1862

by Robert Conroy

  “No,” said Nathan. He caught General Scott watching Flynn carefully.

  “Private charities tried to help us,” Flynn continued, “but they were overwhelmed. My mother died nursing my brother, who also died. My father just disappeared one day. I managed to lie and steal until I was old enough to enlist in the army. At least they fed me.”

  “Then you served England,” Scott said.

  “I would have served the Ottoman caliph and let him bugger me in the ass if he would have fed me. Yes, I served in the British army and wore their damned red coat.” He stood and whipped off his jacket and shirt. “Look at my back. See the stripes and scars? Sometimes I got flogged because I deserved it, but most of the time it was because I spoke funny, and the sergeants and officers didn't like that. There were a number of us Irish in Victoria's fucking army, and there are a lot of us veterans who've finally made it here to the States.”

  “And that brings us to your point, doesn't it?” General Scott said quietly. His animosity towards anything Irish had diminished on hearing Flynn's story.

  “Indeed it does, sir. I wish for America to raise an Irish army to fight the British.”

  “But we do have an Irish Brigade,” said Nathan, referring to a number of Irish regiments from New York City. “And there are a number of Irish officers, perhaps even a general or two.”

  Attila Flynn smiled. “Yes, just as there are Irishmen serving the Confederacy, although not in so many numbers as those who serve the Union. Fortunate you are that both Boston and New York are in the North. If more Irish had settled in New Orleans, like the rebel colonel Patrick Cieburne did before moving to Arkansas, then you'd have lost the war already. Don't you wonder what a good Irishman like Cieburne is thinking of now that he finds himself an ally of England? He may not be a general today, but he will be tomorrow.”

  “Let's get back to your original statement,” Scott injected. “What specifically are you proposing?”

  “Dear General Scott,” Flynn said, “while the Irish have joined on both sides to fight for their adopted countries, there are countless tens of thousands who have not. I wish Mr. Lincoln to do two things. One, I wish him to form an Irish army, not a mere brigade, for the sole and entire purpose of fighting England. They would not serve against the South. I believe you would have droves of volunteers.”

  “And the second?” Nathan asked.

  “I wish the North to actively subvert those Irishmen who are serving the South. Promise them amnesty, promise them farms, promise them anything, but get them out of the rebel ranks and, if not into ours, then out of the fight. I promise you that men like Patrick Cieburne are not sleeping well at night.”

  “You know this Cieburne?” Nathan asked. Until this conversation he had never heard of Patrick Cieburne and he was reasonably certain General Scott hadn't either.

  “I served with him. We were both privates in fucking Victoria's fucking army. Pardon my French, General. Right now he's a colonel among a lot of colonels, but Patrick is both smart and a fighter. One more battle and he'll come out a general. That is, if he lives, of course.”

  “Have you discussed this with anyone else?” Scott asked.

  “I tried to get in to see Lincoln and got nowhere, and I was almost thrown out on my ass when I tried to see McClellan. Hell, that's the main reason I broke into Mr. Hunter's room. The front door isn't open to Irishmen all the time, but that just makes it a little more difficult.”

  Nathan wondered if their cook and housekeeper, Bridget Conlin, had provided Flynn with access and information as to their aspirations. It seemed probable. He decided he really didn't want to know, but he would be careful about what he said and did in Bridget's hearing.

  Scott looked at the clock on the wall. “Nathan, aren't you supposed to be at the French embassy?”

  “It can wait, sir.” It was New Year's Day and a small reception was being held at the French embassy. Madame D'Estaing had personally invited Nathan.

  “No,” Scott said with a satisfied look on his face. “I will continue to talk and exchange thoughts with Mr. Flynn. You go to the embassy and mingle.”

  The New Year's Eve that brought in 1862 had been celebrated fairly sedately in Washington, D.C. A few people got drunk, but most went to quiet parties if they went anywhere at all. The capital was in what some described as either a state of shock or premature mourning over the fact that it was faced with two enemies. One was only a couple of miles away and the other bound to appear on the Atlantic horizon at any moment, and that realization was sobering.

