The Banished Children of Eve (62 page)

“General,” Meagher said, “I want you to know that your leadership has inspired us all.”

“No, no,” McClellan
said. “It's my men. They're the real heroes of this campaign.” He blew on his coffee and slurped it loudly.

“I can't speak for the other men,” Meagher said, “but I can speak for my own, and we Irishmen are a race that looks to chieftains, it's in our blood, and when we find one with your combination of courage and skill, we'll follow him anywhere, even to hell.”

McClellan stood. He stared down at the Oriental rug, a dizzying pattern of intricate coils and vines. He studied it as if it were a map, a place where he might find some clue to the devious stratagems of his Confederate adversary. After a moment, he looked up from the rug and its impenetrable designs. “You are kind, General Meagher,” he said. “You also have the customary eloquence of your race. And because you have been so forthright with me, I will be the same with you. I have husbanded my troops and exposed them to risks only when I judged there to be an opportunity to break the enemy's line or the necessity to defend my own. In the face of overwhelming odds, and denied the reinforcements I had been promised, I have brought this army here with its honor and strength preserved.” McClellan's eyes returned to the rug. “And yet, there are those ready to describe what I have achieved as treason.
Treason.
That is part of the villainous vocabulary being employed in Washington to impugn not only my competency but my loyalty.”

“A man's deeds are his gold,” Meagher said, “and yours are minted in the same imperishable metal as Hannibal's, Caesar's, and Sarsfield's.”

McClellan looked up again. “Sarsfield?” he said.

“The greatest of Irish heroes,” Meagher said. “He was a brilliant commander in the Williamite War. After the Irish defeat and the mass flight of the Irish soldiery to the Continent, Sarsfield joined the French army and died fighting with them, at the Battle of Landen in 1693.”

McClellan's thick black eyebrows knitted, in something between puzzlement and a frown. He took a gulp of his coffee. An adjutant came across the rug. “General,” he said, “I'm sorry to interrupt, but the enemy approaches.” McClellan looked off to the James, toward the vast flotilla of flag-bedecked ships that had gathered to evacuate the army, and without another word he went outside and remounted his horse.

“I never forget
my brother soldiers,” McClellan said, “particularly my brave Irishmen. If I'd been given a hundred more brigades like yours, the war would be over today and the Union restored. But I wasn't. There were those who were willing to see the killing continue in order to deny me the victory. The words of this morning's psalm, then, rang with special meaning in my heart: ‘Consider mine enemies; for they are many; and they hate me with cruel hatred.'”

Noonan said, “The brigade did its best for you.”

“Of course, of course. The same may be said of the whole army. Its loyalty has been an inspiration. A mutuality of affection, I might add, for if it's true that never in the history of warfare has a commander, had more confidence in his men, it's equally true that never has an army had more confidence in its commander. This latest engagement is the final, conclusive proof of that.”

In the first week of July, the papers had reported that McClellan was in Albany helping with the organization and dispatch of militia troops to Pennsylvania. Noonan was sure now that McClellan had been nowhere near Gettysburg.

“Which engagement is that, General?”

“Gettysburg.”

“You were at the battle?”

“In spirit, yes. Practically every dispatch from the battlefield reported that the troops believed I had been returned to command. The rumor was so universal it took on the force of truth, and the army went into battle thinking it was fighting for me. It was, if you'll pardon the expression, ‘McClellan's ghost' who won the field. There will be no doubt of that when the histories are written. The evidence is overwhelming. I mean, George Meade is a decent enough sort, but to conceive of him beating Lee in a three-day struggle—really, it's preposterous on the face of it.”

The undertaker approached.
He was eager to replace the ice around Zook's coffin and to cover the wet carpet before the public viewing began. “Gentlemen, please, if I may ask you to step outside.”

“It's been an honor to see you again, General,” Noonan said. “But I must be going. I have business to attend to.”

McClellan moved in front of Noonan as-if to leave, but then stopped. He stood blocking the doorway.

“Gentlemen, please, if you don't mind moving outside,” the undertaker said.

McClellan ignored the undertaker and stood his ground. “The papers make increasing mention of your business, Colonel Noonan.”

