1862 (38 page)

“And the Prussians are restive,” Russell added. “With Bismarck as prime minister, they’ll begin wars, I’m afraid, to achieve their aims of unifying Germany. It may take them a couple of decades, but they will doubtless succeed and then look elsewhere. We, of course, will be that elsewhere.”

Palmerston nodded. “But it is France that concerns me. Granted, she is up to her neck in Mexico, thanks to the Union’s support of the rebels, but she may be our next immediate threat when she disengages from North America.”

“You believe France will lose in Mexico?”

“Absolutely.” Palmerston replied. “Then she will be fixated on us as in the past. She will forget that we were allies in the Crimea and begin maneuvering against us. Perhaps she will ally herself with Prussia. We must never forget that France is our traditional enemy.

“But let us return to our immediate problem, the Confederacy,” Palmerston said. “I am amazed that anyone gave serious thought to the theory that the Southern states would wish to return to the bosom of Mother England.”

Russell could not stifle his laugh. On his return from Virginia, former consul in Charleston James Bunch had been preaching to anyone who would listen his sincere belief that the South wanted to become part of England again. The truth of the matter was that the South was populated with obstreperous, opinionated, contrary, and highly independent Americans who wanted no part of belonging to the British Empire. Bunch had deluded himself into thinking that support for England could be translated into obeisance to her.

“On several occasions,” said Palmerston, “I have mentioned that I am both impressed and horrified at the industrial might of the North. Look at what they are doing! They are fighting a war with both the Confederacy and England, yet they are able to fulfill all their needs for military equipment and then some. I am stunned to realize that they are both outfitting the Mexicans against France and building warships for sale to Italy. Good grief, is there no end to their potential?”

“Which is why the war must end,” said Russell.

“Precisely. The South has agreed to one shot at the North, providing we equip their army and support it with our soldiers. Thanks to that blundering idiot Cardigan, any troops we send to North America should be to protect Canada. However, we must forgo Canada and send them to Richmond.”

“When they arrive it will be common knowledge. Neither side seems able to keep a secret of any magnitude.”

Palmerston nodded. “Fortunately, I do not think the Americans will be aware of it before the troops disembark at Norfolk. By then it will be too late for Mr. Lincoln to react. They will know beforehand, of course, that General Lee is forming his forces for a move north, but the Union will not know of our participation until it is too late. I have cabled General Napier in Richmond that I have every confidence in his ability, and have informed Viscount Monck in Canada that he is to tell the Canadian population that reinforcements are expected almost momentarily. He is aware of the lie and understands the need for it.”

“Thank God for the cable,” said Russell, and the comment was endorsed by Palmerston. Even though many messages had come through distorted and the transmission was slow, the cable had proven to be very effective in providing essential and almost instantaneous communications between the two continents. As to the problems in transmission, these were being solved through the simple expedient of relaying a better-quality cable. It would take a while to replace the original, but the engineers were confident that the result would be a telegraphic ability almost equivalent to a short landline.

“If it were not for the cable.” Palmerston said with almost a sigh, “we would be lost for information.”

Although the Royal Navy squadron off New York Harbor had been reinforced since its bloodying by the
Monitor,
it still constituted a small number of ships to cover a vast area of ocean. As a result, it, like its counterparts in the Chesapeake, made no effort to stop the coastal traffic that had become a constant part of its vigil. The American merchant ships stayed well close to their own coast and shore batteries, and not even the presence of a large merchant ship would tempt the British closer to shore.

The British had learned to their dismay that the Americans were perfectly capable of using a fat-looking merchant as a stalking horse in order to draw a British ship close to hidden American batteries, where they would try to pound it to pieces. The Americans had gone so far as to mount large mortars on trains and run them along the coast. While the British hadn’t actually lost a ship to these tricks, they’d had a few damaged. As a result, the British squadron had affected a live-and-let-live attitude regarding nonmilitary coastal traffic. It was a policy that was quite expedient, even essential.

