Virginia was determined to finish off the wounded ship. At the range of a mile she fired at the stranded ship and saw some of her shells strike home. But the small iron ship could not be long ignored. Puffing clouds of smoke it drove directly toward its larger opponent until it was just alongside. “Stop engines,” Worden ordered. “Commence firing.” The first gun crew heaved the swinging shield away from the gunport, ran the gun out and Greene pulled the lockstring. The gun boomed out, deafening the men, doing more harm inside the turret by its blast than it inflicted on its target. The cannon ball hit the other’s armor and bounced away.
The Virginia fired her broadside and the battle of iron against iron was begun.
The Monitor rode so low in the ocean that her decks were awash. All that could be seen above water, other than a small armored pilothouse, was her immense central turret. Both targets were almost impossible to hit. The few balls that hit their target merely ricocheted away.
And every three minutes the 120-ton structure was rotated by its steam engine so that the two immense guns housed inside could be brought to bear. Their large target could not be missed. Agile and under perfect control, the smaller ship darted about the clumsy, almost uncontrollable Southern ironclad.
For two hours, the muzzles of their guns almost touching, the two warships hammered solid shell into each other. Disaster almost struck the Virginia when her prow grounded in a mudbank. For a quarter of an hour her feeble engine struggled to free her while Monitor moved about her firing steadily. Soon the larger ship’s funnel was so holed with shot and disabled that there was scarcely any draft for her engine. Solid shot had blown off the ends of the muzzles of two of her guns. They could still fire but when they did so the flames of the discharge set fire to the wooden surrounds.
The Monitor however did suffer one casualty. Her commander was looking through the armored slit in the pilothouse when a cannon ball struck squarely against it. He screamed with pain when fragments of paint and metal were blown into his eyes. He was taken below where the ship’s doctor did what he could to repair the damage. He saved one eye — but Worden was blinded in the other.
The battle continued, and ended only when the tide began to turn. The sluggish Virginia broke contact and made her way slowly back up the channel while her undefeated opponent still remained on guard between her and her prey.
Virginia returned to her base while Monitor waited like a bulldog at the gate for her to return.
She never did. The tall funnel was riddled with holes, while some of the armor plate was hanging free. Her faulty engines were beyond repair, her weight was so great that her draft was too deep for her to do battle anywhere except in the calm waters of Hampton Roads.
The warship that had forever changed naval warfare would never fight again.
The blockade was once again sound. The noose was again tightening about the South.
There were optimists in the North who felt that the war was as good as won.
SHILOH
Confederate General Albert Sidney Johnston was of course a gentleman, as well as being a not unkind man. He wished for a moment that he was not a gentleman, so he would not have to see Matilda Mason. There was a war to be fought after all. No, that wouldn’t cut. All the orders had been issued, the troops deployed, so there was really nothing more for him to do until the attack began. She had been waiting to see him for two days now and he knew he could not put the meeting off any longer for he had run out of excuses. It was undeniable that she was indeed a close friend of his family so if word got back that he had refused to see her…
“Sergeant, show the lady in. Then bring a pot of coffee for some refreshment.”
The tent flap lifted and he climbed to his feet and took her hand. “It has surely been a long time, Matty.”
“A lot longer than it should have been, Sidney.” Still an impressive woman even though her hair was going gray. She sniffed, then crumpled into the canvas chair. “I am sorry, I should not speak like that. Lord knows you have the war to fight and more important things to do than see an old busybody.”
“That’s certainly not you!”
“Well indeed it is. You see, I am so worried about John, chained in that prison in the North, like some kind of trapped animal. We are so desperate. You know the right people, being a general now and all, so you can surely do something to help.”
Johnston did not say so — but he had very little sympathy for the imprisoned John Mason. He was reported to be living in some comfort, with all the best food — and he would surely never run out of cigars.
“I can do nothing until the politicians can come to some agreement. But look at it this way, Matty. There is a war on and we all must serve, one way or the other. Right now, in that Yankee prison, John and Slidell are worth a division or more to the Southern cause. The British are still fuming and fussing about the incident and making all sorts of warlike sounds. So you have to understand that anything that is bad for the North is good for us. The war is not going as well as we might like.”
“You will hear no complaints from me, or anyone else for that matter. You soldiers are fighting, doing the best you can, we know that. At home we all also do what we can to support the war. There is not an iron fence left in our town, all sent away to melt down for armor for the ironclads. If the vittles aren’t as good as we like that is no sacrifice in the light of what the boys in gray are doing. I’m not complaining for myself. I do believe that we are doing our part.”
“You don’t know how delighted I am to hear those words, Matty. I will tell you that it is no secret that the South is surrounded. What I want to do now is break through the Yankee armies that are choking us. I have had the army marching for days to face the enemy. And the attack begins tomorrow. Now that is a secret…”
“I’ll not tell!”
“I know that, or I wouldn’t be talking to you. I do this so that you will see that John, who is in reality quite comfortable where he is, is doing far more for the war where he is than he could in any other place. So please don’t trouble yourself…”
He looked up as his aide opened the tent flap and saluted. “Urgent dispatches, General.”
“Bring them in. You must excuse me, Matty.”
She left in silence, the lift of her chin revealing what she thought of this sudden interruption; planned no doubt. In truth it had not been, but Johnston was still grateful. He took a swig of the coffee and opened the leather case.
He, and every other general of the Confederacy, had been searching for a way to cut the noose that was strangling the South. They looked at the armies that encircled them and sought a way to break out. He had little admiration for Ulysses S. Grant, nevertheless he knew him to be an enemy of purpose and will. His victories at Fort Henry and Fort Donelson threatened continuing disaster. Now he was camped with a mighty army at Pittsburg Landing in Tennessee. Confederate intelligence had discovered that reinforcements were on the way to him. When they arrived Grant would certainly strike south into Mississippi in an effort to cut the South in two. He must be stopped before that happened. And Sidney Johnston was the man to do it.
His attack would be later than planned — but other than that it seemed to be going as well as could be expected. During the winter he had assembled an army even larger than Grant’s, which had been judged by the cavalry scouts to be over 35,000, and he meant to strike first, before Don Carlos Buell’s 30,000 men arrived to reinforce Grant. For three days now his raw recruits had been marching the muddy lanes and back roads of Mississippi, their weary columns converging on Pittsburg Landing. Now it was time for a final meeting with his officers.