“Very wise. Which leaves the responsibility to me. First — let us limit the possibilities.” He tapped on the map. “I think that we can eliminate landings in the north and west. Scotland and Wales are too distant from the seat of power. Cornwall is the same as well. We must look to London.”
“They will not attempt to come up the Thames as we did,” Farragut said. “It is common knowledge that our floating batteries are still stationed there. But here to the east, in the Wash, there are protected waters where landings are possible. Or farther south, perhaps, at the port of Harwich.”
Sherman shook his head. “Again — too far from the center. Harwich is a better possibility, it is surely close enough to London. But we would be warned if they landed there and could easily mass the troops to stop them. Therefore I believe that it is the south coast that we must worry about. They will know that we have seized Portsmouth, so they will not come ashore there. But here, farther east along the south coast, it is very different. Flat beaches, shallow waters, easy access from the sea. Brighton. Newhaven. Hastings.” He ran his finger along the coast.
“Hastings, 1066,” Fox said. “The last successful invasion before ours.”
“I can station a screen of ships across the mouth of the English Channel,” the admiral said. “From Bournemouth right across to the Cherbourg Peninsula. The Channel can’t be more than eighty miles wide there. A force the size of this one coming from India would be easily spotted as it approached. But, of course, if they do go west to Cornwall or beyond, we will never see them. Their troops would be well ashore before we knew anything about it.”
The ticking of the clock could be clearly heard in the silence that followed. This was a command decision — and General William Tecumseh Sherman was in command. The burden of decision rested upon his shoulders alone. His commander in chief was on the other side of the Atlantic and could not be consulted in time. It was indeed his sole judgment. He glanced up at the clock.
“Admiral, can you meet me here at eight o’clock in the morning to discuss your orders?”
“I shall be here.”
“Fine. Gus, I want your clerks to rake through the files. Get me the strengths of all the units listed in these orders. I will also want that by eight in the morning at the latest. Earlier, if you can manage it.”
“I’ll get onto it right now.”
“Good. On your way out, tell the officer of the day to send for my staff. It is going to be a long night.”
Dawn was just breaking when a haggard-eyed Fox brought the files with the strengths of the various military units that were in the approaching convoy. The staff officers moved aside when he came in and handed the papers to General Sherman.
“They are all here, General. All of the troops listed as being in the convoy. I wish I could be as sure of the accompanying naval vessels. Here are the original manifests, but any number of ships could have joined the convoy since they sailed. The route and dates of the convoy were well known throughout the fleet. Any or all of the British ships that escaped capture could be with the convoy now.”
“Excellent. Now I suggest that you get some rest. You have done all that could be done.”
Sherman himself looked as alert as he had the evening before. A seasoned campaigner, he was used to days and nights without sleep. By eight o’clock, before Admiral Farragut arrived, the plans were well in hand. Once the orders had been written, the staff officers dispersed to implement them as soon as possible. Sherman was alone, looking out the window at the park when the admiral came in.
“It is done,” Sherman said. “Orders have been issued and the first troop movements will begin this morning.”
“To… where?”
“Here,” Sherman said, slapping his hand down on the map of the south coast of England. “They will try to land here — they have no other choice. But our troops will soon be digging in all along this coast. From Hastings to Brighton. The heart of our defenses will be at Newhaven Fort, right here. Some of the guns there were damaged, but they have all been replaced by now. That coast will soon be bristling with American might. Any attempts to land will be blasted from the water. But I hope that disaster will not happen. It must be averted.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“I will be able to tell you when I join you. When do you estimate that it is the earliest that the convoy will arrive?”
“They may be slower than anticipated, but in any case they cannot get to the Channel any faster than was originally planned. Three more days at the earliest.”
“Good. You will post your ships at the Channel mouth, as you outlined last night. I shall join you in two days’ time. Will you have a ship for me in Portsmouth?”
“The Devastation just came in from patrol and is refueling in Southampton. I’ll telegraph orders for her to await you there, then she will join us in station. I sincerely hope that you are right in your summation of the situation, General.”
Sherman smiled wryly. “Admiral, I have to be right or we are lost. If the British army from India gets ashore, it will be a ragtag, murderous invasion with no guarantee of a successful outcome for either side. I have issued my orders. What happens next is up to the enemy.”
As soon as it had been deemed safe, John Mill’s daughter, Helen, had joined him in London. Through an agent she had found a most attractive furnished house to rent in Mayfair, on Brook Street. She knew how important a warm home environment was for Mill and she bent every effort in that direction. The strain of the work that he was doing was very great indeed, and he walked now with his shoulders bent, as though he were carrying a heavy load. As indeed he was. He was in his sitting room, still in sleeping cap and dressing gown, enjoying his morning tea, when Helen brought in a copy of The Times.
“I am almost afraid to read it these days,” he said, touching the newspaper gingerly with the tips of his fingers.
