Stars and Stripes Forever sas-1

by Harry Harrison

  Lincoln ran his fingers though his hair and nodded his head. “As the lady said when she started to eat the whole watermelon, I don’t know if I can do it or not, but I’m sure going to give it the best try I can.”

  Davis hesitated, then nodded grim agreement. “For all our sakes I will try. When Mr. Mill explains these matters it makes sense. But will it be the same when I return to my plantation? Where will I find the words to explain what will happen when I speak with other plantation owners?”

  “I will give you the words, Mr. Davis,” Mill said. “There is a clarity of design here that once perceived must be believed.”

  “I pray that you can do that,” Lincoln said. “We will follow this course and at the same time we will not forget that while we are doing this we must also see that the war is won as well.”

  Some of the American regiments had marched north, up the length of the Hudson Valley, their supply wagons churning up the dusty roads behind them. Others had come by troop train, from the deep South and the Far West. The cavalrymen flanked the regiments on the roads, their weary mounts trotting with lowered heads after the fatigues of the journey. On they came, a river of blue uniforms, a flood of butternut-gray. They were grim in purpose: firm in their resolve. The invaders would be pushed back, driven from the soil of these reunited United States.

  Trestles had been set up in the shade of a grove of oak trees, boards placed on them and the maps spread out. General of the Armies, Supreme Commander-in-Chief, General William Tecumseh Sherman, looked around his gathered officers and nodded greeting.

  “I feel that I am among friends again, and sincerely hope that you all share that feeling.”

  There were nods and smiles.

  “It is very much like being back at West Point,” General Robert E. Lee said.

  “Agreed,” General Ulysses S. Grant said. “And I much more prefer my fellow cadets fighting at my side than against me.”

  “And fight is what we will do,” Sherman said. “Fight and win.” He touched a map with his index finger and the watching officers leaned close.

  “General Grant, you will continue to hold the line here as you have done so well up to now. When will your reinforcements be in place?”

  “By dawn at the very latest. As the fresh regiments take over I’m withdrawing the veterans. They have been badly knocked about.”

  “Fine. With your reinforcements you will hold in strength. You should have no real difficulty repelling any attacks. But you will hold and not advance from your positions for the moment. The opening attack will be yours, General Lee. Your troops will swing around from behind our left flank, here, and proceed to hit the enemy the mightiest blow that you can. We have enough guns now to soften them up with a barrage. When it lifts — you go in. The British will be outflanked. They will be faced by your army to the west of them. Grant’s entrenched army here to the north — and the river to the east of them. They’ll find no peace there because the flotilla of ironclads will arrive tonight. Their guns will be part of the bombardment. When you strike they will be forced to retreat or be destroyed. And the instant they fall back General Grant’s troops will attack as well.”

  Robert E. Lee smiled grimly as he swept his hand across the map. “So we’ll hit them here, here and here. If they stand they are destroyed. If they retreat north, as they must do, our cavalry will be out there to give them greeting. A simple plan, sir, and one that I heartily approve of. After this night’s rest the troops will be mighty refreshed and more than ready for the attack.”

  Ulysses S. Grant nodded solemn agreement. “We have been too long on the defensive, gentlemen, and it grows very wearisome. I take great delight in going on the offensive at last.” He bit the end off a long black cigar and scratched alight a match, blew a cloud of smoke up toward the oak leaves above. “We’ll smoke them out and attack and then attack again. Very few of them will find their way back to Canada if we do this correctly.” Sherman nodded in agreement.

  “So shall it be. I have never led officers with such commitment, or commanded men with such mighty resolve. Tomorrow we will put this commitment and resolve to the test of fire. There is no justice in battle, no certainty in war. But we are as prepared as ever we will be. In the morning I think — I know — that every man in this army will fight. And fight to win.”

