1862

by Robert Conroy

  It was also apparent that Lord Cardigan's regular army would indeed be outnumbered. Even with the strongest of forts protecting him. Cardigan would run the risk of being overwhelmed by a larger Union force, which was what Palmerston had feared since the beginning of Britain's involvement in the American Civil War. Palmerston siiently damned Cardigan for being so quarrelsome that he'd managed to offend many of the Canadians who were pro-British. He would like to have had someone else in command, but no one else had wanted the job.

  This was not a new situation. Throughout England's stormy relationship with first the American colonies and now the United States, her better-qualified army and naval officers wanted no part of a war with their North American cousins. This had forced England to go with second- and third-rate commanders. In the American Revolution it had been Gage, Clinton, and Burgoyne. In what the Americans called the War of 1812, the Duke of Wellington, fresh from his victory over the first Napoleon at Waterloo, had simply declined. Palmerston wondered if the Iron Duke, now in his grave for a decade, would have declined this war as well. Probably, he decided.

  At any rate, England was stuck with Cardigan in command in Canada.

  “We must get him more troops, but from where?” asked Palmerston. He had hoped that the Royal Navy's dominance at sea and the Confederacy's abilities on land would have made the Union see reason. It would not be so, at least not for a while. It appeared that the Union needed another lesson.

  “India,” said Russell, “and the other colonies to the extent that they have forces to spare. Again, I've spoken to our generals, and they are of the opinion that a large number of Indian soldiers could be sent to Canada. We certainly cannot send any more British regulars without weakening ourselves in India and elsewhere; therefore, we must use non-British troops.”

  Palmerston agreed and gave the order. He wondered just how Indian soldiers would endure in the cold Canadian winter. He decided he didn't care, at least not overmuch. It was far more important to save Canada than to worry about some brown-skinned soldier freezing his brown-skinned arse in a Canadian snowbank.

  Of course, that presumed that the reinforcements from India arrived in time, which was highly unlikely when the distances were calculated. He amended the order. Despite concerns, reinforcements would be sent to Canada from regular forces stationed in England and Ireland, while recruiting efforts were stepped up. On their arrival in Great Britain, some Indian soldiers would be sent to Ireland, while others were retained in England. This meant a time gap during which there would be precious few British soldiers in either England or Ireland. Thankfully, there was little chance of invasion by a foreign power, and the only threat was of rebellion in always rebellious Ireland. He would have to take the chance.

  It occurred to him that the obstreperous Irish would hate being governed by dark-skinned Indian soldiers even more than they did by white-skinned English ones. It was a problem to be dealt with in the future. So, too. was the possibility that Indian soldiers might someday defeat an army of white men if they ever did fight the Union. Right now, though, he had to find more troops for Lord Cardigan.

  “In the absence of reinforcements, what will Cardigan do?” Palmerston asked.

  “He will shift westward from Toronto to Hamilton, which will put him in position to maneuver in the defense of the Niagara peninsula.”

  “Very well.”

  “Sir, it may come to pass that Cardigan will have to give ground,” said Russell. 'Canada is vast, and he should be allowed to do so if appropriate. To try and hold on to everything would be absurd. However, he must be compelled to understand the importance of the Niagara peninsula and Toronto. If the Niagara and Toronto defense lines fail, then American forces can move unimpeded along the Lake Ontario coast to the St. Lawrence. That must not happen. He must attempt to hold Niagara, and he absolutely must hold Toronto at all costs.”

  “Again, agreed,” sighed Palmerston. This was not going as he had planned.

  “Cardigan also desires more ships to protect Lakes Ontario and Erie. Right now he has only a handful of armed sailing schooners and civilian steamers that he's seized and armed. He greatly fears that the United States will build a Great Lakes fleet as it did in the War of 1812.”

  “Can any ships be spared him?”

  “No, and even if they could, there's no way to get them to him. Cardigan seems to have misplaced the fact that the St. Lawrence is not navigable through to Lake Ontario. The only connection between Montreal and Lake Ontario is by way of the Rideau Canal, which connects Ottawa and the Ottawa River to the lake. Sadly, it is only five feet deep.”

