Текст книги "Stars and Stripes In Peril"

Автор книги: Harry Harrison

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

ONWARD TO BELFAST!

“It is almost dawn,” General Lee said, his white beard bristling, his face grim in the light of the binnacle.

“I am afraid that it is,” Captain Weeks said.

His ironclad Dictator led the convoy of vessels that followed behind him, unseen in the darkness. His ship carried no riding lights – just a single lamp at her stern. Each of the following ships had such a light, each of them following the lead of the ship before. Only the coming of daylight would reveal if this arrangement had succeeded. It had been a dark night, with occasional rain squalls, and only occasionally had the next ship in line been seen.

“Should we not be much closer to our destination by this time?” Lee’s voice was hard and unforgiving.

Weeks’s shrug was unseen in the darkness. “Perhaps. But you must remember that we were heading into a northerly wind for most of the night. But look – there is the light on Inishowen Head almost directly behind us now. Also to starboard is the Magilligan Point light that marks the mouth of Lough Foyle.”

“Yes – but our destination is not there, but in Portrush. How far is that?”

“No more than ten miles. Almost due east.”

“Yes,” Lee said, talking a sight from the compass. “And I can see it for the sky is growing light.”

The dark coast of Londonderry grew sharper and clearer as dawn approached. A low mist concealed the details – but it was already lifting. Lee turned and squinted into the darkness behind them, at the white froth of their wake now visible in the waning night. The stars were fading in the growing light and, one by one, the ships of the convoy came into view. He counted them as they emerged out of the darkness – and they were all there!

Eight troop-carrying steamships and, taking station to their rear, the ironclad USS Stalwart.

“Portstewart hard to starboard,” the lookout said. “Those two lights, together there. They’re the beacons at the mouth of the River Bann.”

Lee raised his glasses and sought the lights. “Then the beach, what is it called, Portstewart Strand, it will be between beacons and the town?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Raise the signal lights,” Lee ordered. The two yellow lanterns were already lit and swung instantly up to the rear crosstree. Short moments later the signal was seen, passed on, as one by one the following ships made the same signal. Wanker turned to port when she saw the lights and, one by one, the four last transports changed course and followed her towards shore.

General Robert E. Lee had split his force in the past, when a two-pronged attack was deemed necessary. He had faith in his lieutenants, and General James Longstreet was the best. He would make a successful landing on the beach. While Lee led the other half of his divided force.

Dictator was now entering Portrush Harbor, the ironclad, carrying him and his staff, coasting in between the granite jaws of the harbor walls. A single fishing boat was raising sail, otherwise the harbor was empty. BB turned away from the harbor entrance, to let the four transports by, then dropped anchor; her turrets rumbled about so the guns faced land. Within minutes the troop ships were tied up at the harborside, the first soldiers tumbling ashore. There was no sign of any resistance at all. Only the astonished fishermen seemed aware of the invasion.

Longstreet would be landing his troops on Portstewart Strand, ferrying them ashore in the boats. There was no sound of gunfire; the beach was undefended as well. This would take somewhat longer than the harbor landing, but they were also closer to the junction point at Coleraine. When Lee saw that the landing in the harbor was going according to plan he followed his staff into the waiting boat. A signalman from the ship was in the bow, ready to relay any orders to the ironclad if cannonfire was needed in support.

When Longstreet saw that the beach landings were going as smoothly as could be expected, he ordered the two boatloads of marines to begin their own landings. They did not join the army on the beach, but were rowed instead across the mouth of the River Bann, to land at the little village of Castlerock on the far side. A few early-rising people gaped at the marching troops, then quickly closed and locked their doors. A uniformed constable came out to see the cause of the tramping feet and was instantly seized.

“Into the constabulary with him,” the lieutenant ordered. “Take any arms you find. If there is a cell lock him in it.” He smiled at the stunned gaping man. “This newly begun war is already over for you, suh.”

“What war?” the man gasped.

“Now that’s a fair question. Hasn’t got a name yet that I know of.”

There was a whistle in the distance and he led his men at a swift trot to the station. It was a freight train from Londonderry heading south towards Belfast. The marines quickly clambered aboard while the lieutenant, his Colt.45 Peacemaker revolver in his hand, rode the footplate behind the terrified driver.

In the harbor of Portrush General Lee watched the orderly disembarking of his troops and he was pleased. A textbook operation. A captain of his staff approached and saluted.

“Two trains in the Portrush station, sir. Getting up steam now.”

“Flatcars?”

“More than enough for the Gatling guns, General.”

