Stars and Stripes Forever

INVASION!

The troops must have marched all night. Because there they were, trampling across the field of young wheat, just as the sun rose. A sentry called out for the colonel who appeared, sleepy-eyed and rubbing at his face.

“Redcoats!” The colonel snapped his mouth shut, realizing that he was goggling at them like a teenage girl. In double rank they marched slowly across the field toward the American defenses, then halted upon command. Their pickets were out ahead of the lines, shielding behind trees and dips in the ground. Groups of cavalry were stationed on either flank, while field guns were visible, coming up the road to their rear. Colonel Yandell snapped himself out of the paralysis and shouted.

“Sergeant — turn out the company! I want a message off to…”

“Can’t do it, sir,” the sergeant said grimly. “Tried to telegraph as soon as we saw them, but the wire must be down. Plenty of cavalry out there. Could easily have got around us in the night and cut the wire.”

“Something has to be done. Washington has got to know what is happening here. Get someone, get Anders, he knows the country around here. Use my horse, it’s the best we got.”

The colonel scrawled a quick note on his message pad, tore it off and passed it to the soldier.

“Get this to the railway station in Keeseville, to the telegraph there. Send it to Washington. Tell them to spread the word that we’re under attack.”

Colonel Yandell looked around grimly at his men. His volunteers were green and young and they were frightened. The mere sight of the army before them seemed to have stripped most of them of their senses. Some were starting to shuffle toward the rear; one private was loading his musket, although he already had loaded it with two charges. Colonel Yandell’s snapped commands had exacted numbed and reluctant obedience.

“Colonel, sir, peers like someone’s comin’ this way.”

Yandell looked through the nearest gun port and saw a mounted officer, resplendent in red uniform and gold braid, trotting toward the battlement. A sergeant walked beside him with his pike raised, a white flag tied on its end. Yandell climbed up to the top of the wall and watched their slow approach in silence.

“That’s far enough,” he called out when they had reached the bottom of the slope before him. “What do you want?”

“Are you the commanding officer here?”

“I am. Colonel Yandell.”

“Captain Cartledge, Seaforth Highlanders. I have a message from General Peter Champion, our commanding officer. He informs you that at midnight a declaration of war was issued by the British government. A state of war now exists between your country and mine. He orders you to surrender your weapons and guns. If you comply with his commands you have his word of honor that none of you will be harmed.”

The officer drawled out the words with bored arrogance, one hand on his hip the other resting on the hilt of his sword. His uniform was festooned in gold bullion; rows of shining buttons ran the length of his jacket. Yandell was suddenly aware of his own dusty blue coat, his homespun trousers with a great patch in the seat. His temper flared.

“Now you just tell your general that he can go plumb to hell. We’re Americans here and we don’t take orders from the likes of you. Git!”

He turned to the nearest militiaman, a beardless youth who clutched a musket that must have been older than he was.

“Silas — stop gaping and cock your gun. Put a shot over their heads. Don’t aim at them. I just want to see them skedaddle.”

The single shot cracked out and a small cloud of smoke drifted away in the morning air. The sergeant began to run and the officer pulled at his reins and spurred his horse back toward the British lines.

The first shot of the Battle of Plattsburgh had been fired.

A new war had begun.

The British did not waste any time. As soon as the officer had galloped back to the lines a bugle sounded, loud and clear. Its sound was instantly lost in the boom of the cannon that stood behind the troops, almost hub to hub.

The first shells exploded in the bank below the fortifications. Others, too high, screamed by overhead. The defenders clutched the ground as the gunners corrected their range and shells began to explode on the battlement.

When the firing suddenly stopped the day became so still that the men on the battlement could hear the shouted orders, the quick rattle of a drum. Then, with a single movement, in perfect unison, the two lines of soldiers started forward. Their muskets slanted across their chests, their feet slamming down to the beat of the drums. Suddenly there was a hideous squealing sound that pierced the air. These New York farmers had never heard its like before, had never heard the mad skirl of the bagpipes.

The attackers were halfway across the field before the stunned Americans realized it, struggled to their feet to man the crumbled defenses.

The first line was almost upon them. The Seaforth Highlanders. Big men from the glens, their kilts swirling about their legs as they marched. Closer and closer with the cold precision of a machine.

“Hold your fire until I give the order,” Colonel Yandell shouted as the frightened militiamen began to pop off shots at the attackers. “Wait until they’re closer. Don’t waste your ammunition. Load up.”

Closer, steadily closer the enemy came until the soldiers were almost at the foot of the grassy ramp that led up to battlements.

“Fire!”

