Stars and Stripes Triumphant sas-3

by Harry Harrison

  “Birmingham — but how?” Victoria’s jaw dropped as, confusedly, she tried to master this new and frightful information.

  “By train, ma’am. Our own trains were seized and forced to carry enemy troops south. The Americans are great devotees of trains, and have made wide use of them in their various wars.”

  “Americans? I was told that the invaders were Irish…”

  “Yankees or Paddies — it makes little difference!” the Duke of Cambridge snapped. The hours of wrangling had worn down his nerves; he wished that he were in the field taking this battle to the enemy. Slaughtering the bastards.

  “Why would the Irish want to invade?” Victoria asked with dumb sincerity. To her the Irish would always be wayward children, who must be corrected and returned to the blessing of British rule.

  “Why?” the Duke of Cambridge growled. “Because they may have taken umbrage at their relatives being bunged up in those concentration camps. Not that we had any choice. Nursing serpents in our bosom. It seems that Sefton Park, the camp east of Liverpool, has been seized. Undoubtedly Aston Hall outside of Birmingham is next.”

  While he was speaking he had been aware of a light tapping on the door. This was now opened a crack and there was a quick whispered exchange before it was closed again. The group around the conference table looked up as the colonel approached with a slip of paper.

  “Telegram from Whitehall—”

  The Duke tore it from the officer’s fingers even as Lord Russell was reaching for it.

  “Goddamn their eyes.” He was seething with fury. He threw down the message and stamped across the room to the large map of the British Isles that had been hung on the wall.

  “Report from Defender, telegraphed from Milford Haven — here.” He stabbed his finger on the map of western Wales where a spit of land projected into St. George’s Channel. “It seems that some hours earlier they caught sight of a large convoy passing in the channel. They were proceeding south.”

  “South? Why south?” Lord Russell asked, struggling to take in this new development.

  “Well, it is not to invade France, I can assure you of that,” the Duke raged. He swept his hand along the English Channel, along the southern coast of Britain. “This is where they are going — the warm and soft underbelly of England!”

  At first light the attacking armada approached the Cornish shore. The stone-girt harbor at Penzance was very small, suitable only for pleasure craft and fishing boats. The Scilly Isles ferry took up the most space inside where she tied up for the night. This had been allowed for in the landings, and the steam pinnace from Virginia was the only American boat that attempted to enter the harbor. She was jammed tight with soldiers, so many of them that her bulwarks were only inches above the sea. The men poured out onto the harbor wall in a dark wave, running to the attack and quickly securing the customhouse and the lifeguard station.

  While all along the Penzance coast the small boats were coming ashore. Landing on the curving strand between the harbor and the train station, and the long empty beaches that ran in an arc to the west of the harbor. The first soldiers to land went at a trot down the road to the station, then on into the train yards beyond. General Grant was at the head of the troops; the trains were the key to the entire campaign. He stamped through the station and into the telegraph office, where two soldiers held the terrified night operator by the arms.

  “He was sleeping over his key, General,” a sergeant said. “We grabbed him before he could send any warning.”

  “I couldn’t have done that, your honor,” the man protested. “Couldn’t have, because the wire to Plymouth is down.”

  “I’ve asked him about any down trains,” Major Sandison said. He had been a railway director before he raised a company of volunteers in St. Louis and led them off to war. His soldiers, many of them former railway men, had taken the station and the adjoining yards.

  “Just a goods train from St. Austell to Truro, that’s all that’s on the line.”

  Sandison spread the map across the table and pointed to the station. “They should be on a siding before we get there.”

  “Should is not good enough,” Grant said.

  “I agree, General. I’m sending an engine, pushing some freight cars, ahead of our first train. Plus a car with troops. Sledgehammers and spikes in case there is any damage to the rails. They’ll make sure that the track is clear — and open.”

  “General — first Gatlings coming ashore now,” a soldier reported.

  “Good. Get the rest of them unloaded — and down here at once.”

  Sherman and Grant had spent many hours organizing the forces for this attack on Cornwall.

  “The harbor is impossibly small,” Sherman had said. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes, since our yacht was tied up inside. But there is deep water beyond the outer wall of the harbor. I had Aurora’s crew make soundings there when we left. The navy agrees that cargo ships of shallow enough draft can tie up on the seaward side and winch heavy equipment ashore.”

  “Cannon?”

  Sherman shook his head. “Too heavy — and too slow to unload. And we have no draft animals to move them. They would also be too clumsy to load onto the trains even if we managed to get them to the yards. No cannon. We must move fast.”

  “The Gatling guns, then.”

  “Exactly. Light enough to be towed by the men.”

  “What about their ammunition? They consume an astonishing amount in battle.”

  “Soldiers again. You’ll pick out the biggest and the strongest of your men. Form special gun companies. Arm them with revolvers rather than rifles. They will be lighter to carry, and just as effective in close conflict. Assign special squads to each Gatling gun. Some to pull the guns, others to carry the ammunition. That way each Gatling will be self-sufficient at all times.”

