broadsides into her before another wooden ship came to her aid. Shells from the massive British vessel pounded against the hull of theIronsides, butdidn't break through her iron shield. The thunder was deafening, but they were safe. Just then, a piece of metal entered through a gun port and ripped off the arm of an American sailor. He screamed and fell writhing to the ground. He was replaced in the gun crew and dragged off to the care of the ship's surgeon. More metal penetrated the openings and Farragut understood what was happening. Unable to pierce the armor, the British ship was firing grape, or canister, which, like a shotgun, showered a target with pieces of metal. It was almost inevitable that some would come through the open gun ports. Once again, Farragut applauded the design of the Monitors' turrets. They were only opened momentarily, which negated most of the effect of canister. The navy would have to put turrets on larger ships such as his.
Farragut broke off contact with theAgamemnon, and theIronsides suddenly found herself confronting the giantWarrior, For a few minutes that presaged the future of naval warfare, the two ironclads hurled shells at each other with no apparent effect.
“Damn that ship,” snarled Farragut. Another piece of canister caromed its way into a sailor's body and he dropped to the floor, dead. Others had been wounded, but not too seriously.
Farragut ordered theIronsides to seek out another target. There was no point in having two ships that couldn't hurt each other waste ammunition in the futile attempt. A British frigate approached on his port side and he fired into her at extremely close range. His crew cheered as fires broke out on the frigate and she disengaged.
For what seemed an eternity the apparently unequal struggle continued. But as the afternoon waned, the small American ships continued to be impervious to British shells, while the wooden British ships took punishment that, since it was cumulative, gradually became serious. Even though they could not fire rapidly, the Monitors continued to shoot when they could, and their large twelve-inch guns did enormous damage.
Finally, the impossible was achieved. Penetration was made. Farragut had split the larger British squadron into two unequal halves that, under the protection of the equally unharmedWarrior. turned and commenced steaming south.
By their very nature, wooden ships do not sink very readily unless they are catastrophically damaged. Two British frigates were low in the water and helpless. Their crews were in lifeboats or in the water and clinging to wreckage. Several other warships, including at least one ship of the line, were burning, although they were under way and the fires appeared to be controllable. Most of the other British ships had sustained damage of some kind.
The Union had lost no ships. Without turrets, theNewIronsides had sustained the most damage. Half her guns had been dismounted and twenty of her crew killed. Another fifty were injured. No armor plates had been destroyed on any ship, although dents were everywhere, and many plates would have to be replaced. TheHudson could no longer turn her turret. She'd had to turn the entire ship to continue fighting. Farragut made a note to commend her young captain, Lieutenant George Dewey, on his doggedness.
It had been a great victory, but also an enormous defeat for the United States. The convoy, the target of the assault and the reason for the battle, was nowhere in sight. It had continued on during the battle and was not going to be caught either by Farragut's squadron or Porters. Captain Porters ships had seen no action and now were picking up survivors from the stricken British ships.
Damn it, Farragut thought. If only he'd had more ships. If only he'd had more time to create a navy. But it was hopeless. His ships were battered, his men were exhausted, and they were out of ammunition. It almost didn't matter that the British ships were larger and faster. The battle was over.
Miles away, Admiral Sir Henry Chads was almost physically ill. He had seen the face of the future and wanted none of it. It had been incredible. The small American ironclads had slugged it out with the larger British ships and had gradually worn down the Royal Navy's best. Chads had won a tactical victory this day by preserving the convoy. But he had lost two frigates that he'd been forced to abandon, and at least a half dozen of his ships were so badly damaged that they'd have to return to England. Ironically, he thought, the only North American shipyards that could repair them were in the Union and out of reach.
The United States had disrupted the British fleet with only five ironclads. The message was clear. He would later wonder just how all five came together in the mouth of the Delaware when four were supposed to be in the Hudson, but this day he saw only the future. Ironclads. Today the Americans had five. In another couple of months, a dozen. How many in a year? Scores?
Palmerston was right, but for reasons the prime minister didn't even yet fathom. The Royal Navy's ascendancy off the coast of the United States would be brought to an end by the damned ironclads. Britain would build her own, but the coastal vessels like the turreted Monitors would force Britain's blockaders far out into the waters. This would permit merchant ships and Union commerce raiders to scurry out to the safety of the vast sea. Both the United States and Great Britain would build bigger and faster ironclads, ships that would combine the seaworthiness of theWarrior with the invincibility of theMonitor, or theNewIronsides, There would be no more wooden ships. An era had passed.
Nathan Hunter poured himself a drink and took a small sip. General Scott had been right. Scotch whiskey was an acquired taste, but the trip was well worth it.
It had been an exciting day. After a lengthy conversation with General Scott, General Grant and he had gone to the White House, where Grant had had a private conversation with President Lincoln, much to the dismay of Secretary Stanton and General Halleck. After that, the two men had emerged and the president had announced that General Grant now commanded all the Union armies, and that all strategy for the winning of the war would emanate from him. General Winfield Scott had been flabbergasted. Stanton seemed bemused, while Halleck had looked fit to be tied.
Nathan had expected good things for Grant, but total command of all the Union armies had not been one of them. At least not yet.
This meant that, at age forty, Ulysses Simpson Grant, or Hiram Ulysses Grant, or Sam Grant, or whatever the hell he wished to call himself, was one of the most important and powerful people in the nation. Nathan wondered if Grant was up to it or if he would be a failure like McClellan. Nathan decided he'd put his money on Grant.
It was impossible not to conclude that, had Grant been commanding at Culpeper instead of McClellan, the Union might have won the day, perhaps the war. Grant was remorseless when it came to fighting. Not cruel, not ruthless or vicious, but remorseless. At Fort Donelson, he had required an old and dear friend to submit to a humiliating surrender. At Shiloh, he had nearly been defeated, but refused to allow it and had claimed a victory after a bloody, brawling battle that had stunned both sides with its ferocity.
Later, in Canada, Nathan felt that Grant was fully capable of massacring those misguided militia arrayed against him outside of London. That he might not have wanted to was irrelevant. If he'd had to he would have. His later battle at Dundas, and the campaign in and around Hamilton and Toronto, was being heralded by experts on both sides of the Atlantic as a masterpiece of maneuver and tactics. Nathan thought it was simply a case of Grant, a terrier, getting hold of his opponent and refusing to let go.
But was Grant good enough to defeat both Lee and the British, who were reinforcing the Confederates?
Nathan walked to a window and pulled the curtain aside. A light drizzle had fallen and the world glistened from the reflection of the stars. In the servants' wing, a gaslight was lit. Nathan smiled. It probably meant that Sergeant Fromm was visiting Bridget Conlin. With the aged General Scott safely in bed, Fromm generally spent the night with the comely young Irish servant.
Nathan envied Fromm. At least the sergeant's life was in some kind of order, while Nathan still suffered from uncertainties. It had been a long time since Nathan had slept with a woman, in particular one for whom he cared, and he wondered when it would happen again. Certainly, Rebecca Devon was an object of great desire, but she was so fragile he was afraid to push their relationship beyond the kissing and caressing that she accepted and even seemed to enjoy.
Rebecca was still a daily visitor with the old general, and she frequently didn't leave until after dark. This gave the two of them ample opportunity for brief meetings and conversations, which they indulged in as frequently as they could.
Then there was the question of just how involved did he wish to get with Rebecca Devon? Nine times out often, perhaps nineteen out of twenty, Nathan felt that he wished to marry her, but there was that moment of doubt that held him back.
