Stars & Stripes Triumphant

by Harry Harrison

  "Everything has been done that can be done here. Only the Queen's safety remains in doubt."

  "Yes," the Duke said, climbing slowly to his feet. "Call my carriage. I will take the matter in hand."

  The hours had passed like minutes in Buckingham Palace. The Duke had had the household cavalry turned out, mounted and ready. The stables behind the palace were stirred to life. Now it was time to leave. The sound of gunfire was louder, closer. Yes, now, the last carriage door slammed shut. With a crack of whips and clatter of hooves they swung out of the forecourt, through the palace gateway, and into Buckingham Gate. Riding west toward safety.

  The resistance by the British forces around Parliament Square was dying down. Flesh and blood could not stand against the mechanized attack, the Gatling guns and the decimating volleys of the rapid-firing rifles of the American troops. General Sherman noted the reports as they came in; issued clipped orders. These veterans knew what to do. Within an hour the enemy had been pushed back into St. James's Park and the final assault was ready to begin. Sherman wrote a last order and passed it to the waiting rider.

  "For Colonel Foster at Admiralty Arch. He is to advance when he sees us move out."

  During the brief wait ammunition had been rushed to the Gatling carriers. Horses also pulled forward a wagon laden with barrels of liquid fuel to fill their emptying tanks. Sherman read the last of the reports and nodded.

  "Sound the attack," he said.

  As the bugle notes echoed from the buildings, they were drowned out as the engines of the Gatling carriers roared into life. Clouds of blue smoke rolled across the square from their blatting exhausts as the advance began.

  It was attrition and death for the defenders. Armored in the fore, spitting leaden death, the carriers rolled up to the hastily constructed barricades and slaughtered the troops that were concealed there, firing until the ineffective defending fire died away. Willing hands tore gaps in the barricades and the carriers rolled through the defensive lines. There was another cavalry charge down Birdcage Walk by the defenders as Buckingham Palace came into view; it was no more successful than the first and only a handful of survivors stumbled in retreat.

  The Gatling carriers rumbled ahead of the troops, pausing only when they reached the palace. A household guard regiment there put up a heroic defense, but their thin steel cuirasses could not stop the American bullets. Through the gates the attackers surged, held up for a moment by defenders within the palace itself. But the withering Gatling fire crashed through the windows on the ground floor, sending a spray of death crawling up to the defenders firing from the floors above. With a roaring cheer the soldiers surged forward into the palace itself.

  When General Sherman and his staff rode into the palace yard a few minutes later, the battle had come to a bloody end. Corpses sprawled across the cobbles. Here and there were a few wounded survivors now being tended by medical corpsmen. Two American soldiers, with slung rifles, emerged from the entrance holding between them an elegantly dressed man bearing a white cloth.

  "Came walking right up to us, General, just a-waving this tablecloth," the corporal said. "Let on how he wanted to speak with whoever is in charge."

  "Who are you?" Sherman asked coldly.

  "Equerry to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria."

  "That is fine. Take me to her."

  The man drew himself up, trying to control his quaking limbs as he faced the armed enemy.

  "That will not possible. She is not here. Please call off this attack and the senseless killing."

  "Where is she?"

  The man stiffened, his mouth clamped shut. Sherman started to query him, changed his mind. He turned to his staff.

  "We will assume for the moment that he is telling the truth. Search the palace, speak to the servants, find out where the Queen has gone. Meanwhile I will make my headquarters here."

  "Look, General, up there," an officer called out, and pointed toward the roof of Buckingham Palace. Everyone who heard him turned to look.

  An American soldier had appeared on the roof and was lowering the flag that flew there. It fluttered down the face of the building and lay crumpled on the stones. Now the Stars and Stripes was going up in its place. A great cheering broke out from the watching soldiers; even Sherman nodded and smiled.

  "This is a great moment, a great day, sir," his chief of staff said.

  "It is indeed, Andy, it surely is."

