by James Devine
Twiggs stared and looked questioningly at Johnston. The Colonel could no longer suppress the grin.
“General, I have the honor to announce the arrival of the 1st Quebec Volunteer Infantry. Or, to be more precise, the ‘Premiere Infantere Volontaires de Quebec.’”
___________
The Residency
October 3, 1833, 5 p.m.:
They were all standing around Van Buren’s big desk, staring down at the printed map of Northern Virginia that Scott was in the process of marking up. The G-G was as fascinated as he was appalled. He had never before attended a military briefing so the General’s translation of a series of brief pencil-scratched messages from the field into an all-encompassing picture---however harrowing---was gripping.
“The rebels are maintaining an outpost at Fairfax Court House, nothing more,” Scott was saying, pointer in paw. “At first we thought they might advance in force, but indications now are that it’s a screen designed to mask their real build-up behind Bull Run. And, its there to alert them if we come straight on instead of moving toward either flank. They have similar detachments both northwest and south.” He ran the pointer across the map in a semi-circle.
“Captain Wilder penetrated as far as Centerville here,” he moved the pointer west several miles. “You can see this town’s importance as a junction of several major roads, including the Warrentown Pike.
“Wilder says the rebels are not yet there in enough force to stop a determined push, but it is conceivable they’d make a stand there because of the juncture. And because these heights just west of the town are an ideal defensive position.”
The G-G looked around the desk. Colonel Burr looked grave, pursing his lips…always a sign of his concern. Secretary Cass was scowling; whether at Scott’s analysis or the rebels’ audacity, Van Buren couldn’t tell. At least Lewis seems to get on with General Thayer. The new Chief-of-Staff was standing deferentially to the side and a step behind Scott. The G-G wondered with an inner chuckle how much he could see with the mountainous Winfield hovered over the map. Wellington and his aide, Captain Bratton, completed the group. The Duke studied the map carefully before pointing his right index finger well west of Centerville.
“It would seem more likely, however, might you not say General Scott, that the rebel army will make its stand here at the stream?”
“Yes Your Grace. If it is a defensive battle they want, that’s where I’d make the stand. No matter which route we take---east, central or west---we’ll have to cross Bull Run at one or more of these fords.” He indicated a half-dozen or more from Sudley Springs Ford in the northwest to an unnamed ford close to the village of Manassas Junction in the south.
“But Zach Taylor’s taken command now. At least, according to the Richmond papers, which exhibit as little regard for secrecy, apparently, as do our own.”
He glared around the table, as if expecting to find a reporter hiding behind one of the others.
“Zach’s unorthodox, to say the least. Audacious, is probably a better description. If he feels confident enough to go on the offensive, he could march his men up the Shenandoah and into Maryland. Plenty of open space there to maneuver. Could be looking to hit us as the main body is marching down from Carlisle.”
Surprise and/or dismay were evident on all the faces around the table save General Thayer. Scott swung his pointer angrily.
“Their intelligence about our readiness and intentions is good. Too damn good, if you’ll excuse my profanity. Why, their papers have even printed the make-up of our Georgetown defense force…and my appointment of Colonel Felton to command it. While we aren’t even sure where this Camp Washington of theirs is located!”
Wellington broke the embarrassed silence that followed Scott’s outburst by clearing his throat. “Yes, General, it does seem a bit odd that they have deduced the name of this militia leader, as well as the composition of this rather remarkably diverse force you’ve slapped together in the defenses. Yes…however, what is your estimate of the situation? Will they come at you and, if so, where?”
Point made and emphasized, Scott returned to the main issue. “As of now, gentlemen, we don’t believe, based on our reconnaissance, that Taylor is moving out of this Camp Washington---wherever it is---yet in force. So the odds of a battle in Maryland are low. Yet, if he has our timetable, or gets wind of it before the week is out, it remains a possibility.”
He looked around the table again at men now as grim-faced as he himself. “The odds are greater that we’ll run into him somewhere due west of Georgetown. As far east as Centerville or as far west as Groveton. Depending on his inclination to take the offensive.”
