Stars and Stripes in Peril (35 page)

General Bragg dropped back into his chair, blew out a cloud of smoke and looked into the distance, absorbed in thought. Finally nodded.

"This could be the way out of our problems. Trouble is going to happen very soon if something ain't done. Maybe this is it. Get that man out of here before someone gets kilt. You want a cigar?"

"Not now, thank you."

"Whisky?"

"It's early—but I think that I damned well do."

"Good. I'll join you."

The War Department had been waiting for Bragg's telegram. The answer came at once and was signed by the Secretary of War.

"This is it," Bragg said, folding the paper and putting it into the pocket of his jacket. "Bring your bag, Captain, because you are not coming back here.
First Sergeant,"
he shouted.

When they left the hotel the First Sergeant and an armed squad came with them. The crowd whistled and catcalled as they went towards the jail, shouted even louder when the sergeant knocked on the door.

"General Bragg is here. He wants to see the sheriff."

After a long wait the door opened a crack. Someone inside started to speak but the sergeant pushed the door wide so they could go in. The crowd surged and shouted until the closing door shut them out.

"What you want?" the sheriff said. He was unshaven and appeared to have been drinking.

"I want your prisoner," the general said. He took out the folded telegram. "Here is my authorization from the War Department."

"You got no rights in here! I'm the sheriff and I beholden to the judge and the mayor and not to you."

"Sheriff, this state is now under martial law, so I am afraid that you are going to have to do what I say. Your prisoner is a serving noncommissioned officer in the United States Army, and is therefore subject to military justice. Take us to him."

Sheriff Boyce fumbled for his gun and the sergeant knocked it out of his hand.

"Don't do anything foolish," the general warned. "Sergeant, get the key. Disarm this man and anyone else who attempts any resistance."

The sight of the armed soldiers had a cooling effect on the warders and deputies. Major Compton and four armed soldiers followed the warden into the iron-barred corridor to the cells. L.D. Lewis heard them coming and jumped to his feet. One eye was bruised and swollen shut; he cocked his head to look out of the other eye.

"Major Compton... what?"

"Open this cell," Compton ordered. "We're taking you out of here, sergeant. To WashingtonCity where a court of inquiry will investigate this matter. Let's go."

L.D. stumbled a bit when he walked and the major took him by the arm. He shrugged it off.

"I'm just fine, sir. I can walk out of here."

The general had organized everything in a highly efficient military manner. His troops had sealed off the alley that ran behind the jailhouse. A grocery wagon was waiting outside the door. Four mounted officers from his brigade blocked L.D. and Compton from sight as they climbed into the wagon, were pushed in by the First Sergeant who joined them. The soldier who was driving the wagon flipped the reins and they started forward. There was milling and shoving when they reached the street but the soldiers just pushed their way through the crowd. A moment later and the wagon and the officers were galloping down the street towards the train station.

"The general put together a military train," the First Sergeant said. "An engine and two cars. Troops going on leave. It's in a siding and waiting for you." He looked at L.D. and scowled. "Be smart, Sergeant. Stay out of the South. We got enough trouble of our own."

"Send our thanks to the general," Major Compton said. "I'll see that this is reported in detail to the War Department."

"Just doing our duty, sir—just doing our duty..."

THE BATTLE FOR DUBLIN

"Looks like we have a welcoming committee, General" Colonel Sam Roberts said, leaning out of the train window.

"Not the British, I hope," General William Tecumseh Sherman said, standing and fastening his sword belt.

"Not quite, sir."

With a hissing of steam and squealing of brakes the train from Galway slid to a stop in Kingsbridge Station. Through the open window came the sound of massed cheering—growing louder still when Sherman stepped down to the platform. At least a hundred men were waiting on the platform there, each wearing a green ribbon tied around his arm. A large man with a great white beard pushed forward through the crowd and executed what might possibly be called a salute. "Welcome, your honor—welcome to Dublin." The crowd fell silent, hushed, listening. "We hear only rumors, nothing more. Could you tell us..."

