Текст книги "Stars and Stripes In Peril"

Автор книги: Harry Harrison

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

A NATION AT BAY

The United States was being engaged by the British on so many fronts, both on land and at sea, that consultation at the very top level was constantly needed. After a number of heated discussions between the army and the navy over priorities, it was decided that the army, in numbers alone, was the Senior Service, therefore the discussions would take place in the War Department. Building modifications were made, quite close to Room 313, and daily conferences were now held in this newly opened War Room. It was guarded by armed soldiers right around the clock, since the files inside, and the maps on the walls, were all in the new classification of Top Secret.

This day the various military officers and government officials who were present talked quietly among themselves until, at precisely nine in the morning, President Lincoln came in. When the door was locked behind him he sat down, steepled his fingers on the long table before him, and nodded most gravely.

“Gentlemen, I do believe that the country is in a most parlous state. Some of you may have not seen the latest reports, so I will ask the Secretary of War to sum them up for you.”

Stanton nodded, took a sip of water from the glass at his elbow, and tapped the thick sheaf of papers before him.

“There is both success and failure in Mexico. As we are all too well aware of, the Mexican regular army there has been defeated by the French and their allies. President Diáz has been forced to flee to this country for his protection. With the Mexican army defeated and scattered we have had to rely on the various resistance groups throughout the country to carry on with hostilities. We have been supplying these irregulars in the country with small arms and ammunition. And, wherever possible, with cannon. On the success side of the ledger is the fact that Monterrey, San Luis Potosi and Guadalajara have all fallen to these Mexican forces from the north and west. Puebla has been taken in the south. An iron ring has now been drawn about Mexico City. The French are growing desperate. Through Maximilian they have asked for a parley. Diáz is not keen to do that because he would rather wipe them from the face of the earth. Since we are supplying his new armies with most of their weapons – and all of their ammunition – he has been obliged to listen to us. Therefore talks will take place soon with the French.

“On the negative side of the ledger there is that invasion road that is being constructed across the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. The British have dug in defensive positions all along its entire length, and are putting up a very fierce resistance. Mexican morale on this front is very low. This is because General Juarez and his men feel that they are fighting for our cause, not their own, and they wish to break off their contacts with the British and join the march on the capital. This is understandable – and something must be done about it quite soon. General Sherman will tell you later of a proposal to land our troops in Vera Cruz and attack the road, in the hopes of cutting it. Now, Admiral Porter has the latest reports on the naval aspects of the Mexican theatre of war.”

Rear Admiral David Dixon Porter shifted uneasily in his chair. He was much more at home on the bridge of a ship than he was facing the politicians and officers around the table.

“Simple enough,” he said. “The British have succeeded in seriously misleading us. We had many of what appeared to be accurate and authentic reports that a large convoy of warships, troops and heavy guns had left England bound for the West Indies. It now appears that this was nothing more than a ruse to trick us. In that, I am forced to say, they succeeded very well. They have put an invading force ashore in Mexico, at what we now know is the Atlantic terminus of their road. A village called Coatzacoalcos, though I have no idea how it is pronounced. They landed guns and troops in astounding numbers and have established a veritable fortress on the shore there. First reports indicate that it appears to be impregnable from the sea. A more detailed survey has been ordered and will be presented here as soon as it is complete. In addition, British ships are still stopping our vessels at sea and taking cargo that they claim to be contraband.”

“It is 1812 all over again,” Gideon Welles said. As Secretary of the Navy he took this as a personal affront. “They ignore our protests and appear indifferent to a state of peace or war with us.”

“They prefer war,” Sherman said. Robert E. Lee, sitting at his side, nodded solemn agreement. “The moment they landed in Mexico they were in a state of war against Mexico, with the obvious aim to widen the conflict to include this country. There is nothing they need in the tropical jungles of the isthmus – other than to build a road to attack us. They knew that, sooner or later, we would have to face that fact. It would only be a matter of time before we would discover the true purpose of those landings. The invasion of our country. By not declaring war they misled us, and made the reinforcing and arming of the eastern terminus of their road possible. I strongly suggest that, with or without a declaration of war, we send an army to sever that road. I have telegraphed General Grant to come to Washington at once. I propose that he leads an army to attack and cut that road before the troops can march its length to the Atlantic.”

