Stars & Stripes Triumphant

by Harry Harrison

  "Excuse me Mr. Ericsson," General Grant interrupted. "Is that Swedish you are talking?"

  "Svensk? Nej. I am speaking English."

  "Well, it could be Swedish as far as I am concerned. I can't understand a word that you said."

  "Perhaps—if you were less technical," Ramsey said. "In layman's language."

  Ericsson drew himself up, anger in his eyes, muttering to himself. With an effort he spoke again.

  "All right, then, at its most simple. A quantity of heat is taken from a hot source and some of it is transferred to a colder location—while the balance is transformed into mechanical work. This is how a steam engine works. But the Carnot cycle can be applied to a different machine. That machine is what you see here. My Carnot engine has two cylinders, and is much more compact than any steam engine which must rely on an exterior source of steam to run. Here, using a very volatile liquid I have refined from kerosene, I have succeeded in causing combustion within the cylinders themselves."

  Grant hadn't the slightest idea what the man was talking about, but Ramsey was nodding agreement. Ericsson signaled to a mechanic who was oiling the engine with a long-spouted can. The man put the can down and seized the handle of a crank that was fixed to the front of the machine. He turned it, faster and faster, then reached over and pulled a lever. The engine burst into life with a thunderous roar, then it poured out a cloud of noxious smoke. Ericsson ignored the smoke, fanning it away from his face, as he pointed to the rear end of the machine at a rapidly rotating fitting. "Power, gentlemen," he shouted above the din. "Power to rotate the heaviest turret in the biggest ship. And the end of the deadly steam lines." He reached to pull the control lever back and the roar died away.

  "Very convincing," Ramsey said. Grant was less than impressed, but kept his silence. Davis, who left the workshop before the demonstration had begun, had returned with another man, well dressed, small, and rotund.

  "Why, Mr. Parrott," General Ramsey said, smiling broadly, "how very good it is to see you again. General Grant, this is William Parker Parrott, the eminent gunsmith."

  This General Grant could understand. "Mr. Parrott, this is indeed a pleasure. I believe that your weapons are the best in the world. God knows that I have fought and won many a battle with them."

  Parrott beamed with delight. "I shall treasure those words, General. Now let me show you why I asked Mr. Ericsson to invite you and General Ramsey here. Or rather why Mr. Ericsson and I have collaborated on an invention. It all began when Mr. Ericsson was visiting my office some time ago and saw on my wall a British patent application for a totally impossible invention."

  "As it was then designed," Ericsson said. "But improving on the original is not impossible to men of genius—which is a distinction that Parrott and I share." The inventor was never the one to hide his light under a bushel. "When I had finished my Carnot engine, I thought at once of the patent for the impractical steam wagon. Now, I said to myself, now it can be built. And between us we have done just that."

  He led them across the room to a bulky form draped with canvas. With a dramatic gesture he pulled away the cover. "There, gentlemen, a practical engine wagon."

  It was such a novel machine, so strange to the eye, that they could not take it in all at once. It appeared to be a triangular platform of sorts with spiked wheels on its two front corners, a single wheel at the back. The stocky black engine sat sideways across the device. A cogged wheel was fixed to the engine's shaft. This, in turn, transmitted power to a heavy chainlike device, which, in turn, rotated another cogwheel on the shaft connecting the two front wheels. Behind the engine was a small seat facing some gauges and a tiller that was connected to the steerable rear wheel. The mechanic started the engine and stepped back. Parrott climbed proudly into the seat, worked some levers—and the machine rolled slowly forward. Using the tiller to move the rear wheel, he trundled slowly about the workshop, making a complete circle before he returned to the starting place and turned off the engine. Even Grant was impressed with the demonstration.

  "Remarkable!" Ramsey said. "Strong enough to tow a heavy gun over rough terrain."

  "Yes, it can do that," Ericsson said with a smile. "But it can do even more." He signaled to the door, where two men were waiting. They went out and returned with a wheeled Gatling gun. With practiced movements they placed a ramp before the machine and rolled the gun up onto the platform between the front wheels.

