“I agree completely and I know that it is only the truth. Give my respects to General Meagher. He is a fine officer.”
“That he is. And I know that he won’t let us down, he and his Irish troops. But I must impress on him how vital his role is — and how even more important is exact timing. I know that he will understand when I explain the entire operation to him. It is amazing the organizational work he has done with the limited facts of the coming operation that have been supplied to him.”
“That is because he has faith in you, Cumph. We all have. This new kind of warfare is yours and yours alone. Yes, most of the weapons and machines were all there for anyone to see. But you saw more than we did. You had the foresight and, I dare say it, the genius to put everything together into a new kind of battle order. We will win, we must win a decisive victory. To settle the British question once and for all. Then maybe the politicians will take notice and decide that wars are too awful now to keep on fighting them.”
Sherman smiled wryly. “I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for that to happen. As you know I personally think that war is hell — but most people don’t. I firmly believe that the politicians will always find reasons to fight just one more war.”
“I’m afraid that you are right. Have a good and fast voyage — and I will see you upon your return.”
It was a wet day in April in Ireland — it almost always was — but General Thomas Francis Meagher scarcely noticed the rain-lashed fields and the sodden tents of the Burren. His men were fresh troops, green and untested troops — but men with the hearts of lions. They had rallied to the tricolor flag when the call had gone out for volunteers, coming from all parts of the country. Theirs was the newest nation in the world and was now under threat by one of the oldest. Ireland had been a republic just long enough to taste the benefits of freedom. Now that this newfound independence was under attack, her people rallied to its defense.
A year ago, when Meagher had inspected his first volunteers, his heart had sunk. They were willing enough, God knows, but generations of ill nourishment had exacted its toll. Their arms were pipe-thin, their skins gray and pallid. Some of them had legs that bowed out, the classical sign of bad diet and rickets. All of the noncommissioned officers in the new army were from the Irish Brigade, all of them Irish-American immigrants just one or two generations away from the old country. But what a difference those few generations had made. Through industry and hard work they had improved their lot — but a decent diet had improved their physiques as well. Most of them were a head taller than their Irish cousins, some weighing half as much again.
General Meagher had called upon the American military doctors for advice. They had years of experience in caring for large groups of men, caring for their health and well-being as well as their combat wounds.
“Feed them up,” the surgeon general had said. He had made an emergency visit to Ireland at the behest of the doctors of the Irish Brigade. He had been shocked by what he had seen. As soon as he could, he arranged a meeting with General Meagher and his staff.
“I am surprised that any of them lived long enough to reach young manhood. Do you know what the diet in the country consists of? Potatoes — almost completely potatoes. A valuable source of nutrients indeed, but not to be eaten on their own. And if the potatoes are peeled before they are cooked, this removes many of the nutrients. They are eaten dipped in salt water for flavor, washed down by black and unsweetened tea. That is not a healthy diet — it is a death sentence.”
“But they are used to it,” Meagher said. “They strongly resist eating made dishes, and what they call folderols…”
“This is the army,” the surgeon general growled. “They will obey orders. Porridge in the morning; if they don’t like it salted, they can sweeten it with sugar to make it palatable. I know that they say that oats are only for horses — but they can emulate their Scotch cousins and eat their oatmeal every day. And no tea until the evening meal! If they are thirsty, why then, provide them with jugs of milk. Then make sure that they have meat, at least once a day, and vegetables like turnips and cabbage. Leeks as well. There is a most tasty Irish dish called colcannon, made of cabbage and potatoes. See that they have some of that. Then exercise, not too strenuous at first, but keep building it. They will put on muscle and body weight and be the better for it.”
The doctors had been so right; in less than a year the changes had been remarkable. And as the men’s health had improved, so had their military prowess. The trained soldiers of the American Irish Brigade had been spread evenly through the new Irish army. Those with the needed skills and intelligence were made noncommissioned officers; the remaining ones acted as a trained central corps, an example to the boys from the farms and the cities’ slums. They were eager to learn, anxious to do their part in the defense of their country.
Meagher was immensely cheered by all this. Though at times progress had been heartbreakingly slow. But these mostly illiterate young men had the unshakable will to succeed — and win. They were told what needed to be done and they did it with enthusiasm. Now there was an army that could wheel and march on parade, that also showed a growing skill at the rifle butts. They could put down a volley of withering fire from their breech-loading Spencer repeating rifles. If they had the spunk to stand up to the enemy, they would be a formidable force in the field.
Training artillerymen had not been as easy. But there were farm boys who knew about horse handling and harnessing, and they had fleshed out the ranks. A hard core of Irish-American gunners provided the skill and knowledge to create an efficient gunnery corps.
This had been done. Before going out to attend parade, General Meagher stood in the doorway of his tent and watched the men drilling in the endless rain. They persevered. Nearby a company was erecting new tents; one of the tents, sodden with water, collapsed on the soldiers working below it. They emerged dripping — and laughing at their misfortune. Morale was fine. Soon these men would be tested in battle. General Sherman, the General of the Armies, had sent word by the weekly packet to Galway that he and General Robert E. Lee would be arriving in Ireland very soon, directly by warship to Dublin. Sherman would explain what was needed. Meagher remembered clearly what he had said at their last meeting in the War Department in Washington City, some months ago.
“You must build me an army, Francis, one that will fight and follow where you lead. If war does come, why, yours will be the most vital role in guaranteeing our victory. You will be joined by American forces, but your men must be ready to fight as well. You will have losses, that cannot be avoided, but I want every man in your ranks to know, before they face battle, that it is for the freedom of Ireland that they fight. Victory in the field will mean independence forever at home.”
They will be ready, Meagher thought, nodding his head. They will be ready.
The storm was clearing, dark clouds racing by overhead. The sun broke through to the south, sending a sudden shaft of gold to illuminate the landscape. An omen, he thought. A good omen indeed.
Blown across England by the prevailing westerly wind, the storm that had lashed Ireland had now reached the English Channel. The passengers who emerged from the Calais packet lowered their heads and held on to their hats in the driving rain. The big man with long hair and a flowing beard ignored the rain, walking slowly and stolidly along the shore. He paused when he came to the public house, slowly spelled out the words THE CASK AND TELESCOPE, nodded, and pushed the door open.