“In what way?”
“Small arms, for one instance. During the past conflict I watched the Americans shoot our lines to pieces, over and over again. I believe we had the best soldiers, certainly the best discipline. Yet we lost the battle. The Americans fired faster from their breech-loading rifles. If — when — we go to war again we must have guns like those.”
“I’ve heard of them, yes,” the naval officer said. “But I value discipline more highly. Certainly we need it aboard ship. It is the disciplined and highly trained gun crew who will not wilt under fire. Men who will continue serving their gun irrespective of what is happening around them. The marines too. I’ve watched them train — and I have watched them in combat. Like machines they are. Load, aim, fire. Load, aim, fire. If they had these fancy breech-loaders, why they could fire at any time they pleased. No discipline. They would surely waste their ammunition.”
“I agree with your guncrew training. Discipline shows under fire. But I am sorry to disagree with your attitude towards repeating rifles. When soldiers face soldiers the ones who put the most lead into the air towards the enemy will win. I assure you, sir, for I saw it happen.”
The steam launch sounded its whistle as it approached the quay and the two men waiting there to board it. A companionway was slung down from the boat and Somerville followed the naval officer down into the cramped cabin. It stank of a chill fug, but at least it offered protection from the rain as they puffed out into the harbor. A few minutes later the launch tied up to a landing stage. They hurried across it and climbed the companionway that gave them access to the new warship. The commander called out to one of the sailors on watch and instructed him to take Somerville below to the captain’s quarters.
Aboard Valiant the luxurious space of the captain’s day room was in marked contrast to the cabin of the launch that had brought him here. Coal-oil lamps in gimbals cast a warm light on the dark wood fittings and on the leather upholstered chairs. The naval officers turned from the charts they were looking at when the army officer came in.
“Ah, Somerville, welcome aboard,” Admiral Napier said. A tall man with magnificent mutton-chop whiskers, the top of his head almost brushing the ceiling. “I don’t believe you have met Captain Fosbery who commands this vessel. Brigadier Somerville.”
There was a decanter of port next to the charts and Somerville accepted a glass. The admiral tapped the chart.
“ Land’s End, that is where we will be two days from now. That is our rendezvous. Some of the cargo ships, the slower ones under sail, are already on the way there at the present time. We shall sail tomorrow after Intrepid arrives. I’ll transfer my flag to her because I want to see how she maneuvers at sea.”
Somerville studied the chart and nodded. “Does every ship know our destination?”
The admiral nodded. “They do. Each vessel has been issued with its own individual orders. Ships do get separated in bad weather. And these transports are all heavily laden with cannon so we are sure to have stragglers.” He pushed the chart aside and slid over another one. “We shall all rendezvous here, out of sight of land and away from the usual shipping lanes. And certainly away from the state of Florida. Sixty-six degrees west on latitude twenty-four north.”
“The various ships involved, they have known this destination — for how long?”
“At least the past three weeks.”
“That will be fine, very fine indeed.”
They both smiled at that, Admiral Napier even chuckling to himself. Captain Fosbery noticed this and wondered at its significance — then shrugged it off as one of the foibles of high command. He knew better than to ask them what appeared to be so funny.
“Another port, sir?” Fosbery asked, noting the army officer’s empty glass.
“Indeed. And a toast perhaps? Admiral?”
“I heartily agree. What shall we say — a safe voyage. And confusion to the enemy.”
This time the two officers did laugh out loud, then drained their glasses. Captain Fosbery reminded himself again that he was too lowly in rank to dare to ask them what the joke was.
It was a chill and rainy afternoon in England. Not so in Mexico, far across the width of the Atlantic Ocean. It was early morning there and already very hot. Rifleman Bikram Haidar of the 2nd Gurkha Rifles did not mind the heat too much. Nepal in the summer could be as hot as this — even hotter. And Bombay, where they had been stationed before they came here, was far worse. No, it wasn’t the tropical heat but the endless digging that was so bothersome. If he had wanted to stay at home and be a farmer, he could have spent his life digging in the fields like this, with a shovel and a hoe. But never for a second had he wanted to be a farmer. Since he had been a small boy he had always known that he would be a soldier like his father, and his father before him. He remembered how his grandfather would sit by the fire in the evening, smoking his pipe. Sitting with his back straight, just as erect as he had been fifty years before. And the stories that he told! Of strange countries and strange peoples. Battles fought and won. Tricks that had been played, good times that the regiment had enjoyed together. Wonderful! He never, not for a single instant, had even the tiniest doubt that he wanted to be a soldier of the Queen. He had no doubts now. He just did not like the digging.
He felt better when the jemadar called out to him and the others nearby.
“Leave the digging and get some of this undergrowth cut and out of the way. So the axe men can get at the trees.”
Bikram happily drew his kukri and trotted with the other Gurkhas, past the rows of laboring men. Behind them the dusty road curved around the side of the hill, crossed a ravine on a wooden bridge that the engineers were just completing. Ahead the growth had been cleared and soldiers of the Bombay Rifles were chopping down the trees that blocked the way. Beyond them was the jungle.
