Thomas looked wary. He couldn’t get five guineas for a month’s, two months’ hard labor on the river. Greed fought with fear.
“I’ll take those now,” he finally said. “But ten more when we get there.”
“Done. Let us leave at once.”
Once they were out of the basin, the big sail was hauled up and they made good time through the muddy water. Rounding the Isle of Dogs, they looked back and saw an approaching warship coming down the river behind them. Thomas shouted commands and the sail came down; they drifted close by the docks on the shore there. The ship went smoothly by, the sailors visible on deck giving them no heed. They went on when it had passed, moving quickly and uneventfully until Tilbury came into sight.
“Mother of God…” the helmsman said, standing and shading his eyes. They all looked on in horrified silence at the smoking ruins of the shattered fortress. Walls and battlements had been destroyed, dismounted gun barrels pointed to the sky. Nothing moved. Thomas automatically turned closer to shore at the sight of the four hulking black ships that were anchored across the river. The stars and stripes of the American flag flew from a flagstaff at the stern of the nearest warship. Beyond them, in midstream, the masts and funnel, some of the upperworks of a sunken ship projected a few feet above the water.
“Is she… one of ours?” Thomas asked in a hushed, hoarse voice.
“Perhaps,” Somerville said. “It does not matter. Proceed downstream.”
“Not with them ships there!”
“They are not here to harm a vessel like this one.”
“You can say that, your honor, but who’s to tell.”
Somerville was tempted to reason with the man; reached into his pocket instead. “Five guineas right now — and then ten more when we get downriver.”
In the end avarice won. The lighter crept along the riverbank, slowly past the ruined fort. The warships anchored in the river ignored it. Then they moved faster once they were past the invaders, swept around the bend under full sail.
Ahead of them, anchored by the channel, was another ironclad, bristling with guns.
“Drop the sail!”
“Don’t do that, you fool,” the brigadier shouted. “Look at that flag!”
The British white ensign hung from the staff at her stern.
A MONARCH’S PLIGHT
General Sherman allowed thirty minutes to make absolutely sure that the battle for London was truly won. He went carefully through the reports, checking the references on a map of the city spread across the ornate desk. Through the open window behind him he could hear that the sounds of battle were dying away. A rumble of cannon in the distance, one of the ironclads from the sound of it. They were proving invaluable in reducing the riverside defenses. Then the crackling fire of a Gatling gun.
“I think we have done it, Andy,” he said, sitting back in the chair. His chief of staff nodded agreement.
“We are still finding pockets of resistance, but the main bodies of enemy troops have all been defeated. I am sure that we’ll mop up the rest before dark.”
“Good. Make sure that sentries are posted before the men bed down. We don’t want any surprise night attacks.”
With the city secured, Sherman’s thoughts returned to the next and most important matter at hand.
“You made inquiries. Did you find out where the Queen went?”
“No secret of it — everyone in London seems to know, the ones near the palace saw her pass by. Windsor Castle, they all agree on that.”
“Show me on the map.”
Colonel Summers unfolded the large-scale map and laid it over the one of London.
“Quite close,” Sherman said. “As I remember, there are two train lines going there from London.” He smiled when he saw his aide’s expression. “Not black magic, Andy. It is just that I have been a keen student of my Bradshaw — the volume that contains timetables for every rail line in Britain. Get a troop of cavalry to Paddington Station. Seize the station and the trains.”
Reports and requests for support were coming in and for some time Sherman was kept busy guiding the attacks. Then, when he looked up, he saw that Summers had returned.
“We’re not going anywhere by train for some time, General. Engines and rails were sabotaged at Paddington.”
Sherman nodded grim agreement. “At the other stations as well, I’ll wager. They’re beginning to learn that we make good use of their rolling stock. But there are other ways to get to Windsor.” He looked back at the map. “Here is the castle, upriver on the Thames. Plenty of twists and turns to the river before it gets there. But it’s pretty straight there by road. Through Richmond and Staines, then into Windsor Great Park.”
Sherman looked at the scale on the map. “Must be twenty-five, thirty miles.”
“At least.”
“These soldiers have had a long day fighting; I’m not going to have them endure a forced march after that. Can we spare the cavalry?”
“We certainly can — now that the city has been taken. And they are still fresh.”
“Can we round up more horses?”
“The city is full of them, dray horses for the most part.”
“Good. I want the entire troop to take part in this. Round up all the horses you need and harness them to some Gatling guns. We’ll move them out when the guns are ready. I’ll take command. Make sure the city stays pacified.”
“What about the river, General?”
“That was my next thought. There are plenty of small boats in the Thames that we can commandeer. Put some of our sailors in each one to make sure the crews follow orders. Get a company of troops upriver that way. General Groves will be in command. If he gets there first I want his men to get around the castle but not attack it until he receives the command from me. Whoever is in the castle now — I want them still there when we occupy it.”
“Understood.”
