Stars And Stripes In Peril

by Harry Harrison

  "Good God!"

  "What is the meaning of this?" Victoria shouted, her temper beginning to rise.

  "The Americans..." Palmerston could only choke out the words. "The Americans—they have invaded Ireland."

  The cavalryman's boots creaked, his spurs jangled, as he backed clumsily from the room in the silence that followed.

  "What are you saying?" Lord Russell shouted. "Who is that from?"

  Palmerston read the signature aloud. "General Tarbet. He is in charge of the defenses of Belfast." Palmerston grew most pale and his hands began to shake.

  "A chair for Lord Palmerston!" Russell called out to the servants as he took the telegram from the Prime Minister's flaccid fingers. He read it aloud.

  "I am forced to report that the Americans are now in the process of invading Ireland. There is a ship of war in Belfast Lough that is shelling our defenses. All telegraph communication has been destroyed. I cannot contact Dublin or Londonderry. The telegraph to Scotland has been severed. There is the sound of gunfire in the city. If you receive this message it will indicate that Captain Otfried of my command has succeeded in crossing to Scotland. Query him for more information at the telegraph source of this message."

  "Send for my carriage!" Lord Palmerston shouted, staggering to his feet, somewhat recovered. "Get messages to the War Department and the Royal Navy, to my Cabinet. An emergency meeting of the Cabinet—at once."

  "What does this all mean?" Queen Victoria screeched. "What is happening?"

  Palmerston was very much in control of himself now, although his pale face was mottled and shining. "It seems, Ma'am, as though the Americans have fought guile with guile. Apparently their attack on Mexico was just about as real as our attack on the Bahamas. That is—nonexistent. Their fleet has not gone to the Pacific Ocean as was reported to us with such authority. Instead they have come here and invaded these British Isles. They have attacked Ireland—and we know nothing about it! Nothing more than these few words!"

  He bowed and stumbled backwards out of the room. He heard the Queen calling after him but did not respond.

  The Cabinet Room was bursting with sound when the Prime Minster opened the door. The politicians, army and navy officers, were calling out to one another, seeking information, getting no answers.

  "Silence!" Palmerston roared. "I want silence."

  "What is this nonsense about an invasion?" the Duke of Cambridge called out as he threw the door wide and entered, Brigadier Somerville following close behind him.

  "Just that," Palmerston said. "Read it for yourself." He passed over the telegram. "We need to find out more. And at once."

  "HMS Conqueror is now at Portsmouth," Admiral Sawyer called out.

  "Telegraph Portsmouth now," Palmerston said. "Tell them what we know. Tell her captain to sail at once for Ireland. We need to find out what is happening there."

  Brigadier Somerville had been speaking quietly to the Duke of Cambridge, who was nodding as he listened. "We need knowledge of the enemy," Somerville said. "Whereabouts they are, in what numbers..."

  "We need bloody well more than that!" The Duke's face was glowing bright red. "We need to wipe them off the map!"

  "But, your grace, without knowledge we don't know where to attack. I suggest a reconnaissance in force. The Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders will be in barracks in Glasgow. We should have at least a company to stand to arms. There will be shipping in the Clyde. A ship could be commandeered at once, and these troops transported to Northern Ireland. To the fishing port of Carnlough, in Carnlough Bay, might be a likely spot for a landing. It is out of sight of Larne where the enemy warship was seen. But no more than thirty miles north of Belfast. They could discover if—"

  "Bugger discovery—I want them stopped, destroyed, wiped out!"

  He was shouting so loud that the room grew silent as they listened. The Duke turned to face them, shoulders hunched, nostrils flaring, a bull about to attack.

  "They want war? They shall have war. I want all of the troops in the Glasgow garrison to get to Ireland at once. Then I want complete mobilization, right across the country. Stand to arms! Call out the yeomanry. And that warship we are sending to spy—what's her name?"

  "The Conqueror," the admiral said.

