1862

Chapter Nine

The Union retreat from the Culpeper-Fredericksburg area had been long and slow. The army withdrew in good order, first caring for the wounded, and then tending to the mountains of supplies. That which could be moved was sent back to Washington by train and wagon: while the excess was destroyed. As the army sullenly moved back north: the sky was darkened by the smoke of scores of fires devouring the many tons of supplies that had just been brought southward at great effort and expense.

The rebels would get some rewards, but not that much. Some foodstuffs, for instance, did not lend themselves to burning. The rebels would eat their fill, but only for a while. Southern papers had published accounts that the Union soldiers had poisoned some of the food. It wasn't quite true. As Nathan had seen, Union soldiers had urinated and defecated on piles of food or ripped open sacks so vermin could get at them. Then they had left signs saying the food was spoiled and why. They hadn't counted on so many of the rebels being illiterate. A number had eaten the bad stuff and gotten sick. Nathan felt no sympathy for them. It beat getting shot.

The gloom of the defeat and retreat had been somewhat mitigated by the news of a bloody federal victory by General Ulysses Grant at a place called Shiloh.

The only good thing to come from the travesty was Rebecca's response to his safe return. She had greeted him with a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek that had lingered a second longer than he'd hoped for.

He had found her at the Washington office of the American Anti-Slavery Society. She had grabbed a shawl and taken him outside. While they walked down the street, she grasped his arm tightly and he could feel the warmth of her breast against it.

“Everything,” she said, “you must tell me everything.”

With some surprise, he found himself unburdening himself totally. He told her of watching the battle and of nearly getting killed by rebel cavalrymen. Then he told her how sick he had been after killing the two enemy soldiers.

In the course of talking, Rebecca picked up the hint that something terrible had happened to him in earlier years. Skillfully, she pried out the story of the Apaches and the terrible destruction of his small command. He even wound up telling her about his recurring nightmares and felt relieved that he had shared them with someone. He felt lighter and better for having done so. Had Amy been alive, she would have been the one he confided in. Now it was the dark-haired and equally troubled Rebecca Devon.

“Do you still think it was your fault?”

“No,” he said, still conscious of the delicious feel of her body through God only knew how many layers of clothing. “I had pretty well gotten over it before the battle, but what I saw confirmed it. Too many unexpected things happen in war. Those rebels had no right being there at the supply depot, but they were. The Apaches shouldn't have been in my patrol's way, but they were. I had plenty of time to think of it during the retreat from Culpeper, and now I know I didn't cause either event to happen and I couldn't have stopped them if I'd wanted to. Terrible things take place in life and war and there's nothing anybody can do.”

“Except not have a war in the first place.”

“True,” he said. “Now tell me, what are you doing with the Anti-Slavery Society and not in the hospitals?”

She shrugged and smiled grimly. “As much as I try, I'm not really much good with the wounded. Waiting for Thomas to die was the extent of my skills. Later perhaps, when the soldiers are truly convalescing, I will go and read to them and write letters for them. Right now, there really isn't much for amateurs to do, so I'm concentrating on getting people to pressure Mr. Lincoln to free the slaves.”

Talking about her own activities made her exuberant. “We've been talking to congressmen and cabinet members. Why, I've even spoken to Mr. Seward as part of a delegation that went to influence him. He supports emancipation and he said he would urge the president to act as soon as possible.”

“Do you think he will?”

As they walked, Nathan found his cares and worries disappearing in the presence of this attractive and intelligent woman. He hadn't felt this way at all since losing Amy. He found he enjoyed it and felt no guilt over Amy's memory. He wondered why his first impressions of Rebecca Devon were so unenthusiastic. How could he not have liked her from the start?

“I think we're getting closer to the Negro's emancipation,” she said. “McClellan's defeat was a setback, but Grant's victory at Shiloh somewhat offset it. Mr. Lincoln will free the slaves this year and then we'll see marvelous things happening.”

Nathan wasn't so sure that it would be marvelous, but it would certainly be interesting. Rebecca's exhilaration was infectious and he felt wonderful. He would not spoil the moment by debating the point with her.

“You haven't had that dream about the Apaches recently, have you?” Rebecca asked. Nathan realized he hadn't. “No, not at all. What made you ask?”

