Stars And Stripes In Peril

by Harry Harrison

  The Duke of Cambridge was in a fire-eating mood. The more he thought about the audacity of the Americans in daring to launch an attack on the British Isles, the more incensed he became. Even though there had been no report in yet, on the success or failure of their attack, he called for more and more troops.

  "Somerville!" he bellowed. "Are there any more ships in the Clyde that we can use?"

  "Possibly, sir. But since the Scots Guards and the Royal Scots Greys have entrained and embarked there are no more regiments immediately available. However I have sent an order canceling all ship departures from Liverpool. Officers there are determining which of them would be able to carry troops." He looked up at the office clock. "The Green Howards left some hours ago and should be reaching Liverpool about this time. The Royal Regiment of Fusiliers will be close behind them. We have also rounded up all of the batteries of field artillery available and they are on the way as well."

  "Well done," the Duke said, albeit begrudgingly. "It is now or never. We must assume that our landings went well and that our forces are now advancing against the enemy in the field. They must be reinforced! We must keep up the pressure. If we cannot prevail now it will be devilish hard to go back and launch an attack again at some future date."

  "You are completely correct, your grace. The enemy has committed its forces to an invasion of Ireland. Battles cause casualties. We do not know the state of their communications. But we do know that they will not have had enough time to resupply or reinforce their troops. We must not fail at this time."

  When he had sent his men on the cars north from Cork, General Stonewall Jackson had telegraphed asking permission of General Sherman to march at their head. Sherman had not hesitated. The defenses at Cork were well manned and armed. It would not need a fighting general of Jackson's stature to wage a defensive battle. Sherman's answer had been fast and brief. Command your troops.

  There were guides waiting when Jackson's troops reached Dublin. To lead them through the city, to the train to Belfast. A mounted major, leading a second saddled horse, saluted Jackson.

  "General Sherman's compliments, sir. He would like to confer with you while your troops are boarding the cars." Jackson mounted and followed the aide to the headquarters in the General Post Office. Sherman took him by the hand when he came in.

  "Congratulations on your success in battle."

  "It was God's will. Now—tell me what has happened in the north."

  "The enemy has landed in force, on the coast north of here. We must first hold them on land—then look to the navy to prevent any future landings," General Sherman told him, pointing at the map of Ireland tacked to his headquarters wall. "On our northern front—Lee reports that we are holding—but just barely. You must reinforce him. And hold. He has thrown all his reserves into his defensive position. But the front is small and almost undefendable. It is hand-to-hand fighting now and it cannot go on. He is now setting a major defense line just north of Larne. They'll fall back on these positions as soon as it is dark, and you will reinforce him. We will hold there. But at sea it is very bad. Stalwart is sunk."

  "I had not heard," Jackson said grimly.

  "She was not outfought—but she was outgunned. And she did report that more ships with troops were supporting the British counter-attack. There is nothing we can do about that, not yet. Her antagonist Conqueror is now protecting the troop ships that continue to arrive from Scotland and possibly from England."

  "What about Avenger? She can surely get after the enemy troop ships—but she's still tied up here."

  "On my orders. As you know Virginia is on her way here from Cork. When she arrives they will sail together. Then Conqueror will not be able to both protect herself and guard the arriving troop ships at the same time. Undoubtedly there are more British warships on the way. We must make as much of this opportunity as we can before they arrive."

  "Is there any word of Dictator?" Other officers had been hesitant to put into words the question that was in the back of all their minds, but not Jackson. Their mightiest ironclad had missed the invasion with her blown boiler. "Is there any word of her yet?"

  "None. I have sent one of the troop ships to the Azores with instructions that she is to proceed at once to Belfast as soon as repairs are made. We can only hope that she has been repaired by now. We must stop any enemy replacements from arriving. When your troops arrive at the front we will have done everything that we could possibly do. As you know, we hold Dublin and Cork with the absolute minimum of troops. Your regiments are the last of the reserves that I can send General Lee. All the other regiments have already been committed. If any man can hold the line it is he."

