Stars and Stripes Forever

DEATH IN THE SOUTH

Alexander Milne, admiral of the British Navy, was a courageous and bold fighting man — when it was time to be courageous and bold. He had always been bold in battle, had been badly wounded in his country’s cause. When the Americans had seized a British ship and taken prisoners from it, he had gone at once to the Prime Minister and requested active service once again. This had been the right and bold thing to do.

He was also cautious when it was necessary to be cautious. Now he knew, as the squadron plowed ahead through the warm, star-filled night, that this was indeed a time for caution. They had been out of sight of land ever since his flotilla had sailed from the Bahamas at dusk two weeks ago, on a northerly course. The islands reeked with spies and his departure would surely be noted and transmitted to the Americans. Only when night had fallen and they were out of sight of land had the squadron turned south.

It had been dead reckoning ever since then, without a sight of land since Andros Island; a quick inspection at dusk of its prominent landmarks in order to check their position. It was good navigation training for the officers. They had sailed south almost to the Tropic of Cancer before they had altered course west through the Straits of Florida. They had held to this course since then, far out from the American coast and well clear of any coastal shipping. In all this sailing they had seen no other vessel, had assumed they had gone undetected as well.

It wasn’t until the noon sun observations agreed with the ship’s chronometer that they had indeed reached eighty-eight degrees west longitude that they had altered course for the last time. Sailed due north toward the Gulf Coast of the United States.

Admiral Milne flew his flag from the ironclad Warrior. He stood now on her bridge, besides Captain Roland who was her commander.

“How many knots, Captain?” he asked.

“Still six knots, sir.”

“Good. If the calculations are correct that should have us off the coast at dawn.”

Milne climbed up onto the after bridge and looked back at the ships keeping station astern. First were the two ships of the line, Caledonia and Royal Oak. Beyond them, just blurs in the darkness were the transports. Out of sight to their stern he knew were the other ships of the line, the frigates and corvettes. The largest British fleet that had been to sea since 1817.

But he was still not pleased. That a force this size had to circle out of sight of land — then slip in at night like a blockade runner — was a humiliating thing to have to do. Britain had ruled the waves for centuries and had won all of her wars that had been fought at sea. But the Americans had a large fleet guarding this coast and it must be avoided at all cost. Not because of fear of battle, but out of necessity of keeping their presence in these waters a secret.

Captain Nicholas Roland had joined him. “Clouding up ahead, sir,” he said. “Too late for the rainy season, but the weather can be foul along this coast at any time of the year.”

They stood in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts, the only sound the metronome-like thud thud of the ship’s engines. Ahead of them the brilliant stars were vanishing behind the rising darkness of the approaching cloud. Out here, where the watch officer and the helmsman could not hear them, they could speak together as they could not in the crowded ship.

Roland was married to the admiral’s niece. Their homes in Saltash were quite close and he had seen a good deal of both of them when he had been recuperating from the wound that he had received in China, at the Battle of the Peio River. He and Roland had struck up an easy friendship despite their difference in years.

“I’m not sure, Nicholas, that I like the way warfare at sea is developing. We always seem to be a little bit late with engineering advances, too prone to let others lead the way.”

“I cannot believe that is true, sir. We are now standing on the bridge of the most advanced warship ever seen. Built of iron, steam-powered, with twenty-six 68-pounders, not to mention ten 100-pounders. A forty gun ship with guns of the largest caliber, unbeatable, unsinkable. We know that the senior service must be conservative, sir. But once we get our teeth into something we are a bulldog.”

“I agree. But far too often we tend to fight present wars with the skills of the past war. There is a weight of tradition and a tendency to suspect innovation that I feel will cost us dear.”

“That is possibly true, sir, but I am too far down the ladder to have an opinion. But surely you exaggerate. Just look at this ship. As soon as the navy discovered that the French were building La Gloire, an iron warship, there was the instant decision by the Secretary to the Admiralty to build an iron-belted frigate. Two of them in fact to go the French one better. Like our sister ship, Black Prince, we make the most of the modern science of the sea. We have sail as well as steam so we can stay at sea longer. I am most proud to command her.”

“You should be. But do you remember what I said when word reached us about the battle between Virginia and Monitor?”

