Stars and Stripes in Peril (11 page)

"And your Americans wish me to do the same? To march against Mexico City?"

"No. Their wish is that you go south. Have you heard of the troop landings there?"

"Just some mixed reports. Strange soldiers in strange uniforms. Something about building a road. It is hard to understand why they should be doing this here. People I have talked to think that they must be mad."

"The soldiers are British. And far from being mad they have a carefully worked out plan. Let me show you, if I may?"

Diáz waved him over. He took a map from his saddle pouch and unrolled it. He sat beside Diáz on the log and pointed at the south of Mexico.

"The landings were made here on the Pacific shore at the small fishing village of Salina Cruz. The soldiers are from many countries in the East, but mainly from India. Their commanders are British, and what they mean to do is to build a road across the isthmus here, to Vera Cruz on the Atlantic."

"Why?"

"Because these troops are from many places in the British Empire. From China and India. The North Americans, though they do not wish it, are still at war with the British. They believe that when the road is complete these troops will be used to invade the United States."

"Now it is all becoming very clear," Diáz said, his voice suddenly cold. "Your Americans wish me to pull their hot chestnuts from the fire. But I am a patriot—not a mercenary."

"I think that it would be more correct to say that my enemy's enemy is my friend. These British troops are also allies of the French. They must be driven from Mexican soil. As proof of what I say I have something else for you." He drew the envelope from inside his jacket and passed it over.

"This is addressed to you. From Benito Juarez."

Diáz held the letter in both hands and stared at it thoughtfully. Juarez, the President of Mexico. The man and the country for which he had fought these many long years. He opened it and read. Slowly and carefully. When he had finished he looked over at O'Higgins.

"Do know what he says here?"

"No. All I know is that I was told only to give it to you after I had told you about the guns and the British."

"He writes that he and the Americans have signed a treaty. He says that he is returning from Texas and is bringing with him many rifles and ammunition as well. He also brings American soldiers with cannon. They will join with the
guerrilleros
in the north. Attack through Monterrey and then move on to Mexico City. The invaders shall be driven back into the sea. He asks that I, and other
guerrilleros
here in the south, fight to stop the British from building this road. He writes that this is the best way that I can fight for Mexico."

"Do you agree?"

Diáz hesitated, turning the letter over and over in his hand. Then gave a very expressive shrug—and smiled.

"Well—why not? They are invaders after all. And mine enemy's enemy as you say. So I shall do what all good friends must do for one another. Fight. But first there is the matter of the weapons. What will be done about that?"

O'Higgins took a much-folded map from his pocket and spread it on his knee and touched the shore on the Gulf of Mexico. "An American steamer is loading the rifles and ammunition here in New Orleans. In one week's time it will arrive here, in this little fishing village, Saltabarranca. We must be there to meet it."

Diáz looked at the map and scowled. "I do not know this place. And to get there we must cross the main trail to Vera Cruz. There is great danger if we expose ourselves on the open plain. We are men of the mountains—where we can attack and defend ourselves. If the French find us there in the open plain we will be slaughtered."

"The one who came with me, Miguel, he knows this area very well. He will guide you safely. Then you must get together all the donkeys that you can. Miguel, and others, they watch the French at all times. He tells me that there are no large concentrations of French troops anywhere nearby. We can reach the coast at night without being seen. Once you get the guns you will be able to fight any smaller units that we may meet when we return. It can be done."

"Yes, I suppose that this plan will work. We will get the weapons and use them to kill the British. But not for you or for your gringo friends. We fight for Juarez and Mexico—and for the day when this country will be free of all foreign troops."

"I fight for that day as well," O'Higgins said. "And we will win."

PERFIDIOUS ALBION

Brigadier Somerville waited on the quayside, holding his hat to prevent it from being blown away. The bitter north wind whipped spray and rain across his face, more like December than May here in Portsmouth. The fleet, at anchor, were just dim shapes in the harbor. Dark hulls with yardarms barely visible through the rain. Only one of the ships was bare of masts, with just a single funnel projecting above her deck.

