Stars And Stripes In Peril

by Harry Harrison

  "What if I told you that the rumors were leaked deliberately and an entirely different plan was being drawn up?"

  "If what you say is true, why then it has been a masterful bit of misdirection on the army's part. I would never have expected so much guile in the high command. If not Mexico—why where else can we attack them? Sail up the Thames and drop a few shells on Buckingham Palace?" He smiled at the thought and Sherman smiled back.

  "Not quite. But we are going to attack Ireland and throw the British out."

  His chair fell over with a clatter as Reynolds jumped to his feet, mouth agape, eyes staring.

  "Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Tell me it's not a joke!"

  "I am dead serious. Now you know why we enlisted your aid."

  The surgeon's fingers, so firm on the scalpel and always under control, were shaking uncontrollably now as he picked up and righted the fallen chair, sat down on it heavily. His voice was so hushed when he spoke that he could barely be heard.

  "The dream of every Irishman, passed down through the ages, to come true in my lifetime... My heart is beating as though it will burst in my chest."

  " 'Tis true, Francis," Meagher assured him. "We shall march on Ireland and set her free."

  "Ask what you will of me. Anything." Spoken with such conviction and assurance that none dared doubt him.

  "We want you to tell us about Ulster and the northern provinces," Lee said.

  "Of course. Now I see why I was brought here. First a grave warning." He looked directly at General Meagher. "Take your brave lads of the Irish Brigade and march on Ireland and set her free. But don't let any Catholic Irish soldier set one foot in the province of Ulster or there will be rivers of blood in the streets." He turned to Sherman, his face most grave. "There are two tribal peoples up there, living locked tight to each other in the streets and villages of the province. Set them at each other's throats and only the most wicked and deadly battle and slaughter will follow."

  "We have already decided that," Lee said calmly. "I shall command in the attack in the north and my Southern troops will lead in the field. All of them Protestants."

  "A wise and wonderful decision. It will then be American troops against British troops. A war between soldiers and I doubt that the Orangemen will takes sides. At least not at first. At heart they are a moral people, steeped in Presbyterianism. The plantations in the north of Ireland began in 1605 when Sir Arthur Chichester proposed the settlement of English and Scots to strengthen royal control of the province. The native Irish Catholics were pushed out of the cities and towns and made to live outside the gates. This pattern has not changed since the seventeenth century. Every man in Ulster knows to an inch what is the property of his side. A siege mentality has prevailed there for all these centuries. Myths not history rule. What both sides believe about their past has been altered to suit their respective needs."

  "So what do I do about it?" Lee asked. "What happens when my troops enter Belfast and subdue the enemy?"

  "That is a very good question," Reynolds said, pulling at his jaw, deep in thought. "You must not discriminate, that is the first rule. Protestant and Catholic must be treated equally. Declare martial law and a curfew and see that it is obeyed. You must treat everyone with an even hand." He rubbed his forehead, thinking hard. "Tell me," he said. "Are there not some Southern regiments from Louisiana, from New Orleans?"

  "There are indeed," Lee said.

  "French regiments? Catholics?"

  "Yes."

  "You must attach at least one of these regiments to your invasion force. You must show that you are above religious differences. This is most important when you meet with the civic leaders—separately of course. Most of them would refuse to be in the same room together."

  Lee threw his hands up in exasperation. "I think I know what you are saying, though I don't really understand it. I shall need advice, leadership in all this. Firstly, we need to find the right spot to invade. In the south, where there are roads and train lines from Galway to Dublin, that seems to be the obvious route—as does Limerick to Cork. But what about the north? Do you think that we should invade through Londonderry?"

  Lee strode across the room to unlock the map cabinet, then swung the door open.