“I can never forget it. We had just finished dining and you were passing the port. Robinson was deck officer and he came in holding the report, read it aloud to all of us. Some of the officers called it colonial tomfoolery but you would have none of that. You sobered them up quite quickly. ‘Gentlemen’, you said, ‘we have just entered a new age. This morning, when I awoke, the British navy had 142 warships. When I retire tonight we will have but two. Warrior and Black Prince.’ ”

“What I said then is still very true. Just as the steam engine put paid to the sailing ship, so shall the ironclad eliminate the wooden ship from the navies of the world. Which is why we are entering battle through the rear door, so to speak. The Yankee blockading fleet has effectively sealed off the southern coastline from any commerce by sea. Now I intend to break through that blockade and I have no intention of meeting any of the blockading fleet except under my terms. It is sheer bad luck that Black Prince is having her boilers repaired at this time. I would feel much better if she were at our side.”

Roland stamped his heel hard on the iron plating of the after bridge. “An iron ship that can carry the largest guns made. In her I dread naught.”

“I agree, a fine ship. But I wish her designers had not been so condescending to the Admiralty old guard. Sail or steam, I say. One or the other and not a mixture of the two. With masts and sail we must have an enormous crew to tend them. To raise sail by hand, to even raise the screw by hand — needs two hundred hands to do that job. Where one steam winch would have sufficed.”

Captain Roland coughed politely, then got up the nerve to ask the question that had been bothering him since he had first been appointed to command this ship.

“Sir, perhaps it is out of place, but I must admit that I have always been bothered by this. After all, the merchant ships use steam winches…” His words ran out as he blushed, unseen in the darkness, sure that he had spoken out of turn. The admiral was aware of this, but took pity.

“We have been friends, my boy, for some time. And I can well understand your worries about your charge. And I know that you have a sound enough head not to repeat anything that I tell you in confidence.”

“Indeed, sir! Of course.”

“I was part of the committee that approved Warrior and her sister ship. Although I protested I was overruled. I said that the navy would rather look backward than forge ahead. My suggestions were overruled. All of the others believed that the sailors would be spoiled and grow lazy if machines did their work for them. Besides, it was felt, the exercise would keep them healthy!”

Captain Roland could only gape. He was almost sorry that he had asked. The ship’s bell sounded the change of watch. He went down to the upper deck, to the rifle-proof conning tower.

On the deck below George William Frederick Charles, the Duke of Cambridge, stirred in his berth when he heard the bell, wide-awake and cursing it. When he closed his eyes instead of blissful darkness and the Lethe of sleep he saw divisions of soldiers, batteries of cannon, military stores, plans — all the paraphernalia of war that had occupied his mind for weeks — months now. The steel box of a cabin closed in on him. He did not consider for a moment the ship’s Master who had been moved out of this cabin, now sharing an even smaller cabin with the Commander — or the hundreds of ratings who swung their hammocks in the even darker, closer, noisome chambers belowdeck. Rank had its place — and his was at the very top. The Duke of Cambridge, Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, cousin to the Queen, was not used to physical discomfort, in the field or off it.

When he sat up his head struck the candle holder above the bed and he cursed it soundly. When he opened the cabin door enough light came in from the passageway for him to find his clothes. Pulling on jacket and trousers he went out of the cabin, turned right and went into the captain’s day room; a spacious area lit by a gimballed kerosene light and airy from the scuttle in the ceiling above. Still resting on the sideboard was the excellent brandy he had sampled after dinner: he poured himself a good measure. He had just dropped into the leather armchair when the door opened and Bullers looked in.

“I’m sorry, sir, didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He started to withdraw but the duke called after him. “Come in, Bullers, do come in — not able to sleep?”

“The truth indeed. Soldiers at sea are about as useful as teats on a boar.”

“Well said. Enter and address the brandy, there’s a good fellow.”

Major General Bullers was commander of the infantry, next in rank below the duke. Both were righting soldiers who had served in Ireland, then in the Crimea.

“Bloody hot,” Bullers said.

“Drink up and you won’t notice it.” He sipped from his glass. “Champion should be well on his way to New York City by now.”

“He should indeed. With his divisions and guns there is no force in the Americas that can stand in his way.”

“Let it be so. God knows we spent enough time in planning and outfitting the expedition.”

