1862

by Robert Conroy

  The boy with the horses clattered off. Hannibal counted his “army.” He now had fifteen men and six women, and a couple of each were barely more than children. He wanted to weep but he couldn't show weakness. He was now sure that the only place he would see his beloved Abigail would be in heaven, and he wasn't at all certain he'd be going there when he died.

  ****

  “Seems like old times,” Nathan said. He and John Hay were enjoying another informal lunch at Harvey's Restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue. For this occasion, Nathan wore civilian clothes even though he was still a colonel. Hay had brought him a note from President Lincoln confirming him in that rank and further authorizing him to function either as a civilian or an officer at his discretion.

  “I love clandestine meetings like this,” Hay grinned. “I get to eat like a hog and charge the cost of this meal to the government.” Nathan arched an eyebrow in amusement. “You mean there's money left? I thought Mrs. Lincoln had spent all of it.” Hay sighed. “She's trying her damndest, Nathan. Her absolute damndest.”

  There were numerous rumors in Washington that the nervous and insecure Mary Todd Lincoln had tried to calm her fear that she didn't belong in the White House by grossly overspending the allowance provided for the Lincolns by Congress. The money was to cover the living expenses of the president and his family as well as the costs of running the White House. As a result of her profligacy, Lincoln was finding it necessary to pay bills out of his personal resources. Lincoln was far from poor, but he did not have the wealth to support both the operations of the White House and his wife's expenditures.

  The result of all this was that the unnerved Mrs. Lincoln was even more insecure than ever.

  “Fortunately,” Hay continued, “there are some other accounts the poor lady doesn't know about.”

  “I hope you can keep it that way,” Nathan said. “Now, what does the president wish to know that is so important as to result in this meal? May I presume it's about Canada?”

  “You may, or more precisely, it's about General Grant.”

  “I never saw him take a single drink,” Nathan said, anticipating the question.

  “Wonderful,” Hay said with such evident relief that Nathan was surprised.

  “What had you heard that was different?”

  “It appears that General Halleck is not General Grant's greatest supporter. He's hinted very broadly that General Grant was intoxicated on several occasions and that the battle of Dundas Street was really won by Sherman and Thomas. It's said that Grant sat and did nothing while the battle raged.”

  Nathan shook his head. “John, did you ever shoot an arrow?”

  “A couple of times,” Hay said, puzzled. “And with astonishing lack of skill. I'm not too certain I even hit the ground.”

  “Skill doesn't matter for this example. Once you've aimed and let the arrow fly, what can you do about it?”

  “Nothing. What's your point?”

  “Simply this. Once the battle's planned and joined, it is up to subordinates to carry out their orders, and to anticipate and resolve problems in their areas. Thus, there truly is very little for a commander to do when the fighting starts except to remember that no battle ever goes as planned. Therefore, a general like Grant has to have faith in his subordinates to make the adjustments necessary once the fighting commences. The arrow has flown once the battle begins and there's no way it can be retrieved. All a commander can do is wait until and if his intervention is needed. In the Battle of Dundas, it wasn't needed. General Thomas held like he was supposed to, so did Baldy Smith. General Sherman's flanking movement went off pretty much on schedule. He met stronger resistance than he thought he would from the Canadians, but Sherman solved that problem himself. There was no reason to involve the army^’ s commander in a decision that affected one corps. Same with Thomas and Smith when the Brits started to move out. They began to push them on their own initiative and both men simply kept Grant informed to the best of their own abilities.

  “I don't want to say that the outcome was foreordained, John, but the British had very little chance of winning the battle. It was great skill and bravery on their part that prevented their annihilation, although it only delayed the inevitable.”

  “It is a far different picture from the one Halleck painted,” Hay said.

  Nathan laughed. “Methinks General Halleck is very jealous of Grant's abilities.”

  “So I've heard.” Hay said sheepishly.

