A Rainbow of Blood: The Union in Peril an Alternate History (32 page)

That was also Capt. John McEntee's problem. McEntee had been
Sharpe's deputy before Lincoln had pulled him to Washington. As
McEntee was another son of the Hudson Valley, Sharpe knew he was
the right man to put Hooker's intelligence support in place. Energetic,
precise, shrewd, honest to a fault, and dedicated to the service of the
Republic, McEntee had added implacable revenge to his characteristics
when he rode with Hooker and Meagher through the ruins of Rondout,
his hometown. With him were a half dozen scouts who had been chosen from the Army of the Potomac. They were all New York men like
McEntee. Their chief was the six-foot-tall, red-haired, pockmarked Sgt.
Judson Knight, now chief of scouts for the Army of the Hudson, a man
whose wits were as fast as his reflexes in a gunfight. With him was Martin Hogan, a young Irishman no older than Custer himself and as game
as Knight.'

Luck would take Knight and Hogan toward Hudson that early
morning. They had barely gone a mile when they came across a boy of
ten on horseback. He pulled up fast when he saw them, turned his horse,
and put his heels into its side to race back into the dark. He had barely
got a dozen yards when Hogan's hand reached over to grab the reins
and pulled them up short. "Well, hoyo, and where would you he going
at a time when you should be snug in your bed?"

He grinned at the wide-eyed boy who pulled at the reins and shouted, "Let me go, you English bastard!"

Hogan was truly at a loss for words, a most unusual thing for an
Irishman. He didn't know what to he more shocked at-being called
an English bastard or being called an English bastard by a ten-year-old.
He hadn't even gotten around to considering the enormity of the boy's
insult.

Knight rode up. "Now, Martin, don't scare the lad. But, son, that is a
mighty good question my friend just asked."

Knight's Upstate New York accent seemed to relieve the boy.
"You're an American?"

"Sure am, boy, and Upstate born and bred. And U.S. Army, too."
The boy looked askance at their civilian clothes.

"Don't let these clothes put you off. Now why are you about at this
hour?"

"The English are in Hudson, sir!" the boy blurted out. "Hundreds
of them. More and more keep landing from boats and getting off the
train, too."10

WASHINGTON NAVY YARD, 3:15 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

Lowe, with the eager Zeppelin still in tow, had come back across the
river at nightfall. The balloons had come down with the sun, but he had
more work to do. Two of his six balloons were still held in reserve at the
Navy Yard, and he wanted to see them ready to go up the next morning.
It took at least three hours of preparation to produce the pure hydrogen
gas necessary to lift a balloon, and he needed to start now if they were to
go up by early morning.

Not only were the designs of Lowe's balloons superior to anyone
else's, but he was the only one to design the support vehicle mounting
the equipment, the Lowe Generator, that could produce the necessary
hydrogen. By doing this, he had made the Balloon Corps truly mobile,
able to follow the Army anywhere its normal wagons could go. His
headquarters was the Navy Yard because it was there that the hydrogenproducing equipment was built by the Yard mechanics who seemed to
be able to turn their hands to anything.

The Lowe Generator was a strong, wooden, metal-reinforced tank
set on a standard Army escort wagon. Auxiliary boxes for the complex
processes of cooling and purifying the gas were connected by copper
couples and a short rubber hose:

The process for making gas with this apparatus was simple and
rapid. It required, however, a thorough knowledge of the proper
mixture of materials, and careful handling of the equipment. For
a single inflation, four barrels of fine iron filings or borings, each
weighing approximately 834 pounds, or a total of 3,300 pounds,
were introduced into the tank through the manhole at the top.
This material was spread as evenly as possible. The tank was then
filled with water to within about two feet from the top. This done,
the manhole was closed and the wingknohs tightly fastened. Ten
carboys of sulphuric acid, averaging 161 pounds each, or a total of
approximately 1,600 pounds, were poured into the tank by means
of a siphon inserted into the cooper funnel. The siphon was made of lead, to resist attack by the acid. The acid was fed in according
to a prescribed schedule and rate: five carboys at first, followed by
a waiting period equal to the time expended in pouring the acid;
then three more carboys, followed by a second time interval; and
finally the remaining two carboys. The times delays between pouring were adopted to prevent too rapid a generation of gas, which
might strain the walls of the tank. The generated gas then passed
through the copper elbow coupling at the forward end of the rubber hose which conveyed it into the water cooler, from which it
again passed into the lime purifier which absorbed the impurities
and foreign gases. As a result, the gas which flowed from the lime
solution into the balloon was almost pure hydrogen."

