Peter Tsouras: Britannia's Fist: From Civil War to World War

On South Ager Dock, Ingraham’s telescope had been to his eye for ten minutes. He said to Beauregard, “There’s something wrong, General. Very wrong. I think the ship is in great distress. It entered our minefield and then stopped and has now taken a line from our tug. I fear it has struck one of our mines.”

Beauregard felt his elation wilt under the implications of that statement. He could only watch over the next painful half hour as the great black ship slowly approached the dock, plainly getting lower and lower in the water. Its battle damage was easily apparent even to the crowds on the dock. A pained silence hung over them. As the ship inched closer, someone in authority had the presence of mind to order room for the dockhands to secure the lines that would be thrown down to them. Soldiers pushed through the press to form an honor guard. More came to line up behind Beauregard and Ingraham and to make a way for the dozen black dockhands.

At last she edged up to the dock, a great wounded beast, her naval ensign still whipping in the breeze. Everyone saw the marks of her struggle. Her magnificent figurehead, a neoclassical carving of a savage warrior with busy dark head and beard, was gouged and splintered. The silence of the crowd melted away in a rising mutter. Then the band struck up “God Save the Queen,” the honor guard came to attention and presented arms, and the people started to cheer their long-prayed-for and gallant ally. The lines were thrown from Resistance .

Chamberlain missed the honors. He was below, personally ensuring that no wounded man had been left behind and that the engine spaces and stokehold had been emptied of his crew. The water was coming up around him as he stood on the ladder above the stokehold.

His engineer grabbed him by the collar and heaved him up. “There’s no one else, sir. She’s dying, and you don’t need to die with her.”

Chamberlain gave one last look as the water bubbled and swirled up the ladder around his feet before leaving. They had barely emerged on deck when the ship gave its death cry, a deep groan swallowed by the sucking noise of rushing water. The crowd went deathly silent again at the ship’s death rattle. Then, in the sight of God and Charleston, the Resistance went down.