  A DARING ESCAPE

  From his window, facing out onto Whitehall, Brigadier Somerville had an uninterrupted view of the battle for London. Once he had informed the household cavalry and the foot guards, all of the troops defending the city, of the approaching menace, the defense of the city was out of his hands. There was the continuing sound of gunfire from the direction of the Embankment; cannon sounded in Parliament Square. He watched as proud cavalrymen trotted by, helmets and cuirasses gleaming. This was the second time he had seen the cavalry attack the enemy; none had returned from the first wave.

  Now Somerville saw the shattered remnants of the last charge returning from battle. It was terrible, but he could not look away. If the finest soldiers in the land could not stand against the enemy—was there any hope for them at all? He saw bloody disaster, death, and destruction. This was the end. A knocking at his door stirred him from his dark reverie. He turned to see Sergeant Major Brown enter and snap to attention and salute.

  "What is it, Sergeant Major?" He heard his voice as from a great distance, his mind still dazed by the horrors he had just witnessed.

  "Permission to join the defenses, sir."

  "No. I need you with me." Somerville spoke the words automatically—but there was a reason. With an effort he drew his thoughts together as an element of a plan began to form. His work in London was done. But, yes, he could still be of value to this war, to the defense of his country. The rough idea of what he must do was there, still not fleshed out, but it held out hope. He knew what he must do for a start. Escape. He realized that the sergeant major was still at attention, waiting for him to finish what he had started to say.

  "Stand at ease. You and I are going to get out of this city and join up with Her Majesty's forces where we can do the most good." He looked at the man's scarlet jacket with its rows of medals. He couldn't leave the safety of the building looking like this. "Do you keep any other clothes here?"

  The soldier was startled by the question, but nodded in reply. "Some mufti, sir. I use it when I'm not on duty."

  "Then put it on and come back here." The brigadier glanced down at his own uniform. "I'll need clothes as well." He took some pound notes from his pocket and passed them over. "I'll need trousers, a jacket, coat. Find something my size among the clerks. See that they are paid for the clothes. Then bring them back with you."

  Sergeant Major Brown saluted and did a smart about-face. Somerville automatically returned the salute—then called out to Brown. "That's the last salute for the time being. We are going to be civilians, members of the public. Don't forget that."

  When he had given Brown the money, he realized he had very little more remaining in his wallet. He was going to need funds to fashion their escape from the city, perhaps a good deal of them. That was easily rectified. He went down the corridor and up a flight of stairs to the paymaster general's office.

  The halls and offices were deserted; everyone was either watching from the front windows or had fled to safety. He righted an overturned chair and went across the room to the large safe. The key was on the ring in his pocket; he unlocked it and opened the door. Gold guineas would be best, coin of the realm, and welcome anywhere. He took out a heavy bag that thunked when he dropped it on the desk. He needed something to carry it in. He opened a closet and found a carpetbag behind the umbrellas there. Perfect. He dropped two bags of coins into it, started to close it. Opened it again and took out a handful of coins from one of the bags and put them into his pocket.

  He was back in his office before Brown returned, dressed for the street a
nd bearing an armful of clothing. "Not of the best quality, sir, but was all I could find in this size."

  "That will do fine, Sergeant... Brown. You'll carry this bag. Careful, it has gold coin."

  "Yes, sir..." He stopped as the rapid firing of a gun sounded through the open window. It was followed by a roaring, racketing sound, something he had never heard before. Somerville and Brown crossed the room to look carefully down into the street. They gaped in silence at the strange contrivances passing by below.

  They had wheels—but were not drawn by horses. They were propelled in some internal manner, for clouds of fumes poured behind them, the source of the strange hammering noise. A blue-clad soldier rode in the rear of each contrivance, somehow directing it.

  At the front, crouching behind armor plate, was a gunner. The nearest one turned the handle of his rapid-firing weapon and a stream of bullets poured out.

  A bullet crashed through the glass just above their heads and they drew back from a last vision of the attacking troops following the Gatling guns.

