"I am counting upon you to drive your attack home."
"I will not fail you," Grant said in an even voice that was firm, even gruff. He would get the job done all right. Sherman knew that if any general in the entire world could succeed, it was Ulysses S. Grant.
As soon as the Liverpool fortifications had been leveled and the guns silenced by the naval fire, the transports of the invading army tied up one by one at the city's central docks. The ships that were already berthed there had their hawsers unceremoniously cut and were towed to the Birkenhead side of the river, where they were run aground. Even while this was happening the gangways on the Irish ships were dropped. The first men ashore were Irish riflemen, who fanned out in defensive positions and took shelter from any counterattack. They were scarcely under cover before the loading ramps of the special transports were extended and the American cavalry galloped out into the morning light.
Within an hour the waterfront was secured while the attackers fanned out through the city. There were pockets of resistance, which were swiftly reduced because after the cavalrymen left the transports and charged forward into battle, the cannon were unloaded. As they emerged they were prevented from too fast progress down the ramps by restraining ropes that were wrapped around deck winches. Slowly and carefully they were rolled down onto the dock. The horses were in their traces within minutes. The Gatling guns, being much lighter, were manhandled down the ramps to the dockside, where their horses were hitched up. The cannon, with caissons and limbers attached, were soon ready to go into battle as well. The advance continued into the city, slowly and inexorably.
General Robert E. Lee had set up his headquarters close by the Mersey. Runners, and an occasional cavalryman, brought their reports to him.
"There is a strong defense at the barracks, here," Colonel Kiley said, touching his finger to the map of the city spread out on the table.
Lee nodded. "That was to be expected. Were they bypassed?"
"They were indeed, General, just as you ordered. A company left behind to keep up fire, along with two of the Gatling guns."
"Fine. Get a battery of guns down there to clear them out."
While the attack into Liverpool was slow and precise, the spearhead of troops launched against Lime Street Station was not. The cavalry had galloped ahead, cutting through any determined defenses, charging on. Pockets of resistance were bypassed, leaving the infantry to mop them up. The mobile Gatling guns sent torrents of bullets into any troops bold enough to stand in their way. It was the station, the trains, the marshaling yards that had to be seized intact at any cost. Lee only relaxed, ever so slightly, when the reports reached him that the primary targets had been taken.
"I am moving my headquarters to the station as was planned. Send runners, see that all units are informed." He stepped aside as officers hurried to roll up the maps.
"This operation will now move into the second and final phase. General Meagher and the Irish troops will begin leaving as soon as possible." He waved over a cavalryman and passed him the message he had just written.
"Take this to the commander of the Darter. He is to get under way for Dublin at once."
The officer saluted, then vaulted into his saddle and galloped to the ship. Lee nodded after him.
Everything was going just as they had planned.
THE SWORD IS DRAWN
It was like using a steam hammer to crack a nut: the forces employed were well out of proportion to the chosen target. Yet the success or failure of the entire invasion depended upon the simple act of getting one man ashore at the right place in Cornwall—armed with a single vital tool. USS Mississippi and USS Pennsylvania were chosen for the task. They were newly built and improved ironclads of the two-turret Monitor class. Like their predecessor, Virginia, they were named after states of the Union. The politically aware Navy Department made sure that they were named alternately after a Northern and a Southern state.
The two ironclads had raced ahead of the rest of the armada when it left Cork harbor. Steaming due south, they did not turn east until they had crossed fifty degrees north latitude and were at the mouth of the English Channel. After this they kept a course well south of the Scilly Isles; the islands were seen just as small blurs on the horizon to port. It was late in the afternoon by this time, and they slowed their progress until dark. Now was the time of greatest peril: they were less than forty miles away from Plymouth, the second-largest naval base in the British Isles. The lookout posts were double-manned and the men swept the horizon continuously. There were fishing boats close inshore, but these could be ignored. It was the British navy that they were concerned with; for good reason. Surprise was of the essence.
It was growing dark when Mississippi sent a signal to Pennsylvania. She was sailing well ahead of her sister ship, as well as standing farther out to sea. This positioning was deliberate—and vital—as her brief message reported.
Unidentified naval vessel sighted ahead. Am intercepting.
Even as she was sending the report, Mississippi was belching out clouds of smoke as she gained speed. On a southeast course. When she was seen, if chase were given, the action would take place well out of sight of the Pennsylvania.
The plan succeeded. Night fell. Now, unseen in the darkness, with her engine barely turning over, the American warship crept in toward the Cornish shore.
"That must be the light at Zone Point," the first officer said as they neared the coast. "It's at the mouth of Falmouth Bay—and those will be the lights of Falmouth beyond."
"Steady on your course," the captain ordered.
It was just after midnight when they slipped past St. Austell and into St. Austell Bay. When the gaslights of the town were behind them, the engines were stopped and the ship drifted forward, the light waves slapping against her iron sides.
"Landing party away."
There was the hammer of running feet on deck. Moments later there was the slight creak of the well-greased davits as the two boats were slung over the side and lowered down into the sea. The sailors went down the rope ladders first, ready to help the clumsier soldiers into the waiting boats. The telegraph men were next, followed by the rest of the party. Their rifles were unloaded and their ammunition secured in closed pouches. It would have to be silent gun butts and bayonets if they encountered any resistance.
