by James Devine
“Can’t we wait for Scott? This damn heat wave may well extend into mid-November…”
“Maybe Thayer should take active command…”
“Who’s senior, Wool or Worth?”
The G-G signaled for silence. “Gentlemen, one issue at a time. And one opinion as well.”
Frank Blair, who had crossed paths with the Duke in the corridor, now entered the room and the conversation. “I’ve come from The Infirmary. Winfield has been given a sedative. The doctors are alarmed at the loss of blood. He’ll be invalided for at least a month.”
“Well, gentlemen, that answers the secondary question.” The G-G was grim. “If we proceed with the campaign, we need a new commander. So, let us begin with the primary question: should we proceed?”
The A-G was first to break the silence that followed: “With all due respect to the Duke, the Compact and Constitution clearly do not set any timetables for a governmental response to an insurrection.” The others chuckled knowingly as he continued: “However, politically, Mr. Governor, I don’t believe you have any choice. The country won’t stand for a postponement of operations until spring.”
“To say nothing of the benefits in morale and preparation such a postponement would afford the Rebels.” Colonel Burr was blunt.
Blair was nodding his head in agreement. “I concur, Mr. Governor. Politically, we’ve no choice. Not only would you almost certainly face resolutions of impeachment in the House---those abolitionists have the reins in their teeth now---but from what I can gather from Mr. Butler’s comments concerning the Duke, the pressure from Downing Street to remove you would force Wellington’s hand. No, postponement is not a viable option.”
The G-G turned to his Secretary of War: “Well Lewis, you have your order. The campaign is to proceed as soon as possible, given the change in command. What recommendations have you on that decision?”
The beefy red face now drained of color despite the equatorial conditions in the G-G’s office; without a hint of breeze, it was at least an oppressive 90 degrees. Only the Marylander, Blair, did not appear to be suffering.
“Mr. Governor, while my opinion of General Scott’s abilities is not quite as…effusive…as that expressed by Wellington, I must confess that I too have not considered the possibility of this campaign proceeding without him. Forgive me, but I must consider those possibilities before offering my recommendation.”
Colonel Burr made no effort to conceal his impatience. “Come, come, Mr. Cass. Matty isn’t seeking an ironclad final recommendation. What are your options?”
The Secretary grimaced. This damnable ancient hardass! Just because he’s no turf to protect…
“Well, technically, the Chief-of-Staff, I suppose, is first-in-line…”
“But Thayer has virtually no experience under fire.” Colonel Burr.
“Yes, that is correct. General Thayer is an engineer by training and an administrator by experience. The only troops he’s ever led are the Corps of Cadets. Anyway, he’s vital in his present position…”
The G-G nodded firmly. “I agree. No sense upsetting the logistical applecart too.”
“So, Mr. Governor, I suppose it is between Wool and Worth…”
This time, Blair broke into Cass’ labored brainstorming. “Isn’t there anyone we can reach down and pluck from the ranks? The Army must have produced some capable professionals below field rank?”
Cass smiled tartly. “Certainly, Frank. General Scott was nurturing an outstanding cadre of mid-level professional officers. Unfortunately, most of them went south…”
With malicious understated glee, the Secretary now extracted the proverbial knife he had just inserted in the General’s broad back. “However, there may be some. Bull Sumner is an excellent officer. Our best horse soldier. But can he handle an army of two corps? The same question would apply concerning any others we might, as you say, ‘pluck’ from the ranks.
“No Mr. Governor, gentlemen. It’s John Wool or Bill Worth. Or some combination of the two, along with Syl Thayer.”
The ensuing silence, A-G Butler thought, was as loud as a groan. No one is particularly happy with this…
The G-G’s sigh seemed to underscore Butler’s opinion. “Well gentlemen, we don’t have to decide this today. The main point is, we’re agreed that the campaign must move forward.
“Now, I believe it behooves me to visit General Scott’s bedside, whether he’s conscious or not. And then I’ll pay my respects at the Liaison Office.” He paused.
