Not for the first time had General Robert E. Lee cut himself free of his base and marched his forces against an enemy.

He liked it that way.

Well before ten that morning, by road and by rail, they entered Ballymoney where Lee ordered a halt. The pickets were out, both before and behind — and on both flanks as well. His army was used to living off of the country — only this time they paid for the privilege. Good U.S. greenbacks in exchange for the hams, chickens and other vittles. There had also been some reluctant horse purchases; the gentlemen had little option but to agree. All of his staff were now mounted, Lee himself on a handsome thirteen hand hunter. He took time only to snatch a few mouthfuls of food before gathering his officers around him.

“We are here — and Belfast is here. If we keep to this march we should reach Belfast around three in the morning…” He looked up as Major Craig hurried up.

“Run into another train on a siding, sir. Any more like this and we’ll all be able to ride the cars in style.”

Like most of rural Ireland there was only a single train track leading south. When a train entered a block of single track it picked up a brass “key” on a metal loop from the stationmaster. Only the train with the key was allowed on the single track. At the other end of the block the train would enter a siding while the key would be passed to the up train, which would be waiting on the other track for the down train to pass. Then it could use this section of track, sure that there would not be a head-on collision with a train moving in the opposite direction.

Not today. As the invaders had encountered each waiting train they had seized it and added it to the American cause. Now the first train, seized in Castlerock, was led by three trains, laden with troops, all of them moving majestically in reverse.

“That is good news indeed,” Lee said. “The fresher the troops, the easier the victory.” He looked back to the map. “We’ll make a halt again in Antrim. Looks to be ten miles out of Belfast. Then we’ll go on three hours before dawn. At first light we will hit them and hit them hard. You all have assigned targets so we all know what must be done. Nevertheless we will go over the attack once again in detail.”

At first light the first train rattled into Blank Street Station. The first of the marching troops had already secured the area around the station and willing hands rolled the Gatling guns from the cars and into the streets. All along the line of march horses had been seized, and paid for, and were now waiting to be hitched up to the guns. There was sporadic fire from the city, but nothing heavy and concentrated until the infantry barracks on North Queen Street was surrounded, the artillery barracks next to it as well.

The Battle of Belfast had begun.

While far to the south the battle for Cork was over. The trains from Galway had brought the American forces into Cork Station. Stonewall Jackson’s troops had fanned out while the Gatling guns were being unloaded. The attackers had spread out along the Lower Glanmire Road, through the fields and past the hospital. They had crossed the Old Youghal Road and had launched a fierce attack on the barracks there — which was almost over even before the first ragged bugle call had sounded the warning.

The impregnable forts guarding the entrance to the harbor were taken from the rear, even as the gunners were firing ranging shots at the great black bulk of the ironclad. The attacking ship had fired two broadsides before retiring out of range. The first that the gunners knew that they were under attack from the land was when they saw the bayonets at their throats.

It was indeed a new kind of lightning war.

General Arthur Tarbet was wakened by the hammering on his bedroom door. He blinked his eyes open and saw that there was the first light of dawn around the window curtains.

“What is it?” he called out.

“Ships, sir. Battleships in the lough!”

Even as the words were spoken there came the rumble of distant gunfire.

“Damn it to hell!” he swore as he kicked the bed covers off and jammed his feet into his boots. He pulled on his heavy woolen robe and stumbled hastily across the room. He was seventy-five years old, arthritic and weary, and had been offered command of Her Majesty’s forces in Belfast as a sinecure, an easy post to fill while he awaited his retirement. This was obviously not to be. Captain Otfried, the officer of the day, was waiting for him.

“What is happening, Captain?”

“A certain confusion, sir. Something has gone wrong with the telegraph connection to the gun batteries on the Lough. Not functioning. They sent a runner to report. At least two ironclads are in Belfast Lough. I imagine that is their firing that we hear.”

“Any identification?”

“None at the moment. Though we can safely assume—”

“Yankees. Bloody Yankees. I can figure that one out for myself. Telegraph Dublin at once.”

“I’m afraid that line is not functioning either.”

“Hmm.” Tarbet dropped into the chair behind his desk. “No coincidence there. Have you tried the international cable to Scotland?”

“No, sir.”

“Do it now. Though I wager that it will be a waste of time. Whoever cut the wires will not have made an exception there. Dare we assume that the war has come to Belfast?”

“A reasonable assumption, General.”

“Order me some coffee.” He leaned his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers as he thought about the possibilities. He had been an intelligent officer, as well as a fighting one, and age had not hampered his abilities.

“An attack by sea. Valueless unless landings follow. Or are they already under way? And why Belfast? Most of our troops are in the south and that is where the battle must be fought and won. Or is Dublin under attack as well? Ahh, thank you.”

Otfried opened the window and they could hear the distant rattle of firing. Single shots, then a ripping sound of rapid firing like an entire company firing all together.

“I believe that we are under attack by land as well, sir.”

“I believe that you are right,” Tarbet said as he sipped gratefully at the hot coffee and looked closely at Captain Otfried. “Like to ride, do you Otfried?”

“Rather. Member of my hunt at home.”

“Good. Then get saddled up. I am certain that Ireland is under siege, certainly under attack. If it is, why then the mail boat from Kingstown will certainly have been captured, to prevent any news of the attack on Dublin from reaching London. The ferry from Larne to Scotland will have been taken as well, I wager. No hope of getting word out that way. I am sure that there will be a gunboat closing that port as well. It should be easy enough to blockade all the Irish ports to the south. But it’s a different matter here, with Scotland just across this bit of sea. If any word is to be sent it must be sent from here. I am confident that the little fishing port a few miles north of Larne won’t be watched… what’s the name?”

“Balleygalley.”

“The very place.” The general was writing as he talked. “Ride like the very devil and get yourself there. Commandeer a boat to take you over to Scotland. I’ll give you some coin, just in case an appeal to the mariner’s patriotism doesn’t work. Take this message, find a telegraph, there’s one in Port Logan, get it to Whitehall. Go my boy — may luck be with you.”

The gunfire sounded loud behind Captain Otfried as he galloped out of Belfast on the coast road to the north. When he passed Larne he saw that the general’s assumption had been correct. The mail boat was still there — an armorclad tied up beside her. He rode on.

His horse was lathered with sweat and starting to stumble when he galloped through the streets of Balleygalley and down to the strand. A fishing boat had just dropped sail and was tying up at the jetty. Otfried slipped down from his horse and called out to them.