1862

Chapter Fifteen

It had taken almost two weeks for the British army to snake its way out of Hamilton and reach the Union positions. Much of the delay was caused by the need to surreptitiously replace the British regulars garrisoning the Niagara forts with Canadian militia.

When the British finally arrived near the Union camps, Cardigan deployed the Scottish Division on his left, or south of Dundas Street, and the British Division on his right, or north of Dundas. The two divisions were arrayed in double ranks and took up about a mile and a half in total length. The Canadian Division was in reserve, less than half a mile away from the front.

The British had arrived at their final positions late in the afternoon and, along with the Americans, had spent the rest of the day and evening scouting and deploying. When done, both armies tried to spend some of the night in sleep. It was difficult, as there was the fear of what the morning would bring, along with the intermittent but persistent rattle of small-arms fire as the two armies probed each other for weaknesses.

Thus, it was before dawn when Viscount Monck found Brigadier General Garnet Wolsey in his tent, alert, dressed, and conferring with his aides. Wolsey was totally surprised by the visit. Monck wanted to talk in private, so Wolsey excused the others.

“I want you to know how much confidence I have in you, General Wolsey.”

“I'm honored, sir.”

“Did you know that I requested you?” Monck said. Wolsey had not. “What you did at London was splendid, but now we must fight. I have the greatest confidence that you will not throw away the lives of the men entrusted to your care.”

“Thank you: sir.” Wolsey was deeply touched.

Monck chuckled. “By the way, Mr. McGee is with me, although this time as a journalist and not a would-be general.”

Wolsey laughed. “The best thing for him and for Canada.” The sun was rising. There was no longer any need for oil lamps or candles. A shout went up from outside and both men left Wolsey's tent. A great gray blob had arisen from the mist of the Union lines and stood over them like a giant, obscene mushroom that floated in the sky.

“A balloon,” Monck said. “The damned Americans have a balloon to spy on us. What are we going to do about it?”

As if in answer, a couple of British cannon opened fire on it, to no avail. “As you can see, Governor, we will not do very much at all. That thing is almost a thousand feet in the air and rising higher. Our guns cannot elevate that high. We might stand a chance when it is closer to the ground, but by then it would serve no purpose.”

“I've never seen one in battle.” said Monck.

“Nor I, although we'd heard that the Union was making use of them.”

As he spoke, something fluttered down from the cupola of the balloon. “A message tied to a weight,” Wolsey said grimly. “Probably a map drawn to show our dispositions. I wouldn't be surprised if there is a telegraph machine in the damned thing.”

Monck was clearly concerned. “Then they shall know everything about us, won't they? We shall not be able to surprise them at all, although they seem to have surprised us with that contraption.”

Indeed, thought Wolsey. This was not going to be a gigantic battle, and the balloon's occupants could doubtless see the entire field. There were no hills to speak of and much of the land was plowed and cleared farmer's fields whose crops were being trampled by thousands of feet. No, Lord Cardigan would not be able to surprise the Americans. On the other hand, he wondered just how many more of their own surprises the Americans had up their sleeves.

Nathan declined the invitation to go aloft in the observation balloon. He assured both Rawlins and Grant that his feet were planted firmly on the ground. Inwardly, the thought of going so high above the ground in such a frail vessel terrified him. It would take a special kind of person to leave the comforts of mother earth, he decided, and he was not one of them.

As at London, he and Rawlins rode to where they could see the British dispositions. The lines of red were precise and impressive. They could hear the faint sounds of drums and the skirl of bagpipes as the two men rode along the front from the British to the Scottish positions. This was not a mob of farmers as they had seen at London, nor was it Confederates in dirty gray or homespun butternut. These were professionals of the highest order. For the first time, Nathan realized that they were confronting the army of the mightiest empire on the face of the earth. In recent years, the British army had beaten Russia in the Crimea, and put down a savage rebellion in India. Who would fare best this day, the scarlet of Great Britain or the blue of the United States?

“The legions of Rome against the barbarian hordes,” said Nathan. “I just wonder which of us is the barbarian.”

“If they support the Confederacy and slavery, then England is the barbarian,” Rawlins said angrily.

