“Then I gather that we are all in agreement?” Palmerston said testily to his Cabinet, as though any slightest sign of disagreement would be a personal insult. At the age of seventy-nine his voice had lost none of its abrasiveness; his eyes still had the cold, inflexible stare of a serpent.
“It will need a great deal of financing,” the Chancellor of the Exchequer, said, rather petulantly. Palmerston waved away even this slightest of differences.
“Of course it will.” Palmerston dismissed this argument peremptorily. “You are the chap who can always raise the money. That is exactly why I need you today at this particular tête-à-tête,” he added, completely misusing the term. Which, of course, meant just two people, head-to-head. Gladstone chose not to correct him, knowing the Prime Minister’s pride in his ignorance of any language other than English. But the thought of visiting the Queen took the sunlight out of his day.
“You know my feelings,” Gladstone said. “I believe that Her Majesty is one of the greatest Jingoes alive. If we but mention Albert and the Americans in the same breath we can keep the war going for a century. But, really, her interference in affairs of state is enough to kill any man.”
Palmerston had to smile at Gladstone’s tirade because the hatred was mutual. The Queen had once referred to him as a half-mad firebrand. They were a well-matched pair, both self-absorbed and opinionated. “Perhaps you are right — but still we must at least appear to consult her. We need more money. While you do the sums, Admiral Sawyer here will make her privy to the naval considerations involved.”
The admiral had been invited to the Cabinet meeting to present the views of the Royal Navy. More ships of course, more sailors to man them. The new ironclads would prove to be invincible and would strike terror in the Americans’ hearts. Now the admiral nodded slowly in ponderous acknowledgement of his responsibility, his large and fleshy nose bobbing up and down.
“It will be my pleasure to inform Her Majesty as to all matters naval, to reassure her that the senior service is in good and able hands.”
“Good then, we are of a mind. To the palace.”
When they were ushered into the Presence at Buckingham Palace the Queen was sitting for a portrait, her ladies in waiting watching and commenting quietly among themselves. When they entered Victoria dismissed the painter, who exited quickly, walking backwards and bowing as he went.
“This is being painted for our dearest Vicky, who is so lonely in the Prussian Court,” she explained, speaking more to herself than to the others present. “Little Willie is such a sickly baby, with that bad arm he is a constant trial. She will be so happy to receive this.” Her slight trace of a smile vanished when she looked up at the three men. To be replaced by petulant, pursed lips.
“We are not pleased at this interruption.”
“Would it had been otherwise, ma’am,” Lord Palmerston said, executing the faintest of bows. “Exigencies of war.”
“When we spoke last you assured me that all was well.”
“And so it is. When the troops are mustered and ready in Mexico, then the fleet will sail. In the meantime the enemy has been bold enough to attack our merchant fleet, peacefully at anchor in port, in Mexico, causing considerable damage…”
“Merchant ships damaged? Where was our navy?”
“A cogent question, ma’am. As always your incisive mind cuts to the heart of the matter. We have only a few ships of the line in the Pacific, mainly because the enemy has none at all there. They do now — so we must make careful provision that the situation does not worsen.”
“What are you saying? This is all most confusing.”
Palmerston gave a quick nod and the admiral stepped forward.
“If I might explain, ma’am. Circumstances that have now been forced upon us mean that we must now make provision for a much larger Pacific fleet. We have not only received information that the Americans are increasing the expansion of their navy, but are preparing coaling stations to enable them to attack us in the Pacific Ocean.”
“You are confusing Us. Coaling ships indeed — what does this mean?”
“It means, ma’am, that the Americans have widened the field of battle. Capital ships must be dispatched at once to counter this attack,” Gladstone said, reluctantly stepping forward. “We must enlarge our fleet to meet this challenge. And more ships mean more money. Which must be raised at once. There are certain tax proposals that I must set before you…”
“Again!” she screeched, her face suddenly mottled and red. “I hear nothing except this constant demand for more and more money. Where will it end?”
