Near Saratoga, New York
November 1863
Burgoyne sat alone in his tent, John Lane and Burgoyne’s officers having been sent away.
I should dismiss this scheme out of hand, he thought. If I write to Palmerston, proposing Home Rule for Ireland, he could print the letter in the papers, and it would be my ruin. On top of a second defeat at Saratoga.
Saratoga. He’d spent his professional life atoning for his father’s original sin, and now this debacle at the hands of a flamboyant twenty-three-year-old. There was only one thing to do. Await reinforcements, offer battle, and crush McClellan. At Saratoga. Once and for all.
But what if Lane was correct. What if there really was a shadowy brotherhood, 200,000 strong, awaiting word to do the bidding of their Fenian masters? If a third of McClellan’s army is Irish, imagine the impact.
I’ve nothing to lose. If Lane can’t deliver, the crown owes the Irish nothing. If he does deliver, Home Rule for Ireland, under the crown, is a small price to pay for striking such a blow to the United States of America.
“Sir?”
It was Packenham, peeking in the tent flap.
“Yes, Major, what is it?”
Packenham stepped in and handed Burgoyne a leather envelope, embossed with the crown. “A message from Montreal, sir.”
Burgoyne opened the envelope, pulled out the letter, read it, and handed it to Packenham. “The first troops have arrived from home. This dispatch is four days old. The first reinforcements should be here in a week, perhaps sooner if General Gordon is brisk about it.”
“Shall we head north, consolidate our forces, and force General McClellan to give chase?”
“We shall not. We shall await General Gordon here and beg McClellan to attack us, here.” At Saratoga.
“Yes sir.” Packenham looked deflated.
“Major, we shall write a letter. To the Prime Minister.”
“Yes sir. If I may sir.” Packenham placed a camp stool in front of Burgoyne’s small field desk, placed paper in front of him, took pen in hand, and dipped it in the inkwell. He waited.
Burgoyne was deep in thought. Palmerston knew Ireland well. He had an estate there. Mayo? Sligo? In the far west. He underwrote emigration schemes for his tenants during the famine. God knows some of them are probably in the Union Army. Probably Fenians. He would understand. He knew these people. The queen would be a different matter. I must emphasize that the status of the crown doesn’t change.
“Sir?”
“Quite Major. Today’s date, then ‘Saratoga, New York.’ No, make that today’s date, then ‘Along the Hudson River. My Dearest Prime Minister:’”