Stars and Stripes Forever sas-1

by Harry Harrison

  Then the ultimate shock, the ultimate despair. Not only was the Yankee fleet at their gates he realized, but the Louisiana, the ironclad that was being built to defeat these same Yankee ships, would never be launched to perform this vital task. She would be a great prize if she were taken by the Yankees. This had not been allowed to happen.

  Instead of coming to the aid of New Orleans, she now floated, burning furiously, past the city and downriver towards the sea. The ironclad would never be launched, never fulfill her vital defending role he realized. All that effort, all that work, all for nothing.

  She would soon sink, steaming and bubbling, to the bottom of the river that she was supposed to defend.

  Scott’s anaconda, he realized, had tightened that little bit more.

  “This is indeed wonderful news, Mr. President,” Hay said, smiling as he watched Lincoln read the telegram.

  Lincoln smiled ever so slightly but did not speak. Since the death of little Willie something seemed to have gone out of him. A dreadful lassitude had overcome him and everything was a far greater effort than it had ever been before. He struggled against it, forced himself to read the telegram again and make some sense of it.

  “I agree wholeheartedly, John. Wonderful news.” He spoke the words well enough, but there was no real sincerity in his voice. “Taking New Orleans is a stab right into the heartland of the Confederacy. From its sources to the sea the Mississippi River is now ours. I would almost tempt fate by saying that we are on the way to winning this war. I would be the happiest President in the White House if it weren’t for our British cousins and their stubbornness.”

  Lincoln shook his head wearily and ran his fingers through his dark beard, the way he did when something was bothering him. Hay slipped out of the room. The President’s dead son was ever present in spirit.

  The May evening was warm and comfortable, with only a slight suggestion of the damp, hot summer to come. The door to the balcony was open and Lincoln stepped through it and rested his hand on the railing, looking out at the city. He turned when he heard his wife call his name.

  “Out here,” he said.

  Mary Todd Lincoln joined him, clutched tightly to his arm when she saw the torchlit crowd in the street outside. She had kept very much to herself after little Willie’s death and rarely left her room. At times it appeared to be more than melancholia, when she talked to herself and pulled at her clothing. The doctors were very guarded in their appraisals of her condition and Lincoln had real fear for her sanity. He mentioned this to no one. Now he put his arm about her but said nothing. The pain of the child’s parting was still so great that they could not talk about it. There was a stirring in the mob as some people left, others joined, and the sound of raised voices and an occasional shout.

  “Do you know what they are saying?” she asked.

  “Probably the same thing they have been shouting for days now. No surrender. Remember the Revolution and 1812. If the British want war — they got it. Things like that.”

  “Father… what’s going to happen?”

  “We pray for peace. And prepare for war.”

  “Is there no way of stopping this?”

  “I don’t know, Mother. It’s like an avalanche just rushing downhill, faster and faster. Get in front of it and try to stop and you will just get crushed. If I ordered Mason and Slidell released now I would be impeached or just plain lynched. That’s the mood of the day. While the newspapers add fuel to the fire daily, and every congressman has a speech to make about international affairs. They say that the war against the South is good as won, that we can fight them and anyone else who comes around looking for trouble.”

  “But the English, will they really do this terrible thing?”

  “You read their ultimatum, the whole world did when the newspapers published it. Our hands are tied. I did send back proposals for peace with Lyons — but they were rejected out of hand. We had to agree to their terms, nothing else. With Congress and the people in a stew like this, if I had agreed to the British demands I might as well just have fitted a noose around my neck.

  “And their newspapers are worse than ours. They threw our minister, Adams, right out of the country. Told him not to come back without accepting their terms. He brought with him a bundle of London newspapers. No doubts expressed whatsoever. The gamblers over there are putting bets on the day when war will start and how long it will take to whup us. I feel that their politicians are in the same fix I am. Riding the whirlwind.”

  “And the South…?”

  “Jubilant. They have an immense lust for this new war and see Mason and Slidell as holy martyrs. Britain has already recognized the Confederacy as a free and sovereign nation. There is already talk of military aid on both sides.”

  There was a burst of noise from the crowd now, and more torches as well, that lit up the file of soldiers guarding the White House. The lanterns of guard ships were visible in the Potomac, lights of other ships and boats beyond them.

  “I’m going inside,” Mary said. “It is foolish I know, the night is so warm, but I’m shivering.”

  “Unhappily, there is much to shiver about. Let me take you inside.”

  Secretary of the Navy Welles was waiting inside, straightening his wig in the mirror. Mary slipped by him without a word.

  “I assume the navy is doing well — as always,” Lincoln said.

  “As always, the blockade is in place and drawing ever tighter. I just heard the word that the ex-Secretary of War had boarded ship for the long voyage to Moscow.”

  “I thought he would be a fine man to represent this government in the Russian court.”

  Welles laughed aloud. “He will soon be selling watered stock to the Czar, if he runs true to form. I wonder what they will make of the crookedest politician in these United States.”

  “I wouldn’t assign him that prize too readily. There are an awful lot of others vying for that title.”

  John Nicolay looked in. “The Secretary of War is outside, sir. He wonders if he could see you for a few minutes?”