“When the enemy is defeated,” Palmerston said. “The people are behind you in this, Majesty, they will follow where you lead, sacrifice where you say. With victory will come reparations — when the riches of America flow once again into our coffers.”
But Victoria was not listening, lolling back in her chair with exhaustion. Her ladies in waiting rushed to her side; the delegation backed silently out. The new taxes would go through.
In Mexico the battle was not going very well. General Ulysses S. Grant stood before his tent as the regiments slowly moved by at first light. He chewed on his cigar, only half aware that it had gone out. They were good men, veterans, who would do what was required of them. Even here in this foul jungle. He was already losing men to the fever, and knew that there would be more. This was no place to fight a war — or even a holding action like this one. Before he had left Washington, Sherman had taken him aside and explained how important the Mexican front was. The pressure of his attacks, combined with Pacific naval action, would concentrate the British attention on this theater of war. Grant still hated what he was doing. Feeding good soldiers into the meat grinder of a war he was incapable of winning. He spat the sodden cigar out, lit a fresh one and went to join his staff.
Soon after dawn the three American regiments had gathered close to the jungle’s edge, concealed by the lush growth. The guns had been moved up a day earlier, man-hauled into position by the sweating, exhausted soldiers. The clear sound of a bugle sounded for them to fire. It was a heavy bombardment, with the guns standing almost wheel to wheel. Shell after explosive shell burst on the defensive line above. Clouds of smoke billowed up from the flaming explosions. When the firing was at its heaviest the soldiers had started their attack. They marched across the stretch of dead vegetation — then began to clamber up the steep slope of the defenses. As soon as they did the barrage lessened, then died away as the attackers climbed higher.
General Ulysses S. Grant stood to the front, waving them to the attack with his sword. They cheered as they passed him, but soon quieted as they scrambled up the steep slope in the endless heat. Men were beginning to fall now as the defenders, despite the barrage of cannon shells, crawled forward to fire down at the attacking troops. When the first ranks were halfway to the top of the ridge the American cannonfire ceased for fear of hitting their own troops. Now the British firing increased, mixed with the boom of cannon from their dug-in positions.
Men were dropping on all sides — and still on they came. Despite the withering fire the broken ranks of the 23rd Mississippi reached the summit with a cheer. It was bayonets now — or bayonets against kukris, for this portion of the line was held by Gurkha troops. Small, fierce fighting men from Nepal, they neither asked for mercy — nor extended it. As more American troops joined the attackers the Gurkhas were forced back. When the third wave climbed the outer defenses of the lines, General Grant was with them. He, and his adjutant, had to roll aside the corpses of the first attackers to reach the summit.
“Damnation,” Grant said as he chomped down on his dead cigar. “Ain’t no place to go from here.”
That was true enough. Below him was the road, the dirt track through the jungle over the possession of which the two armies now clashed. Although the slope below him was clear of any living enemy — the same could not be said of the far side of the road. Dug-in defenders and cannon were raking his position. Wh
ile down the road, in both directions, galloping horses were approaching, hauling cannon forward. Nor could the Americans move left or right down the defensive line because of the well dug-in positions that were there, adding their shells to the withering fire on the attackers who barely held the ridge.
Grant spat the cigar out, stood up despite the increasing hail of lead.
“We are not going to hold here very long. As soon as those guns get into position they can wipe us out at first go. If we stay here it is as good as suicide. And there ain’t any other place to go — except back.” He turned to his adjutant. “Get the Mississippians out first, they got bloodied well enough for one day. When they are clear sound retreat and get the rest of these men back down this hill just as fast as they can run.”
He did not leave until the first men had reached the safety of the jungle. Only then, reluctantly, did he join in the fighting retreat.
