A Rainbow of Blood: The Union in Peril an Alternate History (20 page)

Chamberlain was silently thanking George Sharpe for his briefings
on interrogation techniques after Gettysburg. It was just an elaboration
of the old saying that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.
Sharpe was adamantly opposed to any form of brutality, insisting that
it was immoral and would indelibly stain the honor of anyone who engaged it. Worse, it would morally harm any subordinate man an officer
set to such practices, and an officer had a profound responsibility to
ensure the decent behavior and good character of his men. Men who did
such things found their conduct affected in other areas that would soon
poison their relationship with their comrades.

Practically, it simply was not reliable. A man in pain will tell you
just what you want to hear. A well-treated man who was properly encouraged, cajoled, flattered, and even lied to can be played. This took
skill and patience but was well worth the investment. From such techniques, Sharpe and his staff had drawn forth the priceless intelligence
at Gettysburg that Lee had committed every regiment in the Army of
the Northern Virginia but those in Pickett's Division, his smallest, by
the night of the second day of the battle. Thus Sharpe was able to tell his
commander the exact size of the enemy's reserve, decisively influencing
the course of the battle.

Chamberlain deftly drew forth the information that Doyle had
withdrawn almost his entire force to march south to meet Sedgwick's VI
Corps, which had just left Boston. The rumors were that Doyle would
drive south, beat Sedgwick, and then return as fast as he could. Delacroix
added that a new general straight from England had landed hours after
Doyle marched and had galloped after him. Chamberlain could barely
control himself as the lieutenant complained that this new general, who
was rumored to command all forces in British North America, had not
paused to review the guard. Not that there was much to see. Only four
Canadian militia battalions, some Royal Artillerymen, and engineers had
been left to hold the siegeworks.

Chamberlain purred in reply to Delacroix, "I'm afraid we are
in no position to do anything even if there were only one battalion. The garrison is in such straits that we can barely keep watch." With a
sigh he said. "I simply do not see how much longer we can hold out.
But the honor of my country requires me to delay your general just a
little more."

Delacroix commiserated on the sufferings of the Americans and
offered his hopes that an honorable settlement would soon take place.
"I am sure that Sir Charles would offer generous terms to such gallant
men." He almost felt like patting the obviously depressed Chamberlain
on the back.

HEADQUARTERS, CIB, LAFAYETTE SQUARE, WASHINGTON, D.C.,
4:14 PM, OCTOBER 23, 1863

Sharpe's staff meeting had just broken up. He was in conversation with
his chief of ciphers, one extremely talented lieutenant he had purloined
from the Signal Corps camp of instruction in Georgetown, when Jim
McPhail came striding down the hallway, carpetbag in hand.

"Jim!" Sharpe said, glad to see his deputy. Then he excused himself
from the lieutenant and put his hand on McPhail's shoulder, "Let's talk
about your trip." He caught one of his clerks in passing to tell him to
have Wilmoth join them in his office.

McPhail tossed his bag in the corner and dropped into one of the
stuffed chairs in front of Sharpe's desk. Sharpe leaned back against the
front of desk, eager to hear his deputy's trip report. "Well, I'm all ears.
God knows the papers are in a perfect twist. Every man of importance
in the Union, it seems, has lined up in the White House to demand the
president send the entire Army to defend his backyard."

"I was in Boston when Sedgwick's VI Corps marched through. The
entire city turned out to cheer them on. I never knew Massachusetts
could that excited about anything except abolition."

"I would, too, if the redcoats were as close as Portland. In fact, Jim,
they're closer to Kingston." He started pacing. "As far as I know, May
and the children are still there. Since the invasion, the telegraph has been
restricted to war business. Half my office are New York men, and if I
won't let them break the order, they won't see me do it either."

McPhail knew that Sharpe had reason to worry. He didn't want to
sugarcoat it, though it would add another burden to his boss. "Surely,
we can get a message to her when we send someone anywhere nearby. I think you should get your and McEntee's families out of Kingston."
Capt. John McEntee had been Sharpe's deputy in the BMI. "The reports
are true. The British have been raiding down the Hudson Valley. New
York City is filling with refugees. There's only the garrison of the city,
and the president dare not send it forward, or the entire city will panic. If
we lose New York, we lose the war."

