Stars & Stripes Triumphant (21 page)

Disraeli was standing again, imperious in his anger. "Is it not true that the attacking troops went straight to SeftonPark in Liverpool, where they engaged our soldiers and defeated them? As you undoubtedly know, there is a camp there for Irish traitors to the crown. Is it not also true that while this was happening other invaders seized trains and proceeded to Birmingham? It appears that because the telegraph wires had been cut, the troops there had no warning and were attacked and butchered at Aston Hall. Is this also true?"

"Regrettably, it is true. At least the newspapers got these facts right."

"Then tell us—is it also not true that there were camps at these sites where citizens of Irish extraction were concentrated—women and children as well as men? People who had been seized and imprisoned without being charged with any crime?"

"Your queries will be answered in a short while. If I am permitted to continue I will answer any questions later in great detail."

There was a murmur of agreement from the members. Disraeli bowed to their decision and seated himself again.

"As soon as we learned of these cowardly attacks, this country's military sprang to its defense. Under the Duke of Cambridge's instruction, Scots troops from Glasgow and Edinburgh are now on their way to the Midlands. Cavalry and yeomanry as well as the other troops are now in the field, and we expect imminent news of victory. The following regiments have been ordered to..."

His words died away as a rustle of voices swept the chamber. He looked up to see that one of the parliamentary clerks had let himself into the hall and was hurrying toward the front seats, a single sheet of paper in his hand. He thrust it forward and Russell took it.

Gasped and staggered as though he had been struck a blow.

"Attacked," he said. "Another attack—this time on the naval base at Plymouth!"

It was the moment of decision. The engine of the first troop train had stopped in Saltash station. A wisp of smoke drifted up from the stack and the metal of the hot boiler clicked quietly. General Grant swung down from the engine and went forward to the advance engine that had halted just before the AlbertBridge across the TamarRiver. Troops looked out of the windows of the two cars as he approached; a young captain swung down from the engine and saluted.

"You took care of the telegraph wires?" Grant asked.

"Just as you ordered, General. We dropped off a squad at every station to grab the telegraph operator, if there was one. After we left each station we used the train to pull down a half-dozen poles, then took up the wire. Got a passel of it in the freight car."

"Good. To the best of your knowledge, then, no warning was sent ahead?"

"Absolutely none, sir. We moved too fast. None of the operators were at their keys when we busted in."

"Well done." Grant looked across the bridge for a long moment; he could see no activity at the other end. The railway authorities would know by now that the telegraph was out of service the length of Cornwall. Had they thought it necessary to inform the military of this? There was only one way to find out.

"You will proceed across the bridge. Go slowly until you reach the other side. Then open the throttle and don't slow down until you go through Plymouth station. Stop there—but leave room for the troop trains behind you. Keep your weapons loaded—but return fire only if you are fired on first. Good luck."

"To us all, General!"

The officer sprinted back to the engine, which started to move even as he was climbing aboard. It pulled slowly out onto the long span of the incredible bridge. The troop train followed a hundred yards behind. Once safely off the bridge, they sped up, faster and faster through the local stations: St. Budeaux, Manadon, and Crownhill. The three following trains would stop at these stations, dispensing troops to seize and envelop the cities from the hills above. Shocked passengers on the platforms fell back as the train plunged through the stations, braking to a stop only after entering Plymouth station itself. The troops jumped down from the cars and fanned out, ignoring the civilians. There was a brief struggle as a policeman was overwhelmed, bound, and locked into the telegraph room with the operator, who had been trying to send a message down the line to London when they seized him. He did not succeed because the advance party had done their job and torn down the wires beyond the station.

The troops from the train formed up and marched out of the station. General Grant was with them. There was a row of waiting cabs just outside the station.

"Seize those horses," General Grant ordered an aide. "They can pull some of the Gatlings."

"What is happening here? I demand to know!" A well-dressed and irate gentleman stood before Grant, shaking his gold-headed walking stick in his direction.

"War, sir. You are at war." The man was seized by two troopers and bustled away even as Grant spoke.