  "She's to do more than just snoop. After they have found what is happening in Ireland—and reported back to us—order the ship north to this Carnlough Bay. The Americans will have their navy at sea. I want our troops protected. Whatever the Americans think they are doing in Ireland, whatever they are doing, they will be stopped!" He turned to Somerville, stabbing out his finger. "Issue the orders!"

  Somerville had no choice. He came to attention. "Yes, sir," he said. Turned and went to went down to the telegraph office himself, composing the messages as he went. Mobilization of all troops on duty in Glasgow. Both regiments. The issue of ammunition before leaving the barracks. Water bottles full, emergency rations for a week. Field guns? No, too slow to muster and move at once. They would follow by the next ships. The first troops would be a reconnaissance in strength. The need was for speed. He wrote out the orders and gave them to the telegrapher, then pulled over the bound book of military telegraph connections. He made a list of the major barracks and regiments. Horse Guards, Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, Green Howards, all of them. Then he wrote out an order for general mobilization.

  "Send this order to these units immediately," he said, passing the list to the chief operator. "I want an acknowledgement that the orders have been received from each one of them."

  In Glasgow the bugles sounded clearly through the afternoon rain, followed by the bellowed commands of the sergeants, the hammer of running feet. Lieutenant Colonel McTavish, in command, was a veteran soldier—his troops just as experienced and professional. They were used to quick actions and even quicker decisions. Minutes later there was the clatter of horses' hooves on the cobbles outside the barracks as a staff officer galloped towards the shipping offices on the banks of the Clyde. It was a measure of their professionalism that by the time dusk was falling the armed and fully equipped soldiers were marching out of their barracks to the strains of the bagpipes, making their way down to the docks. As they boarded the commandeered steamships they heard the angry shouts of the forcefully disembarked passengers struggling to find their luggage.

  It was a slow crossing to Ireland for the two ships, down the Firth of Clyde and across the Irish Channel. Deliberately so since the ships' captains had conferred, while the troops were being boarded, and had agreed that they wanted to arrive off the Irish coast just at dawn. A landing at night would be impossible.

  The sea was calm, with no other ships in sight at daybreak, when they crept into Carnlough Bay and dropped anchor. The ships' lifeboats were swung out and they began the tedious business of ferrying the troops to land.

  G Company was the first ashore.

  The first of the soldiers, kilts swaying as they marched, were moving out on the coast road south well before the last of the regiment had been rowed ashore.

  "Get some scouts out ahead," Major Bell ordered from the head of the column. He did not want them to march into any surprises: the sergeant-major sent them forward at double time.

  Close to the village of Saint Cunning the marching column passed a fanner lifting potatoes in his field. Two of the soldiers hustled him back to Major Bell.

  "Your name?"

  "O'Reardon, your honor."

  "Has there been any military engagements here?"

  "Not here, sir. But there was the sound of guns from Belfast, then at Larne. Began at dawn. Could hear them clearly, we could. I sent young Brian running to see what was happening. He only got as far as Ballyruther, down the road. As he was going through the village two soldiers came out of the shop and grabbed him. Frightened the bejeezus out of him."

  "English soldiers?"

  "Indeed not, he said. Foreigners of some kind. Wearing sort of brown uniforms, talked so funny he couldn't hardly understand them. They turned
him back, didn't harm him or anything. He even had the nerve to ask them what was happening. They laughed at that and one of them said, this is what Brian told me—we've come to set you free."

  "Indeed." Major Bell scratched a note on his message pad and waved over a runner. "For the colonel." He traced a new route on his map as he called out to the sergeant-major.

  "The main force is going to bypass this village. But I am going to take a company to find out how many enemy troops there are there. See if we can't get some prisoners."

  "Yes, sir," the sergeant-major said, smiling. They had been in the barracks too long. It was about time for a fight.

  It was not long in coming. As they came down the road towards the villages rifles cracked from the windows of the stone buildings. As they dropped, seeking shelter, there was a tremendous burst of firing and bullets tore the leaves from the trees, ricocheted from the stones, tore up the ground.