Helen laughed as he squinted at the first page. “It is not really that bad. They are actually weighing arguments pro and con concerning the proposed constitution — instead of thundering away, all barrels blazing, the way they did in the beginning.” She reached into the pocket of her dress and took out some envelopes. “Your Mr. Disraeli was here even before the morning post and left these off for you.”
“Wonderful! I shall put the newspaper aside with pleasure. He promised me a list of possible members for the proposed congress — this will hopefully be them.” He quickly read through the papers. “That is a familiar name. Charles Bradlaugh?”
“You must remember him, Papa. The founder of the National Reformer and a great pamphleteer.”
“Of course — yes! A committed republican and a freethinker. I can hear the wounded cries now if we permit an atheist to join our congress. Indeed, we must have him. I will get an invitation off to him today. Ah — and here is Frederic Harrison as well. A gentleman well-known to the working classes as possessing a practical knowledge of how the trade unions operate. Disraeli strongly advises that he be present, and I can only agree.”
With Disraeli’s aid and political know-how, a list of members for a constitutional congress was slowly being assembled. There were veteran politicians and reformers like William Gladstone, as well as up-and-coming politicians like Joseph Chamberlain. Although the newspapers sneered at the very idea of this congress and the political cartoonists had a field day at its expense, a possible panel was slowly being formed. Now it was only a matter of fixing a date that would be suitable for all parties concerned. What had seemed like a novel invention at first soon began to take on the appearance of respectability.
WAITING FOR DESTINY
Three days had passed since the USS Devastation had joined the squadron that stretched across the mouth of the English Channel. This was the proper place to intercept any ships entering the Channel where it joined the Atlantic Ocean. The northernmost ship in the line cruised within easy sight of Portland Bill. South of it, using just enough power to breast the incoming tide, rode USS Virginia.
Beyond this ship, almost on the horizon, another American ironclad was just visible. The line of warships now reached from within sight of the English coast right across the Channel as far as Cap de la Hague on the tip of the Cherbourg Peninsula. Every ship in the squadron was in sight of at least two others. When the British came — if they came — there was no way that they could escape observation.
If they came. This little word echoed over and over in General Sherman’s brain as he paced the flying bridge of the Devastation. When they had joined the squadron they had taken up station next to Admiral Farragut’s flagship, USS Mississippi, at the center of the line. She was still in position next to them, steaming as slowly as they were.
Sherman once again found himself standing at the rail, looking east across the empty sea. Would the convoy come? Had he been wrong in his assumption that they would attack the south coast of England? For the thousandth time he tracked the logic that had led him to the inevitable conclusion that this was what they would do. He still believed they must strike at this coast, but three days of waiting had left his theory hard-pressed. As he turned away he saw that a small boat was pulling away from the Pennsylvania. He realized suddenly that it must be noon — that was the hour appointed for his meeting with the admiral. They would discuss tactics yet again, and the state of the squadron, and Farragut would stay for luncheon. Sherman’s eyes strayed once more to the empty horizon, before he left the bridge and went to wait for the admiral on the deck.
“Still fine weather,” Farragut said as they shook hands. Sherman only nodded and led the way below. There was nothing they could say that had not been said often before. Sherman took the carafe from the sideboard and held it up.
“Will you join me in a sherry before we dine?”
“An excellent thought.”
Sherman had just poured out the drinks when a seaman burst through the door.
“Captain’s compliments.” The words rushed from his mouth. “The lookout reports ships to the southeast.”
The sailor had to move swiftly aside as the two officers rushed past him. By the time they had reached the bridge, the line of ships could be seen on the horizon. Captain Van Horn lowered his telescope. “The leading ship is an armorclad — you can tell by her upper works. And there is more smoke from ships still not in sight. Eight, ten of them at least.”
“Is this it?” Sherman asked.
Van Horn nodded firmly. “Without doubt, General. There could be no other force that size at sea.”
“Follow General Sherman’s orders,” Admiral Farragut said as he turned away. “I must return to my command and issue the signal to assemble all our force here.”
“I want you to approach those ships as soon as the admiral’s boat is clear. And do it slowly.”
Van Horn nodded. “Slow ahead. Five knots, no more.”
“Would you also have that flag hung in the bow,” Sherman said.
The captain’s orders were relayed to the deck and two sailors ran forward with a bundle of cloth. Grommets had been attached to the corners of one of the tablecloths from the officers’ mess. It was quickly fixed to a line and run up the bow mast. The approaching ships could not miss seeing the white flag. Nor the Stars and Stripes flying from the masthead.
When they had halved the distance to the approaching convoy, the captain stopped the engines. They drifted slowly to a stop, rolling in the light seas. The brisk westerly wind caught the improvised flag and it flapped out for all to see.
“If they should open fire?” Captain Van Horn asked brusquely.
“They won’t,” Sherman said firmly. “It would not be gentlemanly. And they are certainly aware of the other ironclads behind us. They will know what that means.”
If Sherman had any doubts about the wisdom of meeting the enemy like this, he did not express them. Twice before in his life he had ended conflict with a flag of truce. He had every faith that he could do it once again.
