Stars and Stripes Forlorn

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By James Roberts

In November 1861, the British steamer, Trent, was intercepted by the thirteen-gun sloop USS San Jacinto, under the command of Captain Charles Wilkes, and two Confederate diplomats on board were taken into custody. The British Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston, told his cabinent, “You may stand for this but damned if I will”. Initially, Wilkes was hailed a hero in the US, but as the prospect of war with Great Britain grew (at a time when British India was the Union’s main source of saltpeter), the Lincoln administration opted for a conciliatory line. “One war at a time,” Lincoln told his cabinet.

The two Confederate diplomats were released on the grounds that by law Wilkes should have brought the Trent into port for adjudication before a Prize Court.

What if events had gone differently?

Nah, nah, nah, good suh, that is too painful a subject for myself t’ think of aftah all this time – wot, thirty-five years ago, now?

Oh!... Oh well, that’s mighty generous of yer, suh. I dare say I could bring myself to face those ‘arsh days again, if only in remembrance.

Its funny you should happen to ask that thing this day, as I did discourse upon the very subject this morning – Oi! YOU TWO OVER THERE! CALM DOWN OR TAKE IT OUTSIDE, ONE OR THE OTHER! – sorry about that, suh. I don’t want that sort of thing in ‘ere, I run a decent public house. It may not see quality, like yerself, too often, but I’ll not have the ‘ooligans take the place to the dogs.

Now what was I saying? Ah yeah, I found myself talking of the war this morning suh, which is a surprise. As a rule I prefers not to talk of it – AH SHUT UP, WOMAN! I’M NOT BORING THE GEN’LEMEN, IT WAS ‘E WOT ASKED ME ABOUT THE WAR! - No suh, I would not ‘ave mentioned it, but for wot those Nativists said to me this mornin’.

There was I, mopping out the public bar, and in they swans, black suits, and bowler ‘ats – clearly not local, just comes down ‘ere to tell us all that lives here what to think. I was polite at first, ‘cos I thought they wos god botherers, and I hold it as a policy not to upset those who serve the all mighty. I’d just rather they served him in someone else’s establishment. I’m a Christian, suh, like yerself, but my customers come in here to escape that sort of thing. Then one of ‘em ‘ands me a leaflet, while the other starts up abowt America should be for the Americans, and the country being invaded by Micks and Poles, and all that old flannel.

I says, “git out of ‘ere, the pair of you, ‘fore I takes me mop handle to the backs of yer ‘eads!”

“What’s your problem, Buddy? You’re a native like us,” says one.

“I’m native born of Deptford in Lund’n, and I’ve as much right to be ‘ere as either of yer.”

The other one chips in, “Hey, calm down,” all friendly like, “we don’t mean Englishmen like you when we talk about immigrants. It’s these Irish and Polacks and Germans we’re against. They’re invading this great land of ours; this city should be for Americans!”

“Wot’s wrong wi’ the Irish invading?” asks I, which dazed both of ‘em.

“Well, uh… I, uh… See here…” starts he, but I carries on.

“I saw the Irish invade this city in 1863, cos I was with ‘em. Wearing a red coat, just like they wos. Plenty of other Irish cheered us in ‘n ‘all, and the Germans, and the Poles. That’s who made the city wot it is now. We did that before your Mum met yer Dad, now git outta here.” Then I did give ‘em a taste of my mop handle, and chased ‘em down King William Street - I DID NOT NEARLY ‘AVE AN ‘EART ATTACK, WOMAN! I WOS JUST SHORT OF BREATH - I ‘eard they tried to git the Peelers on me, suh, but I got ‘em nicely paid off down the cop shop, you have to as a publican in this City.

You see, suh, I’ve no time for those Nativists, cos I’m an immigrant, like the Poles, and Irish, and Germans. I landed at the river front, with all me possessions strapped to me back, still sea sick and stinking rotten from that long voyage across the Atlantic. The only difference ‘tween me and old man Pietrusinski, who runs the printers shop opposite, young Helga who waits the tables in ‘ere, and my good lady wife, Sinead, is I marched down the gang plank carrying an Enfield rifle. The bloke in front of me got ‘is ‘ead split open by shrapnel, the one behind me begs for ha’ pennies in Central Park these days, minus the arm and the eye ‘e lost that day.

