“I don’t like this at all. Signal the engine room. Get up steam.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Lieutenant Osborne was panting with exertion as he climbed to the bridge. Yet his face was pale under his tropical tan.
“Gone all to hell, sir,” he said, saluting vaguely. “Troops everywhere, shooting, I saw bodies…”
“Pull yourself together, man. Report.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Osborne straightened his shoulders and came to attention. “I had the gig wait at the dockside in case we had to get out in a hurry. I went on alone. Almost ran into a group of soldiers. They were pushing three matelots along that they had taken prisoner. They were shouting and laughing, didn’t see me.”
“What kind of troops?” the captain snapped. “Be specific.”
“Blue uniforms with the sergeants’ stripes wrong side up. They sounded like — Americans.”
“Americans? Here? But how…?”
The hapless gunnery officer could only shrug. “I saw other parties of them, sir. In the buildings, even boarding the ships. All kinds of gunfire. It was coming closer to me, even flanking me. That’s when I decided that I had better get back and report what I had seen.”
The captain quickly marshaled his thoughts. He had a grave decision to make. Should he take his ship closer to the dock to fire upon the invaders? But how could he find them? If they had seized any of the British warships, would he fire on his own sailors? If the attack had been as successful as the gunnery officer had said, why, the entire port could well be in enemy hands. If the telegraph lines were down, then no one would even know what had happened here. It was his duty now to inform Whitehall of this debacle.
It took long seconds to reach this conclusion, and he realized that the bridge was silent while they awaited his orders.
“Signal slow ahead. Have that line to the buoy cut. There is nothing that we can do here. But we can contact London and tell them what has happened. As soon as we are clear of the harbor, set a course for Dartmouth. Full revolutions. There will be a telegraph station there. I must report what we have seen.”
Smoke pouring from her stack, the ironclad headed out to sea.
STRIKING A MIGHTY BLOW
As soon as the landings at Penzance were complete, USS Pennsylvania raised steam. When the message reached the ship that General Grant and his forces had left for Plymouth with the trains, she upped anchor and headed out to sea. The two other ironclads that remained anchored offshore would be more than force enough to secure the city should any enemy ships be so unwise as to attack. Captain Sanborn had received specific instructions from General Grant. He was to proceed to the part of the coast he was familiar with from the previous night’s action. Pennsylvania steamed slowly east until they reached St. Austell, where they anchored in the deep water offshore. The previous night’s landings had been good experience for the junior officers. But now Sanborn wanted to see the enemy country for himself.
“I’ll command the landing party,” he told the watch officer. “Bank the boilers and see that the watch below gets some sleep; some of them have been awake for two days now. I want two lookouts at the masthead with glasses. They are to report to you anything larger than a fishing boat. If they do sight any ships, you must then sound three long blasts on the whistle, and get up steam. Understood?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The ship’s four boats were hung on davits outside her armor. If they were destroyed in battle they could easily be replaced; the Pennsylvania could not be. Now they were lowered into the water, then swiftly boarded by the landing party and rowed ashore. The ship’s marines landed first and ran across the beach to the street. Sanborn followed after them with his sailors, at a more leisurely pace, smiling at the shocked expressions of the pedestrians. He followed the train tracks to the tiny station, then returned the salute of the sergeant who came out to meet him.
“Station secured, sir, telegraph wires cut. I’ve got some prisoners locked in there, including two local policemen.”
“Any trouble?”
“Nothing to speak of, sir. General Grant said that I was to expect you.”
It was a long wait, most of the afternoon. Captain Sanborn shared some rations with the soldiers and heard about the capture of Penzance and the victorious train ride through Cornwall. Occupying each station as they came to it, then silencing all the telegraph communication as they went.
Around them the little town was silent, pacified — stunned, in fact — with most people staying off the streets. There was obviously no need for a large occupying force here, so the sailors were ordered back to the ship and only the marines remained. Sanborn was almost dozing off when he heard the sound of a train whistle up the line toward Plymouth. He joined the soldiers on the platform as the engine pulled in, pushing a single car ahead of it. The army officer swung down before they stopped and saluted the ship’s commander.
“You will be Captain Sanborn?”
“I am.”
He took an envelope from his locket and passed it over. “From General Grant, sir.”
“How did it go in Plymouth?”
“I would say perfectly, sir. Before I left it was clear that all of the harbor defenses and docks had been captured. Most of the enemy ships had already being boarded and occupied. There was some resistance — but they couldn’t stand before the Gatlings.”
“It sounds like a job well done.” Then the question that was foremost in his mind: “Did any of the enemy ships get away?”