What they didn't have was the knowledge to use them. Two things were forbidden to slaves more than any other. One was literacy, since knowledge is power, and the second was how to kill using a rifle.
Hannibal had seen white people load and fire guns, and he thought he understood the basics. Prudently, he decided to experiment with very small charges of powder. Even so, he was shocked by the thunder and power of the resulting explosion. But mainly it was the power that enthralled him.
By trial and error, and with no serious accidents, they figured out how to fire their guns with killing effect. But now their numbers had grown to a dozen, and they needed more weapons to defend their newfound freedom. It was then that Hannibal came up with the idea of attacking their stalkers.
They had no idea whether the armed men in and around the woods in which they hid were after them in particular or runaway slaves in general. Hannibal thought it likely that there were many bands like his made up of other Negroes seeking freedom up north. As a result, slave catching had become a lucrative business. Any Negro man or woman who could not account for himself or herself in a proper or polite manner was considered a runaway.
For the slave catcher, times were good.
Three white men squatted by the campfire in the woodland clearing. Although dressed in rags, they were armed with rifles and pistols and had large knives in their belts. Slung by their saddles were chains to shackle captured runaways, and whips to beat them into submission. The three had been drinking heavily when Hannibal signalled for Bessie to make her entrance.
Nervously, almost shyly, Bessie shed herself of her clothing. Then she rolled in the dirt and mussed her hair to make herself disheveled and filthy. She smiled tentatively at Hannibal and staggered in the direction of the campfire, moaning loudly.
The three men heard the sounds and lurched to their feet just as Bessie emerged naked into the firelight. Even though she had lost weight during their flight, she was still a large woman and her pendulous breasts swayed as she lurched forward. She looked in sudden alarm at the three men, screamed, and ran back into the dark and the surrounding woods. Hannibal chuckled grimly. She hadn't had to pretend to be terrified. That scream was real.
“Goddamn!” yelled one of the slave catchers. “A free one.” They grabbed their rifles and stumbled after her. Within a few yards, they had stretched out and were no longer a group of three. Bessie could still be seen, stumbling and crying out, a few yards ahead. They made no move to shoot her. As Hannibal'd figured, they wanted her alive. Even if she wasn't worth much money, their shouts made it obvious that Bessie was going to be raped.
Finally, she disappeared into a stand of bushes. The first two slave catchers paused, wondering where she'd emerge. When they stopped, both concealed muskets fired and bullets struck them, knocking them to the ground. With a howl, others in Hannibal's band hurled themselves on the two men. The third slave catcher ran up just in time to be inundated by a sea of angry black humanity waving knives and axes.
Hannibal watched with grim satisfaction as the three slave catchers were chopped to bloody pieces while Bessie regained her clothing. He was not happy with the fact that neither Negro rifleman had killed his target. One catcher had been shot in the leg and the other in the shoulder. No matter, he decided, the catchers were just meat now. and marksmanship would surely improve with practice and experience. Until now, only he had actually killed anyone, but now all of his band had participated in it. Better, they now had three more rifles, and three pistols. They were becoming a force to be reckoned with. They were free. They would stay free.
Or they would kill and die trying.
Rebecca offered tea, which Nathan accepted politely. Tea was not his favorite hot drink. Given a choice, he would have preferred coffee or even hot chocolate.
They were in Rebecca's cousin's overly ornate sitting room. It was the first time he'd been to her Washington home and he was curious as to how she lived, even though it wasn't her house. There was a sense of prosperity in the dwelling, but not great wealth. It was obvious that Rebecca was very comfortable in it.
They were alone in the sitting room but, to maintain propriety, they sat on chairs facing each other. The door to the hallway was also open. The others in the house respected their privacy while giving them no room for mischief.
Nathan thought it amusing that there was so much concern on her cousins' part for other people's virtue. When he hinted of the incongruity to Rebecca, she'd laughed heartily. After all, they were both formerly married and, presumably, far from being innocent children.
Rebecca wore a blue floral print dress that was very summery. The neckline exposed a hint of shoulder, and the sleeves were short and showed her slender arms. The overall effect was to make her look more vibrant than he'd seen before. She had virtually ceased wearing mourning clothes: and this dress was an announcement that she was done with them. That dismal time of her life was over, she'd told him. and she didn't care what convention said. Her marriage to the unlamented Thomas Devon was to be put aside.
The mildly daring cut of the gown also showed the scar on her neck. He took this as a further sign of her growing independence and freedom from the past. “So: Nathan: once again you are leaving me,” she said reprovingly.
Nathan put down his half-empty cup and reached for a cookie. They were sugar cookies and much better in his opinion than the tea. “Believe me: I'd rather stay here. The cookies are delicious. Did you make them?”
“I know that duty calls you. I also accept that you'd rather not tell me what you're up to and I respect that. And no, I didn't make the cookies. Everything I bake burns.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
“However,” she said with a widening smile, “let me see what I can surmise without compromising your precious oath of secrecy. First, you were seen yesterday with General Scott and President Lincoln. Then you suddenly decide you must leave Washington. I will surmise that it had something to do with that meeting.”