Bikram had started to hack at a trailing vine when they heard a distant rattle from their rear.
“Is that gunfire, jemadar?” he asked.
The jemadar grunted agreement; he had heard the sound of guns often enough in the past. He looked back down the road to the spot where their muskets were neatly stacked; quickly made up his mind.
“Get your guns—”
He never finished speaking as a ragged volley of shots sounded from the depths of the jungle before them. He fell, blood pouring from his torn throat. Bikram hurled himself to the ground, crawled forward beneath the shrubbery, his kukri extended. More shots tore the leaves over his head, followed by the sound of running men ahead of him. Then nothing. There was shouting from behind him. He lay still for a moment. Should he follow the attackers? One man armed only with his sharp blade. It did not seem to be a wise thing to do. But he was Gurkha and a fighting man. He was just starting after the ambushing gunmen when there were more shouted commands and the sound of a bugle.
Assembly. Reluctantly, still keeping low, he went back to his company — dodging aside to avoid the officer on his rearing horse. The horseman was followed by gasping soldiers of the Yorkshire Regiment, the 33rd Foot. At his command they halted and formed a line. Aiming their guns at the silent forest.
As they were doing this more firing sounded back down the road. The officer cursed loudly and fluently.
By the time the Gurkhas had returned to their guns and formed up, the firing had completely died away. The wounded and the dead were carried back to camp. Their losses were slight — but all work on the road had stopped for the good part of an hour. Ever so slowly it began again. Despite everything, the armed attackers, the heat, the snakes and insects, the road was being built.
Gustavus Fox had hints and rumors, but no hard evidence. Yes, the British were putting together a naval force of some kind. He had received reports from a number of his operatives in the British Isles. Something was happening — but no one seemed to know what. Until now. He spread the telegram out on the desk before him and read it for perhaps the hundredth time.
ARRIVED BALTIMORE BRINGING NEWSPAPER ROBIN
<
br /> “Robin” was the code name of his most astute agent in the British Isles. An impoverished Irish count who had been to the right schools and sounded more English than the English. Nor was he ashamed to take money for working for the American cause. He was always reliable, his information always correct. And “newspaper” was the code word for a document. What document was worth his leaving England at this time?
“Someone to see you, sir.” Fox jumped to his feet.
“Show him in!”
The man who entered was slim, almost to the point of emaciation. But he had a reputation as a swordsman, and it was rumored as well that he had left Ireland under a cloud, after a duel.
“You are a welcome sight, Robin.”
“You too, old boy. Been a devilish long time. I do hope that your coffers are full for I had to pay dearly for this.” He took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it over. “Copied in my own hand from the original, which I assure you was the real thing. Admiralty letterhead and all.”
“Wonderful,” Fox mumbled as he scanned the document. “Wonderful. Wait here — I won’t be long.” He was out the door without waiting for an answer.
The Cabinet meeting was in progress when John Nicolay, Lincoln’s first secretary, knocked on the door and let himself in. He looked embarrassed at the silence that followed, the heads turned to look at him.
“Gentlemen, Mr. President, please excuse me for this interruption — but Mr. Fox is here. A matter of some urgency he said.”
Lincoln nodded. “When Gus says urgency I guess he means it. Send him in.”
Fox entered as the President finished speaking: he must have been standing just behind Nicolay. His expression was set, his face grim. Lincoln had never seen him like this before.
“Some urgency, Gus?” he asked as the door closed.
“It is, sir, or I would not have come here and interrupted your meeting at this time.”
“Out with it then, as the man said to the dentist.”
“I have here a report that has just come in — from a man in England I trust implicitly. His information, in the past, has always been most exact and reliable. It verifies some other information I received last week that was more than a little vague. This one is not.”
“Our friends the British?”
“Exactly so, sir. A convoy has left England. Cargo and troop ships guarded by at least two ironclads. I have known about this for some time — but have only now discovered their destination.” He held up the copy of the British naval orders. “Their destination appears to be in the West Indies.”
“There is a lot of ocean and plenty more islands out there,” Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles said. “How can you be sure?”
“There is that to be considered, Mr. Secretary. But the nature of the cargo seems to indicate their destination. Cannon, gentlemen. All of these ships are laden with heavy cannon that can be mounted on land, for defense…”
“The Bahamas!” Welles said, leaping to his feet. “The bases we took from the British — they want them back. They will need them for coaling ports again for any proposed action in the Gulf of Mexico.”
Fox nodded. “That is my belief as well. And I must add, and what I say must not leave this room, that I have physical evidence as well. Let us say that some English captains are less honest than others. One of my representatives has actually seen a ship’s orders and made a copy of it. I have it here. A rendezvous close to the Bahamas.”
“What forces do we have there?” Lincoln asked. All eyes were on the Secretary of War.
“The islands are lightly held,” Stanton said. “We demolished all the defenses after we seized them from the enemy.”
“The Avenger!” Welles said. “She’s tied up at Fortress Monroe. Should I contact her?”
