Текст книги "Stars and Stripes In Peril"

Автор книги: Harry Harrison

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

WE SHALL NOT FORGET

“Are you coming then, Tom? For I have an almighty thirst that is near to killing me.”

The words were clearly heard through the thin canvas of the army tent. Colonel Thomas Francis Meagher finished pulling on his boots as he called back. “I’m coming, Paddy, you can be sure of that.”

He went out and joined his friend and they strolled to the Officers’ Mess together. Captain P. F. Clooney, like many of the officers of the Irish Brigade, was a veteran soldier even before he had joined the American army. He had served in an earlier Irish unit, the Irish Brigade of St. Patrick, which had fought in defense of the Papal States against Garibaldi. When the hostilities ended, torn by his loyalty to the Papacy and sympathetic to Garibaldi’s cry for freedom, he had turned his back on both of them and had emigrated to the United States, where he had enlisted in the American army.

The Officers’ Mess was in a sturdy building that had been a farmhouse standing on the grounds where the Irish Brigade now pitched their tents. When Meagher and Clooney came through the front door they discovered that the meeting of the other officers was already under way when they arrived. It was the first Sunday of the month when all of the members of the Fenian Officers’ Circle met together. This was the focal point of the revolutionary group in the army that supported the Fenian movement in Ireland. Men who were dedicated to the liberation of Ireland from British rule. But today they had another problem to consider. Captain O’Riley called out as they entered.

“Tell us, Francis, is the rumor true that we are to have new uniforms?”

“Not a rumor but a fact, my old son,” Meagher said. “It’s the new recruits you see. During the war we were a Northern regiment and proudly wore the blue of our country. Now that the war is over we are no longer just a regiment, but have grown to be a brigade. Lots of good soldiers have joined us from what was the Southern army and the mixture of uniforms in our ranks has been something wicked to see. The War Department, in its wisdom, has been considering uniform changes for some time. In the new kind of war that we are fighting, with new and more accurate guns, a more neutral sort of color of the uniform is very much in order. We have all seen what lovely targets the red British uniforms provide!”

There were shouts of “hear, hear” and some wild whistling. Meagher held up his hands for silence.

“Khaki, a sort of grayish brown, has been chosen. It may look a bit like mud, which is not a bad idea when you are lying down in the stuff. I, for one, am in favor of it. Anything that does not make a soldier stand out in the battlefield is a good thing. Of course we will keep our dress uniforms for important occasions, and dances and suchlike.”

“When do we get our mud duds?” someone called out.

“A week or two. They’ll let us know.”

The door slammed open and Captain John Gossen came in. His expression was black, his mien angry when he hurled his coat onto a chair.

“Betrayal!” he said as he glowered around at the other officers.

The usual air of good cheer and friendliness seemed to vanish in an instant.

“What’s wrong?” Meagher asked.

“Death and betrayal,” Captain John Gossen said bitterly, his manner now so different from his usual lively self. He had served previously with the Seventh Hussars of Austria, a dashing Hungarian regiment. “That miserable schoolmaster, Nagle, is in the pay of the British. Luby, O’Leary and Rossa have been arrested. The Irish People suppressed.” He was talking about the Fenians in Ireland, and their official newspaper.

“They never!” Meagher cried aloud.

“They did,” W.L.D. O’Grady said darkly. “I heard the same news myself, but I couldn’t believe it. I’ll believe anything about the English. I know the bastards. They’ll try them in a kangaroo court – then shoot them.” He did know the English very well, having once served in the Royal Marines.

“Is there nothing we can do?” Clooney asked.

“Little enough,” Meagher said, chewing over the bad news. “Send them money – they’ll need it for lawyers if there is a trial. And we will have to find a way to reorganize from the ground up. Our newspaper is suppressed, everyone taken I imagine – or on the run. If there is one informer in the organization there are bound to be others. Betrayal is in the air.”

“Aye – and right here in America, in New York City as well,” O’Grady said. “Red Jim MacDermot, him with the flaming beard, there is good reason to consider him an informer as well. Yet John O’Mahony who runs the office won’t hear a word said about him. But I have had a letter, from someone I can trust, that says he was seen coming out of the British Consul’s office.”

