Leon Uris (4 page)

That was a lot of talk in one breath for a man from the Blue Ridge Mountains. Ben patted his jacket pocket, feeling for his pipe, looked at the general, who nodded that the smoking lamp was lit.

“After this war is done—well, I don’t expect to be here, but, Ben, you will. The South will be very sick. I hope you’ll return home and help govern them. Many Southerners detest slavery, but not enough of them. It is going to take decades, generations, maybe a century for them to even come face-to-face with the evil they have inflicted.” He grunted and shifted his large body.

“They call me ‘Old Fuss and Feathers.’ They can start calling me ‘Old Aches and Pains.’ I’ve reached the time that the aches in your body come to a confluence with the aches in your heart.

“Well, I didn’t recall you from London to exchange bullshit. We either win this war or America will wind up as a fleeting comet in the story of man.”

They stared at each other through pipe smoke and cigar haze. “In the coming months,” the general said in measured words, “the Union is going to go through the painful experience of learning we are not fighting a corrupt Mexican army or chasing down Indians. Half of our officer corps is gone. That has created new openings for Union officers with more ambition than skill and courage. Mr. Lincoln is going to be looking at some terrible incompetence before he
is able to get a handle on this war, and no small part of it will be his generals.

“As my last important duty, I feel bound to give the president my best ideas for a Union strategy. There’s a lot of blather about a quick victory, but you and I both know that is unlikely. I want you on my transition team to turn the military over to Lincoln in the best possible shape. I know you’ve been thinking all the way back from London. What kind of grand strategy should we develop?”

“Blockade,” Ben answered without hesitation.

Scott broke into what resembled a smile.

“That’s it, son.”

“You’re most generous, sir.”

“We have to train an officer corps and enlisted ranks to fight a long, hard war. That will take time. The linchpin of this design must be an immediate blockade of the Southern ports along the coast as well as the Mississippi River.

“You’re going to like this part, Boone. Every vessel must carry a Marine unit to board blockade runners on the seas and land and capture Confederate forts. I am going to recommend that we triple the size of the Corps immediately and I want you to remain as my liaison with your commandant.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good. The Marine Corps will have value, but the war will be won by huge armies fighting titanic land battles. And once the war is over, no one is going to want to fight and the Corps will again have outlived its usefulness. Ben, for God’s sake, resign this pukey little Corps and transfer to the army . . . now.”

“Sir, I can’t agree.”

“Dammit! What will we be saving? An archaic institution? What for? Christmas-tree decorations?”

“Sir, I can’t agree.”

“Fucking tell me why, Lieutenant Boone!”

“When we lifted Texas and California from the Mexicans we did not go from sea to shining sea, sir, in order to rest on our laurels. We were saying, ‘Hello, Monroe Doctrine, here we are, over
lords of the hemisphere.’ Since the Mexican War we have landed units in Buenos Aires, Nicaragua, Uruguay, Paraguay, Fiji, the isthmus. When this war is done, the United States will enter as a world power and have a world-power two-ocean navy. As our commerce spreads, along with the idea of democracy, there will be many more landings and expeditions, larger rather than smaller. One day the United States is going to find itself having to land on an enemy beach defended by two brigades. We’d better know what the hell we’re doing. Choke off the Corps and this country, in hindsight, will realize it went and shot off one of its nuts, and not in a pleasant way.”

Brevet Lieutenant General Winfield Scott stared at Boone and then thought, Well, what the hell, nobody can change a hillbilly’s mind.

“The Brits are way ahead of us with their Marine Corps and nobody in England is trying to abolish them. Maybe an old power like the British can see the future more clearly than we can . . . Sorry, sir.”

“Like hell you’re sorry,” Scott answered. “I’ll be briefing President Lincoln tomorrow night. I shall require your presence.”

•
3
•

Winfield Scott’s master plan for conducting the war was adopted, giving Lincoln time to shake out his senior officers and create a great army.

Keels of ships of every class were laid and launched, from ocean-ranging men-of-war to paddle-wheel gunboats reporting for duty on the Mississippi River.

There was not one spectacular victory, but the blockade resulted in a daily, relentless wearing down of the enemy. The South required vast supplies from the outside and blockade runners poured out of the European ports to get in on the bonanza of the black market.

Every so often the Union fleet caught or sank a blockade runner, but most of them got through.

There was enough money involved for profiteers to keep a steady line moving across the ocean. Yet, for every vessel that
failed and for every cargo lost, the noose on the Confederacy grew slightly tighter.

Odds heavily favored the North with thrice the population, thousands more miles of railroad, and twenty-fold the industrial might. The Union had farmlands, the raw materials, and a highly skilled labor force.

Given time, the Confederate States would run out of everything from soap to gunpowder. Given more time, the Confederate States would be pulling up their rails to melt them down for metal and ammunition. There were hundreds of thousands of angry and desperate slaves to be held in check, and they were desperately needed, for the export of cotton and tobacco crops had to pay for everything.

The will of the South was a story of sacrifice on the home front and courage on the battle front that told the Union it was in for a long and bloody haul.

Although the Confederacy might never defeat the Union, it could drain the will of the Union and bleed the war to a standstill in order to win at a bargaining table.