"Valiant,
sir," the naval officer said. "Sister ship of the
Intrepid
which will be arriving tomorrow. Her shakedown cruise was most satisfactory I understand. Some trouble with leaks around the gunshields—but that was soon put right."

"Ugly thing, isn't it? I do miss the lines of the masts."

"We don't," the commander said with brutal frankness. "I had friends on
Warrior.
She went down with all hands. We are determined to see that shan't happen again.
Valiant
can equal or better the Yankees. We have learned a thing or two since
Monitor
and
Virginia
fought each other to a draw. I saw that battle. My ship was stationed outside of Hampton Roads at that time for that very purpose. It seems a century ago. The first battle of iron ship against iron ship. Naval warfare changed that day. Irreversibly and forever. I have been a sailor all my life and I love life under sail. But I am also a realist. We need a fighting navy and a modern navy. And that means the end of sail. The ship of war must now be a fighting machine. With bigger guns and far better armor. That was the trouble with
Warrior.
She was neither flesh nor fowl nor good red herring. Neither sail nor steam, but a little of both. These new ships of war have been built to the same pattern—but with major improvements. Now that the sails and masts are gone, along with all their gear and sail lockers, there is more room for more coal bunkers. Which means that we can stay at sea that much longer. Even more important is the fact that we can now cut the crew requirements in half."

"You've lost me, I am afraid."

"Simple enough. Without sails we don't need veteran sailors to climb the masts to set the sails. There is also the rather dismal fact that aboard
Warrior
sails and anchor were lifted manually, for some forgotten admiralty bit of reasoning. We use steam winches now that do the job faster and better. Also, although it will be small solace to those who died in
Warrior,
we have redesigned the citadel, the armored box that was to protect the gun batteries. But it didn't. We have learned a thing or two since then. The Yankee guns punched right through the vertical armor plate. The plate is thicker now—and we have learned as well from the design of
Virginia.
You will remember that her armor was slanted at a forty-five-degree angle, so solid shot just bounced off of her. So now our citadel also has slanted sides. And, unlike,
Warrior,
we also have armor plate covering the bow and stern. They are real fighting ships that can better anything afloat."

"I certainly hope that you are right, Commander. Like you, I believe that we in the military must change our ways of thinking. Adapt or die."

"In what way?"

"Small arms, for one instance. During the past conflict I watched the Americans shoot our lines to pieces, over and over again. I believe we had the best soldiers, certainly the best discipline. Yet we lost the battle. The Americans fired faster from their breech-loading rifles. If—when—we go to war again we must have guns like those."

"I've heard of them, yes," the naval officer said. "But I value discipline more highly. Certainly we need it aboard ship. It is the disciplined and highly trained gun crew who will not wilt under fire. Men who will continue serving their gun irrespective of what is happening around them. The marines too. I've watched them train—and I have watched them in combat. Like machines they are. Load, aim, fire. Load, aim, fire. If they had these fancy breech-loaders, why they could fire at any time they pleased. No discipline. They would surely waste their ammunition."

"I agree with your guncrew training. Discipline shows under fire. But I am sorry to disagree with your attitude towards repeating rifles. When soldiers face soldiers the ones who put the most lead into the air towards the enemy will win. I assure you, sir, for I saw it happen."

The steam launch sounded its whistle as it approached the quay and the two men waiting there to board it. A companionway was slung down from the boat and Somerville followed the naval officer down into the cramped cabin. It stank of a chill fug, but at least it offered protection from the rain as they puffed out into the harbor. A few minutes later the launch tied up to a landing stage. They hurried across it and climbed the companionway that gave them access to the new warship. The commander called out to one of the sailors on watch and instructed him to take Somerville below to the captain's quarters.

Aboard
Valiant
the luxurious space of the captain's day room was in marked contrast to the cabin of the launch that had brought him here. Coal-oil lamps in gimbals cast a warm light on the dark wood fittings and on the leather upholstered chairs. The naval officers turned from the charts they were looking at when the army officer came in.

