CHAPTER TWO

GENERAL WIN FIELD SCOTT was a gigantic and corpulent caricature of himself. At seventy-five years of age, he still stood six feet, five inches tall, but now weighed in at a flabby three hundred pounds plus instead of the hard and muscular two hundred and thirty of his youth. It was difficult for him to walk, much less ride, and his breath came in wheezes. He knew he should cut down on the rich food and the good wine, but he was helplessly addicted to the finer things of life.

Scott was a study in contradictions. While he condemned the abuse of liquor by his enlisted men, he saw nothing wrong in drinking it himself. He also believed that a true American was of Anglo-Saxon stock and distrusted the wave of immigrants from Ireland and Germany as a threat to the United States. Still, he readily admitted, they served a noble purpose in the Union army.

There were those who thought Scott's mind had gone and that the man the Duke of Wellington, Napoleon's conqueror, had described as the finest soldier of his era, was a senile fool. And there were times when Scott himself felt they were right.

The general stood and extended his hand as Nathan entered the room, limping slightly. “Good to see you again, Captain.”

The two men shook hands. Nathan was shocked at the weakness in Scott's grip. “I'm glad to see you, sir, but it's no longer captain, or have you forgotten?”

Scott sat back down in the large overstuffed chair that seemed to engulf him despite his size, and gestured Nathan to its companion. “I've forgotten a little, but not that. I just feel more comfortable calling you by that rank.”

“And I, too, prefer to call you general, even though you've retired.”

Scott smiled. “Thank God. I'm not ready to be referred to as Mr. Scott, or anything else for that matter.”

Nathan understood. General Scott would always be General Scott. The man known with irreverent affection as Old Fuss and Feathers was a stickler for military protocol. He would never change and would always be called general. Nathan could conceive of nothing else even though he had been distantly related to Scott by virtue of Nathan's late wife being Scott's wife's cousin. Nathan had once tried to chart the relationship on a piece of paper, but had given up in frustration at the tangled genealogical weave.

Neither man had known of the relationship until Nathan had been a junior officer on Scott's staff for several months. It had amused both of them, since they both lived and worked in a city where nepotism worked wonders in advancing one's career.

The personal relationship between the general and the younger officer had developed and then deepened on Amy's untimely death. Nathan had loved her deeply and General Scott had been very fond of her. Scott, a man with a loving wife and a large family, had tried to help the young officer through the agony of his grief. Scott's wife of a lifetime, Maria, had also done her best to console him. To a large extent, she had succeeded, and Nathan would be forever thankful for their help.

Then Nathan had been transferred out west. It had been Scott's idea to get him away from his memories, but it hadn't worked out according to plan. A horse shot by an Apache had fallen on Nathan and crushed his leg. He still limped, although he didn't need the cane as much as he had in the past. Miserable, wet weather still caused it to ache, like it did today.

Nathan had convalesced in California and then been offered the opportunity to resign his commission. He had accepted. The army no longer held anything for him beyond painful memories. “Would you like a drink?” Scott asked. “I have some excellent scotch whiskeys.” “Not right now, thank you.”

Scott appeared disappointed. He had written frequently of the evils of drinking among the enlisted soldiers, but did not feel that any prohibition extended to senior officers or men of good taste. “As you wish. Now, my young friend, how are you doing? You look fit and trim and, except for the touch of gray hair about your ears, you look young. More important, though, how are you handling your memories?”

Nathan took a deep breath. “My wife is dead and has been for more than five years. I have to live with that fact and deal with it. I have mourned and grieved and that part of my life is over. As they say, I have begun to get on with the rest of the time I have left on this earth.”

“Which will doubtless be of greater duration than mine,” Scott said drily. “After all, you are about forty years my junior.” Nathan managed a small smile. “Indeed. However. I will never forget Amy no matter how long I live.” “Nor should you, my friend, but I am glad that you are indeed moving on.”

An interesting and very personal comment, Nathan thought. He had begun seeing women again, but had formed no serious attachments. There had been a couple of pleasant romps, but there was the nagging feeling that some women were after his money. Or, more precisely, the wealth that he had inherited as a result of Amy's death. Her family had left their investments and holdings to her and she had bequeathed them to him. He was rich, but he'd rather have Amy beside him at night. “Time changes people,” Nathan said.

