Stars and Stripes In Peril sas-2

by Harry Harrison

  There was a bustle as the captains stirred and moved about so they could see the chart that had been fixed to the bulkhead. Farragut stood next to it.

  “Our course will have two legs. We will first start out from the Azores on a bearing of north-north-west, to stay offshore, well away from the coastal trade of Spain and France. But you will note that this also means that we will be cutting across their transatlantic sea lanes. Therefore we will double our lookouts, who must be alert at all times. Then here,” he touched the map, “when we have passed the Bay of Biscay, when we are at forty-eight degrees, sixty minutes north, on the same latitude as Brest in France, we change course to north-north-east. This is when the two invasion groups will separate. Group A will take a more westerly approach towards the Atlantic coast of Ireland. While group B will sail for the Celtic Sea. Into the heartland of the British Isles. This is a momentous occasion, gentlemen, for we are at last carrying this war to the enemy…”

  The distant sound was more felt than heard, through the steel of the deck. “What was that?” the admiral asked.

  “Find out,” Captain Johns ordered his first lieutenant, who hurried from the compartment. The officers were silent, all of them commanders of steamships, aware that something was very wrong.

  The lieutenant was back in less than a minute with a sailor in grease-smeared clothing. Obviously an engine room artificer. “This rating was on the way here,” the lieutenant said.

  “Tell us,” the captain said.

  “Explosion in the main boiler, sir. Two men killed.”

  “How long will it take to repair?”

  “First engineer said a day at least. It’s the feed pipes…”

  “Dismissed,” Captain Johns said. All eyes were now on Admiral Farragut. He looked once at the map, then turned back to the officers.

  “Nothing can be changed. The invasion must go ahead as planned. Dictator will remain here in port until she has made repairs. I am shifting my flag to Virginia. We will now revise the order of battle to allow for Dictator’s absence in the opening phases of the invasion.”

  The officers were unusually quiet when they turned to their papers. The invasion would go ahead — but their earlier enthusiasm had been replaced by dogged determination. Seamen are a superstitious lot. None of them liked this grim omen so early in the operation.

  In the Cabinet Room, in the White House, the meeting was getting very scrappy, with almost every member insisting that his concerns were more in need of attention than any of the others. Salmon P. Chase, the Secretary of the Treasury, knew that his problems took precedence. He seldom raised his voice, depending instead upon the force of his arguments to convince others of his wisdom. Today he almost lost his temper.

  “Gentlemen — I insist that you cease this wrangling and face facts. You, Mr. Stanton, will have none of the new guns you say that the army needs, without the funds to purchase them. Before all else we must discuss the necessary taxes to pay for this war.”

  “I beg to differ,” Judah P. Benjamin said in his rich Louisiana drawl. “Matters of war and taxation in this country must be put aside while we consider if we have a united country or not. You must face the fact that these nightriders are enemies of the Union, enemies of the Freedmen’s Bureau, enemies of the fragile peace now existing between the North and South. I have tragic news to convey to you and was but waiting for Mr. Lincoln to arrive to unburden myself upon you. Mr. President,” he said, standing and nodding towards the head of the table as Lincoln entered and settled himself in his chair. The other voices died away as Benjamin sat down as well and began to speak.

  “Despite our efforts to consolidate the peace in the South there are still immense difficulties. In spite of our payments for freed slaves, despite the founding of mills, steelworks, even gunmakers, there is still an element that will not accept the new South. They harass freed slaves, threaten, even burn, Freedmen’s Bureaus, are even against the education of Negroes. There have been lynchings and burnings — and now this.” Benjamin held up a folded piece of paper.

  “I received this telegram when I was on my way here. I am stunned by it — even horrified — and I don’t know where it will end. It seems that the Negroes have started to fight back against the nightriders — and who can blame them. But the results are terrible, tragic beyond measure.” His voice died to a whisper, his fists clenched, crushing the message that he held. He shook his head, then took himself in hand. Sitting up straight in the chair he looked around at the assembled cabinet.

  “A nightrider was killed in Jackson, Mississippi. A man known to all of us. The former President of the Confederacy — Jefferson Davis.”

  Stunned silence followed this dreadful news. Lincoln slowly shook his head in despair, then spoke in a voice as weary as death. “He was a great statesman who made the end of our civil war possible. And he tried to warn me…”

  Edward Bates, the Attorney General, ever a practical man said, “Mr. President you must declare an emergency in Mississippi — and martial law. Before tempers flare and the killing spreads.”

  Lincoln nodded. “Yes, of course we must do that. Have the governor informed at once. Find out what troops we have stationed there and telegraph their commander at once. What a terrible thing to have happen. But you said — that it was a nightrider that was killed?”

  Judah Benjamin nodded, and spoke most sadly. “Mr. Davis was with the nightriders. Perhaps he felt that by being part of the protests he could mollify the hotheads, provide rational argument. I don’t know…”

  Salmon Chase knew. He had talked often with Jefferson Davis and knew that at heart the man felt that the Negro was inferior and would always be that way. He stayed his voice. Davis now had the dignity of the dead. And had paid the ultimate price for his bigotry. Dissension was not needed now. Old wounds needed to be bound up — not clawed open. “Do they know who did the shooting?” he asked.

