1862

Chapter Eleven

The flotilla of small boats scraped the sandy bottom on the windswept and deserted shore. It was the middle of the night and there was a murmur of curses as oars were disentangled. When this was done: the boats commenced disgorging scores, and then hundreds, of armed men on the seaward coast of Staten Island. Scouts, landed days earlier, emerged from the gloom, gathered them like sheep, and headed them in the right direction.

Colonel Garnet Wolsey set a quick pace and led the column as it snaked its way inland. They had several miles to go in the dark and not much time to accomplish their journey. Alongside Wolsey, Captain John Knollys struggled to keep up. He hadn't been on a march in some time and was out of shape. He was soon huffing and puffing, which drew good-natured jibes from Wolsey and snickers from the men behind. He was too winded to return any comments.

Wolsey and the naval planners had counted on maintaining a semblance of offshore normalcy to hide what they were doing. The blockade of New York Harbor was maintained by a fluctuating number of ships; thus, there had been no significance given by American observers to the handful of additional ships visible on blockade. The sea off New York was a naval terminus of sorts. British ships going to and from Canada and Virginia routinely stopped to deliver messages and supplies to the blockading squadron. However, the new ships were not innocuous visitors; their holds were jammed with two battalions of seasick and sweating British infantry brought down from Montreal.

Nor was the American military aware of the large fleet of British warships assembled just over the horizon. While the British infantry headed inland, the British warships had commenced steaming for the heavily fortified narrow opening to New York Harbor.

Only a little more than a mile across, Fort Wadsworth was on the Staten Island side of the Narrows and Fort Hamilton on the Long Island or Brooklyn side. In the months since the war with England had begun, and spurred by the shelling of Boston, the forts' batteries had been reinforced and strengthened to the point that any attempt at running them or forcing entry would result in heavy damage to the attacker.

But this was not the case in their rear.

Scouts and spies had found that the back door to the Union fortifications was wide open at both locations. All American eyes looked out to sea and not to the sandy and windswept hills behind the forts.

A mile from Staten Island's fortifications. Wolsey paused and gathered his officers. It had been a hard march, but not a killing one. The men were fresh and excited at the prospect of action. They gulped water from their canteens and waited expectantly. Knollys leaned down and sucked in air, and was amazed at the way soldiers of all ranks looked to the young colonel for leadership. Then he realized he was doing the same thing.

Wolsey barked a few orders and the British force broke into separate columns that surged towards the American fortifications. At a closer distance, further orders were given by hand signal only. Their Enfield rifles weren't cocked so as to reduce the possibility of an accidental firing that would alert the garrisons.

The red-garbed infantry approached the first of the forts at a trot. No voice was raised to question or challenge them. Within seconds, they were inside the first batteries, and the garrison guards, most of whom were sound asleep, were overrun and taken without an outcry. The British continued their sweep from emplacement to emplacement without incident until, almost anticlimactically, they found a sentry who was alert and who yelled an alarm and shot at them.

It was too late. The sentry was bayoneted and died screaming. Alerted by the sounds, a handful of other American gunners tried to reach their weapons and were cut down by gunfire. There was no longer any need for secrecy or caution. It was over. The batteries on Staten Island, the southern half of the immense fortifications built to protect New York Harbor and New York City, had been taken. The British had not lost a man in the effort.

Across the narrows, Knollys saw small bright flashes of light and heard the sound of gunfire. From the location of the firing, he thought it was too late for the American garrison on the Brooklyn side to successfully defend itself, but he wasn't certain.

Wolsey ordered his men to run up the Union Jack, and they cheered as it unfurled and flew with the wind. Several hundred American prisoners watched sullenly but helplessly, while hundreds more blue-coated Americans, unarmed and panic-stricken, ran away.

Wolsey held his telescope to his good eye and watched intently across the Narrows. It was almost dawn and he could see fairly clearly.

“There it is,” he yelled, and handed the telescope to Knollys. “See it?”

Knollys did. The Union Jack flew over the other half of the Narrows. New York Harbor and City were wide open to the Royal Navy, which was approaching in all its might and in line of battle.

