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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 Pe
“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 Pe
“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 — stu
“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 begi
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 pla
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 begi
“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.