Текст книги "Stars and Stripes Triumphant"

Автор книги: Harry Harrison

Соавторы: Harry Harrison,Harry Harrison
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

STRIKING A MIGHTY BLOW

As soon as the landings at Penzance were complete, USS Pennsylvania raised steam. When the message reached the ship that General Grant and his forces had left for Plymouth with the trains, she upped anchor and headed out to sea. The two other ironclads that remained anchored offshore would be more than force enough to secure the city should any enemy ships be so unwise as to attack. Captain Sanborn had received specific instructions from General Grant. He was to proceed to the part of the coast he was familiar with from the previous night’s action. Pennsylvania steamed slowly east until they reached St. Austell, where they anchored in the deep water offshore. The previous night’s landings had been good experience for the junior officers. But now Sanborn wanted to see the enemy country for himself.

“I’ll command the landing party,” he told the watch officer. “Bank the boilers and see that the watch below gets some sleep; some of them have been awake for two days now. I want two lookouts at the masthead with glasses. They are to report to you anything larger than a fishing boat. If they do sight any ships, you must then sound three long blasts on the whistle, and get up steam. Understood?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The ship’s four boats were hung on davits outside her armor. If they were destroyed in battle they could easily be replaced; the Pennsylvania could not be. Now they were lowered into the water, then swiftly boarded by the landing party and rowed ashore. The ship’s marines landed first and ran across the beach to the street. Sanborn followed after them with his sailors, at a more leisurely pace, smiling at the shocked expressions of the pedestrians. He followed the train tracks to the tiny station, then returned the salute of the sergeant who came out to meet him.

“Station secured, sir, telegraph wires cut. I’ve got some prisoners locked in there, including two local policemen.”

“Any trouble?”

“Nothing to speak of, sir. General Grant said that I was to expect you.”

It was a long wait, most of the afternoon. Captain Sanborn shared some rations with the soldiers and heard about the capture of Penzance and the victorious train ride through Cornwall. Occupying each station as they came to it, then silencing all the telegraph communication as they went.

Around them the little town was silent, pacified – stunned, in fact – with most people staying off the streets. There was obviously no need for a large occupying force here, so the sailors were ordered back to the ship and only the marines remained. Sanborn was almost dozing off when he heard the sound of a train whistle up the line toward Plymouth. He joined the soldiers on the platform as the engine pulled in, pushing a single car ahead of it. The army officer swung down before they stopped and saluted the ship’s commander.

“You will be Captain Sanborn?”

“I am.”

He took an envelope from his locket and passed it over. “From General Grant, sir.”

“How did it go in Plymouth?”

“I would say perfectly, sir. Before I left it was clear that all of the harbor defenses and docks had been captured. Most of the enemy ships had already being boarded and occupied. There was some resistance – but they couldn’t stand before the Gatlings.”

“It sounds like a job well done.” Then the question that was foremost in his mind: “Did any of the enemy ships get away?”

“At least one, sir. An ironclad. I saw her standing out to sea when I was in the railroad station. Just the one, though.”

“One is enough. My congratulations to the general.” The envelope was unsealed, so it was obviously meant for Sanborn to read. But that could wait until he was back aboard his ship; he had been away long enough now. And General Sherman would be waiting for this report. He knew its importance. The fate of the entire campaign depended on what was in this envelope.

Waiting was the hardest part.

General Sherman sat in his office in Cork, staring unseeingly out of the window. The now-familiar river Lee did not attract his attention. Instead he was looking past it toward England, trying to visualize the evolving situation in that country, fleshing out the bare reports that were spread out on the desk before him. The landings at Liverpool had been a brilliant success. The concentration camp there, and the other one near Birmingham, had been seized. The latest communication from each of them said that counterattacks had been reported. But they had been sporadic and disorganized; the well-armed defenders had successfully held their positions. This could easily change. Once the mighty British war machine began to roll, it would be unstoppable on its own soil. Heavy guns would batter the Irish and American troops; when their ammunition ran out they would be overwhelmed. That had been the risk from the very beginning of the operation. They were expendable and they knew it. But they would die fighting.

