“Well then,” Sherman said, drawing himself to his feet. “Let the operation begin.”
As his pinnace brought Captain Dodge back to his ship, he saw another boat pulling away from Thunderer’s side. He clambered up the ladder and through the open hatch to find Gustavus Fox, the Assistant Secretary of the Navy, waiting for him.
“This is a pleasant surprise, Mr. Fox.”
“My pleasure, Captain. I regret the delay, but there were unexpected difficulties in getting your river pilot here before you sailed. He is here now.” He indicated the scowling, gray-bearded man being held by two marines. This was not the time to explain that Lars Nielsen, safely back in his native Jutland and drinking away the money that he had been given, had not been eager to leave Denmark again. A small force had to be quickly organized; a night landing and a sudden scuffle had resolved the situation.
“This a great relief, Mr. Fox. I must say that I was more than a little concerned.”
“We all were, sir. I’m glad that I could be of service.”
They sailed in daylight. Because of the necessity of keeping well away from the English coast, they were taking a more circuitous route well out into the Atlantic. It was a slow convoy, since they could not proceed at a pace faster than that of their slowest vessel. Some of the converted sailing ships were underpowered and sluggish — as were the newly built sea batteries. Certainly their engines were large enough, but the tons of armor plating, as well as the immense mass of the giant mortars, made for a ponderous weight.
It was an incredible sight — hopefully unseen by the enemy — as, one by one, the ships emerged from the mouth of the river Lee to join the warships already situated at their stations. They formed up as they moved, the cargo ships with their human consignment to the center of the convoy. The mortar ships were circled by more mobile vessels as well because, with their armor shields in place, they were unable to fight in the open sea. But their day would soon come.
On guard to the flanks, before and after as well, were the ironclads. Some of them had raced ahead and interposed themselves between the convoy and the invisible British shore. This was a busy part of the Atlantic and there were other ships in the seaway. These were shepherded aside by the guarding ironclads, kept safely over the horizon so none of them ever had a glimpse of the bulk of the convoy.
The ships sailed this way until it was dark, then took nighttime stations so that each ship could follow the shielded lights of the ship in line before them. A rainy dawn found them entering the mouth of the English Channel. France to one side, England to the other, both invisible in the mist. Careful navigation had brought them to the right place at the correct time. Ironclads ranging out on the port flank to observe the English coast and assure the accuracy of their position.
General Sherman, on the bridge of USS Thunderer, saw that the sea batteries were now ranging ponderously ahead of the rest of the convoy as had been planned. Thunderer with her troops and machines would be the first to approach the British shore. The rain was clearing away now and a gray strip of land appeared through the mist off to the left.
England.
If Sherman’s calculations were correct they would now be entering the final and critical phase of his combined attacks. Everything that had been accomplished so far had been leading up to this moment. If the British had been caught off guard, as he hoped, their troops and weapons would have been fully committed to the two earlier attacks.
But if they had seen through his plans, then this last assault Would be in grave danger. Reinforced defenses might stop his advance; a blockade ship sunk in the river channel would render his assault useless. If he were beaten off, why then, Lee and Grant’s soldiers were as good as dead. Without reinforcements and supplies, their positions were doomed. Waiting now for action, he was assailed by doubts; he fought them off. There was no going back.
Was it possible that the British generals had outthought him? Had they somehow divined the true nature of his approaching attack? Did they somehow know where he would strike next?
London.
The heart of the British Empire, the seat of power, the resting place of the crown.
Could the upstart Americans attack and seize this historic city and bring the worldwide empire crashing down?
Yes, Sherman said to himself, walking across the bridge to see the mouth of the Thames opening out before. Yes, he said, jaw set. It can and it will be done.
IN BATTLE DRAWN
It was a misty dawn and little could be seen through the clouded ports of the Trinity House cutter Patricia, now established off Dungeness. Caleb Polwheal had gotten out of bed in the dark, gone into the galley, and made a pot of tea by lamplight. He was master of the first shift, those pilots who would be standing ready at first light to take any waiting ships up the Thames. Taking his cup of tea, Caleb pushed open the door and went out on deck. Out to sea, just visible in the growing light, were the dark shapes of ships, just emerging from a rain squall that had swept by. More and more of them; this was going to be a busy day.
There were warships there as well, a fact made obvious by their menacing guns. Caleb hadn’t been informed of any fleet movements, but that wasn’t unusual. The navy liked to keep their secrets. The rain was stopping, the skies clearing; he went back into the ship and tapped the barometer on the wall. The glass was rising as well; it promised to be a fine day. When he came back on deck again, the approaching ships were closer, clearer; he was unaware that the cup had dropped from his limp fingers and had broken on the planking.
What ships were those to the fore? High-sided and bulky with black armor. They had an armored bridge right up in the bow; two side-by-side funnels in the stern. He knew the lines of every British ship — and these were not like anything ever seen in the navy. And the ironclads in line behind them, with two two-gun turrets — these were unfamiliar as well. There was nothing imaginably like these in the British navy. If not British, was it possible then that these ships were…
An invasion!
Pushing through the door, he stumbled into the bunkroom, shouting the startled pilots awake.
“Get up, get up! Man the pilot boat. We must get to the telegraph station on shore. Contact Trinity House in London immediately. They must know what is happening out here.”
When the news of the invasion fleet reached Trinity House, it was quickly passed on to Whitehall and the War Dep
artment. Less than an hour after the ships had been sighted, the message dropped onto the desk of Brigadier Somerville. He had been at his post all night, working to coordinate the movement of the regiments and divisions that were being rushed into battle at Plymouth. After he spent some hours reading all the reports from the fighting fronts, it had been obvious, at least to him, that the attacks on the Midlands’ concentration camps had been a feint. The enemy there had no escape, so they could be ignored. Eventually they would be captured and reduced — but not now. The real threat was in the south. Trains already going north had to be stopped, diverted, given new destinations. He had been at his post for two days and was wretched from lack of sleep. The Duke of Cambridge had been there almost as long. But he had gone for some rest before midnight and had never returned. Which was fine for Somerville. He no longer had to explain every action to his commander in chief, who at times had difficulty following the brigadier’s quick and complex thinking. He seized the sheet of telegraph paper from the messenger, read it in a glance.
Fleet of warships entering the Thames estuary!
Realization struck. Of course — that had been their plan all the time. The other attacks were only diversions… He was scrawling out a message even as his thoughts raced, his pen nib sputtering and spraying ink in his haste. He pushed it to one side, mastered himself, and wrote another message. He thrust both of them, the ink still wet, at the messenger who answered his call.