Dudley ground his teeth. “Even in song, the popular sentiment of this country favors the rebels. They should be singing her praises; after all, her crew is made up, almost to the man, of former Royal Navy sailors. This country might as well be at war with us.
“No, Captain, I must correct myself. If they are war with us, it is only with their little finger. We must keep them from using both fists. I have been here over two years now, and I am aware of the industrial might of this country. No one will come well out of such a fight.”
ALBERT DOCK, LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND, 2:35 PM, SEPTEMBER 1, 1863
Bulloch prowled the dock as if his presence would speed the already desperate pace the Laird Brothers’ work crews were setting. The arrival of the Gettysburg in Liverpool, now docked barely a quarter mile away, had driven him from his normal behind-the-scenes station. His friends at the Custom House had reported immediately on Lamson’s presentation of his papers and keyed on the fact that he had stated his ship was to replace the purpose-built sloop, USS Kearsarge, as the single American warship on the U.S. Navy’s English Channel Station. He had mentioned casually that every purpose-built warship was needed in American waters to close the noose tighter on Charleston and Wilmington. That only momentarily reassured Bulloch. He would feel better when Gettysburg actually left for the Channel Station, and given British rules on belligerents, that should be in two short days.
Anything that was not absolutely essential to get the ship simply seaworthy enough to escape the harbor and cross the sea to the Azores had been abandoned. Bulloch had arranged for the last work to be completed in those islands before the guns and stores were fitted. He could feel the minutes slipping away as if they were grains of sand in his own life’s hourglass. This time he had avoided the last-minute commotion with the Alabama’s crew. The men that would take her out of the harbor were a skeleton crew, only enough men to run her trials at sea if anyone looked closely. The rest of the crew had already been quietly paid in advance and sent due west to wait in Moelfre Bay off Anglesey in Wales.
Bulloch’s presence had not escaped notice of Dudley’s horde of agents who buzzed around the Albert Dock. Not a bolt or mouse could enter or exit the dock without being noticed. John Laird had paid a gang of local toughs to clear them off, but Dudley had paid even more for a bigger gang. Club-wielding bobbies had more than once had to break up the street battles. It was no wonder that Bulloch was feeling besieged. He felt that he held the last hope of the Confederacy here in Albert Dock. The Confederate armies had suffered major defeats at Gettysburg and Vicksburg, and he realized it was only a matter of time before they wasted away. The South was consuming itself while the resources of the North only grew. The rams had to live up to their fearsome reputation in order to break the blockade and let new life flow into the Confederacy. The rams would then be free to trail the Confederate Navy’s coat up the entire Yankee coast all the way to Canada and back, destroying the North’s shipping and savaging their ports. He had no doubts because he had no more hopes but these. There was nothing he would not do to see that they lived.
Those hopes had flared when the Laird officer in charge of outfitting North Carolina-and that was what Bulloch called her now that her mighty turrets had been fitted-reported that the ship would be ready for sea trials on September 4.
FOREIGN MINISTRY, LONDON, 3:14 PM, SEPTEMBER 1, 1863
Lord John Russell sat in his office deep in thought as he realized that the diplomatic ground was shifting beneath him. His undersecretary, Layard, sat silently, waiting for him to speak.
The twin Union victories that summer at Gettysburg and Vicksburg had a dramatic and sobering effect on the pro-Confederate British establishment. Ambassador Adams had written his son, Charles Francis Adams, Jr., who was serving with the 5th Massachusetts Cavalry, that the news had filled the London salons with “tears of anger mixed with grief.”
Adams’s relentless pressure was supported by a flurry of affidavits and intelligence on the Confederate provenance of the rams. Its cumulative weight was having an effect, albeit a very reluctant one on Russell. In August, while on vacation in Scotland, Adams had informed the Duke of Argyll, the Secretary of State for War, that the French consul in Liverpool had denied that the rams were being built for the French. On his return he passed that information to Russell as well.
The British ambassador in Paris confirmed that Adams was telling the truth. Inquiries to Egypt also revealed that the previous ruler had ordered two ironclads from Bravay, but his successor had canceled the order in 1862. Despite this information, Russell responded in a letter dated September 1.Her Majesty’s government are advised that the information contained in the depositions is in a great measure mere hearsay evidence and generally is not such as to show the intent or purpose necessary to make the building or fitting out of these vessels illegal under the Foreign Enlistment Act… Her Majesty’s government are advised that they cannot interfere in any way with these vessels.
Yet on the same day that letter was written, Russell was convinced by Adams’s efforts that where there was all that smoke, there was probably a good fire. The message did not indicate that change of mind because Russell and the Crown’s legal authorities had become fixated on the letter of a badly written law, the Foreign Enlistment Act. It had been suggested in the cabinet that this recognizably flawed legislation be amended, but even that drew opposition from those determined not to give the appearance of succumbing to American pressure.
That change of mind made Layard decidedly uncomfortable. His friend Bulloch had begged for any indication that the government was about to act. Now it seemed that the manifest need to take action was gathering momentum.
Russell put the issue squarely, “Layard, so much suspicion attaches to the ironclad vessels at Birkenhead that they ought not to be allowed to go out of Liverpool until the suspicion about them is cleared up.”
“Then, do you still want to send Adams this letter?”
“Yes, indeed, but I will not give him the satisfaction of our taking precipitous action. I will not act until the Law Officers have supported such action.” He believed that they would, but pride forbade him keeping Adams abreast of changing perceptions.
By now, both governments were seriously talking past each other. Inexplicably, that letter was not delivered with any dispatch. Adams, however, would take the letter at face value in the absence of clarification from Russell.
AMERICAN EMBASSY, LONDON, 11:50 PM, SEPTEMBER 1, 1863
The cab from the station dropped Lamson at the embassy barely before midnight. He rapped at the door with the brass knocker until a young man in rumpled clothes appeared with a lamp. He seemed unhappy at being awakened.
Lamson introduced himself. The young man yawned. “You are expected. Come in.” He introduced himself as Henry Adams, the ambassador’s son and private secretary. “Wait here. I will let the ambassador know you have arrived.” He disappeared upstairs, leaving Lamson standing in the dark.
Lamson sized up the young man in a glance in the way that a fighting man does other men. He was not impressed. There was something soft in Henry Adams, something that would give if leaned on.