Nathan gulped. “How did you know about the meeting?”
Again she laughed. “Nathan, it was in the paper. I saw it in today'sNational Intelligencer. The next time you hold what you hope to be a clandestine meeting, don't hold it out of doors and where many hundreds of people are employed and probably watching through windows.”
“Point well taken,” Nathan admitted with a grin. “You're right, it does have to do with that meeting, but don't push me to admit more.”
“Again, you don't have to. I can't imagine anything that would concern Mr. Lincoln or General Scott in either New York, Boston, Philadelphia, or Pittsburgh. Therefore, that means you will be heading farther west and will consult with some of your old army friends, or even new army friends.”
“An interesting thought,” Nathan said. Her prescience was surprising and intriguing.
“Grant.” she said, feigning surprise. “You're going to see General Grant, and it has to do with a future campaign. And see, I didn't ask you a question, so you don't have to lie to me.”
“You're amazing.”
“Nathan, sometimes I have a habit of talking and thinking too much and that sometimes intimidates people. There are many who don't like inquisitive and intelligent women, and I like to think of myself as both. I sincerely hope you're not one of those men.”
“I don't think I'd be here if I was.”
Rebecca almost sighed with relief. “Tell me, was your lovely Amy intelligent?”
“Very,” he said softly. “She and I talked about matters great and small each day. She read incessantly, and I did as much reading as my duties would permit. Our talks were the high point of each day's existence. We could almost complete each others sentences.”
Rebecca almost ached in envy that such a relationship could exist. She leaned forward. “Nathan, this is highly impertinent of me, but, given your deep love for her, I must know something. Are you looking for another Amy? If you are, my dear friend, I am not she.”
This was a que
stion that had haunted Nathan until he found he was able to resolve it. “No, Rebecca, I am not looking for another Amy. There can never be another Amy any more than a parent's second child can be identical to the first. Amy is gone and I shall always cherish the memory. Any woman who comes into my life will not be another Amy, nor will she be compared to her. If I were to come into your life, then I would not compare you to Amy any more than I would expect to be compared to your late husband.”
“You'd come out ahead very easily,” she said softly and reached over to take his hand. She had told him virtually all about her relationship with Tom, leaving out only the specifics of their sexual life. 'This time, when you're gone, please try harder to stay out of harm's way. I know there is no major fighting currently going on in the west, but you do seem to find trouble.”
“I shall stay as safe as I can. Besides, according to McClellan's and Pinkerton's calculations, there can't be any rebels to the west. They're all here in their millions.”
“Pinkerton,” she sniffed. “I believe he's still following me.”
“You're certain?” Nathan asked, his voice suddenly cold and hard. What on earth was McClellan's toady doing spying on his and Rebecca's private lives?
“Almost certain. I've seen what looks like him trying to disguise himself, and I've seen other men who appear to be following me. They're not in any way threatening, though. They're also not very good at what they're doing.” She laughed in an attempt to brighten the conversation, which had suddenly taken a darker turn.
“I'm glad they don't bother you.” But I still don't like it, Nathan thought. He decided he would do something about it.
The clock in the hallway chimed. It was time for him to leave. There was a train to catch. “I've got to go,” he said and rose.
Rebecca stood in front of him and pinned both his arms to his side. “Please do not do anything risky. This time, if you see something interesting, ride the other way. I mean it.”
“I'm sure you do.” He grinned. “And I mean it too.”
They both glanced at the doorway. No one seemed to be around. She slid into his arms and they embraced. They kissed, tentatively at first, and then with warmth. His tongue darted against her teeth and she stiffened.
“I'm sorry,” he said and pulled back. Damn, had he gone too far too fast? He had been just about to touch her breast. He and Amy had always embraced like that. It just seemed so natural to do it with Rebecca. Damn.
“lt^’ s all right,” she said gently. “You just surprised me a little.” A lot, she thought. She had never been kissed quite like that in her life. Nor had she felt the physical sensations that were affecting her body.
“This time I won't be so surprised.” She returned to his arms, kissed him eagerly, and dared his tongue to touch her. Nathan barely managed to keep his hand off her bosom.
Attila Flynn was pleased with the two men he'd recruited. In their early thirties, they'd been born in Ireland and, like him, had been driven away by the grinding poverty and the continuing starvation. They'd emigrated to what they'd hoped was a new life in the United States, only to see the United States fall into pieces.
Both men were experienced and senior sergeants in the Confederate army, in Patrick Cleburne's division. Neither man was a slave owner, although neither had any great love for the Negro. They were convinced that the darkies were sullen, lazy, and stupid brutes who had been created by God to serve at the bottom rungs of the economic and social ladders.
Attila was convinced that the two men, and many poor whites like them, were convinced that they might see upward-striving Negroes passing them on those ladders if the Union prevailed and the slaves were freed. The logic did not necessarily square with the feeling that Negroes were inherently stupid, but was based instead on emotion and fear. Slavery, in their opinion, was a good thing since it meant that poor whites weren't the most miserable creatures in the Confederacy.