  At their next meeting President Lincoln had some welcome news for Jefferson Davis. “I have prepared a message for Congress, outlining the straightforward agreements that we have reached. I’ll discuss it with my Cabinet today and have it read to the Congress this afternoon.”

  Davis nodded. “I’ll await the result. Then return to Richmond for the same task with the Confederate Congress. We must finish our discussions now while the war rages, come to conclusive agreement while feelings are at their highest.”

  Lincoln pulled his watch from his fob pocket and looked at it. “With this course in mind I have asked Gustavus Fox to join us here in a few minutes. He is an Assistant Secretary of the Navy, although in reality he has a far more important role in government. Mr. Fox travels a good deal, to many places where he meets with his many friends. He sees to it that we know far more about America’s enemies than they know about us.”

  Davis sipped the coffee and smiled wryly. “I thought that the excellent Mr. Pinkerton headed your secret service?”

  Lincoln smiled as well. “If he did it would not be secret long — nor much of a service. I believe that your people convinced his agents that the forces facing General McClellan were twice what they really were.”

  “Not twice, Abraham, thrice.”

  “No wonder Little Napoleon was always so reluctant to attack. No, Fox amasses information and assesses it — and so far it has always proven to be correct. Come in,” he called out when there was the expected knock on the door.

  Fox entered, bent slightly toward the two men.

  “Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Davis, it is my pleasure to meet you at last. If you will permit, gentlemen, I will give you some detailed information about our enemy.” He took a folded sheet of paper from his tailcoat pocket and read from it.

  “In England, Scotland and Ireland, the keels of nine large ironclads have been laid. They are of a new design, borrowed heavily from the French La Gloire. She is an ironclad wooden ship that can remain at sea for a month cruising at eight knots. Her maximum speed is thirteen knots and she mounts 26 cannon, 68-pounders. A formidable warship, as will be the British copies.”

  “How long before any of them are launched?” Lincoln asked.

  “Too early to tell precisely — since the construction techniques are so novel, the yards are inexperienced in this kind of work. It took twenty months to build Warrior. So I would guess six to nine months in the earliest. The British are also providing armor for their larger ships of the line, replacing the top two decks of four of them with iron plating. Now, small arms. They have finally noticed the importance of the breech-loading rifle. They are perfecting a design of their own by modifying the 1853 rifled Enfield into a breech-loading conversion called the Snider.”

  He selected another sheet of paper. “Because of the distances involved some of my information is incomplete as yet. I do know about India though. A number of British troops are at seaports waiting for transport. There are also Indian regiments among them. Gurkhas, Dogras and Sepoys. Some of them have never been out of India before and their ability might be suspect. Others have fought Britain’s imperial wars and are a force to be counted with. But all possible dissidents in the army there were eliminated after the Mutiny. So we must consider Indian troops as a definite possibility.”

  After outlining all the other preparations for extensive war, he produced clippings from the British press.

  “The public is behind the government in this — all of the way if you can believe the newspapers. My people there assure me that this is true and no exaggeration. No voice is raised to speak of peace, not one newspaper even dares use the word. New regiments are being raised, yeomanry
called to arms. Taxes raised as well, now up to thrupence in the pound. Be assured, gentlemen, that Britain is very serious about pursuing this war.”

  “And so are we,” Davis said with firm assurance. “On this we are united.”

  “If you are, may I be so bold as to suggest that you meet a gentleman who is waiting downstairs. His name is Louis Joseph Papineau.”

  “That name is familiar,” Lincoln said.

  “You will know why when I tell you more about him. But first I must ask you gentlemen — what do you plan to do with our British enemies?”

  “Defeat them, of course,” Lincoln said; Davis nodded firm agreement.

  “Then let me then outline what the future may hold for us,” Fox said. “We will defeat them at sea, where their wooden ships are no match for our iron ones. Then on land. Our massed attacks will drive them back into Canada from whence they came to invade this country. And then, gentlemen? What will happen next? Do we sit complacently as we face an armed enemy on our northern border, one that is free to grow in strength? An army that can be reinforced and bolstered by all the might of the British Empire. Do we watch quietly while they build an army that will surely attack this country again — if there is no treaty of peace?”

