Cardigan felt that any real American move against Canada would come from their base at Sacketts Harbor and across the St. Lawrence River. From there the Americans could move either east towards Ottawa and Montreal, or west towards Toronto. Cardigan felt that he was positioned to counter either event. All this did was to drive home the point that the Canadian border with the United States was enormously lengthy and virtually impossible to defend.
Even with the reinforcements at hand, Great Britain had virtually written off Lakes Michigan, Superior, and Huron as there were only a handful of armed schooners available for service on the lakes. Britannia might rule the waves, but, even with her might, she could not have ships everywhere. The Confederate navy was virtually nonexistent as regards blue-water ships. What vessels the Confederacy possessed were for use in rivers, bays, and other shallow, coastal waters. Even their ironclad, theMerrimack, would not venture out into the ocean, presuming, of course that the Confederates actually completed the thing.
It was mortifying that the Canadian population had so far proven largely disinterested in defending themselves. He had to concede that the Canadian militia was small in number, poorly armed, and even more poorly trained, and that this was the result of years of British policy. Canada had been secure for generations, and the widely dispersed and small population had seen no external threats to defend against. The periodic border problems with the United States had never been of much concern to those more than a few miles behind the border. The farmers and merchants in eastern Canada had focused solely on the problems of crops and produce.
The situation in Canada was further complicated by the fact that Canada was in political ferment. There was a great deal of frustration regarding elected representation and self-government, which was all directed at Great Britain.
If the Americans did come, Palmerston thought, the Canadian people would sing a different tune. Fortunately for all concerned, the Americans appeared to have no intention of warring with Canada. As yet there had been no massing of troops along the border. It was as if the truncated United States was still transfixed by the Confederate army and Richmond. Let it remain so, Palmerston hoped.
On the seas, the war was one-sided, but not overwhelmingly so. As feared, the Americans had sent a number of commerce raiders against British shipping. However, with their own ports under loose blockade and with European ports closed to them, the Union navy had to sink its prizes rather than reap any profit from them. Even so, Lloyds of London was screaming about the losses the British merchant fleet was taking. American warships were even operating in the Pacific, although the Royal Navy's taking of the Sandwich Islands had deprived the Americans of the use of the magnificent anchorage at Pearl Harbor and the small city of Honolulu.
As for American merchant ships, they were now virtually nonexistent. They had been driven from the seas. They had either been captured or were skulking in their harbors.
Still, it would be vastly preferable to end the war as soon as possible. England was suffering economically and there was the never-ending problem of her supporting a slaveocracy. Even though Lord Lyons and Jefferson Davis had agreed that slavery would be ended after the war, the average Englishman continued to denounce slavery. Queen Victoria, still in deepest mourning, was blessedly silent on the subject, which disarmed many of Palmerston's political foes.
The British government fully understood the Confederacy's reluctance to attack the North. The South was fighting for its independence, which meant there was no need for an invasion of a land it didn't want. No. the South wanted the North to attack it. and it looked like that was exactly what Lincoln's forces were planning to do.
“What incredible folly,” Palmerston muttered.
Russell blinked his eyes open and smiled. “And which folly is that?”
Palmerston laughed. That there were a number of follies to choose from was irrefutable fact. 'That the North and the South can keep no secrets from each other. Thus, we know that McClellan will attack towards Richmond within a month. I pray that a great calamity befalls him that will expedite the end to this damned war.”
“But it is a war you wanted,” Russell teased.
“And it is one I still want,” Palmerston said, “but I do still fear that the United States is a sleeping giant that we should not totally awaken, Not everything is going the South’s way, I have no idea where the places are, but the North is excited over the capture of two Confederate forts, Henry and Donelson.”
“They are well west of both Richmond and Washington, my friend,” Russell answered. “They are over the Appalachians and by the Mississippi. They are on the periphery of the war and of no concern to us.”
“I hope not,” Palmerston said softly. “I hope not.”
Hannibal Watson was bent over pulling weeds when Mr. Farnum lurched up to him. Hannibal was tired and his back ached from the useless chore. The crop was going to die from lack of rain. The only things actually growing were the weeds, while the crop of vegetables was withering.
“Dumb fucking nigger,” Farnum said, his voice slurred from drink, “that's goddamn vegetables you're pulling up.”
Hannibal knew the difference between vegetables and weeds, and knew full well he was pulling the right items. He normally wouldn't mind damaging Farnum's property, but vegetables also meant food for himself and the other slaves once the Farnums had their fill.
Hannibal bowed his head, waiting for the inevitable blow. “Fucking nigger,” snarled Farnum. He kicked Hannibal hard in the ribs, causing him to topple and roll over in the dirt.
As he rolled, Hannibal's hand found a good-sized rock and grasped it. With it solidly in his possession, he rolled to a crouching position, a black panther ready to pounce. Later he thought his mind might have snapped.
Hannibal screamed and pounded the rock into Farnum's face. Blood gushed from Farnum's smashed nose and mouth as he lurched backwards. Hannibal struck him again and Farnum sat down on the ground. Hannibal screamed in rage and smashed the rock down onto Farnum's skull, hearing the sound of bone cracking. Farnum fell backwards and lay still while blood spread and soaked into the dry ground.
