Stars and Stripes In Peril sas-2

by Harry Harrison

  “What?”

  “Do as I say man — hurry.”

  After a moment’s hesitation the wheel came over. Captain Otfried was suddenly conscious of his uniform.

  “I’m going below. If the ship is American say that you are from Scotland — going to sell your fish in Ireland. Do it!”

  The rain blew past and there was the warship — with the American flag flying from her mast. Otfried closed the door all the way. Strained to listen at the crack between the door and the frame.

  “Heave to!” someone shouted and the fishing boat swung about into the wind and lay pitching in the waves. “What’s your destination?”

  “Carrickfergus. Sell my fish there.”

  And spoken with a thick North Irish accent! Could the Americans tell the difference between that and Scots? The silence lengthened — and then the voice called out again.

  “Not today, Scotty. Just turn about and go back to Scotland.”

  Otfried smothered his cry of happiness, pounded his fist into his palm. It had worked! A simple ruse — the Americans were sealing off Ireland from all communication with the outside world. He felt the boat go about again, waited below until he was sure it was safe.

  “You can come on deck,” the captain called out. “They’re gone. And now is the time for you to tell me just what is happening with the Yanks and all.”

  “We have been at war with the United States, still are, as I am sure you know. I do believe that the war has now widened and includes Ireland.”

  “The divil you say! What would they want to be doin’ that for?”

  “I’m afraid that I am not in their confidence. But I imagine that their aim would be to drive the British out.”

  The captain looked up at the sail and made an adjustment on the wheel. Loyalist or Republican, he did not say. Otfried started to query him, then changed his mind. This was not his business. What he had to do was make sure that the warning did go out. He had to get to the telegraph. Whitehall must be informed of the invasion.

  No one in Jackson, Mississippi, knew that a new war had started some thousands of miles away across the Atlantic Ocean. Even if they had known, the chances were that it would have taken second place to the dramatic events now unfolding in Jackson. Since soon after dawn the crowds had begun to gather outside of the jail. Silent for the most part, though there was the occasional jeer at the troops of the Texas Brigade who were lined up before the jail. The soldiers looked uncomfortable — but snapped to attention when the captain and the first sergeant came out of the building. They ignored the questions and the taunts from the crowd as they made their way to their temporary quarters in the hotel next door. The crowd grew restless.

  Major Compton stopped the cab well clear of the crowd and paid off the driver. He did not know Jackson at all, so had taken the cab from the station. Now he rubbed at his chin, he had cut himself some when he had shaven himself on the train. He straightened his tie and brushed some soot from his tan jacket: he was not used to being out of uniform. But it would have taken some special kind of insanity to wear his blue jacket down here. He picked up his carpetbag and pushed through the crowd towards the hotel.

  The lobby was crowded and noisy. A small boy with a bundle of newspapers was doing a smart business, with people climbing over each other to buy one. An army captain in field gray came in from the street and worked his way through the crowd to a hallway on the far side of the lobby. Compton went after him: it was much quieter in the hall. Two soldiers in butternut brown guarded a doorway labeled “Ballroom” at the far end of the hallway. They looked at him suspiciously when he approached.

  “I am Major Compton. I am here to see General Bragg.”

  One of the soldiers opened the door and called inside. A moment later a corporal came out.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I am Major Compton of the United States Army. I am here to see General Bragg. He will have had a telegraph message about me.”

  The corporal looked suspiciously at the jacket and tie. “There’s a chair over there, Major. If you’ll just sit a bit I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Compton sat down and paced his bag on the floor. The guards stared into space. The crowd in the street outside were a distant roar, like waves breaking on a beach. After some minutes the corporal returned.

  “You best come with me.”

  General Bragg was not a happy man. He waved Compton to a chair as he shuffled through the papers on the desk before him, until he found the right one. Pulled it out and read from it.

  “From the War Department… will make himself known to you… officer in the 29th Connecticut.” He dropped the sheet of paper and looked at Compton, cocking his head to one side.

  “I thought that the 29th Connecticut was, well—”

  “A Negro regiment?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “It is. The senior officers are all like me.”

  “Well then, yes, I see. How can I be of help to you, Major?”

  “Maybe I can be of help to you, General. You are not in an enviable position here…”

  “You can damn well say that again, and twice on Sunday. We’re all good Texas boys in this brigade and we fought for the South. But folks here look at us like we’re lower than raccoon shit.”

  “Understandable. They’re all upset.”

  “Hell, we’re upset! After what happened to ol’ Jeff Davis. Went and got shot by a nigger…”

  “While wearing a hood and participating in a lynching.”

  “Yes, well, there is that. A man his age ought to have had more sense. But, anyway, you never say why you’re here.”

  “I would like you to arrange it so I can see the prisoner in jail.”

  “Nothing I can do about that. Have to see the judge, the sheriff about that. We just sent here to keep the peace, such as it is.”

  “I will see the sheriff — but any decisions about the prisoner are really up to you. You are an army officer and this is a military matter. Sergeant Lewis is in the army—”

  “The hell you say!”

  “I do say — and you can telegraph the War Department if you don’t believe me. He was on detached service, working with the Freedmen’s Bureau. But he was in uniform when he was arrested and he is subject to military justice.”

