Текст книги "Stars and Stripes In Peril"

Автор книги: Harry Harrison

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“I don’t see any Southerner of class going to those places, asking favors of carpetbagging Yankees and nigras.”

“It’s not quite like that. You can help, Jefferson. Talk to them, they know and respect you. Write for the newspapers, lead the way. We never thought that peace would be easy to obtain. But we have. Now we must hold it to our bosoms most strongly and not throw this golden opportunity away because of ancients hatreds…”

Lincoln broke off as Davis slowly stood up. “That’s not for me to do,” he said. “It is for you and your Mr. Mill to find a way out of this situation that you have created. And, I am most positive about this, it must be done soon.”

Lincoln could think of no response to that. He said a few polite words as he walked the former president of the Confederacy to the door. Watched in silence then as he slowly rode away.

General Escobeda was not a man who normally took chances. Those officers who fought the battles of the little war could not afford to leave anything to chance. Their enemies outnumbered them ten to one, outgunned them a hundred to one. Therefore they avoided fixed battles and planned their skirmishes in detail. It was a matter of hit and run, striking from their mountain strongholds, hitting hard then vanishing back to their safety.

Now Escobeda was taking a chance – but he had no choice. Almost as valuable as the guns and supplies that they carried, the sure-footed donkeys were always in short supply. Without their assistance life in the mountains would be impossible. They brought in food and water, carried out the wounded and the dead. But now Escobeda was forced to do what he did not want to do. He had brought together all the burros that he commanded, and was now leading them out of the safety of the mountains and across the plain to the north.

They moved only at night and by a circuitous route, avoiding the main pathways that led from Monterrey to the border. These were well patrolled by the French. Now the guerrilleros moved as fast as they could, until men and beasts stumbled with fatigue. Yet they still went on, fearful of the French troops, arriving just before dawn at the ford in the Rio Grande del Norte, the river just south of Laredo. Only the scouts went forward while the rest of them remained in a dry arroyo. Here the donkeys ate the hay that they had been carrying. The men slept. Only the guards and the general remained awake. Looking north.

“I see him, General,” one of the guards called out softly. “It is Victoriano.”

The scout appeared on the far bank and waved his hat. Escobeda signaled him to come over. He waded the sluggish river, stumbling with fatigue.

“They are there,” he gasped. “Many wagons pulled by giant mules. Many gringo soldiers as well.”

“We cross as soon as the scouts return. Here, take this.” He passed a small flask of caña over to him, the fiery spirit distilled from sugar cane. Victoriano mumbled thanks as he raised it to his lips.

The scouts returned; the trail behind them was clear. The tired animals brayed protests as they were prodded to their feet. Short minutes later they crossed the river and hurried, as fast as they could, to the safety of the Yankee soldiers.

The weapons and ammunition were waiting just across the Mexican-American border in Laredo, as had been promised. General Escobeda now sat outside the pulqueria, a mug of pulque mixed with pineapple juice in his hand, beaming with pleasure while the military weaponry, the rifles and ammunition, was transferred from wagons to donkey-back. One of the cavalry officers who had accompanied the wagon train was a Texican, Captain Rawlings, and he spoke passable Tex-Mex. Like most gringos he could not abide the foul smell of the fermented pulque, so drank instead its distilled version, mezcal.

“You aiming to attack Monterrey now you got these guns, General?” Rawlings asked.

“Not at once. But we will now be able stop their convoys, also wipe out any of them foolish enough to leave the city. Their patrols will be easy to ambush now that we have all these rifles and their ammunition. With great pleasure we will kill any of them stupid enough to poke their heads outside of the city’s gates. After that has happened they will stand on the thick walls and think themselves safe. Until we strike.” He patted his pocket. “In his letter President Juarez says that heavy cannon are on the way here right now. With these we knock down the walls and eliminate these vermin.”

Rawlings drained his mug and coughed heavily. “That sure is mean stuff,” he said when he got his voice back. “I wish you good luck. The French sure need teaching a lesson.”

“And the Austrians as well, those who garrison Monterrey. Will you be staying here, Captain?”

“Looks like it. I have orders for my company to ride cover for the guns when they get here and cross the border.”

“That is good. You can talk to them, for none of my soldiers speak English. I will leave two men here as guides.”

“You just do that.”

It was two weeks before the heavy artillery arrived, splashing through the shallows of the Rio Grande del Norte. After they had watered the horses they began the long, hot slog across the dry plains of Nuevo Leon. The horses pulled wearily on the heavy guns and limbers of ammunition and made slow progress. But the guides knew where to find the scattered villages where they could water the animals and feed them hay, so the march went smoothly, if slowly. They were a day’s march from Monterrey when they were joined by General Escobeda and his guerrilleros.

