For the moment.
A DREADFUL ENCOUNTER
Captain Eveshaw had one of the ship’s marines stationed in the telegraph office at the Larne pier. As soon as the message from Belfast was transcribed by the army operator, he ran to the ship, up the gangplank, and then to the bridge. Eveshaw took in the brief command in a single glance.
“Raise steam,” the captain ordered. “Prepare to cast off the lines.”
As soon as they had captured the Larne-Stranraer ferry his engineers had taken the precaution of removing the safety valve, as well as the reversing gear, from the ship. It would still be there when the USS Stalwart returned. Black smoke billowed up from the warship’s funnel as it moved away from the pier.
No one could say that she was a handsome ship. One of the first modified Monitor class that had been built after the success of the original Monitor itself, she was far more seaworthy than her predecessor. The original, with such a low freeboard, had been notably unseaworthy. Truly a cheesebox on a raft. Now, with more armored hull above the waterline, Stalwart was more of a cheesebox on a thick plank.
But, ugly or not, she had two great guns in her rotating turret that could take on almost any ship afloat. Billowing out clouds of smoke, a froth of foam at her bow, she headed north up the coast. On the bridge Captain Eveshaw had his glasses pointed at the shore.
“If there are enemy troops coming from the north and attacking our positions, they must have been landed there by ship. They could have come from Scotland during the night and we would never have seen them, not while we were tied up in the harbor, and they never came this far south.”
They had passed Balleygalley Head and were running along the rugged coast when the lookout saw the smoke ahead.
“There sir — a passenger vessel — just clearing that headland! On a northerly course.”
The captain looked at the chart and nodded. “Glenarm Bay, west of the point. There is a harbor marked here.”
“What about that ship, sir?” the first lieutenant asked. “Shall we go after her, stop her?”
“Bit of locking the barn door after the horse has been stolen. I think, since she is not a military vessel, that we let her go peacefully on her way. Now let us see where she has been.”
When they cleared Park Head the small harbor came into view. There was another passenger ship tied up there and, through their glasses, they could see troops marching up the hill.
“There’s your answer,” Captain Eveshaw said. “Make a course back to Larne so we can report this.”
The passenger ship they had seen earlier was now hull down on the horizon, almost out of sight. The lookout then began to slowly scan the rest of the horizon. There — another ship, dead ahead. He waited until he could see her clearly before he called down to the bridge.
“Vessel approaching from the south,” he said. “Under sail, a three-master with an engine it looks like, since she is making smoke.” Eveshaw swung his glasses in that direction.
“This is a very different matter indeed,” he said. “Possibly bringing reinforcements. And not from Scotland — but from England. Probably Liverpool on that course. Let us now find out.”
“If she is carrying troops,” the lieutenant said, sounding worried, “do we, well, fire into her?”
“That we will have to decide when we find out what her cargo is,” the captain said, grim authority in his voice. “If they are reinforcements we certainly cannot permit them to be used against our troops.”
The Stalwart’s bow pointed directly towards the oncoming vessel as they picked up speed. They were surely seen by the other ship because a moment later her image widened and her single sail became three as she came about.
“She’s turning away from us,” the captain said. “Gone about.”
“She’ll not get away,” the lieutenant said happily. “Rigged like that she’ll never match our speed.”
Even though the fleeing ship had a following wind on this course, even aided by her engine, there was no way that she could escape. With every turn of her screw USS Stalwart closed the distance between the two ships. All eyes were upon her until the lookout called out.
“Smoke on the horizon. Ten points off the starboard bow.”
The silence stretched as the other vessel steamed towards them, hull up now.
“An ironclad!” the lieutenant said. “One of ours.”
“Hardly,” Eveshaw said as the vessel grew in his glasses. “We’ve had reports on her. Ten inches of armor. Fourteen guns. HMS Conqueror. British. Change course for Larne. We must report her presence to our forces in Belfast. Order the gun-crews to load with explosive shells and run the guns out.”
“We’re outgunned, sir…”
“Indeed we are, lieutenant, indeed we are. Nevertheless — we will fight.”
On the bridge of Conqueror all eyes were on the strange black vessel with the single stack that was cutting across their course.
“She’s turning, sir,” the first lieutenant said. “Setting a course towards Larne.”
“We can’t have that,” Captain Durnford said. “She’s an American warship, by Jove. Single turret, two guns. Tally ho!”
It was a close-run thing. Stalwart entered Larne Harbor with her gigantic opponent no more than a thousand yards behind her. The American ironclad backwatered at full throttle, yet still smashed hard into the dock. The waiting marine clutching the captain’s message, who was standing at the rail, jumped as the ship collided with the dock, rolled and fell onto the splintered wood. Picked himself up and ran towards the telegraph station. Behind him the armored ports were battened tight as the ship cleared for action.
Stalwart fired first as the hull of her opponent filled her gunsights as Conqueror entered the mouth of Larne Lough. Both shells exploded full on the British ship’s hull. When the smoke blew away two great indentations were visible on her armor. But despite the impact and explosions the shells had not penetrated the layers of iron and wood.
Then, almost as one, the seven port guns of Conqueror fired their broadside.
Stalwart’s turret had been rotated as soon as she had fired, so the single shell that struck it only bounced off the armored rear of the turret. Four of the enemy’s guns were trained too high and their shells passed over the low hull and wreaked havoc in the ferry station beyond.
The other two shells hit Stalwart’s deck. One of them bounced screaming from her armor. The other hit where armor and hull joined and tore a brutal gash in her side.
It was a bitter, pounding, one-sided battle. People, and soldiers, ashore fled from the burning ferry terminal. While Stalwart’s guns were being reloaded, Conqueror went about and her starboard battery roared fire and shell. The Americans’ return fire once again had no visible effect on the larger ship.
The next broadside opened the gap deeper in the American ship’s hull. She appeared to be settling lower in the water. Her guns fired one last time — and then her turret vanished beneath the waters of the harbor. Air bubbled up and whipped the surface into a froth. When the bubbles ceased the ocean calmed. Empty.
No one escaped from the drowned vessel.
The marine in the ruin of the telegraph room turned to the army telegraph operator. “Better add to that message. Stalwart destroyed by enemy fire. She has sunk with all hands aboard.”