Stars & Stripes Forever

by Harry Harrison

  “You are my eyes and ears,” Lincoln said. “I wish that you could find a way to convince Mr. Pinkerton that your reports are far more reliable than those furnished by his agents in the South.”

  “I have tried many times, in roundabout ways, but he is a very stubborn man.”

  “General McClellan believes in him.”

  “General McClellan also believes in the inflated figures for Southern troops that Pinkerton comes up with. The real number is a third, at most a half of what he reports.”

  “But McClellan remains sure that the numbers are correct and once more finds a reason to avoid action. But he is my responsibility and not yours. So, tell me—what conclusions do you draw from all these facts about the British that you have just presented?”

  Fox thought carefully before he spoke, summoning up his conclusions. “The country is preparing for war in North America. They have the men, the weapons, the supplies and the ships to wage a major war on this continent. Most important of all is the fact that there are no voices of dissent. The newspapers call for war to teach us a lesson. Whigs and Tories unite in Parliament baying for blood. The Queen now believes it as a certainty that we killed Prince Albert.”

  “Certainly that is absurd.”

  “To us perhaps. But I am reliably informed that there is worry about her sanity, that she has sudden vicious obsessions that she cannot control.”

  “Are there no sane voices to be heard?”

  “It is imprudent to go against the public will. A certain baronet in the House of Lords was so unwise as to speak of a possible search for peace. He was not only shouted down but physically assaulted.”

  “This is hard to believe, but I suppose I must. But will they do it? Take the final step?”

  “You can answer that far better than I can, Mr. President. You are privy to the negotiations over their ultimatum, while I am not.”

  “There is little I can tell you that you don’t already know. We want to talk, but I fear that they do not want to listen. And I am beginning to think that we have run out of options. Our newspapers and theirs are filled with fire and brimstone. Their ministers are just as ardent. Lord Lyons has given us his passports and vacated our shores. Our minister Charles Adams does his best to have London accept a rewording of their dispatch, but they agree to nothing. Now Lord Palmerston keeps him at bay and will not admit him to his house, although Adams has called repeatedly at that gentleman’s door. The lord pleads gout as the reason. I believe in the gout but not the excuse.”

  Fox nodded agreement. “Meanwhile the cause of all this, Mason and Slidell, live a life of great luxury in their prison cells. Ordering the best food and wine from Boston and smoking their way through their bottomless supply of Havana cigars.”

  “Luxury it may be—but they are still imprisoned. And as long as they are the Britons will remain adamant in their condemnation of this country. Find me a way out of this impasse, Mr. Fox, and I will bestow upon you the highest rewards this country can offer.”

  “I wish that I could sir, how I wish that I could.”

  BRINK OF WAR

  Although it was the first day of May, it felt more like winter here in the northern hills of Vermont. Cold rain lashed the pine trees, turning the little-used track into adhesive mud. The horses walked slowly, heads down with weariness, and had to be urged on constantly by pulling on their reins. Both of the men who were leading them were as weary as the horses, yet they never for an instant thought of riding. That would have meant that their mounts would have to carry heavier loads. That was not possible. The reason for this long and exhausting journey was there in the barrels on the horses’ backs.

  Jacques squinted up at the sky, then wiped his streaming face with the back of his hand. Only the rich could afford to buy a watch—and he was anything but that. But he knew by the steadily darkening sky that it was close to sunset.

  “Soon, Phillipe, soon,” he shouted back in Canadian-accented French. “We will stop before we cross the ridge. Then go on after dark.”

  His brother answered something, but his words were drowned out by a sharp crack of thunder. They plodded on, then turned from the track to seek some shelter under the branches of an ancient stand of oak trees. The horses found clumps of fresh grass to graze upon while the men slumped down with their backs against the thick trunks. Jacques took the cork from his water bottle and drank deep, smacking his lips as he sealed it again. It was filled with a strong mixture of whiskey and water. Phillipe watched this and frowned.

