1862 (43 page)

Some of the remaining crews panicked and cut their anchor cables. This allowed the ships to move with the currents, crashing into other ships or running ashore. A lucky few found themselves drifting safely away, but most found themselves in as much danger as they had been before. As the
Potomac
approached, those sailors who had remained onboard solved their personal problems by abandoning their ships and diving into the water.

The
Potomac
mounted four twelve-inch guns, and one of them fired every minute or so in methodic execution. Each shell meant the death of a helpless merchant. Fires began and, with no one available to put them out, swept through tarred rigging and over painted, wooden decks, and then, as flaming embers, flew from ship to ship. Within a short while, the British merchant fleet was the scene of a conflagration of epic proportions.

The Confederate shore batteries were the first to respond, but they were hampered by the fact that the
Potomac
was moving slowly but nimbly in and about the British shipping. Thus, while the batteries fired rapidly, many of their shots either missed or struck the Potomac’s victims, and those few that did strike the ironclad bounced off harmlessly.

An attack on Hampton Roads and the James River was absolutely the last thing the Royal Navy had expected from the minuscule Union navy. The British warships damaged in the previous fighting had returned to England under escort. This meant that the Royal Navy’s presence was far less than the fleet that had escorted the merchants to what was presumed to be security. Even the
Warrior
had departed on a cruise towards New York, where it was presumed that the Union ships would head. Like their merchant counterparts, the remaining wooden British warships were not in the slightest bit ready to move against an enemy whose presence had been unimaginable only a few moments before.

Admiral Chads was ashore when the
Potomac
launched her assault and all he could do was stand and listen, a stricken look on his face, while, in the distance, smoke billowed from burning ships. A pair of armed sloops raced to stop the
Potomac,
but the ironclad virtually ignored their feeble efforts as she continued to savage the transport fleet. Occasionally, some unloaded cargo proved particularly explosive or flammable, and a ship went up with a whoosh or a thunderous boom.

Onboard the
Potomac.
Commodore David Glasgow Farragut looked through a telescope that poked from one of the turrets and howled with glee at the carnage he had wrought. “That’ll teach the bastards,” he said. He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the one-sided battle. “This is what we should have done to them when they tried to sail past us.”

Newly transferred from the
Hudson.
Lieutenant George Dewey merely smiled. Farragut was his mentor, and the young lieutenant felt that he had chosen a damned good one. Farragut had slipped into Baltimore and driven the shipyard to focus its repair efforts on one ship—the
Potomac.
As a result, damaged plates had been repaired in record time while ammunition was hauled onboard. With only a few days’ food and water, they had waited until intelligence said that the main part of the British war fleet had departed for other ports, deeming the situation safe and secure. Then they had pounced. Disguised as a tramp, she had been ignored until too late.

Dewey pulled his watch out of his pocket and checked the time. “I think we should depart, sir.”

Farragut scowled in mock anger. “What, and end this fine party?”

“We’ve used eighty percent of our shells and the Brits have had time to get steam up. They’ll be after us very soon and we’ll need ammunition to fight our way back.”

Farragut sniffed his disappointment. He gave the cease-fire order and turned away. He was convinced the British would trail him from a distance and try to harm him with a lucky, fluke shot. They had no urge to close on his twelve-inchers and be blown back to Liverpool. The ironclad was master of America’s inland seas.

“Isn’t this about where the rebels were building their own ironclad?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Dewey answered. “The
Merrimack
was under construction just a few miles from here. She’s still there; they never finished her.”

“A shame they didn’t,” Farragut mused. “A Monitor like the
Potomac
and a ship like the
Merrimack
would have been one hell of a fight.”

“Indeed, sir, it would.”

The firing had died off and the
Potomac
was under way, heading northward towards Baltimore at a steady seven knots per hour. “But then, we really did kick John Bull’s ass today, didn’t we?”