They waited for nightfall before they approached the city. The riflemen went forward to guard against any possible sorties being made by the enemy within; scattered fire went on through the night as they exchanged shots with the defenders on the city walls. All of that night the men labored hard. At dawn the only part of the guns that could be seen from the city were the muzzles protruding from the mounds of dirt that concealed the gun positions.

At first light a ranging shot was fired that blew a large gap in the city walls. The guerrilleros cheered mightily.

The siege of Monterrey had begun.

DISASTER!

The paddle wheel steamer SS Pawatuck was a venerable coaster, a familiar sight along the Gulf coast of the United States and the shores of Mexico. Through the years smoke had discolored her funnel and left its scars upon her deck. One of her paddlewheel covers had suffered damage against some wharf and had been only roughly repaired. For the most part her cargo was mining machinery taken to the port of Vera Cruz. Usually she made the return trip in ballast, though sometimes she managed to find a cargo of metal ingots. Mexican Customs officials rarely looked into her cargo hold, and certainly never into her engine room. They were much happier in the captain’s cabin, drinking his whisky and pocketing the silver coins of the mordida, the little bite, the bribe without which Mexico could not function.

Had they gone down the scruffy companionway and opened the hatchway that led to the engine room they would certainly have been surprised at its pristine condition. And certainly startled by the sight of the modern, powerful steam engine that was located there. They would have been more than startled to discover that the ship’s commander, Captain Weaver, was an Annapolis graduate and a lieutenant in the United States Navy. For this carefully scruffy vessel was in reality the USS Pawatuck, and all of her crew navy officers and naval ratings as well.

The crew was tired, the officers exhausted. None of them had had very much sleep in over twenty-four hours. The ship was just returning from a nighttime rendezvous with the guerrillero forces at Saltabarranca, where they had landed a cargo of ammunition and yet more breech-loading rifles. There had been treacherous sandbars offshore, and the ship’s keel had brushed over them more than once. But the donkey train had been waiting for them, and many hands made a quick job of unloading the military supplies. The tide was on the ebb before they had finished and only the lightening of the load had enabled the Pawatuck to leave without grounding herself.

Now, as she puffed slowly towards the quay in the harbor of Vera Cruz, the duty officer raised his binoculars to look at the man seated on a bollard where she was to berth.

“It’s that Irishman with the funny name, captain, the one we’ve carried before.”

“Ambrosio O’Higgins. We’re not expecting him, are we?”

“We’ve no orders, sir.”

O’Higgins was pacing back and forth as the ship drew close – he even grabbed the thrown line and wrapped it around a bollard. As soon as the gangway touched the dock he was up it and on deck, then he climbed quickly to the bridge.

“Captain,” he said, “is it possible to sail south as quickly as you can?”

“Possible, but not probable – we need coal…”

“I cannot tell you how important this is. I have had a message from the guerrillero forces about some construction further down the coast. I’m not sure exactly what is happening, but the message said it was most dangerous. That I should go there at once and see for myself. Might I see your coastal map, if you please?”

Captain Weaver crossed the chartroom and pointed at the opened chart on the table there. O’Higgins hurried to it, placed his fingertip on Vera Cruz and moved it south along the coast. “Here it is! A small fishing village they said, name of Coatzacoalcos.” He tapped the chart over and over. “Can we get to this place? Can we find out what is happening there?”

Captain Weaver took a map compass and carefully spread the points apart to measure the distance, then transferred the measurements to the scale on the chart.

“Yes, it’s possible. Just about one hundred and twenty-five nautical miles. Even at six knots we should be there in the morning. We have enough coal to get there and back. But I will have to hold the speed down.”

“Anything, as long as we get there. Will you do it?”

The captain rubbed his jaw in thought. “Well – if it is that important…”

“It is – I assure you that it is. Most important to those who employ me – and send the cargo that you carry.”

“All right then. We’ll find this village with the unpronounceable name.”

“ Coatzacoalcos.”

“If you say so.”

They cast off, while the firemen threw sheets of resin onto the burning coal to quickly raise pressure. The big paddle wheels thrashed the water as they took a south-easterly course. O’Higgins stayed on deck until the sun set behind the shadowed mountains, then went below. Dinner was the usual pork and biscuits which he loathed, although he had forced himself to become accustomed to it. The ocean they sailed was brimming with fish, yet still the Yanquis ate this greasy horror. The only thing good he could say about it was that at least it was filling.

