Britannia's Fist: From Civil War to World War: An Alternate History (23 page)

The Union troops marched across the pontoon bridge over the Tennessee River in an endless river of faded blue. There was great confidence in all ranks as the Army of the Cumberland, which had chased its opponent, the Confederate Army of Tennessee, out of Alabama and into northern Georgia. The mercurial Maj. Gen. William Rosecrans—”Old Rosy” to his troops for his good nature and his Roman nose colored red by the bottle—had run the fight out of his opposition, the sour and dyspeptic Lt. Gen. Braxton Bragg, whose only aggressive characteristic was the intensity with which he avoided a decisive battle. Bragg had systematically alienated every senior Army officer with his relentlessly nasty and blame-placing personality. Rosecrans, who was the most popular officer in the Union Army, had already beaten Bragg at the battle of Stone’s River in December 1862, a tonic to the North after the disastrous defeat at Freder-icksburg a few weeks before.

The campaign flowed onward to what everyone could sense was coming—the decisive battle. It was understandable that Rosecrans had not had time to consider a letter dated twelve days before from a major of the 21st Illinois, despite the strong endorsements of his brigade and division commanders. Maj. James E. Callaway had been mightily impressed with the effectiveness of the innovation of mounted infantry armed with the Spencer repeating rifle and requested permission to raise a regiment of mounted infantry in his native state. A bold, intelligent, and far-thinking young lawyer, Callaway was the type of man who was attracted to the potential and thrill of the cutting edge of change. He pressed on Rosecrans, “There are already several companies organized in the state of Illinois that are anxious to enter the service as cavalry or mounted infantry.” He threw in his political connections with the state adjutant general who had “pledged all the assistance in his power.”
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Callaway was striking while the iron was hot. Already the brigade of mounted infantry under Col. John Thomas Wilder had proven its worth in Rosecrans’s brilliant Tullahoma Campaign that June. The brigade was the brainchild of Maj. Gen. Lovell H. Rousseau, one of Rosecrans’s division commanders, who had arrived in Washington in February “all afire with zeal for mounted infantry.” Rousseau had deep credit with Lincoln. He had been, according to the President, “our first active practical Military friend in Kentucky.” Now Rousseau was telling Lincoln what he wanted and needed to hear—that only mounted
infantry armed with repeaters could deal with the likes of the infamous Nathan Bedford Forrest. He said, “I propose to organize and use such a force to be furnished with Sharps rifles. If I do not make this pay at the end of three months from today, I will cheerfully relinquish the command.”

Lincoln was impressed and wrote Rosecrans, authorizing the experiment. Rosecrans had been an early supporter of Rousseau’s idea and had requested repeating rifles in February only to receive the usual tart and disingenuous reply from Ripley’s ally as general in chief of the armies, Maj. Gen. Henry Halleck. “You are not the only general who is urgently calling for more cavalry and more cavalry arms. The supply is limited, and the demands of all cannot be satisfied. In regard to ‘revolving rifles, superior arms,’ &c., every one is issued the moment it is received.” Halleck did not mention that the repeaters had not really been ordered at all.

Rosecrans was not one to wait on Ripley’s shifty promises; he immediately authorized Colonel Wilder to impress mounts and transform his infantry into a mounted infantry brigade. Wilder was even less willing to rely on normal requisitions. He bought Spencers with money borrowed from Indiana home state bankers, and his eager men repaid the bankers in installments. The federal government later reimbursed them. It was an effective way to get around Ripley. The Spencers soon proved their worth, whipping a Confederate brigade at Hoover’s Gap with the weight of their firepower. The enemy commander thought he was outnumbered five to one and suffered three to one losses. Thereafter, they were known as “Wilder’s Lightning Brigade.”
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Callaway was determined to catch some of that lightning for himself, but he would have to wait. The big fight was coming, and for him it would be an old-fashioned infantryman’s brawl. The Army pressed on; it could smell the enemy’s fear.

Tremors of despair spread in every direction from all ranks of the fleeing Army of Tennessee. They arrived in Richmond and from there to the headquarters of Robert E. Lee at Culpepper Court House in Northern Virginia. President Davis feared the worst. Yet he would not replace Bragg for whom he had a great and unaccountable regard. Something would have to be done to save Bragg from himself. As usual, in such moments of desperation, Davis turned to Robert E. Lee.