  "Get back!" the major ordered. "Fall back to that stone fence!"

  From the sound of the firing it sounded like he was facing an entire company.

  Like all the other officers in the British Army he had never heard a Gatling gun before.

  RAISE THE ALARM!

  Captain Frederick Durnford was lunching ashore with Admiral Cousins, who was commander of the Plymouth Navy Yard. It had been a most pleasant meal, and the port that followed was of a much-valued vintage. Captain Durnford had just poured himself a good measure when an officer tapped on the door, came in and handed a message form to the admiral.

  "What? What?" the admiral said as he opened the paper; the source of his nickname that everyone in the fleet—except him—knew. He read it quickly, then turned to Durnford, a look of dazed vacuity on his face. "Have they gone bloody mad at the admiralty—or is this true?"

  "I have no idea, sir. What does it say?"

  Cousins stumbled over the words. "It purports to say that the Americans have invaded Ireland. That they are attacking Belfast. All communication with Ireland has been severed. Mail boats haven't arrived. The last part is addressed to you. You are ordered to take Conqueror and find out what is happening over there."

  Durnford's chair crashed unnoticed to the floor as he sprang to his feet. "Your permission, Admiral, if I could, soonest..."

  "Go man, go. And get us back a report as soon as possible. I have the feeling that this is all some ghastly mistake."

  Captain Durnford did not agree. The Admiralty, for all its imperfections, could not make a mistake of this magnitude. Something was very, very wrong in Ireland, of that he was very certain. He discovered when he returned that more detailed orders had been telegraphed to the ship and were waiting for when he boarded Conqueror, he read them through most carefully. He ordered his officers to the bridge as they got up steam, then rolled out the charts and pointed to their destination.

  "Here," he said. "We'll clear The Lizard and Land's End after dark. Hold a course towards Ireland with a landfall here at the Old Head of Kinsale. You must understand that, as of this moment, no one in government has the slightest idea of what is happening in Ireland. Except for the single report from Belfast we are operating in the dark. As you can well imagine, there is great agitation in high places. They have absolutely no information as to what is going on there—on land or at sea. However some action has been taken. Troops are being landed at Carlough Bay, north of Belfast. After our reconnaissance we are to report our findings by telegraph. Then sail north to add our presence to the landings there." He tapped the map of Ireland, the coastline south of Cork. "Now I want some marines landed here under a good officer—you Strutten." He nodded at his first officer. "Take them inland, into Kinsale. There is a constabulary barracks there. Find out if anyone knows what the devil is going on. Be smart about it, because you only have until an hour after dawn to get back to the beach."

  He looked grimly into the unknown future. "The ship will be off Cork at dawn. No idea what we'll find. But I do know that I will not take this ship into battle—no matter how tempting the prospects. Whitehall wants information—not engagements. And the same applies to you, Lieutenant. Is that absolutely clear?"

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "Make sure that this is understood by everyone in your landing party. If attacked they are of course to defend themselves. It is up to you to see that they are not placed in that position. I want information—not heroics."

  "I will do my best, sir."

  They headed north in the darkness. If there was a war in Ireland it appeared that it had not affected the maritime trade. The light on the Old Head of Kinsale was flashing. Conqueror approached it and slowed her engines in the deep water by the head. The ship's boat was lowered, the very newest sort with its own steam engine. With the two squads of Royal Marines aboard, it chugged off into the darkness towards the shore. Throttled back, the ironclad stood out to sea again, timing her arrival for dawn off the mouth of the estuary.

  At first light the great ship crept forward, her officers on the bridge with binoculars and telescopes fixed on the shore.

  "There, to starboard, sir, that's Charles Fort."

  "And James Fort, across the water from it."

  Both forts stood out clearly against the western sky, sharp black silhouettes until the sun cleared the eastern horizon. Captain Durnford adjusted the focusing wheel on his glasses, peering at the top of the fort just as the sun touched it. There was a flag there, hanging limp—then stirring as the dawn breeze caught at its fabric.

