Текст книги "Stars and Stripes In Peril"

Автор книги: Harry Harrison

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

THE SECRET REVEALED

The seaport was ringed with defenses. Don Ambrosio O’Higgins knew that because in the past weeks he had laboriously worked his way completely around Salina Cruz. When he, and his Indian guide, Ignacio, had probed the gun positions and rifle pits to the north of the fishing village they had found no chink in the armor, no weak spot that might be attacked. In desperation they had gone to an Indian fishing village on the Pacific shore and had paid Yankee silver for one of the dugouts. Then, on a dark night, they had rowed out to sea to clear the harbor mouth, risking disaster as they rode the big Pacific rollers. They had made a successful landing on the shore south of the port, and a nocturnal investigation of the defenses proved them to be equal – if not superior – to the defenses north of the seaport. Exhausted and depressed O’Higgins made his way back to their starting point. They were pulling the dugout ashore when Ignacio touched his finger to O’Higgins’s lips and pulled him down quietly into the shelter of the jungle undergrowth. His whispered voice was barely audible.

“Enemy under the trees. I smell them.”

The British were getting bolder now that they were secure behind their impregnable positions, and were beginning to send out patrols at night.

“Gurkhas?” O’Higgins breathed the question. He and his Indians had great respect for the little men from Nepal who were as good as – or even better than – they were in the jungle.

“No. The others. Not the blancos.”

They must be Sepoys, or from another native Indian regiment.

“What should we do?”

“Follow me. We will then go around them, ahead of them – ambush them when they come back down the trail.” They both had breech-loading, repeating rifles. Twenty shots fired from the darkness would kill the first men and send the rest panicking back into the jungle. They had done it before.

Ignacio was at home in the jungle. He led the way down unseen trails, occasionally taking O’Higgins’s hand to place it on a branch he had pulled aside so they could pass.

“Good here,” he finally said, levering a cartridge into the breech of his gun. He rested it on the forked crotch of a tree, the thick trunk sheltering his body. “They come soon from there.” The wave of his hand unseen in the night.

The insects hummed in the darkness and O’Higgins fought to remain motionless under their relentless attack. When he had almost despaired of the ambush he heard the enemy soldiers approaching. The breaking of a twig: the brushing of leaves pushed aside. He held his fire, waiting for Ignacio to shoot first. He actually saw them, moving shapes in the darkness, the pale lapels of their uniforms.

Ignacio’s gun went off by his ear and he began firing as fast as he could. Load and fire, load and fire. There were screams of pain, cries of terror. A single shot was fired in reply, then the enemy was retreating nosily back through the jungle. Ignacio handed O’Higgins his heated rifle, pulled free his machete and slipped forward. They did not take prisoners.

In a minute he was back carrying an epaulette from one the soldiers. He wiped his machete on it and handed it to O’Higgins; they would use it to identify the regiment.

“Five dead. Rest gone,” he said with professional satisfaction. He turned and O’Higgins followed him back to their encampment by a fresh-water stream. It was after dawn when they approached it; Ignacio stopped and raised his head, sniffing the air.

“Horses. And my people.” He moved quickly ahead, calling out in the dialect of his village. He was answered by a friendly shout as he went forward to join the circle of men around the fire. He joined them, squatting on his heels as they did, sipping from the aguardiente gourd they passed him. A saddled horse was quietly chewing at the undergrowth, its rider seated on a log close by. It was Porfirio Diáz.

“Still working for the gringos, Don Ambrosio?”

“Some scouting, yes.”

“Better you than me. I had very little success, and lost good men, testing the strength of the British here. I am very glad that this little war is over for my soldiers. Let the Yankees from the cold north and the invaders from across the sea fight with each other. It is no longer my battle.”

“They invade your country and occupy Mexican soil.”

“This does not bother me. We shall let the gringos do our fighting for us here in the jungle. They have big guns and many troops. I encourage their enthusiasm. But I think that they are not doing that well. Is that true?”

