A Rainbow of Blood: The Union in Peril an Alternate History (19 page)

The business end of the company was not in Spencer's hands, but
the continued development of the weapon was. It was make or break
time for him. He walked into the White House with his rifle in his arms,
right past the guards and into Lincoln's office. It was a less securityconscious age. "Mr. President, I understand you have had problems with
my rifle."

The president loved firearms and was an excellent shot. He was like
a little boy whenever the opportunity to handle new weapons presented
itself. "Well, tell me, son, about this shooting iron," he said.

Spencer was his own best salesman. "Sir, my rifle uses the Smith &
Wesson .52 caliber brass rimfire cartridge, which completely prevents
gas leakage from the back because the brass casing expands on ignition
to seal the chamber. It has a rolling block activated by lowering the trigger guard. This movement opens the breech and extracts the spent cartridge." Spencer cocked the weapon. Lincoln noticed the easy movement
of the action. "Raising the lever causes a new cartridge, pushed into position by a spring in the seven-round tube magazine located here in the
stock, to be locked into the firing chamber."

He then delivered a precise explanation of the problems Lincoln
had experienced and the solutions he had arrived at with the production
models.

Lincoln reached for the rifle and worked the action. "Smooth
like butter," he said. "Nice balance, too, and not too heavy. About ten
pounds, I'd say."

"Yes, sir. Exactly ten pounds. And 47 inches long."

"Does it bruise the shoulder with the recoil?"

"No, sir, it has an exceptionally light recoil."

As Lincoln continued to examine the rifle, Spencer decided to
broach an awkward subject. "Sir, General Ripley has made it clear there
will be no more orders for my rifle."

Lincoln laughed. "Reminds me of something that was said when
I went shooting another rifle. Someone said, 'General Ripley says, Mr.
Lincoln, that men enough can he killed with the old smooth-bore and
the old cartridges, a ball and three buckshot.' Well, that was just the
problem. I said, 'Just so. But our folks are not getting near enough to the
enemy to do any good with them just now. We've got to get guns that
carry farther."' He held up the rifle as he finished, happy to see the grin
on Spencer's face.

He had been referring to the Army's chief of the Ordnance Bureau,
Brig. Gen. James Ripley, whose antipathy to anything but the standard
muzzle-loading Springfield rifle had earned the nickname, Ripley van
Winkle. The gruff old man dismissed the modern marvels generated by
American ingenuity as nothing but "newfangled gimcracks." Lincoln
had had to give him direct orders to buy them, which had been brazenly
sabotaged through administrative trickery. He had been tolerated solely
because the Army's pool of ordnance talent was so thin, there was simply no replacement, but even that excuse had worn thin.

Lincoln leaned over, put his hand on Spencer's knee and said,
"Don't worry about Ripley. Come tomorrow and we can have a proper
shooting match. You bring the cartridges, and I'll bring the audience."
Spencer did not know that Ripley's days were numbered, and he would
be dismissed in two months.

When Spencer arrived the next day, he found Stanton and other
senior officials waiting, and they all marched out to the Mall near the unfinished Washington Monument, the president's tall hat bobbing
above the group, and fired all afternoon at targets posted on a huge pile
of scrap lumber about a hundred yards away. Lincoln was in a good
mood as he sent round after round into the target from the kneeling and
prone positions. He didn't even hear the shouts coming closer and closer.
"Stop that firing! Stop that firing!" the voice cried, adorning that order
with a flood of profanity. A short sergeant followed by an armed squad
rushed up to the group, determined to enforce the ordnance against
firing weapons on the Mall. "Thunderation and God damn! Stop that
damn firing!" He pushed his way through the group, shoving aside cabinet secretaries and congressmen alike, as if he were a policeman out to
arrest a drunk.

As an observer would later note, "Perhaps Mr. Lincoln heard him,
and perhaps not, but his tall, gaunt form shoots up, up, up, uncoiling to
its full height, and his smiling face looks down upon the explosive volunteers. Their faces, especially that of the sergeant ... look up at his, and
all their jaws seem to drop in unison. No word of command is uttered,
but they 'right about face' in a second of time. Now it is double-quick,
quicker, quicker, as they race back toward the avenue, leaving behind
them only a confused, suppressed breath about having 'cussed Old Abe
himself."'

Lincoln's only response was, "Well, they might have stayed to see
the shooting."'

He signed the order for twenty thousand rifles that afternoon.

COLT ARMS FACTORY, HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT,
4:35 PM, OCTOBER 21, 1863

Spencer's retelling of that story had Carnegie and Root nearly in tears after a late lunch in Root's office. Carnegie thought it was just the opening
for what he had come to say.