Would Union resolve cave in, in the face of years of wanton slaughter? The Union cause had to be mighty enough to stand behind their battle cry of “unconditional surrender.” A leader of boundless greatness was able to instill a commandment into the soul of the nation that slavery was against God’s will.

And so, a tragedy for the ages was on.

Winfield Scott retired and a war that was supposed to be over in a blink entered its third year. Early in 1863, Ben Boone was assigned to the mighty frigate USS
Tuscarora,
a stalwart of the mid-Atlantic squadron.

He was to take command of a newly formed company, made up of 102 marines pulled together from a variety of ships and posts.

The USS
Tuscarora
was a sight to behold at its berth in Baltimore, double decked with cannons and spoiling for a fight. K Com
pany was ready and waiting as Lieutenant Boone came up the gangplank and was piped aboard. First to greet him was Sergeant Paddy O’Hara.

Ben renewed his friendship with old hands and acquainted himself with the new men. He was assigned an area on the aft deck and, with his sergeants, crafted vigorous exercises, drills, and inspections to keep his men alert and ready for action.

K Company was soon thinking as a unit, with each man and each squad catching the others’ rhythms. By the time the bark-rigged beauty set her sails and cruised serenely down the Chesapeake, Ben had a handle on what to expect from his people.

On the ocean beyond sight of land, the
Tuscarora
made rendezvous with two dozen warships, and rumors leaped from ship to ship. It was apparent that something huge was in the offing.

The armada sailed and steamed west, then made a huge turn and circled south, where it was joined by a half-dozen more ships from the mid-Atlantic squadron.

On the dawning of the twelfth day, land was sighted.

Lieutenant Boone left the officers’ wardroom and hastened to find Sergeant O’Hara.

“Sergeant!”

“Sir!”

“Assemble K Company in our deck area with full combat gear.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“It’s a big one.”

K Company was topside in minutes and a roll call was taken.

“All present or accounted for, sir.”

With his sergeants trailing him, Lieutenant Boone checked every man’s kit, ammunition, and water, and his potential courage.

“Stack your rifles and packs and gather around.”

The men fanned the sweat from their faces with the newly issued broad-brimmed campaign hats. The company dog, Ugly, panted with thirst, but knew it was time to be silent.

“The land yonder,” Ben said, “is the entrance to Charleston Bay. At dawn tomorrow the Marines of K Company have been honored to lead the invasion to recapture Fort Sumter.”

The cheer was piercing and in a few moments they could hear rally cries from ship to ship.

Ben went over the drill one more time . . . naval bombardment . . . we are restricted to quarters . . . keep your ears plugged at all times . . . aweigh all boats at 0300 . . . whalers row to portside so our ship will give us protection from enemy fire . . . steam launch will hook up all
Tuscarora
whalers . . . we will be towed to a place behind the breakers . . . we will unhook from steam launch when naval bombardment lifts . . . most crucial maneuver is rowing through the surf . . . unload, secure whalers, form a perimeter, move toward Lizard’s Gate, stop out of rifle-fire range . . .

. . . ammunition and water will not arrive for over an hour, so fire and drink with great care . . .

. . . bear in mind that thirst and exhaustion are as much the enemy as the Rebels . . .

. . . and fucking remember that the noise will be like a herd of bulls getting their nuts cut off . . .

. . . we will have to depend greatly on hand signals . . . keep plugged . . . I don’t want any deaf Marines coming out of this battle . . .

“Letters for home will be collected at seven bells tonight,” Paddy said. “Kindly help any brothers who have difficulty writing. Anything else, sir?”

“Get Ugly a hatful of water and gather around close.”

Ben took an envelope from his pocket, opened it, and read it.

To the officers and men of the mid-Atlantic squadron:

Our armies are performing gallantly inside Confederate territory. Fort Sumter is where this conflict began. Its recapture will sound a clarion call to rally the Union toward our inevitable triumph, as well as sounding a clarion call to our
citizens in the South to forsake their odious cause. May God keep you and return you safely to the arms of your loved ones.

—A. Lincoln, President.

In the stillness that followed, Ben handed the letter to the men to be passed around.

“I am a Virginian,” Ben said, “but remember that one-third of all slaves brought to our country passed Fort Sumter on their way to the slave block in Charleston.”

The company was dismissed, but the midday heat clung tight. It became still, so very still, as the ships deployed and land loomed larger. Paddy found a wistful Ben Boone staring hard at infinity.

“How is it?”

“Looking good, Lieutenant. Some of the men are even managing to nap. Rest of them are writing letters or having old letters read to them. May I smoke up here, sir?”

“Please, with care. Bloody
Tuscarora
is a floating bomb.”

“How’s it going to go tomorrow, Lieutenant?”

“Depends on how much damage the navy can inflict.” Ben looked away, but Paddy’s curiosity was sharp on him. “Navy has a propensity to believe that their gunfire will devastate any given target. A few pissy-ant forts have surrendered without resistance, but Sumter is not a pissy-ant fort.”

“We’ll be shooting a hell of a lot of guns at them. There’s got to be three or four hundred cannons in the flotilla,” Paddy said.

“Yeah, and if I was the Rebel commander, I’d just evacuate the fort during the bombardment and come back tomorrow, assess the damage, and make the defense from there.”