  "They are going in the direction of the Mall," Brown said grimly. "They'll be attacking the palace."

  "Undoubtedly. We must wait until the stragglers have passed—then follow them. We are going to the Strand."

  "Whatever you say, sir."

  "Then we must find a cab. There should still be some in the streets."

  They stood in the doorway until the last soldiers had gone by. There were uniformed corpses in the streets now; a cavalryman lay nearby, dead beside his mount, sprawled in the animal's entrails. Like Somerville and Brown, a few other figures scuttled along the pavements to safety. They walked quickly, taking shelter in another doorway when an American cavalryman galloped past. After that it was a hurried dash to the Strand and down it past Charing Cross station. They could see people huddled inside the station, but they did not stop. All of the cabs were gone from the forecourt. They had to walk as far as the Savoy Hotel before they found a cab waiting outside the entrance there. The frightened cabbie stood, holding his horse, his face white with fear.

  "I need your cab," Somerville said. The man shook his head numbly, beyond speech. Brown stepped forward, raising a large fist; Somerville put out a restraining hand. "We are going to the docks—" He thought quickly. "Go through the City, away from the river, until you are well past the Tower. You'll be safe in the East End." He dug one of the guineas from his pocket and passed it over.

  The sight of the coin did more than words ever could to move the cabby to action. He took it, turned and opened the door for them. "The East End, sir. I'll go through Aldgate, then to Shadwell to Wapping. Maybe to Shadwell Basin."

  "Whatever you say. Now go."

  The sound of gunfire grew more distant as they went up Kingsway. There were more people here, hurrying through the streets, as well as a few other cabs. The City of London seemed undisturbed, although there were armed guards outside the Bank of England. They reached Shadwell Basin without any incidents and Brigadier Somerville saw, tied up in the basin there, just what he was looking for.

  A Thames lighter, brown sail hanging limp, was on the far side of the basin. He called up through the hatch to the cabbie. There were three men sitting on the deck of the sturdy little ship when they alighted beside it. The oldest, with a grizzled beard, stood up when they approached.

  "I need to hire your boat," Somerville said without any preamble. The man laughed and pointed with his pipe at the direction of the river. Above the rooftops of the terraced houses the dark bulk of a large ironclad could be seen moving by.

  "Guns and shooting. You ain't seeing old Thomas on the river this day."

  "They won't shoot at a boat like this," Somerville said.

  "Begging your pardon, your honor, but I ain't taking any man's word for that."

  The brigadier dug into his pockets and drew out some gold coins. "Five guineas to take us downriver. Five more when we get there."

  Thomas looked wary. He couldn't get five guineas for a month's, two months' hard labor on the river. Greed fought with fear.

  "I'll take those now," he finally said. "But ten more when we get there."

  "Done. Let us leave at once."

  Once they were out of the basin, the big sail was hauled up and they made good time through the muddy water. Rounding the Isle of Dogs, they looked back and saw an approaching warship coming down the river behind them. Thomas shouted commands and the sail came down; they drifted close by the docks on the shore there. The ship went smoothly by, the sailors visible on deck giving them no heed. They went on when it had passed, moving quickly and uneventfully until Tilbury came into sight.

  "Mother of God..." the helmsman said, standing and shading his eyes. They all looked on in horrified silence at the smoking ruins of the shattered fortress. Walls and battlements had been destroyed, dismounted gun barrels pointed to the sky. Nothing moved. Thomas automatically turned closer to shore at the sight of the four hulking black ships that were anchored across the river. The stars and stripes of the American flag flew from a flagstaff at the stern of the nearest warship. Beyond them, in midstream, the masts and funnel, some of the upperworks of a sunken ship projected a few feet above the water.

  "Is she... one of ours?" Thomas asked in a hushed, hoarse voice.

  "Perhaps," Somerville said. "It does not matter. Proceed downstream."

  "Not with them ships there!"

  "They are not here to harm a vessel like this one."

