Stars & Stripes Triumphant

by Harry Harrison

  WAITING FOR DESTINY

  Three days had passed since the USS Devastation had joined the squadron that stretched across the mouth of the English Channel. This was the proper place to intercept any ships entering the Channel where it joined the Atlantic Ocean. The northernmost ship in the line cruised within easy sight of Portland Bill. South of it, using just enough power to breast the incoming tide, rode USS Virginia. Beyond this ship, almost on the horizon, another American ironclad was just visible. The line of warships now reached from within sight of the English coast right across the Channel as far as Cap de la Hague on the tip of the Cherbourg Peninsula. Every ship in the squadron was in sight of at least two others. When the British came—if they came—there was no way that they could escape observation.

  If they came. This little word echoed over and over in General Sherman's brain as he paced the flying bridge of the Devastation. When they had joined the squadron they had taken up station next to Admiral Farragut's flagship, USS Mississippi, at the center of the line. She was still in position next to them, steaming as slowly as they were.

  Sherman once again found himself standing at the rail, looking east across the empty sea. Would the convoy come? Had he been wrong in his assumption that they would attack the south coast of England? For the thousandth time he tracked the logic that had led him to the inevitable conclusion that this was what they would do. He still believed they must strike at this coast, but three days of waiting had left his theory hard-pressed. As he turned away he saw that a small boat was pulling away from the Pennsylvania. He realized suddenly that it must be noon—that was the hour appointed for his meeting with the admiral. They would discuss tactics yet again, and the state of the squadron, and Farragut would stay for luncheon. Sherman's eyes strayed once more to the empty horizon, before he left the bridge and went to wait for the admiral on the deck.

  "Still fine weather," Farragut said as they shook hands. Sherman only nodded and led the way below. There was nothing they could say that had not been said often before. Sherman took the carafe from the sideboard and held it up.

  "Will you join me in a sherry before we dine?"

  "An excellent thought."

  Sherman had just poured out the drinks when a seaman burst through the door.

  "Captain's compliments." The words rushed from his mouth. "The lookout reports ships to the southeast."

  The sailor had to move swiftly aside as the two officers rushed past him. By the time they had reached the bridge, the line of ships could be seen on the horizon. Captain Van Horn lowered his telescope. "The leading ship is an armorclad—you can tell by her upper works. And there is more smoke from ships still not in sight. Eight, ten of them at least."

  "Is this it?" Sherman asked.

  Van Horn nodded firmly. "Without doubt, General. There could be no other force that size at sea."

  "Follow General Sherman's orders," Admiral Farragut said as he turned away. "I must return to my command and issue the signal to assemble all our force here."

  "I want you to approach those ships as soon as the admiral's boat is clear. And do it slowly."

  Van Horn nodded. "Slow ahead. Five knots, no more."

  "Would you also have that flag hung in the bow," Sherman said.

  The captain's orders were relayed to the deck and two sailors ran forward with a bundle of cloth. Grommets had been attached to the corners of one of the tablecloths from the officers' mess. It was quickly fixed to a line and run up the bow mast. The approaching ships could not miss seeing the white flag. Nor the Stars and Stripes flying from the masthead.

  When they had halved the distance to the approaching convoy, the captain stopped the engines. They drifted slowly to a stop, rolling in the light seas. The brisk westerly wind caught the improvised flag and it flapped out for all to see.

  "If they should open fire?" Captain Van Horn asked brusquely.

  "They won't," Sherman said firmly. "It would not be gentlemanly. And they are certainly aware of the other ironclads behind us. They will know what that means."

  If Sherman had any doubts about the wisdom of meeting the enemy like this, he did not express them. Twice before in his life he had ended conflict with a flag of truce. He had every faith that he could do it once again.

  The leading ships could be seen quite clearly now; black armor and menacing guns. Signal flags had been run up and it appeared that the convoy had slowed. However, one of the ironclads had drawn away from the others and approached the American ship.

