breadbasket of Canada?”
Cardigan sighed. Of course the man was right. But what was he to do? If he sent his army west towards London, then he'd run the risk of it being in the wrong place should the Americans thrust north with another force at Niagara. Damn this Grant. The Union army was indeed a couple hundred miles away, but after spending several days crossing the river and consolidating its base, it had begun to move east down Dundas Street, just like Monck had said.
Cardigan was determined not to leave Hamilton until and unless he was reasonably assured of victory over the Americans. There was too much to risk. If he was not careful, he could lose Canada in an afternoon. Palmerston had made that simple fact plainly obvious to him.
“Would a token suffice?” Cardigan asked. “Who commands this mob you have gathering at London?”
“A journalist named D'Arcy McGee.”
“God help us,” Cardigan said. “May I safely presume that McGee knows nothing about forming an army?”
“You may presume that he knows far less than nothing.”
“Then I will send him a general. I will send him no less than the recently promoted hero of the New York attack, Brigadier General Garnet Wolsey. Will that suffice?”
“Of course not but if you won't send an army with General Wolsey: then it'll have to do. However, I doubt that the Canadian militia will obey him. McGee has formed this army, and he is hot tempered enough to throw out someone who tries to usurp his command.”
Cardigan groaned. Damn these Canadians. Do they want to be British or not? First they demand a degree of independence from Mother England, then, when threatened, they demand that Mother England rush to save them. What the devil did they truly want?
“Then I will send Wolsey as an adviser. Will that be acceptable to McGee and his militia?”
“I hope so.” Viscount Monck said fervently. “And God help those people gathering at London.”
Colonel John Rawlins handed the telescope to Nathan. “Here, would you tell me what those addled fools are up to?”
Nathan smiled and took the telescope. He didn't really need it to analyze the situation, but peered through it as a courtesy. Nathan had come to realize that John Rawlins was as bad an aide to Grant as he was a good friend. General Grant endured Rawlins's incompetence only because of that deep friendship. On several occasions, Nathan had seen Grant writing his own clear, lucid orders while Rawlins watched because Rawlins was such an abominable writer.
As a result, Nathan had begun to do some of the things that would normally have been done by a man who proclaimed himself Grant's chief of staff, a title that did not exist in the U.S. Army. Rawlins didn't seem to mind and Grant seemed grateful. Nathan sometimes wondered if Grant's extreme loyalty to his friends might not someday cause trouble. Right now it was a nuisance, but might it contain the seeds of tragedy?
Nathan returned the telescope. “I see a mob forming on the other bank of the river.”
Rawlins chuckled. “But not an army, is it?”
This fact had been reported by Union scouts as they advanced towards the Canadian city of London. Riding forward to confirm the sightings had been Rawlins^’ s idea.
“No, John. It is not an army.”
Rawlins shook his head sadly. “If they mean to fight us, they will be slaughtered.”
Nathan shuddered at the thought. All through their slow advance through the Ontario peninsula, he'd been pleasantly surprised at the prosperity of the area and the size of the population. If he hadn't known that he'd crossed the border into a foreign country, the land would have seemed just like Indiana or Ohio, with gently rolling hills and numerous prosperous farms, homesteads, and small towns. It saddened him to think that his was a conquering army marching across this pleasant country.
It saddened him more to think that the mob just across the Thames was willing to die for it. Rawlins had used the wordslaughter, and that was accurate. Union scouts reported the Canadian force at between eight and ten thousand men. Most had rifles or shotguns, but not all. The odd pitchfork or scythe was present as a weapon. There were few uniforms, and most wore red sashes to identify themselves as an army, and even the sashes were of varying shades of red.
Nathan saw no signs of military competence. No entrenchments had been dug and no barricades thrown up. There was no cavalry in sight, and there were only a handful of pitifully obsolete cannon to confront Ulysses Grant and three corps of battle-hardened Union soldiers.
A courier rode up and informed them that General Grant wished to see them. When they arrived, Grant was sitting alone on a stool in front of his tent. The stub of a cigar was clenched in his teeth, and he chewed it angrily.
“You saw them, didn't you? Lambs to the slaughter, aren't they?”
Rawlins and Nathan nodded. There was nothing to add. Grant removed the cigar, examined it. and flung it away. “I will not be associated with a massacre. At least.” he amended, “if I can avoid it.”
The previous victories won by Grant had all been against determined and equivalently armed and skilled foes. While Grant did not seem to fight for glory's sake, neither did he shy from it. There would be no glory in massacring the Canadians gathered a few miles away from them.
“We're camping here,” Grant said. “Tomorrow, l^: m sending a man across under a flag of truce. That man will try to talk them out of fighting. He will give them every opportunity to disband and go home. Nathan: will you try it?”
Nathan hid his surprise. “Yes: General. And what will happen if I fail?'^:
“If they will not see reason:'^: Grant said, “then it will be their failure, not yours. We will be spending the night preparing for battle tomorrow. If they do not see reason, I will be forced to destroy them. And rest assured I will do that with a heavy heart but without any compunction whatsoever.”
Nathan rode slowly out from the security of the massive Union lines. He had a large white flag, made from a sheet, attached to a flagpole. A corporal carried it and rode just behind Nathan. The morning sun was bright and he felt the warmth on his back as he rode toward the Canadian lines. It was a fine day to die, and an even better one to live.
There was no immediate response from the Canadians who were drawn up in plain sight on the far side of the sluggish and shallow Thames. As he kept his horse at a steady, methodical pace, he hoped the Canadians understood a flag of truce and that no one was hotheaded enough to take a shot at him. Grimly, he understood his own selection. Rawlins, along with being incompetent, was Grant's friend and the general didn't want to lose him, while all the others on Grant's staff had needed skills and were busy preparing for the battle. Nathan was the only one who was both unnecessary for the staff to function, and reasonably likely to pull off the task of getting the Canadians, many of whom now stood in plain sight, to abandon their foolish venture.
Nathan reached the bank of the Thames and rode into it. The water was low, swirling around the horse's knees. It wasn't much of a river and nothing of an obstacle, and there was no high ground covering it. Militarily, it was useless. It could be waded by a child. He paused and waited. In a few minutes a pair of riders under a white flag broke from the Canadian mass and rode slowly towards him. He was somewhat surprised to see that one wore the scarlet tunic of a British army officer.
Nathan signaled the corporal to stay behind and urged his horse forward. The three men met in the middle of the shallow river. “I am Colonel Nathan Hunter of General Grant's staff,” he announced.
The civilian was short, dark-haired, and in his mid-thirties. He glared angrily at Nathan. “I am D'Arcy McGee and I lead this army of Canadians against you American invaders. And this,” he said as he gestured abruptly to the man in uniform, “is Brigadier General Garnet Wolsey. He has been sent to advise me in military matters.”
The snappish tone of McGee^’ s statement told Nathan that the Canadian didn't think he needed advice from the British army. The brigadier ignored the slight.
They did not shake hands. Nathan recognized Wolsey's name from the reports of the New York debacle that had appeared in Canadian newspapers. He was surprised that Wolsey was so young, although the obviously wounded eye spoke volumes as to his military experience.
“Gentlemen,” Nathan began, “General Grant has sent me forward to see if we can prevent unnecessary loss of life.”
“It would help if you and your army would get the hell back where you came from,” said McGee.
