Stars and Stripes In Peril sas-2

by Harry Harrison

  “What’s your depth?” Goldsborough couldn’t help asking.

  “She’s dredged deep, Captain, dredged deep,” the pilot reassured him. “But I’ll only take you as far as the Customs House. You can tie up at the North Wall. Keep that beacon to starboard, that’s a good man.”

  Ever so slowly the great gunship crept forward.

  In the Customs House, now that the attacks had begun, the resurrected telegraphs began to clatter.

  “From General Hooker, sir,” handing the folded paper to Sherman. This was a vital report and overdue; the general opened it calmly. Read it and nodded.

  “Hooker’s brigade has detrained at the meeting place, just outside Monastereven. The volunteers with the horses were waiting. He is moving against the barracks in the Curragh now. His scouts report no enemy activity and he hopes to engage the enemy by dark.”

  But not if Lieutenant Knight of the Royal Hussars had his way. He had been exercising his horse on the Kildare road when he had seen the train come to a stop in the empty field ahead. He had made only casual notice of it until he had seen the blue-uniformed soldiers emerge. Blue? What regiment could that possibly be? He had tied his mount to a tree by the side of the road and pushed his way through the hedge to get a better view. His jaw dropped with amazement — then he recovered and pulled himself back behind the hedge.

  Those weren’t British troops — they were bloody Americans! He knew them well from the long retreat up the Hudson valley.

  Americans here? There could be only one reason.

  “Invasion,” he said through gritted teeth, as he pulled himself into his saddle. Bloody cheek. Right in Britain’s back garden.

  He started off at a trot — then spurred his mount into a gallop as soon as he was out of sight of the train. The general at the Curragh had to be told. The soldiers had to be warned, they must stand to arms. There had been almost ten thousand of them there at the last muster. More than enough to give the Yankees the drubbing that they so richly deserved.

  High in the bell tower of Christ Church, Lieutenant Buchner had a fine view across the city, with all of Dublin opened out before him. Off to the left there was a hint of water, the River Liffey, just barely visible between the buildings. The Green of Phoenix Park was behind him, while in front of him he could clearly see the buildings and the quad of Trinity College. All around were the church towers and chimneypots of the city — and the smoke from burning buildings. Men were fighting — and dying — out there. And here he was, perched on top of a church, miles from his guns and his men of the 32nd Pennsylvania. But he still had a job to do.

  “Anything yet?” he called out to the soldier who was crouched behind the wall and industriously working a telegraph key.

  “Almost, sir, got an answer — then was cut off again. Won’t be long — wait! There it is.”

  “Ask them if the ship has tied up yet — and where.”

  Lieutenant Buchner looked again at the map that was tacked to the board. He aligned the compass heading yet one more time, noted the degree on the compass rose. This plan had worked out all right when they had rehearsed it. But anything could happen in the stress of battle.

  Aboard the Avenger Commodore Goldsborough felt a great relief when the propeller had finally stopped and they had tied up against the granite wall of the river. On the bridge next to him, the signalman was looking through his binoculars at the upper story of the Customs House.

  “I have him, sir,” he called out. “Signalman Potter.” He looked at the moving flags. “Message reads — are you ready to receive?”

  “We certainly are. What does he say.”

  “Range… estimated at nine hundred and sixty yards. Compass bearing—”

  The information was passed on to the first turret, which rumbled around to port as one of its guns elevated.

  “Fire on the bearing,” the captain ordered.

  The plume of fire and smoke roared out: the tight cables to shore creaked as the recoil rocked the ship.

  “Over!” Buchner shouted as the shell exploded in the street below. “Nearer to us than the Castle. Signal that they are over by two hundred yards. Lower range. Change bearing right by one degree. Tell them that they can fire again — but only one gun at a time so I can mark the fall.”

  The telegraph operator sent his message along the newly installed wire to the Customs House. As soon as it was transcribed it was handed to the signalman from the Avenger whose flags quickly relayed it to the ship.