The advance down through the streets of Plymouth was almost unopposed. There appeared to be no military units in the city itself; the few sailors they encountered were unarmed and fled before the menacing soldiers. But the alarm had been raised and the Americans came under fire when they approached the naval station.

"Bring up the Gatlings," Grant ordered. "The lead squads will bypass any strong points and let the Gatling guns come after and subdue them."

The Royal Marines put up a spirited defense of their barracks, but the machine guns chewed them up, tearing through the thin wooden walls. Roaring with victory, the American troops charged into the buildings; the few survivors quickly surrendered. The small number of sailors who took up arms were cut down by the Gatlings—and the marksmanship of the veteran American soldiers.

No cannon from any of the shore batteries were fired at the attackers because they were all trained out to sea. An attack from the land side of the port had never been expected.

The Americans were unstoppable. In Devonport they overran and occupied the navy vessels tied up there. The Plymouth docks were larger and more confusing and it took time to work through them. The American attack slowed—but still pushed forward.

As chance would have it, HMS
Defender,
which had arrived that morning, was tied up at a buoy in the stream. Her captain was on deck, summoned by the watch officer when they had heard the sound of firing from the city.

"What is it, Number One?" he asked when he had climbed to the bridge.

"Gunfire, sir, that is all that I know."

"What have you done about it?"

"Sent the gig ashore with Lieutenant Osborne. I thought that a gunnery officer might make sense of what is happening."

"Well done. Sounds like a bloody revolution..."

"Here they come, sir, rowing flat out."

"I don't like this at all. Signal the engine room. Get up steam."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Lieutenant Osborne was panting with exertion as he climbed to the bridge. Yet his face was pale under his tropical tan.

"Gone all to hell, sir," he said, saluting vaguely. "Troops everywhere, shooting, I saw bodies..."

"Pull yourself together, man. Report."

"Aye, aye, sir." Osborne straightened his shoulders and came to attention. "I had the gig wait at the dockside in case we had to get out in a hurry. I went on alone. Almost ran into a group of soldiers. They were pushing three matelots along that they had taken prisoner. They were shouting and laughing, didn't see me."

"What kind of troops?" the captain snapped. "Be specific."

"Blue uniforms with the sergeants' stripes wrong side up. They sounded like—Americans."

"Americans? Here? But how...?"

The hapless gunnery officer could only shrug. "I saw other parties of them, sir. In the buildings, even boarding the ships. All kinds of gunfire. It was coming closer to me, even flanking me. That's when I decided that I had better get back and report what I had seen."

The captain quickly marshaled his thoughts. He had a grave decision to make. Should he take his ship closer to the dock to fire upon the invaders? But how could he find them? If they had seized any of the British warships, would he fire on his own sailors? If the attack had been as successful as the gunnery officer had said, why, the entire port could well be in enemy hands. If the telegraph lines were down, then no one would even know what had happened here. It was his duty now to inform Whitehall of this debacle.

It took long seconds to reach this conclusion, and he realized that the bridge was silent while they awaited his orders.

"Signal slow ahead. Have that line to the buoy cut. There is nothing that we can do here. But we can contact London and tell them what has happened. As soon as we are clear of the harbor, set a course for Dartmouth. Full revolutions. There will be a telegraph station there. I must report what we have seen."

Smoke pouring from her stack, the ironclad headed out to sea.

STRIKING A MIGHTY BLOW

As soon as the landings at Penzance were complete, USS
Pennsylvania
raised steam. When the message reached the ship that General Grant and his forces had left for Plymouth with the trains, she upped anchor and headed out to sea. The two other ironclads that remained anchored offshore would be more than force enough to secure the city should any enemy ships be so unwise as to attack. Captain Sanborn had received specific instructions from General Grant. He was to proceed to the part of the coast he was familiar with from the previous night's action.
Pennsylvania
steamed slowly east until they reached St. Austell, where they anchored in the deep water offshore. The previous night's landings had been good experience for the junior officers. But now Sanborn wanted to see the enemy country for himself.