  "Defender," Van Horn said, peering through his glass again. "Main defenses six hundred-pounders, the new modified Warrior class."

  The British warship was coming right toward them, smoke pouring from its funnels, a bone in its teeth. As it drew closer it could be seen that its guns were trained on the American ship. When it had closed to within two hundred yards, it turned and slowed, presenting its starboard side. And as it turned, its guns turned as well, keeping trained on the Devastation.

  "Has the boat been lowered?" Sherman asked.

  "In the water as you ordered."

  Without another word Sherman left the bridge and scant moments later had climbed down into the waiting barge. Eight oars dipped as one and the craft shot swiftly across the water. As it approached the black flank of the British warship, it could be seen that a boarding ladder had been lowered over the side. Sherman climbed it as swiftly as he could. As he pulled himself up onto the deck, he found an army officer waiting for him.

  "Follow me," the man said abruptly, and turned away. Two sailors armed with muskets fell in behind them as they walked to the companionway. In the wardroom below, two army officers were waiting, both general officers. Sherman came to attention and saluted. They returned the salute in the British manner.

  "We have met before, General Sherman," the first officer said.

  "Yes, in Canada. You are Brigadier Somerville."

  Somerville nodded slowly. "This is General Sir William Armstrong, commander in chief of Her Majesty's forces in India."

  "Why are you here?" Armstrong asked brusquely, barely controlling his anger at meeting the man who had conquered his country.

  "I am here to save lives, General Armstrong. We know the size and strength of your command from the documents that we seized in London. You will see behind me a major force of ironclads that will not permit you to pass peacefully, should you attempt to enter the Channel. They will avoid your warships, wherever possible, and concentrate on sinking your troopships. Should any of the transports succeed in passing our forces by, I want to inform you that the entire southern coast of England is now defended by American troops and guns. Any boats that attempt to land troops will be blown out of the water."

  "How do you know what we plan to do?" Armstrong snapped, cold anger in his voice.

  "It was what I would have done, General. It was the only possible option."

  "Do we have your word that your troops are stationed here?" Somerville asked coldly.

  "You have my word, sir. We have had a week to prepare our defenses. Newhaven Fort has been rearmed. The Twentieth Texas has dug in behind the shore at Hastings and are supported by five batteries of cannon. Do you wish me to list the defenders in the other positions?"

  "That will be sufficient, General. You have given us your word." Somerville's voice was uneven as he spoke; his shoulders slumped. He had tried; they all had tried.

  But they had failed.

  "Return the Indian troops to India," Sherman said. "If they come here they will only die. The fleet and the guns are waiting."

  "But my country!" Armstrong said, his voice rough with anger. "You have conquered, destroyed—"

  "Conquered, yes," Sherman snapped. "Destroyed, no. We only want peace and an end to this reckless war between our nations. Even now your politicians are meeting to found a new British government. When they have done that and the rule of law has been restored—we look forward to returning home. We want peace—not continued conflict. When you rule your own c
ountry once again, we will go. That is all that we want."

  "And we must believe this?" Somerville said, bitterness in his voice.

  "You have no choice, General, no choice at all."

  "Take this man outside and hold him there," Armstrong ordered the armed sailors standing by the door.

  Sherman shrugged off their hands when they reached for him, turned, and left; the door closed behind them. In the corridor he looked coldly at the sailors; they shuffled their feet and did not meet his gaze. They had heard what had been said inside. The taller of them, a petty officer from his insignia, looked around then spoke quietly.

  "What's happening ashore, sir? We hear but little, the worst kind of scuttlebutt."

  "The war is over," Sherman said, not unkindly. "Our troops won the day. There were deaths on both sides, but there is peace now. If your politicians agree, there will be a lasting peace in the years to come. If we can leave your country with that peace guaranteed—we will do just that. That is our desire, just as it must be yours."