“I concur,” Lee said. “There are many ways to fight wars, and General Grant’s way is the right one for this coming battle. He is a bulldog who chews his way to victory against whatever odds or defenses.”

“It will be a long, hard war of attrition and Grant is surely the man for that,” Sherman added. He looked around at the men at the table, his face emotionless, his pale eyes as cold as those of a bird of prey. “Grant will hold their troops, perhaps defeat them, but hold he certainly will. The British will pay a high price for their decision to cross Mexico.”

“You say that Grant will perhaps defeat the enemy,” Lincoln said. “I cannot believe that you would idly indulge in defeatist talk because I know that is not your way.”

“In that you are correct, Mr. President. We must treat the Mexican invasion and the harassment of our ships as diversions from our main objective.”

“Which is?” Stanton asked.

“Winning the war against the enemy. War is all hell and the British must be taught to believe that. We must take the war to them and impress our will upon them. They must lose – and lose so badly that they will no longer consider these kinds of military adventures against our sovereign nation. By force of arms they must be compelled to abandon all thoughts of future conquests.”

There was more than one indrawn breath as the men around the table considered the impact of Sherman’s statement. Lincoln spoke for all of them.

“General Sherman – are you suggesting that we take the war to the enemy – that we invade Britain?”

“I am not suggesting that, sir, although that may very well be one of our options. What I am saying is that we must no longer dance to their tune. They invaded this sovereign nation once before and we repelled them. Now they resume this war and threaten invasion a second time. They must be stopped now.”

“But how?”

“That is what you must decide here in this War Room. The best military minds that our country possesses are now assembled here. They must find a way out of this impasse. And while you are deciding I want you to confer with General Robert E. Lee. He is here today at my personal invitation. A fact, that we all recognize, is that he knows how to win battles against superior forces. He knows how to outwit other generals, to attack where he is least expected, to out-think and out-fight his opponents. He might very well be the man who will find a way to take the battle to the enemy.”

“Will you do this, General?” Lincoln asked.

Lee had fought – and won – so many battles that he had lost count. And he was still recovering from severe illness; the lines in his face and the pallor of his skin bore witness of that. Despite this he did not hesitate a single second. He answered the President the instant the question had been put to him.

“I feel obligated to, Mr. President.”

“Good. You did a mighty fine job of winning battles for the Confederacy. We will be most obliged if you use those same skills to confuse and defeat our common enemy now.”

For Thomas Meagher this was a moment of very mixed emotions. It had been over twenty years since he had last looked on the green hills of Ireland. But there they were now, the Dublin Mountains rising into the bright blue sky ahead. It was twenty years since he had left Dublin in a military transport, shackled and chained like a wild animal. Sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered for his activities as an Irish revolutionary. A sentence that had been reduced to transportation for life, in a prison camp in Tasmania on the other side of the world. He had never thought he would see Ireland again, even when he had escaped the prison, and Tasmania itself, and made his way to America. Now he was a soldier, the general in command of the Irish Brigade in the American army. Quite a rise for a convicted revolutionary. America had been good to him – but his Irish blood, and the country of his forefathers, still tugged at him. It was somehow very apt that now he was returning to the land of his ancestors. Ireland. Looking across the ocean, seeing the land of his birth, he became aware of a strange satisfaction, a lessening of a yearning he had scarcely been aware of. He was back. He was home.

“ ’Tis a grand sight, ’tis it not, General,” said Color-sergeant William H. Tyrell who stood beside him at the rail of the mail boat.

“That it is indeed. And it’s Mr. O’Grady to the likes of you – unless you want to see me transported again.” He dare not use his own name here unless, even after all this time, it might stir unwanted memories in the authorities’ minds. Instead he had letters and papers on his person addressed to W.L.D. O’Grady, who happened to be a fellow officer in the Irish Brigade. O’Grady had also been an officer in the Royal Marines and had coached him well on its history and battles.