Just a few days earlier, as sea sick as we was in our transport off Long Beach, me ‘n the lads staggered up on deck to cheer the Jack Tars as they captured the USS Monitor - which ‘ad returned to guard its city of birth the previous Autumn. Wot a battle it was, suh! Aitch-MS Warrior and the Monitor, the two greatest ships of their day slamming shot into each other for a solid ‘our, and neither broke the other’s iron coat! The Captain of the Warrior kept trying to ram the Monitor, but the Monitor’s captain wasn’t having that, dodging every lunge. In the end, Warrior got close enough to throw on grappling irons, and blue jackets with muskets and cutlasses swarmed onto the Monitor’s deck. A crash of musketry, and the first blue jackets were swept into the sea. More jumped from Warrior’s decks and rushed into the Monitor’s big pill box turret while the Yank sailors inside reloaded. A few minutes later a line of men with their ‘ands up emerged on deck, under guard. A Jack Tar ran up the White Ensign over the Monitor to cheers from all around.

All the next day, we ‘eard the roar of cannon, and watched great column’s of smoke rise from far inland on Long Island. Out of sight, General Hope Grant was thrashing General Meade, whose army slipped back into Man’attan in the night. Our big guns dug in on the banks of the East River, and Warrior and the other gun boats set about silencing the coastal defences. We ‘oped the Yanks would surrender us the city without a fight, but that wos not to be, suh, and in the final hour of darkness, we downed our rum ration and filled our cartridge boxes. Over to the right of us, dawn broke that July morning, and bleary eyed after a sleepless night, each of us made ‘is peace with god, and the few that could write finished letters to loved ones. Our transport, crowded among others like it and ringed by gun boats, steamed north towards the narrows that separates the lower bay from the upper bay. SINEAD! WILL YOU SERVE MR KEEGAN BEFORE ‘E DIES OF THIRST?... I CAN’T, WOMAN, I’M TALKING TO THIS GEN’LEMAN ‘ERE!

I hope I shall never see a day like that one again, and the worst moment was passing through the narrows, suh. The Navy had taken care of the shore batteries they knew of, but there were mobile guns, that wheeled into position that day, then limbered and moved off when a gun boat drew near, an’ they gave us merry ‘ell through the narrows. Shot fell in the drink either side, sending greater plumes of water into the air, as ‘igh as an ‘ouse, and soaking us to the skin. It was easier on the Jack Tars, who ‘ad their jobs to do, and could see wot wos going on, but us Tommies ‘ad to just sit there waiting and wondering. Going through the narrows, an ‘orrible thing ‘appened, suh. The transport beside ours took a direct ‘it, and it rained blood, brains, and bits ‘n pieces of men. Any who hadn’t puked ‘is rum ration up already did so then. To this day, I have nightmares about it. Still, we were through, suh, and steaming across the upper bay towards Man’attan. How lucky it wos for us that General Meade ‘ad plundered the ‘arbor defences to re-enforce ‘is Army on the East River.

We wos meant to be dispatched to shore by row boats, but the Captain of our transport was a pukka fella. All through the voyage ‘e stood bolt upright on the bridge, oblivious to the shower of metal death, occasionally turning to bark an order to the blue jacket lieutenants cowering abowt ‘im. Then he grips the rail, leans forward and bellows to us on the deck below, “STAY PUT, YOU CHAPS, I’LL TAKE YOU ALL THE WAY!” And ‘e sailed straight up to a wharf, as if we were a steam packet.

Our officer, Mr Ellis, waved ‘is sabre abowt ‘is ‘ead, shouting, “TO ME, NUMBER ONE PLATOON, TO ME!”

“They’re all ‘ere, suh,” says Sergeant Dempsey, then Mr Ellis drew ‘is, pistol.