  Sherman heard the door open behind him, turned, and entered the saloon.

  "You have reached a decision," he said. It was not a question.

  "We have," General Armstrong said, bitterness in his voice. "The Indian troops will return to India. You can guarantee them a safe passage?"

  "I can. What of the British troops? Will they surrender?"

  "Terms must be discussed first."

  "Of course. And your navy ships?"

  "That you must discuss with the admiral commanding. I cannot speak for him."

  "Naturally. I feel that you are making a wise decision."

  "Not wise, but the only possible one," Somerville said, resignedly. General Sherman could only nod in agreement.

  At last the long war that had begun when the Confederate representatives had been taken from a British ship, which had spread from America to Mexico and Ireland, which had ended here in England, was over.

  DAWN OF A NEW DAY

  "There is a gentleman at the door to see you, Father," Helen said. "He sent in his card."

  John Stuart Mill took the card, held it to the light. "Ah, Mr. William Gladstone. He has had my letter, then, and responded accordingly. Please show him in."

  They shook hands warmly when Helen ushered Gladstone in, for this was a meeting that both men greatly desired.

  "I came as soon as I had your communication. Unhappily I was out of the country for the last parliamentary session and I do regret missing it. I have had mixed reports from my colleagues—but all of them tell me that, if you would excuse the expression, the fur did fly."

  Mill laughed aloud. "It surely did." He warmed to the politician and was pleased. This was a most important encounter.

  "Mr. Gladstone," Helen said. "Would you take tea with us?"

  "I would be delighted."

  "Please be seated," Mill said. "This is a meeting I have long desired. I have read your political writings with great interest, great interest."

  "You are kind to say that."

  "It is but the truth. You were responsible for the Railway Bill of 1844 that opened up third-class travel for all in Britain. It was only due to your insistence that trains now stop at every station in the country. I admire your interest in the ordinary folk of this land."

  "Indeed they do interest me—for they are citizens just as you and I are."

  "They are, without a doubt, but that is not a popular point of view. I also note that although you have always rejected the idea of parliamentary reform, you spoke up in favor of it when Edward Baines introduced his reform bill. You argued that it was manifestly unfair that only one-fiftieth of the working classes had the vote."

  "That is indeed true—and it is perhaps the main reason that my views on reform changed."

  Mill leaned forward, his voice tense with the grave import of his question. "Then I take it that you are in favor of universal suffrage?"

  "I am indeed. I believe that every man in this land should have a vote."

  Helen had opened the door and carried in the tea tray; she could not help but overhear these last words. "But, Mr. Gladstone, to be truly universal, should not suffrage include women as well as men?"

  Gladstone was on his feet as he spoke, bowed graciously, and smiled. "My dear Miss Mill, your father has written of the aid you have given him in his writings. Now, having met you, I can surely believe that. Yes, I do agree that someday the vote must be extended to women. But the longest journey begins with but a single step. This is a conservative country and we will be hard-pressed to obtain universal male suffrage. But I promise that when the time is right, the vote will be extended to be truly universal."

  Helen smiled, and responded to his bow with a gracious curtsy. "I shall hold you to your word, sir. Now—let me pour your tea and then leave you gentlemen to your discussions."

  Gladstone sipped his tea and nodded toward the closed door. "Your daughter is a jewel, Mr. Mill. I hope that you will not be offended when I say that she has a mind like a man's."

  "I understand your meaning, sir, though Helen might take some offense."

  "None intended! I meant simply that I can see why you value her contributions to your labors."

  "I do, greatly. She is the one who convinced me that a universal ballot must also be a secret ballot for general elections. This will prevent working-class people being influenced in their vote by watching employers and landlords."

  "That is indeed a cogent observation. I had not considered that aspect of the vote, but now that I have thought it out, I can see that it will be of utmost importance."

  "But you do realize that a secret ballot with all men eligible to vote—might be the very force that changes this country forever?"

