Stars & Stripes Forever (15 page)

Grant and Sherman were the heroes of the day. Sherman who had held the line despite his personal injuries and the terrible losses his troops had suffered.

"He must be rewarded for his bravery," Lincoln said when he had read the final reports of the battle. "John, get a letter to the War Department and tell them that I strongly recommend that Sherman be promoted to major general, in acknowledgment of his bravery and strength of command. Talent like this should not go unacknowledged. And have the promotion dated back to April seventh, the day the battle was fought."

"Yes, sir, I'll do that at once. Will you be able to see Gustavus Fox now?"

"By all means. Show him in."

Assistant Secretary of the Navy Gustavus Fox was a very talented man. He was familiar with the White House because Lincoln's secretaries lived across the hall from the President's office and he was a frequent visitor there. This apparent socializing provided an unquestioned cover for his visits. For Gustavus Fox had authority and commissions that only those in the highest echelon of government knew anything about.

"Good morning, Gus. Do you have any reports of interest to me?" the President asked.

"A good deal since last we met. My agents in Canada and the British West Indies have been quite diligent."

"Is one of them Captain Schultz of the Russian Navy?"

Lincoln's smile was mirrored on Fox's face. "Not this time, Mr. President—he is busy elsewhere. But before I report on the British—I must tell you that my trip to Brooklyn was a great success. After the victory of the
Monitor
in Hampton Roads, and the navy's agreement to put more money into iron warships, Mr. Ericsson was more than eager to proceed. Construction on the second
Monitor
-class ironclad is proceeding as planned. Very smoothly in fact since the ironworkers are now experienced with this particular kind of construction. Ericsson is now devoting his time to improving the design and construction of a larger iron ship with two turrets. Much more seaworthy and with greater range. The man is a demon for work—the keel was laid that very day for the USS
Thor"

"I doubt that the navy will approve of a pagan deity in their fleet."

"They didn't. They withheld their first payment until Thor went back to Valhalla and
Avenger
emerged in his place."

He took a sheet of paper from an inner pocket and unfolded it. His secret agents in the field had been busy indeed. Here were the names and strengths of the regiments of British troops newly arrived in Canada, as well as the number of guns unloaded on the docks of Montreal.

The President looked grim. "That sounds like a powerful lot of soldiers to be sending over here."

"More than an army corps. And I have some reports that more are on the way, but I haven't confirmed them yet. The British Navy has been busy too."

He read from the list of navy warships based in the British West Indies, as well as giving an account of newly arrived reinforcements to the marines also based there. The President never asked who the men and women were who sent in these reports, while Fox never volunteered the information. If a report was doubtful, or possibly false, he would say so. The rest of the information had always proven to be correct.

"You are my eyes and ears," Lincoln said. "I wish that you could find a way to convince Mr. Pinkerton that your reports are far more reliable than those furnished by his agents in the South."

"I have tried many times, in roundabout ways, but he is a very stubborn man."

"General McClellan believes in him."

"General McClellan also believes in the inflated figures for Southern troops that Pinkerton comes up with. The real number is a third, at most a half of what he reports."

"But McClellan remains sure that the numbers are correct and once more finds a reason to avoid action. But he is my responsibility and not yours. So, tell me—what conclusions do you draw from all these facts about the British that you have just presented?"

Fox thought carefully before he spoke, summoning up his conclusions. "The country is preparing for war in North America. They have the men, the weapons, the supplies and the ships to wage a major war on this continent. Most important of all is the fact that there are no voices of dissent. The newspapers call for war to teach us a lesson. Whigs and Tories unite in Parliament baying for blood. The Queen now believes it as a certainty that we killed Prince Albert."

"Certainly that is absurd."

"To us perhaps. But I am reliably informed that there is worry about her sanity, that she has sudden vicious obsessions that she cannot control."

"Are there no sane voices to be heard?"

