Dixie's Land 3.3

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[Continuing chapter three]

Grant sipped the strong, rich coffee and stared at the well-dressed banker sitting across the table.  "What do you think?" he asked.  "Am I proposing treason?"  The French in this part of the world made damned fine coffee, he thought, however little else they may have contributed to civilization.  Supposedly the mellow flavor was courtesy of chicory.  "If you think that I am, I'll drop this right now and we'll pretend that we never discussed this."

Tecumseh Sherman shook his head, scratching absently at his short, rust-colored beard.  "I don't think there's any way to know if you're right or wrong, treasonous or not, until we see the thing through."  He smiled grimly.  "Not the answer you were looking for, I'll wager."

They were in a café in the Vieux Carré, just a few steps uptown from the Cabildo, in which the Canadians, British, and Confederates were meeting to plan the upcoming treaty negotiations.  It was only by chance that he'd met Sherman.  He was grateful for the coincidence; subterfuge wasn't something Grant was comfortable with, but Cump Sherman had a mind sharp as a saber and a candor—really, an unwillingness to suffer fools or foolishness—that Grant found a tonic after a day cooped up with Colonel Van Doncken.  If anyone he knew could give him honest advice about subterfuge, it was Sherman.

It was only by chance that they'd become friends, too.  Nothing but the incomprehensible ways of God could account for it.  Grant and Sherman had met several times over the preceding decade without anything igniting a friendship.  Sherman had been a senior cadet in Grant's first year at West Point; later, they'd met briefly in Florida, where Sherman was working as a commissary officer.  Only in New Orleans had they come to like each other.

"I don't really know what answer I was looking for," Grant said.  "Though I think I detect one from you.  We'll see this thing through."

"Yep.  So long as you accept that it is entirely possible that what these spies are up to would be justified by the law of military necessity, however distasteful it might be."

"I understand that," Grant said.  "But my gut feeling is still strong:  I'm worried that Brown and Connell are only going to bring disgrace to the United States, and without achieving anything useful."

"I think you can trust your judgment," Sherman said.  "And I'm happy to do what I can to help you."

"I'm grateful," Grant said.  "Which brings up a question I'm loath to ask.  But I think I have to."

"Why am I not in uniform?"  Sherman's eyes narrowed and his complexion darkened.  "It's a fair question, and I'm surprised you haven't asked it yet.  I appreciate your delicacy."

"Wasn't really any of my business before."

Grant had met Sherman again last autumn, when Grant had been posted to New Orleans following his ritual humiliation before the Congressional committee.  Sherman, who had left the army sometime in the late 'forties, was managing the New Orleans branch of Bradshaw’s, the well-known London banking house.  By Van Doncken's bitter account he was doing well, too: the colonel had told Bancroft, in Grant's hearing, that Sherman was earning close to ten thousand dollars a year.  Grant and Sherman had misery in common: Grant mourning Julia, and Sherman trying to forget after his courtship of a senator's daughter had come to nothing.  They'd taken to meeting once or twice a month to discuss the war, and in none of those meetings had Sherman ever expressed an interest in being back in the field.  It had perplexed Grant, who wanted nothing in the world but to lead troops into battle again.

"I was asked, of course," Sherman said.  "Did I ever talk to you about my brother?"

"No," Grant said.  "But I've heard Bancroft speak of him.  John, isn't it?  He's on the Supreme Court."

"Not quite.  He was on the state supreme court in Ohio, just as our father was.  Now he's in Washington, advising the secretary of the treasury.  There's talk he'll run for the senate this fall, and he’s idiot enough to do that.”  Grant smiled.  Sherman didn’t think much of politicians.

"Anyway, he claims to have clout in the capital now.  And last spring, when everything went bad, he persuaded someone to offer me a colonelcy in a volunteer regiment.  And I was only a lieutenant when I resigned my commission."

"Have you served with volunteers before?" Grant kept his voice carefully neutral.

"Oh, yes," Sherman said, his voice dry as alum.  "I saw more than my share of 'em in Florida, Grant, and then and there I swore that the militia system would be the death of this country.  If we couldn't be bothered to build a professional army, on the lines of the French or the Empire, then I wanted nothing to do with it.  And that's what I told my brother.  I would only join the volunteers if I could train my regiment until I thought it was ready.  Otherwise, I’d only serve in a regular army unit."

"Wish I’d said that."

"I’ve read about Harpers Ferry and the inquiry and all," Sherman said.  “Figured if you wanted to talk about it you would.”

"I was sure I’d be able to handle a brigade of volunteers," Grant said, suddenly embarrassed.  "Part of me is still convinced I should have done better.  After all, volunteer militias are the backbone of our armies, always have been."

"And look at what a god-damned mess they've made of it every time," Sherman said.  "You studied military history, Grant."

