“Dead or captured for certain. What do you want us to do, sir.”

“Do?”

“Yes, sir.” Dashwood was losing his patience at the dithering, but did not let his feelings show. “I’ve dug my men in on shore. With the guns they can resist an attack — but they cannot win it.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Immediate withdrawal. Our military forces obviously did not accomplish their objective. I suggest that we cut our losses and retreat.”

“And you are absolutely sure that our forces on land are destroyed? Or will be very soon?” one of the captains asked.

“You may take my word for that, sir. If you have any doubts I will be happy to take you to the scene of the battle.”

“The supplies on shore, the cannon — what about them?”

“I suggest that we take what we can, destroy the rest, spike the guns. Nothing can be accomplished by staying a moment longer than we need. Now if you will excuse me, I must return to my troops.”

Despite the urgency it took most of the day for a decision to be made. Dashwood had sent scouts forward and they reported that the battle was indeed over. They saw a small group of prisoners being led away. And the enemy divisions were forming. Skirmishers were already approaching and it was more than obvious what would happen next. The major walked back and forth behind the defenses, in a black rage at the indecision of the navy. Were his marines to be sacrificed too?

It was late afternoon before the very obvious decision was finally made. Destroy the supplies, spike the guns, board his men. The first boatload of marines had reached their transport when the lookout on Warrior reported smoke on the eastern horizon.

Within a minute all of the telescopes in the fleet were pointed in that direction. The smoke cloud grew larger and separated into individual columns.

“I count four, five ships, possibly more. Steaming on forced draft.” Captain Roland’s voice remained flat and emotionless despite the tension growing within him. “Isn’t there a blockading fleet at Mobile Bay?”

“At last reports, a fairly good-sized one, sir.”

“Yes. I thought so.”

The leading ships were hull up now, white sails visible below the smoke. They were slowing to a halt well out of gunshot; a large battleship at the center of the line was swinging about.

“What on earth are they doing?” the captain called out. “Hail the lookout.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“It’s a tow of some kind, sir. They’ve dropped the line to another vessel.”

“What is it?”

“Can’t rightly tell. Never saw nothing like that before.”

The black form was so low in the water that details were not clear. It passed the other ships and slowly steamed toward the British. No one could make out what kind of ship it was, even when it drew close.

Black, so low in the water that its deck was awash, small. With a round construction in the center of its deck.

“Like a cheesebox on a raft,” one of the officers said.

A chill possessed Captain Roland like nothing he had ever experienced before. He had read those very words in the newspaper.

“What can it possibly be?” someone said.

“Nemesis,” he said, in a voice so low he could be barely heard.

The steam-powered wooden frigates of the American Navy opened into a half-circle to engage the British warships, carefully staying clear of the menacing iron ship. Only USS Monitor sailed steadily on.

The Americans were ready, guns charged and run out. Aboard the Monitor Lieutenant William Jeffers, in the armored bridge house, trained his telescope on the anchored ships. “We will attack the ironclad before she gets under way,” he said. “She must be either Warrior or Black Prince. To my knowledge those are the only two iron ships that the British Navy has. Our agents have supplied complete details on their construction and design.”

Warrior was swinging at anchor and getting up steam. The ship’s stern was toward the attacking Monitor and her first officer gasped at what he saw. “The stern, sir — why it is not armored. There seems to be some kind of apparatus there, a winch, a frame of some kind.”

“There is,” Jeffers said. “I’ve read the description in the report. To lessen drag when she is under sail the screw is lifted clear of the water. So the stern is unarmored. As is the bow.”

“We’ll pound her out of the water!”

“It won’t be that easy. The intelligence reports contained minute details about her construction. Her hull is made of one-inch-thick iron — but she is a ship within a ship. All of the main battery of guns are in the citadel, an armored box within the ship. Twenty-two of them, twenty-six 68-pounders and six 100-pounders. She outguns us in number but not in size of guns. Our Dahlgrens are weapons to reckon with. This citadel is made of four-inch wrought-iron plates backed by twelve inches of teak. She’ll not be easy to take.”

“But we can try?”

“We certainly can. Our shot bounced off the Merrimack because she had slanted sides. I want to see what a ball from an 11-inch Dahlgren will do against this citadel — with its vertical sides.”

It was a fly attacking an elephant. The tiny iron Monitor, gushing smoke from her two stubby stacks, bustled toward the great length of Warrior. Somber and menacing in her black paint. Bulletproof lids covering the gun ports swung open and the muzzles of the big guns slid out. They were loaded and charged — and fired as one. A sheet of flame blasted out and the solid shot screamed across the gap between the two ships.

With no observable result. The turret had been rotated so that her guns faced away from the British ironclad. Most shot missed the low-lying target; the few that hit the eight-inch armor of the turret bounced away without doing any damage. Monitor chugged slowly on at her top speed of almost five knots. As she approached the great black ship steam hissed into the engine beneath the turret, turning the cog wheel that meshed with the gear under the base. The bogy wheels rumbled as the turret swung around so that both gun muzzles were scant feet from Warrior’s high flank.

And fired. Punching the cannonballs through the armor plate to wreak havoc and destruction in the gun deck. The guns recoiled on their slides, the tightened clamps squealing, metal to metal, as the massive guns were brought to a stop.

“Reload!”

The jointed shafts pushed the hissing sponges down the gun barrels. Then the charges were rammed into place, followed by the cannonballs held by steel claws, lifted by chain winches. Within two minutes they were reloaded and the sweating, filthy crewmen hauled on the lines to pull the guns back into firing position.

By this time Monitor had swung around the iron ship’s stern with her guns almost touching the high rudder. Despite the force of guns in her main battery, there was only a single swivel gun mounted aft. This fired ineffectively.

Then the two heavy guns fired as one, smashing the round shot into the stern and through the single inch of iron of the hull. Monitor drifted there, engines stopped while the guns were reloaded. Marines lined the rail above her and bullets spanged against iron with no effect. Two minutes ticked slowly by. Clouds of smoke billowed from Warrior’s funnels as she got up steam. Her anchors were raised now and the massive black bulk began to turn to bring her guns to bear on her tiny attacker.

Then Monitor fired again. The ship’s boat hanging in the stern there was smashed — and then the massive rudder.

Warrior’s screw was turning now and the massive ship began to move away. With the rudder gone they could not turn, but at least they might escape the deadly attack.

With her guns silent Monitor’s crew could hear clanging impacts on the iron above their heads as the marines leaned over the rails and fired their muskets to no avail. But when the tiny Union vessel moved out from behind the stern and along the enemy’s starboard side she faced the greater menace of the 68- and 100-pounders yet again. Muzzles fully depressed they fired on the roll as Monitor appeared in their sights. Iron pounded iron, crashing and clanging against turret and hull.