Stars & Stripes Forever

by Harry Harrison

  The horse, captured in the attack, was a wall-eyed brute and very skittish at the best of times. The major, with little riding skills, managed to clamber into the saddle with the aid of two marines. At an uncontrolled gallop he headed toward the sound of action. He found it quickly enough and managed to pull hard on the reins to drag the horse to a stop.

  The cause was lost, that was obvious at a glance. English bodies covered the ground. They had taken many of the enemy with them—but not enough. The surviving British troops appeared to be surrounded and unable to escape. Surrounded by what was obviously a far superior force. He could counterattack with his marines. But they would be outnumbered as well—and certainly could not arrive in time to make any difference to the outcome of this battle. The intensity of the firing was dying down as the small circle of defenders grew ever smaller. A bullet kicked up sand nearby and he realized that he been seen by the skirmishers and was under fire himself. Reluctantly he turned the horse and galloped back to the beach.

  When he saw that the defenses were manned and as strong as he could make them, he ordered the sailors to man one of the beached boats and made his way to the Warrior.

  And total confusion. Boats from the other ships were crowded at the gangway and he had to wait until the senior officers went first. When he finally made it to the deck he saw that working parties were bumping into each other on deck, while others were aloft furling the mainsail to avoid scorching by smoke from the stack. The third officer, with whom he shared a cabin, was supervising the lowering of the aft telescopic funnel so he crossed the deck to him.

  “Des, what’s happening? Are we going to sail?”

  “Yes . . . and no.” He turned to bellow at a sailor. “You there—watch yourself! Lean into that line!” He motioned Dashwood aside, spoke quietly so the crewmen could not hear him.

  “The admiral is dead—and apparently by his own hand.”

  “I think I know why.”

  “That island out there, you can just make it out on the horizon. That is Deer Island.”

  Dashwood looked from island to shore. “And how did our wonderfully efficient navy make this mistake? A slight error in navigation?”

  Dashwood smiled coldly at the officer’s discomfiture. “We discovered it this morning. General Bullers is now continuing the attack. I was to follow him as soon as the rest of the supplies are ashore. Now—I must report to the duke—”

  “Gone on the Java.”

  “Then who is in command?”

  “Who knows? The captain has called a meeting of senior captains in his cabin.”

  “I have some more bad news for them.” He leaned close and whispered. “Buller has been attacked, defeated.” He turned and went below.

  Two of his marines were stationed at the cabin door and jumped to attention when he appeared.

  “Captain ordered us, sir. No entry . . .”

  “Stand aside Dunbar—or I’ll strangle you with your own guts.”

  The arguing captains looked up when the marine officer entered.

  “Damn it, Dashwood, I left orders . . .”

  “Indeed you did, sir.” He closed the door before he spoke. “I have the worst possible news for you. General Buller and his entire command are under attack. By now all of them have been killed or captured.”

  “That cannot be!”

  “I assure you that it is. I went there myself and saw what was happening. One of the soldiers who escaped can confirm this report.”

  “Take your men—go to their aid!” The captain of the Royal Oak called out.

  “Are you in command here, Captain?” Major Dashwood asked coldly. “My understanding is that with the admiral dead the captain of my ship commands my troops.”

  “All dead?” Captain Roland said, apparently numbed by the news.

  “Dead or captured for certain. What do you want us to do, sir.”

  “Do?”

  “Yes, sir.” Dashwood was losing his patience at the dithering, but did not let his feelings show. “I’ve dug my men in on shore. With the guns they can resist an attack—but they cannot win it.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Immediate withdrawal. Our military forces obviously did not accomplish their objective. I suggest that we cut our losses and retreat.”

  “And you are absolutely sure that our forces on land are destroyed? Or will be very soon?” one of the captains asked.

  “You may take my word for that, sir. If you have any doubts I will be happy to take you to the scene of the battle.”

  “The supplies on shore, the cannon—what about them?”

  “I suggest that we take what we can, destroy the rest, spike the guns. Nothing can be accomplished by staying a moment longer than we need. Now if you will excuse me, I must return to my troops.”