  “It is an uneasy future you predict, Mr. Fox, and something that must surely be considered,” Lincoln said, running his fingers through his beard.

  “One decision you might make would be to meet the gentleman now waiting outside. Mr. Papineau is a French Canadian — ”

  “Of course!” Lincoln sat up suddenly. “He was the one who led the rebellion in Quebec in 1837. The British put it down and he fled.”

  “Then you will remember as well that he wanted to establish a French republic on the St. Lawrence. Canada is not the placid, happily governed state that the English would have us believe. In that same year William Lyon Mackenzie led a similar revolt in Upper Canada against the ruling officialdom. This desire for freedom and independence is still strong despite the Act of Union joining Upper and Lower Canada. The French Canadians, with some justification, believe that the act was aimed at intimidating and controlling them. Mr. Papineau has been in Canada, talking with his countrymen. He assures me that the French Canadians are as eager as ever for their freedom. If they were aided…”

  “You are indeed a devious man, Mr. Fox,” Davis said. “You have not spelled it out, but you have us now thinking on the future course of events. Not only in this country, but on this continent. These are serious matters. I don’t think the good folk of this country would sleep well at night with Canada brimming with armed British ready to invade again at any time.”

  “Instead of those sleepless nights our countrymen might very well look in favor at the alternative,” Lincoln said. “Which is a democratic Canada, linked by fraternal ties to her sister republic to the south. It is something surely worth thinking about. Let us have your Messr Papineau in so we can hear what he has to say for himself.”

  WORDS TO CHANGE THE WORLD

  The blue-clad soldiers had fought hard this day. No longer satisfied with holding their lines, they had eagerly surged in attack when the bugle call sent them forward. Out of the shattered remains of the defenses at Saratoga they came, to fall upon the retreating British, already battered by the attacking Confederate Army. But it had not been an easy battle to win, because the invading soldiers were professionals and did not panic or run. They held their positions and kept up their fire. Only when their lines were threatened with being overrun did they make a fighting retreat. Nor could the attackers afford to make any mistakes. Any weaknesses in their own defenses would be instantly taken advantage of; the British troops were capable of turning and lashing out like wounded animals.

  Though the outcome of the day’s battles should have been certain, the contest was still fierce and deadly. Through the fields and forests of New York State the fighting had raged, large conflicts and smaller, even more deadly ones. It was now late afternoon and the Union soldiers of the New York 60th lay in the shade of the stone wall and took what rest they could. A fresh regiment of Maine riflemen had passed through them and for the moment they were out of the battle. This did not mean they could afford to be unwary, since the front was now very fluid. There were bypassed British units still about, and new regiments arriving.

  Private P.J. O’Mahony was one of the men placed outside the perimeter on guard duty. He cocked his gun when he heard the sound of horse hooves from the road on the other side of the wall; the jingle of harness as men dismounted. He rose up slowly and looked through a chink in the wall, then carefully uncocked his rifle before he stood and waved his hat at the gray-uniformed horsemen there.

  “Hello, Reb,” he called out to the nearest trooper. The man reined up and smiled a gap-toothed grin.

  “Hello yourself, Yank.” He dismounted and stretched wearily. “Got my canteen tore off riding through the scrub. I’ll be mighty grateful for a swaller or two of water if you can spare it.”

  “Spare it I can, and have it you shall. Sure and you’ve come to the right place. In the spirit of generosity I must tell you that it is two canteens that I carry.”

  “You never!”

  “I do. One filled with water — the other with poitheen.”

  “I can’t rightly say that I ever heard of no poy-cheen.”