  Short seconds later a second shell exploded. “Much better.” Buchner smiled and rubbed his hands together. This was going to work after all. “Tell them that they are on target and can fire at will.”

  A few minutes later shell after shell began to explode in Dublin Castle.

  General Sherman had his artillery — even if it was mounted aboard an ironclad. This was indeed a new kind of war that they were fighting.

  General Napier was at a staff meeting in the Curragh when Lieutenant Knight burst in. “General, sir, I do believe that the Americans have invaded this country. I saw a train filled with American soldiers. Unloading. Coming this way.”

  “Indeed,” Napier said. He was a good field officer but he did not like to be rushed. “Show me where.” He pointed to the map hanging on the wall.

  “Here, sir, a ruddy great trainload of them. Blue uniforms, I remember them from the Hudson valley.”

  Napier nodded. “This would explain why all the telegraph lines are down. If there is an invasion on it would be simple enough to get some of the locals to take care of that bit of sabotage. I am sure that they would exact great pleasure from interfering with our communications.” He looked around at his assembled officers. “Gentlemen. Let us go to war.”

  General Hooker’s scouts reported contact with the enemy. In strength — with cavalry. Half of his men were crossing the ploughed fields and that wouldn’t do.

  “Fall back to the last hedgerow. And bring up the Gatlings — we are going to need them.”

  The fire grew fiercer when the two armies made contact. The British taking cover before the rapid-firing American rifles. General Napier saw the advance grind to a halt and ordered the cavalry around to flank the Americans. Take them from the rear and pin them down. Then go in for the kill.

  The cavalry galloped out, jumping fences as they moved through the green fields. The Americans here were jammed in the single road between high hedges. A killing ground for the heavy cavalry sabers. With a roar they charged.

  The Gatling guns that had hurriedly been driven forward opened up with their heady blast of sound. Horses screamed and fell, troopers as well as the hail of lead poured into them. In moments the charge was broken, the troops dismembered, killed.

  General Napier did not know it yet, but the battle of the Curragh was as good as lost. His men were brave soldiers and good fighters. But they could not stand up to this new weapon of death.

  With the charge broken, General Joe Hooker’s men pushed forward once again. The Gatling guns ready to demolish any resistance that stood in their way.

  MOST SHOCKING NEWS

  The officer ran out of the front door of the Horse Guards and across the courtyard. The two mounted cavalrymen in front of their guardboxes, as they had been trained to do, did not stir a muscle. Although they did look at him out of the corners of their eyes as his boots clattered across the cobbles towards them.

  “You!” he shouted, “Trooper Brown. Take this!”

  He shoved the piece of paper into the gloved hand of the mounted sentry.

  “Take it to Buckingham Palace — to the Prime Minister. He is meeting with the Queen. Put that bloody saber away and go!”

  That was a clear order that had to be obeyed. Brown seized the sheet of paper as he jammed his saber back into its scabbard, kicked his horse into action with his spurs and galloped out into Whitehall. Pedestrians turned and gaped at this wondrous sight. Here was one of the guards who was formally mounted in front of the Horse Guards, wit
h plumed steel helmet, shining gorget, now galloping wildly away. Dodging between the cabs and turning into the Mall. As he galloped its length he managed to take a glimpse at the paper he was carrying, gasped aloud and spurred his mount even harder.

  Through the palace gates and clattering across the cobbled courtyard. His horse reared up as he pulled hard on his reins, then jumped to the ground.

  “For the Prime Minister!” he shouted as he ran past the astonished porter, clumsy in his high boots.

  Lord Palmerston was sure that the Queen understood little of what she was hearing now. Yet she wanted to see every order and hear every government decision herself. Not for the first time did he miss Prince Albert. A man of intelligence and decision. Not this pop-eyed and plump little woman, he thought unkindly. He doubted if she understood one word in ten. Lord Russell droned on about the exhaustive and boring administrative details of the latest tax rise. Stopping when, after a brief knock, the door was thrown wide and the cavalryman clattered in.