"I am General Sherman of the United States Army. The soldiers on this train landed this morning and seized GalwayCity. The British troops stationed there are now our prisoners. The invasion and freeing of Ireland has begun. We now plan to do the same here in Dublin. With your aid."

The silence was fractured by the shouts of joy that rang out from the listening crowd. Some wept with happiness; they pounded each other on the back. The bearded man had to lean forward and shout to be heard.

"The name's O'Brian, General, the captain of these volunteers."

"Then I will ask you to get your men inside the station, Mr. O'Brian, so my troops can detrain."

The soldiers were pouring out of the cars now, spurred on by the sergeants' shouted commands. Stout planks were being put into place to unload the Gatling guns. Sherman and his staff followed O'Brian to the relative quiet of the Stationmaster's office. A map of Dublin was spread out on the table. Sherman pointed towards it.

"Do your men know the city?"

"Jayzus and do they not! Every one of them a Jackeen born and bred and they knows dear old dirty Dublin like the backs of their hands."

"Good. And the horses?"

"We have them, sir, indeed we do! Begged, borrowed or—begging your pardon—stolen. Two livery stables full of them." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "And men waiting to take you there."

Sherman pointed to one of his aides. "Get a platoon and follow the guides." The officer hurried off as the general turned back to the map. "Now, where is DublinCastle?" he asked and O'Brian touched a thick finger to it. Then, in turn, he pointed out the barracks in PhoenixPark, the Customs House, the headquarters of the Royal Irish Constabulary. One by one they were singled out and orders issued. This attack had long been planned, with troops allotted to attack the individual strongpoints.

The Battle of Dublin had begun. The Gray and Blue troops poured out of the station, each attacking force led by a green-ribboned volunteer, just as the second train was arriving on the next platform: sweating soldiers manhandled the heavy Gatling guns from the flat cars. In the distance could be heard loud neighing and the clatter of hooves.

"Good God!" a startled officer said. "The Irish cavalry!"

Trotting into the trainyard came the most motley collection of horses ever seen. Most of them were being led, while some of them were being ridden bareback by soldiers fresh from the farms. Every variation on the theme of horse appeared to be present. Heavy cart horses, shaggy little ponies, sturdy hunters—even a wall-eyed mule that was trying to kick out at the strangers—as well as a small group of some tiny donkeys. All of them were quickly pressed into service. Bits of leather straps and lengths of rope were tied together to make crude but workable harnesses. Very quickly they were secured to the Gatling guns, and their ammunition limbers, and followed the troops into battle.

At the various strongpoints around the city there could be heard the rattle of gunfire as the invading troops made their first contacts with the enemy. Sherman, and his staff, remained in the Stationmaster's office, waiting impatiently for the first reports to come in.

"We are getting resistance here at the barracks—just across the River Liffey from the WellingtonMonument," the staff officer said.

"Gatlings?" Sherman asked.

"On the way now."

"Any other problems?"

"DublinCastle. It was always going to be a center of strong resistance. Heavy cannon—and granite walls. We tried to surprise them but were too late and the gates were shut. We have them surrounded, but our troops are pinned down."

"Do you have an observation post there yet?"

"Yes, sir. On the roof of ChristChurch, right here. Looks right down into the yard."

"Good. Keep the Castle surrounded—but hold the troops well back from the walls. We are not going to lose good men in a head-on assault."

Reports kept coming in and, overall, the battle for Dublin seemed to be going as well as possible at this early juncture. Going as well as any engagement can go when the battle is within a city. British strongpoints were holding out and had to be attacked one by one. There was a sniper firing from one of the upper windows of TrinityCollege and the sharpshooter had to be winkled out. When the last of the troops were committed Sherman changed his headquarters, as had been planned, to the Customs House on the banks of the Liffey. A saddle had been found for a magnificent bay that some gentleman of means had inadvertently supplied to the Irish cause, and Sherman rode it through the empty streets of the city. Gunfire sounded in the distance, the popping sound of individual rifles—then the tearing roar of a Gatling gun. Wisely, the people of Dublin were staying behind locked doors.