“You should have commanded it — to ensure success.”

“Nice of you to say so, Bullers — but General Champion is more than able to handle a straightforward attack like the one from Canada. This one is where certain other skills will be needed.”

As one their eyes turned to look at the maps strewn on the mahogany table. Although they had gone over the plans for the attack countless times before, the maps drew them back, like iron filings to a magnet. They stood, taking their drinks with them, and strode across the room.

“The Gulf Coast of America,” the Duke of Cambridge said. “Yankee naval bases here and here and here. A fleet at sea guarding every harbor and inlet. While here at Hampton Roads I am sure that the Monitor and her attendant ships of the line still guard the bolt hole where the Virginia must still lie at rest. Admiral Milne has insisted that we avoid that bit of coast like the plague — and I couldn’t agree more. That fleet is less than six hundred miles away and I want it to stay that way. Of course there is this small naval force blockading Mobile Bay not more than fifty miles away. But they are of no threat to our superior force.” He tapped the chart lightly.

“But here is the enemy’s Achilles heel. Deer Island off the coast of the state of Mississippi. Invaded and seized by the North and now a base for their blockading fleet. That is our destination. At dawn we shall attack and destroy them with a naval bombardment. Then your regiments, and the marines, will land and seize the fortifications. The blockade will be broken. The navy shall remain on station there, protected by the shore batteries, to make sure that the blockade in this area is not restored. As soon as our landings are successful I’ll take a troop of cavalry and contact the Confederates — and Jefferson Davis in Richmond. The Queen herself has messages for him and I am sure that our welcome will be of the warmest. After that our merchant fleet will get cotton here, bring in military supplies in return. The South will grow strong — and very soon will be victorious. Our armies still attack in the North so the Yankees must divide their strength if they attempt to pry us from this base. Divide and fall, defeated. They cannot long survive. Between our invading armies and a rejuvenated Southern army. Might will prevail.”

Bullers shared his enthusiasm. “It will be over by winter, God willing. The United States of America will cease to exist and the Confederate States of America will be the legitimate government.”

“A worthy aim and a happy conclusion,” the duke said. “I care little what the politicians do with the spoils. I just know that a victorious army will prove Britain’s might to the world. Then our navy will also be able to expand its ironclad fleet, until once again mastery of the world’s oceans shall be ours.”

At dawn, as planned, the commanders of the landing party were rowed to Warrior. Their boats appeared suddenly out of the sea mist and the officers climbed most carefully aboard, since every rope and piece of wood or decking was slick from the fog and gently falling rain.

The coastline was in sight now, flat and featureless and barely visible in the falling rain.

“It all looks the same,” the Duke of Cambridge said. “No obvious landmarks that I can make out.”

“It was a good landfall,” the admiral said. “After sailing by dead reckoning, for so long out of sight of land, I would say it was excellent navigation. The frigates are scouting both east and west and the island will soon be found.”

But it was noon before Clam came bustling back from her search. The fog had persisted and the drizzle still continued, which made her signals hard to read at a distance.

“Deer Island sighted. No ships at anchor,” the signal officer finally said.

“Capital,” the Duke of Cambridge said, feeling some of the tension drain away now that the final phase of the operation was about to begin. “Commander Tredegar, your marines will secure the landing beaches. As soon as you are ashore General Bullers will begin landing his men. Victory here, gentlemen, will be the first combined naval and army engagement that will lead inexorably to the final defeat of the enemy.”

As the ships approached the gray coastline the battlements of the shore defenses became more clearly seen. Admiral Milne had his telescope trained on them. The image was blurred by raindrops, so much so that he had to take it from his eye and wipe the object lens with his kerchief. When he looked again he laughed sharply.

“By George, there they are, sir. The Yankees, their flag.”

The Duke of Cambridge looked through his telescope at the stars and stripes above the ramparts. Red, white and blue.

“Send the order to begin firing as soon as the fortifications are within range. The boats will land under our covering fire.”

