Fosbury nodded. “That is precisely what I have been told. With the added information that Conqueror is there ahead of us — and has already sunk an American ironclad.”
“Did she, by Jove! Well done. That will teach the Yankees to bite off more than they can chew.”
The first mate tapped lightly on the door, then came in. “Three ships in sight upstream, sir. All of them steam and sail. One looks like a mail packet.”
“I’ll get back to my ship,” Fosbery said, standing. “As I remember you are almost a year superior to me, so I submit to your orders.”
“Simple enough, old chap. We position ourselves between our charges and the enemy and see that they don’t get sunk.”
Avenger had left the Liffey and had stationed herself out to sea, in the lee of the Minch lighthouse. Steaming north, Virginia began signaling as soon as they could make out the signalman on the other ship’s bridge. Commander Goldborough passed on the sore news of the loss of the Stalwart with all hands. They exchanged a quick flurry of flag signals before taking station on each other and, at top speed, steamed north towards Belfast.
The Mississippi regiment held the defensive position through the long night. They had to fight off more than one probing action during the hours of darkness. Firing low, seeing the enemy only in their muzzle flashes. Then it was bayonet against bayonet — and swords, for many of the Scots officers had bucket-handled swords that were vicious weapons in a melee, in the dark. Few prisoners were taken by either side. It was close to dawn before the order was passed forward to withdraw. The Gatling guns were taken out last since their bursts of firing kept enemy heads down — and reminded the enemy that the Americans were still there. They were finally pulled back, one at a time, soldiers pushing on their wheels, tugging on the ropes, until they reached the waiting horses. By dawn the front line was deserted and the defenders were all behind the strengthened new defenses.
General Robert E. Lee stood at the highest spot in the defense line, where the trenches met the foothills. His right flank was anchored on the shore at Drains Bay. From there it stretched across the rolling countryside to the base of Robin Youngs Hill. The troops were well dug in; a lesson that had been learned very well by both sides in the War Between the States. The Gatling guns were set in embrasures in the line, while his few cannon were stationed on the rising hillsides to the rear where they could fire over the lines. He had done all that he could do. He preferred to attack — but knew as well how to build a strong defense.
He done everything possible to prepare the defensive position. All that could be done now was to wait for the attack. He went down the hill to where his aides waited. They must have been questioning a prisoner because he saw two soldiers leading away a man in a scarlet uniform.
“Did you learn anything, Andrews?”
“We did indeed, sir. There are more than Scotch troops out there now. That man is from the King’s Regiment, from Liverpool. He says they sailed from there.”
“That is not in Scotland?”
“No, sir, it’s in England. That means that more ships have been getting through since the first ones landed the Scotch troops.”
Lee looked grimly out to sea. “There is an entire country full of troops out there just yearning to cross this bit of ocean to fight us. We cannot remain on the defensive forever. We shall have to take the attack to the troops that are already here. Roll them back into the ocean before any more can land.”
“We have our navy, sir,” Captain Andrews said. “They should be able to stop more troops from landing.”
“I do not depend on the navy to win my battles,” he said coldly. “Armies win wars.”
There was the call of distant bugles from the enemy where they had assembled out of range of the American guns. Their cannon began to fire a covering barrage and the massed soldiers started forward to the sound of beating drums. The battle had begun.
The British commander was prolifigate with his men’s lives. They attacked in waves, one after the other, waves that threatened to engulf the thinly held line. But the Gatling guns, and the Spencer rifles, tore into the attackers, spreading death and destruction. But not even the bravest of soldiers could continue the attack with the knowledge of certain death at the end. First one man, then another, fell back — then the panic spread until the attacking battalions were in full retreat.
General Lee looked on grimly — then turned when he heard his name called out.
General Stonewall Jackson was swinging down from his horse. They clasped hands and Lee took Jackson by the arm.
“My stout right arm! I have indeed missed you.”
“I am here now — and my regiments are right behind me.”
“We will need all of them. Because we must attack and destroy the British before our ammunition is spent. With each attack our reserves get lower. I think it is deliberate. The enemy commander must know that we cannot resupply. He is trading his men’s lives for our bullets. Let me show you what must be done.”
On the map the situation looked perfectly clear. The tall hill on which their left flank was anchored fell away in sharp cliffs to the rear. Below the cliff was a valley that completely encircled the hill. Jackson should be able to march his troops, unseen, about the base of the hill — and could fall on the enemy from the rear.
“Hit them hard — here,” Lee said. “Cut across their lines of supply. As soon as you do that we will attack from the line.”
“They will be caught between us without a means of escape. God has provided us with the strength and the will. In His name we shall persevere.”
Jackson’s regiments never went into the line. Instead, without stopping, they began the forced march around Robin Youngs Hill to attack the enemy from the rear. The success or failure of the entire war depended on their endurance. Jackson had been Lee’s striking right arm before and had prevailed. Now he must do it again.
VICTORY — OR DEFEAT?
Captain Johns was secure in the knowledge that his ship could defeat any enemy vessel that she might encounter at sea. Dictator’s armor was the heaviest — her guns some of the largest ever mounted on a ship. Each of her turrets, one forward and one aft, held two of the largest cannon Parrott had ever designed. They fired the new hardened steel pointed shells that had proven highly successful in penetrating armor on the testing range. He was sure that they would prove just as successful at sea. Now, instead of taking a route from the Azores to the Irish Sea that might avoid other ships, he proceeded directly towards his destination.
At twelve knots. He hammered the bridge rail with frustration. But the First Engineer would not vouch for the boilers if the pressure were raised. Well at least they were moving, no longer sitting at anchor. The first mate came out of the Chart Room and he waved him over.
“How is our progress?”
“Slow but sure, sir. Since we are taking the most direct course to Belfast we won’t see the coast of Ireland until we are past the Isle of Man. We should be past Dublin by now…”
“Smoke on the horizon, dead ahead,” the lookout called out. “More than one vessel.”
Slow as the Dictator was, the convoy ahead was even slower, held to the speed of her slowest ship — the paddlewheel packet ship. Aboard the Valiant Captain Fosbery contained his anger, looking ahead at the three troop-ships lumbering along in Intrepid’s wake. They should be raising the Isle of Man soon. Then Ireland.