"I'll command the landing party," he told the watch officer. "Bank the boilers and see that the watch below gets some sleep; some of them have been awake for two days now. I want two lookouts at the masthead with glasses. They are to report to you anything larger than a fishing boat. If they do sight any ships, you must then sound three long blasts on the whistle, and get up steam. Understood?"

"Aye, aye, sir."

The ship's four boats were hung on davits outside her armor. If they were destroyed in battle they could easily be replaced; the
Pennsylvania
could not be. Now they were lowered into the water, then swiftly boarded by the landing party and rowed ashore. The ship's marines landed first and ran across the beach to the street. Sanborn followed after them with his sailors, at a more leisurely pace, smiling at the shocked expressions of the pedestrians. He followed the train tracks to the tiny station, then returned the salute of the sergeant who came out to meet him.

"Station secured, sir, telegraph wires cut. I've got some prisoners locked in there, including two local policemen."

"Any trouble?"

"Nothing to speak of, sir. General Grant said that I was to expect you."

It was a long wait, most of the afternoon. Captain Sanborn shared some rations with the soldiers and heard about the capture of Penzance and the victorious train ride through Cornwall. Occupying each station as they came to it, then silencing all the telegraph communication as they went.

Around them the little town was silent, pacified—stunned, in fact—with most people staying off the streets. There was obviously no need for a large occupying force here, so the sailors were ordered back to the ship and only the marines remained. Sanborn was almost dozing off when he heard the sound of a train whistle up the line toward Plymouth. He joined the soldiers on the platform as the engine pulled in, pushing a single car ahead of it. The army officer swung down before they stopped and saluted the ship's commander.

"You will be Captain Sanborn?"

"I am."

He took an envelope from his locket and passed it over. "From General Grant, sir."

"How did it go in Plymouth?"

"I would say perfectly, sir. Before I left it was clear that all of the harbor defenses and docks had been captured. Most of the enemy ships had already being boarded and occupied. There was some resistance—but they couldn't stand before the Gatlings."

"It sounds like a job well done." Then the question that was foremost in his mind: "Did any of the enemy ships get away?"

"At least one, sir. An ironclad. I saw her standing out to sea when I was in the railroad station. Just the one, though."

"One is enough. My congratulations to the general." The envelope was unsealed, so it was obviously meant for Sanborn to read. But that could wait until he was back aboard his ship; he had been away long enough now. And General Sherman would be waiting for this report. He knew its importance. The fate of the entire campaign depended on what was in this envelope.

Waiting was the hardest part.

General Sherman sat in his office in Cork, staring unseeingly out of the window. The now-familiar river Lee did not attract his attention. Instead he was looking past it toward England, trying to visualize the evolving situation in that country, fleshing out the bare reports that were spread out on the desk before him. The landings at Liverpool had been a brilliant success. The concentration camp there, and the other one near Birmingham, had been seized. The latest communication from each of them said that counterattacks had been reported. But they had been sporadic and disorganized; the well-armed defenders had successfully held their positions. This could easily change. Once the mighty British war machine began to roll, it would be unstoppable on its own soil. Heavy guns would batter the Irish and American troops; when their ammunition ran out they would be overwhelmed. That had been the risk from the very beginning of the operation. They were expendable and they knew it. But they would die fighting.

But that need not be. The British commanders surely would be rattled by the seizure of their naval base at Plymouth. It had been over twenty-four hours since that attack, and the authorities in London would have heard about it long since. Troops would be on the way there—might easily have arrived by now.

But it had been almost four days since the camps had been attacked and taken. The fighting would be desperate. Would his gamble succeed? Would the attack on Plymouth cause the British forces to be diverted from the two Midland cities? Would the British generals realize that they were wasting time and troops on tactically unimportant targets? Or was the British military mind too thick to reach that conclusion? If it was, why then, only the troops occupying the concentration camps would suffer. This would have no effect on the invasion, which would still go ahead as planned.