Well, they had had their noses bloodied this day. But he had looked into the enemy’s works and faced their troops. All men of color — but real warriors. And he had broken the British line once — and what they had done once they could do again if they had to. Make a real breach next time, then widen it and cut the road in two. He would talk to the engineers. Perhaps there was the possibility of tunneling under the defenses to plant a mine. Put in a big enough one and it might be able to sever the road and its defenses in one go. If he could do that, and hold it, he could very well put the coming invasion of enemy troops down this road in jeopardy.
But it was going to be a mighty hard thing to do.
THE MEXICAN FILE
Gustavus Fox was seated in the anteroom of Room 313, a half an hour before noon, the time when the meeting was due to begin. He had already checked off two names on his list of those who would be present. General Sherman and General Lee, who had requested that this meeting take place. They had been waiting for him when he arrived at eight that morning to unlock the door. Lee had been carrying a battered leather saddlebag which he never let go of. Fox did not ask about its contents — he would know soon enough. But his curiosity was so great that he could not keep his eyes off it. Lee had seen this and smiled.
“Soon, Gus, soon. You must be patient.”
He did try to be patient, but still he could not keep his eyes off the clock. At a quarter to twelve there was a quick rap on the door and he crossed over to unlock it. The two guards outside were standing at attention; he straightened up himself when the tall and lanky form of the President walked in. He waited until the door had been relocked before Lincoln spoke.
“We finally get to look inside — as the boy said when he opened his Christmas present.”
“I certainly hope so, sir. Generals Sherman and Lee have been here all morning. And General Lee was carrying a mighty full saddlebag.”
“Well he will have all of our attention I assure you. How is our other invasion going?”
“Very well indeed. All of our coaling provisions are in place. And I have reports from agents in England that not only have our preparations been observed, but plans for counter-measures are already in progress. Whoever is spying for the enemy here was very quick off the mark. Whatever agent they have in this country is very efficient. I would dearly love to find out who he is.”
“But not at the present time.”
“Indeed not! Whoever he — or she — is, why they are working for me right now.”
“And the British are paying him. A remarkable arrangement. Ah, there you are Seward,” he said as the Secretary of State entered.
The members of the small circle arrived one by one. Welles and Stanton arrived together, completing their number.
“Shall we go in?” Lincoln asked, pointing to the locked inner door.
“In a moment, gentlemen,” he said as there was a rap on the outer door. Lincoln’s eyebrows rose in unspoken query.
“Our numbers have increased by one since last we met,” Fox said as he unlocked the door.
An erect, gray-haired man in naval uniform came in. Fox locked the door, turned and spoke. “Gentlemen, this is Admiral Farragut who has already been aiding us. Shall we go inside? If you please, gentleman,” Fox said as he unlocked the door to the inner room. Went in after them and locked it behind him.
Sherman and Lee were sitting at the conference table, the saddlebag on the table between them. When they were all seated Lee opened the bag and took out a thick sheaf of papers that he passed to Sherman. Who touched them lightly with his fingertips, looked at the others present with a cold and distant look in his transparent eyes.
“I see you all have met Admiral Farragut, who has been of singularly great assistance to us in our planning,” Sherman said. “His naval wisdom was vital in drawing up what we have been referring to as the Mexican File. So if, by any chance, the name of the operation is overheard, the assumption will be that it refers to our Pacific Ocean operations. The Mexican File comes in two parts.” He separated out the top sheaf held by a red ribbon.
“These orders conform to the proposed attacks that the British now know about. We wish to confer with the Secretary of the Navy after this meeting, in order to transform general fleet movements into specific sailing orders. This operation will begin when a group of warcraft, containing four of our new ironclads, proceeds south as far as Recife in Brazil. They will coal there, then leave port and sail in a southerly direction. The ship’s officers have orders to refuel again at the port of Rawson in Argentina. The Argentines have been informed of their arrival. They will also have orders commanding them to proceed to Salina Cruz, Mexico, to engage any British men-of-war that may be stationed there.” He opened the file and smoothed the pages out.
