Stars & Stripes Forever

by Harry Harrison

  “I share Mr. Davis’s feelings, General Sherman. We all do. And we thank you for what you did.”

  “I did my duty,” Sherman said in a quiet voice. “To my country and all of its citizens. Now, if you please, what word of Grant?”

  “No news yet—other than that he is under attack at Saratoga. He said that he will not give way.”

  Sherman nodded agreement. “Nor will he. Have reinforcements been dispatched to aid him?”

  “I have sent what was available. More will be on the way as soon as new operational plans are made,” Lincoln said and turned to Davis who nodded.

  “Mr. Lincoln and I have agreed that the ceasefire will be extended to enable both our armies to unite in battle against the British invaders.”

  “May I make a suggestion?” General Lee asked.

  “Of course,” Jefferson Davis said.

  Lee rested both hands on the pommel of his sword, spoke slowly and carefully, well aware of the great import of his words.

  “There must be unified command if we are to be successful in this operation. That will not be an easy thing to do. I am sure that my men would be most reluctant to serve under General Grant who has slaughtered them by the thousands. And I am sure that the same would be true of Northern troops who might be asked to serve under a Southern general. So it is obvious that the various regiments and divisions must keep the commanders that they have now. I am perfectly willing to remain in command of the Southern forces, as I do now. But there must be a Commander-in-Chief who will be respected by the soldiers from both armies, who must follow his orders without a moment’s hesitation. I have talked of this with General Beauregard and we are of the same mind. As far as the officers of the Army of the Confederacy go there is but a single officer who could take that command.”

  “I am in agreement,” Jefferson Davis said. “That commander must be General Sherman.”

  Sherman held his hand up. “I appreciate the honor, and I thank you. But General Lee far outranks me . . .”

  “Rank in war is determined by winning,” Lee said. “You fought and held at Shiloh and I understand that you were rewarded with a promotion for that. Now you have risked life, career, everything to aid us. I don’t think that the Northern armies would accept a Southerner in the top command. But they will accept you—as will we.”

  “You are perfectly correct, General Lee,” Lincoln said. “Since General Halleck’s death General Grant has been in command of the forces now arrayed against the British. As you may have heard, General McClellan is in the hospital with fever. I have relieved him of his post as General of the Armies and have assumed that command myself. It is now, with great pleasure, that I relinquish that title to General Sherman. And more than that, since he will be in command of two armies his rank must reflect that fact. As well as being Commander-in-Chief I recommend that he be named General of the Combined Armies as well.”

  “I concur, Sir,” Davis said. “It is fitting and deserved.”

  Robert E. Lee turned to the Union officer and saluted. “I am at your command, General Sherman.”

  Sherman returned the salute. “For the sake of our unified armies and the cause they fight in, I accept. Now—let us plan what must be done to attack the invaders. To demolish them in battle and thrust them back from our country. If it is war they want, why they shall have it in a sufficiency.”

  SHARPSHOOTERS!

  “The west flank, General—they’re coming over the wall!”

  General Grant’s uniform was torn and dirty, his face black with smoke. He swayed in the saddle with fatigue; he had just returned from repelling another British attack. He pushed both hands down on the pommel of his McClellan saddle to straighten himself up.

  “I want every second man from this line to follow me,” he ordered. “Let’s go boys! The way they been dying today they ain’t going to go on like this forever.”

  He drew his sword and led the way, his exhausted horse barely able to stumble over the rough ground, beat down by the smoke and heat. And there they were, dark-green uniformed soldiers with black buttons, a fresh regiment thrown into battle. General Grant drew his sword and shouted wordless encouragement as he led the attack.

  He avoided the bayonet, kicked it aside with his stirruped heel, then leaned over to slash the man across the face. His horse stumbled and fell, and he dragged himself clear. The melee was hand-to-hand and a very close run thing. Had he not brought his relief troops the battery and revetments would have been taken, punching a hole in the line they were fighting so hard to defend.

  When the last green-uniformed attacker had been killed, his body dumped unceremoniously over the wall, the American forces still held the line. Battered, exhausted, filthy beyond belief, with more dead than living: they had held.

  And that is the way the day went. The enemy, as tired as they were, kept attacking uphill with grinding strength. And were repelled with only the greatest of effort. Grant had said that his line would not break and it did not.

  But at what a terrible cost.

  Men who were wounded, bandaged, went back to fight again. Used their bayonets lying down when they were too fatigued to stand. It was a day for heroism. And a day for death. Not until it began to grow dark did the defenders realize that this day of hell was over. And that they had survived, fewer and fewer, but enough to still fight on.

  The firing died away at dusk. Visibility faded in the gathering darkness, made even more obscure by the hovering clouds of smoke. The British had withdrawn after their last desperate attack, leaving behind the tumbled redcoat corpses on the ridge. But for the exhausted American survivors of the day-long attack there could be no rest, not yet. They lay aside their muskets and seized up spades to rebuild their defensive earthworks where British shells had torn great gaps. Boulders were rolled up and heaved into position. It was well past midnight before the defenses were up to Grant’s expectations. Now the weary soldiers slept where they fell, clutching their weapons, getting what rest they could before dawn saw the British attacking yet one more time.