  A few receptions were held on New Year's Day, but they, too, were very decorous and proper. The Lincolns received a small group of well-wishers in the White House and then retired to their privacy.

  Nathan Hunter had not been invited to the White House, but he had been invited to a buffet at the French embassy. On entering he was greeted warmly by Valerie D'Estaing, who made him feel like a lost but beloved relative. The ever-present Rebecca Devon was beside her, and Nathan wondered if they were attached, perhaps at the hip. He was wrong. As he got a glass of champagne and some small sandwiches, he found Rebecca filling her plate as well. They nodded and walked off together.

  Nathan and Rebecca spoke of general things, beginning with the small and moving towards the complex. He was surprised and impressed to know that she understood the theories of Darwin and Marx, and had strong feelings regarding both of them. Most women he knew understood next to nothing about either man's theories. Darwin's book, On the Origin of Species, had come out in 1853, and had caused a stir. Traditional churchmen condemned it as being contrary to God's word, while the more liberal were at least willing to think it over.

  “Do you believe in it?” Nathan asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “It just makes too much sense. When Darwin's conclusions are compared with Owens's findings regarding those creatures he called dinosauria, we must conclude that species change over time, even becoming extinct. As to the traditional view that they all disappeared in Noah's flood, it seems improbable that so many great creatures could have roamed the earth at the same time as man without anyone noting either their presence or their passing.”

  “And Marx?”

  “He is both right and wrong. There is a struggle between the rich and the poor, the oppressors and the oppressed. But I do not agree with both him and Engels that capitalism will be overthrown. I agree wholeheartedly with Adam Smith's laws of supply and demand. I only wish he wasn't dead so I could write to him as I did with Marx. Of course, I had to sign myself as a man. I don't know how he feels about women having brains.”

  Nathan smiled. Rebecca Devon was indeed quite different. “And he responded?”

  “Several times. But then I got argumentative about the slaves and he stopped answering. I believe that Negro slaves are the most persecuted people in this nation and must be uplifted. They must be freed.”

  Now they began to differ. Nathan still felt that Lincoln's election had caused the secession and the war, and that he had blundered by sending an unarmed ship to Fort Sumter. “An armed sloop would have been better. Perhaps it would have cowed the rebels into not seceding, but it would not have freed the slaves. That must come gradually, so they can be incorporated into our society.”

  Rebecca shook her head vehemently. The tip of her scar that appeared above her collar had turned red. “It must come now and without hesitation. A man only has one life to live and it should not be as a man in shackles for any of it. No, I disagree with Lincoln because he isn't firm enough. He must emancipate the Negro everywhere and let the chips fall where they may.”

  “The Negro isn't ready for freedom,” Nathan insisted. His discussion with Rebecca reminded him of similar talks with Amy. He found he was enjoying himself. “And besides, how would he free those in the rebel states? He cannot free what he does not control.”

  “Then we must actively prepare the black man for his freedom. We prepared him for generations of a life of slavery, now we must work to chan
ge it. As to the other part of it, the fact that we haven't conquered the South, well, that should be an even greater reason for winning the war.”

  “But what if an emancipation proclamation costs us the border states?” It was an irony that slavery existed legally in states like Maryland, which was still in the Union.

  “Mr. Hunter, there is no such thing as a man being half free. Yes, even if the border states do try to go their own way, the slaves must be freed.”

  Nathan nodded. He thought he understood her passion for the cause. It had claimed her husband's life, and now his sacrifice must be seen as worthy, otherwise his life had meant nothing.

  While disagreeing with her on the slavery issue, he found her intellect both fascinating and charming. He also decided that she was nowhere near as plain as he'd first thought. She had large, intelligent eyes, clear skin, a trim figure, and the darkest, blackest hair he'd ever seen. She had a wide mouth that looked like it wanted to smile, but wasn't ready to yet.

  Nathan wondered if he'd see her again, or if their plain talking and his contrary responses had alienated her. He laughed. Perhaps he could find her a dinosauria bone and present it as a peace offering.