  Despite the urgency it took most of the day for a decision to be made. Dashwood had sent scouts forward and they reported that the battle was indeed over. They saw a small group of prisoners being led away. And the enemy divisions were forming. Skirmishers were already approaching and it was more than obvious what would happen next. The major walked back and forth behind the defenses, in a black rage at the indecision of the navy. Were his marines to be sacrificed too?

  It was late afternoon before the very obvious decision was finally made. Destroy the supplies, spike the guns, board his men. The first boatload of marines had reached their transport when the lookout on Warrior reported smoke on the eastern horizon.

  Within a minute all of the telescopes in the fleet were pointed in that direction. The smoke cloud grew larger and separated into individual columns.

  “I count four, five ships, possibly more. Steaming on forced draft.” Captain Roland’s voice remained flat and emotionless despite the tension growing within him. “Isn’t there a blockading fleet at Mobile Bay?”

  “At last reports, a fairly good-sized one, sir.”

  “Yes. I thought so.”

  The leading ships were hull up now, white sails visible below the smoke. They were slowing to a halt well out of gunshot; a large battleship at the center of the line was swinging about.

  “What on earth are they doing?” the captain called out. “Hail the lookout.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “It’s a tow of some kind, sir. They’ve dropped the line to another vessel.”

  “What is it?”

  A DEADLY ENGAGEMENT

  “Can’t rightly tell. Never saw nothing like that before.”

  The black form was so low in the water that details were not clear. It passed the other ships and slowly steamed toward the British. No one could make out what kind of ship it was, even when it drew close.

  Black, so low in the water that its deck was awash, small. With a round construction in the center of its deck.

  “Like a cheesebox on a raft,” one of the officers said.

  A chill possessed Captain Roland like nothing he had ever experienced before. He had read those very words in the newspaper.

  “What can it possibly be?” someone said.

  “Nemesis,” he said, in a voice so low he could be barely heard.

  The steam-powered wooden frigates of the American Navy opened into a half-circle to engage the British warships, carefully staying clear of the menacing iron ship. Only USS Monitor sailed steadily on.

  The Americans were ready, guns charged and run out. Aboard the Monitor Lieutenant William Jeffers, in the armored bridge house, trained his telescope on the anchored ships. “We will attack the ironclad before she gets under way,” he said. “She must be either Warrior or Black Prince. To my knowledge those are the only two iron ships that the British Navy has. Our agents have supplied complete details on their construction and design.”

  Warrior was swinging at anchor and getting up steam. The ship’s stern was toward the attacking Monitor and her first officer gasped at what he saw. “The stern, sir—why it is not armored. There seems to be some kind of apparatus there, a winch, a frame of
some kind.”

  “There is,” Jeffers said. “I’ve read the description in the report. To lessen drag when she is under sail the screw is lifted clear of the water. So the stern is unarmored. As is the bow.”

  “We’ll pound her out of the water!”

  “It won’t be that easy. The intelligence reports contained minute details about her construction. Her hull is made of one-inch-thick iron—but she is a ship within a ship. All of the main battery of guns are in the citadel, an armored box within the ship. Twenty-two of them, twenty-six 68-pounders and six 100-pounders. She outguns us in number but not in size of guns. Our Dahlgrens are weapons to reckon with. This citadel is made of four-inch wrought-iron plates backed by twelve inches of teak. She’ll not be easy to take.”

  “But we can try?”

  “We certainly can. Our shot bounced off the Merrimack because she had slanted sides. I want to see what a ball from an 11-inch Dahlgren will do against this citadel—with its vertical sides.”

  It was a fly attacking an elephant. The tiny iron Monitor, gushing smoke from her two stubby stacks, bustled toward the great length of Warrior. Somber and menacing in her black paint. Bulletproof lids covering the gun ports swung open and the muzzles of the big guns slid out. They were loaded and charged—and fired as one. A sheet of flame blasted out and the solid shot screamed across the gap between the two ships.

