Lee nodded. “That was to be expected. Were they bypassed?”
“They were indeed, General, just as you ordered. A company left behind to keep up fire, along with two of the Gatling guns.”
“Fine. Get a battery of guns down there to clear them out.”
While the attack into Liverpool was slow and precise, the spearhead of troops launched against Lime Street Station was not. The cavalry had galloped ahead, cutting through any determined defenses, charging on. Pockets of resistance were bypassed, leaving the infantry to mop them up. The mobile Gatling guns sent torrents of bullets into any troops bold enough to stand in their way. It was the station, the trains, the marshaling yards that had to be seized intact at any cost. Lee only relaxed, ever so slightly, when the reports reached him that the primary targets had been taken.
“I am moving my headquarters to the station as was planned. Send runners, see that all units are informed.” He stepped aside as officers hurried to roll up the maps.
“This operation will now move into the second and final phase. General Meagher and the Irish troops will begin leaving as soon as possible.” He waved over a cavalryman and passed him the message he had just written.
“Take this to the commander of the Darter. He is to get under way for Dublin at once.”
The officer saluted, then vaulted into his saddle and galloped to the ship. Lee nodded after him.
Everything was going just as they had planned.
THE SWORD IS DRAWN
It was like using a steam hammer to crack a nut: the forces employed were well out of proportion to the chosen target. Yet the success or failure of the entire invasion depended upon the simple act of getting one man ashore at the right place in Cornwall — armed with a single vital tool. USS Mississippi and USS Pennsylvania were chosen for the task. They were newly built and improved ironclads of the two-turret Monitor class. Like their predecessor, Virginia, they were named after states of the Union. The politically aware Navy Department made sure that they were named alternately after a Northern and a Southern state.
The two ironclads had raced ahead of the rest of the armada when it left Cork harbor. Steaming due south, they did not turn east until they had crossed fifty degrees north latitude and were at the mouth of the English Channel. After this they kept a course well south of the Scilly Isles; the islands were seen just as small blurs on the horizon to port. It was late in the afternoon by this time, and they slowed their progress until dark. Now was the time of greatest periclass="underline" they were less than forty miles away from Plymouth, the second-largest naval base in the British Isles. The lookout posts were double-manned and the men swept the horizon continuously. There were fishing boats close inshore, but these could be ignored. It was the British navy that they were concerned with; for good reason. Surprise was of the essence.
It was growing dark when Mississippi sent a signal to Pennsylvania. She was sailing well ahead of her sister ship, as well as standing farther out to sea. This positioning was deliberate — and vital — as her brief message reported.
Unidentified naval vessel sighted ahead. Am intercepting.
Even as she was sending the report, Mississippi was belching out clouds of smoke as she gained speed. On a southeast course. When she was seen, if chase were given, the action would take place well out of sight of the Pennsylvania.
The plan succeeded. Night fell. Now, unseen in the darkness, with her engine barely turning over, the American warship crept in toward the Cornish shore.
“That must be the light at Zone Point,” the first officer said as they neared the coast. “It’s at the mouth of Falmouth Bay — and those will be the lights of Falmouth beyond.”
“Steady on your course,” the captain ordered.
It was just after midnight when they slipped past St. Austell and into St. Austell Bay. When the gaslights of the town were behind them, the engines were stopped and the ship drifted forward, the light waves slapping against her iron sides.
“Landing party away.”
There was the hammer of running feet on deck. Moments later there was the slight creak of the well-greased davits as the two boats were slung over the side and lowered down into the sea. The sailors went down the rope ladders first, ready to help the clumsier soldiers into the waiting boats. The telegraph men were next, followed by the rest of the party. Their rifles were unloaded and their ammunition secured in closed pouches. It would have to be silent gun butts and bayonets if they encountered any resistance.
Hopefully they would not. This part of the coast had been selected for two very important reasons. Most of the land adjoining the coast here was forest, private land, where deer roamed freely. It should be deserted at night, for there were no farms or other habitations nearby, here where the rail line ran between the shoreline and the steep hills. And this train track was the reason they were here.
Cornwall has a rocky spine of hills running the entire length of the peninsula. When the Great Western Railway left its westernmost terminus in Penzance, the tracks turned inland, away from the sea. Through Redruth and Truro they went, then on to St. Austell, where the tracks came in sight of the sea again, well over halfway from Penzance to Plymouth. Skirting the bogs of Blackmoor, the rail line ran along the shore for some miles before turning inland a final time. This stretch of line was their target.
The boats grated on the gravelly shore. There were whispered commands as the sailors jumped into the knee-high surf and dragged the boats farther up onto the beach. A waning moon provided enough light for the disembarking soldiers. One of them fell with a clatter as his gun crashed onto the pebbles. There was a quick yelp of pain as someone trod on his hand. He was pulled to his feet and all movement stopped at the officer’s hissed command. The night was so silent that an owl could be heard hooting in the trees on the far side of the single railroad track. Its rails gleamed silver in the moonlight.
Next to the tracks was a row of poles that carried the telegraph wires.
“Sergeant, I want men posted left and right, twenty yards out. And quietly this time. Telegraph squad, you know what to do.”
When they reached the rails the telegraph men divided in two, with one squad walking down the ties to the east. Even before they had vanished into the darkness, the man delegated for this task was belting on his climbing irons. Up the poles he went, swiftly and surely, the pointed ends of his irons thokking into the wood as he climbed. The sharp click of wire cutters sounded and there was a rustle as the telegraph wires fell to the ground.
“Gather up the wire,” the sergeant said quietly. “Cut it free and throw it into the ocean.”
A hundred, two hundred yards of wire were cut out and dumped into the water. The soldiers had finished their appointed task and returned to the boats long before the second party. The men fidgeted about until the sergeants hushed them into silence. The lieutenant paced back and forth, tapping his fingers restlessly on his pistol holster, but did not speak aloud. The wire-cutting party had been told to proceed down the track for fifteen minutes, or as near as they could judge the time. They were to cut down another section of wire there and return. It seemed well past the allotted time now; it probably was not, he realized.
Private O’Reilly, one of the sentries stationed by the track, saw the dark figure approaching. He was about to call out when he discerned that the man was coming from the west — while the second wire company had gone east. O’Reilly leaned over and pulled the corporal by the sleeve, touching his forefinger to his lips at the same time. Then he pointed down the track. The two soldiers crouched down, trying to blend into the ground.