  Jacques saw his expression and laughed aloud—revealing a mouthful of broken and blackened teeth. “You disapprove of my drinking, little brother. You should have been a priest. Then you could tell others what they should and should not do. It helps the fatigue and warms the bones.”

  “And destroys the internal organs and the body.”

  “That too, I am sure. But we must enjoy life as well as we can.”

  Phillipe squeezed water from his thin, dark beard, and looked at the squat, strong body of his older brother. Just like their father. While he took after their mother, everyone said. He had never known her: she had died when he had been born.

  “I don’t want to do this anymore,” Phillipe said. “It is dangerous—and some day we will be caught.”

  “No we won’t. No one knows these hills as I do. Our good father, may he rest in peace with the angels, worked the stones of our farm until he died. I am sure that the endless toil killed him. Like the other farmers. But we have a choice, do we not? We can do this wonderful work to aid our neighbors. Remember—if you don’t do this—what will you do? You are like me, like the rest of us—an uneducated Quebecois. I can barely sign my name—I cannot read nor write.”

  “But I can. You left school, the chance was there.”

  “For you perhaps, I for one have no patience with the schoolroom. And if you remember our father was ill then. Someone had to work the farm. So you stayed in school and were educated. To what end? No one will hire you in the city, you have no skills—and you don’t even speak the filthy language of the English.”

  “There is no need for English. Since the Act of Union Lower Canada has been recognized, our language is French—”

  “And our freedom is zero. We are a colony of the English, ruled by an English governor. Our legislature may sit in Montreal but it is the English Queen who has the power. So you can read, dear brother, and write as well. Where is the one who will hire you for these skills? It is your destiny that you must stay in Coaticook where there is nothing to do except farm the tired land—and drink strong whiskey to numb the pain of existence. Let the rest stay with the farming—and we will take care of the supplying of the other.”

  He looked at the four barrels the horses were carrying and smiled his broken smile. Good Yankee whiskey, untaxed and purchased with gold. When they crossed back into Canada its value would double, so greedy were the English with their endless taxes. Oh yes, Her Majesty’s Customs men were active and eager enough, but they would never be woodsmen enough to catch a Dieumegard who had spent his life in these hills. He pressed his hand against the large outer pocket of his leather coat, felt the welcome outline of his pistol.

  “Phillipe—” he called out. “You have kept your powder dry?”

  “Yes, of course, the gun is wrapped in oilskin. But I don’t like it . . .”

  “You have to like it,” Jacques snarled. “It’s our lives that depend upon this whiskey—they shall not take it from us. That is why we need these guns. Nor shall they take me either. I would rather die here in the forest than rot in some English jail. We did not ask for this life or to be born in our miserable village. We have no choice so we must make the best of it.”

  After this they were silent as day darkened slowly into night. The rain still fell, but not as heavily as earlier in the day.

  “Time to go,” Jacques said, climbing stiffly to his feet. “One more hour and we will be across the border and in the hut. Nice and dry. Come on.”
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  He pulled on the horse’s reins and led the way. Phillipe leading the other horse, following their shapes barely visible in the darkness ahead.

  There was no physical boundary between Canada and the United States here in the hills, no fence or marking. In daylight surveyors’ markers might be found, but not too easily. This track was used only by the animals, deer for the most part. And smugglers.

  They crossed the low ridge and went slowly down the other side. The border was somewhere around here, no one was quite sure. Jacques stopped suddenly and cocked his head. Phillipe came up beside him.

  “What is it?”

  “Be quiet!” his brother whispered hoarsely. “There is something out there—I heard a noise.”

  A DEADLY SURPRISE IN THE FOREST

  “Deer—”

  “Deer don’t rattle, crétin. There again, a clinking.”

  Phillipe heard it too, but before he could speak dark forms loomed up before them. Mounted men.

  “Merde! Customs—a patrol!”

