Stars and Stripes in Peril (6 page)

There was little that Lincoln could answer to that. He went through the records that Benjamin passed over to him, and on paper there seemed to be progress. Slaves freed, payments made—to former slave holders and demobilized soldiers.

"You are doing well, very well indeed," Lincoln said, arranging the reports into a smooth pile. There was a light tap on the door before Nicolay came in.

"Mr. President—you wanted to know when Mr. Mill arrived. He is here now, and his daughter is with him as well."

"Even better. He has talked much of her. Show them in." He turned to Benjamin. "I'm most glad that you were here when he arrived. When spirits lag Mill can be of great support."

They both rose when John Stuart Mill entered with his daughter.

"President Lincoln, and Mr. Benjamin, may I present my daughter Helen."

Helen was a plain girl, wearing simple clothing. Yet she had the same sparkle of curiosity in her eyes as her father. A warm smile touched her lips as she gave a slight curtsy.

"Your father has spoken of you in most glowing terms," Lincoln said. "Both as an inspiration and an aide in his works."

"Father is too kind, Mr. President. He is the genius in the family."

"Who would be that less of a genius," Mill protested, "had it not been for the tireless support of you and your dear mother."

"I must thank you both," Benjamin said, "for your aid and advice when this country was in dire need. If your plans are followed we will have a new country—and particularly a new South that will be born out of the wreckage of the old."

"Not my plans, Mr. Benjamin. I have just pointed out and explained some economic truths. Science evolves as man evolves. We must build on the past. Ricardo was a great man and his economic theories led philosophers, including myself, onto the path to greater knowledge."

"My father is being too modest," Helen said. "The followers of Ricardo had rigidified his objective findings into a straitjacket for society. When he wrote his famous book,
The Principles of Political Economy and Taxation,
he formulated certain rules that his followers have treated with almost holy respect. They believed without questioning his laws which he said regulate the distribution, between the different classes of landowners, capitalists and labor, of the produce of industry. My father was one of the very few who did not take Ricardo's laws as holy writ. What my father said was transparently obvious—once it had been said. He said that it doesn't matter if what they called the
natural
action of society was to depress wages, equalize profits or even raise rents. It was only natural if people believed that it was natural."

Mill smiled and nodded agreement. "I'm afraid that, as always, my daughter has cut to the core of the problem. Though I am a bit more humble as I stand in the shadow of a great man. Without Ricardo to build upon I could never have seen the correct path that we must follow. If society does not like the "natural" results of its activities it has only to change. Society can really do anything that it desires. Society can tax and subsidize, it could give all of its wealth to the President to spend as he willed. Or it can run a gigantic charity ward. But whatever it does there is no
correct
distribution, or at least none that economics has any claim to fathom. And that process is what is happening in the South. An almost completely agrarian society is being turned into a modern industrial society. Railroads need factories which need coal and iron—and all of them need workers. These workers receive wages which they in turn pay for products, so the economy thrives. There is nothing natural or inevitable about how a society develops. Changing moral values can drive a society to new heights of success."

Judah P. Benjamin smiled wryly and shook his head. "And there, as the bard said, is the rub. Too many in the South do not want to change their moral values and they yearn for the old and simplistic values, with the few governing the many and the Negro at the very bottom, enslaved and helpless."

Mill nodded, then sighed. "You are indeed correct, sir. But as physical values are changed, you will find that moral values change with them. A man freed from slavery will fight to keep that freedom. A man receiving a decent wage will not go back to penury without a battle. You are going through the period of transition now and I do not envy you your labors—or those of the Freedmen's Bureau. Your reformation will be a painful one for some. But as the majority who enjoys its benefits grows larger you will find that the minority will be forced to join the others."

"I pray that you are right, sir. Pray to God that this country will survive the strife and change and emerge triumphant, strong and united."

"A prayer we all share," Lincoln said, the strength of conviction in his voice.

