“She’s turning, sir,” the first lieutenant said. “Setting a course towards Larne.”

“We can’t have that,” Captain Durnford said. “She’s an American warship, by Jove. Single turret, two guns. Tally ho!”

It was a close-run thing. Stalwart entered Larne Harbor with her gigantic opponent no more than a thousand yards behind her. The American ironclad backwatered at full throttle, yet still smashed hard into the dock. The waiting marine clutching the captain’s message, who was standing at the rail, jumped as the ship collided with the dock, rolled and fell onto the splintered wood. Picked himself up and ran towards the telegraph station. Behind him the armored ports were battened tight as the ship cleared for action.

Stalwart fired first as the hull of her opponent filled her gunsights as Conqueror entered the mouth of Larne Lough. Both shells exploded full on the British ship’s hull. When the smoke blew away two great indentations were visible on her armor. But despite the impact and explosions the shells had not penetrated the layers of iron and wood.

Then, almost as one, the seven port guns of Conqueror fired their broadside.

Stalwart’s turret had been rotated as soon as she had fired, so the single shell that struck it only bounced off the armored rear of the turret. Four of the enemy’s guns were trained too high and their shells passed over the low hull and wreaked havoc in the ferry station beyond.

The other two shells hit Stalwart’s deck. One of them bounced screaming from her armor. The other hit where armor and hull joined and tore a brutal gash in her side.

It was a bitter, pounding, one-sided battle. People, and soldiers, ashore fled from the burning ferry terminal. While Stalwart’s guns were being reloaded, Conqueror went about and her starboard battery roared fire and shell. The Americans’ return fire once again had no visible effect on the larger ship.

The next broadside opened the gap deeper in the American ship’s hull. She appeared to be settling lower in the water. Her guns fired one last time — and then her turret vanished beneath the waters of the harbor. Air bubbled up and whipped the surface into a froth. When the bubbles ceased the ocean calmed. Empty.

No one escaped from the drowned vessel.

The marine in the ruin of the telegraph room turned to the army telegraph operator. “Better add to that message. Stalwart destroyed by enemy fire. She has sunk with all hands aboard.”

The Duke of Cambridge was in a fire-eating mood. The more he thought about the audacity of the Americans in daring to launch an attack on the British Isles, the more incensed he became. Even though there had been no report in yet, on the success or failure of their attack, he called for more and more troops.

“Somerville!” he bellowed. “Are there any more ships in the Clyde that we can use?”

“Possibly, sir. But since the Scots Guards and the Royal Scots Greys have entrained and embarked there are no more regiments immediately available. However I have sent an order canceling all ship departures from Liverpool. Officers there are determining which of them would be able to carry troops.” He looked up at the office clock. “The Green Howards left some hours ago and should be reaching Liverpool about this time. The Royal Regiment of Fusiliers will be close behind them. We have also rounded up all of the batteries of field artillery available and they are on the way as well.”

“Well done,” the Duke said, albeit begrudgingly. “It is now or never. We must assume that our landings went well and that our forces are now advancing against the enemy in the field. They must be reinforced! We must keep up the pressure. If we cannot prevail now it will be devilish hard to go back and launch an attack again at some future date.”

“You are completely correct, your grace. The enemy has committed its forces to an invasion of Ireland. Battles cause casualties. We do not know the state of their communications. But we do know that they will not have had enough time to resupply or reinforce their troops. We must not fail at this time.”

When he had sent his men on the cars north from Cork, General Stonewall Jackson had telegraphed asking permission of General Sherman to march at their head. Sherman had not hesitated. The defenses at Cork were well manned and armed. It would not need a fighting general of Jackson’s stature to wage a defensive battle. Sherman’s answer had been fast and brief. Command your troops.

There were guides waiting when Jackson’s troops reached Dublin. To lead them through the city, to the train to Belfast. A mounted major, leading a second saddled horse, saluted Jackson.

“General Sherman’s compliments, sir. He would like to confer with you while your troops are boarding the cars.” Jackson mounted and followed the aide to the headquarters in the General Post Office. Sherman took him by the hand when he came in.

“Congratulations on your success in battle.”

“It was God’s will. Now — tell me what has happened in the north.”

“The enemy has landed in force, on the coast north of here. We must first hold them on land — then look to the navy to prevent any future landings,” General Sherman told him, pointing at the map of Ireland tacked to his headquarters wall. “On our northern front — Lee reports that we are holding — but just barely. You must reinforce him. And hold. He has thrown all his reserves into his defensive position. But the front is small and almost undefendable. It is hand-to-hand fighting now and it cannot go on. He is now setting a major defense line just north of Larne. They’ll fall back on these positions as soon as it is dark, and you will reinforce him. We will hold there. But at sea it is very bad. Stalwart is sunk.”

“I had not heard,” Jackson said grimly.

“She was not outfought — but she was outgunned. And she did report that more ships with troops were supporting the British counter-attack. There is nothing we can do about that, not yet. Her antagonist Conqueror is now protecting the troop ships that continue to arrive from Scotland and possibly from England.”

“What about Avenger? She can surely get after the enemy troop ships — but she’s still tied up here.”

“On my orders. As you know Virginia is on her way here from Cork. When she arrives they will sail together. Then Conqueror will not be able to both protect herself and guard the arriving troop ships at the same time. Undoubtedly there are more British warships on the way. We must make as much of this opportunity as we can before they arrive.”

“Is there any word of Dictator?” Other officers had been hesitant to put into words the question that was in the back of all their minds, but not Jackson. Their mightiest ironclad had missed the invasion with her blown boiler. “Is there any word of her yet?”

“None. I have sent one of the troop ships to the Azores with instructions that she is to proceed at once to Belfast as soon as repairs are made. We can only hope that she has been repaired by now. We must stop any enemy replacements from arriving. When your troops arrive at the front we will have done everything that we could possibly do. As you know, we hold Dublin and Cork with the absolute minimum of troops. Your regiments are the last of the reserves that I can send General Lee. All the other regiments have already been committed. If any man can hold the line it is he.”

“With the good Lord’s aid,” Jackson said firmly; he was a most religious man. “We go where He tells us to go, and in that way we win our battles.”

The First Engineer of the USS Dictator stood on the ship’s bridge, so tired that he swayed with fatigue. His clothes were black with grease, as was his skin and the rag he was wiping his hands on with no success. Only his bloodshot eyes had any trace of color.