  Benjamin looked again at the telegram. “It was a young man, a war veteran, by the name L.D. Lewis.” He looked up and sighed deeply. “He is now under arrest, and… he is a Negro.”

  “What was his outfit?” asked Edwin M. Stanton, the Secretary of War.

  “It does not say.”

  “Please make every effort to find out. He is a veteran, a soldier, and of great concern to the War Department.”

  They were all in agreement about declaring martial law to prevent the violence spreading. Stanton drew up the order and it was dispatched. There was little fire left in their proposals now and they talked together in low voices, trying to find ways to keep the peace. Only Gideon Welles, the Secretary of the Navy, had other business to attend to. He kept glancing at the ornate clock on the wall, even taking out his watch to determine its accuracy. He finally nodded, put away the watch and stood up.

  “Gentlemen — might I have your attention. Some of you here know what I am going to tell you now. To the others I must apologize for keeping you in the dark. But the way to keep a secret is not to tell anyone. But we felt that we had to do as good as the British — do them one better if we could. You will recall how they landed and seized a Mexican seaport when we thought that they were on the way to the West Indies. Most embarrassing for us, as you all know. But that is no longer the case. At this moment I can tell you that our mighty fleet is striking close to the heart of the British Empire. The fleet that the entire world believed was on its way to the Pacific coast of Mexico — did not go there at all. It was a ruse, a hoax, an immense attempt to make the enemy expect us in one place — when in reality we were striking at another. We are not going to fight them any more in Mexico because they will soon be forced to withdraw all the troops that they have there.” He smiled around at the puzzled expressions, the few nods of agreement of those cabinet members who had knowledge of the real invasion.

  “The warships and the troop transports that sailed south some days ago — did no such thing. Once out of sight of land they changed course and proceeded to a rendezvous in the North Atlantic. Re
fueled and united they sailed to what most certainly will be a victory.”

  Welles looked around at the puzzled faces and could not stifle a wry grin.

  “For even as I speak our forces are invading the island of Ireland. The first landings were made at six this morning, Greenwich Mean Time. It is now five in the afternoon in Ireland. The invasion is well under way and, with God’s help, can but succeed. Can you imagine the expression on Queen Victoria’s face when someone tells her this bit of news!”

  “May that moment be long in coming,” Abraham Lincoln said. “All of our efforts up to now have been bent on keeping that royal lady — and her armed forces — in the dark. If everything goes according to plan Ireland will be secured well before news of the conquest reaches England. When they do discover what has happened it will be too late to do anything about it. Short of mounting a counter-invasion, they will have little to choose from.”

  “May you be speaking the truth, Mr. President,” Judah P. Benjamin said. “May the plans of our officers be successful, may this effort of arms succeed in every way. May victory be ours.”

  He did not add that victory was never assured in war. Quite the opposite in fact. Well what was done was done. He did not speak aloud his reservations or fears, not wanting to destroy this moment of happiness. But he saw Lincoln looking at him — the same dark look of deep concern on his face.

  The deed was done. All that they could do now was pray that success would be theirs.

  SUNDAY, 8 OCTOBER 1863 — MIDNIGHT

  It was a cool and clear night in most of Ireland. But to the west there were rain squalls over Mayo and Galway, down as far south as The Burren. But there is always rain in the west and no one took any particular notice. The country slept. Only the military were awake, the nightwatch on guard at the many British military establishments that marked out the occupation of the land. Soldiers stamped outside the brick barracks in the Curragh, just south of Dublin. Stood guard as well in front of Dublin Castle, walked the battlements of Belvelly Tower, one of the five towers that defended Cork Harbor. Peered down from the gunports of the Martello towers that guarded Galway Bay. Only the military marked the darkness of the midnight hour.

  Or did they? To the east of Belfast, where Belfast Lough entered the Irish Sea, was the small fishing village of Groomsport. Little different from any other village on the shores of Ireland, except, perhaps for the signs on the seafront east of the harbor. DO NOT ANCHOR HERE they read in large letters: the two men who appeared out of the darkness knew them very well.

  “Further on, Seamus, just a bit.”

  “It’s right here I tell you, I was pulling on the nippers right up this bit of shore—”

  His words broke off with a pained grunt as he tripped and stretched himself on the sand.

  “Right you are, Seamus, and I’ll never doubt you again.”

  “Tripped over the bloody thing.” He reached down and with an effort he lifted the six-inch telegraph cable a few inches into the air.

  “That’s it! I’ll never forget the day we dragged her ashore. Cut it here?”

  “No. Get a sling on it. We’ll cut it in the water, then drag the seaward end out as far as we can.”

  They passed a rope around the cable and each took an end. Gasping with the effort they lifted the cable, slid the rope along it as they stumbled into the sea, until the chill water was above their knees.

