“From General Hooker, sir,” handing the folded paper to Sherman. This was a vital report and overdue; the general opened it calmly. Read it and nodded.
“Hooker’s brigade has detrained at the meeting place, just outside Monastereven. The volunteers with the horses were waiting. He is moving against the barracks in the Curragh now. His scouts report no enemy activity and he hopes to engage the enemy by dark.”
But not if Lieutenant Knight of the Royal Hussars had his way. He had been exercising his horse on the Kildare road when he had seen the train come to a stop in the empty field ahead. He had made only casual notice of it until he had seen the blue-uniformed soldiers emerge. Blue? What regiment could that possibly be? He had tied his mount to a tree by the side of the road and pushed his way through the hedge to get a better view. His jaw dropped with amazement — then he recovered and pulled himself back behind the hedge.
Those weren’t British troops — they were bloody Americans! He knew them well from the long retreat up the Hudson valley.
Americans here? There could be only one reason.
“Invasion,” he said through gritted teeth, as he pulled himself into his saddle. Bloody cheek. Right in Britain’s back garden.
He started off at a trot — then spurred his mount into a gallop as soon as he was out of sight of the train. The general at the Curragh had to be told. The soldiers had to be warned, they must stand to arms. There had been almost ten thousand of them there at the last muster. More than enough to give the Yankees the drubbing that they so richly deserved.
High in the bell tower of Christ Church, Lieutenant Buchner had a fine view across the city, with all of Dublin opened out before him. Off to the left there was a hint of water, the River Liffey, just barely visible between the buildings. The Green of Phoenix Park was behind him, while in front of him he could clearly see the buildings and the quad of Trinity College. All around were the church towers and chimneypots of the city — and the smoke from burning buildings. Men were fighting — and dying — out there. And here he was, perched on top of a church, miles from his guns and his men of the 32nd Pennsylvania. But he still had a job to do.
“Anything yet?” he called out to the soldier who was crouched behind the wall and industriously working a telegraph key.
“Almost, sir, got an answer — then was cut off again. Won’t be long — wait! There it is.”
“Ask them if the ship has tied up yet — and where.”
Lieutenant Buchner looked again at the map that was tacked to the board. He aligned the compass heading yet one more time, noted the degree on the compass rose. This plan had worked out all right when they had rehearsed it. But anything could happen in the stress of battle.
Aboard the Avenger Commodore Goldsborough felt a great relief when the propeller had finally stopped and they had tied up against the granite wall of the river. On the bridge next to him, the signalman was looking through his binoculars at the upper story of the Customs House.
“I have him, sir,” he called out. “Signalman Potter.” He looked at the moving flags. “Message reads — are you ready to receive?”
“We certainly are. What does he say.”
“Range… estimated at nine hundred and sixty yards. Compass bearing—”
The information was passed on to the first turret, which rumbled around to port as one of its guns elevated.
“Fire on the bearing,” the captain ordered.
The plume of fire and smoke roared out: the tight cables to shore creaked as the recoil rocked the ship.
“Over!” Buchner shouted as the shell exploded in the street below. “Nearer to us than the Castle. Signal that they are over by two hundred yards. Lower range. Change bearing right by one degree. Tell them that they can fire again — but only one gun at a time so I can mark the fall.”
The telegraph operator sent his message along the newly installed wire to the Customs House. As soon as it was transcribed it was handed to the signalman from the Avenger whose flags quickly relayed it to the ship.
Short seconds later a second shell exploded. “Much better.” Buchner smiled and rubbed his hands together. This was going to work after all. “Tell them that they are on target and can fire at will.”
A few minutes later shell after shell began to explode in Dublin Castle.
General Sherman had his artillery — even if it was mounted aboard an ironclad. This was indeed a new kind of war that they were fighting.
General Napier was at a staff meeting in the Curragh when Lieutenant Knight burst in. “General, sir, I do believe that the Americans have invaded this country. I saw a train filled with American soldiers. Unloading. Coming this way.”
“Indeed,” Napier said. He was a good field officer but he did not like to be rushed. “Show me where.” He pointed to the map hanging on the wall.
“Here, sir, a ruddy great trainload of them. Blue uniforms, I remember them from the Hudson valley.”
Napier nodded. “This would explain why all the telegraph lines are down. If there is an invasion on it would be simple enough to get some of the locals to take care of that bit of sabotage. I am sure that they would exact great pleasure from interfering with our communications.” He looked around at his assembled officers. “Gentlemen. Let us go to war.”
General Hooker’s scouts reported contact with the enemy. In strength — with cavalry. Half of his men were crossing the ploughed fields and that wouldn’t do.
“Fall back to the last hedgerow. And bring up the Gatlings — we are going to need them.”
The fire grew fiercer when the two armies made contact. The British taking cover before the rapid-firing American rifles. General Napier saw the advance grind to a halt and ordered the cavalry around to flank the Americans. Take them from the rear and pin them down. Then go in for the kill.
The cavalry galloped out, jumping fences as they moved through the green fields. The Americans here were jammed in the single road between high hedges. A killing ground for the heavy cavalry sabers. With a roar they charged.
The Gatling guns that had hurriedly been driven forward opened up with their heady blast of sound. Horses screamed and fell, troopers as well as the hail of lead poured into them. In moments the charge was broken, the troops dismembered, killed.
General Napier did not know it yet, but the battle of the Curragh was as good as lost. His men were brave soldiers and good fighters. But they could not stand up to this new weapon of death.
With the charge broken, General Joe Hooker’s men pushed forward once again. The Gatling guns ready to demolish any resistance that stood in their way.
MOST SHOCKING NEWS
The officer ran out of the front door of the Horse Guards and across the courtyard. The two mounted cavalrymen in front of their guardboxes, as they had been trained to do, did not stir a muscle. Although they did look at him out of the corners of their eyes as his boots clattered across the cobbles towards them.
“You!” he shouted, “Trooper Brown. Take this!”
He shoved the piece of paper into the gloved hand of the mounted sentry.
“Take it to Buckingham Palace — to the Prime Minister. He is meeting with the Queen. Put that bloody saber away and go!”
That was a clear order that had to be obeyed. Brown seized the sheet of paper as he jammed his saber back into its scabbard, kicked his horse into action with his spurs and galloped out into Whitehall. Pedestrians turned and gaped at this wondrous sight. Here was one of the guards who was formally mounted in front of the Horse Guards, with plumed steel helmet, shining gorget, now galloping wildly away. Dodging between the cabs and turning into the Mall. As he galloped its length he managed to take a glimpse at the paper he was carrying, gasped aloud and spurred his mount even harder.