The cavalry went west at an easy trot, General Sherman and his staff to the fore. Almost as soon as they had passed through Chelsea, where a bitter battle had been fought to take the barracks, all signs of war fell behind them. Distant guns still rumbled sporadically, but they could have been mistaken for thunder. The streets were strangely empty for the time of day, though the soldiers were aware of watching eyes from the passing windows. The only untoward incident occurred when they were passing through Putney.
There was the crack of a gun and a bullet passed close to General Sherman.
“Up there!” one of the soldiers shouted, pointing to a puff of smoke from the window of a residence. One after another the cavalrymen fired, their bullets crashing the glass from the window and sending chunks of frame flying.
“Leave it,” Sherman ordered. They galloped on.
It was late afternoon before they passed through Windsor Great Park and saw the crenellated towers of the castle ahead. As they came through the woods, they saw that there were American riflemen who had taken up positions behind many of the trees facing an open green field. A sloping lawn led up to the castle beyond. A major of the Kentucky Rifles stepped forward and saluted Sherman as he slid down from his horse.
“Men all in position, right around the castle, sir.”
“Any resistance?”
“They tried some potshots from the windows, but stopped when we returned their fire. We stayed away, like you ordered. Gates closed tight, but we know there are a passel of people inside.”
“Is the Queen among them?”
“Don’t rightly know. But we rousted out some of the citizens from the town. All say the same thing, and I think they are too frightened to lie. Lots of carriages came today — and the Queen’s was one of them. Nobody come out since.”
“Good work, Major. I’ll take over from here.”
Sherman returned the man’s salute, then turned to look up at the grim granite walls of the castle. Should he wait until they could bring some cannon up to batter an opening in them? There were a number of doors and windows; a sudden attack mig
ht take the castle by storm. But many good men would be lost if the defenders put up a stiff defense. A moment later the decision was taken out of his hands.
“The big front gate is opening, General,” a soldier called out.
“Hold your fire,” Sherman ordered.
The gate swung wide, and from inside the castle there sounded the roll of a drum. The army drummer emerged, accompanied by an officer carrying a white flag.
“Bring them to me,” Sherman ordered, greatly relieved. A squad trotted toward the two soldiers and accompanied them forward, automatically falling in step with the drumbeat. The officer, a colonel, stopped in front of Sherman and saluted, which Sherman returned.
“I wish to speak to your commanding officer,” the British colonel said.
“I am General Sherman, commanding the American army.”
The officer took a folded sheet of paper from his belt. “This message is from His Grace the Duke of Cambridge. He writes, ‘To the commander of the American forces. There are women and children here, and I fear for their safety if this conflict continues. I therefore request you to send an emissary to discuss terms of surrender.’ ”
Sherman felt an intense wave of relief — but did not reveal it in his expression. “I shall go myself. Sergeant, pick a small squad to accompany me.”
It was a large and elegantly furnished room, awash with light from the ceiling-high windows. A tiny woman sat in a large chair, dressed in black, quite chubby, with a puffy face and perpetually open mouth and exophthalmic eyes. She wore a fur miniver over her shoulders and a white widow’s cap with a long veil, as well as a diamond-and-sapphire coronet. The group of ladies-in-waiting around her looked uneasy and frightened. Lord John Russell, diminutive and ancient, was at her side. Along with the uniformed Duke of Cambridge, appearing his usual assertive self.
General Sherman and his party stopped before the waiting group; no one spoke. After a moment Sherman turned away from the Queen and addressed the Duke of Cambridge.
“We have met before,” Sherman said.
“We have,” the Duke said, fighting to control his temper. “This is Lord John Russell, the Prime Minister.”
Sherman nodded and turned to Russell — presenting his back to the Queen. There were horrified gasps from the ladies, which he ignored. “You are leader of the government — while the Duke heads the army. Are you of a like mind that the hostilities are to cease?”
“Some discussion is needed…” Russell said. Sherman shook his head.
“That is out of the question. I was instructed by President Lincoln that the war would be ended only by unconditional surrender.”
“You presume too much, sir!” the Duke raged. “Surrender is a word not lightly used—”
Sherman silenced him with a curt wave of his hand. “It is the only word that I will use.” He turned back to the Queen. “Since you are said to rule supreme in this country, I must tell you that your war is lost. Unconditional surrender is your only option.”
Victoria’s mouth gaped even more widely; she had not been spoken to in this manner since she was a child.
“I cannot… will not,” she finally gasped.
“By God — this has gone far enough!” the Duke raged, stepping forward and pulling at his sword. Before it was free of its scabbard, two soldiers had seized him and prisoned his arms.
“Outrageous…” Russell gasped, but Sherman ignored them both and turned back to the Queen.
“I will cease all military operations as soon as surrender is agreed. You will remember that you sent the white flag to me. So tell me now, is the killing to stop?”
All eyes in the room were now on the diminutive figure in the large chair. The color had drained from her face and she pressed a black handkerchief to her lips. Her eyes found Lord Russell and sought help. He drew himself up but did not speak. When she turned back to General Sherman, she found no compassion in his grim expression. In the end she simply nodded and dropped back in the chair.