“You should indeed. Send her to the West Indies at once, with a copy of the orders for the British rendezvous,” Lincoln said. “While we decide what we must do to defend ourselves against this new threat. This is grave news indeed. Would someone find a chart of the area?”
The Secretary of the Navy found the chart and spread it out on the table. They gathered around, peering over his shoulder as he talked.
“The guns were removed from the defensive positions and forts on the islands, here and here. The British troops are gone and we have some small garrisons taking their place. We never thought that they would return…”
“If they do retake the islands,” Lincoln asked, “what will it mean?”
“A foothold in the Americas,” Welles said grimly. “If they dig in well it won’t be as easy to root them out this time. They know now what to expect. If their guns are big enough we will have the devil’s own job to do. The coaling ports will enable them to reach Mexico easily. With more than enough coal left for an invasion along our Gulf coast.”
“Make sure that Avenger knows how important this mission is,” Lincoln said. “She is to proceed at her top speed. With her cannon loaded and ready. God only knows what she will find when she gets there.”
THUNDER BEFORE THE STORM
After much consideration Judah P. Benjamin finally decided that he would just have to do the job himself. He had his horse saddled while he was still eating breakfast. When he rode out he did not go to his office in Washington City; instead he turned towards Long Bridge and went across it to Virginia. He had considered all of the possibilities, all of the courses open to him. The easiest thing to have done would have been to have written a letter. Easy, but surely not very effective. Or he could have sent one of his clerks — or even someone from the Freedmen’s Bureau. But would they be convincing enough to get the aid he so desperately needed? He doubted it. This was one task he had to do on his own. His years in the business world, then in politics, had taught him how to be most persuasive when he had to be. Right now — he had to be.
It was a pleasant day and only a short ride to Falls Church. The fields he passed were lush and green, the cows rotund and healthy. The first sprouts of corn were already coming up. Although it was still early when he reached the town, there were already three gray-bearded men sitting in front of the general store, sucking on their pipes. He approached them.
“Good morning,” he said and touched the brim of his hat lightly.
The men nodded and the nearest said “How, y’all,” then launched a jet of tobacco juice into the dust of the street.
“I am looking for the encampment of the Texas Brigade and would greatly appreciate directions.”
They looked at each other in silence as though weighing the import of the question. Finally the one who appeared to be the oldest of the trio took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed with the stem.
“Keep on like directly you doin’. Then after you pass a copse of cottonwoods, you keep an eye out for their tents. Off over to the right a tad. Can’t miss ’em.”
Benjamin touched the brim of his hat again and rode on. About a quarter of a mile down the road and past the cottonwood trees. There were the tents all right, neat rows of them stretching across the field. In front of the larger company tent there were two flagstaffs as well. One flying the stars and stripes — the other the stars and bars. The country was reunited right enough, but still seemed to be unable to come to a decision about the symbols of the past.
The soldier on guard turned him over to the officer of the day who managed a salute when he heard Judah P. Benjamin’s name.
“Mighty proud to make your acquaintance, suh. A’hm sure that General Bragg will be delighted to speak with you.”
Delighted or no, Bragg invited him into his tent. He was a large man, his skin burnt brown like most Texicans. After he climbed to his feet he extended his hand. He had his boots on, as well as his uniform trousers, but wore only a long-sleeved red undershirt above that. He did not take off his wide-brimmed hat when he sat down again.
“Join me with some fresh-brewed coffee, Mr. Benjamin, and tell me how things are going in Washington City these days.”
“Good
, about just as good as might be expected. Southern people are coming back now, and it is a far livelier place than it was just after the war. There are parties and soirees and suchlike, something going on all the time. Very exciting if you like that kind of thing.”
“We all like that sort of thing, as I am sure you will agree.”
“I do indeed. If you have the time would you consider attending one of these affairs? I am having an open house this very week. Mostly politicians of course. But I would dearly love to have some military officers there to remind them that the army saved this nation — not their speeches.”
“You are kind indeed — and I am much obliged. I shall come and be most military at all times. And while I am in the city I would like to see for myself what damage was done by that British raid.”
“Very little to see now. The Capitol is being repaired where the British burnt it, and there are almost no signs left of their invasion.”
They made small talk for a bit in a relaxed Southern manner. Benjamin was half finished with his coffee before he approached his subject in an oblique way.
“You and your troops settled in nicely here?”
“Happy as a June bug in a flower patch. Getting a little restless, maybe. Some talk about how they signed on to fight, not sit on their backsides.”
“Ahh, that’s fine… fine. How long are they enrolled for?”
“Most of them got about six months to go. With the war ended they kind of yearnin’ to see Texas again. That’s something I can understand myself.”
“Understandable, surely. But there is something that they could do. I wonder then if your men, and you, would be interested in rendering a further service to your country.”
“Fighting?” General Bragg asked, a sudden coolness in his voice. “I thought that the war was over.”
“It is, of course it is. But there is now the matter of seeing that it stays that way. That we keep the peace. You know about the Freedmen’s Bureau?”
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