“I believe it,” Meagher said, “but you’ll never sell it to O’Mahony. Which means as long as he runs the New York office of the Fenians, the British will know everything that we do. Which means in turn that we must find a better way to further the cause. The first precaution must be to separate our Fenian Officers’ Circle here from the group in Ireland. There is no other way. With all of the leaders now captured we have a body without a head. I feel that we must start again from scratch. We must forget all of them. We’ll draw on the Irish-American community here for money. There will be no more recruiting in Ireland, for it seems we have recruited as many informers as we have loyal Irishmen.”

“And then what do we do?” Clooney asked.

“We must put our thinking caps on,” Meagher said. “And find a way to do it right for a change. But enough of that now! For the moment let us drown our sorrows. Is the milk punch ready?”

“It is indeed!”

With serious matters put aside they turned their attention to this lethal drink. The Fenian milk punch was concocted of whisky and condensed milk, seasoned with nutmegs and lemons, then stirred with a little hot water. Surgeon Francis Reynolds was the bard of the brigade and when they raised their glasses and mugs he cheered them on with a song.

“See who comes over the red blossomed heather, Their green banners kissing the pure mountain air, Heads erect! Eyes to front! Stepping proudly together… Out and make way for the bold Fenian men.”

This was well received. So much so that Surgeon Reynolds went on with all the rest of the verses hailing the fame of the Fenians. In the midst of all this jollity no one at first seemed to notice the two men who had entered and stood quietly by the door listening to the singing. It was only when Meagher went to refill his glass from the punch bowl that he noticed the newcomers and called out cheerily.

“Is that Gus Fox himself who has come to join us in our festivity? Come in, come in! Gentlemen of the Fenian Circle, meet the honorable Gustavus Fox, the Assistant Secretary of the Navy.”

He used that title, rather than any other that would explain their relationship. In truth, with his Fenian and other Irish contacts, Meagher had long been part of Fox’s intelligence-gathering organization.

“A glass of punch, now, that’s a good man. No, make it two, one each for Gus and his friend.”

They took the glasses, but before they could drink Fox raised his hand for silence, then took an official-looking envelope from his pocket. “I have just come from the War Department where, as you all undoubtedly know, they rest not nor do they sleep.”

There were catcalls and laughter at this. Fox waited for the sounds to die down before he held out the envelope. “This is for Colonel Meagher. Since I was on my way here I volunteered to act as messenger. Here you are, sir.”

Meagher read it through slowly, then climbed to his feet and called for silence.

“Boys, I want you all to hear this. You know that I have been in command of my regiment while we wait for General James Shields to arrive and assume command of the entire brigade. He’s Irish-born and a fine officer, or so I have been told. Unhappily for us the general has turned down command of the Irish Brigade. Sore news indeed.”

Meagher’s expression belied his words for he was smiling from ear to ear.

“Now I have even worse news for you. That good-for-nothing, lollygagging, Colonel Meagher has been appointed brigadier general and will take command at once.”

The news was greeted with great enthusiasm, more milk punch was poured, and Meagher was carried around the room on the shoulders of his officers. When the noise had abated slightly Fox added to the congratulations, then drew Meagher aside, towards the young man who had waited quietly by the door sipping his drink.

“Jim,” he said, “I want you to meet an associate of mine who has just returned from a fact-finding trip to Mexico. Jim Meagher, this is Ambrosio O’Higgins.”

“That’s a divil of a name for a good Irish lad. Welcome Ambrosio, welcome to the Fenian circle.”

“It is my pleasure to meet such a renowned officer,” O’Higgins said.

They shook hands and Meagher looked at those pale Irish eyes set in the lad’s well-tanned face, but forbore asking any questions. The rest of the officers were quiet now, intrigued by this mysterious stranger. It was Fox who broke the silence in a manner that instantly drew their attention.

“One of the things that O’Higgins recently found out was the fact that there are English invaders once more on our American shores.”

There was absolute silence now and the smiles were gone. Replaced by an intensity of feeling that emanated from these warriors’ faces.