But that need not be. The British commanders surely would be rattled by the seizure of their naval base at Plymouth. It had been over twenty-four hours since that attack, and the authorities in London would have heard about it long since. Troops would be on the way there – might easily have arrived by now.

But it had been almost four days since the camps had been attacked and taken. The fighting would be desperate. Would his gamble succeed? Would the attack on Plymouth cause the British forces to be diverted from the two Midland cities? Would the British generals realize that they were wasting time and troops on tactically unimportant targets? Or was the British military mind too thick to reach that conclusion? If it was, why then, only the troops occupying the concentration camps would suffer. This would have no effect on the invasion, which would still go ahead as planned.

The worst part was that Generals Lee and Meagher knew about the dangers – as did their men who had captured the camps. They had still insisted on going. They would all be volunteers for what might be considered a suicide mission if Sherman had any doubts. He had had none. They were very brave men.

That was why it was so hard to wait while his soldiers were fighting and dying. Yet this was the plan they had all agreed upon, the right course to take, and he had to see it through. His adjutant knocked, then opened the door.

“Admiral Farragut and Captain Dodge are here, General.”

“Any more reports from the front?”

“None, sir.”

“All right, show them in.”

Dodge was commander of USS Thunderer, the lead mortar ship. Farragut, as naval commander in chief, had chosen her as his flagship for the beginning of the operation. As usual, this veteran commander would be first into battle. Then, as Sherman started to speak, there was a rapid knocking on the door and the adjutant pushed in, his arms filled with newspapers.

“Captain Schofield in Avenger put a raiding party ashore in Fishguard – and they seized these newspapers that had just arrived there by train from London.”

Sherman took the Times from him and stared at the blaring headline.

INVASION IN THE SOUTH: PLYMOUTH TAKEN

There were other headlines like this. He quickly flipped the pages for word of any troop movements. Yes, plenty, volunteers rushing to the colors, trains diverted for military use, martial law declared. There was silence in the room, broken only by the rustle of newspapers as they all read the first reliable reports of enemy activity. In the end it was Sherman who was the last to drop his newspaper onto his desk.

“We have stirred up a right hornet’s nest,” he said.

“You certainly have,” Farragut said. “It appears that everything is going according to plan.”

“Everything,” Sherman agreed. “I just wish that there was more word about events in Liverpool and Birmingham.”

“Being attacked, vicious fighting, according to this paper,” Dodge said.

“Yes, but nothing about diversion of troops.” Sherman shook his head. “I suppose that is a lot to ask from any public statements made by their government. There is no reason for the military to confide all of the details of their operations to the newspapers. Quite the opposite is probably true. Well then, to matters at hand. In your last report, Admiral, you said that the fleet was ready to put to sea.”

“As indeed it is. The coal bunkers are full, rations and water stored aboard. The troops finished their boarding about two hours ago.”

“Then we sail as planned?”

“We do indeed.”

“You realize that this final attack will take place almost exactly two days after the landings at Penzance?”

The two naval officers nodded, knowing what Sherman was thinking and, like him, not wanting to speak any doubts aloud. The two-day delay had been deliberate. Two days more for the British to understand what was happening in the west – two days for them to take positive action against the invasion in the south. Two days to rally their forces and dispatch them to the invasion sites.

But this was also two days more for General Grant’s men to hold them back.

And four days in all for Generals Lee and Meagher, and their troops, to defend the concentration camps that they had seized. It was all going according to plan. But it was also a plan that might very well send a good number of soldiers to their doom.

“Well then,” Sherman said, drawing himself to his feet. “Let the operation begin.”

As his pinnace brought Captain Dodge back to his ship, he saw another boat pulling away from Thunderer’s side. He clambered up the ladder and through the open hatch to find Gustavus Fox, the Assistant Secretary of the Navy, waiting for him.

“This is a pleasant surprise, Mr. Fox.”

“My pleasure, Captain. I regret the delay, but there were unexpected difficulties in getting your river pilot here before you sailed. He is here now.” He indicated the scowling, gray-bearded man being held by two marines. This was not the time to explain that Lars Nielsen, safely back in his native Jutland and drinking away the money that he had been given, had not been eager to leave Denmark again. A small force had to be quickly organized; a night landing and a sudden scuffle had resolved the situation.