Lamson had asked his chief engineer for every bit of speed the engines of the
Gettysburg
could generate. The word had spread through the crew that the ship was speeding west to pounce on their unsuspecting quarry. The black gangs sprang to their broad shovels with a will to feed the boilers with the good Welsh coal taken aboard at Liverpool. The fires burned hot as the sweat slicked off them in dark, greasy rivulets. Had they been galley rowers in ancient Greece, they themselves would have been the motive engines of their ship, their muscles fed with energy from bread dipped in olive oil. Now the hard coal of Wales replaced muscles to power the world.

Moelfre Bay was just short of forty-five nautical miles from the Mersey’s mouth. Lamson could make it in three hours or a bit less.
Gettysburg
had taken off like an arrow, leaving
Liverpool
behind just as she was joined by
Goshawk
. As it was, Lamson had a barely fifteen-minute head start. The lookout shouted that the British ships were coming directly after them. Lamson could only conclude that they would try to snatch his prey from him. Fox had chosen
Gettysburg
for her speed, and that speed was the only advantage he had now.
Liverpool
could do between ten and twelve knots to
Gettysburg’s
sixteen. That meant they would arrive at Moelfre Bay in about four hours. None of this would mean a damn if
North Carolina
had already transferred its crew and departed. In that case, he would be following her most likely course to the Azores. There are too many ifs, he thought.
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Two hours and fifty minutes later, the biggest “if” was answered as
Gettysburg
steamed into Moelfre Bay. The lookout had already reported a few ships in the bay, including a cluster near the shore. It did not take long for Lamson’s glass to reveal that it was
North Carolina
and several lighters. He slammed the telescope glass shut. “Battle stations, Mr. Porter.” Most of the men were already at their stations, as eager for this prize as the captain was.

It took the crew of the new Confederate ironclad longer to discover the fast steamer racing toward them. When they did, everyone stopped and stared. One of the officers ran up to James Bulloch. “Sir, she’s the Yankee that was in King’s Dock.”

Bulloch was tight lipped while looking through his glass. “So she is. So she is. Well, don’t just stand there. Get the men to the sheets. Tell the engineer to give me full speed.”

“We’ll never make it, sir. Look how fast she is approaching.”

Bulloch turned on him, drawing a pistol. “Now, Mr. Wilson.”
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It did not take long for the
Gettysburg
’s lookout to spot commotion on the decks of the ironclad. “She’s seen us, Mr. Porter. Prepare to put a shot across her bow.” Lamson had extended his telescope again; he was within range and could see men scurrying to bring sacks and boxes from the lighter tied up to the ironclad. Then the last of them jumped aboard a small craft that peeled away from
North Carolina
whose own smokestack was beginning to puff deep coils of black coal smoke.
Gettysburg
raced through the waves like a greyhound as her prey began to get under way. “Fire, when ready, Mr. Porter.”

“Are you crazy?” The scream came from behind him. Lamson turned on his heel to see who would address the ship’s captain with such blasphemy. It was Henry Adams with a look of horror on his face. “We are still in British waters. You cannot fire on them here.”

“Fire!” The forward XI-inch pivot gun snapped back as the round shot flew across the leaden waters of the bay to splash only a few yards from
North Carolina
’s bow. She did not stop.

“Mr. Adams, I will not be addressed so on my own quarterdeck. Kindly go below.” He turned to Mr. Porter and said, “Aim for their steering gear.” Adams did not go below. He stayed on deck and gibbered something about British territorial waters. When they closed to eight hundred yards, the pivot gun captain shouted, “Fire!’ The great bottle-shaped gun sprang back again with a roar. The first shell struck just behind the stern and went skipping off across the water. The next struck the stern. It
penetrated the three-and-a-half-inch armor plate there and exploded inside, but the ironclad was building up a head of steam, attempting to get out to sea.
Gettysburg
closed to four hundred yards and sent a steady stream of XI-inch shells from all her guns that could bear into
North Carolina
. They smashed the steering, punched through the armored hull in several places to explode inside, and sent the foremast crashing over the side. The ram’s armor was no protection against Admiral Dahlgren’s guns at full charge. Her trial-run crew was not up to the pounding; nor was the rest of the men, who had been taken on only the hour before and were still unfamiliar with the ship. They huddled belowdecks. The engineer and his crew had shut down the engine.