Later, he tried to sleep in the watch officer’s bunk, but his eyes stayed open. His stomach growled in protest at the greasy and indigestible meal. Eventually he did fall asleep. It seemed only an instant later when a hand on his shoulder shook him awake.

“Captain says that dawn is about twenty minutes from now.”

“I’m coming.” He splashed water on his face from the basin, toweled himself dry and hurried on deck.

There was a dim glow over the sea ahead. The stars marched down to the horizon on all sides in the moonless sky. The captain’s face was barely visible in the faint light from the binnacle. He pointed towards the bow, where the mountain range was a dark silhouette against the stars.

“That’s it, as near as I can estimate. We’ll head towards shore as soon as it gets a bit lighter. We’ll find out then just how close we are to this village.”

The tropical dawn came swiftly, the stars vanishing as the sky lightened. The mountain tops glowed red, then the jungle slopes appeared as the sun cleared the horizon. The captain was using his binoculars.

“Two ships offshore there, I can just make them out. But they’re big, I can see that much.”

Now as the light grew the whitewashed shapes of the buildings in the village came into view, clearer and sharper, as well as the hills beyond. A number of sailing ships were at anchor just offshore.

“Those are warships – I can see their guns now. And the shore beyond the village – good God!”

“What is it? Tell me!” O’Higgins pleaded. Captain Weaver shook his head, then passed over the glasses.

“Look for yourself. Beyond the village, and on both sides of it.”

The air was clear as crystal. O’Higgins raised the glasses, looked through them. “I don’t understand. Raw earth, dug up…”

“Look closely and you will see the muzzles. Those are gun emplacements, well dug in. Big guns at that. Coastal defenses. No one is going to land on that shore, not with those guns there.”

“Captain, sir—” the lookout called out from the bow. “One of those ships is getting up steam. I can see the smoke. It’s an ironclad warship.”

“Hard about!” the captain shouted. “Twenty-five revolutions. Back to Vera Cruz.”

O’Higgins examined the gun emplacements in the growing light. Counted them carefully. Then raised the glasses to the hills beyond the village. Cursed fluently in both Spanish and English as he handed the captain back his glasses and turned to the chartroom. Traced his finger across the map and cursed the harder.

A few minutes later the captain joined him. “The ship turned back. Satisfied I suppose with scaring us off I guess. Good thing too. From the look of her she can do twice our speed.”

“They have tricked us!” O’Higgins shouted as he slammed his fist onto the chart. “Tricked us royally. I did not think the English were capable of such subtlety and foresight.”

“What do you mean?”

“The road – you know about the road?”

“Of course. That’s why we landed all those guns and ammunition. For the armed bands of Mexicans that are supposed to be attacking it.”

O’Higgins pointed to the chart. “The British troops were first landed here at Salina Cruz to start digging the road across the isthmus. To the coastal plain on the Atlantic. So that the British could march from the Pacific to the port of Vera Cruz on the Atlantic. I myself heard them say that. Thick-headed British officers. They could not have simulated, the way they talked – they surely believed every word that they said. But their masters didn’t. From the very beginning they intended the road to go here! A shorter and easier route.”

He went back to the bridge, watched the village and the defenses around it vanishing behind them.

“The enemy will soon be able to march across the isthmus to this heavily defended port. There will be gun batteries on land and ironclads in the harbor. When the troops get there they can board their transports unmolested. And invade the American Gulf ports with impunity. This is the very worst news possible.”

The rising sun lit the village of Coatzacoalcos, lit as well the new gun positions that surrounded it. Rising higher it shone down on the track slashed through the jungle that would soon be a military road. Soldiers were already moving down this unfinished track. Not widening it and grading it – not yet. They were building defensive positions instead. Just squads and companies of riflemen now, trenches and revetments bristling with guns. Further west the sun shone on the completed sections of road – and on the defenses there.

Lieutenant Calles was new to the business of war. His family was part of the governing elite, the corregidores, who, aided by the church, had ruled Mexico with austere harshness for hundreds of years. He had never thought about this state of affairs, but just accepted it as a natural part of life. There were the rulers and the ruled. Blessed by good birth he accepted the fact that the world was made the way it was. He did not begin to query the harsh treatment of the native Indians until after he had gone off to school in Spain. Then, as he had received his education at the University of Salamanca, he had also learned of the new wave of liberalism that was sweeping across the world. Only when he had returned to the family estate in Oaxaca did he begin to question matters he had always taken for granted. Now, educated as an historian, he looked at his native land through an historian’s eyes – and was not pleased. But the invasion of the State of Oaxaca by the British had wiped away any feelings of doubt. His country must be defended at any cost. He had made his way into the mountains and joined the guerrilleros.

