Britannia's Fist: From Civil War to World War: An Alternate History (10 page)

“One thing I have learned, Mr. Secretary, in my years with the old Negro community in Kingston, New York, and here in Virginia in dealing with thousands of contraband slaves, Negroes are eminently secret people; they have a system of understanding amounting almost to free masonry among them; they will trust each other when they will not trust white men.
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“Their actions, however, speak louder than words. I will defy anyone to claim that a Negro, outside a Confederate Army, has ever betrayed a Union soldier. The lives of my scouts and agents in the heart of Virginia have depended on the active goodwill of Negroes. They have come to the aid of my people to warn them of danger and guide them to safety countless times. Where fear made them dare not give overt assistance, they could be depended on to remain silent despite great reward. There is little in their immediate neighborhoods that they do not know, although most slaves’ knowledge does not extend beyond five miles of their plantations.”

“This George is no field hand,” Stanton replied.

“No, he is not, but he shares with his people the same dream.”

Lincoln spoke, “It seems you have learned exactly the same lesson that Mr. Douglass has been pressing.
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How many forget that freedom is the most intoxicating of all the works of man?”

He said this with such a humility that Sharpe was taken aback. Anyone else would have said it with a righteous flourish. Lincoln had said it as if the very idea was a precious marvel that one could only revere. The man dangling his slipper had assumed a glow that Sharpe had only seen in an El Greco saint in the Prado in Madrid.

The room was silent for a long moment before Lincoln leaned over and said, “Now tell us, Colonel, how Jeff Davis has his fingers all over this.”
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Sharpe picked up his narrative. “Davis himself unwittingly provoked George’s escape. Morgan relied on George to act as his clerk, to do much of his paperwork and file his papers. In turn, Morgan’s adjutant depended upon George and was happy to pass paper to him. Carelessly, he passed the deciphered message to George. That is not as strange as it may seem. The chivalry are uniformly careless around their body servants and speak of the most secret matters around them. They are like the furniture to them. I have it on good authority that even Lee discounts them as useful sources of intelligence for us because of their simple natures. My experience is that they are often astute observers.

“Why, it was the contraband Charlie Wright, an officer’s body servant, who came into our lines and gave us the information that two of Lee’s corps were passing through Culpeper Court House into the Shenandoah Valley for the invasion of Pennsylvania last June. He had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of a good part of the Army of Northern Virginia, one in which Mr. Babcock could not find a single error. It was
on this intelligence that General Hooker began to move the Army of the Potomac north to counter Lee. We actually crossed the Potomac before Lee did. Charlie Wright’s warning may well have been the deciding factor in our ability to meet Lee at Gettysburg rather than to our disadvantage on the outskirts of Baltimore or Washington.
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“It was Davis’s deciphered telegram that made George realize what was at stake. His memory was quite good, and he told us that the object of Morgan’s raid was to raise the Copperheads in the Northwest and assist them in the overthrow of the state governments and the destruction of the authority of the federal government. Furthermore, Morgan was to liberate the prisoner of war camps within reach, especially the six thousand men held in the camp at Indianapolis and the eight thousand in Chicago. The Copperheads were to assist in this and bring sufficient arms to completely equip them. Morgan would have had the equivalent of several rebel infantry divisions at his disposal along with thousands of Copperheads in the heart to the Northwest. The message also stated that the strategic goal was more than overthrowing the authority of the government but to bring the Northwest—at least Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio—into the Confederacy.”
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“Thank God, the rebels failed miserably,” Stanton said. “We have Morgan locked up tight as a tick.”

“Morgan is not the end of this, Edwin.” Seward added, “As I understand it, Morgan’s men behaved so badly that the damned disloyal fuse did not light. I can tell you, from the political end of this business, the Copperheads are in no way discouraged. They are biding their time. We nearly had an open revolt when that son-of-a-bitch Vallandingham was convicted of treason. I would not discount the rebels and Copperheads trying this again.”
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Dana commented, “Morgan’s capture did not prevent them raiding an arms warehouse on the second and murdering the guards. We lost five thousand new Springfield rifles. That would be almost enough to equip all the prisoners in the Indianapolis camp.”

