Around this two-ship action a naval battle was raging. It was a devastating conflict, wooden ship against wooden ship. However all of the ships of the American fleet were all steam-powered — this gave them the fighting edge against those British ships driven by sail. The guns roared fire and shot, while in the distance the unarmed transports stood out to sea to escape the carnage.
With most of the British armorclad’s main guns out of action, the unarmored American ships now approached and joined the battle against Warrior. Their smaller guns could not penetrate the armor — but they could sweep the decks. Her three immense masts were made of wood, as were her yards. Under the hail of shells from the Americans first the mainmast went, falling to the deck with a crumbling roar, her yards and sails crushing those below. Her mizzenmast went next, adding to the death and destruction. Canvas and broken spars hung over her sides blocking the gun ports so that the firing died away.
Monitor pulled away as Captain Jeffers nodded at the destruction she had brought. “A good bit of work. We’ll leave her that last mast because she will not be going anyplace for awhile.”
“If ever!” the first officer shouted, pointing. “Narragansett has grappled her by the stern — her marines are boarding!”
“Well done. With the iron ship out of the battle we have those wooden warships to think about. We must help the rest of our fleet. Free some of them to go after the transports. We must destroy as many as we can before they scatter. If they don’t strike we’ll sink them.”
His smile was cold, his anger deep.
“This will be a bloody nose for the bloody British Navy that they will long remember.”
A MOMENTOUS OCCASION
“I may have had worse days, John, though I really can’t remember when.”
The President sat in his battered armchair looking fixedly at the telegram that Nicolay had handed him. He was gaunt and losing weight, so much so that his shabby black suit hung loosely, wrinkled. Since Willie’s death he was scarcely eating, barely sleeping. His dark skin was now sallow, his eyes surrounded by black rings. This new war was going very badly. A horsefly hummed angrily about the room, battering itself again and again into the glass of the half-open window. In the room just off of Lincoln’s office the newly installed telegraph clattered away as another message was received.
“Bad news reaches me much faster now that we have that infernal machine so close and handy,” Lincoln said. “Has the Secretary of War seen this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well he will be over here soon enough I imagine. Those poor boys at Plattsburgh. A terrible sacrifice.”
“They slowed the British down, Mr. President.”
“But not for long. Port Henry is taken and in flames and no word from General Halleck yet.”
“His last report said that he was forming a line of defense at Fort Ticonderoga.”
“Are we doomed to keep on repeating history? As I remember it, didn’t we run from the British there as well?”
“It was a strategic retreat that, rather unfortunately, began on the Fourth of July.”
“I pray that Halleck does not repeat that particular maneuver.”
“Grant’s divisions may have joined them by now. That’s a goodly force in the field when you put them together.”
“Well they are not together yet. The British are chewing us up piecemeal. And what about that mysterious telegram from General Sherman? Any elucidation?”
“None that we can find out. Some telegraph lines are down and I am told that we are trying to reroute our communications. All that we have is a garbled message, something about southwards movement, and some sort of reference to General Beauregard.”
“Keep trying, I don’t like mysteries. Not in wartime — not at any time. And cancel those visitations for today. I cannot face the job-seekers who are a pestilential menace to my health.”
“There’s quite a crowd of them. Some of them have been waiting since dawn.”
“I feel no sympathy. Inform them that matters of state must take priority, at least this once.”
“Will you make a single exception, sir? There is an English gentleman here who has just arrived aboard a French ship. He has letters of recommendation from some of the most eminent men in France.”
“English you say? A mystery and a most intriguing one. What is his name?”
“A Mr. Mill, John Stuart Mill. In his note that accompanied the introductions he writes that he has information that will aid in this war for American freedom.”
“If he is an English spy, why then Fox will certainly want to see him.”
“I doubt if he is a spy. The introductions refer to him as a natural philosopher of great merit.”
The chair creaked as Lincoln leaned back and brought his long legs up before him. “I’ll see him. In these days of desperation we must clutch at any straw. Perhaps the distraction will help me forget our disasters for awhile. Are there any clues as to what his information is that will aid our war?”
“I am afraid not. A bit of a mystery.”
“Well — let us solve this mystery. Show the gentleman in.”
Mill was a middle-aged man, balding and smooth-skinned, neatly dressed and most affable. He introduced himself, bowed slightly as he shook the President’s hand. Then he placed the two books he carried on the desk and sat down, after first carefully tucking his coattails beneath him.
“Mr. Lincoln,” he said in a solemn yet excited voice. “I have been an admirer of the American experiment for many years. I have followed your election practices and the operation of the lower house and the Senate, the judiciary and the police. While not perfect by any means, I nevertheless feel that in many ways yours is the only free country in the world — the only democratic one. I believe the world has seen enough of kings and tyrants and must find its way onto the road to democracy. With your noble cause under attack from my own country, a tragedy not of my doing but one that I must still apologize for. But this tragedy has goaded me into unexpected action — which is why I am here. I thought that when my dear wife died and my daughter and I retired to France, that I would write my books and bide my time until I could join her. But that is not to be. Necessity has drawn me from the quiet of my study and back to the world scene. I am here, if you will permit me, to aid your infant democracy and, and again, with your permission, help to guide it on the path to a prosperous future.”
The President nodded in agreement. “Like you I feel that the American experiment is the last, best hope of Earth. You do indeed sound like a man inspired, Mr. Mill. But without intending any insult I am afraid at this time we need men that can fight more than those who can think. But, please elucidate and tell me how you will go about doing that.”
Mill leaned forward and tapped the two books with his finger. “If you search carefully you will find the answer to that question in here, my Principles of Political Economy. They are yours, a small gift.”
“You are very kind.” Lincoln pulled the books across the desk and opened the first volume, smiling at the pages of dense type. “I have always been a great reader in natural philosophy. I greatly admire the theories of Francis Wayland whose work you surely know. Mr. Wayland believes that Labor is the source from which human wants are mainly supplied, labor before capital, capital exists as fruit of labor. But I digress. I look forward to studying your books. The pressures of this war permitting.”