  “It is the national drink of all Irishmen across the ocean in that green and distant land. Though I do believe it is far superior to your normal beverage, you’ll have to judge for yourself. I’ve heard it compared to a drink you may know, name of moonshine…”

  “Tarnation, but you are sure a nice feller! Furget what I said about the water and pass me the other one like a good soldier.”

  The cavalryman drank deep, sighed and belched happily. “Now that is the sweetest shine that I have ever tasted, that’s for sure. And my daddy had one of the best stills in Tennessee.”

  Private O’Mahony smiled proudly. “That’s because it’s Irish, boyo, none other. The secret of its making brought to this new world from the ould sod. And we should know. For this proud regiment that you see before you is the 69th New York — and every mother’s son of us Irish.”

  “Irish you say? I heard of it. Never been there. Hell, I never been out of Tennessee until this war started. But as I do recollect it was my grand-pappy, on my mother’s side, they said that he come from Ireland. Guess that kind of makes us like kin.”

  “As indeed I am sure that it does.”

  “You-all eat ramrod bread?” the cavalryman asked, taking a darkish chunk from his saddlebag and holding it out. “It’s just plain old cornmeal plastered on a ramrod and cooked over the fire.”

  O’Mahony munched happily and smiled. “Jaysus — if you lived on nothing but boiled potatoes and salt water for half of your lifetime you wouldn’t be asking questions like that. It’s a poor country, old Ireland, made ever poorer by the bastard English who occupy her. It is with the greatest pleasure that we have the chance to fight them now.”

  “I shore do agree with that. Another little swaller OK? Thank you kindly. Guess you know more about the British than I do, being from over there and everything. But Willie Joe, he can read real good, he read to us from the newspaper. About what them British did down in Mississippi. Makes the blood right boil it does. I shore am glad we caught up with them today. Got ’em in the flank, hit them hard.”

  “It’s a fine body of men, you are, with some good horseflesh as well…”

  “Saddle up.” The order sounded down the road.

  “That was mighty good likker,” the cavalryman called out as he mounted his horse, “and I’ll never forget it. And you want to pass the word to your sergeant that we been running into some companies of riflemen down the valley apiece. They was on the way south, reinforcement looks like. They fresh and they mean as rattlesnakes. Take care, you hear.”

  Private O’Mahony duly passed this information on to the sergeant who in turn told it to Captain Meagher.

  “
More redbellies — a blessing from the Lord. Let us find the bastards and kill them all.”

  Meagher meant it. He had been a revolutionary in Ireland, a Fenian, the underground movement that was fighting for Ireland’s freedom. He had been battling the English for most of his adult life. On the run all of the time and watch out for informers. In the end he had been caught because of the price on his head that was so large it became irresistible in that poverty-stricken country. Once in jail the charges against him mounted up, so much so that the sentencing judge felt no qualms about giving him the most severe sentence on the books. In Anno Domini 1842, early in the reign of Queen Victoria, he had been sentenced to be hanged. But more than that. Before the noose had killed him, he was to have been taken down from the gallows to be drawn and quartered while still alive. But a more lenient review court had taken offense at his medieval sentence and had commuted it to banishment for life in Tasmania. For nearly twenty years he had labored in chains in that distant land, before making good his escape and fleeing to America. It was understandable that no man had greeted war with the English with more exuberance than he had.

  “Get the lads moving, Sergeant,” he ordered. “This neck of the woods is clean of the English for the moment. Let’s see if we can join up with the rest of the division before dark…”

  A sudden burst of fire sounded down the line. There was shouting and more firing as a picket ran through the trees.

  “Sir, redcoats, a fecking mob of them.”

  “Over the wall, me boys. Take cover behind these stones and show them how Irishmen can fight.”

  The enemy were appearing from among the trees now, more and more of them. Private O’Mahony took aim with his brand new Spencer rifle and put a bullet through the nearest one.

  “That’s the way,” Captain Meagher shouted happily, firing again and again. “Come on you English bastards, come and meet your maker.”