“Fine. Load them up. Board as many troops as you can. Get the rest of them moving on the road to Coleraine. It’s about four miles. We’ll rendezvous there. What was the condition of the telegraph?”

“Inoperable. Line broken somewhere between here and Belfast.”

“Fine. Everything is going according to plan.” He wrote a quick note and handed it to a runner. “For the captain commanding the transports.”

Once the army was safely ashore and military situation in hand, the transports were to leave and rendezvous at Limerick to refuel. The two ironclads would head south as well – to Belfast. Part of the overall plan was to restore telegraph communication as they advanced. His report would apprise Sherman of the success so far.

By road and train the soldiers moved south to join forces again at Coleraine. They had landed successfully without a shot being fired. The telegraph wires had been cut, no alarm had been raised, their presence in Ireland known only here. Now they moved south towards Belfast confident that they could take the enemy there by surprise.

Not for the first time had General Robert E. Lee cut himself free of his base and marched his forces against an enemy.

He liked it that way.

Well before ten that morning, by road and by rail, they entered Ballymoney where Lee ordered a halt. The pickets were out, both before and behind – and on both flanks as well. His army was used to living off of the country – only this time they paid for the privilege. Good U.S. greenbacks in exchange for the hams, chickens and other vittles. There had also been some reluctant horse purchases; the gentlemen had little option but to agree. All of his staff were now mounted, Lee himself on a handsome thirteen hand hunter. He took time only to snatch a few mouthfuls of food before gathering his officers around him.

“We are here – and Belfast is here. If we keep to this march we should reach Belfast around three in the morning…” He looked up as Major Craig hurried up.

“Run into another train on a siding, sir. Any more like this and we’ll all be able to ride the cars in style.”

Like most of rural Ireland there was only a single train track leading south. When a train entered a block of single track it picked up a brass “key” on a metal loop from the stationmaster. Only the train with the key was allowed on the single track. At the other end of the block the train would enter a siding while the key would be passed to the up train, which would be waiting on the other track for the down train to pass. Then it could use this section of track, sure that there would not be a head-on collision with a train moving in the opposite direction.

Not today. As the invaders had encountered each waiting train they had seized it and added it to the American cause. Now the first train, seized in Castlerock, was led by three trains, laden with troops, all of them moving majestically in reverse.

“That is good news indeed,” Lee said. “The fresher the troops, the easier the victory.” He looked back to the map. “We’ll make a halt again in Antrim. Looks to be ten miles out of Belfast. Then we’ll go on three hours before dawn. At first light we will hit them and hit them hard. You all have assigned targets so we all know what must be done. Nevertheless we will go over the attack once again in detail.”

At first light the first train rattled into Blank Street Station. The first of the marching troops had already secured the area around the station and willing hands rolled the Gatling guns from the cars and into the streets. All along the line of march horses had been seized, and paid for, and were now waiting to be hitched up to the guns. There was sporadic fire from the city, but nothing heavy and concentrated until the infantry barracks on North Queen Street was surrounded, the artillery barracks next to it as well.

The Battle of Belfast had begun.

While far to the south the battle for Cork was over. The trains from Galway had brought the American forces into Cork Station. Stonewall Jackson’s troops had fanned out while the Gatling guns were being unloaded. The attackers had spread out along the Lower Glanmire Road, through the fields and past the hospital. They had crossed the Old Youghal Road and had launched a fierce attack on the barracks there – which was almost over even before the first ragged bugle call had sounded the warning.

The impregnable forts guarding the entrance to the harbor were taken from the rear, even as the gunners were firing ranging shots at the great black bulk of the ironclad. The attacking ship had fired two broadsides before retiring out of range. The first that the gunners knew that they were under attack from the land was when they saw the bayonets at their throats.

It was indeed a new kind of lightning war.

IRELAND UNDER SIEGE

General Arthur Tarbet was wakened by the hammering on his bedroom door. He blinked his eyes open and saw that there was the first light of dawn around the window curtains.

“What is it?” he called out.

“Ships, sir. Battleships in the lough!”

Even as the words were spoken there came the rumble of distant gunfire.

“Damn it to hell!” he swore as he kicked the bed covers off and jammed his feet into his boots. He pulled on his heavy woolen robe and stumbled hastily across the room. He was seventy-five years old, arthritic and weary, and had been offered command of Her Majesty’s forces in Belfast as a sinecure, an easy post to fill while he awaited his retirement. This was obviously not to be. Captain Otfried, the officer of the day, was waiting for him.

“What is happening, Captain?”

