“I’ll command the landing party,” he told the watch officer. “Bank the boilers and see that the watch below gets some sleep; some of them have been awake for two days now. I want two lookouts at the masthead with glasses. They are to report to you anything larger than a fishing boat. If they do sight any ships, you must then sound three long blasts on the whistle, and get up steam. Understood?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The ship’s four boats were hung on davits outside her armor. If they were destroyed in battle they could easily be replaced; the Pennsylvania could not be. Now they were lowered into the water, then swiftly boarded by the landing party and rowed ashore. The ship’s marines landed first and ran across the beach to the street. Sanborn followed after them with his sailors, at a more leisurely pace, smiling at the shocked expressions of the pedestrians. He followed the train tracks to the tiny station, then returned the salute of the sergeant who came out to meet him.
“Station secured, sir, telegraph wires cut. I’ve got some prisoners locked in there, including two local policemen.”
“Any trouble?”
“Nothing to speak of, sir. General Grant said that I was to expect you.”
It was a long wait, most of the afternoon. Captain Sanborn shared some rations with the soldiers and heard about the capture of Penzance and the victorious train ride through Cornwall. Occupying each station as they came to it, then silencing all the telegraph communication as they went.
Around them the little town was silent, pacified — stunned, in fact — with most people staying off the streets. There was obviously no need for a large occupying force here, so the sailors were ordered back to the ship and only the marines remained. Sanborn was almost dozing off when he heard the sound of a train whistle up the line toward Plymouth. He joined the soldiers on the platform as the engine pulled in, pushing a single car ahead of it. The army officer swung down before they stopped and saluted the ship’s commander.
“You will be Captain Sanborn?”
“I am.”
He took an envelope from his locket and passed it over. “From General Grant, sir.”
“How did it go in Plymouth?”
“I would say perfectly, sir. Before I left it was clear that all of the harbor defenses and docks had been captured. Most of the enemy ships had already being boarded and occupied. There was some resistance — but they couldn’t stand before the Gatlings.”
“It sounds like a job well done.” Then the question that was foremost in his mind: “Did any of the enemy ships get away?”
“At least one, sir. An ironclad. I saw her standing out to sea when I was in the railroad station. Just the one, though.”
“One is enough. My congratulations to the general.” The envelope was unsealed, so it was obviously meant for Sanborn to read. But that could wait until he was back aboard his ship; he had been away long enough now. And General Sherman would be waiting for this report. He knew its importance. The fate of the entire campaign depended on what was in this envelope.
Waiting was the hardest part.
General Sherman sat in his office in Cork, staring unseeingly out of the window. The now-familiar river Lee did not attract his attention. Instead he was looking past it toward England, trying to visualize the evolving situation in that country, fleshing out the bare reports that were spread out on the desk before him. The landings at Liverpool had been a brilliant success. The concentration camp there, and the other one near Birmingham, had been seized. The latest communication from each of them said that counterattacks had been reported. But they had been sporadic and disorganized; the well-armed defenders had successfully held their positions. This could easily change. Once the mighty British war machine began to roll, it would be unstoppable on its own soil. Heavy guns would batter the Irish and American troops; when their ammunition ran out they would be overwhelmed. That had been the risk from the very beginning of the operation. They were expendable and they knew it. But they would die fighting.
But that need not be. The British commanders surely would be rattled by the seizure of their naval base at Plymouth. It had been over twenty-four hours since that attack, and the authorities in London would have heard about it long since. Troops would be on the way there — might easily have arrived by now.
But it had been almost four days since the camps had been attacked and taken. The fighting would be desperate. Would his gamble succeed? Would the attack on Plymouth cause the British forces to be diverted from the two Midland cities? Would the British generals realize that they were wasting time and troops on tactically unimportant targets? Or was the British military mind too thick to reach that conclusion? If it was, why then, only the troops occupying the concentration camps would suffer. This would have no effect on the invasion, which would still go ahead as planned.
The worst part was that Generals Lee and Meagher knew about the dangers — as did their men who had captured the camps. They had still insisted on going. They would all be volunteers for what might be considered a suicide mission if Sherman had any doubts. He had had none. They were very brave men.
That was why it was so hard to wait while his soldiers were fighting and dying. Yet this was the plan they had all agreed upon, the right course to take, and he had to see it through. His adjutant knocked, then opened the door.
“Admiral Farragut and Captain Dodge are here, General.”
“Any more reports from the front?”
“None, sir.”
“All right, show them in.”
Dodge was commander of USS Thunderer, the lead mortar ship. Farragut, as naval commander in chief, had chosen her as his flagship for the beginning of the operation. As usual, this veteran commander would be first into battle. Then, as Sherman started to speak, there was a rapid knocking on the door and the adjutant pushed in, his arms filled with newspapers.
“Captain Schofield in Avenger put a raiding party ashore in Fishguard — and they seized these newspapers that had just arrived there by train from London.”
Sherman took the Times from him and stared at the blaring headline.
INVASION IN THE SOUTH: PLYMOUTH TAKEN
There were other headlines like this. He quickly flipped the pages for word of any troop movements. Yes, plenty, volunteers rushing to the colors, trains diverted for military use, martial law declared. There was silence in the room, broken only by the rustle of newspapers as they all read the first reliable reports of enemy activity. In the end it was Sherman who was the last to drop his newspaper onto his desk.
“We have stirred up a right hornet’s nest,” he said.
“You certainly have,” Farragut said. “It appears that everything is going according to plan.”
“Everything,” Sherman agreed. “I just wish that there was more word about events in Liverpool and Birmingham.”
“Being attacked, vicious fighting, according to this paper,” Dodge said.
“Yes, but nothing about diversion of troops.” Sherman shook his head. “I suppose that is a lot to ask from any public statements made by their government. There is no reason for the military to confide all of the details of their operations to the newspapers. Quite the opposite is probably true. Well then, to matters at hand. In your last report, Admiral, you said that the fleet was ready to put to sea.”
“As indeed it is. The coal bunkers are full, rations and water stored aboard. The troops finished their boarding about two hours ago.”