“And what is your inclination General Scott?” The G-G.
“Mr. Governor-General, we are going to Richmond.”
___________
War Department
Georgetown, D.C.
October 4, 1833, 10 a.m.:
“Bull, its 80 miles from Carlisle to Chain Bridge, give or take a few. The rebels don’t appear to be bringing their main body up to contest the Carlisle army’s march to Alexandria. But their cavalry can break the army’s spirit before it ever gets to Virginia with hit-and-run, guerilla-style raids.”
General Scott’s blue-eyed drill-stare was focused on Col. Edwin Sumner, formerly commanding officer of the USBAA Dragoons, now commanding the USBAA Regular Cavalry.
“You will screen the army’s route east of the Blue Ridge, moving out Sunday morning. It is essential our army arrive at the Alexandria encampment site intact. Seal off the countryside, west-to-east, from the Maryland-Pennsylvania line down. I’ll be splitting the army at Gettysburg. Wool with I Corps will have the right or western flank, coming down the Emmittsburg Road. That’s the one that concerns me. Worth will proceed on the Tanneytown Road. I don’t see how he’ll be harassed, if you work your screen movements efficiently and keep sweeping the country west of Wool’s advance. The artillery will go with II Corps. They’ll also have a cavalry screen, though smaller.”
Sumner looked up from the map that Scott had been referencing. “Yes Sir. I hear N.B. Buford is back from Harvard Law School. Have you placed him in command of the artillery?”
Scott nodded affirmatively. “For the present.”
“How many men will I have, General?”
“I’ve scraped together about 600. That’s every Regular we’ve got here who’s seen any mounted time. The ones previously assembling at Carlisle are now here in Georgetown. You’ll have them all. The secondary force will have to be from the volunteer regiments. Gilbert Hodges will be in command, temporarily detached from I Corps.”
Sumner’s head jerked up. “The Englishman? A half-pay officer…”
The drill bore in: “Hodges has proven himself. And he was stationed at Carlisle. Sent him down to Harper’s Ferry after the raid. So he’s familiar with the line of march. He’s a fine officer.”
“No question, General. But commanding volunteers…”
“As far as they’re concerned, he’s USBAA.
“Now then, see to your command.”
___________
Cranford Plantation
October 10, 1833:
Lucille Latoure knew she should be infuriated. The Yankees at Cranford! Instead, she was gleeful.
When General Thayer had arrived, unannounced, at Cranford late last month to negotiate with her mother and sister to rent the western portion of the plantation as part of a staging camp, she had been in Georgetown, energetically seeking information to pass on to Richmond.
Jaine’s hastily scribbled note blandly announcing the deal had sent her scurrying back to Alexandria. The two sisters enjoyed a hysterical private laugh when Lucille walked into the mansion: here she had been in the capitol, her ear to the ground seeking any bits of gossip, rumor or hard fact to pass on to the CSA! And now the Chief-of-Staff of the USBAA was handing them the biggest intelligence coup of all: access to the Yankee army. They’d be able to inform Richmond of the exact date the Yankees
were marching! And, possibly, even the route!
___________
Camp Washington
October 11, 1833:
Maj. Jefferson Davis was incensed. His personal code of pride, honor, duty and courage had all been compromised.
Major Davis had accepted his assignment as temporary aide de camp to the commanding general of the Confederate Army with the understanding that once they’d reached Virginia, he would be transferred to the line. Now the first regiment of Mississippi troops had arrived and this Englishman, this Major Bassett, refused to relinquish command to him! And General Taylor refused to remove him!
Bassett wasn’t a Mississippian, even if he did manage to marry the Governor’s daughter. He, Jefferson Davis, should be leading them!