“Well, Sharpe,” Stanton added with a rare smile, “if Colonel Carrington’s man, Stidger, wasn’t doing such a splendid job for us, your Sergeant Cline would seem to be the perfect man to spy upon the Copperheads. And he’s a Hoosier, too, if I remember, 3rd Indiana Cavalry.”

Sharpe’s Excelsior College pride promoted him to throw in, “Actually, sir, he’s New York born and raised and has only recently made his home in Indiana.”

“It seems you New Yorkers are a thick lot,” Lincoln winked at Seward. “Why Seward here just recently hosted a dinner for the star of the New York stage, Edwin Booth. Have you seen him perform?”

“Many times in the city, sir. My wife adores him.”

“He was here at Ford’s Theater doing his Shylock in “‘The Merchant of Venice.’” Lincoln’s voice had gone sad and soft. “A good performance, but I’d a thousand times rather read it at home if it were not for Booth’s playing.”
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Stanton spoke. “The President often goes to the theater and without any bodyguard at all. They let him quietly in the back.” Then assuming his official frown, he said, “Mr. President, I must again beg you to be not so careless of your personal safety. There are many who would do you harm.”

“Oh, Stanton, the fact is, I am a great coward. I have moral courage enough, I think, but I am such a coward physically that if I were to shoulder a gun and go into action, I am dead sure that I should turn and run at the first fire. I know I should.”
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There was an awkward silence.

Lincoln smiled and said, “That reminds me.”

An hour later, as Sharpe and the others were leaving the White House, Stanton took him by the arm. “Colonel, I want you to stay in Washington for a few days; I think we haven’t heard the end of this.” Turning to Dana, he said, “Charlie, wire Meade to tell him we have kept him here on my orders.” Without waiting for a reply, he rushed off.

Dana said to Sharpe, “You should be able to find a room at the Willard. Washington empties out in August, even in wartime. This vile summer heat drives out all but the most hardy. Can I give you a ride? It’s not far, but no one should have to walk in this heat.”

Sharpe replied, “Well, my wife certainly would agree. At her insistence I took a house for the family here in Washington, but she fled to the Hudson Valley in June. I’m afraid I will have it all to myself. At least I don’t have to go far; it’s right here on Lafayette Square.” Sharpe pointed to it just beyond the rearing bronze equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson in the middle of the square. He was about to take his leave when he noticed two men walking up the path to the main door. One was a spare cavalry captain and the other a short, stocky, white-haired civilian. Dana smiled as they approached. On closer examination, Sharpe could tell the white-haired man was young, not old.

As they came up Dana said, “Charles, Andy, how the hell are you?” Turning to Sharpe he said, “Let me introduce you to two friends.” He
nodded to the captain who saluted Sharpe. “Capt. Charles Francis Adams, Jr., 5th Massachusetts Cavalry.” Adams bore the natural self-possession of a man who knew who he was. Dana did not have to explain that he was the son and grandson of presidents. He only referred to it obliquely. “Charles’s father is our ambassador in London and a very busy man, as we have been saying, trying to get our British friends from building more commerce raiders for the rebels.”

The white-haired man broke in and said in a brogue so thick it could have been spread with a trowel, “British friends, indeed. Our only British friends are those who work for a living. And it is a thankless job in that royalty-ridden island, it is.”

Dana laughed. “I don’t want you to think that this sour-faced Yankee is all work and no play. He is quite the politician, though luckily not a very good one.” He winked at Charles, who forced a smile. “Charles was Seward’s campaign manager for the presidency, which is why Mr. Seward is now Secretary of State.

“And this,” he said, taking the white-haired man by the arm, “is Andy Carnegie or, as he is affectionately known, ‘that little white-haired Scotch devil.’”

Dana affectionately clapped a hand on Carnegie’s shoulder. “Andy here single-handedly opened the rail line between Baltimore and Washington in early ’61 as it looked like Maryland would secede along with the rest of the South. He organized the train that brought Ben Butler and his troops to Washington in time to save the city. Rode on the cow catcher, he did, to see that the tracks and telegraph were not broken up. See that scar on his cheek. He got it by trying to free some wires that had been sabotaged. They sprang back and sliced him good. Why, he is so modest, I must be the one to tell you he was the first man to bleed for his country.”

