Stars & Stripes Forever (21 page)

The general shook his head, realizing suddenly that he was close to exhaustion. A South Hampshire private stumbled out of a shed in front of him, stopped and drank from the crock of spirits that he had found. He dropped, stunned unconscious, when Bullers caught him a mighty blow on the neck with his fist. The general picked the jug out of the mud and drank deep and shuddered. Good whisky from the Scottish isles it was not. But it had an undeniable potency that was needed right now. Bullers swayed and sat down suddenly on the remains of a rampart, pushing aside a corpse to do so. The whiskey was tasting better with each swallow.

The dead soldier had been lying on a flag, clutching it in clawed fingers, perhaps trying to shield it from the carnage. General Bullers pulled it up and wiped some of the mud from it. Saw in the light of a passing lantern its colors. Red, white and blue. He grunted and dropped it back onto the corpse. Red, white and blue, the colors of the flag of the United States of America. Yes, but somehow different. What? He seized it up again and spread it on the rampart.

The correct colors all right. But differently shaped, arranged. This was not the stars and stripes he had seen flying from Yankee ships in Kingston harbor. This one had a few stars on a blue field, and only a few large horizontal stripes.

The flag moved in his hands and he started. Blinked and saw that the dead man's eyes were open—mortally wounded perhaps, but not yet dead.

"This flag, what is it?" Bullers asked. The wounded man's eyes misted so he shook him cruelly. "Speak up man, this flag, this is the stars and stripes?"

The dying soldier strained to speak, squeezing out the words and the colonel had to lean close to hear them.

"Not... damned Yankee flag. This... is the stars and bars... flag of the South."

That was all he said as he died. General Bullers was stunned. For a single horrified moment he believed the man, believed that this was the flag of the Confederacy.

Had he attacked the wrong side? That could not be possible. He knew the flag of the Confederacy with its crossed blue bands with white stars on a red background. He had seen it on blockade runners tied up at the Pool in London. And this was certainly not the same.

And no country, even these miserable colonials, could possibly have two flags. Or could it? No! The man had lied, lied with his dying breath, may he burn in Hades for that. He held the flag in his hand and turned it about. Then hurled it into a mud-filled puddle and ground it under his heel.

What the hell difference did it really make, either way? North or South they were all filthy backwoodsmen. Sons and grandsons of the colonial revolutionaries who had had the temerity to fight and kill good Englishmen. Including his good father, Lieutenant General Bullers, who had fallen at the Battle of New Orleans.

He drank heavily from the stone crock and twisted his boot back and forth until the last scrap of flag had disappeared in the filthy mud.

Then sighed—and pulled it out again. Whatever flag it was, whatever had happened here, the Duke of Cambridge would have to know about it.

The duke had moved his headquarters to a stone blockhouse, close to the beach, that had been part of the defending gun battery. He was shuffling through a handful of half-burned reports when Bullers came in with the flag.

"Most strange," the duke said. "These reports are all headed CSA—not USA. What the devil is going on here?"

Bullers held out the battered flag. "I think—Your Grace—I think that a terrible mistake has been made. There are no Yankees here. For some reason, I don't know, we have been fighting and killing Southerners."

"Good God!" The duke's fingers opened and the papers fell to the floor. "Is that true? Are you sure of it?"

Bullers bent and picked up the papers, shuffled through them. "These are all addressed to the forces in Biloxi. A coastal city in Mississippi."

"Damn and blast!" The duke's amazement was replaced by a boiling rage. "The navy! The senior service with their much-vaunted skills of navigation. Couldn't even find the right bloody place to attack. So where does that leave us, Bullers? With egg on our face. Their mistake—our blame."

He began to pace the length of the room and back. "So what do we do? Retire and apologize? Not my way, General, not my way at all. Crawl away with tail between legs?"

"The alternative..."

