Stars and Stripes Triumphant sas-3

by Harry Harrison

  “How right you are. If this new kind of army attacks in force, it can destroy all who stand before it. The faster the attack, the quicker the end of the conflict. That is why I call it lightning war. Take the war to the enemy and destroy him. As you said — slaughter instead of valor. And certain victory. That is the way our future battles must be fought. The tiger of machine warfare has been loosed and we must ride it. Or perish. The old ways are gone, replaced by the new. My hope is that before the enemy discovers that fact, it will too late, and they will be destroyed. In the past it was passion and bravery that won battles. North and South were so evenly matched at Shiloh that the battle might have gone either way.”

  “It didn’t,” Grant said. “You would not let it. You led from the front that day and your soldiers took inspiration from you. It was your courage that won the victory.”

  “Perhaps. Please believe me, I am not putting down the will and bravery of our men. They are the best. But I want to give them the weapons and the organization that win battles. I want them to live through the coming conflict. Never again do I want to see twenty thousand dead in a day on the field of battle, as we did at Shiloh. If there are to be dead, let them be from the ranks of the enemy. In the end I want my avenging army to march home victorious to their families.”

  “That is a tall order, Cumph.”

  “But it can be done. It will be done. There are only a few remaining details to be ironed out, and I know that I can leave them safely up to you.”

  “Don’t you fear, they’ll get done well before you get back.”

  “Particularly since I am not going away.”

  “That is true. Officially you will be joining Admiral Farragut in an inspection of the fleet. That’s what it says in the newspapers — and we know that they never lie. When are you off?”

  “Tonight, just after dark. General Robert E. Lee will meet me on the ship.”

  “Despite the fact he is taking some leave at his home?”

  “You must always believe what you read in the papers. I know it may be considered presumptuous of me to take a mighty ship like the Dictator all the way to Ireland and back for my personal needs — but this trip is vital. I must be present when Lee and Meagher meet. We must all be of a single mind as to what is to be done.”

  “I agree completely and I know that it is only the truth. Give my respects to General Meagher. He is a fine officer.”

  “That he is. And I know that he won’t let us down, he and his Irish troops. But I must impress on him how vital his role is — and how even more important is exact timing. I know that he will understand when I explain the entire operation to him. It is amazing the organizational work he has done with the limited facts of the coming operation that have been supplied to him.”

  “That is because he has faith in you, Cumph. We all have. This new kind of warfare is yours and yours alone. Yes, most of the weapons and machines were all there for anyone to see. But you saw more than we did. You had the foresight and, I dare say it, the genius to put everything together into a new kind of battle order. We will win, we must win a decisive victory. To settle the British question once and for all. Then maybe the politicians will take notice and decide that wars are too awful now to keep on fighting them.”

  Sherman smiled wryly. “I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for that to happen. As you know I personally think that war is hell — but most people don’t. I firmly believe that the politicians will always find reasons to fight just one more war.”

  “I’m afraid that you are right. Have a good and fast voyage — and I will see you upon your return.”

  It was a wet day in April in Ireland — it almost always was — but General Thomas Francis Meagher scarcely noticed the rain-lashed fields and the sodden tents of the Burren. His men were fresh troops, green and untested troops — but men with the hearts of lions. They had rallied to the tricolor flag when the call had gone out for volunteers, coming from all parts of the country. Theirs was the newest nation in the world and was now under threat by one of the oldest. Ireland had been a republic just long enough to taste the benefits of freedom. Now that this newfound independence was under attack, her people rallied to its defense.

  A year ago, when Meagher had inspected his first volunteers, his heart had sunk. They were willing enough, God knows, but generations of ill nourishment had exacted its toll. Their arms were pipe-thin, their skins gray and pallid. Some of them had legs that bowed out, the classical sign of bad diet and rickets. All of the noncommissioned officers in the new army were from the Irish Brigade, all of them Irish-American immigrants just one or two generations away from the old country. But what a difference those few generations had made. Through industry and hard work they had improved their lot — but a decent diet had improved their physiques as well. Most of them were a head taller than their Irish cousins, some weighing half as much again.

  General Meagher had called upon the American military doctors for advice. They had years of experience in caring for large groups of men, caring for their health and well-being as well as their combat wounds.

  “Feed them up,” the surgeon general had said. He had made an emergency visit to Ireland at the behest of the doctors of the Irish Brigade. He had been shocked by what he had seen. As soon as he could, he arranged a meeting with General Meagher and his staff.

  “I am surprised that any of them lived long enough to reach young manhood. Do you know what the diet in the country consists of? Potatoes — almost completely potatoes. A valuable source of nutrients indeed, but not to be eaten on their own. And if the potatoes are peeled before they are cooked, this removes many of the nutrients. They are eaten dipped in salt water for flavor, washed down by black and unsweetened tea. That is not a healthy diet — it is a death sentence.”

