“Now it is our turn,” General Robert E. Lee said. “We have been taking it for too long. Now let us give them back some of their own.”

His men surged out of the trenches and over the stone and timber defenses, and fell on the enemy.

The suddenness of the charge, the brutality of the bayonets — and the rapid-firing Spencer rifles — swept the field. Clumps of men struggled and died. British soldiers tried to flee, but they had no place to go. Leaderless, their officers captured or dead, their rifles empty and fear gripping their guts, they had no choice.

They threw down their weapons and surrendered.

While out to sea the final battle was being fought.

With the Avenger in her wake the USS Virginia steamed out to face the approaching convoy. On his bridge Captain Raphael Semmes looked through his glasses at the two ironclads, Union Jacks flapping and their guns run out. Behind them the three troop transports had heaved to.

“Now I do believe that they want to fight us,” Semmes said, lowering his glasses and shaking his head. “This is foolhardy indeed.” He turned to his first mate, Lieutenant Sawyer. “Lower the ship’s boat. Get a tablecloth and wave it at them. Tell the senior captain that if he strikes his colors he, his men — and his ship — will be spared. As a bit of a telling argument you might tell him what happened to Conqueror.” The few survivors of the battle had identified their ship.

Captain Fosbery looked at the approaching boat with mixed emotions. He saw the size of the guns he was facing and knew what he was to be offered. Life — or death. But did he have a choice? He heard Lieutenant Sawyer out, was appalled at the news about Conqueror.

“All hands, you say?”

“Under a dozen survivors. And that was a single salvo. How long do you think your ship would last?”

Fosbery drew himself up. “Your consideration is appreciated. But, you see, I have very little choice. I could never live down the disgrace of surrendering, without firing a shot, in my first encounter with the enemy. The disgrace…”

“Your death, the death of your crew. There are things worse than disgrace.”

“To a colonial, perhaps,” Fosbery snapped. “But not to a gentleman. Remove yourself from my ship, sir. You have your answer.”

“Mighty touchy about their honor, aren’t they?” Captain Semmes said when Sawyer had reported back to him on the bridge. “Make a signal to the Virginia. Surrender refused. I am firing high to disable the guns not sink the ship. Good luck.”

The three troop ships pulled away as the two American ironclads steamed down on their defenders.

It was not a battle but deliberate slaughter. The British shells bounced off the heavier American armor.

The American guns battered them into twisted ruin. And they had fired high. Pounded and torn — but still afloat — the British ironclads struck their colors at last.

Captain Fosbery’s honor was intact.

He was also dead.

Dictator stayed by the battered British ironclads while the Virginia went after the troop ships that had turned tail when the battle had started. The troops aboard would march ashore and straight into prison camps.

It had been a very close-run thing, but the British attack had failed.

Ireland was no longer a part of Great Britain. Still not a country in her own right. There was still a long road to travel before she reached that happy day.

VICTORY!

For Henry, Lord Blessington, it was very obvious that something very disturbing was happening in Ireland. For three long days he had watched and waited, listened to what was being said by the servants and tried to separate rumor from fact. This was very difficult to do. From the upper windows of Trim Castle he had seen soldiers marching north. A squadron of cavalry galloped past on the second day, the same day that he had heard cannon booming in the distance. On the third day he had sent his manager riding into Drogheda to find out what he could. The man was Irish, but he was reliable. At least for the present. Now he had returned and stood before him, shaking, gripped by some strong emotion. Riley was a man of little imagination and Blessington had never seen him like this, standing here in the study and twisting his hat, unspeaking.

“Sit down man, sit down and compose yourself,” Blessington said. “And drink this.” He pushed a beaker of brandy across the table, sat down himself in the big armchair with his back to window. “Now tell me what you found out.”

Riley drank too fast and had an immense coughing fit. He dried his mouth and face with a bandana from his sleeve, then rooted in his jacket pocket for the little leather-bound book that he always carried. The coughing seemed to have broken his silence.

“I made notes, your lordship. Of what people told me. I went to the town clerk and checked with him. He had some telegrams there and he let me look at them. It seems that American soldiers have seized Dublin by force. They are everywhere.”

“Taken Dublin? How — and how did they get here?”

“Who can tell? Oh, the stories I heard, there is enough talk all right. Some said they came by sea, in an immense fleet. Someone said he had seen them with his own eyes, landing in their thousands, by boat and barge down the Royal Canal and the Liffey. But one thing is certain, and all I heard agreed on that, they are here and a great number of them indeed. Wounded too, and in the hospitals where there was talk of a great battle in the Curragh.”

“There would indeed be a conflict there.” Blessington almost said “We have” but quickly corrected himself. “There must be at least ten thousand troops stationed there. That would be a battle!”

“Indeed, sir, and I am sure that there was. And there were a lot of people who also seemed to believe that the Americans came by train, had seen them doing it.”

“Yes — of course, just what they would do. I can believe that. I have been in America and they are the great ones with their trains.” He stood and tapped the framed map on the wall. It had castles and heraldry that picked out the noble seats of Ireland, yet behind all the shields and coats of arms it was still visible as a map. “They landed here at Galway City, I’ll warrant. Beat down the local resistance, whatever there was of it, then took the trains to Dublin. What of the rest of Ireland?” he asked, turning back towards Riley. “What did you hear?”

“Saw, your lordship. A big announcement hung on the post office gate. I copied it here, just the gist if it, the best that I could, people were righting to get close to it and read it. Cork taken, it said, and all of the south of Ireland in the Liberators’ hands. That’s what they call themselves now, the Liberators.”

“They would, wouldn’t they?” he said bitterly. “But what of Belfast?”

“Fierce fighting there, that is what it said. But Belfast subdued, Ulster surrendered, Ireland one and indivisible and free. Martial law, with a dusk-to-dawn curfew, to be lifted as soon as the dissident elements are subdued. Those aren’t my words, I copied what I saw.”

“Yes, Riley, thank you. An excellent job.” Blessington dismissed the man with a flick of his hand and turned back to the map. “Trains,” he muttered to himself. It was so easy when you thought about it. There were no troops to speak of in the west of Ireland. None that he had ever seen. The invaders could land wherever they pleased there, to be greeted by rebels no doubt. Limerick to Cork. Galway to Dublin. Londonderry to Belfast — and no easy thing for them in the north, I’ll warrant. There are loyal people there. Not like the south of Ireland. A viper’s nest of Fenians. He turned away from the map as the door to the study opened.

“I saw Riley leaving,” Lady Sarah Blessington said. “Did he find out about the… troubles?”