"Is to carry on. We have the men and the determination. Instead of aiding this nauseous slaveocracy we shall defeat it. Strike north to Canada and destroy everything in our path. Defeat this divided and weak country, countries, now and bring them all back into the Empire where they belong.

"Strike and strike hard, Bullers. That is our only salvation."

A MUTUAL ENEMY

After the first year of the Civil War both sides in the conflict had learned how important it was to dig in—and dig quickly. Standing up and firing shoulder-to-shoulder, Continental style, had proven to be only a recipe for suicide. If there were any possibility of an attack the defenders dug in. With shovels if they were available. With bayonets, mess kits, anything if they were not. They became very good at it. In no time at all trenches were dug and dirt ramparts thrown up that would stop bullets and send cannonballs bouncing to the rear.

With memories of the blood-drenched Battle of Shiloh still fresh in their minds, the survivors dug. The 53rd Ohio were now entrenched on top of the high bluff above Pittsburg Landing. Chunks of branches and trees, blasted during the fighting there, were embedded in the red dirt of the rampart.

Knowing how weak his manpower was, now that General Grant had taken the bulk of the army east to face the British invasion, General Sherman had done his best to reinforce the defenses. He had mounted all of his guns forward so they could spray any attack with canister shot, tin canisters of grapeshot that burst in the air over the enemy. This line would have to be held against the far superior force of the Confederates. He wondered how long it would take them to discover his diminished strength; not long, he was sure.

At least he could rely on the gunboats tied up at the landing. He and his signals officer had spent long hours with the captains of the vessels to ensure that covering fire would be fast and accurate. He felt that he had done all that he could do in the situation.

Now that the spring floods were over, the Tennessee River had fallen, exposing sandbanks and meadows beside the landing. Sherman had put up tents and made his headquarters there beside the river. The messenger found him in his tent.

"Colonel says to come and git you at once, General. Something's happening out where the Rebs is camped."

Sherman climbed the high bank and found Colonel Appier waiting there for him. "Some kind of parlay going on, General. Three Secesh on horses out there. One blowing a bugle and the other waving a white flag. Third one got plenty of gold chicken guts on his sleeve, ranking officer for sure."

Sherman clambered up onto the parapet to see for himself. The three riders had stopped a hundred paces from the Union position; the bugle sounded again. The bugler and the sergeant with the flag were riding spindly nags. The officer was mounted on a fine bay.

"Let me have that telescope," Sherman said, seized and held it to his eye. "By God—that is General P.G.T. Beauregard himself! He visited the college when I was there. I wonder what he is doing out there with a flag?"

"Wants to parlay, I guess," Appier said. "Want me to mosey over and see what he has to say?"

"No. If one general can ride out there I guess two of them can. Get me a horse."

Sherman dragged his skinny frame into the saddle, grabbed up the reins and kicked his mount forward. The horse picked its way carefully through the branches and litter of the battlefield. The bugler lowered his bugle when he saw Sherman approaching. Beauregard waved his men back and spurred forward toward the other rider. They came together and stopped. Beauregard saluted and began to speak.

"Thank you for agreeing to parlay. I am..."

"I certainly do know who you are, General Beauregard. You visited me when I was director of LouisianaStateMilitaryCollege."

"General Sherman, of course, you must excuse me. Events have been—" Beauregard slumped a bit in the saddle, then realized what he was doing and drew himself up sharply and spoke.

"I have just received telegraphed reports as well as certain orders. Before I respond I wished to consult with the commander of your forces here."

"At present I am in command, General." He did not go into detail why, since he did not want to discuss Grant's departure and his weakened position. "You can address me."

"It is about the British Army. It is my understanding that they have invaded the Federal states, that they are attacking south into New YorkState from Canada."

"That is correct. I'm sure that it has been reported in the newspapers. Of course I cannot comment further on the military situation."

Beauregard raised his gloved hand. "Excuse me, sir, it was not my intent to draw you out. I just wanted reassurance that you knew of that invasion, so you would understand better what I have to tell you. I wish to bring you intelligence of a second invasion."