  Jacques cursed under his breath as he struggled his revolver from his pocket. His much-treasured Lefaucheaux pinfire caliber .41. He pointed it at the group ahead and pulled the trigger.

  Again and again.

  Stabs of flame in the darkness. One, two, three, four shots—before the inevitable misfire. He jammed the gun into his pocket, turned and ran, pulling the horse after him.

  “Don’t stand there, you idiot. Back, we go back! They cannot follow us across the border. Even if they do we can get away from them. Then later get around them, use the other trail. It’s longer—but it will get us there.”

  Slipping and tugging at the horses they made their way down the hill and vanished into the safety of the forest.

  There was panic in the cavalry patrol. None of them had ventured into this part of the mountains before and the track was ill-marked. Heads down to escape the rain, no one had noticed when the corporal had missed the turning. By the time it grew dark they knew that they were lost. When they stopped to rest the horses, and stretch their legs, Jean-Louis approached the corporal who commanded the patrol.

  “Marcel—are we lost?”

  “Corporal Durand, that is what you must say.”

  “Marcel, I have known you since you peed yourself in bed at night. Where are we?”

  Durand’s shrug went unseen in the darkness. “I don’t know.”

  “Then we must turn about and return the way we came. If we go on like this who knows where we will end up.”

  After much shouted argument, name-calling and insults, they were all from the same village, the decision was made.

  “Unless anyone knows a better route, we go back,” Corporal Durand said. “Mount up.”

  They were milling about in the darkness when the firing began. The sudden flashes of fire unmanned them. Someone screamed and the panic grew worse. Their guns were wrapped about to keep them dry; there was no time to do anything.

  “Ambush!”

  “I am shot! Mother of God, they have shot me!”

  This was too much. Uphill they fled, away from the gunfire. Corporal Durand could not stop them, rally them, not until the tired horses stumbled to a halt. He finally assembled most of them in the darkness, shouted loudly so the stragglers would find them.

  “Who was shot?”

  “It was Pierre who got it.”

  “Pierre—where are you?”

  “Here. My leg. A pain like fire.”

  “We must bandage it. Get you to a doctor.”

  The rain was ending and the moon could be seen dimly through the clouds. They were all countrymen and this was the only clue they needed to find their way back to camp. Exhausted and frightened they made their way down from the hills. Pierre’s dramatic moaning hurrying them on their way.

  “Lieutenant, wake up sir. I’m sorry—but you must wake up.”

  Lieutenant Saxby Athelstane did not like being disturbed. He was a heavy sleeper and difficult to waken at the best of times. At the worst of times, sodden with drink like this, it was next to impossible to stir him. But it had to be done. Sergeant Sleat was getting desperate. He pulled the officer into a sitting position, the blanket fell to the ground, and with a heave he swung him about so that the lieutenant’s feet were on the cold ground.

  “Wha . . . what?” Athelstane said in a blurred voice. Shuddered and came awake and realized what was happening. “Take your sodding paws off of me! I’ll have you hung for this . . .”

  Sleat stepped back, desperate, the words stumbling from his mouth as he rushed to explain.

  “It’s them, sir, the Canadian militia patrol, they’re back . . .”

  “What are you babbling about? Why in Hades should I care at this time of night?”

  “They was shot at, Lieutenant. Shot at by the Yankees. One of them is wounded.”

  Athelstane was wide-awake now. Struggling into his boots, grabbing at his jacket, then stumbling out of his tent into the driving rain. There was a lantern in the mess tent which was now crowded with gabbling men. A few of the volunteer militia could speak some broken English, the rest none at all. They were backwoods peasants and totally useless. He pushed through them, thrusting them aside, until he reached the mess table. One of their number was lying on the table, a filthy cloth tied about his leg.

  “Will someone bloody well tell me what happened,” Athelstane snarled. Corporal Durand stepped forward, saluted clumsily.