“And sometimes for the better,” Scott replied. “I have been married to my dear Maria for more than forty years and she has borne me so many children I often forget their names. God knows I can never keep the grandchildren and great-grandchildren straight. Perhaps I am senile.”

“And where is your wife, sir?”

Scott's face clouded. “She's still in Europe seeking a cure for her ailments. She will not find them there. I only hope she realizes that and returns to me so we can spend our last months together.”

Nathan turned away. There was a hint of a tear in the old general's eye and Nathan's eyes began to mist as well. Dear Mrs. Scott, he thought. What a loss it would be if she were to pass away. If? No. more like “when.”

“General, I was in New York when your summons came. I took the train to Baltimore and rode here directly. I suspect you had an important reason for contacting me?” “Of course. But you rode from Baltimore? Why not continue by train? It would have been both safer and quicker. Or was it a train you didn't own?”

Nathan laughed. Some of his investments were in railroads. “No, but I did reserve a car and had my horse shipped with me. I chose to get off in Baltimore because it is a mess getting into Washington by train as a result of all the war traffic. Also, I wanted to see the defenses of the city, and I did.”

Nathan did not add that he'd been riding a strong fast horse, had carried a bowie knife in his boot, a short sword in his cane, and a Colt revolver in a holster strapped to his chest. He was an expert with all and had considered himself quite safe.

Nathan recounted his meeting with the sodden sentry. “The poor lad had no reason being there. He was virtually beneath the guns of Fort Slocum, which were far more intimidating than he was. At least the poor boy was well uniformed and well armed. Indeed, just about all the soldiers I saw today looked like they actually belong in an army.”

“For that we must thank McClellan,” Scott said. “My successor has done an outstanding job in organizing, arming, and training an army. He has turned the mob that failed at Bull Run into a massive and fearsome-looking war machine. My only concern is that he will never use it.”

Prior to the war, Nathan had met George Brinton McClellan on several occasions. The two men were the same age, although the precocious McClellan had been two years ahead of Nathan at the Academy. Over the years, their paths had crossed several times. McClellan had even resigned his commission the same year Nathan had. After that, McClellan had gone into the railroad business as vice president of the Illinois Central Railroad and, later, president of the Ohio & Mississippi.

“I am confident he will smite the enemy hip and thigh,” Nathan said.

Scott sighed. “Sad to say, I am not as confident as you are. Now, let's get to the reason I asked you to come. Tell me, have you considered getting your commission back? With your background, you could easily be a colonel tomorrow, perhaps even a general by next week. There is a dire shortage of people with military experience.”

Nathan shook his head. “I'm not ready for that. I've had good men die needlessly under my command and it nearly destroyed me. I know some officers are able to handle that, but the way those men died was just too much.”

“But might you be, someday?”

“It's possible,” Nathan admitted. It was no longer quite so easy to say never when his conscience asked him if he was going back to the military to serve his country. He knew he was many times better than some of the men who were now called colonel, or even general. “Time will tell.”

“And what about Mr. Lincoln and his war?”

“I consider his election a tragic mistake. I voted against him and I think he is the reason the South seceded. I doubt that he is competent to run this nation, and his election was to the South like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Had someone else become president, then perhaps the problems of slavery and states' rights could have been deferred long enough for everyone to grow tired of them and cause them to go away. However, I grant that it would have been unlikely, given the tenor of the times.

“Having said that, General Scott, Mr. Lincoln is our president, and what the South did is illegal and will destroy our nation unless stopped. Thus, like it or not, I support the war. The South must be brought back to the fold.”

“Very good. You are aware of the disaster involving the Trent are you not?” Scott asked. “Certainly.”

The taking of the unarmed British ship was in everyone's thoughts and was discussed wherever men gathered, Every newspaper carried articles questioning whether it would bring war, An astonishing number of them seemed to welcome it,

“I was in France when the news of it reached the continent” Scott said with a deep sigh. “France fairly exploded in anger against the United States, and I can only imagine what it was like in England. After making a few inquiries about France's position on the matter, I took the fastest ship possible back to the States, as I feel I can be of use here. In my opinion,” Scott continued, “the affair with the Trent will result in war with Great Britain.”

“I find that hard to believe, sir. Even an incompetent like Lincoln understands the need to mollify the British, We cannot fight both the South and Great Britain at the same time. Lincoln will not give in to the small minds who have proclaimed the irrational and irresponsible Captain Wilkes an American hero, I am confident Lincoln has apologized to Great Britain and that the issue will go away.”

