Ha, I never thought naval updates would be so interesting to read. 
I love your updates!
I love your updates!
-
We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.
Bully fight indeed. It's nice for Benham to know that a guy who wrote a book on naval affairs actually has a clue on the subject.
Nice way of giving Roosevelt his catchphrase.
I admit to being a little confused about the purpose of the battleship action. It seems the two battle wagons strafed the British fleet at anchor and then limped away, rather than turning around and inflicting more damage. Was the goal to disable the escorts, so that the older US ships could move in and attack the transports? Or was it simply the state of the ships that dictated a retreat?
Navy-Army rivalry at its best.
I admit to being a little confused about the purpose of the battleship action. It seems the two battle wagons strafed the British fleet at anchor and then limped away, rather than turning around and inflicting more damage. Was the goal to disable the escorts, so that the older US ships could move in and attack the transports? Or was it simply the state of the ships that dictated a retreat?
Director;11535440[B said:
I was aware of the history, and spoke in jest.
Excellent update with the battleship raid. However, it seems more the sort of thing you'd use destroyers for. Why don't the Americans simply stand off in broad daylight, use their superior range to batter the landing, and dare any enemy cruisers to come to them?
Enewald - I had a lot of fun writing it and I'm glad you enjoyed reading it.
J. Passepartout - wealth, breeding and the right university had a little to do with it too. Roosevelt is too young to get into this war; my take would be he tried to enlist but his family talked him out of it. In our history they were mostly dead by the time the Spanish-American War came along.
Stuyvesant - Admiral Benham was a real person; I hope I've done good justice to his memory.
King of Men - I'm combining this section since you and Stuyvesant basically asked the same question. Sorry if it seemed I was talking down to you - I wasn't, I promise. I did think you were joking but I wasn't sure.
The battleships were supposed to arrive off the beach in daylight, shell the transports and go on to Norfolk to refuel. Instead they had mechanical problems and were delayed. Roosevelt talks Benham into a night attack - very risky in an era before starshell, flares and searchlights. When the battleships go in, there are two lines of freighters anchored parallel to the beach. The battleships go between the rows, get shot at by a cruiser (HMS Proserpine). Patrick Henry collides with a freighter and Nathan Hale nearly so, but they shoot up the freighters, set them on fire, sink the cruiser and then - with nothing left to do but perhaps shelling the beach - head for Norfolk. 'In-story' the US has been raiding the beachhead with torpedo boats from Norfolk though they only have a few.
'In-game', no-one has torpedo boats or destroyers. I had two battleships finish construction in New York. I held them there fro a month or so to gain org/morale, then sent them down to take on the enemy steamers off Salisbury. The PC and all the steamers were sunk.
I hope you all enjoy the next update. I had good fun with it.
J. Passepartout - wealth, breeding and the right university had a little to do with it too.
Roosevelt is too young to get into this war; my take would be he tried to enlist but his family talked him out of it. In our history they were mostly dead by the time the Spanish-American War came along.Stuyvesant - Admiral Benham was a real person; I hope I've done good justice to his memory.
King of Men - I'm combining this section since you and Stuyvesant basically asked the same question. Sorry if it seemed I was talking down to you - I wasn't, I promise. I did think you were joking but I wasn't sure.
The battleships were supposed to arrive off the beach in daylight, shell the transports and go on to Norfolk to refuel. Instead they had mechanical problems and were delayed. Roosevelt talks Benham into a night attack - very risky in an era before starshell, flares and searchlights. When the battleships go in, there are two lines of freighters anchored parallel to the beach. The battleships go between the rows, get shot at by a cruiser (HMS Proserpine). Patrick Henry collides with a freighter and Nathan Hale nearly so, but they shoot up the freighters, set them on fire, sink the cruiser and then - with nothing left to do but perhaps shelling the beach - head for Norfolk. 'In-story' the US has been raiding the beachhead with torpedo boats from Norfolk though they only have a few.
'In-game', no-one has torpedo boats or destroyers. I had two battleships finish construction in New York. I held them there fro a month or so to gain org/morale, then sent them down to take on the enemy steamers off Salisbury. The PC and all the steamers were sunk.
I hope you all enjoy the next update. I had good fun with it.
The man in the chair by the fireside was neatly and expensively dressed, his shoes shiny despite the autumn rains that were rinsing the dust from Lisbon’s streets. Above his starched white shirt and somber black coat was a pensive, aristocratic face with a full-lipped mouth framed by a short, neatly-trimmed beard. Beneath the high forehead were eyes that burned with cold intelligence. His posture was that of a military man, his bearing that of one who is not accustomed to being kept waiting.
The staff of the British legation were not at all sure how they should respond to him. He had dismounted from his carriage, handed off his coat and umbrella to the doorman and announced himself in a honeyed drawl that had more ice in it than civility. “I am Lucius Q R LeMoyne – Senator Lucius Q R LeMoyne, of South Carolina. That is in the United States, you know,” he had lectured the doorman, for all the world as if his claim had been disputed. “I require to see your chief of legation – immediately.”
With the war still raging, the question of why an American would cross the doorsill onto sovereign British territory was a vexing one, not that any of the staff were disposed to ask. They responded as Britons always react to a crisis, with faultless manners and meticulous hospitality. The Senator was offered a chance to repair to a sitting room, where he was plied with tea, biscuits and small sandwiches while frantic messages went out to the ambassador’s last known locations.