  “Eet was my patrol, sir, the one you ordered out that we should scout along the Yankee border. We rode as you told us to, but took too long. The weather it was very bad . . .”

  “I don’t want the history of your sodding life—just tell me what you found.”

  “We were at the border when it happened, many Yankees, they attacked suddenly, fired at us. Pierre here is wounded. We fought back, fired at them and drove them back. Then they went away, we came back here.”

  “You say you were at the border—you are sure?”

  “Sans doute! My men know this country well. We were very close to the border when the attack she came.”

  “Inside Canada?”

  “Oui.”

  “You have no doubt that the bloody Yankees invaded this country?”

  “No doubt, sir.”

  Lieutenant Athelstane went to the wounded militiaman and unwrapped the rag from his leg; he groaned hoarsely. There was a bloody three-inch-long gash in his thigh.

  “Shut your miserable mouth!” Athelstane shouted. “I’ve cut myself worse while shaving. Sergeant—get someone to wash this wound out and bandage it correctly. Then bring the corporal to my tent. We’ll see if we can’t make some kind of sense of this entire affair. I’ll take the report to the colonel myself.”

  Lieutenant Athelstane actually smiled as he walked back through the lines. It would be jolly nice to get away from the frog militia for a bit, back in the mess with his friends. That was something to look forward to. He hadn’t bought this commission with his inheritance just to be buried out here in the forest. He would write a detailed report of this night’s business that would get the colonel’s attention and approval. Invasion from the United States. Cowardly attack. Fighting defense. It would be a very good report indeed. He would show them the kind of job he could do. Yes, indeed. This really was worth looking forward to.

  “A word, sir, if I could,” Harvey Preston said.

  Charles Francis Adams looked up from the papers on his desk with irritation, his concentration broken. “Not now, Preston—you can see that I am working.”

  “It is about the servants, sir.”

  “Well, yes, of course. Best to close the door.”

  When Secretary of State Seward had secured for Adams the position of minister to Great Britain it was Abraham Lincoln himself who offered him congratulations. Adams was no stranger to the Presidential Mansion—after all his father had been President—and his grandfather as well. But this had been a very different occasion. Lincoln had introduced him to an Assistant Se
cretary of the Navy, one Gustavus Fox. For a navy man Fox had a great interest in matters of security. English servants, important papers, state secrets and the like. He had recommended the appointment of Preston, “A former military man” as house manager. Or butler, or major-domo. His exact role remained unclear. Yes, he did indeed manage Adams’s house, keeping an eye on the cook and hiring the servants.

  But he did a lot more than that. He knew far more about affairs of state in London, Court gossip, even matters of the military, than Adams himself did. And his information always proved accurate. After a few months Adams began to rely on the facts he assembled, using some of them as the basis of reports to Washington. The reference to servants meant that he had information to reveal.

  “Something very important is happening in Whitehall,” Preston said as soon as the door was closed.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know yet. My informant, who is a junior clerk in one of the departments, would not tell me without payment of a sum of money.”

  “Don’t you usually pay for information?”

  “Of course—but just a few shillings at a time. This time it is different. He wants twenty guineas, and I don’t have that sum available.”

  “That is a lot of money!”

  “I agree. But he has never failed me before.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Pay him. We must take the chance.”

  Adams thought for a moment, then nodded. “I will get it from the safe. How do you meet him?”

  “He comes to the carriage house at a prearranged time.”

  “I must be there,” Adams said firmly.

  “He must not see you.” Preston chewed his lip in thought. “It could be done. Get there early, sit in the carriage in the dark. I’ll keep him at the door.”

  “Let us do it.”

  Adams waited in the carriage, growing more and more unsure of his decision. The man was late, the whole thing might be a plot to embarrass him. He was definitely not acquainted with this kind of occasion. His thoughts spinning, he jumped when there was a sudden loud knocking on the door. He pushed back against the seat, trying to get as close as he could without being seen. There was the squeak of rusty hinges.