They shook hands and laughed with pleasure. The last time they had met had been at West Point. Since then they had gone different ways. Grant was a general of the Union Army. J.E.B. Stuart was the greatest cavalry officer that the Confederacy possessed.
“We rode the cars as far north as we could, then cut across country. Some of the farmers took some pot-shots at us, didn’t hit anything though. I suppose they thought we were British. I heard what Cump did for us in Biloxi. I figured that I could return the favor for an old friend.”
“A favor greatly appreciated. My scouts report enemy action on our left flank.”
“Now do they, rightly enough. My boys are watering the horses and resting them a bit. As soon as that is done I think we’ll sort of mosey around there and see what we can find. Have you seen any of these yet?”
He pulled a carbine from the long holster slung from his saddle and held it up.
“While we were passing through the Philadelphia junction this supply officer sought us out. Said he was shipping these arms to the troops and since we were the nearest bunch we got first look in. That was mighty friendly of the man and we do appreciate it. This is a Spencer rifle that loads from the breech and is a wonder to behold. Look at this.” Stuart pulled a metal tube from the wooden butt of the gun and held it up.
“There are twenty bullets in here, all metal with percussion caps on the end. They can be fired one after another, just as fast as you can work the cocking lever and pull the trigger. The brass just jumps out and the next bullet goes int
o battery. Let a shot off then do the same thing again. I am shore glad that we got them now. I don’t think I would have enjoyed it a time back if we had to ride into the muzzles of these things.”
Grant turned the gun over and over with admiration, handed it back. “I heard that they were going into production, never saw one before though. Could have used a few thousand of them right here.”
“A perfect cavalry weapon. My boys just a-thirsting to try them out.”
“Good luck.”
Stuart galloped away to join his troops while Grant turned back to the grim business of defending their positions. And killing the British.
Private Poole of the 16th Bedford and Hertfordshire was not a happy man. For two years his regiment had been stationed in Quebec, in Canada, in that wildest of wild countries. Frying in summer, freezing his arse in winter. Then this war. First the long march to the landings, then the boats down the lakes. Easy enough that, but the last march south in the heat was something else again. A pleasure after that to rest a bit before getting stuck in to kill Yankees. Run right over the first lot they did and it wasn’t much more work to take out the second bunch. But the easy victories were over now. The fighting had been fierce and the British losses heavy. More than one of his butties dead now. To make matters worse in the last engagement his musket had exploded, seared the side of his head it had. That was a wound for the doctor, for sure. Sergeant didn’t see it that way. Told him to rub some grease on it and get back into the line. Gave him a musket from a dead man. Useless thing, Brown Bess, the same gun that had licked Napoleon. But that was a long time ago and he missed his rifled Enfield musket.
“Column halt. Fix bayonets. Left face.”
The sergeant walked behind them, checking their packs and weapons with his tiny, cold eyes.
“We are going to attack,” he said. “We are going to stay in line and advance together and I’ll have the skin off the back of any man who falls behind.”
He probably would too, Poole thought gloomily, and rued the day he had listened to the recruiting sergeant when he came round the Horse and Hounds. Buying drinks for all. Telling them about the wonderful life in the army. The Queen’s shilling and a new life in “The Old Ducks” he had told them, that was what the regiment was affectionately called. Not much affection now.
“Forward — ”
At the same instant the command was spoken the soldiers became aware of the sound of galloping hooves from the scraggly forest of trees that lined the road. Louder and louder.
And then came the screams. A demented, high-pitched warbling cry that raised the hackles on their necks. There were shouted orders and they were just turning to face the enemy when the cavalrymen were upon them.
Gray-coated cavalry that shouted, screamed as they attacked. Firing as they came, firing over and over. Bursting through the British infantrymen, turning to attack again. And still firing. Not appearing to reload at all but pouring out a continuous withering fire that tore through their ranks.
It was brutal slaughter. The British lines just melted away before the rolling, ceaseless hail of bullets. Some of the infantrymen fired back, but very few. The horsemen stayed where they were, still shooting. They did not seem to stop, just kept blasting a blizzard of bullets into the men before them.
When they rode back through the British lines a second time there was nothing for them to fire at. Cavalry sabers slashed down at any movement among the fallen soldiers. As they cantered away into the cover of the woods they left only silence behind them.
Private Poole lay on his unfired Tower musket, a bullet through his arm. He waited long minutes until he was sure that the cavalry had gone, then pushed the dead weight of the sergeant off his back. Climbed unsteadily to his feet and looked horrifiedly about him at the destruction. Stumbled back down the road to escape it.
The sole survivor.
On the other side of the Atlantic an unseasonal summer storm was rolling across England. Streams swelled and burst their banks as rain lashed the countryside. Lightning flared behind the crenelated towers of Windsor Castle; thunder rumbled. The two men who emerged reluctantly from the carriage hesitated for a moment — then hurried over to the shelter of the doorway where they waited. Liveried servants helped Lord Palmerston to the ground and half carried him to the entrance to join the others. His gout had improved slightly, but walking was still painful.
Doors opened before them as they progressed through the castle, to the final chamber where they were all to meet.
The Duke of Cambridge, newly returned from America and resplendent in the full dress uniform of the Horseguards, turned as they entered.
“Capital — just the fellers I wanted to see. Come in, dry yourselves, have some of this sack,” he waved his glass at the sideboard. “Just the thing in this poxy weather.”
By no word or deed did he refer to the disastrous failure of the American Gulf Coast invasion. And none dared query him. He had remained in seclusion while the American newspapers crowed about the wonderful victory. When he emerged and once more assumed command of the armies there was no one so bold as to mention anything about the matter. It was part of the past; he looked forward to a brilliant future.