To no avail: Sir Eustace Peele had taken to spending his quiet afternoons in the presence of a lovely Portuguese woman; fortunately for him she was a famous beauty, unfortunately married, and fortunately again a woman whose husband not only understood these quiet affairs but had been pursuing one of his own for the past decade. With the head of the legation unreachable, his chief secretary thought it prudent to introduce himself before the visitor’s wait became tiresome.
“I am Robert Newcombe, sir, chief secretary to Sir Eustace, whom I am afraid is unavailable. May I take a message, perhaps, or arrange to notify you when his excellency returns?”
The Senator looked the young man up and down. “If by chief secretary you mean, in its original usage, ‘keeper of the secrets’, then you may indeed be of assistance. Candidly, sir – for I have little time – are you someone to whom I might speak of pressing political matters?”
Entirely at sea as to the purpose of the Senator’s visit – had he come to claim asylum, to give up information against his own country? – the secretary thought it best to be cautious. Only a month ago an indignant matron from Connecticut had descended upon the legation in Copenhagen, unable to understand why she could not visit her ancestral home in Scotland. That the two nations were at war mattered less to her than her loudly and often repeated kinship to the Astors of New York. From all accounts, the legation staff had barely escaped with skins intact. “I would be of any assistance, if I could, sir. Perhaps if I knew how best to offer…”
The Senator’s dark eyebrows drew together and his voice took on the tone of one who is accustomed to obedience. “Sir, I will speak plainly. Either you are of the intelligence service, or not. If you are, you may remain seated; if not, go and find your master. My business will not abide the playing of games.” Newcombe remained composed and seated, and LeMoyne released a dark, sour chuckle.
“Very well, then. I have a message, to be conveyed to your government. Though I am no friend of the present Republican administration, I find myself whole-heartedly in agreement with the sentiments I have been requested to convey. The meddling of your government in the internal affairs of the United States must cease.” He waved down Newcombe’s expression of alarm. “Not the War, sir – that is an appeal to the god of battles, and though I am certain he will favor our arms, we do not believe we can prevent your government from presenting its case to him. I have a less reputable enterprise in mind. Your government is engaged in an attempt to subvert the patriotism of the people who reside in the southern states of the Union.”
He waited. Newcombe seemed at a loss for a reply. “I am not aware of such an endeavour, sir, but if it is in train then His Majesty’s Government must feel that it is in accordance with the proper conduct of the war.”
LeMoyne nodded as though he had expected the answer. “Without regard to the merits of the case, I represent that your government will cease this conduct, and in good faith the United States will likewise restrain itself. I will now explain to you why. Please examine this. It is a bill of lading for the seamship Blue Horizon, now waiting at Philadelphia.”
Newcombe began to read it and then attempted to hand it back. “Sir, if this is a description of war materials intended for your armies, I cannot in conscience…”
“It is a shipment intended for Ireland.” LeMoyne’s voice cut throught the other man’s and left a cold, cold silence in its wake.
Newcombe resumed reading and went white. “There are enough rifles here…”
“And more, on three more ships just like this one.”
“My God! I beg your pardon, sir, but this alone is enough to equip an army!”
LeMoyne’s voice dripped acid. “Indeed. One suspects Ireland would never quite be the same.” He waited for a beat. “The United States is currently engaged in the occupation of Canada – this is not unknown to you. Do be sure to ask your government, sir: when the war is over, would the British Empire wish to retain Canada?” A negligent wave of a hand. “Oh, the United States will not keep it. A silly pledge, in my opinion, but nevertheless one which will be honored. But President Hancock has confided in me that he is perfectly willing to hand over any American-occupied territory in Canada to the Fenian rebels. Your government may then negotiate with them for its return, if they please. I daresay a decade or so of armed occupation should suffice.”
Newcombe again attempted to protest. “Sir, by your statements the government of the United States is proposing to visit upon the innocent people of Ireland and Canada the horrors of a civil war, one that is desired by only a few of the most disaffected.”
LeMoyne smiled, a smile thin and hard and cold enough to cut diamond. “My people have made their peace with the late War of Secession, sir: we rebelled, and we lost. The roll of the dead was three-quarters of a million lives. The attempts of your government to re-ignite those cold, dead ashes are extremely – extremely – unwelcome, and you are notified that they would be repaid – as I have said – in kind. Hence my message to your government, sir, that if they wish to play at the game of revolution they will find the United States ready and able to meet the stakes. Should they choose the wiser course, then the Blue Horizon and her sisters need never sail.”
He rose, and his voice soared to a thunderous peroration. “We of the South may be yoked to a cart with the damned blackguard Yankees, sir – but it is our cart, and they are our damned Yankees, and we will thank you not to trouble yourseves with matters which are properly none of your concern. My name, sir, is Lucius – Quintus – Romulus – LeMoyne, of the Great State of South Carolina, and I give you my word that your government meddles in these affairs at your peril!”
Newcombe also rose, visibly shaken. “I assure you, Senator, that your concerns will be conveyed to the appropriate members of His Majesty’s Government.”
“Very well, sir.” He paused. “Do remind them that I did not even mention India, won’t you?” He turned again at the door. “To say nothing of Egypt…”
The staff of the British legation were not at all sure how they should respond to him. He had dismounted from his carriage, handed off his coat and umbrella to the doorman and announced himself in a honeyed drawl that had more ice in it than civility. “I am Lucius Q R LeMoyne – Senator Lucius Q R LeMoyne, of South Carolina. That is in the United States, you know,” he had lectured the doorman, for all the world as if his claim had been disputed. “I require to see your chief of legation – immediately.”
