Harry Harrison: Stars and Stripes Triumphant

The ticking of the clock could be clearly heard in the silence that followed. This was a command decision — and General William Tecumseh Sherman was in command. The burden of decision rested upon his shoulders alone. His commander in chief was on the other side of the Atlantic and could not be consulted in time. It was indeed his sole judgment. He glanced up at the clock.

“Admiral, can you meet me here at eight o’clock in the morning to discuss your orders?”

“I shall be here.”

“Fine. Gus, I want your clerks to rake through the files. Get me the strengths of all the units listed in these orders. I will also want that by eight in the morning at the latest. Earlier, if you can manage it.”

“I’ll get onto it right now.”

“Good. On your way out, tell the officer of the day to send for my staff. It is going to be a long night.”

Dawn was just breaking when a haggard-eyed Fox brought the files with the strengths of the various military units that were in the approaching convoy. The staff officers moved aside when he came in and handed the papers to General Sherman.

“They are all here, General. All of the troops listed as being in the convoy. I wish I could be as sure of the accompanying naval vessels. Here are the original manifests, but any number of ships could have joined the convoy since they sailed. The route and dates of the convoy were well known throughout the fleet. Any or all of the British ships that escaped capture could be with the convoy now.”

“Excellent. Now I suggest that you get some rest. You have done all that could be done.”

Sherman himself looked as alert as he had the evening before. A seasoned campaigner, he was used to days and nights without sleep. By eight o’clock, before Admiral Farragut arrived, the plans were well in hand. Once the orders had been written, the staff officers dispersed to implement them as soon as possible. Sherman was alone, looking out the window at the park when the admiral came in.

“It is done,” Sherman said. “Orders have been issued and the first troop movements will begin this morning.”

“To… where?”

“Here,” Sherman said, slapping his hand down on the map of the south coast of England. “They will try to land here — they have no other choice. But our troops will soon be digging in all along this coast. From Hastings to Brighton. The heart of our defenses will be at Newhaven Fort, right here. Some of the guns there were damaged, but they have all been replaced by now. That coast will soon be bristling with American might. Any attempts to land will be blasted from the water. But I hope that disaster will not happen. It must be averted.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

“I will be able to tell you when I join you. When do you estimate that it is the earliest that the convoy will arrive?”

“They may be slower than anticipated, but in any case they cannot get to the Channel any faster than was originally planned. Three more days at the earliest.”

“Good. You will post your ships at the Channel mouth, as you outlined last night. I shall join you in two days’ time. Will you have a ship for me in Portsmouth?”

“The Devastation just came in from patrol and is refueling in Southampton. I’ll telegraph orders for her to await you there, then she will join us in station. I sincerely hope that you are right in your summation of the situation, General.”

Sherman smiled wryly. “Admiral, I have to be right or we are lost. If the British army from India gets ashore, it will be a ragtag, murderous invasion with no guarantee of a successful outcome for either side. I have issued my orders. What happens next is up to the enemy.”

As soon as it had been deemed safe, John Mill’s daughter, Helen, had joined him in London. Through an agent she had found a most attractive furnished house to rent in Mayfair, on Brook Street. She knew how important a warm home environment was for Mill and she bent every effort in that direction. The strain of the work that he was doing was very great indeed, and he walked now with his shoulders bent, as though he were carrying a heavy load. As indeed he was. He was in his sitting room, still in sleeping cap and dressing gown, enjoying his morning tea, when Helen brought in a copy of The Times.

“I am almost afraid to read it these days,” he said, touching the newspaper gingerly with the tips of his fingers.

Helen laughed as he squinted at the first page. “It is not really that bad. They are actually weighing arguments pro and con concerning the proposed constitution — instead of thundering away, all barrels blazing, the way they did in the beginning.” She reached into the pocket of her dress and took out some envelopes. “Your Mr. Disraeli was here even before the morning post and left these off for you.”

“Wonderful! I shall put the newspaper aside with pleasure. He promised me a list of possible members for the proposed congress — this will hopefully be them.” He quickly read through the papers. “That is a familiar name. Charles Bradlaugh?”

“You must remember him, Papa. The founder of the National Reformer and a great pamphleteer.”

“Of course — yes! A committed republican and a freethinker. I can hear the wounded cries now if we permit an atheist to join our congress. Indeed, we must have him. I will get an invitation off to him today. Ah — and here is Frederic Harrison as well. A gentleman well-known to the working classes as possessing a practical knowledge of how the trade unions operate. Disraeli strongly advises that he be present, and I can only agree.”

With Disraeli’s aid and political know-how, a list of members for a constitutional congress was slowly being assembled. There were veteran politicians and reformers like William Gladstone, as well as up-and-coming politicians like Joseph Chamberlain. Although the newspapers sneered at the very idea of this congress and the political cartoonists had a field day at its expense, a possible panel was slowly being formed. Now it was only a matter of fixing a date that would be suitable for all parties concerned. What had seemed like a novel invention at first soon began to take on the appearance of respectability.

Three days had passed since the USS Devastation had joined the squadron that stretched across the mouth of the English Channel. This was the proper place to intercept any ships entering the Channel where it joined the Atlantic Ocean. The northernmost ship in the line cruised within easy sight of Portland Bill. South of it, using just enough power to breast the incoming tide, rode USS Virginia. Beyond this ship, almost on the horizon, another American ironclad was just visible. The line of warships now reached from within sight of the English coast right across the Channel as far as Cap de la Hague on the tip of the Cherbourg Peninsula. Every ship in the squadron was in sight of at least two others. When the British came — if they came — there was no way that they could escape observation.

If they came. This little word echoed over and over in General Sherman’s brain as he paced the flying bridge of the Devastation. When they had joined the squadron they had taken up station next to Admiral Farragut’s flagship, USS Mississippi, at the center of the line. She was still in position next to them, steaming as slowly as they were.

Sherman once again found himself standing at the rail, looking east across the empty sea. Would the convoy come? Had he been wrong in his assumption that they would attack the south coast of England? For the thousandth time he tracked the logic that had led him to the inevitable conclusion that this was what they would do. He still believed they must strike at this coast, but three days of waiting had left his theory hard-pressed. As he turned away he saw that a small boat was pulling away from the Pennsylvania. He realized suddenly that it must be noon — that was the hour appointed for his meeting with the admiral. They would discuss tactics yet again, and the state of the squadron, and Farragut would stay for luncheon. Sherman’s eyes strayed once more to the empty horizon, before he left the bridge and went to wait for the admiral on the deck.