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“The ships with the troops — you will spare them?”

“Of course — unless they refuse to surrender and try to escape. But I think they will be reasonable after they see what happens to the others.”

Smoke rolled out from the Prince Regent’s guns and there was a mighty clang of metal upon metal that sounded through the ship.

“Return fire,” Goldsborough ordered.

The Battle of the Potomac River had begun.

The British had their defensive tactics forced upon them: they were compelled to keep their warships between this armored enemy and the unarmed transports tied up along the shore. The retreating troops were being boarded as fast as they could, but it would still take some time. Time that would have to be bought with men’s lives.

They sailed in line against the single enemy, crossing the T just as Nelson had done at Trafalgar. This would concentrate the gunfire of each ship in turn against a single target. But success at the Battle of Trafalgar had seen wooden ships fighting wooden ships. Now it was wood against iron.

Prince Regent was first in line. As she passed the ironclad gun after gun fired at close range. The solid shot just bounced off the armor plate; the explosive shells could not penetrate. There was no return fire until the rear turret of Avenger was even with the waist of the British ship. The two guns fired and the massive iron shells from the 400-pounders crashed through the oak hull and on into the crowded gun deck.

Royal Oak was next and she took the fire of the other turret and suffered the same fate as her sister ship. Guns unmounted, men screaming and dying, tangled rigging and sails down.

It took two minutes to reload the big guns. Every minute one of the turrets fired and death crashed into the British squadron. The ships fought and died, one by one, a small victory bought at a terrible price. But the first transports had slipped their lines and were heading downriver.

Men ran along the bank, cheering and shouting, letting off the occasional shot against the retreating ships. A British warship had her rudder blown away and drifted helplessly in the current; the watchers cheered even louder.

Guns were still firing upstream from the drifting ship as it slowly drifted out of sight. Smaller guns firing at erratic intervals. And every two minutes the louder boom of the 400-pounders.

“We are winning, Mr. Lincoln,” Goldsborough said. “No doubt about that.”

“Has this ship suffered any damage?”

“None, sir — other than our flagstaff being shot away. They got Old Glory and they will pay a terrible price for that.”

THE TASTE OF VICTORY

The Battle of Saratoga was in its third bloody day. The troops that had been trickling into the American positions had been thrown piecemeal into the line as soon as they arrived. And they held, just barely, but they held. The fighting was hand-to-hand; the cannon could not fire for fear of hitting their own troops. Then, at noon, some of the spirit had seemed to go out of the British troops. They had been brave enough, had fought hard enough — but all to no avail. They hesitated. General Grant saw it and knew what he had to do.

“We counterattack. All of the freshest troops. Push them back, hurt them.”

With a roar of pleasure the American troops attacked for the first time. And the British fled.

Badly hurt in their frontal attack the enemy were now changing their tactics. A few cannon fired at the Americans as a grim reminder that they were still there. But other events were in progress.

The weary and dusty officer approached and saluted General Grant.

“Scouts report plenty of movement on the left flank, General. Some cavalry, maybe even some guns. Looks like they are trying to flank us, attack from our rear.”

“Well that’s what I would do in their position. I just wonder what took them so long to think about it.” He turned to his staff officers. “What about the food and water?”

“When the last reinforcements arrived we pushed them into the line and pulled some of our veterans out. Had them eat, then bring the grub back to the other men. Worked fine — and we have plenty of ammunition to boot.”

“I certainly hope so. The enemy is not going to give up easily.”

“I passed an officer back there, General. Cavalryman. Wants to find you.”

“Cavalry you say! I want to talk to him as well.”

The mounted officer was just swinging to the ground when Grant came up — and stopped dead in his tracks. He had read the telegraphed reports about the second British invasion and the fighting in Mississippi, but the overall reality of the situation had not penetrated to him in the heat of deadly battle. Now he saw before him the gray coat and golden sash of a Confederate officer. The tall, richly-bearded man turned to face him and his face lit up with recognition.

“Ulysses S. Grant, as I live and breathe!”

“You are a welcome sight, Jeb, most welcome indeed.”