With the war still raging, the question of why an American would cross the doorsill onto sovereign British territory was a vexing one, not that any of the staff were disposed to ask. They responded as Britons always react to a crisis, with faultless manners and meticulous hospitality. The Senator was offered a chance to repair to a sitting room, where he was plied with tea, biscuits and small sandwiches while frantic messages went out to the ambassador’s last known locations.
To no avail: Sir Eustace Peele had taken to spending his quiet afternoons in the presence of a lovely Portuguese woman; fortunately for him she was a famous beauty, unfortunately married, and fortunately again a woman whose husband not only understood these quiet affairs but had been pursuing one of his own for the past decade. With the head of the legation unreachable, his chief secretary thought it prudent to introduce himself before the visitor’s wait became tiresome.
“I am Robert Newcombe, sir, chief secretary to Sir Eustace, whom I am afraid is unavailable. May I take a message, perhaps, or arrange to notify you when his excellency returns?”
The Senator looked the young man up and down. “If by chief secretary you mean, in its original usage, ‘keeper of the secrets’, then you may indeed be of assistance. Candidly, sir – for I have little time – are you someone to whom I might speak of pressing political matters?”
Entirely at sea as to the purpose of the Senator’s visit – had he come to claim asylum, to give up information against his own country? – the secretary thought it best to be cautious. Only a month ago an indignant matron from Connecticut had descended upon the legation in Copenhagen, unable to understand why she could not visit her ancestral home in Scotland. That the two nations were at war mattered less to her than her loudly and often repeated kinship to the Astors of New York. From all accounts, the legation staff had barely escaped with skins intact. “I would be of any assistance, if I could, sir. Perhaps if I knew how best to offer…”
The Senator’s dark eyebrows drew together and his voice took on the tone of one who is accustomed to obedience. “Sir, I will speak plainly. Either you are of the intelligence service, or not. If you are, you may remain seated; if not, go and find your master. My business will not abide the playing of games.” Newcombe remained composed and seated, and LeMoyne released a dark, sour chuckle.
“Very well, then. I have a message, to be conveyed to your government. Though I am no friend of the present Republican administration, I find myself whole-heartedly in agreement with the sentiments I have been requested to convey. The meddling of your government in the internal affairs of the United States must cease.” He waved down Newcombe’s expression of alarm. “Not the War, sir – that is an appeal to the god of battles, and though I am certain he will favor our arms, we do not believe we can prevent your government from presenting its case to him. I have a less reputable enterprise in mind. Your government is engaged in an attempt to subvert the patriotism of the people who reside in the southern states of the Union.”
He waited. Newcombe seemed at a loss for a reply. “I am not aware of such an endeavour, sir, but if it is in train then His Majesty’s Government must feel that it is in accordance with the proper conduct of the war.”
LeMoyne nodded as though he had expected the answer. “Without regard to the merits of the case, I represent that your government will cease this conduct, and in good faith the United States will likewise restrain itself. I will now explain to you why. Please examine this. It is a bill of lading for the seamship Blue Horizon, now waiting at Philadelphia.”
Newcombe began to read it and then attempted to hand it back. “Sir, if this is a description of war materials intended for your armies, I cannot in conscience…”
“It is a shipment intended for Ireland.” LeMoyne’s voice cut throught the other man’s and left a cold, cold silence in its wake.
Newcombe resumed reading and went white. “There are enough rifles here…”
“And more, on three more ships just like this one.”
“My God! I beg your pardon, sir, but this alone is enough to equip an army!”
LeMoyne’s voice dripped acid. “Indeed. One suspects Ireland would never quite be the same.” He waited for a beat. “The United States is currently engaged in the occupation of Canada – this is not unknown to you. Do be sure to ask your government, sir: when the war is over, would the British Empire wish to retain Canada?” A negligent wave of a hand. “Oh, the United States will not keep it. A silly pledge, in my opinion, but nevertheless one which will be honored. But President Hancock has confided in me that he is perfectly willing to hand over any American-occupied territory in Canada to the Fenian rebels. Your government may then negotiate with them for its return, if they please. I daresay a decade or so of armed occupation should suffice.”
Newcombe again attempted to protest. “Sir, by your statements the government of the United States is proposing to visit upon the innocent people of Ireland and Canada the horrors of a civil war, one that is desired by only a few of the most disaffected.”
LeMoyne smiled, a smile thin and hard and cold enough to cut diamond. “My people have made their peace with the late War of Secession, sir: we rebelled, and we lost. The roll of the dead was three-quarters of a million lives. The attempts of your government to re-ignite those cold, dead ashes are extremely – extremely – unwelcome, and you are notified that they would be repaid – as I have said – in kind. Hence my message to your government, sir, that if they wish to play at the game of revolution they will find the United States ready and able to meet the stakes. Should they choose the wiser course, then the Blue Horizon and her sisters need never sail.”
He rose, and his voice soared to a thunderous peroration. “We of the South may be yoked to a cart with the damned blackguard Yankees, sir – but it is our cart, and they are our damned Yankees, and we will thank you not to trouble yourseves with matters which are properly none of your concern. My name, sir, is Lucius – Quintus – Romulus – LeMoyne, of the Great State of South Carolina, and I give you my word that your government meddles in these affairs at your peril!”
Newcombe also rose, visibly shaken. “I assure you, Senator, that your concerns will be conveyed to the appropriate members of His Majesty’s Government.”