  “A telegraph message, a matter of some emergency for Lord Palmerston,” the equerry called out.

  The messenger stamped to a halt, thudding and jangling as he came to attention and saluted. Queen Victoria’s jaw dropped. Palmerston reached out and seized the paper, read the first three words and gasped aloud.

  “Good God!”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Victoria shouted, her temper beginning to rise.

  “The Americans…” Palmerston could only choke out the words. “The Americans — they have invaded Ireland.”

  The cavalryman’s boots creaked, his spurs jangled, as he backed clumsily from the room in the silence that followed.

  “What are you saying?” Lord Russell shouted. “Who is that from?”

  Palmerston read the signature aloud. “General Tarbet. He is in charge of the defenses of Belfast.” Palmerston grew most pale and his hands began to shake.

  “A chair for Lord Palmerston!” Russell called out to the servants as he took the telegram from the Prime Minister’s flaccid fingers. He read it aloud.

  “I am forced to report that the Americans are now in the process of invading Ireland. There is a ship of war in Belfast Lough that is shelling our defenses. All telegraph communication has been destroyed. I cannot contact Dublin or Londonderry. The telegraph to Scotland has been severed. There is the sound of gunfire in the city. If you receive this message it will indicate that Captain Otfried of my command has succeeded in crossing to Scotland. Query him for more information at the telegraph source of this message.”

  “Send for my carriage!” Lord Palmerston shouted, staggering to his feet, somewhat recovered. “Get messages to the War Department and the Royal Navy, to my Cabinet. An emergency meeting of the Cabinet — at once.”

  “What does this all mean?” Queen Victoria screeched. “What is happening?”

  Palmerston was very much in control of himself now, although his pale face was mottled and shining. “It seems, Ma’am, as though the Americans have fought guile with guile. Apparently their attack on Mexico was just about as real as our attack on the Bahamas. That is — nonexistent. Their fleet has not gone to the Pacific Ocean as was reported to us with such authority. Instead they have come here and invaded these British Isles. They have attacked Ireland — and we know nothing about it! Nothing more than these few words!”

  He bowed and stumbled backwards out of the room. He heard the Queen calling after him but did not respond.

  The Cabinet Room was bursting with sound when the Prime Minster opened the door. The politicians, army and navy officers, were calling out to one another, seeking information, getting no answers.

  “Silence!” Palmerston roared. “I want silence.”

  “What is this nonsense about an invasion?” the Duke of Cambridge called out as he threw the door wide and entered, Brigadier Somerville following close behind him.

  “Just that,” Palmerston said. “Read it for yourself.” He passed over the telegram. “We need to find out more. And at once.”

  “HMS Conqueror is now at Portsmouth,” Admiral Sawyer called out.

  “Telegraph Portsmouth now,” Palmerston said. “Tell them what we know. Tell her captain to sail at once for Ireland. We need to find out what is happening there.”

  Brigadier Somerville had been speaking quietly to the Duke of Cambridge, who was nodding as he listened. “We need knowledge of the enemy,” Somerville said. “Whereabouts they are, in what numbers…”

  “We need bloody well more than that!” The Duke’s face was glowing bright red. “We need to wipe them off the map!”

  “But, your grace, without knowledge we don’t know where to attack. I suggest a reconnaissance in force. The Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders will be in barracks in Glasgow. We should have at least a company to stand to arms. There will be shipping in the Clyde. A ship could be commandeered at once, and these troops transported to Northern Ireland. To the fishing port of Carnlough, in Carnlough Bay, might be a likely spot for a landing. It is out of sight of Larne where the enemy warship was seen. But no more than thirty miles north of Belfast. They could discover if—”

  “Bugger discovery — I want them stopped, destroyed, wiped out!”

  He was shouting so loud that the room grew silent as they listened. The Duke turned to face them, shoulders hunched, nostrils flaring, a bull about to attack.