  General Grant did not rest, could not. Trailed by his stumbling aide-de-camp he went from one end of the defenses to the other. Saw that ammunition was ready for the few cannon remaining, that food and water were brought up from the rear. He looked into the charnel house of the field hospital with the pile of dismembered arms and legs beside it. Only when all had been done that could be done did he permit himself to drop into the chair before his tent. He accepted a cup of coffee and sipped at it.

  “This has been a very long day,” he said, and Captain Craig shook his head at the understatement.

  “More than long, General, ferocious. Those British know how to press home the attack.”

  “And our boys know how to fight, Bob, don’t you forget that. Fight and die. Our losses are too heavy. Another attack like this last and they could break through.”

  “Then in the morning. . . ?”

  Grant did not answer but drank his coffee—then looked up sharply at the distant sound of a train’s whistle.

  “Is the track still open?”

  “Was a couple of hours ago. I had a handcar run back down the line to check it. Telegraph wire is still out of service though. It seems that either the Brits don’t have their cavalry out behind us or they just don’t know the military value of the train.”

  “May they never learn!”

  There was the scrabble of running feet and a soldier appeared in the firelight, throwing a ramshackle salute.

  “Train comin’ into the siding, General. Captain said you would shore like to know.”

  “I shore do. Troops.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “About time. Captain Craig, go back with this man. Get the commanding officer and bring him to me while they are unloading.”

  Exhausted but still not able to sleep, Grant took more coffee and thought about the stone crock of whiskey in the tent. Then forgot about it. His days of drowning troubles that way were long past; he could
face them now. He frowned as he noticed that the sky was growing bright, relaxed only when he realized that it was the newly risen moon. Dawn was still some hours away.

  Footsteps sounded in the darkness—and a sudden crash and a guttural curse as one of the approaching men tripped. Then Captain Craig appeared followed by a tall, blond officer who limped slightly and brushed at his uniform. He was an amazing sight among the battle-stained survivors with their ragged uniforms. The newcomer was bandbox perfect with his stylish green jacket and light blue trousers, while the rifle he carried was long and elaborately constructed. When he saw Grant he stopped and saluted.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Trepp, General. 1st Regiment United States Sharp Shooters.” He spoke with a thick German accent. Grant coughed and spat into the fire. He had heard of these Green Coats but had never had any of them under his command.

  “What other regiments are with you?”

  “None that I know of, General. Joost my men. But there is another train running a few minutes behind us.”

  “A single regiment! Is that all I am sent to hold back the entire British army? Carnival soldiers with outlandish guns.” He looked at the strange weapon that the officer was carrying. Trepp fought hard to keep his temper.

  “Dis is a breech-loading Sharps rifle, General. With rifled barrel, double trigger and telescopic sight—”

  “All that isn’t worth diddily-squat against an enemy with heavy guns.”

  Trepp’s anger faded as quickly as it had come. “In that you are wrong, sir,” he said quietly. “You watch in the morning what we do against them guns. Just show me where they are, you don’t worry. I am a professional soldier for many years, first in Switzerland then here. My men are professional too and they do not miss.”

  “I’ll put them in the front line and we’ll see what they can do.”

  “You will be very, very happy, General Grant, that you can be sure of.”

  AMERICANS UNITED—AGAINST THE INVADER

  The sharpshooters filtered out of the darkness and worked their way down the battlements. Only when they were gone did a waiting soldier approach Grant. When he was close to the fire Grant saw by his uniform that he was an infantry officer.

  “Captain Lamson,” he said, saluting smartly. “3rd Regiment USCT, sir. The men will be unloading soon—we had to wait until the train ahead of us was moved out. I came ahead to let you know that we are here.”

  Grant returned the salute. “And very grateful I am. You and your troops are more than welcome, Captain Lamson. What did you say your unit was?”

  “Sergeant Delany, step forward please,” Lamson called out and a big sergeant stepped into the firelight. He had a first sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves and saluted with all the vigor and correctness of that rank.

  Grant automatically returned the salute—then paused, his hand half raised to his hat brim.

  The sergeant was a Negro.

  “Second Regiment USCT reporting for duty,” he called out in best drillfield manner. “Second Regiment United States Colored Troops.”

  Grant’s hand slowly fell to his side as he turned to the white officer. “You can explain?”

  “Yes, General. This regiment was organized in New York City. They are all free men, all volunteers. We have only been training a few weeks—but were ordered here as the nearest troops available.”

  “Can they fight?” Grant asked.

  “They can shoot, they have had the training.”

  “That is not what I asked, Captain.”

  Captain Lamson hesitated, turning his head slightly so that the firelight glinted from his steel-rimmed spectacles. It was Sergeant Delany who spoke before he did.

  “We can fight, General. Die if we have to. Just put us into the line and face us toward the enemy.”

  There was a calm assurance in his voice that impressed Grant. If the rest were like him—then he could believe it.

  “I hope that you are right,” he said. “They will have the opportunity to prove their worth. We will certainly find out in the morning. Dismissed.”

  Grant realized that he meant the words most strongly. Right now he would put a regiment of red Indians—or red devils for that matter—into the battle against the British.

