“You are completely correct, your grace. The enemy has committed its forces to an invasion of Ireland. Battles cause casualties. We do not know the state of their communications. But we do know that they will not have had enough time to resupply or reinforce their troops. We must not fail at this time.”
When he had sent his men on the cars north from Cork, General Stonewall Jackson had telegraphed asking permission of General Sherman to march at their head. Sherman had not hesitated. The defenses at Cork were well manned and armed. It would not need a fighting general of Jackson’s stature to wage a defensive battle. Sherman’s answer had been fast and brief. Command your troops.
There were guides waiting when Jackson’s troops reached Dublin. To lead them through the city, to the train to Belfast. A mounted major, leading a second saddled horse, saluted Jackson.
“General Sherman’s compliments, sir. He would like to confer with you while your troops are boarding the cars.” Jackson mounted and followed the aide to the headquarters in the General Post Office. Sherman took him by the hand when he came in.
“Congratulations on your success in battle.”
“It was God’s will. Now — tell me what has happened in the north.”
“The enemy has landed in force, on the coast north of here. We must first hold them on land — then look to the navy to prevent any future landings,” General Sherman told him, pointing at the map of Ireland tacked to his headquarters wall. “On our northern front — Lee reports that we are holding — but just barely. You must reinforce him. And hold. He has thrown all his reserves into his defensive position. But the front is small and almost undefendable. It is hand-to-hand fighting now and it cannot go on. He is now setting a major defense line just north of Larne. They’ll fall back on these positions as soon as it is dark, and you will reinforce him. We will hold there. But at sea it is very bad. Stalwart is sunk.”
“I had not heard,” Jackson said grimly.
“She was not outfought — but she was outgunned. And she did report that more ships with troops were supporting the British counter-attack. There is nothing we can do about that, not yet. Her antagonist Conqueror is now protecting the troop ships that continue to arrive from Scotland and possibly from England.”
“What about Avenger? She can surely get after the enemy troop ships — but she’s still tied up here.”
“On my orders. As you know Virginia is on her way here from Cork. When she arrives they will sail together. Then Conqueror will not be able to both protect herself and guard the arriving troop ships at the same time. Undoubtedly there are more British warships on the way. We must make as much of this opportunity as we can before they arrive.”
“Is there any word of Dictator?” Other officers had been hesitant to put into words the question that was in the back of all their minds, but not Jackson. Their mightiest ironclad had missed the invasion with her blown boiler. “Is there any word of her yet?”
“None. I have sent one of the troop ships to the Azores with instructions that she is to proceed at once to Belfast as soon as repairs are made. We can only hope that she has been repaired by now. We must stop any enemy replacements from arriving. When your troops arrive at the front we will have done everything that we could possibly do. As you know, we hold Dublin and Cork with the absolute minimum of troops. Your regiments are the last of the reserves that I can send General Lee. All the other regiments have already been committed. If any man can hold the line it is he.”
“With the good Lord’s aid,” Jackson said firmly; he was a most religious man. “We go where He tells us to go, and in that way we win our battles.”
A DESPERATE GAMBLE
The First Engineer of the USS Dictator stood on the ship’s bridge, so tired that he swayed with fatigue. His clothes were black with grease, as was his skin and the rag he was wiping his hands on with no success. Only his bloodshot eyes had any trace of color.
“It is a simple question,” Captain Johns said quietly. “And I feel that it deserves a simple answer. Is the boiler now repaired?”
The First Engineer twisted the rag as he blurted out the words. “It is but…”
“No ‘buts.’ Will it take us to Ireland?”
Ever since the ship had brought the message from General Sherman that afternoon the captain had paced the bridge deck. It was now after dark and his vessel was still dead in the water. In the end he could control his impatience no longer and had sent for the First Engineer. Whose answer he now awaited.
“It will hold pressure…”
“No ‘buts,’ remember. Will it get us there?”
“I would like some more time…”
“You have none. We
get under way at once.”
“I’ll need at least another half-hour.”
“You have it. We sail then.”
Captain Fosbery sat in the stern of the ship’s boat as they crossed the choppy waters at the mouth of the Mersey River. HMS Intrepid lay still in the water ahead, gray against gray clouds in the falling rain. Alike as two peas in a pod, he thought. They should be. Sister ships. He commanded the Valiant that lay behind him. There were small differences he could detect, nothing important. The ships were Clyde-built, they had been launched within weeks of each other, and were Clyde-strong. He heard the bosun’s whistle as the boat pulled beside her.
“Fosbery, it is good to see you,” Captain Cockham said when his fellow captain climbed on deck. “Do come below where it is dryer and warmer.” He coughed deeply. “Got a bit of a chill on the liver, rum’s the only thing for that. You will join me.”
Sitting in the captain’s cabin they raised their glasses.