A Rainbow of Blood: The Union in Peril an Alternate History (37 page)

Wilmoth's eyes went wide, and he tore off across the square with
the telegram in hand.'

The explosion of the Arsenal had sent flaming debris through
the roof of the White House. Mrs. Lincoln was in shrieking hysteria
after a jagged, twenty-pound piece of iron crashed through the window
and gouged its way across her breakfast table. Her black seamstress
and confidante, Mrs. Elizabeth Keckley, ran out of the house to find the president, who had started to walk over to the War Department. She
caught him before he had gotten too far and blurted out the scene. He
rushed back immediately, his burly bodyguard trying to keep up as
those long legs raced to the White House.

The building was in an uproar after a half dozen projectiles had
fallen through the roof, setting fires and terrifying the staff. There was
no one then at the entrance to greet the president. Keckley followed Lincoln up the stairs with the bodyguard. Lincoln traced the wailing to the
family breakfast room and found Mary cringing in the corner, clutching
twelve-year-old Tad. A haze of smoke filled the air. The silver and china
had been thrown about the room, and the table had a gashed, splintered
furrow across it. The shard of shell had struck the small stove that was
used to warm the room from the early chill and torn it open, spilling
coals across the carpet and onto the drapes, which were now on fire. Lincoln took it all in at a glance and pulled the heavy velvet curtains down
off their rods. He threw a chair through a window, smashing glass and
frame, used the curtain rod as pole to pick up the blazing curtains, and
threw the blazing bundle out. Keckley stamped out the burning carpet.
Behind them, the bodyguard had slowed his walk up the stairs as he deliberately pulled his pistol from his holster.

Amazingly, no one barred his way. The servants and staff and the
few soldiers were busy fighting the fires that had started in half a dozen
places. Screams and shouts seemed to fade from the bodyguard's consciousness as he reached the top of the stairs, so fixed was he on his purpose. Smoke wafted out of the breakfast room. Mary's wails had turned
to sobs, soothed by her husband's voice and strong arms around her.

Big Jim Smoke walked into the room and saw the family in the corner. The president had put Mary on a settee and was kneeling in front
of her while Tad was holding one of her hands. Smoke walked over and
raised the pistol slowly to point at the back of Lincoln's head. Big Jim
was not the man to recite some heroic Latin or Greek twaddle at a time
like this. He was just a killer. If anything, he grunted softly, determined
and cool. He was good at this. In fact, it was his only talent.

Tad saw him pointing the gun and jumped up. Smoke caught the
movement out the corner of his eye and flinched as he fired.

Lincoln collapsed onto his wife. The boy shouted, "Pa!" Wide-eyed,
Mary stared over her fallen husband at the snarling beast with the smok ing pistol. She threw her arms around Lincoln's bloody head, trying uselessly to protect him.

Smoke stepped forward to shoot again. Tad flew at him screaming
and grabbed his gun arm. The big man simply threw the boy off to fly
across the floor. Then he raised the pistol again as Mary, paralyzed by
terror, just shook her head, silently mouthing, "No, no," as she clutched
her husband closer.

Wilmoth ran into the chaos of the White House and grabbed a servant. "Where's the president?" The woman pointed upstairs. The sound
of the first shot echoed from above. Wilmoth took the stairs three at a
time. He heard a boy's scream of rage and followed it. He was in time to
see Smoke hurl Tad across the room and raise his pistol again. Wilmoth
threw himself feet first into the back of Smoke's knees. Smoke fell backward and landed hard, dropping the gun. Wilmoth rolled over and
leaped to his feet. Smoke recovered just as fast and went for his pistol.
The young man jumped on him, and they rolled over the floor, the smoking carpet, and the shattered breakfast plates. Wilmoth was agile, but
Smoke had a hundred pounds of muscle on him. Gradually, he pinned
the younger man and grabbed for the barrel of his pistol with his one
free hand. He hit Wilmoth across the face and drew back his arm for another blow 3

A hand gripped his arm with iron strength. Smoke looked up in
total surprise as Lincoln whipped him up and off the dazed lieutenant.
Smoke had never been handled like this. Blood ran down Lincoln's face
from the graze on the side of his head. His eyes were black coals and his
jaw set like a vise. His grip squeezed the pistol from Smoke's hand. His
other hand balled to a fist that staggered Smoke with a blow to the face.
Smoke careened back against the wall. He shook his head to recover his
wits. Then he shouted, pulled a knife, and charged.