The ship’s whistle sounded as they passed the Martello tower at the forty-foot and entered Kingstown Harbor. It had been a most roundabout trip for them. First they had gone from New York to Le Havre in France, where an American agent had met them. He had tickets for them, tickets that would take them all the way from France to Ireland.

“We don’t want anyone to hear your accents,” he had said. “Just present the tickets, grunt a bit, keep your mouths shut and overtip everyone. You will get a good bit of British humble servitude that way – and no questions asked.”

Their nameless guide had been right. The ferry had taken them across the Channel to Southampton, on the south coast of England, where they had boarded the train at the station there. Many a forelock was pulled as the silver shillings changed hands. The same thing was true when they boarded the mail boat in Holyhead. This roundabout route was necessary since anyone sailing directly from the United States to Ireland would be suspect, questioned, possibly searched. This way was longer but safer.

“Tell me again where and when you and I will meet,” Meagher said.

“Thursday week, right over there in the First Class waiting room at the train station. The Kingstown station. Before that – why I’ll be home with the family! I can taste it now, boiled bacon and cabbage. Fresh-baked soda bread. Me auntie was always a dab hand at baking.”

Tyrell had been chosen to accompany the general on this first trip because he was a Dubliner, a real jackeen who, to hear him speak, had so many relatives in Ringsend that they populated the entire neighborhood.

“Eat all you want,” Meagher said. “But stay off the drink, at least in public. Watch out whom you talk to. The Fenians have been betrayed once too often.”

“It won’t happen to me, that I swear, sir. My uncles, cousins and brothers, they’ll be the only ones I’ll speak my mind to.”

They moved apart when the ferry tied up, separating before they joined the other passengers going down the gangway. Meagher ignored the two soldiers by the exit doorway from the wharf; he had no reason to believe, after all these years, that he was still being actively looked for by the authorities. He walked out and crossed the road to the train station. There was the sound of a distant whistle and shortly afterwards the little train puffed into the station. He purchased a ticket – his accent was certainly no handicap here! – and climbed aboard. It was a short trip, the train stopping only at Sandycove and Glenageary, before pulling into the Dalkey station. He took up his carpetbag and joined the two other disembarking passengers on the platform. He studied the train timetables that were posted outside the station, until the other passengers were out of sight. Then he turned to look and yes, there it was, just a few paces down the hill was the pub he had been told about. He took up his bag and strolled down to it and pushed open the door. The publican, in a striped blue apron, was serving groceries to a customer in the little shop at the far end of the bar.

“Just sit yourself down,” he called out. “I’ll be with youse as soon as I’ve finished serving Mrs. Riley.”

Meagher looked around at the dark interior, the coal-oil lamps and the beer engines, scattered sawdust on the floor. He smiled; it had been a very, very long time.

“Been away have you?” the publican said as he brought over the pint of stout. “Never saw a suit of that cut in Dublin.”

“Sheep farming – in New Zealand.”

“Would you ever! That’s a grand distance to go.”

“Two months by ship if the wind is right.”

“You’re not from Dalkey.” A statement, not a question. Ireland was, as ever, one big small town and everyone knew everyone else’s business.

“No, I’m not. But my cousin is.”

“Get away with you!”

“It’s true. Name of Francis Kearnan.”

“Him that’s married to Bridget?”

“The very one. Does he come in here?”

“Usually. But you’ll find him at home now. Down the hill, first turning on the right. The cottage there, the one that needs rethatching.”

“Good man.”

After more crack about the weather, the last potato crop and the sad political state of affairs, the publican went to serve another customer in the grocery. Meagher drained his glass and went looking for his cousin.

Who really was his cousin on his mother’s side. When the Fenian Circle had decided to rebuild the revolutionary movement in Ireland it was decided that, for now, only relatives would be contacted. There would be no betrayal this way. Politics was one thing; family ties completely another.

He found the cottage, knocked on the door and stepped back. There was a shuffle of footsteps inside and the door opened.

“Is that you, Francis?” Meagher asked.

The middle-aged man blinked near-sightedly, nodded. Behind the wrinkles and gray hair, Meagher could see the lines of the boy he had known so well. “Still swimming at the forty-foot, are ya’?”

“What? Who are you?”

