Most of the other passengers hurried on to board the London train. But a few, like Monsieur Noireau, had business here in the seaport. His visit could not have been intended to be an extensive one, for he carried no baggage. He also appeared to be in no hurry as he strolled along the seafront. Sometimes stopping to gaze at the ships gathered there, at other times he looked at the shops and buildings that faced the docks. One in particular attracted his attention. He peered at the chiseled nameplate outside the door, then went on. At the next turning he paused and looked about. As far as he could tell, he was unobserved. He took a moment to glance at the slip of paper in his pocket and nodded slightly. It was indeed the same name he had been told to look for. Trinity House. He walked back toward it, then entered the public house in the adjoining building. The Cask and Telescope. Très naval.
The newcomer ordered a pint of beer in good English — although he had a thick French accent. His French was perfect, he had lived in France for many years, and had long since submerged Mikhail Shevchuk under his new persona. But he never forgot who his masters were.
It was easy to strike up conversations at the bar. Particularly when he was most generous when his time came for buying rounds. By late afternoon he had talked to a number of pilots from Trinity House and had discovered what he needed to know. To them he was an affable agent for French ship’s chandlers, with well-filled pockets.
They called after him cheerfully when he hurried to get the afternoon packet back to France.
BOOK TWO
THE WINDS OF WAR
SEAGOING THUNDER
The year 1865 ended with a winter of discontent. It proved to be the coldest December in many years, with endless snowstorms and hard ice. Even the Potomac froze over. The British government’s continuing legal and diplomatic assaults on the Americans had eased somewhat when Lord Palmerston, who had never recovered his strength after his stroke and was now in his eighty-first year, caught a chill and, after a short illness, died in October. Lord John Russell relinquished his office of Foreign Minister and became Prime Minister in his place. Government policies continued unchanged, and although there was a brief hiatus when his new government was formed, the pressure on the United States continued into the spring of 1866.
A second delay had occurred in December when King Leopold of Belgium died. His intercession had aided the difficult negotiations between the two countries. His son ascended to the throne as Leopold II, but he was never the diplomat that his father was. Difficulties and confrontations continued unabated, but outright war was still avoided.
Lincoln had kept his promise and bought the time that General Sherman had said that he needed. Sherman was a perfectionist and a very hard man to please, but by March 1866 he felt that he had done everything possible to prepare the country for war. Not just to fight a war — but to win it. It was a raw and blustery day when he met General Grant and Admiral David Glasgow Farragut at Ericsson’s foundry and ship works in Newport News.
“Have you seen the new sea batteries yet?” Admiral Farragut asked, then took a sip from his sherry glass. They were waiting for Ericsson in his office, but as usual, he was busy somewhere else in the giant factory.
“I haven’t,” Sherman said. “And I look forward to them with great anticipation. Our victory or defeat depends on these batteries. But I did inspect the new transports in the harbor here and am more than pleased with them.”
Farragut frowned deeply. “I am concerned with those ramps inside the ship that exit at various levels. They violate the integrity of the hull.”
“They are vital to our success, Admiral. Accurate measurements were made at high and low tide at our intended port, enabling the ramp doors to be precisely engineered to the correct height.” He did not mention how these measurements had been obtained; Fox and the Russians were working closely together.
“The pressure of heavy seas should not be discounted,” Farragut said.
“Presumably not. But Ericsson assures me that the watertight seals on the doors will be satisfactory even in the most inclement weather.”
“I sincerely hope that he is right.”
General Grant looked at the inch of sherry in his glass and decided against adding any more. “I have every faith in our Swedish engineer. He has been proven correct in everything that he has done so far. Have you inspected the gun-carrying tanks, Admiral?”
“I have — and they are indeed impressive. An innovation that I can appreciate, but only abstractly, for I cannot imagine how they will be used in battle. I am more at home at sea than on land.”
“Believe me,” Sherman said, with grim certitude. “They are not only important but are vital to my strategy. They will change the face of the battlefield forever.”
“Better you than me going to war with those contraptions.” Farragut was still skeptical. “The new armored warships with their rotating turrets and breech-loading guns are more in the line of work that I am interested in.”
“The British have new warships as well,” Grant said.
“They do — and I have examined reports on them. I am sure that in battle they will be outgunned and outfought by our own ships.”
“Good,” Sherman said, and turned as the door opened. “And here is the man himself.”
Ericsson muttered something incomprehensible as he hurried to his workbench and rifled through a sheaf of drawings there. His hands were smeared with grease, but he did not notice the dark marks that he made on the drawings. “Here,” he said, extracting a drawing and holding it up for inspection. “This can explain how the sea batteries are constructed. Far better than words can. See?”
His finger traced along the bottom of the drawing, pointing out a thick iron structure. “You will note the mortars are aligned along the centerline of the vessel, directly over this iron keel. When they fire, in turn I must insist, the recoil is absorbed by the keel. Mortars of this size have never been mounted in a ship before. It is my fear that if they were all fired at once, it would blow out the bottom of the hull. Is this clear, Admiral; do you understand precisely what I am saying?”
“I understand clearly,” Farragut said, making no attempt to conceal his anger at the engineer’s overbearing attitude. “All of the ship’s officers have been well briefed. They will fire only when your electric telegraph is activated.”
“The telegraph is just a machine — and it could easily fail in combat. The central gunnery officer sends an electric signal that activates a solenoid at a gun position — which raises the red tag instructing the position to fire. But if the machine is broken, signals must be passed along manually. That is when there should be no confusion. One gun at a time, that is most important.”
“The instructions have been given. All of the officers are aware of the situation and have been trained to act accordingly.”
“Hmmph,” Ericsson muttered, then sniffed loudly. Obviously believing in the perfection of machines — but not of men. His bad temper faded only when he looked at the drawing again.
“You will have noted the resemblance of this design to the Roman military ‘turtle’ defensive maneuver. Where the outer ranks of an attacking party held their shields on all sides to protect them from enemy missiles. While the center ranks held their shields over their heads in a defense similar to a turtle’s shell. So do our sea batteries. There is six inches of iron armor, backed by oak, in the hull, rising higher than the guns. Sections of iron shielding are positioned above to cover the decks for protection. These are hinged on the sides and are opened by steam pistons, but only when the mortars are ready to fire.”