Harry Harrison - Stars and Stripes Triumphant

“Still fine weather,” Farragut said as they shook hands. Sherman only nodded and led the way below. There was nothing they could say that had not been said often before. Sherman took the carafe from the sideboard and held it up.

“Will you join me in a sherry before we dine?”

“An excellent thought.”

Sherman had just poured out the drinks when a seaman burst through the door.

“Captain’s compliments.” The words rushed from his mouth. “The lookout reports ships to the southeast.”

The sailor had to move swiftly aside as the two officers rushed past him. By the time they had reached the bridge, the line of ships could be seen on the horizon. Captain Van Horn lowered his telescope. “The leading ship is an armorclad — you can tell by her upper works. And there is more smoke from ships still not in sight. Eight, ten of them at least.”

“Is this it?” Sherman asked.

Van Horn nodded firmly. “Without doubt, General. There could be no other force that size at sea.”

“Follow General Sherman’s orders,” Admiral Farragut said as he turned away. “I must return to my command and issue the signal to assemble all our force here.”

“I want you to approach those ships as soon as the admiral’s boat is clear. And do it slowly.”

Van Horn nodded. “Slow ahead. Five knots, no more.”

“Would you also have that flag hung in the bow,” Sherman said.

The captain’s orders were relayed to the deck and two sailors ran forward with a bundle of cloth. Grommets had been attached to the corners of one of the tablecloths from the officers’ mess. It was quickly fixed to a line and run up the bow mast. The approaching ships could not miss seeing the white flag. Nor the Stars and Stripes flying from the masthead.

When they had halved the distance to the approaching convoy, the captain stopped the engines. They drifted slowly to a stop, rolling in the light seas. The brisk westerly wind caught the improvised flag and it flapped out for all to see.

“If they should open fire?” Captain Van Horn asked brusquely.

“They won’t,” Sherman said firmly. “It would not be gentlemanly. And they are certainly aware of the other ironclads behind us. They will know what that means.”

If Sherman had any doubts about the wisdom of meeting the enemy like this, he did not express them. Twice before in his life he had ended conflict with a flag of truce. He had every faith that he could do it once again.

The leading ships could be seen quite clearly now; black armor and menacing guns. Signal flags had been run up and it appeared that the convoy had slowed. However, one of the ironclads had drawn away from the others and approached the American ship.

“Defender,” Van Horn said, peering through his glass again. “Main defenses six hundred-pounders, the new modified Warrior class.”

The British warship was coming right toward them, smoke pouring from its funnels, a bone in its teeth. As it drew closer it could be seen that its guns were trained on the American ship. When it had closed to within two hundred yards, it turned and slowed, presenting its starboard side. And as it turned, its guns turned as well, keeping trained on the Devastation.

“Has the boat been lowered?” Sherman asked.

“In the water as you ordered.”

Without another word Sherman left the bridge and scant moments later had climbed down into the waiting barge. Eight oars dipped as one and the craft shot swiftly across the water. As it approached the black flank of the British warship, it could be seen that a boarding ladder had been lowered over the side. Sherman climbed it as swiftly as he could. As he pulled himself up onto the deck, he found an army officer waiting for him.

“Follow me,” the man said abruptly, and turned away. Two sailors armed with muskets fell in behind them as they walked to the companionway. In the wardroom below, two army officers were waiting, both general officers. Sherman came to attention and saluted. They returned the salute in the British manner.

“We have met before, General Sherman,” the first officer said.

“Yes, in Canada. You are Brigadier Somerville.”

Somerville nodded slowly. “This is General Sir William Armstrong, commander in chief of Her Majesty’s forces in India.”

“Why are you here?” Armstrong asked brusquely, barely controlling his anger at meeting the man who had conquered his country.

“I am here to save lives, General Armstrong. We know the size and strength of your command from the documents that we seized in London. You will see behind me a major force of ironclads that will not permit you to pass peacefully, should you attempt to enter the Channel. They will avoid your warships, wherever possible, and concentrate on sinking your troopships. Should any of the transports succeed in passing our forces by, I want to inform you that the entire southern coast of England is now defended by American troops and guns. Any boats that attempt to land troops will be blown out of the water.”

“How do you know what we plan to do?” Armstrong snapped, cold anger in his voice.

“It was what I would have done, General. It was the only possible option.”

“Do we have your word that your troops are stationed here?” Somerville asked coldly.

“You have my word, sir. We have had a week to prepare our defenses. Newhaven Fort has been rearmed. The Twentieth Texas has dug in behind the shore at Hastings and are supported by five batteries of cannon. Do you wish me to list the defenders in the other positions?”

“That will be sufficient, General. You have given us your word.” Somerville’s voice was uneven as he spoke; his shoulders slumped. He had tried; they all had tried.

But they had failed.

“Return the Indian troops to India,” Sherman said. “If they come here they will only die. The fleet and the guns are waiting.”

“But my country!” Armstrong said, his voice rough with anger. “You have conquered, destroyed—”

“Conquered, yes,” Sherman snapped. “Destroyed, no. We only want peace and an end to this reckless war between our nations. Even now your politicians are meeting to found a new British government. When they have done that and the rule of law has been restored — we look forward to returning home. We want peace — not continued conflict. When you rule your own country once again, we will go. That is all that we want.”

“And we must believe this?” Somerville said, bitterness in his voice.

“You have no choice, General, no choice at all.”

“Take this man outside and hold him there,” Armstrong ordered the armed sailors standing by the door.

Sherman shrugged off their hands when they reached for him, turned, and left; the door closed behind them. In the corridor he looked coldly at the sailors; they shuffled their feet and did not meet his gaze. They had heard what had been said inside. The taller of them, a petty officer from his insignia, looked around then spoke quietly.

“What’s happening ashore, sir? We hear but little, the worst kind of scuttlebutt.”

“The war is over,” Sherman said, not unkindly. “Our troops won the day. There were deaths on both sides, but there is peace now. If your politicians agree, there will be a lasting peace in the years to come. If we can leave your country with that peace guaranteed — we will do just that. That is our desire, just as it must be yours.”

Sherman heard the door open behind him, turned, and entered the saloon.

“You have reached a decision,” he said. It was not a question.

“We have,” General Armstrong said, bitterness in his voice. “The Indian troops will return to India. You can guarantee them a safe passage?”