Admiral Sir Henry Chads stood on the quarterdeck of the massiveWarrior and watched the ominous Narrows come closer and then engulf the column like the maw of a monster. He exhaled deeply as he saw the British ensign flying from the staffs of the American fortifications. Wolsey's daring gambit had worked. Even the mightyWarrior might have had a hard time pushing through thepounding they would have received from the Union batteries, and: most certainly, the other unarmored British ships would have suffered grievously.

Sir Henry had never liked ironclads or the very idea of them. In his world, ships were meant to be wood, and preferably propelled by sails. However, he grudgingly admitted to himself that he felt safe behind the thick iron hull of theWarrior as it steamed into the harbor.

The rumble of cannon fire echoed across the water. The Americans had finally awakened to the danger bearing down on them. The batteries on Ellis and Bedloe islands opened up with a fury, as did other batteries at the foot of Manhattan, near Castle Garden. The range was distant, and no hits were scored on the British fleet.

The harbor hadn't been mined, so the British column moved straight towards Brooklyn. When in range, they commenced bombarding the densely packed merchant shipping, along with the numerous docks and warehouses.

When the Brooklyn waterfront was ablaze, theWarrior and her consorts turned towards Manhattan and pounded the Union batteries into submission. The British column then snaked its way up the Hudson River, spewing destruction and fire with every shell.

The guns on Bedloe and Ellis islands had been silenced by British gunnery. Smoke poured from the emplacements and white flags flew. The batteries at the foot of Manhattan had been pounded into rubble, and Castle Garden, only recently reconverted into a fortress, was a flaming ruin. Led by theWarrior, and followed by the woodenAgamemnon and a score of other wooden warships, the Royal Navy flotilla demolished and set afire everything they thought significant. It was a casual, methodical lethal destruction of the harbor.

From midway up the rigging of theWarrior, Admiral Chads watched as thousands of people streamed inland and away from the pounding of the British guns. It was Boston all over again. Chads was not a butcher. He was not going to fire on civilians. They were safe from him, but many of the fires appeared out of control, and those that weren't soon would be. No fire department could hope to deal with the conflagration that was developing. For their sake, Chads hoped no one would even try.

The raid was a complete success, but there was one frustrating bit of news. No one had seen theMonitor or any of her unfinished sisters. British intelligence was incomplete as to precisely where they were, and the cities of Brooklyn and New York were too large to give the casual observer a clue. The Union ironclads were small vessels that could be hidden almost anywhere, especially since they were under construction in private shipyards.

The British were confident that theMonitor was the only ironclad currently available to the Americans, and just as confident that she would not challenge theWarrior and the rest of the Royal Navy with only two guns. No ship was truly impregnable, and it was presumed that a continuous pounding by British vessels would wear the Union ironclad down and sink the hellish thing to the bottom of the harbor. Chads thought that was a marvelous idea.

Chads looked skyward at the sun. It was already after noon. All about him fires raged on the shore, and drifting, burning ships littered the once-clear waters of the harbor. He had won an immense victory. He had lost no ships and any damage sustained was minimal. With no targets of any consequence remaining, he signalled the recall and the Royal Navy began its stately parade out of New York.

Knollys and Wolsey watched and, along with the other soldiers, cheered themselves hoarse as the mighty British warships departed. Swarms of infantry were busy destroying American guns and stores, but they, too, paused and waved their arms at the passing ships.

Wolsey grinned. “I suppose I should be more concerned about discipline, but, dammit, it's a good feeling. Damn the Americans. Damn them for challenging England.”

Knollys laughed. “Indeed, sir. When should we depart?”

“I have a thought,” Wolsey said with an impish smile. “Why don't we plant a colony right here and start all over again?”

A couple of soldiers working nearby heard him and stared in surprise. They thought he was serious.

“Don't worry,” he chided them and they smiled sheepishly. “I shan't leave you here with the savages.” He turned to his senior officers, who had gathered near him. “Once the Americans realize our ships are leaving, they shall move towards here and we shall let them. It's time to depart. We shall march immediately towards the shore, only this time we don't have as far to go or any need for stealth.”