  “I seem to recall General Scott saying that very same thing. Old Brains will never be half the fighting general that Grant is and it must gnaw at him. Halleck has an enormous ego. Unfortunately, it's far greater than his skills. I would strongly suggest that Mr. Lincoln not worry about General Grant. In my opinion, he is the perfect man for command in this new and modern kind of war. He understands it, which is more than I can say about poor General Cardigan.”

  “So it was all right for Grant to do nothing during the battle?”

  Nathan finished his mug of beer and wiped the foam off his lip. “Actually, he didn't sit and do nothing. He was quite busy.”

  “Oh, really. That's good news. What was he doing?”

  Nathan couldn't resist. “Actually, he was smoking cigars and whittling.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Benjamin Disraeli had been chosen by Palmerston to represent Great Britain's interests in discussions with the Confederate government. It was a mistake. Although brilliant intellectually, the fifty-eight-year-old novelist-turned-politician had proven to be too flamboyant in his clothing and speech for the conservative and nearly puritanical Jefferson Davis and his government to stomach.

  Davis met briefly with Disraeli and, after determining that he didn't want a second meeting, left Disraeli to discuss Palmerston's concerns with Judah P. Benjamin, the secretary of state of the Confederacy. It was presumed that the two would hit it off because both were Jewish. This was both wrong and a mistake. As each had converted from Judaism to Christianity, they were both distrustful of the others motives for doing so. However, the major problem with any relationship between the two men was Disraeli's arrogance and, for Benjamin, the British emissary's wild dress and behavior.

  “It only proves,” said Brigadier General Garnet Wolsey, “that our beloved prime minister is not omniscient.” Wolsey had arrived with Disraeli to augment the small military staff in Richmond. His presence brought it to a total of three officers: General Napier, Major Knollys, and himself.

  Within days of the surrender at Hamilton, Wolsey had been exchanged for the officers of the American frigateSt. Lawrence, sunk by the Royal Navy so many months before. Generals Gough and Campbell still awaited their turn, while the other officers and enlisted men languished in a prison camp near Sarnia.

  “Not only didn't the two men see eye to eye as Jews,” Wolsey said to Napier and Knollys, “but Disraeli was overheard saying that Richmond is a stagnant sewer of a town, and that the people are all illiterate and unwashed savages.”

  Napier chuckled. “I believe we all think that; however, we do not run around saying it where it can be heard.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Knollys.

  Wolsey winked at Napier. “Major Knollys finds Richmond quite charming ever since he bagged the lovely Miss DeLisle.”

  Knollys was unabashed. “It makes many things palatable, General. Including, I might add, Miss DeLisle.”

  Napier and Wolsey laughed. “But still, there will be an invasion northward,” said Napier. “Won't there?”

  Wolsey had been functioning as Disraeli's military adviser during the abortive negotiations. What had finally been agreed on had not yet been transmitted to Lord Lyons or the rest of the British delegation.

  “Quite possibly,” Wolsey said with a sly smile.

  “Excellent,” said Napier.

  “Wait for the other shoe to drop,” said Wolsey.

  “What did we promise now?” muttered Napier while Knollys kept prudent silence.

  “Weapons an
d ammunition for one thing. We will be stripping British armories for Enfields and cannon to send over. What we have been sending will not be enough to prepare for a battle.”

  “Acceptable,” said Napier, “and not at all surprising.”

  “We will also send troops. One full corps of two divisions of infantry and two regiments of cavalry.”

  “Good grief,” said Knollys. “Where shall we find them?”

  “From the garrisons in Great Britain. Recruiting has been stepped up and there have been some successes. A number of regiments are now at or near full strength. These will arrive along with selected colonial forces from Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa. All whites, of course. The white population of New Zealand is quite small, but more than a million free whites live in Australia. They ought to be able to provide a regiment or two. The same with South Africa.”

  Napier was not entirely pleased, although he couldn't put his finger on why. Then it dawned on him. “Good lord, those are the troops that were going to reinforce Canada!”