  “It has never been done before,” Grant said, running his fingers through his beard, deep in thought.

  Sherman smiled. “And lightning warfare like this has never been fought before.”

  “By God — you are right, Cumph!” Grant laughed aloud. “We’ll come down on them like the wolf on the sheepfold. Before they even know what has hit them, they will be prisoners — or dead!”

  And so it came to pass. The first black-hulled freighter threw out fenders and tied up to the seaward side of Penzance Harbor. The fenders creaked ominously as the hull moved up and down in the swell, but nothing gave way. The steam winches clanked and the long cargo booms lifted the deck-loaded Gatling guns into the air, swung them onto the wide top of the harbor wall. As the sailors untied the slings, waiting soldiers ran them ashore, where the gun companies were being assembled on the road. As soon as a gun company was complete with ammunition and bearers, it went at a trot down the harbor road to the station, where the first train was already assembled. General Grant himself rode the footplate beside the driver when it puffed its way out of the station and headed east along the coast.

  The second American invasion of the British mainland was well under way.

  A CLASH IN PARLIAMENT

  “This country, today, is faced with the greatest danger that it has ever encountered in its entire history.” The members of Parliament listened in hushed silence as Lord John Russell spoke. “From across the ocean, from the distant Americas, a mighty force has been unleashed on our sovereign shores. Some among you will say that various enterprises undertaken by the previous government went a long way toward igniting the American fury. I will not deny that. I was a member of Lord Palmerston’s government, and as a member I feel a certain responsibility about those events. But that is in the past and one cannot alter the past. I might also say that certain mistakes were made in the governance of Ireland. But the relationship between Britain and Ireland has never been an easy one. However, I am not here to address history. What has been done has been done. I address the present, and the disastrous and cowardly attacks that now beset our country. Contrary to international law, and even common decency, w
e have been stabbed in the back, dealt one cowardly blow after another. Irish and American troops have landed on our shores. Our lands have been ravaged, our citizens killed. So it is that now I call for you to stand with me in a unified government that will unite this troubled land and hurl the invaders back into the sea.”

  Russell was not a prepossessing man. Diminutive and rickety, he wriggled round while he spoke and seemed unable to control his hands and feet. His voice was small and thin; but a house of five hundred members was hushed to catch his every word. He spoke as a man of mind and thought, and of moral elevation. Yet not all were impressed. When Russell paused to look at his notes, Benjamin Disraeli was on his feet in the instant.

  “Will the Prime Minister have the kindness to inform of us the extent of the depredations of the Yankee invader? The newspapers froth and grunt and do little else — so that hard facts are impossible to separate from the dross of their invective.”

  “The right honorable gentleman’s interest is understandable. Therefore it is my sad duty to impart to you all of the details that the Conservative leader of the House has requested.” He looked at his papers and sighed. “A few days ago, on the twenty-first of May, there were landings in Liverpool by foreign troops, apparently Irish for the most part — but we know who the puppet master is here. That city was taken. Our gallant men fought bravely, although greatly outnumbered. The attackers then proceeded to Birmingham, and after a surprise and savage attack secured that city and its environs.”

  Disraeli was standing again, imperious in his anger. “Is it not true that the attacking troops went straight to Sefton Park in Liverpool, where they engaged our soldiers and defeated them? As you undoubtedly know, there is a camp there for Irish traitors to the crown. Is it not also true that while this was happening other invaders seized trains and proceeded to Birmingham? It appears that because the telegraph wires had been cut, the troops there had no warning and were attacked and butchered at Aston Hall. Is this also true?”

  “Regrettably, it is true. At least the newspapers got these facts right.”

  “Then tell us — is it also not true that there were camps at these sites where citizens of Irish extraction were concentrated — women and children as well as men? People who had been seized and imprisoned without being charged with any crime?”

  “Your queries will be answered in a short while. If I am permitted to continue I will answer any questions later in great detail.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the members. Disraeli bowed to their decision and seated himself again.

  “As soon as we learned of these cowardly attacks, this country’s military sprang to its defense. Under the Duke of Cambridge’s instruction, Scots troops from Glasgow and Edinburgh are now on their way to the Midlands. Cavalry and yeomanry as well as the other troops are now in the field, and we expect imminent news of victory. The following regiments have been ordered to…”

  His words died away as a rustle of voices swept the chamber. He looked up to see that one of the parliamentary clerks had let himself into the hall and was hurrying toward the front seats, a single sheet of paper in his hand. He thrust it forward and Russell took it.

  Gasped and staggered as though he had been struck a blow.

  “Attacked,” he said. “Another attack — this time on the naval base at Plymouth!”

  It was the moment of decision. The engine of the first troop train had stopped in Saltash station. A wisp of smoke drifted up from the stack and the metal of the hot boiler clicked quietly. General Grant swung down from the engine and went forward to the advance engine that had halted just before the Albert Bridge across the Tamar River. Troops looked out of the windows of the two cars as he approached; a young captain swung down from the engine and saluted.

  “You took care of the telegraph wires?” Grant asked.