“A certain confusion, sir. Something has gone wrong with the telegraph connection to the gun batteries on the Lough. Not functioning. They sent a runner to report. At least two ironclads are in Belfast Lough. I imagine that is their firing that we hear.”

“Any identification?”

“None at the moment. Though we can safely assume—”

“Yankees. Bloody Yankees. I can figure that one out for myself. Telegraph Dublin at once.”

“I’m afraid that line is not functioning either.”

“Hmm.” Tarbet dropped into the chair behind his desk. “No coincidence there. Have you tried the international cable to Scotland?”

“No, sir.”

“Do it now. Though I wager that it will be a waste of time. Whoever cut the wires will not have made an exception there. Dare we assume that the war has come to Belfast?”

“A reasonable assumption, General.”

“Order me some coffee.” He leaned his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers as he thought about the possibilities. He had been an intelligent officer, as well as a fighting one, and age had not hampered his abilities.

“An attack by sea. Valueless unless landings follow. Or are they already under way? And why Belfast? Most of our troops are in the south and that is where the battle must be fought and won. Or is Dublin under attack as well? Ahh, thank you.”

Otfried opened the window and they could hear the distant rattle of firing. Single shots, then a ripping sound of rapid firing like an entire company firing all together.

“I believe that we are under attack by land as well, sir.”

“I believe that you are right,” Tarbet said as he sipped gratefully at the hot coffee and looked closely at Captain Otfried. “Like to ride, do you Otfried?”

“Rather. Member of my hunt at home.”

“Good. Then get saddled up. I am certain that Ireland is under siege, certainly under attack. If it is, why then the mail boat from Kingstown will certainly have been captured, to prevent any news of the attack on Dublin from reaching London. The ferry from Larne to Scotland will have been taken as well, I wager. No hope of getting word out that way. I am sure that there will be a gunboat closing that port as well. It should be easy enough to blockade all the Irish ports to the south. But it’s a different matter here, with Scotland just across this bit of sea. If any word is to be sent it must be sent from here. I am confident that the little fishing port a few miles north of Larne won’t be watched… what’s the name?”

“Balleygalley.”

“The very place.” The general was writing as he talked. “Ride like the very devil and get yourself there. Commandeer a boat to take you over to Scotland. I’ll give you some coin, just in case an appeal to the mariner’s patriotism doesn’t work. Take this message, find a telegraph, there’s one in Port Logan, get it to Whitehall. Go my boy – may luck be with you.”

The gunfire sounded loud behind Captain Otfried as he galloped out of Belfast on the coast road to the north. When he passed Larne he saw that the general’s assumption had been correct. The mail boat was still there – an armorclad tied up beside her. He rode on.

His horse was lathered with sweat and starting to stumble when he galloped through the streets of Balleygalley and down to the strand. A fishing boat had just dropped sail and was tying up at the jetty. Otfried slipped down from his horse and called out to them.

“I say – who’s in command here?”

The gray-haired fisherman looked up from the rope he was securing.

“Aye.”

“I must cross to Scotland at once.”

“Go to Larne. I’m no ferry.”

“Larne is sealed off. I saw an enemy gunboat there.”

“Get away with you! And what enemy would that be?”

“The Americans.”

“Well – it’s not my business.” He reached up and took the fish box from the man on deck.

“Please do this. I will pay well.”

The captain dropped the box and looked up. “How much is well?”

“Fifty pounds.”

The fisherman rubbed his beard in thought. “Done. Can I unload my catch first?”

“No. There is no time. And you’ll be coming right back.”

The captain thought about this, then nodded. “Tie your horse up and get aboard.” He bent and untied the line. A squall came up and rain spattered on the deck as the sail filled and they headed out to sea.

More squalls were coming in from the west: they hid the coast from sight when they swept over the fishing boat. The sea was empty of ships and Otfried sincerely hoped that it would stay that way.

But his good luck did not last. The captain estimated that they had come halfway to Scotland when he pointed out to another squall coming down upon them.

“Did you see that – just before the rain come up. A large steamer coming our way.”

“No. Are you sure?”

The fisherman nodded. “In a moment you’ll see for yourself.”

What to do? How to escape capture? Otfried had a sudden inspiration. “Turn about,” he said. “Head back towards Ireland.”

“What?”

“Do as I say man – hurry.”

After a moment’s hesitation the wheel came over. Captain Otfried was suddenly conscious of his uniform.

“I’m going below. If the ship is American say that you are from Scotland – going to sell your fish in Ireland. Do it!”

