1862

by Robert Conroy

  Damn it, Farragut thought. If only he'd had more ships. If only he'd had more time to create a navy. But it was hopeless. His ships were battered, his men were exhausted, and they were out of ammunition. It almost didn't matter that the British ships were larger and faster. The battle was over.

  Miles away, Admiral Sir Henry Chads was almost physically ill. He had seen the face of the future and wanted none of it. It had been incredible. The small American ironclads had slugged it out with the larger British ships and had gradually worn down the Royal Navy's best. Chads had won a tactical victory this day by preserving the convoy. But he had lost two frigates that he'd been forced to abandon, and at least a half dozen of his ships were so badly damaged that they'd have to return to England. Ironically, he thought, the only North American shipyards that could repair them were in the Union and out of reach.

  The United States had disrupted the British fleet with only five ironclads. The message was clear. He would later wonder just how all five came together in the mouth of the Delaware when four were supposed to be in the Hudson, but this day he saw only the future. Ironclads. Today the Americans had five. In another couple of months, a dozen. How many in a year? Scores?

  Palmerston was right, but for reasons the prime minister didn't even yet fathom. The Royal Navy's ascendancy off the coast of the United States would be brought to an end by the damned ironclads. Britain would build her own, but the coastal vessels like the turreted Monitors would force Britain's blockaders far out into the waters. This would permit merchant ships and Union commerce raiders to scurry out to the safety of the vast sea. Both the United States and Great Britain would build bigger and faster ironclads, ships that would combine the seaworthiness of theWarrior with the invincibility of theMonitor, or theNewIronsides, There would be no more wooden ships. An era had passed.

  Nathan Hunter poured himself a drink and took a small sip. General Scott had been right. Scotch whiskey was an acquired taste, but the trip was well worth it.

  It had been an exciting day. After a lengthy conversation with General Scott, General Grant and he had gone to the White House, where Grant had had a private conversation with President Lincoln, much to the dismay of Secretary Stanton and General Halleck. After that, the two men had emerged and the president had announced that General Grant now commanded all the Union armies, and that all strategy for the winning of the war would emanate from him. General Winfield Scott had been flabbergasted. Stanton seemed bemused, while Halleck had looked fit to be tied.

  Nathan had expected good things for Grant, but total command of all the Union armies had not been one of them. At least not yet.

  This meant that, at age forty, Ulysses Simpson Grant, or Hiram Ulysses Grant, or Sam Grant, or whatever the hell he wished to call himself, was one of the most important and powerful people in the nation. Nathan wondered if Grant was up to it or if he would be a failure like McClellan. Nathan decided he'd put his money on Grant.

  It was impossible not to conclude that, had Grant been commanding at Culpeper instead of McClellan, the Union might have won the day, perhaps the war. Grant was remorseless when it came to fighting. Not cruel, not ruthless or vicious, but remorseless. At Fort Donelson, he had required an old and dear friend to submit to a humiliating surrender. At Shiloh, he had nearly been defeated, but refused to allow it and had claimed a victory after a bloody, brawling battle that had stunned both sides with its ferocity.

  Later, in Canada, Nathan felt that Grant was fully capable of massacring those misguided militia arrayed against him outside of London. That he might not have wanted to was irrelevant. If he'd had to he would have. His later battle at Dundas, and the campaign in and around Hamilton and Toronto, was being heralded by experts on both sides of the Atlantic as a masterpiece of maneuver and tactics. Nathan thought it was simply a case of Grant, a terrier, getting hold of his opponent and refusing to let go.

  But was Grant good enough to defeat both Lee and the British, who were reinforcing the Confederates?

  Nathan walked to a window and pulled the curtain aside. A light drizzle had fallen and the world glistened from the reflection of the stars. In the servants' wing, a gaslight was lit. Nathan smiled. It probably meant that Sergeant Fromm was visiting Bridget Conlin. With the aged General Scott safely in bed, Fromm generally spent the night with the comely young Irish servant.