The street was empty, nevertheless he leaned forward and whispered. “Name of Meagher…”

“Mother of God! Is that you, Tommy?”

“It is. Now – how long are you going to keep me standing out here?”

It was a warm reunion. Bridget was out, so Kearnan made the tea himself. Rooted about in the cabinet and found some poteen to sweeten it. They talked of family and the years that had passed, and Francis was refilling their cups before Meagher got around to the purpose of his visit.

“The papers in the United States had news that the Fenians had been penetrated, the leaders arrested—”

“Betrayed the lot of them! Can you imagine a man, an Irishman, betraying his own neighbors? Anyone who would do that is a gobshite of a lower order than the Englishman that buys him.”

“I am in agreement there. But the people of Ireland will not be stopped. The freedom movement will arise from the ashes like a phoenix. I am here to see that happen – and if you are the man I think you are – then you are going to help.” He dug the wad of ten-shilling and pound notes from his pocket, dropped them on the table between them. He smiled at Francis’s wide-eyed stare. “And I’ll tell you just what you can do with it.”

“Jayzus, it’s not for me, is it?”

“No – but you can use what you need for the work I want you to do.”

“Will it be dangerous?”

“Not if you keep your Irish cakehole shut and not go wording about how you came into the money. This l.s.d. is for men you trust – men in our family or Bridget’s. Here, let me tell you exactly what must be done.”

It was Gus Fox who had explained how the new Fenians should be organized. Officers of the Fenian Circle would visit Ireland separately. They would speak only to members of their immediate family, recruit them to the movement. No strangers would be contacted; no old friends either, no matter how close they had been. It was the mass recruiting in the past, when anyone could join, that had destroyed the Fenians. This new way of recruiting was called the cell organization, Fox had explained. Members of a single cell would know only one another – as well as the officer who had recruited them. No members of one cell would know of any members of a different cell, even in the same city. Meagher himself was the only person who would know all the cell leaders. He would supply the money and they would supply the information. Skilled laborers would be encouraged – and paid – to cross the Irish Sea and obtain work in Britain. In shipyards, on the railroads, in the steelworks. And they would report back anything they could learn. Troop movements, ship movements, any bit of information that would be important to Fox. When he had assembled all the small pieces he would be able to see the big picture that they could not. With this he could write the intelligence reports that would be so vital for the military to have, military intelligence that was vital in modern warfare.

Also – the fact that he would be reviving the Irish revolutionary movement at the same time would only be of aid. Anything that discomfited the British could only help the war effort.

Mine enemy’s enemies, once again.

THE ATTACK BEGINS

John Ericsson never had an instant’s doubt about the reliability of any ship that he built. There would certainly be minor problems with any new design, like the tiller cables on his Monitor. This was to be expected and experience had proven that a short test cruise was all that would ever be needed. Virginia was no exception. She had sailed from the new shipyard at Newport News into the calm waters of Hampton Roads, then out into the Atlantic beyond. Ericsson’s faith in his ship been correct; only minor difficulties had been found and they were quickly put right. The asbestos lagging on the steam pipes had to be reinforced, where it ran through the compartments below the gun turrets. Pieces of it had been broken off exposing the hot pipes inside. Now the lagging was patched and covered with thick wood. Ericsson had hoped he would not have to run the steam pipes from the boiler room below, but he still had not completed the designs on his Carnot engine.

Even as this final work was being done the supplies of food for the men, the powder and shot for the guns, were already being put aboard.

Ericsson was on the bridge of the ship, coat thrown aside as he made the final adjustments on a machine of his own invention. A mechanical telegraph that would convey instructions from the captain to the engine room.

“Mr. Ericsson, might I disturb you?”

A growled oath was his only reply as the engineer tightened the thin chain over the cogwheel, that was attached to the ship’s telegraph mechanism. Only after it had been done to his satisfaction did Ericsson bolt on the cover plate and climb to his feet, rubbing the grease from his hands onto a wad of cotton waste. His works manager, Garret Davis, stood there, nervous as usual, a naval officer at his side. The man was quite tall and sported an elegant flared mustache.

“This is Captain Raphael Semmes,” Davis said.

