Piccadilly Doubles 2

by Lou Cameron

  “She’ll know exactly what you’re talking about,” I said.

  We left it at that, and went our separate ways for the time being. Back at the hotel I found Cassie drinking brandy and water in her room. For a change, Fitz wasn’t there. Nothing about Cassie hinted that she had been so recently in a gun battle. Oh yes, she was one hard little lady.

  “Rockwell says you’re confined to quarters,” I informed her when I came in at her laconic invitation. “The same for Fitz. McSorley can go on running his saloon, but he’s to stay on the premises. Try to sneak through the lines and you’ll get shot.”

  She seemed amused by the warning. “What about you, Forbes?”

  “I can go where I like, I’m not a federal spy.”

  “I wasn’t talking about that. Well yes, perhaps I was, in a way. What I meant was, aren’t you just a little nervous about what General Connor will think of your part in all this? He’s sure to hear about you, he’s sure to have questions. He might even consider you disloyal.”

  “Let Connor think what he likes. I’m not one of his soldiers.”

  “In time of war every citizen is a soldier.”

  “That sounds like a quotation. Is it?”

  “No, I just made it up, but I’m sure that— legally—it holds true. Not that Connor will concern himself with legalities, from what I know of him. They say he’s a fire-eater. I’d get my story straight if I were you.”

  “I’ll take my chances with Connor,” I said.

  Cassie drank some of her watered brandy and smiled at me. “You can count on doing just that. Connor is at the gates of the city, so to speak. Any day now he’ll come charging through after his artillery prepares the way. Then we’ll know for sure how fast these Saints can run.”

  Her attitude annoyed me. “Don’t be too sure of that,” I said. Through the open window came the sound of marching men, the rumble of wagons. “If they run it will be to fight another day.”

  “First they’ll just run before the bayonets of Connor’s volunteers. Won’t that be a sight to see: their sacred city in flames while they run for the hills.”

  “You don’t hope for a peaceful solution to this?”

  “Like hell I do. My father was killed by Rebels, dirty, skulking traitors just like these degenerate Mormons. What I hope for is their extermination. Their so-called civilization is rotten to the core. It’s just one big cesspool with Brigham Young as the sole proprietor.”

  “That’s a curious image,” I said, knowing it would make her mad.

  “I don’t give a damn how curious it is—it’s true. A place like this has no right to exist within the borders of the United States. It’s built on slavery, and never mind how willing the slaves are. It’s a sham from beginning to end. There is no democracy here, no freedom of speech. These people would be better off living under the Tsar of Russia.”

  “At least it’s warmer here,” I said. “If they’re serfs, they’re the best fed serfs I ever saw.”

  “Ha!” Cassie sneered. “What do you know about serfs?”

  “I saw a picture in a book,” I said.

  “You think you’re going to become a famous correspondent, don’t you, Forbes?”

  “In my humble opinion—yes.”

  “And this is just the beginning?”

  “We all have to start somewhere.”

  “Just be careful it isn’t the beginning and the end of your illustrious career. General Connor may have something to say about that. Your boss, Mr. Greeley, may change his mind about you when the facts come out. As for me, I just think you’re a cold-blooded opportunist. You love nothing and no one. It will catch up with you some day.”

  More men and wagons passed down the street. “You don’t give a damn about the Mormons, do you?” Cassie said angrily. “Mormons! Americans! One side means as much as the other—to you.”

  ‘What are you so angry about?” I asked her.

  “You make me angry,” she said. “Men like you always make me angry. Oh, why should I care. As soon as Connor takes the city I’ll be gone from here. I can’t wait to get away from the stink of piety. Connor and his men will be like a breath of fresh air in this white sepulcher.”

  “You know much about Connor?”

  “If I did, why the hell should I tell you? But why not? You can go back and tell Rockwell that Connor always attacks, never retreats. That ought to give him something to think about.”

  But Connor didn’t attack.

