A Rainbow of Blood: The Union in Peril an Alternate History (47 page)

PLATTSBURGH, NEW YORK, 8:27 AM, NOVEMBER 9, 1863

Hooker warmed his hands at the fireplace and then turned to let the
fire's heat warm his backside, one of the great pleasures of a wintry day.
He looked through the windows of his comfortable headquarters at the
blizzard raging outside, the storm that had rung its white curtain down
so unseasonably on the war. The Army of the Hudson was snugly quartered from Plattsburgh to Albany. He knew how to take care of his men,
and they deserved it. It was their hard fighting that made him the hero
of the nation and the darling of New York. He swirled a brandy in its
glass, took a sip, and savored it. Mixed with fame, it was heady beyond
measure. The sight of a petticoat thrown over a chair the previous night
added just the right ingredient to the bouquet. Another reward of fame?

His victory would later be immortalized in a famous painting -the
meeting of Hooker and Meagher on the victorious field of Claverack
where the two leaned over in their saddles to embrace as the Ulster
Guard wildly waved the colors of the Grenadier Guards. Hooker would
dine out on this victory for the rest of his life, and if it had been such
a "close-run thing" as Waterloo, why, he would be careful to mention
that to add to that fame. And, of course, that fame shone all the brighter
when he praised his hard-bitten and gallant foe. His favorite story was
about his visit to the field hospitals after nightfall when he encountered
a number of wounded Grenadiers. He asked them why they had not
immediately retreated when taken under such fire. One had replied
promptly, "Why, sir, we are the Grenadier Guards."2

And that was only the truth. Their steadfast valor had ennobled his
victory. It did chafe him that the survivors had escaped annihilation and fought their way clear in good order, despite the fact that their senior
officers were dead or wounded. He took some wry satisfaction from
remembering the observation from one of his history courses taught on
the ancient Greeks at West Point by old Professor Mahan, "What the
gods give with one hand, they take away with the other." Captain McEntee's interrogation of prisoners revealed that it had been a one-eyed colonel who had led the enemy off the field, warding off every attempt to
snare the survivors. Night had closed off pursuit and saved the enemy.
Hooker had known the Army of the Hudson was too savaged by the
day's fighting to pursue even a kindergarten class. He was lucky to have
half the men at hand that he had taken into battle that morning, and they
were drained. Most had fallen asleep on their arms already. The clang of
doom would not have stirred them.3

Hooker put his bloodied army on the road two days later. Fighting Joe's pursuit was quickened by the drumbeat of the newspapers
cry for vengeance. He was their hero of the hour, Chancellorsville now
conveniently forgotten. Wolseley had not cooperated and had made his
speedy retreat between Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks, pulling
the remaining Imperial troops out of Albany and picking up the Canadian militia companies that had been garrisoning each railroad station
as he went. It was a masterful and heroic retreat, one that the British specialized in on occasion and wrung so much glory from. It would take its
place with Sir John Moore's retreat to Corunna. Wolseley kept his force
together, dodging and parrying Custer's cavalry and more than once
fighting right through their blocking positions. Still, Custer delayed him
enough at Plattsburgh for Hooker to come within a hair of bringing him
to bay, but the Anglo-Irishman wiggled out of a decisive engagement
and crossed the border into Lower Canada the next day and manned the
fortifications there.

Hooker was too good a politician to let that stop him. He had to be
the first American general to take the war to the enemy, yet his infantry
was too weak to assault the British in their defenses. Instead, he sent
Custer through the woods on logging trails to raise hell along the railway that ran between Richelieu and St. John. Wolseley was not spooked.
He could smell the snow in the air. It was Custer who barely got his men
out through the snowstorms.4

His back still to the delicious warmth of the fire, Hooker was doing
some serious thinking about that one-eyed colonel who had snatched
complete victory from him. He ordered McEntee to find out everything
he could about him and was gratified to find out that Sharpe's interest
in him was, if anything, greater. He had just finished reading Sharpe's
report that had come in over the wire. That one-eyed lieutenant colonel
was Garnet Wolseley, who had been jumped up to brigadier; the British
have the great knack of finding heroes in the midst of their disasters. His
name was on everyone's lips in London, a balm for defeat. There was
also a list of those mentioned in dispatches. He would have to find out
about the man who topped the list after Wolseley. Who was this fellow
Brown?