“This a great relief, Mr. Fox. I must say that I was more than a little concerned.”

“We all were, sir. I’m glad that I could be of service.”

They sailed in daylight. Because of the necessity of keeping well away from the English coast, they were taking a more circuitous route well out into the Atlantic. It was a slow convoy, since they could not proceed at a pace faster than that of their slowest vessel. Some of the converted sailing ships were underpowered and sluggish – as were the newly built sea batteries. Certainly their engines were large enough, but the tons of armor plating, as well as the immense mass of the giant mortars, made for a ponderous weight.

It was an incredible sight – hopefully unseen by the enemy – as, one by one, the ships emerged from the mouth of the river Lee to join the warships already situated at their stations. They formed up as they moved, the cargo ships with their human consignment to the center of the convoy. The mortar ships were circled by more mobile vessels as well because, with their armor shields in place, they were unable to fight in the open sea. But their day would soon come.

On guard to the flanks, before and after as well, were the ironclads. Some of them had raced ahead and interposed themselves between the convoy and the invisible British shore. This was a busy part of the Atlantic and there were other ships in the seaway. These were shepherded aside by the guarding ironclads, kept safely over the horizon so none of them ever had a glimpse of the bulk of the convoy.

The ships sailed this way until it was dark, then took nighttime stations so that each ship could follow the shielded lights of the ship in line before them. A rainy dawn found them entering the mouth of the English Channel. France to one side, England to the other, both invisible in the mist. Careful navigation had brought them to the right place at the correct time. Ironclads ranging out on the port flank to observe the English coast and assure the accuracy of their position.

General Sherman, on the bridge of USS Thunderer, saw that the sea batteries were now ranging ponderously ahead of the rest of the convoy as had been planned. Thunderer with her troops and machines would be the first to approach the British shore. The rain was clearing away now and a gray strip of land appeared through the mist off to the left.

England.

If Sherman’s calculations were correct they would now be entering the final and critical phase of his combined attacks. Everything that had been accomplished so far had been leading up to this moment. If the British had been caught off guard, as he hoped, their troops and weapons would have been fully committed to the two earlier attacks.

But if they had seen through his plans, then this last assault Would be in grave danger. Reinforced defenses might stop his advance; a blockade ship sunk in the river channel would render his assault useless. If he were beaten off, why then, Lee and Grant’s soldiers were as good as dead. Without reinforcements and supplies, their positions were doomed. Waiting now for action, he was assailed by doubts; he fought them off. There was no going back.

Was it possible that the British generals had outthought him? Had they somehow divined the true nature of his approaching attack? Did they somehow know where he would strike next?

London.

The heart of the British Empire, the seat of power, the resting place of the crown.

Could the upstart Americans attack and seize this historic city and bring the worldwide empire crashing down?

Yes, Sherman said to himself, walking across the bridge to see the mouth of the Thames opening out before. Yes, he said, jaw set. It can and it will be done.

IN BATTLE DRAWN

It was a misty dawn and little could be seen through the clouded ports of the Trinity House cutter Patricia, now established off Dungeness. Caleb Polwheal had gotten out of bed in the dark, gone into the galley, and made a pot of tea by lamplight. He was master of the first shift, those pilots who would be standing ready at first light to take any waiting ships up the Thames. Taking his cup of tea, Caleb pushed open the door and went out on deck. Out to sea, just visible in the growing light, were the dark shapes of ships, just emerging from a rain squall that had swept by. More and more of them; this was going to be a busy day.

There were warships there as well, a fact made obvious by their menacing guns. Caleb hadn’t been informed of any fleet movements, but that wasn’t unusual. The navy liked to keep their secrets. The rain was stopping, the skies clearing; he went back into the ship and tapped the barometer on the wall. The glass was rising as well; it promised to be a fine day. When he came back on deck again, the approaching ships were closer, clearer; he was unaware that the cup had dropped from his limp fingers and had broken on the planking.