"Ah, Somerville, welcome aboard," Admiral Napier said. A tall man with magnificent mutton-chop whiskers, the top of his head almost brushing the ceiling. "I don't believe you have met Captain Fosbery who commands this vessel. Brigadier Somerville."

There was a decanter of port next to the charts and Somerville accepted a glass. The admiral tapped the chart.

"Land's End, that is where we will be two days from now. That is our rendezvous. Some of the cargo ships, the slower ones under sail, are already on the way there at the present time. We shall sail tomorrow after
Intrepid
arrives. I'll transfer my flag to her because I want to see how she maneuvers at sea."

Somerville studied the chart and nodded. "Does every ship know our destination?"

The admiral nodded. "They do. Each vessel has been issued with its own individual orders. Ships do get separated in bad weather. And these transports are all heavily laden with cannon so we are sure to have stragglers." He pushed the chart aside and slid over another one. "We shall all rendezvous here, out of sight of land and away from the usual shipping lanes. And certainly away from the state of Florida. Sixty-six degrees west on latitude twenty-four north."

"The various ships involved, they have known this destination—for how long?"

"At least the past three weeks."

"That will be fine, very fine indeed."

They both smiled at that, Admiral Napier even chuckling to himself. Captain Fosbery noticed this and wondered at its significance—then shrugged it off as one of the foibles of high command. He knew better than to ask them what appeared to be so funny.

"Another port, sir?" Fosbery asked, noting the army officer's empty glass.

"Indeed. And a toast perhaps? Admiral?"

"I heartily agree. What shall we say—a safe voyage. And confusion to the enemy."

This time the two officers did laugh out loud, then drained their glasses. Captain Fosbery reminded himself again that he was too lowly in rank to dare to ask them what the joke was.

It was a chill and rainy afternoon in England. Not so in Mexico, far across the width of the Atlantic Ocean. It was early morning there and already very hot. Rifleman Bikram Haidar of the 2nd Gurkha Rifles did not mind the heat too much. Nepal in the summer could be as hot as this—even hotter. And Bombay, where they had been stationed before they came here, was far worse. No, it wasn't the tropical heat but the endless digging that was so bothersome. If he had wanted to stay at home and be a farmer, he could have spent his life digging in the fields like this, with a shovel and a hoe. But never for a second had he wanted to be a farmer. Since he had been a small boy he had always known that he would be a soldier like his father, and his father before him. He remembered how his grandfather would sit by the fire in the evening, smoking his pipe. Sitting with his back straight, just as erect as he had been fifty years before. And the stories that he told! Of strange countries and strange peoples. Battles fought and won. Tricks that had been played, good times that the regiment had enjoyed together. Wonderful! He never, not for a single instant, had even the tiniest doubt that he wanted to be a soldier of the Queen. He had no doubts now. He just did not like the digging.

He felt better when the jemadar called out to him and the others nearby.

"Leave the digging and get some of this undergrowth cut and out of the way. So the axe men can get at the trees."

Bikram happily drew his kukri and trotted with the other Gurkhas, past the rows of laboring men. Behind them the dusty road curved around the side of the hill, crossed a ravine on a wooden bridge that the engineers were just completing. Ahead the growth had been cleared and soldiers of the Bombay Rifles were chopping down the trees that blocked the way. Beyond them was the jungle.

Bikram had started to hack at a trailing vine when they heard a distant rattle from their rear.

"Is that gunfire, jemadar?" he asked.

The jemadar grunted agreement; he had heard the sound of guns often enough in the past. He looked back down the road to the spot where their muskets were neatly stacked; quickly made up his mind.

"Get your guns—"

He never finished speaking as a ragged volley of shots sounded from the depths of the jungle before them. He fell, blood pouring from his torn throat. Bikram hurled himself to the ground, crawled forward beneath the shrubbery, his kukri extended. More shots tore the leaves over his head, followed by the sound of running men ahead of him. Then nothing. There was shouting from behind him. He lay still for a moment. Should he follow the attackers? One man armed only with his sharp blade. It did not seem to be a wise thing to do. But he was Gurkha and a fighting man. He was just starting after the ambushing gunmen when there were more shouted commands and the sound of a bugle.