All during the night and part of the morning, they had labored over orders from Grant to his generals, Grant was an excellent writer of terse, easy-to-understand directives, which Nathan had copied and distributed properly, while Rawlins stayed pretty much out of the way, Now, with battle threatening to erupt all around them, there was little left for them to do, Even Grant had commented that events were largely out of their hands. Now it was up to others to implement what had been designed.

Cannon fire erupted. Nathan checked his watch. “Eight thirty-five,” he said. He would note the tine of battle in his records.

“Ours or theirs?'^: asked Rawlins. “Which came first?”

“Don't know, and I don't think it matters. In a little while, the British will attack.”

“Any chance they won't?”

Nathan shook his head. The cannon firing had reached a thunderous crescendo as guns from both sides sought targets. Nathan hoped he and Rawlins were inconspicuous. “They'll attack. They didn't march all the way out here just to look at us.”

This had been the topic of discussion and the basis of Grant's planning. The British would attack because they had to attack. Cardigan could not retreat without looking like a coward or a fool. Nathan thought he might be the latter but certainly not the former.

There was a shift in the sound of the firing. Now it seemed to be concentrated towards the south, where the Scots were arrayed against the corps of General George Thomas. To the north, the well-scouted English Division was confronted by W. F. Smith's corps. Despite the differences in terminology, the two forces were approximately equal, as an American corps approximated a British division.

George Thomas, who had served under Halleck, had been recently promoted to major general. He was considered a solid professional, and, at forty-six, one of the older generals. W. F. “Baldy” Smith was a replacement for the recently deceased C. F. Smith. Although outspoken to the point where he alienated people, Baldy Smith was considered to be a competent general.

There was some concern that only Lew Wallace's division was in reserve, but keeping a large reserve was not part of Grant's battle plan.

“What do you think?” asked Rawlins as they rode briskly back to headquarters. There might not be much for them to do once the battle was joined, but Grant's headquarters was where they were supposed to be.

“I think,” Nathan answered, “that the British are going to attack our right. And now we shall find out whether our planning was good.”

Neither man mentioned that the next few hours would go a long ways towards determining whether or not the United States would be accepted as a major power by the other nations of the world. A victory would be a major step forward, while a defeat and a subsequent retreat towards Detroit would make the Union a laughingstock among nations, perhaps even end the war in favor of Great Britain and the Confederacy.

The battle had been raging for several hours when a courier from Lord Cardigan ordered Wolsey to send one of his Canadian brigades forward to the center of the British line. As he gave the orders to comply, Viscount Monck rode up. He was clearly distressed on finding that his untrained and extremely nervous Canadians were going into battle.

“General, what is Cardigan up to?”

“I got precious little information from the courier, but it does appear that General Campbell has either found or turned the Union flank. His men are moving in that direction, which would leave a gap in our lines if something wasn't done to plug it.”

“Too many are dying today.” Monck said.

A steady stream of wounded had been winding its way back to the field hospitals. The sight of the gore had shaken the inexperienced Canadians. Many of the wounded had lost limbs or been blinded, or even castrated, by shell fragments. It was a sight to disturb even the most experienced soldier, and few of the Canadians had been in battle before.

Wolsey wondered if the governor had somehow hoped to fight a bloodless war, frightening the Americans back across their border without losing any men. If so, he was being sadly brought back to reality.

A second courier arrived and another brigade was sent marching towards the smoke and the thunderous gunfire. This left one brigade and only about three thousand men in the total reserve.

“You look uncomfortable,” Monck commented.

“I am, sir. I wonder if the Union flank is truly being turned or if they are simply refusing it.”

“What do you mean?”

“If we have actually turned their flank, then we are threatening their rear. This would compel them to retreat and the day would be ours. However, if they are simply maneuvering and have turned their flank inward, they are denying their rear to us and have created a situation where they can maneuver more freely with the advantage of interior lines. If it is the latter, we are horribly vulnerable to a counterattack since we have extended our lines so much to swallow theirs that we have precious few men to resist such an attack.”

“Did you know the telegraph line to Toronto isn't working?” Monck said.

Wolsey paled. He hadn't known. The line had originally run from Toronto to Windsor and had been functioning, at least from Toronto to Cardigan's headquarters, a short while before.

“Perhaps it was a natural break,” Monck said hopefully.

