Текст книги "Stars and Stripes Triumphant"

Автор книги: Harry Harrison

Соавторы: Harry Harrison,Harry Harrison
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Captain Curtin was out on the wing of the bridge, ignoring the fire from the shore, issuing commands. The moment his ship was securely moored, he ordered the upper ramp to be extended. The outer door swung slowly aside and there was a mighty clanking as the steam pistons pushed the tons of metal out and down. The information that had been passed on by the Russian agents proved to be correct. At this time of day, on this date, at this particular place, where the tidal river rose and fell by a dozen feet, the ramp was exactly two feet above the granite of the river wall. It clanked down into place; metal screeched as the relentless pistons pushed the ramp forward into position.

Inside Atlas, on the upper deck, the Gatling carriers were lined up in even rows that stretched from bow to stern. As soon as the great ship had entered the Thames, the tank crews began removing the shackles and turnbuckles that had secured them in place during the sea crossing. Kerosene lamps on the bulkheads provided barely enough light to accomplish this task.

Sergeant Corbett, driver of the lead machine, cursed as he barked his knuckles on the last recalcitrant shackle, pulled it free of the eye inset in the deck, and hurled it aside. As he did this, green electric lights in the ceiling came on, controlled from the ship’s bridge.

“Start your engines!” he bellowed. Drivers and gunners, down the length of the columns, jumped to the task. Private Hoobler, Corbett’s gunner, ran to the front of their machine and seized the starting handle. “Battery switch off!” he called out.

“Switched off!” Corbett shouted back.

Hoobler braced himself and turned the handle the required four times, grunting with the effort of pumping oil into the engine’s bearings and fuel into its cylinders; gunners were selected for their strength of arm as well as their accuracy of fire.

“Battery switch on,” he gasped.

“On!” the sergeant shouted back and thrust closed the small bayonet switch on the control panel. He had to raise his voice above the din of the many barking, hammering Carnot-cycle engines that were bursting into life. Hoobler gave a mighty swing of the handle, but instead of starting, the engine backfired. He cried out in pain as the starting handle kicked back in reverse and broke his arm.

At this same moment the bow door opened and the blaze of sunlight revealed him sitting on the deck nursing his wounded arm. Cursing even more vociferously, Sergeant Corbett jumped down and bent over the wounded man; the crooked angle of his lower arm was vivid evidence of what had happened.

The tank deck was now an inferno of hammering exhausts and clouds of reeking fumes. As the landing ramp went down, soldiers rushed forward from the machines to the rear, shouldered the sergeant and his wounded gunner aside, pushed their stalled vehicle aside as well. A moment later the second Gatling carrier rumbled past them and forward onto the ramp, leading the others into battle. Its spiked wheels dug into the wooden planks of the ramp as it gathered speed. Coughing in the reeking fumes, Corbett tore Hoobler’s jacket open and thrust the man’s broken arm into it for support; the soldier gagged with pain. Behind them the carriers rumbled forward to the attack while Corbett pulled open the access door to the deck and half dragged, half carried, the wounded soldier out into the sunshine. Once he had settled the man against a bulkhead, he turned and shouted.

“I need a gunner!”

His words were drowned out by the roar of a cannon firing close by. He ran toward it, dodged the discarded shell casing that rolled toward him. Called out again just as the gun’s breech was slammed shut and the gun bellowed again. One of the two ammunition carriers shouted back.

“I shot one of them Gatlings in training!”

The gun captain seized the firing lanyard. “I can spare one man!” he called back, then fired the cannon again. Sergeant Corbett headed back on the run, with the gunner right behind him. “Get aboard,” he ordered. Checked the bayonet switch and, with a single mighty heave, turned over the engine. It started at once, roared and rattled as he jumped into his seat. He looked over his shoulder at the line of vehicles rumbling by. The top deck was now clear of vehicles. Before the carriers from the lower deck could come off the ramp from below, Corbett sped up the engine, eased power to the wheels, and jerked forward. Into the daylight and down the landing ramp he drove into combat.

The bark of his engine joined the roar of the others, echoed out from the interior of the cavernous ship. A steady stream of tanks, the Gatling carriers, rolled out and down onto the riverbank. Followed by more – and yet still more machines. While fore and aft the companionways had been dropped and a tide of blue uniforms flowed down from the ship and onto the English soil.

“Fire!” Corbett shouted as they clattered off the ramp onto the cobbles. His new gunner bent to his sights and cranked the handle of his gun. Bullets streamed out as he swept the gun along the line of red-uniformed soldiers.

The defending troops were mowed down like a field of grain by the rapid-firing Gatling guns. Some of the defenders fired back, but their bullets merely clanged off the armored front shields of the carriers.