  "Ill advised," the surgeon said, standing and walking over to look at the map. "If you go that way your ships will have to pass up the length of Lough Foyle and into the mouth of the River Foyle. And only then will you be able to face forts and guns. It could be a hard-fought battle if the alarm is raised. Even after you win the battle and seize the trains, why they just meander along a single track along the coast. No, here is what you want. I grew up there, in Coleraine, and know the whole area well. I haven't been back since I went away to study medicine in Queen's College, Belfast—but nothing will have changed." He tapped the map. "Here in Portrush, that is where you must strike. It has a fine harbor with rail service to Coleraine here—where it joins the line from Londonderry which will supply more trains."

  "How are the roads?" General Lee asked.

  "Excellent. Or as excellent as any road is in Ireland."

  Lee studied the map closely. "Then we will have trains and good roads—and it looks to be no more than fifty miles from Belfast. Good troops can march that in a day, a day and a half in the most. We will take your advice under serious consideration," Lee said, then pointed his finger at the surgeon. "With General Meagher's approval you now have a new posting. My staff surgeon is about to have family problems and will return home on leave. I would like you to take his post until he returns. Which is going to be a very long time. I will need all of your medical skills—but also all of your political knowledge as well. You shall be both a medical officer and a political officer. Can you do that?"

  "It will be my great pleasure, General Lee."

  "Take him," Meagher said. "Keep him safe and return him after the war."

  LOCKED IN COMBAT

  London had been miserable for over a week. Unseasonal storms and high winds had lashed the capital and drenched her citizens. William Gladstone, who hated the damp, had huddled next to the fire in his study for most of that time. Palmerston's orders had been peremptory and specific. The military needed more money: there was the need to raise taxes. The stone that was the British public must be squeezed again. Squeezed for money, not for blood.

  When Gladstone awoke this Monday morning it was with a feeling of dread. This was the day of the Cabinet meeting. The Prime Minister would be sure to be displeased at the new taxes. Nothing unusual; he was always displeased. Not only a Cabinet meeting, but a dreaded visit to Her Majesty afterward. She could be infinitely trying these days. Either introspective and mourning her dear Albert—which was bearable, though terribly boring. Better still than the other extreme. The reddened face and the shrill screams. Not for the first time did he remember that, after all, she was the granddaughter of mad German George.

  Yet when his manservant opened the curtains Gladstone's spirits, if they did not soar, were lifted more than a little bit. Golden sunshine poured into the room; a blackbird sang in the distance. After breaking his fast he was in a still better mood. He would leave his carriage behind and walk, that is what he would do. It was a pleasant walk to Whitehall from his rooms here in Bond Street. He poured himself another cup of tea and sent for his private secretary.

  "Ah, Edward, I have a slight task for you." Hamilton nodded in expectant silence. "Those budget papers we have been working on. Put them together and bring them to the Cabinet Room for me. Leave them with Lord Palmerston's secretary."

  "Will you want the navy proposals as well?"

  "Yes, surely. Pack them all up."

  The sun was shining radiantly through the fanlight over the front door. Gladstone put on his hat, tapped it into position, picked up his stick and let himself out. It was indeed a glorious day.

  The pavements were crowded, particularly in Piccadilly, but the crowd was in a friendly mood: the sun cheered everyone. Further on, near Piccadilly C
ircus, a man was holding out to the passers-by. His clothes revealed him to be a Quaker, one of that very difficult sect. Gladstone had to listen to him, whether or no, since the people in the crowded street were scarcely moving.

  "...violates God's will. Plague may be a curse upon mankind for living in evil ways, but plague cannot be avoided by an act of will for it is indifferent to class or rank. The lord in his castle will fall victim, just as surely as the peasant in his hovel. But war, I tell you, war is an abomination and a sin. Is this the best we can do with the intelligence God gave us, with the money that we have earned by the sweat of our brow? Instead of food and peace we spend our substance on guns and war. The citizens of the Americas are our brothers, our fellows, fruit of the same loins from whence we ourselves have sprung. Yet those who would be our masters urge us to spill our blood in attacking them. The scurrilous rags we call newspapers froth with hatred and calumny and speak with the voices of evil and wrongdoing. So I say unto you, disdain from the evil, speak to your masters that war is not the way. Is it really our wish to see our sons bleed and die on distant shores? Cry out with one voice and say..."