“More likely Union cavalry,” Wolsey said. The lack of British cavalry angered him. Cardigan had gone into battle with only one squadron of British dragoons, and a few hundred Canadians who were so bad that they referred to themselves as “farmers on horseback” and thought it a compliment.

“What are you going to do?” Monck asked.

Wolsey signalled for pen and paper. “I will note my concerns with Lord Cardigan. Then I shall inform General Gough that I am moving my one remaining brigade towards the north and will deploy it facing that direction. If there is to be a Union counterattack, I believe it will come from that direction.”

“I note that you are not telling Cardigan that you are moving.”

Wolsey grinned wolfishly. “If I were to tell him, he would tell me to stand still and not worry. What he doesn't know, he can't change.”

About an hour later, Canadian skirmishers picked up motion in the woodlands to the north. Within moments, a line of Union skirmishers appeared, opened fire, and, after a brief duel, drove the outnumbered Canadians back to their main lines.

“How many?” Wolsey asked as he rode to the sounds of fighting. The best answer he got was thousands. Was it possible? Then came the report of Union cavalry attacking in their rear. Was it a nuisance raid that could be ignored, or an attack in force? Either way, with two of his three brigades already committed, he had nothing to stop it with.

“Jesus Christ! Look at that!” someone yelled. It wasn't very military but it drew everyone's attention. Long ranks of blue-coated soldiers were moving into sight, with dozens of horse-drawn cannon moving forward to be unlimbered.

“God.” said Wolsey.

“How many?” Monck looked stunned.

“At least a brigade, with more coming. I would estimate at least two thousand, with possibly many more behind them.”

Wolsey grabbed couriers and sent them forward with verbal messages. To Cardigan he sent the news that he was under attack by an overwhelming Union force. He did not suggest that Campbell's attack on the Union flank be broken off. That was not his decision to make, although he strongly implied it.

To General Gough went the news of the Union attack and a request that the British Division pull back to help secure the northern flank. Within a few minutes, a reply from Gough said he could hear the sounds of battle behind him and concurred with Wolsey. He would break off and withdraw to support Wolsey's Canadians as quickly as possible; however, it did appear that the Americans were going to attack and press him as he did so.

The Union force swept forward. It was as inexorable as a strong tide. Massed cannon tore bloody chunks out of the Canadian lines, while the rifles of the Union infantry chewed into the remaining Canadians. A shell exploded and a dozen men went down screaming and pulped. Wolsey ordered a withdrawal to a new position several hundred yards in their rear, and was pleased that they did it in fairly good order. There was no panic. Yet.

The field, however, was littered with the bodies of dead and wounded Canadians. There would be no lives saved today, he thought ruefully. Today the damned piper wanted his due. A British battalion arrived at a run from Gough and it was placed in the Canadian center. American cannon found it immediately and began to pound it to pieces while still more Union infantry came into view. Wolsey angrily revised his estimate of their strength upward. He now thought that maybe twenty thousand opposed him.

A messenger from Lord Cardigan arrived and informed Wolsey that, in Cardigan's opinion, he was overreacting to an American patrol, and that the situation was well in hand.

“You stupid bastard,” Wolsey snarled at the absent Cardigan.

Wolsey grabbed the messenger, a very young ensign, and turned the boy's head towards the advancing Union host.

“Tell me, Ensign, what do you see? Is that a patrol or an army?”

“An army, sir,” the boy stammered.

“What will you tell Lord Cardigan? That I am correct or that Governor Monck and I are hallucinating? Will you tell him that General Gough is already withdrawing, or that Gough is also fantasizing?”

The ensign's eyes were wide with fright and surprise. “I'll tell him it's an army, sir, a bloody great Union army coming right towards us.”

Wolsey grinned despite himself. “Good lad. Now tell his lordship what you have seen. Tell him I'm about to be overwhelmed and that General Gough won't be able to hold them either. Tell them that Grant has tricked us. We don't outnumber them at all. They outnumber us and by a great many. Tell his lordship that if he wishes to save anything of his army, he had better pull it back now and begin retreating to Hamilton. Now, Ensign, can you remember all that?”

The ensign assured Wolsey that he would and rode off in a desperate gallop. It was only a mile or two at most to Cardigan's headquarters, but it would take an eternity to get there. He wondered why Cardigan couldn't hear the sound of fighting behind him. Probably because he wasn't listening.

