As ever, your ways of finding reasons (e.g. slow call up of reservists) to explain AI actions are excellent.
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Wow, did I fall behind. I am again current and impressed. You do beautifully cover for some of the AI's bizarre behavior. I cannot imagine but that result would be telling on British pride in general and the politicians who led the war effort in particular. Also makes "Rule Brittania" ring hollow.
Vann
Vann
Wow. Just how dispersed were those RN cruisers? I have a feeling that a lot of British admirals are going to be sacked very soon...which should also allow for enough intellectual ferment to break down the old complacency. Perhaps we could see the earlier rise of a Jackie Fisher figure in the Royal Navy--someone ready and willing to modernize the RN and push research into submarines, torpedos and all-big-gun BBs? That could be interesting for the naval future of the RN, the USN and every major European fleet interested in keeping up.
Alfredian - well, the Royal Navy suffered from low org and morale in the opening battles, so I assume the AI had the support sliders on a lower, cheaper setting. My explanation for that is the (historical) budget battles and the (historical) use of reservists to fill out crews. Their combat performance might have been better had the British cruisers been at full support all along. As it was I went through them like wet newspaper. I can't fault their bravery, but the RN was not well-served by its civilian masters, nor by its choice of doctrine.
Enewald - the game mechanics don't allow for blockades, no. But posting a strong force off each big port is a good way to bottle up/defeat in detail the enemy. I didn't have enough ships for that.
Vann the Red - The Royal Navy's superiority was an unquestioned fact at that time. But you are only as good as your preparation - and here the RN rested on its laurels just a bit too long. In 'our' history, the fight between Beresford and Fisher could have gone either way, and the smug, technophobic, tradition-bound inertia of the Victorian/Edwardian navy was barely overcome by WWI anyway, and that with the threat of Germany directly in front of their faces. No-one really saw the USN as a threat.
The Royal Navy can and will come back. Wisely, I decided not to try to contest by outbuilding them and instead kept a strong second place. But there just isn't any way they can recover their balance in mid-war when their doctrine has been so wrong for so long. It takes two years to build a ship, and an hour to lose it.
Fulcrumvale - all I know is everywhere I try to go I run into more cruisers, which stinks because I really - really - need to reinforce Africa, plus put a stop to the invasions of the US.
After the war we see a long, quiet period while the RN rebuilds its cruiser strength. Then it gets the battleship tech and builds around 50 in two years, and keeps that up until we both get dreadnoughts in 1905. So there is just no way I can keep up in sheer numbers, nor after this do I get ahead in navy techs. We both put all-big-gun ships in the water in the same year, but Britain (as always) builds an insane amount of them.
So my take is that post-war financial stringency and perhaps treaty limits and a lack of any opponent other than the US keeps the RN in the doldrums for almost a decade. When it comes out, it does so with a vengeance. I was very lucky - this was probably the only moment in the game I could have won a naval war with Britain.
Enewald - the game mechanics don't allow for blockades, no. But posting a strong force off each big port is a good way to bottle up/defeat in detail the enemy. I didn't have enough ships for that.
Vann the Red - The Royal Navy's superiority was an unquestioned fact at that time. But you are only as good as your preparation - and here the RN rested on its laurels just a bit too long. In 'our' history, the fight between Beresford and Fisher could have gone either way, and the smug, technophobic, tradition-bound inertia of the Victorian/Edwardian navy was barely overcome by WWI anyway, and that with the threat of Germany directly in front of their faces. No-one really saw the USN as a threat.
The Royal Navy can and will come back. Wisely, I decided not to try to contest by outbuilding them and instead kept a strong second place. But there just isn't any way they can recover their balance in mid-war when their doctrine has been so wrong for so long. It takes two years to build a ship, and an hour to lose it.
Fulcrumvale - all I know is everywhere I try to go I run into more cruisers, which stinks because I really - really - need to reinforce Africa, plus put a stop to the invasions of the US.
After the war we see a long, quiet period while the RN rebuilds its cruiser strength. Then it gets the battleship tech and builds around 50 in two years, and keeps that up until we both get dreadnoughts in 1905. So there is just no way I can keep up in sheer numbers, nor after this do I get ahead in navy techs. We both put all-big-gun ships in the water in the same year, but Britain (as always) builds an insane amount of them.
So my take is that post-war financial stringency and perhaps treaty limits and a lack of any opponent other than the US keeps the RN in the doldrums for almost a decade. When it comes out, it does so with a vengeance. I was very lucky - this was probably the only moment in the game I could have won a naval war with Britain.
American outrage at British perfidy demonstrated itself in many ways, from the wrecking of shops to the mobbing of (now abandoned) British consulates. One consequence of this ‘war fever’ was an overwhelming rush to join the colors. Secretary Longstreet had been right that the volunteers – the militia organizations who formed the bulk of the mobilized army – would be infuriated to be called back into service only weeks after they had returned home from Spain. President Hancock had been correct that their anger would be directed toward Britain. While the volunteer units were assembling, the War Department and the Navy decided to embark on some small operations to show the nation that the war was being taken to the enemy. With Watertown, New York, still in Canadian hands, actions were needed which would not put the slender regular army or the few warships remaining in home waters at risk.
Troops were taken from Hispaniola and landed on the undefended islands of Jamaica and the Bahamas. Elements of the Washington garrison were railed to upstate New York and placed under the command of a fuming General Philip Sheridan. More could not be done until additional troops could be concentrated, for ten thousand Canadians were now dug in around Watertown and it would take a large force, well-supplied with artillery, to oust them. Finally reinforced to three divisions of regulars, men obtained by stripping the garrisons of the east coast, Sheridan in late July launched a wide turning maneuver around the Canadian left flank. Hard fighting ensued as the defenders tried to block the maneuver, then made a fighting withdrawal. Sheridan pushed his men relentlessly through the hot summer days in pursuit. The Canadians made a heroic stand at Ottawa on August 4th, but without time to prepare fortifications they were utterly routed.
The Republic of Mexico had eagerly honored its treaty commitment with the United States, declaring war on Great Britain and hurling a hundred thousand men into British-occupied Yucatan and Belize. In eastern Africa, the British Army in Kenya came across the border to invade American Tanga. With three divisions of colonial infantry in his department and no sign of any Royal Navy warships, General Richards withdrew before the invaders while throwing one column northeast into Nairobi and landing another in Mombasa in their rear. All three elements then converged on the division at Tanga, which was destroyed after hard fighting.
American public opinion had been sent soaring by the victories of their Navy, but there was serious underlying disquiet over the fact that the Atlantic and Caribbean waters were now virtually undefended. Sensational stories circulated: a handful of British cruisers could lay waste to New York, require Philadelphia to pay ransom, or shell the inhabitants of Boston until they went mad from terror. Vainly the Navy Department argued that the English Channel was the solar plexus of the enemy, the place where a disabling blow could and must be struck, and the place where the enemy would concentrate his ships. On August 10th, the worst fears of those who wanted the Navy brought home to guard the Atlantic coast were realized, for that was when the first regiments of British troops came splashing ashore on the beaches of Delaware.
A map of the Chesapeake Bay area, showing British control of the southern DelMarVa peninsula
If the English Channel was the ‘solar plexus’ of Great Britain, the Chesapeake Bay area would be its American counterpart. Within a few miles of its waters are the ports of Philadelphia and Baltimore, the national capital of Washington, the great naval base of Norfolk, and in Wilmington, Delaware, the DuPont works, which produced half the nation’s explosives. From the Chesapeake region an army would be well positioned to move north to Philadelphia, west to Baltimore or southwest to Washington. The Bay is sheltered from the Atlantic by a large, flat peninsula on its eastward side; the narrow passage at the southern end is the only entrance or exit. That peninsula is commonly called DelMarVa, from the three states having territory on it. The peninsula is flat and lightly wooded, with numerous farms and small towns. Its eastern shore features long stretches of level, sandy beach which are the resort of choice for vacationers; as a consequence the railroad on the eastern side is able to move heavy traffic. In the center is the Maryland town of Salisbury, which functions as unofficial capital of the region and is the center of the road and railroad network. North of Salisbury, the next town of any size is Dover, the capital of Delaware. The sole deficiency of the DelMarVa peninsula as a staging base for invasion is however a very large one. There exists no deepwater port on the Atlantic side, and the entrance to the Bay is closed by fortifications and torpedo boats operating from Norfolk. To secure a port, the British Army would have to force its way north, or the Royal Navy must break open the entrance to the Chesapeake.