“That name is familiar,” Ericsson said. First offering his hand – then drawing it back when he saw how grease-stained it was.

“During the past hostilities I had the privilege of commanding the CNN Alabama. Perhaps that—”

“Yes, of course. I do remember. A fine ship that you made good use of during the last war. What did the newspapers call her? Ja – the shark of the Confederacy.”

The British-built commerce raider had cut a wide swath through the Union merchant fleet during the War Between the States.

“Where is she now, your shark?”

“Laid up, sir. She’s getting new engines, more guns, some armor and such, I do believe. But, as attached as I am to her, I am more interested in the new ironclads that you are building. I must admit that I pulled some strings, right from Jefferson Davis on down. I pointed out that the new navy must contain officers from the South as well as the North.”

“A forceful argument,” Ericsson said, looking at his hands, then throwing the filthy cotton waste aside. “Were you successful in your quest?”

“I think so. I am to command your USS Virginia here.”

“That is wonderful news indeed. May I congratulate you on your new command – of the mightiest ironclad afloat. Come with me. As soon as I cleanse my hands I will shake yours. Then I will show your around the ship.”

Ericsson was as good as his word, leading the way below decks to the engine room where the gigantic steam engine seemed to fill most of the space.

“The largest and most powerful engine ever constructed,” Ericsson said proudly. “My own design, of course. Four cylinders – no other engine was ever built with four cylinders. You will also notice that the steam is recycled at a lower pressure. My design and that was also never done before. The gun turrets – you must see them.”

They entered the bow turret by the armored hatch in its rear. Semmes looked at the guns with awe.

“Their size – I can’t believe that they are mounted on a ship!”

“It was not easy to do – but I did it. Twelve-inch guns that will hurl an explosive shell for five miles. Breech-loading, as you see. You will notice also the pneumatic shock absorbers at their base. Also my invention, of course.” Ericsson pointed to the cylinders on both sides of the guns. “When the gun fires the recoil drives these pistons into these cylinders. The air is compressed and slows the gun down as the compressed air escapes through these orifices. Now here is the ingenious part. Once the gun has reached its limit of travel these valves are closed, once the compressed air has been released – and steam is let into the cylinder. In a sense you have a vertical steam engine. So, with great ease, and no human labor, the cannon is once more pushed forward into firing position.”

It was almost an hour later when Ericsson and Semmes emerged on deck again, both begrimed and oily from their tour through the ship – but blissfully unaware of their condition. Semmes grabbed the Swedish inventor’s hand in both of his.

“Sir – you are a genius, I do declare. This ship is a work of art, a construct of incredibly fine design, a warship of impregnable strength – and I am the proudest man in the world that I have been permitted to be her first commander. Thank you, sir – thank you!”

“I am most glad you like her,” Ericsson said, almost with the tiniest touch of humility. But not for long. “You are right, it is a machine of great genius that only I could have built.”

Less than two weeks later the Virginia dropped anchor in the harbor of Vera Cruz. Captain Semmes stepped out onto the flying bridge, smelled the hot, moist air. Smoke and decay. A mixture of city and jungle. The harbor seemed filled with ships, more than twenty of them at a rough guess. There were both three-masters and steamships. Two armored paddle wheelers were inside the harbor, close to the ships tied up at the wharves there. Further out to sea another group of ships were at anchor. He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see that the Secretary of State had joined him on the bridge.

“Good morning, Mr. Seward.”

“And good morning to you, Captain. I must thank you again for waiting in port with this fine vessel until I could board her. Not only have I reached my destination with speed and comfort – but I now have first-hand knowledge of our navy. I feel great pride now in this navy, tremendous.”

“It was my pleasure to have you aboard, sir.”

“Mine as well. Now that I have seen life aboard an ironclad I appreciate ever the more the sailors who defend our country. Your ship is like nothing I have sailed on before. More of an engine or a seagoing machine, so different from the wooden sailing ships she replaces.”

“You were uncomfortable?”

“Not at all. Impressed really, for I do believe that traveling in her is like traveling into the future. I do admit that at first the sound of the engine was disturbing, but I soon became used to it. It was a small price to pay for the speed and comfort of the voyage. In peacetime – will there be iron ships like this one in peacetime? Carrying passengers across the oceans of the world?”