Moments later, General Gough arrived on a nearly spent horse. He was angry and flushed red. A few months earlier, he had been planning to retire; now the old fighter was in another battle. “What the devil has happened, Wolsey?”

Wolsey liked the veteran general, whom he had known from India. “The devil's name is Grant and he has beaten us. Now it is time to save what we might.”

Gough nodded. Again, the Canadian and British lines were being forced back. Not enough could be brought to bear on the Union flank attack to do more than delay it, while other Union forces were moving into the positions vacated by Gough's men. A gap was appearing between the British and Scottish divisions. Union troops would soon find it and pour through if Campbell didn't withdraw immediately.

Now there were signs of panic. Men were running past with terror in their eyes. Many had thrown away their rifles and only wanted to get away from this awful place. It came as a shock that a goodly number of the fleeing host wore the scarlet tunic of the British regular. They had fought the battle of their lives and now had no more to give. If the army didn't retreat soon, the entire British force would be destroyed.

Then the first line of Scottish soldiers appeared, half stumbling and half running. They were exhausted, hollow-eyed, and beaten. If the rest of Campbell's division was like this, they would be of no use in fending off the Union assault, which continued to grow in intensity. Gough's division and Wolsey's one remaining brigade were being destroyed.

“Governor Monck,” Wolsey said, “I strongly urge you to get back to Toronto as quickly as you can before we are cut off.”

“That can't happen, can it?” Monck said in disbelief.

“Sir, it can and will happen. We will be forced backward by Union infantry while their cavalry harasses our rear. If you are lucky, they will not be concerned with you and your civilian entourage. If you are not lucky, I suggest you surrender and identify yourself immediately so that you are not hanged for a spy. If you should make it safely, please tell Her Majesty's government what you have seen.”

The clamor of battle had receded to a numbed silence when Nathan rode through the carnage that had once been cornfields and grazing land. The dead of both sides lay where they had fallen, and, as there were far more red coats than blue, gave testimony as to who had won.

Nathan had never seen a battlefield up close. At Culpeper, he had been behind the lines, which had then retreated. This day he was treated to the full scale of horror. The dead had begun to blacken and bloat in the summer heat, while pieces of bodies lay as if from dolls or toys that had been flung about by a destructive child. He found a stack of dismembered corpses and understood the effect of an exploding shell on soft flesh. Flies had begun to accumulate in swarming black clouds, and the stench of blood, bile, and flesh that was beginning to rot was almost overwhelming.

The extent of the carnage made him realize just how trivial his bout with the Apaches had been. It also made him wonder just how a man like Grant, or any other general for that matter, could send men out to die by the hundreds or thousands, and still sleep at night.

At least the wounded had been gathered up, although how much good it would do them was debatable. Once again, the hospitals were overwhelmed with wounded, many of whom were terribly mangled, and a high percentage of the others would develop infections and die. Truth was, many wounded never returned to the war and might as well have been dead.

The retreating British had left their supplies, and many of their guns. A number of British and Canadian wounded had also been left and these were being treated by both their own and the overwhelmed American medical personnel. A few hours earlier they had been enemies; now they lay side by side, silent and broken, waiting for someone to make it better.

The victory had been overwhelming and complete. What saddened Nathan in particular was the number of Canadians whose blood had been spilled. He wondered how many had been at London and had decided to join up again despite promising not to. It would be churlish to feel that they deserved their fate. Nobody deserved to die chewed up by war.

Because of total cavalry domination, General Grant had been able to hide Major General William Tecumseh Sherman's reinforced corps and send it around the Union left flank. Grierson's screening cavalry had kept the British in the dark until it was too late. Now Grierson was headed towards Toronto in an attempt to get there first and block the British retreat.

“Marvelous, isn't it?” Rawlins said. “Tell it to the dead,” Nathan muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. Yes: it is a marvelous victory. Do we have any numbers yet?”

“Our casualties will be about eighteen hundred, two thousand at the most. Not many: all things considered. As to theirs, we've just begun counting, and it appears that there are at least twice that many dead and wounded, with at least two thousand taken as prisoners. We should gather many more as we press them in the morning.”