  “Enough — jaysus, I’m knackered already.”

  “Can you hold it there? Let the weight rest over your knee.”

  “Just — about. Cut it before I’m banjaxed.”

  Seamus took the hacksaw from the bag that hung from his belt. Sawed industriously at the outer casing, then the insulation and the copper wires. Cutting the steel cable in the center was something else again and his companion groaned in agony.

  “That does it!” he said as the last strand parted and the severed ends of the cable disappeared into the dark water.

  “Find it — find the end…”

  Soaked through, their teeth chattering with the cold, they finally found the severed end of the cable that went out into the sea. Once more they managed to tie the rope around it. Not lifting now, but dragging it along the shore until they could move it no more, their mouths just above the surface of the waves.

  “Leave it before we drown ourselves. They’ll not be patching this too readily.”

  They stumbled and splashed their way ashore and vanished in the darkness towards the boat to cross the lough. Fearful all the way that they might be seen, identified. Not until they were in the familiar streets of the Catholic Pound area did they feel any relief. They separated there and Seamus slipped through the unlocked door of his house and bolted it behind him. Nuala was still awake, sitting by the fire in the kitchen.

  “You’re a fair sight, you are, dripping from head to toe. You’ll get a chill…”

  “Some warm clothes, woman,” he said, pulling off the soaked garments. “And put these in that hole in the back garden I dug between the potatoes. God save anyone in Belfast who is found with sea-wet clothing this morning. Did Sean come by?”

  “He did. He said to tell you one word. Done. Said you would know.”

  “I do.”

  “I thought that he was living with his sister in Oldpark, after he had to leave the telegraph company, the consumption and all.”

  “He never left Oldpark this night — and you never saw him. A single word about him — or the clothes — and we’re all dead.”

  “Don’t speak like that, it’s like a curse.”

  He patted her arm, sorry he had frightened her. “Make us a pot of tea, there’s a good love. Just forget everything about tonight and everything will be fine.” He breathed a silent prayer. Please God, may that be true.

  Others were about at this hour. From Dublin to Cork, Galway to Limerick. Some of them were the telegraph men themselves, who had worked their apparatus that very day. Before they shut down for the night they had sent queries about earlier messages they had received. Asked for repeats of some. Their work done they now took great pleasure in severing the wires. They knew the places where they could be cut so that no one would notice. Where telegraphers could not be drafted for this duty, men simply climbed the poles and trees, severed the wires and rolled up yards of them. They worked fast: they knew what had to be done. By half twelve all of the electrical communication in Ireland was gone. Messages could be neither sent nor received in all the length and breadth of the island. With the underwater cable to Port Logan in Scotland cut as well — the island of Ireland was isolated.

  No one in the great fleet expected to reach Ireland without being detected. Just west of the Blasket Islands, off the Munster coast, the British revenue cutter Wasp blundered into the outer screen of fast ironclads. Her captain had seen their smoke for some time, but never for an instant did he imagine they could be anything but British. Only when one of the warships turned in his direction did he think differently. He turned back towards land, but it was far too late. A shot across his bow, the sight of the stars and stripes — plus the menace of the big guns, brought him to a halt, rolling, dead in the water. The cutter was quickly boarded and captured. With her crew locked below and under guard, the warship turned and hurried after the attacking fleet, Wasp following slowly in her wake.

  In mid-afternoon the attacking fleet of ships had begun to separate, forming three separate attacking forces. The first of these slowed their engines, just out of sight of Kerry Head and the mouth of the Shannon River, while the other two hurried north.

  By dusk the second invading fleet had reached its destination. Just over the horizon was the Clare coast where they would be landing at dawn. The third fleet had been out of sight for hours, for they had to round Ireland to the north to reach their objective of Lough Foyle.

  Ireland’s three main cities all lay on the east coast. Belfast in the north, almost within sight of Scotland, which was just across the North Channel of the Irish Sea. Dublin i
n the center across the Irish Sea from Wales. And Cork, in the south, across the Celtic sea from Wales. This was the settled and populated east coast of the island.

  But the wild west coast of the country was the most beautiful — and most empty. It was hard to scratch a living from the flinty soil, or take fish in the stormy sea. With the major cities all in the east that would certainly have appeared to be the place to launch an invasion.

  But General William Tecumseh Sherman and General Robert E. Lee were never ones to take the easy and obvious way. In the past, during the war, they had moved armies by train, kept them supplied by train. They had used railroads to wage war in a manner never seen before. So when they had looked at the map of Ireland and had seen a wonderful modern network of rail — it appeared to have been designed for their military needs.

  From Portrush on the north coast it was only sixty miles by rail to Belfast. It was much the same distance in the south from Limerick to Cork.

  While in the center of the country the Midland Great Western Railway ran straight from Galway to Kingsbridge Station in Dublin. A few ancient Martello towers on Galway Bay, built when there was great fear of a French invasion, were all that stood in the way of American troops coming from the sea.