Stars and Stripes in Peril (34 page)

North Queen Street

was surrounded, the artillery barracks next to it as well.

The Battle of Belfast had begun.

While far to the south the battle for Cork was over. The trains from Galway had brought the American forces into Cork Station. Stonewall Jackson's troops had fanned out while the Gatling guns were being unloaded. The attackers had spread out along the

Lower Glanmire Road

, through the fields and past the hospital. They had crossed the

Old Youghal Road

and had launched a fierce attack on the barracks there—which was almost over even before the first ragged bugle call had sounded the warning.

The impregnable forts guarding the entrance to the harbor were taken from the rear, even as the gunners were firing ranging shots at the great black bulk of the ironclad. The attacking ship had fired two broadsides before retiring out of range. The first that the gunners knew that they were under attack from the land was when they saw the bayonets at their throats.

It was indeed a new kind of lightning war.

IRELAND UNDER SIEGE

General Arthur Tarbet was wakened by the hammering on his bedroom door. He blinked his eyes open and saw that there was the first light of dawn around the window curtains.

"What is it?" he called out.

"Ships, sir. Battleships in the lough!"

Even as the words were spoken there came the rumble of distant gunfire.

"Damn it to hell!" he swore as he kicked the bed covers off and jammed his feet into his boots. He pulled on his heavy woolen robe and stumbled hastily across the room. He was seventy-five years old, arthritic and weary, and had been offered command of Her Majesty's forces in Belfast as a sinecure, an easy post to fill while he awaited his retirement. This was obviously not to be. Captain Otfried, the officer of the day, was waiting for him.

"What is happening, Captain?"

"A certain confusion, sir. Something has gone wrong with the telegraph connection to the gun batteries on the Lough. Not functioning. They sent a runner to report. At least two ironclads are in Belfast Lough. I imagine that is their firing that we hear."

"Any identification?"

"None at the moment. Though we can safely assume—"

"Yankees. Bloody Yankees. I can figure that one out for myself. Telegraph Dublin at once."

"I'm afraid that line is not functioning either."

"Hmm." Tarbet dropped into the chair behind his desk. "No coincidence there. Have you tried the international cable to Scotland?"

"No, sir."

"Do it now. Though I wager that it will be a waste of time. Whoever cut the wires will not have made an exception there. Dare we assume that the war has come to Belfast?"

"A reasonable assumption, General."

"Order me some coffee." He leaned his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers as he thought about the possibilities. He had been an intelligent officer, as well as a fighting one, and age had not hampered his abilities.

"An attack by sea. Valueless unless landings follow. Or are they already under way? And why Belfast? Most of our troops are in the south and that is where the battle must be fought and won. Or is Dublin under attack as well? Ahh, thank you."

Otfried opened the window and they could hear the distant rattle of firing. Single shots, then a ripping sound of rapid firing like an entire company firing all together.

"I believe that we are under attack by land as well, sir."

"I believe that you are right," Tarbet said as he sipped gratefully at the hot coffee and looked closely at Captain Otfried. "Like to ride, do you Otfried?"

"Rather. Member of my hunt at home."

"Good. Then get saddled up. I am certain that Ireland is under siege, certainly under attack. If it is, why then the mail boat from Kingstown will certainly have been captured, to prevent any news of the attack on Dublin from reaching London. The ferry from Larne to Scotland will have been taken as well, I wager. No hope of getting word out that way. I am sure that there will be a gunboat closing that port as well. It should be easy enough to blockade all the Irish ports to the south. But it's a different matter here, with Scotland just across this bit of sea. If any word is to be sent it must be sent from here. I am confident that the little fishing port a few miles north of Larne won't be watched.... what's the name?"

"Balleygalley."

"The very place." The general was writing as he talked. "Ride like the very devil and get yourself there. Commandeer a boat to take you over to Scotland. I'll give you some coin, just in case an appeal to the mariner's patriotism doesn't work. Take this message, find a telegraph, there's one in Port Logan, get it to Whitehall. Go my boy—may luck be with you."