“Very well, sir.” He paused. “Do remind them that I did not even mention India, won’t you?” He turned again at the door. “To say nothing of Egypt…”
Very nice indeed. In writing this message, you must have had nearly as much fun as the Esteemed Senator from South Carolina surely had in delivering it. Senator LeMoyne has the Brits (pardon my language) by the balls, he knows it and he's enjoying every minute of it.
That final parting declaration about 'our blackguard Yankees' is a crowning jewel. Perfectly captures the Senator's schizophrenic loyalty to both the South and the Union.
Very well done.
That final parting declaration about 'our blackguard Yankees' is a crowning jewel. Perfectly captures the Senator's schizophrenic loyalty to both the South and the Union.
Very well done.
I like how he continues to add and add on threats, right down to pretending not to be threatening India.
A bully set of posts, Director. Nice to see my hero in a naval turn. Teddy'll be telling that story over drinks for the rest of his life. I can only imagine how fun the scene with the good senator from South Carolina was to write. Probably even more fun than it was to read. Well done.
Vann
Vann
Now that was fun. But while the good senator's message would be heard loud and clear by a rational government, a rational government would never have started the stupod war in the first place. And I am less optimistic about the effects of reason and logic on a Paradox AI...
Fascinating! But now comes the question: Is the British government actually the culprit in whatever plot the Americans have uncovered? Or are we, perhaps, seeing some intrigue of Frost's? If the former, well and good, HMG can give the order to cease and desist. But if the latter, they cannot very well stop what they are not in fact doing; and then the American retaliation may bring down a future ally against Germany. The plot thickens!
To all - well, I put this up earlier but the forum ate it. And of course I did not have a copy...
For best results, read the senator's dialog in 'Foghorn Leghorn' voice (see here).
Stuyvesant - you can bet the good senator nursed that grudge all the way across the Atlantic. Police will tell you the worst calls are domestic disputes, and personal experience informs me that southerners think they are allowed to abuse northerners, but no-one else is.
Enewald - hopefully not; that game of revolution-mongering after WW II was partly what made the third world such a mess.
J. Passepartout - you can bet the good senator had that speech memorized and polished.
Vann the Red - I have hopes that Teddy will be around for other adventures, but steering a battlewagon through a naval engagement is going to be one of his most-told stories, I agree.
merrick - I was awfully angry when the British AI declared war on me. But I refrained from my usual 'conquer then tear down then sow with salt then scoop up the dirt and dump it at sea' policy. All I wanted was peace... and the Spanish colonial empire, of course.
Things will get bad enough for the AI to offer me peace, but not just yet.
King of Men - that is a great point. Frost and Messoune were responsible for helping Chamberlain and King Edward VIII rise to power, and they may have other 'projects' hidden in the bureaucracy.
One reason I wanted to give Britain a soft peace was that I thought I might need them later. Germany is always tough, if it comes to a shooting war.
For best results, read the senator's dialog in 'Foghorn Leghorn' voice (see here).
Stuyvesant - you can bet the good senator nursed that grudge all the way across the Atlantic. Police will tell you the worst calls are domestic disputes, and personal experience informs me that southerners think they are allowed to abuse northerners, but no-one else is.
Enewald - hopefully not; that game of revolution-mongering after WW II was partly what made the third world such a mess.
J. Passepartout - you can bet the good senator had that speech memorized and polished.
Vann the Red - I have hopes that Teddy will be around for other adventures, but steering a battlewagon through a naval engagement is going to be one of his most-told stories, I agree.
merrick - I was awfully angry when the British AI declared war on me. But I refrained from my usual 'conquer then tear down then sow with salt then scoop up the dirt and dump it at sea' policy. All I wanted was peace... and the Spanish colonial empire, of course.
Things will get bad enough for the AI to offer me peace, but not just yet.
King of Men - that is a great point. Frost and Messoune were responsible for helping Chamberlain and King Edward VIII rise to power, and they may have other 'projects' hidden in the bureaucracy.
One reason I wanted to give Britain a soft peace was that I thought I might need them later. Germany is always tough, if it comes to a shooting war.
It was a strange and awkward meeting. At the head of the table, striving to look relaxed and not quite succeeding, was Lieutenant General Arthur MacArthur, commanding general of the Army of the Chesapeake. Arrayed around the table was a collection of what he supposed were good men, even the ‘re-cast’ generals whose last uniform had been Confederate gray came well recommended. All were accounted solid, a few had given brilliant service, but they were all old; two were old enough to be his father. The letter from the Secretary of War naming his five corps commanders had been instructive if not particularly helpful, and the personal letter that accompanied it laid out Longstreet’s reasons for picking the men without improving MacArthur’s desire to take them. MacArthur could understand that the Army was greatly stretched, especially so as it crossed the border into the vast reaches of Canada. He shivered a bit; it was a cool, dry autumn in Maryland, and by some accounts snow had already fallen in Montreal. Whatever challenges he faced here, at least frostbite was not – yet – one of them.
His mission was simple enough, and on paper his means were basic but ample. The Army of the Chesapeake was to contain and, if possible, to reduce the British lodgement in Maryland and Delaware. General Charles Gordon had at last report a hundred and twenty thousand soldiers from all over the United Kingdom and to confront him MacArthur had twenty-two divisions, organized in five corps. His artillery was scanty and his mounted arm almost almost non-existant; this, combined with the uncertain quality of his volunteer troops, had left him reluctant to press against the British lines. But now the Navy had smashed a half-dozen transports off Bethany Beach and prevented Gordon’s army from being resupplied, at least during daylight hours. Despite the difficulty of pushing the Federals past the DelMarVa neck, Gordon’s army would have to reach a port – or the Royal Navy would have to reassert control of the Atlantic – or the winter would be a very hard one for the troops of the Empire.