“I have been in the south of Mexico,” O’Higgins said. “In the Mexican states of Vera Cruz and Oaxaca. I found there that there are many divisions of British troops that have been landed on the Pacific shore, theoretically invited into that country by the Emperor Maximilian. Who is himself a usurper, kept in power by the French invaders, who have driven into exile the legitimate government of Benito Juarez. They have even forced him to flee his country.”

“But – what are the British troops doing there?” Meagher asked, speaking for all of them. Fox answered first.

“They say they are building a road there in the jungle, nothing more. O’Higgins will tell you about it.”

“It is a tremendous mighty bit of work. For this purpose they have employed troops of many races. There are Indian regiments with the strangest of names. Dogras and Sepoys, and wee men from Nepal called Gurkhas who are the fiercest fighters in the world, or so I have been told. All of these, some English troops as well, are sweating and slaving in the jungle to build a road between the oceans. From the Pacific to the Atlantic.”

Meagher drank deep – then shook his head with befuddlement. “Now what in God’s green earth would be the need for a road across Mexico?”

O’Higgins gave a very Latin shrug. “They say it is to help the French collect the money that is owed to them.”

“Pull the other one!” someone shouted from the audience and they all called out in agreement. O’Higgins looked puzzled.

“The English are pulling your leg,” Meagher said. “Meaning that they are lying out and out about this road.”

“In that you are very right,” Fox said. “We know that this road is being built, because O’Higgins here has been to Mexico and watched them doing it. Here in Washington we think differently about the reason for its construction. All the evidence leads us to believe that the British are preparing for another invasion of this country.”

There was a roar of anger at this news, followed by a number of oaths in both English and Irish. They pressed more punch upon “Andy” O’Higgins – there was no way they could get their mouths around an outlandish name like Ambrosio – and called for more details. O’Higgins told them what he seen, and overheard, while Fox fleshed out the facts with the conclusions he had reached about what the road would be used for.

“What I have told you here is most secret, and is known to very few outside this room. I have taken you into my confidence because you are all good soldiers, good Americans – and Irish as well, which is of great importance. We in the military know that you still have the contacts in Ireland and England and that is why we need your help. There are warships being built now, in Ireland, England and Scotland. If I am correct there will soon be a great fleet assembled. I call upon you for aid in discovering the British plans—”

“We’re with you to the man!” Meagher shouted aloud, and the rest roared echo to his words.

“Good. We will work together in deciding what must be done and how to go about doing it. And I ask you to give your solemn word that nothing heard here shall be repeated outside this room.”

“You have our word and our pledge,” Meagher said, and the others murmured agreement. “There are informers in the Fenian ranks, both here and abroad, I am unhappy to say. Before you came, Gus, we were looking for new ways to organize our resistance movement, to make a plan that will put paid to all those that would sell their homeland for British gold. I think that you can guide us in this quest.”

“I certainly can. I think that you and I – and young O’Higgins here – can discuss details right after this meeting.”

There was much strong talk after that, while the punch bowl was well attended and filled more than once. When the punch was gone, and the officers ready to leave, Surgeon Reynolds called for silence.

“I have written a poem for Mother Ireland, that I was going to dedicate to the Fenian cause. Instead I dedicate it to our new commanding officer and our new comrade, Andy O’Higgins.”

Silence fell as he took a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. He read;

“When concord and peace to this land are restored, And the union’s established forever, Brave sons of Hibernia, oh, sheathe not the sword; – You will then have a union to sever.”

This was greeted with shouts and grim nods of approval. The war with the South might be over. But for these dedicated officers the war with Britain never would be ended until Ireland was sovereign and free. They filed out into the night but Meagher, Fox and O’Higgins stayed behind: Meagher closed and locked the door behind them.

“That punch is a bit too sweet for my taste,” he said. “We’ll have a wee dram of something more authentic.” He unlocked a cabinet and took out a stone crock. “Poteen. My lips are sealed as to how it reached me here but, upon my honor as an officer and a gentlemen, and a general now as well, I can assure you that it is the real thing.”

He poured two tin cups full and pushed them over to Fox and O’Higgins who sniffed warily at the transparent spirit. “Slainte!” Meagher said, upending the crock on his arm in a practiced gesture, and drank deep. And sighed happily. “Lovely stuff.”