The same powerful grip seized his wrist once more as the other
hand punched Smoke again in the face. But Smoke shook it off and lowered his head to match strength with strength. Lincoln topped him by a
head, but Smoke was heavier and built like a bull. He twisted his wrist to
break free of Lincoln's hold. It never occurred to him that he was grappling with a man who had been one of the finest wrestlers in Illinois in
his youth. And that youth had built strength like a steel cable in the man. Lincoln threw a leg behind Smoke's knee and pushed. They both crashed
to the floor with Lincoln on top. Lincoln grabbed Smoke's head in both
hands and slammed it into the floor repeatedly. The big man's eyes
flashed terror, and his arms flailed as his hands clutched wildly at his
tormentor. Lincoln kept pounding Smoke's head into the floor even after
the light had winked out of his eyes, and a thick pool of blood ran dark
over the floor.4

WASHINGTON NAVY YARD, 8:30 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

It was a crestfallen Zeppelin who waved good luck as Lowe and Cushing
ascended over the Navy Yard. There was room only for two men and the
munitions, and Lowe needed Cushing's knowledge of fuses more than
Zeppelin's enthusiasm. Lowe was thankful that the winds had continued
to the southeast and floated him directly over the Eastern Branch.

They had barely made it aloft when three British ships, Greyhound,
Racer, and Spiteful, began to pound it out with the Dahlgren battery
defending the Yard. British shells found rich targets in the Yard's huge
dry docks and foundries. Soon the immense wooden shell of the dry
dock was on fire, as was the Yard commander's white wooden quarters.
Looking down, Lowe saw a cannonball shatter one of his gas generators,
spewing iron filings and acid. The residual hydrogen flamed. Several of
his ground crew littered the ground around the wreckage. The rest stuck
to their positions around the huge winches that tethered the balloons to
the ground. The Yard's scratch gun crews threw themselves into action,
and the smoke of their guns drifted over the river.

The British ships had landed Royal Marines and armed sailors
south of the Yard, who were marching up to take it from the rear. On
Lowe's other balloon that had already been floating over the Yard, the
telegrapher had been kept continually clattering away with his dots
and dashes. The electrical impulses ran down the wire to the Yard's
telegraph and straight into the Yard commander's hand. The messages
had told him already that only three British ships were coming up the
Eastern Branch. They outgunned his battery, but his Dahlgrens carried
bigger punches. It was still anybody's fight.

He had no idea that Lowe was about to deliver a few aerial punches
to the defense of the Yard. He was more concerned with the British land ing force, which the message estimated at four hundred men. He turned
to the Marine captain at his side and showed him the message. "Off with
you now, Captain. You know what to do."5

Lowe thought he knew what he was to do, too - drop the shells on
the British ships. Simple enough, but he had not thought through the
even simpler requirement to light the shells before they were dropped.
As they were ascending over the smoke-hazed river, he suddenly remembered that he never carried anything combustible on a hydrogenfilled balloon for obvious reasons. It was a far more dramatic end than he
contemplated. That left the grenades, which did not need to have a flame
applied. But 5-pound grenades would be flea bites to the Royal Navy.

The lieutenant laughed and pulled a box of matches from his pocket
and rattled it. "Not to worry, Professor. We are set."

"But there's a chance the flame will ignite the hydrogen in the
balloon."

"I take a chance every time I go to sea, and you take one every time
you go up in one of these. Besides, we're up here already," Cushing said
as he peered down, a grin lighting his face. He pointed down at a British
sloop directly below them. "What a lovely target she is, too."

He bent down and opened the first box. He pulled off the lead
safety cover and exposed the powder. Then he carefully unscrewed the
fuse, taking care not to spill the powder. He then pulled the lead safety
plug off the bottom of the fuse and very carefully screwed the fuse back
into the shell.