Again, the soldiers began to cheer and, once again, Knollys raised his voice with them.

President Abraham Lincoln lowered his head. He was saddened to the point of despondency. Stanton and Seward were concerned that he might fall into one of those distressing emotional funks during which he was unable to function.

“Mr. Lincoln, it is not as bad as it seems,” said Stanton, his secretary of war and the man on whom most of the blame for the disaster at New York had fallen.

Lincoln looked up and managed a wan smile. “It isn't? Then might it be worse?”

Both men exhaled. The president would be all right. Reports said that New York Harbor was littered with sunken and burned hulks, while the waterfront and almost the lower third of the city hadbeen burned to the ground. Loss of property was almost incalculable, and the financial district had been ruined.

Tens of thousands of civilians were homeless, and it was only the fact that the weather was warm that kept people from dying by the hundreds from exposure and compounding the tragedy. More than eight hundred thousand people lived on Manhattan Island, with an additional quarter of a million across the river in Brooklyn. Martial law had been declared by New York's Governor Edwin Morgan, an act that seemed to have prevented utter chaos and kept down the death toll.

The totality of the disaster had been brought home by many dramatic and emotional sketches that had appeared in the newspapers, but it was the photographs by Mathew Brady, Timothy O^: Sullivan. and Alexander Gardner that were the most disturbing. They showed the stark truth, and it was horrific. The city had been devastated.

“The fires that have ravaged New York are out, and the people are beginning to trickle back in,” Stanton continued. “The army is setting up tent cities in Central Park and elsewhere for those who have lost their homes. Army engineers will commence rebuilding the city on a more permanent basis in a short while.”

Lincoln nodded. “And who is in charge of this? Surely it can't be General Banks.”

Nathaniel Stanton winced. Banks had been the general in command of the harbor defenses of New York and Boston, as well as a number of other cities. He had been forced upon a reluctant Lincoln because of his political connections-among other things, he had been the governor of Massachusetts-and had proven himself totally incompetent. While the destruction of Boston was somewhat attributable to Britain's surprise attack in overwhelming strength, the unpreparedness at New York following the Boston disaster was unconscionable.

“General Banks has resigned and has returned to Boston,” Stanton said. “And good riddance. With your permission, I have given command of all coastal defenses to General Pope.”

“Very good,” said Lincoln.

“Indeed it is,” seconded Seward, who didn't like being left out of any conversation. “Now if we can only get rid of others, like McClernand and Butler.”

Stanton fixed him with an icy glare. He did not like his army's shortcomings being discussed so breezily. “They will not interfere with the war effort.”

“But what of our ironclads?” Lincoln asked, bringing control of the conversation back to himself.

As if on cue, Secretary of the Navy Welles entered the room. “I have the pleasure to inform you that Captain Farragut has informed me that they are unharmed. It seems that the British admiral wasn't certain exactly where they were, or perhaps he didn't consider them a worthy target. Regardless, there was some damage to the facilities where they were being constructed, but, as they were on the Brooklyn side, it was minimal. There is nothing that couldn't be repaired in short order. That is being done.”

“Very good,” said Lincoln, obviously pleased. “And what of theMonitor herself?”

“We were fortunate there as well,” Welles said. “She had steam up at the time of the attack and, seeing herself overwhelmingly outnumbered and outgunned, prudently took herself up the East River and out of sight of the British. She will join with the others at the head of an ironclad fleet in a very little while.”

Lincoln smiled. An ironclad fleet. What a wonderful surprise that would be for the British. Of course, to complete it they had to get the recently launchedNewIronsides from Philadelphia to wherever the fleet was going to be assembled.

Secretary of State Seward cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to gain attention. “Mr. Lincoln, sir.”

“Yes: William,” said Lincoln. “What is it?”

“The French, sir. What shall we do about them?”