He turned serious. “All fooling aside, young Andy here organized the military telegraph and railroad for us early in the war, and they’ve been one of our great advantages. He rushed the trains to rescue thousands of our men wounded at First Bull Run. It’s just a pity he didn’t ask for a brigadier general’s commission; he would have had one at the drop of a hat, but he could not resist the money piling up in the Pennsylvania Railroad business. I tell you, Sharpe, if ever you need a keen organizer, call on young Andy here.”
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Carnegie had waited patiently to get a word in. “Achh, noo, Charlie, you think you can dangle stars before the eyes of a poor Scottish weaver’s
son. Shame on yea. I tell you I do more for the Union by running a railroad well than I would as a major general. Oh, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Colonel Sharpe.”

“And did I tell you how modest he was,” Dana added. Carnegie blushed a bright red, quite a contrast to his light blue eyes and white hair. Dana was not through getting a rise out of him and added, “And how much reverence he has for the British crown?”

Carnegie’s entire demeanor changed instantly. The color drained from his face, and his eyes glinted like ice. “I came to this country to see the last of crowns. The sooner Britain is a republic, the better for the whole world.”
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Dana pulled him by the arm. “Come on, Andy, you can damn the monarchy later. We have business.” Adams saluted and excused himself as well to deliver dispatches to the White House. Sharpe wished them all good evening and headed for home. He had walked as far as Jackson’s statue, when a White House secretary chased him down.

“Colonel Sharpe,” he said breathlessly, “the President requests that you attend him in the morning on his visit to the Navy Yard.”
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Without his family, Sharpe’s big house echoed with silence. The servants had been let off for the summer, and there was no food. After washing, Sharpe sought out dinner. The Ebbitt Grill was close and among the best eating establishments in the city. He was lucky to find a table near the door and an open window; the city may have emptied out, but that left hundreds of officers tied to their duties who liked to relax over a good meal as the evening cooled.

He had just been given the menu when he noticed the maître d’ telling a British naval officer and another man with an eye patch that it would be at least an hour before they could be seated. Sharpe walked over, “Gentlemen, you are welcome to share my table.” Interesting company would compensate a bit for the cheerless house.

“Most handsome of you, sir. I am Capt. George Hancock, of Her Majesty’s Ship
Immortalité
, attached to our embassy as a temporary observer of this unfortunate war.
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May I present Mr. Garnet Wolseley, a visitor from our country.” The one-eyed man was about thirty years old, with a weak chin and a thin mustache. His single blue eye, however, was hawk sharp and intelligent. The man’s military bearing was unmistakable. Sharpe introduced himself as the commander of the 120th NY Volunteers. This was more than just company to pass the time, thought
Sharpe. The one-eyed man was too interesting. “Mr. Wolseley” indeed. The captain’s skills at concealment were, to say the least, lacking.

The waiter recommended an excellent French wine and the roast quail stuffed with wild rice and creamed carrots. The wine instantly reminded Sharpe of the two delightful years he spent in Paris, where he perfected his French and refined his palate. In his mind, he upped the already generous tip he normally would have given.

As much as he looked forward to the wine, he was far more interested in his civilian dinner party guest. The one-eyed man was no other than Lt. Col. Garnet Wolseley, the Assistant Quartermaster General for the British forces in Canada. That alone made him a person of interest for Sharpe. During the crisis of the Trent Affair, the British had reinforced their garrison in Canada to more than eighteen thousand men, including a Guards Brigade of two battalions. Wolseley had not come by the position as reward for good breeding, but as a protégé of Lt. Gen. Sir Hope Grant, the hero of the Sepoy Revolt and the best general the British had. Wolseley had been one of Grant’s brilliant subordinates in the campaigns that had broken the Sepoys in India in 1857–58 and sacked the imperial summer palace outside Peking in 1860. He had ridden the glory path with Grant and was in Canada, considered with Corfu to be the best duty station in the British Army, as a reward for gallant service. He came from a military family and had lost his eye as a subaltern in the Crimean War. He was very much a man on the way up.