The rain blew past and there was the warship – with the American flag flying from her mast. Otfried closed the door all the way. Strained to listen at the crack between the door and the frame.

“Heave to!” someone shouted and the fishing boat swung about into the wind and lay pitching in the waves. “What’s your destination?”

“Carrickfergus. Sell my fish there.”

And spoken with a thick North Irish accent! Could the Americans tell the difference between that and Scots? The silence lengthened – and then the voice called out again.

“Not today, Scotty. Just turn about and go back to Scotland.”

Otfried smothered his cry of happiness, pounded his fist into his palm. It had worked! A simple ruse – the Americans were sealing off Ireland from all communication with the outside world. He felt the boat go about again, waited below until he was sure it was safe.

“You can come on deck,” the captain called out. “They’re gone. And now is the time for you to tell me just what is happening with the Yanks and all.”

“We have been at war with the United States, still are, as I am sure you know. I do believe that the war has now widened and includes Ireland.”

“The divil you say! What would they want to be doin’ that for?”

“I’m afraid that I am not in their confidence. But I imagine that their aim would be to drive the British out.”

The captain looked up at the sail and made an adjustment on the wheel. Loyalist or Republican, he did not say. Otfried started to query him, then changed his mind. This was not his business. What he had to do was make sure that the warning did go out. He had to get to the telegraph. Whitehall must be informed of the invasion.

No one in Jackson, Mississippi, knew that a new war had started some thousands of miles away across the Atlantic Ocean. Even if they had known, the chances were that it would have taken second place to the dramatic events now unfolding in Jackson. Since soon after dawn the crowds had begun to gather outside of the jail. Silent for the most part, though there was the occasional jeer at the troops of the Texas Brigade who were lined up before the jail. The soldiers looked uncomfortable – but snapped to attention when the captain and the first sergeant came out of the building. They ignored the questions and the taunts from the crowd as they made their way to their temporary quarters in the hotel next door. The crowd grew restless.

Major Compton stopped the cab well clear of the crowd and paid off the driver. He did not know Jackson at all, so had taken the cab from the station. Now he rubbed at his chin, he had cut himself some when he had shaven himself on the train. He straightened his tie and brushed some soot from his tan jacket: he was not used to being out of uniform. But it would have taken some special kind of insanity to wear his blue jacket down here. He picked up his carpetbag and pushed through the crowd towards the hotel.

The lobby was crowded and noisy. A small boy with a bundle of newspapers was doing a smart business, with people climbing over each other to buy one. An army captain in field gray came in from the street and worked his way through the crowd to a hallway on the far side of the lobby. Compton went after him: it was much quieter in the hall. Two soldiers in butternut brown guarded a doorway labeled “Ballroom” at the far end of the hallway. They looked at him suspiciously when he approached.

“I am Major Compton. I am here to see General Bragg.”

One of the soldiers opened the door and called inside. A moment later a corporal came out.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“I am Major Compton of the United States Army. I am here to see General Bragg. He will have had a telegraph message about me.”

The corporal looked suspiciously at the jacket and tie. “There’s a chair over there, Major. If you’ll just sit a bit I’ll see what I can find out.”

Compton sat down and paced his bag on the floor. The guards stared into space. The crowd in the street outside were a distant roar, like waves breaking on a beach. After some minutes the corporal returned.

“You best come with me.”

General Bragg was not a happy man. He waved Compton to a chair as he shuffled through the papers on the desk before him, until he found the right one. Pulled it out and read from it.

“From the War Department… will make himself known to you… officer in the 29th Connecticut.” He dropped the sheet of paper and looked at Compton, cocking his head to one side.

“I thought that the 29th Connecticut was, well—”

“A Negro regiment?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“It is. The senior officers are all like me.”

“Well then, yes, I see. How can I be of help to you, Major?”

“Maybe I can be of help to you, General. You are not in an enviable position here…”

“You can damn well say that again, and twice on Sunday. We’re all good Texas boys in this brigade and we fought for the South. But folks here look at us like we’re lower than raccoon shit.”

“Understandable. They’re all upset.”

“Hell, we’re upset! After what happened to ol’ Jeff Davis. Went and got shot by a nigger…”

“While wearing a hood and participating in a lynching.”

“Yes, well, there is that. A man his age ought to have had more sense. But, anyway, you never say why you’re here.”

“I would like you to arrange it so I can see the prisoner in jail.”

“Nothing I can do about that. Have to see the judge, the sheriff about that. We just sent here to keep the peace, such as it is.”