Hopefully they would not. This part of the coast had been selected for two very important reasons. Most of the land adjoining the coast here was forest, private land, where deer roamed freely. It should be deserted at night, for there were no farms or other habitations nearby, here where the rail line ran between the shoreline and the steep hills. And this train track was the reason they were here.
Cornwall has a rocky spine of hills running the entire length of the peninsula. When the Great Western Railway left its westernmost terminus in Penzance, the tracks turned inland, away from the sea. Through Redruth and Truro they went, then on to St. Austell, where the tracks came in sight of the sea again, well over halfway from Penzance to Plymouth. Skirting the bogs of Blackmoor, the rail line ran along the shore for some miles before turning inland a final time. This stretch of line was their target.
The boats grated on the gravelly shore. There were whispered commands as the sailors jumped into the knee-high surf and dragged the boats farther up onto the beach. A waning moon provided enough light for the disembarking soldiers. One of them fell with a clatter as his gun crashed onto the pebbles. There was a quick yelp of pain as someone trod on his hand. He was pulled to his feet and all movement stopped at the officer's hissed command. The night was so silent that an owl could be heard hooting in the trees on the far side of the single railroad track. Its rails gleamed silver in the moonlight.
Next to the tracks was a row of poles that carried the telegraph wires.
"Sergeant, I want men posted left and right, twenty yards out. And quietly this time. Telegraph squad, you know what to do."
When they reached the rails the telegraph men di
vided in two, with one squad walking down the ties to the east. Even before they had vanished into the darkness, the man delegated for this task was belting on his climbing irons. Up the poles he went, swiftly and surely, the pointed ends of his irons thokking into the wood as he climbed. The sharp click of wire cutters sounded and there was a rustle as the telegraph wires fell to the ground.
"Gather up the wire," the sergeant said quietly. "Cut it free and throw it into the ocean."
A hundred, two hundred yards of wire were cut out and dumped into the water. The soldiers had finished their appointed task and returned to the boats long before the second party. The men fidgeted about until the sergeants hushed them into silence. The lieutenant paced back and forth, tapping his fingers restlessly on his pistol holster, but did not speak aloud. The wire-cutting party had been told to proceed down the track for fifteen minutes, or as near as they could judge the time. They were to cut down another section of wire there and return. It seemed well past the allotted time now; it probably was not, he realized.
Private O'Reilly, one of the sentries stationed by the track, saw the dark figure approaching. He was about to call out when he discerned that the man was coming from the west—while the second wire company had gone east. O'Reilly leaned over and pulled the corporal by the sleeve, touching his forefinger to his lips at the same time. Then he pointed down the track. The two soldiers crouched down, trying to blend into the ground.
The figure came on, strangely wide across the shoulders, whistling softly.
Then he stopped, suddenly aware of the dark forms ahead of him beside the rails. In an instant the stranger turned and began to run heavily back down the track.
"Get him!" the corporal said, and led the way at a run.
The fleeing man slowed for an instant. A dark form fell from his shoulders to the tracks. Freed from his burden, he began to run again. Not fast enough. The corporal stabbed forward with his rifle, got it between the man's legs, sent him crashing to the ground. Before the man could rise, O'Reilly was on him, pinning him by the wrists.
"Don't kill me, please don't kill me!" the man begged in a reedy voice. This close they could see that his long hair was matted and gray.
"Now, why would you go thinking a cruel thing like that, Granddad?"
"It weren't me. I didn't set the snare. I just sort of stumbled over it, just by chance."
O'Reilly picked up the deer's corpse by the antlers. "A poacher, by God!"
"Never!" the man squealed, and the corporal shook him until he was quiet.
"That's a good man. Just be quiet and nothing will happen to you. Bring the stag," he whispered to O'Reilly. "Someone will enjoy the fresh meat."
"What's happening here?" the lieutenant asked when they dragged the frightened old man up the beach. The corporal explained.
"Fine. Tie his wrists and put him into the boat. We'll take him back—our first prisoner." Then, coldly, "If he makes any noise, shut him up."
"Yes, sir."
"O'Reilly, go with him. And bring the deer. The general will fancy a bit of venison, I shouldn't wonder."
"Party approaching." A hushed voice sounded through the darkness.
There was more than one sigh of relief when boots could be heard crunching on the gravel.
"Push the boats out! Board as soon as they float free!"
The wire was cut. They had not been seen.
At first light the landings would begin.
For the poacher the war was over even before it began. When he finally realized what had happened to him, he was most relieved. These weren't Sir Percy's gamekeepers after all; he would not be appearing at the Falmouth assizes, as he had feared. Being a prisoner of war of the Americans was far better than transportation to the other end of the world.
The lights in Buckingham Palace had been blazing past midnight and well into the early hours. There was a constant coming and going of cavalrymen as well as the occasional carriage. All of this activity centered on the conference room, where a most important meeting was taking place. There was a colonel stationed outside the door to intercept messages; a second colonel inside passed on any that were deemed important enough to be grounds for an interruption.
