“That will be tomorrow, the twenty-first.”
“It will indeed. And I am also allowing that one day for confusion. The government must sit, plan, seek advice, run to the Queen, and back.”
“You estimate that an entire day will pass like that before any firm actions are taken by them?”
“I do.”
Grant puffed out a cloud of smoke, looked unseeingly out of the window. “You are a man of decision, Cumph. I would not like to be in your position and be responsible for the progress of this war. I would have continued the invasion at once.”
“Then again perhaps you would not, if you were in my shoes. It is a command decision — and once made it cannot be altered. In London, evaluations will have to be made as well, orders written and transmitted. Their thinking will have to change completely, which is never an easy thing to do, because they have never been in this position before. For the first time their armies will not be attacking — but defending. Of course, there is always the possibility that plans have been made for such an eventuality. But even if they have plans, they will have to be unearthed, examined, modified. If anything, I think that I am being overly conservative in allowing only a single day for confusion. But it is too late to change all that. I am sure that tomorrow will be a quiet day for all the enemy forces in the country. I am positive that meaningful movement of troops will not happen until the twenty-second.”
“And then they will all be marching toward the Midlands to counter the invasion.”
“They will indeed,” Sherman said; there was no warmth in his smile. “So it will be on the twenty-third that you will sail with your men.”
“I look forward to that moment, as do all the troops. By which time we will surely have been informed how the first invasion, at Liverpool, is proceeding.”
“I am counting upon you to drive your attack home.”
“I will not fail you,” Grant said in an even voice that was firm, even gruff. He would get the job done all right. Sherman knew that if any general in the entire world could succeed, it was Ulysses S. Grant.
As soon as the Liverpool fortifications had been leveled and the guns silenced by the naval fire, the transports of the invading army tied up one by one at the city’s central docks. The ships that were already berthed there had their hawsers unceremoniously cut and were towed to the Birkenhead side of the river, where they were run aground. Even while this was happening the gangways on the Irish ships were dropped. The first men ashore were Irish riflemen, who fanned out in defensive positions and took shelter from any counterattack. They were scarcely under cover before the loading ramps of the special transports were extended and the American cavalry galloped out into the morning light.
Within an hour the waterfront was secured while the attackers fanned out through the city. There were pockets of resistance, which were swiftly reduced because after the cavalrymen left the transports and charged forward into battle, the cannon were unloaded. As they emerged they were prevented from too fast progress down the ramps by restraining ropes that were wrapped around deck winches. Slowly and carefully they were rolled down onto the dock. The horses were in their traces within minutes. The Gatling guns, being much lighter, were manhandled down the ramps to the dockside, where their horses were hitched up. The cannon, with caissons and limbers attached, were soon ready to go into battle as well. The advance continued into the city, slowly and inexorably.
General Robert E. Lee had set up his headquarters close by the Mersey. Runners, and an occasional cavalryman, brought their reports to him.
“There is a strong defense at the barracks, here,” Colonel Kiley said, touching his finger to the map of the city spread out on the table.
Lee nodded. “That was to be expected. Were they bypassed?”
“They were indeed, General, just as you ordered. A company left behind to keep up fire, along with two of the Gatling guns.”
“Fine. Get a battery of guns down there to clear them out.”
While the attack into Liverpool was slow and precise, the spearhead of troops launched against Lime Street Station was not. The cavalry had galloped ahead, cutting through any determined defenses, charging on. Pockets of resistance were bypassed, leaving the infantry to mop them up. The mobile Gatling guns sent torrents of bullets into any troops bold enough to stand in their way. It was the station, the trains, the marshaling yards that had to be seized intact at any cost. Lee only relaxed, ever so slightly, when the reports reached him that the primary targets had been taken.
“I am moving my headquarters to the station as was planned. Send runners, see that all units are informed.” He stepped aside as officers hurried to roll up the maps.
“This operation will now move into the second and final phase. General Meagher and the Irish troops will begin leaving as soon as possible.” He waved over a cavalryman and passed him the message he had just writte
n.
“Take this to the commander of the Darter. He is to get under way for Dublin at once.”
The officer saluted, then vaulted into his saddle and galloped to the ship. Lee nodded after him.
Everything was going just as they had planned.
THE SWORD IS DRAWN
It was like using a steam hammer to crack a nut: the forces employed were well out of proportion to the chosen target. Yet the success or failure of the entire invasion depended upon the simple act of getting one man ashore at the right place in Cornwall — armed with a single vital tool. USS Mississippi and USS Pennsylvania were chosen for the task. They were newly built and improved ironclads of the two-turret Monitor class. Like their predecessor, Virginia, they were named after states of the Union. The politically aware Navy Department made sure that they were named alternately after a Northern and a Southern state.
The two ironclads had raced ahead of the rest of the armada when it left Cork harbor. Steaming due south, they did not turn east until they had crossed fifty degrees north latitude and were at the mouth of the English Channel. After this they kept a course well south of the Scilly Isles; the islands were seen just as small blurs on the horizon to port. It was late in the afternoon by this time, and they slowed their progress until dark. Now was the time of greatest peril: they were less than forty miles away from Plymouth, the second-largest naval base in the British Isles. The lookout posts were double-manned and the men swept the horizon continuously. There were fishing boats close inshore, but these could be ignored. It was the British navy that they were concerned with; for good reason. Surprise was of the essence.
It was growing dark when Mississippi sent a signal to Pennsylvania. She was sailing well ahead of her sister ship, as well as standing farther out to sea. This positioning was deliberate — and vital — as her brief message reported.
Unidentified naval vessel sighted ahead. Am intercepting.