“Captain Bratton might not have been the easiest man to like…that air of English superiority…but he was a damn fine professional.
“This devil Ignatieff,” he shook his head, “to have bested a man like that…”
___________
USBAA Encampment
Cranford Plantation
Alexandria, Virginia
October 26, 1833, 4 p.m.:
“It is the Governor-General’s desire, gentlemen, that I assume temporary command but conduct this campaign at present from this encampment. You will remain in command of your corps in the field.”
Brig. Gen. Sylvanus Thayer placed his orders on the command table and looked hard at Wool and Worth. “Now then, do we have General Scott’s plan of attack? I have not seen the latest drafts.”
General Worth spoke first, after an aide had unfurled a large, detailed map of the area from Georgetown west and south to the upper reaches of the Rappahannock River at the foot of the Blue Ridge near Front Royal. “I believe it is General Scott’s intention to move due west, pushing aside the enemy forward lines at Fairfax Court House and Centerville,” he traced the route with his right index finger, “and proceed along the Warrentown Turnpike to Bull Run, where the Rebels are known to be massing in force.
“Once in position, he intended to rely on the reports of our scouts as where to ford the stream, depending on the exact location of the Rebs.”
“That is not my understanding, General Thayer.” General Wool’s voice was icy. “Once at Bull Run, we will cross in three columns, up at Sudley Springs,” he ran his own right index finger up and around a series of hills until coming to rest north and west of the supposed Confederate concentration, “south of the Pike to one or more of the several available fords, while making the final thrust here where the Pike crosses the Run at the stone bridge.”
“That’s preposterous, General Wool!” Worth was aghast. “Divide two corps into three columns? General Sco…”
“A corps on each flank and the Georgetown defense force in the center…General.”
Worth looked at Thayer with disbelief. “The Georgetown defense force? Why, all that’s left of that are untrained volunteer regiments from the West. The Regular infantry has been broken up to form the core of the Army. The Regular cavalry is scattered all over Maryland looking for this assassin. Even when they return and are rested, you’d use them as dismounted troops? We need them to screen the advance…”
“Screen the advance…” Wool was dismissive.
“That’s enough, gentlemen.” Thayer’s order came out more like a plea. Dear God, how do I coordinate a campaign with these two hotheads? Scott has the personality for this. Me? I’m just a school master…Well, here goes…
“I suggest our final plan will be predicated on the disposition of their army. I’m sure each of you has been privy to various options the General was considering, based on the location of the Rebel positions. Once we clear Centerville and are able to scout the enemy dispositions, we’ll be in a position to ascertain which option to implement.”
Wool scowled. “And when might that be, General? Obviously the original plan to move out tomorrow is now moot…”
Thayer nodded. “Correct, General. As were you, General Worth, in noting the absence of the Cavalry.
“The search for the would-be assassin, whom, you gentlemen may be surprised to know, is thought to be a Russian agent who apparently also masterminded the murder of General Jackson, was called off earlier this
afternoon. The troops are to be rested and refitted.” He nodded to Worth.
“It is the G-G’s order that the campaign commence no later than Wednesday. You shall therefore prepare your commands to move at first light that morning, October 30. With the grace of God, we will find and crush the Rebels and put an effective end to this obscenity by Election Day, Tuesday, November 5.”
___________
The White House
Richmond, Virginia
October 27, 1833,
11:00 a.m.:
Jefferson Munroe stuck his head into Calhoun’s office. “Excuse me, Mr. President, but Colonel Johnston is here with the latest reports from Georgetown.” The private secretary paused. “I know you’re due at Monumental Church soon, but there seems to have been some rather momentous developments…”
A minute later Albert Sidney Johnston, the ‘beau ideal’ of the Confederate forces, was briefing Calhoun. “Mr. President: shocking news via our ‘belle express.’ Two days ago there was an assassination attempt on the life of General Scott…”
“Dear God!”
“Apparently the General survived, but is badly wounded. The talk in Georgetown is that he’ll be laid up for months and that the invasion may be called off until spring.”