What ships were those to the fore? High-sided and bulky with black armor. They had an armored bridge right up in the bow; two side-by-side funnels in the stern. He knew the lines of every British ship – and these were not like anything ever seen in the navy. And the ironclads in line behind them, with two two-gun turrets – these were unfamiliar as well. There was nothing imaginably like these in the British navy. If not British, was it possible then that these ships were…

An invasion!

Pushing through the door, he stumbled into the bunkroom, shouting the startled pilots awake.

“Get up, get up! Man the pilot boat. We must get to the telegraph station on shore. Contact Trinity House in London immediately. They must know what is happening out here.”

When the news of the invasion fleet reached Trinity House, it was quickly passed on to Whitehall and the War Department. Less than an hour after the ships had been sighted, the message dropped onto the desk of Brigadier Somerville. He had been at his post all night, working to coordinate the movement of the regiments and divisions that were being rushed into battle at Plymouth. After he spent some hours reading all the reports from the fighting fronts, it had been obvious, at least to him, that the attacks on the Midlands’ concentration camps had been a feint. The enemy there had no escape, so they could be ignored. Eventually they would be captured and reduced – but not now. The real threat was in the south. Trains already going north had to be stopped, diverted, given new destinations. He had been at his post for two days and was wretched from lack of sleep. The Duke of Cambridge had been there almost as long. But he had gone for some rest before midnight and had never returned. Which was fine for Somerville. He no longer had to explain every action to his commander in chief, who at times had difficulty following the brigadier’s quick and complex thinking. He seized the sheet of telegraph paper from the messenger, read it in a glance.

Fleet of warships entering the Thames estuary!

Realization struck. Of course – that had been their plan all the time. The other attacks were only diversions… He was scrawling out a message even as his thoughts raced, his pen nib sputtering and spraying ink in his haste. He pushed it to one side, mastered himself, and wrote another message. He thrust both of them, the ink still wet, at the messenger who answered his call.

“Take these at once to the telegraph room. This one goes to the commander of the Southampton Naval Station. This other one must go out at once to the commander of Tilbury Fort.”

“What fort is that, sir?”

“The telegraph men will know, you idiot. Give that back – I’ll write it here. Now run!”

Before the man was out of the room, Somerville had forgotten him and was engaged in drafting messages to the armed forces now spread across the length and breadth of England. Changing all their orders. God – how he had been fooled! Then he stopped and drew himself up and took a deep breath. It was thought not action that was needed now.

He wiped the nib of his pen dry and took out his penknife. He preferred old-fashioned quill pens to the new steel ones. He carefully cut a new point on the quill while he ordered his thoughts. The attack up the Thames was surely aimed at London. He realized that his first priority was to look to the defenses of the capital. The household regiments had to be alerted. The Seventh Company of the Coldstream Guards was in its Chelsea barracks – they would be the first soldiers sent to the defense of Buckingham Palace. There were troops in Woolwich Arsenal; they must be sent for at once. Special trains had to be dispatched to Wiltshire for the troops encamped on Salisbury Plain there. The Prime Minister had to be awakened and informed. Thank goodness that it would be the PM’s task to inform Buckingham Palace – not his.

He drew over a fresh sheet of paper and began, clearly and slowly, to write out his commands. Only after they were dispatched would he have the Duke of Cambridge awakened. Time enough after the proper orders had been issued to suffer his choleric wrath.

Admiral Spencer knew exactly what must be done as soon as he read the telegram. Enemy fleet including warships now entering the Thames. They were there with only one possible target in mind. London. A strike at the heart of the empire would have a terrible effect if it were successful. It was obvious now that the various other landings and acts of harassment around the country had just been diversions. Ever since the attack on Plymouth every ship under his command had been manned and on the alert.

Now, at last, he knew where they must go. The enemy could get no farther upriver than London Bridge. Undoubtedly their troops would be disembarking there. The household regiments would see to them all right! There would be warships protecting them, he was certain of that. They would have to face the guns of his own ironclads. The enemy was stuck in a bottleneck – and he was going to drive in the cork. There would be no way out for them: they faced only destruction.

General Bagnell ordered the sergeant who had brought the telegram to throw open the curtains, then squinted at the sheet of paper in the morning light. He was still half-asleep and it took him some moments to understand the purport of the message.