  What the voice should say would never be known. The strong hands of two burly soldiers plucked the man down from his box and, under a sergeant's supervision, carried him away. The crowd cheered good-naturedly and went about their business. Gladstone turned down a side street and away from the crowd, disturbed by what he had seen.

  Was there really an antiwar movement? Certainly there were grumbles over the increasing taxes. But the mob did love a circus and read with pleasure about the glowing—and exaggerated—prowess of British arms. Many still remembered the defeats in America and longed for victories by strength of arms to remove the sour smell of that defeat. At times it was hard to assess the public mood. As he turned into Downing Street he joined Lord John Russell, also going in the same direction.

  "Ready for the lion's cage, hey?" Gladstone said.

  "Some say that Palmerston's bark is worse than his bite," the Foreign Secretary answered with a worldly flip of his hand.

  "I say that bark and bite are both rather mordant. By the way, on the way here I heard a street speaker sounding off at the evils of our war policy. Do you think he was alone—or is the spirit abroad that we should be seeking peace?"

  "I doubt that very much. Parliament still sides with the war party and the papers scream and froth for victories. Individuals may think differently, but, by George, the country is on our side."

  "I wish that I had your assurance, Lord John. Still, I find it disturbing, disturbing indeed."

  "Vox populi is not always vox dei, no matter what you hear to the contrary. The voice that matters is that of Palmerston, and as long as this party is in power that is the only voice that you will hear."

  It was indeed a voice that demanded respect. As the Cabinet assembled around the long table Lord Palmerston frowned heavily down at them and rubbed his hands together. He was used to bullying his Cabinet. After all he was the Prime Minister, and he had appointed every one of them. So their loyalty must be to him and him alone. Parliament could be difficult at times, but the war spirit was running high there, so that they could usually be cajoled into backing his proposals. And then, of course, there was always the Queen. When Prince Albert had been alive there had been scenes and difficulties when Palmerston had made unilateral decisions without consulting the Royal Couple. As he had done in the Don Pacifico affair. David Pacifico was a Portuguese Jew born in Gibraltar. He became a merchant in Athens. His house there was burned down during an anti-Semitic riot. On very questionable grounds, he sued the Greek government—with little result. Without consulting the Queen, or her consort, Palmerston had organized an attack on Greece on Don Pacifico's behalf. To say that the Queen was disturbed by this was an understatement. But that was happily a thing of the past. After Albert's death she had retired more and more inside herself. Yet sometimes she had to be consulted, lest she lost her temper over some implied insult, or more realistically, a major decision taken without her knowledge. This was now such a time. She must be consulted before the planned expansion was undertaken.

  This meeting was like most Cabinet meetings these days. Lord Palmerston told them what he would like to have done. After that the discussion was about how it should be done—and never any discussion whether it should be done at all. This day was no exception.

  "Then I gather that we are all in agreement?" Palmerston said testily to his Cabinet, as though any slightest sign of disagreement would be a personal insult. At the age of seventy-nine his voice had lost none of its abrasiveness; his eyes still had the cold, inflexible stare of a serpent.

  "It will need a great deal of financing," the Chancellor of the Exchequer, said, rather petulantly. Palmerston waved away even this slightest of differences.

  "Of course it will." Palmerston dismissed this argument peremptorily. "You are the chap who can always raise the money. That is exactly why I need you today at this particular tête-à-tête," he added, completely misusing the term. Which, of course, meant just two people, head-to-head. Gladstone chose not to correct him, knowing the Prime Minister's pride in his ignorance of any language other than English. But the thought of visiting the Queen took the sunlight out of his day.

  "You know my feelings," Gladstone said. "I believe that Her Majesty is one of the greatest Jingoes alive. If we but mention Albert and the Americans in the same breath we can keep the war going for a century. But, really, her interference in affairs of state is enough to kill any man."