Night had begun to fall. Even though victorious, the Union soldiers were exhausted and drained by the daylong ordeal. They needed food, water, ammunition, and sleep, and not necessarily in that order. Grant had ordered that they get their rest. There was no point in anyone blundering around in the dark. They would begin again in the morning. If Grierson did his job, the British would be blocked from retreating past Hamilton to Toronto. The British had a head start and: ironically, could travel quickly since they had left so much of their supplies and equipment behind. However, without that equipment, it was questionable as to whether they could punch through Grierson's dismounted cavalry before Grant's main body caught them. Two regiments of mounted infantry under the diminutive Philip Sheridan were racing to reinforce Grierson.

Nathan would put his money on Grant.

Nathan and Rawlins passed a large group of dispirited and tattered British prisoners. They were huddled together and guarded by only a handful of equally exhausted Union soldiers. The sight made Nathan begin to realize the totality of the American victory. He also wondered about the brigadier general he'd met in the river at London. Now what did Wolsey think of the American army? In the distance, he heard someone yell “On to Toronto,” and he thought that was a damned fine idea.

General Winfield Scott had been wrong. He was in terrible need of proper administrative help. There were piles of letters and old reports scattered about in the rooms used by Scott, and Rebecca was certain that Nathan was unaware of the mess that had accumulated since Scott's return from Europe in late 1861. Scott might have a brilliant mind, but he had neither the inclination nor the strength to attend to the paperwork. Sergeant Fromm was scarcely literate, and Bridget confined herself to the kitchen and other housework.

As a result, Rebecca found herself spending more time than anticipated in the large house Scott and Nathan shared. With Nathan gone and with Scott as old as he was, there was no question of impropriety, and Rebecca wondered if she would give a damn if there was.

By reading the general's correspondence, she got a very clear idea of what was happening, and how the general saw the future course of the war. Any chance she got, she would talk with Scott. This was pleasing to both of them. She enjoyed learning from him, and he enjoyed the company of a sympathetic young woman of intelligence and surprising wit. Sometimes it saddened him, as it reminded him of his life with his departed Maria.

Thus, they were together in his office when news of Grant's victory at the Battle of Dundas Street came in. There was wild celebration in Washington. The Union cause had been starved for a major victory. Shiloh had been too near a thing to fill the bill, but a victory over the vaunted army of Great Britain was a marvelous tonic. The Imperial British had been bloodied and they had deserved it. Despite some fears for Nathan's safety, which made her want to wait for more information. Rebecca took a carriage ride with Scott, who, in full uniform, received the cheers of the crowd, which appeared to rejuvenate him. Old Fuss and Feathers loved the crowd and they loved him.

They drove through the throngs by the White House and were admitted briefly to Lincoln's office. As with everyone who met the man for the first time, Rebecca was astounded by how tall the president was. It was incredible that he was even taller than General Scott.

“It appears I shall have to listen to you more often.” Lincoln said to Scott. “Tell me what you think will happen now.” Scott smiled. He clearly loved being asked for his opinion. “Are the British yet bottled in Hamilton?”

“General Halleck has informed me that they are penned in and unable to move to Toronto. He also told me that the British have evacuated the Niagara forts in anticipation of a long siege at Hamilton, and that General Cleburne's Irish Legion has crossed the border at Niagara and joined with Grant.”

“Does that mean the Welland Canal is ours as well?”

Lincoln was surprised. “I believe it does. Why?”

Scott smiled more broadly. “I do recall that General Grant operates well in conjunction with naval forces.”

Lord Cardigan had been evacuated by ship. He had suffered a complete emotional collapse and been sent across Lake Ontario to Kingston. He would then go to a hospital in either Ottawa or Montreal, and later back to England whether better or not. Regardless of what would transpire, his long career was over and had ended in disgrace.

General Colin Campbell now commanded by virtue of seniority over General Gough. Governor Monck had made it through the lines to Toronto, which the British still held, however feebly. He, too, departed by ship to Kingston to avoid the growing Union cavalry presence. There were no British regulars in Toronto, and only a few hundred militia and police constituted the city's entire defensive force. Toronto's city government had already opened negotiations with Grant to declare Toronto an open city. Grant had concurred. He would take the city if and when he wished, and there would be no resistance.

The Americans were more than content to surround the entrenched British at Hamilton, and bombard their works with their field guns. In particular they used three-inch rifled cannon that could fire a ten-pound shell accurately for more than a mile.