The others were not as sure as he was. O’Higgins’s eyes opened wide when he drank and he put the cup carefully back onto the table. Fox had a coughing fit that only ceased when Meagher pounded him on the back.

“Takes a bit of getting used to,” he said. “Now, Gus, how can the Fenian circle be of aid to you?”

“Information, as I said. It is the life-blood of military intelligence. I understand that there are many Irish working in England and Scotland?”

“ ’Tis the sad truth,” Meagher said, nodding in agreement. “Ours is a poor country, kept poorer by those who rule. The Irish have always crossed the waters to earn a living – and send money to their families who must stay at home. It was even worse in the forties, when the famine came. Oh the thousands that starved in agony! Those with the means went abroad. Many came here to the land of freedom, but even more went to England and stayed on. Many a navvy you will meet there is an Irishman.”

“By ‘navvy’ you mean someone who works building the canals?” Fox asked.

“In the beginning, yes, they called them navigators because they dug their way across the length and breadth of England. But the name stuck to them even when the canals were finished. Now they work on the railroads, on the building sites and the shipyards. Wherever a man can earn a few bob by the sweat of his brow.”

“And they stay in touch with their families still?” O’Higgins asked. “I’m afraid that after my grandfather went to South America we fell out of touch with Ireland.”

“You sailed a powerful distance and that is understood. But, yes, the Irish in England and Scotland stay in touch with home. When young lads cross the water seeking their fortune they are made welcome by those already there.”

“There is a constant coming and going, then?” Fox asked.

“There is indeed.”

“Then we must take advantage of this relationship. We must recruit men in Ireland to the Fenian cause. But not at random nor at open political meetings. That has proven to be a disaster in the past. In the future any contacts must be made on a one to one basis. So if one of your officers ventures to Ireland, he must take into his confidence only other family members. They in turn will contact family members who may be working in England. Funds will be provided for travel if needs be. In that way we can learn about shipbuilding—”

“Any troop movements and transports and all the like,” Meagher added with enthusiasm. “For even a lowly working man still has eyes and a brain, and he can see what is going on around him. This is a grand plan you put forward, Gus Fox, and we are behind you to a man. We shall be your eyes and ears and look forward with great gusto to doing this for America, our new home.”

As Meagher was locking the door behind them when they left, Fox, offhandedly, asked him a question.

“Who was that officer, the one with gray hair and a scar on his right cheek?”

“You must mean Lieutenant Riley. A good soldier.”

“That’s fine. Do you think you could bring him around to see me tomorrow morning?”

“Sure and I will.”

He wanted to ask Fox the reason, but the naval officer had turned and was walking away. Ah, well. He would find out in the morning.

NEWPORT NEWS, VIRGINIA

John Ericsson looked down into the immense drydock and nodded approval. The massive outer gates were shut, sealing it off from the bay, and the last of the water was now being pumped out. Knee-deep in water and mud a Negro working crew, with a white supervisor in charge, were putting the heavy logs into place that would support the keel of the new ironclad Virginia while she was being built. Ericsson was not pleased with the name. But he had had no support from the War Department, or the navy, for his more imaginative suggestions such as Aesir or Destructor. The authorities had insisted in naming the new battleship after the state where it was being built.

“Allt går I alla fall mycket, mycket bra,” he muttered to himself in Swedish since, other than the matter of the ship’s name, he was pleased with what he had accomplished in such a short space of time. Yes, this shipyard was indeed very, very good. Of course it had to be – since he had designed it all himself. He had known all of his life that he was a genius; now the world was beginning to realize that as well. Hadn’t he invented the first screw propeller, that was now replacing the side-wheelers for propulsion? Then hadn’t he designed and built the Monitor in one hundred days? After that he had gone on to build the Avenger that had defeated the British when they attacked Washington City. Now he was going to build the even more powerful Virginia, named simply after the state where she was being built. He had protested that that was the name of the Confederate ironclad that was still in commission. This raised the troublesome point that the North had never recognized this name, which had been given to her by the Confederate authorities. In the naval records she was still the Merrimac, the sunken hull of the Federal vessel on which the South had constructed the ironclad. The authorities had responded by removing her feeble engine and decommissioning her, both in the North and the South. Still Virginia was such a commonplace name for the battleship that would change the face of naval warfare. He promised himself that he would fight for the name of the next one to be built. It would be the Aesir, the battleship of the gods.