“The next movements will occur two weeks after the ironclads leave. At this time the fleet of troop-carrying transports will be assembled. They will leave various east-coast ports, to rendezvous off Jacksonville, Florida. They will be joined there by more ironclads. At noon on the first day of September they will all form up and sail south.
“That same night, at nine in the evening, they will all open their sealed orders — that will put them on a new course.” He nodded at Fox who stood and went to the map cabinet, unlocked and opened it. Fixed to the open door was a chart of the Atlantic Ocean. Facing it in the cabinet was the map of Ireland. Sherman walked across the room, every eye on him, and touched a spot in the Atlantic west of the Iberian Peninsula.
“This is their destination. I doubt if you can see this group of islands from where you are sitting, but I assure you that they are there. They are the Azores. On the most northern of these islands, Graciosa, there is a coaling port at Santa Cruz de Graciosa. Ships from Portugal and Spain refuel there on the way to South America. This will be the new rendezvous of the invasion fleet. Arriving on the same day will be the ironclads that the world believes were headed for Cape Horn. Once out of sight of land their sealed orders will also have directed them to this same coaling port. Admiral Farragut, will you elucidate.” He sat down as the admiral crossed to the map and ran his finger around the Azores.
“Sailing times have been carefully calculated, allowance made for irregularities such as storm or accidents. Once both fleets are out of sight of land, their new orders will take them to this secret rendezvous in the Azores. There should be no suspicion that their courses have been changed, because they will be expected to be at sea and out of sight of land for this carefully calculated period. After arriving at the island of Graciosa they will have twenty-four hours to refuel — then set sail. Before I go into the final period — are there any questions?”
Gideon Welles, Secretary of the Navy, looked apprehensive. “So many ships at sea, there will surely be chance encounters with other ships.”
“There undoubtedly will be, sir,” Farragut said firmly. “But we are at war, we are about to be invaded, and our counter-measure to this planned invasion will be positive in our defense. British ships will be captured and made prizes. Ships of other nations will be boarded and will accompan
y our ships to Graciosa. There they will remain for three days after the fleet departs. Only then will they be permitted to leave. Even if one of them should go directly to Spain, where the nearest telegraph is located, it will still be too late. Our invasion will already have begun.”
Welles still wasn’t satisfied. “So many ships involved, so many changes of plans, refueling — much can go wrong…”
“If it does — it will not be through fault of planning. Every distance has been measured, every ton of coal accounted for. There may be minor mishaps, there always are with a maneuver this size, but that cannot be helped. But this will not alter or interfere with the overall plan.”
“Which is what?” The president asked quietly.
“I defer to General Sherman,” the admiral said and regained his seat.
Sherman stood beside the map of Ireland, pointed to it.
“This is where we will land.” He waited until the gasps and murmurs of excitement had died away before he continued. “This is where we will defeat the enemy forces. This is the island that we will occupy. This is where the theatre of war will be — and where the threatened invasion of our country will end. Britain dare not commit so many troops to foreign adventures when the enemy is at the gate, threatening the very heart of her Empire.
“And now I will tell you how we will do it.”
Allister Paisley was a curious man — and a very suspicious one as well. He was an opportunist, so that most of his petty crimes were committed on the spur of the moment. Something of value left unguarded, a door invitingly open. He was also very suspicious and thought every man his enemy. Which was probably right. After he had sent his report on the American activities to England, by way of Belgium, he still wanted additional information. He was paid for what he delivered, and the more he delivered the more money he had to spend. Not so much on alcohol these days, but on the far more satisfactory opium. He sat now in the grubby rented room in Alexandria, Virginia, heating the black globule on the pierced metal opening of his pipe. When it was bubbling nicely he inhaled deeply through the tall mouthpiece. And smiled. Something that few people living had seen him do. As a child he may have smiled: none alive would remember that. Now the sweet smoke burned away all cares. As long as he had the money he could smile; it was wonderful, wonderful.
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