"Well, you see, Mr. Root, the president had that much faith in
Chris's rifle that even then he was willing to sign such a huge order.
Now that we have been most foully attacked, the country must throw
every possible advantage we have into the scales." Root was surprised at
the vehemence of Carnegie's hatred for the enemy expressed in his thick
Scottish brogue. Carnegie caught the surprised look and fixed him with
his blue eyes, his face beginning to take the high color of the truly fair. "Make no mistake, Mr. Root, it is not the British people I am against. No,
sir. It is the monarchy and its system of privilege that has ground down
the working people of those islands, causing the English, Scots, Irish, and
Welsh in their millions to find a new home here, just as I have. And the
Royals and their nobles, and their High Church prelates, they hate this
country for it and wish us ruined.

"We have in this country the charter that the workingman of that
kingdom has been fighting for years as the panacea for all Britain's woes,
the bulwark of the people. So, let there be no mistake of my sentiments.
God bless the United States, and God damn the British Crown."8

"Well, now that that is settled, Mr. Carnegie, what may I do for you,
and for young Chris here?"

HEADQUARTERS, THE MAINE DIVISION, PORTLAND, MAINE,
8:47 AM, OCTOBER 22, 1863

Chamberlain peered into the small room where the prisoner was sitting blindfolded and tied to a chair in his torn and dirty scarlet coat. He
shut the door and walked back into the hallway to speak to his chief
scout. The man shook his head in disbelief. "Sir, we caught him when he
wandered from his camp for a piss. The thing is, well, there were only a
handful of men in the encampment. Most of the tents were just empty.
There were fires in all of them, but only a few men were moving from
one to another feeding them. Most of the horse lines were empty, too.
Most of 'em are just plain gone, General." Chamberlain discouraged the
men from calling him "General," since he had not been officially notified,
but after the word had got out from his escorts at the parley that he had
been promoted, the men had insisted on the honor.

The scout was a very earnest man. "Don't know where they went,
but I figured this officer would be of some help there."

Chamberlain seemed lost in thought for a moment, then looked the
man in the eyes and said, "You've done a good job. I am in your debt."
Some poor wretches felt that giving a compliment was like taking money
from their pockets, but Chamberlain knew it was a coin always worth
spending. The man beamed. "Now go get a meal and a good night's
sleep."

Chamberlain let the prisoner's imagination run on for about another hour to give himself time to think over what would happen next.
The more the man's fears played on his mind, the easier it would be.
Finally, Chamberlain threw open the door, saw the man jerk in his bonds, and shouted, "Why is this officer still restrained? Free him at
once!" The guards rushed by to untie the prisoner and take off the blindfold. He blinked to regain his focus, confusion and fear playing over his
face. Then he saw the lithe, blond American colonel standing in front of
him and noticed the mustache that drooped on either side of his mouth.
The American's face radiated concern.

He spoke, "I must offer my sincerest apologies for your treatment
to which an officer and a gentleman should never have been subjected."

The Canadian was clearly nonplussed. His capture and transfer into
the city had not been gentle, and sitting alone in that room restrained in
the dark had been even more terrifying. Now this American colonel had
rescued him. What was he to make of this?

Exactly what Chamberlain intended. "You must he starving, Lieutenant. Let me make amends by offering you dinner. First I must see that
you get some soap and water." He laughed. "I have completely forgotten my manners in my distress of finding you in this state. Allow me to
introduce myself. I am Colonel Chamberlain." He bowed slightly. The
Canadian's manners reasserted themselves as well, as soon as the formalities were invoked. "And I, sir, am Lieutenant Jean-Yves Delacroix of
the 9th Battalion, Les Voltigeurs de Quebec."

"Ah, bon!" Chamberlain said, "We must speak French, Lieutenant.
I am much out of practice in this most beautiful of all languages. You
shall be my teacher." The lieutenant beamed, almost exactly as had the
chief scout.

Dinner was excellent. Delacroix complimented the fine, hot bread
and waxed even more pleased with the two bottles of wine that had
miraculously appeared in the driest city in the United States. Chamberlain promised to offer amends to Dow's angry ghost. The sudden
reversal of the lieutenant's fortune, Chamberlain's kindness, his courtesy
in speaking French, the fine meal, the buzz from the wine, and the glow
from the fire all put Delacroix in a mood to please. He unconsciously felt
he was in the presence of a gentleman and not an enemy. Chamberlain
had played on that theme by decrying the folly of war between two related peoples, though this son of Quebec might have argued the point
in other circumstances of whether he was related to these Anglo-Saxons
on either side of the borders. For all that difference, the Quebecois were
not eager for the Stars and Stripes to replace the queen's flag. They were royalists to the core. They cheered, "Vive le roil" as eagerly for a SaxeCoburg as a Bourbon. So, he was especially won over when Chamberlain
proposed a toast to his gracious sovereign, Victoria Regina, Protestant
heretic though she was.