Two hours and fifty minutes later, the biggest “if” was answered as Gettysburg steamed into Moelfre Bay. The lookout had already reported a few ships in the bay, including a cluster near the shore. It did not take long for Lamson’s glass to reveal that it was North Carolina and several lighters. He slammed the telescope glass shut. “Battle stations, Mr. Porter.” Most of the men were already at their stations, as eager for this prize as the captain was.
It took the crew of the new Confederate ironclad longer to discover the fast steamer racing toward them. When they did, everyone stopped and stared. One of the officers ran up to James Bulloch. “Sir, she’s the Yankee that was in King’s Dock.”
Bulloch was tight lipped while looking through his glass. “So she is. So she is. Well, don’t just stand there. Get the men to the sheets. Tell the engineer to give me full speed.”
“We’ll never make it, sir. Look how fast she is approaching.”
Bulloch turned on him, drawing a pistol. “Now, Mr. Wilson.”
It did not take long for the Gettysburg’s lookout to spot commotion on the decks of the ironclad. “She’s seen us, Mr. Porter. Prepare to put a shot across her bow.” Lamson had extended his telescope again; he was within range and could see men scurrying to bring sacks and boxes from the lighter tied up to the ironclad. Then the last of them jumped aboard a small craft that peeled away from North Carolina whose own smokestack was beginning to puff deep coils of black coal smoke. Gettysburg raced through the waves like a greyhound as her prey began to get under way. “Fire, when ready, Mr. Porter.”
“Are you crazy?” The scream came from behind him. Lamson turned on his heel to see who would address the ship’s captain with such blasphemy. It was Henry Adams with a look of horror on his face. “We are still in British waters. You cannot fire on them here.”
“Fire!” The forward XI-inch pivot gun snapped back as the round shot flew across the leaden waters of the bay to splash only a few yards from North Carolina’s bow. She did not stop.
“Mr. Adams, I will not be addressed so on my own quarterdeck. Kindly go below.” He turned to Mr. Porter and said, “Aim for their steering gear.” Adams did not go below. He stayed on deck and gibbered something about British territorial waters. When they closed to eight hundred yards, the pivot gun captain shouted, “Fire!’ The great bottle-shaped gun sprang back again with a roar. The first shell struck just behind the stern and went skipping off across the water. The next struck the stern. It penetrated the three-and-a-half-inch armor plate there and exploded inside, but the ironclad was building up a head of steam, attempting to get out to sea. Gettysburg closed to four hundred yards and sent a steady stream of XI-inch shells from all her guns that could bear into North Carolina. They smashed the steering, punched through the armored hull in several places to explode inside, and sent the foremast crashing over the side. The ram’s armor was no protection against Admiral Dahlgren’s guns at full charge. Her trial-run crew was not up to the pounding; nor was the rest of the men, who had been taken on only the hour before and were still unfamiliar with the ship. They huddled belowdecks. The engineer and his crew had shut down the engine.
“Oh, dear God. Lamson, do you realize what you’ve done?” Adams shouted.
“Indeed, I do, Mr. Adams. I have obeyed my orders to prevent this ship from escaping to become another Alabama. Those orders were further seconded by Mr. Seward, if I remember your father’s statement. Now get below, or keep silent.” Adams leaned against the railing and put his face in his hands. Porter signaled to a Marine to escort Adams below.
On the ram, Bulloch recognized the inevitable as the Gettysburg closed. All his dreams and efforts had been smashed by the XI-inch Dahlgrens. There was at least one more thing he could do. He went below to his cabin and threw open his sea chest. He drew out the gray uniform of a Confederate States Navy officer and caressed its fine wool and gilt buttons before changing into it. Next, he drew from the chest a dress sword presented to him by George Trenholm. He looked himself over in the mirror and was satisfied. At least, I will command this ship at her last, he thought. There was one more item in the chest. He held it reverently to his chest, then tucked it under his arm, and climbed to the deck.4
He found it almost deserted. He climbed to the quarterdeck and found the halyard from which the British merchant colors flew. He hauled them down.
Lamson was barely a hundred yards away and shouted the command to cease firing. The men saw the British colors come down and raised a cheer. “Do you strike, sir?” Lamson shouted through a megaphone.
Bulloch bellowed across the water, “No! By God, sir, the Confederate States Ship North Carolina has not struck!” He hoisted the Confederate naval ensign to the top of its staff. Then he walked over to the rail and shook his fist, “Now, sir! Do your worst!”
Gettysburg’s larboard battery thundered, sending three more shells through the ironclad’s plate to explode inside the empty casemate. “Prepare to board!” Lamson shouted. Lamson was drawing his sword when Adams, who had broken away from his escort, grabbed his arm. “You dare, sir?” the captain asked as he pulled back his arm.
“Don’t you see? Don’t you see? We are saved!”
“What the hell do you mean, Mr. Adams?”
Henry Adams was beside himself with excitement. “When he raised that rebel rag, he removed the protection of British sovereignty from his ship. He became a belligerent, liable to be attacked at any time or place, and revealed that was his intention all the time.”
Lamson blinked. All well and good, but he had more to do now than think about the rights of belligerents as Gettysburg came alongside North Carolina. Grappling hooks flew over the narrowing space until the hulls ground against each other. Lamson, sword and pistol in hand, led the boarding party of Marines and sailors over the side. Other than the angry man on the captain’s quarterdeck, the upper decks of the ship were empty save for a pool of blood or two. The men fanned out as Lamson led a party up to the quarterdeck. He approached Bulloch, who stood there gloriously alone.
Lamson holstered his pistol and touched his fingers to his cap brim. “You are my prisoner, sir.”
Bulloch bowed slightly and returned the salute. “I see that the fortunes of war regretfully have made that so, Captain.” He slowly drew his sword and handed it hilt first to Lamson. The Confederate colors fluttered down the halyard at the same time and fell at his feet.
Lamson turned to the ensign that had come aboard with him. “Mr. Henderson, escort Captain…” he looked at Bulloch and said, “I do not believe I know your name, Captain.”
“The name is Bulloch, sir, Capt. James Dunwoody Bulloch, Confederate States Navy.”
“Mr. Henderson, escort Captain Bulloch to my cabin and see that he is comfortable. Ask Mr. Adams to join me here.”
Adams found Lamson searching through papers in Bulloch’s cabin. Lamson looked up. Any anger he may have felt for Adams’s hysteria on deck had evaporated in the excitement of what he had found. “Look at these,” he said and spread papers across the table. His purpose was everywhere; there was even preprinted official stationary for the CSS North Carolina.7