Shortly thereafter Mill made his apologies and he and his daughter left. Benjamin stood then as well and gathered up his papers. "I have taken up too much of your time," he said.

"Quite the opposite," Lincoln said. "We are in this battle together and must stand united. But tell me—what of Jefferson Davis?"

"His bullet wound has almost healed, and the doctor says that the worst is past. Of course he has lost a good deal of weight and is very weak. But the doctor tells me that he improves daily. He now walks from the bedroom to the parlor where he sits up part of the day. And his morale seems much better. When the weather improves he hopes to be fit enough to ride again. He was always the great one for riding and misses it sorely."

"That is the very best news. When you see him next give him my very fondest regards and my sincere hopes for a speedy recovery."

"I shall do that, sir, I certainly shall."

"Tell him also how well your work is going. That you are creating the new South—and all of us are cheered by the expansion and advances made in this new United States that he worked so hard to found."

Cheered somewhat by the President's encouragement, Judah P. Benjamin walked the few blocks to the house he was renting while he was in WashingtonCity. It was growing dark and the first lamps were being lit. When he turned the corner into his street he saw a small crowd ahead. They appeared to be in front of his house, of all things. One of them seemed to be holding a flickering torch, or at least it looked that way. Benjamin pushed through the crowd of onlookers and stopped. No torch this.

Planted in the lawn by his front gate was a wooden cross. It must have been drenched in kerosene and set alight for it was burning vigorously.

A burning cross? What could it possibly mean?

General William Tecumseh Sherman was at his desk in the War Department soon after dawn. It was still dark when the surprised sentry had sent for the officer of the day to unlock the big front door. The past days had been busy ones, arranging first for the rifles and ammunition to be assembled, then to arrange for it to be shipped west. At the same time they were gathering all of the field guns that could be mustered to follow after the rifles. Batteries from both the North and the South mingled together; so far there had been no complaints and both sides had worked together as one. While Sherman had been doing this all of his other work as commander of the Armies had been neglected. Now there seemed to be no end to the paperwork that accumulated on his desk—and no end as well to his efforts to reduce it.

At seven o'clock Sherman's aide, Colonel Roberts, slammed through the door, whistling shrilly as he came. He stopped abruptly when he saw his commanding officer already at work.

"Sorry, sir. I didn't know you were here."

"I'm just as sorry as you are, Sam. I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about the list of acquisitions we have to send to the Congressional committee—and I couldn't get back to sleep. Figured I could work on it here better than I could in bed. And the guns as well. I am stripping our artillery of all the smooth-bore, unrifled cannon that can be found. They are going to Mexico where they will do good service in an army that has not been trained in the use of more modern rifled guns. And they will be easier to supply with munitions. Yet we must not be left defenseless. Parrott and all of the other foundries must step up production. I don't care if they work twenty-fours a day. We need those guns."

"I shall get onto that matter at once. But first—can I get some coffee, General?"

"If you don't I'll court-martial you. And if you do I'll put you in for light colonel."

"On the way, sir!"

Sherman stretched his legs out and sipped gratefully at the hot coffee. He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk.

"We're losing another regiment. The 14th New York's enlistment is about up. At this rate we're not going to have much of an army left soon."

"What we need is another good war."

"We may just be having that. Did you read the report from Room 313?"

"No. Was I supposed to?"

"Not officially—but I want my staff to know everything that I know. It's early days yet there. The British troops have landed in Mexico, but they don't seem to be going anywhere yet. Although they are laboring away at building a road through the jungle. But there is more in the report. There is the matter of the Mexican irregulars. A confidential report about the plan we are making with Juarez to let his people in the Oaxaca mountains take care of the British troops all by themselves."

"I didn't see that," Roberts said.

"You wouldn't—there's just the single copy addressed to me, for my eyes only. So don't let on that you know about it just yet. There is a lot of secrecy in the workings of Room 313, and I am sure that there is good need for it. But I want my staff to know everything that I know, no matter what Room 313 thinks. It would be impossible for us to work efficiently if I am forced to keep vital facts from you."