“Nathan, I am not as confident as you are. Don't forget that I've dealt with England on a diplomatic basis. I assure you that there are forces in Great Britain that wish a war with us, and now that fool Captain Wilkes has given them a reason, Right now. Wilkes is likely speaking before some anti-British group or other and proclaiming the justice of what he did, When he is done, he will be cheered to the rafters, In the meantime, England feels humiliated and demands revenge,”

Scott slapped the arm of his chair in frustration, “But what if the British do not accept our apology, as I fear they will not? It has been almost a month since the San Jacinio made port with her prisoners, and ships with the news saiied to Britain almost immediately. Less than a week after that a ship with the formal American response set sail.

“You are right, of course. Lincoln's response is a groveling apology. He has also released Mr. Slidell and Mr. Mason and the others in the party, and they have taken themselves to England. In other times, it would be a generous response to right a wrong, but I believe the British will have had time to let the wound fester before our ship even arrived. And,” he sighed, “I believe they will decide that war is the appropriate course of action,”

Scott again sighed deeply. “But the taking of the Trent is a grievous insult, and I fear that Britain will wish more than an apology, She will wish her pound of flesh, along with several more.”

Nathan sagged back in his chair, “That would be tragic, No, a disaster, another one, And what does that have to do with my being here?”

General Winfield Scott sat straighten and now there was steel in his eyes, “If we must wage war with England again, I wish us to win it. I wish for you to be an instrument of that victory,”

Nathan looked at him in disbelief, then shook his head. “General Scott, I think I'll have that drink now.”

Nathan had been to Europe and had sampled a number of the brandies and liquors of the continent, but was unfamiliar with the whiskeys of Scotland.

“What do you recommend?” he asked.

“The Chivas Regal is a smooth blend, and the J & B also a blend, but a touch less smooth. The Glenlivet and the Glenmorangie are single malts, which makes them a bit on the harsh side to the uninitiated, but, as we are discussing war, they are more appropriate. Try the Glenlivet and pour me a generous one as well.”

It was almost absurd. They had been discussing imminent war and now the old general was discoursing on the differences between liquors. The general had always been an expert on food and drink. Even in the roughest of military camps he had demanded excellent food if it could possibly be procured. Strangely, his men, many of whom had been rough frontiersmen, had thought it humorous and liked him for it. Their affection became part of Scott's legend.

Scott took his glass and raised it. “To the Union, Nathan.”

Nathan touched his to the general's and repeated it, They sipped and Nathan felt the slow fire of the whiskey warm his body, He decided he should have had one right away, as it quickly did an excellent job of dispelling the chill brought on by the rain.

“What do you expect of me?” Nathan asked.

“First let me explain something. I resigned as commanding general of the United States Army because Secretary of War Cameron connived against me. He thought I was untrustworthy because I was a Southerner from Virginia, and he also thought my age and general weakness would not permit me to exercise day-to-day command of an army at war. In peace, Old Fuss and Feathers could function adequately, In wartime, Cameron and his cabal thought a younger and more energetic man was needed, There is also the fact that no one believed in my plan for subjugating the South, I estimated it would take a couple of years and they said that was far too long. As a result, I was coerced into directing General McDowell to advance on Manassas with an army that was unprepared and was led by a man who was not ready. I take the blame for that decision,

“Secretary of War Simon Cameron is a fool. I served the United States all my life. I was not going to change now. Are you aware that Jefferson Davis offered me command of the Confederate forces?”

Nathan was, There was more than a little irony in the fact that while Scott had been offered command of the rebels, Robert E, Lee had been offered command of the Union forces by Scott,

As for Scott's plan to defeat the South, it called for a blockade of the South and a slow strangulation of her military and economic resources. It was realistic and well thought out. Unfortunately, the nation would have none of it. They wanted immediate victory; two or three years was far too long to wait.

Scott's plan had been derided as overlong and pessimistic. Someone had dubbed it the Anaconda Plan, and the name had stuck. The plan had been tossed away and the Union forces had jubilantly attacked the Confederates at Bull Run, confident in an easy victory that would end the war in one day.

It had not worked out that way. The Union had endured a smashing defeat, and now the South was being blockaded, and the Union armies in the west were forming for slow advances. By default, the Anaconda Plan was being put into slow, grinding action.

