had never met Nathan before, welcomed him warmly.
Julia's presence was an added bonus since it meant that General Grant would not be drinking to excess. Energized by the command of an army, and emotionally comforted by the presence of his family, Grant had no need to drown himself in drink.
He had, however, recently taken up smoking cigars, and the short, trim, and slender general was now rarely seen without one.
“So, could you invade Canada?” Nathan asked as he puffed on one of Grant's cigars. They were nowhere near the quality he preferred, but Nathan was not going to say so to Grant.
Grant shrugged. “Why not?”
Nathan recalled that Grant was sometimes a man of few words. “Have you been contemplating such an attack?”
Grant smiled and exhaled a puff of noxious blue smoke. “You want me to say yes, then yes. Of course I have been. The original war plan was for me to take my army down the Mississippi and capture Vicksburg while somebody else took New Orleans and Port Hudson. With that done, the Confederacy would be cut in half. But I can't do that while the British protect New Orleans and keep our warships off the Mississippi; so, yes, to while away the time I have been thinking of Canada. In fact, I've been thinking a lot of Canada. Are you aware that I've been there?”
Nathan was not aware, and Grant told him that he had been stationed on Lake Ontario at Sacketts Harbor. New York. and. more important, at the barracks in Detroit. Michigan.
“Detroit was a marvelous assignment,” said Grant. “We had a little house on East Fort Street, 243 I believe it was, and it was just a short walk to the riverfront, where Julia and I could see the Canadian city of Windsor. On several occasions we crossed the river and explored the area for pleasure. I would say I know Canada as well as any man in the army.”
For the usually taciturn Grant, it had been a long speech, and he dropped into silence. Finally, he broke the spell. “This thing in New York has the potential to free me to go into Canada, doesn't it?”
The news of the burning of New York had struck the area like a thunderbolt. The overwhelming majority of people in the Midwest had never been anywhere near New York, but they were proud of the greatest American city and were furious that the British had wantonly burned it.
Nathan had arrived in Cairo just after the news about New York had been telegraphed across the nation, and had seen the anger on people's faces. He, too, had wondered if his instructions to tell Grant to plan but take no action were any longer relevant.
“With nothing more to do about the Mississippi,” Grant said, “I have been planning thoroughly about Canada. I've included members of my staff in the planning since I thought it prudent. I told them it was an exercise to keep us all mentally sharp. So yes, I have planned, planned, and planned. I know exactly how to invade Canada and where to invade Canada.” He chuckled. “All those picnics in Canada with Julia will prove to be more important than the simple pleasure they gave us.”
Nathan could only listen. This wasn't the shy young captain he'd recalled from California, nor was it the man who had been a scarcely adequate student at West Point, who had admitted to reading more romance novels than military tomes during his years there. No, at some point, Ulysses Grant had come out of a cocoon and emerged as a new man. The metamorphosis from a shaken and insecure captain to that of a proud and incisive general who inspired through his actions, and not through pomp and rhetoric, was astonishing.
“Trouble comes,” said Grant. “Or enlightenment.”
Lieutenant Colonel John Rawlins approached them at a fast walk. Rawlins was Grant's chief of staff and a friend from Galena, Illinois. He had two assignments: keep Grant organized, and keep Grant sober when it looked like he would fall. He was good at the latter, but a poor organizer. Rawlins had a piece of paper in his hand, a telegram.
“What is it. John?” Grant asked. Nathan saw the general tense.
“From Washington, Sam, I mean, General.” He looked meaningfully at Nathan.
“It's all right,” Grant said. “He's a good friend.”
Rawlins took a deep breath and smiled hugely. “Mr. Lincoln wants you to invade Canada.”
Hannibal Watson knew nothing of the events to the north of him. He had only one thing on his mind and that was the survival of his growing band. He now had doubts as to whether they'd actually manage to get to Union- controlled lands in the distant north. For one thing, the farther north they went, the more Confederate patrols they saw and had to evade. For another, he had to deal with a larger group of followers than before, and not all of them were people he trusted.
Hannibal hadn't intended for his small group to grow larger, but they'd found a number of Negroes wandering in the woods as they trekked northward, so that now his band numbered more than fifty. A handful of others had been slaves on the small farms they raided for food and other supplies, and these could not be left behind.
Most of the men had weapons, and all knew how to use what they had. About half were armed with rifles or shotguns, while the rest made do with knives and axes. Hannibal tried to console himself that there was safety in numbers, but the truth was that his group was becoming too large to be handled. Where a handful of people could sneak through the woods and swamps, a larger group would leave a trail that could be followed. Where a small band needed but little in resources, fifty or more needed that much more in the way of food.
Thus, they had become raiders. Intuitively adopting the way of the forest Indians, they scouted out small farms and attacked suddenly in the dark of night and in overwhelming strength. Of necessity, killing occurred, and it bothered Hannibal. He was not against killing as such, but the more who were killed the more likely it was that a major Confederate force would be sent to hunt them down and kill them like mad dogs. As they moved, he sometimes wondered if there wasn't a regiment of cavalry over the next hill just waiting for them. He kept his doubts to himself. His real nightmare was that shrieking riders would overwhelm them during the night just as they overwhelmed the farms. So far, they'd been both smart and lucky. He could be smart for a long time, but how long would his luck last?
Again of necessity, they had adopted the stark policy of leaving no survivors from the raids and of hiding the dead in the woods. Maybe they were found and maybe they weren't. Hannibal didn't know.
A woman's scream and a groan of agony interrupted his thoughts. Hannibal gathered his rifle and headed to the source. “Damn it,” he snarled.
One of the newly freed slaves was fucking a woman. Two others held her arms down and her legs apart while the new man-Reginald, a house slave from Alabama-lay on top of her with his sweaty buttocks pounding furiously.
Hannibal kicked Reginald in the side. For a second, Reginald gave no notice, then he grunted and rolled off the naked woman. Hannibal realized in dismay that she was white. She was in her mid-thirties, skinny, and pinch- faced, as were so many in the hills. Her face was bloodied and her eyes spoke pure hatred as she looked from person to person in the dark-skinned group standing above her.
“You fool,” snarled Hannibal. “We've got no time for this shit.” Reginald laughed. “Always time for fucking.”
“Kill her,” said Hannibal.
“Shit, Hannibal, she throwed herself at me. Came at me naked and all that. She wanted it bad and I gave it to her.” He gestured at the two men who'd been assisting in the rape. “Me and my brothers only wanted what she wanted.”
Hannibal paused. This sounded suspiciously like what Bessie had done with the catchers some weeks past. Had the same trick just been played on him?
They had attacked a small homestead. He thought everyone was in the house when it had been stormed, but now he wondered. “Where'd the woman come from?”
Reginald pointed towards the barn. “Over there.”
Hannibal leaned over the naked and violated woman. “Was you alone?”
She managed a harsh laugh through split and bloodied lips. “Go to hell, nigger.”