Regardless of this, British soldiers began coming ashore on August 10th, and their numbers were steadily increased. General Charles Gordon had very reluctantly accepted command of the expedition only after a personal appeal from the monarch, and his concerns were reflected in the difficulty of building up a force over the beachheads. Gordon’s men quickly secured the southern end of the peninsula but he was reluctant to move northward until all his strength was on hand. As one might expect, the beaches were chaotic and the logistical challenges were immense, as no British army of this size had attempted an invasion of a foreign power since the Crimean War. Neither had any living British general experienced the perils of commanding a force of this size: despite the difficulty of landing and supplying it, Gordon’s army would eventually grow to more than a hundred thousand men.
While Gordon struggled to organize his men for the offensive, the Americans had their own problems, chiefly a lack of soldiers. Since an effective American response depended upon the mobilization of the reserve formations, General Clark contented himself with digging a single division in on the north side of the Chesapeake-Delaware Canal. The northern half of the peninsula thus became a no-man’s-land of night patrols. Whichever army could move first seemed likely to be the victor of the campaign.
On September 1st, with American arms crowned with victories on land and sea but with an enemy army only one hundred miles away from the nation’s capital, President Hancock traveled to Lexington, Kentucky to speak to a gathering of veteran soldiers from the Civil War. Men of both the Confederate and Union armies would be flocking in; former Generals Robert E Lee and Gouverneur Warren would be joining President Hancock and Secretary of War James Longstreet for the occasion. Former General Ulysses Grant had sent his regrets, as his health was very bad (he would pass away two weeks later). General Lee was thought to be too frail and ill to travel, but at the insistence of his doctors and his family he had decided to make the trip, which was to be his last public appearance. These gatherings had become more common as the bitterness of the war had mellowed, and were marked by good-natured chaffering and gentle rivalry rather than partisan hatred.
“General!” Lee said brightly, his animated voice belying his white hair and whiskers, his slow step and the cane in his trembling hand. “Might I sit with you a moment?” Longstreet would have refused Lee nothing, would have gone to find him had he known his old commander was on this train. The club car was almost deserted, for most of its occupants had flocked to the early seating in the dining car. Outside the windows, evening was shading down into night, the wild hills of Kanawha draped in a somber darkness unbroken by the lights of habitation. Longstreet made to get to his feet but Lee restrained him with a hand, then settled into the offered leather armchair. Longstreet had been reading and making notes in the margins and he gladly set that aside. “Paperwork,” he growled. “Can’t stand it, but we can’t run the Army without it.”
Lee smiled and nodded his agreement, and then turned his attention to the young lady by his side. “Dorothea, this is my old comrade, James Longstreet. General, Dorothea is my niece, along so that we may dote upon one another.” They smiled at each other and Longstreet allowed that he was very pleased to meet her. Then Lee shooed her away.
“I’ll bring back something for you gentlemen from the dining car,” she said, prettily. “Mister Longstreet I’m sure is perfectly reasonable and may look after himself, but Uncle will not eat unless I make him.”
Once she was through the doorway, Lee sighed and seemed to lose energy. “I had hoped to have a word with you concerning this recent invasion of Maryland,” he said. ‘Pete’ Longstreet took his unlit cigar out of his mouth and rolled it in his fingers while his mind raced. It was altogether unlike Lee to be so direct, except on campaign.
“My doctors are not hopeful,” Lee said. Longstreet started, and Lee waved aside the unspoken concern as if it were a fly. “The family trusts the cool air and good fellowship will be a tonic for me. And it may, but the truth is there is nothing else to be tried. I am old, and I do not have the time for courtesy I once did – not that there was ever any need for such between you and I.” He paused. Lee had always been careful of his words. “I have heard nothing to say so, but you must be assembling an army, to cover the neck at Havre de Grace if not to move directly upon the enemy.” He paused again, inquiringly, and Longstreet gave a careful nod – Havre de Grace was indeed to be the headquarters of General Arthur MacArthur’s new Army of the Chesapeake, but that decision had only been made earlier that day.
With a hefty number of the regular army’s senior officers either still in Spain or unused to working with volunteer troops, Longstreet had written to Lee for help in naming officers for the Army. Longstreet had urged Lee to take command of the forces massing against the British and Lee had politely declined; the making of war, he said, had changed too much, and his health was too uncertain. He had not offered any thoughts as to other qualified officers, and Longstreet supposed he would receive that advice now. “I would be grateful for your observations,” Longstreet said. “as always. With our senior commanders engaged in service from the Phillipines to Africa, and with so many of our senior officers stranded in Spain, we are hard pressed to fill our command and staff positions. And of course we are seriously embarrassed for troops until our mobilization is completed, though we do not want that to get into the newspapers. We believed MacArthur was still in Spain until he turned up in New York a few days ago. Have you heard of his exploits?”
Lee smiled and nodded; MacArthur’s escape from Spain on a Portuguese steamer had been reported in every newspaper.“I have no suggestion to make as to who should command that army,” Lee said, then paused. “But I believe I may confidently offer someone for command of a corps: Thomas Jackson.”
Longstreet was stunned and at pains to hide it while Lee only smiled angelically. “Jackson?” Longstreet said. “Thomas Jackson – old Stonewall? Sir, he left the army – well, he was wounded and then left the army – but he left us before the war was over and never came back. Jackson? I don’t doubt he was capable…at least then…”
Lee nodded. “His was a crisis of conscience, James. A true struggle, which I witnessed at first hand. I tried to counsel him otherwise, but selfishly, for I did not wish to lose the services of such a fine officer. I thought then he might have had the right of the matter, and the judgement of the Almighty has since confirmed it. We were in the wrong… the Confederacy was an experiment that did not have the blessing of the Almighty, and so it perished.” He paused. “We all had our duty to perform, and we did so. But I cannot condemn Jackson for his doubts, or for his conception of his duty.” Another pause; the old general bowed his head briefly, then resumed.”With that aside, General, you have need of a man who can turn a militia into veteran soldiers, and more than that you have need of a man who can strike a blow. Of all the soldiers I know – yourself included, and myself also – I believe Jackson to be that man.”
That was unprecedented praise. “But sir, even if I could convince men to serve under him, or find a commander willing to take him, what if he just up and quits again? This British army in Salisbury is the biggest threat to this country since… since…”
“Us?” Lee said innocently, but with a devilish twinkle sparkled in his eyes. “I have taken the liberty of speaking to Thomas.” Lee raised a wrinkled hand. “If I should not have done so, I ask your pardon, but the matter seemed urgent enough. He has prayed on it, and will accept, if the offer is made. As for the rest, why, men will follow him, James – they always did, and will again. I will speak for him, when you have determined who shall lead the army, if you believe it would be of assistance to you.”
Longstreet ran over the consequences of having Lee speak to Sheridan, who still profanely detested anything having to do with the late Confederacy, or the New York-born MacArthur, or even to Hancock. If Lee wanted to make a fuss about this he had the stature to cause the governors of the southern states to send in a petition… The options seemed to narrow and his lips moved in silent curses under his beard. He never had been able to stand up to the old man, especially when he got his mind set on something! At last he decided to temporize, but before he could speak Lee leaned forward and took him by the arm.
“Pete – my old war horse. I feel so much affection for you, and such pride in your service to your country. Yet this is not an old man’s fancy.” Longstreet looked Lee in the eyes and saw the cold resolution there, the solid purpose and certainty Lee had always shown during the war, and his skin prickled. “Those people must be destroyed, General. Not only defeated, if God grants us the right, but destroyed utterly, that no other nation will ever make sport of us. Jackson is the instrument for that task, and none other is as fit. You need a sword – you cannot do it, nor I, but Jackson is still keen.”