It was a ragged volley, but a volley nevertheless. Many of the bullets were too high and whistled over the heads of the ranked soldiers. But these men, boys, were hunters and a rabbit or squirrel was sometimes the only meat they had. Lead bullets thudded home, and big men slumped forward into the grass leaving holes in the ranks.

The response to the American volley was devastating and fast. The front rank of soldiers kneeled as one, raised their guns as one — and fired.

The second rank fired an instant later and it was as though the angel of death had swept across the battlements. Men screamed and died, the survivors looked on, frozen, as the red-clad soldiers, with bayonets fixed, stormed forward. The second rank had reloaded and now fired at anyone who attempted to fire back.

Then their ranks parted and the scaling parties ran through them, slammed their long ladders against the crumbled defenses. With a roar the Highlanders attacked. Up and over and into the lines of the outnumbered defenders.

Colonel Yandell had just formed a second line to the rear, to guard the few guns mounted there. He could only look on in horror as his men were overrun and butchered.

“Hold your fire,” he ordered. “You’ll only kill our own boys. Wait until they form up for the attack. Then shoot and don’t miss. You, Caleb, run back and tell the guns to do the same thing. Hold their fire until they are sure of their targets.”

It was careful butchery, too terrible to watch. Very few Americans survived the attack to join the defenders in the second line.

Again the drums rolled and the big men in their strange uniforms lined up in perfect rows. And came forward. Their lines thinned as the Americans fired. Thinned but did not stop, formed up again as men moved into the gaps.

Colonel Yandell emptied his pistol at the attacking men, fumbled to reload it when he was addressed.

“Colonel Yandell. It is ungentlemanly to fire at an officer under a flag of truce.”

Yandell looked up to see Captain Cartledge standing before him. His uniform had been blackened by smoke, as had his face. He stepped forward and raised his long sword in mocking salute.

Colonel Yandell pointed the pistol and fired. Saw the bullet strike the other man’s arm. The English officer stumbled back under the impact, shifted the sword to his left hand and stepped forward.

Yandell clicked the trigger again and again — but he had only had time to load the one chamber.

The sword plunged into his chest and he fell.

One more dying American, one more victim of this new war.

The regimental carpenter had planed the plank smooth, then tacked on the sheet of white cartridge paper with a couple of nails. It made a rough but serviceable drawing board. A charcoal willow twig was a suitable drawing instrument. Sherman sat outside his tent concentrating on the drawing he was making of the landing and the steamboats behind. He turned when he heard the footsteps approach.

“Didn’t know that you could draw, Cump,” Grant said.

“It snuck up on me and I learned to like it. Did a lot of engineering drawings at the Point and just sort of fell into sketching. I find it relaxing.”

“I could use some of that myself,” Grant said, taking a camp chair from the tent and dropping into it. He pulled a long black cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it. “Never did like waiting. Johnny Reb is quiet — and the British! Why we just don’t know do we. I feel like latching onto a jug of corn likker…”

Sherman turned quickly from the drawing, his face suddenly drawn. Grant smiled.

“Not that I will, mind you,” he said. “That’s all behind me now that there is a war on. I don’t think either of us did well as we should when we were out of the army. But at least you were a bank president in California — while I was hauling timber with a team of mules and burying my face in the booze every night.”

“But the bank failed,” Sherman said grimly. “I lost everything, house, land, everything I had worked for all those years.” He hesitated and went on, his voice lowered. “Lost my sanity, felt that way at times.”

“But you came out of it, Cump — just the way I came out of the bottle. I guess war is our only trade.”

“And you are good at it, Ulysses. I meant it when I wrote that letter. I have faith in you. Command me in any way.”

Grant looked a little discomfited. “Not just me. Halleck said you should have the command under me. I was more than happy to oblige. You have good friends in this army, that’s what it comes down to.”

“General Grant, sir,” a voice called out and they turned to see the sergeant on the bank above. “Telegraph message coming through from the east. About the British the operator said.”

“This could be it,” Grant said, jumping to his feet.

“I’ll put this away. Be right with you.”

The military telegraph was still clicking out its message when General Grant came into the tent. He stood behind the operator, reading over his shoulder as he wrote. Seized up the paper when he was finished. He clamped down hard on his long cigar, then puffed a cloud of smoke over the operator’s head.

“Stuart,” he called out, and his aide hurried over. “Get my staff together. Meeting in my tent in half an hour. If they want to know what it is about, just tell them that we got a second war on our hands.”

“The British?”

“Damned right.”

Grant walked slowly back to his tent, chewing on his cigar and planning out just what he had to do. Sherman was already there, pacing back and forth. As Grant stamped into the tent he knew exactly what orders had to be issued, what actions taken.