True or not, O’Higgins would not permit himself to agree. “The General Grant is a mighty warrior. He has the guns – and the soldiers – to fight with. He has never been beaten.”

Diáz shrugged noncommittally and pushed a twig into the fire, then lit his black Orizaba cigar from its flame before he continued. “I have been called to the District Federal. President Juarez is assembling a new cabinet and he has honored me by his request to aid him in this great endeavor. We must rebuild this war-shattered country. He has such great plans! There will be elections soon, real ones, not corrupt public displays, the sort of thing that the French did when they elected Maximilian.”

“May what you say come true,” O’Higgins said with feeling. “I only pray that it does.” He did not mention the cruel men who would want to usurp power once again, the combined powers of the landlords and the church that had hung like a dead weight from the tired neck of Mexico for centuries. Perhaps this was a new start, a fresh beginning. May it only be so.

“I am off to join President Juarez,” Diáz said, swinging up into the saddle. “Why don’t you come with me?”

“Perhaps, later. I would dearly love to be a part of the new Mexico. Meanwhile I must bring my report to the general.”

They would go on in the morning – but first a little rest was very much in order. In the morning he paid Ignacio the promised American silver and watched him disappear into the jungle with his tribesmen one last time. There was no point in any more scouting – and he would tell Grant that. The defenses were there and, for all important purposes, impregnable. What the Americans would do now, he had no idea.

At noon he came to the first of the army encampments and asked to see the commanding officer, a one-eyed veteran named Colonel Riker.

“Been looking at their lines, have you, O’Higgins?”

“I have been doing just that, sir, and mighty impressive they are.”

“They are indeed,” Riker sighed. “I’ll have a runner take you to the general.”

There was a mighty army camped here upon the Mexican plain. Rows of tents and batteries of cannon. There was a steady parade of wagons bringing supplies, vast encampments of soldiers in both blue and gray. It seemed impossible that anything constructed by man could not be destroyed by these powerful warriors. But O’Higgins had seen the defenses that they were facing. Even the most determined soldiers, the most powerful shells of massed cannon, would not prevail against the British lines. It was a sad and unhappy truth, but it was one that he was duty-bound to tell General Grant. He was stopped by an officer before he could reach the large headquarters’ tent.

“The general is meeting with his staff now. You’ll have to wait.”

“Can you at least tell him that I am here? I have the most valuable of reports to give to him.”

The lieutenant rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Well, mebbe. I have to give these messages to his staff. I’ll tell them that you are here.”

“I appreciate the aid.”

He did not have long to wait. A few minutes later a sergeant popped out of the tent, looked around – then waved him over.

“General can’t talk to you now. But he wants you in the meeting. There’s a chair to the back. Just ease into it and keep your mouth shut.”

As O’Higgins slipped into his chair he realized that there was only silence in the tent. General Grant had his watch on the table before him, was scowling at it from behind a cloud of cigar smoke.

“Five minutes to the hour,” he said, and there was the quick susurration of whispered voices. O’Higgins started to ask the officer next to him what was happening, then changed his mind. Obviously something important was happening on the hour.

General Grant finally stubbed his cigar out in the metal tray, stood and seized up the watch.

“That is it! That is the hour!” Only murmurs of puzzlement greeted the announcement and O’Higgins realized that all of the others were as ignorant of events as he was.

But not Grant. He had a great wide grin on his face as he put the watch back into his pocket – then hammered his fist happily on the table.

“As of this moment our siege of the British positions here is lifted. There will be no more attacks – and no more of our soldiers shall die here in this godforsaken corner of Mexico. But we will still keep up our bombardment of the lines, make our presence known. And stay alert. If they make any sallies I want them wiped out as soon as they start. But for all apparent purposes the war on this front is over.”

“Why – General? Why?” An officer shouted, unable to control his curiosity.

“I’ll tell you why. Because at this very moment a new front was opened to attack the enemy. I cannot tell you where this is happening, not yet, but I do assure you that it is a massive and deadly blow that is being struck right now. So strong and mighty is it that I can speak with some authority when I tell you that the war here in Mexico is over. We only wait now for the British to disengage and leave.”