However, the very thought that they were now fighting as allies of Great Britain enraged them and other transplanted Irishmen. The two sergeants hated England and felt that the Confederacy's alliance with Great Britain was a betrayal of the highest order, and one that made the Negro problem insignificant.
Like many Attila had interviewed, they asked him just what they could do to solve their dilemma. “Kill Englishmen,” he'd replied, to which they'd asked how. After all, they were deep in the Confederacy with nary an Englishman in sight. And even if there was one in sight, there'd likely be a ruckus if they went and shot one.
In most cases he simply told them to wait, that the opportunity for action would arise in short order. But these two were bright enough and well placed enough for the task Attila had in mind for them.
It didn't hurt that Braxton Bragg was now the commanding general of the Confederate Army of Mississippi. He had been appointed following the death of Albert Sidney Johnston at Shiloh and the subsequent illness of General Beauregard. Bragg was highly unpopular because of a snappish and irritable personality that caused him to take offense easily, and by what was perceived as an inability to act decisively.
It also didn't help that he was obviously the third choice to command the Army of the Mississippi, and changing its name to the Army of Tennessee wasn't going to affect that one bit.
What Bragg did have in his favor was his deep and abiding friendship with Jefferson Davis. This meant that pretty much anything Bragg decided Davis would agree with. This also meant that Bragg and the Confederacy were vulnerable as a result.
Attila nodded to the two men, who were as eager as hunting hounds to be unleashed. “Go now,” he said. “Go and tell your story. Just be convincing.”
The two laughed. They would be convincing all right. Hell, they were Irish, weren't they? They could lie all day long and never lose their breath. The tale they would tell, if it worked as planned, could lead to at least a partial unravelling of the Confederate army and give them a chance to fight the English. If it didn't work, then nothing had been lost. It was perfect. Nothing much ventured and very much to gain. Attila was pleased.
Chapter Eleven
The flotilla of small boats scraped the sandy bottom on the windswept and deserted shore. It was the middle of the night and there was a murmur of curses as oars were disentangled. When this was done: the boats commenced disgorging scores, and then hundreds, of armed men on the seaward coast of Staten Island. Scouts, landed days earlier, emerged from the gloom, gathered them like sheep, and headed them in the right direction.
Colonel Garnet Wolsey set a quick pace and led the column as it snaked its way inland. They had several miles to go in the dark and not much time to accomplish their journey. Alongside Wolsey, Captain John Knollys struggled to keep up. He hadn't been on a march in some time and was out of shape. He was soon huffing and puffing, which drew good-natured jibes from Wolsey and snickers from the men behind. He was too winded to return any comments.
Wolsey and the naval planners had counted on maintaining a semblance of offshore normalcy to hide what they were doing. The blockade of New York Harbor was maintained by a fluctuating number of ships; thus, there had been no significance given by American observers to the handful of additional ships visible on blockade. The sea off New York was a naval terminus of sorts. British ships going to and from Canada and Virginia routinely stopped to deliver messages and supplies to the blockading squadron. However, the new ships were not innocuous visitors; their holds were jammed with two battalions of seasick and sweating British infantry brought down from Montreal.
Nor was the American military aware of the large fleet of British warships assembled just over the horizon. While the British infantry headed inland, the British warships had commenced steaming for the heavily fortified narrow opening to New York Harbor.
Only a little more than a mile across, Fort Wadsworth was on the Staten Island side of the Narrows and Fort Hamilton on the Long Island or Brooklyn side. In the months since the war with England had begun, and spurred by the shelling of B
oston, the forts' batteries had been reinforced and strengthened to the point that any attempt at running them or forcing entry would result in heavy damage to the attacker.
But this was not the case in their rear.
Scouts and spies had found that the back door to the Union fortifications was wide open at both locations. All American eyes looked out to sea and not to the sandy and windswept hills behind the forts.
A mile from Staten Island's fortifications. Wolsey paused and gathered his officers. It had been a hard march, but not a killing one. The men were fresh and excited at the prospect of action. They gulped water from their canteens and waited expectantly. Knollys leaned down and sucked in air, and was amazed at the way soldiers of all ranks looked to the young colonel for leadership. Then he realized he was doing the same thing.
Wolsey barked a few orders and the British force broke into separate columns that surged towards the American fortifications. At a closer distance, further orders were given by hand signal only. Their Enfield rifles weren't cocked so as to reduce the possibility of an accidental firing that would alert the garrisons.
The red-garbed infantry approached the first of the forts at a trot. No voice was raised to question or challenge them. Within seconds, they were inside the first batteries, and the garrison guards, most of whom were sound asleep, were overrun and taken without an outcry. The British continued their sweep from emplacement to emplacement without incident until, almost anticlimactically, they found a sentry who was alert and who yelled an alarm and shot at them.
It was too late. The sentry was bayoneted and died screaming. Alerted by the sounds, a handful of other American gunners tried to reach their weapons and were cut down by gunfire. There was no longer any need for secrecy or caution. It was over. The batteries on Staten Island, the southern half of the immense fortifications built to protect New York Harbor and New York City, had been taken. The British had not lost a man in the effort.
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