"Now, it should be ready to go." Cushing squatted in the basket
holding the shell. Lowe huddled over him and struck a match, his teeth
clenched, waiting for a trace of escaping hydrogen to ignite and flare
off the balloon. "Touch it here." The lieutenant indicated the powder.
The flame caused it to sizzle and flare. The lieutenant immediately rose,
lifting the 72-pound shell with the power of his legs, and heaved it over
the side.

They both peered down to see it fall, leaving a trail of sparks. It fell
toward the ship, but the ship had a mind of its own and steamed on. The
shell fell just astern. The water did not drench the fuse before the fire
reached the powder charge; the river heaved up to the stern of the ship
from the explosion.

"Damn!" Cushing shouted and threw his hat down to spiral
through the air. He broke open another box and prepared the fuse. Lowe
huddled over him to light the powder. He could see the lieutenant's lips
moving. Down went the shell toward the next ship in line that steamed
up to join the fight. The black, smoking orb struck right amidship. It
bounced across the deck and down an open hatch. Lowe and the lieutenant held their breaths. They didn't see it bowling over two powder
monkeys as it bounced down the ladder into the bowels of the ship. The
lieutenant cursed again and began to tear open the third box.

They didn't see the explosion. It was confined below decks and
killed or wounded fifteen men. The captain would have been happy for
that if it would have spared him what came next. The exploding shell
ignited the powder charges dropped by the powder monkeys, and the
flames shot down, catching one boy after another with his load of powder until it reached the copper-lined powder room. The lieutenant had
just dropped the third shell when they saw the ship lurch up out of the
water as a geyser of flame shot up through her decks. Racer's boilers
exploded next. Her back broke, and the two ends floated away, burning
furiously.

Lowe and Cushing shouted and threw themselves into each other's
arms and barely refrained from jumping up and down on the basket's
wicker floor.'

LINLITHGO MILLS, NEW YORK, 9:26 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

Slocum saw Hooker's white horse galloping down the road toward him.
He groaned to himself. He had advanced barely a mile since the aide had
reached him. He was moving at the regular march pace, which was evident to anyone, even a galloping general.

Hooker did not return Slocum's salute. His fair complexion had
flushed bright red, and rage played across his face. He stood up in his
stirrups and leaned forward. "Explain yourself, General!"

"I was bringing my corps up in good order, General."

"Good order be damned! Did you not hear the sound of the guns
only a few miles to your front?"

"It was not clearly a battle. I heard little-"

"By God, sir, I heard your hearing failed at Gettysburg, too!"

Slocum 's hatred for Hooker flared and got the better of his normally
passive nature. "I'll not be insulted by a whore-chaser and drunkard.
You dare call me coward after you lost your nerve at Chancellorsville?
Remember, I was on that field, and you were nowhere near Gettysburg."

Slocum's escort and staff were transfixed by the drama at the head
of the column, which had now stopped even its desultory advance. The
sound of the guns was becoming louder by the minute as the generals
cursed each other.

It did not last long. Hooker shut down the invective by relieving
Slocum and telling him to quit the Army immediately. He turned to the
corps chief of staff and announced that he himself would command XII
Corps. His orders came out in a torrent, and the aides raced down the
column to pass them on. Within minutes, the column began to move. It
had all happened too fast for the men down the column to know why
Slocum was riding past them to the rear.7

When Hooker was satisfied that the corps' two divisions were moving out smartly, he rode back to the fighting with the corps staff. He
turned to the chief of staff and smiled. "You know, Colonel, I used to be
a pretty good corps commander. Let's see if I still have the touch."

At the same time, Lord Paulet and his staff were riding through
Claverack with the Brigade of Guards in column following. The rest of
his force had swept on ahead on either side of the town. It was there that
the messenger reached him with the news that the railroad to Albany
had been cut, and that enemy cavalry was on his rear. One of Lieutenant Colonel Denison's scouts also reported seeing a column of British
and Canadian prisoners, estimated to be 800 men, being hurried south
by American cavalry.8 He had expected his second division of three brigades, another 7,800 men, to add to the 12,000 he had on the field.9 He
was a good enough soldier to know that his plans had been thrown seriously awry. He could no longer depend on the arrival of his second division. Wolseley was quick to also point out, "My lord, the enemy cavalry
continues to conduct a skilled delay that draws us forward into the dark.
We need information before we advance farther."