  “Of course.” He turned to Mary who smiled as she pressed his hand, then left the room. War and talk of war were just too much for her tonight.

  “No bad news for me Mr. Stanton?” Lincoln asked his new cabinet member. He and Stanton rarely saw eye-to-eye — but Edwin M. Stanton was a wonder of efficiency after his incompetent predecessor, Simon Cameron.

  “Happily not. I’ve just left a meeting of my staff and thought you should know the results. Until we know more of the British plans there is little we can do. Being in a state of war already I imagine we are about as prepared as we could possibly be. However we are taking special precautions in the north. It is a long border and scarcely defended. The militia that is not already serving has been called out and put on the alert. Welles will know more about the situation at sea.”

  “Like you we are already at full alert. The only fact in this black world that pleases me is that the British have allowed their navy to run down since the Crimean War.”

  “Have you heard from General Halleck?” the President asked.

  “We have indeed. He has telegraphed that he has now taken up his new post in command of the Department of the North in New York City. As agreed General Grant has taken over Halleck’s post in the Department of the Mississippi. Sherman is with him and together their armies form a substantial barrier against any Rebel incursions.”

  “And now we wait.”

  “We do indeed…”

  Running footsteps sounded down the corridor outside and, without knocking, John Hay burst through the door.

  “Mr. President, a communication from… from Plattsburgh, New York. It has been delayed, the telegraph wires south of that city have been cut.”

  “What does it say?”

  Hay read from the paper in his hand, choked at the words, finally got them out.

  “I am… under attack by British troops. Colonel Yandell, Plattsburgh Militia Volunteers.”

&
nbsp; INVASION!

  The troops must have marched all night. Because there they were, trampling across the field of young wheat, just as the sun rose. A sentry called out for the colonel who appeared, sleepy-eyed and rubbing at his face.

  “Redcoats!” The colonel snapped his mouth shut, realizing that he was goggling at them like a teenage girl. In double rank they marched slowly across the field toward the American defenses, then halted upon command. Their pickets were out ahead of the lines, shielding behind trees and dips in the ground. Groups of cavalry were stationed on either flank, while field guns were visible, coming up the road to their rear. Colonel Yandell snapped himself out of the paralysis and shouted.

  “Sergeant — turn out the company! I want a message off to…”

  “Can’t do it, sir,” the sergeant said grimly. “Tried to telegraph as soon as we saw them, but the wire must be down. Plenty of cavalry out there. Could easily have got around us in the night and cut the wire.”

  “Something has to be done. Washington has got to know what is happening here. Get someone, get Anders, he knows the country around here. Use my horse, it’s the best we got.”

  The colonel scrawled a quick note on his message pad, tore it off and passed it to the soldier.

  “Get this to the railway station in Keeseville, to the telegraph there. Send it to Washington. Tell them to spread the word that we’re under attack.”

  Colonel Yandell looked around grimly at his men. His volunteers were green and young and they were frightened. The mere sight of the army before them seemed to have stripped most of them of their senses. Some were starting to shuffle toward the rear; one private was loading his musket, although he already had loaded it with two charges. Colonel Yandell’s snapped commands had exacted numbed and reluctant obedience.

  “Colonel, sir, peers like someone’s comin’ this way.”

  Yandell looked through the nearest gun port and saw a mounted officer, resplendent in red uniform and gold braid, trotting toward the battlement. A sergeant walked beside him with his pike raised, a white flag tied on its end. Yandell climbed up to the top of the wall and watched their slow approach in silence.

  “That’s far enough,” he called out when they had reached the bottom of the slope before him. “What do you want?”

  “Are you the commanding officer here?”

  “I am. Colonel Yandell.”

  “Captain Cartledge, Seaforth Highlanders. I have a message from General Peter Champion, our commanding officer. He informs you that at midnight a declaration of war was issued by the British government. A state of war now exists between your country and mine. He orders you to surrender your weapons and guns. If you comply with his commands you have his word of honor that none of you will be harmed.”

  The officer drawled out the words with bored arrogance, one hand on his hip the other resting on the hilt of his sword. His uniform was festooned in gold bullion; rows of shining buttons ran the length of his jacket. Yandell was suddenly aware of his own dusty blue coat, his homespun trousers with a great patch in the seat. His temper flared.

  “Now you just tell your general that he can go plumb to hell. We’re Americans here and we don’t take orders from the likes of you. Git!”

  He turned to the nearest militiaman, a beardless youth who clutched a musket that must have been older than he was.

  “Silas — stop gaping and cock your gun. Put a shot over their heads. Don’t aim at them. I just want to see them skedaddle.”

  The single shot cracked out and a small cloud of smoke drifted away in the morning air. The sergeant began to run and the officer pulled at his reins and spurred his horse back toward the British lines.

  The first shot of the Battle of Plattsburgh had been fired.

  A new war had begun.

  The British did not waste any time. As soon as the officer had galloped back to the lines a bugle sounded, loud and clear. Its sound was instantly lost in the boom of the cannon that stood behind the troops, almost hub to hub.