On the bridge of the Atlas, high above, General Sherman looked down at the surging battle. The enemy line appeared to be broken, the defenders dead or fleeing the blue-clad troops now moving past the slower gun carriers.

“Cavalry!” someone shouted, and Sherman looked up to see the mounted soldiers pouring out of the streets that led to Whitehall and Horse Guards Parade. Brigadier Somerville had done an exemplary job in alerting the defenses. The American soldiers turned to face this new threat on their flank – but the Gatling carriers surged past them. Their exhausts roaring loudly, pumping out clouds of acrid smoke, they surged forward toward the cavalry. Now, with swords raised, helmets and cuirasses gleaming, the horsemen charged at the gallop.

And were destroyed. Just as the Light Brigade had been when they had charged the Russian lines in the Crimea. But here were rapid-firing guns, more deadly at close range than any cannon could ever be. Men and horses screamed and died, wiped out, sprawling unmoving across the road that now ran red with blood.

None survived. General Sherman went down from the ship’s bridge to join his staff waiting for him on the shore.

HMS Viperous, the pride of the British navy, led the attack. After taking aboard the pilot off Dungeness, she proceeded at a stately five knots into the main channel of the Thames. The other ironclads, in line behind her, followed in her course. Her guns were loaded and ready; she was prepared to take on any Yankee ironclad and give as good as she received. From his station on the bridge wing, the captain was the first to see the waiting enemy as they rounded the last bend in the river before Tilbury Fort.

There were the American war craft, four hulking black ships drawn up in line across the river.

“Fire when your guns bear,” he ordered, looking at the enemy through his glasses. He had never seen ships like this before. Armor was all that he could see – with no sign of gun ports at all. There was a mighty roar as the forward gun turret fired; the ship’s fabric shook beneath his feet.

Good shooting. He could see the shells explode against the armor of the ship in the center of the line. The smoke cleared, he could see no signs of damage – then a cloud of smoke blossomed up from behind the enemy’s armor. He had a quick glimpse of an immense shell climbing in a high arc, seemingly suspended in space before it dropped. An enormous fountain of water sprang up beside the port bow, drenching the foredeck.

Even before the first shell struck, a second was on its way. This struck the Viperous amidships, and the tremendous explosion almost blew the mighty ship in two.

Anchored and ready, the mortar batteries were as deadly against the slow-moving enemy as they had been against the fortress on land. Within a minute the mortally wounded iron ship had settled to the riverbed, with shells sending up massive waterspouts around the rest of the attacking fleet as they withdrew out of range.

Sherman’s rear defenses were secured. He need fear no attacks from the river as long as the floating batteries were in place.

BUCKINGHAM PALACE ATTACKED

More and still more of the Gatling-gun carriers emerged from Atlas and rumbled down the ramp. These had been stowed deep in the ship’s hold and had climbed to the disembarking level using a series of interior ramps between decks.

Nor was Atlas now the only ship tied up at the embankment. While the ironclads stayed on station in midriver, the transports at the river wall had sent their soldiers charging ashore. Regiments of riflemen were forming up even as the first cannon were being lowered to the Embankment. The horse handlers led their mounts, trotting up to Sherman’s staff; he felt better after swinging up into the saddle.

“We’ve pushed units up these streets toward Whitehall,” an aide said, pointing out the positions on his map. “Our men will be taking defensive positions in the buildings on both sides. There’ll be no more surprise attacks by cavalry from that direction.”

Sherman nodded approval, touched the map. “These troops in Parliament Square must be neutralized. Then the Gatlings can take out these defensive positions in the buildings there.”

“We’re taking fire from Westminster Abbey,” an officer reported.

“Return it,” Sherman said coldly. “If that is their choice, I say that our men’s lives come before an ancient monument. I want all the defensive positions reduced before we advance to the Mall. It will be a two-pronged attack, there and down this road. Is it really called Birdcage Walk?”

“It is, sir.”

“All right. The staff will join the column there – let the attacking units know. Report to me when you are ready.”

The sound of cannon, the tearing violence of gunfire, could easily be heard at Buckingham Palace. From the other side of St. James’s Park, above the trees, clouds of smoke roiled skyward. Queen Victoria stood white-faced on the balcony, shaking her head in disbelief. This was not happening, could not be happening. Below her there was the clatter of hooves and the scrape of wheels on the cobbles of the courtyard. She was aware of her ladies-in-waiting calling to her, pleading, but she did not move. Even when one of them was bold enough to touch her sleeve.

A man’s voice sounded from the door behind her, silencing the shrill voices.

“Come now, Your Majesty. The carriages are here.”