Despite the perils of offering battle to entrenched veterans with a militia army, MacArthur didn’t doubt that he would be pressed to take the offensive. Elections were coming up in less than a month, and though President Hancock was almost certain to win a second term everyone knew a solid victory over the forces of the Empire would help his chances. Then too there was the matter of national pride: the United States had been invaded, and none of its citizens and soldiers were inclined to passively stand by and wait for the enemy to go home again. When that offensive did begin – a subject his corps commanders had gathered to discuss – MacArthur did not doubt that Gordon’s army would fight hard, at least as long as its ‘bullets and beans’ lasted. He knew his own men would fight hard; it was the quality of their effort that concerned him.
He sighed to himself and scanned the table, meeting the eyes of the five men seated there with a calm and level look. To his right was Major General Daniel Harvey Hill, famed commander of North Carolina troops during the Civil War and a favorite commander of General George Thomas. Hill had lately served as President of the University of Georgia, and was white-haired, fat and wheezing. At sixty-six, he was the oldest man in the room and, despite his difficulties in mounting a horse, had so far proven an able administrator and instructor for his men. MacArthur did not doubt the old man’s desire to fight but he wondered about his ability to stand up to the physical strain of battle.
To Hill’s right was Major General James H Wilson, aged fifty, a favorite commander of Grant and Sheridan during the Civil War and a man of whom much was expected now. He was tall, wide-shouldered and still lean, with a dapper VanDyke beard streaked with gray and white. His present rank was only a brevet; Wilson had finished the Civil War and retired as a colonel. After the war he had built and supervised the railroads that ran down to the beach resort towns now occupied by British forces. Although his officers and men seemed to like him well enough, MacArthur had no feeling that Wilson’s corps had formed any definite personality.
Across the table from Wilson was Major General Emory Upton, at age forty-eight the youngest general present save for MacArthur himself. Another breveted Civil War veteran, Upton had gained fame and early promotion for skill and dash in leading troops in that war. Since that time he had labored at staff work in the War Department, with a short stint commanding a division in Puerto Rico during the Spanish War. The performance of that army had not been strong, which MacArthur suspected was mostly due to the quality of its commander, General Shafter. In any event the Puerto Rico campaign had given Upton recent experience in the field, if little credit for it.
On Upton’s right was the tall, gaunt and gray-haired figure of Lieutenant General Thomas Jackson. Given the man’s reputation as a stellar commander of Confederate troops who had later turned to the ministry, MacArthur had expected to regret his presence. He had little objection, personal or professional, to former officers of the Confederacy; the war had been over for twenty years, after all. MacArthur’s half-formed bias against Jackson had stemmed from bad past experiences with officers who were devoutly religious. But Jackson had been quiet and polite, though very reserved, and so far at least seemed to have settled into his command without incident. He was sensitive about his mangled left hand and usually kept it tucked into a pocket or covered with a padded glove. Chatter from his staff showed he had retained his old love of citrus fruit, stuffing the pockets of his uniform coat with lemons and oranges. His officers’ opinions of Jackson as a commander differed widely and according to whether ‘Old Tom’ had approved of the performance of their men, or not. For good work a man might get a nod from Jackson or simply be ignored, but for carelessness with drill or gear, or breach of Army regulations, a malefactor would be sorry he had ever been born. MacArthur had been careful to give Jackson two divisions of troops from the old south, one from Alabama and the other from his native Virginia. Those men loved him; the soldiers of the divisions from Ohio and Kentucky were less kind. There was no doubt he had driven his men hard and disciplined them severely, but there was also no evidence that he had been anything but consistent and fair. Next to DH Hill, Jackson was the oldest man at the table, though he carried himself like a much younger man.
On Jackson’s right and MacArthur’s left was Major Genral Patrick Cleburne. At age fifty-nine Cleburne was almost at the mid-point of the group in so far as age, though with his slim figure and full head of jet-black hair he looked two decades younger. Cleburne had served with distinction in the western armies of the Confederacy, winning praise for his pounding attacks at Belmont and for his dogged defense of Nashville. Born in Ireland, Cleburne still had a trace of his homeland’s accent, but his manner and bearing were purely military. After the war, he had briefly served in the army of Mexico, and on his return found new prosperity as a planter and investor in Memphis. From what he had seen so far, MacArthur was well-pleased with Cleburne’s troops, and particularly pleased that Cleburne, like Jackson, referred few matters to the attention of army headquarters.
Arrayed at the foot of the table and seated on chairs along the walls were the staff officers of his headquarters and of the various corps, but it was the five corps leaders whose hearts and souls he needed to weigh.They were a mixed lot to be sure, and none of them had what MacArthur would have called solid combat experience, at least not recently. And though the jobs of leading and training men had not changed in the decades since the Civil War, the equipment of the fighting soldier had. Bolt-action repeating rifles had taken the place of muzzle-loading single-shot rifle-muskets; steel, breech-loading artillery could drop rounds at ranges unimaginable in 1865, machine guns had become lighter, more portable and more common. Infantry tactics had been forced to change to open order since mere flesh and blood could otherwise press forward against the steel storm of modern weaponry only at enormous cost. If one of these old soldiers launched an old-style, close-interval bayonet attack, the butcher’s bill would cause a national outcry, might even open the army to disaster. After all, these troops were reservists, not regulars, and the cohesion of such units must always be a concern. Morale would drop about as low after a bloody victory as it would a defeat.