  "With the good Lord's aid," Jackson said firmly; he was a most religious man. "We go where He tells us to go, and in that way we win our battles."

  A DESPERATE GAMBLE

  The First Engineer of the USS Dictator stood on the ship's bridge, so tired that he swayed with fatigue. His clothes were black with grease, as was his skin and the rag he was wiping his hands on with no success. Only his bloodshot eyes had any trace of color.

  "It is a simple question," Captain Johns said quietly. "And I feel that it deserves a simple answer. Is the boiler now repaired?"

  The First Engineer twisted the rag as he blurted out the words. "It is but..."

  "No 'buts.' Will it take us to Ireland?"

  Ever since the ship had brought the message from General Sherman that afternoon the captain had paced the bridge deck. It was now after dark and his vessel was still dead in the water. In the end he could control his impatience no longer and had sent for the First Engineer. Whose answer he now awaited.

  "It will hold pressure..."

  "No 'buts,' remember. Will it get us there?"

  "I would like some more time..."

  "You have none. We get under way at once."

  "I'll need at least another half-hour."

  "You have it. We sail then."

  Captain Fosbery sat in the stern of the ship's boat as they crossed the choppy waters at the mouth of the Mersey River. HMS Intrepid lay still in the water ahead, gray against gray clouds in the falling rain. Alike as two peas in a pod, he thought. They should be. Sister ships. He commanded the Valiant that lay behind him. There were small differences he could detect, nothing important. The ships were Clyde-built, they had been launched within weeks of each other, and were Clyde-strong. He heard the bosun's whistle as the boat pulled beside her.

  "Fosbery, it is good to see you," Captain Cockham said when his fellow captain climbed on deck. "Do come below where it is dryer and warmer." He coughed deeply. "Got a bit of a chill on the liver, rum's the only thing for that. You will join me."

  Sitting in the captain's cabin they raised their glasses.

  "Confusion to the enemy," Cockham said.

  "And a speedy victory. What have you heard?"

  "Probably the same as you. The Americans have invaded Ireland—and it seems that they have done it quite successfully, though none of the reports comes right out and says that. In any case, we have put troops ashore north of Belfast and they need reinforcing. Orders are for me to meet you here, then hold our station until we meet the ships we are to convoy to Ireland. They'll be coming downstream from Liverpool this morning."

  Fosbury nodded. "That is precisely what I have been told. With the added information that Conqueror is there ahead of us—and has already sunk an American ironclad."

  "Did she, by Jove! Well done. That will teach the Yankees to bite off more than they can chew."

  The first mate tapped lightly on the door, then came in. "Three ships in sight upstream, sir. All of them steam and sail. One looks like a mail packet."

  "I'll get back to my ship," Fosbery said, standing. "As I remember you are almost a year superior to me, so I submit to your orders."

  "Simple enough, old chap. We position ourselves between our charges and the enemy and see that they don't get sunk."

  Avenger had left the Liffey and had stat
ioned herself out to sea, in the lee of the Minch lighthouse. Steaming north, Virginia began signaling as soon as they could make out the signalman on the other ship's bridge. Commander Goldborough passed on the sore news of the loss of the Stalwart with all hands. They exchanged a quick flurry of flag signals before taking station on each other and, at top speed, steamed north towards Belfast.

  The Mississippi regiment held the defensive position through the long night. They had to fight off more than one probing action during the hours of darkness. Firing low, seeing the enemy only in their muzzle flashes. Then it was bayonet against bayonet—and swords, for many of the Scots officers had bucket-handled swords that were vicious weapons in a melee, in the dark. Few prisoners were taken by either side. It was close to dawn before the order was passed forward to withdraw. The Gatling guns were taken out last since their bursts of firing kept enemy heads down—and reminded the enemy that the Americans were still there. They were finally pulled back, one at a time, soldiers pushing on their wheels, tugging on the ropes, until they reached the waiting horses. By dawn the front line was deserted and the defenders were all behind the strengthened new defenses.

