As soon as it had been deemed safe, John Mill’s daughter, Helen, had joined him in London. Through an agent she had found a most attractive furnished house to rent in Mayfair, on Brook Street. She knew how important a warm home environment was for Mill and she bent every effort in that direction. The strain of the work that he was doing was very great indeed, and he walked now with his shoulders bent, as though he were carrying a heavy load. As indeed he was. He was in his sitting room, still in sleeping cap and dressing gown, enjoying his morning tea, when Helen brought in a copy of The Times.
“I am almost afraid to read it these days,” he said, touching the newspaper gingerly with the tips of his fingers.
Helen laughed as he squinted at the first page. “It is not really that bad. They are actually weighing arguments pro and con concerning the proposed constitution — instead of thundering away, all barrels blazing, the way they did in the beginning.” She reached into the pocket of her dress and took out some envelopes. “Your Mr. Disraeli was here even before the morning post and left these off for you.”
“Wonderful! I shall put the newspaper aside with pleasure. He promised me a list of possible members for the proposed congress — this will hopefully be them.” He quickly read through the papers. “That is a familiar name. Charles Bradlaugh?”
“You must remember him, Papa. The founder of the National Reformer and a great pamphleteer.”
“Of course — yes! A committed republican and a freethinker. I can hear the wounded cries now if we permit an atheist to join our congress. Indeed, we must have him. I will get an invitation off to him today. Ah — and here is Frederic Harrison as well. A gentleman well-known to the working classes as possessing a practical knowledge of how the trade unions operate. Disraeli strongly advises that he be present, and I can only agree.”
With Disraeli’s aid and political know-how, a list of members for a constitutional congress was slowly being assembled. There were veteran politicians and reformers like William Gladstone, as well as up-and-coming politicians like Joseph Chamberlain. Although the newspapers sneered at the very idea of this congress and the political cartoonists had a field day at its expense, a possible panel was slowly being formed. Now it was only a matter of fixing a date that would be suitable for all parties concerned. What had seemed like a novel invention at first soon began to take on the appearance of respectability.
WAITING FOR DESTINY
Three days had passed since the USS Devastation had joined the squadron that stretched across the mouth of the English Channel. This was the proper place to intercept any ships entering the Channel where it joined the Atlantic Ocean. The northernmost ship in the line cruised within easy sight of Portland Bill. South of it, using just enough power to breast the incoming tide, rode USS Virginia.
Beyond this ship, almost on the horizon, another American ironclad was just visible. The line of warships now reached from within sight of the English coast right across the Channel as far as Cap de la Hague on the tip of the Cherbourg Peninsula. Every ship in the squadron was in sight of at least two others. When the British came — if they came — there was no way that they could escape observation.
If they came. This little word echoed over and over in General Sherman’s brain as he paced the flying bridge of the Devastation. When they had joined the squadron they had taken up station next to Admiral Farragut’s flagship, USS Mississippi, at the center of the line. She was still in position next to them, steaming as slowly as they were.
Sherman once again found himself standing at the rail, looking east across the empty sea. Would the convoy come? Had he been wrong in his assumption that they would attack the south coast of England? For the thousandth time he tracked the logic that had led him to the inevitable conclusion that this was what they would do. He still believed they must strike at this coast, but three days of waiting had left his theory hard-pressed. As he turned away he saw that a small boat was pulling away from the Pennsylvania. He realized suddenly that it must be noon — that was the hour appointed for his meeting with the admiral. They would discuss tactics yet again, and the state of the squadron, and Farragut would stay for luncheon. Sherman’s eyes strayed once more to the empty horizon, before he left the bridge and went to wait for the admiral on the deck.
“Still fine weather,” Farragut said as they shook hands. Sherman only nodded and led the way below. There was nothing they could say that had not been said often before. Sherman took the carafe from the sideboard and held it up.
“Will you join me in a sherry before we dine?”
“An excellent thought.”
Sherman had just poured out the drinks when a seaman burst through the door.
“Captain’s compliments.” The words rushed from his mouth. “The lookout reports ships to the southeast.”
The sailor had to move swiftly aside as the two officers rushed past him. By the time they had reached the bridge, the line of ships could be seen on the horizon. Captain Van Horn lowered his telescope. “The leading ship is an armorclad — you can tell by her upper works. And there is more smoke from ships still not in sight. Eight, ten of them at least.”
“Is this it?” Sherman asked.
Van Horn nodded firmly. “Without doubt, General. There could be no other force that size at sea.”
“Follow General Sherman’s orders,” Admiral Farragut said as he turned away. “I must return to my command and issue the signal to assemble all our force here.”
“I want you to approach those ships as soon as the admiral’s boat is clear. And do it slowly.”
Van Horn nodded. “Slow ahead. Five knots, no more.”
“Would you also have that flag hung in the bow,” Sherman said.
The captain’s orders were relayed to the deck and two sailors ran forward with a bundle of cloth. Grommets had been attached to the corners of one of the tablecloths from the officers’ mess. It was quickly fixed to a line and run up the bow mast. The approaching ships could not miss seeing the white flag. Nor the Stars and Stripes flying from the masthead.
When they had halved the distance to the approaching convoy, the captain stopped the engines. They drifted slowly to a stop, rolling in the light seas. The brisk westerly wind caught the improvised flag and it flapped out for all to see.
“If they should open fire?” Captain Van Horn asked brusquely.
“They won’t,” Sherman said firmly. “It would not be gentlemanly. And they are certainly aware of the other ironclads behind us. They will know what that means.”
If Sherman had any doubts about the wisdom of meeting the enemy like this, he did not express them. Twice before in his life he had ended conflict with a flag of truce. He had every faith that he could do it once again.
The leading ships could be seen quite clearly now; black armor and menacing guns. Signal flags had been run up and it appeared that the convoy had slowed. However, one of the ironclads had drawn away from the others and approached the American ship.