Everywhere Major Davis looked in this Army men he had attended West Point with, less-qualified men, without doubt, had commands: Robert Lee was here, commanding a regiment of Virginians; Luke Beaufort was off in Maryland with his cavalry! His old friend and mentor from The Point, Sidney Johnston, had tried to calm him down, saying it was only his professionalism that kept Taylor’s eccentricities from turning the entire command structure into chaos. True enough, but…
If truth be told, though Davis would never admit the obvious, it was the idea that Joe Johnston had tacit command of the artillery that drove him over the edge. Old Prior of South Carolina---a relic of ‘Mad Anthony’ Wayne’s days as Army commander, for God’s sake---had official command. But Johnston would lead the guns.
Davis had never forgotten or forgiven that night in Highland Falls when he and Johnston had stepped out the backdoor of Benny Havens’ tavern and taken off their jackets. Johnston had dropped him with a hard combination to the jaw after lowering his guard with a shocking right upper cut to the stomach that left him gasping for air. The bastard had then gone back inside and claimed Dora, Benny’s beautiful waitress daughter, as his prize.
That he himself was now officially engaged to Sara Knox Taylor changed nothing, in Davis’ view.
And he was entitled to the command! It was inconceivable that he’d be pushing paper while some half-pay Englishman led real Mississippians into the fight…
__________
Liaison Office
I Street
October 13, 1833, 5 p.m.:
Dave Harper paced the conference room floor nervously. He had ridden here directly after saying his farewells to Caroline at the Consulate’s F Street gates. He had urgent information for Captain Bratton.
The Captain was not in the building but Major Layne had sent a messenger after listening to Dave’s news. Sir John Burrell had also been summoned and was speaking quietly with Layne as they all waited for Bratton, who they could now see riding briskly up Pennsylvania Avenue from The Residency.
Layne wasted no time once the Captain was in the room and had safely shut the door. “Well then Mr. Harper. From the top and include every detail.”
Harps quickly painted the picture: as his ‘friendship’ with the Countess had progressed over the summer, and especially since the disappearance of Ignatieff at the same time as the Jackson assassination, he had gradually gained more access to both the Countess and the Consulate. In fact, he had even been invited for dinner on occasion. Today, however, he had been barred entry. Even at the gates he could sense a renewed level of tension. And when Caroline did appear for their customary Sunday ride some 40 minutes later, the Cossacks were back at her side.
Their day had been a failure. Caroline had been morose, agitated and nervous; not at all the Countess he had come to know. While they picnicked, the Cossacks just out of listening range eating their own meal, she had explained: sometime in the darkness of early yesterday morning, Count Ignatieff had returned. She had been astonished; her father had inferred that Ignatieff would be in St. Petersburg or perhaps Syria by now. They had not mentioned him all summer!
Ignatieff’s presence had everyone at the Consulate on edge. He had spent Saturday exercising and conferring with Count Renkowiitz and the security chief, Captain Drago. Her father had been pale and worried last evening; he had cancelled his usual dinner arrangements with M. Jean-Claude and remained at the Consulate. Ignatieff himself had disappeared late in the afternoon but was back in the compound when David had arrived. Whether Ignatieff was still holed up there now was anyone’s guess; Caroline had no idea what his immediate plans were.
Layne and Bratton exchanged several stares during Harper’s recital. When he concluded, Burrell was pacing the room, while Bratton seemed to study the ceiling. It was Burrell who spoke first:
“A good report, Mr. Harper. I’m sure the Duke will add another letter to your growing file. But the report is incomplete. We must know the reason for this jackal’s return…and know it forthwith.”
“Actually, Sir John, I think we already know the reason. It is the subject that Countess Caroline must provide.” Bratton stared once again at David. “We can assume our Russian fiend has returned to further destabilize the situation. Some act of sabotage that would add significantly to the turmoil.”
Dave’s baffled look gave testimony to his confusion. “I don’t understand. I mean, I assumed…hasn’t he been stalking the Duke all this time? With the Empire and Russia at each other’s throats in the Middle East…”
The three Brits looked at each other. The secrets of Jackson’s assassination were plainly not common knowledge, even in their government. It was Bratton who spoke: “I commend Lieutenant Wilder’s professionalism. No, Mr. Harper, His Grace was not the original target. Though he may now very well be…
“In any case, you must convince the Countess to help us. She must ascertain and relay Ignatieff’s plans. What do you say? Can you get word to her?”
