“HMS Conqueror is now at Portsmouth,” Admiral Sawyer called out.

“Telegraph Portsmouth now,” Palmerston said. “Tell them what we know. Tell her captain to sail at once for Ireland. We need to find out what is happening there.”

Brigadier Somerville had been speaking quietly to the Duke of Cambridge, who was nodding as he listened. “We need knowledge of the enemy,” Somerville said. “Whereabouts they are, in what numbers…”

“We need bloody well more than that!” The Duke’s face was glowing bright red. “We need to wipe them off the map!”

“But, your grace, without knowledge we don’t know where to attack. I suggest a reconnaissance in force. The Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders will be in barracks in Glasgow. We should have at least a company to stand to arms. There will be shipping in the Clyde. A ship could be commandeered at once, and these troops transported to Northern Ireland. To the fishing port of Carnlough, in Carnlough Bay, might be a likely spot for a landing. It is out of sight of Larne where the enemy warship was seen. But no more than thirty miles north of Belfast. They could discover if—”

“Bugger discovery — I want them stopped, destroyed, wiped out!”

He was shouting so loud that the room grew silent as they listened. The Duke turned to face them, shoulders hunched, nostrils flaring, a bull about to attack.

“They want war? They shall have war. I want all of the troops in the Glasgow garrison to get to Ireland at once. Then I want complete mobilization, right across the country. Stand to arms! Call out the yeomanry. And that warship we are sending to spy — what’s her name?”

“The Conqueror,” the admiral said.

“She’s to do more than just snoop. After they have found what is happening in Ireland — and reported back to us — order the ship north to this Carnlough Bay. The Americans will have their navy at sea. I want our troops protected. Whatever the Americans think they are doing in Ireland, whatever they are doing, they will be stopped!” He turned to Somerville, stabbing out his finger. “Issue the orders!”

Somerville had no choice. He came to attention. “Yes, sir,” he said. Turned and went to went down to the telegraph office himself, composing the messages as he went. Mobilization of all troops on duty in Glasgow. Both regiments. The issue of ammunition before leaving the barracks. Water bottles full, emergency rations for a week. Field guns? No, too slow to muster and move at once. They would follow by the next ships. The first troops would be a reconnaissance in strength. The need was for speed. He wrote out the orders and gave them to the telegrapher, then pulled over the bound book of military telegraph connections. He made a list of the major barracks and regiments. Horse Guards, Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, Green Howards, all of them. Then he wrote out an order for general mobilization.

“Send this order to these units immediately,” he said, passing the list to the chief operator. “I want an acknowledgement that the orders have been received from each one of them.”

In Glasgow the bugles sounded clearly through the afternoon rain, followed by the bellowed commands of the sergeants, the hammer of running feet. Lieutenant Colonel McTavish, in command, was a veteran soldier — his troops just as experienced and professional. They were used to quick actions and even quicker decisions. Minutes later there was the clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobbles outside the barracks as a staff officer galloped towards the shipping offices on the banks of the Clyde. It was a measure of their professionalism that by the time dusk was falling the armed and fully equipped soldiers were marching out of their barracks to the strains of the bagpipes, making their way down to the docks. As they boarded the commandeered steamships they heard the angry shouts of the forcefully disembarked passengers struggling to find their luggage.

It was a slow crossing to Ireland for the two ships, down the Firth of Clyde and across the Irish Channel. Deliberately so since the ships’ captains had conferred, while the troops were being boarded, and had agreed that they wanted to arrive off the Irish coast just at dawn. A landing at night would be impossible.

The sea was calm, with no other ships in sight at daybreak, when they crept into Carnlough Bay and dropped anchor. The ships’ lifeboats were swung out and they began the tedious business of ferrying the troops to land.

G Company was the first ashore.

The first of the soldiers, kilts swaying as they marched, were moving out on the coast road south well before the last of the regiment had been rowed ashore.

“Get some scouts out ahead,” Major Bell ordered from the head of the column. He did not want them to march into any surprises: the sergeant-major sent them forward at double time.

Close to the village of Saint Cunning the marching column passed a fanner lifting potatoes in his field. Two of the soldiers hustled him back to Major Bell.

“Your name?”

“O’Reardon, your honor.”

“Has there been any military engagements here?”

“Not here, sir. But there was the sound of guns from Belfast, then at Larne. Began at dawn. Could hear them clearly, we could. I sent young Brian running to see what was happening. He only got as far as Ballyruther, down the road. As he was going through the village two soldiers came out of the shop and grabbed him. Frightened the bejeezus out of him.”

“English soldiers?”

“Indeed not, he said. Foreigners of some kind. Wearing sort of brown uniforms, talked so funny he couldn’t hardly understand them. They turned him back, didn’t harm him or anything. He even had the nerve to ask them what was happening. They laughed at that and one of them said, this is what Brian told me — we’ve come to set you free.”

“Indeed.” Major Bell scratched a note on his message pad and waved over a runner. “For the colonel.” He traced a new route on his map as he called out to the sergeant-major.

“The main force is going to bypass this village. But I am going to take a company to find out how many enemy troops there are there. See if we can’t get some prisoners.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant-major said, smiling. They had been in the barracks too long. It was about time for a fight.

It was not long in coming. As they came down the road towards the villages rifles cracked from the windows of the stone buildings. As they dropped, seeking shelter, there was a tremendous burst of firing and bullets tore the leaves from the trees, ricocheted from the stones, tore up the ground.

“Get back!” the major ordered. “Fall back to that stone fence!”

From the sound of the firing it sounded like he was facing an entire company.

Like all the other officers in the British Army he had never heard a Gatling gun before.

RAISE THE ALARM!

Captain Frederick Durnford was lunching ashore with Admiral Cousins, who was commander of the Plymouth Navy Yard. It had been a most pleasant meal, and the port that followed was of a much-valued vintage. Captain Durnford had just poured himself a good measure when an officer tapped on the door, came in and handed a message form to the admiral.

“What? What?” the admiral said as he opened the paper; the source of his nickname that everyone in the fleet — except him — knew. He read it quickly, then turned to Durnford, a look of dazed vacuity on his face. “Have they gone bloody mad at the admiralty — or is this true?”

“I have no idea, sir. What does it say?”

Cousins stumbled over the words. “It purports to say that the Americans have invaded Ireland. That they are attacking Belfast. All communication with Ireland has been severed. Mail boats haven’t arrived. The last part is addressed to you. You are ordered to take Conqueror and find out what is happening over there.”