  Neither Nathan nor Rebecca saw Madame D'Estaing watching their discussion. If she'd been a cat, Valerie would have purred.

  Chapter Five

  A disbelieving lookout on the two-masted barkMaryann wasthe first to see the forest of trees as it emerged over the Atlantic horizon. TheMaryann was out of Portland, Maine, and on her way to Bangor. She was just on the inside of Penobscot Bay: and sailing towards the Penobscot River leading to Bangor.

  The lookout's first thought was that it was some kind of optical illusion. But then the blurred shapes that were flowing over the horizon and out of the mist took on substance. They were ships, scores of ships: and they were all headed towards theMaryann as they swept by Vinaihaven Island in the entrance to Penobscot Bay.

  Enoch Webster, theMaryann's captain, immediately turned his ship hard towards the Penobscot and put on all available sail. It wasn't enough. Once, when the wooden ship had been young, she might have given them a run for their money, but not now. She was old and her hull was fouled. Smoke belched from the other ships' stacks. The great ships had been conserving their fuel by running on sail alone, but now they stoked their furnaces, and their engines sent the mighty warships plowing through the sea at a speed theMaryann could only dream of.

  The van of the Royal Navy squadron swept past theMaryann and ignored her. The old barkentine didn't interest them. Captain Webster and her crew felt their frightening contempt as seamen looked down on the diminutive vessel that wasn't even worth their indifference. Hell, Webster thought, they were nothing more than a fly on an elephant's ass and the elephant wasn't concerned enough to swat at it.

  After the van came another, larger, squadron of warships, and this, too, swept regally by theMaryann. Webster ordered sails lowered as flight was useless and this enabled him to watch the parade as it went by. The warships were followed by scores of transports that were flanked by swift frigates. Still another squadron brought up the rear.

  When it was over, theMaryann tacked and was headed due south. She could make Portland in a day's sailing and she had news to deliver. The British were invading.

  Edwin Stanton had replaced Simon Cameron as secretary of war, and General McClellan was unable to attend; otherwise, the group assembled in Lincoln's office was unchanged since the start of the war. John Hay thought it amusing that Cameron had accepted the position of ambassador to Russia, but had made no plans to leave for St. Petersburg. It was too dangerous a journey, he'd said. At least, Hay conceded, he was no longer a member of Lincoln's cabinet and no longer a threat to the Union army.

  “Governor Washburn has called out the Maine militia,” Stanton said, “but he has made no move against the British. In point of fact, he has been in communication with their commander, one General Campbell. Another British general, Lord Cardigan, had landed with the British but has moved on towards Canada.”

  “Indeed,” said Lincoln. “And what did either of these worthy men give as their reason for attacking our soil?”

  “General Campbell told the governor that his force had been sent to reinforce the garrison in Canada,” Stanton replied. “However, they found the St. Lawrence too choked with ice to permit a safe passage, so they have landed at Bangor and will move up the Penobscot and march overland and on to Canada.”

  “In winter?” Secretary of State Seward scoffed.

  Stanton shrugged. “Not something I'd wish to do, but they are all Scotsmen, so I guess they are used to the rigors of harsh land.”

  “How many?” asked Lincoln.

  “About ten or eleven thousand,” Stanton responded. “Hardly enough for a conquest of the United States, so it is probably true that they are only passing through.”

  “And doing so with utmost contempt,” Welles snarled. “Is there nothing the army can do about this insult to our sovereignty?”

  Stanton continued. “As I said, Governor Washburn has called out the Maine militia, and both Vermont and New Hampshire are responding with men. Massachusetts has declined with the reason that they may be the next to be attacked and should keep their militia at home. However, it will take some time for any militia contingents to gather in force. At that time any attempt to dislodge the British could easily become a bloodbath. While we might defeat, even overwhelm, the British by sheer weight of numbers, our militia would suffer badly against their better-disciplined army.”

  “What about the regulars?” Welles asked.

