Spencer's rifle was not the product of a mature arms manufacturer, but was a special handmade tool put together in the machine shop of his partner's company, the Cheney Brothers Silk Mill. That partner was a Boston neighbor of Gideon Welles, secretary of the Navy, a Hartford man, and not surprisingly a demonstration was arranged at the Washington Navy Yard in June 1861. Admiral Dahlgren, chief of the Ordnance Bureau at the time, personally tested it, and no sharper eye could have been found. Dahlgren was rightly known as the Father of American Naval Ordnance for his fine line of guns, the soda bottle-shaped Dahlgrens, which even the British had tried to buy before the war.
There was only one misfire of the five hundred brass rimfire cartridges fired, and that was found to be owed to defective fulminate. The rifle sustained a rate of fourteen shots a minute without overheating and did not require cleaning to continue, unlike the standard Springfield and Enfield muzzle-loading rifles, which began to foul after a few dozen shots. It fired as well with the five hundredth shot as the first. Dahlgren ordered seven hundred on the spot.6
Spencer left Washington in a state of euphoria that dissipated when it sank in that the demonstration rifle was his only model and that there was no factory, machinery, or work force to fulfill the government order. In the meantime, Lincoln had heard Dahlgren's enthusiastic praise of the rifle, and there was no man whose technical judgment he trusted more. He prodded Maj. Gen. George B. McClellan, to consider the weapon. The Army's test was as positive as the Navy's, and an order for ten thousand followed in December. For the Spencer Repeating Rifle Company, it was an embarrassment of riches. The weapon's promise would be crippled by the lag in producing them as the factory only slowly took shape. It would not be until June 1863 that the initial orders could be filled. Lincoln's interest had cooled as well. The Navy had given him two demonstration models, and one would not work because of a rusted magazine tube. The other jammed with a double feed. Lincoln then halted deliveries of the weapon.
The business end of the company was not in Spencer's hands, but the continued development of the weapon was. It was make or break time for him. He walked into the White House with his rifle in his arms, right past the guards and into Lincoln's office. It was a less securityconscious age. "Mr. President, I understand you have had problems with my rifle."
The president loved firearms and was an excellent shot. He was like a little boy whenever the opportunity to handle new weapons presented itself. "Well, tell me, son, about this shooting iron," he said.
Spencer was his own best salesman. "Sir, my rifle uses the Smith & Wesson .52 caliber brass rimfire cartridge, which completely prevents gas leakage from the back because the brass casing expands on ignition to seal the chamber. It has a rolling block activated by lowering the trigger guard. This movement opens the breech and extracts the spent cartridge." Spencer cocked the weapon. Lincoln noticed the easy movement of the action. "Raising the lever causes a new cartridge, pushed into position by a spring in the seven-round tube magazine located here in the stock, to be locked into the firing chamber."
He then delivered a precise explanation of the problems Lincoln had experienced and the solutions he had arrived at with the production models.
Lincoln reached for the rifle and worked the action. "Smooth like butter," he said. "Nice balance, too, and not too heavy. About ten pounds, I'd say."
"Yes, sir. Exactly ten pounds. And 47 inches long."
"Does it bruise the shoulder with the recoil?"
"No, sir, it has an exceptionally light recoil."
As Lincoln continued to examine the rifle, Spencer decided to broach an awkward subject. "Sir, General Ripley has made it clear there will be no more orders for my rifle."
Lincoln laughed. "Reminds me of something that was said when I went shooting another rifle. Someone said, 'General Ripley says, Mr. Lincoln, that men enough can he killed with the old smooth-bore and the old cartridges, a ball and three buckshot.' Well, that was just the problem. I said, 'Just so. But our folks are not getting near enough to the enemy to do any good with them just now. We've got to get guns that carry farther."' He held up the rifle as he finished, happy to see the grin on Spencer's face.