“What are they doing now?” Lincoln asked with some exasperation. The French seemed to be always conniving at something. In punishment for nonpayment of debts owed by the Mexican government. British, French, and Spanish troops had briefly occupied Mexico City. The British and Spanish had quickly withdrawn, but the French had remained.

“Mr. President, we believe the French troops will be reinforced and that a relative of the Austrian emperor, someone named Maximilian, will be ordained emperor of Mexico and will have his power enforced by French soldiers. This would result in Mexico being a vassal state of France and that, of course, is a clear violation of the Monroe Doctrine.”

Lincoln wondered if there was no end to the number of nations that would like to see the United States prostrate.

“Indeed it is. However, the last thing we need right now is to be involved in another conflict. Do what you think best regarding the French, but do not get us in a war with them. May I assume you have some thoughts on that matter?”

Seward smiled. “I do and I understand fully.”

Lincoln thanked them for their presence and their support. He then dismissed them. The devastating British assault on the million-plus civilians of New York, whether such destruction was intended or not, had galvanized the nation into the realization that Great Britain was as mortal an enemy as the Confederacy.

The president of the United States had a telegram to compose and send to General Grant.

The nation was just beginning to learn about General Ulysses S. Grant. What most didn't know was that it wasn't his real name. He had been born in 1822 and named Hiram Ulysses Grant. On arrival at West Point some two decades later, he^’ d been confronted by a mistake in the army's records. They had a cadet named Ulysses S. Grant from Ohio, but no Hiram Ulysses.

Prudently knowing not to argue with military records keepers, he'd allowed the name change to remain. After a short while, his fellow cadets decided that U.S. Grant stood for Uncle Sam and began calling him Sam. Again, he'd accepted the name change.

After his victories at Forts Henry and Donelson, some thought the initials stood for “Unconditional Surrender” for the harsh terms imposed on the garrison of Fort Donelson and Grant's onetime friend, Confederate general Simon Bolivar Buckner.

Grant's headquarters was at Cairo, Illinois, and Nathan Hunter was greeted with a surprising degree of warmth from a man he hadn't seen in years. Grant had never forgotten the moral support and friendship Nathan had offered during the dark days back in California.

Neither had Grant's wife, Julia. She, too, recalled a time when their friends were few and, even though she had never met Nathan before, welcomed him warmly.

Julia's presence was an added bonus since it meant that General Grant would not be drinking to excess. Energized by the command of an army, and emotionally comforted by the presence of his family, Grant had no need to drown himself in drink.

He had, however, recently taken up smoking cigars, and the short, trim, and slender general was now rarely seen without one.

“So, could you invade Canada?” Nathan asked as he puffed on one of Grant's cigars. They were nowhere near the quality he preferred, but Nathan was not going to say so to Grant.

Grant shrugged. “Why not?”

Nathan recalled that Grant was sometimes a man of few words. “Have you been contemplating such an attack?”

Grant smiled and exhaled a puff of noxious blue smoke. “You want me to say yes, then yes. Of course I have been. The original war plan was for me to take my army down the Mississippi and capture Vicksburg while somebody else took New Orleans and Port Hudson. With that done, the Confederacy would be cut in half. But I can't do that while the British protect New Orleans and keep our warships off the Mississippi; so, yes, to while away the time I have been thinking of Canada. In fact, I've been thinking a lot of Canada. Are you aware that I've been there?”

Nathan was not aware, and Grant told him that he had been stationed on Lake Ontario at Sacketts Harbor. New York. and. more important, at the barracks in Detroit. Michigan.

“Detroit was a marvelous assignment,” said Grant. “We had a little house on East Fort Street, 243 I believe it was, and it was just a short walk to the riverfront, where Julia and I could see the Canadian city of Windsor. On several occasions we crossed the river and explored the area for pleasure. I would say I know Canada as well as any man in the army.”

For the usually taciturn Grant, it had been a long speech, and he dropped into silence. Finally, he broke the spell. “This thing in New York has the potential to free me to go into Canada, doesn't it?”

The news of the burning of New York had struck the area like a thunderbolt. The overwhelming majority of people in the Midwest had never been anywhere near New York, but they were proud of the greatest American city and were furious that the British had wantonly burned it.