“Good,” Sherman said, then addressed himself to the Duke of Cambridge. “I will have the papers for surrender drawn up for you to sign in your capacity as commander of all the armed forces. The Prime Minister will sign as well. You will remain here until that is done.” Once again he spoke to the Queen.
“It is my understanding that you have a residence on the Isle of Wight named Osborne House. I will see to it that you are taken there with your family and servants. The war is now over.”
As he looked around at the luxury of Windsor Castle and the silent witnesses, Sherman could not hold back a sudden feeling of triumph.
They had done it. There would still be skirmishes, but with London taken and the Queen in protective custody, the war would undoubtedly be over.
Now all they had to do was win the peace.
BOOK THREE
DAWN OF A NEW AGE
A COUNTRY DIVIDED
It was a time for confusion, a time for control. The peoples of Great Britain were stunned into inaction by the sudden, earthshaking events, and they appeared to be unable to quite grasp the overwhelming tragedy that had befallen them. Superficially, after two days of uncertainty and near riots, life continued in what appeared to be a normal way. People must eat — so the farmers brought their produce to market. Shops and businesses reopened. The local constables, in a great part of the land, remained at their posts, symbols of law and order. Only in the larger cities was there disconcerting evidence that the world had indeed turned upside down. Blue-clad soldiers patrolled the streets, armed and ready for any exigency. They were there in all of the major train stations, billeted in the police barracks and in hotels, or in rows of neat bell tents in the city parks. At Aldershot and Woolwich, and other army camps, the regular troops were confined to barracks and disarmed, the volunteers and the yeomanry disbanded and sent home.
Cornwall and Plymouth were already occupied and more reinforcements were landed there. Trainloads of troops then went west and north and quietly took over Wales and the northern shires. Only Scotland remained undisturbed — although cut off from all communication with the south. The telegraph wires were down and the trains did not run. Scottish troops remained in their barracks for want of any instructions, while rumors were rife. The English newspapers did not arrive, while the Scottish ones, with access to valid information, had more wild speculation than news.
Martial law had been declared in the land and the national newspapers were the first victims. American officers were now sitting quietly in every editorial office and reading each day’s issues with great interest. There was no attempt at editorial censorship — the papers were allowed to print whatever they saw fit. However, if the Americans felt that editorial material was inaccurate, or might tempt the populace to riot, or in any way might affect the new peace, why then, the printed newspapers were simply not distributed. Within a few days the clear message sank home and a blandness and aura of harmony emanated from all their pages.
“You are sure that you are not going too far with this censorship, Gus?” General Sherman asked, slowly turning the pages of The Times. He had summoned Gustavus Fox to his office in Buckingham Palace. Fox smiled as he shook his head.
“When war walks in the door, truth flies out the window,” Fox said. “You will remember that President Lincoln closed down the strident, dissenting Northern newspapers during the War Between the States. I think that we can be a little more sophisticated now. People will believe what they read in the newspapers. If the populace of Britain reads only about peace and prosperity — and sees no evidence for them to think differently — why then, there will be peace in the land. But rest assured, General, this is only a temporary measure. I am sure that you prefer to operate now in an aura of numbed peace rather than one of disorganization and unrest while your — what shall we call them? — pacification measures go into effect.”
“True, very true,” Sherman said, rubbing at his beard as he cudgeled his thoughts. Winning the peace was proving to be more difficul
t than winning the war had been. He had to rely more and more on civil servants and clerks — even politicians — to organize the peaceful occupation of the country. Thank God that martial law was still in place. He accepted advice, even asked for it, but when it came time for firm decisions, he was the final authority.
“Well — let us put the matter aside for the moment. I sent for you because I’ve had a delegation cooling their heels in a waiting room for most of the morning. I wanted you here when I let them in. I have had a communication from President Lincoln.” He held up the letter. “He congratulates us on our victory, and expresses great pride in the armed forces. I’m having this read out to every soldier and sailor who contributed to that victory. Put it into the newspapers, too — if they will print it. He also includes a letter to the British people, and the papers will certainly print that. But first I would like you to read it to these politicos. See what they have to say about it.”
“That will be my pleasure, General.” Fox took the letter and went through it quickly. “Wonderful. This is just what everyone wants to hear.”
“Good. We’ll have them in.”
The Prime Minister, Lord John Russell, led the delegation; Sherman remembered him from the encounter with the Queen. He introduced the others, mostly members of his cabinet. The only one to make a positive impression on Sherman was Benjamin Disraeli, the leader of the opposition in Parliament. His lean, spare figure was dressed in the most finely cut clothes; there were impressive rings upon his fingers.
“There are chairs for all,” Sherman said. “Please be seated.”
“General Sherman,” Lord Russell said, “we are here as representatives of Her Majesty’s government and, as such, have to present certain grievances…”
“Which I will hear in due course. But first I have here a communication from Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States. Which will be read to you by Mr. Fox, the Assistant Secretary of the Navy. Mr. Fox.”
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