“There will indeed!” the captain said with enthusiasm. “No longer prone to the vagaries of the wind, fast – even luxurious. More like hotels at sea rather than creaking and slow sailing craft. Steamships are the craft of the future – you can take my word on that.”

“I do indeed.” Seward turned towards the rail and saw that a small steam launch was coming around the bow of the larger steamship and was headed towards them. The stars and stripes flapped from the stern jackstaff, while standing on her bow was a man semaphoring with two flags.

“Read that,” Semmes said. The signal rating on the bridge was scratching on a slate. When he was done he handed it the captain who scanned it quickly, then turned to the watch officer.

“General Ulysses S. Grant is coming aboard, Mr. Seward.”

“A most fortunate meeting, for he is the man who will know just what is happening with the Mexicans and the French.”

“Drop the gangway,” the captain ordered. “And get the ceremony right for the general’s rank. We’ll see him up here on the bridge.” Now that they weren’t moving, so that the scuttles on deck no longer carried cool air below, his day room would be a metal oven. Semmes made a mental note to check in the regulations to see how a general should be piped aboard a ship. He had gone from master of a commercial vessel right into commerce raiding. Luckily his first officer was a graduate of Annapolis.

They watched while Grant came on deck. He was a compact man with a full beard, wearing a private’s blue uniform, the only sign of rank the stars on his shoulders. He climbed quickly to the bridge, nodded in recognition of the Secretary of State.

“It is very good to see you here, Mr. Secretary. The political shenanigans going on here are far beyond me.” He turned and extended his hand to Semmes.

“Captain, you and your ship are a welcome sight indeed.”

Seward looked towards the shore. “Just what is happening there, General Grant?”

“Well, sir, it seems that the politicians have been talking for weeks, but they finally agreed on terms today. The French have surrendered. Their troops will be disarmed and permitted to leave. Those are their ships you see over there, the ones tied up along the wharves. The Mexicans wanted to shoot Maximilian, but our negotiators sort of talked them out of it. But he and all of the officers will be held here under close guard until all of the terms of the surrender are carried out. It seems that when the French first started this war here they shipped all the Mexican troops that they had beaten right back to France. When these soldiers are returned, why then the rest of the French can leave.”

Grant looked down at the massive two-gun turret forward of the bridge, as well as the smaller cannon along the ironclad’s side, and nodded happily.

“I am indeed pleased to see those guns. My troops have been on those ships anchored out there for far too long. I didn’t want to land them without some cover, in case anything went wrong. This place is a tinderbox just ready to go up. If you will kindly point your cannon shoreward to cover the landings I would be greatly obliged.”

“That is my privilege, General Grant. I am also going to get this ship as close to shore as I can. Might I suggest you station a signalman ashore where we can see him? That way we can keep in communication.”

“I’ll do just that. Mr. Secretary – would you like to come with me?”

“I do indeed. Consul Hancock will brief me on the state of negotiations so far.”

Even as the steam launch puffed towards the shore the disembarking of the American troops was beginning. At the north end of the harbor, just as far from the French ships as possible, where the American troop transports were tied up. A regiment of riflemen were the first ashore. They were quickly formed up and marched down the waterfront towards the distant wharf. Once in position they were drawn up in a line facing the French ships. At the same time a battery of 10-pounder Parrott guns were being unloaded, winched up from the ships’ holds. Weighing only eight hundred and ninety-nine pounds each, they could be manhandled into position by the gunners and troops. These rifled cannon were fast-firing and deadly.

The troops who descended from the next transport wore butternut gray. Even in this army, united against the British invaders, the regiments still kept their old identity, were still commanded by their own officers.

Then, from the city, bugles sounded and there was the muffled sound of drums. These grew louder and louder as the first of the French troops appeared on the waterfront. They made no attempt to keep in step, but shuffled along aimlessly, the very picture of defeat. Weaponless, bereft of any morale, some of them walked dispiritedly with their hands in their pockets. As they boarded their own ships, the American army was still disembarking from theirs.