Nathan had arrived in Cairo just after the news about New York had been telegraphed across the nation, and had seen the anger on people's faces. He, too, had wondered if his instructions to tell Grant to plan but take no action were any longer relevant.

“With nothing more to do about the Mississippi,” Grant said, “I have been planning thoroughly about Canada. I've included members of my staff in the planning since I thought it prudent. I told them it was an exercise to keep us all mentally sharp. So yes, I have planned, planned, and planned. I know exactly how to invade Canada and where to invade Canada.” He chuckled. “All those picnics in Canada with Julia will prove to be more important than the simple pleasure they gave us.”

Nathan could only listen. This wasn't the shy young captain he'd recalled from California, nor was it the man who had been a scarcely adequate student at West Point, who had admitted to reading more romance novels than military tomes during his years there. No, at some point, Ulysses Grant had come out of a cocoon and emerged as a new man. The metamorphosis from a shaken and insecure captain to that of a proud and incisive general who inspired through his actions, and not through pomp and rhetoric, was astonishing.

“Trouble comes,” said Grant. “Or enlightenment.”

Lieutenant Colonel John Rawlins approached them at a fast walk. Rawlins was Grant's chief of staff and a friend from Galena, Illinois. He had two assignments: keep Grant organized, and keep Grant sober when it looked like he would fall. He was good at the latter, but a poor organizer. Rawlins had a piece of paper in his hand, a telegram.

“What is it. John?” Grant asked. Nathan saw the general tense.

“From Washington, Sam, I mean, General.” He looked meaningfully at Nathan.

“It's all right,” Grant said. “He's a good friend.”

Rawlins took a deep breath and smiled hugely. “Mr. Lincoln wants you to invade Canada.”

Hannibal Watson knew nothing of the events to the north of him. He had only one thing on his mind and that was the survival of his growing band. He now had doubts as to whether they'd actually manage to get to Union-controlled lands in the distant north. For one thing, the farther north they went, the more Confederate patrols they saw and had to evade. For another, he had to deal with a larger group of followers than before, and not all of them were people he trusted.

Hannibal hadn't intended for his small group to grow larger, but they'd found a number of Negroes wandering in the woods as they trekked northward, so that now his band numbered more than fifty. A handful of others had been slaves on the small farms they raided for food and other supplies, and these could not be left behind.

Most of the men had weapons, and all knew how to use what they had. About half were armed with rifles or shotguns, while the rest made do with knives and axes. Hannibal tried to console himself that there was safety in numbers, but the truth was that his group was becoming too large to be handled. Where a handful of people could sneak through the woods and swamps, a larger group would leave a trail that could be followed. Where a small band needed but little in resources, fifty or more needed that much more in the way of food.

Thus, they had become raiders. Intuitively adopting the way of the forest Indians, they scouted out small farms and attacked suddenly in the dark of night and in overwhelming strength. Of necessity, killing occurred, and it bothered Hannibal. He was not against killing as such, but the more who were killed the more likely it was that a major Confederate force would be sent to hunt them down and kill them like mad dogs. As they moved, he sometimes wondered if there wasn't a regiment of cavalry over the next hill just waiting for them. He kept his doubts to himself. His real nightmare was that shrieking riders would overwhelm them during the night just as they overwhelmed the farms. So far, they'd been both smart and lucky. He could be smart for a long time, but how long would his luck last?

Again of necessity, they had adopted the stark policy of leaving no survivors from the raids and of hiding the dead in the woods. Maybe they were found and maybe they weren't. Hannibal didn't know.

A woman's scream and a groan of agony interrupted his thoughts. Hannibal gathered his rifle and headed to the source. “Damn it,” he snarled.

One of the newly freed slaves was fucking a woman. Two others held her arms down and her legs apart while the new man-Reginald, a house slave from Alabama-lay on top of her with his sweaty buttocks pounding furiously.