But it took time, too much time. No time was wasted by Tredegar’s experienced marines who were swiftly ashore and running up the beaches. But the soldiers of the regular army had no experience of beach landings and their attempts were glacial in the extreme. While the marines were attacking there was chaos among the army troops. The overloaded boats ran into each other, one capsized and the men had to be rescued and dragged from the sea. It was growing dark before the last of them were ashore and beaten into some kind of order by the sergeants. Major General Sir Robert Bullers used the flat of his sword against more than one of the dullards before he was satisfied enough to order his troops into the attack.

It proved to be desperately hard work. It was growing dark and the marines were still stalled before the earthen breastworks, the bodies of those who had fallen in the attack littering the sodden ground.

It was left to the 67th South Hampshire to do the job. They had been stationed on the island of Trinidad long enough for them to be able to work and fight in the clammy heat. Their sergeants had chivvied them into two lines now, muskets loaded, bayonets fixed.

“Hampshire Tigers — follow me!” General Bullers shouted and waved his sword as he started forward. With a roar of hoarse voices they charged past the colonel and into a hail of lead.

The standard bearer, just in front of the general, was thrown back as a minié bullet caught him in the stomach and doubled him over. Before his body fell the general had seized the regimental flag and saved it from falling into the bloody mud. He shouted encouragement, flag in one hand, sword in the other, until a corporal took the standard from him and charged on.

Although they were badly outnumbered the defenders still put up a stiff resistance. Two field guns had been landed and dragged into position. Under their merciless fire the ramparts were finally breached. But more good men fell in the attack that followed. It was a bloody business with hand-to-hand fighting at the very end.

Night had fallen before the rampart was finally taken — at a terrible price. The torn bodies of Bullers’s men and soldiers of the 56th West Essex mingled with the corpses of the defenders. A lamp was lit to look for survivors. There were very few. Blood and mud colored all of the uniforms, though it could be seen that the Americans were motley clad, not only in blue but with many other rags of uniform. Ill-uniformed or not — they could fight. And run — but not far. They must have formed a second line because gunfire crackled again and the air screamed with bullets. The lantern was quickly doused.

“They’ll rue this day’s work,” Bullers said through tight-clamped teeth, as his officers and noncoms ordered their lines. Some of the wounded were sitting up while others were lying in the mud with empty eyes; the walking wounded stumbled to the rear.

“Fire when you are sure of your target — then it is the bayonet. Forward!”

Men died in the night of fierce hand-to-hand combat. The Yankees would not retreat and every yard of advance had to be fought for. Men struggled in the mud and drowned in water-filled muddy ruts. In the end the relentless pressure of the British was too much for the outnumbered defenders and the survivors were forced to fall back. But it was not a rout. They kept firing as they retreated and held onto their guns.

The officers had put out pickets and, tired as he was, the general made the rounds with the sergeant major to be sure they were alert. The desperately tired soldiers drank from their water bottles and ate what bits of food they had in their packs. Fell asleep in the warm rain, clutching their muskets to their chests.

Just before dawn the cries of the pickets and a sudden crackle of gunfire heralded a counterattack. The weary soldiers rolled over and once again fought for their lives.

Surprisingly, the attack was quickly broken, a last weary attempt by the defenders. But the British soldiers after days at sea, a night of fighting and dying, little water and less sleep, would not be stopped now. Anger replaced fatigue and they pursued the running enemy in the gray dawn. Bayoneting them in the back as they fled. Chased them into the buildings beyond.

And found drink there. Large stone jugs of potent spirits that tore at their throats and burned in their guts. But there were barrels of beer as well to wash away the burn. And even better.

Women. Hiding, running, screaming. The trained British troops rarely broke down. But when they did so — as they did during the Indian Mutiny — the results were drastic and deadly. Now inflamed by drink and exhaustion, angry at the deaths of their comrades, the beast was released. The clothes were torn from the women’s bodies and they were pressed down into the mud and taken with fierce violence. And these soldiers, consumed by lust and drink, could not be easily stopped. One sergeant who attempted to intervene got a bayonet through his kidneys; the drunken men roared with laughter as he writhed in twisted death agony.

General Bullers did not really care. He ordered his officers not to intervene lest they risk their own destruction. The soldiers would fall down drunk soon, unconscious and stuporous. It had happened before; the British common soldier could not be trusted with drink. It had happened in India during the Mutiny — and even in Crimea. Now they would drink themselves stupid. In the morning the sergeants and the few teetotalers in the regiment would drag them under cover until they came around. To face whatever punishment he decreed. Lights appeared as bandsmen with lanterns came searching for survivors among the dead.