“Mr. Ericsson,” a voice called out and he turned to see Garret Davis climbing up the steps behind him. The dockyard manager was wiping his full red face with a large kerchief, though there was still the morning cool in the air. “We’ve got an answer back from the Tredegar Iron Works. They’ll be putting that plate on the train today.”

“That they had better do – or else,” Ericsson said ominously, but not specifying what the “or else” would be. “Very soon we will not need them.”

He looked around and almost smiled with satisfaction. It had been a running fight with the Navy Department, but he had finally got what he wanted. They had complained about the price, but in the end had given in. Now he had a completely integrated shipyard, every unit of which he had designed himself. From this immense stone-walled drydock, right through to the foundries, plate-shops, machine shops, steam hammers, drills and steam engines. All of the equipment for handling the massive amount of iron needed to build this new leviathan of the seas.

A totally new design, of course. Twice as large as the Avenger, it had two turrets, each mounting two 12-inch cannon, one forward and one aft. A belt of armor ran along the waterline, and there were armored decks over the engines, the boilers, and the magazines. Armor around the base of the turrets as well. As well as the two main batteries there were a variety of small guns along the sides. This would be a seagoing ship that could patrol the oceans of the world and dread naught from any other vessel of war. Particularly the British. Locked in his safe was a report sent to him by the Navy Department. He had not questioned its accuracy, although he had no idea how it had been obtained. It contained details of three British ironclads now under construction. All the same, all compromises, all built on a modified design of Warrior. They would be no match for his Virginia, that he was sure of. He also had details on a larger ship that had already been launched, HMS Conqueror. An improvement on the others – but still not good enough. Should she come up against the Virginia he had no doubts as to the outcome.

“There is something else,” Davis said. “There are two gentlemen in the office who want to see you.”

“I am too busy.”

“They are from the government, sir. They said that it was important.”

Muttering at this interruption of his work, Ericsson went down to the office. One of them he recognized, for he knew him far too well. Litwack was his name and he represented the US Treasury and was the channel by which Ericsson received his funding. There was always a battle over money whenever they met.

“Mr. Ericsson,” Litwack said, stepping forward, “This is Mr. Frederick Douglass, of the Freedmen’s Bureau.”

Ericsson nodded perfunctorily at the tall Negro, a striking-looking man with a great beard and a towering mass of hair. He shook his hand briefly, since he had no racial prejudice – any hatreds he might have had were directed against the stupidity of the people he had to deal with. He turned back to Litwack.

“What is it this time? You are here about funding?”

“No, not this time. It is Mr. Douglass of the Freedmen’s Bureau who has some questions for you.”

“I know nothing about your Freedmen’s. I am an engineer…”

“Then you had better learn right now,” Douglass said in an irritated grumble. Ericsson turned, angrily, to face him, but Douglass spoke before he did.

“The Freedmen’s Bureau was founded to see that the laws passed by Congress are carried out to the letter of those same laws. It is one thing to free slaves, another thing altogether to see that they have gainful employment once they are freed. How many Negroes exactly are there in your apprentice program?”

“What is this man talking about?” Ericsson shouted furiously. “I have my work to do. I know nothing of politics nor do I care nothing.”

“I assure you – that is not the case.” Douglass raised his voice even louder to drown out the angry Swede. “One war has ended, the war between the states. But a new war is just beginning. By law the slaves have been freed. This has been done. Slave owners have received compensation for what they so foully considered property. But this has been only the first step along the road to freedom. If former slaves can labor only in the cotton fields, as they have in the past, they will not have the economic freedom that they are guaranteed as free men. They need the skills, the trades that they have been denied for so long. The South is now undergoing an industrial revolution. There are machine shops, factories and shipyards, as well as the trainyards, that are now being built in the new South. They will bring prosperity to the South – and independence to their workers. The Negro who brings home his weekly pay is dependent on no man. That is right and just. The freed Negro must be part of that process. That is the law! The Federal government paid out the funds that were needed to build this new dockyard. It is here not only to build the ships of war, but to follow the new policy of industrial development in the South. Skilled machinists and fitters have come here from shipyards in the North, to train apprentices in their skills. Do you know how many of these apprentices you have in your program?”