Hannibal's rage departed. He stood for a moment and contemplated the awful thing he had done. He had killed a white man. Buck, the slave he considered closest to a friend and ally, stood a few yards away, his face frozen in shock. None of the other slaves were around.
Think, Hannibal ordered himself. “Get Mrs. Farnum. Say her man's hurt.”
Buck paused and then laughed harshly. He spit onto Farnum's lifeless and ruined face. “Well, that's true enough, ain't it.”
While Buck ran off, Hannibal dragged Farnum's body into the brush, where his old lady wouldn't see it until it was too late. Sure enough, in a few minutes, Farnum's skinny bitch of a wife came running up, her mouth open in concern. For the briefest of moments, he felt sorry for her.
Hannibal gestured to her and she ran past him. As she did, he struck her on the back of the neck with the same rock that had killed her husband. She fell and lay limp. “Goddamn,” said Buck, “that was good. You done broke her ugly neck.” Then he looked puzzled. “What we gonna do now?”
Think, Hannibal ordered himself. Think. It had only taken a little while for his absence to be noticed the last time he'd run off. This time it had to be different, or he stood no chance at all of staying alive and reaching freedom.
He and Buck grabbed the Farnums by the ankles and dragged them farther into the brush, where they dug a shallow grave and buried them. Few people ever came to visit the disagreeable couple, but he couldn't take the chance that the bodies would be discovered, at least not for a while.
For Hannibal it was important that he buy time. Thus, it had to appear that the Farnums had simply packed up and left. It wouldn't be at all unreasonable. Their “plantation” was failing and, war or no war, other people had run off west to escape their failures.
He and Buck, joined by the woman, Bessie, scoured the Farnums’ house and took away
from it things they thought white people would carry if they were running away. These they either kept for themselves or hid in the woods.
It hurt to take most of the livestock and poultry into the woods and slaughter them, but Hannibal knew he couldn't take them. They would be travelling as far from the roads as possible in order to avoid army patrols, and animals would only slow them down. The same thing with the wagon. It struck him as reasonable that the Farnums would be expected to take it if they ran off west, so it. too. was driven into the woods and torn apart.
By nightfall. Hannibal was satisfied that he had done what he could to confuse anyone who stumbled onto what appeared to be an abandoned homestead. That only left the question of the remaining slaves. If they were captured, there would be nothing as simple as a flogging and sale to a new, harsher master. No, this time capture meant death. They had killed not only a white man, but a white woman. That Mrs. Farnum had been a slattern wasn't important. She had been killed by a nigger and that meant she was a saint. The nigger who killed her would be whipped, castrated, and maybe skinned alive before being permitted to die.
“Buck, what about the others?” Hannibal asked. He had his own opinions but wanted to hear the other man's.
Buck shrugged. Like Hannibal his few possessions were on his back and he was anxious to leave. This place was dangerous.
“Bessie's with us:” Buck said:“but I don't know about the other two. They so scared they can't even shit. But they do understand that they'll be considered as guilty as we are. Hell they saw two dead white people that were killed by nigger slaves. They know they'll die just like us if they're caught.”
Hannibal thought it over. They could come with them and live, he decided, but he would watch them like a hawk. If they faltered for any reason, he would kill them. He had never killed anyone before, and was astonished at just how easy it was.
The thought of freedom was exhilarating. It didn't matter that he could be a hunted animal at any time. What mattered was that he was free. He was willing to kill and kill again in order to keep that freedom. If his freedom was born in blood and bathed in blood, then so be it. He would find his wife and son.
They would go north to Mr. Lincoln's land.
The invitation to join General George McClellan for lunch in the field during maneuvers came as a pleasant surprise to Nathan Hunter. He accepted, of course. He was more than a little curious as to why the Union's commanding general wanted to talk and about what. Nathan also looked forward to seeing the new army in operation.
On the way to his destination a few miles north of Washington, Nathan managed to spend some time watching regimental-sized units maneuver, and was impressed by the alacrity with which they carried out their orders. That this was from an army that didn't exist a year before was what made it truly impressive.
At midday, Nathan was passed through a number of well-turned-out sentries and directed to a large tent where Major General George Brinton McClellan was surrounded by several of his brother generals. Nathan easily recognized John Pope, Joe Hooker, Ambrose Burnside, and several others. Men he'd known from prior service nodded greetings that were friendly but reserved. After all, he wasn't in uniform, but he was visiting the general. He could see them wondering just what he was doing there.
Alan Pinkerton, McClellan's intelligence expert, was departing as he arrived. Pinkerton glanced furtively around and saw Nathan. He averted his face and walked away. A truly strange duck, thought Nathan.
McClellan greeted Nathan with great cordiality, which surprised Nathan. He'd known McClellan, but not well enough to warrant such a degree of friendliness. As befitting a commanding general, McClellan was dressed in an impeccably fitted uniform. He may have been a short man, but Nathan thought he looked every inch a general.