   Virtually all English gentlemen were splendid riders, and Brevet Major John Knollys was no exception. His gentlemanly duties aside, riding was almost a necessity in his chosen field as an army officer even though his specialty was infantry.

Yet even though he rode comfortably and well he acknowledged that the Confederate horsemen were far better than he and most of his British cavalry counterparts. This skill level extended well below the officer class, as even the lowest private in Jeb Stuart’s cavalry rode as if he’d ridden all his life, which, John realized, was probably true. Even the poorest in the Confederacy used horses to cover the vast distances that separated Southern communities.

As he watched the Confederate cavalry move out in extremely loose formation, Knollys was reminded of what he’d learned about the Huns and Mongols. His instructors had told him that they were fearsome creatures who had lived their lives on horseback and rarely ever dismounted. They ate on horseback, slept on horseback, even made love on horseback. Knollys chuckled. That part intrigued him. He’d made love in carriages but never on a horse. He considered it an unlikely and potentially painful possibility.

Yet there was something Mongol-like and deadly about Stuart’s cavalry as they moved in casual and poorly uniformed masses. Their job was to screen Lee’s advance and find the Union army. Actually, that particular task wouldn’t be too difficult. Intelligence had it massing north of Washington and screening Baltimore or Philadelphia. It was about the size of Lee’s army, which would make it very hard to miss.

Behind Stuart came Longstreet’s Corps, and this was followed by Lord Napier’s. Jackson was out on Lee’s right flank with Beauregard on the left. Lee hadn’t wanted Beauregard, but Jefferson Davis had insisted. It was not a popular choice with either Davis or Lee. but there was the concern that there was really no one else. Ewell night have taken a corps, but he was recovering from wounds. Knollys thought the shortage of top commanders was surprising in a Confederate army that prided itself on its leadership. But then, hadn’t the Union forces gone through just such pains with the unfortunate McDowell and the timid McClellan? And what about England’s Lord Cardigan? Knollys concluded that every nation had serious military leadership problems.

Of the four corps, the British contingent was the largest. Until only a short while before, Confederate law had forbidden the designation of any unit larger than a division within an army; thus, the corps-sized units were referred to by the name of their commander. Sometimes they were referred to as a wing, or command, rather than a corps. Despite the change in what Knollys and most Confederate officers thought was a ridiculous law, the custom still held. Stuart commanded about ten thousand, with Longstreet, Beauregard, and Jackson commanding about twenty to twenty-five thousand each. No one had been designated as the second in command and heir apparent should something happen to Lee. As a result, Jackson, Longstreet, and Beauregard each considered himself in that role, with Beauregard being the most forceful in his opinion. This caused rumors that the major reason Beauregard was with the army was because Jefferson Davis couldn’t stand having him in Richmond.

Knollys was of the opinion that Napier was the most qualified to second Lee, but understood that politics would not permit it. Of all the Confederate commanders, only Lee had commanded a large force in battle, although Beauregard had led an army when Albert Sidney Johnston had fallen at Shiloh. Jackson had independently commanded his smaller corps, or wing, in the Shenandoah Valley, but with numbers not one fifth of the mighty force now marching northward.

Knollys now fully understood that smart uniforms didn’t necessarily make a good soldier. If that were the case, some petty German princeling would control the world. The Confederates were a case in point. Poorly uniformed to the point of being ragged, they moved with a casual determination that showed that they were as skilled in their profession as the red-clad British regulars who marched alongside them. The disparity in uniforms had caused a lot of banter, and some had deteriorated into brawling that had been put down by commanders on both sides.

The march, however, was equalizing the two groups without requiring them to like each other. Clouds of dust, raised by scores of thousands of feet and hooves, settled on everyone, rendering them all a more or less uniform brown. The weather was shifting and dark clouds moved across the sky. A rainstorm would turn the trails into mud and wash off the dust. Knollys wondered just who the hell had ever thought that war was glamorous. It was miserable without having someone out to kill you.

