by James Devine
Lieutenant Wilder was thus pulling double-duty, though General Scott had gradually removed Beaufort from access to sensitive material over the course of the last six weeks. It was Tom’s unpleasant duty, therefore, to present the General with another in the growing number of officer resignation letters. This one cut more deeply: “First Lieutenant Joseph Johnston of the 4th Artillery regrets that events of recent days have made it impossible…”
After laying the letter in front of The Old Man, Tom tried to beat a hasty but quiet retreat. He hadn’t gotten more than halfway to the door when Scott growled: “Come back here, Lieutenant.”
Tom sheepishly returned to the front of the big desk and was indicated into a seat. The General read the short letter again before staring past Tom’s right shoulder to the window with its view of the Potomac. Minutes passed in silence. Finally: “Get a messenger to Fortress Monroe. I want Lieutenant Lee here as soon as possible.” Thomas nodded and jumped to his feet. As he turned to leave, Scott beckoned him again. “Lieutenant…” Their eye contact made words superfluous. “No, that will be all.”
As Tom exited the General’s office, the thought occurred: he might well be the only junior officer to have ever seen Winfield Scott’s eyes redden…
___________
War Department
August 9, 1833
11 a.m.:
General Scott looked up from a desk covered with maps of northern Virginia upon hearing the crisp knock on his door. “Come in Lieutenant. This had better be either important or interesting…”
Stepping through the doorway and securing the entrance behind him, Tom Wilder came to full attention, but with a faint outline of a grin at the corners of his mouth. “Sir. Do you recall meeting, some weeks ago, with a man of color, head like a cannonball, arms like tree trunks, fingers the size of pistol barrels…”
“Jurgurtha Numidia.”
“He’s standing in the outer office, General, and requests a private interview.”
Scott’s own mouth twitched. “Well, Lieutenant. Maybe not important, in view of everything else going on. But definitely interesting. Show the man in.”
As Jurgurtha stooped to keep from hitting his head on the doorsill, the Lieutenant closed the door from the outside and stuck his right hand in the face of the non-commissioned-officer-in-charge. They had bet months before on whether anyone other than the General would be forced to incline his head to gain entrance. Having seen Numidia at close range, Tom had gambled that the gigantic blacksmith would one day, for whatever reason, appear at the War Department
___________
Scott had remained standing next to his desk. “Mr. Numidia.”
“General Scott.” Jurgurtha was equally formal without any sense of either subservience or bitterness.
The General nodded to the tall, sweating pitcher and accompanying glasses. “Water?”
“Thank you, General. Hot as hell out there. As usual…” Jurgurtha moved towards the credenza, reaching it in two huge, easy strides.
“That’s Georgetown, Mr. Numidia. But I don’t have the time or inclination to discuss this swamp’s wretched weather…and I don’t believe that’s what brought you here, either…”
“Sure ‘nough not, Gen’l…”
The two men stared at each other, Jurgurtha with a tight smile and Scott with a look of exaggerated disgust.
“Hmmm. Well, then, Mr. Numidia, state your business.”
Jurgurtha slowly sipped his water and continued to stare at Scott for perhaps 30 seconds before answering. “General, when last we met, you may recall suggesting that I give thought to, as I remember it, ‘how my people and I could help…if worse comes to worse.’
“Well, General Scott, that having become the case, at least from your perspective if not from mine, I’m here to see what can be worked out.”
Scott grunted and marched over to the credenza himself, coffee cup/water mug in his right paw. He poured and took a long swallow before answering. “Is Exodus offering to secretly lead a portion of my army behind enemy lines so that we can attack from both sides? A Cannae, if you will?”
Jurgurtha raised his glass in salute. “My compliments, General. If and when time allows, I’d be interested to hear how you discovered our little operation…and why you haven’t closed us down…”
“Why close you down now…Moses? You’re providing a service to the Dominion. Anything that hurts the so-called Confederacy, even in a small way, benefits what will soon be the USBA war effort. Up to now, it’s been the occasional escaped slave coming this direction. In the near future, it could be messages, or more, going South…
“As for discovery, well, Doby knew just enough to get us started…”
“Doby? That black bastard…I knew it was him. Only one not hurt or killed. Well, we’ll deal with him our ownselves…”
“I doubt it.” Scott was dry. “Doby’s a long way from Georgetown. And if he’s smart, he won’t ever come back. Not that we’ve abandoned him. Let’s just say his opportunities look more promising where he is now… By the way, Donfield’s also gone. Too much trouble to put him on trial. Politics, you know… No, Mr. Crispus Attucks Donfield is now enjoying life in Monrovia, Liberia. Perhaps the Spanish he picked up working at the Consulate will benefit him there…if he can hear with only one ear.”
Jurgurtha was shaking his head. “So Doby was in it alone, eh? Spilled the beans beforehand. How many pieces of silver?
Scott shook his own head. “Didn’t ask for anything. Just wanted to keep his job at Interior. Which, of course, would have been like handing him his death sentence once word leaked out, as it always does.
“As for Exodus, Doby didn’t know much at all. We just picked up the threads from the other end. Your son’s job with Senator Webster. That led us to the New England Abolition Society…and back to you and Exodus. Full circle.”
The Exodus station chief shook his head in reluctant admiration. “Damn… Pretty thorough. Or lucky…”
“Now then, Mr. Numidia, as I said at the onset: state your business.”
___________
Scott leaned back against his desk, pushing the coordinated maps into a shambles, and heard Jurgurtha’s proposal to raise a force of free blacks to serve with the USBA forces without changing facial expression.
“And just who would command such a force, Mr. Numidia…just supposing all the other obstacles were overcome and we decided to field this force? My loyal officers are fighting for a principle, all right. But it’s the concept of the Dominion and its relationship to the Empire. Not emancipation. And, being human, they’re interested in promotion. Don’t know any offhand who would be happy leading a battalion or regiment of blacks. Doubt even my own aide out there, Lieutenant Wilder, who is hunkering for a command---which he won’t get---would be interested in commanding such a force. I’m afraid most of my officers would look at it as a demotion.”
Scott stared at Jurgurtha, his eyes suddenly bright and his mouth twitching as if to keep from smiling. The black man smiled back.
“Perhaps, in your surprise at the proposal itself, you didn’t hear me completely, General. I said I’d raise the force. That means I’d command it, too.”
Scott appeared to be giving consideration to the declaration, though his lips were fighting off a pucker.
“I see. So, in essence, you expect me to inform the G-G and Secretary Cass, as well as the Duke, that I intend to raise a force of free Georgetown blacks, up to regiment-strength and including black seamen and perhaps a few escaped slaves, train them over the next few weeks, arm them and send them into my lines under the command of a man of God?
“And, by the way, how do you think that will play in Missouri, Kentucky and Maryland, which Mr. Van Buren is trying desperately to hold on to for the Dominion?”
Numidia had returned to the credenza for a refill, but now he angrily slammed down his glass. “So what were you talking about that day in my stable, General Scott, Sir? Maybe utilize my people to hold th
e white boys’ horses, build their campfires and cook for them? You know, like that Southern army is undoubtedly utilizing their blacks?”
Scott grinned. “Well Jurgurtha, that’s what I originally had in mind. But ideas evolve. Especially when more information is made available; information that can tip the scale in one direction or another.
“Like the information in the New England Abolition Society files on one Jurgurtha Numidia. Col. Jurgurtha Numidia, that is, retired from the Haitian Army and veteran of the wars of liberation against Napoleon...
“So, Colonel Numidia: how many men do you think you could raise and how long before you could put them in the field?
“Bearing in mind, of course, that this is all very theoretical? And that Matty Van and Wellington may have me retired and shipped to Bedlam for even bringing the subject up?”
___________
Harper’s Ferry, Virginia
August 18, 1833, 4:20 a.m.:
If the crickets are chirping this early, it’s going to be another hot one, Maj. Luke Beaufort, 1st Cavalry, Army of Virginia, thought as he placed both hands on his saddle horn and looked down on the quiet village.