“The news from Gettysburg and Vicksburg, which has been most welcome, has overshadowed our work,” Noonan said, “but now it's our turn for attention.” He could see Wool pacing the lobby impatiently.

McClellan put on his hat but didn't move. “If ever there were proof of the bankruptcy of the administration's policy, this is it. I know you're doing your duty, Colonel Noonan, as any soldier must, but the political strategy being dictated by the President cannot save the Union.”

Instead of trying to outflank McClellan, the undertaker walked straight toward him. McClellan stepped out of the way. Noonan moved around McClellan's flank into the lobby. Wool had left the building and was slowly descending the steps.

“Remember what I tell you, Colonel Noonan,” McClellan said. “The draft will not help us win the war.”

McClellan out of the way, the undertaker closed the door to the chamber where Zook's body lay.

“But, General,” Noonan said, “you yourself encouraged the President to impose the draft almost two years ago.”

“Was a different war
back then, a war solely for the Union, the Constitution, the national destiny. In such a struggle, conscription was not only conceivable but enforceable. The honest, patriotic mechanic and farmer could clearly see the necessity of it. But the administration has made this a war for the Negro. That is what we are asking our boys to fight and die for, the confiscation of the South's population of woolly heads. Before the administration can hope once more to have the support of the people, it must return to the one issue this war was begun upon. If it won't, the country will demand a new administration.”

“I must take my leave, General,” Noonan said. “But I make no apologies for the draft. To my mind, conscription and emancipation are both weapons that must be used in the winning of this war.”

“I ask no apologies, but if you should wish to continue our conversation, feel free to come out to Orange Mountain. I'm returning there this afternoon and expect to spend the summer. The door is always open to my old comrades-in-arms. The war is far from over, and we must continue to concentrate our energies on finding ways to end it, in the political as well as military sphere.” McClellan rejoined the group of officers he had arrived with.

Noonan caught up with Wool as the old man was entering his coach. Wool huffed from the effort. “Good, sweet, suffering Jesus,” Wool said, “if that little bucket of slops could fight like he can talk, the war would have been over a year ago.” He sat back in his seat. “What was on the mind of the American Napoléon?”

“Conscription and emancipation,” Noonan said.

“Hell, that's all anybody in this town talks about. Eat with the Democrats and they spoil your meal by ranting about the worthless niggers. Eat with the Republicans and they can't stop going on about the shiftless Paddies. For my part, I've had quite enough of all of 'em, niggers, Paddies, Democrats, Republicans. I say to blazes with the lot. Get on with this God-blasted war, draft everybody, nigger, redskin, Chinee, white man, stick 'em all in uniforms, shoot those who refuse, hang every yellow-livered jackal who preaches compromise or defeat, one from every lamppost in the city, and when you run out of lampposts, use the trees in Central Park, swing a traitor from every branch—and start with that Tom Thumb Caesar you were just talking to, put the hemp around his scheming throat, jack him up right in front of City Hall and let the body rot there till the stench reaches the nostrils of every copperhead in New York.”

The coach traveled swiftly
up Broadway. There was little traffic, and few people were about. Noonan took it as a good sign. The city was wrapped in a sweltering summer torpor. It drained the life from everyone.

Wool put his kepi on the seat next to him and ran his hand over his freckled, spotted pate, smoothing down the strands of hair drawn forward from the rear of his head.

“The problem isn't with the draft itself,” he said. “It's the refusal of our legislative imbeciles to do away with substitution and the three-hundred-dollar exemption. A bad business, Noonan, but you're stuck with it, and my advice is to get on with it. I learned that lesson back in the thirties, during the Indian removals down in Georgia. Cruelest work I ever knew. Worse than war. Rounding up innocent, hardworking Cherokees, forcing them off their land, slaughtering their livestock, confiscating their homes, coercing them to move west to some distant destination beyond the Mississippi. But the cruelest part of all was doing it piecemeal, dragging it out, being unprepared, not having the men and supplies to get the thing done quick, with merciful dispatch.”

“We're doing the best we can under the circumstances,” Noonan said.