  General Robert E. Lee stood at the highest spot in the defense line, where the trenches met the foothills. His right flank was anchored on the shore at Drains Bay. From there it stretched across the rolling countryside to the base of Robin Youngs Hill. The troops were well dug in; a lesson that had been learned very well by both sides in the War Between the States. The Gatling guns were set in embrasures in the line, while his few cannon were stationed on the rising hillsides to the rear where they could fire over the lines. He had done all that he could do. He preferred to attack—but knew as well how to build a strong defense.

  He done everything possible to prepare the defensive position. All that could be done now was to wait for the attack. He went down the hill to where his aides waited. They must have been questioning a prisoner because he saw two soldiers leading away a man in a scarlet uniform.

  "Did you learn anything, Andrews?"

  "We did indeed, sir. There are more than Scotch troops out there now. That man is from the King's Regiment, from Liverpool. He says they sailed from there."

  "That is not in Scotland?"

  "No, sir, it's in England. That means that more ships have been getting through since the first ones landed the Scotch troops."

  Lee looked grimly out to sea. "There is an entire country full of troops out there just yearning to cross this bit of ocean to fight us. We cannot remain on the defensive forever. We shall have to take the attack to the troops that are already here. Roll them back into the ocean before any more can land."

  "We have our navy, sir," Captain Andrews said. "They should be able to stop more troops from landing."

  "I do not depend on the navy to win my battles," he said coldly. "Armies win wars."

  There was the call of distant bugles from the enemy where they had assembled out of range of the American guns. Their cannon began to fire a covering barrage and the massed soldiers started forward to the sound of beating drums. The battle had begun.

  The British commander was prolifigate with his men's lives. They attacked in waves, one after the other, waves that threatened to engulf the thinly held line. But the Gatling guns, and the Spencer rifles, tore into the attackers, spreading death and destruction. But not even the bravest of soldiers could continue the attack with the knowledge of certain death at the end. First one man, then another, fell back—then the panic spread until the attacking battalions were in full retreat.

  General Lee looked on grimly—then turned when he heard his name called out.

  General Stonewall Jackson was swinging down from his horse. They clasped hands and Lee took Jackson by the arm.

  "My stout right arm! I have indeed missed you."

  "I am here now—and my regiments are right behind me."

  "We will need all of them. Because we must attack and destroy the British before our ammunition is spent. With each attack our reserves get lower. I think it is deliberate. The enemy commander must know that we cannot resupply. He is trading his men's lives for our bullets. Let me show you what must be done."

  On the map the situation looked perfectly clear. The tall hill on which their left flank was anchored fell away in sharp cliffs to the rear. Below the cliff was a valley that completely encircled the hill. Jackson should be able to march his troops, unseen, about the base of the hill—and could fall on the enemy from the rear.

  "Hit them hard—here," Lee said. "Cut across their lines of supply. As soon as you do that we will attack from the line."

  "They will be caught between us without a means of escape. God has provided us with the strength and the will. In His name we shall persevere."

  Jackson's regiments never went into the line. Instead, without stopping, they began the forced march around Robin Youngs Hill to attack the enemy from the rear. The success or failure of the entire war depended on their endurance. Jackson had been Lee's striking right arm before and had prevailed. Now he must do it again.

  VICTORY—OR DEFEAT?

  Captain Johns was secure in the knowledge that his ship could defeat any enemy vessel that she might encounter at sea. Dictator's armor was the heaviest—her guns some of the largest ever mounted on a ship. Each of her turrets, one forward and one aft, held two of the largest cannon Parrott had ever designed. They fired the new hardened steel pointed shells that had proven highly successful in penetrating armor on the testing range. He was sure that they would prove just as successful at sea. Now, instead of taking a route from the Azores to the Irish Sea that might avoid other ships, he proceeded directly towards his destination.