  Nathan envied Fromm. At least the sergeant's life was in some kind of order, while Nathan still suffered from uncertainties. It had been a long time since Nathan had slept with a woman, in particular one for whom he cared, and he wondered when it would happen again. Certainly, Rebecca Devon was an object of great desire, but she was so fragile he was afraid to push their relationship beyond the kissing and caressing that she accepted and even seemed to enjoy.

  Rebecca was still a daily visitor with the old general, and she frequently didn't leave until after dark. This gave the two of them ample opportunity for brief meetings and conversations, which they indulged in as frequently as they could.

  Then there was the question of just how involved did he wish to get with Rebecca Devon? Nine times out often, perhaps nineteen out of twenty, Nathan felt that he wished to marry her, but there was that moment of doubt that held him back.

  It had nothing to do with the illicit manner in which her late husband had accumulated wealth that was now hers. Nathan had done his own research and found that Rebecca's unlamented husband had stolen, embezzled, or otherwise acquired close to two hundred thousand dollars. It was an immense sum and Nathan was pleased that she was investing it prudently, and did not feel that it was blood money. Certainly, some part of it had been honestly gotten, but which part? And how and to whom could she return it? She had used some to set up a charitable foundation, and retained the rest to support herself. Nathan agreed that she was entitled to do that.

  The light went off in Bridget's room, and Nathan visualized the two of them romping in bed. He shook his head. Best not to dwell on such things. Even so, he knew his night would include thoughts of Rebecca's pale and naked body alongside his. He grinned and wondered if she was as attractive as he imagined. Then he wondered if he'd ever find out.

  Sir Richard Lyons, former British ambassador to the United States and now senior representative from Her Majesty to the Confederate States, tapped on his wineglass. The talking ceased and the dozen army and navy officers present gave him their attention.

  “Gentlemen, despite my best efforts, the hanging of the Negro slave accused of murder and insurrection will take place tomorrow as scheduled.”

  “I don't understand,” said Wolsey, “if he's a criminal, then why not hang him?”

  “Because, my dear Brigadier, even in the most contemptible and corrupt of English courts, every man is entitled to at least a semblance of a trial. What will happen tomorrow is nothing more than a lynching.”

  Lyons shuddered. The term itself was typically American. It came from a Loyalist colonel named Lynch who'd committed atrocities on Americans during their revolution. “Do you think this Watson fellow is guilty?” John Knollys inquired with what he hoped was the proper amount of deference. He was by far the most junior officer present. “Of insurrection, certainly,” said Lyons. “And of the killings, quite likely. After all, insurrections are rarely bloodless. But it does not appear that he actually took part in the rapes.”

  “Still more than enough to hang him,” Wolsey persisted.

  “Certainly, but only after a trial,” Lyons replied. “I spoke with several Confederate cabinet members when I could not meet with Davis, and was informed that Negroes do not get trials because they are considered property, not humanity. I was asked with much laughter if I would insist on a trial for a rabid dog or a mad bull. When I reminded them that even a slave was counted partially in censuses, I was again laughed at and told that the parts that were counted were the slave's broad back and the size of his cock.”

  Lyons refilled his glass from a carafe. Others did as well. “Gentlemen, the issue that
is causing such an uproar in England is the lack of due process in conjunction with the abomination of slavery. Hang the man, damn it, but first try him. But the Confederates won't. They feel that any perception of leniency shown this Watson person would inspire other slaves to rebel. As it is, thanks to the Emancipation Proclamation and this poor fool Watson's efforts, many thousands of Confederate soldiers and militia are on slave patrol. I've been informed that several states have declined to send militia or reinforcements to help out the regular army because they need them at home to protect them against their own slaves.”

  “Absurd,” muttered General Napier. “We need every man we can get for the coming campaign. The presence of the Royal Navy should have caused the Confederacy to eliminate the numerous coastal garrisons they'd established to prevent invasion, and bring their armies together to battle the Union. Instead, they husband them and others to put down slave rebellions. Defeat the North, then worry about the slaves. By God, defeat the North and there won't be a slave issue.”

