An invasion!

Pushing through the door, he stumbled into the bunkroom, shouting the startled pilots awake.

“Get up, get up! Man the pilot boat. We must get to the telegraph station on shore. Contact Trinity House in London immediately. They must know what is happening out here.”

When the news of the invasion fleet reached Trinity House, it was quickly passed on to Whitehall and the War Department. Less than an hour after the ships had been sighted, the message dropped onto the desk of Brigadier Somerville. He had been at his post all night, working to coordinate the movement of the regiments and divisions that were being rushed into battle at Plymouth. After he spent some hours reading all the reports from the fighting fronts, it had been obvious, at least to him, that the attacks on the Midlands’ concentration camps had been a feint. The enemy there had no escape, so they could be ignored. Eventually they would be captured and reduced — but not now. The real threat was in the south. Trains already going north had to be stopped, diverted, given new destinations. He had been at his post for two days and was wretched from lack of sleep. The Duke of Cambridge had been there almost as long. But he had gone for some rest before midnight and had never returned. Which was fine for Somerville. He no longer had to explain every action to his commander in chief, who at times had difficulty following the brigadier’s quick and complex thinking. He seized the sheet of telegraph paper from the messenger, read it in a glance.

Fleet of warships entering the Thames estuary!

Realization struck. Of course — that had been their plan all the time. The other attacks were only diversions… He was scrawling out a message even as his thoughts raced, his pen nib sputtering and spraying ink in his haste. He pushed it to one side, mastered himself, and wrote another message. He thrust both of them, the ink still wet, at the messenger who answered his call.

“Take these at once to the telegraph room. This one goes to the commander of the Southampton Naval Station. This other one must go out at once to the commander of Tilbury Fort.”

“What fort is that, sir?”

“The telegraph men will know, you idiot. Give that back — I’ll write it here. Now run!”

Before the man was out of the room, Somerville had forgotten him and was engaged in drafting messages to the armed forces now spread across the length and breadth of England. Changing all their orders. God — how he had been fooled! Then he stopped and drew himself up and took a deep breath. It was thought not action that was needed now.

He wiped the nib of his pen dry and took out his penknife. He preferred old-fashioned quill pens to the new steel ones. He carefully cut a new point on the quill while he ordered his thoughts. The attack up the Thames was surely aimed at London. He realized that his first priority was to look to the defenses of the capital. The household regiments had to be alerted. The Seventh Company of the Coldstream Guards was in its Chelsea barracks — they would be the first soldiers sent to the defense of Buckingham Palace. There were troops in Woolwich Arsenal; they must be sent for at once. Special trains had to be dispatched to Wiltshire for the troops encamped on Salisbury Plain there. The Prime Minister had to be awakened and informed. Thank goodness that it would be the PM’s task to inform Buckingham Palace — not his.

He drew over a fresh sheet of paper and began, clearly and slowly, to write out his commands. Only after they were dispatched would he have the Duke of Cambridge awakened. Time enough after the proper orders had been issued to suffer his choleric wrath.

Admiral Spencer knew exactly what must be done as soon as he read the telegram. Enemy fleet including warships now entering the Thames. They were there with only one possible target in mind. London. A strike at the heart of the empire would have a terrible effect if it were successful. It was obvious now that the various other landings and acts of harassment around the country had just been diversions. Ever since the attack on Plymouth every ship under his command had been manned and on the alert.

Now, at last, he knew where they must go. The enemy could get no farther upriver than London Bridge. Undoubtedly their troops would be disembarking there. The household regiments would see to them all right! There would be warships protecting them, he was certain of that. They would have to face the guns of his own ironclads. The enemy was stuck in a bottleneck — and he was going to drive in the cork. There would be no way out for them: they faced only destruction.

General Bagnell ordered the sergeant who had brought the telegram to throw open the curtains, then squinted at the sheet of paper in the morning light. He was still half-asleep and it took him some moments to understand the purport of the message.

An attack.

Even as reality struck home he heard, through the open window, the bugler sounding assembly. The officer of the day would have read the message and have had the intelligence to sound the alarm. The general’s servant, who had let the messenger in, was already bringing his uniform. The many parts that formed the military machine were moving into place. Whenever the attack came — they would be ready. He pulled on his trousers and was stepping into his boots when he thought of the late Lord Palmerston. It was through his intervention and enterprise that Tilbury Fort had been rearmed and expanded. As had the many other fortresses that defended England. It was that great man’s foresight that might save England yet again.

It was a clear, fine day. General Bagnell stood beneath the flag, on the topmost battlement of the Water Gate, looking downriver at the placid Thames. The curtain walls of Tilbury Fort, to the east and west bastions, were built on arched counter forts, solidly constructed of Portland stone. The stout walls and parapets beyond were made of brick and had been reinforced with dirt ramparts strong enough to resist an enemy siege barrage, while the large guns concealed in the forts returned their fire. And there were the other defenses; the gun lines outside the walls, safe behind their own parapets, stretching out to east and west of the Water Gate. Six-inch and twelve-pounder guns. All manned, all ready.

There was the sound of heavy guns firing downriver. It must have been the batteries at Coalhouse Fort. The thunder became intense — then died away. A few minutes later the enemy came into view. Coming around the bend in the Thames between East Tilbury and Cliffe. Strange-shaped armorclads like black beetles that crawled on the surface of the water. They had high, sloped sides with armor plate covering above that. But no gun ports that Bagnell could see.

“Prepare to open fire as soon as they are in range,” he ordered his aide, who passed the message on to the waiting gunners.

The four ships were closer now — but separating. One of them was moving away from the others, toward the gun positions at Gravesend, on the other side of the river. Good, the gunners there would make short work of her — while he could concentrate his fire on the remaining three.

The gunnery officer shouted “fire” and the Tilbury Fort guns roared out. The peaceful surface of the Thames turned suddenly into a maelstrom of waterspouts as near misses crashed into the river. And there were hits — many of them. Solid shot that hammered into the enemy’s iron armor.

And bounced away. Bagnell saw the blur of the ricocheting balls as they hummed into the air.

From this distance the ironclads seemed to be unharmed. And something strange was happening to them as they anchored, their chains running out fore and aft. They were facing broadside to the fort with their upper armor moving, apparently rising. No, not rising, opening up as the metal plates that covered the vessels were swung wide.