Thus, although the British did see the barge being pulled by the tug, they made no note of it. As one wag on a warship put it, it was hardly a barge of war. It was also not the first barge to pass by, although it was one of the larger ones. It was piled high with what looked like debris from the burning of the city. Where the barge and its load of trash were being taken was of no concern or importance to the British watchers. They let it continue on down the coast as they had so many others, watching it only until it disappeared.

A day or so later, another large and similarly loaded barge made the trip and was likewise unimpeded. So, too, was a third, and then a fourth, but, by this time, the British weren’t even bothering to count. Then there were no more oversized barges heading south, and no one in the British squadron gave a damn one way or the other.

And no one had noticed that not a single one of the barges had made the return trip to New York.

Hannibal Watson heard the dogs closing in on him. There was nothing more frightening to him than the baying of the hounds. In his mind he could see their wild eyes and the wicked teeth that wanted to rip his flesh from his bones.

He was alone now and the end was near. His attempt to hide in the woods had been a failure. A cunning Confederate commander had divined the ruse and split his forces, sending some against Hannibal and the others against the horses being led by one boy whom Hannibal hoped had escaped.

The rebel commander had greatly outnumbered the remnants of Hannibal’s group, which had made such a split feasible. As a result, trackers had soon picked up the faint trail left by Hannibal’s followers as they fled on foot into the thickets. As the fleeing slaves grew more and more fatigued from the chase, they made more and more mistakes and left an easier trail to follow.

A little more than an hour before, a swarm of cavalry had overwhelmed them where they’d lain on the ground, panting and heaving like exhausted animals.

Hannibal’d seen Buck go down under a sabre and watched as the others fell under pistols and rifles. He’d had the good fortune to be in the woods relieving himself when the attack had occurred. Selfish as it seemed, he’d hoped no one had noticed he was missing. That, however, was not to be.

Perhaps a couple of his people had been taken alive and been forced to talk, telling their captors that Hannibal Watson, their leader, had escaped. Maybe they’d been promised freedom for their information. If so, it was a promise Hannibal was certain the white men would never keep. It was possible that whoever had informed on him had been tortured for the information. He knew no one who wouldn’t condemn his own mother if someone was holding a branding iron to his testicles.

Just as likely, though, they had his description from one of the people who’d escaped and hadn’t recognized him among the dead or taken.

There was some satisfaction in knowing that they’d brought a mighty host against him. He’d personally counted at last two hundred cavalry, with many more making noise in the distance, while a large number of infantry tramped through the woods.

Now he could hear human voices above the baying of the hounds. He wished he had a gun so he could kill one or two of them and force them to kill him. He wished he could put the gun to his head and blow his own brains out, depriving the white bastards of the opportunity to hang him. But no, he had lost it in the chase and was unarmed. He didn’t even have a knife to use on an enemy or to slash his own wrists. If there had been a cliff nearby he thought he would hurl himself off it to prevent capture and what he knew was going to be a miserable death. But there was nothing. He couldn’t get away and he couldn’t get himself killed.

Now he could distinguish the words and commands. He was surrounded, trapped like a rat or a mad dog. He began to shake with fear and rage. He prayed to a God whose existence he’d doubted for a long time. He prayed for a fast death.

   Olaf Swenson was garrulous and aggravating, which was why Billy Harwell tolerated him when Billy went to practice shooting. Olaf was a Swedish immigrant who’d arrived a couple of years earlier and who spoke surprisingly good English. As a result, he generally worked as Captain Melcher’s clerk, a very privileged position that made him privy to everything that was going on in the company and elsewhere.

Olaf was a big gossip and a genial pain in the ass, and Billy sometimes wondered why foreigners seemed to attach themselves to him. He fervently wished Olaf a better fate than poor Otto.

But big, raw-boned, and yellow-haired Olaf did serve a purpose. His constant chattering forced Billy to concentrate on his shooting and block out distractions. Billy had long ago figured out that you couldn’t practice in silence and expect to be as good a shooter when the guns started booming. Olaf s talking did not emulate a battlefield, but the thought was the same. Olaf s continuous commentary would throw him off balance if he let it. He had to work to stay focused.