  "In what way?"

  "Now, as you well know, sovereignty in Britain does not rest with the people, but with the Crown-in-Parliament. This parliamentary sovereignty is the British concentration of power. This means that Parliament is supreme and nothing can stand before it. Not the will of the people—not even the law. If a statute blocks the will of the government, why, ministers can simply change it. Even if that obstacle is common law evolved over the centuries."

  "Unhappily, that is indeed true."

  "But if power flows upward from the people, this would not be possible. The people must elect their representatives to work the common will. If they do not—why, they will be ejected from power. That, and the checks and balances of the judiciary and a supreme court, will be the force to ensure that the will of the people will be sovereign. Not hereditary lords or a hereditary monarch. Not even God can alter that."

  "You believe then that disestablishmentarianism is to be intended?"

  "I do. There shall be no ordained church ruled by the monarch. As in the American constitution, there should be no established church at all. In fact, there must be a strict separation between church and state."

  Gladstone put his teacup down, nodded, and sighed.

  "This may prove a bitter pill to feed to the people of this island."

  "Strong medicine is sometimes needed. But with your good grace, Mr. Gladstone, and the others in our constitutional congress, the will of the people could become the law of the country."

  "A noble ambition—and hopefully a possible one. I am your man, Mr. Mill, behind you every step of the way."

  The crew on duty aboard the newly launched USS Stalwart, named for the dauntless warship sunk during the battle for Ireland, looked on with interest as the magnificent steam yacht came up the Solent and slowly passed them by. Their work was to guard the city of Portsmouth, and the great naval station there. But they could see no threat in this well-turned-out little ship that was flying the royal ensign of Belgium. They would have found no menace there—even if they had not received strict orders to let the vessel pass undisturbed. In the last of the evening sun, the yacht passed through Southampton Water and into Cowes Roads. After rounding the Isle of Wight, it drifted gently up to the fenders on the dockside in C
owes. Its arrival must have been expected, because a carriage was there, waiting.

  Others besides the carriage driver had been expecting the trim vessel's arrival. There was another yacht tied up farther down the docks. A yacht as well turned out and gleaming as the royal Belgian one.

  On the bridge of the Aurora two men stood, watching the other vessel's arrival. They were both dressed in well-cut broadcloth suits, but each had the bearing of a military man.

  "So far, Count, your information seems to be more than accurate," Gustavus Fox said.

  "It should be," Count Korzhenevski said, "since I paid a good deal in gold for it. Belgium is a small country, its politicians notoriously penurious. However, one or two of them know that my agent there pays well for sound information. They queue up to be bribed. You have alerted the navy?"

  "As soon as I got your message and arrived here. That yacht is not to be approached, searched, or troubled in any way. Free to come—even freer to leave."

  "I am glad of that," the Count said, looking through his glasses again. "But one does wish that they could be a little more discreet. That is the fifth large trunk that has been loaded aboard from that dray."

  "The German nobility has never been known for its intelligence."

  "Quite." The Count squinted at the sun setting behind the rolling hills. "It will be dark soon."

  "Not soon enough. The quicker this escapade is over and done with, the happier I will be."

  "Do not despair, dear Gus." The Count laughed and pulled at his arm. He snapped a quick command in Russian to the officer on watch. "Come below and share a bottle of champagne. We shall be called as soon as there is any activity on the pier."

  In Osbourne House there was a great stirring when the Belgian Foreign Minister, Baron Surlet de Chokier, was admitted. The Queen was waiting, wearing black traveling dress and fussing over her younger children. The Prince of Wales, known to all the family as Bertie, stood to one side; Alexandra, his bride of two years, also beside him. They were a contrasting pair: she was slight, and very attractive. Young though he was, if the pudgy Bertie had ever had any charm, it was long since gone. Black-bearded and potbellied, he was already going bald. He looked on, apparently bored, when the Baron spoke to the Queen.