The 1st had risen at 2:30 a.m., ridden quietly---the horses’ hooves wrapped in burlap---and come up onto the Bolivar Heights from the southwest, having crossed the Shenandoah River miles downstream yesterday afternoon. Now they were northwest of the village; ‘behind it’, so to speak, as Harper’s Ferry opened west-northwest from the triangle formed by the confluence of the Shenandoah and the Potomac River. The arsenal, armory buildings and other War Department buildings seemed scattered haphazardly throughout the triangle, though Luke knew that in actuality it was the shops, inns and houses that had sprung up haphazardly around the government buildings.
Harper’s Ferry had been producing and storing USBAA weapons since 1799. It was a treasure chest that General Gaines, now commanding Virginia’s forces---the CSA hadn’t yet formalized its army structure---had targeted as absolutely necessary.
“There aren’t three ironworks in the entire South capable of producing muskets, side arms and ammunition, let alone artillery,” he had told Calhoun and Governor Floyd. “Even if there were, we don’t have the luxury of waiting for production to commence. Once Scott’s trained those two corps they’ll be organizing at Carlisle Barracks, he’ll come at us. We’ve got to supply our boys with modern weapons or he’ll roll right over us. And the only way to obtain those weapons is to seize them from the Dominion forts and arsenals.”
Although Scott had reinforced the meager security garrison at the Ferry---Major Beaufort knew there were some 200 Dominion troops guarding the place---few were on duty this time of morning. Spies---locals loyal to Virginia---had reported that the Ferry’s USBAA commander had divided his men into three shifts, with the ‘graveyard’ detail composed of deadbeats and anyone working off punishments for drunkenness or fighting. With the number of taverns at the Ferry, and with the opportunities for fights and other trouble with both the locals and the construction gangs in town digging the new canal, there was always more than enough to fill the midnight-to-8 a.m. shift. Those on duty at this hour would be worn out from dealing with the usual agenda of Saturday night drunkenness, fighting and petty thievery.
That meant less than 70 armed soldiers scattered around a five-mile perimeter, with more than half stationed along the rivers and cliffs. Luke had 300 well-armed horsemen on Bolivar Heights who would hit the town from its lightly-guarded rear just before dawn. Half would overrun the USBAA temporary camp located southeast of Washington Street, near the Shenandoah cliffs. The rest would charge through the town, driving the guards back to the Potomac. Once secured, the arsenal would be emptied and the artillery confiscated. (Luke had little concern about the construction crews; they were disarmed and camped for the most part across the Potomac on Maryland Heights.) The entire operation shouldn’t take more than an hour; they’d be loading their haul by 7 a.m.
Nor was Beaufort worried about retaliation. His was the only mobile force in northwestern Virginia. Anyway, he thought, it’ll be early Monday before word gets down to Georgetown. By that time, we’ll be back in the Blue Ridge. He chuckled. Like to see the look on Scott’s face when Tommy Wilder gives him the news… Like to see the look on Wilder’s face when he finds out, too…
He turned to his right. He could begin to make out the grizzled features of Sgt. Isaac Smith in the pre-dawn light. Smith had been top sergeant in Troop B of the Dragoons when Beaufort had joined them in ’27. Luke had been overjoyed to discover Smith, who had retired in ’31 and come home to Virginia, among the first volunteers when the 1st Virginia Cavalry formed less than two weeks ago.
“Soon as I heard about this ‘mancipation nonsense, I knew it’d come to this,” Smith had said. “Damn Yankees can’t leave well enough alone. Limeys, too. Well, was bored anyway. Not much to do down in Charlottesville, ‘sides pour beer and clean up after the pretty boys at the university.” He had grinned and spit. “’Spect I’ll be seeing some of them, sooner or later. Kind of looking forward to that… Shoe’ll be on the other foot…boot, actually.” Smith had grinned and spit again.
