“Steer between the bow of the ironclad and Fort Wool,” he instructed Hunt.
“As you wish, sir,” Hunt acknowledged.
Tombs turned as the prisoner slowly climbed the ladder to the roof of the mangled casemate, followed by Craven who held a white tablecloth from the officer’s wardroom on a broomstick.
The man seemed old beyond his years. His face was drawn and hollowed under a gaunt pallor. He was a man who was used up and exhausted by years of stress. His deep-sunken eyes reflected a compassionate concern as they surveyed the bloodied uniform of Tombs.
“You have been badly wounded, Commander. You should seek medical care below”
Tombs shook his head. “No time for that. Please move to the roof of the pilothouse and stand where you can be seen.”
The prisoner nodded in understanding. “Yes, I see your plan.”
Tombs shifted his gaze back to the ironclad and the forts as a brief spurt of flame, followed by a plume of black smoke and the scream of a projectile, burst from the ramparts of Fortress Monroe. A great spout of water rose and hung white and green for an instant before falling back.
Tombs rudely put his shoulder to the tall man and shoved him onto the top of the pilothouse. “Please hurry, we’ve come within their range.” Then he snatched the white flag from Craven and waved it frantically with his good arm.
On board the New Ironsides, Captain Joshua Watkins stared steadily through his long glass. “They’ve broken out the white flag,” he said in surprise.
His first officer, Commander John Crosby, nodded in agreement as he peered through a pair of brass binoculars. “Damned odd for them to surrender after the lashing they gave the fleet.”
Suddenly, Watkins pulled the glass from his eye in growing disbelief, checked the lens for smudges, and not finding any, retrained it on the battle-scarred rebel ironclad. “But who on earth-” The captain paused to refocus his glass. “Good God,” he muttered in wonder. “Who do you make out atop their pilothouse?”
It took much to disturb Crosby’s steel composure, but his face went totally blank. “It looks like… but that’s impossible.”
The guns of Fort Wool opened up and waterspouts gushed in a curtain around the Texas almost obliterating her from sight. Then she burst through the spray with magnificent perseverance and surged on.
Watkins gazed, fascinated, at the tall, lean man standing on the pilothouse. Then his gaze turned to numbed horror. “Lord, it is him!” He dropped his glass and swung to face Crosby. “Signal the forts to cease their fire. Hurry, man!”
The guns of Fortress Monroe followed those of Fort Wool, pouring their shot at the Texas. Most went high, but two exploded against the ironclad’s smokestack, gouging huge holes in the circular walls. The army artillerymen desperately reloaded, each hoping their gun would deliver a knockout blow.
The Texas was only 200 yards away when the commanders of the forts acknowledged Watkins’ signal and their guns went silent one by one. Watkins and Crosby ran to the bow of the New Ironsides just in time to get a distinct look at the two men in bloodied Confederate navy uniforms and the bearded man in rumpled civilian clothes who cast a steady gaze at them and then threw a tired and solemn salute.