  For a week his army had been camped outside the city, and still no sign of aggression. No one could understand it. Ever since the American force had moved through the mountain gap into the salt basin, it had done nothing but deploy itself between the lake and the mountains beyond it. During the day, the American soldiers could be viewed by telescope as they went about their duties; at night, their campfires winked in the dark. To me, the civilian, there was something almost mysterious in the way they did—nothing.

  Sometimes, watching from the outermost Mormon lines, I saw General Connor himself. This was the man the Mormons hated more than anyone in the world. They knew as well as I that he was simply a soldier following orders, but the higher-ups who sent him were far away and faceless, while he was here in the flesh: they could see him and so they hated him most. Connor moved among his men with no attempt at concealment, no attempt at disguise. He had no need of caution as he went in and out of the big tent that served as his command headquarters. No rifle existed that could kill him at such a distance. But in my powerful telescope, borrowed from Rockwell, he stood out clearly: a massive man with white hair of unsoldierly length. Always he seemed to have a cigar in his mouth; his uniform jacket was seldom buttoned as he went about followed by officers. More than once, watching him, I wondered what he was up to, for by now his troops were rested and well-fed on camp cooking. So what was he waiting for? What was his game, if any? Every day that he delayed his attack gave the Mormons more time to fortify the city; to lay in greater stores of food and ammunition. And indeed the Mormons were doing just that.

  Day after day hundreds of men labored to build higher breastworks until there were three lines of defense, and as the sandbags were filled and placed in position, as the spike-studded, horse-killing pits were dug, as more and more rifles became available, I could not help thinking that Connor, the volunteer officer, did not quite know what he was doing. Yet there was the man’s reputation to take into account. According to Rockwell, who knew more about him than I did, he had enlisted to fight the Seminoles and had risen to the rank of captain by the time of the Mexican War, a remarkable accomplishment in itself considering the iron-clad ways of the regular army and the bitter anti-Catholic prejudice of that time. So, all evidence to the contrary, I was forced to conclude that he must be a capable officer in his way. On the other hand, it was possible that as general he was beyond his level of competence: a good captain does not always function well on a higher level. Could he be trying to wear down the Mormons by his presence on the edge of their capital city? That could scarcely be the answer since there was no calculated display of military might—Connor’s volunteers might have been on leisurely maneuvers. And so it went, day after day, until I felt something like indignation at Patrick E. Connor’s conduct. Where was the fire and dash expected of such a commander? In my youthful impatience I became the outraged taxpayer, the armchair strategist who knows better than the professional how wars should be fought.

  For their part, the Mormon officers were openly contemptuous, and once I heard Widger say to General Dan Wells: “If that Irish fool gives us enough time we’ll be able to build a high stone wall around the city. In the old days God sent us the seagulls, this time he sent Connor.” Dan Wells, who had been a regular army officer in his time, was less sure that Connor was a fool, but he, too, was puzzled by Connor’s inaction, saying, “I don’t know what he’s doing, but I hope he keeps on doing it.”

  Only Rockwell, once derisive of Connor’s abilities, was convinced that there was some pla
n behind the apparent indecisiveness of the American commander. Like myself, he had been watching Connor through the telescope.

  “That man is no fool. Far from it,” he said to me. “I can see it in his face. There is no indecision there, none at all. Anyone who can’t see that is a fool himself. Connor knows what he’s doing all the time. That man isn’t hanging back—he’s just waiting. For what I don’t know—and I’d give all my horses to find out—but that’s what he’s doing.”

  Early on the morning of the ninth day, a boy pounded on my door and yelled that Port Rockwell said I was to “come quick.” To the first line of defense, the boy shouted. Then he ran away before I could get any more information as to the reason for this early morning alarm. My first thought was that Connor was finally mounting an attack. I listened but heard no guns.

  Rockwell was waiting for me on the firing platform behind piled-up sandbags. All the other Mormon commanders were there; the sun was just coming up, big and brassy, as yet without heat. The sun was behind us; the country in front was washed in pale yellow light. I looked without using the glass, but there was nothing to see. Before us the great lake stretched out flat and pacific. But there was something out there, for the Mormon commanders, Dan Wells, Widger, and the others, had telescopes glued to their eyes, and they were muttering with a sort of excited consternation.

