“You took care of the telegraph wires?” Grant asked.
“Just as you ordered, General. We dropped off a squad at every station to grab the telegraph operator, if there was one. After we left each station we used the train to pull down a half-dozen poles, then took up the wire. Got a passel of it in the freight car.”
“Good. To the best of your knowledge, then, no warning was sent ahead?”
“Absolutely none, sir. We moved too fast. None of the operators were at their keys when we busted in.”
“Well done.” Grant looked across the bridge for a long moment; he could see no activity at the other end. The railway authorities would know by now that the telegraph was out of service the length of Cornwall. Had they thought it necessary to inform the military of this? There was only one way to find out.
“You will proceed across the bridge. Go slowly until you reach the other side. Then open the throttle and don’t slow down until you go through Plymouth station. Stop there — but leave room for the troop trains behind you. Keep your weapons loaded — but return fire only if you are fired on first. Good luck.”
“To us all, General!”
The officer sprinted back to the engine, which started to move even as he was climbing aboard. It pulled slowly out onto the long span of the incredible bridge. The troop train followed a hundred yards behind. Once safely off the bridge, they sped up, faster and faster through the local stations: St. Budeaux, Manadon, and Crownhill. The three following trains would stop at these stations, dispensing troops to seize and envelop the cities from the hills above. Shocked passengers on the platforms fell back as the train plunged through the stations, braking to a stop only after entering Plymouth station itself. The troops jumped down from the cars and fanned out, ignoring the civilians. There was a brief struggle as a policeman was overwhelmed, bound, and locked into the telegraph room with the operator, who had been trying to send a message down the line to London when they seized him. He did not succeed because the advance party had done their job and torn down the wires beyond the station.
The troops from the train formed up and marched out of the station. General Grant was with them. There was a row of waiting cabs just outside the station.
“Seize those horses,” General Grant ordered an aide. “They can pull some of the Gatlings.”
“What is happening here? I demand to know!” A well-dressed and irate gentleman stood before Grant, shaking his gold-headed walking stick in his direction.
“War, sir. You are at war.” The man was seized by two troopers and bustled away even as Grant spoke.
The advance down through the streets of Plymouth was almost unopposed. There appeared to be no military units in the city itself; the few sailors they encountered were unarmed and fled before the menacing soldiers. But the alarm had been raised and the Americans came under fire when they approached the naval station.
“Bring up the Gatlings,” Grant ordered. “The lead squads will bypass any strong points and let the Gatling guns come after and subdue them.”
The Royal Marines put up a spirited defense of their barracks, but the machine guns chewed them up, tearing through the thin wooden walls. Roaring with victory, the American troops charged into the buildings; the few survivors quickly surrendered. The small number of sailors who took up arms were cut down by the Gatlings — and the marksmanship of the veteran American soldiers.
No cannon from any of the shore batteries were fired at the attackers because they were all trained out to sea. An attack from the land side of the port had never been expected.
The Americans were unstoppable. In Devonport they overran and occupied the navy vessels tied up there. The Plymouth docks were larger and more confusing and it took time to work through them. The American attack slowed — but still pushed forward.
As chance would have it, HMS Defender, which had arrived that morning, was tied up at a buoy in the stream. Her captain was on deck, summoned by the watch officer when they had heard the sound of firing from the city.
“What is it, Number One?” he asked when he had climbed to the bridge.
“Gunfire, sir, that is all that I know.”
“What have you done about it?”
“Sent the gig ashore with Lieutenant Osborne. I thought that a gunnery officer might make sense of what is happening.”
“Well done. Sounds like a bloody revolution…”
“Here they come, sir, rowing flat out.”
“I don’t like this at all. Signal the engine room. Get up steam.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Lieutenant Osborne was panting with exertion as he climbed to the bridge. Yet his face was pale under his tropical tan.
“Gone all to hell, sir,” he said, saluting vaguely. “Troops everywhere, shooting, I saw bodies…”
“Pull yourself together, man. Report.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Osborne straightened his shoulders and came to attention. “I had the gig wait at the dockside in case we had to get out in a hurry. I went on alone. Almost ran into a group of soldiers. They were pushing three matelots along that they had taken prisoner. They were shouting and laughing, didn’t see me.”
“What kind of troops?” the captain snapped. “Be specific.”
“Blue uniforms with the sergeants’ stripes wrong side up. They sounded like — Americans.”
“Americans? Here? But how…?”
The hapless gunnery officer could only shrug. “I saw other parties of them, sir. In the buildings, even boarding the ships. All kinds of gunfire. It was coming closer to me, even flanking me. That’s when I decided that I had better get back and report what I had seen.”
The captain quickly marshaled his thoughts. He had a grave decision to make. Should he take his ship closer to the dock to fire upon the invaders? But how could he find them? If they had seized any of the British warships, would he fire on his own sailors? If the attack had been as successful as the gunnery officer had said, why, the entire port could well be in enemy hands. If the telegraph lines were down, then no one would even know what had happened here. It was his duty now to inform Whitehall of this debacle.
It took long seconds to reach this conclusion, and he realized that the bridge was silent while they awaited his orders.
“Signal slow ahead. Have that line to the buoy cut. There is nothing that we can do here. But we can contact London and tell them what has happened. As soon as we are clear of the harbor, set a course for Dartmouth. Full revolutions. There will be a telegraph station there. I must report what we have seen.”
Smoke pouring from her stack, the ironclad headed out to sea.
STRIKING A MIGHTY BLOW
As soon as the landings at Penzance were complete, USS Pennsylvania raised steam. When the message reached the ship that General Grant and his forces had left for Plymouth with the trains, she upped anchor and headed out to sea. The two other ironclads that remained anchored offshore would be more than force enough to secure the city should any enemy ships be so unwise as to attack. Captain Sanborn had received specific instructions from General Grant. He was to proceed to the part of the coast he was familiar with from the previous night’s action. Pennsylvania steamed slowly east until they reached St. Austell, where they anchored in the deep water offshore. The previous night’s landings had been good experience for the junior officers. But now Sanborn wanted to see the enemy country for himself.