Billy squeezed off another shot from the Whitworth. A puff of white popped up from the target that had been set up well downrange. He’d fired ten shots. Now it was time to clean the temperamental weapon. Billy grinned. The Whitworth was indeed a work of art. At least he’d been told that. He’d never met any artists. However, he’d heard that some artists liked to paint pictures of naked women and he thought that was a great idea. He’d never seen a naked woman.

The Whitworth had an innovation that was starting to appear on other rifles—a stepladder rear sight that he liked even more than the telescopic sight that came with it. A lot of soldiers didn’t like that type of rear sight, but they did their shooting at close range where it didn’t matter, while at long range it could be critical. Set at two-hundred-yard increments, it made long-range shooting that much more accurate, as a bullet could drop enough in three hundred yards or so to turn a clean shot into a near miss: and near misses only counted in horseshoes.

Olaf ran downrange to retrieve the target. He came back waving it and grinning. “Damned good, Billy. Ten out often and all in the center.”

Billy accepted the compliment. It had been damned fine shooting and better than most any sharpshooter he’d ever seen. Instead of targeting at two hundred yards, he’d fired the Whitworth at targets three hundred yards away. Soon, he’d try four hundred. At that range, he knew he could hit a man, but just where on the man was important. When sniping, his job was to shoot officers. He had to make sure they didn’t get up and shake off a flesh wound. He would continue to practice.

“Know what the captain said?” asked Olaf.

“No, I don’t, and you’re a damned old lady with all your gossip,” Billy replied with a grin.

Olaf pretended to sulk. It was a ritual. Billy wanted to know everything. “Then I won’t tell you.”

“Okay, tell me.”

Olaf was puzzled. “What’s ’okay’ mean?”

Billy laughed. For all his good English, Olaf wasn’t all that knowledgeable about modern slang. “Okay means all right. All correct. Now go ahead and tell me.”

Olaf made the mental note. “Okay then. The rebels are coming north.”

“Who told you. Robert Lee?”

“No, I heard Colonel Hodges tell the captain. He’d heard it from someone important, maybe General Meade. The rebels are going to attack north.”

“Makes sense. They can’t very well attack south. Too much water down Cuba way.”

“Billy, I’m serious.”

So was Billy. Despite the banter, everyone in the army knew that the war’s temporary respite was just that. The thought of additional combat brought a slight chill to Billy. With the resilience of youth, memories of the horrors he’d seen were beginning to fade. He did not want them refreshed. He had actually begun to enjoy being in the army, being a leader, and being surrounded by people he liked. Well, most of them.

Billy’s regiment hadn’t left Washington since its return from Culpeper. While there was a bit more spit and polish than Billy would have otherwise preferred, he found duty in the nation’s capital fairly comfortable and sometimes downright interesting. Since they were camped on the Mall by the Capitol and the Smithsonian, he’d seen a number of famous people and, when he got home to Pennsylvania, he’d have plenty of stories to tell. He’d seen Meade and McClellan, although that fool had long since departed, Halleck, and a bunch of civilians he was certain were important. He’d even seen old General Scott on a couple of occasions and had been mildly surprised that the impressive civilian who’d talked to him and given him a coin that rainy day so long ago had been with Old Fuss and Feathers. It proved what he’d thought at the time. The fellow was important.

Best of all, on one memorable occasion President Lincoln had ridden by in an open carriage. Billy had drawn himself to attention and saluted. Lincoln had smiled and wished him a good morning. Damn. How many people back home could say that President Abraham Lincoln had wished them good morning?

But now the rebs wanted to go and ruin things. “What’re we gonna do. Olaf?’:

The large Swede grinned. “Nothing. We’re gonna sit here and protect the city. Lee comes by, we just wave at him and wish him bad luck. Ain’t that wonderful?”

Billy found that he was breathing easier. It would be far safer for them behind the forts and earthen ramparts of Washington than out in the fields chasing the elusive rebels. At worst, they would be in the trenches between the forts, but even there they would be well protected. He’d heard people comment that Washington was the most fortified place in the world, with Richmond, of course, being a close second.