Craven, a big brusque Scotsman, spoke with a peculiar combination of brogue and southern drawl. “He’d better make it damned quick.”

“Is Chief Engineer O’Hare ready to get underway?”

“His engines have a full head of steam.”

“And the gun crews?”

“Manning their stations.”

“We’ll stay buttoned up until we meet the Federal fleet. We can’t afford to lode a gun and crew from a lucky shot through a port beforehand.”

“The men won’t take kindly to turning the other cheek.”

“Tell them they’ll live longer-“

Both men swung and stared toward the shore at the sound of approaching hooves. A few seconds later a Confederate officer rode out of the darkness and onto the dock.

“One of you Commander Tombs?” he asked in a tired voice.

“I’m Tombs,” he said, stepping forward.

The rider swung down from his horse and saluted. He was covered with road dust and looked exhausted. “My compliments, sir. Captain Neville Brown, in charge of the escort for your prisoner.”

“Prisoner,” Tombs echoed. “I was told he was a passenger.”

“Treat him as you will,” Brown shrugged indifferently.

“Where is he?” Tombs asked for the second time that night.

“Immediately behind. I rode out in advance of my party to warn you not to be alarmed.”

“Is the man daft?” muttered Craven. “Alarmed at what?”

His question was answered as a closed coach rumbled onto the dock surrounded by a detachment of riders dressed in the blue uniform of Union cavalry.

Tombs was on the verge of shouting for his crew to run out the guns and repel boarders when Captain Brown calmly reassured him. “Rest easy, Commander. They’re good southern boys. Dressing up like Yankees was the only way we could pass safely through Union lines.”

Two of the men dismounted and opened the door of the coach and helped the passenger through the door. A very tall, gaunt man with a familiar beard stepped tiredly to the wooden planking of the dock. He wore manacles that were attached by chains to his wrists and ankles. He studied the ironclad for a moment through solemn eyes, and then turned and nodded at Tombs and Craven.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he spoke in a voice pitched slightly high. “Am I to assume I’m to enjoy the hospitality of the Confederate navy?”

Tombs did not reply, he could not reply. He stood there rooted with Craven in blank disbelief, their expressions matched in total mystification.

“My God,” Craven finally murmured. “If you’re a fake, sir, you’re a good one.”

“No,” the prisoner replied. “I assure you, I am the genuine article.”

“How is this possible?” Tombs asked, completely unprepared.

Brown remounted his horse. “There’s no time for an explanation. I have to lead my men across the river over the Richmond Bridge before it is blown up. He’s your responsibility now.”

“What am I supposed to do with him?” Tombs demanded.

“Keep him confined on board your ship until you receive orders for his release. That’s all I’ve been told to pass on.”