The general shook his head, realizing suddenly that he was close to exhaustion. A South Hampshire private stumbled out of a shed in front of him, stopped and drank from the crock of spirits that he had found. He dropped, stunned unconscious, when Bullers caught him a mighty blow on the neck with his fist. The general picked the jug out of the mud and drank deep and shuddered. Good whisky from the Scottish isles it was not. But it had an undeniable potency that was needed right now. Bullers swayed and sat down suddenly on the remains of a rampart, pushing aside a corpse to do so. The whiskey was tasting better with each swallow.

The dead soldier had been lying on a flag, clutching it in clawed fingers, perhaps trying to shield it from the carnage. General Bullers pulled it up and wiped some of the mud from it. Saw in the light of a passing lantern its colors. Red, white and blue. He grunted and dropped it back onto the corpse. Red, white and blue, the colors of the flag of the United States of America. Yes, but somehow different. What? He seized it up again and spread it on the rampart.

The correct colors all right. But differently shaped, arranged. This was not the stars and stripes he had seen flying from Yankee ships in Kingston harbor. This one had a few stars on a blue field, and only a few large horizontal stripes.

The flag moved in his hands and he started. Blinked and saw that the dead man’s eyes were open — mortally wounded perhaps, but not yet dead.

“This flag, what is it?” Bullers asked. The wounded man’s eyes misted so he shook him cruelly. “Speak up man, this flag, this is the stars and stripes?”

The dying soldier strained to speak, squeezing out the words and the colonel had to lean close to hear them.

“Not… damned Yankee flag. This… is the stars and bars… flag of the South.”

That was all he said as he died. General Bullers was stunned. For a single horrified moment he believed the man, believed that this was the flag of the Confederacy.

Had he attacked the wrong side? That could not be possible. He knew the flag of the Confederacy with its crossed blue bands with white stars on a red background. He had seen it on blockade runners tied up at the Pool in London. And this was certainly not the same.

And no country, even these miserable colonials, could possibly have two flags. Or could it? No! The man had lied, lied with his dying breath, may he burn in Hades for that. He held the flag in his hand and turned it about. Then hurled it into a mud-filled puddle and ground it under his heel.

What the hell difference did it really make, either way? North or South they were all filthy backwoodsmen. Sons and grandsons of the colonial revolutionaries who had had the temerity to fight and kill good Englishmen. Including his good father, Lieutenant General Bullers, who had fallen at the Battle of New Orleans.

He drank heavily from the stone crock and twisted his boot back and forth until the last scrap of flag had disappeared in the filthy mud.

Then sighed — and pulled it out again. Whatever flag it was, whatever had happened here, the Duke of Cambridge would have to know about it.

The duke had moved his headquarters to a stone blockhouse, close to the beach, that had been part of the defending gun battery. He was shuffling through a handful of half-burned reports when Bullers came in with the flag.

“Most strange,” the duke said. “These reports are all headed CSA — not USA. What the devil is going on here?”

Bullers held out the battered flag. “I think — Your Grace — I think that a terrible mistake has been made. There are no Yankees here. For some reason, I don’t know, we have been fighting and killing Southerners.”

“Good God!” The duke’s fingers opened and the papers fell to the floor. “Is that true? Are you sure of it?”

Bullers bent and picked up the papers, shuffled through them. “These are all addressed to the forces in Biloxi. A coastal city in Mississippi.”

“Damn and blast!” The duke’s amazement was replaced by a boiling rage. “The navy! The senior service with their much-vaunted skills of navigation. Couldn’t even find the right bloody place to attack. So where does that leave us, Bullers? With egg on our face. Their mistake — our blame.”

He began to pace the length of the room and back. “So what do we do? Retire and apologize? Not my way, General, not my way at all. Crawl away with tail between legs?”

“The alternative…”

“Is to carry on. We have the men and the determination. Instead of aiding this nauseous slaveocracy we shall defeat it. Strike north to Canada and destroy everything in our path. Defeat this divided and weak country, countries, now and bring them all back into the Empire where they belong.

“Strike and strike hard, Bullers. That is our only salvation.”