Knollys and Wolsey watched and, along with the other soldiers, cheered themselves hoarse as the mighty British warships departed. Swarms of infantry were busy destroying American guns and stores, but they, too, paused and waved their arms at the passing ships.
Wolsey grinned. “I suppose I should be more concerned about discipline, but, dammit, it's a good feeling. Damn the Americans. Damn them for challenging England.”
Knollys laughed. “Indeed, sir. When should we depart?”
“I have a thought,” Wolsey said with an impish smile. “Why don't we plant a colony right here and start all over again?”
A couple of soldiers working nearby heard him and stared in surprise. They thought he was serious.
“Don't worry,” he chided them and they smiled sheepishly. “I shan't leave you here with the savages.” He turned to his senior officers, who had gathered near him. “Once the Americans realize our ships are leaving, they shall move towards here and we shall let them. It's time to depart. We shall march immediately towards the shore, only this time we don't have as far to go or any need for stealth.”
Again, the soldiers began to cheer and, once again, Knollys raised his voice with them.
President Abraham Lincoln lowered his head. He was saddened to the point of despondency. Stanton and Seward were concerned that he might fall into one of those distressing emotional funks during which he was unable to function.
“Mr. Lincoln, it is not as bad as it seems,” said Stanton, his secretary of war and the man on whom most of the blame for the disaster at New York had fallen.
Lincoln looked up and managed a wan smile. “It isn't? Then might it be worse?”
Both men exhaled. The president would be all right. Reports said that New York Harbor was littered with sunken and burned hulks, while the waterfront and almost the lower third of the city hadbeen burned to the ground. Loss of property was almost incalculable, and the financial district had been ruined.
Tens of thousands of civilians were homeless, and it was only the fact that the weather was warm that kept people from dying by the hundreds from exposure and compounding the tragedy. More than eight hundred thousand people lived on Manhattan Island, with an additional quarter of a million across the river in Brooklyn. Martial law had been declared by New York's Governor Edwin Morgan, an act that seemed to have prevented utter chaos and kept down the death toll.
The totality of the disaster had been brought home by many dramatic and emotional sketches that had appeared in the newspapers, but it was the photographs by Mathew Brady, Timothy O^: Sullivan. and Alexander Gardner that were the most disturbing. They showed the stark truth, and it was horrific. The city had been devastated.
“The fires that have ravaged New York are out, and the people are beginning to trickle back in,” Stanton continued. “The army is setting up tent cities in Central Park and elsewhere for those who have lost their homes. Army engineers will commence rebuilding the city on a more permanent basis in a short while.”
Lincoln nodded. “And who is in charge of this? Surely it can't be General Banks.”
Nathaniel Stanton winced. Banks had been the general in command of the harbor defenses of New York and Boston, as well as a number of other cities. He had been forced upon a reluctant Lincoln because of his political connections-among other things, he had been the governor of Massachusetts-and had proven himself totally incompetent. While the destruction of Boston was somewhat attributable to Britain's surprise attack in overwhelming strength, the unpreparedness at New York following the Boston disaster was unconscionable.
“General Banks has resigned and has returned to Boston,” Stanton said. “And good riddance. With your permission, I have given command of all coastal defenses to General Pope.”
“Very good,” said Lincoln.
“Indeed it is,” seconded Seward, who didn't like being left out of any conversation. “Now if we can only get rid of others, like McClernand and Butler.”
Stanton fixed him with an icy glare. He did not like his army's shortcomings being discussed so breezily. “They will not interfere with the war effort.”
“But what of our ironclads?” Lincoln asked, bringing control of the conversation back to himself.
As if on cue, Secretary of the Navy Welles entered the room. “I have the pleasure to inform you that Captain Farragut has informed me that they are unharmed. It seems that the British admiral wasn't certain exactly where they were, or perhaps he didn't consider them a worthy target. Regardless, there was some damage to the facilities where they were being constructed, but, as they were on the Brooklyn side, it was minimal. There is nothing that couldn't be repaired in short order. That is being done.”
“Very good,” said Lincoln, obviously pleased. “And what of theMonitor herself?”
“We were fortunate there as well,” Welles said. “She had steam up at the time of the attack and, seeing herself overwhelmingly outnumbered and outgunned, prudently took herself up the East River and out of sight of the British. She will join with the others at the head of an ironclad fleet in a very little while.”
Lincoln smiled. An ironclad fleet. What a wonderful surprise that would be for the British. Of course, to complete it they had to get the recently launchedNewIronsides from Philadelphia to wherever the fleet was going to be assembled.
Secretary of State Seward cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to gain attention. “Mr. Lincoln, sir.”
“Yes: William,” said Lincoln. “What is it?”
“The French, sir. What shall we do about them?”
“What are they doing now?” Lincoln asked with some exasperation. The French seemed to be always conniving at something. In punishment for nonpayment of debts owed by the Mexican government. British, French, and Spanish troops had briefly occupied Mexico City. The British and Spanish had quickly withdrawn, but the French had remained.
“Mr. President, we believe the French troops will be reinforced and that a relative of the Austrian emperor, someone named Maximilian, will be ordained emperor of Mexico and will have his power enforced by French soldiers. This would result in Mexico being a vassal state of France and that, of course, is a clear violation of the Monroe Doctrine.”
Lincoln wondered if there was no end to the number of nations that would like to see the United States prostrate.
“Indeed it is. However, the last thing we need right now is to be involved in another conflict. Do what you think best regarding the French, but do not get us in a war with them. May I assume you have some thoughts on that matter?”
Seward smiled. “I do and I understand fully.”
Lincoln thanked them for their presence and their support. He then dismissed them. The devastating British assault on the million-plus civilians of New York, whether such destruction was intended or not, had galvanized the nation into the realization that Great Britain was as mortal an enemy as the Confederacy.
The president of the United States had a telegram to compose and send to General Grant.
The nation was just beginning to learn about General Ulysses S. Grant. What most didn't know was that it wasn't his real name. He had been born in 1822 and named Hiram Ulysses Grant. On arrival at West Point some two decades later, he^’ d been confronted by a mistake in the army's records. They had a cadet named Ulysses S. Grant from Ohio, but no Hiram Ulysses.
Prudently knowing not to argue with military records keepers, he'd allowed the name change to remain. After a short while, his fellow cadets decided that U.S. Grant stood for Uncle Sam and began calling him Sam. Again, he'd accepted the name change.
After his victories at Forts Henry and Donelson, some thought the initials stood for “Unconditional Surrender” for the harsh terms imposed on the garrison of Fort Donelson and Grant's onetime friend, Confederate general Simon Bolivar Buckner.
Grant's headquarters was at Cairo, Illinois, and Nathan Hunter was greeted with a surprising degree of warmth from a man he hadn't seen in years. Grant had never forgotten the moral support and friendship Nathan had offered during the dark days back in California.
Neither had Grant's wife, Julia. She, too, recalled a time when their friends were few and, even though she