Still, something had to be done; the British army encamped on the Chesapeake shore was an affront to American pride and prestige as well as a potential threat to American cities. Now, it was time to unveil what course that something would take. MacArthur tapped on the table with the glass marble he had found in Madrid and carried in his pocket as a lucky piece ever since. Instantly the chatter fell off. “Thank you gentlemen for being here today.” They had their orders and their duty, and could have stayed away only under extraordinary circumstances, but it never hurt to be polite. “As you know, the War Depatment has left to my discretion the question of whether to contain the enemy or to make an attempt to repel him. After careful consideration, I believe we must hazard an attack.” Several who had not known they were holding their breaths now let the air out with a soft whoosh. “I have examined the plans submitted, and have determined upon a proposal that I believe suits our needs. This will entail bringing our artillery forward on the railroad to Berrytown and making a concentration of our forces on the eastern side of the front. After a sufficient artillery preparation, an assault will be made by the corps of Generals Upton and Hill, along the line of the Atlantic railroad. General Cleburne’s men will make a demonstration on the Greensborough-Whiteleysburg road. General Wilson’s corps will remain in reserve along with the Sixth California and the Third Arkansas divisions. General Jackson, you will take the right flank of the army and attempt to move forward on Hillsborough and Williamsburg, if that position is not too far exposed. The enemy are believed to be strongly entrenched there behind the Choptank River. Your movement there should fix their attention, and you should entrench your position accordingly. You are also to make a demonstration, but on no account do I wish for you to attempt a crossing of the Choptank against a fortified position.” While he spoke, MacArthur traced lines and points on the map, looking up at each man to make sure he understood. When he glanced aside at Jackson, he saw the old man leaning forward intently, and his eyes… MacArthur felt a preternatural thrill, as if he were looking straight into the eyes of an arctic wolf. They were suddenly brilliantly blue, pale blue as a gas flame, and they seemed to flicker… and then, when Jackson heard that action was not necessary on his part, the light went out. Mouth pursed, he bowed his head and leaned carefully back into his chair.
On the surface it was a sound enough plan, though it did mean hitting the enemy where he most expected it: along the line of the railroad from Dover to Salisbury. MacArthur knew the volunteers would not be able to press a determined attack against a well-prepared and entrenched enemy, but he had hopes that the artillery barrage and heavy weight of his push would shove the enemy backward without costing his men too many casualties. The distracting element of Jackson and Cleburne would, MacArthur hoped, pull men from the main front and disperse the enemy reserves. And if Gordon’s line should crack, or if an opportunity to turn the enemy left should arise, he would have Wilson’s fresh troops on hand. MacArthur toyed briefly with replacing the aged and ailing Hill with the more energetic Cleburne, but decided against it. He would be present at the key position in person, and could supervise the old warrior if needed. Yes, he had decided wisely – with green troops and super-annuated commanders, it would be best to keep the methods simple and the reins firmly in his own hands.
The movement forward to battle would be challenging enough. Upton’s men were presently encamped around Dover, Delaware, with the remaining corps stacked along the railroads to the north. Few of these troops had ever marched twenty miles a day on campaign, and given that they were volunteers, many were middle-aged and not in peak physical condition. Frequent stops for rest would be necessary and straggling would be a problem, but his staff had allowed extra time for the march to the front. “Orders will be ready for you at the close of our meeting today. I would like to set Saturday, the first of October, for our move forward into line.”
There were questions – there were always questions – but no-one challenged the basic premises of the plan. Jackson seemed uncomfortable and uneasy, but MacArthur decided to ignore him. If the plan was not to the old rebel’s liking then he could say so, but MacArthur was not going to encourage him.
His mission was simple enough, and on paper his means were basic but ample. The Army of the Chesapeake was to contain and, if possible, to reduce the British lodgement in Maryland and Delaware. General Charles Gordon had at last report a hundred and twenty thousand soldiers from all over the United Kingdom and to confront him MacArthur had twenty-two divisions, organized in five corps. His artillery was scanty and his mounted arm almost almost non-existant; this, combined with the uncertain quality of his volunteer troops, had left him reluctant to press against the British lines. But now the Navy had smashed a half-dozen transports off Bethany Beach and prevented Gordon’s army from being resupplied, at least during daylight hours. Despite the difficulty of pushing the Federals past the DelMarVa neck, Gordon’s army would have to reach a port – or the Royal Navy would have to reassert control of the Atlantic – or the winter would be a very hard one for the troops of the Empire.
Despite the perils of offering battle to entrenched veterans with a militia army, MacArthur didn’t doubt that he would be pressed to take the offensive. Elections were coming up in less than a month, and though President Hancock was almost certain to win a second term everyone knew a solid victory over the forces of the Empire would help his chances. Then too there was the matter of national pride: the United States had been invaded, and none of its citizens and soldiers were inclined to passively stand by and wait for the enemy to go home again. When that offensive did begin – a subject his corps commanders had gathered to discuss – MacArthur did not doubt that Gordon’s army would fight hard, at least as long as its ‘bullets and beans’ lasted. He knew his own men would fight hard; it was the quality of their effort that concerned him.
