The ship’s boat appeared out of the darkness, slipping into the pool of light thrown by the lanterns. The sailors raised their oars as the blue uniformed figure in the bow jumped ashore.
“Sean,” Dominick said, “so you’re a soldier now.”
“I always have been. But I didn’t think it was wise to wear uniform when I was visiting youse.” He saw the crock on the ground and grabbed it up. “In the boat with you now — and I’ll take care of this.” He swallowed a large mouthful and sighed with delight.
“But our boat!” Patrick protested. “We can’t just leave it here.”
“Why can’t you? The good people of Oghil will keep it safe. Now — in with you. ’Tis a war we’re starting this very day.”
The Riordan brothers could only make feeble protests as they were bundled into the boat, which was quickly pushed out and returned to the transport. A hooded light revealed the rope ladder hanging over her side. They were up it, and Sean guided them to a ship’s officer, who took them up to the bridge and into the chart room. A bull’s-eye lantern threw a weak glow over the chart. The tall man who was examining the map straightened up.
“I am Captain Thrushton and I am in charge of this operation. Welcome aboard.”
The two Irishmen muttered embarrassed responses; Paddy managed a sort of salute. They had little experience with the gentry, had certainly never talked with a ship’s captain before.
“Look at this,” he said, tapping the chart. “As far as I can tell I am in the channel here, lined up on your lights on the island.”
“Not quite, your honor. The tide is on the make and you will have drifted, putting your ship about here.”
“And where is the first Martello tower?”
“Here, the Rossaveal tower on Cashula Bay. Only one gun.”
“How far from Galway?”
“Next to twenty miles.”
“Good. First boat’s company will take care of that. The other two towers?”
“South side of the bay, here on Aughinish Island, the second on Finvarra Point near the Burren. Sixteen miles from the city. Three guns each.”
“Excellent. I sincerely hope that you gentlemen will be in the lead boats when we make the attack.”
“I’m no fighting man!” Dominick said, horrified.
“Of course not — nor do I want you anywhere near the marines and infantry when we attack. You will simply point out the places where we must land — then stay by the boats. Your cousin, Private Riordan, has made very exact maps of the area around the towers. Are there any other strongpoints defending the city? Any troop movements in the last months?”
“No changes that we could see. Soldiers there and there. The barracks, and around the harbor.”
“We know about those and they will b
e taken care of. I am charged with seizing these towers and that I will do to the best of my ability.”
Of the three towers, the one on Cashula Bay proved by far the easiest to take. The marines had made their way from the landing beach to the tower and were concealed in a small copse beside the massive stone wall before dawn. At first light the single wooden door in the base opened and a soldier, in shirtsleeves, braces hanging, came out to relieve himself. The sergeant waved his men forward and a quick rush seized the man. The others were still asleep: the gun was taken.
The solid granite walls of the other two towers proved more difficult to breach. The attacking Irish troops found places of concealment around them in the dark. They lay there, rifles ready, as the light grew. First Lieutenant James Byrnes carried the charge himself in the attack on the Finvarra Point tower. Making his way in the darkness to the recessed door. As soon as there was light enough to see what he was doing, he packed the charge of blackpowder against the steel door and heaped rocks over it. He had cut the fuse himself; it should burn for two minutes. He lit it and waited until he was sure it was burning steadily. Then moved out of the doorwell, staying tight against the wall, moving around its circular form until he was well away from the explosives.
The thunderous bang and cloud of black smoke signaled the attack.
The sharpshooters in the brush poured their fire into the embrasures above. The attacking squads pushed aside the wreckage of the door and charged inside, bayonets fixed.
There were screams and shots fired. Within three minutes the tower was taken from the completely unprepared soldiers inside. The British had three wounded, one dead. Private Cassidy had a flesh wound in his arm, a pistol bullet lodged there that had been fired by the officer commanding, who slept with the weapon by his bed.
Lieutenant Byrnes climbed to the top of the tower, stepping aside as the manacled prisoners were led down to the ground. The excited soldiers of the Irish Brigade called to one another, exulting in the quick and successful action. Byrnes came out onto the firing platform, resting his hand on the silent black form of the 400-pounder cannon.
Dawn was breaking on Galway Bay, golden clouds against the pure, pale blue of the sky. And before him, clear and sharp, were the black and deadly forms of the ironclads coming straight down the center of the bay. Behind them the white-sailed transports with the American troops. Both blue and gray.
Boldly they came. Ready, by force of arms, to free Ireland. He could not contain himself.