"It is imprudent to go against the public will. A certain baronet in the House of Lords was so unwise as to speak of a possible search for peace. He was not only shouted down but physically assaulted."

"This is hard to believe, but I suppose I must. But will they do it? Take the final step?"

"You can answer that far better than I can, Mr. President. You are privy to the negotiations over their ultimatum, while I am not."

"There is little I can tell you that you don't already know. We want to talk, but I fear that they do not want to listen. And I am beginning to think that we have run out of options. Our newspapers and theirs are filled with fire and brimstone. Their ministers are just as ardent. Lord Lyons has given us his passports and vacated our shores. Our minister Charles Adams does his best to have London accept a rewording of their dispatch, but they agree to nothing. Now Lord Palmerston keeps him at bay and will not admit him to his house, although Adams has called repeatedly at that gentleman's door. The lord pleads gout as the reason. I believe in the gout but not the excuse."

Fox nodded agreement. "Meanwhile the cause of all this, Mason and Slidell, live a life of great luxury in their prison cells. Ordering the best food and wine from Boston and smoking their way through their bottomless supply of Havana cigars."

"Luxury it may be—but they are still imprisoned. And as long as they are the Britons will remain adamant in their condemnation of this country. Find me a way out of this impasse, Mr. Fox, and I will bestow upon you the highest rewards this country can offer."

"I wish that I could sir, how I wish that I could."

BRINK OF WAR

Although it was the first day of May, it felt more like winter here in the northern hills of Vermont. Cold rain lashed the pine trees, turning the little-used track into adhesive mud. The horses walked slowly, heads down with weariness, and had to be urged on constantly by pulling on their reins. Both of the men who were leading them were as weary as the horses, yet they never for an instant thought of riding. That would have meant that their mounts would have to carry heavier loads. That was not possible. The reason for this long and exhausting journey was there in the barrels on the horses' backs.

Jacques squinted up at the sky, then wiped his streaming face with the back of his hand. Only the rich could afford to buy a watch—and he was anything but that. But he knew by the steadily darkening sky that it was close to sunset.

"Soon, Phillipe, soon," he shouted back in Canadian-accented French. "We will stop before we cross the ridge. Then go on after dark."

His brother answered something, but his words were drowned out by a sharp crack of thunder. They plodded on, then turned from the track to seek some shelter under the branches of an ancient stand of oak trees. The horses found clumps of fresh grass to graze upon while the men slumped down with their backs against the thick trunks. Jacques took the cork from his water bottle and drank deep, smacking his lips as he sealed it again. It was filled with a strong mixture of whiskey and water. Phillipe watched this and frowned.

Jacques saw his expression and laughed aloud—revealing a mouthful of broken and blackened teeth. "You disapprove of my drinking, little brother. You should have been a priest. Then you could tell others what they should and should not do. It helps the fatigue and warms the bones."

"And destroys the internal organs and the body."

"That too, I am sure. But we must enjoy life as well as we can."

Phillipe squeezed water from his thin, dark beard, and looked at the squat, strong body of his older brother. Just like their father. While he took after their mother, everyone said. He had never known her: she had died when he had been born.

"I don't want to do this anymore," Phillipe said. "It is dangerous—and some day we will be caught."

"No we won't. No one knows these hills as I do. Our good father, may he rest in peace with the angels, worked the stones of our farm until he died. I am sure that the endless toil killed him. Like the other farmers. But we have a choice, do we not? We can do this wonderful work to aid our neighbors. Remember—if you don't do this—what will you do? You are like me, like the rest of us—an uneducated Quebecois. I can barely sign my name—I cannot read nor write."

"But I can. You left school, the chance was there."

"For you perhaps, I for one have no patience with the schoolroom. And if you remember our father was ill then. Someone had to work the farm. So you stayed in school and were educated. To what end? No one will hire you in the city, you have no skills—and you don't even speak the filthy language of the English."