He had been referring to the Army's chief of the Ordnance Bureau, Brig. Gen. James Ripley, whose antipathy to anything but the standard muzzle-loading Springfield rifle had earned the nickname, Ripley van Winkle. The gruff old man dismissed the modern marvels generated by American ingenuity as nothing but "newfangled gimcracks." Lincoln had had to give him direct orders to buy them, which had been brazenly sabotaged through administrative trickery. He had been tolerated solely because the Army's pool of ordnance talent was so thin, there was simply no replacement, but even that excuse had worn thin.
Lincoln leaned over, put his hand on Spencer's knee and said, "Don't worry about Ripley. Come tomorrow and we can have a proper shooting match. You bring the cartridges, and I'll bring the audience." Spencer did not know that Ripley's days were numbered, and he would be dismissed in two months.
When Spencer arrived the next day, he found Stanton and other senior officials waiting, and they all marched out to the Mall near the unfinished Washington Monument, the president's tall hat bobbing above the group, and fired all afternoon at targets posted on a huge pile of scrap lumber about a hundred yards away. Lincoln was in a good mood as he sent round after round into the target from the kneeling and prone positions. He didn't even hear the shouts coming closer and closer. "Stop that firing! Stop that firing!" the voice cried, adorning that order with a flood of profanity. A short sergeant followed by an armed squad rushed up to the group, determined to enforce the ordnance against firing weapons on the Mall. "Thunderation and God damn! Stop that damn firing!" He pushed his way through the group, shoving aside cabinet secretaries and congressmen alike, as if he were a policeman out to arrest a drunk.
As an observer would later note, "Perhaps Mr. Lincoln heard him, and perhaps not, but his tall, gaunt form shoots up, up, up, uncoiling to its full height, and his smiling face looks down upon the explosive volunteers. Their faces, especially that of the sergeant ... look up at his, and all their jaws seem to drop in unison. No word of command is uttered, but they 'right about face' in a second of time. Now it is double-quick, quicker, quicker, as they race back toward the avenue, leaving behind them only a confused, suppressed breath about having 'cussed Old Abe himself."'
Lincoln's only response was, "Well, they might have stayed to see the shooting."'
He signed the order for twenty thousand rifles that afternoon.
COLT ARMS FACTORY, HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT, 4:35 PM, OCTOBER 21, 1863
Spencer's retelling of that story had Carnegie and Root nearly in tears after a late lunch in Root's office. Carnegie thought it was just the opening for what he had come to say.
"Well, you see, Mr. Root, the president had that much faith in Chris's rifle that even then he was willing to sign such a huge order. Now that we have been most foully attacked, the country must throw every possible advantage we have into the scales." Root was surprised at the vehemence of Carnegie's hatred for the enemy expressed in his thick Scottish brogue. Carnegie caught the surprised look and fixed him with his blue eyes, his face beginning to take the high color of the truly fair. "Make no mistake, Mr. Root, it is not the British people I am against. No, sir. It is the monarchy and its system of privilege that has ground down the working people of those islands, causing the English, Scots, Irish, and Welsh in their millions to find a new home here, just as I have. And the Royals and their nobles, and their High Church prelates, they hate this country for it and wish us ruined.
"We have in this country the charter that the workingman of that kingdom has been fighting for years as the panacea for all Britain's woes, the bulwark of the people. So, let there be no mistake of my sentiments. God bless the United States, and God damn the British Crown."8
"Well, now that that is settled, Mr. Carnegie, what may I do for you, and for young Chris here?"
HEADQ
UARTERS, THE MAINE DIVISION, PORTLAND, MAINE, 8:47 AM, OCTOBER 22, 1863
Chamberlain peered into the small room where the prisoner was sitting blindfolded and tied to a chair in his torn and dirty scarlet coat. He shut the door and walked back into the hallway to speak to his chief scout. The man shook his head in disbelief. "Sir, we caught him when he wandered from his camp for a piss. The thing is, well, there were only a handful of men in the encampment. Most of the tents were just empty. There were fires in all of them, but only a few men were moving from one to another feeding them. Most of the horse lines were empty, too. Most of 'em are just plain gone, General." Chamberlain discouraged the men from calling him "General," since he had not been officially notified, but after the word had got out from his escorts at the parley that he had been promoted, the men had insisted on the honor.
