Stars and Stripes Forever sas-1

by Harry Harrison

  “She’s a fast one, lot faster than this old girl. And she’ll fore-reach us if we turn back. That is she will be coming up at an angle and would get to us long before we got to Yorktown. But now she is on a stern chase and it will take a lot more time for her to catch up with us.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Fortress Monroe. Dead ahead. The British will never follow us under those big guns.”

  Deep in the hold the stokers poured with sweat as they shoveled. Under the highest head of steam she could carry the screw thrashed the green waters of the bay. Ahead was the tip of the Yorktown Peninsula, growing ever closer.

  As was their pursuer. Bows on, closer and ever closer. A sudden puff of white smoke blossomed and vanished; there was no sign of where the shell landed.

  “Ranging shot,” General Lee said. “Or a warning to stop.”

  “They can’t possibly know who is aboard,” Sherman said. “Or we would have had the whole fleet after us.”

  “We can hide below,” Hay said, his teeth almost chattering with fear; military glory had never been for him.

  “You and I could, John,” Nicolay said. “But why should we bother? I don’t think even the British shoot civilian captives. In any case, if they do stop us, we would certainly be of no interest to them.”

  “Indeed true,” Hay said pointing at the uniformed men around the President. “They’ll never believe their luck. Not only Lincoln but all of his commanders-in-chief. This cannot happen! It all cannot end like this. With the ceasefire in place, plans made, a new war, a new world waiting.” Fear was replaced by anger. But what could be done?

  Very little, all aboard agreed. The officers stamped about the deck easing their swords in their scabbards, fingering their revolvers. The ship had a small store of arms and these were brought on deck. But how could they fight against the guns of the warship? Flight was their only option. Top speed — and pray that the old boiler held together, that no vital piece of machinery carried away.

  The army officers were like caged lions, pacing and muttering in angry frustration. Wanting only to attack and kill their pursuers, they could only wait impatiently and watch the enemy ship’s steady approach. Lincoln left them, sought the quieter haven of the bridge. The sailor at the wheel a solid rock of concentration, correcting every slight sideward movement, aiming toward the headland. On the far side of it was their haven; Fortress Monroe. The captain murmured into the speaking tube, talking to the chief engineer. Lincoln stepped onto the flying bridge, looked aft. Was shocked to see how close their pursuer had come in the few minutes he had been inside.

  White bow wave surging. At some unheard command thin black silhouettes suddenly appeared on both her flanks.

  “Run her guns out,” the captain said; he had joined the President on the bridge.

  “She looks very close,” Lincoln said, running his fingers through his beard.

  “She’s too close, Mr. President. I don’t want to say this but I have to. She’s too fast for us. We’re not going to make it, sir.”

  “Certainly there is a chance.”

  The captain pointed to the tip of the Yorktown Peninsula ahead; waves broke lazily on the sandy beach. “We will weather the point all right. But it’s maybe eight miles more down the coast to the fort. That warship will catch us up before we’ve gone half that far. Sorry, sir. We have done what we can — this old ship has as well. There is nothing more that can be done. We have all the steam up, almost too much. Short of blowing up our boiler we’ve done our best.”

  Then the British ship fired. The shells fell short. Now. But the range was closing.

  So close, so very close. Lincoln pounded his fist against the side of the cabin. It could not be. The war just could not end like this, with humiliation and disgrace. Too much was at stake, too many young men had died. Now that there was a possibility that the war between the states might end, the stupidity of this chance encounter was almost too much to believe. But it was true. The British ship was growing ever closer: the end was in sight.

  The wheel came over and the ship heeled as they weathered the point, sailing so close to the shore and the marshland beyond that they were practically in the breakers. The River Queen seemed to gain a bit as the larger British warship stood further out to sea, needing more depth beneath her keel.

  But it wasn’t enough. From his experiences as a river boatman Lincoln could tell that there was no escape. They would be overtaken long before they reached the security of the fort and its guns. For a moment the warship seemed to be going away from them, showing her flank bristling with cannon. Then she turned once more to the pursuit, bows on and coming fast.

  Lincoln could not look at this certain destiny. He turned toward the bow as the eastern portion of the coast opened up. With the dark smudge of Fort Monroe at its farther end.

  “My God!” the captain gasped.

  “My God, indeed,” Lincoln agreed, and felt his tight clasp on the rail loosen.

  For there, not a mile away, was an ironclad warship. Smoke pouring from her funnel, heading toward them.

  And most glorious sight of all — the Stars and Stripes that were streaming out from her masthead.

  WASHINGTON CITY ATTACKED

  Royal Oak led the way, a sixty-gun ship of the line. In line astern were two other great ships. Prince Consort also with sixty-guns, and following her was Repulse with fifty-nine. They slowly came around the bend in the river and the city of Washington was open before them. The fighting ships drew close to the shore while the troop transports moved toward the Virginia side of the river. As soon as the British ships were within range the battery of American field artillery on the shore, and the guns of Fort Carrol, opened fire. The sound of the explosions echoed through the empty streets of the city; acrid smoke drifted in the hot air. The gunners shouted with pleasure as they saw their shells strike home in the high oak flanks of the warships.