  “Just as you ordered, General. We dropped off a squad at every station to grab the telegraph operator, if there was one. After we left each station we used the train to pull down a half-dozen poles, then took up the wire. Got a passel of it in the freight car.”

  “Good. To the best of your knowledge, then, no warning was sent ahead?”

  “Absolutely none, sir. We moved too fast. None of the operators were at their keys when we busted in.”

  “Well done.” Grant looked across the bridge for a long moment; he could see no activity at the other end. The railway authorities would know by now that the telegraph was out of service the length of Cornwall. Had they thought it necessary to inform the military of this? There was only one way to find out.

  “You will proceed across the bridge. Go slowly until you reach the other side. Then open the throttle and don’t slow down until you go through Plymouth station. Stop there — but leave room for the troop trains behind you. Keep your weapons loaded — but return fire only if you are fired on first. Good luck.”

  “To us all, General!”

  The officer sprinted back to the engine, which started to move even as he was climbing aboard. It pulled slowly out onto the long span of the incredible bridge. The troop train followed a hundred yards behind. Once safely off the bridge, they sped up, faster and faster through the local stations: St. Budeaux, Manadon, and Crownhill. The three following trains would stop at these stations, dispensing troops to seize and envelop the cities from the hills above. Shocked passengers on the platforms fell back as the train plunged through the stations, braking to a stop only after entering Plymouth station itself. The troops jumped down from the cars and fanned out, ignoring the civilians. There was a brief struggle as a policeman was overwhelmed, bound, and locked into the telegraph room with the operator, who had been trying to send a message down the line to London when they seized him. He did not succeed because the advance party had done their job and torn down the wires beyond the station.

  The troops from the train formed up and marched out of the station. General Grant was with them. There was a row of waiting cabs just outside the station.

  “Seize those horses,” General Grant ordered an aide. “They can pull some of the Gatlings.”

  “What is happening here? I demand to know!” A well-dressed and irate gentleman stood before Grant, shaking his gold-headed walking stick in his direction.

  “War, sir. You are at war.” The man was seized by two troopers and bustled away even as Grant spoke.

  The advance down through the streets of Plymouth was almost unopposed. There appeared to be no military units in the city itself; the few sailors they encountered were unarmed and fled before the menacing soldiers. But the alarm had been raised and the Americans came under fire when they approached the naval station.

  “Bring up the Gatlings,” Grant ordered. “The lead squads will bypass any strong points and let the Gatling guns come after and subdue them.”

  The Royal Marines put up a spirited defense of their barracks, but the machine guns chewed them up, tearing through the thin wooden walls. Roaring with victory, the American troops charged into the buildings; the few survivors quickly surrendered. The small number of sailors who took up arms were cut down by the Gatlings — and the marksmanship of the veteran American soldiers.

  No cannon from any of the shore batteries were fired at the attackers because they were all trained out to sea. An attack from the land side of the port had never been expected.

  The Americans were unstoppable. In Devonport they overran and occupied the navy vessels tied up there. The Plymouth docks were larger and more confusing and it took time to work through them. The American attack slowed — but still pushed forward.

  As chance would have it, HMS Defender, which had arrived that morning, was tied up at a buoy in the stream. Her captain was on deck, summoned by the watch officer when they had heard the sound of firing from the city.

  “What is it, Number One?” he asked when he had climbed to the bridge.

  “Gunfire, sir, that is all that I know.”

  “What have you done about it?”

  �
�Sent the gig ashore with Lieutenant Osborne. I thought that a gunnery officer might make sense of what is happening.”

  “Well done. Sounds like a bloody revolution…”

  “Here they come, sir, rowing flat out.”

  “I don’t like this at all. Signal the engine room. Get up steam.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Lieutenant Osborne was panting with exertion as he climbed to the bridge. Yet his face was pale under his tropical tan.

  “Gone all to hell, sir,” he said, saluting vaguely. “Troops everywhere, shooting, I saw bodies…”

  “Pull yourself together, man. Report.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Osborne straightened his shoulders and came to attention. “I had the gig wait at the dockside in case we had to get out in a hurry. I went on alone. Almost ran into a group of soldiers. They were pushing three matelots along that they had taken prisoner. They were shouting and laughing, didn’t see me.”

  “What kind of troops?” the captain snapped. “Be specific.”

  “Blue uniforms with the sergeants’ stripes wrong side up. They sounded like — Americans.”

  “Americans? Here? But how…?”

  The hapless gunnery officer could only shrug. “I saw other parties of them, sir. In the buildings, even boarding the ships. All kinds of gunfire. It was coming closer to me, even flanking me. That’s when I decided that I had better get back and report what I had seen.”

  The captain quickly marshaled his thoughts. He had a grave decision to make. Should he take his ship closer to the dock to fire upon the invaders? But how could he find them? If they had seized any of the British warships, would he fire on his own sailors? If the attack had been as successful as the gunnery officer had said, why, the entire port could well be in enemy hands. If the telegraph lines were down, then no one would even know what had happened here. It was his duty now to inform Whitehall of this debacle.