Harry Harrison: Stars and Stripes Forever

“I say,” Lincoln drawled slowly, “I say that you have a very positive personality, Mr. Douglass, and a very forceful one. Some might say that your temerity borders on effrontery, but I shall not be so bold as to say that. I do not know what your career ambitions are in life, but I do say that you would make a good railroad lawyer.”

The small jest released the tension in the air; some of the group even smiled. A slight nod of Douglass’s head was more of an acknowledgment of a worthy opponent than agreement. Before he could speak again the President went on.

“I shall take your words to the committee when it is formed and tell them of my agreement with your position.”

The meeting ended on this conciliatory note. Lincoln, ever the professional politician, had neither given ground nor made any promises that could not be kept. Although he did believe that Douglass’s suggestions were for the good. The cooperation of the freed slaves was a necessity.

The flat fields on the banks of the St. Lawrence River were ideal for an encampment. The last wheat had been cut and the stubble was crisp underfoot. The air was beginning to warm up under the pale sun, but there was still a scattering of snow in the furrows from the previous night’s flurries. Winter was drawing close. The tents were quickly set up and camp made.

Private Ducrocq was leading the colonel’s horse; he joined the horse handlers from the artillery on the track down to the water. It was nice here, except for the cold it reminded him very much of the Mississippi near Baton Rouge. Even the flatboat out there on the river was much like the ones he had poled through the muddy waters at home. He looked with interest as the oarsmen turned it toward the shore as it came closer, then grounded close by the drinking horses. The solid, gray-haired man standing in the bow stepped carefully ashore. He looked around at the horses and soldiers and nodded happily.

“C’est l’armee Americaine, n’est-ce pas?” he asked.

“Oui, certainment. Etes-vous Français?” Ducrocq replied.

“Certainment pas, mon vieux! Je suis Français Canadien. Je suis id pour parler à votre officier supérieur, le Général Johnston.”

Ducrocq pointed out the officers’ tents in the field above. Louis Joseph Papineau thanked him and went up the bank. The soldier looked after him and thought what a strange accident it was to meet someone speaking French up here in the cold north so far from home. Then he laughed aloud.

Even a simple garçon from the bayous knew that there were few coincidences like this in war. French Canada was just across the river — and two regiments of French-speaking American soldiers were on this shore. And then there were the gun batteries and the heavy-laden wagons. Something very interesting was in the wind.

“Rifles,” General Johnston said, pointing into the open box. “The very newest Spencer-breech loading, repeating rifles. They fire ten shots before they have to be reloaded. They are different, of course, from muzzle-loading rifles. But not difficult to master. Our soldiers have had recent experience with them and will be happy to show your men how to use them with the greatest efficiency.”

“That will take some time, General. Unhappily most of my loyal followers come from small towns and farms and speak only French.”

“I think that you will pleased to discover that will not be a problem. Canada is not the only part of North America where French is spoken.”

“Of course! The Louisiana Purchase. You have troops from that area, around New Orleans.”

“We do.”

“I should have realized when I was answered in French by one of your soldiers. I thank you for the guns — and for your willing instructors.”

“I have also been ordered to aid you in any way that I can. The battle plan and attack will be yours, of course. But you will be fighting regular troops and I can assure you that you will need cannon to assure victory.”

A steam whistle sounded in the distance, then once again. Johnston pulled his watch from his pocket and looked at it.

“Accurate to the minute. I wish that all operations of war went this well.”

They emerged from the tent as the warship came around the bend, two more steaming in her wake.

“Cargo ships from Lake Ontario. They had the armor plate and guns added in Rochester. Originally built to stop any waterborne British invasion — across the lakes. But I think they will be just as good on the attack as on the defense.”

Papineau was wild with delight and would have embraced and kissed Johnston if the general had not stepped quickly back.

“I am overwhelmed, mon général. Before, when we had our rebellion I had only men, boys really, armed with their fathers’ hunting guns. So we lost. Now I have these so marvelous weapons you bring. Your soldiers, big cannon — and now this. I tell you Montreal will fall at a single blow, for there are only a few hundred English troops in the city. And I have agents there already, talking to the local Canadian militia who have no love for the Anglais. They will rebel, follow us to a man.”

“And they will be reinforced by my troops. Since the British are raiding south from Canada, I have no compunction about invading your country.”

“It is no invasion. You are most welcome. I see this action as brother aiding brother.”

“We will have to cross the river. Where do you suggest that we land?”

He spread out a map and Papineau examined it closely, then pointed to a spot.

“Here. There are flat meadows and an old timber dock, just here, so landing from your ships will be quite easy. Also — this small forest shields the landing from the city which is around this bend in the river. It is not a long journey and my men know all the paths and roads. A march could be done during the night, to be in position to attack at dawn.”

“Agreed. That is just what we will do.”

A steam whistle sounded as the ironclads swung in toward the landing; the troops cheered and went down to greet them. Papineau’s eyes were unfocused, as though he were seeing the incredible events of the future taking place before him.

“First Montreal — and then on to Quebec. We will succeed, we must succeed. Canada will be French once again.”

General Johnston nodded as though he agreed. Though in truth he had little thought of Canada, French or not. He was fighting this war to lick the British. If an uprising in French Canada could help destroy the enemy, why then he was very much in favor of it. In war you use any weapon to hand. In this he was very much in agreement with his new commanding officer, General Sherman. You fight wars to win.

Far to the south, in a far wanner clime, a brief but fierce engagement was coming to an end. The only fortifications in the British West Indies were on the islands of Jamaica, Barbados and St. Lucia. The two smaller islands, important coaling stations, had fallen quickly to the American attackers who then pressed on to Jamaica. The headquarters of the Imperial West India Station had always been considered impregnable to attack by sea. The harbor of Kingston had heavily reinforced gun positions guarding its entrance; any enemy ship attempting to enter would be destroyed by fire.

Any wooden ship that is. General Ulysses S. Grant had experience at reducing gun batteries with ironclad gunboats, at Forts Henry and Donelson. Now he had the Avenger with her twin turrets, each mounting two 400-pound Parrott guns, far heavier than the guns he had used before. From the deck of the steam frigate Roanoke he had watched emplacement after emplacement pounded and destroyed. Some of the gun emplacements were shielded by stone walls that fell slowly when struck by solid cannonballs. For these the Avenger used explosive shells that blasted great openings in the defenses, destroyed the artillery behind them. The defenders kept firing to the last — and every cannonball bounced harmlessly from the ironclad’s armor.