  “But they are used to it,” Meagher said. “They strongly resist eating made dishes, and what they call folderols…”

  “This is the army,” the surgeon general growled. “They will obey orders. Porridge in the morning; if they don’t like it salted, they can sweeten it with sugar to make it palatable. I know that they say that oats are only for horses — but they can emulate their Scotch cousins and eat their oatmeal every day. And no tea until the evening meal! If they are thirsty, why then, provide them with jugs of milk. Then make sure that they have meat, at least once a day, and vegetables like turnips and cabbage. Leeks as well. There is a most tasty Irish dish called colcannon, made of cabbage and potatoes. See that they have some of that. Then exercise, not too strenuous at first, but keep building it. They will put on muscle and body weight and be the better for it.”

  The doctors had been so right; in less than a year the changes had been remarkable. And as the men’s health had improved, so had their military prowess. The trained soldiers of the American Irish Brigade had been spread evenly through the new Irish army. Those with the needed skills and intelligence were made noncommissioned officers; the remaining ones acted as a trained central corps, an example to the boys from the farms and the cities’ slums. They were eager to learn, anxious to do their part in the defense of their country.

  Meagher was immensely cheered by all this. Though at times progress had been heartbreakingly slow. But these mostly illiterate young men had the unshakable will to succeed — and win. They were told what needed to be done and they did it with enthusiasm. Now there was an army that could wheel and march on parade, that also showed a growing skill at the rifle butts. They could put down a volley of withering fire from their breech-loading Spencer repeating rifles. If they had the spunk to stand up to the enemy, they would be a formidable force in the field.

  Training artillerymen had not been as easy. But there were farm boys who knew about horse handling and harnessing, and they had fleshed out the ranks. A hard core of Irish-American gunners provided the skill and knowledge to create an efficient gunnery corps.

  This had been done. Before going out to attend parade, General Meagher stood in the doorway of his tent and watc
hed the men drilling in the endless rain. They persevered. Nearby a company was erecting new tents; one of the tents, sodden with water, collapsed on the soldiers working below it. They emerged dripping — and laughing at their misfortune. Morale was fine. Soon these men would be tested in battle. General Sherman, the General of the Armies, had sent word by the weekly packet to Galway that he and General Robert E. Lee would be arriving in Ireland very soon, directly by warship to Dublin. Sherman would explain what was needed. Meagher remembered clearly what he had said at their last meeting in the War Department in Washington City, some months ago.

  “You must build me an army, Francis, one that will fight and follow where you lead. If war does come, why, yours will be the most vital role in guaranteeing our victory. You will be joined by American forces, but your men must be ready to fight as well. You will have losses, that cannot be avoided, but I want every man in your ranks to know, before they face battle, that it is for the freedom of Ireland that they fight. Victory in the field will mean independence forever at home.”

  They will be ready, Meagher thought, nodding his head. They will be ready.

  The storm was clearing, dark clouds racing by overhead. The sun broke through to the south, sending a sudden shaft of gold to illuminate the landscape. An omen, he thought. A good omen indeed.

  Blown across England by the prevailing westerly wind, the storm that had lashed Ireland had now reached the English Channel. The passengers who emerged from the Calais packet lowered their heads and held on to their hats in the driving rain. The big man with long hair and a flowing beard ignored the rain, walking slowly and stolidly along the shore. He paused when he came to the public house, slowly spelled out the words THE CASK AND TELESCOPE, nodded, and pushed the door open.

  There were a few sideways glances from some of the men drinking there, but no real interest. Strangers were common here at the dockside.

  “Beer,” he said to the landlord when he walked over to serve him.

  “Pint? Half-pint?”

  “Big vun.”

  “A pint it is, then.”

  Foreign sailors were no novelty here. The landlord put the glass down and pulled some pennies from the handful of change the man had laid on the bar. The newcomer drank half of the glass in a single mighty swig, belched loudly, and thudded the glass back onto the bar.

  “I look for pilot,” he said in a guttural voice, in thickly accented English.

  “You’ve come to the right place, my old son,” the landlord said, putting a polish onto a glass. “That’s Trinity House just a few yards away. All the pilots you want in there.”

  “Pilots here?”

  “My best customers. That table against the wall, pilots to the man.”

  Without another word, the newcomer took up his glass and clumped across to the indicated table. The men there looked up, startled, when he pulled up a chair and dropped into it.

  “Pilots?” he said.

  “None of your bleeding business,” Fred Sweet said. He had been drinking since early morning and was very much the worse for wear. He started to rise, but the man seated next to him pulled him back down.

  “Try next door. Trinity House. All you want there,” he said quietly. The newcomer turned to him.

  “Want pilot name of Lars Nielsen. He my brodersøn, what you say… nephew.”

  “By george — it looks like our friend here is related to old Lars. Always thought he was too mean to have any family.”

  “Took a collier to London yesterday,” one of the other drinkers said. “Depending on what he gets coming back, he could be here at any time now.”

  “Lars — he here?” the big stranger asked.

  After many repetitions he finally understood what was happening. “I vait,” he said, pushing back from the table and returning to the bar. He was not particularly missed by the pilots.

  The handful of change on the bar was much smaller by many pints by late afternoon. Lars’s uncle drank slowly and steadily, and patiently, only looking up when a newcomer entered the bar. It was growing dark when a gray-bearded man stumped in, his wooden leg thudding on the floorboards. A ragged cheer went up from the pilots in the room.