Longstreet waited a moment to see if Lee would continue but the old man seemed exhausted by his emotion. “Sir, I will take your suggestion under very close advisement – I must say that, though I would deny you nothing, I can promise nothing save careful consideration.” He was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Britain believes our people are disloyal, and will not fight, and half of the people of the Union believe the same. A southern officer in a prominent position would go far to show that dissention is a thing of the past.” Another long pause. “I will see if some position can be found for General Jackson.”
Lee nodded wearily. “Let us then speak of more pleasant things. But, General – remember what I tell you. In the late war the Yankees never had a man who could drive home an assault like Jackson, and we had only the one. When your army must strike, Jackson is the man.”
Troops were taken from Hispaniola and landed on the undefended islands of Jamaica and the Bahamas. Elements of the Washington garrison were railed to upstate New York and placed under the command of a fuming General Philip Sheridan. More could not be done until additional troops could be concentrated, for ten thousand Canadians were now dug in around Watertown and it would take a large force, well-supplied with artillery, to oust them. Finally reinforced to three divisions of regulars, men obtained by stripping the garrisons of the east coast, Sheridan in late July launched a wide turning maneuver around the Canadian left flank. Hard fighting ensued as the defenders tried to block the maneuver, then made a fighting withdrawal. Sheridan pushed his men relentlessly through the hot summer days in pursuit. The Canadians made a heroic stand at Ottawa on August 4th, but without time to prepare fortifications they were utterly routed.
The Republic of Mexico had eagerly honored its treaty commitment with the United States, declaring war on Great Britain and hurling a hundred thousand men into British-occupied Yucatan and Belize. In eastern Africa, the British Army in Kenya came across the border to invade American Tanga. With three divisions of colonial infantry in his department and no sign of any Royal Navy warships, General Richards withdrew before the invaders while throwing one column northeast into Nairobi and landing another in Mombasa in their rear. All three elements then converged on the division at Tanga, which was destroyed after hard fighting.
American public opinion had been sent soaring by the victories of their Navy, but there was serious underlying disquiet over the fact that the Atlantic and Caribbean waters were now virtually undefended. Sensational stories circulated: a handful of British cruisers could lay waste to New York, require Philadelphia to pay ransom, or shell the inhabitants of Boston until they went mad from terror. Vainly the Navy Department argued that the English Channel was the solar plexus of the enemy, the place where a disabling blow could and must be struck, and the place where the enemy would concentrate his ships. On August 10th, the worst fears of those who wanted the Navy brought home to guard the Atlantic coast were realized, for that was when the first regiments of British troops came splashing ashore on the beaches of Delaware.
A map of the Chesapeake Bay area, showing British control of the southern DelMarVa peninsula
If the English Channel was the ‘solar plexus’ of Great Britain, the Chesapeake Bay area would be its American counterpart. Within a few miles of its waters are the ports of Philadelphia and Baltimore, the national capital of Washington, the great naval base of Norfolk, and in Wilmington, Delaware, the DuPont works, which produced half the nation’s explosives. From the Chesapeake region an army would be well positioned to move north to Philadelphia, west to Baltimore or southwest to Washington. The Bay is sheltered from the Atlantic by a large, flat peninsula on its eastward side; the narrow passage at the southern end is the only entrance or exit. That peninsula is commonly called DelMarVa, from the three states having territory on it. The peninsula is flat and lightly wooded, with numerous farms and small towns. Its eastern shore features long stretches of level, sandy beach which are the resort of choice for vacationers; as a consequence the railroad on the eastern side is able to move heavy traffic. In the center is the Maryland town of Salisbury, which functions as unofficial capital of the region and is the center of the road and railroad network. North of Salisbury, the next town of any size is Dover, the capital of Delaware. The sole deficiency of the DelMarVa peninsula as a staging base for invasion is however a very large one. There exists no deepwater port on the Atlantic side, and the entrance to the Bay is closed by fortifications and torpedo boats operating from Norfolk. To secure a port, the British Army would have to force its way north, or the Royal Navy must break open the entrance to the Chesapeake.
Regardless of this, British soldiers began coming ashore on August 10th, and their numbers were steadily increased. General Charles Gordon had very reluctantly accepted command of the expedition only after a personal appeal from the monarch, and his concerns were reflected in the difficulty of building up a force over the beachheads. Gordon’s men quickly secured the southern end of the peninsula but he was reluctant to move northward until all his strength was on hand. As one might expect, the beaches were chaotic and the logistical challenges were immense, as no British army of this size had attempted an invasion of a foreign power since the Crimean War. Neither had any living British general experienced the perils of commanding a force of this size: despite the difficulty of landing and supplying it, Gordon’s army would eventually grow to more than a hundred thousand men.
While Gordon struggled to organize his men for the offensive, the Americans had their own problems, chiefly a lack of soldiers. Since an effective American response depended upon the mobilization of the reserve formations, General Clark contented himself with digging a single division in on the north side of the Chesapeake-Delaware Canal. The northern half of the peninsula thus became a no-man’s-land of night patrols. Whichever army could move first seemed likely to be the victor of the campaign.
On September 1st, with American arms crowned with victories on land and sea but with an enemy army only one hundred miles away from the nation’s capital, President Hancock traveled to Lexington, Kentucky to speak to a gathering of veteran soldiers from the Civil War. Men of both the Confederate and Union armies would be flocking in; former Generals Robert E Lee and Gouverneur Warren would be joining President Hancock and Secretary of War James Longstreet for the occasion. Former General Ulysses Grant had sent his regrets, as his health was very bad (he would pass away two weeks later). General Lee was thought to be too frail and ill to travel, but at the insistence of his doctors and his family he had decided to make the trip, which was to be his last public appearance. These gatherings had become more common as the bitterness of the war had mellowed, and were marked by good-natured chaffering and gentle rivalry rather than partisan hatred.
“General!” Lee said brightly, his animated voice belying his white hair and whiskers, his slow step and the cane in his trembling hand. “Might I sit with you a moment?” Longstreet would have refused Lee nothing, would have gone to find him had he known his old commander was on this train. The club car was almost deserted, for most of its occupants had flocked to the early seating in the dining car. Outside the windows, evening was shading down into night, the wild hills of Kanawha draped in a somber darkness unbroken by the lights of habitation. Longstreet made to get to his feet but Lee restrained him with a hand, then settled into the offered leather armchair. Longstreet had been reading and making notes in the margins and he gladly set that aside. “Paperwork,” he growled. “Can’t stand it, but we can’t run the Army without it.”
Lee smiled and nodded his agreement, and then turned his attention to the young lady by his side. “Dorothea, this is my old comrade, James Longstreet. General, Dorothea is my niece, along so that we may dote upon one another.” They smiled at each other and Longstreet allowed that he was very pleased to meet her. Then Lee shooed her away.
“I’ll bring back something for you gentlemen from the dining car,” she said, prettily. “Mister Longstreet I’m sure is perfectly reasonable and may look after himself, but Uncle will not eat unless I make him.”
Once she was through the doorway, Lee sighed and seemed to lose energy. “I had hoped to have a word with you concerning this recent invasion of Maryland,” he said. ‘Pete’ Longstreet took his unlit cigar out of his mouth and rolled it in his fingers while his mind raced. It was altogether unlike Lee to be so direct, except on campaign.
“My doctors are not hopeful,” Lee said. Longstreet started, and Lee waved aside the unspoken concern as if it were a fly. “The family trusts the cool air and good fellowship will be a tonic for me. And it may, but the truth is there is nothing else to be tried. I am old, and I do not have the time for courtesy I once did – not that there was ever any need for such between you and I.” He paused. Lee had always been careful of his words. “I have heard nothing to say so, but you must be assembling an army, to cover the neck at Havre de Grace if not to move directly upon the enemy.” He paused again, inquiringly, and Longstreet gave a careful nod – Havre de Grace was indeed to be the headquarters of General Arthur MacArthur’s new Army of the Chesapeake, but that decision had only been made earlier that day.