“FOLLOW ME!” ‘e shouts, as the gang plank crashed down on the quay side, and off ‘e dashes, first ashore, with us lumbering down after ‘im. There was an almighty crash, an’ most of those abowt me was bowled off their feet. Those left standin’ looked around, not believing their eyes; ‘alf the platoon wos down – dead or dieing – and Mr Ellis with ‘em. At the end of the quay was the field gun that had fired canister upon us, the crew furiously re-loading. A blue jacket officer dashes through our shattered ranks, sword aloft, and shouts, “Come on, chaps, HURRAH!”

After ‘im we went, and rushed that gun with a flurry of bayonets. We left the Yank gunners in our wake, clutching mortal wounds, and crying for their Mums. From further north, came an almighty roar of cannon, as the main assault began across the East River. Our boating trip had been meant as a diversion. As it turned out, the main attack ran into trouble, while ours went from strength to strength. The opposition before us crumbled, as we ‘ad only to fight the Yanks, but they ‘ad to fight us and the city. As the Federals tried to form lines in our path, the locals pelted ‘em with brick bats from upstairs windows and roof tops. Across the city the mob wos up in arms against the draft. “Rich man’s war, poor man’s fight!” they cried. On the East River, the Yank soldiers at least ‘ad prepared positions to defend. But wot with two dozen battles with rioters going on across the city, and ‘olding the line at the river, there just wosn’t enough men left to put a decent force together to stop us driving up through lower Man’attan. That blue jacket officer, suh, ‘e wos a proper gent. He led the way, and kept us together by singing out loud so we could follow ‘is voice through the swirling black smoke, and collapsing buildings - fire wos sweeping the East Side, it was all wooden buildings around ‘ere in those days, and the firemen were busy riotin’. I can still ‘ear that blue jacket singing now.

“HEART OF OAK ARE OUR SHIPS,

JOLLY TARS ARE OUR MEN,

WE ALWAYS ARE READY,

STEADY BOYS, STEADY!”

He fought like a Lion, suh, with a broken sword and pistols. But a Yank bayoneted ‘im as we rushed a barricade on Broadway. We were deep in the city by this time. The wooden slums had given way to stone n’ brick ‘ouses. We were in the wealthy part of town, but our numbers wos thinning.

“Maybe we should, ‘ole up in one of those ‘ouses and wait for re-enforcements”, I said to Sergeant Dempsey. That blue jacket, bleeding to death on the cobbles, over‘eard me and hissed, “No, man! Push on, don’t give them a moment’s respite!”

Those were ‘is last words, suh, and we carried out that dieing wish. How right we wos to do so. The Yank commanders on the East River ‘ad ‘eard there were red coats be’ind ‘em, marching up Broadway. They didn’t know ‘ow many there wos of us - or should I say ‘ow few? Nor did they know our cartridge boxes wos empty, and bayonets broken. The lads were staggering forward exhausted, kept going by the cheers of the mob, who sang “God save the Queen”. We pushed on unchecked only because General Meade could spare no more troops to make the last stand that would surely ‘ave stopped us. The Federals decided on a general retreat, which turned into a rout as men got lost in the dense smoke and fires, which were now consuming whole streets. In the end the Yank soldiers were glad to find a red coat to surrender to, exhausted and scared of the mob as they were.

‘elga, luv, no more beer for Dutchie, he’s ‘ad too much. If ‘e argues tell ‘im to come speak to me. They nevah complains to me, suh.

Early evening, we ‘eard the sound of pipes, and all slumped to the floor exhausted when the ‘ighlanders (who had broke through from the East River) marched into view. Our job wos done. Only then did I truly notice the nightmare world around me, suh. Blood in the gutter, dead and dieing all abowt; people dragged screaming from their own ‘omes by rioters, and fine buildings going up in smoke. Chaos, suh. The Preacher cannot scare me with ‘is talk of ‘ell an’ damnation, because unlike ‘im I’ve seen ‘ell. It was this city that day. Sergeant Dempsey roused the platoon again, and we marched on one of the big ‘ouses that was being looted by no-goods. We booted ‘em out, then ‘ung some red coats from upstairs windows, so all could see that ‘ouse wos ours – the rowdies could burn another to amuse themselves. The survivors of number one platoon wanted a roof over their ‘eads that night, and wot a roof it was, suh. For all the damage the looters did, I’ve not clocked a fancier gaff before or since. According to the maid I found ‘iding under a four-poster bed, the owner wos a Banker, who had fled when ‘ope Grant landed on Long Island. The looters ‘ad already emptied the drinks cabinets, but the maid, Orla wos ‘er name, knew where the master’s secret caches were. It seems the banker wos too fond of the sauce, and ‘ad bottles ‘idden all over the ‘ouse! So the platoon toasted Orla for the refreshment she led us to, and we slept in proper beds that night while the city burned around us.

