, hear,” Fox said, raising his glass as well.
“Gentlemen, I thank you.” The Count smiled and settled back in the chair with a sigh.
“What is next?” Sherman asked.
“Ireland. We are now on a northwest heading to stay clear of Anglesey and the Welsh coast. In a few hours we head due west for Ireland and Dublin Harbor. We will arrive around daybreak. And then — what happens next is up to you, General. My part of our interesting tour of exploration is finished. I will have Aurora repaired in Ireland, then will sail north to Russia, since these waters are no longer as friendly as they once were.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Sherman said. “About the end of your friendship with the English—”
“Please don’t be! Ever since the Crimean War, my fri
endship has been nothing but a sham. In a way I am glad that the playacting is over. They are now as much my enemy as they are yours.” His face grew grim. “Will there be war?”
“That I do not know,” Sherman said. “All I know is that if war does come, we will be prepared for it. With all thanks due to you.”
“It was all worth doing if you obtained the military intelligence that you needed.”
“I did indeed.”
“Good. Then — a single favor. If there are hostilities, would you recommend me for a post in your navy?”