The support teams of the two reserve balloons had been well
trained, but this was their first operational inflation, and Lowe wanted
to be there to make sure things went right. Lowe was relieved to see that
both teams needed little supervision and seemed quite eager to get their
balloons, named Eagle II and Washington, into the fight. Zeppelin, with
the energy of youth, had stuck with him and eagerly took notes under
the light of a lantern during the entire process.

Lowe could then spare a moment or two to watch the rest of the
bustle that filled the Yard even at this early morning hour. Under the
lights of lamps and torches, men were fitting guns onto the gunboats
tied up at the docks and loading ammunition. Other heavy naval guns
were being emplaced to defend the Yard itself or trundled across the city
to bear on the Virginia side of the river. It reminded him of an anthill
in which streams of disciplined insects bore streamed in and out of the
nest. One such stream was transferring shells by wagon from the huge
brick Yard buildings to the boats and new gun emplacements along the
docks. A wagon wobbled out of line suddenly as a wheel shattered with
a loud crack, followed by the louder cursing of the wagon driver. Before
he could bring up the team, the wagon sagged, spilling out a dozen shell
boxes. One of the boxes splintered, and its shell came spinning over toward Lowe, coming to rest only a foot away. He noted a dab of red paint
on it.

A sailor came running over to retrieve the shell. He doffed his cap
to Lowe. "Beg pardon, sir."

Ever curious, Lowe said. "Just a moment. What is the red paint on
the shell?"

"Oh, that, sir. That means the shell is loaded."

"And that strip of lead?"

"That's the fuse patch, sir."

"And what does that do?"

"That protects the fuse. Just before the shell is put into the gun's
barrel, the loader removes it to show the gun captain that the fuse has
been uncovered."

"Then what?"

"Then the loader sets the fuse."

"Then what?"

"Well, sir, then they fire the gun."

Lowe smiled. "Thank you, sailor."12

The man waited expectantly for Lowe to ask another question or
terminate the conversation when a young officer walked over to see why
an Army colonel was speaking to a sailor, especially when that sailor
was supposed to be loading ammunition.

"Sir, is there a problem here?"

Lowe was struck by the presence of the young officer. He was
slender and tall - about six feet - erect, shoulders thrown back, and his
brown hair fell to his shoulders. His light blue gray eyes were arresting,
and his manner radiated force, strength, and ability.13

Lowe shrewdly appraised him and suddenly realized there was
almost a sensation of magnetism between them. He replied, "Not at all,
lieutenant. This shell fell out the wagon and rolled my way, and I had a
few questions about it."

The lieutenant nodded at the sailor who fled, as much as one can
flee with a 72-pound nine-inch shell. He was putting his fingers to his
cap to take his leave when Lowe asked another question.

"Lieutenant, I was not able to ask to the man how the shell was ignited. Can you illuminate the process for me?"

"Why, of course, sir. If you noticed the lead caps on the shell ..."
Lowe nodded. "It's for safety. Directly underneath the fuse patch, or the
safety cover, is some mealed powder. This is ignited by the hot gases
in the gun's bore as it is fired. Inertia causes the lead safety plug at the
base of the fuse to fall away into the powder inside the shell. The burn ing mealed powder in turn ignites the fuse, which can be set at 3 1/2, 5,
7, 10, or 15 minutes. The fuse burns down to the powder in the shell and
ignites it, causing it to explode." 14

"Very good, Lieutenant. Now, how would you get the shell to explode if it were dropped from a height?"

The lieutenant burst out laughing and then apologized. "Why, sir,
who ever heard of such a thing? Dropping a shell from a building?"
Then, intrigued by the odd question, his eye wandered to the inflating
balloons. He grasped Lowe's intent immediately and explained the priming procedure. He suggested, "Two things would be needed. The lead
safety cap would have to be removed as in firing the shell, of course, but
you would need to have removed the lead safety plug at the base of the
fuse before inserting the fuse into the shell. Then just before the shell was
dropped, the mealed powder would have to be ignited by hand. Whatever did you have in mind, sir?"