He sighed to himself and scanned the table, meeting the eyes of the five men seated there with a calm and level look. To his right was Major General Daniel Harvey Hill, famed commander of North Carolina troops during the Civil War and a favorite commander of General George Thomas. Hill had lately served as President of the University of Georgia, and was white-haired, fat and wheezing. At sixty-six, he was the oldest man in the room and, despite his difficulties in mounting a horse, had so far proven an able administrator and instructor for his men. MacArthur did not doubt the old man’s desire to fight but he wondered about his ability to stand up to the physical strain of battle.
To Hill’s right was Major General James H Wilson, aged fifty, a favorite commander of Grant and Sheridan during the Civil War and a man of whom much was expected now. He was tall, wide-shouldered and still lean, with a dapper VanDyke beard streaked with gray and white. His present rank was only a brevet; Wilson had finished the Civil War and retired as a colonel. After the war he had built and supervised the railroads that ran down to the beach resort towns now occupied by British forces. Although his officers and men seemed to like him well enough, MacArthur had no feeling that Wilson’s corps had formed any definite personality.
Across the table from Wilson was Major General Emory Upton, at age forty-eight the youngest general present save for MacArthur himself. Another breveted Civil War veteran, Upton had gained fame and early promotion for skill and dash in leading troops in that war. Since that time he had labored at staff work in the War Department, with a short stint commanding a division in Puerto Rico during the Spanish War. The performance of that army had not been strong, which MacArthur suspected was mostly due to the quality of its commander, General Shafter. In any event the Puerto Rico campaign had given Upton recent experience in the field, if little credit for it.
On Upton’s right was the tall, gaunt and gray-haired figure of Lieutenant General Thomas Jackson. Given the man’s reputation as a stellar commander of Confederate troops who had later turned to the ministry, MacArthur had expected to regret his presence. He had little objection, personal or professional, to former officers of the Confederacy; the war had been over for twenty years, after all. MacArthur’s half-formed bias against Jackson had stemmed from bad past experiences with officers who were devoutly religious. But Jackson had been quiet and polite, though very reserved, and so far at least seemed to have settled into his command without incident. He was sensitive about his mangled left hand and usually kept it tucked into a pocket or covered with a padded glove. Chatter from his staff showed he had retained his old love of citrus fruit, stuffing the pockets of his uniform coat with lemons and oranges. His officers’ opinions of Jackson as a commander differed widely and according to whether ‘Old Tom’ had approved of the performance of their men, or not. For good work a man might get a nod from Jackson or simply be ignored, but for carelessness with drill or gear, or breach of Army regulations, a malefactor would be sorry he had ever been born. MacArthur had been careful to give Jackson two divisions of troops from the old south, one from Alabama and the other from his native Virginia. Those men loved him; the soldiers of the divisions from Ohio and Kentucky were less kind. There was no doubt he had driven his men hard and disciplined them severely, but there was also no evidence that he had been anything but consistent and fair. Next to DH Hill, Jackson was the oldest man at the table, though he carried himself like a much younger man.
On Jackson’s right and MacArthur’s left was Major Genral Patrick Cleburne. At age fifty-nine Cleburne was almost at the mid-point of the group in so far as age, though with his slim figure and full head of jet-black hair he looked two decades younger. Cleburne had served with distinction in the western armies of the Confederacy, winning praise for his pounding attacks at Belmont and for his dogged defense of Nashville. Born in Ireland, Cleburne still had a trace of his homeland’s accent, but his manner and bearing were purely military. After the war, he had briefly served in the army of Mexico, and on his return found new prosperity as a planter and investor in Memphis. From what he had seen so far, MacArthur was well-pleased with Cleburne’s troops, and particularly pleased that Cleburne, like Jackson, referred few matters to the attention of army headquarters.
Arrayed at the foot of the table and seated on chairs along the walls were the staff officers of his headquarters and of the various corps, but it was the five corps leaders whose hearts and souls he needed to weigh.They were a mixed lot to be sure, and none of them had what MacArthur would have called solid combat experience, at least not recently. And though the jobs of leading and training men had not changed in the decades since the Civil War, the equipment of the fighting soldier had. Bolt-action repeating rifles had taken the place of muzzle-loading single-shot rifle-muskets; steel, breech-loading artillery could drop rounds at ranges unimaginable in 1865, machine guns had become lighter, more portable and more common. Infantry tactics had been forced to change to open order since mere flesh and blood could otherwise press forward against the steel storm of modern weaponry only at enormous cost. If one of these old soldiers launched an old-style, close-interval bayonet attack, the butcher’s bill would cause a national outcry, might even open the army to disaster. After all, these troops were reservists, not regulars, and the cohesion of such units must always be a concern. Morale would drop about as low after a bloody victory as it would a defeat.
