“Are you in command here, Captain?” Major Dashwood asked coldly. “My understanding is that with the admiral dead the captain of my ship commands my troops.”
“All dead?” Captain Roland said, apparently numbed by the news.
“Dead or captured for certain. What do you want us to do, sir.”
“Do?”
“Yes, sir.” Dashwood was losing his patience at the dithering, but did not let his feelings show. “I’ve dug my men in on shore. With the guns they can resist an attack — but they cannot win it.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Immediate withdrawal. Our military forces obviously did not accomplish their objective. I suggest that we cut our losses and retreat.”
“And you are absolutely sure that our forces on land are destroyed? Or will be very soon?” one of the captains asked.
“You may take my word for that, sir. If you have any doubts I will be happy to take you to the scene of the battle.”
“The supplies on shore, the cannon — what about them?”
“I suggest that we take what we can, destroy the rest, spike the guns. Nothing can be accomplished by staying a moment longer than we need. Now if you will excuse me, I must return to my troops.”
Despite the urgency it took most of the day for a decision to be made. Dashwood had sent scouts forward and they reported that the battle was indeed over. They saw a small group of prisoners being led away. And the enemy divisions were forming. Skirmishers were already approaching and it was more than obvious what would happen next. The major walked back and forth behind the defenses, in a black rage at the indecision of the navy. Were his marines to be sacrificed too?
It was late afternoon before the very obvious decision was finally made. Destroy the supplies, spike the guns, board his men. The first boatload of marines had reached their transport when the lookout on Warrior reported smoke on the eastern horizon.
Within a minute all of the telescopes in the fleet were pointed in that direction. The smoke cloud grew larger and separated into individual columns.
“I count four, five ships, possibly more. Steaming on forced draft.” Captain Roland’s voice remained flat and emotionless despite the tension growing within him. “Isn’t there a blockading fleet at Mobile Bay?”
“At last reports, a fairly good-sized one, sir.”
“Yes. I thought so.”
The leading ships were hull up now, white sails visible below the smoke. They were slowing to a halt well out of gunshot; a large battleship at the center of the line was swinging about.
“What on earth are they doing?” the captain called out. “Hail the lookout.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“It’s a tow of some kind, sir. They’ve dropped the line to another vessel.”
“What is it?”
“Can’t rightly tell. Never saw nothing like that before.”
The black form was so low in the water that details were not clear. It passed the other ships and slowly steamed toward the British. No one could make out what kind of ship it was, even when it drew close.
Black, so low in the water that its deck was awash, small. With a round construction in the center of its deck.
“Like a cheesebox on a raft,” one of the officers said.
A chill possessed Captain Roland like nothing he had ever experienced before. He had read those very words in the newspaper.
“What can it possibly be?” someone said.
“Nemesis,” he said, in a voice so low he could be barely heard.
The steam-powered wooden frigates of the American Navy opened into a half-circle to engage the British warships, carefully staying clear of the menacing iron ship. Only USS Monitor sailed steadily on.