HEADQUARTERS, HER MAJESTY'S FORCES IN NORTH AMERICA,
MONTREAL, 9:10 AM, NOVEMBER 9, 1863

The St. Lawrence River flowed dull gray below them. From the height of
the stone fortress built by Louis XIV to protect New France, Hope Grant
and Wolseley looked down on the snow-blanketed slate roofs of Montreal, over the river, and to the south. In their minds' eyes, they were seeing Hooker's army in winter quarters. When the snow melted, Hooker
would lead it north to Montreal. The American dream of conquering
Canada now seemed all too real.

They would have to get past Grant and his violoncello first. Claverack had stunned Canada, and only Grant's triumph at Kennehunk had
given them hope that the Stars and Stripes would not be flying from
Halifax to Lake Superior by spring. Grant had been all energy from the
moment of his arrival, not least in bracing up the Canadians for the terrible campaigns of 1864.

But then something of a miracle happened. The Canadian legislature voted vast sums for defense, called up the Sedentary Militia, and
begged for more volunteers. Canada was born in the womb of such danger. A wave of intense feeling ran from one end of British North America to the other. Enough volunteers to fill every vacancy, and a hundred
more battalions flooded in. War loans were oversubscribed twenty times.
A soldier could not buy a drink. Even the French had come forward,
realizing that the Crown's mild rule was infinitely preferable to that of
Yankee conquerors.'

Wolseley commented on the last point, "We know how long that
will last."

Grant drew his bow across his violoncello to test the instrument.
He was worried how the cold might affect its tone, but clear, sweet notes
scented the air, and he smiled. "Ah, you see, Joe, how well she plays. The
army will play just as well in the spring. The battalions that are arriving
will not be the last."

"But, sir-"

Grant waved his bow. "I am not worried. There is opportunity here.
The key lies in your analysis of Hooker. I devoured your reports on the
voyage over, Joe. First rate and the best preparation I've ever had before
a campaign. The Crimea would have gone a damn sight better with such
preparation."

"The key, sir?"

"Yes, Hooker is vainglorious and ambitious beyond a fault. From
the American papers, he is riding as high as a balloon now, and I have
no doubt it will go right to his head faster than sweet champagne on an
empty stomach. I want him to come over the border on the first good
day. A truly dangerous enemy would wait until he was ready.

"Now we shall make good use of the winter, mind you. The enthusiasm of the Canadians will he critical."

Wolseley said, "All fine and good, sir. The Canadians are in this to
the knife. But Socrates put his finger on the problem. A collection of men
is no more an army than a pile of building materials is a house. There's
a limit to the training we can conduct in the winter, and Hooker will not
give us a day of good weather before he's over the border and at our
throats. The Americans will be pouring in from Detroit and Buffalo as
well, and they will march up to relieve Portland again. Thank God fifty
thousand Enfields arrived here earlier this year.

"Oh, I think the Canadians will be up to it. Now, gentlemen," he
turned to the other three officers sitting with him, "Are we ready?" They
bent to their instruments, and soon the delights of Eine kleine Nachtmusik
wafted through the great stone hall.

PORT HUDSON, 8:45 AM, NOVEMBER 9, 1863

Franklin would have changed places without hesitation with Chamberlain, who was now shut up again in Fortress Portland. From the battery parapet, he could see the endless dark blue and red columns of French
troops marching in from the east on Ponchatoula Road to join Taylor's
Confederates already manning the old Union siege works. He was
outnumbered at least four to one. His only trump was the Navy's Mississippi Squadron. In the weeks since he had brought his battered XIX
Corps through the bayous and swamps from the Vermillionville disaster,
he had done everything possible to put Port Hudson in a state to stand
siege. The news filtered down from the north had been had everywhere.
No reinforcements. His orders were to hold with what he had. Crowding
along the parapet was what gave him his greatest worry - one-third of
his garrison, the black men of the Corps d'Afrique.