  “They are indeed, sir,” said Wolsey. “Palmerston has decided that Canada, which is virtually lost anyhow, shall be hung out to dry. It is essential that the Confederacy succeed and, thanks to Disraeli's muck-up with his fellow Hebrew, Benjamin, we are required to commit to an active support of Robert E. Lee's invasion northward.”

  “When?” asked Knollys.

  “Don't worry, John,” teased Wolsey, “you shan't miss it.

  Seriously, it will take place when all the pieces are in order, We have already sent for the troops from Canada, and General Lee has begun to assemble an army from his widely distributed forces,”

  “An invasion,” said Napier, Then, he added hopefully, “Who will command?”

  “Lee, But you will be appointed to command the British contingent, General Napier, I can only hope that you will permit both John and me to serve with you,”

  “Wouldn't have it any other way,” Napier said expansively, It wasn't what he totally wanted, but whoever got that? “And Canada? Is it truly abandoned?”

  Wolsey shrugged. “If Montreal and Ottawa fall, which they might anyway, then they fall, With a British army in Canada and a Confederate one at Richmond, we run the risk of being defeated in detail. With our forces combined, we should be able to defeat the Union and whomever they put in command, However, if we win with Lee, then the loss of Canada will become moot, We will get back at the negotiating table what we lose on the field of battle.”

  Billy Harwell had just turned eighteen and got a couple of presents from Captain Melcher. That everyone else in the regiment had gotten a new rifle, too, didn't dampen his enthusiasm one bit. Billy, however, had gotten two of the things,

  The first was a Henry repeater. He had heard of them before but had never seen one, They had been developed two years prior, but none had yet found their way to the army. Now there were close to four hundred of them being issued to his regiment. The Henry was a fifteen-shot repeater that kept its extra bullets in a tube under the rifle's barrel, You fired, worked a lever that pushed in the next bullet, and fired again. It had several other advantages that made it a truly superior weapon. A specially designed firing pin virtually eliminated the possibility of a misfire, and it used metal cartridges that were premade to a uniform size.

  Since a rifleman didn't have to reload very often, it meant that a soldier could fire from a prone or kneeling position, while someone shooting a muzzle-loader usually had to stand to reload, As a sniper, Billy knew that someone who was prone was far less likely to get themselves shot, The Henry, Captain Melcher said, could revolutionize warfare,

  In short, it was a killer weapon, So why wasn't everyone getting one?

  Captain Melcher laughed. Damned Harwell always had questions, “Rumor has it, Harwell, that the War Department thinks they cost too much and use up ammunition at too fast a pace,” He didn't add that he felt there were fossils in the War Department who didn't want to see any improvements in weapons, and who might be perfectly happy if the army went back to using the crossbow.

  “Well ain't using up ammunition the idea, Captain?” Billy asked. “The more you shoot and the faster you shoot, the faster the rebs get sent to hell where they belong.”

  “Can't argue,” said Melcher. “Word also has it that we've gotten them since we're supposed to be part of the group guarding the capital if the rebs attack and break through the defenses. Mr. Lincoln has seen the Henry and has ordered that the army get as many as it can as soon as possible.” He didn't add that, if anybody could get the War Department off its ass, it would be the president.

  Billy snorted and almost spit out his chaw, He'd picked up on chewing tobacco a few weeks ago and hadn't quite gotten the hang of it, He did, however, know that the normally genial and helpful captain would be mightily pissed if he choked and hawked a gob onto his boots.

  “Hell, sir, the rebs gotta come north and attack before they can breakthrough, don't they? Haven't seen much sign of that.”

  Melcher agreed that the area had been mercifully quiet. Aside from some patrols and light skirmishing, there had been no action at all. What battles were taking place were doing so in Canada or elsewhere. It was a strange way to fight a war, what with the rebel capital less than a hundred miles away. If this Grant fellow were in command of the Army of the Potomac, things might be a lot different,

  The second rifle given to Billy was a British Whitworth and the sight of it took his breath away, “Where'd you get it, sir?”