Calhoun’s glasses had slid off his nose and he looked at Johnston in amazement. “This has been verified? Our sources…these young ladies…they are certain? I must confess, Colonel, I am not quite at ease with the idea of relying on…belles…”
“Well, Mr. President, the attempt took place in broad daylight, on that extension of New York Avenue west of The Residency that everyone still calls Grant Street. Scott was down in the street, so that part is verified.
“Miss Latoure is also a friend of Mrs. Scott and presumably had spoken with her before getting off this report. And, Sir, the young lady has other, err, ‘sources’ in Georgetown…”
“Yes, yes, she is---or was---a leader of society among the younger set…”
Colonel Johnston was smiling. “And, Mr. President, Major Beaufort informs me that her primary beau, whom everyone expected her to catch after he had chased her long enough, is Scott’s pet aide, Lieutenant Wilder.”
Calhoun stared at Johnston, unsuccessfully attempting to stifle the smile breaking out at the corners of his mouth. “By any chance has this lovesick young officer divulged the name of Scott’s replacement? I assume one must have been chosen, given his supposed wounds?”
“Not as yet, it appears. But the note is dated Friday noon, just a few hours after the ambush. Perhaps another report is already making its way here…”
“I also confess I still find it difficult to believe their security is as loose as their lips appear to be, Colonel. Everything these…belles…have sent us thus far has checked out…”
“Indeed it has been most useful, Mr. President.”
“…but could that be the plan: to feed us accurate information until we become accustomed to relying on it? And then to spring the trap of misinformation at the crucial moment?”
Johnston nodded grimly. “That of course is an option which must not be ignored, Mr. President, though I tend to believe the…belles…are not…puppets…of a sinister Dominion spymaster.
“The moment of truth, Sir, will come soon enough: if-and-when the ‘belle express’ announces the date and direction of the invasion. Or its postponement.”
___________
Cranford Plantation, Virginia
October 27, 1833, 9 p.m.:
Lucille wasn’t the only Latoure becoming comfortable in the espionage game. Jaine, though inwardly raging at the Army’s high-handed occupation of so much of Cranford, had made herself such a familiar figure riding and flirting with the officers as to become taken for granted. And thus able to ferret out choice morsels of military intelligence.
When Lucille had sent her word yesterday morning that the troika of Thayer, Wool and Worth would temporarily replace Scott (Lucille had overheard Frank Blair discussing the news with Maria Scott at The Infirmary), Jaine had not been in a position to immediately send it on. Thus, Thayer’s appearance riding across the Plantation to the headquarters building later in the day had been confirmation. The news had been dispatched after dark.
This evening, Jaine was working on a choice new morsel. Among the USBAA officers who had fallen under her spell---for, though Tom Wilder would have angrily disparaged the very idea, many men considered her the fairer of the two fabulous sisters---was a slim, olive-skinned, remarkably handsome young Regular with jet black hair and eyes and a charming accent who answered to the name of Capt. Joseph Francis. This was an Anglized adaptation of his Fernandes surname, for his family was minor Kingdom of the Two Sicilies nobility. A youthful indiscretion with an older, married and resultantly-pregnant higher-ranking noblewoman had led to Giuseppe’s hastily arranged appointment to West Point. An uncle in the Naples foreign ministry had friends in the British Foreign Office.
Now Captain Francis---‘Crickett’ to his men for his constant chirping while on the march from Carlisle---was among Jaine’s most ardent admirers. While walking the Cranford gardens earlier this evening---at about the same spot where Lieutenant Wilder had broken the emancipation news months before---Crickett had chirped once more: the Army would be moving out Wednesday morning…he had grown so fond of her in so short a time…
Jaine, who carried an enclosed miniature of Luke Beaufort---though never in that young cavalier’s presence---on a thin gold chain around her neck, had played the comedy through. Now she was composing an urgent coded message for Richmond. It would go before midnight…
___________
Centerville, Virginia
October 31, 1833, 3 p.m.:
“Looks like they aim to put up a fight, Captain.”