The scout was a very earnest man. "Don't know where they went, but I figured this officer would be of some help there."
Chamberlain seemed lost in thought for a moment, then looked the man in the eyes and said, "You've done a good job. I am in your debt." Some poor wretches felt that giving a compliment was like taking money from their pockets, but Chamberlain knew it was a coin always worth spending. The man beamed. "Now go get a meal and a good night's sleep."
Chamberlain let the prisoner's imagination run on for about another hour to give himself time to think over what would happen next. The more the man's fears played on his mind, the easier it would be. Finally, Chamberlain threw open the door, saw the man jerk in his bonds, and shouted, "Why is this officer still restrained? Free him at once!" The guards rushed by to untie the prisoner and take off the blindfold. He blinked to regain his focus, confusion and fear playing over his face. Then he saw the lithe, blond American colonel standing in front of him and noticed the mustache that drooped on either side of his mouth. The American's face radiated concern.
He spoke, "I must offer my sincerest apologies for your treatment to which an officer and a gentleman should never have been subjected."
The Canadian was clearly nonplussed. His capture and transfer into the city had not been gentle, and sitting alone in that room restrained in the dark had been even more terrifying. Now this American colonel had rescued him. What was he to make of this?
Exactly what Chamberlain intended. "You must he starving, Lieutenant. Let me make amends by offering you dinner. First I must see that you get some soap and water." He laughed. "I have completely forgotten my manners in my distress of finding you in this state. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Colonel Chamberlain." He bowed slightly. The Canadian's manners reasserted themselves as well, as soon as the formalities were invoked. "And I, sir, am Lieutenant Jean-Yves Delacroix of the 9th Battalion, Les Voltigeurs de Quebec."
"Ah, bon!" Chamberlain said, "We must speak French, Lieutenant. I am much out of practice in this most beautiful of all languages. You shall be my teacher." The lieutenant beamed, almost exactly as had the chief scout.
Dinner was excellent. Delacroix complimented the fine, hot bread and waxed even more pleased with the two bottles of wine that had miraculously appeared in the driest city in the United States. Chamberlain promised to offer amends to Dow's angry ghost. The sudden reversal of the lieutenant's fortune, Chamberlain's kindness, his courtesy in speaking French, the fine meal, the buzz from the wine, and the glow from the fire all put Delacroix in a mood to please. He unconsciously felt he was in the presence of a gentleman and not an enemy. Chamberlain had played on that theme by decrying the folly of war between two related peoples, though this son of Quebec might have argued the point in other circumstances of whether he was related to these Anglo-Saxons on either side of the borders. For all that difference, the Quebecois were not eager for the Stars and Stripes to replace the queen's flag. They were royalists to the core. They cheered, "Vive le roil" as eagerly for a SaxeCoburg as a Bourbon. So, he was especially won over when Chamberlain proposed a toast to his gracious sovereign, Victoria Regina, Protestant heretic though she was.
Chamberlain was silently thanking George Sharpe for his briefings on interrogation techniques after Gettysburg. It was just an elaboration of the old saying that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Sharpe was adamantly opposed to any form of brutality, insisting that it was immoral and would indelibly stain the honor of anyone who engaged it. Worse, it would morally harm any subordinate man an officer set to such practices, and an officer had a profound responsibility to ensure the decent behavior and good character of his men. Men who did such things found their conduct affected in other areas that would soon poison their relationship with their comrades.
Practically, it simply was not reliable. A man in pain will tell you just what you want to hear. A well-treated man who was properly encouraged, cajoled, flattered, and even lied to can be played. This took skill and patience but was well worth the investment. From such techniques, Sharpe and his staff had drawn forth the priceless intelligence at Gettysburg that Lee had committed every regiment in the Army of the Northern Virginia but those in Pickett's Division, his smallest, by the night of the second day of the battle. Thus Sharpe was able to tell his commander the exact size of the enemy's reserve, decisively influencing the course of the battle.