"Not very well.  I was near the bottom of my class in just about everything but riding."

"Well, I did the reading.  And if we hadn't had regulars—our own and, God help us, the French—we'd have lost the Revolution.  We did lose Jefferson's War, and mostly because we relied too much on volunteers.  And now look at the mess being made in Virginia and Kentucky.  Our armies are political beasts, Grant.  They're not professional fighters.  We've got senators and congressmen serving as generals in armies composed of ninety-day volunteers who can't drill and won't follow orders.  It's a wonder the South hasn't taken Washington yet.  What happened to you wasn’t exceptional.  Nobody in Washington seems to realize the amount of work that’s required to turn volunteers into decent soldiers."

"But surely you haven't refused to fight just because we're poorly led.  If good soldiers like you stay out of the fight we'll never develop that professionalism you want."

"I never refused to fight," Sherman said.  His face flushed.  "After we’d agreed about my rejoining the Army, John asked me how much time I’d need, and what I thought of how the war was being pursued.  I gave him my honest answer.  I told him that these three-month or one-year enlistments weren't enough, and that a fifty thousand-man army wasn't going to be able to win the war.  I told him we'd need ten times that many, and perhaps five years, to win it.  We can't just beat the Rebels in the field, Grant.  To win, we have to occupy their whole country, or break their spirit, or both."

"And?"  Sherman's assessment differed only in degree from a report Grant had given to Van Doncken last autumn, shortly after arriving in New Orleans and shortly before giving up hope of ever leaving here alive.

"And the offer of a commission was tactfully withdrawn.  A couple of weeks later I received a letter from my mother, asking if I wouldn't return to Ohio where I could receive treatment for my 'malady' amongst the comfort of my kin.  They think I'm loony, Grant.  'Gone in the head' is a phrase someone in Washington apparently used."

Sherman took a violent gulp of coffee.  "So to hell with them.  Mark my words, Grant: the South will win this war, and they'll win it in the Congress of the United States and the god-damned War Department."

"Unless we can do something to change the odds."  Grant gave Sherman what he intended to be a hopeful smile.  "We could do our country some service yet."

"Well-put," Sherman said.  "Whether or not the country deserves our help."  He smiled back at Grant.  "So where do you want to start?  Obviously we're going to have to spy on your spies."

"You're right.  I think I start this by learning as much as possible from the staff of the legation."  Grant rubbed his temples; the coffee was giving him a headache. 

"You going to say anything to that ass Van Doncken?"

"The question's its own answer.  There is no way in heaven or earth that Van Doncken would approve of this.  Mind, I think that's as much an incentive as a discouragement.  It wouldn't bother me at all to make it clear to Washington what a fool they've put in charge of things down here."

"No offense to present company, Grant, but no soldier worth his salt is in a place like this.  The mere fact that Van Doncken is here is testimony to his ineptitude."

"True."  Van Doncken was a failure as a military man so far as Grant was concerned.  If he’d been any good, he’d have been serving in the field.  Or he’d resent the fact that he wasn’t; Grant had had his every application for assignment to a regiment turned down, but at least he’d applied.  So far as he knew, Van Doncken liked being here.  Grant looked closely at Sherman.  "You do realize, of course, what we're risking if we go ahead."

"Why even ask?  If I was afraid, I'd have stopped you ten minutes ago," Sherman said.  "And if you were scared, you'd never have brought up the subject in the first place."

Sherman looked around, which caused Grant to crank his head around to see what the other man was looking for.  The café seemed pretty much deserted.  Grant looked back at Sherman, raising his eyebrows in question.

"Nothing," Sherman said.  "It just seemed to me that we were getting perhaps a bit excited.  We should keep our voices down if we're going to make good conspirators."  He grinned wickedly.  

"What about the minister?  Think he might help?"

"Bancroft?  I doubt he'll be any use for the time being."

"Why the qualifier?  If he's no use now, will he ever be?"

"He won't want to know what we're doing until we've done it.  My guess is that if I even hint at this, he'll make me stop.  But if I can give him solid proof that Brown and Connell are endangering the position of the government…"  Grant left the rest unspoken.  Bancroft might be as sour an apple as ever fell from the Yankee tree, but he might recognize a dangerous game if he saw it.  And he would surely agree to Grant’s putting a stop to it, which couldn't help but do a world of good for the Union's position here.

"So.  No help from above, then."  Sherman waved his empty coffee-cup at the café's owner, then settled in his chair as though hunkering down for a long stay.  "On to help from below.  What do you think you can get from the staff at the legation?"

"Plenty, if they're of a mood to."  Grant looked at the notes he'd scribbled.  "I might be able to learn a lot by careful observation.  But the staff have already done that work; what matters is their willingness to share what they know."