With a hefty number of the regular army’s senior officers either still in Spain or unused to working with volunteer troops, Longstreet had written to Lee for help in naming officers for the Army. Longstreet had urged Lee to take command of the forces massing against the British and Lee had politely declined; the making of war, he said, had changed too much, and his health was too uncertain. He had not offered any thoughts as to other qualified officers, and Longstreet supposed he would receive that advice now. “I would be grateful for your observations,” Longstreet said. “as always. With our senior commanders engaged in service from the Phillipines to Africa, and with so many of our senior officers stranded in Spain, we are hard pressed to fill our command and staff positions. And of course we are seriously embarrassed for troops until our mobilization is completed, though we do not want that to get into the newspapers. We believed MacArthur was still in Spain until he turned up in New York a few days ago. Have you heard of his exploits?”
Lee smiled and nodded; MacArthur’s escape from Spain on a Portuguese steamer had been reported in every newspaper.“I have no suggestion to make as to who should command that army,” Lee said, then paused. “But I believe I may confidently offer someone for command of a corps: Thomas Jackson.”
Longstreet was stunned and at pains to hide it while Lee only smiled angelically. “Jackson?” Longstreet said. “Thomas Jackson – old Stonewall? Sir, he left the army – well, he was wounded and then left the army – but he left us before the war was over and never came back. Jackson? I don’t doubt he was capable…at least then…”
Lee nodded. “His was a crisis of conscience, James. A true struggle, which I witnessed at first hand. I tried to counsel him otherwise, but selfishly, for I did not wish to lose the services of such a fine officer. I thought then he might have had the right of the matter, and the judgement of the Almighty has since confirmed it. We were in the wrong… the Confederacy was an experiment that did not have the blessing of the Almighty, and so it perished.” He paused. “We all had our duty to perform, and we did so. But I cannot condemn Jackson for his doubts, or for his conception of his duty.” Another pause; the old general bowed his head briefly, then resumed.”With that aside, General, you have need of a man who can turn a militia into veteran soldiers, and more than that you have need of a man who can strike a blow. Of all the soldiers I know – yourself included, and myself also – I believe Jackson to be that man.”
That was unprecedented praise. “But sir, even if I could convince men to serve under him, or find a commander willing to take him, what if he just up and quits again? This British army in Salisbury is the biggest threat to this country since… since…”
“Us?” Lee said innocently, but with a devilish twinkle sparkled in his eyes. “I have taken the liberty of speaking to Thomas.” Lee raised a wrinkled hand. “If I should not have done so, I ask your pardon, but the matter seemed urgent enough. He has prayed on it, and will accept, if the offer is made. As for the rest, why, men will follow him, James – they always did, and will again. I will speak for him, when you have determined who shall lead the army, if you believe it would be of assistance to you.”
Longstreet ran over the consequences of having Lee speak to Sheridan, who still profanely detested anything having to do with the late Confederacy, or the New York-born MacArthur, or even to Hancock. If Lee wanted to make a fuss about this he had the stature to cause the governors of the southern states to send in a petition… The options seemed to narrow and his lips moved in silent curses under his beard. He never had been able to stand up to the old man, especially when he got his mind set on something! At last he decided to temporize, but before he could speak Lee leaned forward and took him by the arm.
“Pete – my old war horse. I feel so much affection for you, and such pride in your service to your country. Yet this is not an old man’s fancy.” Longstreet looked Lee in the eyes and saw the cold resolution there, the solid purpose and certainty Lee had always shown during the war, and his skin prickled. “Those people must be destroyed, General. Not only defeated, if God grants us the right, but destroyed utterly, that no other nation will ever make sport of us. Jackson is the instrument for that task, and none other is as fit. You need a sword – you cannot do it, nor I, but Jackson is still keen.”
Longstreet waited a moment to see if Lee would continue but the old man seemed exhausted by his emotion. “Sir, I will take your suggestion under very close advisement – I must say that, though I would deny you nothing, I can promise nothing save careful consideration.” He was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Britain believes our people are disloyal, and will not fight, and half of the people of the Union believe the same. A southern officer in a prominent position would go far to show that dissention is a thing of the past.” Another long pause. “I will see if some position can be found for General Jackson.”
Lee nodded wearily. “Let us then speak of more pleasant things. But, General – remember what I tell you. In the late war the Yankees never had a man who could drive home an assault like Jackson, and we had only the one. When your army must strike, Jackson is the man.”
Where has the British army near Washington come from? Had they slipped out of Britain before the naval battles or are they colonial troops?
How is that you as US can have Jackson at your service?
And Lee also in the game?
And Lee also in the game?
Beautiful. Jackson is indeed the instrument for this task. I expect him to redeem himself and his home state.
Vann
Vann
Devastating blows against the Royal Navy. The Channel Battles certainly destroyed the Royal Navy's prestige and credibility, and that at little cost to the Americans. And yet, the RN's cannon fodder cruisers keep your prized battleships close to the British Isles and allow for the Brits to land forces along Chesapeake Bay.
Since your response mentioned 'invasions' in the plural, it seems we can expect more British troops ashore the US in other locations. You do not, then, have enough second-line ships to contest landings?
If you can destroy the British expeditionary force, it (combined with the drubbing the RN received) ought to be enough to get Britain to change its government and bow out quickly. Stonewall ought to be the man for it, although I do wonder what kind of shape he'll be in, considering he'll be 65 or so.
I hope that you can extract at least some of your battle wagons and take care of the British Menace on and off the Eastern Seaboard.
Since your response mentioned 'invasions' in the plural, it seems we can expect more British troops ashore the US in other locations. You do not, then, have enough second-line ships to contest landings?
If you can destroy the British expeditionary force, it (combined with the drubbing the RN received) ought to be enough to get Britain to change its government and bow out quickly. Stonewall ought to be the man for it, although I do wonder what kind of shape he'll be in, considering he'll be 65 or so.
I hope that you can extract at least some of your battle wagons and take care of the British Menace on and off the Eastern Seaboard.
I am always amused to see the old Confederates getting on so nicely when they do, even in fully historical situations as Lee's college presidency.
I have spent most of my evening reading this and enjoying every minute of it. I got to the end and am buggered that I now have to wait for regular updates like the rest of the schmucks here. 
Seriously, though. Wonderful storytelling.
Seriously, though. Wonderful storytelling.
Wait, you gave this guy two cameos and he wasn't even reading the AAR? What do I have to do to get a deal like that?
Beautiful imagery, Director. It was almost like I could hear Lee speaking.
Jackson....Jackson's not a bad choice since Grant's about to pass away and Lee's declaring himself too old. 'We' need someone who can hold the upper peninsula at poor odds until more soldiers (preferably experienced ones) can be brought in to counter.
If the Brits break out of the DelMarVa Peninsula, then all bets are off.
Jackson....Jackson's not a bad choice since Grant's about to pass away and Lee's declaring himself too old. 'We' need someone who can hold the upper peninsula at poor odds until more soldiers (preferably experienced ones) can be brought in to counter.
If the Brits break out of the DelMarVa Peninsula, then all bets are off.
That's a threatening-looking map. If it wasn't for the Civil War veterans in charge of the US army - and the AI in charge of the British - I might have thought that the US was (locally) in trouble.
Wait, you gave this guy two cameos and he wasn't even reading the AAR? What do I have to do to get a deal like that?
Have a username which is the same as a famous general, such as 'King of Men' Pershing who may have shown up already or else my memory is playing tricks on me.
Alfredian - good question; I have no certain answer. I am only able to block ships moving in and out of the Channel ports, and sometime the Irish Sea. That leaves a lot of British ports open.
Enewald - the AAR has Jackson at its service, but only as a corps commander. Victoria only allows army commanders. In-Game the army commander was MacArthur (Arthur, not Douglas).
Vann the Red - believe it or don't, this was in the works from his wounding in the Civil War.
Stuyvesant - yes, Victoria gives huge bonuses to those who have the latest technology, plus high org and morale. In a later war I lost some battleships to a big stack of well-prepared protected cruisers, so a 'cruiser rush' strategy would be theoretically possible. You'd need at least 5:1 odds by my calculation.
Very true that my superior local strength is offset somewhat by their wide-spread approach. I finally had to detach some battleships for repair - they were below 50% strength - and more for convoy.
Every ship I own is involved in an offensive action - either blowing up cruisers in the Channel or escorting my own invasion troops. Fortunately, right about now I get two brand new battleships fresh from the builders.