Chamberlain deftly drew forth the information that Doyle had withdrawn almost his entire force to march south to meet Sedgwick's VI Corps, which had just left Boston. The rumors were that Doyle would drive south, beat Sedgwick, and then return as fast as he could. Delacroix added that a new general straight from England had landed hours after Doyle marched and had galloped after him. Chamberlain could barely control himself as the lieutenant complained that this new general, who was rumored to command all forces in British North America, had not paused to review the guard. Not that there was much to see. Only four Canadian militia battalions, some Royal Artillerymen, and engineers had been left to hold the siegeworks.
Chamberlain purred in reply to Delacroix, "I'm afraid we are in no position to do anything even if there were only one battalion. The garrison is in such straits that we can barely keep watch." With a sigh he said. "I simply do not see how much longer we can hold out. But the honor of my country requires me to delay your general just a little more."
Delacroix commiserated on the sufferings of the Americans and offered his hopes that an honorable settlement would soon take place. "I am sure that Sir Charles would offer generous terms to such gallant men." He almost felt like patting the obviously depressed Chamberlain on the back.
HEADQUARTERS, CIB, LAFAYETTE SQUARE, WASHINGTON, D.C., 4:14 PM, OCTOBER 23, 1863
Sharpe's staff meeting had just broken up. He was in conversation with his chief of ciphers, one extremely talented lieutenant he had purloined from the Signal Corps camp of instruction in Georgetown, when Jim McPhail came striding down the hallway, carpetbag in hand.
"Jim!" Sharpe said, glad to see his deputy. Then he excused himself from the lieutenant and put his hand on McPhail's shoulder, "Let's talk about your trip." He caught one of his clerks in passing to tell him to have Wilmoth join them in his office.
McPhail tossed his bag in the corner and dropped into one of the stuffed chairs in front of Sharpe's desk. Sharpe leaned back against the front of desk, eager to hear his deputy's trip report. "Well, I'm all ears. God knows the papers are in a perfect twist. Every man of importance in the Union, it seems, has lined up in the White House to demand the president send the entire Army to defend his backyard."
"I was in Boston when Sedgwick's VI Corps marched through. The entire city turned out to cheer them on. I never knew Massachusetts could that excited about anything except abolition."
"I would, too, if the redcoats were as close as Portland. In fact, Jim, they're closer to Kingston." He started pacing. "As far as I know, May and the children are still there. Since the invasion, the telegraph has been restricted to war business. Half my office are New York men, and if I won't let them break the order, they won't see me do it either."
McPhail knew that Sharpe
had reason to worry. He didn't want to sugarcoat it, though it would add another burden to his boss. "Surely, we can get a message to her when we send someone anywhere nearby. I think you should get your and McEntee's families out of Kingston." Capt. John McEntee had been Sharpe's deputy in the BMI. "The reports are true. The British have been raiding down the Hudson Valley. New York City is filling with refugees. There's only the garrison of the city, and the president dare not send it forward, or the entire city will panic. If we lose New York, we lose the war."
Sharpe cut to the purpose of sending McPhail north. "What is the enemy situation, then?"
McPhail's seriousness deepened. He paused to carefully choose his words. "Our information is thin, George, damned thin."
Sharpe replied, "I did not expect miracles, Jim."
"And we didn't get any, that's for sure. When you called me down from Baltimore and offered me this job, I was overjoyed. At last we would be able to put some sense into the intelligence end of this damnable war. God knows, we have worked nothing less than a few miracles of our own putting this bureau together, but the job was too damned big to do and get our legs under us in just three months."
Sharpe said, "Well, we put the BMI together in two months and handed Hooker Bobby Lee's head on a silver platter. When I took this job, I knew the problem I had faced with standing up the BMI would shrink in comparison with the difficulties in putting together this bureau, and I was dead right."
McPhail said, "Don't be too hard on yourself. Look at what you've accomplished. You've resurrected the Balloon Corps and got Lowe to run it even though he promised never to work with the government again after being insulted and harassed out of the Army."
A Rainbow of Blood: The Union in Peril an Alternate History Page 12