  “What is it, Port?” I said.

  Rockwell handed me his telescope. “Take a look for yourself. Never mind the soldiers. Look to the right, up there on the mountain.”

  I did as I was told.

  “You see it now?” Rockwell said.

  My heart jumped in my chest when I adjusted the telescope and what looked like the biggest gun in the world stood in front of my astonished eyes. It was miles away but I felt as if I could look right down the barrel of the monstrous weapon. I could only guess at its size—it was enormous. Soldiers and sailors—sailors!—swarmed all over it, dwarfed by its great steel bulk. Shells were stacked beside the gun; the rising sun made the brass casings glitter. The morning was cold, but I began to sweat. The gun was the last thing I expected to see on a bleak Utah mountain.

  ‘What is it?” Rockwell asked in a calm voice. I know his voice was calmer than mine. “A new kind of cannon, William? I never saw anything like it before.”

  “It’s a long-range naval rifle,” I said shakily. “A brand new thing. It can sink anything that floats. Armored or not, that gun can sink it.”

  “Not a cannon?”

  “Not a cannon. A breech-loading rifled gun that can throw explosive shells for miles. I don’t know how many miles. Miles, anyway. They call it a Dahlgren gun. A naval officer named Dahlgren ... there was a story in the newspapers last year ...”

  I tried to remember the newspaper account of the deadly new fast-firing gun and cursed myself for not having read more attentively. Some forward-looking admiral said it would change the course of naval warfare. I couldn’t remember much else.

  Rockwell took the telescope from me. “Well, now we know what Connor was waiting for,” he said. “We know what happened to those hundred men we couldn’t find.” He laughed, causing the other Mormons to scowl. “We looked for them in the desert. In the damn desert! Can you imagine that? Connor foxed us, William. And they thought that man a fool. Look at the way he has men moving in to protect the gun.”

  I looked. Lines of soldiers were moving out along the lower slopes of the mountain. A man with a colonel’s insignia was giving orders to junior officers, and as I watched the soldiers began to take up their positions, preparing for any attack that might come. The Mormons might dare an attack; while they were doing that the gun would keep on firing. It hadn’t fired yet. I wondered how long it would be before the first shell exploded in the city.

  Now that the sun was up, the great naval gun had a truly menacing look. To my mind, modern naval guns are of graceful appearance, but here on a bare, stony mountain this gun simply looked ugly and peculiarly out of place. So far as I knew, there was nothing like it on land, for the very good reason that a gun of that size was not transportable. Yet Connor had moved it, and not just over land but over mountains; and amid my horror at its appearance in that peaceful setting there was immense admiration for the men who had brought it there. It was a feat of engineering as much as anything else, and in my mind I saw them far out in the mountains, calculating the risks, working out the problems of bringing the awesome thing to its fateful appointment. It was something to marvel at, something to fear.

  “I guess this changes everything,” Rockwell said to Dan Wells, who came over to stand by us. “William here tells me that gun out there can knock down the city.”

  Dan Wells looked at me. “I know what that gun can do. It’s like a nightmare seeing it here in the mountains. Pretty soon Connor will be sending one of his officers to demand our surrender. Or he may just commence firing. God knows what that man will do.”

  “You ready to surrender, Dan?” Rockwell asked.

  “Only Brigham has the say in that,” Dan Wells said. “But how are we to defend the city in the face of that gun?”

  “By fighting,” Rockwell answered. “To the last man, if we have to. Then we’ll pull out and make for the mountains. Let them follow and well fight them there. We know the country up there. They don’t.”

  “Brigham is the one to decide,” Dan Wells repeated.

  News of the navel gun spread quickly along the line. Telescopes were passed from hand to hand; the men reacted to the gun in different ways. One man said the gun had to be a fake and a brisk argument followed. “Well, if it isn’t a fake, then how come it hasn’t opened fire?” the man said.