  "Damn my eyes!" one of the officer gasped. "That is the stars and stripes on that fort!"

  "I do believe that it is," Durnford said, lowering his glasses. "Stop engines."

  His ship still had some way and was sliding steadily into the mouth of the estuary. Just beyond the forts it could be seen that the waterway turned sharply to the left. As the inner reaches of the river came slowly into view they became aware of the growing bulk of an ironclad that was anchored there.

  "Full speed astern," the captain ordered, staring hard at the unfamiliar black shape. "I can truthfully say that vessel is not part of the Royal Navy."

  The propeller bit hard, sending swirls of foam to the surface. In a moment they were moving away from the black menace of the warship which, if it had seen them, which was a certainty, had made no move in their direction. Her anchor chain was visible and a small trickle of smoke rose up from her funnel. That she was well aware of the intruding ship was proven when the immense two-gun turret on her bow rumbled about to face in their direction. Then the headland intervened and the menacing enemy ship vanished from sight again.

  "Captain," the second lieutenant said. "I am certain that I know that ship. Saw her off the Mexican coast. The USS Virginia, two turrets each with two guns. Launched this past summer."

  "I do believe that you are right; she was described in recent Admiralty reports. Set course for the Old Head of Kinsale."

  There was silence on the bridge, but not on deck or in the wardroom below.

  "A Yankee ship—here in Irish waters. What can it mean?"

  "It means the bloody Yankees have invaded the country—you saw their flags there. Their troops must have been landed, perhaps there was an uprising as well by the Irish, whatever. But they are certainly here, and in some force as well if they stormed and took those forts."

  "Strutten will have found out something, he should know what has happened."

  It was full daylight by the time they were clear of the estuary, and the ship turned south-west for their rendezvous off Kinsale. As they approached the head the ship's boat could be seen waiting for them. A rope ladder was dropped and Lieutenant Strutten was mounting it even before the falls were hooked onto the boat. He said nothing to the waiting officers, but hurried below to see the captain.

  "There is an American warship anchored in the estuary," the captain said. "The two forts there are taken as well."

  "It is far worse than that," the lieutenant said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I talked with the captain of the co
nstabulary in Kinsale. They were besieged in their barracks by a mob, but the attackers fled when they saw our guns. He had been to Cork, talked to people who escaped the city, for there was a pitched battle there. No details, just fighting and the like, but he saw the troops and the flags. The city is taken. Troops everywhere, and the crossed American flags above the gates. But no landings were made, he was sure of that. Talk is that there were trains, from Limerick Junction, for Dublin. The telegraph lines have been cut, so there is no real information, just speculation and rumors."

  "And facts. We know that the enemy were in Belfast—and now Cork. It stands to reason that Dublin would be attacked as well. There have been attacks, dastardly attacks. Our sovereign nation has been stabbed in the back!"

  Frustrated and livid with anger, Captain Durnford hammered on the porthole frame.

  "The country must know. Milford Haven in Wales, that is the nearest port with a telegraph station. Set the course, full speed. As soon as the boat is back aboard. England must know the full extent of this disaster!"

  He looked grimly north along the Irish coast. "When that is done we will have to go and see what is happening with the troops at Carnlough Bay."

  TROUBLE TO THE NORTH

  In the attack on Belfast, the 83rd Regiment of Foot had put up a strong defense of their barracks on North Queen Street, a solidly built and sturdy compound of buildings. While he knew that the Gatling guns were first-rate against troops in the field, not for the first time did General Robert E. Lee wish that he had had some artillery to fall back on. It wasn't until the 33rd Mississippi had stormed the artillery barracks to the north of the infantry barracks that the battle had tilted in the direction of the American troops. There were cannon in store there, old smooth-bore 12-pounders that fired solid iron shot. General Longstreet had them pushed out onto the drill field even before the last of the defenders there had been subdued. Horses were brought from the stables and hitched up, while axe-men broke down the door to the powder store. Longstreet looked inside, then waved his men back.