O’Higgins thought he knew what was happening – but had brains enough not to speak his mind. Great powers were on the move. Great events were heralded. The United States of America was fighting back.

In the State of Mississippi, in the city of Jackson, L.D. Lewis sat in his cell and listened to the growing crowd in the street outside. Reverend Lomax had stayed with him on the long walk to the jail, waited there while he was booked. The sheriff had sent two deputies in a wagon to get Jefferson Davis’s body – told Lomax to go with them to the church. There was no way he could refuse so, reluctantly, he got into the wagon.

That was when the sheriff had gone to L.D.’s cell and had beaten him unconscious.

“No Yankee nigger can come to the South and shoot the likes of Mr. Davis. If you ain’t lynched first, you gonna have a fair trial and then get hung – you got my word on that.”

The sheriff had been worried about a lynching – only because he was worried about his jailhouse getting burnt down, people getting killed. When the wagon returned he had the corpse laid out reverently in his best cell, swore his deputies to silence. And then had gone to Judge Reid and told him everything.

“Folks hear about this they’ll burn the whole town down” was the judge’s learned judicial opinion. “Gotta try him fast and hang him. Meanwhile I’m sending for those Texas troops camped outside of town. Let them stand guard. They pretty uppity, might be good to knock them down a bit.”

Meanwhile L.D. Lewis sat in his cell. The blood had dried on his jacket in the heat of the day. One eye was battered shut; he couldn’t see very well out of the other. Well, at least he was still alive.

But for how long?

BOOK TWO
INVASION!

THE MIGHTY ARMADA

Never had the little island of Graciosa in the Azores seen such a sight. In the past, there had been two, sometimes three, ships that might be taking on coal in the harbor at the same time. But this – this was unbelievable. Black steel warships filled the ocean outside the small port, dark guns pointed menacingly at the city and the sea. Anchored close offshore was a sailing ship and two small steamers. The three-master – which had flown the Union Jack – was now a prize of war. The captains of the other two ships, one French, one German, had protested mightily when the American marines had boarded them. Politely, but firmly, they had been promised release after the fleet had sailed.

But for the moment not only wasn’t it sailing – it was being reinforced. It seemed that the entire population of the island was gathered now on the shore staring, gape-mouthed, at the horizon. Where vessel after vessel appeared, until the sea was filled with ships.

But there was a logic among all the bustle and apparent confusion. Signalmen relayed orders: two ironclads passed through the anchored fleet and pulled up at the coaling wharf. At the same time a steam launch made its way out through the ironclads, stopping at each one just long enough for the ship’s captain to step aboard. When it made its last call the crowded launch then returned to USS Dictator. The most powerful battleship ever launched, where Admiral Farragut hung his flag. The captains crowded the Officers’ Mess, talking intensely among themselves. The murmur of sound died down when the admiral entered, followed by his aide heavily burdened with sealed envelopes.

“Gentlemen,” the admiral said, “this will be our last meeting. At dawn tomorrow we sail for Ireland.” He waited, smiling, until the voices had died down. “I know that until this moment you have heard only rumors about the invasion, knew only our destination. Rumors were circulated that we were going to Scotland, to attack England herself, and, of course, Mexico. As far as we can tell the British have been completely duped and their forces are preparing for our invasion of Mexico. But that does not mean that there are none of her warships now at sea that may be encountered – nor does it mean that the continuing threat of the armed might of the British Isles has been neglected. Many of her ships must now be at sea. That is the one thing we must guard against – being observed before our forces are put ashore in Ireland. Therefore I want an outer screen of your ships around the convoy. No other vessels, enemy or otherwise, will penetrate this shield to see the convoy that you are guarding. Neutrals will be boarded and seized, enemy vessels captured. Now – here is the course that we will be taking.”

There was a bustle as the captains stirred and moved about so they could see the chart that had been fixed to the bulkhead. Farragut stood next to it.