  Their voices were drowned in the thunder of the ship of the line’s broadside. Thirty guns fired as one and Royal Oak rolled with the recoil. The artillery battery ceased to exist. The undermanned fort grew silent as the heavy guns pounded it.

  Other guns on the shore were firing now, with little effect against the thick oak of the British ships. They drifted closer to the embankment, turning as they came so the gun layers could pick out the individual batteries and guns. There were few enough defenders to begin with, fewer still after the first minutes of firing. None remained intact fifteen minutes later as the first of the transports approached the shore.

  There was a spatter of defensive fire from the American soldiers there, answered at once by British guns firing grapeshot. Marine marksmen in the rigging added to the carnage. The signal flags went up and the big troop transports threw their sails over and tacked across the river to the shore. Sailors jumped down lines to secure them and gangways were slung down.

  By the time the first troops were marching ashore, the pocket of resistance had been all but wiped out. Urged on by the shouts of the sergeants, two columns were quickly formed up and then marched out briskly. One in the direction of the Capitol — the other directly towards the White House. History was repeating itself with a vengeance.

  Secretary Stanton looked down from the high window of the War Department at the troops advancing down Pennsylvania Avenue. There was shouting from the hall behind him and the sound of running feet.

  “Sir,” a voice called out and he turned to see the red-faced and sweating Captain Docherty. “We got the presidential party to safety, got my men back here as quick as I could.”

  “Where did you take them?”

  “Mrs. Lincoln said they would be safe in Mrs. Morgan’s house in Georgetown. Good a place as any. Locked in and all the windows bolted. I left a corporal and two men though, just in case.”

  “What are the streets like?”

  “Empty, pretty much. Houses all locked up. But there are more and more men about, carrying guns.”

  “What do you
mean?”

  “City folk. Got their women and kinfolk to safety then began to get angry, I guess. This may be the capital of the country but it has always been a Southern city. These people don’t like being invaded, particularly by the British.”

  “Any chance of forming them up?” General A. J. Smith said, turning from the window. More shots were sounding from the street below.

  “No way — but they’re doing all right from what I seen. Most of them are sniping away at the redcoats like they was at a turkey shoot. Rise up and let go, then slip away. Don’t know how much good they’re doing against the regulars, but I’ve seen the redcoats fall.”

  Soldiers were firing from the windows now at the British advancing through the street below. A burst of counterfire took out the glass from the window and Stanton retreated to the far wall out of the line of fire.

  “What do you see, General?”

  The officer was ignoring the occasional bullet that crashed into the room, even leaned out to see better. “Those Kentucky troops, the ones stationed in the White House, they’re putting up quite a defense. Keeping the lobsterbacks pretty clear — by tarnation, good shooting!”

  “What?”

  “There was a rush, a squad with burning torches, they were cut down before they could reach the portico. But it can’t last, we’re too outnumbered.”

  With the firing now concentrated on the White House, Stanton was emboldened enough to come closer to the window. The streets below swarmed with enemy troops. They ringed the Mansion and were slowly closing in. Disaster was certain. He wondered if they would be burning the Capitol as well.

  The USS Avenger was the U.S. Navy’s newest acquisition, steam-powered and iron-hulled, with engines powerful enough to push her through the sea at fifteen knots. Heavily armed, with four 400-pound Parrott guns mounted in double turrets she was a shark of the sea. Commodore Goldsborough himself was in the pilot cabin when they saw the little steamer come around the tip of the Yorktown Peninsula, less than a mile ahead. The first officer had his glasses on her.

  “I know that ship, Commodore. River Queen. Assigned to the army, does packet service — ”

  His voice broke off as the large warship surged into view behind the smaller vessel. A warship moving at great speed, her guns run out and spouting a great column of smoke.

  “British!” the Commodore said when he saw their flag. “Beat to quarters. Prepare for action. Open port lids and run out the guns.”

  “Solid shot, sir?”

  “No, the new explosive shells. She’s seen us and she’s going about — but they’re not going to get away.”

  But the British ship was not retreating. With her guns already run out she was prepared for battle and was ready for it. She was no longer following the River Queen but was turning to engage this new enemy who had suddenly appeared across her bows.

  Both ships had their boiler pressure close to the red. Their closing speed was almost thirty-five miles an hour. Within two minutes the mile that had separated them had diminished to a hundred yards. Through the slits in the iron pilot box the American officers could see the men manning the guns on the enemy ship, the officers on the bridge there peering down toward them.

  “Starboard your helm,” Goldsborough ordered. “Helmsman, steer fine, pass her to port. Steady.”

  When the great warship had turned and gone thundering by them, the captain of the River Queen had eased the pressure in his laboring engine and had turned in the other ship’s wake. The men in the salon were roaring with relieved laughter, shouting with excitement as they poured on deck to watch the spectacle. President Lincoln had the perfect view of the action through the bridge window.

  “You will never see the likes of this again,” the captain cried out. “Never again!”

