1862 (24 page)

Lincoln looked up and managed a wan smile. “It isn’t? Then might it be worse?”

Both men exhaled. The president would be all right. Reports said that New York Harbor was littered with sunken and burned hulks, while the waterfront and almost the lower third of the city had been burned to the ground. Loss of property was almost incalculable, and the financial district had been ruined.

Tens of thousands of civilians were homeless, and it was only the fact that the weather was warm that kept people from dying by the hundreds from exposure and compounding the tragedy. More than eight hundred thousand people lived on Manhattan Island, with an additional quarter of a million across the river in Brooklyn. Martial law had been declared by New York’s Governor Edwin Morgan, an act that seemed to have prevented utter chaos and kept down the death toll.

The totality of the disaster had been brought home by many dramatic and emotional sketches that had appeared in the newspapers, but it was the photographs by Mathew Brady, Timothy O:Sullivan. and Alexander Gardner that were the most disturbing. They showed the stark truth, and it was horrific. The city had been devastated.

“The fires that have ravaged New York are out, and the people are beginning to trickle back in,” Stanton continued. “The army is setting up tent cities in Central Park and elsewhere for those who have lost their homes. Army engineers will commence rebuilding the city on a more permanent basis in a short while.”

Lincoln nodded. “And who is in charge of this? Surely it can’t be General Banks.”

Nathaniel Stanton winced. Banks had been the general in command of the harbor defenses of New York and Boston, as well as a number of other cities. He had been forced upon a reluctant Lincoln because of his political connections—among other things, he had been the governor of Massachusetts—and had proven himself totally incompetent. While the destruction of Boston was somewhat attributable to Britain’s surprise attack in overwhelming strength, the unpreparedness at New York following the Boston disaster was unconscionable.

“General Banks has resigned and has returned to Boston,” Stanton said. “And good riddance. With your permission, I have given command of all coastal defenses to General Pope.”

“Very good,” said Lincoln.

“Indeed it is,” seconded Seward, who didn’t like being left out of any conversation. “Now if we can only get rid of others, like McClernand and Butler.”

Stanton fixed him with an icy glare. He did not like his army’s shortcomings being discussed so breezily. “They will not interfere with the war effort.”

“But what of our ironclads?” Lincoln asked, bringing control of the conversation back to himself.

As if on cue, Secretary of the Navy Welles entered the room. “I have the pleasure to inform you that Captain Farragut has informed me that they are unharmed. It seems that the British admiral wasn’t certain exactly where they were, or perhaps he didn’t consider them a worthy target. Regardless, there was some damage to the facilities where they were being constructed, but, as they were on the Brooklyn side, it was minimal. There is nothing that couldn’t be repaired in short order. That is being done.”

“Very good,” said Lincoln, obviously pleased. “And what of the
Monitor
herself?”

“We were fortunate there as well,” Welles said. “She had steam up at the time of the attack and, seeing herself overwhelmingly outnumbered and outgunned, prudently took herself up the East River and out of sight of the British. She will join with the others at the head of an ironclad fleet in a very little while.”

Lincoln smiled. An ironclad fleet. What a wonderful surprise that would be for the British. Of course, to complete it they had to get the recently launched
New Ironsides
from Philadelphia to wherever the fleet was going to be assembled.

Secretary of State Seward cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to gain attention. “Mr. Lincoln, sir.”

“Yes: William,” said Lincoln. “What is it?”

“The French, sir. What shall we do about them?”

“What are they doing now?” Lincoln asked with some exasperation. The French seemed to be always conniving at something. In punishment for nonpayment of debts owed by the Mexican government. British, French, and Spanish troops had briefly occupied Mexico City. The British and Spanish had quickly withdrawn, but the French had remained.

“Mr. President, we believe the French troops will be reinforced and that a relative of the Austrian emperor, someone named Maximilian, will be ordained emperor of Mexico and will have his power enforced by French soldiers. This would result in Mexico being a vassal state of France and that, of course, is a clear violation of the Monroe Doctrine.”

Lincoln wondered if there was no end to the number of nations that would like to see the United States prostrate.