God knew he did not know what to make of them. He had to admit
they maintained a sharp military bearing, and he found nothing to complain of in their guard duty or drill. What did take him aback was the
intensity of their religious experience when their own preachers called
them to God's work. It was a Sunday, and the power of their hymns
thundered over the parapets and down across the fields.'

Bazaine was also thinking about black troops, his Sudanese battalion, as he rode with his escort surveying the defenses. The shame of their
slaughter of prisoners at Vermillionville had stained the perfection of his
victory. They must atone.

He raised his arm to halt the group and leaned over in the saddle to
listen to the exotic rhythms pulsating from the fort. He asked what it was
and was told by his Confederate escort that it was the black Union troops
at church.

It occurred to him that there was a tidy solution to that little problem. It would he a very Gallic solution. Then he would take this place as
he had stormed the Malakoff Heights in the Crimea. The emperor would
deny him nothing.'

LOOKOUT CREEK, TENNESSEE, 7:45 PM, NOVEMBER 8, 1863

Longstreet sat his big sorrel on the banks of the creek as his veterans of
Hood's and McClaw's divisions filed past in the early evening gloom.
Bragg's "dramatic" removal from command left Jefferson Davis no
choice. He recalled Longstreet from his expedition against Lexington and
placed him in command of the Army of Tennessee. His arrival in camp
was greeted with cheers that were heard down in besieged Chattanooga.

He knew his own army was as besieged as the Army of the Cumberland, nailed to the surrounding heights, now worse supplied than
the Union troops below, with miserable shelter against this hard, early
winter. Already the sick lists were enormous. It was not in James Longstreet's nature to see his army waste away from sickness. He would lose
more men this way than in a battle. A battle was preferable, especially
one that could end the siege with the enemy's capitulation.

That's why he was down by Lookout Creek. The great cloudshrouded heights of Lookout Mountain towered above them as the
men of his old corps massed for the blow that would shut up the enemy
again, this time for good. A division of Sherman's corps faced them. Beyond their lines was Brown's Ferry, barely two miles away, across which
life's blood flowed to the Army of the Cumberland. He was going to cut
it and watch the enemy just bleed out.

His instrument, the most lethal offensive formation in North America, his mighty 1st Corps of the Army of Northern Virginia, would be
his instrument of slaughter. Their ranks had been dreadfully thinned by
Gettysburg and Chickamauga, but he had every faith in the hard, lean
men filing past him now.

THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, LONDON, 2:30 PM, NOVEMBER 9, 1863

Disraeli sat on a green leather bench, the soul of calm, as the division of
the House was announced. Parliament's method of voting had members
counted as they came through one door signifying yea or another for
nay, thus dividing.

The Liberal whips were as nervous as Disraeli was unmoved. Palmerston and Russell sitting opposite him appeared resigned to defeat. The
clamor for their removal had shaken the pillars of the British establishment fast on the heels of the disaster at Claverack. Disraeli had done
his subtle best to weaken those pillars in the public eye. Scandal had
helped. Palmerston had had a randy reputation even into his old age. In
the last few months, it has seemed he would be dragged into court over
improper relations with a Mrs. Cane. "This prompted wags in the clubs
of St. James to say of the septuagenarian Irish peer that, while she was
certainly Cane, was he Able?"8

Now the entire Liberal political structure-Palmerston, Russell,
Gladstone, and the rest-were pulled down by the weight of disaster, as if it were the temple whose house pillars had been snapped by a modern
Samson. The analogy occurred to Disraeli, who relished its Old Testament ring.

The division was announced. Cheers thundered from the Tory and
Radical benches. By a wide margin, the Liberals had lost a vote of confidence. Palmerston's ministry was dead. Now all that remained was for
the queen to ask Disraeli to form a new government. He rose to speak.
John Bright tried to catch his eye in this moment of their victory, but Disraeli looked away.

Men would later say it was his greatest speech. His once shrunken,
used-up frame, his sharpened, wraith-like features, all seemed to melt
away. Life flowed strong in him now, his black eyes glinted, and his
movements were graceful, even elegant. His oiled hair shone, especially
the curl so carefully draped over his forehead. He bowed slightly to the
Speaker.