  “Therefore,” Lyons continued, “I implore you gentlemen not to go to the hanging. I am afraid it will be a Roman circus that will only be detrimental to us. Just about everyone in England is against slavery, and we do not need to have our noses rubbed in it by this tactless act by the Confederacy. It simply isn't necessary.”

  “Then all is not well between we two allies?” inquired Napier with a sly smile.

  Lyons smiled in return and made him a mock bow. “We are associates, not allies, my dear General. And yes, the quality of this association is indeed strained. I, for one, cannot wait for the day when this war is over and I can be posted to a civilized country.” He rolled his eyes in mock dismay. “Zululand, for instance.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The hanging was set for the grounds of Libby Prison in Richmond. Libby was the infamous warehouse and adjacent area where Union officers were kept without adequate food or shelter. It had counterparts throughout both the North and the South, since neither side treated its prisoners with humanity. In all cases: they were more death camps than prison camps.

  The overcrowded prison stood on a large piece of otherwise starkly vacant property. The three-story building had originally been a ship's chandlery owned by Libby amp; Sons, hence its name. Within its bowels: Hannibal Watson had been isolated.

  Contrary to Lord Lyons^’ s fears, the Confederate government had no intention of letting Hannibal's execution become a circus. A tall temporary wooden fence had been built around the gallows to the intense dismay and disgust of the several thousands of spectators who had gathered to see the infamous slave leader, Hannibal Watson, swing at the end of a rope.

  The small, slender African woman had no intention of getting too close to the prison. The well-liquored crowd was on the verge of becoming a mob, and no one with a dark skin was safe should it turn violent. She'd seen several fellow Negroes knocked down and kicked just for having the same color skin as Hannibal Watson. She had no hope that her femininity would save her should someone take a dislike with her presence at this solemn occasion.

  Prudently, she walked away and up a slight hill. From there she could see a little ways over the fence, which was more than those who pressed up to it could. Several hundred of Provost Marshall John Winder's soldiers fought to push the crowd away from the fence, which was in danger of collapse, and were liberal with clubs and rifle butts before they succeeded. She enjoyed the sight of white soldiers cracking white skulls.

  There was a clamor as a door opened and people emerged into the sunlight. The Negro woman more sensed this than saw it until she saw the top of a man's head standing on the gallows. Unlike others, he was hatless and had dark, curly hair. She held her breath and watched as a sack was placed over his head and the noose tightened around his neck. There was no chaplain, no prayers were said, and, a second later, the trap was sprung. Hannibal Watson disappeared from her sight as the crowd roared its pleasure even though all they could see was part of a rope that once had been slack and now jerked taut.

  The Negro woman walked away and headed back to the hotel where she worked as a cleaning woman. She was liked and respected there, but she was still a slave. She had a son, but he was safe, perhaps free. He was up north in Boston, where she should have gone when she'd had the chance.

  As she walked towards the hotel, a tear ran down her cheek. So long parted, she thought, only to see him again like that. What a shame, what a waste. Silently, eloquently. Abigail Watson vowed revenge on the people who had destroyed her husband and her family.

  Rosemarie DeLisle had gotten her money the old-fashioned way-she'd married it. At seventeen and as Rosemarie Willows, she had accepted the proposal of a sixty-seven-year-old planter. Jedidiah DeLisle. Mr. DeLisle owned several plantations and had numerous other investments that made him an extremely wealthy man. He was also infatuated with Rosemarie, who had an excellent name and pedigree but no money.

  Gossips had scoffed at the marriage, but Rosemarie had surprised them. She'd felt a genuine affection for the old man who was in constant ill health. When he worsened, she nursed him and earned the grudging admiration of her social peers, even though some of them whimsically thought she had worn him out sexually. When he died three years later, she inherited all his fortune and no one resented it.

  Now, at age thirty, Rosemarie DeLisle was accepted as a member of Richmond's society, and a still young and eligible widow. She was also a good friend of Varina Davis, the wife of Jefferson Davis.