"There is no need for English. Since the Act of Union Lower Canada has been recognized, our language is French—"

"And our freedom is zero. We are a colony of the English, ruled by an English governor. Our legislature may sit in Montreal but it is the English Queen who has the power. So you can read, dear brother, and write as well. Where is the one who will hire you for these skills? It is your destiny that you must stay in Coaticook where there is nothing to do except farm the tired land—and drink strong whiskey to numb the pain of existence. Let the rest stay with the farming—and we will take care of the supplying of the other."

He looked at the four barrels the horses were carrying and smiled his broken smile. Good Yankee whiskey, untaxed and purchased with gold. When they crossed back into Canada its value would double, so greedy were the English with their endless taxes. Oh yes, Her Majesty's Customs men were active and eager enough, but they would never be woodsmen enough to catch a Dieumegard who had spent his life in these hills. He pressed his hand against the large outer pocket of his leather coat, felt the welcome outline of his pistol.

"Phillipe—" he called out. "You have kept your powder dry?"

"Yes, of course, the gun is wrapped in oilskin. But I don't like it..."

"You have to like it," Jacques snarled. "It's our lives that depend upon this whiskey—they shall not take it from us. That is why we need these guns. Nor shall they take me either. I would rather die here in the forest than rot in some English jail. We did not ask for this life or to be born in our miserable village. We have no choice so we must make the best of it."

After this they were silent as day darkened slowly into night. The rain still fell, but not as heavily as earlier in the day.

"Time to go," Jacques said, climbing stiffly to his feet. "One more hour and we will be across the border and in the hut. Nice and dry. Come on."

He pulled on the horse's reins and led the way. Phillipe leading the other horse, following their shapes barely visible in the darkness ahead.

There was no physical boundary between Canada and the United States here in the hills, no fence or marking. In daylight surveyors' markers might be found, but not too easily. This track was used only by the animals, deer for the most part. And smugglers.

They crossed the low ridge and went slowly down the other side. The border was somewhere around here, no one was quite sure. Jacques stopped suddenly and cocked his head. Phillipe came up beside him.

"What is it?"

"Be quiet!" his brother whispered hoarsely. "There is something out there—I heard a noise."

"Deer—"

"Deer don't rattle,
crétin.
There again, a clinking."

Phillipe heard it too, but before he could speak dark forms loomed up before them. Mounted men.

"Merde!
Customs—a patrol!"

Jacques cursed under his breath as he struggled his revolver from his pocket. His much-treasured Lefaucheaux caliber .41 pin-fire. He pointed it at the group ahead and pulled the trigger.

Again and again.

Stabs of flame in the darkness. One, two, three, four shots—before the inevitable misfire. He jammed the gun into his pocket, turned and ran, pulling the horse after him.

"Don't stand there, you idiot. Back, we go back! They cannot follow us across the border. Even if they do we can get away from them. Then later get around them, use the other trail. It's longer—but it will get us there."

Slipping and tugging at the horses they made their way down the hill and vanished into the safety of the forest.

There was panic in the cavalry patrol. None of them had ventured into this part of the mountains before and the track was ill-marked. Heads down to escape the rain, no one had noticed when the corporal had missed the turning. By the time it grew dark they knew that they were lost. When they stopped to rest the horses, and stretch their legs, Jean-Louis approached the corporal who commanded the patrol.

"Marcel—are we lost?"

"Corporal Durand, that is what you must say."

"Marcel, I have known you since you peed yourself in bed at night. Where are we?"

Durand's shrug went unseen in the darkness. "I don't know."

"Then we must turn about and return the way we came. If we go on like this who knows where we will end up."

After much shouted argument, name-calling and insults, they were all from the same village, the decision was made.

"Unless anyone knows a better route, we go back," Corporal Durand said. "Mount up."

They were milling about in the darkness when the firing began. The sudden flashes of fire unmanned them. Someone screamed and the panic grew worse. Their guns were wrapped about to keep them dry; there was no time to do anything.