“Because I just realized you're not limping anymore either.”

Shiloh was a creek in Tennessee near a small town called Pittsburg Landing. It amused Nathan that the North and South couldn't even agree on the naming of their shared battles. The South named them after the nearest town, while the North after the nearest creek, river, or other geographic feature. As a result, Bull Run was also the Battle of Manassas, and Shiloh bore that name and Pittsburg Landing. The Confederates called the recently concluded debacle the Battle of the Culpeper, while the Union called it the Battle of the Rappahannock. Nathan fervently hoped historians would be confounded forever. He did concede the Confederates one point. Culpeper was easier to spell than Rappahannock.

He was in his study and pondering this when former sergeant Fromm brusquely announced visitors for General Scott, and that they were directly behind him. The unexpected visitors were Secretary of State Seward and Secretary of War Stanton, and they virtually walked in with Fromm. John Hay trailed behind them and managed a quick grin towards Nathan. All of this said that the visit indicated a high degree of interest by Lincoln and his war cabinet in what General Scott was thinking. Lincoln's absence from the group also indicated that he wasn't ready to commit to precipitating a change in the command structure.

Fromm showed them in and Nathan made them comfortable until General Scott entered, which was only a moment later. Both Nathan and Hay stayed in the room but behind their respective principals.

“You know why we have come,” Seward said with characteristic bluntness.

“To discuss the conduct of the war, I presume,” General Scott answered.

“Indeed,” Seward said and Stanton nodded. Both men were solemn to the point of anger.

“We have wasted an army,” Stanton virtually snarled. “McClellan's behavior was disgraceful and irresponsible.”

It had been former secretary Cameron who had pushed for McClellan's appointment. Stanton did not like the general he'd inherited, and the feeling was reciprocated. Both Stanton and McClellan had strong and dominant personalities, but only one could be in charge.

“In your professional opinion, General, what on earth happened at Culpeper?” asked Stanton. “We sent an army of seventy thousand to fight Lee, ninety thousand if you count those in the Shenandoah, and they all came running home with nothing accomplished except the wastage of a large number of men and of hard-bought material.”

Nathan thought the retreat was more of a slow walk back than a run, but held his counsel.

“To put it in the vernacular,” Scott said, “he was bamboozled and finagled by General Lee. McClellan departed Washington fearing defeat more than anything and convinced he was outnumbered. Thus, when he began seeing shadows, he permitted them to take on substance.”

“Shadows?” asked Seward.

“Yes, shadows. You want my opinion, well, here it is. To begin with. Sumner in the Shenandoah Valley never had Jackson in front of him. When the history of the war is written. I'm certain it will say that Jackson had departed long before Sumner's arrival, and that he'd left behind only a brigade in the valley, and not a corps. This smaller force attacked Sumner and raided behind him with such ferocity and with such frequency that the poor old man thought he was facing a much reinforced Jackson and withdrew in mortal terror.”

Nathan hid a grin at the reference to Sumner's age. Sumner was more than a decade younger than Scott.

“General Sumner,” Scott continued, “is proof positive that old men should not command armies. Sumner was never that good a soldier to begin with. He achieved his rank to some extent simply by staying in the army for as long as he has. He has the loudest voice I've ever heard, but precious little behind it.”

“Had.” corrected Stanton. “He's offered to retire and I've accepted it.”

Scott thought that was an excellent move and continued with his analysis. “Thus, as a result of confusing Sumner, Jackson was free to hit Porter in the flank. Since we have no respectable cavalry to scout for us. the attack was a surprise. Porter did well, however. He was struck by Jackson to his right and Longstreet to his front. He was legitimately outnumbered and outgunned, but his men fought and withdrew as an army.

“Hooker was attacked by an inferior force that, as was done to Sumner, attacked ferociously and without letup. The purpose was to scare McClellan into withdrawing by making him fear an envelopment. Sadly, it worked, although Hooker protested that it was the wrong thing to do. Hooker is no genius, but he is a fighter and he was right.”

Scott stood and lumbered about the room. He was agitated, and it was as close to pacing as Nathan had seen the old man do. “Hooker was not defeated. His men fought off the attacks and inflicted heavy casualties on the attackers. There was no earthly reason for them to retreat. Porters right should have and could have been reinforced by Burnside's twenty-thousand-man reserve.