Nope, Britain won't quit. Fortunately I know where their sensitive spots are.
J. Passepartout - the real 'bitter-enders' stayed in Europe, or Mexico or Brazil, for years after the war. Most eventually came home, whether they applied for amnesty and/or citizenship or not. Two decades after the war, the real struggle was over who would run the reconstructed state governments. That's when we see the high-water-mark of the KKK, for example. But the veterans had a lot of 'camps' and the men of the two sides got along famously well. Joseph Johnston and William Sherman were good friends after the war, for one famous example, and Lee constantly urged his countrymen to adjust to the post-war reality.
Stonewall - thank you! Glad to know you like it. I've felt it is a bit bland compared to some of my past work, but that is a result of sticking strictly to a prepared plan. Well - mostly sticking to the plan.
The next few updates will be a bit more action-packed as the Ango-American War goes into top gear.
King of Men - I have given several 'showcase' moments in this AAR but in every instance I have used the person's real name, not their avatar. Thomas J Jackson was nicknamed 'Stonewall' for the performance of his troops at Bull Run. Our beloved SuperHeroModerator takes his avatar from the general, not the reverse. If you wanted a cameo, I'd have to know your real name (PM only please). Of course there is the argument that we've just had a series of posts featuring a 'King'...
CatKnight - good to hear from you! I have been following your EU3 Vijaya- (sorry, can't remember the rest of the country's name; getting senile) AAR. Sterling stuff! I regret not having had the time to comment; will have to remedy that. The story of the young king going mad and nearly taking the country down with him was gripping stuff.
Thank you for the compliment. It takes a certain lack of knowledge of how untalented one is to put words in the mouth of Lee. But I wanted to show him as the man he worked so hard to be: principled, honorable, working hard to do right by his old friends. I would have loved to give him a command, but he's 80 at this point, and his health won't allow it. He, Grant and Lincoln all pass within a few months of each other, so it is truly the changing of the guard.
merrick - On the Victoria map, Salisbury abuts Wilmington, Washington and Philadelphia, so it is a position with strong potential. Had the AI left a few divisions to 'convert' Salisbury and sent the rest into Philadelphia (or Washington, defended by a single division), it could have been ugly. But British generals seem to have a hard time getting off the beachead, so I had time for the reserves to come up.
J. Passepartout - Lieutenant Pershing made a brief appearance duting the Spanish War. The real trick for a cameo in this AAR is that they are all done with real names (PM only). I haven't announced them, either, though alert readers have spotted at least one.
Enewald - the AAR has Jackson at its service, but only as a corps commander. Victoria only allows army commanders. In-Game the army commander was MacArthur (Arthur, not Douglas).
Vann the Red - believe it or don't, this was in the works from his wounding in the Civil War.
Stuyvesant - yes, Victoria gives huge bonuses to those who have the latest technology, plus high org and morale. In a later war I lost some battleships to a big stack of well-prepared protected cruisers, so a 'cruiser rush' strategy would be theoretically possible. You'd need at least 5:1 odds by my calculation.
Very true that my superior local strength is offset somewhat by their wide-spread approach. I finally had to detach some battleships for repair - they were below 50% strength - and more for convoy.
Every ship I own is involved in an offensive action - either blowing up cruisers in the Channel or escorting my own invasion troops. Fortunately, right about now I get two brand new battleships fresh from the builders.
Nope, Britain won't quit. Fortunately I know where their sensitive spots are.
J. Passepartout - the real 'bitter-enders' stayed in Europe, or Mexico or Brazil, for years after the war. Most eventually came home, whether they applied for amnesty and/or citizenship or not. Two decades after the war, the real struggle was over who would run the reconstructed state governments. That's when we see the high-water-mark of the KKK, for example. But the veterans had a lot of 'camps' and the men of the two sides got along famously well. Joseph Johnston and William Sherman were good friends after the war, for one famous example, and Lee constantly urged his countrymen to adjust to the post-war reality.
Stonewall - thank you! Glad to know you like it. I've felt it is a bit bland compared to some of my past work, but that is a result of sticking strictly to a prepared plan. Well - mostly sticking to the plan.
The next few updates will be a bit more action-packed as the Ango-American War goes into top gear.
King of Men - I have given several 'showcase' moments in this AAR but in every instance I have used the person's real name, not their avatar. Thomas J Jackson was nicknamed 'Stonewall' for the performance of his troops at Bull Run. Our beloved SuperHeroModerator takes his avatar from the general, not the reverse. If you wanted a cameo, I'd have to know your real name (PM only please). Of course there is the argument that we've just had a series of posts featuring a 'King'...
CatKnight - good to hear from you! I have been following your EU3 Vijaya- (sorry, can't remember the rest of the country's name; getting senile) AAR. Sterling stuff! I regret not having had the time to comment; will have to remedy that. The story of the young king going mad and nearly taking the country down with him was gripping stuff.
Thank you for the compliment. It takes a certain lack of knowledge of how untalented one is to put words in the mouth of Lee. But I wanted to show him as the man he worked so hard to be: principled, honorable, working hard to do right by his old friends. I would have loved to give him a command, but he's 80 at this point, and his health won't allow it. He, Grant and Lincoln all pass within a few months of each other, so it is truly the changing of the guard.
merrick - On the Victoria map, Salisbury abuts Wilmington, Washington and Philadelphia, so it is a position with strong potential. Had the AI left a few divisions to 'convert' Salisbury and sent the rest into Philadelphia (or Washington, defended by a single division), it could have been ugly. But British generals seem to have a hard time getting off the beachead, so I had time for the reserves to come up.
J. Passepartout - Lieutenant Pershing made a brief appearance duting the Spanish War. The real trick for a cameo in this AAR is that they are all done with real names (PM only). I haven't announced them, either, though alert readers have spotted at least one.
The long, lean lines of the battleship ‘Patrick Henry’, under repair at Norfolk, Virginia after a collision with a merchant ship during the night action off Bethany Beach. The light gray hull would later be repainted a darker blue-gray.
Captain Andrew Benham couldn’t remember the last time he had slept, and didn’t have a spare moment to stop and think about it. All around him were hurrying sailors, jostling yard workers, civilians in coats and ties, swarming over the battleship Nathan Hale like drones serving the queen of the hive. This activity was nothing new; since the beginning of war with Britain the construction gangs had been going ‘round the clock on double and triple shifts. But today was different, and tonight would be more so, for tonight the Hale would ease out of New York harbor and, mechanical failures aside, not come back for many a day.
The deception plan had been layered and complex, and there was no way to tell how successful it had been. There was no way to disguise that work was going on twenty-four hours a day, but contractors, workers at the navy yard and sailors were all told different versions of a lie, that the Nathan Hale and Patrick Henry were months away from deployment. Today, the ships were scheduled to get up steam for low-power tests. Both would go a short way out into the Atlantic, steam for a few hours and return to their anchorages. Ordinarily that would be the time for the Navy to take formal acceptance of the ship, send aboard her crew and stores, and spend months in training and trials before committing the ship to combat.
Tonight would be different – reckless. The ships would return to their berths and an extensive (and hopefully bogus) list of necessary work would be put out. Then later tonight they would slip their cables and steam for the sea, both ships loaded with workmen and carrying less than seven days’ supplies. With any luck the two ships would appear off the British beachhead twenty-eight hours later, just after dawn. And then… whatever happened would depend on how well the crews had absorbed their gunnery drills, and on how many warships the Royal Navy had on hand. To commit brand new warships to combat without extensive working-up and crew training was a sign of desperation, since every man knew what had happened the last time the Navy tried such a thing. Captain James Lawrence’s Chesapeake had been taken by HMS Shannon in 1813 when the latter’s crew was well-drilled and experienced, and the former’s was not. Lawrence’s heroic ‘Don’t give up the ship!’ had helped give the American Navy its fighting tradition, but he had lost a fine frigate in the process.