YOU! OUTTA HERE, YOU’RE BARRED, AND THAT AIN’T CHANGIN’ – sorry ‘bout that, suh, but that one is trouble, an’ I’ll not ‘ave it in my establishment. ‘e can go down the Rose an’ Crown if ‘e wants a fight with ‘is pint.

The next day wos our turn to be showered with brick bats. The city’s quality folks ‘ad petitioned General ‘ope Grant, and our officers ‘ad sympathy for them that wos their own sort, and none for the mob, which wos doing shocking things. For two more days an’ nights we were marched back and forth across this island, to practice our musketry where new fighting ‘ad broken out. The city’s surviving print shops were opened again to produce flyers, so the General could make public ‘is promise that we would draft no one. The anger shrank, an’ the fire brigades returned to their engines, but the crowds would not cheer us again. Nor would they call for Lincoln back though, and we ‘ad new friends in the city – those that owned it, and they were glad to get red coats between them and the angry mob. We spent two months billeted in that big flash ‘ouse, with its marble clad front ‘all, a dozen bedrooms, and Orla now working for us. A couple of days aftah we arrived, the platoon gained a second maid, a slightly younger, more delicate-looking version of Orla. Her younger sister, suh, Sinead, who ‘ad fled the ‘ouse she worked in when the looters sacked the place, an’ came looking for refuge. They did our laundry, an’ we paid ‘em with the trinkets we pocketed when searching arrested looters. When it was safe for a woman to go out again, me an’ Sergeant Dempsey took the girls strolling in Central Park, an’ we picnicked in the August sun.

Late September the platoon marched back down Broadway, and off to the docks, where we boarded another transport, the girls waving us off from the quayside. The Army was embarking again, but this time the enemy wos not the Union, which ‘ad surrendered. We would spend the Autumn camped outside Richmond, while Lord Lyons persuaded Jefferson Davis it was time to free the slaves. The talk about the camp wos when we would be returning to blighty, which wos sure to be soon. But I knew my future wos on this side of the Atlantic, and my soldiering days were done. Then came the day when I sailed through the narrows, and into the Upper bay again. I found the big ‘ouse off Central Park where Sinead wos working, climbed in a back window, snuck up be’ind ‘er in the Kitchen, and ‘eard my luv yelp with surprise when two arms in red sleeves wrapped abowt ‘er. I told the ranting Butler ‘e could call the Police if ‘e wanted, cos we were not staying a moment longer. The East side wos our destination, and ‘ere we watched our children and this city grow.

The kids are all grown up now, suh, an’ Sinead’s real worried cos our youngest, Albert, is off to fight the war with the Confederates. I dare say Mr Keegan there is right when ‘e says we didn’t care ‘ow they treated their black fellas when we didn’t know there was oil in Texas. But its like Mr ‘earst says, we can’t let ‘em get away with wot they did to the aitch-MNAS Maine. I ‘ope our Albert sees none of the terrible things I saw on that distant day in July ’63, though I fear ‘e probably shall. But wot a day that wos, suh, when we brought the world’s greatest city into the world’s greatest Empire. Such things we ‘ave achieved, and tell me your ‘eart does not swell when you see that mighty statue of Britannia, with trident ‘eld aloft, they built in the bay? She greets the ships full of new arrivals, who build more fine cities in the vast ‘interland, and waves farewell to our manufactures that are sold all over the world. Wot a city this is! I truly believe that one day this will be the centre of our great Empire, not London, suh, but this city of Trafalgar.

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The End