Now, as a lieutenant, he had become accustomed to the hardships of guerrilla warfare. That he had survived this far proved that in addition to his intelligence he had bravery, and a strong sense of survival. The illiterate peasant soldiers were aware of this and respected him. More important, they followed him into battle.

Now they followed him along an almost invisible path through the jungle. Ahead of him was an Indian guide who found his way with unerring skill. Lieutenant Calles had told him where he had wanted to go, knew that the command would be carried out precisely. They were paralleling the defenses that flanked the British road, looking for places where it could be attacked.

It had been a grueling day – and a frustrating one. The last time they had come this way there had been a bridge here under construction, where the working soldiers had made fine targets until hastily summoned guards had driven them away. Now, when they reached the gully, they found that the wooden bridge was hidden by a stout dirt rampart. Any attempt to storm it would have been suicidal.

It was late afternoon before they reached their goal. A deep valley that cut through the hills. So steep it could not be bridged. Here the road wound down the valley wall, crossed at the bottom and up the other side. There was ample opportunity for the guerrilleros to slip through the jungle to make their surprise attacks. But no more.

“The lines…” he said under his breath.

“Mande?” the guide said.

“Nothing. I was talking to myself. But look ahead. Do you see that?”

“The British have been very busy. They must want to build this road very badly.”

“They do. And they are not afraid to learn from history. Their own history.”

The valley was no longer a possible entrance through enemy lines. It was filled with rubbish, boulders, dirt, entire trees ripped up by their roots and toppled down onto the valley floor. More and more heaped until the valley was filled – and impassable.

“There was a great British general,” Calles said, “who fought against Napoleon in France and Portugal. He built the lines at Torres Vedras that stopped the French general and sent him back in defeat. He did it like this. Someone has studied General Wellington and applied that knowledge of history to build his defenses here.”

“We will go on,” the guide said. “There will be a way through.”

“I hope so – but I doubt it. Like Napoleon, I am afraid that we are stopped.”

The USS Avenger found the sea empty of ships when she reached the navigational location that they had been given, the rendezvous of the British squadron. This was the right place and the right date. The only things missing were the ships. Nor did they find any sign of the invading force in the West Indies. They stayed for a day at this position but the horizon remained clear. In the morning they sailed to Jamaica and found only American or neutral vessels there. The warship poked about the nearest islands before returning to the rendezvous. Commodore Goldsborough himself checked the noontime sight. The navigator was correct. This was the exact latitude and longitude that the spies in England had provided. Goldsborough had the uneasy sensation that something was very, very wrong indeed. He turned to his first mate.

“I do not like this, do not like it at all. We are in the right place at the right time, aren’t we?”

“We are indeed, sir.”

“Well do you see any vast invasion fleet? I’ll be damned if I do.”

“None, sir.”

“Would you hazard a guess as to what has happened?”

“It seems, well, obvious now, sir. Our intelligence service has been duped, for reasons I do not know. We have been sent on a wild goose chase.”

“I am in compete agreement. Set a course for Florida. Washington must know what we have found.”

At top speed Avenger turned and headed for Florida and the nearest telegraph station.

“You have, then, been presented to the Queen before?” Lord Palmerston asked, then muttered with pain as the carriage lurched over a rough patch of cobbles. His gout had improved greatly, but his foot was still tender.

“I have had that pleasure,” Brigadier Somerville said. Which was not quite the truth. He had no liking of the court and the hangers-on there. He would far rather face shot and shell in battle than go through with this afternoon’s business.

“You’re a brainy fellow,” Palmerston said, with more than a little condescension. “You can explain all the technical bits to her.”

“Will not the Duke of Cambridge be there? Surely as Commander-in-Chief of the army he is in a far better position to clarify matters than I am.”

“I assume so. But that’s neither here nor there. The Duke and I discussed this matter in the club last night. We’re in perfect agreement, dear boy.”

I’ll wager they are, Somerville thought to himself, but did not voice his suspicions aloud. He hoped that this would not be the simple matter of shooting the messenger who brings the news of ill tidings.

All too soon they were rattling across the courtyard of Buckingham Palace, the footman opening the door as soon as they had stopped. When they went inside they found that the Duke of Cambridge was already there, enjoying a pipe in the anteroom.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, climbing to his feet. “Ready to reveal to Her Majesty the interesting details of our great victory.”