It was reckless, a wild gamble, a throw of the dice that Benham could not think was wise or necessary. But he had his orders, and if he was honest he would admit he longed to take the war to the enemy in this powerful new ship – in his powerful new ship. No, this risky gambit was not his idea, but Benham knew who to blame – or thank. Standing far out on the bridge wing was a young man in an elegantly-cut suit, a politically-connected New Yorker and a personal friend of Navy Secretary Benjamin Tracy. Benham had resented him on sight – disliked his political conections, his willingness to put fifteen hundred sailors at risk on such a whim, his elegant clothes and society drawl. It was that man who approached him now, manicured hand nervously adjusting his gold-wire spectacles. Behind those lenses his eyes were preternaturally sharp; below them, his moustache bristled and his smile was predatory.
“Mister Roosevelt.” Benham acknowledged the younger man’s approach with a cursory smile and nod. “Still planning on going with us this afternoon?”
“Quite.” The smile broadened, showing teeth. “And tonight, if you agree.” Benham made to say something but the younger man hurried on before he could be refused. “It is my plan; it seems fair that I should share the danger with you.”
Benham scowled. “You’ll give me no interference, Mister Roosevelt. You will do and say nothing unless asked.”
“Agreed,” Roosevelt said promptly.
“Well, then,” Benham drawled, “that will be just bully. You have a change of clothes, I hope? Something you won’t mind getting dirty – or bloody?”
Roosevelt grinned widely, and again Benham felt there was more calculation than warmth to it. “Oh, yes, clothes. I’ve got these old things, and some of my student rags in a bag below.” He waved a hand negligently. “Bully, did you say? I rather like the sound of that. Bully.”
“God save us from the sightseers,” Benham said under his breath as the young fop turned away. “But at least he has the bully balls to come along.”
Twenty-eight hours to the Chesapeake had turned into many more. First Nathan Hale and then Patrick Henry had suffered engineering problems, fixable but requiring the ships to creep along while repairs were made. Then a ship had been sighted, probably British since it turned about as soon as it saw them. The battleships had altered course to the east as if in chase, but Benham had been relieved to see the stranger slip back below the horizon. As senior captain, it was his responsibility – his duty – to call off the attack if he felt it was unworkable, or had been compromised, and he had wrestled with that decision as the afternoon shaded down into twilight. At last he decided to consult Roosevelt, more for political cover than because he thought the young man would have anything of value to contribute, but in that he was wrong.
“It’ll be midnight before we reach the Delaware coast,” Benham said. The two had retired to the chartroom, where the middle Atlantic coast was laid out with the ship’s positions carefully noted in pencil.
“Moonrise is at one o’clock,” Roosevelt said absently, stuffing his hands in his pockets to keep them from fidgeting. “Isn’t that right, sir? Moonlight will give the gunners some light to shoot by.”
Benham shook his head. “I’ve got two ships fresh from the yard. We’ve got all sorts of work that needs doing – the yard dogs are working on number two gun right now, and Henry doesn’t have her aft turret working. Our crews aren’t trained. If we go into battle in the dark, we might not hit anything. Worse, if we take hits this ship could be a pandemonium. I’m inclined to lay off until daylight, or run down to Norfolk and try this later.”
Roosevelt cocked his head, considering. “Has anyone confided in you that the army is ready to attack? Not tomorrow, but perhaps the day after, or next week. Soon, at any rate. That’s why the Secretary has pushed so hard for us to hit the ships at the beachhead. And he’s asked you because, frankly, the only other ships the Navy’s got in home waters are the ironclads and monitors at Santo Domingo. If Britain does have cruisers protecting their transport ships, sending those in would be asking for a massacre.”
“So you think we should just go in, run up on a coast in the dark, take on cruisers and torpedo boats and who-knows-what-all-else?” Benham’s voice was skeptical but not angry.
Roosevelt looked him straight in the eye, and Benham saw again that the man was sharper than he appeared. “Any torpedo boats in these waters will be ours, Captain. No way we can contact them, unfortunately. But in the dark, our battleships will look like big armored cruisers. The Blake class, perhaps, or a Diadem. Four funnels, long hull, two masts: all are about right.” Benham’s eyebrows lifted with surprise. “Know thy enemy, Captain Benham. I’ve been studying silhouettes since the war broke out. I think the chances are good that, even if anyone could have delivered a message to the British fleet saying we were at sea, they would have expected us before now.” One last, long look at the chart. “So, yes – I do think we should make the attack tonight. If we don’t, the army’s attack could fail, or the butcher’s bill could be a lot higher. I would suggest, if I might, that if we are to arrive after midnight we might make our approach from the east and not the north.”
“So that we appear to be new cruisers arriving from Britain?” Benham sucked his teeth doubtfully. “I don’t think they’ll be fooled, but it might work for a few minutes. Sow some doubt.” He too gave the chart a long, hard look. “We’d have to pick it up to, oh, fifteen knots. I’ll send over to Schley and ask him if Henry can do it.” Another pause. “Never let it be said the Navy caused the Army to stub their toe,” he said finally, with a ghost of a grin.
The younger man returned his look with a level stare and a carnivore’s grin. “Well then. As you say… Bully.”
Ha, new ships with no organisation and morale are to sink a armada of wooden British ships?
Priceless, Sir!
Priceless, Sir!
In the full dark the wheelhouse seemed hot and close, too many bodies and too much tension. Despite the fact that shells might be flying about his ears at any moment, Captain Benham preferred the flying bridge. Despite the exposure and the cold wind of Hale’s passage whipping at his ears, he felt more able to see, more attuned to the rhythms of the ship. Despite their earlier problems with leaky steampipes, the two battleships had easily made fifteen knots for the few hours required, and were now sprinting shoreward at twenty. Benham had been careful to put his best lookouts in the crow’s nest; he had no desire to find the soft, sandy beach the hard way, and at this speed it would take a keen eye and a ready hand on the wheel to avert disaster.
Lieutenant Sims leaned out of the wheelhouse door. “Ships ahead, sir, two points off the port bow. Range to shore estimated at two thousand yards.”
“Reduce speed to ten knots, and don’t forget to tell the fantail party to show the red light to Henry.” Here we are, just British cruisers coming in to the anchorage, Benham thought. Nothing wrong here, no sir, nothing out of the ordinary… Damned fool army types had lit campfires on the beach, probably so they could work all night. But what it did was silhouette the ships offshore, not enough for gunnery – not at this range – bu t enough so you could see where the targets were. He grinned a sour grin. Good to know the British army wasn’t any brighter than the American.
“Signal light, sir – from a ship, not the shore.”
“Make the agreed response.” The Navy didn’t know what the Royal Navy was using for its signals these days but it did know what the recognition signal had been as of two weeks ago.
“They’re signaling again, sir.”
“Make the same response and keep her on the plot.” They had worked out a course before sunset, with a straight drive toward the beach followed by a wide curve to the south. Hopefully it would seem as though they were looking for an anchorage, when in fact the two battleships just wanted to pass as close aboard the enemy as possible. Their guns wouldn’t do any more damage at close range, but the targets would be easier to see and hit.
Five minutes passed, then ten. Just when he thought they would make it all the way, the ship that had signaled them let loose a warning gun. Benham trained his glasses on her – risky; if she fired again, it could leave his night-adapted eyes seeing stars – and thought he saw her move.
“Sims! Send down to number one turret – train on that ship. Pass the word to everyone to stand by.” Beneath his feet the deck began to heel. He wanted to order more speed, but that was the irrational impulse to have it all over quickly. Ten knots would give the gunners plenty of time to pour it on as targets appeared but it would also give the enemy plenty of time to shoot back… The deck shivered and the tilt eased as the ship came out of its turn. “Range!”
“Three thousand yards!” Sims sang out. “Open fire!” Benham snapped. A few long seconds passed while the order was relayed. Benham closed his eyes and stopped up his ears as the big 12” guns of the forward turret bellowed. When he opened his eyes he saw Roosevelt stumble in from the bridge wing, glasses askew but eyes shining; he shouted something but Benson couldn’t make out what. A black shape was growing closer to starboard and another, farther away, to port. Whether by chance or design, the helmsman had pointed them down the alley between two lines of anchored ships. He looked away as the forward 6” gun spoke; their casemates were just below the bridge and the flash dazzled his eyes.