American cavalry ranged past Toronto and as far as Oshawa on Lake Ontario. Communications and resupply, therefore, were entirely by ship, which was the city of Hamilton's only connection with the rest of the world and the British Empire.

“Thank God Britannia rules the waves,” Wolsey said with sarcasm. General Gough chuckled. The Royal Navy's entire Lake Ontario Squadron, a trio of armed schooners and a paddle wheeler with cannon mounted on it, stood about a mile offshore. Two of the schooners had come through the Welland from Lake Erie, which meant there were no British ships on that Great Lake.

“How long do you think our naval superiority will last?” Gough queried. “If I recall, the Americans have a nasty habit of building their own fleets on the Great Lakes. God only knows what's going on at Rochester and Oswego. I can only hope that no American ships will arrive until the relief column from Montreal breaks through.”

Wolsey thought Gough was being very optimistic. Cardigan had lost a third of his army dead, wounded, or missing, and the remainder was under siege. Both knew there weren't enough soldiers in Montreal to counter Grant's force, which they now estimated at fifty thousand thanks to reinforcements that had poured in from Niagara. The fact that thousands of them were damned Irishmen was galling as well.

American cannon had begun smashing British works, and the British didn't have the guns to counter them. Most had been lost in the battle, and it was presumed that some were in use against them by the Americans, which made a bad situation even worse, particularly since some of them were the large cannon from the Niagara forts. These had been damaged by the retreating Canadians, but the clever Americans had quickly fixed them.

Life in Hamilton meant going from place to place by trench and staying in basements and bunkers for as long as possible. Sticking one's head up invited disaster, and the city was being pounded to rubble by the American guns. Only by the waterfront was it even somewhat safe.

They had only been under siege for a few days, but it seemed like forever, and it also seemed like the thunder of cannon would never stop.

It would be a very long time before any relief column made it to Hamilton. Meanwhile, they had to defend themselves against the Americans, who were watching every move they made and every trench they dug thanks to their damned balloon, which, as they spoke, swayed with the breezes high above the Union lines.

The sound of a signal cannon echoed in from the lake. “What now?” said Gough.

They left the safety of their shelter and rushed through the trenches towards the harbor, where they saw the quartet of Royal Navy ships heading farther outward. Three dark fingers of smoke were visible in the distance. In a short while the shapes of three paddle wheelers were evident. Through their telescopes, Wolsey and Gough could see that the strangers flew the American flag and were surprisingly low in the water. Then it dawned on Wolsey.

“They're ironclads, by God. Goddamn, Grant's made ironclads out of steamships and sent them through the Welland.”

The Welland Canal could not accommodate extremely large ships, but could handle lake steamers with shallow enough drafts. Obviously, these qualified.

The British ships opened fire at long range with no apparent effect. As the cannon fire rumbled, the Americans closed the distance until, at very close range, they opened fire. Even though each ironclad only had a pair of guns, they were large caliber and the effect was devastating. The unarmored schooners seemed to disintegrate before their eyes as the shells crushed their hulls and began fires that devoured the wooden ships. A steamer took a hit in her boiler and blew up, showering the ironclads with debris.

Within a few moments, it was over. There were no British ships on the Great Lakes.

The American warships made no attempt to keep the British lifeboats from picking up survivors. Instead, the three Union ironclads moved close to shore with studied insolence. Except for a few dents, they were unharmed by their encounter with the British ships.

For the next hour, they ranged the waterfront and fired at anything they wished. They smashed buildings and shattered bunkers. Fires were started, and no one could get out of their trenches to stop them. Since most buildings contained soldiers, there were numerous casualties.

Wolsey lay on his belly in a ditch as dirt and debris rained down on him. General Gough was beside him. There were only a handful of guns on the American ships, but the British could not oppose them. It was execution, not battle.

Finally it was over and the three American ironclads steamed away, doubtless short of ammunition. Wolsey got up from the ditch and shook mud off his uniform. Gough was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, shaken, but otherwise unharmed. The Union ships were heading towards St. Catherines, which the Americans had taken several days before. They would be back and would commence a blockade.