The Duke of Cambridge had an urgency in his voice. Victoria’s first cousin, he was familiar enough to take her by the arm. “The children have gone ahead. We must go after them.”

The children! Mention of them cleared her head and filled her with a certain urgency. She turned from the window and let the Duke lead her from the room. He went on ahead, leaving her ladies to see to her.

He had a lot to do and not much time to do it in. When his servant had shaken him awake that morning, his head was still fogged with fatigue and he could make little of what was happening at first. Warships? The Thames? When he had hurried to his office, Brigadier Somerville made it all too clear.

“The attacks in the Midlands – even capturing Plymouth – that was all a ruse. And it succeeded. They are striking up the Thames, and London is their target.”

“Tilbury. The fort there will stop them.”

“I sincerely hope so, but we cannot rely on hope. So far everything about this invasion has gone exactly as they have planned. I fear they must have some strategy how they will attack the fort. London must be defended, and I have made every effort to see that is done. The household troops have been alerted and I have sent for reinforcements. Now we must see about saving the government – and the Queen. You must convince her that for her own safety, she must leave.”

“Leave? Go where?”

The Duke was being even thicker than usual this morning; Somerville fought to keep the anger from his voice. “Windsor Castle for now. The Prime Minister and his cabinet can join her there. Immediate danger will be averted and further plans can be made once she is safe. She will listen to you. You must convince her that this is the proper course of action. The forces attacking us are overwhelming. If she is seized in Buckingham Palace, why then, this war is over before it has even properly begun.”

“Yes, of course.” The Duke rubbed his jaw, his fingers scraping over the unshaven bristles. “But the defense of the city?”

“Everything has been done that can be done here. Only the Queen’s safety remains in doubt.”

“Yes,” the Duke said, climbing slowly to his feet. “Call my carriage. I will take the matter in hand.”

The hours had passed like minutes in Buckingham Palace. The Duke had had the household cavalry turned out, mounted and ready. The stables behind the palace were stirred to life. Now it was time to leave. The sound of gunfire was louder, closer. Yes, now, the last carriage door slammed shut. With a crack of whips and clatter of hooves they swung out of the forecourt, through the palace gateway, and into Buckingham Gate. Riding west toward safety.

The resistance by the British forces around Parliament Square was dying down. Flesh and blood could not stand against the mechanized attack, the Gatling guns and the decimating volleys of the rapid-firing rifles of the American troops. General Sherman noted the reports as they came in; issued clipped orders. These veterans knew what to do. Within an hour the enemy had been pushed back into St. James’s Park and the final assault was ready to begin. Sherman wrote a last order and passed it to the waiting rider.

“For Colonel Foster at Admiralty Arch. He is to advance when he sees us move out.”

During the brief wait ammunition had been rushed to the Gatling carriers. Horses also pulled forward a wagon laden with barrels of liquid fuel to fill their emptying tanks. Sherman read the last of the reports and nodded.

“Sound the attack,” he said.

As the bugle notes echoed from the buildings, they were drowned out as the engines of the Gatling carriers roared into life. Clouds of blue smoke rolled across the square from their blatting exhausts as the advance began.

It was attrition and death for the defenders. Armored in the fore, spitting leaden death, the carriers rolled up to the hastily constructed barricades and slaughtered the troops that were concealed there, firing until the ineffective defending fire died away. Willing hands tore gaps in the barricades and the carriers rolled through the defensive lines. There was another cavalry charge down Birdcage Walk by the defenders as Buckingham Palace came into view; it was no more successful than the first and only a handful of survivors stumbled in retreat.

The Gatling carriers rumbled ahead of the troops, pausing only when they reached the palace. A household guard regiment there put up a heroic defense, but their thin steel cuirasses could not stop the American bullets. Through the gates the attackers surged, held up for a moment by defenders within the palace itself. But the withering Gatling fire crashed through the windows on the ground floor, sending a spray of death crawling up to the defenders firing from the floors above. With a roaring cheer the soldiers surged forward into the palace itself.

When General Sherman and his staff rode into the palace yard a few minutes later, the battle had come to a bloody end. Corpses sprawled across the cobbles. Here and there were a few wounded survivors now being tended by medical corpsmen. Two American soldiers, with slung rifles, emerged from the entrance holding between them an elegantly dressed man bearing a white cloth.

“Came walking right up to us, General, just a-waving this tablecloth,” the corporal said. “Let on how he wanted to speak with whoever is in charge.”

“Who are you?” Sherman asked coldly.

“Equerry to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.”

“That is fine. Take me to her.”

The man drew himself up, trying to control his quaking limbs as he faced the armed enemy.