The combined Anglo-Confederate army moved north along several roads or trails and. oftentimes, across fields and countryside. Had they marched along one road, it would have taken an eternity to reach their destination.

And what was their destination? Knollys wondered. As he finished his circuit ride and neared the covey of officers surrounding Lee, one of Stuart’s cavalry officers broke from the group and rode past. The officer glared at Knollys, who recognized him as Brigadier General Wade Hampton, a man who had raised his own force, Hampton’s Legion, and was now Stuart’s second in command in reality if not in title. The two men curtly acknowledged each other. Hampton was one of a number of Confederate officers who resented British influence on the Southern war of independence and anything else that might threaten the South’s independence, traditions, and institutions, with the retention of slavery being a paramount concern. Hampton and his supporters were afraid England would exact too great a price for her support of the Confederate cause.

And they’d probably be right, Knollys thought. God only knew what Palmerston would take as his pound of flesh. No, he chuckled to himself. It would be Disraeli in the role of Shylock who would take his chunk of red meat.

He would have to make that observation the next time he was in bed with the delightful Rosemarie DeLisle. Too bad he wasn’t wealthy, as she’d originally thought. The idea of his losing her was most distasteful. She fitted his needs perfectly at all levels. It had even reached the point where he could consider himself in love with her. It was a totally new and unexpected experience for him.

Thus, it was most important that England and the Confederacy prevail. A victory and he could virtually count on another promotion and, still hitched to Garnet Wolsey’s rising star, perhaps even greater rank in the future. A loss, and he would be lucky to be permitted to stay in the army.

Good lord, he thought. A loss and he might be lucky to be alive.

News of the Confederate army’s move north from Richmond brought turmoil and near chaos to Washington. Military units moved to and fro with little clear idea as to where they were marching to and why as they moved about within the heavily fortified perimeter. It almost didn’t matter. It was essential that something be done, even though it had little or no meaning. “Alarums and excursions,” Scott had muttered. “Much ado about nothing. The damned rebels are not in our closets or under our beds.”

General Winfield Scott had spent the day and much of the evening in conferences with President Lincoln, General Halleck, and General Meade. Nathan Hunter had attended as Scott’s aide.

As a result, General Scott returned to his quarters late and exhausted. Rebecca had stayed to hear the news and to make sure the old man was all right. When he was fed and safely abed in his room, she decided it was time to leave. By then, however, the hour was late and a tremendous rainstorm had commenced lashing the area. It was chill, but she decided that a little rain never hurt anyone. Unfortunately, the stable hand moving her carriage out ran it over a rock and broke a wheel. Since no other carriages were available, she was faced with the necessity of walking through the storm, going on horseback, or staying the night, with the latter being a serious breach of decorum in a strict society.

Bridget Conlin came to her rescue. The young Irish servant calmly suggested that Rebecca and she share her quarters in the servants’ wing. Sergeant Fromm and the chastened stable hand moved a couch into Bridget’s small room, and Bridget found Rebecca a cotton nightgown, which was voluminous on the smaller woman. It buttoned partway down the front and hung over Rebecca’s feet, and the sleeves covered her hands.

“No nun was ever more fully or chastely covered,” Bridget said.

When the two women finished laughing, they shared a light meal and had a glass of wine. Neither thought it was strange that a woman with high social standing like Rebecca had dined with an Irish immigrant and that both enjoyed it.

Later, Rebecca lay on the couch and covered herself with a woolen blanket. Bridget arose from her bed and stood by the door. There was a shy smile on her face.

“I hope you won’t be minding, Mrs. Devon, but I might be gone for a while.”

Rebecca flushed. Obviously, Bridget would be heading for Sergeant Fromm’s room. “I haven’t disturbed something, have I?”

“Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

Rebecca grinned impishly. “Then fix it.”

When Bridget was gone, Rebecca got off the couch and paced the tiny room. Was this the time? Was this the place? Were there any doubts? There was only one way to find out. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway.