1862

Chapter Fourteen

Lord Cardigan was livid with anger. “Brigadier General Wolsey, I still don't understand just what on earth behooved you to disband ten thousand Canadian militia and send them home. Don't you realize, sir that they could have inflicted tremendous harm on the Union forces?”

“My lord, the Canadians were but a mob. No, they weren't even a mob,” Wolsey replied. He was not overly concerned by the tirade. Cardigan was noted for them and they seemed to be coming with greater and greater frequency of late. It was also a subject that had been discussed several times.

“So what if the Canadians were a mob,” Cardigan continued. The bit was firmly in his mouth. “So are the Americans. Two mobs hacking at each other is to our advantage. Not only would a number of Americans be killed, but so would some of the more outspoken Canadians. Perhaps even this fool McGee. By the way, where is he?”

“In Toronto, and making plans to go to Ottawa,” Wolsey said. “And I differ in your analysis of the Americans. What I saw was a well-equipped and well-trained army that moved with dispatch and authority. The only loss to the Americans would have been in ammunition, which would have been easily replaced.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Cardigan. “This is the same farcical group that failed so miserably at Bull Run and at Culpeper.”

“With respects, General,” said Wolsey, “this is the army that succeeded at Shiloh and elsewhere, not the Union army you equate with those two Union defeats. This, Lord Cardigan, is a most dangerous enemy.”

“Dangerous my arse,” muttered Cardigan, then, in a louder voice, “and what are they doing now? Nothing. They moved a few dozen miles closer to us and now they have stopped. Why? What has our intelligence had to offer?”

Wolsey had been briefed on that as well. Grant's army had indeed pulled up about halfway between London and Hamilton and appeared to be entrenching. The British had limited scouting, but what little they'd managed indicated that the Union host was much smaller than they'd first thought. It occurred to Wolsey that Grant had possibly bluffed him at London, and that his army was well less than half the impossible “sixty thousand” that Colonel Hunter had so blithely mentioned.

It also galled the British generals that Canada was the only theater in which Union cavalry were operating effectively. Under men like Grierson, they acquitted themselves quite well. Elsewhere, they had difficulty staying on their horses.

Cardigan took a deep breath and calmed himself. “How many in a Union division?”

Wolsey blinked back his surprise. Didn't the man even know that? “At full strength, twelve thousand men. However, a Union division is rarely at full strength and is frequently at far less than half that. Mr. Lincoln's army has the curious habit of forming new divisions rather than sending replacements to old ones, while the Confederates do exactly the opposite. The result is that older, worn-down Union divisions are often quite small while Confederate divisions are quite large.”

“And how many Union divisions have we identified as being with Mr. Grant?”

“Six, sir.”

Cardigan mused. “If they are veterans, and you say they are, then they are likely well less than full strength, perhaps not even half. I think General Grant has only about thirty thousand men in Canada and that many of those are guarding his supply lines. Therefore, I surmise that he has fewer than twenty thousand effectives to oppose us. Damn it, why can't there be a consistent number of men in each division? Who thought of having varying amounts?”

“I believe it was Napoleon Bonaparte, sir, and I believe he borrowed the thought from the Romans,” Wolsey answered drily. “He did it intentionally to confuse his enemies. The Union appears to be doing it inadvertently, but with the same results.”

“Damn French,” Cardigan muttered. “But I still believe the Union force is smaller than we supposed.”

Wolsey wondered where the man was going with this line of logic. “That may be true, sir, although I am not as comfortable with those small numbers as you are, but how does that affect us?”

“Wolsey, I've discussed this with General Campbell and the others, and I must say they think more like you do. However, I am in command, and here is what I think the Union army is doing: They have bit off a large and prosperous part of Canada and have determined to advance no farther. With lines of supply and communication at risk and with us confronting them, they have gone over to the defensive and await our next actions.”

“And what will those be, sir?”

“Since they intend to hold what they have stolen until we take them back, I propose to do exactly that. We will attack them.”

Wolsey was appalled. “Sir, our number of regulars is not that much greater than the minimum number of Union soldiers you've estimated, and many of those are in garrison duty along the Niagara border.”

Cardigan smiled. “Then we shall replace them with Canadians. Put them in red uniforms and no one will be the wiser, eh? Besides, those fortifications do not require great numbers to garrison them. We shall move our regulars to where they can do the most good.”

“But sir, how does that square with our orders to defend Toronto and the peninsula?” And with Cardigan's previous statements that he would not advance to attack the Americans, Wolsey thought.

Cardigan continued to smile. “Just how to defend those two areas was left to my discretion, Wolsey. At one point, it seemed prudent to fortify and await the Yankees, but now it seems we have an opportunity to defeat them and drive them from Canada.”

And, Cardigan thought, such an effort would not only bring him glory, but would also get Viscount Monck off his back. Monck's mewing about the displaced people of Ontario had reached a sickening crescendo. In point of fact, relatively few people had been displaced. Most had remained where they lived or had returned to their homes and were shamelessly collaborating with the Americans. Wolsey was not aware of any great problems the Americans were having in their rear with guerrillas or saboteurs. Did Cardigan know something he did not, or was this wishful thinking on the part of the old general?

Wolsey was still puzzled. “Sir, it is my understanding that reinforcements are en route that will more than double our numbers. Wouldn't it be prudent to wait for their arrival?”

“Prudence be damned! No, we attack now and we'll not wait for any bloody reinforcements.”

Wolsey was about to comment further when it dawned on him that Cardigan was afraid of losing his command when the reinforcements arrived. General Hugh Gough, a veteran of fighting in India, had already arrived and General Hugh Rose was en route. Perhaps their lordships in England felt that such a large command was beyond Cardigan's limited skills? Cardigan would be supplanted by a newcomer and the old general could easily hate the prospect.

Cardigan could even be replaced with someone already present, Wolsey thought. Even if General Rose wasn't to be the new commander, perhaps either General Campbell or General Gough could be promoted? Neither was a spectacularly brilliant leader, but both were solid professionals.

Perhaps the Duke of Cambridge, one of England's most senior generals, was en route as well? Cardigan's tenure in Canada had not exactly been covered with glory. He'd been surprised by Grant at Windsor, lost much of the most prosperous and densely populated area of Ontario, and thoroughly antagonized the influential Viscount Monck and much of the remainder of Canada.

No, Cardigan would take his army out to glory or death before he could be replaced and sent packing.

“What is my role, sir?”

Cardigan smiled. “Recall, please, that General Campbell commands the Scottish Division and that General Gough commands the British Division.”

Upon receipt of some British regulars to augment the Scottish regiments that had arrived and marched overland from Bangor, Maine, Cardigan had seen fit to divide his force along ethnic lines. The Scottish Division was the larger, consisting of about thirteen thousand men, while the British Division had about eleven thousand.

“Thanks to Viscount Monck,” Cardigan continued, “there is now a fairly substantial Canadian element, which now constitutes a third, and Canadian, division. It seems there is now a real fear of American occupation among the English-speaking Canadians, although the Frenchies seem almost mindlessly ambivalent about the war. As the Canadian militia have almost no knowledge of things military, they need an experienced commander. You, Brigadier General Wolsey, shall command them.”

“Another formless mob?” Wolsey blurted out before he could stop himself.

“A little better,” Cardigan said with a chuckle, “although not by much. They have been training for the last several weeks, and they do have proper arms along with a semblance of uniforms. They have, of course, elected their own officers, which may or may not be a good thing.”

Wolsey sighed. “I must admit it seems a dubious honor.”

“But an essential one. I have no intention of committing your Canadians to the assault against the Union. They shall remain in reserve and be on the defensive.”

That was somewhat comforting, Wolsey thought. Untrained troops do far better on the defensive, where the need for maneuver is less, than on the offensive, where they easily get confused as they move about. As to their electing their own officers, many militia units had shown intelligence and elected men who were likely to be good leaders, and not necessarily those who plied them with liquor to get their votes. Militia soldiers had a marvelous tendency to support those who were likely to bring them back alive.

“One last thing, Wolsey.”

“Yes. sir.”

“Try not to surrender or disband this lot. They're all we have.”

On safe arrival within the Union lines, former Confederate general Patrick Ronayne Cleburne had been greeted warmly by the Union general Don Carlos Buell, and then been sent by rail to Washington, where he'd met both Halleck and Stanton. After clarifying a few points, Cleburne had been commissioned a brigadier general in the Union army, and was authorized to recruit an all-Irish force to use against the British.

This did not sit well with everyone. Predictably, the Confederate press condemned Cleburne as a traitor even greater than Benedict Arnold, while some Union officers were far from thrilled with a turncoat immigrant being made a general. In particular, the officers commanding the previously organized Irish Brigade felt slighted. The Irish Brigade consisted of the 63rd, 69th, and 33th Regiments from New York. It was commanded by Thomas Meagher, an Irish revolutionary who had his own agenda regarding England. To mollify the New York regiments and Meagher, Cleburne's force was called the Irish Legion.

One of the points clarified was what to do with Irish deserters from the Confederate army. These now numbered several hundred, many of whom had elected to follow Cleburne and fight the British, while the rest simply wanted out of the damned war. It was decided that any who left the Confederate army were a blessing to the Union. Thus, those who wished to join Cleburne were free to do so, and any who wished to join the Union army and serve in the west against the Indians were equally free to do so. Further, those who wished to immigrate to the western territories as civilians could also do as they wished.

Cleburne did some recruiting in New York, but with only limited success, as Meagher's Irish Brigade had been there first. He did: however, cause a number of Irish already in the Irish Brigade to desert and enlist with him under assumed names. This infuriated Meagher and the other officers of the Brigade, who protested, but to no avail.

While Cleburne personally drummed up troops in Philadelphia and Boston, Attila Flynn sent Fenians to the various Union prisons. While many Confederate Irish were less than thrilled at serving the Union after their harsh treatment as prisoners, a number saw that fighting the English as a free man was a lot better than rotting and starving as a Union prisoner. A few who weren't Irish at all tried to convince Flynn's associates that they were, and some of these were accepted.

The most fertile area for recruiting was Boston. Not only did the city have a large number of rabidly anti-British Irish, but the British had bombarded the town, killed civilians, and destroyed the livelihoods of those people who had just emigrated to the new world in hopes of bringing themselves up from the abject poverty of the old. In civilian life, Cleburne had been a lawyer and had developed some skill as an orator, which further helped convince recruits to join him.

Within a couple of weeks, Brigadier General Cleburne had a Legion that stood at just over seven thousand eager but untrained souls, with more clamoring to join. Wisely, he determined that what he had was all he could cope with at the moment. He would add more later. Equally wisely, he took them well into western Massachusetts and away from the taverns and other temptations of Boston for their training.

Attila Flynn sat under the shade of a tree and watched Cleburne's recruits march and maneuver. They were a ragged group, but nowhere near as disorganized and confused as they had been when they first started. Most seemed to understand the difference between their right and left feet. Cleburne walked over and squatted on the ground beside him. Flynn turned and grinned.

“A fine sight, isn't it, General? All of these wonderful young men ready to fight against Victoria and her brutish minions.”

“I have to admit it has turned out much better than I thought it would,” Cleburne said. “I will never in my life admit you were right, Flynn, but I find myself most comfortable in command of this Legion of free Irishmen and with its purpose.”

“Perhaps, when it grows large enough, you'll get a second star, mayhap even a third,” Flynn said.

Cleburne laughed. There were no three-star generals in the Union army, although the Confederacy had a couple. Cleburne had often wondered why the smaller of the two combating armies by far had the higher-ranking officers.

Flynn gestured toward the marching ranks. “The men are restive. They want to go north.”

“Soon enough and they'll have their wish, although they may regret it when the Brits start killing them. I have decided that the best way to toughen them and to make them an army is to march them overland to Canada.”

Flynn was surprised. “Surely not all the way to Detroit?”

“Hardly,” Cleburne responded with a chuckle. “In a few days we'll march to the Hudson, head north to Albany, and then from Albany to Buffalo. Once we arrive, we'll see what General Grant has in store for us. I'll be leaving a cadre here to recruit and train new soldiers.”

Flynn was intrigued. “You have been in communication with Grant?”

“Possibly.” Cleburne decided to exact a measure of revenge for Flynn's trickery, and he could think of nothing better than his having knowledge that Flynn lacked.

“Will you be there for the battle that is shaping up?” Flynn's voice rose in excitement. The idea of an Irish army fighting England's was almost more than he could stand.

“I doubt it. It'll likely be over before we arrive.”

Flynn sighed. “A shame, a bloody damned shame.”

Cleburne could not help but laugh. “Somehow I don't think it'll be the last battle fought in this war.”

The state of Maryland was one of several places in the Union where a large part of the population was sympathetic to the Confederacy. In the early days of the war there was very real fear that Maryland would secede, which would have left the District of Columbia totally surrounded by a hostile Confederacy. Had such occurred, Washington would likely have been abandoned.

Firm action was taken and Maryland stayed in the Union, with many Confederate sympathizers jailed or otherwise intimidated into discreet silence. As a result, while the Confederacy could count on some support from the population, it did not know how strong that support might be. Content or not, Maryland was firmly in the Union.

The waters off the coast of Maryland and neighboring Virginia were heavily fished, with men from both states sharing the ocean and its bounty, and doing so largely without regard to political problems. The Royal Navy had quickly decided that it was none of their business what the swarms of little boats were up to. For one thing, there were far too many of the boats for the Royal Navy to keep track of, and, for another, much of the delicious seafood that was served in the local taverns and restaurants came from those very fishing boats. If a few crabs and other delicacies made their way to Union plates, then it was a small price to pay.

The men of the fishing smackOrion had other things on their minds than fish or crabs. While they did net and catch fish, it was a cover; they were far more interested in what lay on the ocean floor than what might be caught in their nets or traps.

All of the small crew were Union navy men and two were deep-sea divers. The divers were used to going underwater in bulky helmets and waterproof leather suits, and searching along the bottom for treasure. In this case the treasure they sought was the telegraphic cable recently laid by England from Canada to Norfolk.

As the Royal Navy warship and cable-layerAgamemnon had worked her way southward, curious eyes on the shore had watched as the British ship inched her way ever closer to shore in an attempt to save time and shorten the cable. Those same curious eyes had tried to estimate just where the cable was and in water of what depth. They had pegged her passage between two buoys that narrowed the search even more.

Even with good information, it was still like looking for a thread in a large and very wet haystack. The men of theOrion had been at it for several weeks with little to show for it except sunburns and some extra money from the sale of their catch. They couldn't work all the time at searching. They were at the mercy of the weather, which could churn the ocean floor into muck, and of other fishing boats, which could not be permitted to see the diver going overboard or returning from his searches.

Captain Seth Dawson of theOrion came from a fishing family that was well familiar with the waters off Maryland's coast. Thus it was logical for the twenty-year veteran of the U.S. Navy to be assigned the task of finding the cable and confusing the Confederates. His real rank in the navy was bosun and he enjoyed having an independent command. He had been staring at the buoy that marked the divers present location for so long that he had a headache. It was with a start that he realized that the buoy had been moved and that the diver was jerking on the line.

“Jesus,'^: Dawson muttered. A few moments later, the diver popped to the surface. His helmet was removed, and the young Italian immigrant named Guido smiled happily.

“I found it,” Guido said.

“I was beginning to think it was a flight of someone's fancy,” laughed Dawson as they hauled Guido aboard.

Other crewmen helped Guido belowdecks and, once out of sight, out of his diving suit. “Now what?” Guido asked.

“In a regular ship, I'd kick your ass for even thinking of asking questions of your captain,” Dawson said. No one took him seriously. He was more of a father than a commander. “Is the buoy attached to the cable?”

“It is. And the cable is lying across a small wreck that will make it easy to find again.”

They then calculated their position off several visible landmarks and knew they could get within a few feet of the cable and use the wreck to locate it.

Dawson turned to his six-man crew, all of whom were smiling broadly. “As to now what, we go back and tell our leaders what we've done and let them tell us what's next.”

“I still don't see why we don't just cut it.” said Guido.

“ 'Cause then they'd just repair it and we'd have to start all over again if they didn't catch on and chase us off,” said Dawson. “Besides, I think the navy has something interesting up its sleeve.”

For Secretary of the Navy Sumner Welles, it was a secret almost too delicious to keep. Yet it had to be kept or it would be useless. After some soul-searching, he decided he would include Secretary of War Stanton, Secretary of State Seward, and President Lincoln. Prior to making them privy to his news, he made each man swear to tell no other soul unless it was mutually agreed upon. Lincoln was amused, while the others were a little angry: however, they all agreed.

“Gentlemen,” Welles said with glee, “we have located Britain's cable to Canada and we have tapped into it.” When the utterances of surprise ceased, Lincoln asked, “Are you sure they're not aware of our actions?”

“There's no indication,” Welles said confidently. 'They are sending messages without interruption in what appears to be a normal routine. I've had two professional telegraphers working on the problem and they assure me that our tap is quite passive and will not be detected. There may be some degradation of the signal between Canada and Norfolk, but nothing that would cause them to note or worry.”

“The messages are not in cipher?” Seward asked.

“None so far,” Welles responded, “although that may be a future problem if something is sent from London to Canada in code and not decoded before being sent on. In truth, I do not believe they will use cipher, as their signals are often weak and distorted, along with being almost maddeningly slow. During the couple of days we've listened in, several times they've had to repeat messages that weren't understood. Using code would be a recipe for disaster, as no one would know whether they'd received gibberish or a true message. No, they appear blissfully unaware that we are copying them.”

“And we shall keep it that way,” Lincoln said. “How many know of this besides us?”

“There were seven in the ship that found the cable, and the two telegraphers I mentioned were also instrumental in running our cable from the Maryland shore to the British cable. Other than ourselves, that is nine. My assistant. Mr. Fox, the man to whom they directly reported, makes it ten.”

“More than two is not a secret, goes the old saying,” Lincoln said. “Yet, no pun intended, I cannot fathom any other way it could have been done, Mr. Welles, you have done an excellent job,”

Welles flushed happily. “Thank you, sir,”

“And what is the crew of that so-called fishing boat doing now?” Seward asked.

Stanton chuckled. “Why, sir, they continue to fish the area. Their presence is considered routine and, thus, they are able to guard our illicit cable connection. They also provide some senior officers in the navy department with excellent seafood.”

“What we must do,” Lincoln said after the laughter died down, “is the obvious, We shall listen and wait, and never let them know what we have done, Tell me, have you learned anything of note?”

“Well it's only been a couple of days, Mr. President, and it would be so much more interesting if we could read the London-to-Canada messages directly, but we do get the sense that London is not happy with the situation in Canada, and with Lord Cardigan in particular.”

“We suspected that,” injected Seward. He was both intrigued and perturbed. He didn't like being upstaged, but was delighted at the possibility of knowing the secrets of the Union's enemies.

Welles continued. “A General Napier is on his way to Richmond to discuss military matters with Lord Lyons. I also have the sense that England is puzzled by the lack of aggressiveness shown to date by the Confederate armies. I think they would like the Confederacy to assault the Army of the Potomac and take pressure off their problem in Canada.”

“Excellent,” said Stanton. “This shows their marriage of convenience is far from perfect. If there ever was a honeymoon, it may be over. Each partner is waiting for the other to win the war for them.”

“I agree,” said Lincoln. “But now what do we do next? I do not wish clerks copying voluminous information multitudes of times to ensure that we all get what we need, Mr. Welles, are your telegraphers capable of transcribing what they hear?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent, Then let us meet each day and go over what we have learned, If necessary, one of us may read and make notes of pertinent areas of the transcription; however, no other copies shall be made. Of necessity and despite our promises to keep this group small, it will be necessary to enlarge the group somewhat, as there will be times when one or more of us cannot be here. Therefore, we shall each name a substitute. Mr. Welles, may I presume yours will be the able Mr. Fox?”

“It will.” Welles said, pleased.

“Mine shall be General Halleck,” Stanton said, “and God help him if the old gossip tells a living soul.”

Seward chuckled. “I shall use Mr. Charles Adams, our former ambassador to London. His insights could be invaluable, and, as the direct descendant of two presidents, his discretion is absolute.”

“Very good,” said Lincoln. “As I do not wish to be left out, I shall utilize the services of General Scott in my absence. Are there any objections?” There were none. “Then let us depart and fervently hope this results in damnation to our enemies.”

Lincoln rose to his full height. There was the hint of fire in his eyes. “Now if only General Grant can provide us with information that is equally felicitous.”

Rebecca Devon had called on General Scott for the purpose of inquiring into the condition of Nathan Hunter. She had not heard from him since he had departed north from Grant's Ohio camp to Detroit. She presumed that he was with Grant in Canada, but she had no idea if he was well or not. Mail service between Washington and Grant's army was limited at best, and telegrams were almost entirely limited to military matters.

Scott received her cordially. Any question of her late husband's ill repute seemed to have disappeared; either that, she thought, or Scott had been unaware of the suspicions surrounding him.

Scott had assured her that, to the best of his knowledge, Nathan was well, and informed her that he was a brevet colonel on Grant's staff. She was about to depart when a messenger from the State Department arrived and hurriedly deposited an envelope. Scott read the brief note and sagged into a chair, despair and anguish on his face.

“Are you all right, sir?” she inquired. He looked pale and shaken. His left hand began to quiver.

“Through the good offices of the Papal States,” he said hoarsely, I’ve been informed that my dear wife has passed away in Rome. She died of her cancers more than a month ago.”

She knelt on the floor beside him and took his shaking hand in hers. Despite his size and bulk, he was astonishingly frail. A tear welled up in his eye and spilled down his cheek.

“I am so sorry, General,” Rebecca said.

Scott sighed deeply. “My greatest regret is that we hadn't the chance to say good-bye. Perhaps we shall meet again in a better place.”

Rebecca choked back her own sob. “I'm certain of it.”

“If it hadn't been for this damned war, I'd've been with her. I left her there in Europe while I returned to Washington. I never dreamed she would be unable to return home. More likely, though, she was unwilling. She knew she was gravely ill, and went to France and Rome hoping for a miracle. She didn't realize that every day of life is its own miracle.”

Rebecca said nothing. It was hard to imagine a giant of the century so distraught and helpless. She continued to hold his hand. Fromm and the housekeeper, Bridget, had heard the news and arrived to give their condolences.

After several minutes, Scott released Rebecca's hand and stood up. “Enough. I shall mourn later. Now there is work to do. Mrs. Devon, Nathan thinks highly of you and I think highly of Nathan. With him gone, I have no one to operate as an aide or messenger. Will you assist me until he returns?”

Rebecca was astonished. It was not something women did. “I shall be happy to do what I can within the constraints imposed on my gender.”

“Good. Where a male is required, Sergeant Fromm shall do; however, he is not skilled at taking or deciphering messages, are you, Sergeant?” Fromm grinned. “No, sir, but I can knock a man like Pinkerton along his head again, if you'd like.” Scott nodded. “Are you aware, Mrs. Devon, that I had Fromm follow Pinkerton, and that he found him on the grounds of Mrs. D'Estaing's home?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Fromm said. “He was fixin' to climb a ladder up to the second floor, where voices were comin' from, when I hit him. Don't know what he would have found since it was all women's voices.” He didn't add that he'd seen the voluptuous Valerie D'Estaing standing marvelously and totally nude in the window as he'd crept away. It had been a marvelous view, but not one he'd mention in front of a lady.

Rebecca paled. Pinkerton had been within moments of catching her as a victim of Valerie D'Estaing's sexual depravities. But then she settled herself. No one knew anything other than that she had been the weekend guest of a lady friend who had subsequently returned to France. As for Pinkerton, he was in disgrace. He had been found the next morning gagged, blindfolded, naked, and chained to a hitching post on Pennsylvania Avenue, just across from Treasury. He had also been painted red. A sign saying “Peeping Tom” hung around his neck. The public humiliation had been too much for Pinkerton and he had returned to Chicago.

Rebecca smiled at Fromm, who almost melted until he caught Bridget glaring at him. “Sergeant, I doubt that I shall need you to knock anyone's skull, but I otherwise think we shall make a good team.”

In the depths of his not-totally-unexpected grief, Scott understood that Mrs. Devon was of much stronger stuff than her cretin of a thieving husband. It would appear that she was a match for Nathan Hunter. Good, he thought.

“That is settled, then,” Scott said. “I need to be alone. Mrs. Devon, if you would be so kind as to come here tomorrow morning, I would appreciate it.”

He didn't truly need a clerk or an assistant, but he felt she could be useful as well at making an empty house somewhat less so. In the meantime, Scott thought, I wish to weep for my beloved wife.