“Our course will have two legs. We will first start out from the Azores on a bearing of north-north-west, to stay offshore, well away from the coastal trade of Spain and France. But you will note that this also means that we will be cutting across their transatlantic sea lanes. Therefore we will double our lookouts, who must be alert at all times. Then here,” he touched the map, “when we have passed the Bay of Biscay, when we are at forty-eight degrees, sixty minutes north, on the same latitude as Brest in France, we change course to north-north-east. This is when the two invasion groups will separate. Group A will take a more westerly approach towards the Atlantic coast of Ireland. While group B will sail for the Celtic Sea. Into the heartland of the British Isles. This is a momentous occasion, gentlemen, for we are at last carrying this war to the enemy…”

The distant sound was more felt than heard, through the steel of the deck. “What was that?” the admiral asked.

“Find out,” Captain Johns ordered his first lieutenant, who hurried from the compartment. The officers were silent, all of them commanders of steamships, aware that something was very wrong.

The lieutenant was back in less than a minute with a sailor in grease-smeared clothing. Obviously an engine room artificer. “This rating was on the way here,” the lieutenant said.

“Tell us,” the captain said.

“Explosion in the main boiler, sir. Two men killed.”

“How long will it take to repair?”

“First engineer said a day at least. It’s the feed pipes…”

“Dismissed,” Captain Johns said. All eyes were now on Admiral Farragut. He looked once at the map, then turned back to the officers.

“Nothing can be changed. The invasion must go ahead as planned. Dictator will remain here in port until she has made repairs. I am shifting my flag to Virginia. We will now revise the order of battle to allow for Dictator’s absence in the opening phases of the invasion.”

The officers were unusually quiet when they turned to their papers. The invasion would go ahead – but their earlier enthusiasm had been replaced by dogged determination. Seamen are a superstitious lot. None of them liked this grim omen so early in the operation.

In the Cabinet Room, in the White House, the meeting was getting very scrappy, with almost every member insisting that his concerns were more in need of attention than any of the others. Salmon P. Chase, the Secretary of the Treasury, knew that his problems took precedence. He seldom raised his voice, depending instead upon the force of his arguments to convince others of his wisdom. Today he almost lost his temper.

“Gentlemen – I insist that you cease this wrangling and face facts. You, Mr. Stanton, will have none of the new guns you say that the army needs, without the funds to purchase them. Before all else we must discuss the necessary taxes to pay for this war.”

“I beg to differ,” Judah P. Benjamin said in his rich Louisiana drawl. “Matters of war and taxation in this country must be put aside while we consider if we have a united country or not. You must face the fact that these nightriders are enemies of the Union, enemies of the Freedmen’s Bureau, enemies of the fragile peace now existing between the North and South. I have tragic news to convey to you and was but waiting for Mr. Lincoln to arrive to unburden myself upon you. Mr. President,” he said, standing and nodding towards the head of the table as Lincoln entered and settled himself in his chair. The other voices died away as Benjamin sat down as well and began to speak.

“Despite our efforts to consolidate the peace in the South there are still immense difficulties. In spite of our payments for freed slaves, despite the founding of mills, steelworks, even gunmakers, there is still an element that will not accept the new South. They harass freed slaves, threaten, even burn, Freedmen’s Bureaus, are even against the education of Negroes. There have been lynchings and burnings – and now this.” Benjamin held up a folded piece of paper.

“I received this telegram when I was on my way here. I am stunned by it – even horrified – and I don’t know where it will end. It seems that the Negroes have started to fight back against the nightriders – and who can blame them. But the results are terrible, tragic beyond measure.” His voice died to a whisper, his fists clenched, crushing the message that he held. He shook his head, then took himself in hand. Sitting up straight in the chair he looked around at the assembled cabinet.

“A nightrider was killed in Jackson, Mississippi. A man known to all of us. The former President of the Confederacy – Jefferson Davis.”