  Palmerston had to smile at Gladstone's tirade because the hatred was mutual. The Queen had once referred to him as a half-mad firebrand. They were a well-matched pair, both self-absorbed and opinionated. "Perhaps you are right—but still we must at least appear to consult her. We need more money. While you do the sums, Admiral Sawyer here will make her privy to the naval considerations involved."

  The admiral had been invited to the Cabinet meeting to present the views of the Royal Navy. More ships of course, more sailors to man them. The new ironclads would prove to be invincible and would strike terror in the Americans' hearts. Now the admiral nodded slowly in ponderous acknowledgement of his responsibility, his large and fleshy nose bobbing up and down.

  "It will be my pleasure to inform Her Majesty as to all matters naval, to reassure her that the senior service is in good and able hands."

  "Good then, we are of a mind. To the palace."

  When they were ushered into the Presence at Buckingham Palace the Queen was sitting for a portrait, her ladies in waiting watching and commenting quietly among themselves. When they entered Victoria dismissed the painter, who exited quickly, walking backwards and bowing as he went.

  "This is being painted for our dearest Vicky, who is so lonely in the Prussian Court," she explained, speaking more to herself than to the others present. "Little Willie is such a sickly baby, with that bad arm he is a constant trial. She will be so happy to receive this." Her slight trace of a smile vanished when she looked up at the three men. To be replaced by petulant, pursed lips.

  "We are not pleased at this interruption."

  "Would it had been otherwise, ma'am," Lord Palmerston said, executing the faintest of bows. "Exigencies of war."

  "When we spoke last you assured me that all was well."

  "And so it is. When the troops are mustered and ready in Mexico, then the fleet will sail. In the meantime the enemy has been bold enough to attack our merchant fleet, peacefully at anchor in port, in Mexico, causing considerable damage..."

  "Merchant ships damaged? Where was our navy?"

  "A cogent question, ma'am. As always your incisive mind cuts to the heart of the matter. We have only a few ships of the line in the Pacific, mainly because the enemy has none at all there. They do now—so we must make careful provision that the situation does not worsen."

  "What are you saying? This is all most confusing."

  Palmerston gave a quick nod and the admiral stepped for
ward.

  "If I might explain, ma'am. Circumstances that have now been forced upon us mean that we must now make provision for a much larger Pacific fleet. We have not only received information that the Americans are increasing the expansion of their navy, but are preparing coaling stations to enable them to attack us in the Pacific Ocean."

  "You are confusing Us. Coaling ships indeed—what does this mean?"

  "It means, ma'am, that the Americans have widened the field of battle. Capital ships must be dispatched at once to counter this attack," Gladstone said, reluctantly stepping forward. "We must enlarge our fleet to meet this challenge. And more ships mean more money. Which must be raised at once. There are certain tax proposals that I must set before you..."

  "Again!" she screeched, her face suddenly mottled and red. "I hear nothing except this constant demand for more and more money. Where will it end?"

  "When the enemy is defeated," Palmerston said. "The people are behind you in this, Majesty, they will follow where you lead, sacrifice where you say. With victory will come reparations—when the riches of America flow once again into our coffers."

  But Victoria was not listening, lolling back in her chair with exhaustion. Her ladies in waiting rushed to her side; the delegation backed silently out. The new taxes would go through.

  In Mexico the battle was not going very well. General Ulysses S. Grant stood before his tent as the regiments slowly moved by at first light. He chewed on his cigar, only half aware that it had gone out. They were good men, veterans, who would do what was required of them. Even here in this foul jungle. He was already losing men to the fever, and knew that there would be more. This was no place to fight a war—or even a holding action like this one. Before he had left Washington, Sherman had taken him aside and explained how important the Mexican front was. The pressure of his attacks, combined with Pacific naval action, would concentrate the British attention on this theater of war. Grant still hated what he was doing. Feeding good soldiers into the meat grinder of a war he was incapable of winning. He spat the sodden cigar out, lit a fresh one and went to join his staff.