“You were right, of course, sir.”

Scott took a swallow of his whiskey. “Sometimes I wish I was wrong. But it does prove that there is nothing wrong with my mind. No, I do not want to command again-that would be folly. I am not senile, or demented, but I am old and do lack the energy of a younger man, and, when I get tired, I get forgetful. No, I do not wish to command. I only wish that Cameron had permitted me a more graceful exit.”

“What then?”

“I wish to advise.”

“McClellan?”

“Hardly. I doubt the Young Napoleon would take advice from God, although he might presume to give it to the deity.”

Nathan thought the indictment was a little harsh. McClellan certainly had an enormous ego, but he was still a reasonable man. Or at least the man Nathan had met prior to the war had been a reasonable man.

“Then who, General?”

“Lincoln. The president is the commander in chief. He must act like it. He must grow into the position, and he must do so quickly. He must not be dominated by minds like McClellan's.”

Nathan understood Scott's dilemma. He could not openly try to advise his president lest it look like he was undercutting the responsibilities of the new commanding general, George Brinton McClellan. Therefore, Scott wished Nathan to act as a conduit between himself and the president.

“I see why you weren't very upset that I hadn't taken a commission,” Nathan said. “As a civilian, I can move around freely and am not subject to any military officer's orders.” Scott smiled. “Precisely.”

Nathan poured himself another inch of whiskey, and then added the same quantity to Scott's outstretched glass. Despite his lack of confidence in Lincoln, he found himself intrigued. Then he hated himself for realizing that Scott had planned that he would be intrigued. Damn him.

“Just how do you intend for me to start? I don't know Mr. Lincoln, or anyone else in the current administration.”

Scott dismissed that problem. “On Friday, two days from now, there will be a reception, a salon, held by the French embassy. There haven't been many such parties recently, which means that it will be well attended. Lincoln will not go, as his wife gets lost and confused at such activities. This means that several other key people will not attend because they consider it politically expedient to not do so. There will, however, still be a great number of very important people in attendance, and I wish you to be there as the first step in my scheme. I have arranged for you to be invited to the reception, and I have a short list of people I wish you to contact. In particular, I wish you to meet a Mr. John Hay.”

“Don't know him,” Nathan said. He was beginning to feel tired and he yawned hugely. The whiskey on an empty stomach was starting to win.

Scott ignored it. “John Hay is a very young man, only in his early twenties. He is handsome, bright, diligent, and hardworking. He is also one of Mr. Lincoln's personal secretaries, an assistant to Mr. Nicolai. I wish you to give Mr. Hay a note from me to Mr. Lincoln. If you assure him that discretion is paramount, he will understand.”

“That's it?”

“Then we wait and see what transpires. It may be days or even weeks before Mr. Lincoln responds, although I hope not much longer. In the meantime, you may reside here along with me. There's plenty of room for us and we won't get in each other's way. The house was rented on my behalf by a wealthy friend who paid a price well in excess of its worth.”

“Is the renter anyone I know?”

“You.”

“Damn, sir,” Nathan said and then exploded in laughter.

Almost since the first guns had been fired at Fort Sumter, British shipbuilders had conspired with the Confederacy in a great deception against the Union. Specifically, British shipyards contracted to build blockade-runners and commerce raiders for the South. The subterfuge was simple. A foreign company, French or Dutch for instance, would have the ship built as a merchant vessel in a British yard, and sailed out under its national flag and with an appropriate non-Confederate crew. When it reached a neutral destination, the crew was exchanged for a Southern one, the ship was armed, and sent on its way.

Through spies that roamed the waterfronts of England, France, and the other seafaring nations, the Union was aware of the duplicity. The Union's ambassador to Great Britain, Charles Francis Adams, had complained mightily to Her Majesty's government, but to no avail. It served Great Britain to permit the Confederacy to act in such a manner and to pretend it wasn^’t happening. The actions were condoned to the extent that British warships often accompanied the counterfeit merchant ships out to the open sea to ensure that Union warships did not attempt to stop them.

On this day. the unarmed and brand-new “merchant” ship Henrietta was making her maiden run from Liverpool. It was common knowledge that the sleek and swift ship had been built for blockade-running and not for sailing stolidly into a safe harbor with a hull full of bulk goods. At a given place and time, the Henrietta would be renamed and transformed into a Confederate blockade-runner.