  “Off a dead Britisher outside Toronto, Friend of mine found it and sent it back to me, The redcoats had smashed just about everything else they had before they surrendered, so this was a real lucky find, I had written him about your abilities as a shooter and he thought you might put it to good use,”

  The Whitworth was the weapon of choice for snipers in both the Confederate and British armies, It had been designed in the mid-1850s by a British engineer and was based on the Enfield model. It fired a 45-caliber slug detonated by a percussion cap and was fairly primitive in its operation. Still, it was extraordinarily accurate, with a killing range of up to eighteen hundred yards. It had been fitted with a long thin telescope, which made it even more accurate in the right hands, and Melcher was certain that Billy Harwell's were among the best in the army,

  “My friend said it fouls fairly quickly and needs to be cleaned every dozen or so shots” Melcher said.

  Harwell caressed it lovingly. If the Henry was a sturdy and reliable workhorse, the Whitworth was a sleek Arabian racer. So what if she was a little fragile and temperamental. She would only be used for special occasions. “That won't be a problem, Captain. Can't see me taking more than a handful of shots at a crack, Sharpshooting involves real selective firing.”

  No, thought Melcher with a twinge of sadness. Billy wouldn't fire very often at all with the Whitworth. And he wouldn't miss very often either. Hell he rarely missed with an average weapon. How would he fare with a great one like the Whitworth?

  Melcher shuddered. Billy'stargets would all be officers just like him. God help them. And God help Billy Harwell. What, he wondered, are we doing to boys like him?

  Attila Flynn was intrigued and perplexed by what he saw in Canada. Like most people living in the United States, he'd never been there and had rarely even thought about it. From what little he did know, it was a land to the north that was, for the most part, cold and barren and filled with wolves and bears, and occupied by Brits, crazy Frenchies, and the occasional Eskimo. Thus, he found it surprising that the part of Canada that bordered the United States was prosperous and downright civilized.

  It also surprised him that, while its inhabitants were technically British, he held no animosity towards them. Nor were they particularly upset at him. It was easy to see that they had no say in the affairs of state that had led to the famine and other disasters in Ireland. The Canadians were also immigrants who'd left Great Britain because of injustices or lack of opportunity in the mother country. Nor
did it surprise him that the Canadians now wanted more of a say in their own affairs. That seemed to be the curse of Britain's empire and it suited Attila just fine. That the Canadians stopped short of demanding total independence was their business. Ireland, however, must be free. Totally free.

  And that was the important word: free. 'Patrick,” he said, “what say you to an Irish Free State?”

  “First of all,” said General Patrick Ronayne Cleburne, “it's 'General,' not Patrick. I've never given anyone like you permission to call me by my first name. Second, what the devil are you talking about?”

  Flynn was not put off by Cleburne's attitude. There were days when the general liked him very little and other days when the general liked him not at all. The man resented the fact that he'd been made a pawn in Flynn's schemes, even though the last of them had resulted in his life being saved. Ah, well. So much for gratitude.

  “Dear General, I was thinking of proclaiming an Irish Free State in Ontario. The United States would recognize and protect us, and it would drive the British absolutely mad. Perhaps you would be the first president?”

  Cleburne snorted. “If so, then my first act would be to have you shot.”

  “Then you would be squandering my talents,” Flynn said equably. “But just think. We Irish are tolerated, but not truly accepted, in the United States. We fight for the Union, but the nicer folks in New York and Boston really want little to do with us. Why not establish our own country in Canada and let those who wish migrate from the United States and elsewhere to it? The land here is marvelously prosperous, and so much of it is still uncultivated. It would also be a haven for future Irish immigrants from the old country. With you and your Irish Legion, we could defend ourself against all comers. And don't tell me you wouldn't like to finally fight the British.”