  The general’s jaw fell. “Am I right? Are you telling me that the army wants him?”

  “They do. If there any charges to answer over this death he will be tried by a military court martial. Legally he cannot be tried by a Mississippi civilian court.”

  General Bragg let his breath out with a whoosh — then laughed.

  “I like your brass, major. One lone Yankee officer coming down here and trying to walk outta jail — with a prisoner that the whole South is dying to lynch.”

  “I am not alone, General. I have the strength of the army behind me. I have you and your troops to help me make sure that no miscarriage of justice does occur.”

  General Bragg rose from his chair and began to pace the room in silence. He stopped to light a black cigar, blew out a cloud of acrid smoke. Pointed the cigar like a pistol at Compton.

  “You know what you asking?”

  “I do. I was told that if you have doubts about your duty in this matter, that you were to telegraph the Secretary of War.”

  “I gonna do just that — Orderly!” He bellowed the last word, then scratched a quick message on a pad as a corporal came in from an adjoining room. “Have this sent to the War Department. Wait there at the telegraph office and bring me back the reply.”

  General Bragg dropped back into his chair, blew out a cloud of smoke and looked into the distance, absorbed in thought. Finally nodded.

  “This could be the way out of our problems. Trouble is going to happen very soon if something ain’t done. Maybe this is it. Get that man out of here before someone gets kilt. You want a cigar?”

  “Not now, thank you.”

  “Whisky?”

>   “It’s early — but I think that I damned well do.”

  “Good. I’ll join you.”

  The War Department had been waiting for Bragg’s telegram. The answer came at once and was signed by the Secretary of War.

  “This is it,” Bragg said, folding the paper and putting it into the pocket of his jacket. “Bring your bag, Captain, because you are not coming back here. First Sergeant,” he shouted.

  When they left the hotel the First Sergeant and an armed squad came with them. The crowd whistled and catcalled as they went towards the jail, shouted even louder when the sergeant knocked on the door.

  “General Bragg is here. He wants to see the sheriff.”

  After a long wait the door opened a crack. Someone inside started to speak but the sergeant pushed the door wide so they could go in. The crowd surged and shouted until the closing door shut them out.

  “What you want?” the sheriff said. He was unshaven and appeared to have been drinking.

  “I want your prisoner,” the general said. He took out the folded telegram. “Here is my authorization from the War Department.”

  “You got no rights in here! I’m the sheriff and I beholden to the judge and the mayor and not to you.”

  “Sheriff, this state is now under martial law, so I am afraid that you are going to have to do what I say. Your prisoner is a serving noncommissioned officer in the United States Army, and is therefore subject to military justice. Take us to him.”

  Sheriff Boyce fumbled for his gun and the sergeant knocked it out of his hand.

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” the general warned. “Sergeant, get the key. Disarm this man and anyone else who attempts any resistance.”

  The sight of the armed soldiers had a cooling effect on the warders and deputies. Major Compton and four armed soldiers followed the warden into the iron-barred corridor to the cells. L.D. Lewis heard them coming and jumped to his feet. One eye was bruised and swollen shut; he cocked his head to look out of the other eye.

  “Major Compton… what?”

  “Open this cell,” Compton ordered. “We’re taking you out of here, sergeant. To Washington City where a court of inquiry will investigate this matter. Let’s go.”

  L.D. stumbled a bit when he walked and the major took him by the arm. He shrugged it off.

  “I’m just fine, sir. I can walk out of here.”

  The general had organized everything in a highly efficient military manner. His troops had sealed off the alley that ran behind the jailhouse. A grocery wagon was waiting outside the door. Four mounted officers from his brigade blocked L.D. and Compton from sight as they climbed into the wagon, were pushed in by the First Sergeant who joined them. The soldier who was driving the wagon flipped the reins and they started forward. There was milling and shoving when they reached the street but the soldiers just pushed their way through the crowd. A moment later and the wagon and the officers were galloping down the street towards the train station.

  “The general put together a military train,” the First Sergeant said. “An engine and two cars. Troops going on leave. It’s in a siding and waiting for you.” He looked at L.D. and scowled. “Be smart, Sergeant. Stay out of the South. We got enough trouble of our own.”

  “Send our thanks to the general,” Major Compton said. “I’ll see that this is reported in detail to the War Department.”

  “Just doing our duty, sir — just doing our duty…”

  THE BATTLE FOR DUBLIN

  “Looks like we have a welcoming committee, General” Colonel Sam Roberts said, leaning out of the train window.

  “Not the British, I hope,” General William Tecumseh Sherman said, standing and fastening his sword belt.

  “Not quite, sir.”

  With a hissing of steam and squealing of brakes the train from Galway slid to a stop in Kingsbridge Station. Through the open window came the sound of massed cheering — growing louder still when Sherman stepped down to the platform. At least a hundred men were waiting on the platform there, each wearing a green ribbon tied around his arm. A large man with a great white beard pushed forward through the crowd and executed what might possibly be called a salute. “Welcome, your honor — welcome to Dublin.” The crowd fell silent, hushed, listening. “We hear only rumors, nothing more. Could you tell us…”

  “I am General Sherman of the United States Army. The soldiers on this train landed this morning and seized Galway City. The British troops stationed there are now our prisoners. The invasion and freeing of Ireland has begun. We now plan to do the same here in Dublin. With your aid.”