  With no observable result. The turret had been rotated so that her guns faced away from the British ironclad. Most shot missed the low-lying target; the few that hit the eight-inch armor of the turret bounced away without doing any damage. Monitor chugged slowly on at her top speed of almost five knots. As she approached the great black ship steam hissed into the engine beneath the turret, turning the cog wheel that meshed with the gear under the base. The bogy wheels rumbled as the turret swung around so that both gun muzzles were scant feet from Warrior’s high flank.

  And fired. Punching the cannonballs through the armor plate to wreak havoc and destruction in the gun deck. The guns recoiled on their slides, the tightened clamps squealing, metal to metal, as the massive guns were brought to a stop.

  “Reload!”

  The jointed shafts pushed the hissing sponges down the gun barrels. Then the charges were rammed into place, followed by the cannonballs held by steel claws, lifted by chain winches. Within two minutes they were reloaded and the sweating, filthy crewmen hauled on the lines to pull the guns back into firing position.

  By this time Monitor had swung around the iron ship’s stern with her guns almost touching the high rudder. Despite the force of guns in her main battery, there was only a single swivel gun mounted aft. This fired ineffectively.

  Then the two heavy guns fired as one, smashing the round shot into the stern and through the single inch of iron of the hull. Monitor drifted there, engines stopped while the guns were reloaded. Marines lined the rail above her and bullets spanged against iron with no effect. Two minutes ticked slowly by. Clouds of smoke billowed from Warrior’s funnels as she got up steam. Her anchors were raised now and the massive black bulk began to turn to bring her guns to bear on her tiny attacker.

  Then Monitor fired again. The ship’s boat hanging in the stern there was smashed—and then the massive rudder.

  Warrior’s screw was turning now and the massive ship began to move away. With the rudder gone they could not turn, but at least they might escape the deadly attack.

  With her guns silent Monitor’s crew could hear clanging impacts on the iron above their heads as the marines leaned over the rails and fired their muskets to no avail. But when the tiny Union vessel moved out from behind the stern and along the enemy’s starboard side she faced the greater menace of the 68- and 100-pounders yet again. Muzzles fully depressed they fired on the roll as Monitor appeared in their sights. Iron pounded iron, crashing and clanging against turret and hull.

  With no visible results. Round shot could not penetrate as Merrimack had discovered. But Merrimack had been immune to the return fire as well. Not the British. Monitor stayed in position alongside the ironclad, turret turned about as they reloaded. Reloading and firing every two minutes. Warrior finally had to stop her engines since she was heading toward shore. Monitor matched her every move. Firing steadily, punching through the armor of the citadel, destroying the guns and sending fragments of iron and wood scything through the gunners.

  Around this two-ship action a naval battle was raging. It was a devastating conflict, wooden ship against wooden ship. However all of the ships of the American fleet were all steam-powered—this gave them the fighting edge against those British ships driven by sail. The guns roared fire and shot, while in the distance the unarmed transports stood out to sea to escape the carnage.

  With most of the British armorclad’s main guns out of action, the unarmored American ships now approached and joined the battle against Warrior. Their smaller guns could not penetrate the armor—but they could sweep the decks. Her three immense masts were made of wood, as were her yards. Under the hail of shells from the Americans first the main-mast went, falling to the deck with a crumbling roar, her yards and sails crushing those below. Her mizzenmast went next, adding to the death and destruction. Canvas and broken spars hung over her sides blocking the gun ports so that the firing died away.

  Monitor pulled away as Captain Jeffers nodded at the destruction she had brought. “A good bit of work. We’ll leave her that last mast because she will not be going anyplace for awhile.”

  “If ever!” the first officer shouted, pointing. “ Narragansett has grappled her by the stern—her marines are boarding!”

  “Well done. With the iron ship out of the battle we have those wooden warships to think about. We must help the rest of our fleet. Free some of them to go after the transports. We must destroy as many as we can before they scatter. If they don’t strike we’ll sink them.”

  His smile was cold, his anger deep.