“I will see the sheriff – but any decisions about the prisoner are really up to you. You are an army officer and this is a military matter. Sergeant Lewis is in the army—”

“The hell you say!”

“I do say – and you can telegraph the War Department if you don’t believe me. He was on detached service, working with the Freedmen’s Bureau. But he was in uniform when he was arrested and he is subject to military justice.”

The general’s jaw fell. “Am I right? Are you telling me that the army wants him?”

“They do. If there any charges to answer over this death he will be tried by a military court martial. Legally he cannot be tried by a Mississippi civilian court.”

General Bragg let his breath out with a whoosh – then laughed.

“I like your brass, major. One lone Yankee officer coming down here and trying to walk outta jail – with a prisoner that the whole South is dying to lynch.”

“I am not alone, General. I have the strength of the army behind me. I have you and your troops to help me make sure that no miscarriage of justice does occur.”

General Bragg rose from his chair and began to pace the room in silence. He stopped to light a black cigar, blew out a cloud of acrid smoke. Pointed the cigar like a pistol at Compton.

“You know what you asking?”

“I do. I was told that if you have doubts about your duty in this matter, that you were to telegraph the Secretary of War.”

“I gonna do just that – Orderly!” He bellowed the last word, then scratched a quick message on a pad as a corporal came in from an adjoining room. “Have this sent to the War Department. Wait there at the telegraph office and bring me back the reply.”

General Bragg dropped back into his chair, blew out a cloud of smoke and looked into the distance, absorbed in thought. Finally nodded.

“This could be the way out of our problems. Trouble is going to happen very soon if something ain’t done. Maybe this is it. Get that man out of here before someone gets kilt. You want a cigar?”

“Not now, thank you.”

“Whisky?”

“It’s early – but I think that I damned well do.”

“Good. I’ll join you.”

The War Department had been waiting for Bragg’s telegram. The answer came at once and was signed by the Secretary of War.

“This is it,” Bragg said, folding the paper and putting it into the pocket of his jacket. “Bring your bag, Captain, because you are not coming back here. First Sergeant,” he shouted.

When they left the hotel the First Sergeant and an armed squad came with them. The crowd whistled and catcalled as they went towards the jail, shouted even louder when the sergeant knocked on the door.

“General Bragg is here. He wants to see the sheriff.”

After a long wait the door opened a crack. Someone inside started to speak but the sergeant pushed the door wide so they could go in. The crowd surged and shouted until the closing door shut them out.

“What you want?” the sheriff said. He was unshaven and appeared to have been drinking.

“I want your prisoner,” the general said. He took out the folded telegram. “Here is my authorization from the War Department.”

“You got no rights in here! I’m the sheriff and I beholden to the judge and the mayor and not to you.”

“Sheriff, this state is now under martial law, so I am afraid that you are going to have to do what I say. Your prisoner is a serving noncommissioned officer in the United States Army, and is therefore subject to military justice. Take us to him.”

Sheriff Boyce fumbled for his gun and the sergeant knocked it out of his hand.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” the general warned. “Sergeant, get the key. Disarm this man and anyone else who attempts any resistance.”

The sight of the armed soldiers had a cooling effect on the warders and deputies. Major Compton and four armed soldiers followed the warden into the iron-barred corridor to the cells. L.D. Lewis heard them coming and jumped to his feet. One eye was bruised and swollen shut; he cocked his head to look out of the other eye.

“Major Compton… what?”

“Open this cell,” Compton ordered. “We’re taking you out of here, sergeant. To Washington City where a court of inquiry will investigate this matter. Let’s go.”

L.D. stumbled a bit when he walked and the major took him by the arm. He shrugged it off.

“I’m just fine, sir. I can walk out of here.”

The general had organized everything in a highly efficient military manner. His troops had sealed off the alley that ran behind the jailhouse. A grocery wagon was waiting outside the door. Four mounted officers from his brigade blocked L.D. and Compton from sight as they climbed into the wagon, were pushed in by the First Sergeant who joined them. The soldier who was driving the wagon flipped the reins and they started forward. There was milling and shoving when they reached the street but the soldiers just pushed their way through the crowd. A moment later and the wagon and the officers were galloping down the street towards the train station.

“The general put together a military train,” the First Sergeant said. “An engine and two cars. Troops going on leave. It’s in a siding and waiting for you.” He looked at L.D. and scowled. “Be smart, Sergeant. Stay out of the South. We got enough trouble of our own.”

“Send our thanks to the general,” Major Compton said. “I’ll see that this is reported in detail to the War Department.”

“Just doing our duty, sir – just doing our duty…”