Desperately, Commander Austin drove his crew to up anchor and swing around 180 degrees. It was a futile gesture. The monitor’s top speed was barely above 7 knots. There was no hope of her chasing down and closing on the rebel craft.

Calmly, Tombs called to Lieutenant Craven. “Mr. Craven, we’ll hide no more under an enemy flag. Please hoist the Confederate colors and close the gunports.”

A young midshipman eagerly sprang to the mast and untied the halyards, pulling down the stars and stripes and sending up the diagonal stars and bars on a field of white and red.

Craven joined Tombs atop the casemate. “Now the word is out,” he said, “it’ll be no picnic between here and the sea. We can deal with army shore batteries. None of their field artillery is powerful enough to make more than a dent on our armor.”

Tombs paused to stare apprehensively across the bow at the black river unwinding ahead. “The guns of the Federal fleet waiting for us at the mouth of the river are our greatest danger.”

A barrage burst out from shore almost before he finished speaking.

“And so it begins,” Craven waxed philosophically, as he hurriedly retreated to his station on the gun deck below. Tombs remained exposed behind the pilothouse to direct the movement of his ship against any Federal vessels blocking the river.

Shells from unseen batteries and musket fire from sharpshooters began to splatter the Texas like a hailstorm. While his men cursed and chafed at the bit, Tombs kept the gunports closed. He saw no reason to endanger his crew and waste valuable powder and shot at an unseen enemy.

For two more hours the Texas endured the onslaught. Her engines ran smoothly and pushed her at speeds a knot or two faster than she had been designed. Wooden gunboats appeared, fired off their broadsides, and then attempted to take up the chase as the Texas ignored them like gnats and dashed past as if they were stopped in the water.

Suddenly the familiar outline of the Atlanta materialized, anchored broadside-on across the river. Her starboard guns poured forth as their lookouts recognized the unyielding rebel monster bearing down on them.

“She knew we was coming,” Tombs muttered.

“Should I pass around her, Captain?” asked Chief Pilot Hunt, displaying a remarkable coolness at the helm.

“No, Mr. Hunt,” answered Tombs. “Ram her slightly forward of her stern.”

“Smash her to the side out of our way,” Hunt replied in understanding. “Very well, sir.”

Hunt gave the wheel a quarter turn and aimed the Texas’ bow straight toward the stern of the Atlanta. Two bolts from the ex-Confederate’s 8-inch guns drove into the rapidly approaching casemate, cracking the shield and pushing the wooden backing in almost a foot and wounding three men by the concussion and splinters.

The gap quickly closed and the Texas buried 10 feet of her heavy iron prow into the Atlanta’s hull and then drove up and through her deck, snapping her stern anchor chain and thrusting her around in a 90-degree arc as well as forcing her deck under the river’s surface. Water gushed into the Union ironclad’s gunports and she quickly began to slip out of sight as the Texas literally rode over her.