Sharpe cut to the purpose of sending McPhail north. "What is the
enemy situation, then?"

McPhail's seriousness deepened. He paused to carefully choose
his words. "Our information is thin, George, damned thin."

Sharpe replied, "I did not expect miracles, Jim."

"And we didn't get any, that's for sure. When you called me down
from Baltimore and offered me this job, I was overjoyed. At last we
would be able to put some sense into the intelligence end of this damnable war. God knows, we have worked nothing less than a few miracles
of our own putting this bureau together, but the job was too damned big
to do and get our legs under us in just three months."

Sharpe said, "Well, we put the BMI together in two months and
handed Hooker Bobby Lee's head on a silver platter. When I took this
job, I knew the problem I had faced with standing up the BMI would
shrink in comparison with the difficulties in putting together this bureau,
and I was dead right."

McPhail said, "Don't be too hard on yourself. Look at what you've
accomplished. You've resurrected the Balloon Corps and got Lowe to
run it even though he promised never to work with the government
again after being insulted and harassed out of the Army."

Sharpe commented wryly, "I think the colonel's commission had
something to do with it."

"If you hadn't sent Cline and some of the 3rd Indiana Cavalry out to
Indiana to sniff out that Copperhead plot, he wouldn't have been there
to crush the attempt to liberate all the prisoners of war at Camp Morton.
Indianapolis, as well as Chicago, would have fallen, and I don't think we
could have recovered from that.

"You set up BMIs in the Army of the Cumberland, and with Grant
and Banks down in Louisiana."

Sharpe shook his head. "It didn't do Rosecrans any good. We
warned him in plenty of time that Longstreet was coming out to rein force Bragg. A crushing defeat at Chickamauga and getting shut up in
Chattanooga are not great advertisements for our organization, Jim."

McPhail was determined to convince Sharpe that the glass was half
full. "George, Longstreet just moved too fast, and Rosecrans's scouts
never were able to warn of his arrival. Rosecrans gave battle thinking he
had brought Bragg 's smaller army to bay. You know as well as I do that
the enemy has a vote."

He could see that Sharpe needed more encouragement. "Then you
were able to warn the president and Stanton of British maneuvering in
preparation for their attack."

"Yes, and they fooled me. I would bet it was that damned Wolseley
who planned it. They demonstrated so actively against Buffalo and Detroit that we sent reinforcements there, and then they struck at Albany
and Portland. Our agents just did not catch that deception." Sharpe had
been truly impressed with the way the British had, at the last minute and
without any word getting out, marshaled their railroads to move most of
the British and Canadian troops making their big show in the Canadian
Peninsula to concentrate against Albany.

"George, we were damned lucky to get that. It takes longer than
three months to set up an effective agent network in another country. All
that Treasury gold we pass out up in Canada has bought us a lot of access, I must admit. But even that takes time to bear fruit."

Sharpe permitted himself a smile. "Reminds me of a story. Alexander the Great's father, Philip II, was faced with what everyone told him
was an impregnable fortress. He replied, 'You mean an ass laden with
silver cannot get inside?"'

"Exactly. And while we are at it, we did pick up the British interest in Portland. It was your idea to send all the Maine regiments home
under the pretext of a recruitment leave. Had they not arrived when they
did, the enemy would have taken the city without hardly a shot. Instead,
the British Army that could be sacking Boston is tied up in the siegeworks of Portland."

"And that brings us back to the enemy situation, Jim. What will
Sedgwick face when he tries to relieve Portland? What will the British
send down the Hudson when they decide to take New York? And what
reinforcements are arriving from England?"

"I don't have much more than what I wired Wilmoth from Boston
and New York yesterday and last night," Mcphail responded.

Just then, the unobtrusive Wilmoth entered and stood quietly.
Sharpe had come to allow him unannounced access to him at any time.
McPhail cordially nodded to him and went on. "I was handed this
information just as I was getting on the train in New York. Halifax is
abuzz with the expectation that a twenty-thousand-man reinforcement is
about to arrive from garrisons all throughout the British Isles. With them
comes General James Hope Grant to take command of all troops in British North America."