The gunfire sounded loud behind Captain Otfried as he galloped out of Belfast on the coast road to the north. When he passed Larne he saw that the general's assumption had been correct. The mail boat was still there—an armorclad tied up beside her. He rode on.

His horse was lathered with sweat and starting to stumble when he galloped through the streets of Balleygalley and down to the strand. A fishing boat had just dropped sail and was tying up at the jetty. Otfried slipped down from his horse and called out to them.

"I say—who's in command here?"

The gray-haired fisherman looked up from the rope he was securing.

"Aye."

"I must cross to Scotland at once."

"Go to Larne. I'm no ferry."

"Larne is sealed off. I saw an enemy gunboat there."

"Get away with you! And what enemy would that be?"

"The Americans."

"Well—it's not my business." He reached up and took the fish box from the man on deck.

"Please do this. I will pay well."

The captain dropped the box and looked up. "How much is well?"

"Fifty pounds."

The fisherman rubbed his beard in thought. "Done. Can I unload my catch first?"

"No. There is no time. And you'll be coming right back."

The captain thought about this, then nodded. "Tie your horse up and get aboard." He bent and untied the line. A squall came up and rain spattered on the deck as the sail filled and they headed out to sea.

More squalls were coming in from the west: they hid the coast from sight when they swept over the fishing boat. The sea was empty of ships and Otfried sincerely hoped that it would stay that way.

But his good luck did not last. The captain estimated that they had come halfway to Scotland when he pointed out to another squall coming down upon them.

"Did you see that—just before the rain come up. A large steamer coming our way."

"No. Are you sure?"

The fisherman nodded. "In a moment you'll see for yourself."

What to do? How to escape capture? Otfried had a sudden inspiration. "Turn about," he said. "Head back towards Ireland."

"What?"

"Do as I say man—hurry."

After a moment's hesitation the wheel came over. Captain Otfried was suddenly conscious of his uniform.

"I'm going below. If the ship is American say that you are from Scotland—going to sell your fish in Ireland. Do it!"

The rain blew past and there was the warship—with the American flag flying from her mast. Otfried closed the door all the way. Strained to listen at the crack between the door and the frame.

"Heave to!" someone shouted and the fishing boat swung about into the wind and lay pitching in the waves. "What's your destination?"

"Carrickfergus. Sell my fish there."

And spoken with a thick North Irish accent! Could the Americans tell the difference between that and Scots? The silence lengthened—and then the voice called out again.

"Not today, Scotty. Just turn about and go back to Scotland."

Otfried smothered his cry of happiness, pounded his fist into his palm. It had worked! A simple ruse—the Americans were sealing off Ireland from all communication with the outside world. He felt the boat go about again, waited below until he was sure it was safe.

"You can come on deck," the captain called out. "They're gone. And now is the time for you to tell me just what is happening with the Yanks and all."

"We have been at war with the United States, still are, as I am sure you know. I do believe that the war has now widened and includes Ireland."

"The divil you say! What would they want to be doin' that for?"

"I'm afraid that I am not in their confidence. But I imagine that their aim would be to drive the British out."

The captain looked up at the sail and made an adjustment on the wheel. Loyalist or Republican, he did not say. Otfried started to query him, then changed his mind. This was not his business. What he had to do was make sure that the warning did go out. He had to get to the telegraph. Whitehall must be informed of the invasion.

No one in Jackson, Mississippi, knew that a new war had started some thousands of miles away across the Atlantic Ocean. Even if they had known, the chances were that it would have taken second place to the dramatic events now unfolding in Jackson. Since soon after dawn the crowds had begun to gather outside of the jail. Silent for the most part, though there was the occasional jeer at the troops of the Texas Brigade who were lined up before the jail. The soldiers looked uncomfortable—but snapped to attention when the captain and the first sergeant came out of the building. They ignored the questions and the taunts from the crowd as they made their way to their temporary quarters in the hotel next door. The crowd grew restless.

