Stars & Stripes Forever (24 page)

Sherman heard a cry of pain and turned to see that the colorbearer had been shot, was falling. Sherman eased him to the ground and took the wooden pole with the stars and stripes from the man's limp hand. Held it high and signaled the charge.

The Union troops ran the last few yards and dropped to the ground among the Confederates who had been pinned down by the fire. Sherman, still carrying the flag, moved to join Beauregard who was sheltering in a small grove of trees with some of his officers and men.

"The guns are coming up," Sherman said. "Let them put some shells into the British before we attack again. How is your ammunition?"

"Holding up fine. The boys seem to enjoy bayoneting to shooting today."

Sherman looked about at the soldiers. Tired and weary, their faces and uniforms streaked with powder, they still looked a force ready to deal more destruction. The Confederate colorbearer was leaning his weight on the flagstaff to support himself. Sherman wanted to reload his pistol for this next attack, but he could not do this burdened with the flag. His thoughts were on the battle so, without conscious thought, he held the flag out to the Confederate soldier.

"Here you are, boy. You can carry two as easy as one."

The tired soldier smiled and nodded, reached out and took the flag, bundled it with the one he already had.

No one seemed to notice; they were readying themselves for the attack.

At that moment, in the midst of battle, no one perceived that the Stars and Stripes and the flag of the Confederacy were conjoined.

Flying together as the order was given and the soldiers swept forward.

The Royal Marines had camped on the shore at Biloxi where they guarded the guns and stores. They had been alerted by the sound of firing to the west and were drawn up and preparing to march when the first of the retreating soldiers who had escaped the attack stumbled up. Major Dashwood strode to the staggering infantryman and pulled him around by his collar.

"Speak up—what is happening?"

"Attack... dawn. Surprised us. Got lots of guns, sir. Soldiers, masses of them too. General ordered retreat..."

"He didn't order you to throw away your weapon."

The major hurled the man to the ground and kicked him in the ribs with his heavy boot; the soldier screamed like a girl.

"I want all those defenses manned," the major said striding up the beach. "Get those boxes and bales up, use them for cover as well. Wheel those cannon about. See that the men do a good job and a fast one. Lieutenant, you are in command until I return. I am going out there to find out what is going on."

The horse, captured in the attack, was a wall-eyed brute and very skittish at the best of times. The major, with little riding skills, managed to clamber into the saddle with the aid of two marines. At an uncontrolled gallop he headed toward the sound of action. He found it quickly enough and managed to pull hard on the reins to drag the horse to a stop.

The cause was lost, that was obvious at a glance. English bodies covered the ground. They had taken many of the enemy with them—but not enough. The surviving British troops appeared to be surrounded and unable to escape. Surrounded by what was obviously a far superior force. He could counterattack with his marines. But they would be outnumbered as well—and certainly could not arrive in time to make any difference to the outcome of this battle. The intensity of the firing was dying down as the small circle of defenders grew ever smaller. A bullet kicked up sand nearby and he realized that he been seen by the skirmishers and was under fire himself. Reluctantly he turned the horse and galloped back to the beach.

When he saw that the defenses were manned and as strong as he could make them, he ordered the sailors to man one of the beached boats and made his way to the
Warrior.

And total confusion. Boats from the other ships were crowded at the gangway and he had to wait until the senior officers went first. When he finally made it to the deck he saw that working parties were bumping into each other on deck, while others were aloft furling the mainsail to avoid scorching by smoke from the stack. The third officer, with whom he shared a cabin, was supervising the lowering of the aft telescopic funnel so he crossed the deck to him.

"Des, what's happening? Are we going to sail?"

"Yes... and no." He turned to bellow at a sailor. "You there—watch yourself! Lean into that line!" He motioned Dashwood aside, spoke quietly so the crewmen could not hear him.

"The admiral is dead—and apparently by his own hand."

"I think I know why."

"That island out there, you can just make it out on the horizon. That is DeerIsland."

Dashwood looked from island to shore. "And how did our wonderfully efficient navy make this mistake? A slight error in navigation?"

Dashwood smiled coldly at the officer's discomfiture. "We discovered it this morning. General Bullers is now continuing the attack. I was to follow him as soon as the rest of the supplies are ashore. Now—I must report to the duke—"

"Gone on the
Java."

"Then who is in command?"

"Who knows? The captain has called a meeting of senior captains in his cabin."

"I have some more bad news for them." He leaned close and whispered. "Buller has been attacked, defeated." He turned and went below.

Two of his marines were stationed at the cabin door and jumped to attention when he appeared.

"Captain ordered us, sir. No entry..."

"Stand aside Dunbar—or I'll strangle you with your own guts."

The arguing captains looked up when the marine officer entered.

"Damn it, Dashwood, I left orders..."

"Indeed you did, sir." He closed the door before he spoke. "I have the worst possible news for you. General Buller and his entire command are under attack. By now all of them have been killed or captured."

"That cannot be!"

"I assure you that it is. I went there myself and saw what was happening. One of the soldiers who escaped can confirm this report."

"Take your men—go to their aid!" The captain of the
Royal Oak
called out.

"Are you in command here, Captain?" Major Dashwood asked coldly. "My understanding is that with the admiral dead the captain of my ship commands my troops."

"All dead?" Captain Roland said, apparently numbed by the news.

"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 MobileBay?"

"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.