Major Beaufort took a deep breath and checked his watch: 4:57. “Well, Sergeant, let’s proceed down this hill and obtain General Gaines his ordinance…” He shifted left in his saddle to his second-in-command. Capt. Lewis Washington, a great-nephew of the second G-G, as a resident-planter in the Ferry area had done much of the initial planning for the raid. “Captain, if you’re also ready…” The planter, waving a sword he claimed to be one the original Washington had used at Boston, nodded. “Let’s give those Yankees a little bit of hell…”
___________
As expected, it was over within an hour. Though to the raw Virginians, it had seemed the longest hour of their lives.
The astonished perimeter pickets at the foot of Bolivar Heights, looking up into the still-dark western sky, heard the Virginians before they saw them. Beaufort and his men smashed through the perimeter, a small force of pre-designated troopers stopping to round up the pickets.
Washington peeled off with his select force and thundered down on the USBAA encampment. A few of the Dominion soldiers---mainly those who had stayed near their tents the previous evening---got off shots. Two Virginians were wounded, one seriously, and one killed, though it was determined he had broken his neck in a fall from his horse. The Dominion casualties were also light; most of the hung-over men surrendered without picking up a musket. The same, unfortunately, couldn’t be said for their unlucky commander. Maj. Stephen Daley fell mortally wounded, bullet holes in his stomach and shoulder and a sword incision deep in his chest. The encampment was secured by 5:45 a.m.
Major Beaufort and the remainder of the 1st raced through the Ferry itself, detachments surrounding and securing the government buildings. The pickets made an initial stand at the intersection of High and Gillmore Streets but fell further back into the sack. They made a last stand on a line anchored by the Wager House Hotel and Galt’s Saloon near the confluence of the two rivers. Here Major Beaufort dismounted his remaining men---somewhere over 100, by later estimate---and formed a line.
“How many you think they’ve got?” he yelled to Sergeant Smith, who had stayed close since the charge began. They were standing at the corner of one in a series of unconnected buildings, which apparently were shops. The men had formed between and on either side of the row.
“Not more than 20, but they’re well armed and we’ve lost the advantage of coming out of the dark.” It was now 5:30 and becoming brighter by the minute.
The Dominion men had put together a piecemeal barricade of overturned wagons, carriages and furniture hastily dragged from the two buildings. USBAA sharpshooters were in the process of picking off foolhardy upright Virginians whose wild charge had left them with an undue sense of invulnerability.
Smith saw that first and motioned the boys to the ground. “We’ve got to drop back some, Major. Pull back to this line of shop
s; that’ll give us some protection.”
Beaufort looked around and nodded. “You’re right. Even lying flat, out front here we’re sitting ducks. Those Yankees can keep picking us off one by one as long as their ammunition holds out. Let’s get them back…” He waved his sword in a backward motion and several non-commissioned officers began pushing the troopers backwards.
At least a half-dozen more Virginians went down in the retreat, but the Dominion fire suddenly stopped. When Beaufort realized it, he ordered his own cease-fire.
“What do you think, Isaac? Think they’ve had enough?”
“In a way, Major. I think they’re out of bullets. Don’t see any white flag yet, though.” He turned and looked back through the town. “Horseman coming in from the west, too, Sir.”
Beaufort looked that way as the rider drew close enough to expose the grey distinguishing cloths tied around both arms and on his hat. “Appears to be a messenger from Captain Washington. Sounds like the gunfire out that way has died off, too.”
After receiving the messenger’s report of the encampment’s surrender, Luke had a white flag of his own raised. Despite Smith’s grumblings that he was taking an unnecessary chance, the Mississippian marched under it and across the street, pausing midway.
“Identify yourself.” The shout came from behind the barricade.
“I’m Major Beaufort, commanding 1st Virginia Cavalry. Who’s in command back there?”
“Hell, ain’t nobody in command. And ain’t nobody ever heard of the 1st Virginia Cavalry, neither.” The laughter was loud and bitter.
“But, since you got us cornered and we’re out of ammunition, looks like we’ll be surrendering to you anyways…”
A different voice: “Unless that white flag means you come to surrender to us…”
Beaufort smiled, the tension suddenly gone. “Right the first time, soldiers. You put up a hell of a fight. Come out with your hands up and you’ll be treated honorably.”