“Sims! Where is that picket?” Probably a cruiser that had challenged them by blinking its lights, but there hadn’t been any sure way to estimate its size in the dark. Whatever Sims replied was lost in the roar of the forward turret firing again. He hadn’t noticed the smoke before, but now he coughed on it. He wasn’t sure what the main turret had been firing at, but something up ahead was burning. Then there were staccato red and yellow flashes from off the port bow, a white fountain of water alongside and a loud explosion as one of the shells hit forward.
Then Roosevelt was at his elbow and they were more than half-way down the lines of ships. Behind them, the night was alight from blazing fires; ahead was mostly cool darkness and more black shapes. For the moment at least no-one was shooting at them.
“They’re hitting their own ships!” Roosevelt yelled, and Benham jumped. “I’m not deaf, dammit!” he snapped but Roosevelt just grinned wider.
“I am, by God, and its wonderful! They’ll be waiting for us at the end of the row!”
“Yes, I know! Now get out of my way!” Benham looked for Sims but didn’t find him so he stepped to the wheelhouse door. “Kingsley! Where’s Sims?”
“Went down to inspect the damage, sir.”
“That cruiser’ll be laying for us when we get to the end of these freighters. Increase speed to fifteen knots and pass the word for both main turrets to hold their fire and train to port until they see the cruiser. Then send someone to the six-inch battery – tell them to look sharp, and pound him when they see him! And stand by for orders for the helm.”
That said, he turned back toward the flying bridge. Both secondary batteries were pounding non-stop and at least one warship was returning fire, judging from the shell spashes. There was a ringing Thunk! as something hit the side; Benham looked over the railing to see what it was and so missed the shell that crashed through the glass windows of the wheelhouse. The explosion was like a near miss from a lightning bolt, coupled with an ear-spiking bang. He hurried to the now-permanently-open hatch and fought down the urge to vomit. Every member of the bridge crew seemed to be down or wounded, and something liquid had splashed over the fittings. Must have been a small shell, he mused, and marveled at how the mind could keep running along even in moments of sheer terror and horror like this one…
“Boxley. Boxley!” He had to tug on the man’s sleeve to get his attention, then scream in his ear. “Go for the surgeon’s mates! Go!” Roosevelt had made his way in past the shattered door and seemed pretty shaken. “You! Have you ever sailed a boat?” Roosevelt nodded. Benham rang the engine-room telegraph and watched the repeater click, so that still worked. Then he checked the telltale for the aft command station. It was dark, so that meant no-one back there had taken control yet. He rang for two-thirds ahead. “Then take the wheel – I’ve got to see what’s happening. Keep us steady for now.” Roosevelt took the wheel; the helmsman sagged to the deck, face and chest lacerated from the flying glass.
They were approaching the last freighter of the outer line. Both 6” batteries were still pounding away, and Benham had only an instant to hope they were hitting something. He couldn’t see… He took two steps and shouted through the broken windows. “Come port now – gently! She’s a big girl!” The ship trembled, then eased into a turn. “Too much – back her – that’s the way! Easy!” The darkness to his left blotted out the sea; it was a freighter, the last one, and they were going to hit – no, they should pass it, but close enough to touch, it looked like. Then they were past, still heeling to port, engines pounding harder as they strained to increase her speed. He watched in amazement as a shell emerged from the freighter’s outer side before exploding.
Then Sims was at his side. “Minor damage forward, sir – probably a five-inch hit, tore up some plating above the waterline. Looks bad on the bridge!”
“Help me look for that damned cruiser!” Benham shouted, but could barely hear himself. Sims pointed. “There-away, sir!” Roosevelt had kept the wheel over and Hale was still heeling into her turn; a few moments longer and they’d be looping back to the north. Outside the two rows of burning ships was a lower black bulk. “Roosevelt! Center the helm! Sims, get on the voice tube and tell the mains…”
His words were lost in the titanic roar as all four 12” guns cut loose at once. Someone hadn’t waited for the order to open fire, and Benham made a mental note to congratulate whoever it was. At least one hit the cruiser; she was end-on, her profile lengthening as she turned to parallel the American battleship. Then speckles of light lit her sides – her own gunfire, or hits from Hale’s 6” rifles, or both. The mains roared again, aft and then forward, fast loading for such green crews. Again there was the bright blossom of explosion as a shell went home, then a wavering glow… Roosevelt plucked at his sleeve as Benham grabbed Sims, then the other man and took them to the deck. No more than a thousand yards away, the fires that had been eating at her vitals hit the powder store. It sounded as though Zeus had unleashed a century of thunder. Debris was flying; later, a gun barrel would be found skewered through the Hale’s port side. The noise went on and on… then mercifully ceased. They clambered to their feet and looked around, Benham shrugging a question at Roosevelt, who pointed at the bridge and mimed someone else holding the wheel. That was all right, then. The Captain mimed to Sims to go tell the helm to slow to ten knots again and bring the ship about.
Benham looked behind; what was left of the cruiser had rolled her masts into the mud and was rapidly going down. The water was shallow here, but not so shallow that the hull wouldn’t go under. The survivors would have to wait until he could get his squadron under control… except that Patrick Henry was nowhere to be seen. As they came about to starboard, giving the wreck a wide berth, the lack of gunfire and explosions brought home how deaf he really was – the noise of the ship’s engines and of the wind-roar were eerily absent. Then he saw her; there was the Henry, coming past the blazing hull of the last freighter in line, listing to port and down by the head but seemingly otherwise alright. Roosevelt was tugging on his sleeve again, mouthing something… blue? Blue light! A blue light at the mast-head, in case friendly torpedo boats were about.
He set the indefatigable Sims to see about the lights and decided he needed to see the damages for himself. Henry signaled she was able to steam, and there was nothing to gain from hanging around here. Norfolk would be glad to see them, he was sure. Benham took one more careful look; the wheelhouse was windy and unpleasant wih the glass broken out, but the officers and men who had taken the places of the wounded looked calm and efficient.
Across the back bulkhead of the wheelhouse the crew had painted, ‘Give me liberty or give me death’ in giant gold letters. It was smeared now with blood, a sacrifice Benham regretted to his marrow; he still remembered chuckling at Boxley’s joke that Hale’s famous words had more to do with shore leave than patriotism. Still, the Hale had made her name in fine style, and he suspected that none of her crew would be allowed to buy a beer for quite some time to come. “I’m going to the infirmary,” he said to Sims, and was surprised to find he could hear himself speak.
“I’ll go too, if I may,” Roosevelt said, voice raspy from shouting. “They are heroes – heroes all.” Benham inclined his head ever so slightly; he might not like the man, but there was more backbone under that tailored suit than the captain would have thought.
“Just wait until I tell my friends how I took the helm! It’ll be bully!” Roosevelt cried, and Benham turned away. Some people just couldn’t help being who they were, he supposed. Underfoot, the deck lifted to the first of the Atlantic rollers. Let the little man have his moment to crow. Hale and her men had done something grand tonight, and he had done his part well enough. Benham could respect that. But he just couldn’t find it in himself to like the man.
Lieutenant Sims leaned out of the wheelhouse door. “Ships ahead, sir, two points off the port bow. Range to shore estimated at two thousand yards.”
“Reduce speed to ten knots, and don’t forget to tell the fantail party to show the red light to Henry.” Here we are, just British cruisers coming in to the anchorage, Benham thought. Nothing wrong here, no sir, nothing out of the ordinary… Damned fool army types had lit campfires on the beach, probably so they could work all night. But what it did was silhouette the ships offshore, not enough for gunnery – not at this range – bu t enough so you could see where the targets were. He grinned a sour grin. Good to know the British army wasn’t any brighter than the American.
“Signal light, sir – from a ship, not the shore.”
“Make the agreed response.” The Navy didn’t know what the Royal Navy was using for its signals these days but it did know what the recognition signal had been as of two weeks ago.
“They’re signaling again, sir.”
“Make the same response and keep her on the plot.” They had worked out a course before sunset, with a straight drive toward the beach followed by a wide curve to the south. Hopefully it would seem as though they were looking for an anchorage, when in fact the two battleships just wanted to pass as close aboard the enemy as possible. Their guns wouldn’t do any more damage at close range, but the targets would be easier to see and hit.