  Palmerston sighed. “Then Cardigan must make do with what he has, or can create. At least there is one good thing in our favor.”

  “And what is that, Prime Minister?”

  “This Grant is an inexperienced general and a drunken street fighter. Even a mediocrity like Cardigan should take him handily.”

  Russell smiled and nodded at his friend. Yet he was not as confident as Palmerston. Grant might be inexperienced, but he had shown no signs of incompetence. Also, while Russell had never had the dubious honor of fighting a drunken brawler, he understood full well that such a person could be terribly dangerous.

  The water passage from Lake Michigan to Lake Erie first flows southward down the St. Clair River to Lake St. Clair, and then down the Detroit River to Lake Erie. Neither the Detroit River nor the St. Clair River are rivers in the true sense of the word. More precisely, both are straits connecting the lakes in question. Regardless of the precise geographic term, both waterways are wide, deep, and swift-flowing, and Lake St. Clair is a large body of water that would be impressive on its own merits if it weren't for the presence of the truly Great Lakes it is sandwiched between.

  As a result, that portion of Canada fronting Michigan could have been easily defensible. However, the shortage of British regulars and the inadequacy of the Canadian militia meant that little had been done to prepare the area facing Michigan for war. A number of gun emplacements had been dug, but few contained cannon. Fort Maiden, just south of Detroit at Amherstberg, contained a handful, but they were obsolete. Farther north, fortifications had been dug directly across from Detroit in Windsor and fronting the U.S. batteries at Fort Wayne. An additional fort had been built in Windsor directly across from Belle Isle. There were no cannon in the Windsor fort.

  Belle Isle is a good-sized island almost directly in the center of the Detroit River and only about a mile upstream from downtown Detroit. Lushly forested, Belle Isle was used for recreation by many local people. It was a very large park that they felt compared favorably to New York's Central Park. The Canadian battery had been built as a response to an American one constructed on the island.

  General Ulysses Grant had made no real attempt to hide his army, at least not at first. In a nation with free speech, a free press, and a propensity to gossip, he knew he could not keep his move to Cleveland a secret. He had more than forty thousand men on the march and they did not hide very well at all.

  At Cleveland, however, he sent cavalry north to Detroit to seize all telegraph and rail communications. As a result, a section of the country that was rarely heard from in the first place went silent, and no one noticed.

  When Canadian observers in Windsor, the pleasant and prosperous farming and fishing town across from Detroit, caught the hubbub of trainloads of soldiers and their equipment arriving, it was too late. They frantically telegraphed Cardigan in Toronto that the enemy was at their doorstep and were told that nothing could be done to help them. The few hundred Canadian militia in the area were all that was on hand to protect Sarnia, Windsor, Amherstberg, and the scores of small villages in and around the vicinity. Even the handful of small British fighting ships were being husbanded at the other end of Lake Erie. They would not be risked against American batteries at Fort Wayne and elsewhere.

  Two days after the beginning of Grant's arrival at Detroit, concerned and frightened Canadians awoke to realize that the
artillery battery on Belle Isle had been enlarged overnight. Instead of a half-dozen guns, more than twenty were aimed at the Canadian emplacements.

  While this message was being relayed to Cardigan, the cannon began to roar. Their shells chewed up the Canadian fortifications and damaged many of the civilian homes and businesses in the area. Fires burned and civilians fled. It was New York in miniature and in reverse.

  As the bombardment raged, three steamers pulled into view from where they had been hidden behind Belle Isle. The flat-bottomed stern-wheelers were jammed with blue-coated Union soldiers, and each ship trailed at least one barge filled with infantry.

  From Belle Isle to Windsor is only about half a mile, and the distance was covered quickly. The steamships nudged against the shore and disgorged their human cargo, which scampered up the gentle slope from the river. The embankment was quickly churned into mud: but it was no deterrent. Those soldiers were followed by the men in the barges. Within minutes: a full regiment had been landed and a perimeter established. Observers on the U.S. side clearly saw Union skirmishers moving unopposed through Windsor and beyond. The Canadian militia, outnumbered and totally outgunned, had prudently departed.

