Bow on, a bone in its teeth, the British warship charged toward them.

“Go back to Yorktown,” Lincoln said. “There are troops and batteries there.”

“I don’t think that we should, Mr. President,” the captain said, his telescope to his eye. “Hard to starboard,” he shouted and the President grabbed at the rail as the steamer heeled as it began a tight turn. The captain pointed at their pursuer, at her full sails and black-billowing smoke.

“She’s a fast one, lot faster than this old girl. And she’ll fore-reach us if we turn back. That is she will be coming up at an angle and would get to us long before we got to Yorktown. But now she is on a stern chase and it will take a lot more time for her to catch up with us.”

“Where are we going?”

“Fortress Monroe. Dead ahead. The British will never follow us under those big guns.”

Deep in the hold the stokers poured with sweat as they shoveled. Under the highest head of steam she could carry the screw thrashed the green waters of the bay. Ahead was the tip of the Yorktown Peninsula, growing ever closer.

As was their pursuer. Bows on, closer and ever closer. A sudden puff of white smoke blossomed and vanished; there was no sign of where the shell landed.

“Ranging shot,” General Lee said. “Or a warning to stop.”

“They can’t possibly know who is aboard,” Sherman said. “Or we would have had the whole fleet after us.”

“We can hide below,” Hay said, his teeth almost chattering with fear; military glory had never been for him.

“You and I could, John,” Nicolay said. “But why should we bother? I don’t think even the British shoot civilian captives. In any case, if they do stop us, we would certainly be of no interest to them.”

“Indeed true,” Hay said pointing at the uniformed men around the President. “They’ll never believe their luck. Not only Lincoln but all of his commanders-in-chief. This cannot happen! It all cannot end like this. With the ceasefire in place, plans made, a new war, a new world waiting.” Fear was replaced by anger. But what could be done?

Very little, all aboard agreed. The officers stamped about the deck easing their swords in their scabbards, fingering their revolvers. The ship had a small store of arms and these were brought on deck. But how could they fight against the guns of the warship? Flight was their only option. Top speed — and pray that the old boiler held together, that no vital piece of machinery carried away.

The army officers were like caged lions, pacing and muttering in angry frustration. Wanting only to attack and kill their pursuers, they could only wait impatiently and watch the enemy ship’s steady approach. Lincoln left them, sought the quieter haven of the bridge. The sailor at the wheel a solid rock of concentration, correcting every slight sideward movement, aiming toward the headland. On the far side of it was their haven; Fortress Monroe. The captain murmured into the speaking tube, talking to the chief engineer. Lincoln stepped onto the flying bridge, looked aft. Was shocked to see how close their pursuer had come in the few minutes he had been inside.

White bow wave surging. At some unheard command thin black silhouettes suddenly appeared on both her flanks.

“Run her guns out,” the captain said; he had joined the President on the bridge.

“She looks very close,” Lincoln said, running his fingers through his beard.

“She’s too close, Mr. President. I don’t want to say this but I have to. She’s too fast for us. We’re not going to make it, sir.”

“Certainly there is a chance.”

The captain pointed to the tip of the Yorktown Peninsula ahead; waves broke lazily on the sandy beach. “We will weather the point all right. But it’s maybe eight miles more down the coast to the fort. That warship will catch us up before we’ve gone half that far. Sorry, sir. We have done what we can — this old ship has as well. There is nothing more that can be done. We have all the steam up, almost too much. Short of blowing up our boiler we’ve done our best.”

Then the British ship fired. The shells fell short. Now. But the range was closing.

So close, so very close. Lincoln pounded his fist against the side of the cabin. It could not be. The war just could not end like this, with humiliation and disgrace. Too much was at stake, too many young men had died. Now that there was a possibility that the war between the states might end, the stupidity of this chance encounter was almost too much to believe. But it was true. The British ship was growing ever closer: the end was in sight.

The wheel came over and the ship heeled as they weathered the point, sailing so close to the shore and the marshland beyond that they were practically in the breakers. The River Queen seemed to gain a bit as the larger British warship stood further out to sea, needing more depth beneath her keel.

But it wasn’t enough. From his experiences as a river boatman Lincoln could tell that there was no escape. They would be overtaken long before they reached the security of the fort and its guns. For a moment the warship seemed to be going away from them, showing her flank bristling with cannon. Then she turned once more to the pursuit, bows on and coming fast.

Lincoln could not look at this certain destiny. He turned toward the bow as the eastern portion of the coast opened up. With the dark smudge of Fort Monroe at its farther end.

“My God!” the captain gasped.

“My God, indeed,” Lincoln agreed, and felt his tight clasp on the rail loosen.

For there, not a mile away, was an ironclad warship. Smoke pouring from her funnel, heading toward them.

And most glorious sight of all — the Stars and Stripes that were streaming out from her masthead.

WASHINGTON CITY ATTACKED

Royal Oak led the way, a sixty-gun ship of the line. In line astern were two other great ships. Prince Consort also with sixty-guns, and following her was Repulse with fifty-nine. They slowly came around the bend in the river and the city of Washington was open before them. The fighting ships drew close to the shore while the troop transports moved toward the Virginia side of the river. As soon as the British ships were within range the battery of American field artillery on the shore, and the guns of Fort Carrol, opened fire. The sound of the explosions echoed through the empty streets of the city; acrid smoke drifted in the hot air. The gunners shouted with pleasure as they saw their shells strike home in the high oak flanks of the warships.

Their voices were drowned in the thunder of the ship of the line’s broadside. Thirty guns fired as one and Royal Oak rolled with the recoil. The artillery battery ceased to exist. The undermanned fort grew silent as the heavy guns pounded it.

Other guns on the shore were firing now, with little effect against the thick oak of the British ships. They drifted closer to the embankment, turning as they came so the gun layers could pick out the individual batteries and guns. There were few enough defenders to begin with, fewer still after the first minutes of firing. None remained intact fifteen minutes later as the first of the transports approached the shore.

There was a spatter of defensive fire from the American soldiers there, answered at once by British guns firing grapeshot. Marine marksmen in the rigging added to the carnage. The signal flags went up and the big troop transports threw their sails over and tacked across the river to the shore. Sailors jumped down lines to secure them and gangways were slung down.

By the time the first troops were marching ashore, the pocket of resistance had been all but wiped out. Urged on by the shouts of the sergeants, two columns were quickly formed up and then marched out briskly. One in the direction of the Capitol — the other directly towards the White House. History was repeating itself with a vengeance.