“I hope you have some good news,” Sherman said.
“Just about as good as can be expected. You’ll see for yourself. You must remember those demonstrations of the Gatling gun?”
“Indeed I do. But I feel that it was an idea that was before its time. We would all love to have a gun that could fire continuously, spitting out bullets at a fair clip. But as I remember this gun kept jamming. They spent more time prying out defective rounds than they did shooting.”
“They did indeed. But Ordnance has taken that 1862 model of the.58 caliber Gatling and has improved it beyond belief.”
“In what way?”
“For one thing it was too heavy to move around and its rate of fire was too slow. Not only that but the paper cartridges in steel chambers tended to jam in the gun as you said. They’ve abandoned that approach and redesigned the weapon completely. Now the gun uses rim-fire copper cartridges. They slide easily into battery and are ejected smoothly, which in turn keeps the jams down to a very low figure. Another fault was that the bores in the barrels of the original model were tapered. Because of this the barrels and the chambers did not always align exactly which caused misfires, shots in the open receivers, and all other kinds of mischief. Decreasing the tolerances in the machining has taken care of that. There sir, see for yourself.”
They walked over to the firing range to join the small group of officers who were already gathered there. Sherman was only vaguely aware of them since his attention, like theirs, was focused on the deadly-looking weapon mounted there.
The Gatling gun model of 1863 was an impressive weapon, from its shining brass receiver to its six long, black barrels. Ramsay pointed to the V-shaped container atop the gun.
“The cartridges are loaded into this hopper and are fed down by gravity. When the handle is turned the cartridges are loaded into the barrels one at a time. The six cam-operated bolts alternately wedge, fire and drop chambers to eject the spent cartridges.”
“And the rate of fire?”
“Just as fast as the handle can be turned and cartridges loaded into the hopper. Say five rounds a second, three hundred a minute.”
Sherman nodded as he walked around the gun, admiring it. “Those are mighty good figures. How mobile is it?”
“This model weighs half as much as the first one. It can be pulled by a single horse and can easily keep up with the infantry. Add two more horses for the ammunition and you have a mighty impressive weapon here.”
“Let us see it in action.”
The waiting gunnery team jumped forward at the sergeant’s command. The hopper was filled, the elevation handle locked into place, the gunners ready.
“Fire!” the sergeant shouted.
The sound was an ear-splitting roar. The gunner traversed as his loader cranked furiously at the handle. The row of wooden-framed paper targets two hundred yards distant tore and splintered. If they had been enemy soldiers they would all be dead.
“Cease fire!”
The smoke drifted away. The silence was numbing after the ripsaw sound of the gun. The targets fluttered away in torn fragments. Sherman nodded as he looked at the destruction that the single gun had wrought.
“I am most impressed,” he said, “Most deeply impressed. I can see them on the battlefield already. Dig them in and there is no force — of infantry or cavalry — that will be able to take a position so guarded. This is going to have a profound effect on the way we fight battles — take my word for that. Now get them into production so when we need them they will be there. I want to see a thousand of them ready for action as soon as it can be done.”
As General Sherman turned away his glance fell on the other officers who had come to witness the test firing of the Gatling gun. One of them looked familiar — very familiar. Where…? Of course!
“Captain Meagher of the New York 60th.” He glanced at the man’s shoulders and smiled. “Or Colonel Meagher, I should say. And how is the wound?”
“Fit as a fiddle and raring to go. Sure but the Englishman that’s able to kill this Irishman has not been born yet, General.”
“And a good thing too,” Sherman said, frowning at the memory of that day’s battle when an overwhelming force of British soldiers had all but destroyed the Irish regiment. “They wiped out your regiment, didn’t they?”
“They tried, General, they certainly tried. But killing Irishmen, why that’s like the old Greek story of cutting down one man and a hundred growing in his place.”
“That’s right — you have an Irish Brigade now—”
“In which I am most happy to serve. If you want to see professional soldiers you must see us on parade! Almost all of the men are veterans, proud fighters, transferred in from almost every regiment in the army — both north and south. And we have plenty of young volunteers, all of them yearning to join in with other Irishmen. And we’ve trained them hard, until I do believe that the recruits are as good as the veterans. They’re a fine lot and eager as spit to be let loose on the English. And we’re stationed close by, part of the Army of the Potomac now. You must come around to our mess and have a drink of some good poteen. All of us are sons of Erin, but now good Americans to a man.”
“I might very well do that, Colonel Meagher, I might very well.” He started away, then turned back. “Have you seen the reports — the new troubles with the British?”
“Seen them, sir — why I’ve memorized them! When the time comes to start shooting at the English again, you must never forget that you have an entire brigade of volunteers ready and willing for your command.”
“Most commendable, Colonel,” Sherman said, smiling. “Take my word — I shall not forget that.”
WE SHALL NOT FORGET
“Are you coming then, Tom? For I have an almighty thirst that is near to killing me.”
The words were clearly heard through the thin canvas of the army tent. Colonel Thomas Francis Meagher finished pulling on his boots as he called back. “I’m coming, Paddy, you can be sure of that.”
He went out and joined his friend and they strolled to the Officers’ Mess together. Captain P. F. Clooney, like many of the officers of the Irish Brigade, was a veteran soldier even before he had joined the American army. He had served in an earlier Irish unit, the Irish Brigade of St. Patrick, which had fought in defense of the Papal States against Garibaldi. When the hostilities ended, torn by his loyalty to the Papacy and sympathetic to Garibaldi’s cry for freedom, he had turned his back on both of them and had emigrated to the United States, where he had enlisted in the American army.
The Officers’ Mess was in a sturdy building that had been a farmhouse standing on the grounds where the Irish Brigade now pitched their tents. When Meagher and Clooney came through the front door they discovered that the meeting of the other officers was already under way when they arrived. It was the first Sunday of the month when all of the members of the Fenian Officers’ Circle met together. This was the focal point of the revolutionary group in the army that supported the Fenian movement in Ireland. Men who were dedicated to the liberation of Ireland from British rule. But today they had another problem to consider. Captain O’Riley called out as they entered.
“Tell us, Francis, is the rumor true that we are to have new uniforms?”
“Not a rumor but a fact, my old son,” Meagher said. “It’s the new recruits you see. During the war we were a Northern regiment and proudly wore the blue of our country. Now that the war is over we are no longer just a regiment, but have grown to be a brigade. Lots of good soldiers have joined us from what was the Southern army and the mixture of uniforms in our ranks has been something wicked to see. The War Department, in its wisdom, has been considering uniform changes for some time. In the new kind of war that we are fighting, with new and more accurate guns, a more neutral sort of color of the uniform is very much in order. We have all seen what lovely targets the red British uniforms provide!”