"You think they know that much?"

"One thing I've learned, Sherman, by being the Forgotten Man here: social inferiors tend to disappear on people.  After a while you just don’t notice that they're there.  I've had it happen to me too many times to be good for my sense of self-importance.  I figure it's entirely likely that either Brown or Connell has said something within the hearing of a servant or several.  Because they don't notice people they consider inferior, they're not likely to notice that the servants are listening."

"I can probably help you by following the spies when they go out," Sherman said.  "I've never met either of them, so it's a good chance they don't know me either."

"They might know you by name," Grant said.  He thought a minute.  "Following them's a good idea, though.  Whatever they're doing, I’m pretty sure they aren’t doing it by themselves.  They don't know the city, and they certainly won't be able to get inside the Cabildo.  And if they're working with someone else, they'll be meeting them outside the legation.  They won't want Van Doncken to know anything about what they're doing, if only because they don't like him any more than I do."

A shadow flickered, distracting him—an echo of some sort of movement.  He looked out the window, but saw nothing.  Someone must have run past, he decided.  "We'll have to work out a way for you to see them," he told Sherman, "so that you know who to look for.  And I can keep track of the times they leave the legation, to see if there's any pattern they follow."

"Any thoughts about who they might be working with?"

"I thought I might ask you," Grant said.  "You know this city better than I."

"I imagine I like it a sight more, too," Sherman said with a grin.  "Something about the attitude down here seems to agree with me.  Probably has something to do with the French.  I like the way they think."

He stroked his beard as if trying to file it to a point.  "It's possible that your spies are working with the Creoles," he said.  "God knows they’re resentful enough."  Sherman looked around the café.  "If, when I follow them, I find them spending a lot of time in the Old Quarter, then put your money on the Creoles.  Somehow, though, that doesn't seem as likely to me.  Don't know why, it's just a feeling.  My money would be on the uptown neighborhoods.  Look to the Dutchers, or the Irish."

"So," Grant said, "if they go far downtown it's the Creoles, and if they stay uptown it's the Germans or Irish?"

From the corner of his eye he saw more motion through the window.  This time, when he looked up he saw another person run past.  A faint sound of shouting came through above the murmur of conversation and clattering of crockery.  "Something going on out there?" asked Sherman.

Then they heard the bells.

"Fire," Sherman said.

"Close by, too," Grant said, "if those running people are any indication."

"Want to have a look?"  Sherman got up.  "Forgive me, but I have a bit of a professional interest in any fire, especially this close to the levee."

"By all means," Grant said, pushing back his chair.

It would have been easy to find the fire, even if there hadn't been the beckoning column of smoke coming from just uptown.  All they would have had to do was follow the steady stream of men running toward what turned out to be a two-storey warehouse on Front Street.

"Damn, but cotton burns easy," Sherman said when they reached the corner of Front and Common, as close as they could get to the fire.  Though the bells still rung from every church in the neighborhood, it was clear to Grant that there was no point in summoning more help.  The building would be gutted by the fire, and the only question remaining was how many of its neighbors would go up as well.

He would never get used to the bells that announced every fire in the city.  At least once a week, it seemed, his sleep was interrupted by chimes announcing yet another blaze, at a cotton warehouse or a market or even, once, a theater.  New Orleans seemed to him a very combustible place.

Most of the men just watched as one of the city's volunteer fire brigades sweated over a pair of hand-pumps; a handful had formed a small bucket-brigade.  Grant wondered if they were owners of the warehouse, or its neighbors.  "Let's hope there isn't any rum stored in there," he said.

Then something caught his eye.  For a moment he just stared, amazed.  Then he turned to Sherman.

"You wanted to see what Brown and Connell look like," he said.  "Well, there they are.  On the other side of the fire, about half-way up the block."

"Talking to what looks like a laborer?" Sherman asked.

"That's them."  Grant edged around Sherman, to put the other man between himself and the spies.  No sense in having them spot him—his uniform made him obvious—and wondering why he was watching them.

"All right," Sherman said.  "I know them now."  He turned to see Grant trying to make himself invisible.  "Don't worry.  They've gone."  Grant looked to where Sherman had pointed.  Through the shimmering heat from the fire he saw Brown and Connell, their backs to him, making their way up Common Street.

If he hadn't been watching the spies leaving, Grant would have missed what happened next.  The man Brown and Connell had been talking with made his way, slowly, down Common toward the fire.  Shortly before he'd have disappeared into the crowd standing in front of the burning building, the man took a quick look around him, then stepped into the doorway of one of the neighboring buildings.

Grant was just able to see the man put his shoulder to the door and force it open.  Then the man disappeared inside.

Chapter One     Chapter Two     Chapter Three