Ericsson threw his hands into the air, exasperated beyond belief.

“This has nothing to do with me, I tell you. I am an engineer and my job is to build machines. I have never heard of these new laws nor do I care about them in the slightest.” He turned to his dockyard manager. “Davis – do you know anything about this?”

“I do, sir. I have the figures here.” He took a grubby piece of paper from his pocket. “As yet there are only forty-three men who have entered this program. But there will be one hundred and eighty apprentices in all when recruitment is finished.”

“And how many of them will be Negroes?” The question boomed out into the sudden silence. Davis mopped at his streaming face, looked around helplessly. “Tell me!” Douglass insisted.

The dockyard manager looked at the piece of paper again, then crumpled it in his sweaty palm. Finally, almost in a whisper, he said, “I believe… that there are no Negroes enrolled at the present time. To the best of my knowledge, that is.”

“I thought so!” Douglass’s words were like thunder. “When this dockyard agreed to accept Federal funding – it also agreed that one quarter of all apprentices were to be of the Negro race. That means you will enlist forty-five of them at once.” He took a thick envelope from his inside jacket pocket and passed it over to the hapless manager. “Before coming here I took the precaution of stopping at the local office of the Freedmen’s Bureau. Their address is on this envelope. Inside is a list of names of fit and able men who are available and desirous of work. Consult them. You have one week to get a list of these forty-five individuals to Mr. Litwack here. If they are not on his desk at that time all funding for this shipyard will be halted until that information is supplied.”

“Can he do this?” Ericsson shouted at the quavering Davis.

“Y-yes…”

“Then I see no problem. Do it at once. My building program shall not be delayed for a single instant.”

“But, Mr. Ericsson, there are… problems.”

“Problems? I don’t want any problems. Hire the men as has been agreed.”

“But, sir, it is the other trainees. They refuse to work side by side with niggers.”

“That is not a problem,” Ericsson said. “Make all of the apprentices black men. Surely the artificers of the North will be happy to train them.”

“I’ll see… what I can do.”

“One week,” Douglass said ominously. Then a sudden smile flickered briefly across his severe features. “I like your style, Mr. Ericsson. You are a man of uncommon good sense.”

“I am a man who builds ships, Mr. Douglass. I have never understood the American preoccupation with the color of a man’s skin. If a workman does his job I don’t care if he is even a…” He groped for an apt comparison. “Even a Norwegian – and I will still employ him.”

The wail of a steam whistle interrupted him. “Ahh, you must excuse me,” he said. Turning and leaving abruptly, heading towards the puffing sound of a locomotive. He had insisted that a spur track of the Chesapeake Ohio railroad be built, coming right into the shipyard. It was already proving its worth, bringing iron plating right to the dockside.

But this was no ordinary cargo of iron. The train consisted of a single passenger coach behind the engine, with a heavily laden flatcar behind that. A stubby man in a frockcoat, wearing a black stovepipe hat, climbed down from the coach as Ericsson came up.

“Could you possibly be Mr. Ericsson?” he said, extending his hand. “My name is Parrott, William Parker Parrott.”

“The gunsmith! This is a great pleasure. I have designed guns myself so know of what I speak. And this is the 12-inch cannon that you wrote me about.”

“It is.”

“Beautiful,” Ericsson said as they both stepped back to admire the bulk of the long, black gun. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder for this was a hulking black engine of destruction. “Your locking breech, this I must see at once.”

They both clambered up onto the flatcar, in their enthusiasm not noticing the soot that smeared onto them.

“The gas seal,” Parrott said, “that is the heart of a breechloading gun. I have examined closely the British Armstrong cannon, have even built one of them. Its breech is complex and when firing begins it soon becomes unusable. A sliding metal plate is secured in place by large locking screws. But the seal is incomplete. After a few rounds the heated metal expands and leaks hot gas and threatens the very safety of the crew should the breech explode – as has happened more than once. But I believe that I have now solved that problem.”

“You must tell me – show me!”

“I shall. The principle is a simple one. Imagine, if you will, a heavy threaded breach, into which a threaded bolt can be screwed into place.”