Sherman tried not to reveal his distress at this news. Another invasion would make the defense of the country just that more difficult. But he knew of no other invading forces and did not want to reveal his ignorance. "Please go on, General."

Beauregard was no longer the calm and gently mannered Southern officer. His fists clenched and he had to squeeze the words out through hard-clamped teeth.

"Invasion and murder and worse, that is what has happened. And confusion. There were reports from Biloxi, Mississippi, that a Union fleet was bombarding the shore defenses there. Whatever troops that could be gathered were rushed there to stop the invasion. It was a night of rain and battle with neither side giving way. In the end we lost—and not to the North!"

Sherman shook his head, confused. "I am afraid that I do not understand."

"It was them, the British. Yesterday they landed troops to attack the defenses of the port of Biloxi. They were not identified until morning, when their flags and uniforms were seen. By that time the battle was over. And they were not simply satisfied with destroying the military. They attacked the people in the town as well, reduced it, burnt half of it. What they did with the women... The latest reports tell me that they are now advancing inland from Biloxi."

Sherman was shocked speechless, just managed to murmur under his breath. Beauregard was scarcely aware of his presence as he stared into the distance, seeing the destruction of the Southern city.

"They are not soldiers, but are murderers and rapists. They must be stopped, annihilated—and my troops are the only ones in a position to do that. I believe you to be a man of honor, General. So I can tell you that I have been ordered to place my soldiers between these invaders and the people of Mississippi. That is why I requested this meeting."

"Just what is it that you want, General?"

Beauregard looked grimly at his fellow officer, whom he had so recently engaged in deadly conflict. He thought carefully before he spoke.

"General Sherman, I know that you are a man of his word. Before this war you founded and led one of our great Southern military institutions. You have spent much time in the South and you must have many friends here. You could not have done this if you had been one of those wild-eyed abolitionists. I mean no insult, sir, to what I know to be your sincere beliefs. What I mean is that I can speak to you frankly—and know that you will understand how serious matters are. You will also know that in no way will I be able to lie to you, nor will you take advantage of anything that I might say."

Beauregard drew himself up and when he spoke there was a grim fury behind his drawling words.

"I am asking you simply—if you will consider arranging an armistice with me at this time. I wish only to defend the people of this state and do promise not to undertake any military incursions against the Federal Army. In turn I request that you not attack my weakened positions here. I ask this because I go to attack our mutual enemy. If you agree you can draw up whatever terms you wish and I will sign them. As a brother officer in arms I respectfully ask you for your aid."

This meeting, the invading British, the request were so unusual that Sherman really was at a loss for words. But he felt a growing elation at the same time. The armistice would be easy enough to arrange, in fact he would take a great deal of pleasure in doing so. His mission was to hold the ground he now occupied. He would far rather do that by joining a ceasefire than by bloody battle.

But even more important than that was the phrase that General Beauregard had used.

Mutual enemy,
that is what he had said—and he had meant it. The very glimmer of a completely preposterous idea nibbled at the edges of his thoughts as he spoke.

"I understand your feelings. I would do the very same thing were I in your shoes. But of course I cannot agree to this without consulting General Halleck, my commanding officer," he finally said.

"Of course."

"But having said that, let me add that I have only compassion and understanding of your position. Grant me one hour and I will meet you here again. I must first explain what has happened, and what you propose. I assure you that I will lend my weight to the strengths of your arguments."

"Thank you, General Sherman," Beauregard said with some warmth as he saluted.

Sherman returned the salute, wheeled his horse about and galloped away. Colonel Appier himself seized the horse's reins when Sherman dismounted.

"General—what's it all about? What's happening?"

Sherman blinked at him, scarcely aware of his presence. "Yes, Appier. This is a matter of singularly great importance or the general would not have come forward as he has done. I must make a report. As soon as that is done I will speak with you and the other senior officers. Please ask them to join me in my tent in thirty minutes."