  “This will be a bloody nose for the bloody British Navy that they will long remember.”

  A MOMENTOUS OCCASION

  “I may have had worse days, John, though I really can’t remember when.”

  The President sat in his battered armchair looking fixedly at the telegram that Nicolay had handed him. He was gaunt and losing weight, so much so that his shabby black suit hung loosely, wrinkled. Since Willie’s death he was scarcely eating, barely sleeping. His dark skin was now sallow, his eyes surrounded by black rings. This new war was going very badly. A horsefly hummed angrily about the room, battering itself again and again into the glass of the half-open window. In the room just off of Lincoln’s office the newly installed telegraph clattered away as another message was received.

  “Bad news reaches me much faster now that we have that infernal machine so close and handy,” Lincoln said. “Has the Secretary of War seen this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well he will be over here soon enough I imagine. Those poor boys at Plattsburgh. A terrible sacrifice.”

  “They slowed the British down, Mr. President.”

  “But not for long. Port Henry is taken and in flames and no word from General Halleck yet.”

  “His last report said that he was forming a line of defense at Fort Ticonderoga.”

  “Are we doomed to keep on repeating history? As I remember it, didn’t we run from the British there as well?”

  “It was a strategic retreat that, rather unfortunately, began on the Fourth of July.”

  “I pray that Halleck does not repeat that particular maneuver.”

  “Grant’s divisions may have joined them by now. That’s a goodly force in the field when you put them together.”

  “Well they are not together yet. The British are chewing us up piecemeal. And what about that mysterious telegram from General Sherman? Any elucidation?”

  “None that we can find out. Some telegraph lines are down and I am told that we are trying to reroute our communications. All that we have is a garbled message, something abou
t southwards movement, and some sort of reference to General Beauregard.”

  “Keep trying, I don’t like mysteries. Not in wartime—not at any time. And cancel those visitations for today. I cannot face the job-seekers who are a pestilential menace to my health.”

  “There’s quite a crowd of them. Some of them have been waiting since dawn.”

  “I feel no sympathy. Inform them that matters of state must take priority, at least this once.”

  “Will you make a single exception, sir? There is an English gentleman here who has just arrived aboard a French ship. He has letters of recommendation from some of the most eminent men in France.”

  “English you say? A mystery and a most intriguing one. What is his name?”

  “A Mr. Mill, John Stuart Mill. In his note that accompanied the introductions he writes that he has information that will aid in this war for American freedom.”

  “If he is an English spy, why then Fox will certainly want to see him.”

  “I doubt if he is a spy. The introductions refer to him as a natural philosopher of great merit.”

  The chair creaked as Lincoln leaned back and brought his long legs up before him. “I’ll see him. In these days of desperation we must clutch at any straw. Perhaps the distraction will help me forget our disasters for awhile. Are there any clues as to what his information is that will aid our war?”

  “I am afraid not. A bit of a mystery.”

  “Well—let us solve this mystery. Show the gentleman in.”

  Mill was a middle-aged man, balding and smooth-skinned, neatly dressed and most affable. He introduced himself, bowed slightly as he shook the President’s hand. Then he placed the two books he carried on the desk and sat down, after first carefully tucking his coattails beneath him.

  “Mr. Lincoln,” he said in a solemn yet excited voice. “I have been an admirer of the American experiment for many years. I have followed your election practices and the operation of the lower house and the Senate, the judiciary and the police. While not perfect by any means, I nevertheless feel that in many ways yours is the only free country in the world—the only democratic one. I believe the world has seen enough of kings and tyrants and must find its way onto the road to democracy. With your noble cause under attack from my own country, a tragedy not of my doing but one that I must still apologize for. But this tragedy has goaded me into unexpected action—which is why I am here. I thought that when my dear wife died and my daughter and I retired to France, that I would write my books and bide my time until I could join her. But that is not to be. Necessity has drawn me from the quiet of my study and back to the world scene. I am here, if you will permit me, to aid your infant democracy and, and again, with your permission, help to guide it on the path to a prosperous future.”