  The first shells exploded in the bank below the fortifications. Others, too high, screamed by overhead. The defenders clutched the ground as the gunners corrected their range and shells began to explode on the battlement.

  When the firing suddenly stopped the day became so still that the men on the battlement could hear the shouted orders, the quick rattle of a drum. Then, with a single movement, in perfect unison, the two lines of soldiers started forward. Their muskets slanted across their chests, their feet slamming down to the beat of the drums. Suddenly there was a hideous squealing sound that pierced the air. These New York farmers had never heard its like before, had never heard the mad skirl of the bagpipes.

  The attackers were halfway across the field before the stunned Americans realized it, struggled to their feet to man the crumbled defenses.

  The first line was almost upon them. The Seaforth Highlanders. Big men from the glens, their kilts swirling about their legs as they marched. Closer and closer with the cold precision of a machine.

  “Hold your fire until I give the order,” Colonel Yandell shouted as the frightened militiamen began to pop off shots at the attackers. “Wait until they’re closer. Don’t waste your ammunition. Load up.”

  Closer, steadily closer the enemy came until the soldiers were almost at the foot of the grassy ramp that led up to battlements.

  “Fire!”

  It was a ragged volley, but a volley nevertheless. Many of the bullets were too high and whistled over the heads of the ranked soldiers. But these men, boys, were hunters and a rabbit or squirrel was sometimes the only meat they had. Lead bullets thudded home, and big men slumped forward into the grass leaving holes in the ranks.

  The response to the American volley was devastating and fast. The front rank of soldiers kneeled as one, raised their guns as one — and fired.

  The second rank fired an instant later and it was as though the angel of death had swept across the battlements. Men screamed and died, the survivors looked on, frozen, as the red-clad soldiers, with bayonets fixed, stormed forward. The second rank had reloaded and now fired at anyone who attempted to fire back.

  Then their ranks parted and the scaling parties ran through them, slammed their long ladders against the crumbled defenses. With a roar the Highlanders attacked. Up and over and into the lines of the outnumbered defenders.

  Colonel Yandell had just formed a second line to the rear, to guard the few guns mounted there. He could only look on in horror as his men were overrun and butchered.

  “Hold your fire,” he ordered. “You’ll only kill our own boys. Wait until they form up for the attack. Then shoot and don’t miss. You, Caleb, run back and tell the guns to do the same thing. Hold their fire until they are sure of their targets.”

  It was careful butchery, too terrible to watch. Very few Americans survived the attack to join the defenders in the second line.

  Again the drums rolled and the big men in their strange uniforms lined up in perfect rows. And came forward. Their lines thinned as the Americans fired. Thinned but did not stop, formed up again as men moved into the gaps.

  Colonel Yandell emptied his pistol at the attacking men, fumbled to reload it when he was addressed.

  “Colonel Yandell. It is ungentlemanly to fire at an officer under a flag of truce.”

  Yandell looked up to see Captain Cartledge standing before him. His uniform had been blackened by smoke, as had his face. He stepped forward and raised his long sword in mocking salute.

  Colonel Yandell pointed the pistol and fired. Saw the bullet strike the other man’s arm. The English officer stumbled back under the impact, shifted the sword to his left hand and stepped forward.

  Yandell clicked the trigger again and again — but he had only had time to load the one chamber.

  The sword plunged into his chest and he fell.

  One more dying American, one more victim of this new war.

  The regimental carpenter had planed the plank smooth, then tacked on th
e sheet of white cartridge paper with a couple of nails. It made a rough but serviceable drawing board. A charcoal willow twig was a suitable drawing instrument. Sherman sat outside his tent concentrating on the drawing he was making of the landing and the steamboats behind. He turned when he heard the footsteps approach.

  “Didn’t know that you could draw, Cump,” Grant said.

  “It snuck up on me and I learned to like it. Did a lot of engineering drawings at the Point and just sort of fell into sketching. I find it relaxing.”

  “I could use some of that myself,” Grant said, taking a camp chair from the tent and dropping into it. He pulled a long black cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it. “Never did like waiting. Johnny Reb is quiet — and the British! Why we just don’t know do we. I feel like latching onto a jug of corn likker…”

  Sherman turned quickly from the drawing, his face suddenly drawn. Grant smiled.

  “Not that I will, mind you,” he said. “That’s all behind me now that there is a war on. I don’t think either of us did well as we should when we were out of the army. But at least you were a bank president in California — while I was hauling timber with a team of mules and burying my face in the booze every night.”

  “But the bank failed,” Sherman said grimly. “I lost everything, house, land, everything I had worked for all those years.” He hesitated and went on, his voice lowered. “Lost my sanity, felt that way at times.”

  “But you came out of it, Cump — just the way I came out of the bottle. I guess war is our only trade.”

  “And you are good at it, Ulysses. I meant it when I wrote that letter. I have faith in you. Command me in any way.”

  Grant looked a little discomfited. “Not just me. Halleck said you should have the command under me. I was more than happy to oblige. You have good friends in this army, that’s what it comes down to.”

  “General Grant, sir,” a voice called out and they turned to see the sergeant on the bank above. “Telegraph message coming through from the east. About the British the operator said.”