Five minutes passed, then ten. Just when he thought they would make it all the way, the ship that had signaled them let loose a warning gun. Benham trained his glasses on her – risky; if she fired again, it could leave his night-adapted eyes seeing stars – and thought he saw her move.
“Sims! Send down to number one turret – train on that ship. Pass the word to everyone to stand by.” Beneath his feet the deck began to heel. He wanted to order more speed, but that was the irrational impulse to have it all over quickly. Ten knots would give the gunners plenty of time to pour it on as targets appeared but it would also give the enemy plenty of time to shoot back… The deck shivered and the tilt eased as the ship came out of its turn. “Range!”
“Three thousand yards!” Sims sang out. “Open fire!” Benham snapped. A few long seconds passed while the order was relayed. Benham closed his eyes and stopped up his ears as the big 12” guns of the forward turret bellowed. When he opened his eyes he saw Roosevelt stumble in from the bridge wing, glasses askew but eyes shining; he shouted something but Benson couldn’t make out what. A black shape was growing closer to starboard and another, farther away, to port. Whether by chance or design, the helmsman had pointed them down the alley between two lines of anchored ships. He looked away as the forward 6” gun spoke; their casemates were just below the bridge and the flash dazzled his eyes.
“Sims! Where is that picket?” Probably a cruiser that had challenged them by blinking its lights, but there hadn’t been any sure way to estimate its size in the dark. Whatever Sims replied was lost in the roar of the forward turret firing again. He hadn’t noticed the smoke before, but now he coughed on it. He wasn’t sure what the main turret had been firing at, but something up ahead was burning. Then there were staccato red and yellow flashes from off the port bow, a white fountain of water alongside and a loud explosion as one of the shells hit forward.
Then Roosevelt was at his elbow and they were more than half-way down the lines of ships. Behind them, the night was alight from blazing fires; ahead was mostly cool darkness and more black shapes. For the moment at least no-one was shooting at them.
“They’re hitting their own ships!” Roosevelt yelled, and Benham jumped. “I’m not deaf, dammit!” he snapped but Roosevelt just grinned wider.
“I am, by God, and its wonderful! They’ll be waiting for us at the end of the row!”
“Yes, I know! Now get out of my way!” Benham looked for Sims but didn’t find him so he stepped to the wheelhouse door. “Kingsley! Where’s Sims?”
“Went down to inspect the damage, sir.”
“That cruiser’ll be laying for us when we get to the end of these freighters. Increase speed to fifteen knots and pass the word for both main turrets to hold their fire and train to port until they see the cruiser. Then send someone to the six-inch battery – tell them to look sharp, and pound him when they see him! And stand by for orders for the helm.”
That said, he turned back toward the flying bridge. Both secondary batteries were pounding non-stop and at least one warship was returning fire, judging from the shell spashes. There was a ringing Thunk! as something hit the side; Benham looked over the railing to see what it was and so missed the shell that crashed through the glass windows of the wheelhouse. The explosion was like a near miss from a lightning bolt, coupled with an ear-spiking bang. He hurried to the now-permanently-open hatch and fought down the urge to vomit. Every member of the bridge crew seemed to be down or wounded, and something liquid had splashed over the fittings. Must have been a small shell, he mused, and marveled at how the mind could keep running along even in moments of sheer terror and horror like this one…
“Boxley. Boxley!” He had to tug on the man’s sleeve to get his attention, then scream in his ear. “Go for the surgeon’s mates! Go!” Roosevelt had made his way in past the shattered door and seemed pretty shaken. “You! Have you ever sailed a boat?” Roosevelt nodded. Benham rang the engine-room telegraph and watched the repeater click, so that still worked. Then he checked the telltale for the aft command station. It was dark, so that meant no-one back there had taken control yet. He rang for two-thirds ahead. “Then take the wheel – I’ve got to see what’s happening. Keep us steady for now.” Roosevelt took the wheel; the helmsman sagged to the deck, face and chest lacerated from the flying glass.
They were approaching the last freighter of the outer line. Both 6” batteries were still pounding away, and Benham had only an instant to hope they were hitting something. He couldn’t see… He took two steps and shouted through the broken windows. “Come port now – gently! She’s a big girl!” The ship trembled, then eased into a turn. “Too much – back her – that’s the way! Easy!” The darkness to his left blotted out the sea; it was a freighter, the last one, and they were going to hit – no, they should pass it, but close enough to touch, it looked like. Then they were past, still heeling to port, engines pounding harder as they strained to increase her speed. He watched in amazement as a shell emerged from the freighter’s outer side before exploding.
Then Sims was at his side. “Minor damage forward, sir – probably a five-inch hit, tore up some plating above the waterline. Looks bad on the bridge!”
“Help me look for that damned cruiser!” Benham shouted, but could barely hear himself. Sims pointed. “There-away, sir!” Roosevelt had kept the wheel over and Hale was still heeling into her turn; a few moments longer and they’d be looping back to the north. Outside the two rows of burning ships was a lower black bulk. “Roosevelt! Center the helm! Sims, get on the voice tube and tell the mains…”
His words were lost in the titanic roar as all four 12” guns cut loose at once. Someone hadn’t waited for the order to open fire, and Benham made a mental note to congratulate whoever it was. At least one hit the cruiser; she was end-on, her profile lengthening as she turned to parallel the American battleship. Then speckles of light lit her sides – her own gunfire, or hits from Hale’s 6” rifles, or both. The mains roared again, aft and then forward, fast loading for such green crews. Again there was the bright blossom of explosion as a shell went home, then a wavering glow… Roosevelt plucked at his sleeve as Benham grabbed Sims, then the other man and took them to the deck. No more than a thousand yards away, the fires that had been eating at her vitals hit the powder store. It sounded as though Zeus had unleashed a century of thunder. Debris was flying; later, a gun barrel would be found skewered through the Hale’s port side. The noise went on and on… then mercifully ceased. They clambered to their feet and looked around, Benham shrugging a question at Roosevelt, who pointed at the bridge and mimed someone else holding the wheel. That was all right, then. The Captain mimed to Sims to go tell the helm to slow to ten knots again and bring the ship about.
Benham looked behind; what was left of the cruiser had rolled her masts into the mud and was rapidly going down. The water was shallow here, but not so shallow that the hull wouldn’t go under. The survivors would have to wait until he could get his squadron under control… except that Patrick Henry was nowhere to be seen. As they came about to starboard, giving the wreck a wide berth, the lack of gunfire and explosions brought home how deaf he really was – the noise of the ship’s engines and of the wind-roar were eerily absent. Then he saw her; there was the Henry, coming past the blazing hull of the last freighter in line, listing to port and down by the head but seemingly otherwise alright. Roosevelt was tugging on his sleeve again, mouthing something… blue? Blue light! A blue light at the mast-head, in case friendly torpedo boats were about.
He set the indefatigable Sims to see about the lights and decided he needed to see the damages for himself. Henry signaled she was able to steam, and there was nothing to gain from hanging around here. Norfolk would be glad to see them, he was sure. Benham took one more careful look; the wheelhouse was windy and unpleasant wih the glass broken out, but the officers and men who had taken the places of the wounded looked calm and efficient.
Across the back bulkhead of the wheelhouse the crew had painted, ‘Give me liberty or give me death’ in giant gold letters. It was smeared now with blood, a sacrifice Benham regretted to his marrow; he still remembered chuckling at Boxley’s joke that Hale’s famous words had more to do with shore leave than patriotism. Still, the Hale had made her name in fine style, and he suspected that none of her crew would be allowed to buy a beer for quite some time to come. “I’m going to the infirmary,” he said to Sims, and was surprised to find he could hear himself speak.
“I’ll go too, if I may,” Roosevelt said, voice raspy from shouting. “They are heroes – heroes all.” Benham inclined his head ever so slightly; he might not like the man, but there was more backbone under that tailored suit than the captain would have thought.
“Just wait until I tell my friends how I took the helm! It’ll be bully!” Roosevelt cried, and Benham turned away. Some people just couldn’t help being who they were, he supposed. Underfoot, the deck lifted to the first of the Atlantic rollers. Let the little man have his moment to crow. Hale and her men had done something grand tonight, and he had done his part well enough. Benham could respect that. But he just couldn’t find it in himself to like the man.