“French regiments? Catholics?”
“Yes.”
“You must attach at least one of these regiments to your invasion force. You must show that you are above religious differences. This is most important when you meet with the civic leaders — separately of course. Most of them would refuse to be in the same room together.”
Lee threw his hands up in exasperation. “I think I know what you are saying, though I don’t really understand it. I shall need advice, leadership in all this. Firstly, we need to find the right spot to invade. In the south, where there are roads and train lines from Galway to Dublin, that seems to be the obvious route — as does Limerick to Cork. But what about the north? Do you think that we should invade through Londonderry?”
Lee strode across the room to unlock the map cabinet, then swung the door open.
“Ill advised,” the surgeon said, standing and walking over to look at the map. “If you go that way your ships will have to pass up the length of Lough Foyle and into the mouth of the River Foyle. And only then will you be able to face forts and guns. It could be a hard-fought battle if the alarm is raised. Even after you win the battle and seize the trains, why they just meander along a single track along the coast. No, here is what you want. I grew up there, in Coleraine, and know the whole area well. I haven’t been back since I went away to study medicine in Queen’s College, Belfast — but nothing will have changed.” He tapped the map. “Here in Portrush, that is where you must strike. It has a fine harbor with rail service to Coleraine here — where it joins the line from Londonderry which will supply more trains.”
“How are the roads?” General Lee asked.
“Excellent. Or as excellent as any road is in Ireland.”
Lee studied the map closely. “Then we will have trains and good roads — and it looks to be no more than fifty miles from Belfast. Good troops can march that in a day, a day and a half in the most. We will take your advice under serious consideration,” Lee said, then pointed his finger at the surgeon. “With General Meagher’s approval you now have a new posting. My staff surgeon is about to have family problems and will return home on leave. I would like you to take his post until he returns. Which is going to be a very long time. I will need all of your medical skills — but also all of your political knowledge as well. You shall be both a medical officer and a political officer. Can you do that?”
“It will be my great pleasure, General Lee.”
“Take him,” Meagher said. “Keep him safe and return him after the war.”
LOCKED IN COMBAT
London had been miserable for over a week. Unseasonal storms and high winds had lashed the capital and drenched her citizens. William Gladstone, who hated the damp, had huddled next to the fire in his study for most of that time. Palmerston’s orders had been peremptory and specific. The military needed more money: there was the need to raise taxes. The stone that was the British public must be squeezed again. Squeezed for money, not for blood.
When Gladstone awoke this Monday morning it was with a feeling of dread. This was the day of the Cabinet meeting. The Prime Minister would be sure to be displeased at the new taxes. Nothing unusual; he was always displeased. Not only a Cabinet meeting, but a dreaded visit to Her Majesty afterward. She could be infinitely trying these days. Either introspective and mourning her dear Albert — which was bearable, though terribly boring. Better still than the other extreme. The reddened face and the shrill screams. Not for the first time did he remember that, after all, she was the granddaughter of mad German George.
Yet when his manservant opened the curtains Gladstone’s spirits, if they did not soar, were lifted more than a little bit. Golden sunshine poured into the room; a blackbird sang in the distance. After breaking his fast he was in a still better mood. He would leave his carriage behind and walk, that is what he would do. It was a pleasant walk to Whitehall from his rooms here in Bond Street. He poured himself another cup of tea and sent for his private secretary.
“Ah, Edward, I have a slight task for you.” Hamilton nodded in expectant silence. “Those budget papers we have been working on. Put them together and bring them to the Cabinet Room for me. Leave them with Lord Palmerston’s secretary.”
“Will you want the navy proposals as well?”
“Yes, surely. Pack them all up.”
The sun was shining radiantly through the fanlight over the front door. Gladstone put on his hat, tapped it into position, picked up his stick and let himself out. It was indeed a glorious day.
The pavements were crowded, particularly in Piccadilly, but the crowd was in a friendly mood: the sun cheered everyone. Further on, near Piccadilly Circus, a man was holding out to the passers-by. His clothes revealed him to be a Quaker, one of that very difficult sect. Gladstone had to listen to him, whether or no, since the people in the crowded street were scarcely moving.
“…violates God’s will. Plague may be a curse upon mankind for living in evil ways, but plague cannot be avoided by an act of will for it is indifferent to class or rank. The lord in his castle will fall victim, just as surely as the peasant in his hovel. But war, I tell you, war is an abomination and a sin. Is this the best we can do with the intelligence God gave us, with the money that we have earned by the sweat of our brow? Instead of food and peace we spend our substance on guns and war. The citizens of the Americas are our brothers, our fellows, fruit of the same loins from whence we ourselves have sprung. Yet those who would be our masters urge us to spill our blood in attacking them. The scurrilous rags we call newspapers froth with hatred and calumny and speak with the voices of evil and wrongdoing. So I say unto you, disdain from the evil, speak to your masters that war is not the way. Is it really our wish to see our sons bleed and die on distant shores? Cry out with one voice and say…”
What the voice should say would never be known. The strong hands of two burly soldiers plucked the man down from his box and, under a sergeant’s supervision, carried him away. The crowd cheered good-naturedly and went about their business. Gladstone turned down a side street and away from the crowd, disturbed by what he had seen.
Was there really an antiwar movement? Certainly there were grumbles over the increasing taxes. But the mob did love a circus and read with pleasure about the glowing — and exaggerated — prowess of British arms. Many still remembered the defeats in America and longed for victories by strength of arms to remove the sour smell of that defeat. At times it was hard to assess the public mood. As he turned into Downing Street he joined Lord John Russell, also going in the same direction.
“Ready for the lion’s cage, hey?” Gladstone said.
“Some say that Palmerston’s bark is worse than his bite,” the Foreign Secretary answered with a worldly flip of his hand.
“I say that bark and bite are both rather mordant. By the way, on the way here I heard a street speaker sounding off at the evils of our war policy. Do you think he was alone — or is the spirit abroad that we should be seeking peace?”
“I doubt that very much. Parliament still sides with the war party and the papers scream and froth for victories. Individuals may think differently, but, by George, the country is on our side.”
“I
wish that I had your assurance, Lord John. Still, I find it disturbing, disturbing indeed.”
“Vox populi is not always vox dei, no matter what you hear to the contrary. The voice that matters is that of Palmerston, and as long as this party is in power that is the only voice that you will hear.”