  "So you see, gentlemen, with a single addition the powered wagon becomes a mobile battery."

  Grant was still puzzling out the precise meaning of this new machine when Ramsey, who dealt with ordnance on a daily basis, gasped with sudden comprehension.

  "A mobile battery—no, not one—but a squadron of them! They could take the battle to the enemy, decimate him.

  "Your engine will bring the guns swiftly into battle. Firepower that no army can stand against. Why—I think that this invention will change the face of warfare forever."

  IN THE ENEMY'S HEARTLAND

  "All aboard. All aboard, if you please," the guard said, nodding at the two well-dressed gentlemen. They had dark silk hats, expensive suits, gold cuff links; he knew the gentry when he saw them.

  "And where is first class?" the Count asked.

  "This entire carriage, sir, thanking you."

  Korzhenevski led the way down the corridor and slid open the door of an empty compartment. They sat at the window facing each other. General Sherman patted the upholstered seats.

  "Cut-glass mirrors and brass fittings," he said. "The English sure know how to take care of themselves."

  Korzhenevski nodded in agreement. "They do enjoy their luxuries and little indulgences. But only at the top, I am afraid. If you looked into a third-class carriage on this train, you would not be that impressed. In all truth, I do believe that this country, at many times, reminds me of Mother Russia. The nobility and the very rich at the summit, then below them a modicum of the middle classes to keep things running. Then the serfs—they would be the working classes here—at the very bottom. Poverty-stricken, deprived, ill."

  "Why, Count—you almost sound like a republican."

  Korzhenevski smiled wryly. "Perhaps I am. If there will be any changes to my country, they will certainly have to come from the top. The bourgeoisie and the mushiks don't want to change their lot, while the serfs are powerless."

  Sherman looked out of the window, lost in thought, as the train got under way. It rattled along the shore for a few miles, until the tracks turned inland. The train was not fast, but still it was a pleasant journey through the green countryside, past the farms and forests, with the occasional stop at a town along the way. Sherman had a small leatherbound notebook in which he made careful notes, his eyes never leaving the window. They stopped at a larger station, on the hill above a pretty city that was set against the ocean.

  "Falmouth," the Count said. "There is a very good harbor here—you can see a bit of it there, above the rooftops."

  Sherman looked out through the glass of the compartment's door, then through the corridor window beyond. An officer in naval uniform appeared there, taking hold of the door handle and sliding it open. Sherman looked away as he put the notebook into his inside jacket pocket. The Count stared straight ahead, just glimpsing the newcomer out of the corner of his eye. They of course did not speak to one another since they had not been introduced. After the train had pulled out of the station, Korzhenevski pointed at some buildings outside the window, then said something to Sherman in Russian.

  "Da," Sherman said, and continued looking out of the window. Long minutes passed in silence after that, until the newcomer put his fist before his face and coughed lightly. Neither man by the window turned to look at him. Then he coughed again and leaned forward.

  "I say, I hope I'm not making a fool of myself, but I would swear, that is, I think that I heard you speak Russian..."

  The Count turned a cold face toward the man, who had the good grace to blush deeply.

 
"If I am wrong, sir, I do apologize. But I think that I know you from Greenwich; you were years ahead of me, quite famous. A count; your name, I am afraid I do not remember. I am sorry that I spoke out—"

  "Count Korzhenevski. You do have a good memory. But I'm afraid that I don't recall—"

  "I say—no need to apologize. I don't believe we ever formally met. Lieutenant Archibald Fowler at your service."

  "What a pleasant surprise, Archie. And I see that you are still in the service."

  "Rather. Stationed aboard the old Defender in Plymouth. Just popped down to see some cousins in Falmouth for a few days."

  "How pleasant. This is my friend Boris Makarov. I'm afraid he speaks no English."

  "My pleasure."

