“As soon as we learned of these cowardly attacks, this country’s military sprang to its defense. Under the Duke of Cambridge’s instruction, Scots troops from Glasgow and Edinburgh are now on their way to the Midlands. Cavalry and yeomanry as well as the other troops are now in the field, and we expect imminent news of victory. The following regiments have been ordered to…”
His words died away as a rustle of voices swept the chamber. He looked up to see that one of the parliamentary clerks had let himself into the hall and was hurrying toward the front seats, a single sheet of paper in his hand. He thrust it forward and Russell took it.
Gasped and staggered as though he had been struck a blow.
“Attacked,” he said. “Another attack — this time on the naval base at Plymouth!”
It was the moment of decision. The engine of the first troop train had stopped in Saltash station. A wisp of smoke drifted up from the stack and the metal of the hot boiler clicked quietly. General Grant swung down from the engine and went forward to the advance engine that had halted just before the Albert Bridge across the Tamar River. Troops looked out of the windows of the two cars as he approached; a young captain swung down from the engine and saluted.
“You took care of the telegraph wires?” Grant asked.
“Just as you ordered, General. We dropped off a squad at every station to grab the telegraph operator, if there was one. After we left each station we used the train to pull down a half-dozen poles, then took up the wire. Got a passel of it in the freight car.”
“Good. To the best of your knowledge, then, no warning was sent ahead?”
“Absolutely none, sir. We moved too fast. None of the operators were at their keys when we busted in.”
“Well done.” Grant looked across the bridge for a long moment; he could see no activity at the other end. The railway authorities would know by now that the telegraph was out of service the length of Cornwall. Had they thought it necessary to inform the military of this? There was only one way to find out.
“You will proceed across the bridge. Go slowly until you reach the other side. Then open the throttle and don’t slow down until you go through Plymouth station. Stop there — but leave room for the troop trains behind you. Keep your weapons loaded — but return fire only if you are fired on first. Good luck.”
“To us all, General!”
The officer sprinted back to the engine, which started to move even as he was climbing aboard. It pulled slowly out onto the long span of the incredible bridge. The troop train followed a hundred yards behind. Once safely off the bridge, they sped up, faster and faster through the local stations: St. Budeaux, Manadon, and Crownhill. The three following trains would stop at these stations, dispensing troops to seize and envelop the cities from the hills above. Shocked passengers on the platforms fell back as the train plunged through the stations, braking to a stop only after entering Plymouth station itself. The troops jumped down from the cars and fanned out, ignoring the civilians. There was a brief struggle as a policeman was overwhelmed, bound, and locked into the telegraph room with the operator, who had been trying to send a message down the line to London when they seized him. He did not succeed because the advance party had done their job and torn down the wires beyond the station.
The troops from the train formed up and marched out of the station. General Grant was with them. There was a row of waiting cabs just outside the station.
“Seize those horses,” General Grant ordered an aide. “They can pull some of the Gatlings.”
“What is happening here? I demand to know!” A well-dressed and irate gentleman stood before Grant, shaking his gold-headed walking stick in his direction.
“War, sir. You are at war.” The man was seized by two troopers and bustled away even as Grant spoke.
The advance down through the streets of Plymouth was almost unopposed. There appeared to be no military units in the city itself; the few sailors they encountered were unarmed and fled before the menacing soldiers. But the alarm had been raised and the Americans came under fire when they approached the naval station.
“Bring up the Gatlings,” Grant ordered. “The lead squads will bypass any strong points and let the Gatling guns come after and subdue them.”
The Royal Marines put up a spirited defense of their barracks, but the machine guns chewed them up, tearing through the thin wooden walls. Roaring with victory, the American troops charged into the buildings; the few survivors quickly surrendered. The small number of sailors who took up arms were cut down by the Gatlings — and the marksmanship of the veteran American soldiers.
No cannon from any of the shore batteries were fired at the attackers because they were all trained out to sea. An attack from the land side of the port had never been expected.
The Americans were unstoppable. In Devonport they overran and occupied the navy vessels tied up there. The Plymouth docks were larger and more confusing and it took time to work through them. The American attack slowed — but still pushed forward.
As chance would have it, HMS Defender, which had arrived that morning, was tied up at a buoy in the stream. Her captain was on deck, summoned by the watch officer when they had heard the sound of firing from the city.
“What is it, Number One?” he asked when he had climbed to the bridge.
“Gunfire, sir, that is all that I know.”
“What have you done about it?”
?
?Sent the gig ashore with Lieutenant Osborne. I thought that a gunnery officer might make sense of what is happening.”
“Well done. Sounds like a bloody revolution…”
“Here they come, sir, rowing flat out.”