“Oh, dear God. Lamson, do you realize what you’ve done?” Adams shouted.

“Indeed, I do, Mr. Adams. I have obeyed my orders to prevent this ship from escaping to become another
Alabama
. Those orders were further seconded by Mr. Seward, if I remember your father’s statement. Now get below, or keep silent.” Adams leaned against the railing and put his face in his hands. Porter signaled to a Marine to escort Adams below.
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On the ram, Bulloch recognized the inevitable as the
Gettysburg
closed. All his dreams and efforts had been smashed by the XI-inch Dahlgrens. There was at least one more thing he could do. He went below to his cabin and threw open his sea chest. He drew out the gray uniform of a Confederate States Navy officer and caressed its fine wool and gilt buttons before changing into it. Next, he drew from the chest a dress sword presented to him by George Trenholm. He looked himself over in the mirror and was satisfied. At least, I will command this ship at her last, he thought. There was one more item in the chest. He held it reverently to his chest, then tucked it under his arm, and climbed to the deck.
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He found it almost deserted. He climbed to the quarterdeck and found the halyard from which the British merchant colors flew. He hauled them down.

Lamson was barely a hundred yards away and shouted the command to cease firing. The men saw the British colors come down and raised a cheer. “Do you strike, sir?” Lamson shouted through a megaphone.

Bulloch bellowed across the water, “No! By God, sir, the Confederate States Ship
North Carolina
has not struck!” He hoisted the Confederate naval ensign to the top of its staff. Then he walked over to the rail and shook his fist, “Now, sir! Do your worst!”

Gettysburg
’s larboard battery thundered, sending three more shells through the ironclad’s plate to explode inside the empty casemate. “Prepare to board!” Lamson shouted. Lamson was drawing his sword when Adams, who had broken away from his escort, grabbed his arm. “You dare, sir?” the captain asked as he pulled back his arm.

“Don’t you see? Don’t you see? We are saved!”

“What the hell do you mean, Mr. Adams?”

Henry Adams was beside himself with excitement. “When he raised that rebel rag, he removed the protection of British sovereignty from his ship. He became a belligerent, liable to be attacked at any time or place, and revealed that was his intention all the time.”
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Lamson blinked. All well and good, but he had more to do now than think about the rights of belligerents as
Gettysburg
came alongside
North Carolina
. Grappling hooks flew over the narrowing space until the hulls ground against each other. Lamson, sword and pistol in hand, led the boarding party of Marines and sailors over the side. Other than the angry man on the captain’s quarterdeck, the upper decks of the ship were empty save for a pool of blood or two. The men fanned out as Lamson led a party up to the quarterdeck. He approached Bulloch, who stood there gloriously alone.

Lamson holstered his pistol and touched his fingers to his cap brim. “You are my prisoner, sir.”

Bulloch bowed slightly and returned the salute. “I see that the fortunes of war regretfully have made that so, Captain.” He slowly drew his sword and handed it hilt first to Lamson. The Confederate colors fluttered down the halyard at the same time and fell at his feet.

Lamson turned to the ensign that had come aboard with him. “Mr. Henderson, escort Captain…” he looked at Bulloch and said, “I do not believe I know your name, Captain.”

“The name is Bulloch, sir, Capt. James Dunwoody Bulloch, Confederate States Navy.”
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“Mr. Henderson, escort Captain Bulloch to my cabin and see that he is comfortable. Ask Mr. Adams to join me here.”

Adams found Lamson searching through papers in Bulloch’s cabin. Lamson looked up. Any anger he may have felt for Adams’s hysteria on deck had evaporated in the excitement of what he had found. “Look at these,” he said and spread papers across the table. His purpose was everywhere; there was even preprinted official stationary for the CSS
North Carolina
.
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