There was a knock on the door and Roberts went to open it; took the message form from the sergeant.

"I think this is what you have been waiting for, General. Word from the ground range at Suitland. They're doing a test firing of the gun today and they wonder if you want to be there."

"Damn right I do. It will also be my greatest pleasure to get away from the paperwork for a bit." Sherman pushed his chair back and climbed to his feet. "Get our horses saddled. Spring is here and this is a fine day to be out of the office."

They trotted down

Pennsylvania Avenue

on the bright, sunny morning. General Sherman returned the salute of a passing troop of cavalry and almost seemed to be enjoying himself.

But it was all too brief a ride to the artillery range at Suitland. The guards at the gate of the ground range presented arms as they rode in. General Ramsay must have been waiting for them, for he came out of the office and stood by the hitching post as they rode up.

"I hope you have some good news," Sherman said.

"Just about as good as can be expected. You'll see for yourself. You must remember those demonstrations of the Gatling gun?"

"Indeed I do. But I feel that it was an idea that was before its time. We would all love to have a gun that could fire continuously, spitting out bullets at a fair clip. But as I remember this gun kept jamming. They spent more time prying out defective rounds than they did shooting."

"They did indeed. But Ordnance has taken that 1862 model of the .58 caliber Gatling and has improved it beyond belief."

"In what way?"

"For one thing it was too heavy to move around and its rate of fire was too slow. Not only that but the paper cartridges in steel chambers tended to jam in the gun as you said. They've abandoned that approach and redesigned the weapon completely. Now the gun uses rim-fire copper cartridges. They slide easily into battery and are ejected smoothly, which in turn keeps the jams down to a very low figure. Another fault was that the bores in the barrels of the original model were tapered. Because of this the barrels and the chambers did not always align exactly which caused misfires, shots in the open receivers, and all other kinds of mischief. Decreasing the tolerances in the machining has taken care of that. There sir, see for yourself."

They walked over to the firing range to join the small group of officers who were already gathered there. Sherman was only vaguely aware of them since his attention, like theirs, was focused on the deadly-looking weapon mounted there.

The Gatling gun model of 1863 was an impressive weapon, from its shining brass receiver to its six long, black barrels. Ramsay pointed to the V-shaped container atop the gun.

"The cartridges are loaded into this hopper and are fed down by gravity. When the handle is turned the cartridges are loaded into the barrels one at a time. The six cam-operated bolts alternately wedge, fire and drop chambers to eject the spent cartridges."

"And the rate of fire?"

"Just as fast as the handle can be turned and cartridges loaded into the hopper. Say five rounds a second, three hundred a minute."

Sherman nodded as he walked around the gun, admiring it. "Those are mighty good figures. How mobile is it?"

"This model weighs half as much as the first one. It can be pulled by a single horse and can easily keep up with the infantry. Add two more horses for the ammunition and you have a mighty impressive weapon here."

"Let us see it in action."

The waiting gunnery team jumped forward at the sergeant's command. The hopper was filled, the elevation handle locked into place, the gunners ready.

"Fire!" the sergeant shouted.

The sound was an ear-splitting roar. The gunner traversed as his loader cranked furiously at the handle. The row of wooden-framed paper targets two hundred yards distant tore and splintered. If they had been enemy soldiers they would all be dead.

"Cease fire!"

The smoke drifted away. The silence was numbing after the ripsaw sound of the gun. The targets fluttered away in torn fragments. Sherman nodded as he looked at the destruction that the single gun had wrought.

"I am most impressed," he said, "Most deeply impressed. I can see them on the battlefield already. Dig them in and there is no force—of infantry or cavalry—that will be able to take a position so guarded. This is going to have a profound effect on the way we fight battles—take my word for that. Now get them into production so when we need them they will be there. I want to see a thousand of them ready for action as soon as it can be done."