  “You got company, Lars,” someone shouted.

  “Your family wants the money back you stole when you left Denmark!”

  “He is as ugly as you are — you must be related.”

  Lars cursed them out loudly and savagely and stomped his way to the bar. The bearded man turned to look at him.

  “What you staring at?” Lars shouted at him.

  “Jeg er deres onkel, Lars,” the man said quietly.

  “I never saw you before in my life,” Lars shouted in Danish, looking the other man up and down. “And you sound like you’re from København — not Jylland. My family are all Jysk.”

  “I want to talk to you, Lars — about money. Lots of money that could be yours.”

  “Who are you?” Lars said suspiciously. “How do you know me?”

  “I know about you. You’re a Danish sailor who has been a pilot here for ten years. Is that correct?”

  “Ja,” Lars muttered. He looked around the barroom, but no one was paying them any attention now that they were speaking Danish.

  “Good. Now I will buy you a beer and we will snakker like old friends. Lots of money, Lars, and a trip back to Aarhus as well.”

  They talked quietly after that, their heads close together over the beer-stained table. Whatever was said pleased Lars so much that his face cracked into an unaccustomed smile. They ordered some food, a large quantity of meat, potatoes, and bread, which they consumed completely. When they had finished, they left together.

  The next day Lars Nielsen did not report for duty at Trinity House. Then the word got out that he had told the landlord at the pub that he had come into an inheritance and was going back to Denmark.

  No one missed him in the slightest.

  LET BATTLE BEGIN

  In ones and twos the big ships had come from America, convoyed the entire way by United States armorclads. The transports were many and varied, a few of them even wooden sailing ships that had been fitted out with steam engines. Some of these converted ships had limited bunker space, so all of the convoys made a stop at St. John’s, Newfoundland. The seaport there was empty now of any British ships; the locals gave the Americans a warm welcome. After this landfall, the convoys had sailed far to the north in the hope of avoiding British patrols; this plan had succeeded. Only a single British warship had been encountered, which fled the field at the sight of the bigger warships. Their route took them north, almost to Iceland, before they turned south to the rendezvous in Galway. When the arriving ships had unloaded their cargo, mostly munitions, to go by train to Dublin, the now empty ships had moved out to anchorage in Galway Bay. By late spring the bay was dark with ships, more than had ever been seen there before. They stayed peacefully at anchor, awaiting their orders.

  These were not long in coming. USS Avenger herself, the victor of the Battle of the Potomac, brought the final commands. One morning she steamed majestically up the bay to dock at Galway City. Avenger was now commanded by the veteran Captain Schofield, since the aging Commodore Goldsborough had taken his long-deserved retirement. She also had a new first lieutenant, a Russian of all things, a Count Korzhenevski, who had actually gone to the British Naval Academy. Schofield’s first suspicions of this unusual arrangement soon gave way to appreciation, for the Count was a willing and able officer.

  The orders that Avenger had brought went out swiftly to the waiting ships, while an army colonel, with an armed guard, took the fast train to Dublin with orders for General Meagher and General Robert E. Lee.

  There was nothing precipitous or hurried about the preparations. They moved with stately finality so that, at dawn on the fifteenth of May, 1866, the ships, one by one, hauled up their anchors and steamed out to sea. Past the Aran Islands they sailed, coasting northwest off the coast of Connemara, then turned north, their course set f
or the North Channel between Ireland and Scotland. Long before they reached the channel, off Donegal Bay, clouds of smoke on the horizon revealed the presence of the waiting American ironclads.

  A war fleet this size had never been seen before, not even during the earlier invasion of Ireland. No British fleet, no matter how strong, would dare face up to this mighty armada.

  But there was no enemy in sight; the American fleet movement had caught the British by surprise. South the ships moved, through the North Channel, where they could easily be seen from Scotland. They were indeed observed as they passed the Mull of Kintyre, and the telegraph from Campbeltown quickly spread the news south. But by the time that there could be any reaction, the cargo vessels were safe in Dublin Harbor and Dun Laoghaire.

  The ironclads were stationed out to sea to intercept any vessels rash enough to approach the Irish shore. The few that did come close were seen off quite quickly. Ashore, the troops filed aboard the waiting ships while the gun batteries approached the novel transports built specially for the coming invasion. Iron-hulled ships that, after they docked, opened up great ports in their sides from which, propelled by steam cylinders, slid out metal ramps. They were ridged with wooden crosspieces so that horses could easily pull the guns and limbers into the ships. Cavalry boarded the same way, as well as grooms with the officers’ mounts. Embarkation was completed just after dusk on the night of May 19.

  Soon after midnight, on May 20, the ships took in their lines and went to sea. It was a straight run of less than a hundred and forty miles across the Irish Sea to the British shore. Dawn found them in Liverpool Bay, with the first warships already steaming up the Mersey.

  The attack was a complete surprise to the shocked Liverpudlians, the crashing of heavy guns the first intimation that their country was again at war. Every fort, gun battery, and military installation had been carefully marked on the American charts. Years of spying had not been in vain. Each of the ironclads had its own specific targets. The sun was still low in the eastern horizon when the first guns fired.