“I can try. We were planning to go to dinner tomorrow evening. The Golden Eagle has reopened you know, as a restaurant; it’s called ‘Grant Street Cafe’ now…”
“We’ll expect a report then, first thing Tuesday morning. We’re counting on you, Mr. Harper. I can assure you both the Duke and the Governor-General will anxiously await your report. But take care, sir. This Ignatieff is a very dangerous sort. Both you and the Countess must utilize every precaution.”
___________
The two officers had their heads together even as Sir John escorted Harper to the door. As he turned to rejoin them he smirked at Bratton. “Dangerous sort, eh? I’ll say. His dozier lists eight confirmed professional killings. To say nothing of masterminding Jackson’s murder…”
“And the woman.” Major Layne.
“Actually Robert, the unfortunate Joanne was his second female. Seems he got the habit while in London. Scotland Yard has confirmed that, while in an apparent drunken rage, he caused the death of an Embassy maid…”
“Ghastly.” Sir John shuddered. Then: “Do you think young Harper could be right? That it’s the Duke he’s after this time?”
Bratton rubbed his chin as he considered the possibilities. “Well, if we proceed from the assumption that his mission all along has been to cause trouble enough over here to divert or weaken us in Asia Minor, would killing the Duke move that mission?”
“Do you mean that the commotion it would raise at home---if attributed to the rebels---would force Downing Street to send an army over here to help put down the rebellion?” Major Layne was dubious.
“Yes, it does seem a stretch…” Sir John nodded and looked at Bratton. “But I suppose we have to consider it…”
The Captain was hard-faced. “No possibility can be discarded. Even if-and-when we hear back from young Harper and his charming friend. For now, we assign round-the-clock Royal Marine protection to the Duke. And immediately resume the same sort of surveillance at the Russian Consulate. We sight him, we grab him.”
Harry rose and headed for the door. “I’ll brief His Grace on the situation. And appeal for imposition of the Extremity Rules…”
There were no objections from the table.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Catoctin Mounta
in, Maryland
October 17, 1833, 11:15 a.m.:
The sweat poured down the Sergeant’s face in multiple steady streams. He wiped the back of his hand on his brow for the umpteenth time this morning and looked over at the big blond kid wearing the expensive gray jacket with the new gold lieutenant’s bars on the collar. The Sergeant, whose lean weather-beaten face led many to mistakenly believe him a decade older than his 32 years, didn’t begrudge the planter’s son his commission. After all, the kid had been awarded it for gallantry at The Ferry.
It was more that the boy, who this time last year was attending the university at Charlottesville, was too reckless, at least according to Ike Smith. The Sergeant, a hunter out of the Shenandoah Valley who had never been in an army before either, had gotten to know and respect First Sergeant Smith over the past few months. “Courage is fine but impulsiveness is stupid,” Ike had said when the battlefield commission had been announced after they had returned to Camp Washington. “Deadly, too. For him and his command…”
Ike had known the boy in the college town, apparently. He’d liked and helped him as the 1st Virginia was forming. But he had warned the Sergeant---like he’d warned all the non-coms---about the university boys. “Arrogant. Reckless.”
Now the kid---the Lieutenant---was in command of this patrol on the northeast slope of the Mountain, a few miles southwest of Emmitsburg. And neither Smith nor the Major were here to rein the boy in. How the hell did we end up this far north? Damn near in Pennsylvania. And all alone…
“That’s interesting.” The Lieutenant handed the Sergeant his field glasses. The Sergeant still wasn’t used to them and took some time to adjust the sightings. What came into view finally stunned him: a long blue snake withering all the way back to Emmitsburg and headed southwest, probably towards Frederick.