Like so many of his peers, McClellan had served with distinction in the Mexican War, had fought Indians on the frontier, and had been an American observer of the British in the Crimea. He had resigned his commission in 1857, but had come back as a general of Ohio volunteers. McClellan had won two small battles over thoroughly outnumbered Confederates in western Virginia. As a result, West Virginia was now separate from Virginia, and George Brinton McClellan had become commander of the Army of the Potomac and, later, commanding general of all Union armies. It was a heady climb for someone whose highest rank in the regulars had been captain, and Nathan now wondered if the man was up to the awesome task.
McClellan finished with his fellow officers and gestured for Nathan to have a seat in the tent. It was heated, which kept out the winter chill, and a cook had prepared a lunch of pork chops and potatoes, and a bottle of port sat in the middle of the table. Nathan didn't begrudge McClellan, or any general for that matter, the ability to eat better than the ordinary soldiers. That simply came with the rank. The food was excellent.
“This is the first time we've seen each other in a couple of years, isn't it?” asked McClellan as he finished his meal. “If so. it's been too long. With your background and experience, you should be in the army. If you like, I can offer you a colonelcy on my staff.”
“It's a gracious offer,” Nathan said, “and I'll think about it. I admit I have been wondering just what is the best way I can serve my country.”
“Surely,” McClellan said, “you can do better than espousing the cause of General Scott.”
Ah, there it is, thought Nathan. “I'm not sure I espouse his cause or anyone else's, General. He invited me to join him because he had some concerns that, quite honestly, I didn't understand or share at the time.”
“Do you share them now?” McClellan asked. He allowed himself a small smile, but Nathan saw that the man was tense, a coiled spring, and he thought he saw a flicker of indecision, even fear, in McClellan's eyes.
“Not particularly. Right now I'm more curious than concerned. I must admit that I am also enjoying the social life in Washington.” This time McClellan grinned widely. '^: Ah yes, the Widow Devon.”
Nathan bristled inwardly with both anger and surprise. What the devil concern was his personal life to General McClellan and the Army of the Potomac? He'd had a couple of pleasant lunches and one evening at Ford Theater with the Widow Devon, but that was as far as it went. In each case, the D^: Estaing^: s had been present, which meant it was more than aboveboard as far as propriety and scandal were concerned. He was growing quite fond of Rebecca and didn't like the idea of anyone prying into what might develop into something very special.
It was Pinkerton, of course, who was doing the prying. The man had been a private detective before the war. Now he was feeding information to McClellan about the size and composition of the Confederate army, along with whom Nathan Hunter dined. Incredible. If he caught Pinkerton or one of his men spying on them, Nathan decided he would give them a very solid warning to back off.
Nathan was now determined that he would never be an official member of McClellan's staff, although he wouldn't mind being an unofficial member for a period of time.
McClellan brought the conversation back to his main topic. “And what are General Scott's concerns? That he is too old and I am too young? I agree with the former, but the latter has to be determined. I do not think I am too young or too inexperienced.” He smiled. “You and I are about the same age, aren't we? Wouldn't you like to command here?”
“Absolutely not,” Nathan replied. “As to the general's concerns, your youth is not the issue. He is not confident that you will move resolutely against the Confederacy,” Nathan answered. “He feels that you have been misled by information provided by your intelligence that Joe Johnston has far more soldiers confronting you than he actually does.”
McClellan's expression turned stern. “Mr. Pinkerton provides me with exactly the information I wish. His operatives count regiments and make estimates as to their numbers and quality. The work is excessively dangerous and I am impressed by their achievements. I take Pinkerton's results and increase them by a factor that would include those regiments that cannot be fo
und, and soldiers who cannot be seen. I am governed by the fact that the South has the capability to put a very large force into the field to confront me, and that their force outnumbers mine. Their capabilities define their potential and, thusly, their threat to us. I believe the Confederates number well in excess of two hundred thousand well-trained men, and that they are increasing daily. God only knows how large the Southern army will be when the British arrive to further strengthen it. My poor army could easily be overwhelmed.”
Nathan was astonished that McClellan would state his case so bluntly and so negatively. “I find that difficult to comprehend. In order to do what you believe. Jeff Davis would have to enlist or conscript just about every man in the Confederacy, which would ruin their economy. Then they would have to strip every garrison and send the soldiers here. I cannot imagine that they would leave New Orleans, Charleston, Mobile, and other places vulnerable.”
Nathan didn't bother to ask where the South would get the weapons and ammunition to arm such a host, or the food to feed it, or the uniforms and other accoutrements of warfare necessary for its existence. McClellan's stern expression told him not to ask.
“My duty,” McClellan announced solemnly, “is to see to the preservation of the Union. If that means I plan for the worst possible contingency, then so be it.”
“The preservation of the Union is Mr. Lincoln's goal.”
“Yet it is a vision we see differently,” McClellan said. “He wishes to bring the departed states back to the fold, while I wish to retain what we have until such time as a peace with honor can be negotiated. I have an army that cannot win in a decade, but can be defeated catastrophically in an afternoon. If my army is defeated, it may mean that the border states, which are very pro-South, might rebel and secede. Can you imagine what would happen if we lost Maryland, for instance? Washington would no longer be on the border of the Confederacy. No, she would be surrounded by it and would have to be abandoned.”
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