  The enemy lines had been reinforced during the night. The pickets reported hearing horses and the sound of rattling chains. At first light Grant, who had fallen asleep in his chair stirred and woke. Yawning deeply he splashed cold water onto his face, then climbed to the parapet and trained his field glasses on the enemy lines. Before them, on the right flank, a battery of artillery was galloping up in a cloud of dust. Nine-pounders from the look of them. Grant lowered his glasses and scowled. He had used the 1st Regiment USCT to fill in the gaps where his line was the weakest. Colonel Trepp had stationed his men at intervals along the defense positions and he was waiting close by for instructions. Grant pointed at the distant guns.

  A DEADLY SHARPSHOOTER

  “You still believe that you can do anything against weapons like that?”

  Trepp shaded his eyes and nodded. “That will not be a problem, General. Impossible of course without the right training and the right weapon. For me, I do not exaggerate when I tell you that it is a very easy shot. I make it to be just 230 yards.” He lay prone and settled the gun butt against his shoulder, squinted through the telescopic sight.

  “It is still too dark and we must be patient.” He spread his legs apart for a more comfortable position, then looked again through the telescopic sight. “Yes, now, there is enough light.”

  He slowly pulled down the long trigger that cocked the smaller hair-trigger. Took careful aim and gently touched the trigger. The gun barked loudly and pounded into Trepp’s shoulder.

  Grant raised his glasses to see the officer commanding the battery rear up. Clutch his chest and collapse.

  “Sharp Shooters—fire at will,” the colonel ordered.

  It was a slow, steady roll of fire as the sharpshooters who lay prone behind the battlement fired, opened their rifle breeches to load bullets and linen cartridges, sealed and fired again.

  In the British line the gunners were unfastening the trails of their guns from the limbers, wheeling them about into firing position. While they did this they died, one by one. Within three minutes all of them were down. Next were the horse holders, killed as they tried to flee. And finally, one by one, the patient horses were killed. It was butchery, the best butchery that Grant had ever seen. Then a British gun fired and the shell screamed by close overhead. Grant pointed.

  “Easy enough when they’re out in the open. But what about that? An entrenched and sandbagged gun. All you can see is the muzzle.”

  Trepp rose and dusted off his uniform. “That is all we need to see. That gun,” he ordered his men, “take it out.”

  Grant looked through his glasses as the reloaded gun in the center of the British lines was run back into firing position. Bullets from the sharpshooters began to hit in the sand all about the black disk of the muzzle and spurts of sand almost obscured it; then it fired again. When it was reloaded and run back into position yet again the bullets tore into the sand around the muzzle.

  This time when the cannon fired it exploded. Grant could see the smoking wreck and the dead gunners.

  “I developed this technique myself,” Trepp said proudly. “We fire most accurately a very heavy bullet. There is soon enough sand in the barrel to jam the shell so that it explodes before leaving the muzzle. Soon when the attack begins we will show you how we handle that as well.”

  “Truthfully, Colonel Trepp, I am greatly anticipating seeing what you get up to next.”

  The destruction of the artillery seemed to have impressed the enemy commander, because the expected attack did not come at once. Then there was sudden movement on the far left flank as another battery of guns was pulled into position. But Trepp had stationed his sharpshooters in small firing units the length of the line. Within minutes the second battery had met the same fate as
the first.

  The sun was high in the sky before the expected move came. To the rear of the enemy lines a small party of mounted officers trotted out from the distant line of trees. They were a good five, perhaps even six hundred yards away. There was a ripple of fire from the American positions and Grant called out angrily.

  “Cease firing and save your ammunition. They are well out of range.”

  Trepp was speaking to his marksmen in German and there was easy laughter. The colonel aimed carefully then said softly, “Fertig machen?” There was an answering murmur as he cocked the first long trigger. “Feuer,” he said and the guns fired as one.

  It was as though a strong wind had swept across the group of horsemen, sweeping them all from their saddles in a single instant. They sprawled on the ground while their startled mounts quieted, lowered their heads and began to graze.

  A single gold-braided, scarlet-coated figure started to rise. Trepp’s rifle cracked and he dropped back among the others.

  “I always take the commanding officer,” Trepp said, “because I am the best shot. The others take from left to right as they wish and we fire together. Good, Ja?”

  “Good, Ja, my friend. Are your marksmen all Swiss?”

  “One, two maybe. Prussian, Austrian, all from the old countries. Hunters there, damn good. We got plenty Americans too, more hunters. But these boys the best, my friends. Now watch when the attack comes. We shoot officers and sergeants first, then the men carrying the little flags, then the ones who stop to pick up flags. They always do that, always get killed. Then we shoot the men who stop to shoot at us. All this before their muskets are within range. Lots of fun, you will see.”

  Despite losing many of their officers the British pushed the charge home, roaring aloud as they rushed the last yards. Most of the troops on both sides had fired their final rounds and the battle was joined with bare bayonets. Grant looked at his new colored troops and found them holding the line, fighting fiercely, then even pursuing the attacking redcoats when the charge lost its momentum. Fight and die their sergeant had said—and they were doing just that.