As he galloped along Eden Quay the general passed a party of engineers. They had commandeered a cart, along with the wall-eyed mule to pull it. Now, safely harnessed up, the beast was far more placid than it had been. The engineers were stringing the wire to the buildings, from the spool on the cart. As Sherman climbed down from his horse at the Customs House on the bank of the Liffey, he saw a dark form at the mouth of the river, still outside the harbor; he nodded at the pleasurable sight of the ironclad moving slowly towards him.

On the bridge of the USS
Avenger
her commander, Commodore Goldsborough, stood to one side looking grimly at the small, roughly dressed man in the battered cap. He was sucking at a clay pipe that had gone out, but still stank strongly.

"That's it boyo," the stranger said to the helmsman. "Dead slow. Keep the Poolbeg light to port, the North Bull to starboard and you'll be in mid-channel."

Barely keeping steering way, the iron ship was moving into Dublin harbor and the mouth of the Liffey.

"What's your depth?" Goldsborough couldn't help asking.

"She's dredged deep, Captain, dredged deep," the pilot reassured him. "But I'll only take you as far as the Customs House. You can tie up at the North Wall. Keep that beacon to starboard, that's a good man."

Ever so slowly the great gunship crept forward.

In the Customs House, now that the attacks had begun, the resurrected telegraphs began to clatter.

"From General Hooker, sir," handing the folded paper to Sherman. This was a vital report and overdue; the general opened it calmly. Read it and nodded.

"Hooker's brigade has detrained at the meeting place, just outside Monastereven. The volunteers with the horses were waiting. He is moving against the barracks in the Curragh now. His scouts report no enemy activity and he hopes to engage the enemy by dark."

But not if Lieutenant Knight of the Royal Hussars had his way. He had been exercising his horse on the Kildare road when he had seen the train come to a stop in the empty field ahead. He had made only casual notice of it until he had seen the blue-uniformed soldiers emerge. Blue? What regiment could that possibly be? He had tied his mount to a tree by the side of the road and pushed his way through the hedge to get a better view. His jaw dropped with amazement—then he recovered and pulled himself back behind the hedge.

Those weren't British troops—they were bloody Americans! He knew them well from the long retreat up the Hudson valley.

Americans here? There could be only one reason.

"Invasion," he said through gritted teeth, as he pulled himself into his saddle. Bloody cheek. Right in Britain's back garden.

He started off at a trot—then spurred his mount into a gallop as soon as he was out of sight of the train. The general at the Curragh had to be told. The soldiers had to be warned, they must stand to arms. There had been almost ten thousand of them there at the last muster. More than enough to give the Yankees the drubbing that they so richly deserved.

High in the bell tower of Christ Church, Lieutenant Buchner had a fine view across the city, with all of Dublin opened out before him. Off to the left there was a hint of water, the River Liffey, just barely visible between the buildings. The Green of Phoenix Park was behind him, while in front of him he could clearly see the buildings and the quad of TrinityCollege. All around were the church towers and chimneypots of the city—and the smoke from burning buildings. Men were fighting—and dying—out there. And here he was, perched on top of a church, miles from his guns and his men of the 32nd Pennsylvania. But he still had a job to do.

"Anything yet?" he called out to the soldier who was crouched behind the wall and industriously working a telegraph key.

"Almost, sir, got an answer—then was cut off again. Won't be long—wait! There it is."

"Ask them if the ship has tied up yet—and where."

Lieutenant Buchner looked again at the map that was tacked to the board. He aligned the compass heading yet one more time, noted the degree on the compass rose. This plan had worked out all right when they had rehearsed it. But anything could happen in the stress of battle.

Aboard the
Avenger
Commodore Goldsborough felt a great relief when the propeller had finally stopped and they had tied up against the granite wall of the river. On the bridge next to him, the signalman was looking through his binoculars at the upper story of the Customs House.

"I have him, sir," he called out. "Signalman Potter." He looked at the moving flags. "Message reads—are you ready to receive?"

"We certainly are. What does he say."

"Range... estimated at nine hundred and sixty yards. Compass bearing—"