  As the steamships returned for more human cargo, scores of smaller boats moved from Detroit to Canada, again loaded with soldiers. Within an hour a brigade was ashore and. within two, a division.

  From the fire watchtower on the east side of Detroit. Nathan Hunter watched through his telescope. He was well away from General Grant, who, like McClellan at Culpeper, had far more important things to do than speak to a civilian observer.

  Nathan laughed when he thought about it. He was no longer quite the civilian he had started out as. Grant had been adamant that no civilians would accompany his staff. “It^’ s bad enough that I have to have reporters tagging along, but I will not have other civilians cluttering up the place. I don't care what you did with McClellan, you will go as an officer or not at all.”

  As a result, Nathan wore the uniform of a full colonel in the Union army and was attached to Grant's staff. This made him one grade senior to Rawlins. who was surprised at first, but soon got over it. Nathan carried papers supporting his appointment, and Grant had assured him of a prompt discharge, should he want one, when he wished to return to Washington. Nathan was no longer so certain that he wished such a discharge.

  When he had mentioned it, Grant had laughed. “Hell, it might not matter. I don't know if it's legal for me to make you a brevet colonel in the first place, much less discharge you.”

  By nightfall, construction was well apace on the first of a couple of pontoon bridges. They would be completed the next day. after which the steamers would depart for Cleveland. Grant had future plans for them.

  All in all it had been a breathtaking lesson on military efficiency. Grant had utilized the extensive American rail system to transport his army and its equipment quickly, far too quickly for the British to react and respond. Then his move across the Detroit River had been as well choreographed as any dance could be.

  Nathan clambered down from the tower and found Colonel John Rawlins, who yelled at him. “Damn it, Hunter, you ready to go or not? We're not going to wait for you to get your ass over here.” Irascible and profane, Rawlins was excited and in fine form. Nathan happily ignored the outburst and followed him.

  Both he and Nathan clambered aboard a ship with Grant and the rest of his staff. It was time to change the army's headquarters.

  It was dark when they finally crossed, and the only light came from the stars and the moon, along with a little help from hundreds of campfires, pipes, and cigarettes. The fires in Windsor had either gone out or been put out. Grant's ever-present cigar was a dim glow in the bow of the steamship.

  There was a slight jarring as the steamship grounded. A long board was dropped from the steamer to the muddy riverbank. Grant ignored it and jumped in. The water was up to his knees, and the rest of his staff followed, laughing and swearing.

  “You need help?” Rawlins asked in reference to Nathan's bad leg. Grant had made a point of asking about it and Nathan was surprised that Rawlins had remembered it.

  “Nope.”

  Like Grant's drinking, constructive activity and doing something useful seemed to drive away the pain in his leg. It had been disappearing for a long while, and now it seemed totally gone.

  Nathan slipped once in the mud, but climbed the few feet up the damp and slippery embankment, where he clearly saw the destruction wrought by the bombardment. It was extensive, although he saw no sign of any casualties. Perhaps they'd been removed. Perhaps, he hoped, there hadn't been that much in the way of human suffering. He hoped not.

  All around him, ships were unloading while still more units moved inland. There was no resistance, and no one could recall whether the Canadians had even fired at the invaders. A few handfuls of Canadian civilians watched stoically. Their expressions did not betray the anger they must have been feeling.

  Messengers raced up to Grant, and Nathan quietly moved as close as he could to hear their reports. Fort Maiden had fallen without resistance. To the north, a small Union detachment had crossed the St. Clair River south of the American city of Port Huron and had taken the Canadian city of Sarnia.

  The landings had been a complete success. There was a sense of pride and exultation in the air. The United States was taking the war to goddamned Great Britain. There would be vengeance for New York and Boston.