"We will not have the sanctity of our country violated. Are we clear?"
"You are, ma'am, very clear. But you must understand that the violation has already occurred; the landings are a thing of the past now. Enemy forces are well ashore in Liverpool, the city has been captured, all fighting ended according to the last reports."
"My dear soldiers would never surrender!" Victoria almost screeched the words, her voice roughened by hours, if not days, of deep emotion. Her complexion was so florid that it alarmed all those present.
"Indeed they would not, ma'am," Lord John Russell said patiently. "But they might very well be dead. The defenders were few in number, the attackers many and ruthless. And it appears that Liverpool is not the only goal. Reports from Birmingham report intense fighting there."
"Birmingham—but how?" Victoria's jaw dropped as, confusedly, she tried to master this new and frightful information.
"By train, ma'am. Our own trains were seized and forced to carry enemy troops south. The Americans are great devotees of trains, and have made wide use of them in their various wars."
"Americans? I was told that the invaders were Irish..."
"Yankees or Paddies—it makes little difference!" the Duke of Cambridge snapped. The hours of wrangling had worn down his nerves; he wished that he were in the field taking this battle to the enemy. Slaughtering the bastards.
"Why would the Irish want to invade?" Victoria asked with dumb sincerity. To her the Irish would always be wayward children, who must be corrected and returned to the blessing of British rule.
"Why?" the Duke of Cambridge growled. "Because they may have taken umbrage at their relatives being bunged up in those concentration camps. Not that we had any choice. Nursing serpents in our bosom. It seems that Sefton Park, the camp east of Liverpool, has been seized. Undoubtedly Aston Hall outside of Birmingham is next."
While he was speaking he had been aware of a light tapping on the door. This was now opened a crack and there was a quick whispered exchange before it was closed again. The group around the conference table looked up as the colonel approached with a slip of paper.
"Telegram from Whitehall—"
The Duke tore it from the officer's fingers even as Lord Russell was reaching for it.
"Goddamn their eyes." He was seething with fury. He threw down the message and stamped across the room to the large map of the British Isles that had been hung on the wall.
"Report from Defender, telegraphed from Milford Haven—here." He stabbed his finger on the map of western Wales where a spit of land projected into St. George's Channel. "It seems that some hours earlier they caught sight of a large convoy passing in the channel. They were proceeding south."
"South? Why south?" Lord Russell asked, struggling to take in this new development.
"Well, it is not to invade France, I can assure you of that," the Duke raged. He swept his hand along the English Channel, along the southern coast of Britain. "This is where they are going—the warm and soft underbelly of England!"
At first light the attacking armada approached the Cornish shore. The stone-girt harbor at Penzance was very small, suitable only for pleasure craft and fishing boats. The Scilly Isles ferry took up the most space inside where she tied up for the night. This had been allowed for in the landings, and the steam pinnace from Virginia was the only American boat that attempted to enter the harbor. She was jammed tight with soldiers, so many of them that her bulwarks were only inches above the sea. The men poured out onto the harbor wall in a dark wave, running to the attack and quickly securing the customhouse and the lifeguard station.
While all along the Penzance coast the small boats were coming ashore. Landing on the curving strand between the harbor and the train station, and the long empty beaches that ran in an arc to the
west of the harbor. The first soldiers to land went at a trot down the road to the station, then on into the train yards beyond. General Grant was at the head of the troops; the trains were the key to the entire campaign. He stamped through the station and into the telegraph office, where two soldiers held the terrified night operator by the arms.
"He was sleeping over his key, General," a sergeant said. "We grabbed him before he could send any warning."
"I couldn't have done that, your honor," the man protested. "Couldn't have, because the wire to Plymouth is down."
"I've asked him about any down trains," Major Sandison said. He had been a railway director before he raised a company of volunteers in St. Louis and led them off to war. His soldiers, many of them former railway men, had taken the station and the adjoining yards.
"Just a goods train from St. Austell to Truro, that's all that's on the line."
Sandison spread the map across the table and pointed to the station. "They should be on a siding before we get there."
"Should is not good enough," Grant said.
"I agree, General. I'm sending an engine, pushing some freight cars, ahead of our first train. Plus a car with troops. Sledgehammers and spikes in case there is any damage to the rails. They'll make sure that the track is clear—and open."
"General—first Gatlings coming ashore now," a soldier reported.
"Good. Get the rest of them unloaded—and down here at once."
Sherman and Grant had spent many hours organizing the forces for this attack on Cornwall.
"The harbor is impossibly small," Sherman had said. "I've seen it with my own eyes, since our yacht was tied up inside. But there is deep water beyond the outer wall of the harbor. I had Aurora's crew make soundings there when we left. The navy agrees that cargo ships of shallow enough draft can tie up on the seaward side and winch heavy equipment ashore."
"Cannon?"
Sherman shook his head. "Too heavy—and too slow to unload. And we have no draft animals to move them. They would also be too clumsy to load onto the trains even if we managed to get them to the yards. No cannon. We must move fast."
Stars & Stripes Triumphant Page 15