  "Do svedanya," Sherman answered with a bow of his head.

  "I shall dine out on this for years," Fowler said enthusiastically. "How we envied you and your friends, the parties, the champagne—yet you were always there, hard at work, on Monday mornings."

  "We were young and enthusiastic and, I must say, quite strong, to carry on as we did."

  "We did have some smashing times, didn't we? So what brings you to Cornwall now?"

  An innocent enough question—or was it? Korzhenevski racked his brain for an answer, bought some time. "For me it is always a pleasure to visit your lovely country, to see old friends."

  "Indeed."

  "But not this time," the Count said with sudden inspiration. "Makarov here is a professor of engineering at the Moscow Institute. Since we were passing this way, he begged me to accompany him. Otherwise he could not make this trip."

  "Trip?" Fowler asked, puzzled.

  "Yes. To see the world-famous Tamar Bridge, built by your Mr. Brunei."

  "A wonder! I can easily understand his enthusiasm. We used to go out in carriages and picnic on the cliffs above while we watched it go up. Laid bets it couldn't be done. Made a few quid myself, you know. Unspannable, they said. But old Brunei built these ruddy great piers, solid stone. Then the bridge sections, built on land and brought out on barges, then lifted up to the top of the piers. You'll see for yourself, we should be crossing it soon—right after Saltash."

  At slow speed the train moved out onto the bridge, under the immense tubular arches. "There, look at that!" Archie said with great enthusiasm. "Arches, strong under pressure. And next to them the suspension cables, equally strong under tension. So the way they are built, the forces cancel out at the ends of the sections; therefore, all of the weight is directed straight down onto the piers. Built in this manner, they could each be lifted as a single unit. A wonder of the world."

  "It is indeed."

  "Da, da," Sherman added, much taken in by the sight.

  The train pulled into Plymouth a few minutes later and they alighted.

  "Can I show you around our ship? It would be a great pleasure," Archie said. The Count shook his head. "If we but could. However we must return on the next train; we only had these few hours."

  "Next time, then. Well, you know where I am. And I want you to know that an old friend from Greenwich is always welcome."

  They shook hands and parted, the lieutenant leaving the station.

  "What a bourgeois bore," the Count said, looking distastefully at the naval officer's retreating back. "Old friend indeed! Oh, how that jumped-up creature must have envied his elders and betters."

  Sherman and the Count had to find their train. As they climbed the stairs to cross over to the down track, the Count patted his forehead with his kerchief.

  "I'm afraid I can't keep as cool as you under fire, General. I hope this little trip was worth the effort."

  "Far more than you can realize. After we return to your ship, I would like to ask you to do me one last favor, if you will."

  "I am completely at your service."

  "Then—could we possibly make a visit to the river Mersey?"

  "We could. To Liverpool?"

  "To Liverpool indeed. After that, I am sure that you will be happy to hear our little adventure will be at an end."

  "Boshe moi!" the Count sighed loudly. "Which means something like 'God bless.' It is what Russians say at moments of great stress—or stress relieved. Come, let us not miss our train."

  President Abraham Lincoln was not happy. The cabinet meeting was not only not producing an answer to the country's problems—but it was fast becoming a chaos of contrasting opinions.

  "There is a limit beyond which we cannot and will not go," Salmon P. Chase, Secretary of the Treasury, said in a firm and unyielding voice. "During the war, yes, people would put up with high levels of taxation, as well as a certain amount of physical discomfort and sacrifice. But the war is long over and they have come to expect some return for their efforts, some creature comforts. I cannot and will not agree to raising taxes once again."

  "I don't think that you have heard me clearly, Mr. Chase," Gideon Welles said with cold fury. "As Secretary of the Navy, it is my assignment to follow the dictates of Congress. In their wisdom, the Congress has ordered an expansion of the navy to follow the world trend. When other countries arm we must follow suit to ensure this country's first line of defense. Naval strength today means ironclads. Now they are bigger, faster, stronger, better armed, and better armored. And all of that costs money. Have I made myself clear?"