  Stanton looked chagrined. “General McClellan informed me it would not be wise to divide his forces at this time with such an overwhelming enemy to our south, and with his own plans afoot to attack them. He also mentioned that it would take more than a month to get a sizable force to the Bangor area. By that time the British would have gone, or, if they are lying, would be fortified and reinforced. While I question his logic in the first instance, he is correct in the second. It would take forever to get a sufficient force of regulars to Bangor.”

  “So, once again, we do nothing while our poor country is insulted,” Lincoln said sadly. “How are the British behaving?”

  “With great discipline, sir.” Stanton answered. “As there has been no resistance on our part, there has been no destruction on theirs. They are even paying for supplies and purchasing barges with gold.”

  Lincoln nodded. “Tell Governor Washburn to continue his policy of nonresistance. I will countenance no useless bloodshed. Now, gentlemen, when the British army is gone, what will that fleet of theirs do?”

  Welles pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “The British fleet consists of eight battleships of the line, including theWarrior, twenty frigates, and a number of sloops and schooners. Our admirals are of the opinion that the British can go anywhere they wish, but that they will head south in a show of strength, perhaps bombard some forts or cities, and then break our blockade of the James River and of Charleston. There is nothing we can do to prevent them from doing any of that.”

  Lincoln tilted his head back and looked upward. “We are so strong and yet so helpless. Is nothing going right?”

  “Fremont's gone,” Stanton answered with a wry smile.

  John Charles Fremont had been the Union commander at St. Louis, where the man known as the Pathfinder had proven to be bullheaded and incompetent, even to the point of being oblivious to the corruption occurring in his name. He had further offended Lincoln by a unilateral, if limited, emancipation proclamation for the state of Missouri. An embarrassed Lincoln had found it necessary to repudiate it, and Fremont had been fired.

  “Gone to California,” Stanton chuckled. “He and a couple hundred fellow idiots are heading west. They left word that they will raise an army and drive the British from Vancouver Island.” Lincoln could not keep from smiling. “Imagine that. Pity the poor British.”

  Nathan Hunter's leg was a torrent of
agony. He could feel the broken bones grate as he slid along the sun-baked ground. He bit his lip until blood flowed. He had to remain silent. Any sound would announce to the Apaches that he was alive and uncaptured. As of now, they didn't even suspect his existence. There had been five men on four horses because one horse had broken its leg the day before, and not four men on four horses.

  The Apache ambush had been swift and deadly. One moment the cavalry patrol had been riding through the twilight towards their camp, and the next they were being tossed about by bullets from a dozen hidden rifles.

  Nathan had been flung from his horse, which had then rolled over him, smashing his leg. The horse had gotten up while Nathan's body slid down into a ravine, where he passed out.

  Now he was conscious and it was broad daylight. He must have been out the entire night. What had happened to his men? He'd heard screams when the bullets hit, so someone must have been hit. But had they gotten away? And where were the Apaches? Were they waiting and watching him, grinning and laughing, as he crawled around like a crippled insect?

  Nathan climbed with agonizing slowness over the edge of the ravine and onto flatter ground. A dead and bloated horse stared at him. Its wide nostrils were full of flies. Behind the horse lay something pink and horrible. It was Bellows, the corporal who^: d accompanied them. He'd been shot several times and scalped. He was naked. Boots and uniforms were valuable to the Apaches.

  He crawled past Bellows's cadaver and found the body of Private Cullen. He, too, had died in the ambush, and had been stripped and scalped. Perhaps they all had? Maybe Nathan was the only one alive, and he wouldn't last much longer. The pain in his leg surged through his brain and he couldn't stifle a moan. At least it looked like the Apaches weren't around to hear it.

  Nathan caught the scent of something burned. He gagged as he realized what it was. A few yards away lay the body of Private Fulk. He was naked and spread-eagled face up on the ground. He had not been killed in the ambush. Fulk had been captured and had taken a long time to die. His eyes had been gouged out, but what had killed him was a campfire that had been lit on his stomach. It had slowly burned through to his spine and still smoldered. His feet and fingers were also charred ruins. The Apaches liked to use fire.