Commodore Goldsborough came out of the hatch and onto the shrapnel-strewn deck and saluted when they climbed aboard. Old, gray-haired and overweight, he was still a man of fighting spirit.

“Thank you for the timely arrival,” Lincoln said. He looked at the blazing wreck and shook his head. “A single broadside did that…”

“We used explosive shells, Mr. President. The aft battery was charged with the new incendiary shells that we were testing out at sea. They are filled with an inflammable substance that is said to burn for thirty minutes without the possibility of being quenched. I wish we had more of them for I would say they are a great success. But welcome, sir, welcome aboard. You as well, General Sherman.” He turned and shouted commands in a voice that could be heard in a gale; the engines rumbled deep below. He coughed, cleared his throat, and continued to speak but in a far more conversational manner.

“I tied up at Fort Monroe less than two hours ago, to take on coal. Then telegraphed reports began coming in about the presence of the enemy fleet in the Potomac. As far as I know mine is the only ship of strength in these waters. I dropped my lines and, well, you saw what happened next. I must thank you for bringing that British ship to my attention.”

“We must thank you, Commodore, for your timely arrival and most convincing treatment of our pursuer. Now — to Washington.”

“To Washington, Mr. President. Full speed ahead.”

When the War Department was not directly attacked, General Rose had ordered scouts to slip out of the back windows. They desperately needed to know what was going on. The first one to return was ordered to report directly to Secretary Stanton.

“What is the city like, Corporal?”

“Pretty quiet, nothing moving except where them British troops are. Everyone locked up and quiet. I think I saw the Capitol on fire, and it had been hit by gunfire, but couldn’t get close enough to be sure. Then I got as near to the river as I could. All our guns wiped out, many of our men too. Redcoats still landing, lots of them spread out, but lots of them shot dead.”

“What do you mean?”

“Local folks not taking kindly to them. And it looked like every farmer that could ride a mule headed for the city when these ships went by on the Potomac. They got a line of men stretched out and firing — with more arriving every minute.”

“Enough to stop the British?”

“I don’t believe so, sir. Those troops are regulars and there is an awful lot of them.”

“Mr. Stanton — it looks like they’re getting into the White House now!”

It certainly appeared to be the end. The defensive fire had died down and the first enemy troops were battering at the sealed front door. The troops inside were firing through the shattered windows to no avail.

Above the scattering of shots a bugle could be clearly heard. Sounding the same call over and over.

“That bugle call — what is it?” Stanton asked worriedly.

The general shook his head. “I’m afraid that I do not know, sir. It is not a call used in the United States Army.”

“I know, sir,” the corporal said. Every eye was on him. “I’m in a signals unit, we know all the British calls as well.

“That’s retreat, sir, that’s what they are sounding. Retreat.”

“But — why?” Stanton asked. “They are winning. Have our troops rallied and attacked…”

“Not troops!” General Rose cried out. “Look, there in the Potomac!”

In the patch of river, just visible past the verandas of the White House, a hulking dark form moved into view. Guns ready, the stars and stripes flapping from her staff.

An American armor-clad; the salvation of the city.

“Your orders, Mr. President,” the Commodore said.

Lincoln was bent over and looking out through the slit in the armor that covered the bridge. It was hot, close in here. What it would be like when the guns fired and shells struck outside he did not even want to imagine. There was a good chance that he might find out in the coming minutes.

“What do you suggest, Commodore?”

“Wood, sir. All wood and no iron on any of the warships. You saw what happens when wood fights iron.”

“I did indeed. Can you call upon them to surrender?”

“I could, but I doubt that it would be appreciated. Those ships came here to fight and fight they will. See, they are already swinging about to get their guns to bear.”

“The ships with the troops — you will spare them?”

“Of course — unless they refuse to surrender and try to escape. But I think they will be reasonable after they see what happens to the others.”

Smoke rolled out from the Prince Regent’s guns and there was a mighty clang of metal upon metal that sounded through the ship.

“Return fire,” Goldsborough ordered.

The Battle of the Potomac River had begun.

The British had their defensive tactics forced upon them: they were compelled to keep their warships between this armored enemy and the unarmed transports tied up along the shore. The retreating troops were being boarded as fast as they could, but it would still take some time. Time that would have to be bought with men’s lives.

They sailed in line against the single enemy, crossing the T just as Nelson had done at Trafalgar. This would concentrate the gunfire of each ship in turn against a single target. But success at the Battle of Trafalgar had seen wooden ships fighting wooden ships. Now it was wood against iron.

Prince Regent was first in line. As she passed the ironclad gun after gun fired at close range. The solid shot just bounced off the armor plate; the explosive shells could not penetrate. There was no return fire until the rear turret of Avenger was even with the waist of the British ship. The two guns fired and the massive iron shells from the 400-pounders crashed through the oak hull and on into the crowded gun deck.

Royal Oak was next and she took the fire of the other turret and suffered the same fate as her sister ship. Guns unmounted, men screaming and dying, tangled rigging and sails down.

It took two minutes to reload the big guns. Every minute one of the turrets fired and death crashed into the British squadron. The ships fought and died, one by one, a small victory bought at a terrible price. But the first transports had slipped their lines and were heading downriver.

Men ran along the bank, cheering and shouting, letting off the occasional shot against the retreating ships. A British warship had her rudder blown away and drifted helplessly in the current; the watchers cheered even louder.

Guns were still firing upstream from the drifting ship as it slowly drifted out of sight. Smaller guns firing at erratic intervals. And every two minutes the louder boom of the 400-pounders.

“We are winning, Mr. Lincoln,” Goldsborough said. “No doubt about that.”

“Has this ship suffered any damage?”

“None, sir — other than our flagstaff being shot away. They got Old Glory and they will pay a terrible price for that.”

THE TASTE OF VICTORY

The Battle of Saratoga was in its third bloody day. The troops that had been trickling into the American positions had been thrown piecemeal into the line as soon as they arrived. And they held, just barely, but they held. The fighting was hand-to-hand; the cannon could not fire for fear of hitting their own troops. Then, at noon, some of the spirit had seemed to go out of the British troops. They had been brave enough, had fought hard enough — but all to no avail. They hesitated. General Grant saw it and knew what he had to do.

“We counterattack. All of the freshest troops. Push them back, hurt them.”

With a roar of pleasure the American troops attacked for the first time. And the British fled.