An attack.

Even as reality struck home he heard, through the open window, the bugler sounding assembly. The officer of the day would have read the message and have had the intelligence to sound the alarm. The general’s servant, who had let the messenger in, was already bringing his uniform. The many parts that formed the military machine were moving into place. Whenever the attack came – they would be ready. He pulled on his trousers and was stepping into his boots when he thought of the late Lord Palmerston. It was through his intervention and enterprise that Tilbury Fort had been rearmed and expanded. As had the many other fortresses that defended England. It was that great man’s foresight that might save England yet again.

It was a clear, fine day. General Bagnell stood beneath the flag, on the topmost battlement of the Water Gate, looking downriver at the placid Thames. The curtain walls of Tilbury Fort, to the east and west bastions, were built on arched counter forts, solidly constructed of Portland stone. The stout walls and parapets beyond were made of brick and had been reinforced with dirt ramparts strong enough to resist an enemy siege barrage, while the large guns concealed in the forts returned their fire. And there were the other defenses; the gun lines outside the walls, safe behind their own parapets, stretching out to east and west of the Water Gate. Six-inch and twelve-pounder guns. All manned, all ready.

There was the sound of heavy guns firing downriver. It must have been the batteries at Coalhouse Fort. The thunder became intense – then died away. A few minutes later the enemy came into view. Coming around the bend in the Thames between East Tilbury and Cliffe. Strange-shaped armorclads like black beetles that crawled on the surface of the water. They had high, sloped sides with armor plate covering above that. But no gun ports that Bagnell could see.

“Prepare to open fire as soon as they are in range,” he ordered his aide, who passed the message on to the waiting gunners.

The four ships were closer now – but separating. One of them was moving away from the others, toward the gun positions at Gravesend, on the other side of the river. Good, the gunners there would make short work of her – while he could concentrate his fire on the remaining three.

The gunnery officer shouted “fire” and the Tilbury Fort guns roared out. The peaceful surface of the Thames turned suddenly into a maelstrom of waterspouts as near misses crashed into the river. And there were hits – many of them. Solid shot that hammered into the enemy’s iron armor.

And bounced away. Bagnell saw the blur of the ricocheting balls as they hummed into the air.

From this distance the ironclads seemed to be unharmed. And something strange was happening to them as they anchored, their chains running out fore and aft. They were facing broadside to the fort with their upper armor moving, apparently rising. No, not rising, opening up as the metal plates that covered the vessels were swung wide.

His cannon were firing again, but the raised plates deflected the cannonballs as well as did the armor. Then the first ship seemed to shiver and sink deeper into the water, throwing whitecapped waves out in all directions. A dark cloud of smoke welled up and he had a brief glimpse of a large projectile rising high into the air. Drawing a dark line in the sky that ended on the bastion beside the Water Gate. There was an immense explosion, and when the smoke cleared away, to his horror, the general saw that three guns had been dismounted and destroyed, the guncrews obliterated in that terrible explosion. A single shell had wrought this carnage.

And more of the large shells were falling, until there was an almost continuous roar of detonating high explosives. Unlike normal cannon that fired shells directly at a target, these mortars arched a giant missile high into the air, to plunge down almost vertically onto the target below. Battlements and walls that faced the enemy were no defense against this kind of attack.

But General Bagnell was not aware of this debacle. He, and all of his officers, had been blown to pieces by the third shell that had landed on the fort. He did not live to see either the destruction of his fort or the obliteration of the gun emplacements across the river by the fourth mortar ship. In thirty intense, destructive minutes, all of the defenses of the river at Tilbury had been destroyed. Even as the firing ceased, the first of the long line of ships nosed into sight around the bend in the river and moved, unharmed, toward London.