Grant poured out a glass of whiskey from the stone crock and passed it over to Sherman. Looked at the jug and smiled grimly; then pushed the corn cob back into its neck.

“They’ve done it, Cump, actually gone and done it. We are at war again with the British. Without much reason this time. I don’t see how stopping one ship and taking some prisoners could lead to this.”

“I don’t think that there has ever been much reason for most wars. Since Victoria has been on the throne there has always been a war going on somewhere around the world for the British.”

“Little ones maybe, but this is sure going to be a big one.” Grant went over and tapped his index finger against the map that was spread across the sawhorse-supported table. “They invaded New York State right up here and attacked the fortifications at Plattsburgh.”

Sherman looked at the site of the attack, just south of Lake Champlain, and shook his head in disbelief, took a sip of his whiskey. “Who would have thunk it. The British always seem ready to fight the last war when the new one begins.”

“Or even the one before it. Stop me if I am wrong — but didn’t General Burgoyne come that way when he invaded the colonies in 1777?”

“He surely did. And that’s not all. Just to prove that the British never learn anything by experience, General Provost in 1814 did exactly the same thing and attacked in exactly the same way. Got whupped though and lost all of his supplies. Maybe that can happen again.”

Grant shook his head glumly. “Not this time, I’m afraid.” He sat back in his field chair and puffed on his cigar until the tip glowed red. He pointed the cigar at his fellow general and close friend.

“Won’t be as easy this time as it was before. All we got in front of them now is some militia with a couple of old cannon. The British field guns and their regulars will run right over those poor boys. The way I see it, it is not a matter of will they lose, but just how long they will be able to hold out.”

Sherman traced his finger down the map. “Once past Plattsburgh the invading army will have a clear track right down the Hudson Valley. If they’re not stopped they’ll go straight through Albany and West Point and the next thing you know they will be knocking on the door in New York City.”

Grant shook his head. “Except it is not going to be that easy. Halleck has already got his troops loaded onto the New York Central Railroad and is heading north even while we speak. As far as we can tell the enemy has not yet penetrated further south than Plattsburgh. A lot depends on how long the militia there can hold on. Halleck hopes to draw the line north of Albany. If he does I will join him there. He wants me to entrain with as many regiments as we can spare from here and come and support him.”

“How many are we taking?”

“No we, Cump. He is putting you in command when I am gone. How many troops will you need if Beauregard tries another attack at Pittsburg Landing?”

Sherman thought long and hard before he spoke. “For defense I’ll have the cannon on the gunboats that are still tied up on the riverbank. So I can fall back as far as the landing and make a stand there. If you can leave me four batteries and a minimum of two regiments I’ll say that we can hold the line. We can always cross back over the river if we have to. Beauregard won’t get through us. After Shiloh we’re not giving away an inch.”

“I think you had better have three regiments. The Rebs still have a sizable army out there.”

“That will do fine. Are hard times coming, Ulysses?”

Grant drew heavily on his cigar. “Can’t lie and say that things are going to be easy. Johnny Reb may be down but he is surely not out. And they’ll just love to see us being kicked up the behind by the lobsterbacks. But I don’t think that the Rebs will try anything for awhile. Why should they?”

Sherman nodded solemn agreement. “You’re absolutely right. They’ll let the British do their fighting for them. While their scouts watch our troop movements and keep track of us, they will have plenty of time to regroup. Then, when we’re tied up on the new fronts, why they can then just pick and choose exactly where they want to attack in force. I cannot lie. Far from being almost won, our war with the Secesh is about to begin to go very badly.”

“I’m afraid that you are right. They’ve got spies everywhere — just like us. They’ll know where we are weakening the line, and they will also know just what their friends the British are doing. Then, soon as they catch us looking away for a moment — bang — and the battle is on.”

Grant was silent for a moment, weighing their problems. “Cump, we have both had our problems in the past — in the army and out of it. Mostly out of it. I used whiskey to drown my problems, as you know.”

Sherman’s face was grim. “Like you, life has not been easy. All of the things I did when I left the army suddenly don’t seem that important. Before the battles started I was fearful and upset. Saw troubles where none existed. That’s all over. But funny enough, it is all a lot easier now. There seems to be clarity in war, a fulfillment in battle. I feel that I am in the right place at last.”

Grant stood and seized his friend’s hand, took him by the arm as well. “You speak the truth far better than you know. I have to tell you that. Some people’s facilities slow down and go numb when faced with battle. Others sharpen and quicken. You are one of those. They are rare. You held my right flank at Shiloh and you never wavered. Got a lot of good horseflesh shot out from under you too, but you never hesitated, not for one second. Now you have to do it again. Hold the line here, Cump, I know you can do it. Do it better than anyone else in this world.”