The coach pulled up in front of the St. Nicholas Hotel. Noonan got out first. Wool moved slowly. He crouched, put one hand on the door, and took Noonan's arm with the other. He grimaced as he stepped down. “Those Goddamn Tories,” he said. He rubbed his thighs. “It's been fifty years since Queenston Heights, fifty years since them snot-eating British, them ass-kissing sons of Saint George, shot me right here.” He patted his left thigh. “The ball traveled through the leg and came out here.” He patted the back of his right thigh. “My first time under fire. I was lucky that the ball didn't hit any bone, just passed through me like a knife through water, and them Englishmen and the Canadian toadies that fought for 'em never got their hands on me, good thing, since they enjoyed nothing more than finishing off the wounded, sticking a bayonet through you as you lay there helpless. But that's the British way, ain't it? Kick you when you're down. That's what they've been trying to do to us these past few years, taking the Rebels' side, just waiting for the right moment to step in and finish us off.”

General Wool's coach
moved off, but he continued to stand in the street. “Seems to me we got a score to settle with these royal bastards once this war is over. Might be a good idea to march north and take Canada. Should've done it fifty years ago when we had the chance, right there at Queenston Heights, it could have been a great victory, a second Yorktown, dropped the whole of the north country into our laps. But the Goddamn militia wouldn't cross the Niagara River into Canada. Did you ever hear of such a thing? Said they couldn't be forced to set foot on foreign soil. And the sons of bitches got away with it!”

A carriage drew up to drop off its occupants at the St. Nicholas, but Wool ignored it and stayed where he was.

“General,” Noonan said, “please, step onto the curb.”

“You know what those militia boys needed, Noonan? They needed a taste of the lash! Ain't no substitute for it! Been up to me, they each would have got a backful of strokes. My whole career in uniform, half a Goddamn century, I never hesitated to apply the lash. Never unjustly or out of spite. I had a man whipped, he knew he deserved it. And now Congress has forbidden its use. Worse thing those blockheads ever done, and God knows that's saying something. The lash is an irreplaceable instrument of soldierly education. Does more to instill the fear of God than all the military statutes and laws ever written. Never had any use for tying men up or hanging men by their thumbs or making them carry logs or knapsacks filled with stones. The longer a punishment goes on, the less of an impression it makes. Men grow used to cruelty faster than to comfort. But no man ever seen a whipping forgets it, and no man been stripped and whipped hasn't gone out of his way to avoid a repetition.”

The driver of the coach
that was waiting to pull up to the St. Nicholas motioned with his long switch at Wool. “Hey, General Washington,” he said, “clear the way, I got people who needs to get into the hotel.”

Wool looked up at him. “Was a time I would have had you dragged down from that perch and lashed senseless for such impudence.”

“Was a time I woulda run you over without bothering to ask you to move. Now stave aside and let a man make his living.”

Noonan took Wool by the arm and led him toward the hotel. Wool muttered to himself. He stopped at the door. “Perhaps we will win this war, but for the life of me I can't figure how,” he said. “We've traitors for generals, and now we propose to turn sewer scum into soldiers. I wish you luck, Noonan. All the luck in the Republic.” Wool began muttering to himself again. He and Noonan crossed the wide, elegant lobby of the St. Nicholas. At the bottom of the sweeping marble staircase were two of Wool's adjutants.

“Go ahead,” Wool said to Noonan, “don't wait for me. It will take me a bit to mount this terrain.”

Noonan went up the stairs. He heard Wool grunting behind him. A sentry saluted Noonan as he reached the second landing. The ‘entire floor had been taken over by the War Department. Noonan walked down the corridor to the linen room that had been turned over to the Provost Marshal's office, the shelves for sheets and pillowcases removed, a simple desk placed by the window. It was far less comfortable and spacious than the regular offices on Leonard Street, but the War Department had a telegraph connection to Police Headquarters and so could receive reports from precinct houses all over the city. Noonan sat and smoked a cigarillo. Nothing to do but wait. He missed the distraction of Wool's voice. The sounds from outside were few, some wagons rolling along Broadway, no shouting, at least nothing like the usual discordant workday oratorio.