On this day, the disguised rebel was escorted out of Liverpool by the Royal Navy's steam frigate Gorgon, as just over the horizon lay the U.S. sailing frigate St. Lawrence. The Gorgon's duty was to ensure that the coyly named Henrietta safely cleared British waters and was sent on her way unimpaired. If she was captured later, well, that would be someone's bad luck. She would not, however, be stopped by an American while in anything approximating British waters.

The Gorgon mounted seventy-four guns to the St. Lawrence's fifty, and the qualitative difference was even greater than the numeric as the Gorgon's weapons were newer and larger. Further, the British ship's ability to use steam instead of depending on sail and the whims of wind made her an adversary with overwhelming advantages.

As the Confederate in disguise and the British warship headed out of harbor, a number of other, smaller craft followed. Their passengers and crew were in search of excitement.

In a short while, the U.S. ship hove into view. The Gorgon interposed herself between the Henrietta and the St. Lawrence and, almost contemptuously, signaled that the smaller American ship must depart the area. The American declined.

On board the Gorgon. Captain David Hawkes fumed at the insolence of America in general and this American ship in particular. There had been no response from the Yank, and Hawkes considered his options. He hadn't received official word that Great Britain was at war with the United States, although it was common knowledge that such notice would be forthcoming. England was not going to sit still while her helpless ships were sunk. For all Hawkes knew, news of the war was waiting for him at the dock back at Portsmouth.

This confronted Hawkes with a dilemma. His orders were to protect the Henrietta and nothing more unless the American tried something rash. But if war had been declared, the St. Lawrence was a legitimate target and should be taken. If he let her go, then she might prey on other British shipping.

“Order the American to heave to,” Hawkes commanded. He would board her and have her taken back to England, where people greater than he could sort it out.

When the St. Lawrence didn't respond, Hawkes ordered the Gorgon's guns run out and a warning shot fired. He noted that, while the St. Lawrence's gun ports were open, her cannon had not been run out. This was a condition that could be changed in an instant, and the American's gun crews were doubtless poised to do just that.

The St. Lawrence again did not respond. Instead, she turned and started to sail away. For an instant, Hawkes found himself admiring the graceful lines of a ship that belonged to a bygone era. Sail had first been replaced by the steam engine and the paddle wheel. Soon the cumbersome and vulnerable paddle wheel had been succeeded by a propeller, or screw, that was beneath the stern of a ship like the Gorgon and safely out of the way.

The St. Lawrence and others like her were two generations behind modern warships. Even the mighty Gorgon had fallen behind. She could not compare with ironclad monsters like the Royal Navy's Warrior and Black Prince, or France's Gloire.

“One more warning shot,” Hawkes said sadly. His course of action was now clear to him.

The Gorgon's naked masts were in stark contrast to the billowing sails of the anachronistic St. Lawrence, The U.S. ship continued to ignore him, and even ran out her guns. It was a threat the British captain could not ignore. Hawkes easily maneuvered the Gorgon so that his powerful port-side guns could rake the stern of the St. Lawrence.

“Fire,” he ordered and, seconds later, the broadside thundered out, causing the ocean around the ships to quiver. The shells from the Gorgon smashed through the St. Lawrence and streaked down her length, smashing the guns and maiming the crew, who were swept away by the torrent of metal and wooden splinters.

The Gorgon turned and presented her starboard guns to the desperately maneuvering American. A second broadside thundered, again raking the St. Lawrence, and she shook as if a giant hand had grasped her and pummeled her. A few of the American's guns returned fire, but to no effect. Hawkes wondered if they had been aimed or set off by the fires that were ravaging the ship. No matter, the American's honor was intact-she had fired back. Why didn't she strike her colors?

A third British broadside brought down a mast and caused a massive explosion within the smaller American vessel. Hawkes watched as a body was flown clear of the ravaged ship. It was enough. The American flag was run down.

Hawkes ordered the cease-fire and sent men to take over the frigate and to treat the American wounded. From the looks of the ship, there must be literally hundreds of casualties. God help the United States of America if this was the best they had in the way of warships. The St. Lawrence had been both toothless and helpless in comparison with the Gorgon . It had been an execution, not a fight.

“Well” Hawkes said grimly as he turned to the knot of officers gathered behind him. “If we weren't at war before, we certainly are now.”