  Alan Pinkerton crept slowly through the overgrown field towards the country house that Valerie and Henri D'Estaing called home. It was a large, rich-looking farmhouse and, since his sources in the State Department had said that Henri D'Estaing had been ordered back to France by Seward, it was a possible source of corruption and spies. It certainly had never been used as a farm recently. While the house was well kept, the fields were a collection of weeds.

  He was further intrigued by the fact that, while Henri D'Estaing was not at home, his amoral wife was, and that strange widow Rebecca Devon was her guest.

  In a city where human spiders spun webs of intrigue, the relationship between General Winfield Scott and Nathan Hunter led to Rebecca Devon, and then to Valerie D'Estaing and her corrupt husband. It was a path that needed to be explored. At the least, Pinkerton thought he would find that Rebecca Devon, a woman whose late husband had been as rotten as a long-dead and sun-ripened pig, was somehow involved in influence peddling. At the most, Pinkerton hoped to find information that would destroy Winfield Scott and bring General George McClellan back into favor. The country needed McClellan. He would end the war on honorable terms for the Union.

  On a personal note, Alan Pinkerton, too, needed to be returned to power by McClellan, his mentor and, hopefully, his savior. Once a very important man, Pinkerton now found himself on the outside and not taken seriously. It wasn't his fault that his estimates of Confederate numbers were considered inflated and ludicrously unrealistic. He had done what McClellan had asked of him and now ridicule was his reward.

  The sound of muted female laughter carried from the second-floor window, and Pinkerton wondered just what was going on. There was only one way to find out.

  Slinking through a farmyard was not something Alan Pinkerton would ordinarily do himself, but he had no other operatives available for the task. Besides, he told himself, he needed to do something like this on a periodic basis to keep his hand in the game. As the head of the Chicago-based detective agency that bore his name, he had performed a number of clandestine tasks similar to this. The last time he had spied on someone directly, he had climbed a ladder to peer in the second-floor window of the Confederate spy Rose O'Neal Greenhow. Mrs. Greenhow had been arrested and awaited her fate in the Old Capital jail. She would either be hanged or deported. Either way, Pinkerton considered it a triumph.

  That, however, was in the past. He needed a new coup. He also needed a ladder. He swore under his breath and walked stealthily to the barn. The door was open and he slipped in without making a
noise.

  Pinkerton was so engrossed in his task that he never heard the soft footfalls behind him and never felt the small sack of sand colliding with his skull until his consciousness went out in a blaze of red before his eyes.

  As he lay on the ground, former sergeant Fromm first checked that Pinkerton was alive. Satisfied that he had done a good but not lethal job with his sand-filled blackjack, Fromm bound and gagged Pinkerton and slid a hood over the unconscious man's head.

  General Scott had asked him to do a favor for both the general and for Mr. Hunter. He was to make life miserable for Pinkerton and discourage him from following Rebecca Devon. Fromm liked Hunter. He had given Fromm good advice regarding Bridget Conlin and he figured he owed Hunter one.

  Fromm was very strong, and he easily carried the inert Pinkerton to where he'd hidden his carriage. He then retrieved Pinkerton's carriage and tied it behind his own. Mr. Pinkerton was going for a very interesting ride.

  Women's laughter came from the house and, for a moment, Fromm thought he'd been seen. No, whatever it was, he decided, didn't involve him. There was more laughter and Fromm grinned. He wondered just what the devil was going on up there.

  The second-floor bedroom was its own wing, which meant it had windows on three sides. Thus, even in the heat of a Washington summer, there was usually a relatively comfortable breeze blowing through. Light screening kept the insects out, so anyone within would be quite comfortable.

  Rebecca and Valerie had sketched, painted, eaten, and now were enjoying a couple of glasses of champagne before turning in. Rebecca would spend the night, and a second bed had been moved into the room. The two women wore only thin robes, and the only light in the room was a candle.

  “How much more time?” Rebecca asked.

  “We will be leaving in about a week. There is so much more to pack that I do not think I will ever be ready.”