“As you say, sir, though I seek no notoriety. If you wish to speak…”

“Nonsense, Somerville. One’s doesn’t want to hide one’s light under a bushel. After all this entire matter was all your idea. Credit where credit is due, old boy, and all that.”

Somerville bowed to the inevitable and entered the reception chamber. Head high and shoulders back, as though bound for the headsman’s axe.

Victoria was peevish this day. “Now what is all this of events in Mexico? We were informed that a fleet had been dispatched to the West Indies. Yet still we hear strange reports—”

“One should not listen to the fiddle-faddle of people who gossip just for gossip’s sake, dear cuz. Let us go to the font of knowledge of the victorious planner himself. Here is Brigadier Somerville to enlighten us all.”

She blinked suspiciously at the officer who bowed stiffly.

“Ma’am. It is my great pleasure to tell you of a great and victorious British feat of arms in Mexico …”

“What of the West Indies, hey?”

“Everything there has gone exactly to plan, ma’am. Success there was dependent upon success in Mexico. Your Majesty, of course, knows of the road now being cut across the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, to enable her Majesty’s troops from the Indies to cross from one ocean to another without hindrance. At first we sought to extend the road to the major port of Vera Cruz. This is a goodly distance from the Pacific Ocean. Therefore, upon further consideration, it was decided that a small fishing village would make a superior site that better suited our needs. The road would be shorter so more easily defended. But the village of Coatzacoalcos …”

“What are you saying?” her voice rose in irritation. “We can follow none of this.”

“I do apologize, ma’am.” Somerville’s collar felt tight about his neck and he was beginning to sweat profusely. “I am being too inept. May I just add that our naval forces have taken the enemy completely by surprise. They have landed all the heavy guns from the convoy without the enemy’s knowledge. Have dug them in and have made the port impregnable.”

“Are these the same naval forces that we were informed were going to attack the West Indies?”

“Indeed, ma’am.”

“Then we have been lied to!” she screeched. She rounded on the Duke of Cambridge. “You yourself told us about the West Indies. Wasn’t that a lie?” Somerville gratefully moved back a few steps.

“It was not a lie, dear cuz, but what might be called a ruse de guerre. The Yankee spies here in London are as thick underfoot as fleas. Did we not discover one right in the heart of Whitehall …”

“There are no spies in our court!” Her voice so shrill it hurt the ears. The Duke appeared unconcerned.

“Spies, no. But chattering gossips, yes. They speak without thinking even when the servants are listening. And that gossip is for sale to the lowest kind of newspaper and then, perhaps, to some spy. The Brigadier here suggested that this village, whatchmacallit, be our port from the very beginning.” The Brigadier wilted under the chill majestic glare. “But in the orders Vera Cruz was always given as our goal, to be used to divert attention from the real port. I approved this myself. The real destination was known only to a few people. This distraction worked so well that it came about, rather naturally, to continue the ruse in the orders to the convoy. All of the ships had orders to meet at a certain rendezvous. They believed it to be the correct one. We are sure that Yankee spies had a chance to look at a number of copies of these orders. Perhaps the naval ships kept their orders under close guard, but the merchantmen undoubtedly did no such thing. Then, just before they sailed, each captain was given sealed orders that were not to be opened until after they were well at sea. Only when they were completely out of touch with the land were the secret orders opened.”

“A ruse de guerre that was responsible for saving many British lives, ma’am,” Palmerston said. “I was only informed myself after the fleet had sailed.” Which was not true, but to politicians the truth was just a tool to be manipulated at will.

“It was a great victory in the war to punish those who brought about the death of your consort,” the Duke said in a brazen attempt at misdirection.

Never too bright, and easily distracted, Victoria took the bait.

“Yes, and what of that war? What of your promises?”

“Soon to be carried out. The landings have been made, the port defended, the invasion planned. The Yankees completely taken in by our ruse. Be assured, the entire country is behind you in this. Albert’s memory will be defended and the wicked punished. The wrath of the Empire shall strike them down.”

“How?” Victoria asked. Still not sure what had happened and confused by all the orders and changed orders. “How will we strike the enemy down?”

“We shall invade them in their soft undertummy of the Gulf coast. The armies of the Empire are gathering in Mexico. They will march unharmed from coast to coast. The merchant ships that brought the guns to Mexico are waiting, now safe under the muzzles of those same guns, to board the troops for the invasion. When our ships of the line arrive they will stand guard over the troop ships. Guide them safely to the American coast. A single, irresistible attack will drive the enemy back and open the way to Washington City. Soon after that we will have Lincoln in chains and America once more part of the Empire. Albert will be avenged!”