“General can’t talk to you now. But he wants you in the meeting. There’s a chair to the back. Just ease into it and keep your mouth shut.”
As O’Higgins slipped into his chair he realized that there was only silence in the tent. General Grant had his watch on the table before him, was scowling at it from behind a cloud of cigar smoke.
“Five minutes to the hour,” he said, and there was the quick susurration of whispered voices. O’Higgins started to ask the officer next to him what was happening, then changed his mind. Obviously something important was happening on the hour.
General Grant finally stubbed his cigar out in the metal tray, stood and seized up the watch.
“That is it! That is the hour!” Only murmurs of puzzlement greeted the announcement and O’Higgins realized that all of the others were as ignorant of events as he was.
But not Grant. He had a great wide grin on his face as he put the watch back into his pocket — then hammered his fist happily on the table.
“As of this moment our siege of the British positions here is lifted. There will be no more attacks — and no more of our soldiers shall die here in this godforsaken corner of Mexico. But we will still keep up our bombardment of the lines, make our presence known. And stay alert. If they make any sallies I want them wiped out as soon as they start. But for all apparent purposes the war on this front is over.”
“Why — General? Why?” An officer shouted, unable to control his curiosity.
“I’ll tell you why. Because at this very moment a new front was opened to attack the enemy. I cannot tell you where this is happening, not yet, but I do assure you that it is a massive and deadly blow that is being struck right now. So strong and mighty is it that I can speak with some authority when I tell you that the war here in Mexico is over. We only wait now for the British to disengage and leave.”
O’Higgins thought he knew what was happening — but had brains enough not to speak his mind. Great powers were on the move. Great events were heralded. The United States of America was fighting back.
In the State of Mississippi, in the city of Jackson, L.D. Lewis sat in his cell and listened to the growing crowd in the street outside. Reverend Lomax had stayed with him on the long walk to the jail, waited there while he was booked. The sheriff had sent two deputies in a wagon to get Jefferson Davis’s body — told Lomax to go with them to the church. There was no way he could refuse so, reluctantly, he got into the wagon.
That was when the sheriff had gone to L.D.’s cell and had beaten him unconscious.
“No Yankee nigger can come to the South and shoot the likes of Mr. Davis. If you ain’t lynched first, you gonna have a fair trial and then get hung — you got my word on that.”
The sheriff had been worried about a lynching — only because he was worried about his jailhouse getting burnt down, people getting killed. When the wagon returned he had the corpse laid out reverently in his best cell, swore his deputies to silence. And then had gone to Judge Reid and told him everything.
“Folks hear about this they’ll burn the whole town down” was the judge’s learned judicial opinion. “Gotta try him fast and hang him. Meanwhile I’m sending for those Texas troops camped outside of town. Let them stand guard. They pretty uppity, might be good to knock them down a bit.”
Meanwhile L.D. Lew
is sat in his cell. The blood had dried on his jacket in the heat of the day. One eye was battered shut; he couldn’t see very well out of the other. Well, at least he was still alive.
But for how long?
BOOK TWO
INVASION!
THE MIGHTY ARMADA
Never had the little island of Graciosa in the Azores seen such a sight. In the past, there had been two, sometimes three, ships that might be taking on coal in the harbor at the same time. But this — this was unbelievable. Black steel warships filled the ocean outside the small port, dark guns pointed menacingly at the city and the sea. Anchored close offshore was a sailing ship and two small steamers. The three-master — which had flown the Union Jack — was now a prize of war. The captains of the other two ships, one French, one German, had protested mightily when the American marines had boarded them. Politely, but firmly, they had been promised release after the fleet had sailed.
But for the moment not only wasn’t it sailing — it was being reinforced. It seemed that the entire population of the island was gathered now on the shore staring, gape-mouthed, at the horizon. Where vessel after vessel appeared, until the sea was filled with ships.
But there was a logic among all the bustle and apparent confusion. Signalmen relayed orders: two ironclads passed through the anchored fleet and pulled up at the coaling wharf. At the same time a steam launch made its way out through the ironclads, stopping at each one just long enough for the ship’s captain to step aboard. When it made its last call the crowded launch then returned to USS Dictator. The most powerful battleship ever launched, where Admiral Farragut hung his flag. The captains crowded the Officers’ Mess, talking intensely among themselves. The murmur of sound died down when the admiral entered, followed by his aide heavily burdened with sealed envelopes.
“Gentlemen,” the admiral said, “this will be our last meeting. At dawn tomorrow we sail for Ireland.” He waited, smiling, until the voices had died down. “I know that until this moment you have heard only rumors about the invasion, knew only our destination. Rumors were circulated that we were going to Scotland, to attack England herself, and, of course, Mexico. As far as we can tell the British have been completely duped and their forces are preparing for our invasion of Mexico. But that does not mean that there are none of her warships now at sea that may be encountered — nor does it mean that the continuing threat of the armed might of the British Isles has been neglected. Many of her ships must now be at sea. That is the one thing we must guard against — being observed before our forces are put ashore in Ireland. Therefore I want an outer screen of your ships around the convoy. No other vessels, enemy or otherwise, will penetrate this shield to see the convoy that you are guarding. Neutrals will be boarded and seized, enemy vessels captured. Now — here is the course that we will be taking.”
There was a bustle as the captains stirred and moved about so they could see the chart that had been fixed to the bulkhead. Farragut stood next to it.
“Our course will have two legs. We will first start out from the Azores on a bearing of north-north-west, to stay offshore, well away from the coastal trade of Spain and France. But you will note that this also means that we will be cutting across their transatlantic sea lanes. Therefore we will double our lookouts, who must be alert at all times. Then here,” he touched the map, “when we have passed the Bay of Biscay, when we are at forty-eight degrees, sixty minutes north, on the same latitude as Brest in France, we change course to north-north-east. This is when the two invasion groups will separate. Group A will take a more westerly approach towards the Atlantic coast of Ireland. While group B will sail for the Celtic Sea. Into the heartland of the British Isles. This is a momentous occasion, gentlemen, for we are at last carrying this war to the enemy…”
The distant sound was more felt than heard, through the steel of the deck. “What was that?” the admiral asked.
“Find out,” Captain Johns ordered his first lieutenant, who hurried from the compartment. The officers were silent, all of them commanders of steamships, aware that something was very wrong.
The lieutenant was back in less than a minute with a sailor in grease-smeared clothing. Obviously an engine room artificer. “This rating was on the way here,” the lieutenant said.