  For an instant it looked as though the two warships were going to strike each other, bow to bow. But no, they slid past just yards apart. And as they passed the guns on the British battleship roared out at point-blank range, one after another.

  With absolutely no effect. The solid shot slammed into the iron turrets and bounced away. Sheets of flame joined the two ships together, smoke billowing high.

  Then Avenger fired. Four shots only, one after the other, fired at point-blank range, the noise like the thunder of a summer storm.

  Then the ships were past each other and in those brief moments the battle had been engaged — and ended.

  The Avenger swung about in a great arc. By the time she had turned in her own wake the ship was ready for battle again as the reloaded guns, one after another, were run back into position. There were burns and great smears and gouges in her armor plate where shells had struck and exploded. But she was still fit, still ready to do battle.

  There was no need.

  In the time it had taken for the two ships to pass each other the wooden British warship had been holed and was aflame from stem to stern. There was scarcely time to lower the boats as the rigging and sails caught fire; the terrified crewmen hurled themselves into the ocean to escape the flames. Corpses and upended cannon were strewn on her deck. There was a muffled explosion deep in her hull and gushing steam added to the horrors aboard her as the boiler exploded.

  Avenger slowed her engines as she approached the enemy, guns ready and alert. Yet not a shot was fired. With all resistance ended the enemy lay heavy in the sea, almost unseen behind the flame and smoke that roared from her.

  Goldsborough nodded with satisfaction. “Lower the boats to pick up those survivors in the water.”

  The little steamship had come close to the warship now and Lincoln’s orders kept the River Queen’s signalman busy. As soon as the import of his message reached Commander Goldsborough the word was quickly passed and one of the boats, oars flashing, raced for the smaller vessel. Lincoln climbed wearily down from the bridge to speak to his assembled officers.

  “Gentlemen, I think that we have experienced the nearest thing to a miracle that we will ever see in our lifetime.”

  “Amen to that, brother!” called out one of Lee’s officers, a preacher in civilian life.

  “We have little or no time to waste. We all saw the fleet that is now sailing on Washington. And we know how defenseless that city is at the present time. Providence has provided us with this magnificent vessel that might put a halt to that invasion. General Sherman and I will go aboard the Avenger and sail with her. You will follow in this ship. We will meet again in Washington.” He looked down at the boat that now, oars in, was tying onto their ship.

  “There is danger, Mr. President. I am a soldier and it is my duty to move into battle. But you are the leader of our country, your life far more valuable than mine,” General Sherman protested. Lincoln shook his head.

  “I have a feeling, General, that for this day at least Providence is on our side. Let us go.” He went to the ladder and descended, one of the sailors helping him into the boat. Sherman could only follow.

  Commodore Goldsborough came out of the hatch and onto the shrapnel-strewn deck and saluted when they climbed aboard. Old, gray-haired and overweight, he was still a man of fighting spirit.

  “Thank you for the timely arrival,” Lincoln said. He looked at the blazing wreck and shook his head. “A single broadside did that…”

  “We used explosive shells, Mr. President. The aft battery was charged with the new incendiary shells that we were testing out at sea. They are filled with an inflammable substance that is said to burn for thirty minutes without the possibility of being quenched. I wish we had more of them for I would say they are a great success. But welcome, sir, welcome aboard. You as well, General Sherman.” He turned and shouted commands in a voice that could be heard in a gale; the engines rumbled deep below. He coughed, cleared his throat, and continued to speak but in a far more conversational manner.

  “I tied up at Fort Monroe less than two hours ago, to take on coal. Then telegraphed reports began coming in about the presence of the enemy fleet in the Potomac. As far as I know mine
is the only ship of strength in these waters. I dropped my lines and, well, you saw what happened next. I must thank you for bringing that British ship to my attention.”

  “We must thank you, Commodore, for your timely arrival and most convincing treatment of our pursuer. Now — to Washington.”

  “To Washington, Mr. President. Full speed ahead.”

  When the War Department was not directly attacked, General Rose had ordered scouts to slip out of the back windows. They desperately needed to know what was going on. The first one to return was ordered to report directly to Secretary Stanton.

  “What is the city like, Corporal?”

  “Pretty quiet, nothing moving except where them British troops are. Everyone locked up and quiet. I think I saw the Capitol on fire, and it had been hit by gunfire, but couldn’t get close enough to be sure. Then I got as near to the river as I could. All our guns wiped out, many of our men too. Redcoats still landing, lots of them spread out, but lots of them shot dead.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Local folks not taking kindly to them. And it looked like every farmer that could ride a mule headed for the city when these ships went by on the Potomac. They got a line of men stretched out and firing — with more arriving every minute.”

  “Enough to stop the British?”

  “I don’t believe so, sir. Those troops are regulars and there is an awful lot of them.”

  “Mr. Stanton — it looks like they’re getting into the White House now!”

  It certainly appeared to be the end. The defensive fire had died down and the first enemy troops were battering at the sealed front door. The troops inside were firing through the shattered windows to no avail.

  Above the scattering of shots a bugle could be clearly heard. Sounding the same call over and over.