“That will not possible. She is not here. Please call off this attack and the senseless killing.”

“Where is she?”

The man stiffened, his mouth clamped shut. Sherman started to query him, changed his mind. He turned to his staff.

“We will assume for the moment that he is telling the truth. Search the palace, speak to the servants, find out where the Queen has gone. Meanwhile I will make my headquarters here.”

“Look, General, up there,” an officer called out, and pointed toward the roof of Buckingham Palace. Everyone who heard him turned to look.

An American soldier had appeared on the roof and was lowering the flag that flew there. It fluttered down the face of the building and lay crumpled on the stones. Now the Stars and Stripes was going up in its place. A great cheering broke out from the watching soldiers; even Sherman nodded and smiled.

“This is a great moment, a great day, sir,” his chief of staff said.

“It is indeed, Andy, it surely is.”

A DARING ESCAPE

From his window, facing out onto Whitehall, Brigadier Somerville had an uninterrupted view of the battle for London. Once he had informed the household cavalry and the foot guards, all of the troops defending the city, of the approaching menace, the defense of the city was out of his hands. There was the continuing sound of gunfire from the direction of the Embankment; cannon sounded in Parliament Square. He watched as proud cavalrymen trotted by, helmets and cuirasses gleaming. This was the second time he had seen the cavalry attack the enemy; none had returned from the first wave.

Now Somerville saw the shattered remnants of the last charge returning from battle. It was terrible, but he could not look away. If the finest soldiers in the land could not stand against the enemy – was there any hope for them at all? He saw bloody disaster, death, and destruction. This was the end. A knocking at his door stirred him from his dark reverie. He turned to see Sergeant Major Brown enter and snap to attention and salute.

“What is it, Sergeant Major?” He heard his voice as from a great distance, his mind still dazed by the horrors he had just witnessed.

“Permission to join the defenses, sir.”

“No. I need you with me.” Somerville spoke the words automatically – but there was a reason. With an effort he drew his thoughts together as an element of a plan began to form. His work in London was done. But, yes, he could still be of value to this war, to the defense of his country. The rough idea of what he must do was there, still not fleshed out, but it held out hope. He knew what he must do for a start. Escape. He realized that the sergeant major was still at attention, waiting for him to finish what he had started to say.

“Stand at ease. You and I are going to get out of this city and join up with Her Majesty’s forces where we can do the most good.” He looked at the man’s scarlet jacket with its rows of medals. He couldn’t leave the safety of the building looking like this. “Do you keep any other clothes here?”

The soldier was startled by the question, but nodded in reply. “Some mufti, sir. I use it when I’m not on duty.”

“Then put it on and come back here.” The brigadier glanced down at his own uniform. “I’ll need clothes as well.” He took some pound notes from his pocket and passed them over. “I’ll need trousers, a jacket, coat. Find something my size among the clerks. See that they are paid for the clothes. Then bring them back with you.”

Sergeant Major Brown saluted and did a smart about-face. Somerville automatically returned the salute – then called out to Brown. “That’s the last salute for the time being. We are going to be civilians, members of the public. Don’t forget that.”

When he had given Brown the money, he realized he had very little more remaining in his wallet. He was going to need funds to fashion their escape from the city, perhaps a good deal of them. That was easily rectified. He went down the corridor and up a flight of stairs to the paymaster general’s office.

The halls and offices were deserted; everyone was either watching from the front windows or had fled to safety. He righted an overturned chair and went across the room to the large safe. The key was on the ring in his pocket; he unlocked it and opened the door. Gold guineas would be best, coin of the realm, and welcome anywhere. He took out a heavy bag that thunked when he dropped it on the desk. He needed something to carry it in. He opened a closet and found a carpetbag behind the umbrellas there. Perfect. He dropped two bags of coins into it, started to close it. Opened it again and took out a handful of coins from one of the bags and put them into his pocket.

He was back in his office before Brown returned, dressed for the street and bearing an armful of clothing. “Not of the best quality, sir, but was all I could find in this size.”

“That will do fine, Sergeant… Brown. You’ll carry this bag. Careful, it has gold coin.”

“Yes, sir…” He stopped as the rapid firing of a gun sounded through the open window. It was followed by a roaring, racketing sound, something he had never heard before. Somerville and Brown crossed the room to look carefully down into the street. They gaped in silence at the strange contrivances passing by below.

They had wheels – but were not drawn by horses. They were propelled in some internal manner, for clouds of fumes poured behind them, the source of the strange hammering noise. A blue-clad soldier rode in the rear of each contrivance, somehow directing it.

At the front, crouching behind armor plate, was a gunner. The nearest one turned the handle of his rapid-firing weapon and a stream of bullets poured out.