  Before the infuriated Chase could speak again, Edwin M. Stanton, the Secretary of War, broke in.

  "At this point I must remind you all that it costs a million and a half dollars a day to keep two hundred thousand well-trained troops in the field. Like the navy, I have been instructed by Congress to build and maintain that army—"

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen," Lincoln said, raising his voice to silence the squabbling, "I feel that we are arguing at cross purposes here. That you all have valid points to make, I do not doubt. But I called this meeting today to seek your advice and joint wisdom in facing up to our current and major problem: The intransigence of the British and their flouting of international relationships on a massive scale against our country. That is the intelligence I now desperately need. I beg of you, abandon your differences and speak only to this point, if you please."

  The men seated around the long table fell silent. So silent, in fact, that the hum of a bumblebee could be clearly heard as it flew in through an open window. It thudded angrily against the glass pane before it could find the way to exit. In this silence the low voice of William H. Seward could be plainly heard.

  "As Secretary of State, it is my duty to answer the President's request. My department has not been idle. Abroad, ambassadors and civil servants have been attempting to get other countries to join us in protest against the British. In this I am forced to admit failure. Many of the European countries, large enough and strong enough to impress the British with their views, are linked to the British royal family, while smaller countries are left unheard. Regretfully, there is frankly little more that we can do."

  "I can but advise your representatives to try harder," Judah P. Benjamin said. After being defeated in the presidential election, he had graciously agreed to return to his cabinet post as Secretary for the South. "Every day I receive more and more complaints from the cotton planters. They cannot depend on the domestic market alone, but must look overseas to ensure their profits. The British seizure of so many cotton ships is driving them to bankruptcy."

  There were nods of understanding at this unhappy state. Then, before anyone else could speak, the door opened and John Hay, Secretary to the President, slipped in. He spoke softly to Lincoln, who nodded.

  "I understand," he said. "Tarry a moment, John, while I put this to the cabinet. Gentlemen, it has been brought to my attention that the President of Ireland is waiting below with the Irish ambassador. He contacted me last night, soon after his arrival, and requested a meeting. I informed him about this cabinet session and asked him to join us. I hope you will agree that what he has to say is of the utmost importance to you all assembled here."

  "It is indeed," Sew
ard said. "We must have him in."

  Hay went out and the cabinet waited in silence until he returned. When he came back he ushered in two men in dark morning suits. Their mien echoed the color of their garb, for their faces expressed nothing but unhappiness—bordering on despair.

  "President Rossa," John Hay said, and the President nodded. "With him is Ambassador O'Brin."

  "This is a great pleasure," Lincoln said. "John, do bring over those chairs. Jeremiah, when I saw you last it was during a time of great difficulty."

  "Unhappily, Abraham, the difficulties are still there—and if anything, they have grown, until I fear that my poor country is at the mercy of some biblical plague."

  "And I can put a name to that plague," the Irish ambassador said. "I beg you, excuse me for speaking out like that, but the words are forced from my soul. The British—they are the plague that is destroying our poor country."

  "They are indeed," Rossa said, nodding agreement. "How fondly I remember those halcyon days when President Lincoln attended my inauguration. What hope was in the air! We had just suffered the agonies of war, but none of us regretted the sacrifice. Ireland was free, free after all those centuries of oppression. You could taste the freedom in the air, hear it in the sound of the church bells. We were at last a single country, from Belfast in the north to Cork in the south. United and free to shape our own destiny."

  Rossa looked around at the listening cabinet members, his eyes deep-set and smeared dark with despair.

  "How quickly it was all to end. Instead of rebuilding and reuniting Ireland, we are being forced once more to defend her. Our fishermen see their boats burned. Our seaside towns and cities are attacked and pillaged. While Irish men and women—and children!—are seized from their homes in England and imprisoned in the vileness of the concentration camps. What can be done? What can be done?"