  Rockwell smiled at me. “If that thing is a fake, it’s the most genuine-looking fake I ever saw. It won’t be long before we know for sure.”

  It seemed to me that Rockwell wanted the gun to open fire, for with the first shell the war would be on. His manner was calm, but his eyes betrayed his eagerness to do battle. The big gun fascinated him and he looked at it again and again. “Why doesn’t it fire?” he said. “Why aren’t they forming for an attack?”

  My mouth was dry, but it wasn’t because of the fierce sun that beat down on the firing platform. I don’t think I was afraid; what I felt was more like some sort of nerve-jangling suspense. Why didn’t the damn thing open fire and have done with it? I drank water from a canteen and continued to stare at the gun. The men who had charge of it were no longer moving about, which meant that everything was in readiness. A young officer stood with his hands on his hips, gazing out over the lake, and I found myself wondering what his name was. I wondered, too, if he realized the significance of what he was doing, for at the moment he gave the order to open fire a civilization would begin to crumble. All the years of work and sweat would count as nothing. I looked down the line of riflemen, and there were old men there and boys who had begun to shave, and though they were not my people I was very proud of them. They were ready to die for what they believed, and what more can you ask of any man?”

  “Connor is getting on his horse,” Rockwell said. “By God, do you think he means to come here himself?”

  I looked and saw Connor astride his big brown Morgan. He was talking to his second in command and pointing up to where the Dahlgren gun was. Then Connor took out his watch and so did the colonel. After a few more words Connor turned his horse and rode out of camp, heading in our direction. “He isn’t even wearing a gun,” Rockwell said. “The nerve of the man! How does he know we won’t just shoot him off his horse?

  Soon I was able to see Connor without the aid of the telescope. He rode along the edge of the lake, a big man on a big horse. Rockwell raised his rifle and squinted along the barrel and for a moment I thought he was going to shoot. But he didn’t. All he did was smile. “It will be interesting to hear what he has to say,” Rockwell said. “William, my friend, you’ll have plenty to write about before this day is over.”

  We waited for Connor to come to us.

&nbs
p; Chapter Seventeen

  He rode toward our position with a cigar gripped between his teeth, and when he was within hailing distance he reined in his horse. “I’m coming in,” he shouted. “You see I’m not armed.”

  “Come ahead, General,” Rockwell yelled back.

  Connor walked his horse through the gap in the line and dismounted. “I came to talk to Brigham Young,” he said easily. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  “Brigham isn’t here,” Rockwell answered. “This is General Dan Wells, our commander. You’ll have to talk to him.”

  Connor nodded. “Just so long as he has the authority. Gentlemen, I have come to demand the surrender of your city. You are to lay down your arms and disperse your men. Anybody here got a drink of water?”

  The Mormons stared in stony silence while Connor drank from Rockwell’s canteen. They didn’t know what to make of him, and to tell the truth, neither did I. He was in the enemy camp, a man alone and unarmed, yet he acted as if he had already gained his objective.

  “We’re waiting, General,” Rockwell said.

  “Gentlemen,” Connor said calmly and with a smile. “You know who I am, but I will tell you anyway. My name is Patrick Edward Connor and I am a brigadier general in the Army of the United States. I like to think of myself as a gentleman except when it comes to war. Gentlemen lose wars and that is why the Confederacy is going to lose. So if you are counting on a Confederate victory as a means to success, I advise you to reconsider. Perhaps you think you can defy the United States because of the present war, because the Union has its hands full, as they say. This is true—but only partly. Like the bully in the barroom we can lick you with one hand tied behind our backs. That, of course, isn’t as easy as with two hands; just the same, it can be done. With the United States it has become a matter of principle, and never mind all that guff about wanting to take your land so it can be exploited by Eastern capitalists. Quite simply, gentlemen, we can’t let you get away with it. If we do, others will follow. The legal arguments concerning Southern secession do not apply here. Utah is not a state: it belongs to the United States. However, right and wrong does not concern me. I am a soldier, not a lawyer. You must submit to the authority of the central government. There can be no bargaining, no compromise, no exchange of terms.”