The resistance by the British forces around Parliament Square was dying down. Flesh and blood could not stand against the mechanized attack, the Gatling guns and the decimating volleys of the rapid-firing rifles of the American troops. General Sherman noted the reports as they came in; issued clipped orders. These veterans knew what to do. Within an hour the enemy had been pushed back into St. James’s Park and the final assault was ready to begin. Sherman wrote a last order and passed it to the waiting rider.
“For Colonel Foster at Admiralty Arch. He is to advance when he sees us move out.”
During the brief wait ammunition had been rushed to the Gatling carriers. Horses also pulled forward a wagon laden with barrels of liquid fuel to fill their emptying tanks. Sherman read the last of the reports and nodded.
“Sound the attack,” he said.
As the bugle notes echoed from the buildings, they were drowned out as the engines of the Gatling carriers roared into life. Clouds of blue smoke rolled across the square from their blatting exhausts as the advance began.
It was attrition and death for the defenders. Armored in the fore, spitting leaden death, the carriers rolled up to the hastily constructed barricades and slaughtered the troops that were concealed there, firing until the ineffective defending fire died away. Willing hands tore gaps in the barricades and the carriers rolled through the defensive lines. There was another cavalry charge down Birdcage Walk by the defenders as Buckingham Palace came into view; it was no more successful than the first and only a handful of survivors stumbled in retreat.
The Gatling carriers rumbled ahead of the troops, pausing only when they reached the palace. A household guard regiment there put up a heroic defense, but their thin steel cuirasses could not stop the American
bullets. Through the gates the attackers surged, held up for a moment by defenders within the palace itself. But the withering Gatling fire crashed through the windows on the ground floor, sending a spray of death crawling up to the defenders firing from the floors above. With a roaring cheer the soldiers surged forward into the palace itself.
When General Sherman and his staff rode into the palace yard a few minutes later, the battle had come to a bloody end. Corpses sprawled across the cobbles. Here and there were a few wounded survivors now being tended by medical corpsmen. Two American soldiers, with slung rifles, emerged from the entrance holding between them an elegantly dressed man bearing a white cloth.
“Came walking right up to us, General, just a-waving this tablecloth,” the corporal said. “Let on how he wanted to speak with whoever is in charge.”
“Who are you?” Sherman asked coldly.
“Equerry to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.”
“That is fine. Take me to her.”
The man drew himself up, trying to control his quaking limbs as he faced the armed enemy.
“That will not possible. She is not here. Please call off this attack and the senseless killing.”
“Where is she?”
The man stiffened, his mouth clamped shut. Sherman started to query him, changed his mind. He turned to his staff.
“We will assume for the moment that he is telling the truth. Search the palace, speak to the servants, find out where the Queen has gone. Meanwhile I will make my headquarters here.”
“Look, General, up there,” an officer called out, and pointed toward the roof of Buckingham Palace. Everyone who heard him turned to look.
An American soldier had appeared on the roof and was lowering the flag that flew there. It fluttered down the face of the building and lay crumpled on the stones. Now the Stars and Stripes was going up in its place. A great cheering broke out from the watching soldiers; even Sherman nodded and smiled.
“This is a great moment, a great day, sir,” his chief of staff said.
“It is indeed, Andy, it surely is.”
A DARING ESCAPE
From his window, facing out onto Whitehall, Brigadier Somerville had an uninterrupted view of the battle for London. Once he had informed the household cavalry and the foot guards, all of the troops defending the city, of the approaching menace, the defense of the city was out of his hands. There was the continuing sound of gunfire from the direction of the Embankment; cannon sounded in Parliament Square. He watched as proud cavalrymen trotted by, helmets and cuirasses gleaming. This was the second time he had seen the cavalry attack the enemy; none had returned from the first wave.
Now Somerville saw the shattered remnants of the last charge returning from battle. It was terrible, but he could not look away. If the finest soldiers in the land could not stand against the enemy — was there any hope for them at all? He saw bloody disaster, death, and destruction. This was the end. A knocking at his door stirred him from his dark reverie. He turned to see Sergeant Major Brown enter and snap to attention and salute.
“What is it, Sergeant Major?” He heard his voice as from a great distance, his mind still dazed by the horrors he had just witnessed.
“Permission to join the defenses, sir.”
“No. I need you with me.” Somerville spoke the words automatically — but there was a reason. With an effort he drew his thoughts together as an element of a plan began to form. His work in London was done. But, yes, he could still be of value to this war, to the defense of his country. The rough idea of what he must do was there, still not fleshed out, but it held out hope. He knew what he must do for a start. Escape. He realized that the sergeant major was still at attention, waiting for him to finish what he had started to say.
“Stand at ease. You and I are going to get out of this city and join up with Her Majesty’s forces where we can do the most good.” He looked at the man’s scarlet jacket with its rows of medals. He couldn’t leave the safety of the building looking like this. “Do you keep any other clothes here?”
The soldier was startled by the question, but nodded in reply. “Some mufti, sir. I use it when I’m not on duty.”