  “They want war? They shall have war. I want all of the troops in the Glasgow garrison to get to Ireland at once. Then I want complete mobilization, right across the country. Stand to arms! Call out the yeomanry. And that warship we are sending to spy — what’s her name?”

  “The Conqueror,” the admiral said.

  “She’s to do more than just snoop. After they have found what is happening in Ireland — and reported back to us — order the ship north to this Carnlough Bay. The Americans will have their navy at sea. I want our troops protected. Whatever the Americans think they are doing in Ireland, whatever they are doing, they will be stopped!” He turned to Somerville, stabbing out his finger. “Issue the orders!”

  Somerville had no choice. He came to attention. “Yes, sir,” he said. Turned and went to went down to the telegraph office himself, composing the messages as he went. Mobilization of all troops on duty in Glasgow. Both regiments. The issue of ammunition before leaving the barracks. Water bottles full, emergency rations for a week. Field guns? No, too slow to muster and move at once. They would follow by the next ships. The first troops would be a reconnaissance in strength. The need was for speed. He wrote out the orders and gave them to the telegrapher, then pulled over the bound book of military telegraph connections. He made a list of the major barracks and regiments. Horse Guards, Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, Green Howards, all of them. Then he wrote out an order for general mobilization.

  “Send this order to these units immediately,” he said, passing the list to the chief operator. “I want an acknowledgement that the orders have been received from each one of them.”

  In Glasgow the bugles sounded clearly through the afternoon rain, followed by the bellowed commands of the sergeants, the hammer of running feet. Lieutenant Colonel McTavish, in command, was a veteran soldier — his troops just as experienced and professional. They were used to quick actions and even quicker decisions. Minutes later there was the clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobbles outside the barracks as a staff officer galloped towards the shipping offices on the banks of the Clyde. It was a measure of their professionalism that by the time dusk was falling the armed and fully equipped soldiers were marching out of their barracks to the strains of the bagpipes, making their way down to the docks. As they boarded the commandeered steamships they heard the angry shouts of the forcefully disembarked passengers struggling to find their luggage.

  It was a slow crossing to Ireland for the two ships, down the Firth of Clyde and across the Irish Channel. Deliberately so since the ships’ captains had conferred, while the troops were being boarded, and had agreed that they
wanted to arrive off the Irish coast just at dawn. A landing at night would be impossible.

  The sea was calm, with no other ships in sight at daybreak, when they crept into Carnlough Bay and dropped anchor. The ships’ lifeboats were swung out and they began the tedious business of ferrying the troops to land.

  G Company was the first ashore.

  The first of the soldiers, kilts swaying as they marched, were moving out on the coast road south well before the last of the regiment had been rowed ashore.

  “Get some scouts out ahead,” Major Bell ordered from the head of the column. He did not want them to march into any surprises: the sergeant-major sent them forward at double time.

  Close to the village of Saint Cunning the marching column passed a fanner lifting potatoes in his field. Two of the soldiers hustled him back to Major Bell.

  “Your name?”

  “O’Reardon, your honor.”

  “Has there been any military engagements here?”

  “Not here, sir. But there was the sound of guns from Belfast, then at Larne. Began at dawn. Could hear them clearly, we could. I sent young Brian running to see what was happening. He only got as far as Ballyruther, down the road. As he was going through the village two soldiers came out of the shop and grabbed him. Frightened the bejeezus out of him.”

  “English soldiers?”

  “Indeed not, he said. Foreigners of some kind. Wearing sort of brown uniforms, talked so funny he couldn’t hardly understand them. They turned him back, didn’t harm him or anything. He even had the nerve to ask them what was happening. They laughed at that and one of them said, this is what Brian told me — we’ve come to set you free.”

  “Indeed.” Major Bell scratched a note on his message pad and waved over a runner. “For the colonel.” He traced a new route on his map as he called out to the sergeant-major.

  “The main force is going to bypass this village. But I am going to take a company to find out how many enemy troops there are there. See if we can’t get some prisoners.”