Wilmoth quietly added, "He's the best they've got. I have a file on
him." He had a file on Wolseley, too. Sharpe would have been pleased to
know that Wolseley had a file on him, too. The assistant quartermaster
general had become the primary planner and intelligence officer for the
British forces in North America, and if any man was Sharpe's counterpart, it was Wolseley.

"Jim, take a few days to pick whomever you want, and then I want
you back in New York to pull this agent network together. And, Jim, I
suggest you buy a stouter carpetbag to hold all the gold I will be sending
with you."

McPhail laughed. "When I think of the opportunities to get rich in
this job..."

Sharpe countered, "Well, I can write you a letter of recommendation
to join Lafayette Baker's Secret Service if you want to get rich in shaking
people down." Even Wilmoth permitted himself to laugh. The CIB staff
mirrored their boss's contempt of Baker and his crew.

FORD'S THEATRE, 7TH STREET, WASHINGTON, D.C.,
5:52 PM, OCTOBER 23, 1863

John Wilkes Booth was still in high dudgeon. He had been in an exuberant and exalted mood ever since Britain and France had declared war,
absolutely sure that it spelled the doom of the United States and the triumph of the Confederacy. Now this vile, damnable notice had plunged
into an incandescent anger. The government had banned actors from
moving freely back and forth between the North and South. For two
years, he had freely preened his pro-Southern sympathies to appreciative
Southern audiences and had enjoyed the adulation that came with that,
not to mention his increasingly impressive acting skills. What he did not
know was that Sharpe had been behind the order.

He was giving another magnificent performance of outrage in his
dressing room to the cast of his matinee performance still in their makeup. His handsome features seemed to glow with his anger. His glance
took in the big, bearded man standing in the dressing room doorway,
definitely not an actor. In the imperious tone he had mastered for Shakespeare, Booth demanded, "And who are you, sir?"

He noticed the man's grin was positively canine. "John Miller, Secret Service. I have a message for you from Mr. Lafayette Baker." The
room immediately emptied past him. No one wanted to be anywhere
around Baker or anyone who worked for him. The man closed the door
behind him. It was clear that Booth was in a combative mood. But Big
Jim Smoke had not come for a fight. He pulled up a chair and sat down.
"I think we need to talk, sonny."

Smoke's inquiries with his Copperhead contacts had vouched for
Booth's sympathies. The problem was how to bring this high-strung
peacock along without scaring him off. Smoke had seen too many poseurs among the Copperheads to take anyone's protestations of support for granted. He may not have been subtle, but he was guileful. He
knew vanity was a powerful weakness in any man and that that fault
ran powerfully among actors. He leaned forward and said in a half
whisper, "God bless the Confederacy." Booth's mouth fell open momentarily. Then he replied, his brown eyes dancing fire, "And God damn the
Union!"

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, LONDON, 12:00 AM, OCTOBER 23, 1863

The House always met late as a matter of course. Gentlemen never rose
until the afternoon. The member for Rochdale, Richard Cobden, stood up
to speak. Lord Clarence Paget, the secretary of the Admiralty, groaned
inwardly. Cobden was a member of the Navy Committee and damned
well informed and as influential a Radical as Bright. His comments before the committee over the Navy Estimates last February had come to
haunt Paget.

"The secretary of the Admiralty will bear with me as I recapitulate
my comments from the February Navy Estimates. I made a point of emphasizing then that we had then seventy-six thousand men and boys in
the Navy. Since Charleston subtracted five thousand from that number, I think my words, which had no affect on the Admiralty and the House at
that time, will make an impression now.

"'The fate of empires' said the noble lord-I will use his own
words -'will not in future depend on line-of-battle ships; they are not
suited to the modern mode of warfare.'

"'I heard the late Admiral Napier declare, a short time before his
death, that a line-of-battle ship struck with one of your modern percussion shells would have a hole in her side large enough, he said, to drive
a wheelbarrow through. What said the honorable and gallant officer the
member for Harwich (Captain Jervis)? In my own hearing, he said that a
wooden line-of-battle ship, hit by these modern percussion shells, would
be nothing but a slaughterhouse."'