  At twelve knots. He hammered the bridge rail with frustration. But the First Engineer would not vouch for the boilers if the pressure were raised. Well at least they were moving, no longer sitting at anchor. The first mate came out of the Chart Room and he waved him over.

  "How is our progress?"

  "Slow but sure, sir. Since we are taking the most direct course to Belfast we won't see the coast of Ireland until we are past the Isle of Man. We should be past Dublin by now..."

  "Smoke on the horizon, dead ahead," the lookout called out. "More than one vessel."

  Slow as the Dictator was, the convoy ahead was even slower, held to the speed of her slowest ship—the paddlewheel packet ship. Aboard the Valiant Captain Fosbery contained his anger, looking ahead at the three troop-ships lumbering along in Intrepid's wake. They should be raising the Isle of Man soon. Then Ireland.

  These were well-traveled waters, and they had passed two ships already today, so the smoke on the horizon astern seemed of no importance. Until the first mate, who had been watching its progress, lowered his glasses.

  "An iron ship, sir. No masts. A good-sized one, I do believe."

  Fosbery watched her now, with a growing sense of horror at her swift approach.

  "I don't recognize her, sir," the first mate said.

  "You wouldn't. She's not one of ours. Damnation—look at the size of the guns in that forward turret!"

  Intrepid increased her speed and passed the troop ships until she was within signaling distance of Valiant. They exchanged messages, then reduced speed to let the convoy past them. Their station was between their charges and the enemy. They must do battle, whatever the odds.

  Aboard the American warship all eyes were on the convoy ahead. "Warrior class," Captain Johns said with great pleasure. "Armor bow and stern now, as well as slanted armor to protect the citadel." He had seen the reports sent over from the War Department: Fox's Irish shipyard workers had been most thorough in their reports. "Now let us see how well they stand up to our twelve-inch shells. Distance?"

  "Thirteen hundred yards," the gun-layer called out.

  "Within range. One gun fire."

  A few moments later there was a great explosion of sound and the steel ship shivered at the recoil of the gun. Standing directly behind the turret, Johns could see
the black smear of the shell rising up against the blue sky, then hurtling down towards the enemy ships. A mighty plume of water rose up from the sea, almost washing over the two ironclads.

  "Short!" the captain called out. "The next one will be right into them!"

  The next explosion was smaller, muffled. But the guns hadn't fired.

  With horror Captain Johns felt the ship slow down, losing way as her propeller stopped turning.

  The boiler again...

  The two British ironclads, that had been willing to fight to the death in the hopes that they could keep this monster from their charges, could not believe what they were seeing. The American Goliath had lost way, had stopped and was wallowing in the waves. Valiant send up a white plume of steam in a long whistle of victory. They put on speed and hurried after their charges.

  Behind them Dictator grew smaller and smaller until she vanished from sight.

  Less than a hundred miles ahead of them Avenger and Virginia looked at the black bulk of the British ironclad standing just off the Irish coast. This was undoubtedly the same ship that had sunk the USS Stalwart. They were here to avenge their dead comrades. In line they steamed forward.

  Conqueror moved out to sea now so she could have room to maneuver. Swung to bring her guns to bear as the American ironclads rushed down on her.

  Avenger was first in line and passed less than twenty yards from the British ship. Their broadsides exploded at almost the same time: sheets of flame and smoke joined the two ships. Above the sound of the explosions metal clanged on metal. As they separated neither ship seemed to have suffered serious damage. They were well matched in both guns and armor.

  Not so the Virginia. Before Conqueror could reload her port guns the American ironclad was on her. Conqueror tried to turn so her starboard guns could bear—but she had not enough time. The two guns in the forward turret fired. Twelve-inch Parrott breech-loaders firing pointed steel armor-piercing shells. The first time these guns had been fired in anger.