Hannibal kicked Reginald in the side. For a second, Reginald gave no notice, then he grunted and rolled off the naked woman. Hannibal realized in dismay that she was white. She was in her mid-thirties, skinny, and pinch-faced, as were so many in the hills. Her face was bloodied and her eyes spoke pure hatred as she looked from person to person in the dark-skinned group standing above her.

“You fool,” snarled Hannibal. “We've got no time for this shit.” Reginald laughed. “Always time for fucking.”

“Kill her,” said Hannibal.

“Shit, Hannibal, she throwed herself at me. Came at me naked and all that. She wanted it bad and I gave it to her.” He gestured at the two men who'd been assisting in the rape. “Me and my brothers only wanted what she wanted.”

Hannibal paused. This sounded suspiciously like what Bessie had done with the catchers some weeks past. Had the same trick just been played on him?

They had attacked a small homestead. He thought everyone was in the house when it had been stormed, but now he wondered. “Where'd the woman come from?”

Reginald pointed towards the barn. “Over there.”

Hannibal leaned over the naked and violated woman. “Was you alone?”

She managed a harsh laugh through split and bloodied lips. “Go to hell, nigger.”

Hannibal was puzzled. He had no idea why the woman and someone else might have been in the barn in the middle of the night. But then he had a thought. There had been a man in the house, presumably this woman's husband, and he'd been so stinking drunk he'd never even quivered when Buck chopped into his head with an ax. If the man had been an ugly drunk who liked to beat his people, maybe the woman and someone else had gone to the barn while the fool slept himself sober. Maybe, too, the woman had been fucking some other man while her husband slept it off.

A quick check of the barn showed two sets of blankets and two places where people had been sleeping. There were bonnets and scarves that told him both were female. Somewhere out in the woods was a survivor, and she was running for help as fast as she could.

Hannibal seethed with anger. He'd been flummoxed by some cracker farmers wife. Worse, one of his men had been thinking with his pecker and not with his brain. The barn should have been checked out right away. The naked woman could have waited. Hannibal pulled out his bowie knife and rammed it into Reginald's stomach. He thrust the blade upward under the rib cage and into the man's heart. Reginald gasped in surprise and fell backward. No loss, thought Hannibal.

In an instant, Reginald's two brothers were on him, howling their rage. Hannibal's knife slashed one, opening his stomach and dropping him with a scream as his entrails started to tumble out, but the second bore him to the ground, where they wrestled. Hannibal slashed at his assailant, but the other man just howled some more and kept clawing at him. Desperation made his attacker strong, and Hannibal wondered if he'd be able to take him. Then the man stiffened and went slack. Hannibal rolled him off and let him plop lifelessly down onto the ground. Buck's ax was buried in the back of his skull.

“Took you long enough,” snapped Hannibal. Buck only laughed.

Hannibal lurched to his feet and looked around. The skinny white woman was gone. “Where's the woman?”

“She run away whiles you was fighting,” said another ex-slave.

“Goddamn,” Hannibal muttered. It had never occurred to the fool to try and stop her. Now he had two women survivors on the loose.

“We should chase her down,” said Buck.

Think. Hannibal looked at the woods surrounding the clearing. They were dark and there was no sign of motion, no sign of a skinny white woman running for her life. That meant she had either gotten so far they weren't going to find her, or she had gone to ground in a hidey-hole she knew existed on her own property. His gut told him she had gone to ground.

Think. To be recaptured was to die slowly and horribly. He already had one woman with a good head start and another one hiding somewhere nearby. He would never catch the first one and it would take both time and effort to find the second. If he took too much time looking for the second woman, the first would be on her way back with white men soldiers.

“No,” Hannibal said. “We get out of here. We gonna move as fast as we can.”

He watched as his band gathered their gear and their loot. After all was said and done, it was pitifully small. They would have to raid again to find some food. Now, though, he knew that they would be chased. Not only had they killed white people, but that asshole Reginald had raped one. And that woman with the hatred in her eyes was the one he feared more than anything. She had seen him and heard his name.

Now he knew the real fear that he would never again see his sweet Abigail and their son.