Still, something had to be done; the British army encamped on the Chesapeake shore was an affront to American pride and prestige as well as a potential threat to American cities. Now, it was time to unveil what course that something would take. MacArthur tapped on the table with the glass marble he had found in Madrid and carried in his pocket as a lucky piece ever since. Instantly the chatter fell off. “Thank you gentlemen for being here today.” They had their orders and their duty, and could have stayed away only under extraordinary circumstances, but it never hurt to be polite. “As you know, the War Depatment has left to my discretion the question of whether to contain the enemy or to make an attempt to repel him. After careful consideration, I believe we must hazard an attack.” Several who had not known they were holding their breaths now let the air out with a soft whoosh. “I have examined the plans submitted, and have determined upon a proposal that I believe suits our needs. This will entail bringing our artillery forward on the railroad to Berrytown and making a concentration of our forces on the eastern side of the front. After a sufficient artillery preparation, an assault will be made by the corps of Generals Upton and Hill, along the line of the Atlantic railroad. General Cleburne’s men will make a demonstration on the Greensborough-Whiteleysburg road. General Wilson’s corps will remain in reserve along with the Sixth California and the Third Arkansas divisions. General Jackson, you will take the right flank of the army and attempt to move forward on Hillsborough and Williamsburg, if that position is not too far exposed. The enemy are believed to be strongly entrenched there behind the Choptank River. Your movement there should fix their attention, and you should entrench your position accordingly. You are also to make a demonstration, but on no account do I wish for you to attempt a crossing of the Choptank against a fortified position.” While he spoke, MacArthur traced lines and points on the map, looking up at each man to make sure he understood. When he glanced aside at Jackson, he saw the old man leaning forward intently, and his eyes… MacArthur felt a preternatural thrill, as if he were looking straight into the eyes of an arctic wolf. They were suddenly brilliantly blue, pale blue as a gas flame, and they seemed to flicker… and then, when Jackson heard that action was not necessary on his part, the light went out. Mouth pursed, he bowed his head and leaned carefully back into his chair.
On the surface it was a sound enough plan, though it did mean hitting the enemy where he most expected it: along the line of the railroad from Dover to Salisbury. MacArthur knew the volunteers would not be able to press a determined attack against a well-prepared and entrenched enemy, but he had hopes that the artillery barrage and heavy weight of his push would shove the enemy backward without costing his men too many casualties. The distracting element of Jackson and Cleburne would, MacArthur hoped, pull men from the main front and disperse the enemy reserves. And if Gordon’s line should crack, or if an opportunity to turn the enemy left should arise, he would have Wilson’s fresh troops on hand. MacArthur toyed briefly with replacing the aged and ailing Hill with the more energetic Cleburne, but decided against it. He would be present at the key position in person, and could supervise the old warrior if needed. Yes, he had decided wisely – with green troops and super-annuated commanders, it would be best to keep the methods simple and the reins firmly in his own hands.
The movement forward to battle would be challenging enough. Upton’s men were presently encamped around Dover, Delaware, with the remaining corps stacked along the railroads to the north. Few of these troops had ever marched twenty miles a day on campaign, and given that they were volunteers, many were middle-aged and not in peak physical condition. Frequent stops for rest would be necessary and straggling would be a problem, but his staff had allowed extra time for the march to the front. “Orders will be ready for you at the close of our meeting today. I would like to set Saturday, the first of October, for our move forward into line.”
There were questions – there were always questions – but no-one challenged the basic premises of the plan. Jackson seemed uncomfortable and uneasy, but MacArthur decided to ignore him. If the plan was not to the old rebel’s liking then he could say so, but MacArthur was not going to encourage him.
Not an unreasonable stance from MacArthur, but it might behoove him to take advice from Jackson.
Vann
Vann
Enewald - The British army in Salisbury is about 120,000. I have 22 divisions, or 220,000 - far less than the 2:1 or 3:1 you typically need for a successful attack.
Vann the Red - of course, Jackson is accustomed to an army with a higher standard of proficiency. This one has a little militia training, and some of the men served overseas in the Spanish War, but some of them are middle-aged and none of the units have worked together before.
Jackson knows what he can do; MacArthur knows what the troops can reasonably be expected to do. Jackson wants victory; MacArthur wants not to expose his men to high casualties.
Vann the Red - of course, Jackson is accustomed to an army with a higher standard of proficiency. This one has a little militia training, and some of the men served overseas in the Spanish War, but some of them are middle-aged and none of the units have worked together before.
Jackson knows what he can do; MacArthur knows what the troops can reasonably be expected to do. Jackson wants victory; MacArthur wants not to expose his men to high casualties.
Well sir, you've done it again. You have made me wish this was a novel in full...and in front of me...so I could keep reading. Well done!
I particularly enjoyed the bits with Jackson. The old boy still has some magic in him, I expect.
Well done! I particularly enjoyed the bits with Jackson. The old boy still has some magic in him, I expect.
Unleash Jackson!!! His entire philosophy reminds me of a scene from the Karate Kid. "Strike first, strike hard, no mercy sir!!"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8oP2F5CM30k
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8oP2F5CM30k
Last edited:
coz1 - it is a novel in full. The damned thing is over 600 pages in Word, now. And guess what, everyone: as of August 8th, this baby is three years old. Doesn't seem possible. Especially since I said that after 'Dragons' I was going to write something short and simple. HAH!
Seems like just the other day I was putting up the first post. *sniff* Now it's going off to college and learning how to drink... ummmm, wait...
In other news, I give everyone fair warning that the next post is going to be a close look at a Jackson they may not like, a little less of an icon and a little more of a man who has lived a full life. Get your brickbats ready now.
Stonewall - like Patton, Jackson amazes me. He wasn't the right man for every situation, but - as very few did in the Civil War - he always would put it out there, win or lose you got both barrels from Stonewall. Got to respect that.
I hope you like the next couple of posts, but if not, I'll understand.
Seems like just the other day I was putting up the first post. *sniff* Now it's going off to college and learning how to drink... ummmm, wait...
In other news, I give everyone fair warning that the next post is going to be a close look at a Jackson they may not like, a little less of an icon and a little more of a man who has lived a full life. Get your brickbats ready now.
Stonewall - like Patton, Jackson amazes me. He wasn't the right man for every situation, but - as very few did in the Civil War - he always would put it out there, win or lose you got both barrels from Stonewall. Got to respect that.
I hope you like the next couple of posts, but if not, I'll understand.