“Perhaps, Sergeant Major. Or maybe they’re holding on to make sure the main body’s really coming this way.”
Tom Wilder was commanding an elite squad of Regular Army scouts. They had moved off the Warrentown Pike to the north to see if they could flank the Rebel line in front of the town. The mission was to seek any sign that the Southerners were moving up in strength. In past sorties, the Captain and his men had determined that the CSA line here was limited to less than a thousand men. Now, of course, the line had been reinforced by Rebs who had retreated from Fairfax Court House the moment it became obvious the Dominion army was advancing in force. That probably added another 500 or so.
The question: is Zach Taylor bringing up his main body to make a fight out in the open, or is this simply a glorified picket line shielding the Rebel army somewhere to the south? That’s what Headquarters back on Cranford wanted to know.
Headquarters back on Cranford! Captain Wilder shared the sentiment of the professional officer corps---he didn’t know it, but the experienced volunteers officers felt the same way---that having Thayer in nominal charge back there---and no one in direct command at the head of the advance---was just one more recipe for disaster. An army advancing without a field commander! An army? More like an armed mob, as his Sergeant Major had so eloquently put it earlier today.
Tom shook his head in disgust, remembering the scene back at Fairfax this morning. They had probed at first light but the Rebs were gone, abandoning the breastworks they had constructed behind the Court House, pretty much in the same place he had almost gotten himself captured---or worse---a few weeks ago.
The raw volunteers---that they were still very, very raw was obvious even to young, relatively untested professionals like Tom---had acted as if they had won a major victory. It had taken all the bawling and cursing of the Regular non-coms now dispersed in the volunteer regiments to regain order. He had looked at the Sergeant Major, an oldtimer named DeGraw, and muttered: “they’re too damn green. Even I know that.” DeGraw snorted and spit a stream of tobacco an amazing distance. “Well, Captain, I figure the Rebs is green, too. Both too green for this.”
Now the detachment, with outriders of their own on the lookout for Rebel caval
ry, moved slowly uphill northwest of the Confederate line. A private rode back from the point. “A party of mounted Rebs coming up the Pike, Sir. About 20 riders. At least three flags…”
Before Tom could finish ordering the men to dismount, DeGraw had them down in the high grass, two privates bundling the reins and leading the horses farther back over the crest of the hill. The CSA party was raising clouds of dust as they came on, riding easily, casually, as if to a dance. The Sergeant Major, a veteran of the Louisiana campaigns, crawled up next to Tom and let loose with another remarkable expectoration of tobacco juice.
“Arrogant bastards they is, Captain. Nobody ridin’ point. Look at ‘em come prancing up. Like they own the road…”
Tom smiled but his eyes were hard. “Well, this is Virginia, Sergeant. But we’ll teach them some humility. Right now, though, recognize anyone?”
DeGraw squinted. “The big top in the gray coat and the blue army pants. That’s Sidney Johnston, I’m thinkin’. Served with him last year in Illinois.” He turned to Wilder, who had his glasses fixed on the group. Tom gave a grunt of surprise.
“Johnston, huh? Damn, you’re right... That droopy mustache threw me off. Haven’t seen him since I was a plebe. And looky who’s with him…” Tom pointed towards a tall, slender rider whose blond hair was evident below his hat. “…Haven’t seen him since The Point, either. Jeff Davis! Haven’t missed him, either. Figures he’d find his way next to Johnston. They were real tight at The Point…
Tom rubbed the back of his right hand across his dusty, dry lips.
“Question is: what are they up to here? Is Johnston taking command? If so, that’s a good indication they’re planning to fight right here. Tell the men to lay low, Sergeant. This hill is as good an observation post as any. We may be here awhile.”
By now Johnston’s party was riding into the lines, which were flying the same red flags Tom had noticed in his original reconnoiter at Fairfax Court House. He now knew they signified North Carolina. Johnston’s party, however, rode under a new banner: two thick red bars sandwiching an equally thick white one. In the upper corner nearest the stanchion, a blue field with what appeared to be white stars.