“Indeed it is. However, the last thing we need right now is to be involved in another conflict. Do what you think best regarding the French, but do not get us in a war with them. May I assume you have some thoughts on that matter?”

Seward smiled. “I do and I understand fully.”

Lincoln thanked them for their presence and their support. He then dismissed them. The devastating British assault on the million-plus civilians of New York, whether such destruction was intended or not, had galvanized the nation into the realization that Great Britain was as mortal an enemy as the Confederacy.

The president of the United States had a telegram to compose and send to General Grant.

* * * *

The nation was just beginning to learn about General Ulysses S. Grant. What most didn’t know was that it wasn’t his real name. He had been born in 1822 and named Hiram Ulysses Grant. On arrival at West Point some two decades later, he’d been confronted by a mistake in the army’s records. They had a cadet named Ulysses S. Grant from Ohio, but no Hiram Ulysses.

Prudently knowing not to argue with military records keepers, he’d allowed the name change to remain. After a short while, his fellow cadets decided that U.S. Grant stood for Uncle Sam and began calling him Sam. Again, he’d accepted the name change.

After his victories at Forts Henry and Donelson, some thought the initials stood for “Unconditional Surrender” for the harsh terms imposed on the garrison of Fort Donelson and Grant’s onetime friend, Confederate general Simon Bolivar Buckner.

Grant’s headquarters was at Cairo, Illinois, and Nathan Hunter was greeted with a surprising degree of warmth from a man he hadn’t seen in years. Grant had never forgotten the moral support and friendship Nathan had offered during the dark days back in California.

Neither had Grant’s wife, Julia. She, too, recalled a time when their friends were few and, even though she had never met Nathan before, welcomed him warmly.

Julia’s presence was an added bonus since it meant that General Grant would not be drinking to excess. Energized by the command of an army, and emotionally comforted by the presence of his family, Grant had no need to drown himself in drink.

He had, however, recently taken up smoking cigars, and the short, trim, and slender general was now rarely seen without one.

“So, could you invade Canada?” Nathan asked as he puffed on one of Grant’s cigars. They were nowhere near the quality he preferred, but Nathan was not going to say so to Grant.

Grant shrugged. “Why not?”

Nathan recalled that Grant was sometimes a man of few words. “Have you been contemplating such an attack?”

Grant smiled and exhaled a puff of noxious blue smoke. “You want me to say yes, then yes. Of course I have been. The original war plan was for me to take my army down the Mississippi and capture Vicksburg while somebody else took New Orleans and Port Hudson. With that done, the Confederacy would be cut in half. But I can’t do that while the British protect New Orleans and keep our warships off the Mississippi; so, yes, to while away the time I have been thinking of Canada. In fact, I’ve been thinking a lot of Canada. Are you aware that I’ve been there?”

Nathan was not aware, and Grant told him that he had been stationed on Lake Ontario at Sacketts Harbor. New York. and. more important, at the barracks in Detroit. Michigan.

“Detroit was a marvelous assignment,” said Grant. “We had a little house on East Fort Street, 243 I believe it was, and it was just a short walk to the riverfront, where Julia and I could see the Canadian city of Windsor. On several occasions we crossed the river and explored the area for pleasure. I would say I know Canada as well as any man in the army.”

For the usually taciturn Grant, it had been a long speech, and he dropped into silence. Finally, he broke the spell. “This thing in New York has the potential to free me to go into Canada, doesn’t it?”

The news of the burning of New York had struck the area like a thunderbolt. The overwhelming majority of people in the Midwest had never been anywhere near New York, but they were proud of the greatest American city and were furious that the British had wantonly burned it.

Nathan had arrived in Cairo just after the news about New York had been telegraphed across the nation, and had seen the anger on people’s faces. He, too, had wondered if his instructions to tell Grant to plan but take no action were any longer relevant.

“With nothing more to do about the Mississippi,” Grant said, “I have been planning thoroughly about Canada. I’ve included members of my staff in the planning since I thought it prudent. I told them it was an exercise to keep us all mentally sharp. So yes, I have planned, planned, and planned. I know exactly how to invade Canada and where to invade Canada.” He chuckled. “All those picnics in Canada with Julia will prove to be more important than the simple pleasure they gave us.”