A bullet crashed through the glass just above their heads and they drew back from a last vision of the attacking troops following the Gatling guns.

“They are going in the direction of the Mall,” Brown said grimly. “They’ll be attacking the palace.”

“Undoubtedly. We must wait until the stragglers have passed – then follow them. We are going to the Strand.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

“Then we must find a cab. There should still be some in the streets.”

They stood in the doorway until the last soldiers had gone by. There were uniformed corpses in the streets now; a cavalryman lay nearby, dead beside his mount, sprawled in the animal’s entrails. Like Somerville and Brown, a few other figures scuttled along the pavements to safety. They walked quickly, taking shelter in another doorway when an American cavalryman galloped past. After that it was a hurried dash to the Strand and down it past Charing Cross station. They could see people huddled inside the station, but they did not stop. All of the cabs were gone from the forecourt. They had to walk as far as the Savoy Hotel before they found a cab waiting outside the entrance there. The frightened cabbie stood, holding his horse, his face white with fear.

“I need your cab,” Somerville said. The man shook his head numbly, beyond speech. Brown stepped forward, raising a large fist; Somerville put out a restraining hand. “We are going to the docks—” He thought quickly. “Go through the City, away from the river, until you are well past the Tower. You’ll be safe in the East End.” He dug one of the guineas from his pocket and passed it over.

The sight of the coin did more than words ever could to move the cabby to action. He took it, turned and opened the door for them. “The East End, sir. I’ll go through Aldgate, then to Shadwell to Wapping. Maybe to Shadwell Basin.”

“Whatever you say. Now go.”

The sound of gunfire grew more distant as they went up Kingsway. There were more people here, hurrying through the streets, as well as a few other cabs. The City of London seemed undisturbed, although there were armed guards outside the Bank of England. They reached Shadwell Basin without any incidents and Brigadier Somerville saw, tied up in the basin there, just what he was looking for.

A Thames lighter, brown sail hanging limp, was on the far side of the basin. He called up through the hatch to the cabbie. There were three men sitting on the deck of the sturdy little ship when they alighted beside it. The oldest, with a grizzled beard, stood up when they approached.

“I need to hire your boat,” Somerville said without any preamble. The man laughed and pointed with his pipe at the direction of the river. Above the rooftops of the terraced houses the dark bulk of a large ironclad could be seen moving by.

“Guns and shooting. You ain’t seeing old Thomas on the river this day.”

“They won’t shoot at a boat like this,” Somerville said.

“Begging your pardon, your honor, but I ain’t taking any man’s word for that.”

The brigadier dug into his pockets and drew out some gold coins. “Five guineas to take us downriver. Five more when we get there.”

Thomas looked wary. He couldn’t get five guineas for a month’s, two months’ hard labor on the river. Greed fought with fear.

“I’ll take those now,” he finally said. “But ten more when we get there.”

“Done. Let us leave at once.”

Once they were out of the basin, the big sail was hauled up and they made good time through the muddy water. Rounding the Isle of Dogs, they looked back and saw an approaching warship coming down the river behind them. Thomas shouted commands and the sail came down; they drifted close by the docks on the shore there. The ship went smoothly by, the sailors visible on deck giving them no heed. They went on when it had passed, moving quickly and uneventfully until Tilbury came into sight.

“Mother of God…” the helmsman said, standing and shading his eyes. They all looked on in horrified silence at the smoking ruins of the shattered fortress. Walls and battlements had been destroyed, dismounted gun barrels pointed to the sky. Nothing moved. Thomas automatically turned closer to shore at the sight of the four hulking black ships that were anchored across the river. The stars and stripes of the American flag flew from a flagstaff at the stern of the nearest warship. Beyond them, in midstream, the masts and funnel, some of the upperworks of a sunken ship projected a few feet above the water.

“Is she… one of ours?” Thomas asked in a hushed, hoarse voice.

“Perhaps,” Somerville said. “It does not matter. Proceed downstream.”

“Not with them ships there!”

“They are not here to harm a vessel like this one.”

“You can say that, your honor, but who’s to tell.”

Somerville was tempted to reason with the man; reached into his pocket instead. “Five guineas right now – and then ten more when we get downriver.”

In the end avarice won. The lighter crept along the riverbank, slowly past the ruined fort. The warships anchored in the river ignored it. Then they moved faster once they were past the invaders, swept around the bend under full sail.

Ahead of them, anchored by the channel, was another ironclad, bristling with guns.

“Drop the sail!”

“Don’t do that, you fool,” the brigadier shouted. “Look at that flag!”

The British white ensign hung from the staff at her stern.