Good God: that twenty thousand men were held back from the battle astounds me! That and the fact that Heintzelman's corps never did anything either almost leaves me speechless.” Scott saw the humor in his own words. “That's a metaphor and not to be taken literally. I am rarely speechless.”

“In your opinion, Hooker and Porter did well?” Stanton asked, somewhat surprised.

“Hooker fought. He is a lecherous womanizer, but should be sustained in some capacity. I have doubts about Porter as he is so much McClellan's man. I've heard he is blaming everyone in Washington for McClellan's failures, which may make him a political liability.”

Stanton nodded. He had reached the same conclusion. By his post-battle comments blaming Lincoln and Stanton for forcing poor McClellan into the ill-advised invasion of Virginia, FitzJohn Porter had ensured that he would never get another command. Both Porter and McClellan had castigated Lincoln for not releasing McDowell's corps from the defense of Washington and further reinforcing McClellan. Fearing an attack on Washington, Lincoln had refused to commit McDowell once Sumner had begun his withdrawal in the face of an unknown enemy army.

Stanton persisted. “And Heintzelman? Burnside? What an incredible mess that was.”

During the first day of the retreat, Heintzelman had either misunderstood his orders or had delayed implementing them. As a result, his corps and Burnside's had gotten intermixed into one enormous mass of humanity. For hours, thirty-five thousand men had milled about in confusion until the mess was finally sorted out. Had Lee attacked, the Union army could have been destroyed.

“Heintzelman is incompetent,” Scott said bluntly and Stanton agreed. “And Burnside is McClellan's man. Doesn't he even owe Little Mac money from some prewar investment?”

“I believe it's paid,” said Stanton.

Scott nodded. “Burnside is a competent subordinate. Just don't expect him to be imaginative or to do much on his own initiative.”

“Tell me,” asked Seward, “why didn't Lee follow up his victory?”

Scott glared. “Because he no longer had an army. Our casualties, not counting those few hundred in the valley, were two thousand dead and seven thousand wounded, most of whom will never return to duty. Another five thousand were missing, although most of them will gradually return to duty after claiming they got separated and lost. McClellan lost between ten and twenty percent of his army. It stands to reason that Lee's casualties must have been just as great as ours, but coming from a smaller numeric base. Thus, he must have lost between twenty and thirty percent. No army can sustain offensive operations with such losses.”

Stanton almost laughed. “You don't think Lee outnumbered Mac, I gather?”

“I think it was the other way around and that Mac outnumbered Lee by at least a third. In my opinion, Lee shot his wad attacking Porter. The attack on Hooker was a diversion, and there was no attack on that fool Heintzelman because Lee didn't have any men left. As I said, McClellan saw shadows and ran. Had he stayed and fought using his reserves, Lee would have retreated and we might be closer to winning this war. Indeed, sir, we might be having this conversation in Richmond, although with a different subject matter.

“Again, sir, when truth is divulged and the histories are written, it will show that Lee would have lost to a Union commander with the fortitude to stay and slug it out with him.”

“Thank God for Shiloh,” muttered Stanton. “So what should we do with McClellan?”

“Will he resign?”

“Quite possibly if we limit his authority. Right now he is unfettered.”

“Then fetter him,” said Scott. “And see that he quits as soon as possible. His presence is a cancer.”

“And if he resigns?” said Stanton. “He has already stated in public utterances that the Union should negotiate a peace with the South. There is a sizable portion of the populace that wants the war to end and just doesn't care if the Confederacy exists or not.”

“Then let him resign and let him take his case to the public,” Scott snapped. “This is still a democracy, and if the people want McClellan's kind of peace, then they shall have it. In my opinion, however, this is a war that can and should be won.”

Stanton and Seward looked at each other. “Do you have a plan?” asked Seward.

“Generals always have plans,” Scott said.

“Not another Anaconda,” Stanton said in a small attempt at humor.

“No,” Scott answered tolerantly. “Nothing more to do with snakes, unless you wish to compare it with an asp or cobra.”