Nathan could only listen. This wasn’t the shy young captain he’d recalled from California, nor was it the man who had been a scarcely adequate student at West Point, who had admitted to reading more romance novels than military tomes during his years there. No, at some point, Ulysses Grant had come out of a cocoon and emerged as a new man. The metamorphosis from a shaken and insecure captain to that of a proud and incisive general who inspired through his actions, and not through pomp and rhetoric, was astonishing.

“Trouble comes,” said Grant. “Or enlightenment.”

Lieutenant Colonel John Rawlins approached them at a fast walk. Rawlins was Grant’s chief of staff and a friend from Galena, Illinois. He had two assignments: keep Grant organized, and keep Grant sober when it looked like he would fall. He was good at the latter, but a poor organizer. Rawlins had a piece of paper in his hand, a telegram.

“What is it. John?” Grant asked. Nathan saw the general tense.

“From Washington, Sam, I mean, General.” He looked meaningfully at Nathan.

“It’s all right,” Grant said. “He’s a good friend.”

Rawlins took a deep breath and smiled hugely. “Mr. Lincoln wants you to invade Canada.”

* * * *

Hannibal Watson knew nothing of the events to the north of him. He had only one thing on his mind and that was the survival of his growing band. He now had doubts as to whether they’d actually manage to get to Union-controlled lands in the distant north. For one thing, the farther north they went, the more Confederate patrols they saw and had to evade. For another, he had to deal with a larger group of followers than before, and not all of them were people he trusted.

Hannibal hadn’t intended for his small group to grow larger, but they’d found a number of Negroes wandering in the woods as they trekked northward, so that now his band numbered more than fifty. A handful of others had been slaves on the small farms they raided for food and other supplies, and these could not be left behind.

Most of the men had weapons, and all knew how to use what they had. About half were armed with rifles or shotguns, while the rest made do with knives and axes. Hannibal tried to console himself that there was safety in numbers, but the truth was that his group was becoming too large to be handled. Where a handful of people could sneak through the woods and swamps, a larger group would leave a trail that could be followed. Where a small band needed but little in resources, fifty or more needed that much more in the way of food.

Thus, they had become raiders. Intuitively adopting the way of the forest Indians, they scouted out small farms and attacked suddenly in the dark of night and in overwhelming strength. Of necessity, killing occurred, and it bothered Hannibal. He was not against killing as such, but the more who were killed the more likely it was that a major Confederate force would be sent to hunt them down and kill them like mad dogs. As they moved, he sometimes wondered if there wasn’t a regiment of cavalry over the next hill just waiting for them. He kept his doubts to himself. His real nightmare was that shrieking riders would overwhelm them during the night just as they overwhelmed the farms. So far, they’d been both smart and lucky. He could be smart for a long time, but how long would his luck last?

Again of necessity, they had adopted the stark policy of leaving no survivors from the raids and of hiding the dead in the woods. Maybe they were found and maybe they weren’t. Hannibal didn’t know.

A woman’s scream and a groan of agony interrupted his thoughts. Hannibal gathered his rifle and headed to the source. “Damn it,” he snarled.

One of the newly freed slaves was fucking a woman. Two others held her arms down and her legs apart while the new man—Reginald, a house slave from Alabama—lay on top of her with his sweaty buttocks pounding furiously.

Hannibal kicked Reginald in the side. For a second, Reginald gave no notice, then he grunted and rolled off the naked woman. Hannibal realized in dismay that she was white. She was in her mid-thirties, skinny, and pinch-faced, as were so many in the hills. Her face was bloodied and her eyes spoke pure hatred as she looked from person to person in the dark-skinned group standing above her.

“You fool,” snarled Hannibal. “We’ve got no time for this shit.” Reginald laughed. “Always time for fucking.”

“Kill her,” said Hannibal.

“Shit, Hannibal, she throwed herself at me. Came at me naked and all that. She wanted it bad and I gave it to her.” He gestured at the two men who’d been assisting in the rape. “Me and my brothers only wanted what she wanted.”