There would be no more supplies from Montreal and no relief column was going to save them. It was a bitter truth: but one that had to be confronted. That evening, it was almost with relief that Wolsey got the summons from General Campbell to attend a council of war. Campbell could call it what he wished. Wolsey thought, but he doubted there would be very much war for him any longer

Brevet Colonel Nathan Hunter once again rode under flag of truce towards the enemy lines. He paused as a lone rider emerged from behind an earthen embankment. Nathan stifled a grin when he realized it was Brigadier General Wolsey.

Nathan gave Wolsey a courtesy salute. “I can't say I'm delighted to see you again, Colonel,” Wolsey said, “but I'm damn glad to be talking to someone who is reasonable.” That remains to be seen, Nathan thought. “I. too, had hoped to meet you again under more pleasant circumstances. However, fate has decreed otherwise.”

“I rather think General Grant and his army had more to do with it than fate,” Wolsey said drily. “Be that as it may, it is, as General Grant's note said, time to halt the bloodshed. What does he propose?”

“Unconditional surrender,” said Nathan and saw Wolsey wince. “Unacceptable,” Wolsey said. “We must negotiate an honorable settlement.”

“Consider your position, General. You have scant food and little ammunition. You are outnumbered and surrounded, with no relief available from anywhere in the hemisphere. Soon your men will be pounded to pieces just like the men you saved at London would have been had they continued their folly. Surrender and save lives, sir.”

“At London you did not hold the Canadians prisoner,” Wolsey said in rebuttal. “I am not proposing that we be released, but surely we can come to some accommodation regarding parole and exchange.”

“Too much blood has been spilled for there to be complete absolution. Surrender, and both you and your men will be treated honorably. Continue the fighting and confront destruction. As to parole or exchange, that is for our governments to work out. However, as we now hold and will hold many more British soldiers than you do Americans, exchange is not a likely option under any circumstances. The possibility of parole for senior officers is an open item.”

“Will it be possible for my soldiers to be imprisoned in Canada?” Wolsey asked. “There are rumors of terrible conditions in Union prisons.”

“Unfortunately, the rumors are true, although I hasten to add that they are just as miserable, if not more so, in Confederate prisons. This is not to justify it. Simply put, neither side expected the war to last this long or to be so all-encompassing. We are paying for that miscalculation. Therefore, I am empowered to tell you that your soldiers will be held in American-occupied Canada, where they can receive sustenance and moral support from the local population.”

That it also relieved Grant and the U.S. government of the responsibility of feeding so large a host was a factor in the decision. It almost didn't matter if any of the imprisoned British tried to escape. Where would they go? A few might be hidden by British sympathizers, but the nearest British army base would be hundreds of miles away. Grant had even suggested that the British be quartered in Sarnia, which was even farther away from Ottawa.

“Please agree that we will not be guarded by the Irish.”

Nathan almost laughed, then thought better of it. As jailers, the Irish would take a fearful vengeance. “They will be kept away from your men. They are far more interested in fighting you English than in guarding prisoners.”

“I have no choice but to accept your proposal,” Wolsey said. “As before, you are totally right in everything you say. Please continue the truce while we arrange the particulars of disarmament and so forth.”

“Agreed,” said Nathan. He knew full well that the time would be spent by the British in destroying what supplies and equipment they didn't want the Americans to get. “Tell me, Colonel, where did you get the warships?”

Nathan saw no point in hiding what was already common knowledge in the States. 'They are the steamers that transported Grant's army across the Detroit River to Windsor. Immediately after, they were sent to Cleveland, where they were wrapped in iron plating or railroad tracks that were heated and bent to sheath the ships. They were modeled on the 'Pook Turtles' designed by an engineer named Edmond Pook. They drafted only six feet fully loaded, which meant there was plenty of room in the Welland, which, by the way, you people did not destroy. I suppose we should thank you.”

In the haste of the retreat, no one had given a moment's thought to blowing up the locks and the mechanism of the Welland. The Americans could have repaired it in due course, but that would have taken time. Then another thought chilled Wolsey. The Rideau Canal connecting Kingston with Ottawa, and thence to Montreal, was five feet deep. Might a lighter Pook Turtle make it through to those cities?

“Do you know what galls me the most Colonel Hunter?”

“No.'^:

“That this will be trumpeted by your country as just as big a victory as Saratoga or Yorktown. Even worse,” he sighed, “they may be right.”