Lowe smiled. "Just an idle question, Lieutenant. Thank you for
your help."

The lieutenant saluted and turned to go, then stopped, and turned
back to Lowe. He looked beyond Lowe at the gas generators and the fabric of the balloons spread over a rack to keep it from the ground.

"It could work, but you would need a man who knows fuses. And
I don't know how many of the shells your basket could hold because the
nine-inch alone weighs seventy-two pounds. Two of them would be the
weight of a man. Grenades would be easier. We have some here, the Ketcham grenades. Anyone can use them."

Zeppelin had been as fast on the uptake and asked, "Herr Oberst,
it vood be a great honor if I could ascend ven you take these Bomben
mit Ihnen.1'

THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C., 4:10 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

Maj. John Tappen circled the White House, inspecting his guards. Tappen was the acting commander of Sharpe's regiment, the 120th New
York. The two were old friends from their prewar militia service. Sharpe
now wanted the whole regiment to stand by. Two full companies stood
guard while the other eight slept on the lawn with their weapons.
Hooker's Horse Marines, except those Sharpe had sent outside the lines
to scout, were bivouacked in nearby Presidential Park. Tappen would have felt better if the old 20th had been with them, but the crisis on the
Hudson had stripped the Washington forts of much of their infantry and
all of the New York regiments that could be spared. The 20th was now
somewhere in New York, force-marching to join Hooker. Its commander,
Col. Theodore Gates, had been impressed with Tappen's use of the coffee mill guns in training and had drawn a dozen for his regiment with
Sharpe's support. The two regiments had practiced at the target ranges
together on a regular basis. Tappen thought his old friends should be
catching up with Hooker right soon. He believed that New York men
would see a lot of fighting no matter where they were.16

Tappen had placed four pairs of coffee mill guns to cover each
corner of the buildings and its grounds. The crews slept by their guns,
too. He stopped to pat one of the pieces on its long barrel. The men had
taken to these infernal machines with such enthusiasm that practically
every man had volunteered for the crews. To keep them all happy, he
had run the whole regiment through training on them. Every man had
checked out in one crew position or another. It was easy to understand
the men's delight. The guns shredded the targets on the firing ranges.
More than one man had said, "If we had had these at Gettysburg, Bobby
Lee wouldn't have had a man to get back over the Potomac .1117

RED HOOK, NEW YORK, 5:00 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

It was not even light yet when the regiment got back on the road. They
had been hurrying to catch up to Hooker's command ever since they left
Washington. Gates had given them barely three hours sleep, but thanks
to the good people of Red Hook, no man had had to sleep outdoors in
the frosty night. The people had had a hearty breakfast waiting for them
as soon as their adjutants began to rouse them. There were no complaints
either. These were all New York men.

The townspeople came to ask what the strange little cannons were
trailing behind a single horse. They were glad to show off "Old Abe's"
coffee mill guns and explain to the locals' wonderment that they could
easily fire one hundred and fifty bullets a minute-as much as seventyfive riflemen. Even more, the guns fired from a steady rest and were not
subject to the propensity of men to fire high or wide of the mark when
worked up by a fight. One officer said, to the amazement of all, that each
gun was worth a half regiment in firepower.

At Cold Spring, they had been joined by the Corps of Cadets -four
hundred young men in their old fashioned, gray, swallow-tailed uniforms with a tall black shako. The veterans had looked askance at the
"Kay Dets." West Point officers, with their insistence on discipline, were
not always popular among the rank and file, and these budding officers
did not even have the benefit of having "seen the elephant." Still, the soldiers had to admit they marched better than anyone thought possible. At
least that was something.

Veterans and cadets had to gulp down those wonderful breakfasts - flapjacks, butter, bacon, ham, hot bread, and preserves (apricot,
peach, raspberry), and lots of hot coffee, with cream of all things-as
their officers NCOs shouted to hurry. That left the fruit pies and cakes
untasted, but the women wrapped the slices in cloth napkins and
pressed them into the men's haversacks, along with fresh bread, cheese,
and sausages. Most men left the town with the kiss of a pretty girl on
cheek or lips. It would be a long time before any man forgot Red Hook 18