The invitation to visit Colonel Garnet Wolsey at the Royal Navy's headquarters at Norfolk, Virginia, came as a welcome surprise to Captain John Knollys. Only twenty-nine, Wolsey was a young man whose career was destined to take him to high places. He had already served with distinction in Burma, the Crimea, the Indian rebellion, and China. He had lost an eye in the Crimea.

Wolsey, it was rumored, was accumulating friendships with men who could help him rise to the top of the army and stay there when he made the ascent. Knollys, without wealth, influence, or a mentor to help him, desperately wanted to be one of Wolsey's companions. But what was Wolsey doing with the navy in Norfolk? Last he^’ d heard, the young colonel was the assistant quartermaster general in Canada.

The short dapper colonel greeted Knollys as if they were old friends, which they weren't. It almost made him giddy.

When they were seated and comfortable, Wolsey came right to the point. “Knollys, you're the man on the scene. Can the rebels defeat the North?”

Rumor had it that Wolsey didn't suffer fools, so Knollys decided to be blunt. “In a word, no. The North might defeat itself, but the South does not have the wherewithal to actually defeat the North. The South's best chance is that the North will become war weary and simply back away. But defeat the North? No.”

Wolsey nodded and urged him to continue. “Tell me about the Union army. You're one of the few men we can trust who has actually seen it.”

Knollys smiled. “As soldiers, they are good. They are well equipped and well trained. At the lower levels, they also appear to be well led. It is at the higher command that they are lacking. This is not surprising as they do not have any experience with large armies. The Southern generals seem to have picked up that skill more quickly than their Northern counterparts.”

Wolsey pulled at the end of his mustache. “Mr. Darwin says that we all evolve. Do you think the Union will evolve proper leadership?”

“Inevitably. They will get steadily better as the South deteriorates. It is simply a matter of numbers. The South lost a very good general when Albert Sidney Johnston was killed at Shiloh. His successor, Beauregard, is simply not as good as he was.”

“Shiloh was a complete and unpleasant surprise,” said Wolsey.

“Sir, Shiloh is what makes this war so frightening. The Union used close to a hundred thousand men against Lee at Culpeper and the Shenandoah. Yet their numbers are substantial enough that they had another fifty thousand plus on the field at Shiloh with an additional army en route. The South lost more than twenty-five thousand men in both battles and cannot replace them. There are more than four white Northerners to every white Southerner. When the North finally realizes that the South cannot compete with those numbers, the South will be in terrible trouble.”

“As might Great Britain,” Wolsey said thoughtfully. “We do not wish to fight the Union in a land war over the vastness of North America.”

“Colonel Wolsey, what is most disturbing is not only the discrepancy in numbers but the North's ability to manufacture items beyond measure. In the later phases of the battle, I rode with some of Jeb Stuart's cavalry. They are undisciplined savages, but they are marvelous fighters. We found several Union supply depots that we were unable to seize because of stout defenses. They dwarfed anything the Southern armies had. Their contents were either destroyed or tossed away by the retreating Northerners and will soon be replaced.”

Wolsey nodded. It was a real concern. The Union could supply its armies from its own local factories, while Great Britain had to supply hers from across an ocean that was sometimes hostile. Further, England had been called on by the Confederacy to supply her with the materials of war as well.

“But the hatreds are the most astonishing,” Knollys went on. Wolsey cocked an eyebrow in interest. “It must be what it was like when Edward Longshanks and William the Wallace went at it over Scotland, or when the Roundheads and the Cavaliers massacred each other in England. There is utter and savage hatred between many who are fighting that does not bode well for a settlement.”

“Yet there are those who say that the war must be won in this year of 1862. Do you agree?”

“Yes.”

Wolsey took a deep breath. “Do you know why I am here?”

“No, Colonel, I do not.”

Wolsey grinned. “I am the assistant quartermaster of Canada serving under Lord Cardigan. The job is so dull I could scream and Cardigan is, let's say, unique.”

It was Knollys's turn to grin. Cardigan had declared a harsh form of martial law in Canada and had rapidly become deeply resented by much of the Canadian population, which had been campaigning for less control from England, not more.

“I proposed a mission to tweak the United States and make them recognize their weaknesses,” Wolsey said. “Perhaps it might make them come to the bargaining table and begin to end this. At any rate, what I have planned, and am coordinating with the navy, will be bloody good adventure. Despite his advanced years, Admiral Sir William Parker has a good head on his shoulders and has endorsed the idea.”

