Lyons blanched. He was aware from his instructions that a squadron had been sent in pursuit of Kearsarge, but not in his wildest imagination did he dream that they would hunt their prey into the heart of America’s greatest city, much less than it would happen before the formal declaration had been delivered. He could only keep an impassive face and hand Seward his letters.
Seward snatched them from his hand. He spat on them, threw them on the floor, and ground them into the carpet with his heel. Looking directly at Lyons, whose eyes had gone wide at the act, he said to his aide, “Show this gentleman out the back door.”
RAILROAD STATION, NEW YORK CITY, 5:25 PM, SEPTEMBER 24, 1863
As soon as Lisovsky’s ships docked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard they offloaded their wounded into the eager arms of ambulance crews. Mayor George Opdyke immediately saw to the provision of a train to take Lisovsky to Washington shortly after the admiral had broken the seal on his orders, written in the hand of the Czar himself, and read them. The progress to the station had been impeded by the huge crowds of cheering New Yorkers, hailing the savior of their city from British surprise attack. As the police cleared the way to the station entrance, a police captain ran up with a telegram and thrust it into the mayor’s hand.
Opdyke’s face turned white. He handed it to the admiral and stood up to wave the crowd silent. “Good people of New York, I have just been handed a telegram from the President of the United States.” The buzz of the crowd hushed in expectation. “I am informed that today, as the battle raged in the Upper Bay, the British ambassador delivered a declaration of war.” He paused for the impact to sink in. The silence held, then burst into a wave of anger from thousands of voices that grew into a howl of incandescent rage.
The tracks were cleared for the train’s run all the way to Washington. Ambassador Stoekel and a naval guard of honor were there to greet it. The ambassador and he spoke quietly before the Russian party climbed into their waiting carriages with a cavalry escort to lead the way. Crowds had gathered at the news of Lisovsky’s approach and broke into wild applause as he sped to meet Lincoln and Seward.
They were immediately ushered into Lincoln’s private study. Stoekel had never seen two graver men than Lincoln and Seward. He introduced Lisovsky, and after warm greetings, Lisovsky bowed and recited the orders Czar Alexander had written him. “Your Excellency, my Imperial Majesty has instructed me that in the event of an attack by a foreign power, particularly Britain or France, upon the United States or upon the recognition of the Southern Confederacy by either of those powers, I am to put my squadron at the disposal of Your Excellency. I have three frigates now in New York. Two more corvettes and a clipper are expected within a few days. I am also instructed to say that a squadron of the Imperial Navy will shortly be arriving at the port of San Francisco under the same orders. I am at your command, Your Excellency.”
Stoekel now spoke. “Mr. President, I am instructed by His Imperial Majesty under contingent orders that should the United States be attacked by these powers, I am to confirm the admiral’s orders and state that upon notification of such an attack His Imperial Majesty will declare war on the attacker. I am empowered to conclude a treaty of alliance at once.”
10
FORT GORGES, PORTLAND HARBOR, MAINE, 2:00 AM, SEPTEMBER 30, 1863
The British sailors pulled slowly on their muffled oars through the fog. They had left the iron screw troopship HMS Dromedary some distance back. In the boats between the oarsmen sat Royal Marines, still and silent. In their blue greatcoats and shakos and with the Enfield rifles in their hands, they could easily be mistaken for American troops, especially in the thick fog.
A light, wan and struggling against the fog, appeared ahead. A clutch of guards, wrapped in their own greatcoats against the chill and huddling against a fire in an iron basket, could be made out under it. At last one cried out, “Who goes there?”
“Garrison relief,” answered a voice in a good New England accent.
“Come in, then,” answered the guard. Capt. George Bazalgette, the officer of Marines, sighed in quiet relief. They had surprise on their side. He silently thanked Providence that the worsening situation had snatched him out of the back-of-beyond station on San Juan Island on the Pacific coast south of Vancouver after the aborted confrontation between Britain and the United States dubbed “the Pig War.” An assignment like this was bound to ensure that he was not remembered as the officer who almost fought in the Pig War.
The plan had relied on the laxness of the Maine home guards who provided the garrison of the fort on rotation. The huge fort appeared as a shadowy mass in the fog. The officer had seen it before on a special visit he had made in mufti a week before. Build on a man-made island on Hog Island Ledge, it was a granite-built, six-sided fort with two tiers of casemates, designed for 195 guns, at least half of which had been installed.
The first boat came up to the stone pier. The guards looked on in curiosity as the officer stepped out followed by his men. Bazalgette’s pistol appeared in the face of the sergeant of the guard as his men quickly overpowered the guards. More boats began unloading Marines. One of them carried a team of Army sappers who rushed along the stone pier to the thick iron-reinforced oak door of the main gate. They were planting their explosive charge when the small access door in the larger doors opened and an officer stepped out followed by the guard relief. The three sappers reacted quickly and bayoneted two of the guards. The officer, bolder and more quick witted than would be expected at two in the morning, pulled his pistol and shot two of the sappers. The third sapper killed the officer with a single cleaving blow of the engineer’s heavy bayonet and bolted through the open door. Another shot came from within. Bazalgette came running, followed by the fifty men who had disembarked. He saw the open door. Another shot from within echoed. He jumped over the bodies and rushed through to find two dead men on the floor and the sapper struggling with a third. A Marine rushed past to plunge his bayonet into the guard. Other men unbolted the great gate doors and pushed back the leaves. The Marines poured in.
Bazalgette and the Army sappers had carefully studied the plans of the fort that had come his way courtesy of Lieutenant Colonel Wolseley. Armed with this knowledge, the Marines fanned out through the fort as more ships’ boats unloaded the rest of the three hundred-man battalion assault force assembled from the ships of Admiral Milne’s command at Halifax. The shots had started to rouse the garrison, but sleepy, inexperienced men on a foggy night were no match for Royal Marines. Men stumbling out of their barracks were shot down or bayoneted. The Marines stormed inside. In less than a half hour, Fort Gorges had fallen. In the morning the good people of Portland would see British colors flying from it as the Royal Navy entered the port in force. The greatest port in northern New England had all but fallen. The most careful intelligence had reported that the only troops in Portland were the home guard garrisons of the harbor forts. It would all be a matter of formalities.
ST. JOHNS RAILROAD STATION, QUEBEC, CANADA, 2:00 AM, SEPTEMBER 30, 1863
For the last two days and nights, the Grand Trunk Railway in Canada had been filled with troop trains converging on Montreal, the nexus of the railway’s connections with New York and New England. From the ancient site of royal France, the might of the British Empire was marshaling rapidly. Most of the forces that had been ostentatiously concentrating between Detroit and Buffalo entrained at night and sped east. The remainder, reinforced by the mobilization of the Sedentary Militia, had occupied the fortifications on the Canadian side. From Montreal the troop trains went south toward the New York and Vermont borders. Just south of St. Johns, the Grand Trunk Railway split to travel on both sides of Lake Champlain and then reunite south of the lake straight down to Albany. From there both Boston and New York City were a bare hundred miles away. Another force of regulars and Canadian Volunteers had concentrated east of Montreal at Sherbrooke along the Grand Trunk and struck southeast through the sleepy small towns of upper Vermont and Maine toward Portland.