  Rosemarie DeLisle also liked both sex and John Knollys, who was the latest and most interesting in a short line of discreet lovers. Both she and John were naked, exhausted, and sweat-sheened from their exertions. She rested half seated on her large bed, while he lay with his head on her lap and gazed at a full breast whose nipple seemed to be staring back at him.

  She tweaked at his thinning hair. “What say you, Lord John, once more into the breach?”

  Knollys smiled. She knew he wasn't a lord. Minor nobility yes, but not a lord. “Aye wench, but not for a while. The lordly battering ram needs repair. Christ, you've damn near destroyed me.”

  She sighed in mock sadness. “So much for the British Empire and every man doing his duty by laying alongside his lady.”

  Knollys laughed. He was really quite fond of Rosemarie DeLisle. She was far more educated and interesting than anyone else he'd met, and that included Valerie D'Estaing, who was probably screwing her way across Europe. He'd heard through Lord Lyons's sources that the D'Estaings had been sent back to France in what might have been disgrace.

  “Can't we just talk for a moment?” he asked.

  “If we must. But not overlong,” she sighed dramatically. Rosemarie did like the fact that he appreciated her mind as well as her full, ripe body. Most men did not think she had a brain, which made Knollys quite unique. Of course, most men didn't think any woman was capable of intellectual discourse, or for that matter, of actually enjoying sexual intercourse. “What are your thoughts on the execution of the slave?”

  “Badly handled,” she said. “There are those in the government who are hell-bent on offending people needlessly, and they have succeeded. It could have been done discreetly, done later, or not done at all.”

  This was precisely what Knollys thought. “What about a trial?”

  She yawned. She had nice teeth and an incredible tongue that she used to drive him mad by having it caress his manhood. “Then you would have to presume that he was human and had inalienable rights. The Negro is not human.”

  “Then you condone slavery?”

  “Of course. You know that. The Negro is an inferior creature who resembles humankind in many ways, but not in all. Therefore, he needs to be protected from his own base impulses, and from those who would exploit him. The white man was placed here by God to provide shelter and succor for the Negro and to protect him from harm. Where the North and England see slavery as an abomination, we see it as the Negro's salvation.”

  “What about where
they are worked to death or treated harshly?”

  She ran her hand down his chest. “That is a crime, or it should be. People who abuse and destroy property are fools.”

  “You are saying, then, that the slaves can never be freed.”

  She caressed his manhood with her hand but stopped when she got little response. “Never is such a long time. It will not happen in my lifetime, unless, of course, the Union wins. In which case, it would be a tragedy for the Negro as well as the Confederacy.”

  “And if the North does win? What will you do?”

  “Then I shall leave here and find a home in another land.”

  “But what about the rumors that there is an agreement between Jefferson Davis and Palmerston to free the slaves after the conclusion of the war?”

  Rosemarie DeLisle laughed heartily. “If there was such an agreement, it wouldn't be worth the paper it's written on. Davis can't force any state to free slaves. It's part of the reason we exist, this freedom of self-determination that is unique to us. If Mr. Davis signed such an agreement, and I doubt that he did, then it was done under duress and knowing full well that it would never be enforced, could never be enforced. The South will not voluntarily free its slaves in the conceivable future.”

  John Knollys accepted her statement as truth. She was privy to the conversations and opinions of the Confederacy's leaders to an extent that neither he nor any other Englishman could hope to be. It upset him deeply that the British army and the Royal Navy might be fighting for a fraudulent cause.

  But then, Rosemarie's hand again began caressing him. This time she found life, and she purred. He shifted his head so that an inquisitive nipple found his lips and he began fondling it. He had a great deal to tell both Lyons and General Napier.

  Later.

  General Scott loved to pontificate, and he seized the opportunity whenever it arose. This time, he was to hear General Grant's general plans for stopping Lee's advance, and he looked forward to pronouncing his opinions on them at great length. Secretary of War Stanton and General Halleck were present, as was Nathan, who stood quietly behind Scott. The old general was fatigued and looked pale. He would not, however, be denied. He would be present at these and other meetings.