  "You can say that, your honor, but who's to tell."

  Somerville was tempted to reason with the man; reached into his pocket instead. "Five guineas right now—and then ten more when we get downriver."

  In the end avarice won. The lighter crept along the riverbank, slowly past the ruined fort. The warships anchored in the river ignored it. Then they moved faster once they were past the invaders, swept around the bend under full sail.

  Ahead of them, anchored by the channel, was another ironclad, bristling with guns.

  "Drop the sail!"

  "Don't do that, you fool," the brigadier shouted. "Look at that flag!"

  The British white ensign hung from the staff at her stern.

  A MONARCH'S PLIGHT

  General Sherman allowed thirty minutes to make absolutely sure that the battle for London was truly won. He went carefully through the reports, checking the references on a map of the city spread across the ornate desk. Through the open window behind him he could hear that the sounds of battle were dying away. A rumble of cannon in the distance, one of the ironclads from the sound of it. They were proving invaluable in reducing the riverside defenses. Then the crackling fire of a Gatling gun.

  "I think we have done it, Andy," he said, sitting back in the chair. His chief of staff nodded agreement.

  "We are still finding pockets of resistance, but the main bodies of enemy troops have all been defeated. I am sure that we'll mop up the rest before dark."

  "Good. Make sure that sentries are posted before the men bed down. We don't want any surprise night attacks."

  With the city secured, Sherman's thoughts returned to the next and most important matter at hand.

  "You made inquiries. Did you find out where the Queen went?"

  "No secret of it—everyone in London seems to know, the ones near the palace saw her pass by. Windsor Castle, they all agree on that."

  "Show me on the map."

  Colonel Summers unfolded the large-scale map and laid it over the one of London.

  "Quite close," Sherman said. "As I remember, there are two train lines going there from London." He smiled when he saw his aide's expression. "Not black magic, Andy. It is just that I have been a keen student of my Bradshaw—the volume that contains timetables for every rail line in Britain. Get a troop of cavalry to Paddington Station. Seize the station and the trains."

  Reports and requests for support were coming in and for some time Sherman was kept busy guiding the attacks. Then, when he looked up, he saw that Summers had returned.r />
  "We're not going anywhere by train for some time, General. Engines and rails were sabotaged at Paddington."

  Sherman nodded grim agreement. "At the other stations as well, I'll wager. They're beginning to learn that we make good use of their rolling stock. But there are other ways to get to Windsor." He looked back at the map. "Here is the castle, upriver on the Thames. Plenty of twists and turns to the river before it gets there. But it's pretty straight there by road. Through Richmond and Staines, then into Windsor Great Park."

  Sherman looked at the scale on the map. "Must be twenty-five, thirty miles."

  "At least."

  "These soldiers have had a long day fighting; I'm not going to have them endure a forced march after that. Can we spare the cavalry?"

  "We certainly can—now that the city has been taken. And they are still fresh."

  "Can we round up more horses?"

  "The city is full of them, dray horses for the most part."

  "Good. I want the entire troop to take part in this. Round up all the horses you need and harness them to some Gatling guns. We'll move them out when the guns are ready. I'll take command. Make sure the city stays pacified."

  "What about the river, General?"

  "That was my next thought. There are plenty of small boats in the Thames that we can commandeer. Put some of our sailors in each one to make sure the crews follow orders. Get a company of troops upriver that way. General Groves will be in command. If he gets there first I want his men to get around the castle but not attack it until he receives the command from me. Whoever is in the castle now—I want them still there when we occupy it."

  "Understood."

  The cavalry went west at an easy trot, General Sherman and his staff to the fore. Almost as soon as they had passed through Chelsea, where a bitter battle had been fought to take the barracks, all signs of war fell behind them. Distant guns still rumbled sporadically, but they could have been mistaken for thunder. The streets were strangely empty for the time of day, though the soldiers were aware of watching eyes from the passing windows. The only untoward incident occurred when they were passing through Putney.