  The silence was fractured by the shouts of joy that rang out from the listening crowd. Some wept with happiness; they pounded each other on the back. The bearded man had to lean forward and shout to be heard.

  “The name’s O’Brian, General, the captain of these volunteers.”

  “Then I will ask you to get your men inside the station, Mr. O’Brian, so my troops can detrain.”

  The soldiers were pouring out of the cars now, spurred on by the sergeants’ shouted commands. Stout planks were being put into place to unload the Gatling guns. Sherman and his staff followed O’Brian to the relative quiet of the Stationmaster’s office. A map of Dublin was spread out on the table. Sherman pointed towards it.

  “Do your men know the city?”

  “Jayzus and do they not! Every one of them a Jackeen born and bred and they knows dear old dirty Dublin like the backs of their hands.”

  “Good. And the horses?”

  “We have them, sir, indeed we do! Begged, borrowed or — begging your pardon — stolen. Two livery stables full of them.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “And men waiting to take you there.”

  Sherman pointed to one of his aides. “Get a platoon and follow the guides.” The officer hurried off as the general turned back to the map. “Now, where is Dublin Castle?” he asked and O’Brian touched a thick finger to it. Then, in turn, he pointed out the barracks in Phoenix Park, the Customs House, the headquarters of the Royal Irish Constabulary. One by one they were singled out and orders issued. This attack had long been planned, with troops allotted to attack the individual strongpoints.

  The Battle of Dublin had begun. The Gray and Blue troops poured out of the station, each attacking force led by a green-ribboned volunteer, just as the second train was arriving on the next platform: sweating soldiers manhandled the heavy Gatling guns from the flat cars. In the distance could be heard loud neighing and the clatter of hooves.

  “Good God!” a startled officer said. “The Irish cavalry!”

  Trotting into the trainyard came the most motley collection of horses ever seen. Most of them were being led, while some of them were being ridden bareback by soldiers fresh from the farms. Every variation on the theme of horse appeared to be present. Heavy cart horses, shaggy little ponies, sturdy hunters — even a wall-eyed mule that was trying to kick out at the strangers — as well as a small group of some tiny donkeys. All of them were quickly pressed into service. Bits of leather straps and lengths of rope were tied together to make crude but workable harnesses. Very quickly they were secured to the Gatling guns, and their ammunition limbers, and followed the troops into battle.

  At the various strongpoints around the city there could be heard the rattle of gunfire as the invading troops made their first contacts with the enemy. Sherman, and his staff, remained in the Stationmaster’s office, waiting impatiently for the first reports to come in.

  “We are getting resistance here at the barracks — just across the River Liffey from the Wellington Monument,” the staff officer said.

  “Gatlings?” Sherman asked.

  “On the way now.”

  “Any other problems?”

  “ Dublin Castle. It was always going to be a center of strong resistance. Heavy cannon — and granite walls. We tried to surprise them but were too late and the gates were shut. We have them surrounded, but our troops are pinned down.”

  “Do yo
u have an observation post there yet?”

  “Yes, sir. On the roof of Christ Church, right here. Looks right down into the yard.”

  “Good. Keep the Castle surrounded — but hold the troops well back from the walls. We are not going to lose good men in a head-on assault.”

  Reports kept coming in and, overall, the battle for Dublin seemed to be going as well as possible at this early juncture. Going as well as any engagement can go when the battle is within a city. British strongpoints were holding out and had to be attacked one by one. There was a sniper firing from one of the upper windows of Trinity College and the sharpshooter had to be winkled out. When the last of the troops were committed Sherman changed his headquarters, as had been planned, to the Customs House on the banks of the Liffey. A saddle had been found for a magnificent bay that some gentleman of means had inadvertently supplied to the Irish cause, and Sherman rode it through the empty streets of the city. Gunfire sounded in the distance, the popping sound of individual rifles — then the tearing roar of a Gatling gun. Wisely, the people of Dublin were staying behind locked doors.

  As he galloped along Eden Quay the general passed a party of engineers. They had commandeered a cart, along with the wall-eyed mule to pull it. Now, safely harnessed up, the beast was far more placid than it had been. The engineers were stringing the wire to the buildings, from the spool on the cart. As Sherman climbed down from his horse at the Customs House on the bank of the Liffey, he saw a dark form at the mouth of the river, still outside the harbor; he nodded at the pleasurable sight of the ironclad moving slowly towards him.

  On the bridge of the USS Avenger her commander, Commodore Goldsborough, stood to one side looking grimly at the small, roughly dressed man in the battered cap. He was sucking at a clay pipe that had gone out, but still stank strongly.

  “That’s it boyo,” the stranger said to the helmsman. “Dead slow. Keep the Poolbeg light to port, the North Bull to starboard and you’ll be in mid-channel.”

  Barely keeping steering way, the iron ship was moving into Dublin harbor and the mouth of the Liffey.