“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.”