Stunned silence followed this dreadful news. Lincoln slowly shook his head in despair, then spoke in a voice as weary as death. “He was a great statesman who made the end of our civil war possible. And he tried to warn me…”

Edward Bates, the Attorney General, ever a practical man said, “Mr. President you must declare an emergency in Mississippi – and martial law. Before tempers flare and the killing spreads.”

Lincoln nodded. “Yes, of course we must do that. Have the governor informed at once. Find out what troops we have stationed there and telegraph their commander at once. What a terrible thing to have happen. But you said – that it was a nightrider that was killed?”

Judah Benjamin nodded, and spoke most sadly. “Mr. Davis was with the nightriders. Perhaps he felt that by being part of the protests he could mollify the hotheads, provide rational argument. I don’t know…”

Salmon Chase knew. He had talked often with Jefferson Davis and knew that at heart the man felt that the Negro was inferior and would always be that way. He stayed his voice. Davis now had the dignity of the dead. And had paid the ultimate price for his bigotry. Dissension was not needed now. Old wounds needed to be bound up – not clawed open. “Do they know who did the shooting?” he asked.

Benjamin looked again at the telegram. “It was a young man, a war veteran, by the name L.D. Lewis.” He looked up and sighed deeply. “He is now under arrest, and… he is a Negro.”

“What was his outfit?” asked Edwin M. Stanton, the Secretary of War.

“It does not say.”

“Please make every effort to find out. He is a veteran, a soldier, and of great concern to the War Department.”

They were all in agreement about declaring martial law to prevent the violence spreading. Stanton drew up the order and it was dispatched. There was little fire left in their proposals now and they talked together in low voices, trying to find ways to keep the peace. Only Gideon Welles, the Secretary of the Navy, had other business to attend to. He kept glancing at the ornate clock on the wall, even taking out his watch to determine its accuracy. He finally nodded, put away the watch and stood up.

“Gentlemen – might I have your attention. Some of you here know what I am going to tell you now. To the others I must apologize for keeping you in the dark. But the way to keep a secret is not to tell anyone. But we felt that we had to do as good as the British – do them one better if we could. You will recall how they landed and seized a Mexican seaport when we thought that they were on the way to the West Indies. Most embarrassing for us, as you all know. But that is no longer the case. At this moment I can tell you that our mighty fleet is striking close to the heart of the British Empire. The fleet that the entire world believed was on its way to the Pacific coast of Mexico – did not go there at all. It was a ruse, a hoax, an immense attempt to make the enemy expect us in one place – when in reality we were striking at another. We are not going to fight them any more in Mexico because they will soon be forced to withdraw all the troops that they have there.” He smiled around at the puzzled expressions, the few nods of agreement of those cabinet members who had knowledge of the real invasion.

“The warships and the troop transports that sailed south some days ago – did no such thing. Once out of sight of land they changed course and proceeded to a rendezvous in the North Atlantic. Refueled and united they sailed to what most certainly will be a victory.”

Welles looked around at the puzzled faces and could not stifle a wry grin.

“For even as I speak our forces are invading the island of Ireland. The first landings were made at six this morning, Greenwich Mean Time. It is now five in the afternoon in Ireland. The invasion is well under way and, with God’s help, can but succeed. Can you imagine the expression on Queen Victoria’s face when someone tells her this bit of news!”

“May that moment be long in coming,” Abraham Lincoln said. “All of our efforts up to now have been bent on keeping that royal lady – and her armed forces – in the dark. If everything goes according to plan Ireland will be secured well before news of the conquest reaches England. When they do discover what has happened it will be too late to do anything about it. Short of mounting a counter-invasion, they will have little to choose from.”

“May you be speaking the truth, Mr. President,” Judah P. Benjamin said. “May the plans of our officers be successful, may this effort of arms succeed in every way. May victory be ours.”

He did not add that victory was never assured in war. Quite the opposite in fact. Well what was done was done. He did not speak aloud his reservations or fears, not wanting to destroy this moment of happiness. But he saw Lincoln looking at him – the same dark look of deep concern on his face.

The deed was done. All that they could do now was pray that success would be theirs.