USS Atlas had been idling her engines to keep position in the river against the tidal current. When the mortar ships had ceased firing, her captain saw that the boat that had been shielded by the bulk of the Thunderer was now pulling away from her flank. Good. Admiral Farragut was transferring his flag to the Mississippi – and taking the Thames pilot with him. Everything was going as planned. As soon as the boat reached the ironclad, Captain Curtin ordered the engines slow ahead. Three blasts on her steam whistle signaled the rest of the waiting ships to follow her upstream. As they got under way, USS Mississippi surged forward, passing the slower cargo ship and taking her position in the lead. After the successful landings at Penzance, she had proceeded to the mouth of the Thames to join the attacking squadron. Now she raced ahead, guns loaded and ready, to seek out any other river defenses.

Beside Curtin on Atlas’s bridge, General Sherman looked at the smoking ruins of Tilbury Fort as they moved slowly by. “Utterly destroyed in less than half an hour,” he said. “I have never seen anything like it.”

Curtin nodded understandingly. “That is because you are a soldier and see war as something to be fought on land. But you must remember the success of General Grant’s mortar ships in the Mississippi at Vicksburg. No railway gun can match one of these sea-battery mortars for size – and no team of horses could ever move one. But put them into an iron ship and you can cross oceans with them. Just as they have done. But it took the genius of a nautical engineer to design and manufacture them as well.”

“I agree completely. Mr. Ericsson is an asset to our country – and most certainly will lead us to success in this war. Are you pleased with the ship you command, Captain? This is also his design.”

“Not pleased – ecstatic, if you will permit me to use a word with many connotations. I believe that Atlas is the most powerful ship that I have ever commanded. With twin engines and twin screws, she is in a class by herself. And like her namesake, she cannot quite carry the world on her shoulders – but she comes mighty close to it.”

The Thames curved in great loops as they made their way upriver. As they came into the Dartford reach, there was the flash of guns from the Mississippi ahead of them.

“That will be the arsenal at Woolwich,” Sherman said. “They have some batteries facing the river there, but nothing much to speak of. Tilbury Fort is the major defense of the Thames, and no hostile fleet was ever expected to get by her armaments or reduce her by siege.”

“Perhaps that was true of yesterday’s wars,” Curtin said. “But not today’s.”

Mississippi was already at the next bend in the river when they passed Woolwich. A few battered and burning gun emplacements on the shore were all that remained of her defenses.

The Thames here made a great swing around the Isle of Dogs, and when the river straightened again all of the commercial heart of London opened out before them. There were ships tied up at the docks on both shores, merchantmen from every corner of the empire. Fresh fruit was being unloaded at Limehouse – whence it got its name. Behind Atlas the line of black ships followed steadily – an invasion force that was piercing straight into the heart of London.

More firing sounded ahead as the American ironclad began trading fire with the batteries of the Tower of London. But here, as in Woolwich, the defenses were not substantial at all. One of the towers of the famous castle crumbled under the ship’s fire.

One by one Mississippi’s guns grew silent, their work done, as the shore defenses were battered into destruction. Her funnels were riddled with holes, her boats shot away, but other than that, the ironclad appeared unharmed. Smoke rolled up from her funnels as she gained way, moving ponderously toward the riverbank, letting Atlas proceed up the main channel.

The river was clear ahead. Sherman recognized it from the many photographs and maps that he had pored over. On the right was the road along the Embankment, with fine buildings behind it. Beyond the buildings were the Gothic towers of the Houses of Parliament, the main tower with its immense clock face visible far downriver. The hands pointed to noon. Sherman stepped out onto the wing and could hear the deep tolling of Big Ben sounding the hour. It was the beginning of the afternoon of the British Empire.

Atlas’s engines were silent as she drifted toward the Embankment, slower and slower. There were hansom cabs and drays on the road there, private carriages and pedestrians. They were fleeing now as the hulking black ship grated against the granite river wall.

Even before she touched, sailors had leaped over the lessening gap, seized the cables passed down to them, and made them fast to the stone bollards of the waterfront. The sudden rattle of rifle fire sounded; two of the sailors twisted and dropped. Bullets clanged against the metal of the bridge, shooting out one of the windows. A line of red-coated soldiers had advanced from Parliament Square. The front rank stopped to fire – just as the bow battery of Atlas fired a canister shell. Holes opened suddenly in the advancing ranks of redcoats. Then a dark shadow passed over Atlas as Mississippi slid by, her guns opening fire as soon as they could bear.