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?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
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.