The leading ships could be seen quite clearly now; black armor and menacing guns. Signal flags had been run up and it appeared that the convoy had slowed. However, one of the ironclads had drawn away from the others and approached the American ship.
“Defender,” Van Horn said, peering through his glass again. “Main defenses six hundred-pounders, the new modified Warrior class.”
The British warship was coming right toward them, smoke pouring from its funnels, a bone in its teeth. As it drew closer it could be seen that its guns were trained on the American ship. When it had closed to within two hundred yards, it turned and slowed, presenting its starboard side. And as it turned, its guns turned as well, keeping trained on the Devastation.
“Has the boat been lowered?” Sherman asked.
“In the water as you ordered.”
Without another word Sherman left the bridge and scant moments later had climbed down into the waiting barge. Eight oars dipped as one and the craft shot swiftly across the water. As it approached the black flank of the British warship, it could be seen that a boarding ladder had been lowered over the side. Sherman climbed it as swiftly as he could. As he pulled himself up onto the deck, he found an army officer waiting for him.
“Follow me,” the man said abruptly, and turned away. Two sailors armed with muskets fell in behind them as they walked to the companionway. In the wardroom below, two army officers were waiting, both general officers. Sherman came to attention and saluted. They returned the salute in the British manner.
“We have met before, General Sherman,” the first officer said.
“Yes, in Canada. You are Brigadier Somerville.”
Somerville nodded slowly. “This is General Sir William Armstrong, commander in chief of Her Majesty’s forces in India.”
“Why are you here?” Armstrong asked brusquely, barely controlling his anger at meeting the man who had conquered his country.
“I am here to save lives, General Armstrong. We know the size and strength of your command from the documents that we seized in London. You will see behind me a major force of ironclads that will not permit you to pass peacefully, should you attempt to enter the Channel. They will avoid your warships, wherever possible, and concentrate on sinking your troopships. Should any of the transports succeed in passing our forces by, I want to inform you that the entire southern coast of England is now defended by American troops and guns. Any boats that attempt to land troops will be blown out of the water.”
“How do you know what we plan to do?” Armstrong snapped, cold anger in his voice.
“It was what I would have done, General. It was the only possible option.”
“Do we have your word that your troops are stationed here?” Somerville asked coldly.
“You have my word, sir. We have had a week to prepare our defenses. Newhaven Fort has been rearmed. The Twentieth Texas has dug in behind the shore at Hastings and are supported by five batteries of cannon. Do you wish me to list the defenders in the other positions?”
“That will be sufficient, General. You have given us your word.” Somerville’s voice was uneven as he spoke; his shoulders slumped. He had tried; they all had tried.
But they had failed.
“Return the Indian troops to India,” Sherman said. “If they come here they will only die. The fleet and the guns are waiting.”
“But my country!” Armstrong said, his voice rough with anger. “You have conquered, destroyed—”
“Conquered, yes,” Sherman snapped. “Destroyed, no. We only want peace and an end to this reckless war between our nations. Even now your politicians are meeting to found a new British government. When they have done that and the rule of law has been restored — we look forward to returning home. We want peace — not continued conflict. When you rule your own country once again, we will go. That is all that we want.”
“And we must believe this?” Somerville said, bitterness in his voice.
“You have no choice, General, no choice at all.”
“Take this man outside and hol
d him there,” Armstrong ordered the armed sailors standing by the door.
Sherman shrugged off their hands when they reached for him, turned, and left; the door closed behind them. In the corridor he looked coldly at the sailors; they shuffled their feet and did not meet his gaze. They had heard what had been said inside. The taller of them, a petty officer from his insignia, looked around then spoke quietly.
“What’s happening ashore, sir? We hear but little, the worst kind of scuttlebutt.”
“The war is over,” Sherman said, not unkindly. “Our troops won the day. There were deaths on both sides, but there is peace now. If your politicians agree, there will be a lasting peace in the years to come. If we can leave your country with that peace guaranteed — we will do just that. That is our desire, just as it must be yours.”
Sherman heard the door open behind him, turned, and entered the saloon.
“You have reached a decision,” he said. It was not a question.
“We have,” General Armstrong said, bitterness in his voice. “The Indian troops will return to India. You can guarantee them a safe passage?”
“I can. What of the British troops? Will they surrender?”
“Terms must be discussed first.”
“Of course. And your navy ships?”
“That you must discuss with the admiral commanding. I cannot speak for him.”
“Naturally. I feel that you are making a wise decision.”
“Not wise, but the only possible one,” Somerville said, resignedly. General Sherman could only nod in agreement.
At last the long war that had begun when the Confederate representatives had been taken from a British ship, which had spread from America to Mexico and Ireland, which had ended here in England, was over.
DAWN OF A NEW DAY
“There is a gentleman at the door to see you, Father,” Helen said. “He sent in his card.”
John Stuart Mill took the card, held it to the light. “Ah, Mr. William Gladstone. He has had my letter, then, and responded accordingly. Please show him in.”
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