Wolsey did not add that, as a result of those very advanced years, Parker was no longer onboard a ship. It had proven too difficult an endeavor for the old man. He had divided his navy into squadrons and commanded from the relative comfort of Norfolk.

Knollys leaned forward and tried to keep the desperation from his voice. “Sir, I. too, am totally bored. There is so little for a liaison officer to do between battles that it is maddening. I have no idea what you have in mind: but I would be honored to accompany you.” Wolsey laughed. “And I would be delighted to have you along.”

Attila Flynn's return to Washington was met with mixed emotions by Nathan and General Scott. The Irishman had been gone for several weeks and it was presumed that he had disappeared forever since his idea of raising an Irish army had been rebuffed by just about everyone.

Prudently, he made no effort to enter the house where Nathan and General Scott lived. Former sergeant Fromm had returned to the warm bed, round breasts, and eager thighs of Bridget Conlin: and Flynn fully understood that his presence was not welcome. Instead, he arranged to meet Nathan by the truncated and partly built monstrosity that would someday be the Washington Monument.

“And what have you been up to, Mr. Flynn,” Nathan asked, “besides fomenting chaos and rebellion?”

“I ventured south, deep into the heart and belly of the secessionist beast.”

Nathan was impressed. “If nothing else, you are daring. How did you manage that?”

Flynn's accent immediately changed to that of a proper English gentleman. “I still have a British passport and a small gift for mimicry. I may hate the English bastards, but they are sometimes useful.”

“And what were you doing?”

“Sounding out the degree of hatred for England among those from the old sod in general and one man in particular.”

They paused at a tavern, where Flynn graciously permitted Nathan to buy each a mug of beer. The weather was bright and unseasonably warm. The beer was cold and delicious.

“Have you lately heard of one Patrick Ronayne Cleburne?” Flynn asked.

“According to the Southern papers, he did well at Shiloh and has been promoted to brigadier general,” Nathan answered.

“Indeed. He is a fine lad and a charming gentleman, as well as a hell of a fighter. He's from Cork, you know, or perhaps you didn't. You recall that he and I served together as privates in Her Majesty's Forty-first Foot, don't you? He was glad to see me.”

“I can imagine,” Nathan said drily.

“Indeed. He called me a liar, a cheat, and a thief. After that we had a drink and I asked him why he was again serving that bitch Victoria. I could tell that this upset him as it had almost every other Irishman I'd talked to in the Confederate army. He told me he had sworn allegiance to his new nation, but not its friends. I then asked him how many allegiances a man of honor was supposed to give in a lifetime. Even though he's an Anglican, I suspect Cleburne's a closet Catholic, and he's always supported the cause of Ireland. So I asked him if he had put aside the cause of Ireland when he first swore allegiance to the queen as her soldier, and he said no. Then I reminded him that he'd become a citizen of the United States before becoming a citizen of the Confederacy.”

Nathan took a deep swallow and wiped the foam off his lips. “Your words must have charmed him.”

“I think he wanted to kill me. Cleburne's about your age, although a lot smaller. Frankly, a sort of mean, runty little bastard, just like me. He told me he had a home in Arkansas and a woman he wanted to marry. I asked him since when did he support slavery and he said he hated it, thought it was an abomination. I then asked him just why he wore Confederate gray when he was so much against what the South stood for and what it was doing.”

“And then what?”

“The insensitive turd threw me out.”

Nathan laughed. “I'm shocked.”

“But I did deliver the message and plant the seed. Mark me, Patrick Ronayne Cleburne is just one of a number of people going through an enormous crisis of conscience, and we in the Fenian movement are going to do everything we can to guide him back to us and the True Faith, the freedom of Ireland.”

Nathan was intrigued. “And for what purpose?”

“To lead a legion of Southern Irishmen who have abandoned the Confederacy.”

The audacity of such an enterprise astonished Nathan. “Do you possibly think it'll work?”

Flynn smiled and shrugged. “Nothing lost if it doesn't. But we are taking some steps to help General Cleburne see the light.”

When Nathan asked what those steps might be, Attila Flynn laughed and declined to answer. Yet the possibility of an Irish rebellion in the Southern ranks was delicious to share