Major Compton stopped the cab well clear of the crowd and paid off the driver. He did not know Jackson at all, so had taken the cab from the station. Now he rubbed at his chin, he had cut himself some when he had shaven himself on the train. He straightened his tie and brushed some soot from his tan jacket: he was not used to being out of uniform. But it would have taken some special kind of insanity to wear his blue jacket down here. He picked up his carpetbag and pushed through the crowd towards the hotel.

The lobby was crowded and noisy. A small boy with a bundle of newspapers was doing a smart business, with people climbing over each other to buy one. An army captain in field gray came in from the street and worked his way through the crowd to a hallway on the far side of the lobby. Compton went after him: it was much quieter in the hall. Two soldiers in butternut brown guarded a doorway labeled "Ballroom" at the far end of the hallway. They looked at him suspiciously when he approached.

"I am Major Compton. I am here to see General Bragg."

One of the soldiers opened the door and called inside. A moment later a corporal came out.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"I am Major Compton of the United States Army. I am here to see General Bragg. He will have had a telegraph message about me."

The corporal looked suspiciously at the jacket and tie. "There's a chair over there, Major. If you'll just sit a bit I'll see what I can find out."

Compton sat down and paced his bag on the floor. The guards stared into space. The crowd in the street outside were a distant roar, like waves breaking on a beach. After some minutes the corporal returned.

"You best come with me."

General Bragg was not a happy man. He waved Compton to a chair as he shuffled through the papers on the desk before him, until he found the right one. Pulled it out and read from it.

"From the War Department... will make himself known to you... officer in the 29th Connecticut." He dropped the sheet of paper and looked at Compton, cocking his head to one side.

"I thought that the 29th Connecticut was, well—"

"A Negro regiment?"

"That's what I heard."

"It is. The senior officers are all like me."

"Well then, yes, I see. How can I be of help to you, Major?"

"Maybe I can be of help to
you,
General. You are not in an enviable position here..."

"You can damn well say that again, and twice on Sunday. We're all good Texas boys in this brigade and we fought for the South. But folks here look at us like we're lower than raccoon shit."

"Understandable. They're all upset."

"Hell,
we're
upset! After what happened to ol' Jeff Davis. Went and got shot by a nigger..."

"While wearing a hood and participating in a lynching."

"Yes, well, there is that. A man his age ought to have had more sense. But, anyway, you never say why you're here."

"I would like you to arrange it so I can see the prisoner in jail."

"Nothing I can do about that. Have to see the judge, the sheriff about that. We just sent here to keep the peace, such as it is."

"I will see the sheriff—but any decisions about the prisoner are really up to you. You are an army officer and this is a military matter. Sergeant Lewis is in the army—"

"The hell you say!"

"I do say—and you can telegraph the War Department if you don't believe me. He was on detached service, working with the Freedmen's Bureau. But he was in uniform when he was arrested and he is subject to military justice."

The general's jaw fell. "Am I right? Are you telling me that the army wants him?"

"They do. If there any charges to answer over this death he will be tried by a military court martial. Legally he cannot be tried by a Mississippi civilian court."

General Bragg let his breath out with a whoosh—then laughed.

"I like your brass, major. One lone Yankee officer coming down here and trying to walk outta jail—with a prisoner that the whole South is dying to lynch."

"I am not alone, General. I have the strength of the army behind me. I have you and your troops to help me make sure that no miscarriage of justice does occur."

General Bragg rose from his chair and began to pace the room in silence. He stopped to light a black cigar, blew out a cloud of acrid smoke. Pointed the cigar like a pistol at Compton.

"You know what you asking?"

"I do. I was told that if you have doubts about your duty in this matter, that you were to telegraph the Secretary of War."

"I gonna do just that—
Orderly!"
He bellowed the last word, then scratched a quick message on a pad as a corporal came in from an adjoining room. "Have this sent to the War Department. Wait there at the telegraph office and bring me back the reply."